Dies Mercurii, Tertius Mensis Iunii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Wednesday, 3rd Day of June, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The early June air was already thick with the promise of summer heat, but the small, windowless room deep within a seldom-used section of the palace's service cellars felt cold, the damp stone walls seeming to leech warmth. This was the location Scaeva had secured, a place far from prying eyes and ears.
Scaeva stood before Alexander in his private study, the morning light barely begun. He looked as if he hadn't slept, but a tense energy radiated from him. "Majesty," he reported, his voice low, "Crixus, the night watchman, was taken last night as he left The Broken Oar. Titus Pullo and his associate encountered no significant resistance. Crixus is secured as you instructed."
"Pullo performed well then?" Alexander asked, his gaze sharp.
"Excellently, Majesty. He is currently awaiting further orders, along with Crixus, at the designated location."
"And Piso, the cellarer?"
"He remains under discreet watch within the palace. He appears unaware of Crixus's… absence."
Alexander nodded. "Good. The interrogation of Crixus will proceed this morning. You, Scaeva, will conduct it. I want to know everything: who he works for, what exactly they are smuggling, the full extent of their network within and without the palace, and any names of those who protect or profit from this. I will not tolerate rot within my own household." He paused, then added, "There is a small observation post, a hidden alcove overlooking the room you have chosen. I will be present for a portion of your… discussion with Crixus. Unseen. You will conduct yourself as if you are solely in command of the situation. Do not let my potential presence distract you."
Scaeva's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly composed himself. "I understand, Your Majesty." The Emperor himself would be judging his performance. The stakes had risen yet again.
An hour later, Alexander, cloaked and moving through little-used service passages with an escort of two of his most trusted Praetorian guards – burly, silent Gauls whose loyalty was to the Emperor's person and not to any faction – positioned himself in the cramped, dusty alcove. It offered a shadowed view of the interrogation room below through a cleverly concealed slit in the stonework.
The room was stark: a single wooden table, two chairs. Crixus, a man of average build with shifty eyes and a sullen expression, was bound to one chair. He looked terrified. Standing before him was Scaeva, appearing slighter than usual in the gloom, but his stance was firm. Behind Scaeva, flanking the only door, stood the two massive household guards Alexander had assigned, their faces impassive, their arms crossed. Their sheer presence was an unspoken threat.
"Crixus," Scaeva began, his voice surprisingly steady, though Alexander could detect the faint tremor of nerves Scaeva was trying to suppress. "You find yourself in a difficult position. Your activities have come to the attention of… higher authorities."
Crixus sneered, a pathetic attempt at bravado. "I don't know what you're talking about, Scribe. I'm just a watchman. Someone's made a mistake."
Scaeva pressed, "So, what is it you're moving for these Tiber Rats? Palace silver? Or are you bringing their filth into these walls?"
Alexander, watching from the hidden alcove, noted the steel in Scaeva's voice. The scribe wasn't folding, his questions hitting hard. Crixus just spat another denial, a string of curses about being framed, but his eyes kept darting to the silent guards. He was lying, and badly.
After nearly half an hour of this, with Crixus still prevaricating, Scaeva glanced almost imperceptibly towards the hulking guards. One of them took a single, deliberate step forward, the sound of his heavy boot echoing in the small room. Crixus flinched.
"The truth, Crixus," Scaeva pressed, his voice colder now. "Or this conversation will become significantly more… uncomfortable for you. My patience, and that of those I serve, is not infinite."
Alexander noted Scaeva's use of "those I serve," maintaining the deniability of direct Imperial involvement. Good.
Crixus finally began to crumble. His story, when it came, was a sordid tale of petty greed escalating to more organized crime. He and Piso had started by pilfering small amounts of choice wine and foodstuffs, selling them through contacts Piso had in the city. Then, Piso had been approached by the men Crixus now met at The Broken Oar – members of a gang known as the Tiber Rats, led by a shadowy figure named Volcatius. They offered better money for more valuable goods.
"What goods, Crixus?" Scaeva demanded.
