Chapter 4 — Rome, 195 BCE – Villa of Scipio Africanus
It's been two years. Two long, exhausting, exhilarating years.
Ennius still tutors me, and though I've long since surpassed the bounds of a traditional Roman education, I value his insight. His knowledge of poetry, rhetoric, and Greek philosophy continues to sharpen my tongue and my thoughts.
The Senate trial of the rag paper and ink concluded after six months. Their scribes and magistrates loved it. It was much cheaper than papyrus, and the ink didn't fade or run. But that success had a hidden cost.
I was reckless.
When I introduced those inventions, I didn't first secure legal protection. Of course I didn't—Rome has no such thing as patent law. I can't believe I forgot such a simple thing.
Twenty workshops were built in total, guarded by veterans of Father's Iberian and African campaigns. Men loyal to the Scipio name, some of whom owed him their lives. I gave them good steady pay, and in return they made sure to prevent any would-be intruders from getting into any of the production facilities. The formulas were never written down—only Tiro, two foremen (which I made sure to pay very handsomely to ensure loyalty), and I knew the full process.
Still, the cost was staggering.
Guards, materials, bribes to keep things silent—the first year drained nearly all the revenue I made from early sales. But it was worth it.
When the Senate finally approved a full transition to my rag paper and ink, the contracts began pouring in. Municipal offices, tax collectors, army quartermasters. I even sold to wealthy patricians who wanted personalized scrolls with brighter, cleaner script.
By the end of the second year, I had made just over one million sesterces.
One million.
Even now, I sometimes stare at the ledgers and shake my head. In modern terms? That's maybe 100 million dollars of purchasing power.
Father, of course, refused to keep any of it.
"A man of gravitas doesn't rob his son of what he has rightfully earned," he said. "Even if the boy is three years old."
That was his pride speaking, but also his integrity. He never once tried to take credit. In fact, he ordered the family scribes to record in the household ledgers that all ink and paper profits belonged to Lucius Cornelius Scipio, son of Africanus.
I used the money to begin new projects.
The first: steelmaking.
High-quality Roman steel, mass produced. I studied every pre-modern method I could recall from my old life, then spent months experimenting alongside a master blacksmith named Marcus Atilius Ferrarius—a retired armorer from Arretium who had worked on legionary blades for decades.
We built bloomeries in controlled chambers to produce consistent, high-carbon wrought iron. Then, we began carburizing it in airtight crucibles using bone and charcoal. I taught Marcus to identify temperatures by color and introduced forced-air bellows powered by waterwheel-driven pistons.
What we ended up with was a proto-Bessemer technique: we removed impurities by oxidizing molten pig iron, then hammer-forged the resulting ingots repeatedly before quenching them. The result was resilient, homogenous steel far superior to the iron in use now..
With steel, I could forge so many useful things.
So we made stirrups next.
Rome's cavalry had always been weak compared to its infantry. Noble equites made decent horsemen at best, but the real power had always been in auxiliaries from Numidia or Gaul. I wanted Rome's own cavalry to be unmatched.
Stirrups gave that to us. They allowed a rider to strike from horseback without losing balance. It made lancers devastating and archers more accurate.
Next came horseshoes. Better speed, better endurance, fewer injuries and thus, lower costs overall for the Republic.
Mass production of steel, stirrups, and horseshoes meant that Rome's legions could soon field professional cavalry. Not aristocratic hobbyists. Real soldiers.
Sometimes I sit in the workshop and watch Marcus and his apprentices at the forges, hammering out weapons and fittings with sparks flying in the dark like stars on a battlefield. It's exhilarating thinking of the sheer amount of change this can bring to the Republic.
It really does pay to have been an engineer in an advanced society, only to find yourself being reincarnated more than 2000 years earlier. Who would have thought.
Father has been speaking more and more about his intention to run for consul next year, 194 BCE. That lines up with what I remember from my studies: Scipio Africanus did become consul for the second time that year. He led a campaign in Cisalpine Gaul.
He won, yes—but he didn't conquer all of the Po River valley. The terrain was rough, supply lines overextended, and the Gallic tribes used guerrilla tactics, ambushing supply trains and harassing his forces.
Though the real reason he was unable to conquer all of Cisalpine Gaul was the lack of support the Senate gave him, due to growing tensions and fear of his popularity, as well as the fact that the consulship only lasts one year.
If I can get him to adopt stirrup-equipped heavy cavalry, reinforced steel arms and armour, he might just finish the job. Who am I kidding, of course he will finish it. He's Scipio goddamn Africanus.
More importantly however, I need to convince him to pass laws.
A Roman patent system. It would protect inventors and creators, giving them time-limited rights to profit from their discoveries. It could usher in a golden age of invention.
