Chapter 20: The Silent Plague

The political maneuverings, the senatorial conspiracies, the tension with his sister—all of it evaporated from Alex's mind, replaced by a single, stark, and terrifying reality. Famine. The Roman Empire, for all its marble grandeur and military might, was a beast with a single, voracious stomach. If the grain shipments from Egypt and Africa failed, Rome would starve. And a starving Rome was a city on fire. "Show me," Alex said, his voice dropping, all traces of the distant emperor gone, replaced by the focused intensity of a project manager facing a critical system failure. He gestured for Senator Rufus to continue. The old senator, emboldened by Alex's serious demeanor, laid out more scrolls on the desk. They were hastily written reports from provincial governors, couriered from across the Mediterranean. "It is not just Egypt, Caesar," Rufus explained, his voice trembling slightly. "A similar report arrived this morning from the proconsul of Africa Nova. And yesterday, from Sicily. It is the same story everywhere. The wheat crops are blighted." "Blighted how?" Alex pressed, leaning over the desk. "What are the exact symptoms?" "The governors speak of it as a curse from the gods, a divine punishment," Rufus said, shaking his head. "They say the fields are covered in a strange, fine 'red dust' that stains the stalks of the wheat. The grain heads themselves are shriveled, empty, and brittle. The yields are less than half of what they should be. They have tried prayers, sacrifices to Ceres... nothing has worked." Red dust. Withered stalks. Empty grain heads. As Rufus described the symptoms, a forgotten memory surfaced in Alex's mind. It wasn't from Lyra's data dumps. It was from a late-night History Channel documentary he'd watched years ago, something about the great famines of history. The images from the documentary flashed in his mind's eye: microscopic photographs of angry red spores, time-lapse video of a healthy green wheat field turning a sickly, rusted color before collapsing. He knew what this was. It wasn't a curse. It wasn't a punishment from the gods. It was a fungus. A parasitic, terrifyingly efficient organism. A virulent strain of Puccinia graminis. Stem rust. The silent, creeping plague that had devastated civilizations throughout history. The full, catastrophic implications hit him with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't a one-season drought that could be weathered. A fungal blight of this magnitude, spread across all of Rome's primary breadbaskets, was a multi-year disaster. It would mean mass starvation on a scale the empire had never seen. It would lead to riots in every major city, soldiers deserting their posts to feed their families, the complete collapse of the social order, and the economy. The political games he was playing with the Senate suddenly seemed like children squabbling over toys in a house that was about to be swept away by a tidal wave. This was the real Crisis of the Third Century, arriving on his doorstep a hundred years ahead of schedule. He had to act. But how? He couldn't stand before the Senate and deliver a lecture on mycology. He couldn't explain the life cycle of a spore, the concept of a non-susceptible host, or the principles of germ theory. They would think he was a madman, possessed by esoteric Greek demons. He had to frame the solution in a way they could understand, in a way that was Roman. He had to use the language of piety and tradition to deliver the hard truths of 21st-century science. He looked up at Senator Rufus, whose face was a mask of despair. Alex straightened up, adopting his imperial persona once more, but this time it was infused with a new, urgent authority. "This is not a curse, Senator," he said, his voice firm and certain. "It is a disease of the fields. A silent plague. My father, in his studies with his Greek physicians, read of such things in ancient agricultural texts. There are methods to combat it, techniques lost to our generation but preserved in old scrolls." He was building the myth, creating the foundation for his "lost knowledge." "There are?" Rufus asked, a flicker of hope in his tired eyes. "There are," Alex confirmed. "But they require decisive, empire-wide action. The Senate would debate this for a year while Rome starves. I will not allow it. We will act now." He strode over to a small writing desk, grabbing a fresh sheet of papyrus and a stylus. He began to dictate a new, emergency edict, his voice ringing with absolute confidence. This was his element. A crisis, a set of variables, and a clear, logical solution. "The Edict of Fire and Fallow," he announced, giving it a suitably dramatic, Roman-sounding name. "By the supreme authority of the Emperor, and for the preservation of the Roman people, I hereby decree the following measures to combat the red plague that afflicts our sacred grain." He laid out the plan, a perfect blend of scientific necessity and imperial command. "First: All fields currently afflicted with the red dust are to be put to the torch immediately. The crop is not to be plowed under. It must be burned to ash where it stands. The fire will purify the soil and kill the lingering seeds of the plague." This was the core of it—the scientific necessity of destroying the fungal spores, framed as a ritual purification. "Second: New wheat shall not be planted in any field that has been burned for a period of two full growing seasons. The plague starves if it has nothing to feed on. Instead, our farmers will be commanded to plant alternative crops that the plague cannot touch." He listed them off, a direct instruction from his memory of agricultural science. "Legumes—chickpeas, lentils, fava beans. These crops will enrich the soil that the plague has poisoned." This was the secret introduction of systematic, large-scale crop rotation. "Third," he said, addressing the most critical component, "no Roman farmer shall suffer for obeying the will of his emperor. I am establishing an emergency relief fund from my own personal treasury. Every farmer who burns his fields in accordance with this edict will be compensated for his lost crop. Furthermore, the state will provide, at no cost, the new seeds for the alternative crops. We will weather this storm together, as one people." He had identified the problem, created a scientifically sound solution, framed it in a culturally acceptable way, and provided the economic incentive to ensure its implementation. Senator Rufus stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. The plan was radical, audacious, and breathtaking in its scope and logic. It was an act of decisive governance on a scale he hadn't seen since the days of Augustus. "Caesar," Rufus breathed, his voice filled with awe. "This is... wise. It is bold. But the cost... compensating every farmer in three provinces..." "The cost of inaction is the entire Roman Empire, Senator," Alex said grimly. "There is no price too high to prevent that. I am placing you in charge of this edict's implementation. Use my authority. Commandeer the ships, seize the storehouses for the new seeds, do whatever you must. See it done." The old senator, filled with a new sense of purpose, bowed deeply. "I will not fail you, Caesar." As Rufus hurried from the room, eager to begin his monumental task, Alex was left alone with the terrifying scale of the problem. He had a plan, a good one, but it would take months, even years, to show results. The grain shipments would slow to a trickle. In the meantime, the great granaries of Rome were finite. He had just looked at the city's accounts. They had, at most, six months of grain reserves left. The political clock was ticking, but a new, more terrible clock had just started. A countdown to mass starvation. His thoughts were interrupted by his chamberlain, Heron, who entered with a silent bow. The Egyptian held out a small, wax tablet with a message inscribed upon it. "A message from the Augusta, Caesar," Heron said, his face impassive. Alex took the tablet. The script was elegant, feminine, and carried a chillingly sweet tone. "My dearest brother," it read. "I humbly request your divine presence at the dedication ceremony for the new Temple of Venus Genetrix this evening. All of the most prominent families will be in attendance to honor our family's patron goddess. I so insist you come. It would mean the world to your loving sister." The timing was impeccable. He was being pulled back into the viper's nest, forced to play social games with the city's elite, while a silent, creeping plague threatened to devour the entire empire.