"Silver mostly, Majesty… I mean, Scribe," Crixus stammered, his eyes darting fearfully. "Small pieces at first. Goblets, plates from some of the lesser-used service sets. Piso… he knew where they were stored, how to bypass the inventories. Then… then it was other things."
"What other things?"
Crixus hesitated, his face pale. "Sometimes… scrolls. Old ones, from some of the lesser archive rooms Piso had access to when cleaning. Nothing important, he said. Just old histories, poems. Volcatius paid well for them."
Scrolls. Alexander's interest sharpened significantly. Stolen histories and poems might sound innocuous, but information, even seemingly outdated information, could be valuable. Or perhaps they were a cover for more sensitive documents.
"Who is this Volcatius?" Scaeva asked. "Who does he sell these items to?"
"I don't know!" Crixus cried. "I swear! I just deliver to his men. They handle the rest. Piso might know more. He was the one first contacted."
Scaeva pressed him for more details: names of other palace staff involved, methods of bypassing security, how long this had been happening. Crixus, now thoroughly broken, spilled everything he knew, which mostly confirmed his role as a low-level courier and Piso as the inside access. He insisted he knew of no higher-ups protecting them, claiming Piso was the mastermind of their small part of the operation.
Alexander had heard enough. Scaeva had performed adequately. He had been nervous, perhaps a little too reliant on the implied threat of the guards, but he had extracted the core information without resorting to actual violence, and he had maintained his composure.
Later, back in his study, Alexander received Scaeva's full report. "Piso is the key to understanding the palace end of this network, then," Alexander mused. "And this Volcatius, leader of the Tiber Rats, controls the outside. The stolen silver is a drain on Imperial resources, a common enough crime. But the scrolls… that is more concerning. Even old histories can be twisted for political purposes, or contain information that certain parties might find useful." He thought of Cicero and his constant invocation of historical precedent.
"What are your orders regarding Crixus and Piso, Majesty?" Scaeva asked, his face still showing the strain of the morning's work.
Alexander considered. A public trial would expose lax palace security and might alert other, deeper conspiracies. But to do nothing would invite further corruption. "Crixus," he said slowly, "has betrayed his post and endangered this household. He will not serve again. Arrange for him to be… permanently removed from the city. Pullo and his men can handle that. Ensure it is done quietly and leaves no trace back to us. As for his payment from the Tiber Rats, confiscate it for the private purse." A small addition to his resources.
"And Piso, Majesty?"
"Piso is weak, a fool driven by petty greed. But he may yet be useful," Alexander said, a cold light in his eyes. "Continue the surveillance on him, but more closely. I want to know if he attempts to contact Volcatius or his men now that Crixus has disappeared. I want to know if he shows any signs of being pressured by others within the palace. He may lead us to bigger fish, or he may simply be a loose end to be tied up later." He was turning Piso into unwitting bait.
"It will be done, Majesty," Scaeva affirmed.
Alexander saw it when Scaeva met his gaze after receiving these orders: a new set to his jaw, a subtle stillness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. The morning's grim work, and the Emperor's cold disposition of its results, had left its mark. "Your handling of Crixus was… effective, Scaeva," Alexander said, his voice cool. Outright praise was a rare coin, best spent sparingly. "You obtained the necessary information. There will be other assignments, likely more demanding. Ensure you are prepared."
A quick, sharp intake of breath from Scaeva, a spark in his eyes that he quickly veiled. "I serve at your pleasure, Majesty. Always."
As Scaeva left, Alexander contemplated the unfolding web. A smuggling ring, city gangs, potentially compromised palace security, stolen scrolls. It was a microcosm of the larger challenges facing the Empire. Corruption from within, threats from without. His directives to the Imperial Council would soon bring back reports on the macro scale. His work with Scaeva was dealing with the micro, the insidious rot closer to home. Both were essential. The path to absolute control required vigilance on all fronts, and a willingness to act decisively, even ruthlessly, when necessary. The interrogation of Crixus was just the beginning.