The silence in the Curia was absolute and suffocating. The question hung in the air, a perfectly crafted legal snare. Alex's mind raced, but it was like running into a brick wall. Lex Cornelia de Maiestate. Pontifex Maximus. The terms were familiar, but the intricate legal arguments behind them were a complete mystery. Lyra might have been able to quote centuries of legal precedent in a microsecond, but Alex was alone, armed only with the general knowledge of a history enthusiast. He was out of his depth, and everyone in the room knew it.
Metellus was smiling now, a smug, reptilian smirk. He had Alex pinned. If Alex argued, he would look ignorant, unable to defend his position with proper legal reasoning. If he conceded the point, he would be forced to walk back his own edict, a public humiliation that would shatter his aura of authority. He could feel Lucilla's gaze from the gallery, a palpable weight, savoring his predicament.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—to stall, to deflect, but no words came. His hesitation stretched, each second a victory for his enemies. The crack in his armor had just been smashed wide open.
And then, a new voice cut through the tense silence.
"If I may be permitted to address my learned colleague's point."
The voice was not loud, but it carried the unmistakable weight of decades of respected service. Every head turned. It was Servius Rufus, the old, stoic senator whom Alex had put in charge of the grain commission. He rose slowly to his feet, his expression one of weary duty, as if he found these political games distasteful but necessary. He was a man universally acknowledged, even by his enemies, to be a figure of unimpeachable integrity.
Scribonius Curio, the legal pedant, looked annoyed at the interruption. "The Senator from the grain commission wishes to opine on matters of sacred law?"
"I wish to opine on the meaning of law, which is often lost in our obsession with its letters," Rufus replied, his calm voice a soothing balm after the shrill attacks. He turned his gaze not to Alex, but to Scribonius. "My learned colleague is correct in his citation of the Lex Cornelia. It was indeed written to grant the state broad powers to protect itself from its enemies."
Metellus's smirk widened. He thought Rufus was about to agree with them.
"But," Rufus continued, his voice gaining strength, "the great jurist Antistius Labeo, in his famous commentary on that very law—a commentary I am certain my learned friend has studied—argued that its spirit was never to empower the state to threaten its own people. Labeo wrote that the maiestas of Rome lies not in the Emperor's power, but in the liberty of its citizens. The law's purpose is to protect the people from threats, not to become a threat to the people."
He let his gaze sweep across the chamber, his words resonating with the older, more traditional senators. "An emperor who chooses, of his own free will, to limit his own power to spy on his citizens is not abdicating his sacred duty. He is fulfilling it in its highest, purest, and most republican form. He is showing a trust in the people of Rome that, frankly, this body has not seen in a generation."
The intervention was a masterstroke. It was a brilliant defense, rooted in law, philosophy, and Roman tradition. Rufus had not just deflected the attack; he had turned it into a powerful endorsement of Alex's character. He had taken a legal trap and transformed it into a philosophical victory.
The mood in the chamber shifted palpably. Several of the moderate senators, who had been looking uncomfortable during the coordinated attack, now nodded in firm agreement. The conspirators were left looking like what they were: petty tyrants who advocated for a secret police force while a man of principle defended liberty.
Seeing his opening, Alex seized the moment. He stepped forward again, his confidence restored, his voice filled with a gratitude that was entirely genuine.
"I thank the honorable Senator Rufus for his wise and learned clarification," he said, dipping his head respectfully to the old man. "He has reminded us all of a crucial point. Our laws are meant to be a shield for the people of Rome." He then turned his gaze back to Metellus and his allies, his eyes now hard as flint. "It seems some among us have forgotten this. It seems some view the law only as a sword to be wielded for their own gain, and a shield for their own corruption."
The message was a thunderclap. I see you. And now, I have powerful friends you did not account for. The session was over. Metellus and his allies tried to stammer out rebuttals, but the momentum was lost. Alex had weathered their storm and emerged stronger.
Later that day, in his private study, Alex summoned Senator Rufus. The old man entered, his posture still stiff with the formality of the Curia.
"Senator," Alex began, dispensing with the imperial titles. "You did more than clarify a point of law today. You saved me. I am in your debt."
Rufus looked at Alex, his gaze direct and searching. "I did not do it for you, Caesar," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Though I confess, your actions have been… a surprise. I did it for Rome." He sighed, a weary sound. "I served your father for twenty years. I watched him struggle every day with the burdens of his office. He was a good man in a time that rewards wickedness. He believed the law should serve virtue."
The old senator's eyes seemed to look past Alex, into memory. "For the first time since his death, when I heard you speak today—not just your words, but the principles behind them—I heard a spark of that same wisdom. That is what I chose to defend."
A new understanding passed between them. This was not the master-servant relationship Alex had with Perennis, nor the soldier-commander bond he shared with Maximus. This was an alliance of principle. Rufus was not a pawn or a weapon. He was a guide, a man whose integrity and deep knowledge of Roman law and tradition could help him navigate the labyrinth in a way Lyra's database never could.
"Then I hope I can continue to be worthy of your defense, Senator," Alex said sincerely.
"As do I, Caesar," Rufus replied with a slight bow, before taking his leave.
Alex was left alone, a sense of cautious optimism blooming in his chest. He had survived. He had stumbled, but he had recovered. He had forged a new, unexpected, and powerful alliance. Perhaps he could do this. Perhaps he could survive without Lyra's constant guidance.
His optimism was short-lived. That night, as he was poring over maps of the Egyptian grain routes, Perennis was shown in. The Prefect was paler than usual, his hands trembling almost imperceptibly. He carried a single, sealed wax tablet.
"Caesar," he whispered, his eyes darting towards the door as if he feared being overheard. "An urgent report from one of my most trusted agents. One I can verify. It concerns the meeting at Senator Metellus's villa."
"What is it?" Alex asked, sitting up straight.
"They have given up on subtle political traps and legal maneuvering," Perennis said, his voice barely audible. "Your victory in the Senate today has terrified them. They see you are no fool. They are moving to their final, most direct option." He broke the seal on the tablet and read.
"They have made contact with the captain of the Praetorian Guard's night watch. A man named Cassius Valerius."
Alex felt a chill snake down his spine. "My own guards?"
"He commands the Third Cohort, the one tasked with palace security from midnight until dawn," Perennis confirmed. "The report is specific. Your sister, the Augusta Lucilla, paid him a personal visit this afternoon. She has promised him a fortune in gold and the governorship of Crete if he succeeds."
He looked up from the tablet, his face a mask of pure dread. "They are not going to try to poison you or outmaneuver you in the Curia again, Caesar. They have abandoned all subtlety."
"What are they planning?" Alex asked, his voice low.
Perennis swallowed hard. "A direct military coup. A straightforward assassination, right here in the palace." He took a shaky breath. "And they plan to do it within the week."