The air in the quarantined villa was different. Three days ago, it had been thick with the cloying smells of sickness and the low, guttural sounds of misery. Now, a fragile quiet reigned, punctuated by the chirping of sparrows in the courtyard garden. Alex entered, with Sabina a step behind him, her presence a silent testament to their shared, desperate secret. He felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. This was the moment of truth. Either his alchemical gambit had worked, or he had simply found a more elegant way to poison his own men.
The scene that greeted him in the atrium was a revelation. The dozen German Guard veterans, who had been writhing in agony, were now on their feet. They were gaunt, their powerful frames seeming hollowed out, their faces pale beneath their tanned skin, but they were standing. The angry, red welts that had covered their bodies had faded to faint pink blemishes. Their eyes, which had been glazed with fever, were now clear and lucid. They were weak, but they were undeniably cured.
The physician Philipos rushed towards them, his face, usually a mask of professional worry, alight with an almost religious fervor.
"It is a miracle, Caesar! A true miracle!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. "The tonic you provided… it was like pouring water on a fire. The fevers broke within hours. The pain subsided. It burned away the sickness from the inside out. In all my years, I have never witnessed such a rapid, complete recovery from such a violent affliction."
Alex felt a wave of profound relief wash over him, so potent it almost made his knees buckle. It had worked. His insane, desperate theory, born of 21st-century knowledge and ancient Roman desperation, had actually worked.
He approached the men, his Praetorians, who now stood at a semblance of attention. "How do you feel, soldiers?" he asked, his voice softer than he intended.
One of them, a giant of a man named Drusus with a scarred face and impossibly broad shoulders, took a step forward. "The sickness is gone, Caesar," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. "We owe you our lives." He paused, a strange, almost manic light entering his eyes. "But this medicine… this tonic… it is more than a cure. It fills a man with a fire I have never known. It scours the weakness from your limbs and leaves behind only… courage. I feel as though I could wrestle a lion and break its jaw with my bare hands."
The other guards nodded in fervent agreement, murmuring amongst themselves. They were not just cured; they were invigorated, energized, imbued with a fierce, artificial vitality. Alex looked at them, at their wide eyes and restless energy, and a new, more complex unease began to curdle his relief. He hadn't just created a medicine. He had created a super-steroid, a powerful narcotic, a potion that didn't just heal but transformed. He had bottled lightning, and he had no idea how to control it.
Back in the alchemist's workshop, the bubbling stills and the sweet, malty air felt different now. They were no longer symbols of a desperate solution, but of a new, volatile power. Alex and Sabina stood before their small but growing stockpile of the crystal-clear liquid, now stored in a dozen sealed clay amphorae.
"We can't call it a medicine," Sabina stated bluntly. Her pragmatism cut through Alex's lingering awe like a sharpened blade. She held a small beaker of the spirit up to the light, swirling the contents. "A medicine is given to the sick to make them well. This… this is something the healthy will kill for to make them feel like gods. We cannot treat it like a cure. We must treat it like a treasure."
She set the beaker down with a decisive click. "We need to control it. We need to brand it. We need to create a mystique around it so powerful that no one would dare try to replicate it or steal it. And we must set the price, whether in coin or in fealty, so high that only the gods and the Emperor can afford a taste."
Alex nodded, seeing the cold logic in her words. This substance couldn't be allowed to trickle out into the world. It had to be hoarded, controlled, and weaponized.
"A new name, then," Alex mused. "Not aqua vitae. Something more… elemental." He looked at the way the firelight from the hearths reflected within the liquid. "Aeterna Ignis. The Eternal Flame."
"Good," Sabina approved. "It sounds like a gift from Vulcan himself. It will not be sold in any market. It will be gifted, a personal favor from the Emperor, bestowed only upon his most loyal and powerful allies. A single, small, beautifully crafted amphora will be a mark of supreme imperial favor. It will be worth more than a Triumph, more valuable than a bag of gold."
The first test of this new, carefully constructed policy arrived far sooner than he expected. Tigidius Perennis materialized in the workshop, having sniffed out the new center of palace power with the unerring instinct of a born scavenger. He looked worse than ever, a man unravelling at the seams. Maximus's departure had clearly unnerved him, leaving him feeling exposed, and the specter of the Traveler haunted his every waking thought.
"Caesar," he began, his voice a reedy, sycophantic whine. He bowed low, his eyes darting around the workshop, taking in the strange equipment and the armed guards. "Forgive my intrusion, but the city is a viper's nest of rumors. With General Maximus gone… your servants feel the chill of his absence. We require… reassurance. Some tangible sign of your continued protection."
Alex saw his opportunity. He would make an example of his serpent. He gestured to Sabina, who retrieved a single, small amphora, distinct from the others. It was crafted from a polished black clay and sealed with the Emperor's personal signet in crimson wax. It looked less like a container for liquid and more like a captured piece of the night sky.
Alex took the amphora and presented it to Perennis. The spymaster's eyes widened.
"This is a gift, Perennis," Alex said, his voice as cold and clear as the liquid within the vessel. "A taste of the divine fire that now burns at the heart of my Imperium. It is called Aeterna Ignis."
He pressed the cool, smooth amphora into Perennis's trembling hands. "It is a symbol of my trust in you. A reward for your loyal service. Drink a single drop of it in times of doubt to remember the source of your strength. And know," Alex leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "that I am its only source."
Perennis clutched the gift to his chest as if it were the most sacred relic in the world. His face was a bizarre cocktail of craven fear and ecstatic awe. He had been given something priceless, a mark of favor that would immediately elevate his status among the vipers of the court. But he also understood the implicit threat perfectly. This was not a gift; it was a leash, gilded and beautiful, binding him ever tighter to his master.
Later that night, long after Perennis had scurried back to his shadowy corners, Alex lay in his bed, the day's successes and anxieties warring in his mind. He was finally drifting towards a restless sleep when the pounding on his chamber door jolted him awake. A centurion of the palace guard stood there, his face grim in the torchlight.
"Caesar, an urgent summons from the Vigiles Urbani. There has been… an incident."
An hour later, Alex stood in a holding cell in the barracks of the Urban Cohorts, the stench of stale wine and blood thick in the air. Before him, chained to the wall, was Drusus, the giant from the German Guard. His knuckles were raw and bloody, and his eyes were wild.
The commander of the Vigiles patrol explained what had happened. Drusus, feeling "cured," had slipped out of the villa and gone to a local tavern to celebrate his recovery. An argument had broken out with some local toughs. It should have been a simple brawl. It had become a massacre. Drusus, fueled by a strength and rage no one had ever seen, had not just won the fight; he had nearly killed three men with his bare hands, breaking limbs and crushing skulls before an entire patrol of ten armed Vigiles had managed to subdue him.
The first, terrible, unintended consequence of his miracle had arrived. Alex's new medicine turned men into monsters.
The commander looked at Alex, his expression deeply troubled. "He is unnaturally strong, Caesar. It is not normal. And when we questioned him, he was delirious. He kept muttering one thing, over and over again."
"What was it?" Alex asked, his stomach turning to lead.
"He called it 'Caesar's Fire.'"
The secret, so carefully constructed, was already leaking out, not through spies or traitors, but through the delirious rantings of its first recipient. The devil's brew was out of the bottle.