Chapter 18: The First Edict of Rome

The transition from the roaring, sun-drenched forum to the cool, shadowy interior of the Curia Julia was jarring. The massive bronze doors swung shut behind Alex with a deep, resonant boom, sealing him inside with the men who ruled the world. The adoring cheers of the populace were replaced by an oppressive, weighted silence. Here, in this chamber, the love of the mob was a worthless currency. Here, power was measured in lineage, wealth, and ruthless cunning. The air was heavy with the scent of old marble, dust, and the faint, cloying smell of expensive oils used by the men seated before him. Hundreds of senators in their immaculate white togas filled the tiered seats that rose on either side of the long chamber, a sea of hostile, assessing faces. Alex's eyes, now accustomed to reading men, swept across them. He could see them all: the ancient, patrician families looking down at him with disdain; the newer, wealthy senators, their faces eager and predatory; and the conspirators from Perennis's list. He saw Senator Metellus, his expression a mask of forced cordiality that did little to hide the simmering fury in his eyes. He saw the corpulent landowner Flavius, nervously stroking his bearded chin. They were all here. His gaze flicked upwards, to the gallery reserved for the Imperial family. Lucilla was already there, a regal figure in purple, looking down on the proceedings like a hawk from its aerie. Her face was serene, but her eyes were fixed on him, sharp and analytical. She was watching, waiting for the final act of the Senate's trap to spring. As protocol dictated, Alex walked the length of the marble floor and stopped before the gilded sella curulis, the Emperor's throne, which sat empty on its dais. He did not sit. He stood before it, his hands clasped behind his back, a silent show of deference to the institution. He remembered Lyra's final instructions: Do not speak first. Wait for the Consul to invite you. The chamber was utterly silent for a long, tense minute. Finally, Quintus Metellus, in his capacity as one of the year's presiding consuls, rose from his seat. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and patronizing, each word coated in a veneer of respectful praise that barely concealed its condescending intent. "Honorable Senators! Today, we welcome a son back to the heart of his father's house," Metellus began, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. "We welcome our brave young Caesar, Commodus, returned from the grim frontiers of the north. He has borne the heavy burden of war, and the even heavier burden of grief, with a fortitude that would make his divine father proud." The speech was a masterpiece of condescension. Metellus used words like 'young,' 'brave,' and 'burden,' all designed to frame Alex as a child, a boy playing at being a man, someone who should be grateful for the steady, guiding hand of the wise and experienced Senate. "We, the Senate of Rome, offer our counsel, our wisdom, and our unwavering support as he takes up the awesome responsibility of his office," Metellus concluded with a flourish. He turned his gaze to Alex. "Caesar, the floor is yours. The Senate awaits your words." This was it. The moment they expected him to deliver a short, humble, vaguely reassuring speech. A few platitudes about honoring his father and promising to work closely with the Senate. They expected him to play his part, to acknowledge their seniority, to accept his role as the junior partner in power. Alex walked to the rostrum, his military sandals making soft, slapping sounds on the ancient marble. He placed his hands on the podium and let his eyes sweep across the chamber one last time, meeting the gaze of friend and foe alike. The silence was absolute. "Honorable Senators, Consul Metellus," he began, his voice calm, clear, and carrying to the furthest corner of the hall. "I thank you for your warm welcome, and for the honors you have bestowed upon me and upon the memory of my father." He paused, letting them absorb the polite, expected opening. Then, he pivoted, shattering their expectations. "My father taught me many things through his writings and his example," Alex said, his tone shifting, becoming harder, more focused. "He taught me that a stable Rome is a just Rome. And there can be no true justice in a city where honest citizens fear their own government. An emperor who is loved by his people, who is confident in their loyalty, has no need for spies in every shadow and whispers in every corridor." A murmur of confusion rippled through the assembled senators. This was not the speech they had anticipated. Where was this going? Alex didn't give them time to speculate. He pressed his advantage. "The security of the state is paramount. But when the tools of security are turned inward, against our own people, they become tools of tyranny. They become a cancer." He looked directly at Metellus, his gaze like a physical blow. "Therefore, my first edict as your emperor, effective immediately, is the complete and total dissolution of the Frumentarii." If he had thrown a live scorpion into the middle of the Senate floor, the reaction could not have been more immediate or more profound. A wave of shock, disbelief, and outrage washed through the chamber. The Frumentarii. Officially, they were the emperor's intelligence service, a corps of agents tasked with gathering information vital to the security of the empire. Unofficially, they had devolved into a feared and deeply corrupt secret police. They were a weapon used by emperors and powerful senators alike to spy on, blackmail, and occasionally eliminate their political rivals. For men like Metellus, they were an essential tool of control. Before the murmurs could grow into shouts, Alex laid out his undeniable logic, his voice cutting through the rising chaos. "The Frumentarii have become a blight on the honor of Rome. Their mandate has been corrupted. Their domestic duties will cease. I declare today that a Roman citizen who has committed no crime has nothing to fear from his government!" The words were a direct appeal to the republican ideals that every senator pretended to hold dear, making it impossible for them to publicly oppose him. "To replace them," he continued, pressing his attack, "I will form a new, smaller body. The Speculatores Augusti—the Emperor's Watchers. Their mandate will be clear, public, and strictly limited to external threats. They will gather intelligence on the Parthians, on the Germanic tribes, on pirates and brigands. They will be Rome's shield against the outside world, not a dagger pointed at its own heart." It was a brilliant political move, dismantling a corrupt institution under a banner of liberty and justice. But the final part of his announcement was the true masterstroke. "And to oversee this crucial transition," Alex announced, his voice ringing with absolute authority, "to build this new shield for Rome and to ensure its honor is never again compromised, I can think of no man more suited. No man of greater integrity, iron discipline, and proven loyalty to the state." He paused, letting the suspense build. "I hereby appoint General Gaius Claudius Maximus as its first commander." Chaos erupted. The senators leaped to their feet, shouting. Some, the honest ones, were cheering. Most, however, were in an uproar of outrage and fear. The implications were staggering. In a single edict, Alex had done three things. He had dismantled one of their most powerful and illicit tools of control. He had done it in such a way that they could not possibly argue against it without revealing themselves as tyrants. And, most devastatingly, he had taken his most loyal and powerful ally—a military hero beloved by the legions and now the people—and given him a position of immense power within the city of Rome itself. Maximus was no longer a distant general on the frontier. He was now the Emperor's sword and shield, right here, at the throat of the Senate. In the midst of the pandemonium, Alex's gaze traveled up to the gallery. He ignored the shouting men below and looked directly at his sister. Lucilla was not shouting. She was not slumped in shock or pale with anger. She was perfectly, unnervingly still. And she was looking back at him with a new, terrifying, and absolute clarity. All the condescension, all the clinical suspicion, was gone. In its place was the cold, hard certainty of an enemy who has finally, truly recognized the nature of their opponent. The look on her face was no longer a question. It was a silent, solemn declaration of war.