Dies Mercurii, Vicesimus Quartus Mensis Iunii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Wednesday, 24th Day of June, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
Nearly a week had passed since the council meeting that had sent a seismic shock through the upper echelons of Roman governance. The palace, which had drifted in a state of quiet uncertainty during Valerius's illness and his initial, studious recovery, now hummed with a new and palpable energy. It was the energy of purpose, but also of fear. Bureaucrats who had grown complacent under the consensus-driven rule of Septimius Valerius now scrambled to fulfill the young Emperor's demanding, data-driven directives. The unseen hand was now visible, and its grip was firm.
Alexander received daily progress reports, delivered by an increasingly confident Marcus Scaeva. Prefect Scaurus had begun the arduous process of organizing a new city census. Quaestor Capito's office was awash in financial projections for the Sicilian tax trial. Master Galba had dispatched discreet agents to the province of Lusitania to build the case against its corrupt governor. And Prefect Paetus was methodically redirecting arms and clearing pay arrears for the long-neglected eastern legions. The machinery of the state was beginning to turn to Alexander's will.
His mother, Livia, was a constant source of political intelligence. "The Senate is reeling, Valerius," she told him during one of their morning conversations in the garden. "Cicero and his faction are, for the moment, silenced. Your justification for postponing Marcellus's triumph was unassailable. To argue against it would be to argue against strengthening the army and securing the treasury. They would look like fools, or worse, traitors."
"And the general's supporters?" Alexander asked, pruning a dead leaf from a fig tree.
"Furious, but powerless," Livia said with a satisfied smile. "They mutter in private about tradition and the honor due to a victorious general, but they have no ground for a public challenge. You have outmaneuvered them completely. Many other senators, those in the middle, are impressed. They see strength, something they have not seen from the throne in a long time."
"Strength is only useful if it is intelligently applied, Mother," Alexander responded coolly. He was pleased but not complacent. He knew this was merely the opening move in a much longer game.
He was in his study, reviewing casualty reports from Marcellus's recent campaign – noting with interest that Marcellus was skilled at achieving his objectives with minimal losses to his core legionary cohorts – when a palace chamberlain announced the arrival of an Imperial courier from the northern frontier.
"He bears a dispatch from General Gnaeus Marcellus, Your Majesty," the chamberlain said.
"Send him in," Alexander commanded, his expression unreadable. Scaeva, who was organizing scrolls at a nearby table, paused, his attention immediately fixed.
The courier, a hardened legionary centurion whose face was etched with the wind and sun of the frontier, entered, saluted with military precision, and presented a sealed scroll case. Alexander took it, broke the seal, and unrolled the parchment.
The script was a clean, strong military hand. He read the opening lines. Gratitude, as expected. Marcellus thanked him for the "personal commendation" and the "generous donative," claiming the news of their Emperor's direct notice had sent a new wave of spirit through his legions. Then came the part about the triumph. Alexander's eyes narrowed as he read on. The tone was one of perfect, almost pious, agreement. He wrote that the Emperor's wisdom was clear and that any true soldier's greatest honor was serving a secure and well-managed state, not parading in the streets.
Alexander finished the scroll and laid it flat on the table, a cold smile touching his lips. The letter gave away nothing. No anger, no disappointment. It just wrapped Marcellus in the cloak of the perfect, loyal soldier, a man who was selfless, devoted, and supposedly in full agreement with his Emperor's "wise" decision. It was a masterful stroke. The letter made him look like Alexander's partner in governing, not a general being told 'no.' It effectively made him untouchable.
"Scaeva," Alexander said, holding out the scroll. "Read this and give me your assessment."
Scaeva took the parchment, his eyes flying across the text. His brow furrowed in concentration. After a long moment, he looked up. "Majesty… on the surface, it is a declaration of absolute loyalty. He praises your wisdom, accepts your decision gracefully, and dedicates himself to your service."
"And beneath the surface?" Alexander prompted.
Scaeva hesitated, choosing his words. "Beneath the surface, Majesty, he makes himself your equal in virtue. He positions himself not as a subject being commanded, but as a patriot willingly sacrificing for a cause he shares with you. He gives you no opening to criticize his loyalty. In fact, he strengthens his own image as a man of honor. It is… a very cunning letter."
"Precisely," Alexander said with his cold smile. "He has not shown his teeth, but he has shown his intelligence. This is not a man who will be easily managed or foolishly provoked."
This response changed Alexander's calculations. A sullen or openly angry general was a straightforward problem. A cunning political operator with a victorious army at his back was a far more complex and dangerous threat. The faction supporting Marcellus in Rome now had a figurehead who appeared to be the epitome of Roman virtue.
"This requires a response of equal… subtlety," Alexander mused. He could not simply let Marcellus have the final word in this exchange. He needed to reassert the hierarchy, to remind the general of his place without creating an open breach.
He turned to Scaeva. "We need to know more about the men immediately around him. His legates, his senior centurions, his personal staff. Who are they? Who are their families? Who are their patrons? A general is only as strong as the loyalty of his direct subordinates. Find me a weakness in his command structure, Scaeva. A man with ambitions, a man with debts, a man with a grievance. Someone."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Scaeva said, understanding the new direction of the inquiry.
Alexander then began to pace the room, his mind racing. He would send a reply to Marcellus, of course. It would be even more effusive than the general's own letter, praising his selfless loyalty and holding him up as a model for all Romans. He would play the game of appearances, matching Cicero's cunning with his own.
But a new plan was forming in his mind, a bolder move than simply waiting.
"Scaeva," he said, stopping his pacing. "The review of provincial governors Master Galba is preparing. When that is complete, I may find that a certain province requires a new governor. A difficult, perhaps troublesome province. One far from the northern frontier."
Scaeva's eyes widened as he grasped the implication.
"And it may be," Alexander continued, "that I will decide that only a man of General Marcellus's proven abilities and celebrated loyalty would be suitable for such a challenging administrative post. An honor, of course. A great show of trust."
A governorship. It would be a promotion, an honor Marcellus could not easily refuse. But it would also be a gilded cage. It would separate him from his fiercely loyal legions on the northern frontier, placing him in a new environment, surrounded by new men, where his expertise was administrative, not martial. It would bog him down in the endless, thankless work of provincial bureaucracy, far from the military glory that was the source of his power. His supporters in Rome could hardly object to such a prestigious appointment for their hero.
It was a classic Volkov move from his past life: promoting a troublesome but effective executive to a position where his specific, threatening skills were rendered irrelevant.
"Continue your work, Scaeva," Alexander said, a new, decisive edge to his voice. "Find me the information I need to understand his command structure. And have Theron prepare for me a detailed summary of the current political and military situations in all of our most… difficult… frontier provinces."
"At once, Your Majesty."
As Scaeva hurried to obey, Alexander stood before the great map of the Empire. The game had evolved. Marcellus had shown himself to be a clever opponent. So be it. Alexander Volkov had never shied away from a challenge. He would let the general believe he had won this round of correspondence. He would let the senators whisper. In the meantime, he would gather his strength, consolidate his control over the state's finances and administration through the council's reforms, and prepare the perfect, honorable, inescapable trap for the victorious general. The shadow from the north was long, but Alexander was methodically planning the precise moment to eclipse it entirely.