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Chapter 2 - The Digital Lifeline

For a long moment, Alex could only stare at the soldier, his mind a howling vortex of denial and panic. Commodus. The name was a death sentence. The soldier, still kneeling, interpreted his silence as the stunned grief of a new orphan. It was a mask Alex's stunned mind gratefully seized upon.

He needed to get that soldier out of the tent. Now.

He dredged up a memory of some historical drama he'd once watched, forcing his new, younger body into a posture of authority. He gave a sharp, dismissive wave, a gesture he hoped looked regal rather than like a man shooing away a fly. "Leave me," he commanded, the Latin words feeling clumsy and alien on his tongue. "I would mourn alone."

The legionary seemed to find this perfectly acceptable. He bowed his head even lower. "As you command, Caesar." With a final, respectful glance, he backed out of the tent, letting the canvas flap fall shut, plunging Alex back into the flickering lantern light.

The second the soldier was gone, the mask of the stoic prince shattered. Alex scrambled across the tent on his hands and knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He grabbed the black nylon handle of his bag and dragged it into the center of the tent, his real hands, his 21st-century hands, recognizing the familiar texture and weight. It felt like an anchor in a roiling sea of madness.

He fumbled with the heavy-duty zipper, his fingers clumsy with adrenaline. Inside, nestled amongst his travel essentials—a now-useless passport, a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate, a power bank—was his salvation. A sleek, matte black laptop, built to military specifications. Ruggedized, waterproof, and, most importantly, equipped with a state-of-the-art, self-contained AI.

He snatched it from the bag, his movements frantic. He flipped open the lid. The screen glowed to life, a perfect rectangle of cool, blue light in the ancient darkness. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. In the corner of the screen, a small icon mocked him with its stark reality: a battery symbol, filled to just over three-quarters. 78%.

A cold dread coiled in his gut, a chilling counterpoint to the surge of relief. The laptop was alive, but it was on a timer. Every second it was on, it was dying.

He grabbed his wireless earbuds from their charging case—another small, impossible miracle of future technology—and fitted one into his ear. He tapped a shortcut on the screen.

"Lyra?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Lyra, can you hear me? Run a full diagnostic. Tell me what's going on."

A moment of silence, then a calm, synthesized female voice, impossibly clear and crisp, spoke directly into his mind. "All internal systems are nominal, Alex. I am operating at one hundred percent efficiency. However, I am detecting a complete absence of satellite or network connectivity. My external sensors are registering atmospheric conditions inconsistent with our last known location."

"No, no, you don't understand," Alex hissed, running a hand through his strange, curly hair. "A soldier… he called me Commodus. He said my father, Marcus Aurelius, was dead."

There was another brief pause, the only indication that Lyra was processing terabytes of data. "Commodus. Son of Marcus Aurelius. Roman Emperor from 177 to 192 AD, sole ruler from 180 AD. Accessing historical files." A series of images and text flashed across the laptop screen—busts of the real Commodus, timelines, summaries of his reign.

"Your physical parameters," Lyra continued, her tone unchanged, "match those of an athletic male of approximately eighteen years of age. My internal chronometer is unable to verify the date via network time protocols. However, based on a preliminary analysis of stellar positioning through a gap in the tent canvas, combined with the soldier's Latin dialect and the historical context provided, I can confirm the high probability of a temporal displacement. The current date is approximately March 17th, 180 AD."

Alex felt a wave of nausea. It was real. It wasn't a concussion-induced dream. It was real.

"His reign," Alex stammered, pointing a shaking finger at the screen where Lyra had pulled up a biography. "Tell me about his reign, Lyra. The short version."

"The reign of Commodus is widely considered by historians to be the end of the Pax Romana and the beginning of the empire's decline," Lyra stated, her voice a chillingly neutral instrument of fact. "He was characterized by megalomania, paranoia, and a disinterest in governance. He devalued the currency, allowed corrupt officials to run the state, and alienated the Senate. He survived numerous assassination plots before being successfully poisoned and then strangled to death by his wrestling partner, Narcissus, on New Year's Eve, 192 AD."

Strangled. The word hung in the air of the tent. Alex was living inside a dead man. A walking corpse with a twelve-year expiration date.

"Okay," he breathed, trying to force the air into his lungs. "Okay. Survival. That's project number one. Lyra, what are my limitations?"

"Our primary limitation is power," the AI replied instantly. "The laptop's internal battery is at seventy-eight percent. I have entered a low-power state, but every query, every simulation, every moment the screen is active, consumes energy. We have your portable solar charger, but its use will be conspicuous. It must be deployed secretly and only on days with adequate sunlight. We must treat every watt as an irreplaceable resource."

Seventy-eight percent. It sounded like so little. A lifetime of knowledge, the sum total of human history and science, and it was all tied to a slowly depleting battery.

"The immediate threat, Lyra," Alex said, focusing. He was a project manager. He had to break this down. Triage the disaster. "The soldier said the generals were waiting for me. What do I do?"

"Historically, Commodus's first act was to conclude the Marcomannic Wars with a hasty and unpopular peace treaty," Lyra explained. The screen shifted to display maps of the Danube frontier, troop movements marked in red and blue. "He abandoned territories his father had fought for years to secure. This was seen as a sign of weakness and cowardice, earning him the immediate contempt of the military establishment. It was his first major mistake."

"So I can't do that," Alex muttered. "So what do I do? Fight a war? I can't even swing a sword!"

"You do not need to swing a sword, Alex. You need to manage the men who do. Your immediate objective is to subvert their expectations. They expect the historical Commodus: an arrogant, impulsive boy. You must project the opposite: gravity, wisdom, and a reverence for your father's legacy."

"Fake it 'til you make it," Alex whispered. It was a mantra from his first corporate job. It had never felt more terrifyingly relevant.

"A precise, if colloquial, summary," Lyra noted. "Step one: I recommend you adopt a persona of stoic grief. Use your father's death as both a shield and a source of authority. Defer any immediate decisions on the war, citing the need for a period of mourning and divine consultation. This will seem pious and responsible."

"Step two?"

"Step two is to gather information. I have the entirety of recorded history, but I lack real-time tactical data. You must learn the names and loyalties of the key players here. The generals, the tribunes, the Praetorian prefects. We need to identify allies, enemies, and those who can be turned."

It was a plan. A fragile, desperate plan, but a plan nonetheless. Impersonate. Stabilize. Survive. He felt a sliver of his old self returning, the project manager staring down an impossible deadline.

He was just about to ask Lyra to pull up a profile on the Roman military command structure when a new voice, deeper and more authoritative than the first soldier's, cut through the canvas from just outside the tent.

"Caesar! It is General Gaius Maximus. The council is assembled. We can wait no longer. The fate of the war, and of Rome itself, rests on your command."

Alex's blood ran cold. The time for planning was over. The first performance was about to begin.

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