Dies Martis, Quintus Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Tuesday, 5th Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The dawn found Alexander more restless than rested. Though his physical strength was returning in meager increments – he had managed to sit unaided for a full hour the previous evening while poring over Theron's scrolls – his mind, fueled by the complexities of the Concordia Ordinum and the nascent map of his new empire, chafed against the confines of the sickbed. The ambiguities within that constitution, the carefully balanced clauses that spoke of Imperial authority on one page and Senatorial rights on the next, were not just academic points; they were the very levers and tripwires of the power he intended to wield.
His father, Septimius Valerius, had apparently navigated this delicate structure by deference and consensus. Alexander Volkov had never found much use for consensus unless it was consensus entirely on his terms.
He rose slowly, testing his legs. They were unsteady but held. Elara, ever-present, rushed forward with a supporting arm, but he waved her off gently. "I need to feel the floor beneath my feet, Elara. Even if only for a few steps." He managed a short, circuitous walk around the vast chamber, each step a small victory against the lingering weakness, his gaze taking in the symbols of Imperial power that adorned the room – the gilded eagles, the martial tapestries – with a new, proprietary interest. These were now his symbols to command, or to redefine.
After a light breakfast, he sent for Theron again. The Master of Scrolls arrived with even more promptness than before, his initial nervousness replaced by a scholar's quiet eagerness to serve an Emperor who, mirabile dictu, actually seemed interested in books.
"Your Majesty," Theron greeted him, bowing. "You seem stronger today."
"A little, Master Theron," Alexander affirmed, already seated in a large, cushioned chair near the brazier, a fresh selection of scrolls on a nearby table. He had decided against receiving Theron from his bed; small visual cues of recovery were important. "Your selections yesterday were most… illuminating. The Concordia Ordinum, in particular. It seems a document of many interpretations."
Theron's watery eyes blinked. "Indeed, Majesty. Its interpretation has been the subject of much learned debate and, at times, considerable political friction throughout the decades. Precedent often guides its application."
"Precedent," Alexander echoed. "Precisely. I would be interested in any accounts or legal commentaries detailing how previous Emperors, particularly those since Hadrianus IV, have… interacted with the Senate and the Imperial Council regarding matters of taxation, high appointments, and the declaration of new laws. Specifically, instances where Imperial will and Senatorial opinion diverged, and how such… divergences were resolved." He phrased it carefully, the request of a diligent student of history, not a ruler seeking to crush opposition.
Theron nodded thoughtfully. "There are several notable chronicles, Majesty. The Annals of Tiberius Atticus cover the reigns immediately following Hadrianus IV, and for more recent times, the Commentaries on Imperial Governance by Senator Gallus Cicero, though a man of strong Senatorial leanings, are quite detailed. I shall fetch them."
As Theron bustled off, Alexander allowed himself a grimly satisfied thought. Gallus Cicero, a man of "strong Senatorial leanings." Knowing the arguments of the opposition was just as crucial as knowing one's own strengths.
When his mother, Livia, arrived for her morning visit, she found him not in bed, but seated, a scroll open on the lectern before him. Her eyebrows rose slightly in approval.
"You are looking more yourself today, Valerius," she observed, her gaze taking in the scene. "Theron has been keeping you occupied, I see."
"Knowledge is a comfort, Mother," Alexander replied, offering her a smile he hoped conveyed studious diligence. "The more I understand the foundations of our Empire, the more prepared I will be to uphold them." A statement true in letter, if not entirely in spirit. He intended to uphold them precisely as far as they served his purpose.
"A wise sentiment," Livia said, settling into her customary chair. "Many will be pleased to see you taking such an interest so soon. It will reassure them." She paused. "Titus Varro, the City Prefect, has made inquiries. He wishes to pay his respects and report to you directly on the state of the city, once Lycomedes deems you well enough for more formal audiences."
This was an opportunity. Varro was a key piece, responsible for the capital's stability. "Lycomedes believes my recovery is progressing steadily," Alexander said. "Perhaps this afternoon, or tomorrow morning. A brief meeting. It is important for the Prefect to know his Emperor is… engaged."
Livia studied him for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You are eager to resume your duties."
"The crown feels heavy, Mother, even when one is merely lying in bed," Alexander said, a statement that was truer than she could know. "And I am responsible for the welfare of millions. That is a burden I cannot ignore for long." He was already framing his ambition in the language of duty.
"Very well," Livia conceded. "A brief meeting with Varro tomorrow might be suitable. It would send a strong message." She then moved on to other topics, updating him on minor court appointments she had overseen in his absence, on messages of goodwill from provincial governors. Alexander listened intently, filtering her accounts through his own developing understanding of the power structures. He noted the names she emphasized, the ones she dismissed.
Later that day, after Theron had delivered a new set of scrolls detailing historical precedents and the somewhat critical commentaries of Senator Cicero, Alexander found himself wrestling with a particular aspect of the Concordia Ordinum. It spoke of an "Imperial Mandate of Necessity," an ill-defined clause allowing the Emperor to bypass certain Senatorial approvals in times of "grave and immediate peril to the State." What constituted "grave and immediate peril"? And who decided? The clause was a potent weapon, if its use could be justified. His father, it seemed from the annals, had never invoked it.
