Dies Iovis, Vicesimus Quintus Mensis Iunii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Thursday, 25th day of June, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The letter from General Marcellus, a masterpiece of humble defiance, lay on Alexander's desk. It was a constant, tangible reminder of the caliber of opponent he faced. A man who could not be cowed or easily provoked was a man who had to be moved, carefully and irrevocably, off the main board of contention. The plan to "promote" him to a governorship, a seed of an idea planted in the heat of realizing Marcellus's cunning, now demanded careful cultivation.
For this, he had summoned Theron. The old Master of Scrolls stood before a large table where several maps, drawn on cured animal hide, were unrolled. They depicted the sprawling, chaotic frontiers of the Roman Empire.
"You requested a summary of our most… challenging provincial appointments, Your Majesty," Theron said, pointing a long, bony finger at one of the maps. "In terms of consistent difficulties, few can compare to Britannia Superior, Mauretania Tingitana, and the client kingdoms along the Armenian border."
Alexander studied the maps, his mind a whirlwind of geopolitical calculations. He had spent hours with Theron's scrolls, absorbing details of each province: its primary exports, its tax revenues, its legionary dispositions, its history of rebellions, and the nature of its local elites.
"Britannia," Alexander mused aloud, tapping the northernmost island. "It is far, certainly. A constant drain on the treasury, with its troublesome tribes. But a large garrison is required there. Sending Marcellus would be giving him command of a significant force, merely relocating his power base." He dismissed it. That wasn't a cage; it was just a different fortress.
"Armenia requires a diplomat more than a general," he continued, his finger tracing the eastern border. "A place for subtlety and political maneuvering, not open battle. Marcellus thrives on the loyalty of his legions in the field. He would be ill-suited, and an ill-suited governor can cause more problems than he solves."
His finger came to rest on the strip of territory on the northwestern coast of Africa. "Mauretania Tingitana," he said. "Tell me of it, Theron. Beyond the basic ledgers."
Theron adjusted his spectacles. "A difficult land, Majesty. Its primary value is as a buffer against the nomadic Berber tribes of the interior mountains. Its agricultural output is modest, its mines largely depleted. The local elites are a proud, ancient people who view Rome as a necessary inconvenience at best. The province is notoriously difficult to govern. It does not require a massive legionary presence, as the terrain is ill-suited for large formations, but rather a constant, frustrating effort to manage tribal politics, secure trade routes, and suppress banditry. It is a command that offers little chance for glorious victory, but ample opportunity for failure and political entanglement."
Alexander listened, a slow, cold smile forming on his lips. It was perfect. A political quagmire. A land that would bleed a general's reputation dry with a thousand small cuts rather than offering a single, glorious battle. It would separate Marcellus from his beloved northern legions and mire him in the kind of frustrating, thankless administrative work that broke the spirits of men accustomed to the clear-cut calculus of the battlefield. It was a promotion, an honor, a governorship. And it was a cage.
"That will be all for now, Theron," Alexander said. "Leave the maps."
After the archivist departed, Scaeva entered, carrying a new set of tablets. "Your Majesty, I have initial findings regarding General Marcellus's command structure, as you ordered."
"Speak," Alexander said, his attention now fully on the young scribe.
"Marcellus's inner circle appears exceptionally loyal, Majesty," Scaeva reported. "His two senior legates have served with him for years. However, I have identified a potential point of leverage. His third-in-command, a senior tribune named Cassius Longinus, is known to be highly ambitious. He comes from a respectable but financially struggling family. Theron's records show his family estates in Italia are heavily mortgaged. Furthermore, according to notes in some military correspondence, Longinus was twice recommended for a promotion to legate by Marcellus, but was passed over in favor of the other two men."
Alexander's eyes narrowed. "An ambitious man, in debt, and feeling overlooked. The three great motivators of men. Excellent work, Scaeva. Continue to build a profile on this Cassius Longinus. Every detail. His habits, his associates in Rome, the state of his family's finances. I may have need of a man with his… particular perspective in the future." A loyal subordinate with a simmering grievance could be a powerful tool to insert into an opponent's command structure.
His next visitor was his mother. He had specifically requested her presence to discuss his Marcellus strategy. He needed her political acumen to gauge the potential fallout in the Senate. He laid out his plan for the Mauretanian governorship, framing it exactly as he had for Scaeva and Theron.
Livia listened intently, her expression unreadable until he finished. Then, a slow, predatory smile graced her lips, a look so reminiscent of his own internal feelings it was almost startling.
"Valerius," she said, her voice filled with a new level of respect, bordering on awe. "Your father would have tried to buy Marcellus's loyalty, or simply hoped it would hold. You would give him a great honor that serves as a leash, a promotion that is in fact a sentence to irrelevance. It is… brilliantly cruel."
"It is necessary, Mother," Alexander corrected, though he appreciated her accurate assessment. "It removes a powerful piece from a location where he is a danger and places him where his strength is neutralized, all while appearing to reward him. The Senate faction supporting him will have no choice but to applaud the great honor I am bestowing upon their hero."
"They will applaud publicly, and curse you privately," Livia said. "But they will be powerless to stop it. The appointment of provincial governors is an undisputed Imperial prerogative. The timing, however, is key. You must wait until you have the Council's reports."
"Of course," Alexander agreed. "The reports will provide the public justification for all our coming moves. They will paint a picture of an Empire in such need of careful management and fiscal discipline that no resource, not even a celebrated general, can be used for mere ceremony. Marcellus's new role will be framed as an essential part of the grand project of Imperial restoration." He was already crafting the narrative.
"And your reply to his letter?" Livia asked.
"Will be dispatched tomorrow. It will be effusive in its praise for his loyalty and sacrifice," Alexander said. "It will lull him, and his supporters, into believing I am a grateful, perhaps even naive, young Emperor who is easily managed by such displays of humility." Let your opponent believe he has won, right up until the moment you close the trap. It was a core tenet of his old life.
In the days that followed, Alexander felt the last pieces of his initial strategy clicking into place. He worked with Scaeva to draft the reply to Marcellus, a masterpiece of flattering prose that promised future consideration for honors once the state was on firmer footing. He continued his own physical regimen, feeling more at home in the young, strong body with each passing day. He reviewed the ongoing reports from the surveillance of Volcatius and the Tiber Rats; they were moving cautiously since Crixus's disappearance, but Scaeva's men were slowly mapping their network in the Transtiberim.
Everything was moving forward, under his control. The Council reports were now only days away. They would be the formal beginning of his public reign, the moment the unseen hand would begin to clench into a very visible fist. He had analyzed the system, identified the key players, neutralized a minor internal threat, and now had a clear, long-term plan for his most significant potential rival.
He felt the familiar, intoxicating sensation of a complex, high-stakes plan coming to fruition. In his old life, it had been the hostile takeover of a rival corporation, a multi-billion-dollar deal. Now, the assets were legions and provinces, the currency power and loyalty. The scale was grander, the risks existential. And Alexander Volkov felt more alive than he ever had.