Reborn In 3rd Century Rome with Future Industry

March 15, 221 AD, Civitas Aurelia, Gallia.

While the surviving patricians of the Roman elite huddled in their villas, plotting assassinations and arguing over ancient philosophy, the Forge Master of Gaul found himself paralyzed by a different kind of problem.

The industrialization of the province was advancing with the precision of a ticking clock. Yet, sitting behind his desk, Lucius Cassius was stumped. Isolda’s twentieth nameday was approaching at the end of the month, and he had no idea what to give her.

Lucius was not a man who neglected his wife. Despite the demands of running a shadow empire, he leveraged his monopolies to spoil the Gothic princess. He had draped her in silks, engineered a corslet to ease her pregnancy, and imported a hound to guard her heels. He provided a level of devotion that Senators would have considered scandalous.

But a nameday required something profound. He couldn’t hand the Director of the Shadows another set of jewelry or a cloak.

It had to be a statement... an intersection of luxury and utility that she wouldn’t expect.

Leaning back in his chair, Lucius took a sip from a goblet filled with Kallias’s spirits.

He stared at the ceiling, turning the puzzle over in his mind.

What did Isolda hate?

The answer arrived with a flash of clarity. She despised traveling in Roman carriages.

The standard imperial *carruca* was a wooden box bolted to rigid axles.

Even with cushions, traveling over roads was agonizing, especially for a woman carrying a child.

Lucius slammed his goblet down and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him.

Grabbing his stylus, he began sketching a carriage chassis that utilized leaf springs... layered strips of steel designed to flex and absorb shock before it reached the passenger cabin.

It was a mobility revolution applied to a carriage. He drafted an enclosed cabin suspended on these steel arcs, adding wheel-bearings to eliminate axle friction.

A grin spread across Lucius’s face. He rolled the blueprints, sealed them with wax, and summoned a *Custodes* guard from the hallway. He handed the cylinder to the soldier with instructions to deliver it to Decimus at the works. It was a rush order, demanding secrecy.

With the crisis averted, Lucius sank back into his chair and exhaled a breath.

The liquor burned in his chest as he turned his gaze toward the window.

In the quiet of his study, Lucius allowed himself a moment of reflection.

He still had no idea how his consciousness had been ripped from the 21st century and shoved into the body of an exiled Roman patrician.

If heaven existed, he was certain the architect of the Decimus Engine and the deployer of chemical weapons wasn’t on the guest list.

Rather than spiraling into madness over his reincarnation, Lucius treated it as an engineering challenge.

It was the only way to keep his mind grounded. Still, the absurdity of his reality occasionally caught him off guard, leaving him to chuckle alone in the dark.

"If I spend any more time talking to myself in this room, Isolda is going to have me committed to the asylum," Lucius muttered, taking another sip of the spirits.

As if summoned by the mention of her name, the door unlatched.

Lucius looked up to see Isolda stepping into the study. She was wearing a gown of wool that draped over her abdomen, her hair left unbound to cascade over her shoulders.

There was an excitement in her eyes that overrode her composure.

"Why are you smiling like you just robbed the treasury?" Lucius asked, setting his goblet aside.

Isolda didn’t answer. She marched around the desk, grabbed him by the wrist, and hauled him out of his chair.

"Come with me," she ordered.

"I have three tax ledgers to approve," Lucius protested, though he was already letting her drag him toward the door.

"The taxes can wait," Isolda insisted, pulling him out into the corridor. "This cannot."

Bewildered but captivated by his wife’s urgency, Lucius followed her through the praetorium. They bypassed the audience halls and the war rooms, heading for the sanctuary of their chambers.

Isolda pushed the doors open and pulled him inside, kicking the timber shut behind them. The room was warm, lit by the glow of the hearth fire.

Fenrir, the puppy, lifted his head from a rug before letting out a huff and going back to sleep.

Isolda stopped near the edge of the bed and turned to face Lucius. She took both of his hands and placed them against the side of her gown, pressing his palms against her abdomen.

"Wait," she whispered, her eyes locked onto his.

Lucius stood still, his brow furrowed in confusion. He felt the warmth of her skin through the wool, but the room was silent.

"Isolda, what exactly are we—"

*Thump.*

Lucius cut himself off, his eyes going wide.

It was a kick that pushed against his palm. A second later, a pressure dragged across his hand, as if a heel were dragging along the inside of her ribs.

"By the gods..." Lucius breathed.

Isolda let out a laugh, tears shining in the corners of her eyes. "He has been doing it for the last hour. I think he hates the diplomatic briefings just as much as I do. The moment the scribe started reading the grain reports, he started trying to kick his way out."

Lucius couldn’t tear his eyes away from her stomach. He shifted his hands, waiting, and was rewarded with another series of jabs.

"That is... strong," Lucius murmured in awe. "He feels like he is practicing shield bashes."

Isolda beamed, resting her hands over his. "He has Gothic blood, Forge Master. Did you expect him to sit quietly?"

Lucius looked up into her face, a wave of affection and pride washing away the remnants of his detachment.

If the Roman patricians knew what was growing in the chambers of Civitas Aurelia, they would burn the city to the ground out of self-preservation.

"He is going to be a monster," Lucius said, a smile breaking across his face.

Isolda raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it as a compliment," Lucius clarified, smoothing his thumbs over her stomach.

Isolda’s smile softened.

"My child..." Lucius whispered, leaning down to press a kiss against the wool covering her womb.

Isolda threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling him up for a kiss.

The Forge Master was exactly where he wanted to be, guarding the spark of the world he was destined to leave behind.

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