Dies Solis, Decimus Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX(Sunday, 10th Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The intervening days had seen Alexander's physical recovery advance steadily. He now walked with a firm step, the debilitating weakness that had plagued him receding like a bad tide. He had begun to use the private garden that opened off his chambers more often. Its well-kept paths and the benches set in the shade offered a better place for his unending studies than the four walls of his room. Theron, ever diligent, kept him supplied with scrolls and ledgers, and Alexander's mind devoured them, piecing together the intricate machinery of the Roman state and the human components that made it turn.
He had cross-referenced genealogies with staff appointments, financial records with senatorial voting patterns from his father's reign. Patterns were emerging: alliances of convenience, old family loyalties, surprising enmities, and the ever-present undercurrent of personal ambition that ran beneath the veneer of public service. He now had a list, albeit a mental and heavily annotated one, of individuals who warranted closer scrutiny – some for their potential utility, others for their potential threat.
This morning, as he took his customary turn around the sun-dappled garden, Elara approached him, her expression unreadable as she carried a small silver tray with a cup of chilled fruit nectar.
"Your Majesty seems to enjoy the morning air," she observed, her voice as soft as ever.
"It clears the head, Elara," Alexander replied, accepting the cup. "A welcome change from parchment and ink." He took a slow sip, his gaze on the carefully tended roses. He had made no further direct mention of his earlier request for her to be observant, trusting that the seed had been planted.
Elara hesitated for a moment, then said, "The palace is, as always, abuzz with its routines, Majesty. The deliveries arrived for the kitchens this dawn, as usual." A seemingly innocuous statement. Alexander waited. "It is merely… a small thing. One of the junior cellarers, a young man named Piso, seemed to take an uncommon interest in the arrival of the wine casks from the Falernian estates. More so than his duties would normally require. He was seen speaking at some length with the carter, a man not usually on that delivery route."
Alexander's expression did not change. Falernian wine. A prized vintage, often reserved for the Imperial table and high-ranking officials. A junior cellarer showing unusual interest in its delivery, speaking with an unfamiliar carter. It was, as Elara said, a small thing. It could be nothing: youthful curiosity, an attempt to curry favor, a minor theft of no real consequence. Or it could be a thread, leading to something more. Perhaps illicit sales, or worse, a way to introduce something untoward into the palace cellars.
"So, a new man on the wine delivery," Alexander mused aloud, more to himself than to her.
"The kitchen master complained of it, Majesty," Elara offered, her voice low. "Said it complicated his records." Her gaze flickered down for a moment before returning to his.
"Little things are often worth noting, Elara," Alexander commented, his tone even. "Well done." He offered no instruction, no sign that the information was of particular import. He needed to see if she would continue to bring such morsels, unprompted by immediate reward or reaction. He also needed to assess the quality of what she brought. This was raw data, unverified.
As Elara withdrew, Alexander continued his walk, his mind now sifting through this new, tiny piece of information. He made a mental note: Piso, junior cellarer. Falernian wine. Unfamiliar carter. He would not act on it directly. Not yet. But he would remember. It was the first ripple from the stone he had gently dropped into the palace pool.
Later that morning, he decided it was time for another carefully managed interaction. Captain Decius Arruntius, commander of his daytime household guard, was a man whose appointment, according to Theron's ledgers, had been championed by Senator Quintus Metellus, a staunch traditionalist Livia held in some disdain. Arruntius was responsible for the Emperor's immediate security within the palace during waking hours. A crucial position.
Alexander arranged to be walking in the more public section of the Imperial gardens, a route Arruntius and his men would regularly patrol or secure when the Emperor was present. As expected, he soon saw the Captain, a man in his late thirties, powerfully built, his armor gleaming, his expression stern and watchful as he oversaw his guards.
"Captain Arruntius," Alexander called, his tone amiable as the Captain approached and saluted.
"Your Majesty," Arruntius responded, his voice a disciplined baritone. "It is good to see you taking the air more freely."
"My strength returns, Captain, thanks to the gods and good care," Alexander said. He gestured vaguely at the guards stationed at discreet intervals. "Your men seem alert. The palace has been quiet, I trust, during my convalescence?"
"As quiet as a tomb when you were at your worst, Majesty, if you'll forgive the grim comparison," Arruntius said. "And orderly since. My men are vigilant."
"Vigilance is a virtue I value highly," Alexander remarked. "Tell me, Captain, what is the morale of the household guard? Are their needs met? Is their loyalty… sound?" He looked directly at Arruntius, a casual inquiry that nonetheless carried an edge of Imperial scrutiny.
