Dies Solis, Tertius Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Sunday, 3rd Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The heavy oak door swung inward, not with a creak this time, but with a smoother, more urgent motion. Elara, the elderly servant, bowed low. Alexander, now Valerius in form if not in spirit, watched a woman enter. She appeared to be in her early forties. Her dark hair, with the first faint streaks of silver tracing her temples, was styled in complex braids, secured with pearls. The pearls themselves were not large or ostentatious; they suggested quiet status rather than a desire to impress. She moved with a measured, fluid grace that made her precise age difficult to guess immediately. Her gown, a deep purple that shimmered subtly in the brazier's light, was rich but not gaudy. Her face was pale, her features fine and bearing a resemblance to the youthful ones Valerius now possessed. But it was her eyes that captured Alexander's attention: dark, intelligent, and currently wide with a mixture of raw relief and an undercurrent of something he couldn't quite place. Apprehension? Scrutiny?
This had to be Livia, the Empress Dowager. His mother, in this life.
"Valerius!" Her voice was a low contralto, richer than he'd expected, and it cracked with emotion. She moved swiftly to the bedside, her hands outstretched, not quite touching him yet, as if he were a fragile illusion she feared to dispel.
Alexander watched her, every instinct honed by corporate battlefields on high alert. Was this genuine maternal joy, or the calculated relief of a political player whose key piece was back on the board? He felt a pang of something unfamiliar, a faint echo from Valerius's own dormant emotions: affection, a sense of duty towards this woman. He suppressed it. Alexander Volkov had learned the hard way where unchecked sentiment led.
He offered a weak smile, a careful imitation of what he imagined a loving son would provide. "Mother." The word felt alien, yet his tongue formed it with an ease born of Valerius's muscle memory. "I am… awake."
Livia's hands finally settled on his, her touch surprisingly firm, cool. Her eyes scanned his face, searching. "The gods are merciful. Lycomedes said the fever broke, that you were lucid. Forgive me, I had to see for myself." Her gaze lingered, and Alexander felt that flicker of scrutiny again. Was he acting differently? Too differently? The "clouded memory" excuse would have to serve him well.
"The physician mentioned… a fortnight," Alexander said, his voice deliberately a little unsteady. "It all feels… like a broken dream. Hazy."
Livia nodded, her expression softening into more conventional maternal concern. "Do not trouble yourself with it now, my dear. Rest is what you need. You were so terribly ill. We all feared…" She didn't complete the sentence, but a shadow passed over her face.
Alexander saw an opening. "Feared what, Mother? What happened while I was… indisposed?" He kept his tone light, that of a son seeking reassurance, but his mind was a steel trap, ready to snatch any useful scrap of information.
Livia sighed, withdrawing her hands and sinking gracefully onto a heavy chair Elara silently pushed forward. "It has been a difficult time for the city, for the Empire. When an Emperor ails, whispers become shouts, and every shadow lengthens."
"Whispers?" Alexander pressed gently. "About what?"
"About the succession, naturally," Livia said, her gaze turning distant for a moment, as if looking at events unfolding outside the room. "About who would guide Rome if the gods chose to call you to their side." Her eyes returned to him, sharp once more. "There are always those who see opportunity in uncertainty, Valerius. Your father, may his spirit find peace, knew that well."
His father. The previous Emperor. Valerius's memories offered a vague image: a stern, older man, often absent, the weight of the world etched on his face. "How long has father been… gone?" Alexander asked, hoping the question sounded like a mind struggling through a fog.
Livia's expression became somber. "It has been but six months since he passed, my son. His heart, the physicians said. He bore too much, for too long." She paused. "And then for you to fall so grievously ill so soon after ascending to the throne… it tested the faith of many."
Six months. A new, young emperor, barely settled on the throne, then struck down by a severe illness for two weeks. Alexander could practically smell the ambition and plotting that must have filled the vacuum. An eighteen-year-old ruler, perceived as weak or dying, was a prime target.
"Who are these… opportunists, Mother?" he asked, his voice a near whisper, as if sharing a fearful confidence.
Livia's lips thinned. "There are names, of course. Ambitious senators, certain generals with more pride than loyalty. Men who believe their lineage or their swords grant them a greater claim to wisdom, or power." She waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes remained hard. "Empty talk, for the most part. Titus Varro, the City Prefect, has kept a firm hand. And your loyal Legions remain steadfast. For now."
For now. That was the crucial qualifier. Loyalty was a commodity, its value fluctuating with circumstance.
"This Titus Varro," Alexander probed. "Is he a man I can trust?"
"Varro is an old soldier," Livia said thoughtfully. "Loyal to the idea of Rome, to the Imperial line. He served your father faithfully. He is stern, perhaps unimaginative, but he values order above all. In these uncertain weeks, that has been a blessing."
Orderly, unimaginative, loyal to the line. Potentially useful, but not a dynamic ally for the kind of changes Alexander envisioned. He filed the name away.
"And the Senate?" he asked. Valerius's memories suggested a body with considerable prestige, but whose actual power had waxed and waned throughout history. This "constitutional monarchy" hinted they might have formal standing.
Livia's expression was tinged with something that looked like disdain. "The Senate is a collection of old men and young peacocks, Valerius. They debate endlessly, preen themselves on their ancient dignities, and mostly squabble over trivialities. Some amongst them hold true influence, through wealth or networks, but as a body… they require a firm guiding hand." Her hand, or his?
"My illness," Alexander said, shifting the topic slightly. "Lycomedes called it a prolonged fever. Was its origin… known?" Betrayal often started subtly. A lingering illness could be induced.