Citizenship reforms too. Every loyal city and village in Italia should have a path to Roman citizenship. The way Rome has historically treated her Italian allies is disgraceful—no wonder so many cities defected to Hannibal's side during the war. It is imperative to start cultivating a Roman identity that does not only apply to those born within the city's walls, but to everyone who falls under the Republic's rule. We need their manpower as well as their loyalty.
And education. Widespread literacy is essential if we want efficient governance, accounting, even military discipline. It will probably take a while to fully implement universal education.
Finally, the army itself must change. I've been sketching out what is essentially the Marian Reforms: professionalize the legions, equip them uniformly with standardized arms and armor, introduce regular pay, retirement benefits, and permanent logistics and engineering corps.
All of that begins next year.
If I can convince him.
Speaking of my father, I think it is about time I showed him our progress with my new "inventions."
I stepped out into the sunlit portico of our villa, its painted columns and mosaic floors gleaming beneath the clear Roman sky. Birds chirped from the manicured hedges. The scent of rosemary and lavender floated from the gardens. I made my way through the winding marble hallways and colonnades until I saw my parents talking quietly among blooming rose bushes.
"Mother!" I called.
She turned just in time to catch me as I flung myself into her arms.
"My little inventor," Aemilia said, laughing, brushing my hair from my forehead. "I hope you haven't blown past poor Ennius again during your lessons."
"He says I talk too fast when I'm excited," I admitted. "But he's happy with my progress with Greek."
"Good. You'll need that quick tongue when you're leading the Senate," she said, teasingly.
I groaned. "Mother…"
"Don't tease him too much, Aemilia," Father said, smiling as he placed a hand on my shoulder. "He's probably here with news."
"I am," I said quickly. "Marcus and I finally made the last breakthrough. We can start full production now—steel, stirrups, and horseshoes. Everything's ready. Well ok, not really, production is still limited. We need to make a lot more bloomeries."
Father raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Truly? That soon?"
"Yes. I wanted to show you father."
"Then lead the way, Lucius," he said.
"...this is the standard kit, assembled entirely with the new steel. I wanted you to see it for yourself, father," I said as I brought my father into the forge here Marcus waited.
He gave a small nod, stepping forward. His hand reached for one of the cuirasses—metal plates overlapped and joined by leather straps. "This isn't lorica hamata."
"It isn't," I replied with a slight smile. "This is what Marcus and the other smiths have taken to calling lorica segmentata."
Marcus stepped forward. "Segmented plate armour, Dominus. Made of broad steel strips shaped to the body, fastened together for maximum protection and flexibility. Stronger and lighter than chainmail."
I added, "It distributes force more evenly than mail, especially against blunt trauma. It's faster to produce with our new steel and easier to repair in the field. Each section can be replaced individually. It also offers better coverage to the shoulders and upper chest."
"And it's cooler to wear in the summer," Marcus said. "Less fabric and fewer layers underneath. We've had a few of the men train in it—they all preferred it over mail."
Scipio raised the cuirass again, testing its joints. "Ingenious. And you believe we can outfit an entire legion this way?"
"With enough bloomeries and men, yes. And in time, the process will become even faster," I said.
I gestured to the next piece: a helmet. "Montefortino-style, but updated. Domed top, reinforced with a steel ridge. Cheek guards thickened and curved closer to the jawline. We've added an internal leather lining to improve comfort and reduce head injuries."
Scipio tested the weight in his hand. "Reasonable heft."
"Because of the steel," I explained. "We can use thinner layers while maintaining protection."
I moved to the scutum. "Curved, three-layered wood core, covered in canvas and leather, edged with steel. The central boss is reinforced to better deflect strikes."
"And the gladius?" my father asked.
I handed it to him.Scipio turned the sword in his hand, inspecting its edge. "What makes this so different from what the Republic already uses? We've had iron blades for decades—good ones, too."
Marcus was the first to speak. "Most of those are soft iron, Dominus. They bend in battle, sometimes even snap. You might get ten good blades from fifty ingots, and even then, it depends on the skill of the smith. No two are the same."
"Our steel is consistent," I added. "Every blade comes out with the same hardness, the same balance. It's far tougher than iron. It holds a sharp edge much longer and is less likely to warp or chip under pressure."
"It also means the blades can be thinner without losing strength," Marcus said. "That makes them lighter—faster in the hand. A soldier can swing for longer before tiring."
Marcus gestured to one of the apprentices. "Titus, bring both swords."
The young man returned quickly with two gladii. One was the familiar Roman iron blade, dull grey, slightly pitted from use. The other was ours—sharper, cleaner, faintly blue in the light, its edge straight and crisp.
"We've set up a test, Dominus," I said. "Nothing fancy—just a few strikes, edge to edge. We've repeated it before with the same results."
Father raised an eyebrow. "Show me."
Marcus drove a wooden post into the dirt, then wedged the iron gladius into it so the blade jutted outward. The steel gladius remained in his hand.
"Both blades weigh nearly the same," Marcus said, holding them side by side. "But one holds up much better."
