The knock came again.

Harder this time.

Naso flinched as if the door itself had struck him. His daughter turned beneath the blanket in the corner but did not wake. Arthur looked from her to the stairway, then to Marcus.

The answer was already on Marcus’s face.

Bad.

"How many?" Arthur whispered.

Marcus moved to the shutter and opened it just enough to look down into the street. He stayed there for two breaths, then closed it.

"Two at the door. Two near the corner."

"Registry?"

Marcus shook his head. "Registry clothes. Not registry men."

Naso sank into the chair. "They came too fast."

Felix tightened his grip on his stick. "Someone talked."

"In Ostia," Milo muttered, "someone always talks."

The voice from below called again. Calm. Official. Too clean.

"Harbor Registry. Open the door."

Naso looked at his sleeping daughter.

Arthur saw the choice before Naso made it. The man was not thinking about himself anymore. Not about prison, not about the ledgers, not even about Celsus.

Only her.

"Back exit?" Arthur asked.

Naso swallowed. "There is a rear stair. Narrow. It leads to the alley behind the customs house."

"Can they see it?"

Marcus looked out again, this time through the side of the shutter. "Not from the front."

Arthur nodded. "Then we leave that way."

Naso looked up. "We?"

"You and your daughter."

The clerk stared at him like he had offered to carry the customs house on his back.

Felix gave a dry laugh. "Dead clerk keeps collecting people."

Arthur ignored him. "Milo, you go with them."

Milo’s eyes widened. "Me?"

"You know the alleys."

"I also know fear. It says no."

Marcus looked at him.

Milo exhaled. "Fine. Fear has changed its mind."

Another knock.

The door below shook.

Naso stood too quickly and nearly knocked over the chair. Arthur caught it before it fell. The little girl woke then. Her eyes opened, confused and dark with sleep.

"Father?"

Naso crossed the room and crouched beside her. His voice softened so much Arthur almost did not recognize him.

"Quiet now, Marilla. We must go."

She sat up, clutching the blanket. "Why?"

Naso froze.

There was no good answer.

Arthur stepped closer, keeping his voice low. "Because the house is not safe tonight."

The girl looked at him, then at Marcus, then at Felix’s stick. Children understood more than adults wanted them to.

She nodded once.

No tears.

That made it worse.

Naso wrapped her in a cloak. His hands shook while he tied the cord. Arthur pretended not to see.

Marcus moved to the apartment door. "I delay."

Felix limped beside him. "We delay."

Arthur looked at him. "You can barely stand."

Felix smiled without warmth. "Then they will underestimate me."

"That is not a plan."

"It is in Ostia."

Marcus pushed a small table toward the apartment door, not enough to block it completely, just enough to make entry annoying. Felix picked up a clay cup and dropped it. It shattered loudly.

Arthur stared.

Felix shrugged. "Now it sounds like panic."

From below, the voice sharpened. "Naso! Open!"

Marcus looked at Arthur. "Go."

Arthur went.

The rear stair was barely a stair. It was a wooden spine nailed against the back of the building, steep enough to offend architecture. Milo climbed first, quick and silent despite his fear. Naso followed with Marilla in his arms. Arthur came behind them, one hand on the wall, trying not to imagine the wood snapping beneath his weight.

Halfway down, the front door broke open.

Not fully.

Enough.

Arthur heard shouting inside the house. Felix shouted back immediately, loud and angry.

"I said he is sick! Do you drag clerks from beds now?"

A second voice answered.

Marcus did not shout.

That was worse.

The back alley smelled of damp stone, fish refuse, and old smoke. Milo led them left, then right, then through a gap between two buildings so narrow Arthur had to turn sideways. Naso stumbled twice. Marilla held his neck tightly and made no sound.

Behind them, someone shouted from the customs house.

They had been noticed.

"Faster," Milo whispered.

Naso tried.

He was not built for running. He was built for desks, lamps, ink, and fear. Arthur took Marilla from him without asking. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

Naso almost protested.

Then his breath failed, and he let him.

The girl was lighter than Arthur expected. Too light. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder. She smelled of sleep and old wool.

Arthur ran.

Not well.

But enough.

They crossed behind a row of fish sheds, cut through a yard where nets hung like dead skins, and ducked under a low arch into a darker lane. The harbor noise faded behind walls. Here Ostia felt different. Poorer. Closer. No masts against the sky. No wide docks. Just laundry, cracked doors, sleeping dogs, and people who looked away when strangers passed because looking was a kind of debt.

At the end of the lane, Crispus waited.

Of course he did.

He stood beside a small storage room with no sign, holding a lamp covered by one hand.

"You took your time," he said.

Arthur bent forward, breathing hard. "I was carrying a child."

Crispus looked at Marilla. His expression changed for less than a second.