Livia shook her head, a flicker of true fear in her eyes now. "A mystery, my son. It struck you down so suddenly, after the strain of the funeral rites and your investiture. Lycomedes suspects a miasma from the lower city, or perhaps an imbalance of the humors brought on by stress. He has found no sign of… anything more sinister." She hesitated. "Though the thought, I confess, crossed my mind, and his."
So, the possibility of poison or foul play had been considered. That was… reassuring, in a twisted way. It meant he wasn't the only one with a suspicious mind in this palace.
"You have been a rock, Mother," Alexander said, injecting warmth into his tone. "Watching over me." He needed her on his side, at least for now. She was a known quantity, connected to him by blood and, presumably, by a desire for his survival and success, if only because her own position depended on it.
Tears welled in Livia's eyes, this time looking wholly genuine. "You are my son, Valerius. My only child. The Emperor. Of course, I would not leave your side." She reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her touch was soft, maternal. It sent an odd jolt through Alexander, a foreign sensation of comfort that he immediately analyzed and compartmentalized. This Livia seemed to possess genuine affection for her son. That could be a strength, or a weakness he could exploit.
"I need to get better quickly," Alexander said, looking at his thin hands. "There is much to do."
"Indeed," Livia agreed, her voice regaining its composure. "But first, you must regain your strength. The Empire has waited a fortnight; it can wait a few more days for its Emperor to be fully himself again." She smiled, a more confident expression now. "Knowing you are truly back will be a balm on many anxieties. The news will spread through the palace by nightfall, and the city by dawn."
Alexander nodded. He needed that time to gather more information, to let Valerius's memories settle, and to formulate his initial plans. He also needed to assess the staff immediately around him. Elara seemed harmless, a loyal retainer. But what of others?
"The physician mentioned a restorative draught," he said. "It helped."
"Lycomedes is skilled," Livia affirmed. "And utterly loyal. His father served yours." Generational loyalty. Another factor to consider. Could be reliable, or could breed complacency.
The conversation continued for a while longer. Alexander, playing the part of the weakened but recovering son, carefully drew out more details from Livia. He learned of a few prominent Senators, their general leanings. He heard of minor disturbances in a distant province, quickly quelled. He learned of the daily routines of the court, the key figures who would expect an audience once he was deemed fit. Livia spoke freely, likely relieved to unburden herself, and perhaps also eager to guide her son, to reassert her influence now that he was conscious.
Alexander listened more than he spoke, absorbing everything. He was building a map in his mind: a map of power, of allegiances, of potential fault lines. He noted Livia's biases, her dislikes, her fears. She clearly distrusted certain military elements and was wary of an overreaching Senate. She seemed to favor a strong, centralized Imperial authority – his authority, but one she likely hoped to influence significantly.
Finally, seeing true fatigue begin to weigh him down despite the physician's draught, Livia rose. "I will leave you to rest now, my son. Elara will attend you. Do not exert yourself. I will return this evening." She leaned down and pressed a light kiss to his forehead, a gesture that sent another strange, warm tremor through Valerius's body, a sensation Alexander observed with detached curiosity.
"Thank you, Mother," he said, his voice suitably tired.
As Livia departed, a quiet dignity in her every move, Alexander Volkov let the mask slip a fraction. His mother in this world was a formidable woman. Intelligent, politically astute, and fiercely protective of her son and her own position. She would be a powerful ally if he could keep her aligned with his goals. She could also be a significant obstacle if their paths diverged. Her influence was clearly considerable.
He lay back against the pillows, the brief interaction having drained more of his limited physical strength than he'd anticipated. The young body was a frustrating constraint. He was used to commanding his physical self with the same iron will he applied to his businesses. This weakness was intolerable, but it also provided a useful shield for now. People would underestimate him, see him as the boy-emperor recovering from a near-fatal illness. They would not see the forty-seven-year-old predator looking out through his eyes.
He needed to know more about this "constitution." How did it truly define his powers? Who were its architects and its current guardians? That would be a key piece of the puzzle.
His gaze fell on Elara, who was quietly tidying a nearby table. "Elara," he said, his voice soft.
The old servant turned, her expression gentle. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"When Physician Lycomedes returns, or when my mother next allows visitors, I wish to see the Master of Scrolls, a man named… Theron, I believe?" The name surfaced from Valerius's memories. The Imperial archivist and librarian.
Elara blinked, a little surprised. "Theron, Majesty? Of course. He is a quiet man, seldom called for."
"My mind is… unclear on many things from before the fever," Alexander said smoothly. "I wish to refresh my understanding of certain histories, certain laws. Reading will pass the time as I recover." An emperor interested in laws and histories would seem diligent, not suspicious. And Theron, a scholar likely outside the main political factions, might be a safer source for unfiltered information than a politician or a courtier.
Elara nodded. "A wise thought, Your Majesty. I will ensure the message is passed."
Alexander inclined his head and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. The first moves were small, almost imperceptible. Gathering intelligence. Assessing key figures. Preparing to understand the system he now inhabited. The Unseen Hand, indeed. He would move from the shadows, from this sickbed, until he was strong enough, knowledgeable enough, to step into the light and begin shaping this empire to his will. The path ahead was fraught with peril, with hidden enemies and ancient resentments.
But Alexander Volkov felt a cold thrill course through him, a feeling he hadn't experienced since the early days of building his first corporation from nothing. The game was afoot. And this time, the stakes were far, far higher.