Reborn In 3rd Century Rome with Future Industry

March 8, 221 AD, Civitas Aurelia, Gallia.

Isolda sat in an alcove near the back of the tavern, a mug of mint tea resting between her hands.

Opposite her sat Livia, the Ghost operative who had decapitated the garrison by assassinating Centurion Balo in an alleyway.

Isolda wore a gown of silk, draped over the corslet Lucius had engineered for her. Her hair was bound in braids, and the necklace rested against her collarbones. Every merchant and magistrate who dared to enter the tavern averted their eyes, understanding that looking too long at the Forge Master’s wife was a miscalculation.

Livia, on the other hand, was invisible. She wore the gray wool of a serving girl. Her hands were calloused from years of hauling amphorae and operating repeaters.

Taking a sip of her tea, Isolda noticed Livia shifting on the bench.

The operative kept glancing at Isolda’s sapphires, a sense of inadequacy flickering in her eyes.

"Is the seating uncomfortable, Livia?" Isolda asked, a smile touching her lips.

Livia cleared her throat, keeping her voice low. "No, Domina. It is just... sitting across from you makes a girl aware of the dirt under her fingernails."

Isolda let out a laugh, reaching across the table to tap the back of Livia’s hand.

"Do not insult yourself, Livia," Isolda commanded. "My beauty is a weapon, forged to distract patricians while I pick their pockets and steal their secrets. Your anonymity is your armor. It allows you to walk up to a Centurion and put a dart through his throat before he realizes he is bleeding. We wield different blades."

Livia’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

She managed a smile, taking a sip of her watered wine. She always felt a sense of awe around the Gothic princess.

"So," Livia murmured, leaning forward. "Why did you summon me into the daylight, Domina? The Ghosts usually receive their targets in the cellars."

Isolda reached into the folds of her gown, retrieving a cylinder of bone.

She placed it on the table, sliding it across the wood until it rested against Livia’s cup.

"We are no longer a gang of dockside smugglers and tavern spies," Isolda explained. "Lucius has tasked me with formalizing our network into an institution. We are expanding our operations across the Mediterranean. But to manage an apparatus of this scale, I require a Prefect of Field Operations. A second-in-command."

Livia stared at the cylinder, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked up, bewildered.

"Me?" Livia whispered. "Domina, I am a trigger-puller. Silas has run the smuggler tunnels for a decade. He has the logistical experience to command the field operatives. Why are you offering this to a tavern girl?"

Isolda leaned back, resting her hands over her abdomen. She raised two fingers.

"I have two reasons," Isolda stated. "First, Silas is a smuggler, but his mind is rigid. I need a commander who can think on her feet when an assassination devolves into a brawl. You possess an improvisational genius."

Livia swallowed hard, absorbing the compliment. "And the second reason?"

Isolda let out a sigh, glancing out the window toward the chimneys of the *Campus Martius* factories.

"The second reason is that I required a woman," Isolda admitted, her tone turning dry. "If I appoint a man as my deputy, I will be forced to spend countless hours locked in subterranean war rooms with him, pouring over ciphers late into the night."

Livia blinked, confused. "I don’t understand. Why is that an issue?"

Isolda fixed her with a look of sincerity. "If I spend every night in a dark room with Silas, Lucius will succumb to his paranoia. He will strap him to one of his steam engines and launch him into the Rhone River out of jealousy."

Livia let out a laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth.

She assumed the Domina was making a dark joke. But as she looked into Isolda’s eyes, the laughter died in her throat.

"By the gods," Livia breathed. "You aren’t joking."

"I never joke about the Forge Master’s wrath," Isolda replied, taking another sip of her tea. "Lucius is a visionary, but he is also a monster who would burn this province to ash to protect what belongs to him. So, for the sake of Silas’s continued breathing, the position falls to you. If any of the male operatives dare to question your authority, send them to me. I will explain that their survival depends on my husband not perceiving them as a threat."

"Well," Livia managed, reaching out to slide the cylinder into her lap. "When you frame it as a matter of public safety, how can I refuse? I accept the position, Domina."

Isolda smiled, an expression of satisfaction. "Excellent. Inside that cylinder is the cipher detailing your command structure, your stipends, and the locations of our safe houses. Memorize the operational parameters tonight. Then burn the parchment and grind the ash to dust. I want no evidence of the Directorate existing outside of my head."

"It will be done," Livia promised, slipping the cylinder into her cloak.

Isolda stood from the bench, dropping two denarii onto the table... an overpayment for a single cup of tea.

She adjusted the silk of her gown, preparing to step back out into the Gallic air.

Livia looked up.

"What are your orders for the rest of the day, Domina?" Livia asked. "Are you returning to the cellars to review the Alexandrian intelligence reports?"

Isolda paused. A smile spread across her face. She did not bother lowering her voice.

"No, Livia," Isolda purred. "I am going back to the praetorium to ruin my husband’s productivity for the remainder of the afternoon."

Livia’s jaw unhinged. She watched in silence as Isolda swept out of the *thermopolium*, leaving a trail of captivated patrons in her wake.

The audacity of the Gothic princess was breathtaking...

Livia realized that her promotion was motivated by Isolda’s desire to delegate the paperwork so she could spend more time locked in the chambers with the Forge Master.

Miles away, deep within the walls of the praetorium, Lucius Cassius was unaware of the disruption to his schedule.

He was standing in his study, his hands smeared with charcoal. Sprawled across three drafting tables were the blueprints that would dictate the survival of his empire.

On the left were the schematics for the moldboard plows and the irrigation pumps designed to revolutionize Gallic agriculture. On the right were the diagrams of the *Isolda*-class ironclads.

Lucius was running the mathematics of time versus industrial output. Legate Rufinus was dealing with winter supply shortages in the north, but the moment the mountain passes thawed, the Roman commander would march a force south to avenge Tribune Quintus.

The storm was coming, and Lucius needed his agricultural sector producing enough grain to withstand a siege, while launching his fleet to secure the Mediterranean sulfur routes.

He was calculating the tensile strength of the iron hull ribs when the doors to the study swung open.

Lucius didn’t look up, assuming it was Valerius bringing a patrol report. "Put the perimeter assessments on the side table, Valerius. I am in the middle of a structural stress test."

"I am fairly certain I can provide a much more entertaining stress test, Forge Master."

Lucius froze. The stylus slipped from his fingers, clattering against the drafting table. He looked up.

Isolda was standing in the doorway, having dismissed the *Custodes* guards stationed in the hall.

She reached behind her back, sliding the bolt into place.

She leaned against the locked door. The look in her eyes erased the blueprints, the ironclads, and the threat of the Roman legions from Lucius’s mind.

Lucius wiped the charcoal from his hands with a linen cloth, a smile spreading across his face.

The agricultural revolution and the naval supremacy of the Syndicate would have to wait until tomorrow...

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