Reborn In 3rd Century Rome with Future Industry

January 28, 221 AD, Civitas Aurelia, Gallia.

For three days and nights, Lucius Cassius had barricaded himself inside the study of the Governor’s palace. His only sustenance had been flatbread and a brew of chicory root and mint... a stimulant meant to keep the exhaustion from pulling him under.

Before him on the desk lay a schematic.

It was a maritime leviathan. Unlike the triremes of the imperial navy, this was an iron-ribbed transport galleon. It featured three decks capable of housing cargo tonnage, flanked by ports designed to mount Decimus’s torsion engines.

The design was a replica of a 17th-century galleon, a vessel Lucius had studied during his corporate years when analyzing the evolution of supply chains.

Because he lacked modern materials, he had improvised.

The keel and ribs would be forged from iron, the rigging woven from treated flax, and the hull plated with a wash of zinc to repel saltwater and shipworms.

Lucius had decided to name this flagship the *Isolda*-class.

Roman tradition dictated naming ships after gods or virtues, but Lucius wanted a name that embodied strength, and nothing in his life terrified or inspired him more than his Gothic bride.

"Are you attempting to conquer the sea, or die of starvation before the legions arrive?"

Lucius blinked, pulling his eyes away from the parchment.

Isolda stood in the doorway of the study, her arms crossed over her dress.

She had let him work without interruption, understanding the bursts of inspiration that fueled his engineering, but a three-day marathon was crossing her limit.

She stepped up to the desk, her eyes scanning the blueprint.

Her gaze stopped on the script detailing the hull classification.

"The *Isolda*-class Heavy Transport?" she asked, a smile breaking through her expression.

"You are naming a warship after me?"

Lucius let out a chuckle, rubbing his eyes. "The Roman galleys are too fragile. I needed something capable of surviving a storm, carrying enough weight to bankrupt a province, and possessing a profile that strikes terror into the hearts of any pirate foolish enough to look at it. The name felt... appropriate."

Isolda laughed, a sound that eased the tension in Lucius’s shoulders.

She walked around the desk, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face into his neck.

"It is beautiful. But if you do not step away from this desk, I am going to have Valerius carry you to a bed."

"Just a few more calculations on the mainmast," Lucius mumbled, trying to reach for his stylus.

Isolda swatted his hand away. "The mast will hold. Your mind will not. Come."

Too exhausted to put up a fight, Lucius allowed his wife to drag him from the study.

He barely remembered walking down the corridors before collapsing onto the bed in the chambers.

When Lucius cracked his eyes open, the light in the chamber had shifted. He pushed himself up, his joints popping in protest.

"How long was I dead?" he rasped, reaching for a pitcher of water on the nightstand.

Isolda was sitting near the window, running a whetstone over her dagger. She didn’t look up, but a smirk played on her lips. "Eighteen hours. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to assume command of the Syndicate permanently."

Lucius took a drink, feeling the cobwebs clear from his brain. "You stayed here the entire time?"

"Hardly," Isolda replied, testing the edge of her blade with her thumb. "The shipwright you requested from Alexandria arrived halfway through your coma. He is waiting in the dining hall, and he is vibrating with rage."

Lucius groaned, rubbing his face. "Nearchus. The architect."

"He claims he is the greatest nautical mind in the Mediterranean," Isolda noted. "And he is insulted that an iron merchant has made him wait twelve hours. Aulus has been pouring him wine to keep him from marching back to his ship."

"Right. Let’s go soothe an artist’s ego," Lucius sighed, rolling out of bed and calling for a servant to bring him a tunic.

Ten minutes later, Lucius strode into the dining hall. Pacing in front of the hearth was Nearchus... a stout Greek man in his forties, wearing silks that looked out of place in the capital of Gaul.

The moment Nearchus spotted Lucius, he threw his hands up in outrage.

"Is this how the so-called Forge Master treats his guests?" Nearchus shouted. "I am Nearchus of the Great Lighthouse! Emperors in Rome have waited weeks for an audience with me, yet I am forced to sit in this outpost for half a day?"

Lucius walked to a sideboard, uncorking a jug. He poured a measure of liquid into two goblets.

It was a distilled spirit... a precursor to brandy that Kallias had invented while refining solvents.

"My apologies, Master Nearchus," Lucius said, offering one of the goblets. "I was finalizing the blueprints I brought you here to build. The mathematics required a level of focus that blinded me to the passage of time. Please, drink. It will chase the chill from your bones."

Nearchus glared at the cup, but his curiosity won out. He took a sip. His eyes widened as the alcohol burned down his throat. It possessed a warmth and clarity that Roman wines could never hope to match.

"By the gods," Nearchus coughed, looking at the goblet with reverence. "What is this?"

"A side project of our chemical division," Lucius smiled. "But if you agree to oversee my naval shipyards, you will have unrestricted access to it."

Nearchus scoffed, recovering his composure. "It will take more than a drink to buy my genius, Cassius. The imperial navy pays me a fortune to design their triremes. Why should I stay in this province?"

Lucius gestured for the man to sit at the table as servants began bringing out platters of venison, cheeses, and bread.

"I will double your imperial salary, paid in silver," Lucius stated, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. "Furthermore, I will grant you a voting seat on my Syndicate Council. You will be elevated to Prefect of the Fleets. But most importantly, Nearchus... I am not asking you to build triremes."

Lucius unrolled the blueprint, spreading the *Isolda*-class schematic across the table.

Nearchus was mid-bite, holding a piece of venison. He froze.

The architect leaned over the parchment, his eyes darting across the cross-sections, the hull design, and the winches integrated into the rigging.

For an hour, Nearchus did not speak a word. He traced the iron ribbing with a trembling finger, muttering calculations in Greek under his breath. He recognized that this ship defied everything the ancient world knew about buoyancy and structural limits...

Nearchus looked up, the arrogance wiped from his face. In its place was the awe of a visionary who had seen the future.

"It will require a drydock the size of a city quarter," Nearchus whispered, his eyes locked onto Lucius. "And the iron... the tonnage of iron required to forge these ribs..."

"My factories can produce the iron," Lucius assured him. "Can you build the ship?"

"When do we begin?" Nearchus demanded, slamming his fist onto the table.

Lucius’s smile widened into a grin. "We begin immediately. While you construct the drydocks, my foundries will mass-produce the iron ribs and plates. By utilizing an assembly line, the moment the docks are finished, we will be able to launch a new flagship every three months."

Nearchus grabbed Lucius’s hand, shaking it with energy.

The prospect of commanding an assembly line to birth the greatest vessels in history had seduced him!

As the two men began to discuss timber sourcing and supply chains, Governor Marcellus remained locked in his quarters upstairs, unaware that the Syndicate was no longer satisfied with conquering a single province.

With his supremacy established on land, Lucius was cementing his domination of the sea...

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