Lucius gave Arthur a small cloth pouch before they left.

Arthur opened it. Inside were bandages, a little jar of thick green paste, and something that smelled like death had been mixed with vinegar and old fish.

He closed the pouch immediately. "What is that?"

Lucius answered without looking at him. Livia translated from her seat by the table, where she was pretending not to be exhausted. "For bleeding."

Arthur stared at the pouch.

Marcus looked at him. "You bleed often."

"That is not a character trait."

Marcus shrugged. "It is becoming one."

For one brief second, even Dama smiled.

Arthur took the pouch. He would never admit it, but he felt better having it.

They left Lucius’s house in three groups. That had been Livia’s idea. If all the copies travelled together and one man stopped them, everything was lost. So the evidence moved like seed thrown into dry earth. One copy went with Marcia to the old shrine near the river, escorted by a dockworker who had seen the broken cart. One stayed hidden in Lucius’s house, sealed under the floorboard beneath the herb shelf. One went with Marcus. One went with Arthur.

The last one was the dangerous copy.

It had the full list: names, testimonies, seal marks, the note about records being moved before sunset, and the clerk’s statement that Aelius kept a list of living people marked for correction. Arthur carried it inside his tunic, pressed flat against his skin. It felt heavier than bronze.

Marcus wanted to carry it. Arthur refused. Marcus looked offended.

Arthur tried to explain. "If they search you, they expect to find something."

Marcus pointed at Arthur’s chest. "If they search you, you die."

"That seems unfairly direct."

"It is useful."

Livia settled the argument by telling Marcus that no one would believe Arthur important enough to carry the real copy. Arthur was not sure whether to feel grateful or insulted. He chose insulted. It helped with the fear.

Rome at midday did not care about their urgency. The streets were packed with carts, animals, vendors, messengers, beggars, priests, soldiers, and citizens who all seemed convinced they had the most important reason to be in everyone else’s way. Sunlight struck white walls until the city hurt to look at. Sweat gathered under Arthur’s collar. Somewhere nearby, someone sold hot bread. Somewhere closer, a donkey refused to move and created a political crisis in miniature.

Marcus led the way. Arthur followed, trying not to touch the tablet hidden beneath his tunic every ten steps.

He failed.

Marcus noticed. "You keep checking."

Arthur lowered his hand. "What if it’s gone?"

Marcus did not even look at him. "Then touching your chest will not bring it back."

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it.

Annoyingly fair.

Their first destination was not the watch. That had surprised Arthur. It had not surprised Livia.

"The watch can be bribed," she had said. "A shrine can be frightened. Dockworkers can be threatened. A magistrate can be slow."

Arthur had asked, "So where is safe?"

Livia had looked at him as if he were very young. "Nowhere."

That was the answer. Not comforting. Useful.

So they would not trust one place. They would trust numbers, copies, witnesses, and noise.

The first stop was a public notary near the cattle market, a freedman Livia knew by name and hated by reputation. He worked from a narrow stall between a money changer and a man selling cheap knives. His table was covered with wax tablets, seal cords, ink, and little clay tokens used to mark transactions. He had a sharp nose, sharper eyes, and the general look of a man who charged people for things they were too desperate to refuse.

He looked at Marcus first. Then at Arthur. Then at the sealed tablet Arthur placed on the table. His expression became carefully empty. That, Arthur had learned, was never good.

Marcus spoke. The notary listened, then shook his head before Marcus finished.

Arthur did not need translation. No.

Livia had predicted this too. Arthur took out a small coin, then another. The notary looked bored. Arthur added one more. Still bored. Marcus sighed, took a larger coin from his own belt, and placed it on the table with a heavy click.

The notary became more open-minded.

"That is corruption," Arthur muttered.

Marcus glanced at him. "That is Rome."

"Excellent distinction."

The notary broke the outer seal, read enough to understand the danger, and stopped smiling entirely. He looked at Arthur with sudden dislike. Good. Dislike meant belief. He made a copy of the seal marks and added his own mark, proving he had seen the sealed testimony before sunset on that day.