Arruntius did not flinch. "Morale is good, Majesty. The men are proud to serve the Emperor. Their needs are provided for by the Palace Administration, as per regulation. As for loyalty…" He paused, choosing his words. "They are soldiers of Rome, sworn to the Emperor. Their loyalty is to the office you hold, and to your person as its embodiment."
A careful answer. Loyalty to the office, and to him as its embodiment. Not necessarily a deep personal fealty, but a professional commitment. It was what Alexander expected from a man like Arruntius, sponsored by a traditionalist Senator.
"A commendable sentiment, Captain," Alexander said. "And your own service, it is well-regarded. Senator Metellus spoke highly of your abilities when recommending your current command, did he not?" He dropped the Senator's name deliberately, watching for a reaction.
A flicker of something – surprise? Or perhaps just acknowledgement – crossed Arruntius's face before it settled back into disciplined neutrality. "Senator Metellus has been a patron to my family for many years, Majesty. I strive to be worthy of any trust placed in me, by him, and above all, by you."
"Patronage has its place," Alexander observed mildly. "But an Emperor values service rendered directly to the throne above all other considerations. See that your men understand that their primary duty is here, within these walls, to their Emperor." It was a gentle but unmistakable reminder of where ultimate authority, and thus the source of reward or reprimand, resided.
"They understand, Your Majesty," Arruntius affirmed, his posture a little straighter.
"Good." Alexander gave a slight nod. "Continue your duties, Captain."
As he walked away, Alexander replayed the conversation. Arruntius was disciplined, professional, and clearly aware of his Senatorial patronage. He was not overtly servile, nor was he defiant. A man who understood hierarchies and his place within them. He could be reliable, as long as his traditionalist loyalties and his patron's interests did not conflict with Alexander's own emerging agenda. For now, a neutral piece on the board.
His mother found him later in his study, Theron's scrolls forgotten for the moment as Alexander stared out the window, contemplating the sprawling city beyond the palace walls.
"You seem pensive, Valerius," Livia remarked, entering with her usual quiet grace.
"Just contemplating the view, Mother," he replied. "And the responsibilities that come with it." He turned to her. "I met with Captain Arruntius briefly in the gardens."
Livia raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what was your impression?"
"A professional soldier," Alexander said. "Dedicated to his duty, it seems. And well aware of Senator Metellus's… support."
"Metellus is an old fool, but an influential one within his conservative faction," Livia said dismissively. "He believes the Emperor should be but the first among equals in the Senate. Be wary of men who owe him their advancement."
"All advice is welcome, Mother," Alexander said smoothly. He had no intention of being a mere "first among equals." "Speaking of the Senate, you mentioned a caucus discussing economic reforms?"
Livia sighed. "Yes. Led by Senator Gallus Cicero, of all people – your new favorite author, I hear – and a few of his more vocal colleagues. They prattle on about the grain dole being too generous, about taxes on the merchant class stifling trade. Old arguments, mostly designed to enhance their own prestige and perhaps line their pockets by reducing oversight on their business interests."
Gallus Cicero. The author of the critical Commentaries. Now leading an economic reform caucus. Interesting. An ideologue, or a pragmatist using ideology as a cover?
"Perhaps," Alexander mused, "once I am fully recovered and have had the chance to meet with the Imperial Council, I should invite Senator Cicero and his colleagues to present their… suggestions. It is always wise to hear all perspectives, is it not?" Even if only to understand the precise nature of the opposition.
Livia looked at him sharply. "You would give that windbag a formal audience on such matters?"
"To listen is not to agree, Mother," Alexander said with a calm smile. "But an Emperor who is seen to be deaf to the concerns of the Senate, however self-serving those concerns might be, risks appearing… isolated. Or so some histories Theron has provided might suggest." He was using his studies to justify a political move she clearly questioned.
Livia considered this, then a slow smile spread across her own face. "You learn quickly, Valerius. Very well. Perhaps a controlled audience, with members of the Council present to counter their more foolish notions, might indeed be… instructive. For all parties." She saw the potential political theater, the chance for him to appear reasonable while quietly asserting his own growing understanding.
Alexander nodded. The first ripples were spreading. From a quiet word to an elderly servant, to a carefully phrased conversation with a guard captain, to a suggestion for an audience with a leading Senator. He was still moving in the shadows, but his influence was beginning to touch the world beyond his sickroom. The weight of the crown was immense, but Alexander Volkov was beginning to feel how it could be molded, shaped, and ultimately, made entirely his own. He needed more information, more loyal agents, but the path was becoming clearer.