The silence in the tent stretched, becoming a physical presence. Alex sat on the edge of his cot, every muscle tensed, listening. He tried to meditate as his "father" would have, to find a core of stoic calm, but his 21st-century brain, wired for instant gratification and constant data streams, rebelled. The not-knowing was an agony. He had set a test, but the results were out of sight, out of earshot, happening somewhere in the darkness beyond his canvas walls. He could only wait.
His stomach rumbled violently, a hollow ache that underscored his vulnerability. The three-day fast, a brilliant tactical move, was now a grueling physical reality. He drank water from a simple clay jug, the cool liquid doing little to quell the pangs of hunger.
An hour passed. Then another. He paced the confines of the tent, the motion doing little to burn off the nervous energy. He considered waking Lyra, asking her to run simulations, but he stopped himself. The laptop's battery was at 41%. He couldn't afford to waste a single precious percentage point on his own anxiety. He had to save the power for when it truly mattered.
Just as he was starting to think nothing would happen, that perhaps he had been wrong, a commotion sounded from outside. He heard the sharp, authoritative voice of a centurion, then the shuffling of feet as his personal guards shifted. The flap of his tent was pulled aside, and a grizzled centurion, his helmet tucked under his arm, stood silhouetted against the night.
"Caesar," the soldier said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Forgive the intrusion at this late hour."
Alex schooled his features into a mask of weary piety. "What is it, Centurion?"
"A strange occurrence, sir. From the western perimeter patrol. I thought you should know." The soldier seemed hesitant to continue. "It's the dogs, Caesar. The strays that linger near the meat storage tents."
Alex's heart began to beat faster, but he kept his expression neutral. "What of them?"
"They're dead, sir. Six of them." The centurion looked deeply unsettled. "We found them not half an hour ago. It wasn't a clean death. They were… contorted. Stiff. As if they'd been seized by some violent fit. We've seen wolves and bears attack, but never anything like this. The men are spooked. They're saying it's a bad omen."
The proof. Cold, hard, undeniable proof. The relief was so immense it almost made Alex dizzy, but it was immediately followed by a wave of pure, cold rage. The casual brutality of it—to test a poison on an emperor, and when that failed, to have it kill a half-dozen starving animals without a second thought. This wasn't just politics. It was monstrous. The abstract threat had become deeply, furiously personal.
"An ill omen indeed," Alex said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. "See to it the carcasses are burned. All of them. Let no creature feast on their flesh. We do not need this blight spreading through the camp. See it done personally."
"At once, Caesar." The centurion saluted, relieved to have a clear order, and departed.
The moment he was alone, Alex snatched the laptop and flipped it open. The screen flared to life. 39%.
"Lyra," he whispered, his voice tight with anger. "He did it. The dogs are dead. They were convulsing, stiff. What was it? What did he use?"
"I cannot perform a direct chemical analysis from a verbal description, Alex," Lyra's voice replied, calm as ever. "However, based on the reported symptoms—rapid onset, severe neuromuscular convulsions, and death—and cross-referencing my database on ancient toxicology and regional flora, the highest probability is a potent neurotoxic alkaloid."
On the screen, images of plants appeared. A delicate-looking white flower, and a more sinister, purple-hooded one.
"The profile is consistent with either Conium maculatum, commonly known as Hemlock, the poison used to execute Socrates," Lyra explained, "or, given the reported severity of the convulsions, it is possibly derived from the Aconitum genus. Wolfsbane. Both are extremely lethal in small doses, fast-acting, and would be exceptionally difficult to trace using 2nd-century forensic methods."
Wolfsbane. The name sounded like something from a fantasy novel. But this was real. Alex stared at the innocuous-looking flowers on the screen, feeling a profound chill. "An antidote, Lyra. Is there one?"
"A specific chemical antidote that could be synthesized here is impossible. We lack the precursors and the equipment. However, we can create something else. A broad-spectrum, high-efficacy adsorbent."
"An adsorbent?" Alex asked, leaning closer to the screen. "What does that mean?"