Then it was gone.

"Inside."

The storage room was small and smelled of rope, lamp oil, and dried herbs. Better than fish. Barely. Crispus shut the door behind them and slid a bar into place.

Naso collapsed onto a sack of wool. Arthur set Marilla beside him. She leaned against her father immediately, still silent.

Milo paced near the wall until Crispus snapped, "Sit before your fear wears a hole in my floor."

Milo sat.

Arthur leaned against the wall and tried to breathe without sounding like a dying mule.

A few minutes later, the back door opened again.

Marcus entered first.

Felix followed, grinning like a man who had enjoyed himself too much.

Arthur straightened. "What happened?"

Felix dropped onto a crate with a wince. "They searched the room. Found a broken cup. Very suspicious."

Marcus looked at Naso. "They know you left."

"How much time?" Arthur asked.

"Less than before."

Useful. Terrible. Very Marcus.

Crispus looked at Naso. "Start talking."

Naso’s arms tightened around his daughter. "I already talked."

"No," Crispus said. "You survived talking. Different thing."

Arthur stepped closer, but not too close. Naso looked like a man standing on the edge of a roof. Push too hard and he would jump. Push too little and he would stay where Celsus could reach him.

"What happens in the morning?" Arthur asked.

Naso rubbed his face. "Formal confirmation. The transfer can move if I confirm the category and mark the delay resolved."

"So don’t confirm it."

Naso looked up, almost angry. "You still think the signature is mine."

Arthur stopped.

Naso gave a short, tired laugh. "My name is on it. My hand writes it. But the registry has copies of my seal. Celsus has a clerk who can copy my hand well enough for men who do not want to look closely."

"Vibius," Arthur said.

Naso nodded. "If I do not sign, they can sign for me."

"Then why do they need you?"

"Because if the matter is questioned, I am still alive to blame."

The room went quiet.

That was the real shape of Naso’s position.

Not power.

Usefulness.

A living shield made of ink.

Arthur looked at Marilla. She was half asleep again against her father’s side.

"What stops them?" he asked.

Naso swallowed. "A contradiction they cannot hide."

"Explain."

"The Blue Ledger proves movement. Names, categories, times, overrides. It shows that people were moved as labor or cargo."

"We have samples."

"Samples prove enough to scare them. Not enough to end it."

Arthur felt his jaw tighten. "What is enough?"

Naso looked at him.

"The source record."

Crispus leaned forward. "Where?"

Naso hesitated.

Marcus did not move, but the room seemed to lean with him.

Naso closed his eyes. "Under the customs house. Not in the archive. Beneath it. Old tax cellars. There are sealed lead tags, full names, buyer marks, debt conversions, and original category requests."

Arthur’s stomach went cold.

"Buyer marks?"

Naso looked at his daughter again.

"Yes."

The word was small.

It filled the whole room.

Arthur had been chasing movement. Routes. Warehouses. Registries. Blue doors.

But movement was only one part.

Someone wanted the people moved.

Someone paid.

Someone received.

Naso opened his eyes. "You keep asking about the ledger."

"Because it matters."

"No." Naso’s voice was quiet now. Almost empty. "The ledger is only the receipt."

Arthur said nothing.

No one did.

Naso looked at him.

"If you want to know who owns this, you need the record beneath the record."

A sound came from outside.

Two quick knocks.

Then one slow.

Crispus raised a hand before anyone moved. "Mine."

He opened the door a crack.

A small girl slipped inside. Not Marilla. The wick seller. Her hair was tied back, her face smudged with soot, and her eyes were bright with the pride of someone carrying news adults would hate.

"They went back to the customs house," she said. "More men came."

Crispus crouched. "How many?"

"Six. Maybe seven. One had a box."

Naso stood so fast Marilla woke again.

"A box?"

The girl nodded. "Small. Black. Iron corners."

Naso’s face twisted.

Arthur already knew he would not like the answer.

"What is it?" he asked.

Naso looked toward the door, toward the streets, toward the customs house they had just escaped.

"They are taking the cellar records."

Crispus cursed.

Felix pushed himself up from the crate. "Of course they are."

Arthur felt the walls close in again.

Before morning.

Always before morning.

Marcus looked at him. "We go?"

Arthur thought of Celsus. Of the marked labor still held in the warehouse. Of the annex lit and visible. Of Naso’s daughter clutching the blanket.

He thought of the line Naso had just given him.

The ledger is only the receipt.

If they lost the cellar records, they lost the buyers.

They lost the real names.

Arthur straightened.

"Yes," he said. "But not through the front."

Milo groaned softly. "I hate when you say things like that."

Felix smiled tiredly.

Crispus covered the lamp.

Marcus opened the door.

Outside, Ostia waited in the dark.