The bunker smelled of victory and dead batteries.
Galen was practically vibrating. He moved between the Coherer tubes, adjusting copper wires with the twitchy precision of an addict.
"We blinded them!" Galen shouted, his deaf voice echoing off the timber walls. "They screamed, Caesar! I heard the panic in the static!"
Marcus didn't smile. He sat on a crate of ammunition, staring at the radio receiver.
He had spoken to them. He had broken the silence.
This is the Glitch.
It was a cool line. The Ghost had enjoyed it. But the adrenaline was fading now, leaving behind the cold reality of the tactical map.
He had just confirmed his position. The "Player" wasn't stupid. He would triangulate that transmission. The gliders would be re-routed. The artillery—if they had it—would be dialing in coordinates right now.
"Change the frequency," Marcus ordered. He grabbed Galen's arm to stop the mad physician's tinkering. He pointed to the slate.
SCAN. THEY WILL MOVE TO A NEW CHANNEL.
Galen nodded, sweat dripping from his nose. "Yes. Yes. The invisible dance."
He began sliding the magnetic coils, sweeping the spectrum.
Hiss. Pop. Crackle.
The military chatter was gone. The crisp, tactical voices of the "Player's" officers had vanished into the ether.
Then, a new sound cut through the noise.
It wasn't a voice. It was music.
A low, discordant hum. Like a synthesizer playing a funeral dirge.
Then, the voice.
It wasn't the bored air-traffic controller. It was smoother. Richer. Amplified.
"...citizens of the East. Brothers of the true faith..."
It was a broadcast.
Galen froze. He looked at Marcus. "It is... everywhere? The signal is immense."
Marcus leaned in.
"...The Usurper is dead. The thing you call Emperor died in the fire at Antioch. I saw him burn."
The voice was hypnotic. It spoke Latin, but with a strange, perfect cadence—like a text-to-speech program given a soul.
"What leads your armies now is a husk. A demon wearing a dead man's face. It eats your sons to sustain its unnatural life. Abandon the trenches. Go home. The Mother waits for you."
Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp bunker.
This wasn't military comms. This was Psy-Ops.
"He's not talking to the soldiers," Marcus whispered. "He's talking to the Empire."
Rome. The Mamertine Prison.
It was a hole in the earth. A stone sack where hope went to rot.
Lucilla sat in the filth. Her royal gown was rags. Her hair was a matted nest of lice. She was the sister of a god, and she had been eating rats for six months.
She stared at the dripping ceiling. She had stopped screaming weeks ago. Now, she just hated. A pure, crystalline hatred that kept her heart beating.
Marcus. The name was a curse she chewed on.
The heavy iron door groaned.
Light spilled in, blinding her. She hissed, covering her eyes like an animal.
A guard stood there. He wasn't the usual brute who threw stale bread at her. He was younger. Nervous. He held a torch in one hand and a small, cloth-wrapped bundle in the other.
"Augusta," he whispered.
Lucilla lowered her hand. She didn't trust him. "I have no gold, fool. Go away."
The guard stepped inside. He checked the corridor behind him, then closed the door.
"I don't want gold," he said. "I want the true blood of Aurelius."
He knelt in the straw. He placed the bundle in her trembling hands.
"From the East," he said. "The new masters."
Lucilla unwrapped the cloth.
Inside was a piece of paper. Not papyrus. Paper. White, smooth, crisp. It felt like silk against her calloused fingers.
And a small object. A tiny, black bead of plastic on a wire.
She looked at the paper. The letters were perfect. Printed.
THE USURPER BLEEDS. ROME NEEDS A MOTHER. PUT THIS IN YOUR EAR.
Lucilla looked at the guard. He nodded, eyes wide with a mix of fear and reverence.
She lifted the plastic bead. It was alien. Cold.
She placed it in her ear.
Click.
Static.
Then, a voice.
"Hello, Lucilla."
It was a man's voice. Intimate. Modern.
