The silence was broken only by the distant sound of a fountain and the occasional buzz of a fly daring to invade that sanctuary of wealth. Lucius watched the dark wooden double doors, carved with hunting scenes, waiting. Every minute felt like an hour. The grandeur of that place wasn't just a display of financial power; it was a tool of intimidation. There, surrounded by marble columns that cost more than the lives of a thousand men like him, the Roman hierarchy became physical, palpable.
Finally, the sound of heavy sandals echoed in the adjacent corridor, accompanied by the rustle of fabrics and murmurs of subservience.
The doors opened.
Titus Valerius entered, followed by a retinue of three personal servants who fanned the air around him and carried damp linen towels. Despite his portliness and the baldness shining under the atrium's diffused light, he moved with unquestionable authority. His face was slightly flushed, and drops of sweat trickled down his temples.
"By the gods, it's a hot day out there," Valerius said, his voice deep and direct, without preamble or flowery greetings. "The sun seems determined to cook Rome in its own oil today."
He dismissed the servants with a curt wave of his hand, indicating he wanted privacy. The men bowed and retreated into the shadows, becoming as invisible as furniture.
Immediately, Lucius and Selena stood up. Lucius ignored the sharp twinge in his ribs and the stiffness in his leg, bowing in a deep and respectful reverence. Selena imitated the gesture, lowering her head, while Lucia, watching her parents, tried to make a small, clumsy curtsy, clutching her mother's tunic.
"Salve, noble Valerius," Lucius said, keeping his eyes lowered until protocol allowed otherwise.
The patrician's cold, analytical eyes swept over the couple. Valerius's gaze lingered for a moment on Lucius's face, noting the swelling that was beginning to subside and the purplish marks that makeshift makeup and the dim light couldn't entirely hide. The scars of recent violence were evident. However, the noble asked no questions. Men of his ilk didn't get involved in the street fights of their subordinates unless it affected their profits. He simply registered the information: his new engineer was a man who bled.
"Sit," Valerius ordered, walking to a wide, ornate chair that looked like a minor throne, positioned facing them. "There's no need to stand like statues."
As he settled in, adjusting his toga with a sigh of discomfort from the heat, he signaled to one of the female servants waiting near a side door. The woman, dressed in a simple gray tunic, approached quickly.
"Take the woman and the child," Valerius instructed, with the practical indifference of someone dispatching luggage. "Show them the quarters reserved for the upper household staff. Ensure they are fed and receive clothes suitable for the house. From today, they serve Domina Valeria."
Lucius's heart clenched. It was the moment of separation. He knew they would be under the same roof, or at least in the same villa complex, but the dynamic would change drastically. He would be the master's assistant; they, servants of the house.
Lucius turned to Selena. Her eyes were watery, a mix of gratitude for safety and fear of the unknown.
"Go," Lucius said softly, placing a hand on his wife's shoulder. "You will be safe now. No one will harm you here."
Selena nodded, swallowing her tears. She hugged Lucius tightly, ignoring the noble's presence.
"Take care, husband," she whispered in his ear. "Come back to us whole."
Lucius kissed her forehead and then bent down, groaning internally from the pain in his ribs, to hug Lucia. The girl wrapped her thin little arms around his neck.
"Papa is going to work now, little one," he said, forcing a smile. "Eat plenty and obey your mother. I will join you soon."
He straightened up and watched as the servant guided the two out of the room through an arched doorway. The sight of Selena and Lucia disappearing into the luxurious corridor brought a sudden emptiness to Lucius's chest, but also an overwhelming relief. The loan sharks couldn't reach them there. The first part of his mission was accomplished.
Lucius turned back to Valerius and sat down again, straightening his posture. Now, it was just the two men in the vast room.
"So," the noble began, pouring himself a cup of diluted wine that was on the table beside him. "How was the journey here? My drivers are usually competent; I hope they didn't rattle your bones too much."
"The journey was good, sir," Lucius replied politely. "The landscape is magnificent and the road is solid. The carriage is robust and well-built, far superior to anything I have ever ridden in."
Lucius paused, his engineer's mind betraying his social caution.
"Although..." he continued, almost unintentionally, "well, although the carriage lacks a good suspension system. The impact of the wheels on the stones is transmitted directly to the cabin, which makes the journey tiring after a few hours."
The silence that followed was heavy. Valerius paused with the cup halfway to his mouth, frowning.
