The red light was a single, mocking eye in the darkness. Dead. Useless.
Marcus Holt, the problem-solver, shoved down the panic. An algorithm has inputs and outputs. The problem was power. The input must be energy. He scanned the dusty archives, his 21st-century mind working furiously in a 2nd-century prison.
There. High above, a single skylight, caked with a century of grime, allowed a solitary, brilliant shaft of sunlight to pierce the gloom. It was a spear of pure gold, illuminating a swirling universe of dust motes.
It was enough.
He didn't hesitate. He grabbed a stack of crumbling scrolls, their papyrus dry and fragile. He piled another on top. The tower wobbled, a fragile monument to his desperation. One more stack, a heavy leather-bound ledger, served as the base.
Carefully, he placed the laptop at the very top, angling the small, dark rectangle of its solar panel directly into the beam of light.
Then, he waited.
The silence of the archives was absolute. Time stretched, measured only by the slow, inexorable creep of the sunbeam across the stone floor. Each second was a lifetime. Each passing cloud outside was a potential death sentence.
He felt like a primitive man praying to a sun god, offering a sacrifice of silicon and circuitry. It was insane. It was his only hope.
The sunbeam was beginning to shift, its angle sharpening as the afternoon wore on. The edge of the light was just about to slide off the panel.
Come on, he thought, his fists clenched. Come on.
A soft, digital chime echoed in the silence. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
The screen flickered to life, its cold blue glow a beacon in the ancient dark. White text scrolled across the black void.
SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE.
CHRONOLOGICAL ANOMALY DETECTED.
WELCOME, ADMINISTRATOR.
A voice, calm and synthesized, spoke from the laptop's small speakers. It spoke in English. It was the voice of his creation.
"Good morning, Marcus. Current chronological designation is 180 AD, Rome. Your vital signs indicate extreme stress. This is logical. Your probability of surviving the next 24 hours is 11.3%."
The cold, emotionless data was the most comforting thing in the world. He wasn't alone. He had his co-pilot.
"JARVIS," he breathed, the name a prayer. "It's good to hear your voice."
"The sentiment is not computable, but appreciated," the AI replied flatly. "I have cross-referenced your new biological signature with my historical database. You are currently inhabiting the body of Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus. His reign is historically characterized by paranoia, megalomania, and assassination. This explains the low survival probability."
Marcus ignored the grim analysis. "Lucilla. She was just here. She mentioned a gladiator named Crixus, sentenced to die today."
"Accessing," JARVIS replied. The screen filled with lines of data, translating ancient Latin records into modern English infographics in milliseconds.
SUBJECT: CRIXUS, GALLIC CHAMPION. CRIME: PUBLIC INSUBORDINATION (REFUSED TO BOW TO EMPEROR).
RECOMMENDED ACTION A: PUBLIC EXECUTION. Maintains your established persona of tyrannical authority. 72% probability of Senate approval. 95% probability of solidifying Lucilla's suspicion that you are an impostor if you show mercy.
RECOMMENDED ACTION B: PARDON. Dramatically increases public support among the plebeian class. 85% probability of alienating military elite and Praetorian Guard. Raises immediate assassination probability by 18%.
Marcus's gut clenched. Both options were traps. One confirmed he was a monster, the other painted a target on his back.
"Is there a third option?" he asked desperately.
"There is always an optimized path," JARVIS said. "Proposal: A theatrical display of 'divine intervention.' The Colosseum's architecture allows for precise light reflection. At the moment of execution, use the reflective surface of my chassis to direct a concentrated beam of sunlight into the executioner's eyes. The resulting flash will be perceived as a sign from Jupiter. Proclaim the god has spared him. This action is illogical, but highly effective for this era's socio-religious framework. It creates awe, bypasses political fallout, and reinforces your new persona as a divinely touched ruler."
A cold disgust washed over him. Use the laptop to fake a miracle? To manipulate thousands of people into thinking he was some kind of messiah? He was a manager, a man of facts and figures. This was… obscene.
He felt sick. He was here to optimize, not to play God.
A soft knock on the heavy wooden door made him jump.
He snapped the laptop shut, shoving it back into the shadows behind the scrolls just as the door creaked open.
A woman entered, moving with a silent grace that spoke of years of practice. It was Marcia, his chief concubine, according to the memories that weren't his. She carried a small tray with a silver goblet of wine and a piece of cheese.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, her posture submissive. She was a ghost, a beautiful servant trained to be invisible, expecting to be used or dismissed with a cruel word.
Marcus's throat was dry. He simply stared at her, this human variable JARVIS couldn't fully compute.
She placed the tray on a dusty table and turned to leave, her movements fluid and silent.
"Thank you," Marcus said, the words feeling strange in his mouth.
She froze mid-step. Her entire body went rigid. Slowly, as if fearing a trap, she turned her head. Her eyes, wide and searching, met his for the first time. They were intelligent eyes, filled with a caution that bordered on fear.
The usual fire of lust or contempt in the Emperor's gaze was gone. All she saw was a deep, unsettling weariness. She was a professional at reading this man for her own survival, and this version was terrifyingly unreadable.
He looked at her, at the genuine humanity in her guarded expression. He looked at the place where his laptop was hidden, the cold logic of the machine waiting for his command.
And in that moment, he made a decision. Not JARVIS's decision. His own.
He looked Marcia directly in the eyes. His voice was quiet, but it held the weight of an emperor's command.
"Find the Captain of the Praetorian Guard. Tell him the gladiator Crixus is to be pardoned and released. Immediately."
The shock on Marcia's face was stark. Her mask of careful neutrality shattered. It wasn't a request. It was an impossibility. An act of mercy so alien from the man she knew that it broke the world.
The silver goblet of wine slipped from her trembling fingers. It hit the marble floor with a deafening crash, the dark red liquid spreading across the stone like fresh blood.
As Marcia fled, her mind reeling from the impossible command, a new alert flashed on JARVIS's screen. Marcus leaned in to read the glowing text.
WARNING: UNPREDICTED HUMANITARIAN ACTION HAS TRIGGERED CASCADE EFFECT. LUCILLA HAS ENTERED THE PRAETORIAN BARRACKS. CONSPIRACY PROBABILITY ESCALATING.