Dies Lunae, Octavus Mensis Iunii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Monday, 8th Day of June, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The dawn arrived with a deceptive tranquility, the early light painting the marble floors of Alexander's study in soft hues. Scaeva stood before him, his report delivered. Piso, the junior cellarer, along with two other minor palace servants implicated by Crixus's confession as knowing accomplices in the thefts, had vanished during the night. Titus Pullo and his men, Scaeva assured him, had been models of brutal efficiency and discretion. The coin Crixus had received from the Tiber Rats was now in a secure coffer under Scaeva's watch, awaiting Alexander's disposal.
"No complications?" Alexander asked, his voice devoid of inflection. He scanned Scaeva's face. The young scribe was pale, and there were new, hard lines around his mouth that hadn't been there a week ago. The work of overseeing such a purge, even at arm's length, had clearly left its mark.
"None, Your Majesty," Scaeva replied, his voice steady but low. "Pullo reported all three were taken from their quarters without alarm. They are… no longer within the city. Pullo and his associates have also been paid as instructed and have already departed Rome, seeking… new opportunities in the eastern provinces, as you suggested."
"Good." Alexander gave a curt nod. The unseen blade had done its work. A small pocket of corruption and potential treachery within his own household had been excised. It brought a cold, clear sense of satisfaction, a feeling of having secured his immediate perimeter. "You handled this well, Scaeva. The city can be a messy place. Sometimes, refuse must be swept away cleanly."
Scaeva bowed his head. "I understand, Your Majesty." He did not elaborate, nor did Alexander press him for the grim details. The outcome was what mattered. Scaeva had proven he could follow ruthless orders and manage difficult men. That was valuable.
"The matter of Volcatius and his Tiber Rats, and this 'physician's package' mentioned in the burned fragment, remains," Alexander stated. "Continue your discreet inquiries into Volcatius. I want to know who he is, who he truly serves, if anyone beyond himself. And try to ascertain the nature of these 'packages.' This is a priority, Scaeva, but it must be handled with extreme caution. Do not engage directly unless you have my explicit command."
"Yes, Your Majesty. I will redouble my efforts."
Alexander set aside the matter of Piso, his expression hardening slightly. "Now, Marcellus," he said, his voice sharpening. "What you brought me was a first look. I need to see the man beneath the reputation. His entire path, who lines his pockets and whose pockets he lines, every significant contact he keeps. I need to understand the man and his entire web, Scaeva. Be thorough."
Scaeva inclined his head, his face set with a new resolve that mirrored some of the coldness he had witnessed in his Emperor. "Consider it my highest priority, Majesty. You will have what you need on Marcellus."
After Scaeva departed, his steps measured and purposeful, 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.
The palace itself seemed to breathe a little differently in the days that followed. There were no open signs of fear, no widespread panic. Piso and the others were too insignificant for their absence to create a major stir. Yet, Elara reported to him, in her usual quiet way, that there was a certain… attentiveness among the lower staff. A renewed diligence in their duties, a quicker obedience. Wordless whispers, it seemed, could be as effective as a public execution in ensuring compliance. Alexander made a mental note: fear, properly applied, was a useful tool for maintaining order.
His mother, Livia, also seemed to sense the shift. During one of her visits, as they sat in the garden, she observed him with a new intensity. "You seem… more settled, Valerius," she remarked. "More in command of your household."
"One must ensure one's own house is in order before attempting to manage an Empire, Mother," Alexander replied, his expression mild.
Livia's gaze was knowing. "Indeed. There were some… unreliable elements among the lower staff, I always felt. It is good they are no longer a concern." She did not ask for details, and he offered none. A silent understanding passed between them. She recognized the ruthlessness he was beginning to display, a quality his father had perhaps lacked, and while it might make her wary, Alexander suspected a part of her also approved. A strong Emperor, even a feared one, was better for her own security than a weak one.
With the immediate palace concerns addressed, Alexander turned his full attention to the larger threats. The reports from his Imperial Council were due in just over a week. He anticipated their contents with a mixture of impatience and strategic calculation. They would provide him with the factual ammunition he needed to counter Cicero and to manage the situation with Marcellus.
He had Theron bring him all available records on past Imperial responses to overly ambitious generals. The histories were filled with cautionary tales: generals recalled for triumphs who then used their popularity and their legions to seize the throne; others left too long in powerful provincial commands who became de facto kings. There were also examples of emperors successfully neutralizing such threats through a variety of means – promoting rivals, cutting off funds, strategic redeployments, or, in more extreme cases, an assassin's blade. Alexander studied these precedents with cold, academic interest.
"The challenge with Marcellus," he mused aloud to Livia one afternoon, "is that his victories appear genuine. The northern frontier was in turmoil. To deny him recognition outright could alienate his troops and his supporters in the Senate."
"Then you must control the narrative of that recognition," Livia said shrewdly. "A triumph in Rome is a powerful spectacle. If it must happen, it must be your triumph, Valerius, with Marcellus as your loyal instrument, not as a conquering hero in his own right."
"Precisely," Alexander agreed. "And the timing must be of my choosing. When the city is secure, when the treasury can ostensibly afford it, and when I am seen as the ultimate source of his glory." He was already thinking of how to use the Council reports to orchestrate this. If Paetus reported the legions were under-supplied, or Capito detailed a strained treasury, then any immediate triumph would seem irresponsible.
He began to draft preliminary responses to the issues he expected the Council to raise, outlining his own preferred solutions, anticipating their arguments. He was preparing not just to receive their reports, but to direct the subsequent action decisively.
Beyond the immediate consolidation of his household, Alexander's mind turned to the grander design: the very architecture of Imperial power. The Concordia Ordinum was a document he intended to master and then, when the time was right, reshape. The Senate, as currently constituted, was a diffuse body, easily swayed by oratory and factionalism, yet possessed of certain frustrating checks on Imperial power, particularly concerning finance. Alexander preferred clear lines of authority, with himself at the apex.
He even began to sketch out, in his private notes, ideas for a more centralized intelligence service, one that reported directly to him, bypassing traditional administrative channels. Scaeva was a promising start for personal operations, but an empire required a far more comprehensive network. He thought of his past life, the corporate intelligence department he had built, a ruthlessly efficient machine for gathering data on rivals, markets, and even his own employees. The principles were the same.
The end of May and the first week of June passed in this manner: a quiet, intense period of study, strategic planning, and the subtle consolidation of his immediate household. The purge of Piso and his associates had been a small, bloody lesson in the necessities of rule, a lesson Alexander had administered without flinching. He was no longer just Valerius, the boy playing Emperor. He was Alexander Volkov, wearing an Emperor's robes, and he was methodically, patiently, laying the foundations for an empire built on his terms, an empire where betrayal would find no purchase, and where his will would be absolute. The shifting sands of Roman politics were beginning to feel the imprint of his new, unyielding design.