"Suspension?" asked the noble, the word sounding strange and exotic on his tongue. Curiosity replaced boredom in his gaze. "What are you talking about, boy? The wheels turn on the axle. The axle supports the box. That is how it has worked since the Etruscans taught us to build chariots."
Lucius felt a chill down his spine. He had forgotten. He was in the 2nd century. The concept of suspension, springs, or shock absorbers was practically nonexistent, or extremely rudimentary, used only in some Celtic vehicles that the Romans despised. He needed to fix the slip-up, but the opportunity to demonstrate value was too great to ignore.
"Forgive me, sir. It is just... a thought I had while observing the mechanism," Lucius said, recovering his composure and gesturing with his hands to illustrate. "I imagined that if there were a way to isolate the cabin where we sit from the axle where the wheels strike, comfort would be immensely greater."
Valerius set down the cup, leaning forward.
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"Isolate? How? Levitate the cabin?"
"Not levitate, but suspend," Lucius explained, his mind working fast to adapt modern concepts to ancient materials. "Imagine using straps of sturdy leather, several layers of them, or even strips of flexible, curved wood mounted between the axle and the carriage box. When the wheel hits a stone, the leather or wood deforms, absorbing the blow, and the cabin merely sways gently instead of shaking violently. The energy of the impact dissipates into the flexibility of the material, not the passenger's bones."
Titus Valerius sat motionless for a long moment, his eyes fixed on Lucius as if seeing a ghost or an oracle. He visualized the mechanics in his head—he had studied, after all. The logic was flawless. It was simple. It was brilliant.
A slow, almost incredulous smile formed on the patrician's thin lips.
"You really are a man touched by the gods, aren't you?" murmured Valerius, shaking his head. "Knowledge flows in your mind as water flows in aqueducts. You see what is there, but what no one else perceives."
Lucius lowered his head, feeling the weight of the praise and the danger it represented. Being "touched by the gods" could be a blessing or a condemnation for hubris.
"I appreciate your generous words, sir," Lucius said with calculated humility. "But I am not all that. I am just a man who looks at the world and sees problems begging for solutions. My mind does not rest until it finds a way to make life... more efficient."
"The Emperor would like you," the noble declared, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers over his belly. "Marcus Aurelius appreciates philosophy and reason. He values men who think beyond the obvious."
The direct mention of the Emperor made Lucius lose his speech for an instant. The idea of meeting the most powerful historical figure of that time was overwhelming.
"I..." stammered Lucius, but soon composed himself. "I do not have the right to see the Emperor, sir. Near the imperial purple, I am just a plebeian, a grain of sand in the vastness of Rome. My presence would be unworthy."
Valerius let out a short, dry laugh devoid of humor.
"Unworthy? Perhaps," the noble agreed with brutal frankness. "But I have known many men of high lineage, senators and generals, whose minds were as empty as a broken vase. And I have seen slaves with the wisdom of Plato. Never, in all my years, have I seen such technical capacity spring from someone of your... condition."
Lucius felt his stomach turn. The compliment came wrapped in a casual insult, as natural to Valerius as breathing. To the nobility, the plebs were an amorphous mass, incapable of greatness unless it was a genetic or divine anomaly.
Lucius kept his face impassive, masking the irritation bubbling inside him. If you only knew... he thought bitterly. If the people had access to books, to masters, to time to think instead of just fighting not to starve, Rome wouldn't be just the mistress of the Mediterranean and Western Europe. She would be mistress of the stars a thousand years ahead of time. The waste of human potential in those eras was the true tragedy of history.
"I appreciate the observation, sir," was all Lucius said.
Valerius seemed satisfied with the submission and changed the subject, assuming a more practical tone.
"Very well. Let us get to the business of war. Shortly, an army officer, a veteran centurion of the Legio XII Fulminata, will come here. He has been instructed to evaluate you."
The noble raised a finger.
"Do not worry, you won't be placed in the infantry to hold a shield in the shield wall. It would be a waste of your talent, and I don't throw away valuable tools. You will be classified as Immunes."
Lucius raised his eyebrows. He knew the term.
"Immunes, sir?"
"Exactly," Valerius confirmed. "It is the term we give to soldiers who possess specialized skills. Engineers, doctors, architects, carpenters. Men who are exempt from routine and heavy tasks, like digging latrines or standing night watch. Your weapon will be your mind, Lucius. You will serve under my direct command in logistics and siege planning."
