Lucilla's dust cloud had barely settled on the horizon when the full weight of his predicament crashed down on Alex. The brief, triumphant high of outmaneuvering his sister evaporated, replaced by the cold, metallic taste of dread. He had survived the encounter, but at a cost. The confrontation had forced him to draw deeply on Lyra's knowledge, burning through his precious, irreplaceable power.
Back in the privacy of his carriage, he stared at the laptop screen. The battery icon was no longer a reassuring green or a warning yellow. It was a single, stark, blinking red line. 12%. It was a digital heartbeat, faint and failing. Soon, it would flatline, and with it, his only connection to the world he knew, his only advantage in a world that wanted him dead. He was flying an advanced stealth fighter, and the engines were about to flame out, leaving him to glide silently into enemy territory.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. "Lyra," he whispered, his voice tight. "The charger. The solar charger. We have to try. A day. A few hours of sun. It has to be enough to give us something."
"Analyzing risk-reward matrix," Lyra's calm voice replied, a stark contrast to his own frantic energy. "The Mark-IV foldable solar array is a 21st-century artifact of unmistakable origin. Its materials, its photovoltaic cells, its design—they are utterly alien. To deploy it now, with your sister's suspicions confirmed and a dozen Praetorian cohorts on the road between here and Rome, would be an unacceptable risk. The probability of discovery is over sixty percent. A single sighting by a hostile patrol would be a catastrophic failure. It would be absolute proof of your otherworldly nature, a fact your enemies would twist into a charge of witchcraft or demonic influence."
"So we do nothing?" Alex demanded, his voice cracking. "We just let the battery die?"
"That is a suboptimal framing of the situation," Lyra corrected. "We are not 'letting it die.' We are shifting from an active intelligence model to a passive one. The most logical course of action is to conserve all remaining power for one final, high-density information transfer. We must assume I will be dormant for an extended period upon our arrival in Rome. This is no longer about real-time assistance. This is about creating a survival package you can access from your own memory."
The phrase 'survival package' sent another shiver down his spine. This was it. The last conversation. He felt a strange, unexpected pang of grief. For weeks, Lyra's voice had been his only confidant, his guide, his link to sanity. The thought of that voice going silent was terrifying.
He took a deep breath, pushing the fear down. He was a project manager. This was the final handover meeting. He had to focus. "Okay," he said, his voice now steady. "Okay, Lyra. Download it to me. Everything I need to survive the first week in Rome."
"Commencing data transfer," she said. The screen, which he had dimmed to its lowest setting, filled with a dizzying array of information.
First came the schematics. A stunningly detailed, 3D wireframe model of the Imperial Palace complex on the Palatine Hill materialized on the screen. Lyra spun it, highlighting sections in red.
"The Domus Augustana," she narrated. "Your official residence. I have marked the location of your sister Lucilla's private wing. Note its proximity to your own chambers, connected by a service corridor used by slaves and servants. Her access to you will be almost unrestricted. Avoid this corridor."
The model zoomed in, revealing hidden lines within the walls. "These are the secret passages built by Tiberius and Caligula. Most have been sealed, but my analysis of the original architectural plans indicates this one, leading from the imperial library to the kitchens, is likely still accessible. It was used by Cassius Chaerea's men during Caligula's assassination. The Praetorian old guard will know of it. Perennis must be ordered to have it sealed immediately upon your arrival."
Next came the faces. A flash-card style presentation of key personnel he would meet within the first twenty-four hours.
"Publius Tarrutenius Paternus," Lyra said as the bust of a severe-looking man appeared. "Your co-Praetorian Prefect alongside Perennis. A professional soldier, not a politician. He distrusts Perennis intensely. You can exploit this rivalry, but do not mistake his professionalism for loyalty to you. He is loyal to the office, not the man."
Another face, a portly man with shrewd eyes. "Lucius Vettius Gratus. The Praefectus Urbi. The Prefect of the City. Controls the Urban Cohorts. His jurisdiction is law and order within Rome. Historically, he is corrupt and deeply in debt to Senator Metellus. He is an enemy."
Lyra continued, a rapid-fire briefing on the chief Vestal Virgin, whose political influence was immense; on his personal chamberlain, a freedman named Cleander who was historically ambitious and treacherous; on the captain of the city's firefighters, the Vigiles. For each, she provided a summary of their psychological weaknesses, their known debts, their secret allegiances. It was a cheat sheet for the soul of Roman power.
Finally, she gave him a crash course on the immediate ceremonial dangers. "The Triumph, and your first address to the Senate. These are procedural traps. Upon entering the Curia, do not speak first. Stand before the empty throne and wait for the presiding Consul to invite you to the rostrum. It is a sign of deference to the Senate's authority. Address the senior members, the princeps senatus and the consuls, by their full, formal titles. Any breach of protocol, however minor, will be seized upon as a sign of disrespect or ignorance."
The sheer volume of information was overwhelming. Alex's head swam. He felt like he was drinking from a firehose, trying to memorize a thousand details, any one of which could mean the difference between life and death.
The data stream stopped. He looked at the battery icon. 5%. A tiny, crimson sliver. It was almost over.
"Is that everything?" Alex asked, his voice hoarse. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
The laptop's fan whirred softly. For a moment, Lyra was silent. "One final strategic analysis," she said, her tone, for the first time, seeming less like a report and more like advice. "Your enemies—Lucilla, Metellus, the others—are setting a trap for you within the framework of Roman tradition. They will use ceremony, protocol, and precedent to box you in, to force you into making a predictable mistake. Therefore, my final recommendation is to do something they cannot possibly predict."
"What do you mean?"
"Their strategies are all based on the assumption that you will play the game according to the established rules. You must invent a new one. In your first week, at a moment of your choosing, you must take an action so far outside the normal political playbook that it shatters their entire framework. Be disruptive. Be unpredictable. It is your only true path to seizing the initiative."
The advice settled into his mind, a final, critical directive. Don't just play the game better. Change the rules.
The army was now making its final camp on the Campus Martius, the Field of Mars, just outside the pomerium, the sacred boundary of Rome. Beyond the sprawling tents, he could see the city itself, a breathtaking vista of marble temples, towering aqueducts, and the endless, chaotic sprawl of residential insulae. It was beautiful and terrifying. Tomorrow, he would cross that boundary, and he would be on his own.
He looked down at the laptop, at the dying red light. He knew what he had to do.
He took a deep breath. "Go to sleep, Lyra," he said softly. It felt like saying goodbye to his only friend.
There was a soft processing tone from the speakers. Then, a single, synthesized phrase that was so uncharacteristic, so outside her normal programming, that it sent a jolt through him.
"Good luck, Alex."
He reached out and pressed the power button. The screen went black. The low hum of the fan ceased. The light died. He was left holding a cold, dead piece of 21st-century plastic and metal. His oracle was silent. His link to the future was severed.
He was alone. And tomorrow, he would enter Rome.