Reborn In 3rd Century Rome with Future Industry

"The entire city is jumping at shadows tonight, girl," Balo grunted. "But you don’t look frightened. Tell me, what hour does that cruel tavern master release you from your shift? I think you need an escort home."

It was a clumsy attempt at charm, but Livia knew how to play her part...

She needed the commander dead, and isolating him in the dark was the cleanest method.

She allowed a flush to rise in her cheeks, gently pulling her wrist free but lingering long enough to set the hook.

"At the hour of the wolf, Centurion," Livia murmured. "By the alley behind the baker’s ovens. But my father would kill me if he saw me with an officer."

Balo offered a chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "Let me worry about your father. I will be waiting."

Livia offered a nod and retreated to the kitchens.

She played the role of the servant for the remainder of the night, washing the bowls and scrubbing the tables until the tavern emptied. When the hour of the wolf arrived, she slipped out the rear door, pulling her cloak around her shoulders to ward off the cold.

Centurion Balo was waiting in the shadows of the alley, wearing a tunic over a concealed chainmail vest. The arrogance radiating from him was palpable. Livia offered a smile, stepping closer and allowing him to loop an arm around her waist.

"So, Centurion," Livia asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Where is this escort taking me?"

"I know a quiet place near the barracks," Balo replied, guiding her away from the thoroughfares and deeper into the *vicus* alleyways of the lower city.

Despite her relaxed posture, Livia’s instincts were screaming. Balo was taking her into the most isolated sectors of the slums. They rounded a corner into a dead-end alley that smelled of rotting cabbage and urine.

The Centurion’s facade vanished. He shoved Livia against the wall, pinning her by the shoulders.

From the shadows of the dead-end, three watchmen stepped forward, drawing their swords. The moonlight caught the iron of their blades.

Balo leaned in, his breath hot and sour against her face.

"You syndicate rats really think we are blind?" the Centurion hissed, a sneer curling his lip. "We intercepted one of Hagen’s smugglers two days ago. He screamed for hours before he died, but he told us about the spy serving wine to the officers. We are going to strip you down, break every finger on those hands, and you are going to tell me exactly how many weapons the Forge Master has smuggled into my city."

Realizing the trap had been sprung, the facade of the terrified serving girl evaporated. Livia’s eyes went dead, her face hardening into the mask of a killer.

"You should have brought more men," Livia whispered.

Before Balo could register the shift in her tone, Livia dropped her hand beneath her cloak.

She did not draw a dagger. Her hand wrapped around a marvel of engineering that Lucius had designed for close-quarters assassinations... a torsion repeater.

It was a lattice of spring steel and brass gears, loaded with a magazine of five iron darts.

With a flick of her wrist, she brought the weapon up, pressing the muzzle under Balo’s chin.

The release was quiet, but the force was devastating.

The dart punched through the soft tissue of the Centurion’s throat, severing his spinal cord and exiting the top of his skull.

Balo’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body going limp.

The three watchmen froze, paralyzed by the sudden death of their commander.

Livia shoved Balo’s corpse toward them to break their line of sight, racking the lever on the side of the repeater to drop the next dart into the groove.

She stepped to the side, raising the weapon.

Thwack! Thwack!

Two darts tore through the air, punching through the armor of the closest guards.

They crumpled, clutching their ruined chests, blood bubbling from their lungs.

The final watchman recovered his wits, letting out a scream as he lunged forward with his gladius. Livia sidestepped the thrust, racked the lever one final time, and fired the fourth dart into the man’s face. He hit the ground, his sword skittering away into the dark.

The engagement lasted less than six seconds...

Livia stood in the alley, the repeater smoking in the air. The bodies of the commander and his men lay tangled in the frost.

The sound of a skirmish... even a quiet one would eventually attract patrols.

Livia retrieved her concealed travel pack from a hidden alcove behind a loose brick.

She stripped the Centurion of his purse of silver, adjusted her cloak to cover the repeater, and sprinted for the nearest grate leading into the city’s sewer network.

By the time the morning patrol discovered the slaughter in the alley, Livia would be miles away, traversing the tunnels back toward the eastern ridges...

She had decapitated the city’s internal defense force. With Praefectus Claudius marching into a trap in the valleys, and Centurion Balo rotting in an alley, the provincial capital was leaderless.

The iron *falxes* hidden throughout the slums were being distributed to the plebeians.

This was the reality of Isolda’s shadow war...

Governor Marcellus was about to wake up to a city that was bleeding, burning, and out of his control.

And the Forge Master had not breached the gates yet.

...

December 23, 220 AD, Gallia.

For three hours, the torsion engines pounded the Roman marching camp.

The Romans had followed legionary doctrine, digging a trench and erecting a palisade of stakes to secure their position.

Lucius had not received an envoy asking for terms of surrender, though he found it unsurprising.

The arrogance of the Seventh Legion was absolute; they could not comprehend that a patrician’s militia was bombarding them with weapons that shouldn’t exist.

The *Custodes* held their lines in silence, waiting beyond the range of the Roman archers.

Lucius sat atop his warhorse, watching Kallias’s explosive clay in action.

With every volley from the ballista carts, compounds slammed into the palisade, detonating with shockwaves that snapped the stakes like twigs.

Shrapnel and fire rained down on the legionaries trapped inside.

If a Roman dared to poke his helmet over the barricades to hurl a javelin, a steel bolt from a repeater would pin him to the mud.

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