Dies Martis, Vicesimus Sextus Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Tuesday, 26th Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The rhythm of Alexander's days had settled into a pattern of intense study, calculated interactions, and a quiet, almost invisible expansion of his awareness within the palace walls. His physical strength was now near its pre-illness peak, the light exercises in the private gymnasium hardening the young Emperor's frame, giving him a more commanding presence that he knew would be noted.
Scaeva had proven to be a valuable instrument. His report on Cicero had been exemplary, and he had thrown himself into the new task of researching General Gnaeus Marcellus with a fervent, almost obsessive, diligence. This morning, he was due to present his preliminary findings. Alexander received him in his study, the room now feeling less like a sickroom and more like a true center of operations, with maps of the provinces spread on one table and stacks of Theron's scrolls neatly arranged on others.
"Your Majesty," Scaeva began, his initial nervousness now largely replaced by the focused confidence of a man who knows his work is valued. He laid out several tablets. "My inquiries into General Marcellus are ongoing, as much of his more… detailed history requires sifting through less accessible military and gubernatorial archives, which Master Theron is assisting with. However, the public commendations and readily available service records paint a clear picture of a highly successful and popular commander."
Scaeva detailed Marcellus's string of victories against restless tribes along the Danubian frontier, his reorganization of the supply lines for the northern legions, and the adulatory dispatches he sent back to Rome – dispatches that, Scaeva noted, often highlighted the general's personal leadership and the devotion of his men.
"His troops are said to be fiercely loyal," Scaeva continued. "He shares their hardships, knows many of them by name, and has secured them significant donatives from war booty. His official patrons in the Senate, beyond the broader faction of military-minded patricians my lady Empress Dowager mentioned, include Senator Decimus Brutus Albinus and, perhaps more significantly, Praetor Quintus Servilius Caepio – both men with extensive family connections in the northern provinces and considerable influence among veteran legionary associations here in Rome."
Alexander listened, his expression carefully blank. So, Marcellus had his backers in the Senate, real pull with the army too. This triumph noise wasn't just hot air then; it was a deliberate move, someone trying to shove Marcellus further into the spotlight. Were they aiming at him directly, or just a pack of idiots making a bad play? He had to find out, and fast.
Theron," Alexander said later that day when the Master of Scrolls brought him a requested treatise on historical triumphs, "the precedents for granting triumphs to generals not of the Imperial blood, particularly in the last century or two. How often has it occurred, and under what circumstances?"
Theron, after a moment of thought, replied, "It has become increasingly rare, Your Majesty. Since the reforms of Emperor Trajanus II, who sought to centralize military glory more firmly with the Imperial house, triumphs have largely been reserved for the Emperor himself or his direct heirs. There are exceptions, of course, for truly exceptional victories where the general acted under clear Imperial mandate and displayed unimpeachable loyalty. But granting one to a general whose popularity is… notably independent… has often been viewed as a politically risky precedent."
"Risky," Alexander repeated. "Indeed." He couldn't afford to seem weak by rushing a refusal, nor could he let Marcellus become a rallying point for discontent. He'd use those Council reports. Paetus's numbers on the army and treasury especially – those would be his excuse. 'Sorry, Senators, no money for parades right now. The Empire has real problems.' It was a standard corporate delay tactic: demand more data, cite budget constraints. Always worked.
Marcellus was a problem out there, on the frontier. But inside these palace walls, closer to home, other snakes were likely stirring. He couldn't just focus on one threat. Elara approached him that evening, her expression discreet as always. "Majesty," she murmured, "an observation from Gaia in the kitchens." Alexander nodded. "Proceed." "Piso, the junior cellarer. He has been noticeably more circumspect since Gaia… took an interest in his section. However, yesterday, Gaia saw him pass a small, tightly sealed amphora – not one of our usual palace stock – to one of the night watchmen, a man named Crixus, who is often assigned to the western palace gate. It was done quickly, in a quiet corridor leading from the lower cellars. Crixus then left the palace grounds shortly after, though his shift was not yet over."
