Dies Lunae, Quartus Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Monday, 4th Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
Alexander awoke to the muted sounds of the palace stirring. Sunlight, thicker and more insistent than the previous day, pressed against the heavy velvet curtains. He felt a marginal improvement in his physical state; the bone-deep weariness had receded slightly, though the young body he inhabited was still far from the robust vehicle he was accustomed to. His mind, however, was sharp, replaying the nuances of his conversation with Livia, dissecting her words, her expressions, her subtle warnings.
His mother, Livia, he decided, could be a strong piece on his board. Her own position, her influence, relied heavily on him keeping the throne. So, she'd naturally want him stable. And she clearly knew the ins and outs of this palace. But her advice would always come filtered through what she wanted, what she feared. He couldn't just take her word for how things stood. He needed to talk to people who weren't so close to the fire, to get a truly straight look at the Empire he was now meant to lead.
Elara entered quietly with a tray: a light broth, some fruit, and a cup of herbal infusion Lycomedes had prescribed. Alexander ate with a discipline born of long habit, forcing nourishment into a body that felt alien but was now his only instrument.
"Has word been sent to the Master of Scrolls?" he asked Elara, his voice stronger today.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Elara replied, her hands clasped. "Theron awaits your pleasure. Physician Lycomedes also inquired if you were feeling well enough for a brief examination later this morning."
"Let Theron come first," Alexander decided. "The physician can attend me afterwards." Knowledge was the more pressing need.
A short while later, Elara ushered in a man who seemed almost to blend into the shadows of the grand chamber. Theron, the Master of Scrolls, was of middling height, perhaps sixty years of age, with a stoop to his shoulders as if from decades spent hunched over texts. His robes were simple, ink-stained at the cuffs, and his grey hair was thin and receding. He carried a small wooden tablet and stylus. His eyes, magnified slightly by small, round lenses perched on his nose, were a pale, watery blue, and they darted around the room before settling on Alexander with an air of nervous deference. He clutched a small satchel of scrolls to his chest.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Theron said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. He executed a bow that was more awkward than graceful. "You… you summoned me. An honor, Majesty. A profound honor."
Alexander offered a faint, reassuring smile. This was not a man of power, not a courtier accustomed to the Emperor's presence. This was a scholar, likely more comfortable with papyrus and parchment than with people. Perfect.
"Master Theron," Alexander began, his tone gentle. "Thank you for coming. As you may have heard, I have been… unwell. The fever has left many things clouded in my mind." He gestured vaguely to his head. "Recent events, even some older matters of state, feel indistinct."
Theron nodded quickly, his eyes wide with sympathy. "A terrible affliction, Majesty. Most grievous. How may the Imperial Archives serve you?"
"I wish to reacquaint myself with the foundations of our Empire," Alexander stated. "The laws that govern us, the history that has shaped us. Particularly the reigns of my most recent predecessors, including my father, of course. And any documents pertaining to the formal structure of governance. The… duties and limitations, if any, of the Imperial office, the Senate, the various councils." He watched Theron carefully for any reaction to this specific request.
The old scholar blinked. "A most… comprehensive undertaking, Your Majesty. And a profoundly wise one for a ruler seeking to re-ground himself." There was no suspicion in his gaze, only a scholar's dawning enthusiasm for a significant research project. "The Archives are vast, but I can certainly guide you to the most pertinent texts."
"I do not expect to absorb it all at once, Master Theron," Alexander said. "But perhaps you could bring me a selection of key scrolls or codices to begin with? Something to peruse as my strength returns."
Theron's face lit up. "Indeed, Majesty! I anticipated such a request and brought a few initial items I thought might be of immediate interest, based on your general inquiry relayed by the good Elara." He fumbled with the clasps of his satchel and carefully drew out three scrolls tied with leather thongs and a slim, bound codex.
"This," he said, presenting the first scroll, its edges worn smooth with age, "is a copy of the Lex Imperia Augusta, the foundational law establishing the Principate under the divine Augustus, outlining the initial powers vested in the Emperor. A cornerstone, Majesty."
Alexander nodded, his gaze fixed on the ancient roll. The name "Augustus" resonated even with his 21st-century knowledge of Roman history, though this world was clearly an alternate timeline.
Theron then offered the codex, its wooden covers polished dark. "This is the Concordia Ordinum, or the Concord of the Orders, ratified in the year 985 AUC by Emperor Hadrianus IV. It details the… current arrangements between the Imperial office, the Senate, and the People of Rome, often referred to as the bedrock of our present constitution."
985 AUC. Approximately 245 years ago, if his understanding of this world's calendar was correct. So this "constitution" wasn't brand new, but it wasn't ancient either. Hadrianus IV. Another name to note.
"And these two scrolls, Majesty," Theron continued, his enthusiasm growing, "are more recent. This is a summary of the principal edicts and achievements during the reign of your lamented father, Emperor Septimius Valerius. And this… this is a copy of your own investiture oath and the accompanying Senatorial acclamations."
Alexander felt a flicker of something cold pass through him as he looked at the scroll detailing his own oath. An oath taken by Valerius, not by him. An oath he had no memory of, and no intention of being bound by if it conflicted with his aims.
"Excellent, Master Theron," Alexander said, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil. "This is precisely the kind of material I need. Leave them with me. I trust Elara can arrange for a comfortable reading stand."
