The message stayed with Arthur long after Livia fell asleep.

Find them.

Two words. Simple enough to understand. Harder to ignore.

By morning, he had read the tablet so many times that the words felt carved into his head. Gaius had not written them neatly. The letters were rushed, uneven, and pressed too deeply into the wax. Whoever he had been writing to, maybe even himself, he had been frightened when he wrote them.

Arthur sat at the small table in Lucius’s courtyard with the records spread in front of him. The early light had not yet reached the ground, but Lucius had given him a lamp and then told him, through gesture and irritation, not to wake Livia.

Arthur had no intention of doing that.

The woman needed rest. She would probably hate that, but her opinion mattered less than the hole in her side.

Marcus sat opposite him, sharpening a short blade with slow, steady movements. He looked tired, but not sleepy. Arthur was starting to suspect soldiers were trained to rest with their eyes open and wake fully armed.

The records were a mess.

Not because Gaius had been careless. The opposite, actually. Gaius had gathered pieces from different places. Warehouse notes. Labor lists. Transport numbers. Names copied into margins. Half-finished thoughts. It looked less like an investigation and more like a man trying to rebuild a broken vase from pieces found in different streets.

Arthur understood the feeling.

He took a clean tablet and began copying the names one by one.

Marcus watched him for a while, then tapped the tablet with the tip of his knife.

Arthur looked up.

Marcus pointed at the names, then spread his hands in a question.

What are you doing?

Arthur pointed at the names. Then at the records. Then drew a line between them.

Marcus frowned.

Arthur sighed and tried again. He wrote one name on the clean tablet, then searched the records until he found the same name attached to a shipment. Beside it was a date. A warehouse mark. A labor group.

Then he found another.

And another.

The process was slow, frustrating, and made worse by the fact that Arthur had to stop every few minutes to make sure he understood the Latin correctly. Still, patterns did not require perfect language. They required patience.

Eventually, Marcus leaned closer.

He saw it too.

One name appeared beside a grain entry. Another beside oil. A third beside a transport of pottery. Different goods, different dates, different crews. At first, nothing connected them.

Then Arthur noticed the warehouse marks.

XVII.

He paused.

The same mark appeared again.

And again.

And again.

Arthur sat back slowly.

Marcus followed his gaze.

The soldier’s face changed.

He did not need Arthur to explain this one.

Arthur tapped the mark on the tablet.

Warehouse seventeen.

Marcus said something under his breath.

It did not sound like a prayer.

They spent another hour checking the remaining entries. By the end, Arthur had twelve names copied onto the clean tablet. Every one of them had appeared in records connected to Warehouse XVII shortly before vanishing from later rolls.

Not one.

Not two.

All of them.

Arthur stared at the list.

That was the reward.

Also the problem.

A single missing man could be an accident. Twelve were a pattern. And a pattern meant someone had built a system around it.

Lucius appeared from the doorway, took one look at the tablets, and muttered something that sounded deeply unkind.

Arthur looked up. "Good morning to you too."

Lucius ignored him and placed bread and watered wine on the table. Then he pointed at Arthur, pointed at the bread, and stared until Arthur ate.

It was not a request.

Marcus seemed amused.

Arthur took a bite and immediately regretted not eating sooner. He was hungrier than he had realized. That was becoming common. Rome kept trying to kill him, confuse him, or bury him under paperwork. Apparently, all three required energy.

When they finished, Marcus stood and adjusted his belt. He pointed toward the street.

Arthur gathered the tablet with the names.

They were going to the warehouse district.

The route took them through parts of Rome Arthur had not seen during his earlier walk. The city changed as they moved away from cleaner streets and official buildings. The houses became tighter, the roads rougher, the smell stronger.

Here, Rome was not marble and monuments.

It was labor.

Men carried sacks across their shoulders. Women balanced baskets on their hips. Donkeys dragged carts overloaded with amphorae. Slaves moved in groups under the eyes of overseers. Some wore collars. Arthur tried not to stare at those.

He failed.

Marcus noticed and said nothing.

That somehow made it worse.

Arthur had studied slavery as an institution. He had written about its role in the Roman economy, its connection to agriculture, labor, and expansion. He had used careful academic words, the kind that created distance.

Standing beside a road while a boy no older than fifteen hauled rope with a collar around his neck removed that distance.

Arthur looked away.

Then forced himself to look back.

If he was going to live in this world, he did not have the right to pretend he had not seen it.

They reached the warehouse district near midday. The place was already alive with movement. Carts lined the roads. Workers shouted over one another. The smell of grain dust mixed with oil, sweat, fish, and the heavy stink of the river.