Lucius nodded, impressed. The Roman organization was, in fact, the basis of everything that came after. It was no wonder the Empire reached its peak. He recalled his history lessons: it was under the rule of the Antonines, and especially under Marcus Aurelius, that Rome consolidated its greatest extent and power, before the slow decline began. He was living at the height of ancient Western civilization.
"It will be an honor to serve in this way, sir," Lucius replied. He hesitated for a moment, deciding to be honest about his feelings. "I confess, however, that the prospect of participating in a military campaign... scares me a little. I have never been on a battlefield."
Titus Valerius looked at him, and for the first time, there was a trace of humanity in his expression, something beyond aristocratic arrogance.
"We are men, Lucius. Flesh and bone," the noble said with a calm voice. "It is normal to be afraid. They say even the gods feel fear when fate weaves dark threads. Fear is the sign that you are alive and value your life. The fool does not fear and dies early. The coward lets fear rule him and flees. The brave man feels fear, acknowledges it, and walks forward anyway. The important thing is not what you feel, it is what you do with that fear."
The words resonated with Lucius. It was a Stoic philosophy, practical and hard, fitting for that time.
"I understand," Lucius said. "I will try to be worthy of that trust."
Valerius nodded and then, as if a sudden doubt had arisen, narrowed his eyes.
"Tell me one thing, Lucius. Where, in the name of Jupiter, did a man of the plebs, a quarry worker, learn to read and write with such fluency? And to draw with the precision of a Greek architect? You shouldn't even know how to spell your name."
The question was dangerous. Lucius felt cold sweat break out on his back. The truth "I come from the future" would lead him to the pyre or the asylum. He needed a plausible lie, something that explained his skill without raising supernatural suspicions.
"My father..." Lucius began, improvising. "He was a simple man, but ambitious for knowledge. He saved every denarius he earned his whole life. Instead of buying land or slaves, he paid a mentor, an old bankrupt Greek who lived in our neighborhood, to teach me. It was the only legacy he left me: education."
Titus Valerius stared at him, motionless. His eyes scrutinized Lucius's face, looking for any sign of falsehood. The story was unlikely, almost too romantic for the harsh reality of the plebs, but not impossible. There were rare cases of social climbing through study.
The silence stretched for long seconds. Lucius held his gaze steady, knowing that looking away would be a confession of guilt.
Finally, the noble sighed and shrugged.
"I understand," said Valerius, deciding not to investigate further. If the man was useful, his origin mattered little. "We should leave the past in the past and with the gods. What matters is what you do from here on."
Valerius stood up with a groan of effort.
"Come with me. Accompany me to the gardens. The air in here is getting stale and I need to walk to help digestion."
Lucius stood up promptly and followed the patrician.
They left the atrium and entered a magnificent peristyle. The inner garden was a masterpiece of control over nature. Boxwood hedges were pruned into geometric shapes, and rosebushes laden with red and white flowers lined paths of white pebbles. In the center, a marble fountain gushed fresh water, creating a relaxing sound that muffled the world outside.
As they walked slowly, Valerius, hands clasped behind his back, began to explain the immediate future.
"Life in the army demands discipline, Lucius, even for an Immunes," the noble said, stopping to admire a statue of Diana the Huntress. "You won't be thrown to the wolves unprepared. There is still a month until the legions depart for the North. The Emperor is finalizing religious rites and supply logistics."
He looked at Lucius.
"Therefore, you have time. The next two weeks will be basic training. The centurion who is coming will teach you how to march, how to set up a camp, the trumpet call codes, and how to defend yourself in case a barbarian manages to get through the front line. You need to know how not to die."
Lucius nodded, absorbing the information. Two weeks of intense physical training. His body, already toughened by the quarry, would handle it, but he knew military discipline was another kind of hell.
"And after?" asked Lucius.
"The following two weeks," he continued, resuming the walk, "will be dedicated to lessons on logistics and strategy. You will stay by my side. I will teach you how the supply dynamics of a legion work: how much grain is needed for five thousand men, how to build provisional bridges, how to organize siege engineering. You need to understand the Roman war machine from the inside to be an engineer of Rome. I want your mind to be as sharp as a gladius when we cross the border."
Lucius looked at the blue Roman sky, visible above the peristyle columns. One month. He had one month to transform from a 21st-century civil engineer into a logistical officer of the Roman Empire. The challenge was titanic, but for the first time since waking up in that historical nightmare, he felt he had a clear purpose. And, more importantly, a real chance of victory.
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