The morning of departure dawned gray and damp, a low mist covering the hills of Rome like a shroud. The air was heavy, charged with the static electricity of thousands of men preparing for war and the pungent smell of oiled leather, cold iron, and nervous horses. In the inner courtyard of Titus Valerius's mansion, Lucius stood, a figure transformed by bronze and steel.
He was no longer the civil engineer in a light tunic who spent his days hunched over papyri. Now, he wore the weight of Rome. Over his red wool tunic, the lorica hamata, his chainmail, hung heavy on his shoulders, each of the thousands of interlocking iron rings whispering against one another with every breath. On his head, the bronze helmet, the galea, protected his skull, cheek guards buckled under his chin, framing a face that had hardened in recent weeks. On his left side hung the gladius in its leather-covered wooden scabbard; on his right, the pugio, the short dagger. On his back, supported by a cross-shaped wooden pole, the furca, was his luggage: the sarcina, containing rations, utensils, and tools of an Immunes.
Before him, small and fragile against the war armor, stood Selena and Lucia.
The girl, four years old, looked at her father with big, confused eyes. She didn't understand border politics, nor the threat of Germanic tribes, nor the glory of the Empire. She only understood that her father was dressed like the scary statues in the forum and that her mother was crying. Lucia reached out a small hand, touching the cold metal of the chainmail, pulling her fingers back in surprise at the rough texture.
Lucius felt his heart clench inside his ribcage, a pain sharper than any practice sword blow. He ignored the weight of the sarcina and the stiffness of the braccae and knelt, bringing himself to eye level with the girl who was now his daughter. The metal of his greaves creaked.
"Papa..." the girl whispered, voice trembling.
"My little goddess," Lucius said, forcing a smile he hoped was comforting. He held her hands in his, feeling the vital warmth emanating from the child. "I need to go now. The Emperor needs me to build things far from here. But I promise, Lucia... I promise I will come back. I will bring gifts from the North and stories for you to sleep."
He kissed her forehead, lingering there, inhaling the scent of milk and lavender, etching it into his memory for the days when the smell of blood and mud would be the only reality. Lucia hugged his neck, the cold metal of the helmet pressing against her soft cheek, but she didn't pull away.
Lucius stood up slowly, the weight of the equipment seeming to triple. He turned to Selena. The woman maintained an upright, dignified posture, but tears traced silent paths down her pale face. She adjusted the fibula fastening his cloak, a domestic and intimate gesture amidst the war gear.
"Write," she asked, voice choked but firm. "Do not let silence be our companion. Write whenever you can, even if I don't know how to read, I will find someone to help me."
"I will write," Lucius promised, holding her face between his calloused hands. "Every letter will be a step of mine back to you."
"I will pray," Selena said, closing her eyes under his touch. "I will pray to Mars to give you strength, to Minerva to give you wisdom, and to Fortuna to bring you back. I will make offerings every day at the lararium."
Lucius observed the fervor on her face and an ironic thought crossed his mind. In his previous life, in the 21st century, he had been a man of science, a staunch atheist who viewed religion as a social construct. But now... look at him. Time traveler, living a second life, about to march under the eagle of a Roman legion. His very existence there defied materialist logic.
If I am here, he thought, it is the work of something. Some entity, some god, some force I do not understand. Perhaps her prayers are heard by whoever plays with our fates.
"Pray, Selena," he said softly. "Pray for us."
He pulled her into a tight embrace, the last one. The steel of the armor pressed against the soft fabric of her tunic. He felt her body tremble against his, and in that instant, a revelation hit him with the force of a battering ram. He didn't know exactly when it had happened—whether it was seeing her wash clothes with bleeding hands, seeing her protect their daughter from the loan sharks, or in the calm of safe nights at the villa—but he loved them. Not as the original husband, whose memory was a ghost, but as himself. They were his family. In his old life, he had been solitary, career-focused, without a wife or children. Now, he had everything to lose again. And that terrified him more than death.
Lucius pulled away slightly and, with a discreet movement, withdrew from inside his tunic, under the armor, a wax-sealed papyrus scroll.
"Selena, keep this," he whispered, placing the document in her hand and closing her fingers over it. "Inside are letters and documents. Deliver it to Marcus, the carpenter. Ask a trusted servant of the noble to take it to his new workshop. Say I sent it. It is important."
Selena looked at the scroll, confused, but nodded, tucking it into the folds of her cloak. She knew her husband's mind was a labyrinth of inventions, and if he said it was important, she would trust him.