He did not keep the full tablet. He refused that part with the air of a man who enjoyed breathing. But he gave them a stamped acknowledgment on a smaller wax slip.

It was not proof by itself. It was a shadow of proof. Aelius could erase a tablet. Erasing the memory of a tablet from every place it had touched would be harder.

They left the stall quickly.

Arthur had taken perhaps twenty steps before Marcus caught his arm.

"Do not look back," Marcus said.

Arthur immediately wanted to look back. He did not.

"Followed?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Two."

Arthur’s mouth went dry. "Only two?"

Marcus gave him a flat look.

"Right. Not comforting. Understood."

They turned into a street lined with potters’ shops. Clay jars stood in rows outside open doors. The air smelled of dust, smoke, and wet earth. Men worked at wheels in shaded rooms while apprentices carried unfired pots as carefully as sacred offerings.

Marcus slowed near a stack of amphorae. Arthur kept walking for two steps before realizing he was alone. Then someone cried out behind him.

He turned.

One of the men following them had stumbled into Marcus’s path and then into the amphorae with impressive speed. Pots shattered across the street. The crash drew every eye nearby. The second follower stopped too quickly, which made him look more suspicious than if he had kept walking.

The potter emerged from his shop shouting. Marcus pointed at the fallen man and said something very serious. Arthur caught only one word.

Thief.

The potter shouted louder. People gathered immediately. Rome loved business disputes almost as much as executions.

Marcus rejoined Arthur without haste.

Arthur stared. Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You make crime prevention look surprisingly similar to crime."

For the first time that day, Marcus almost smiled.

"He followed badly."

"That is not the same thing."

"It is now."

Arthur looked back despite himself. The first follower was trying to stand while the potter held him by the tunic and demanded payment for broken amphorae. The second follower had wisely decided to become someone else’s problem.

Arthur faced forward. "I am learning many things about Roman justice."

Marcus grunted. "Mostly shouting."

That was the closest thing to legal theory Arthur had heard from him.

Their second destination was the river. Not the same warehouse where the carts had been attacked. That would have been foolish. Instead, they went to a dock tavern where three men who had witnessed the chaos were waiting with Marcia’s escort. The tavern was built low and dark, with a roof that trapped smoke and a floor that had absorbed generations of spilled wine, fish oil, and bad decisions.

Arthur hated it immediately.

The dockworkers did not.

They sat around a rough table, big-armed, sun-browned, and wary. One had a scar across his chin. Another kept tapping his cup with two fingers. The third looked at Arthur like a man trying to decide whether dead clerks were good luck or bad.

Marcia was there too.

She stood when Arthur entered, and for a second he saw how tired she was. Not weak. Tired. There was a difference. She had lost people, survived a cart, given testimony, and still come to a place where men might recognize her because the names mattered.

Arthur respected that more than he knew how to say.

The dockworkers had already heard rumors. Of course they had. By noon, half the river seemed to know that Gaius had returned from the dead, insulted important people, and started collecting names. Rumor had made him taller, older, possibly touched by a god, and definitely harder to kill than he felt.

One dockworker asked if he had truly crawled out of a tomb.

Marcus answered before Arthur could. "No."

Arthur nodded. "Good. Accurate."

Marcus continued, "He crawled out of a drainage hole."

The dockworkers stared. Then the scarred one laughed so hard wine came out of his nose.

Arthur closed his eyes. "Thank you, Marcus."

"You prefer tomb?"

"I prefer dignity."

"You chose Rome poorly."

The table erupted. Even Marcia laughed, quietly at first, then with a hand over her mouth as if the sound had surprised her. Arthur felt heat rise in his face, but he let them laugh. Let the story become ridiculous. Ridiculous stories travelled faster than serious ones, and right now he needed the river to talk.

When the laughter faded, Arthur placed the acknowledgment slip on the table. Then the copy. The mood changed. Not fully. Enough.

