Alex awoke with a pounding headache that had nothing to do with wine. The previous night at the temple dedication had been one of the most mentally exhausting experiences of his life. He had navigated a minefield of social and political traps, a relentless assault orchestrated by his sister, and he had emerged, he thought, unscathed. He had parried every thrust, deflected every test. He had even managed to extricate himself from the final, most dangerous snare—the charming actress Sabina—without causing offense or compromising his carefully constructed persona.
He remembered the moment clearly. The scent of her perfume, the intelligent sparkle in her eyes, the genuine human connection that had felt like a drink of cool water in a vast desert of solitude. The temptation had been immense. But the memory of Lyra's final warnings, the image of his sister watching from the shadows, had been a cold, sobering splash of reality.
He had taken Sabina's hand, his touch firm but respectful. "Domina Sabina," he had said, his voice low. "Your company is a rarer prize than any conquest from the frontier. So rare, in fact, that it deserves more than a few stolen moments in a crowded, noisy courtyard." He had smiled, a sad, almost wistful expression. "Allow me to earn the right to a proper conversation with you when the state of the empire is less… precarious. A man cannot serve two demanding mistresses at once, and for now, Rome must be mine."
The line, rehearsed in his mind a dozen times, had been perfect. It was flattering, it was a subtle promise of a future meeting, and it framed his rejection of her advances as a matter of supreme, noble duty. It had left her intrigued rather than insulted, and he had seen the flash of thwarted frustration in Lucilla's eyes from across the courtyard. He had passed her final, most personal test.
He should have felt triumphant. But as he sat in his opulent study, a plate of untouched figs and honeyed bread before him, all he felt was a hollow, aching exhaustion and a profound sense of regret. He had done the right thing, the smart thing, the strategic thing. And he had never felt more alone. He was a ghost in a golden cage, and the one moment of genuine warmth and wit he had found, he had been forced to push away for the sake of the mission.
The weight of command, he was learning, was not just the burden of decisions, but the burden of isolation.
His melancholy brooding was interrupted by the arrival of his chamberlain, Heron, whose impassive face was etched with a rare hint of concern. "Caesar, an unscheduled delegation has arrived. They claim it is a matter of urgent public order. The leaders of the city's bakers' guilds."
Alex frowned. Bakers? "Send them in."
Three men were ushered into the study. They were stout, dusty men, their hands and forearms permanently coated in a fine layer of flour. They were not the usual fawning senators or ambitious officials. These were working men, the heads of a vital city institution, and their faces were etched with raw panic.
The eldest, a man named Marcus Licinius, fell to his knees, a gesture of desperation rather than protocol. "Caesar, you must help us! The city is on the verge of chaos!"
"Rise, and speak plainly," Alex said, his own concerns forgotten in the face of their genuine fear.
"It is the grain, Caesar," Licinius explained, his voice trembling. "The price. Since the news of the poor harvests in Africa arrived, the private grain merchants have become wolves. They are hoarding their stock. The price for a modius of wheat on the black market has doubled in a single night! We cannot afford to buy it, which means we cannot afford to bake our bread!"
The second baker chimed in. "Fights are breaking out at our bakeries, Caesar. Men and women, desperate for their daily loaf, are turning on each other. The Vigiles had to be called to my shop in the Subura this morning to break up a riot. The people are growing restless. They are hungry, and they are becoming angry."
The famine was no longer a theoretical problem on a scroll from Egypt. It was here. It was on the streets of Rome, a spark of unrest that could easily ignite into a full-blown inferno.
The bakers all spoke at once, their voices a cacophony of pleas. They wanted him to use his imperial authority, to fix the price of grain by decree, to force the merchants to sell at the old, fair price. They wanted him to open the massive state-controlled Horrea Galbae, the public granaries, and flood the market. It was the traditional solution, the populist move every emperor for the last hundred years had used to placate the mob. It was the "bread" part of "bread and circuses."
Alex found himself in a terrifying position. Without Lyra's ability to run complex economic simulations, he had to rely on his own knowledge—the fragmented memories of college economics courses and articles he'd read a decade ago. His 21st-century brain screamed that price-fixing was a disastrous long-term solution. It would crush the incentive for any private merchant to risk shipping new grain to the city, guaranteeing that once the state reserves ran out, the famine would be ten times worse. It would create a massive, artificial shortage.
But he couldn't explain the principles of supply and demand to these desperate men. He couldn't tell them that letting the price rise, while painful now, was the only way to signal to merchants across the Mediterranean that there was a massive profit to be made by bringing their grain to Rome.
He was caught between a politically popular but economically catastrophic decision, and an economically sound but politically suicidal one. He needed time. Time for his "Fire and Fallow" edict to work, time for new crops to be planted, time to find new sources of grain. He needed a stop-gap measure.
He made a decision, a compromise born of desperation.
"I will not fix the price of grain by decree," he announced, the bakers' faces falling at his words. "To do so would be to tell every merchant from Hispania to Syria that Rome is closed for business. The flow of private grain would stop, and our situation would become permanent."
He held up a hand before they could protest. "However, the people will not starve. Not while I am Caesar." He turned to his waiting secretary. "Draft this edict immediately. By my authority, I am authorizing an emergency release from the Horrea Galbae. Ten percent of the city's current grain reserve is to be sold directly to the bakers' guilds at a fifty percent subsidy. This is a one-time measure to stabilize the market and ensure every citizen has bread while we address the larger crisis of the blight."
It was a massive gamble. He was spending a huge amount of the city's emergency reserves and political capital on a solution that he knew was only temporary. He was kicking the can down the road, betting that he could solve the underlying problem before the can reached the edge of a cliff. But it was the only move he had.
The bakers, while not getting the price cap they wanted, were immensely relieved. A subsidized supply, even a temporary one, was a lifeline. They backed out of the room, showering him with thanks, hailing his wisdom. Alex felt no pride, only the cold knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening. He had just placed a massive bet, and he was flying blind.
As the bakers left, General Gaius Maximus was shown in. The old soldier's face was grimmer than usual, his eyes hard as flint. He bypassed all pleasantries.
"Caesar," he said, his voice a low growl. "A report from my new Speculatores. They have proven their worth already."
"What is it, General?"
"It concerns your sister, the Augusta. After she left the temple dedication last night, she did not return to her residence on the Palatine."
Alex felt a prickle of unease. "What? Then where did she go?"
Maximus's expression darkened. "My men tracked her entourage. She rode with her guards to the Esquiline Hill. To the private villa of Senator Quintus Metellus." The general leaned forward, his voice dropping. "She spent the entire night there, Caesar. Meeting with him, with Flavius, with all the men on the list your prefect provided. They were not celebrating at a temple. They were gathered in a private council of war."
The news hit Alex with chilling clarity. While he had been congratulating himself on passing Lucilla's petty social tests, she had already moved on. She had used the event as cover.
"They are done with subtle traps and veiled insults, Caesar," Maximus said, his voice like grinding stone. "They see your strength, and now they fear it. They are now actively plotting."
Alex stood and walked to the window, looking out over the sprawling city. He had just made a huge, risky decision to stop the people from starving, and at that very moment, his enemies, led by his own sister, were gathered in a room, planning how to destroy him. The game had just escalated dramatically.