"Go," she said, releasing his hand slowly. "Go and come back to us."
Lucius turned his back, the hardest gesture of his new life, and walked toward the outer courtyard where the retinue was gathering. The sound of his caligae hitting the stone echoed like a countdown.
Outside, daylight began to break through the mist. Titus Valerius was already mounted on a robust white stallion, surrounded by his personal guard. Another horse, a strong-looking chestnut, was being held by the reins by a groom, waiting for Lucius.
Lucius approached the animal. He looked at the Roman saddle, made of wood and leather, with four "horns" (cornua) at the corners to secure the rider's thighs. It was an ingenious saddle for the time, designed to provide stability without the use of stirrups.
But there were no stirrups.
For a modern man, accustomed to the idea of supporting his feet, that was a glaring design flaw. During his basic riding training in recent weeks, Lucius had felt the difficulty firsthand. Without foot support, mounting required arm strength or an athletic jump, and fighting on horseback meant relying entirely on leg pressure not to fall with the impact of a blow. It was unstable. It was tiring.
He grabbed the horse's mane and the front part of the saddle. With a push that required more effort than he cared to admit, he hoisted his armor-heavy body and threw his leg over the animal, settling between the saddle horns. The horse snorted and stamped a hoof, feeling the extra weight.
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Lucius adjusted himself, instinctively seeking the support that didn't exist.
That will change, he thought, remembering the letter he had just given Selena.
Inside that papyrus, among instructions and drawings, was the detailed design of the stirrup, a leather and metal/wood loop suspended from the saddle. Something so simple that would change cavalry forever. Marcus would have work finding someone trustworthy to produce it, but if they managed to produce that... the Roman cavalry's advantage would be overwhelming. The shock of a charge would be devastating if the rider could brace himself on his feet.
"Are you ready, Lucius?" asked Titus Valerius, observing him from atop his mount. The noble wore ornate muscle armor, a purple cape over his shoulders, looking like the very incarnation of Roman authority.
Lucius breathed deep the cold morning air, smelling the city mixed with the countryside.
"Yes, sir. I am ready," he replied. And then, in a moment of honesty, added: "And I am a little afraid."
Valerius let out a brief, dry laugh, but not devoid of sympathy.
"It is good that you are afraid. Fear sharpens the senses. The man who does not fear battle is the first to make a fatal mistake. Fear makes you more human, and we need men, not gods, to win wars."
The column began to move. Guards in front, Valerius and Lucius in the center, followed by servants and pack mules. They left the villa gates, leaving behind comfort and safety, heading for the Via Lata that would take them to the legion meeting point.
As the horse trotted, Lucius's mind wandered to the previous day. He recalled his last visit to the aqueduct construction site.
The sun was setting over the muddy valley, but work had not ceased. Torches were being lit. Lucius walked alongside Demetrius, inspecting the production line of reinforced ceramic pipes.
"We are following it to the letter, sir," the Greek had said, pointing to the wooden forms where the special concrete cured. "The mixture is drying faster than anything I have ever seen. The low bridges already have their foundations set."
Lucius had touched the concrete, feeling the heat of the chemical reaction. It was hard. It was solid.
"Keep it up, Demetrius. Do not deviate a millimeter from the calculations. If you maintain this pace, water will flow to Arretium before the first snow falls here."
"It will flow," the master builder promised. "We will make it flow."
Lucius knew that success was his insurance policy. If he returned as the engineer who solved the impossible problem in record time, his reputation would be untouchable. More projects would come. More gold. Perhaps, one day, his own total freedom from patronage obligations.
The ride lasted about an hour until they reached the outskirts of the Campus Martius, where the main mass of the army gathered. The noise was deafening. Thousands of voices, shouted orders, the sound of metal against metal. It was a mobile city, a force of nature contained in orderly ranks.
Lucius and Valerius approached one of the cohorts of the Legio XII Fulminata. The golden standards shone, the imperial eagle gleaming atop the staff, watching over its children.
"From here on, Lucius," Valerius said, stopping his horse, "you march with the men. A technical officer is still a soldier of the legion in the eyes of the people. Only the high command and cavalry enter the city mounted for the parade."
Lucius nodded. He knew it was a matter of image and discipline. He dismounted, his studded boots landing firmly on the packed earth. He handed the reins to a servant.