"Let's talk about your brother. Let's talk about how we are going to kill him."
Lucilla didn't understand the magic. She didn't care.
She smiled. Her cracked lips split and bled.
"I'm listening," she rasped.
The Command Bunker.
Marcia ducked through the entrance. She looked like a ghost.
She wasn't wearing her silk robes. She wore a leather cuirass over a wool tunic, stained with ink and mud. She was the Empress of Logistics, and she looked terrified.
"Marcus," she said.
Marcus turned away from the radio. seeing the fear in Marcia's eyes hit him harder than the enemy broadcast. She was his anchor. If she was scared, the ship was sinking.
"What is it?" he asked. "Ammo?"
"Rumors," she said. She slammed a stack of wax tablets onto the ammunition crate. "Runners from Antioch. From the coast."
She pointed a shaking finger at the tablets.
"They say you're dead. They say the army was vaporized by the 'Dragons of the East.' The merchants are refusing to ship grain. The Senate is debating a successor."
Marcus stood up. "I'm right here."
"They don't know that!" Marcia screamed. Her composure cracked. "They hear the Voice, Marcus! The enemy is broadcasting to the cities! They have towers! Giant speakers! They are telling the world you are a demon!"
Marcus looked at the radio receiver. The smooth voice continued to drone on.
"...Rome is free. The tyrant is ash..."
He realized the scale of the trap. The trench war was a distraction. The real war was for the narrative. If the Empire believed he was dead, the supply lines would snap. The legions in the rear would defect. He would starve in this hole.
"He's faster than us," Marcus muttered. "He has the tech. He controls the truth."
Galen looked up from the machine. "We can transmit, Caesar. I can boost the signal. Turn the receivers into broadcasters."
"If we transmit," Marcia said, her voice sharp, "we light up a beacon for every bomber in the sky. They will flatten this bunker."
Marcus looked at the map. He looked at Marcia's terrified face. He looked at the plastic radio handset he had crushed in the dirt earlier.
The Ghost of Commodus whispered a solution. It was reckless. It was arrogant.
It was perfect.
"Let them come," Marcus said softly.
Marcia stared at him. "What?"
"Galen," Marcus said, turning to the physician. "Can you override their frequency? Can you hijack their channel?"
Galen blinked. He tapped his chin with a pair of pliers. "If I push the voltage... if I burn the coils... yes. For a few minutes. Before the machine melts."
"Good."
Marcus grabbed his helmet. He didn't put it on. He placed it on the table.
"Marcia," he said. "Get the runners ready. Tell them to run to Antioch. Tell them the Emperor speaks."
"You're going to broadcast?" Marcia asked. "They will kill you."
"I'm counting on it," Marcus said. A grim smile touched his lips. "I want them to focus on me. I want them to look at this bunker and see a target."
"Why?"
"Because while they are looking at me," Marcus said, pointing to the dark tunnels on the map, "Narcissus is going to gut them from below."
He sat down in front of the crude metal horn.
"Connect the battery, Galen."
Galen hesitated. "It will act as a lighthouse, Caesar. Every glider within a hundred miles will turn toward us."
"Do it."
Galen connected the leads. Sparks flew. The smell of ozone filled the small room.
The static screamed. The enemy broadcast faltered, cutting in and out.
Marcus leaned into the horn. He closed his eyes.
He didn't speak as Marcus Holt. He didn't speak as the logistics manager.
He let the Ghost take the microphone.
"People of Rome," Marcus said. His voice was low, thunder rolling in a jar.
"This is not a ghost speaking."
He opened his eyes. They were cold, hard, and absolutely terrifying.
"This is Caesar."
He paused, letting the silence hang heavy over the airwaves.
"And I am coming for the man in the high tower."
He signaled Galen to cut the feed.
The room plunged into silence.
"Now," Marcus said, standing up and drawing his gladius. "They know exactly where we are."
He looked at Marcia.
"Tell the men to fix bayonets. The sky is about to fall."