Dies Martis, Nonus Decimus Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Tuesday, 19th Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
Three days had passed since Alexander had set his Imperial Council to their tasks. The memory of their varied reactions – Scaurus's weary acceptance, Capito's sharp focus, Galba's inscrutable neutrality, and Paetus's grim approval – still brought a cold satisfaction. He had asserted his will, not with the bluster of a newly crowned youth, but with the calculated precision he had once used to dismantle corporate rivals. The directives were clear, the deadline firm. Now, he waited, though waiting did not mean idleness.
His chambers had become a nerve center. Theron, now a near-constant presence, shuttled back and forth from the Archives, providing supplementary texts: detailed provincial tax yields from the past decade, summaries of past military campaigns and their logistical costs, even obscure commentaries on the Lex Imperia Augusta that hinted at broader interpretations of Imperial power than the Concordia Ordinum typically allowed. Alexander absorbed it all, his mind a relentless engine of analysis, cross-referencing, and projection.
He was stronger now, his walks in the private garden longer, his gaze more often directed outwards, towards the sprawling city of Rome beyond the palace walls – his city, his empire, to shape or to lose.
This morning, Elara approached him as he reviewed a particularly dense ledger detailing palace expenditures. Her expression was, as always, carefully neutral, but he detected a subtle shift in her demeanor since their quiet understanding about her being his "eyes and ears."
"Your Majesty," she began, after ensuring they were alone, "a small matter, regarding the cellars."
Alexander looked up, his face betraying no particular interest. "Oh?"
"The junior cellarer, Piso," Elara said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was… careless yesterday. He dropped a small, empty vial near the newer Falernian casks. One of the other servants found it. It was of dark glass, unmarked. Piso became very agitated when asked about it, claiming it was merely for a headache tonic he procured from an apothecary in the Subura."
Dark glass, unmarked. Agitated. A story about a headache tonic from the Subura, a notoriously rough district. It was another small piece, fitting with the earlier observation of his unusual interest in the wine and the unfamiliar carter. Still not enough for overt action, but the pattern was becoming less nebulous. A junior cellarer with access to Imperial wine stores, meeting strange carters, and now carrying unmarked vials. It smelled of something illicit, at the very least. At worst…
"A headache tonic from the Subura for a palace servant?" Alexander mused, his tone light. "He aims high for his remedies." He paused. "Did this servant who found the vial believe his story?"
Elara's eyes met his for a fleeting second. "She thought his agitation… excessive for such a simple matter, Majesty."
"Indeed." Alexander tapped a stylus against the ledger. To confront Piso directly was premature; it would expose Elara and potentially scare off whoever else might be involved if this was more than petty theft. He needed more, and he needed someone to look more closely, someone who wouldn't raise alarms. "Elara," he said, "this servant who found the vial. Is she discreet? Loyal to the household?"
"Old Gaia, Majesty? She has served in the kitchens since she was a girl. She complains much, but her loyalty is to the hearth and home of this palace."
"Good." Alexander considered. "Perhaps you could suggest to Gaia that it would be… prudent… to simply keep an eye on young Piso's activities around the cellars. Not to interfere, merely to observe if his interest in headache tonics continues, or if anything else seems amiss. For the good of the household, of course. We wouldn't want any… spoiled wine due to carelessness."
Elara nodded, understanding the carefully couched instruction. "I will speak with Gaia, Majesty. She has sharp eyes for an old woman."
Another thread, gently pulled. He was now using Elara not just as a passive observer, but as a conduit to another, even less conspicuous, pair of eyes within the palace's lower echelons.
His thoughts then turned to more official instruments of his will. The Imperial Council was composed of powerful, established men. They would execute his directives, but their loyalty was primarily to their offices, their factions, or their own careers. He needed individuals whose loyalty was first and foremost to him, Valerius Augustus. People he could elevate, people who would owe their advancement solely to his patronage.
His mind went back to the palace ledgers, and to a name he had noted: Marcus Scaeva, the young, ambitious scribe in the Imperial Chancery who had reportedly penned flattering accounts of his father's reign. Ambitious, literate, and perhaps seeking a way to distinguish himself.
He sent a summons.
Marcus Scaeva was ushered into his presence an hour later. He was perhaps in his early twenties, slender, with intelligent, restless eyes that darted around the chamber before fixing on Alexander with an expression of nervous awe. He clutched a bundle of scrolls, likely his regular work.
"Scribe Marcus Scaeva," Alexander began, his voice even and measured. He gestured for the young man to stand a little closer. "I have been reviewing some of the chancery records. Your hand is clear, your summaries precise. Master Theron also mentioned some of your… historical compositions regarding my father's reign."
