Reborn In 3rd Century Rome with Future Industry

She read the words twice, a chill settling in her chest. Governor Marcellus, believing Lucius’s estate was undefended, was sending Praefectus Claudius and four cohorts of the city watch to scavenge the fortress.

"Claudius," Isolda whispered.

She knew the Praefectus’s reputation well... He was infamous across the province for sacking settlements, enslaving the women, and crucifying the survivors.

The thought of that Roman marching his scavengers to the gates of her home, intending to loot the cradle of her child, ignited a fury in her blood.

"Aulus," Isolda said. "Send word to the ballista crews on the southern palisade. When Praefectus Claudius arrives, I want every torsion engine aimed at his command banner. He wears a crested helmet with horsehair plumes. I want him pinned to the earth before his men have a chance to draw their swords."

"It shall be done, Domina," Aulus swallowed.

Isolda dismissed the scribe and turned her attention to the machinations of her war. Lucius was breaking the empire’s bones in the field, but brute force alone would not secure Gaul. They needed to sever the tendons holding Civitas Aurelia together.

She retrieved a cloak, draping it over her shoulders to ward off the chill, and descended into the subterranean levels of the estate.

Beneath the blast furnaces, the syndicate had carved out a network of cellars. In the deepest of these rooms, lit by the glow of braziers, a dozen men and women waited in silence.

They wore the tunics of plebeians, beggars, and dock workers.

Hand-picked from the ranks of Hagen the Bear’s smugglers and the city’s cutthroats, these operatives were Isolda’s espionage network. They answered only to her.

As Isolda stepped into the center of the room, the operatives dropped to one knee, bowing their heads.

"Rise," Isolda commanded.

She walked over to a table resting against the wall. Upon it lay a series of satchels and several dozen clay pots, no larger than an apple. These were Kallias’s latest refinement of his compounds.

The clay spheres were packed with chemicals and iron shrapnel; an impact against a stone wall or a floorboard would trigger a detonation. They were atrocious for open-field combat, but for urban sabotage, they were unmatched.

Isolda turned back to her operatives, her eyes locking onto the face of their captain... a former gladiator named Silas who had traded the arena sands for the shadows.

"I have a task for you all," Isolda began. "The Dominus is slaughtering the legions in the northern valleys. But Governor Marcellus sits in Civitas Aurelia, drinking spiced wine and believing he can scavenge our home while our backs are turned. We are going to show the Governor that his city already belongs to us."

Silas stepped forward, his eyes tracking the clay spheres on the table. "What are the targets, Domina?"

"Everything that gives the elite their power," Isolda stated, a smirk touching her lips. "I want you to infiltrate the capital. You will use these impact charges to obliterate the grain silos controlled by the Guild Masters. When the food burns, the plebeians will panic. Next, you will target the magistrates who voted to back Marcellus’s war tax. Slit their throats in their beds, burn their ledgers, and paint the syndicate’s crest in blood on their doors."

The operatives exchanged glances.

"...I want you to plunge Civitas Aurelia into such chaos that he realizes he doesn’t control his own streets. I want the city burning so brightly that Marcellus feels the heat inside his praetorium. By the time Lucius finishes dismantling the Seventh Legion, the capital will be begging for us to march in and restore order."

Silas picked up one of the satchels, slinging it over his shoulder with a nod.

"The Guilds will burn tonight, Domina. We will carve the Governor’s authority to pieces."

"See that you do," Isolda replied, stepping back to let the operatives gather their payloads.

Within minutes, the Ghosts of the Forge slipped out of the cellars, vanishing into the smuggling tunnels that connected Fundus Ferratus to the Roman roads.

Isolda placed a hand over her womb once more.

The war for the future was not going to be fought fairly... And as the Roman elite prepared to face the fury of the Forge Master on the battlefield, they would soon discover that his shadow queen had already slipped the knife into their backs.

...

December 22, 220 AD, Civitas Aurelia, Gallia.

The sky over Civitas Aurelia was a sheet of clouds, choking out the moonlight and plunging the capital into obscurity.

While Lucius dismantled the legions in the valleys to the north, his shadow network went to work dissecting the city from the inside.

Silas, the former gladiator and captain of Isolda’s operatives, moved through the streets of the warehouse district.

His objective was the grain silos owned by Guild Master Spurius. This food supply was the leverage the Guilds used to starve the plebeians into submission.

Approaching the padlocked gates of the silo, Silas reached into his satchel and withdrew a sphere of Kallias’s clay.

He judged the distance, took a breath, and hurled the compound against the doors.

A burst of fire ripped the doors off their hinges, igniting the stores of grain dust within the silo. The structure became an inferno, painting the clouds in shades of crimson.

By the time the watch arrived, hauling buckets of river water, the silo was unsalvageable.

They would spend the next week interrogating every beggar in the district, but they would find nothing.

Silas had vanished into the slums before the first sparks had touched the sky...

Deeper into the heart of the capital, another Ghost was weaving her own web.

Livia had been embedded in Civitas Aurelia for nearly two months, operating off the grid to gather intelligence for the syndicate.

To the Roman elite, she was a serving girl with a pretty smile and calloused hands, working in a *caupona* that catered to the magistrates and officers.

Tonight, she carried a kill order from the princess.

Her target was Centurion Balo, the brute Marcellus had left in charge of the garrison while Praefectus Claudius marched east.

Livia carried a pitcher of spiced wine to a corner table, keeping her eyes lowered as she refilled the Centurion’s goblet.

Balo had frequented the *caupona* for weeks, his eyes lingering on Livia every time she passed.

He was a man accustomed to taking whatever he desired, and the tension in the city had only shortened his temper and heightened his vices.

As she turned to leave, his hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist.

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