Two weeks after slipping out of Rome under the cloak of darkness, Alex Carter had ceased to exist. In his place was a man named Decius, a quiet, unassuming scribe in the employ of a gruff, wealthy slave trader bound for the markets of the East. The Emperor of Rome was gone, vanished. He had shed his purple toga, his imperial signet ring, and the suffocating weight of his title, trading them for the rough-spun anonymity of a traveler's cloak, the grit of the road, and a gnawing, ever-present fear.
The journey through the rugged heartlands of Cappadocia was brutal, a daily grind that tested the limits of his 21st-century body in a way no palace intrigue ever could. His small caravan consisted of a single, sturdy wagon—a standard cart, not one of Celer's advanced prototypes, to avoid suspicion—and his thirteen companions. To any passing patrol or curious villager, they were a plausible sight: a merchant named Cassius (the Centurion's new identity), his scribe Decius (Alex), and twelve large, intimidating 'Germanic slaves' being taken to the Syrian markets where their immense size would fetch a high price. The deception was their only shield.
Each day was a punishing routine. They rose before dawn, the air thin and cold, biting at any exposed skin. They would break their fast on hard tack—a tooth-jarringly tough biscuit of flour and water—and a strip of salted meat, all washed down with lukewarm water from their skins. Then they would march. Alex, who had once considered a brisk walk through the Forum to be exercise, was now covering twenty miles a day on foot, over rocky, uneven terrain that made his ankles ache and his muscles scream in protest.
He was no longer a commander issuing orders from a map-lined room. He was on the ground, living the logistics he had once only calculated. He learned the tyranny of a broken axle, the precious value of a clean water source, the constant, low-level paranoia of traveling through lands where law was a distant concept and a sharp sword was the only true authority.
He slept on the hard ground, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, the star-dusted Anatolian sky a vast and humbling canopy above him. He was plagued by nightmares, fragmented visions fueled by Lyra's terrifying revelation. He dreamt of non-biological entities, of silent, data-based ghosts, of a pulsing blue light that sought to infiltrate his mind. He would wake with a gasp, the cold sweat on his brow freezing in the pre-dawn chill, the immense, terrifying weight of what he was racing towards settling upon him. This deep, primal fear was the fuel that drove him forward, pushing him past the point of physical exhaustion.
His relationship with the Fire Cohort transformed. In Rome, he had been their distant, godlike master, the source of their power and their curse. Here, on the road, he was simply another man, suffering the same hardships. He saw firsthand the daily struggle they endured. He saw the tremor in their hands as the effects of the Ignis faded, the listless depression that settled over them in the evenings, the flash of irritability in their eyes over a dropped water skin.
The first major test came a week into their journey. One of the guardsmen, a hot-tempered giant named Gisco, began to suffer a more severe withdrawal than the others. His moods became erratic. One afternoon, he flew into a violent rage over a perceived slight from another guard, his eyes glazing over with a feral light. He was a hair's breadth from snapping the other man's neck when Cassius intervened, his vine-staff cracking across Gisco's back with brutal efficiency.
The other guards moved to restrain their comrade, ready to beat him into submission as was their way. "Stop!" Alex's voice cut through the tension, sharp and authoritative.
He approached the snarling, delirious Gisco, ignoring Cassius's warning growl to stay back. "Lyra, analyze his symptoms," he whispered, his back to the others.
Subject is experiencing acute neuro-chemical withdrawal, Lyra's voice murmured in his ear. Elevated heart rate, pupil dilation, extreme aggression. Physical restraint will only exacerbate the paranoid response. A micro-dose of the active agent is required to stabilize his system.
"Stand down," Alex ordered the other guards. He walked calmly to the wagon and retrieved the lead-lined box containing their precious supply of Aeterna Ignis. His hands were steady as he measured out a minuscule amount—not enough to grant power, just enough to quell the storm—into a cup of water. He approached the struggling Gisco, whose eyes were now locked on the flask with a desperate, animal hunger.
"Easy, soldier," Alex said, his voice calm and low, the voice one would use with a spooked horse. "Just a taste. To calm the fever."
He held the cup out. Gisco snatched it, downing the contents in a single gulp. For a long moment, he remained tense, his muscles coiled. Then, a great, shuddering sigh wracked his massive frame. The feral light in his eyes faded, replaced by a confused, exhausted lucidity. The storm had passed. He looked at Alex, then at the concerned faces of his comrades, a deep, shame-faced sorrow welling in his eyes.
Alex simply placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Rest now, Gisco. The fever is broken."
He turned and walked away, leaving Cassius to manage the aftermath. The Centurion watched him go, a new expression on his hard face. He had seen commanders who were brave, commanders who were clever, and commanders who were cruel. He had never seen one who was also a physician to his soldiers' very souls. Alex was not just their master who demanded obedience; he was their keeper, the only man in the world who understood their unique curse and knew how to manage it. In that moment, the Cohort's fanatical devotion was cemented by something new, and far stronger: a deep, protective loyalty.
They pushed onward, their pace relentless. Alex used Lyra's constant stream of data to their advantage. He guided them through forgotten goat tracks that shaved days off their journey, navigating by star charts no Roman had ever seen. He used his historical knowledge, prompted by Lyra's analysis of local dialects and customs, to negotiate safe passage through the territory of a xenophobic mountain tribe, offering a gift of high-quality salt (a priceless commodity in these remote hills) where a traditional Roman patrol would have tried, and failed, to use force. He was leading not just through imperial command, but through a unique fusion of future intelligence and hard-won cunning.
Finally, after nineteen grueling days that had worn the leather from his boots and the softness from his face, they reached the rendezvous point. It was a desolate, windswept plateau high in the Cappadocian mountains, a place of bare rock and stunted, twisted trees. The wind howled a mournful song across the empty landscape.
At first, it seemed they were alone. The emptiness was absolute. A flicker of fear went through Alex—had Maximus not received his message? Had he been captured?
Then, movement. A shadow detached itself from a rock outcropping. Then another, and another. Figures emerged from the landscape where there had been none, their cloaks the color of the stone, their movements silent and fluid. It was Maximus and a dozen of his best scouts. They looked less like Roman soldiers and more like the very land itself, their faces burned by the sun, their eyes holding the patient, watchful gaze of wolves.
The General strode forward, his face a mask of disbelief and profound shock as he recognized the slim, cloaked figure of his Emperor. He stopped a few feet away, his discipline warring with his astonishment, and dropped to one knee.
"Caesar," he breathed, his voice rough with dust and awe. He looked up, his eyes scanning Alex's haggard face, his worn clothes, the raw blisters on his hands. "This is madness! You should be on the throne in Rome, surrounded by the legions!"
Alex looked down at his most loyal general, at the man who was the rock upon which he had built his new Rome. He offered a weary, grim smile.
"The throne can wait, General," he said, his voice hoarse from the road. "The world cannot." He reached down and pulled Maximus to his feet. "Now, rise and report. The time for madness is upon us. Where is he?"