Arthur slept badly.
The bed was uncomfortable, the room was unfamiliar, and every ti he managed to drift off, he woke up convinced that he would find himself back in his apartnt in Britain.
Each ti, the sa small room greeted him.
By morning, he had finally accepted a simple fact.
Whatever had happened to him, it was not ending anyti soon.
Sunlight filtered through the window as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the folded note resting on the table.
The Warehouse District.
The words had occupied his thoughts for most of the night.
It was the only clue they possessed.
Not a particularly good clue, but a clue nonetheless.
Marcus arrived shortly after sunrise.
The soldier entered without ceremony and imdiately noticed Arthur examining the note.
For a mont, neither spoke.
Then Marcus pointed toward the door.
Arthur understood.
They were going.
The streets were already crowded by the ti they left. rchants prepared their stalls while laborers moved carts loaded with goods toward the center of the city. The air carried the familiar mixture of smoke, dust, and humanity that Arthur was slowly becoming accustod to.
As they walked, he paid closer attention to his surroundings.
The initial shock had faded enough for curiosity to take its place.
This was Ro.
Not the Ro of books and docuntaries.
The real city.
People argued. Children played. Workers complained. Life continued exactly as it always had.
Nobody knew they were living in history.
The thought amused him more than it should have.
After nearly half an hour of walking, the character of the city began to change.
The streets widened.
The buildings beca more practical than decorative.
Storage houses appeared one after another, their heavy wooden doors facing the road. Carts arrived constantly, unloading grain, oil, wine, and countless other goods.
The scale was impressive.
Arthur had studied Roman logistics before, but seeing it in person was sothing entirely different.
Thousands of people had to be fed every day.
Looking around, he finally understood how much work that required.
Marcus led him deeper into the district before stopping near a large warehouse.
The building looked no different from dozens of others nearby.
Which imdiately created a problem.
Arthur unfolded the note.
No address.
No nas.
Nothing useful beyond the location itself.
Marcus seed to reach the sa conclusion.
The soldier scratched his chin and looked around.
Then he pointed toward the warehouse.
Arthur nodded.
It was as good a place to start as any.
They approached slowly.
Several workers were moving amphorae inside while a supervisor stood nearby, barking instructions.
Marcus spoke to him first.
The conversation lasted only a minute.
Arthur understood almost none of it.
The supervisor eventually shook his head.
Marcus thanked him and stepped away.
No luck.
They repeated the process several more tis.
Warehouse after warehouse.
Question after question.
The result remained the sa.
Nothing.
By midday, Arthur was beginning to understand why historical investigations were so difficult without modern technology.
No photographs.
No databases.
No records available at the press of a button.
Just people.
People who rembered things imperfectly.
People who often preferred not to get involved.
At the fourth warehouse, however, sothing changed.
Marcus showed the note to an older worker.
The man’s reaction was imdiate.
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
Then he looked away.
Arthur noticed.
So did Marcus.
The worker answered quickly and attempted to return to his duties.
Marcus stopped him.
The conversation beca noticeably more intense.
The old man glanced around nervously before speaking again.
This ti, Marcus listened very carefully.
When the exchange finally ended, the soldier returned with a thoughtful expression.
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
Marcus pointed at the worker.
Then at the note.
Then toward a narrow street behind the warehouses.
Soone there.
At least that was how Arthur interpreted the gesture.
It seed close enough.
They followed the indicated route.
The crowds gradually thinned until they reached a quieter area hidden behind the main comrcial district.
The atmosphere changed imdiately.
The streets felt less welcoming.
The buildings were older.
Poorer.
Several people watched them from doorways before quickly looking away.
Marcus slowed his pace.
His hand rested near the hilt of his sword.
Arthur noticed and suddenly felt less comfortable himself.
Eventually they arrived at a small courtyard surrounded by crumbling walls.
Marcus stopped.
He looked around carefully before moving forward.
Sothing about the place clearly bothered him.
Arthur stepped into the courtyard.
At first, he saw nothing unusual.
Then he noticed a dark stain near one of the walls.
Even after three days, it remained visible.
His stomach tightened.
Blood.
A lot of blood.
Marcus pointed toward the stain.
Then at Arthur.
Or rather, at Gaius.
Arthur didn’t need further explanation.
This was where they had found the body.
The realization sent a chill through him.
For several monts, neither man spoke.
The city seed strangely distant here.
The noise of Ro faded beyond the surrounding buildings.
Only silence remained.
Arthur found himself staring at the bloodstain.
A strange sensation crept into the back of his mind.
Familiarity.
Not his own.
Soone else’s.
His vision blurred.
Just for a second.
A flash.
Running footsteps.
Heavy breathing.
Fear.
Then darkness.
Arthur stumbled backward.
The sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Marcus grabbed his arm before he could fall.
Concern appeared on the soldier’s face.
Arthur shook his head.
He was fine.
Or at least as fine as a man occupying a dead Roman bureaucrat could reasonably be.
Still, one thing had beco clear.
Gaius had not died by accident.
Soone had wanted him dead.
And whatever he had discovered in the Warehouse District had been important enough to kill for.
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