The dockworkers listened while Marcus spoke. Marcia added her testimony. The scarred man swore he had seen the marked cart. The finger-tapper admitted he had heard a driver say Ostia. The third man knew the lower path by the water and named two boatmen who worked there after dark.

The scarred dockworker shook his head. "Funny thing about the river."

Nobody answered.

The man shrugged. "You can throw a body into it." His eyes moved to the tablet. "You can’t throw away a story."

Arthur looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

Livia had been right. Not one witness. Many. Not one record. Many. Not one truth hidden in a room. A truth pushed into the street where it could become difficult.

The scarred dockworker took one copy and sealed it inside a clay jar used for shipping accounts. He marked the jar as belonging to a fish merchant nobody liked, which he insisted made it very safe.

Arthur did not ask why.

He was learning not to ask certain questions.

When they left the tavern, the sun had moved lower. Not low enough. Too low. Before sunset. The words beat against Arthur’s skull.

Their final destination was the watch post near the river gate.

This was the part he disliked most.

The watch represented order in theory. In practice, the men inside looked overworked, underpaid, and deeply interested in avoiding paperwork that might anger anyone rich enough to own a private dining room. Their commander was a thick-necked man with tired eyes and a scar on one cheek. He listened to Marcus because Marcus sounded like a soldier and looked like a problem. He listened to Arthur because Marcus made him.

The commander read the copy. Then read the notary slip. Then looked at Arthur.

"Gaius Valerius?"

Arthur nodded.

The man’s eyes narrowed. "Dead Gaius?"

Arthur sighed. "Apparently less than advertised."

Marcus gave him a warning look.

The commander did not laugh. That was probably good.

He asked questions. Many questions. Where had the records been found? Who had testified? Why had they not brought the tablets sooner? Why was a wounded woman involved? Why was Lucius’s house full of rescued people? Why did Aelius Varro’s name appear in connection with death corrections?

At that name, the room changed.

Aelius mattered. Not enough to protect him completely. Enough to make men careful.

The commander leaned back and rubbed one hand over his face. For a moment, Arthur thought he would refuse. Then the man looked at Marcus.

"You swear by your service?"

Marcus did not hesitate. "Yes."

The commander looked at Arthur. "And you?"

Arthur had no service to swear by. No family here. No proper name. No god he felt comfortable using as currency. So he placed his hand over the hidden place where Gaius’s seal rested in his pouch.

"By the dead man who started this," he said.

The Latin was clumsy.

The meaning landed.

The commander held his gaze for a long moment. Then he called for a clerk. A watch clerk, not Aelius’s.

The copy was registered as a formal complaint tied to public disorder at the river, suspected unlawful movement of persons, falsified labor correction, and witness protection concern. Witness protection was perhaps too generous. Arthur would take it.

The commander kept one copy and gave Arthur a marked receipt.

Real.

Stamped.

Recorded.

The receipt felt ridiculous. A small piece of wax. A few marks. Nothing special. Yet Arthur found himself staring at it. People had died for less. Empires too.

Arthur stepped back onto the street as the sun touched the tops of the buildings. For the first time that day, he breathed properly.

Then a bell rang from the direction of the administrative quarter.

Marcus turned. So did several men in the street.

Arthur looked at him. "What is that?"

Marcus listened.

Another bell.

Then shouting.

Not panic.

Alarm.

A messenger ran past them toward the river, sandals slapping stone. Marcus caught him by the arm, said something, and the man answered quickly before pulling away.

Marcus’s face changed.

Arthur already knew he would not like the translation.

"A fire," Marcus said.

Arthur looked toward the administrative quarter. Smoke began to rise in the distance. Thin at first. Then darker.

Marcus’s jaw tightened.

"The records office."

Arthur felt the receipt in his hand. Aelius had not waited to correct the records. He had decided to burn them.

Blue light flickered at the edge of his vision.

Emergency Event Detected. Administrative Evidence Loss: Imminent. Objective Updated: Preserve Remaining Records.

Arthur stared at the smoke. For one second, no one moved.

Then Marcus reached for his sword.

The records were burning.