Scaeva flushed slightly. "Your Majesty honors me. I merely sought to… record the noble deeds of our late Emperor for posterity."
"A commendable aim," Alexander said. "Such loyalty to his memory is noted." He paused, observing the young man. Scaeva was clearly intelligent, articulate, and hungry for notice. "Tell me, Scaeva, beyond your regular duties, what are your particular interests in matters of state or history?"
Scaeva hesitated, then seemed to take courage. "Majesty, I have always been fascinated by the mechanics of governance, by the way laws are made and implemented, and by the histories of those rulers who… who shaped the destiny of Rome with bold vision." His eyes shone with a youthful fervor.
"Bold vision," Alexander repeated softly. "A rare commodity." He leaned forward slightly. "I find myself, Scaeva, in need of an assistant. Someone with a keen mind, a discreet tongue, and an unwavering loyalty to my person. My recent illness has left me with much to catch up on, many documents to review, many threads to follow. The work would be demanding, often outside regular chancery hours. It would require absolute confidentiality."
Scaeva's breath caught. His eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and dawning, fervent hope in them. "Your… Your Majesty? You mean… to serve you directly?"
"That is what I mean," Alexander confirmed, his gaze steady. "You would be attached to my personal staff. Your duties would be… varied. Summarizing reports, drafting private correspondence, researching specific topics at my direction, and other tasks as they arise. It would be an opportunity to see the workings of the Empire from its very heart. But the first and absolute requirement is loyalty. Not to a faction, not to an ideal, but to your Emperor." He let that sink in.
Scaeva dropped to one knee, his voice thick with emotion. "Majesty, I swear by all the gods, my loyalty to you would be absolute. To serve you in such a capacity… it would be the greatest honor of my life. I would dedicate every fibre of my being to your service."
Alexander hid a cynical smile. Such fervent oaths were easily made. They would be tested. But the raw material – intelligence, ambition, and a desperate desire for patronage – was promising. "Rise, Scaeva," he said. "Your first task will be simple. I wish for you to review all of Senator Gallus Cicero's public orations from the past five years. Provide me with a summary of his recurring themes, his stated political philosophies, and a list of individuals he most frequently praises or criticizes. I want it concise, analytical, and on my desk within three days."
It was a test of his ability to work quickly, to analyze political rhetoric, and to present information efficiently. It would also give Scaeva immediate access to sensitive political material, a subtle show of trust.
"It will be done, Majesty!" Scaeva declared, his eyes shining.
"Good. You will report directly to me. Elara will arrange a small workspace for you nearby. For now, speak of this new role to no one."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Absolutely no one."
After Scaeva departed, practically walking on air, Alexander felt a grim satisfaction. He was beginning to forge his own tools. Theron was a source of raw data. Elara, a listening post. Scaeva, he hoped, could become a more active instrument, a personal intelligencer and analyst.
Livia arrived later, and he mentioned, almost casually, that he had taken on a promising young scribe from the chancery for some personal assistance with his paperwork.
"Scaeva?" Livia frowned slightly. "Ah yes, the one who wrote those rather… effusive poems about your father. He is ambitious, certainly. And not tied to any major family, which is perhaps a point in his favor. Be sure he understands his place, Valerius. Such young men can sometimes develop inflated notions of their own importance when granted Imperial favor."
"I will ensure he remains grounded, Mother," Alexander said. Her reaction confirmed Scaeva was not her creature, nor deeply entangled elsewhere. That was good.
"The council members are already hard at work on your directives," Livia informed him. "There is much talk in the palace of your… decisiveness. Some are impressed. Others, I suspect, are unnerved."
"Let them be unnerved," Alexander said coolly. "It will keep them focused." He paused. "You mentioned General Gnaeus Marcellus in the northern provinces. His victories are being lauded loudly, you said."
Livia nodded, her expression growing serious. "Too loudly, by some accounts. His dispatches are becoming rather… self-congratulatory. And there are whispers that some of his clients in the Senate are suggesting a triumph for him, here in Rome."
A triumph. A massive public celebration for a victorious general, a potent display of popularity and military might. For a general not of the Imperial family, it could be a dangerous thing, a spark for greater ambition.
"A triumph for Marcellus, then," Alexander murmured, a new calculation forming in his mind. "And this talk began while I was thought to be on my deathbed. How convenient." He mentally cataloged the general: Gnaeus Marcellus, popular, victorious, and now, clearly, a man whose ambition would require careful watching. Every powerful figure was another variable in the equation of power, another piece to be maneuvered or, if necessary, removed. Seeds of doubt about Marcellus's ultimate loyalty were now firmly planted in his mind, alongside the tentative seeds of loyalty he was trying to cultivate in men like Scaeva. The Empire was a garden that required careful, and at times ruthless, tending.