An amphora, not palace stock, passed to a night watchman who then left his post. This was escalating beyond a few sips of stolen wine or a suspicious vial. This suggested a coordinated effort to move something out of – or perhaps into – the palace under cover of darkness.
Alexander's mind worked swiftly. Crixus, the night watchman. Piso, the cellarer. An unknown carter. There was a small conspiracy here. "This watchman, Crixus," Alexander asked. "Is he known for any particular… vices? Debts?"
Elara shook her head. "Gaia knows little of him, Majesty, beyond that he is often quiet and keeps to himself. He is not one of the long-serving household guard, but was transferred from a city cohort some months ago."
Transferred. Another detail. "Very well, Elara. Tell Gaia to continue her excellent observation, but to take no risks. And you, continue to bring me anything you deem noteworthy." He needed more control over this situation. He couldn't use the official guard, not yet, not for something so nebulous that might involve their own. He needed someone utterly loyal and deniable. His gaze fell on the list of household staff he had been compiling with Scaeva.
He considered his options for Piso and Crixus. A direct confrontation was still premature. But he could have them watched more closely, perhaps arrange for Crixus's next attempt to leave his post to be… complicated. This required an operative.
The next day, he summoned Marcus Scaeva again, not for research this time. "Scaeva," Alexander said, his voice low and serious. "Your work has been satisfactory. I have a task of a different nature for you now, one that requires absolute discretion and a certain… subtlety." Scaeva straightened, his eyes bright with anticipation. "I am yours to command, Majesty." "There is a junior cellarer named Piso, and a night watchman named Crixus. I have reason to believe they may be involved in illicit activities within the palace. I want them observed, Scaeva. I want to know who they meet, what they transport, particularly Crixus when he leaves the palace. This is not an official investigation. No one must know you are acting on my behalf." Alexander watched the young man's face. This was a clear step up in responsibility, a move from sifting through scrolls to handling potentially dangerous, covert work. It was a test: could Scaeva think on his feet, manage others, and keep his nerve in the real world of palace shadows?
Scaeva met his gaze, a flicker of understanding, perhaps even excitement, in his eyes. He didn't falter. "Majesty, I have some acquaintances in the city… men who served in the legions, who now make a living as couriers or private guards. They are capable, know how to be unseen, and understand the value of discretion, especially when coin is involved."
"Good," Alexander said. Scaeva wasn't just a bookworm. He had some worldly sense. "Arrange it. I want reports delivered only to you, and you will relay them to me. Their payment will come from my private purse. No official record." This way, if things went wrong, the trail wouldn't lead directly back to the Emperor. Deniability, a concept Alexander Volkov knew well from his past life dealing with… aggressive market intelligence.
"I will see to it personally, Majesty," Scaeva said, his voice a shade deeper than before, his usual eagerness now tempered with a new resolve. Alexander saw the young man understood the risks, and the tentative nature of the confidence being placed in him.
When Scaeva had gone, a cold resolve settled in Alexander. This was the work he knew. Livia's updates from the city still spoke of a surface quiet, but with an undercurrent of nervous waiting.
"They test you, Valerius," Livia had said, her eyes narrowed. "They see your youth, your recent illness, and they mistake your thoughtful approach for weakness or indecision."
"Let them," Alexander replied calmly. "Their impatience may lead them to make mistakes." He was learning to play the long game in this new world as well. Cicero's political maneuvering was a predictable annoyance. The potential threat from a popular general like Marcellus, however, and the subtle rot within his own palace, represented more immediate dangers that required careful, calculated responses. His orders to the Council had certainly shaken things up in the palace; he could feel the shift. But proclamations weren't real power. Power was knowing what people truly thought, who owed what to whom, and having loyal hands ready to do the quiet work, piece by painstaking piece. That's how he'd built his first empire, and that's how he'd build this one.