Reborn In 3rd Century Rome with Future Industry

November 15, 219 AD, Fundus Ferratus, Gallia.

Miles away from the Gothic forests, the air inside the study of Fundus Ferratus smelled of ink and wood pulp.

Lucius sat behind his desk, reviewing the first ledger recorded on his cellulose paper. The ink set, the fibers held strong, and the cost was nonexistent. The paper mill was a triumph.

The satisfaction of the afternoon was shattered.

The doors were pushed open. Valerius strode into the room, his hand resting on the pommel of his spatha. The Security Chief’s face was pale, his jaw clenched.

"Dominus," Valerius said. "Three men were apprehended by the *Custodes* patrols near the western tree line. They are not local bandits, and they are not Guild thugs."

Cassius, who had been tallying agricultural yields by the window, looked up. "Then who are they? Turn them over to the city watch."

"They came looking for the Forge Master," Valerius corrected, his eyes locking onto Lucius. "And they bypassed every Alemanni border checkpoint to get here. They are barbarians."

Lucius’s stylus paused.

He didn’t have any enmity with the Goths or the eastern tribes; his strategy relied on arming them from the shadows.

The fact that an envoy had managed to navigate hostile territory and locate his estate sent an alarm through his chest...

"Bring them in," Lucius commanded, setting the stylus down.

Valerius signaled into the corridor. Four *Custodes* marched into the study, flanking a figure.

The envoy was clad in bear pelts and a stolen Roman breastplate.

His blonde hair was woven into braids. Despite being surrounded by drawn steel, the barbarian did not tremble.

He possessed the aura of a man who had killed more men than he could count.

"I am Theodoric," the envoy rumbled in accented Latin. "I ride for High Chieftain Geberic of the Gothic Confederation. I bring terms for the master of this fire."

Lucius remained still. "You have traveled a long way to speak in riddles, Theodoric. I am an Equestrian of Rome. I run a farming estate. I have no dealings with the Goths."

Theodoric let out a laugh. He reached beneath his pelt.

Valerius and the *Custodes* drew their blades, the sound of steel echoing off the walls.

"Peace, Romans," Theodoric mocked, pulling a wrapped bundle from his belt. He tossed it onto the desk. The leather fell away, revealing the blade of a *falx*.

"You dress your steel in the clothes of the Sarmatians, Forge Master," Theodoric sneered, tapping the blade. "You thought the leather and the eastern curve would keep us blind. But Geberic is not a fool, and neither are his allies."

Lucius felt the blood drain from his face. The stylus in his hand snapped in two.

His mind raced. How had they traced the steel back to Gaul?

Did Wulfric betray him?

Had Alaric the smuggler sold him out to the Goths? If the barbarians knew the source of the weapons, it was only a matter of time before the Roman authorities discovered the treason.

The shadow empire was standing on a razor’s edge.

Cassius looked like he was about to faint.

"Before I have my men take you to the river and open your throat," Lucius said, "you will tell me which of my smugglers leaked this information to your King."

Theodoric’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of respect. "No one betrayed you, Roman. Your men are as silent as the grave. It was your witchcraft that gave you away."

Lucius frowned, signaling for Valerius to hold his blade. "Explain."

"Hagen the Bear laid fifty of your swords side-by-side in the mud," Theodoric said, gesturing to the *falx*. "He measured them. The tang, the hilt, the curve of the iron. They were identical. Down to the width of a hair."

The Gothic warrior shook his head. "Men who live in tents and forge over dung fires do not create fifty blades with the same balance point. Hagen knew that only a Roman could create such perfection."

A realization washed over Lucius.

He let out an exhale, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

It was the *Mensura Ferrata*.

The standardization that gave his factory its efficiency had left an industrial fingerprint on his weapons.

He had introduced mass manufacturing to a world that only understood artisanal craft, and a barbarian had deduced the truth from the impossibility of the perfection.

Lucius chuckled. He made a mental note to mandate cosmetic variations in the next batch of export hilts to mask their industrial origins.

"Your Hagen is an observant man," Lucius admitted, leaning back in his chair. "Very well, Theodoric. What does King Geberic want?"

"He wants an alliance," Theodoric declared. "The Alemanni are a rot that threatens to consume the forests. Geberic offers you the blood of the Alemanni in exchange for your steel. We have unminted gold pulled from the rivers and Baltic amber to pay your price."

Cassius, recovering from his panic at the mention of gold, stepped forward. "A generous offer, barbarian. But how does your King intend to transport crates of gold and thousands of steel blades across hundreds of miles of Alemanni-controlled territory? The logistics are suicidal."

Theodoric grinned. "Geberic has ordered him to abandon the guerrilla war. Hagen’s rebels are mapping the blind spots. They will guide the carts through the forgotten bogs and hidden ravines, bypassing the Alemanni patrols to reach your smugglers at the Rhine."

Lucius’s eyes widened in admiration.

He had armed a desperate rebellion, expecting them to bleed the Alemanni in skirmishes.

But Geberic had taken that rebellion and transformed it into a disciplined smuggling cartel.

It was a logistical solution that bypassed the Roman border guards and the Alemanni blockades!

"Tell King Geberic that I accept his terms," Lucius said. "We will flood the forests with enough steel to drown the Alemanni confederation."

Theodoric did not bow or turn to leave. Instead, the envoy reached into his tunic and produced a rolled scroll sealed with wax. He placed it on the desk.

"There is one final condition to the pact, Forge Master," Theodoric rumbled. "Geberic demands a chain forged in blood to ensure you do not cut the supply lines when the war turns."

Lucius frowned, staring at the wax seal. "A hostage?"

"A bride," Theodoric corrected. "The King is sending his youngest daughter, Isolda of the Goths, to Gaul. You are to be betrothed to her. She will sit at your hearth, and her children will carry the blood of the Goths and the fire of your forge."

Silence followed...

Then, Cassius erupted.

"A barbarian bride?!" the patriarch shrieked. "Have you lost your mind? My son is an Equestrian of Rome! A patrician! If he takes a pelt-wearing savage as a wife, he will be a laughingstock! The Senate will strip us of our titles!"

"Father, silence," Lucius snapped.

Cassius froze, stunned by the authority in his son’s tone.

Lucius looked down at the scroll.

Marrying a Gothic princess would secure him the loyalty of a confederation boasting tens of thousands of warriors.

If Tribune Gaius or the provincial magistrates ever tried to march on Fundus Ferratus, Lucius would have a barbarian horde ready to burn Gaul to the ground in defense of their princess.

Lucius looked up at the envoy, a smile spreading across his face.

"Tell King Geberic," Lucius said, "that the Forge Master of Gaul is honored by the proposal. Tell him to prepare the dowry, and ensure the princess travels guarded."

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