All this information, the endless laws and piled-up history, might have crushed any normal eighteen-year-old. But Alexander Volkov had unraveled far more tangled situations in global finance and high-stakes corporate maneuvering. To him, this ancient system was just another complex structure to analyze and understand. The sheer scale of it didn't intimidate him; it sharpened his focus. Strategies, and backup strategies, were already taking root in his mind.
The next morning, Dies Mercurii, Sextus Mensis Maii (Wednesday, 6th of May), Alexander felt a significant return of strength. Lycomedes, after a thorough examination, pronounced him fit enough for limited audiences, provided he did not over-exert himself.
Titus Varro, Prefect of the City, was announced.
Alexander chose to receive him in a smaller, less formal antechamber adjoining his own, rather than the grand throne room. He was dressed in a simple but dignified purple tunic, seated in a high-backed chair, aiming for an image of sober recovery, not Imperial splendor. He needed to assess Varro, not intimidate him just yet.
Varro was a man in his late fifties, built like an old oak, his face weathered and scarred from years of military service before his appointment as Prefect. His grey hair was cropped short, his gaze direct and unflinching. He wore the insignia of his office and a short, practical sword at his hip. He exuded an air of disciplined competence. Livia's description seemed accurate.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Varro said, his voice a gravelly baritone. He performed a precise, military bow. "It is a profound relief to all of Rome to see you recovering your strength."
"Prefect Varro," Alexander replied, his voice calm and measured. "Thank you for your diligence in maintaining order during my… absence from duties. My mother has spoken highly of your efforts."
"I did only my duty, Majesty," Varro stated simply. "The city remained calm, though anxious. News of your recovery has already had a steadying effect."
"Good." Alexander paused, observing the man. There was no sycophancy here, just straightforward reporting. "I have been reviewing certain matters of state. There was a minor disturbance mentioned in one of the provincial dispatches from Aegyptus some weeks ago. A dispute over grain shipments, I believe. Was this resolved to satisfaction?"
It was a minor point, deliberately chosen from a document Theron had provided, something unlikely to be at the forefront of the City Prefect's immediate concerns, yet within the broader sphere of imperial interest. He wanted to see if Varro was informed beyond his direct remit, how he handled an unexpected query.
Varro's brow furrowed slightly, not in confusion, but in thought. "The Aegyptian grain disturbance, Majesty? Yes. My latest reports indicate the provincial governor, Marius Scipio, intervened. He arrested the ringleaders of the merchants guild who were hoarding supply and restored the shipments. The situation is now stable."
Alexander nodded. "Scipio acted decisively, then. Commendable." He was testing the information channels, and Varro's awareness. "See that a note of my… approval… is dispatched to Governor Scipio. A small matter, perhaps, but diligence in all corners of the Empire should be recognized."
It was a subtle first directive, framed as an observation leading to a minor administrative action. But it was an order nonetheless, flowing from him.
Varro met his gaze. "It shall be done, Your Majesty." There was no hesitation, no questioning.
"Tell me, Prefect," Alexander continued, shifting slightly, "what is the current mood in the city, beyond simple relief at my recovery? Are there any particular… undercurrents I should be aware of?"
Varro considered this. "The people desire stability above all, Majesty. They look to you for strong leadership, as they did your father. The Senate… well, the Senate always has its factions and its voices. Some will counsel caution, others will urge bold action on various matters. They await your direction."
"And I am still finding my own footing, Prefect, after being confined for so long," Alexander said. "Your watchfulness in the city remains critical. Is your loyalty to the Emperor's office, and to me as its holder, something I can depend on absolutely?" Alexander watched him closely as he asked it, letting a distinct sharpness enter his voice. It was a clear test.
The old soldier stood firm, his eyes fixed steadily on Alexander's. "Your father entrusted me with this city, Majesty. I have served Rome and the Imperial House for forty years. My loyalty is to the Emperor."
It was a firm declaration. Alexander felt a measure of respect for the old soldier. Such men could be invaluable, provided their loyalty was indeed to the office, and thus to its current holder, rather than to a memory or an abstract ideal that might conflict with his own aims.
"I am pleased to hear it, Prefect Varro," Alexander said, offering a slight nod. "You may go. Keep me informed of any significant developments."
As Varro departed, Alexander leaned back in his chair. The weight of the crown, he was beginning to understand, was not just in its golden circlet, but in the intricate web of loyalties, ambitions, laws, and expectations that surrounded the one who wore it. He had issued his first, almost trivial, command. A message to a distant governor. But it was a start. A ripple.
He had much more to learn, many more players to assess. But the game was becoming clearer. And Alexander Volkov was beginning to feel his old strength, the strength of a predator patiently stalking its quarry, return to him, cloaked in the guise of a young Emperor finding his way.