The bunker was silent.
Dust motes floated in the stagnant air, illuminated by the single flickering oil lamp.
Ten minutes.
That was how long the signal had been broadcasting. The beacon was lit. The battery hummed on the table, a low, angry vibration that felt like a countdown.
Galen's hand hovered over the wire. His eyes were wide, darting from the machine to the timber roof.
"Caesar," he whispered. "We must cut it. They have the lock."
Marcus sat on the ammo crate. He didn't move. He stared at the water cup on the table.
"Not yet," Marcus said. His voice was steady, but his stomach was a knot of cold wire. "Let them commit. I want them to think we are desperate."
"We are desperate!" Marcia hissed from the corner. She was clutching a stack of logistics scrolls to her chest like a shield.
Marcus watched the water.
Ripple.
A tiny circle spread from the center of the cup.
Thump.
Then another.
The ground wasn't shaking from an earthquake. It was rhythm. Heavy. Mechanical.
"They're here," Marcus said.
He stood up. The Ghost of Commodus surged forward, pushing the fear into the back seat.
"Cut the feed," Marcus ordered.
Galen yanked the wire. The static died. The bunker plunged into silence, save for the growing rumble outside.
"Sky!" a sentry screamed from the trench line above.
Then the world exploded.
It wasn't a single bang. It was a cascade.
CRUMP. CRUMP. CRUMP.
The gliders were diving.
The first clay pot hit directly above the bunker. The impact felt like a hammer striking a bell.
The timber beams groaned. Dirt and splintered wood sprayed into the room. The oil lamp fell and shattered, plunging them into darkness.
"Light!" Marcia screamed.
"Hold!" Marcus roared. He didn't cower. The Ghost forced his eyes upward, analyzing the sound of the wood cracking. "The beams are cedar! They will hold! Stay down!"
Another explosion rocked the earth. Then another.
The enemy wasn't just dropping grenades. They were carpet bombing the trench line. They were softening the meat before the chew.
Marcus grabbed his helmet. He didn't wait for the dust to settle.
"Galen, protect the radio!" Marcus barked. "Marcia, stay here!"
He kicked the door open and scrambled up the ladder into the trench.
It was hell on earth.
The night sky was streaked with fire. The wreckage of a glider was burning in No Man's Land, casting long, dancing shadows.
Men were running. Some were screaming, clutching burns. Others were huddled under their shields, praying to gods that had stopped listening.
"Stand to!" Marcus yelled, drawing his gladius. "To the firing step!"
He climbed onto a mound of sandbags and raised his periscope—a polished bronze mirror on a stick.
He looked over the lip of the trench.
He expected infantry. A human wave charging through the smoke.
He saw monsters.
"Iron Turtles," Marcus whispered.
They emerged from the darkness like prehistoric beasts.
Six of them. Massive wooden carts, boxy and ugly, completely encased in riveted iron plates. They were the size of small houses. They moved on heavy, iron-shod wheels that churned the mud into paste.
There were no horses pulling them. The motive power was internal—oxen hidden inside the armored shell, pushing blindly against a yoke.
They were slow. Clumsy. Creaking loud enough to be heard over the screams.
But they were unstoppable.
Arrows bounced off their iron hides like rain. Scorpio bolts sparked harmlessly against the angled plates.
And they were armed.
From the front of each Turtle, a metal tube protruded like a snout.
"Fire Lances!" Marcus shouted. "Get down!"
The lead Turtle reached the edge of the outer perimeter. A hiss of pressurized air cut through the noise.
WHOOSH.
A jet of liquid fire spewed from the tube.
It wasn't a flamethrower. It was a pump spraying burning naphtha—sticky, tar-like oil.
It hit a group of legionaries huddled in a forward foxhole.
The men didn't have a chance. The oil stuck to their armor, their skin, their hair. They turned into living torches. Their screams were high, thin, and terrible.
Panic broke the line.
"Fall back!" a Decurion shouted. "Run!"
Soldiers scrambled out of the trench, abandoning their positions. They slipped in the mud, trampling each other to get away from the fire.
"No!" Marcus vaulted over the sandbags, landing in the mud next to the fleeing officer.
He grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him into the trench wall.
"You run, you burn!" Marcus screamed in his face. "There is no outrunning that fire!"
He pointed at the Turtle rumbling closer.
"Mud!" Marcus yelled, turning to the terrified men. "Use the mud! Coat your cloaks! Smother the flames!"
He demonstrated. He threw himself into the slurry at the bottom of the trench, rolling until his armor was caked in wet, heavy clay.
He stood up, looking like a golem.
"Throw the sandbags!" Marcus ordered. "Blind them!"
The discipline held by a thread. The soldiers saw their Emperor covered in shit and mud, standing his ground. Shame overrode fear.
They grabbed wet sandbags. They grabbed handfuls of clay.
The lead Turtle rolled closer. It was huge, looming over the trench lip like a besieging tower.
"Now!"
A volley of mud and wet canvas flew.
It splattered against the Turtle's viewing slits. The iron monster faltered. The driver inside was blind.
The Turtle lurched. One wheel slipped into a shell crater.
But it didn't stop. The momentum was too great.
With a groan of stressing timber, the Turtle tipped forward.
CRASH.
It slammed into the trench. The impact shook the ground, knocking Marcus off his feet.
The beast bridged the gap, its iron belly resting on the trench walls.
A hatch on the side kicked open.
Enemy shock troops poured out.
They weren't Parthian levies. These were the Elite. They wore lacquered black armor and terrifying masks painted like demons. They wielded curved swords and hand-held fire tubes.
They jumped down into the trench, right on top of Marcus.
The distance was zero.
Marcus didn't have time to think. The Ghost took the wheel.
He ducked a swinging sword. He drove his gladius up, under the armpit of the first attacker. The blade bit deep.
Hot blood sprayed across Marcus's face.
Another enemy landed behind him. Marcus spun, using his shield as a bludgeon. He smashed the rim into the man's mask. Wood cracked.
"For Rome!" Marcus screamed, his voice raw.
It was a lie. He wasn't fighting for Rome. He was fighting because the alternative was burning.
The trench became a meat grinder. It was too tight for formation. It was knives, teeth, and knees in the groin.
The Turtle loomed above them, a bridge of iron. More enemies were pouring out of it.
Marcus looked up. He saw the seemingly endless stream of black-armored killers.
We can't hold this, the logician in him calculated. Volume of fire is too high. Attrition rate 100%.
Shut up, the Ghost snarled. Kill the next one.
Marcus parried a blow that numbed his arm. He kicked the attacker in the knee, hearing the joint snap.
He looked down the trench line. The other Turtles were arriving. The fire was spreading.
They needed a miracle.
Or an earthquake.
Suddenly, the ground under the crashed Turtle heaved.
A muffled BOOM shook the trench floor.
The Turtle jumped. The massive iron machine lifted a foot into the air, then slammed back down with a sickening crunch of breaking axles.
The enemy soldiers pouring out of it stumbled.
Marcus grinned. His teeth were red with blood.
"Narcissus," he whispered.
He looked at the shocked enemy troops.
"You brought a shell," Marcus rasped, raising his sword. "But you forgot the floor."