Marcus moved like a man who belonged anywhere as long as there might be trouble. Arthur followed him, clutching the tablet under his arm and doing his best not to look as lost as he felt.

Warehouse numbers were marked in different ways. Some were painted. Others carved. A few had symbols instead of clear numbers, perhaps for workers who could not read. Arthur had to rely on Marcus more than he liked.

They questioned three men before finding anyone useful.

The first claimed not to know anything. The second shrugged and pointed them farther down the road. The third laughed until Marcus stepped closer. Then he stopped laughing and became much more helpful.

Warehouse XVII stood near the edge of the district, partly hidden behind two larger buildings. It was not ruined, but it looked neglected at first glance. The outer walls were stained, the sign faded, and weeds grew near the base of one wall.

Arthur might have dismissed it if not for the door.

The door was new.

Thick wood. Strong hinges. A fresh lock.

The rest of the building looked forgotten. The entrance did not.

Marcus noticed immediately. He crouched near the lock and ran one finger across the metal. Then he touched the ground near the threshold.

Dust.

But not enough.

Someone had used the door recently.

Arthur felt his pulse quicken.

"Closed?" he asked, pointing at the warehouse.

Marcus nodded.

Then he pointed at the door, at the ground, and finally toward the street.

Used.

Arthur understood.

That was bad.

A warehouse officially closed but secretly used was exactly the sort of place missing people might pass through.

They did not try to break in. Marcus clearly considered it, but there were too many workers nearby and too much daylight. Instead, they moved to a food stall across the road, where an old woman sold bread, olives, and something Arthur decided not to identify.

Marcus bought food they did not need.

Then they watched. 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

For almost an hour, nothing happened.

Arthur began to feel foolish.

Then a man approached the warehouse.

He was not dressed like a laborer. His tunic was cleaner, his belt better made, and he walked with the mild arrogance of someone used to giving instructions. He stopped near the door, looked around once, and unlocked it.

Arthur held still.

Marcus did the same.

The man entered.

A few minutes later, two workers arrived with a small cart. No markings. No shouting. No normal warehouse noise. They carried three covered bundles inside and left without speaking to anyone.

Arthur’s appetite vanished.

Marcus’s expression turned flat and dangerous.

When the cleaner-dressed man came out again, Marcus stood.

Arthur grabbed his arm.

Marcus looked down at the hand.

Arthur let go immediately.

He was still not suicidal.

But he shook his head and pointed toward the warehouse, then the man, then the crowded street.

Not here.

Marcus stared at him for a long second.

Then he sat back down.

Arthur exhaled.

That had gone better than expected.

The man locked the door and left. Marcus waited until he had turned the corner before standing again. This time Arthur followed without argument.

They trailed him through two streets before Marcus caught up near a quieter passage and stepped into his path. The man stopped, annoyed at first.

Then he saw Marcus’s face.

The annoyance faded.

Marcus spoke.

The man answered too quickly.

That was usually a bad sign.

Arthur stood a little behind Marcus, watching carefully. He wished Livia were there. She would have understood every word, every lie, every small mistake in tone. Arthur had to rely on body language.

Luckily, fear translated well.

The man’s eyes flicked toward the way they had come.

Toward Warehouse XVII.

Marcus asked another question.

The man shook his head.

Marcus showed him the tablet of names.

The man went pale.

There it was.

Arthur felt the answer before hearing it.

Marcus stepped closer. His voice became quieter, which somehow made him more frightening.

The man broke.

He did not confess everything. Arthur could tell that much. He spoke in short bursts, pausing often to check the street. He pointed back toward the warehouse, then toward the river, then made a gesture Arthur did not understand.

Marcus did.

The soldier’s jaw tightened.

When the man finished, Marcus took the key from his belt.

The man protested.

Marcus said something that ended the protest immediately.

They returned to the warehouse after the man hurried away, looking like he had aged five years in five minutes.

Arthur expected Marcus to open the door right away.

Instead, the soldier stopped beside the entrance and pointed at the wall.

Arthur followed the gesture.

At first, he saw nothing but old plaster and dirt.

Then he noticed the mark scratched near the side of the doorway.

Small.

Almost hidden.

A simple symbol formed from two crossed lines inside a rough circle.

Arthur stared.

He had seen it before.

Not clearly.

Not enough to place it immediately.

Then he remembered the night terrace. The wagon. The lantern light catching the side of a crate.

The same mark.

Marcus looked at him.

Arthur looked at the locked door of Warehouse XVII.

The missing names had all passed through this place.

The warehouse was not abandoned.

It was active.

And whatever moved through it at night carried the same symbol.

Arthur swallowed.

They had found the right door.

Now they had to decide whether opening it was a very brave idea or a very stupid one.