"Thank you, sir," Lucius said, adjusting the shield on his arm.
Titus Valerius looked down, his expression serious.
"Don't die too soon, Lucius. I have high investments in your mind."
"I will do my best to protect your investment, sir," Lucius replied with a slight nod.
He walked away and sought his place in the formation of Immunes and engineers, just behind the heavy infantry and before the baggage train. The men around him were veterans, siege carpenters, medics, artillerymen. They looked at him with curiosity, a noble's protégé, but accepted him in silence when they saw he carried his own weight and held the line.
The trumpets, cornua and tubae, sounded, a deep and powerful lament that vibrated in every man's chest.
"DEXTRORSUM! VERTE!" (Right! Face!)
"PROCEDITE!" (Forward!)
The legion began to move. It wasn't a walk; it was the rhythmic beating of a giant heart. Sinister, dexter, sinister... Left, right, left. The sound of five thousand pairs of hobnailed sandals hitting the stone pavement in unison was something that literally made the ground shake.
They entered the city.
The march through the capital wasn't just a movement; it was a propaganda spectacle. The streets were lined with crowds. The people of Rome had come out to see their defenders. Citizens in togas, women with colorful veils, children on fathers' shoulders, slaves, merchants. They shouted, threw flower petals, reached out their hands. The smell of incense burning on portable altars mixed with sweat and dust.
"Roma Victrix! Glory to Marcus Aurelius!" the voices shouted.
Lucius marched, eyes fixed on the back of the man's neck in front of him, keeping step, absorbing the crowd's energy. It was intoxicating. It was easy, in that moment, to understand why men died for this. The feeling of belonging to something greater, invincible, and eternal was seductive.
But Lucius kept his mind alert. He looked at the faces in the crowd, studying the plebs he now knew so well.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.
On a busy corner, near a tavern, leaning against a column, was a familiar figure. He wasn't shouting or throwing flowers. He stood still, arms crossed, watching the metal procession with a predatory gaze.
The collector. The loan shark who had invaded his home.
Time seemed to slow down for Lucius. The sound of the crowd muffled. His eyes met the man's. The collector recognized him instantly.
Seeing Lucius marching, uniformed and armed, the loan shark showed no fear. On the contrary. A slow, mocking smile spread across his face. He uncrossed his arms and gave a slight nod, a gesture of scorn, as if saying: "Go. Pray to die far from here. And if you come back, I'll be waiting."
Lucius's blood boiled. A wave of red fury rose up his neck, hot and violent. His right hand trembled, fingers itching to drop the shield, draw the gladius, and break formation to drive the blade into that parasite's throat. He wanted to see fear replace that smile. He wanted to finish what Flavio had started.
But he didn't.
He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. He ignored the provocation. He knew breaking formation there, in front of all Rome and his officers, would be a death sentence or immediate dishonor. And he had more to lose now. He had Selena. He had Lucia. He had a mission.
Lucius forced his eyes forward, breaking eye contact, leaving the collector's image behind but keeping the hatred as cold fuel in his stomach.
You wait sitting down, Lucius thought. I will come back. And I will be the nightmare you never imagined.
As the march continued, his thoughts turned to someone else. Where was Flavio? In which cohort had the giant been allocated? There were thousands of men there. The legion was a sea of anonymous faces under identical helmets.
I hope he is well, Lucius thought, worry gnawing at him. That man saved my life. I need to make sure he survives this too.
Determination hardened inside him. The war in the North couldn't be a campaign of attrition. It couldn't last years. If it did, the chance of Flavio, or himself, dying increased exponentially.
I have to be fast, Lucius decided.
Even before they reached the border, before they set up the first winter camp, he would start working. He had studied Roman weapons in the last two weeks. The scorpio, the ballista, the onager. They were impressive machines, but had flaws. Slow to reload. Heavy to move. Inaccurate at long ranges.
He could change that. He knew torsion physics better than any engineer of that time. He could design repeating mechanisms. He could improve torsion alloys. He could create modular bridges. And the stirrups... the stirrups would change the cavalry.
Six months, he set as a mental goal. I will give them weapons so terrible and efficient that the barbarians will have no choice but to surrender or be annihilated quickly.
The faster Rome won, the faster he would return. And when he returned, with the spoils' gold and the Emperor's favor, the collector and all other obstacles would be swept away like dust in the wind.
"SINISTER! SINISTER! SINISTER, DEXTER, SINISTER!" shouted the centurion.