"Of course, Your Majesty! Anything you require." Theron seemed almost giddy. "Should you have questions, or wish for further, more specific texts – on military administration, provincial governance, fiscal policies, the histories of specific families – please, do not hesitate to command me. The Archives are your heritage."
"I will," Alexander assured him. "Your diligence is appreciated, Theron. You may go."
With another series of bows, the Master of Scrolls departed, leaving Alexander with the precious texts. Elara, ever efficient, soon returned with a sturdy wooden lectern that could be placed over his lap.
Once he was alone again, save for Elara moving quietly in the background, Alexander reached for the Concordia Ordinum. The "constitution." This, he sensed, was key. The codex was bound in leather, the parchment within surprisingly well-preserved, filled with neat, dense script. The language was Latin, or a dialect so close that Valerius's ingrained knowledge made it perfectly legible to Alexander.
He spent the next hour engrossed, his mind, accustomed to dissecting complex legal documents and financial reports, swiftly parsing the archaic language. The Concordia Ordinum was, as Livia had hinted, a document born of compromise, likely after a period of Imperial overreach or Senatorial rebellion.
It affirmed the Emperor's supreme executive authority, his command of the legions, his role as chief legislator and final judge. So far, so good. However, it also enshrined the Senate's advisory role, its traditional right to debate policy, to approve certain high appointments, and, crucially, to ratify new taxes not related to direct military necessity. There was an Imperial Council, too, composed of key ministers and magistrates, whose counsel the Emperor was "encouraged to seek."
"Encouraged," Alexander thought with a cynical curl of his lip. Not "required." The language was filled with such ambiguities, such carefully worded phrases that could be interpreted in multiple ways. It was a document designed to give the appearance of shared governance while leaving considerable leeway for a determined Emperor. Or, conversely, for an assertive Senate to claim powers if the Emperor was weak.
He saw the contradiction Livia had alluded to, and the original instructions for his character had mentioned: the framework for a constitutional monarchy where the emperor could hold total power, if he was strong enough to assert it against other established interests. The document was a battlefield of clauses, not a clear delineation of power.
His father, Septimius Valerius, judging by the brief notes in the summary of his reign, seemed to have been a traditionalist, ruling largely in concert with the Senate, perhaps out of conviction, or perhaps out of necessity after a period of turmoil predating his rule. The summary spoke of "restoring ancient dignities" and "fostering harmony between the orders." Not the actions of an autocrat.
Alexander Volkov, however, was no traditionalist. He saw the Concordia Ordinum not as a sacred pact, but as a set of rules in a game, rules that could be bent, broken, or rewritten entirely. The "anxieties" in the city Lycomedes and Livia mentioned likely stemmed from factions wondering if the young, untested Valerius, now recovering, would follow his father's path or carve out a new one.
He skimmed the Lex Imperia Augusta. It was, as Theron said, foundational, granting sweeping powers to the first Augustus with fewer of the later checks and balances. Precedents. Useful.
His own investiture oath was flowery, full of promises to uphold the laws, protect the people, honor the gods, and respect the Senate. Empty words, as far as Alexander was concerned. Oaths were for those who lacked the power to dictate terms.
The day wore on. Eventually, the strong afternoon light outside the heavy curtains began to soften, and the recesses of the large chamber started to collect the evening's first shadows. Physician Lycomedes arrived. The examination was brief. Alexander reported feeling a little stronger, his head clearer. Lycomedes seemed pleased, if a little surprised by the scrolls arrayed around the Emperor.
"Engaging the mind is a good sign, Your Majesty," the physician commented, "but do not overtax yourself. Your body still requires considerable mending."
"Knowledge is its own restorative, Physician," Alexander replied smoothly. "Understanding my duties will, I think, hasten my recovery." He paused. "Tell me, Lycomedes, this fever… in your experience, are such sudden, intense illnesses common in men my age, without obvious cause?"
Lycomedes hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Not common, Majesty, no. Sudden fevers can strike, of course, from any number of unknown humors or environmental influences. But the severity and duration of yours… it was unusual. We were, as I said, deeply concerned. Had it not been for your strong constitution, young as you are…" He left the rest unsaid.
"My strong constitution," Alexander mused. Or perhaps some other intervention that had brought his, Alexander Volkov's, consciousness into this dying body at the critical moment. He wouldn't voice that thought. "Continue your good care, Lycomedes. I am relying on your skill."
The physician bowed, reassured, and departed.
As true dusk settled, casting the chamber mostly in the flickering light of the brazier and a few newly lit oil lamps Elara had attended to, Alexander lay back, the scrolls and codex neatly stacked. His mind was whirring. The "constitution" was a document of managed tension, not true limitation for a ruler willing to be ruthless. His father had been a consensus-builder, it seemed. This Rome was accustomed to a certain balance.
He, however, was Alexander Volkov. He did not build by consensus. He built by acquisition, by force of will, by dismantling obstacles.
His first task was clear: master the information within those texts. Understand every clause, every precedent, every ambiguity of the Concordia Ordinum. Find the levers of power, both stated and implied. Then, he would begin to test them, carefully at first. The unseen hand, indeed. For now, he was the diligent, recovering young Emperor, studying the wisdom of the ancients. Soon, those studies would become the blueprint for his new empire. An empire forged in his image.