"It is a substance with an extremely high surface area at a microscopic level," Lyra explained. "It will not neutralize the poison, but it can bind to the toxin molecules within the digestive tract through a process called adsorption. This prevents the poison from being absorbed into the bloodstream. We can create the most effective one known to science with the resources available in this camp."
"What is it?" Alex demanded, a spark of hope igniting within him.
"Activated charcoal."
Alex blinked. "Charcoal? Like from a fire?"
"A highly specialized form of it," Lyra corrected. "It is produced by heating carbon-rich organic material, such as wood, to a very high temperature in a low-oxygen environment. This process, called pyrolysis, creates char. This char is then 'activated,' a process which dramatically increases its porousness and surface area. A single gram can have a surface area of over three thousand square meters. It is a universal antidote, a cornerstone of 21st-century emergency toxicology."
A secret weapon. A shield. This was the advantage he had been waiting for. This was the "God-Tier" part of his AI. Not just predicting the future, but remaking it with lost knowledge.
"How do I make it?"
"You will require a small, enclosed vessel that can withstand high heat—a metal brazier would be ideal. You will also need a source of wood. Willow or poplar are preferable due to their porous structure. You will then need to carefully control the airflow to create the pyrolytic conditions."
This was the next hurdle. He couldn't just set up a chemistry lab in his tent. He needed another cover story, another layer to his performance. He thought for a moment, then the idea came to him, perfectly fitting his established persona.
He went to the tent flap and called for his personal guard. "I require a small, lidded brazier and a bundle of dry willow branches," he commanded. The guard looked at him, puzzled.
Alex fixed him with a stern, pious glare. "My father's armor is to be returned to Rome for his triumph. But it is stained with the dust and blood of this cursed land. I will perform a private rite of purification. I will create a cinis purgatio—a purifying ash—to cleanse the metal and his spirit before the journey. It is a private ritual. I am not to be disturbed."
The guard, like everyone else, was completely cowed by this new emperor's bizarre but seemingly unshakeable piety. He scurried off to fulfill the request.
Soon, Alex was alone again with a small, bronze brazier and a pile of brittle willow sticks. Under Lyra's precise, whispered instructions—"Add more wood now. Restrict the airflow by partly covering the lid. Maintain the temperature for another twenty minutes. The color of the smoke should be a pale grey, not white"—he began the painstaking process.
For hours, he fed the small fire, carefully managing the burn, his tent filling with a thin, acrid smoke. He was no longer just Alex Carter, project manager. He felt like an alchemist, a magician using forgotten science to brew a potion of survival. Finally, the process was complete. He was left with a small pile of brittle, jet-black charcoal. He carefully ground it between two stones into a fine, gritty powder, the texture of black sand.
He poured the powder into a small, soft leather pouch he'd cut from a spare tunic lining and pulled the drawstring tight. He tucked it deep into an inner fold of his belt. It was his shield, a tiny packet of 21st-century science hidden in plain sight. He felt a surge of something he hadn't felt since he arrived: a sense of control.
He looked at the laptop. 28%. The cost had been high.
He was about to close the lid when Lyra's voice spoke again, pulling him from his momentary triumph.
"Alex, a word of caution. This success will not deter Perennis. It will embolden him. Your fast has provided you with only three days of safety, which are now nearly spent. He will assume your piety is a temporary and convenient phase of mourning. He will try again."
"I'll be ready for him this time," Alex said, his hand resting on the hidden pouch.
"His next attempt will be more public," Lyra continued, her logic as cold and sharp as a razor. "It will be in a setting where you cannot plausibly refuse to eat or drink without causing a major political incident and insulting your senior commanders. According to the camp schedule, the war council is holding a formal dinner tomorrow night to mark the end of your fast and plan the march to Rome. Perennis will see it as the perfect, unmissable opportunity."
Alex's hand tightened on the small pouch of black powder. He had his defense. But the attack was coming. Not in the shadows, but in a room full of the most powerful men in the Roman army. He was no longer just trying to survive; he was walking into a trap he had to disarm in front of everyone.