He stepped back, raised the steel gladius, and struck down at the exposed edge of the iron one—not full force, but a strong, practiced blow.
The clash rang out with a sharp clang. Both blades recoiled slightly from the impact. The steel edge was untouched. The iron blade, however, now bore a visible notch where the strike had landed.
Marcus turned both blades toward Father. "You see?"
Scipio stepped forward. He ran a thumb over the iron blade's chipped edge.
"That was a clean blow," he murmured. "And the steel blade?"
"Still sharp," I said. "Even after ten or more strikes like that, it rarely needs sharpening. And the edge damage on the iron one only gets worse the more it's used. That notch could turn into a crack mid-battle. It could reduce casualties in our armies immensely."
Father tested the weight of the steel sword again, then handed it back with a thoughtful nod.
"Steel doesn't just cut better. It lasts longer, it stays straighter, and it won't betray you in a clash," I said.
Father weighed both swords again, holding them up side by side. His brow furrowed.
"This one," he said, gesturing with the steel blade, "is longer. By nearly a finger's width."
I nodded. "I lengthened it slightly—just under two uniciae," (about five centimeters)."It still retains the same thrusting shape, but the added reach gives a slight advantage in both stabbing and slashing."
Marcus added, "We forged it to balance the extra length with the same weight. The steel's strength means we can stretch the blade without making it heavier."
I turned to Father. "I didn't make the change lightly. The traditional gladius has served Rome well for centuries. But I wanted your opinion—as a soldier, and a general. Do you think this change is worthwhile? Or would it be better to preserve the standard length to maintain uniformity and familiarity among the men?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he tested a few short strikes with the steel gladius, stepping into a lunge, then drawing back into a guard position.
"The extra length doesn't hinder movement," he said at last. "But it might require some adjustment in training."
He looked down at the iron gladius in his other hand. "Still... reach matters, especially in the opening strike. And this version retains the thick base and tapered point. I don't see any loss in thrusting power."
Scipio turned back to me. "If it were my decision, I'd field both in drills. Let the centurions decide what handles better in formation. If the men prefer the longer one, we make it standard. If not, we revert."
I smiled. "That's fair. I'll prepare both models and ask the veterans at the barracks to run tests. We'll let practical use decide."
He nodded once. "Good. Always trust the men who actually carry the blades."
Father ran his finger carefully along the edge. "And armour?"
"Same story," I said. "Thinner plates, but stronger. Blows that would dent iron bounce off this. And if they do leave a mark, it doesn't crack through. The protection is simply better."
"And the pilum?"
I motioned to a bundle nearby. "Standard long-shaft version. Steel shank, pyramidal head. The improved metallurgy ensures it won't shatter on impact."
Scipio returned the blade to its sheath and looked over the full layout. "And the cost for all of this?"
"For one soldier—mail shirt, helmet, scutum, gladius, two pila, belt, dagger, sandals, cloak, water skin, rations sack—we estimate 100 to 120 denarii."
His brow furrowed. "And for a full legion?"
"At 4,800 legionaries? Half a million denarii, perhaps more when factoring support staff and reserves."
"100 denarii is far more than any farmer-soldier could afford."
"Precisely," I said. "And that's why we must stop expecting them to."
He looked at me. I held his gaze.
"We must build a professional army—one fully funded and maintained by the Republic. These men march thousands of miles, fight for years, and return home broken, if they return at all. We ask everything of them, yet they must bring their own arms, often cheaply made or second-hand."
"And many die because of it," Marcus said quietly.
I stepped forward. "With a salaried, state-funded army, we can standardise training, gear, and structure. Offer veterans land, citizenship, or pensions. And remove the burden from the peasantry."
My father gave a cautious nod. "The Senate will resist. They'll see this as populist. Dangerous. Not to mention it will require them to admit that our current system is subpar."
"Which is why I'm asking you," I said. "If you win the consulship next year, you can introduce these reforms. It would strengthen our Republic and reduce pointless deaths of our citizens."
He said nothing for a long while. Then he looked again at the gear. He touched the edge of the scutum, ran his hand along the lorica segmentata, and glanced at the scabbard of the gladius.
"It would be an excellent improvement," he said. "Prepare the drafts. If I am elected, we'll present it as a matter of necessity."
I inclined my head. "Yes father."
He turned to go but paused. "And make sure these figures are watertight. I won't bring fiction to the Curia."
"Understood," I said.
"I still cannot believe you are only 5 years old. Other 5 year olds would just be learning how to form sentences, not revolutionising the Republic's army and metalworking. Minerva truly provided us with a miracle," he said, giving me a look far prouder than the one he gave when I showed him the ink and rag paper two years ago.
Well, he is a military man after all.
Once he had composed himself, father asked, "You said you were also working on something for the cavalry?"
"Yes father, you are going to love this," I said with uncontained excitement.