The news from Lyra was a punch to the gut. The forty percent deficit was a death sentence for the city. No amount of price controls, subsidies, or logistical brilliance could fix a problem of that magnitude. Rome didn't just need more wheat; it needed a different kind of food altogether, a miracle crop that could grow fast and yield abundantly.
Alex spent the next several hours locked in his study, the door now faithfully guarded by his new, silent acolyte, Timo. The boy stood outside, rigid with a sense of holy purpose, ensuring his emperor's communion with the divine was not disturbed. Inside, Alex and Lyra engaged in the most important strategic session of their partnership. The laptop's battery, sustained by the constant, tiny trickle from the thermoelectric generator, hovered at a dangerously low but stable 3%. Lyra's functions were limited, her processing speed reduced, but her core database was accessible.
"Run a full agricultural analysis, Lyra," Alex commanded, pacing the room. "Every known crop in the empire. Barley, rye, millet, spelt. Cross-reference their yield rates, growing seasons, and resistance to this blight."
The screen flickered as Lyra processed the query. Charts and graphs appeared, painting a grim picture. Analysis complete, she reported. None of the known grain species possess the necessary characteristics. Barley and rye are more resilient to the blight but have significantly lower yields per acre than wheat. To make up the deficit, you would need to convert every vineyard and olive grove in Italy to barley production, which is economically and politically unfeasible. The problem is systemic, Alex. Old World agriculture is based on a limited number of domesticated grass species. We need a completely different type of crop.
The screen changed. It displayed images that were utterly alien. Photographs and botanical diagrams of a plant with green leaves, small white flowers, and lumpy, earthen-skinned tubers. It was the humble, miraculous potato.
Solanum tuberosum, Lyra's text identified. Native to the Andes mountains of the New World. It is hardy, capable of growing in poor soil and at high altitudes. Its yield per acre is nearly triple that of wheat, and it is entirely resistant to the *Puccinia graminis* fungus.
Alex stared at the image, a profound sense of despair washing over him. "The New World, Lyra?" he said, his voice laced with bitter irony. "The solution is on the other side of the planet, separated from us by an ocean and two thousand years of history? That doesn't help me. That's just a cruel joke."
The probability of acquiring a sample is not zero, Lyra countered, her logic unperturbed by his despair. It is merely low. We must analyze all possible vectors.
"What vectors?" Alex demanded. "There are no vectors!"
Accessing manifests and historical records of Roman trade expeditions, she reported. There are multiple, well-documented voyages beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Roman and Phoenician traders had regular contact with the Canary Islands.
"The Canaries don't have potatoes," Alex shot back, remembering his world history.
Correct, Lyra confirmed. However, the native Guanche people of those islands cultivated other edible tuberous plants. More importantly, I am cross-referencing this with my pre-Roman historical archives. There are fragmented, apocryphal accounts from Hanno the Navigator and other Carthaginian explorers. They speak of reaching a 'western land of green mountains' and returning with 'strange, lumpy roots that could be cooked in embers.' These accounts were dismissed as fables by later Greek and Roman historians.
A tiny, improbable thread of hope appeared. It was absurd, a historical long-shot of breathtaking ambition, but it was better than nothing. He would not "invent" the potato. He would "rediscover" it.
He began to formulate a plan, a grand, empire-wide treasure hunt, disguised as a series of unrelated scholarly and commercial ventures. This would be the first true project of what he was beginning to think of as his "Knowledge Institute."
First, he summoned Senator Rufus. "Senator," he said, his expression one of grave, scholarly seriousness. "The blight has shown me how vulnerable our empire is, how dependent we are on a single crop. I believe the wisdom of the ancients may hold a solution. I am commissioning you to lead a new search of the Great Library at Alexandria. I want you to scour the oldest, most obscure sections—the Carthaginian and early Greek archives. Look for any mention, however small, of alternative food sources, specifically any texts from explorers like Hanno that mention 'western roots' or 'earth apples.'" Rufus, a man who revered history and knowledge, accepted the noble task with enthusiasm.
Next, he brought in Perennis. "Prefect," he commanded, "I want your best agents, the most discreet ones, sent to the ports of Hispania and Mauretania—to Gades, to Tingis. I do not want them asking questions about crops. I want them to engage in archaeological acquisition. They are to search for ancient Carthaginian tombs and warehouses that pre-date Roman settlement. They are to be on the lookout for any preserved artifacts, any sealed amphorae containing organic matter. Frame it as a search for Punic treasures. I will provide a generous fund for their acquisitions." Perennis, smelling a profitable venture and a chance to prove his worth, agreed instantly.
Finally, he called for Sabina. "Domina," he said, framing this as a purely commercial proposition. "Your shipping contacts are unparalleled. I wish to fund a private exploratory voyage. A small, fast ship, a discreet crew. Its official purpose will be to sail to the Canary Islands and beyond, searching for new sources of cochineal and Tyrian purple dye for the textile industry, a potentially lucrative monopoly for you." He paused. "Its secret purpose is to acquire samples of any and all unusual plant life, specifically edible roots, cultivated by the natives. Bring me back something new." Sabina, her eyes glinting at the prospect of a state-sponsored monopoly and a mysterious adventure, smiled and accepted the challenge.
The great machine of his new government was now focused on a single, secret goal. It was a project that combined history, espionage, commerce, and exploration. Each of his key allies was pursuing a different path to the same solution, none of them knowing the true, impossible nature of what they were really looking for.
The weeks that followed were agonizing. The situation in Rome grew more dire. The grain riots became more frequent and more violent. Maximus and the Urban Cohorts were constantly busy putting down fights. Alex's political enemies, led by a newly emboldened Metellus, used the chaos to regroup, whispering in the Senate that the Emperor's radical reforms had failed and that his "impious" agricultural edicts had brought this famine upon them. Alex's authority, won at such a high cost, was hanging by a thread.
The reports from his agents were discouraging. Rufus's scholars in Alexandria found mentions of Hanno's voyage, but the descriptions were vague, dismissed by the librarians as myths. Sabina's ship was still weeks away from its destination. The archaeological digs in Hispania had yielded nothing but broken pottery and dust.
Alex began to despair. The plan had been too ambitious, the thread of hope too thin. He had failed.
Then, one evening, a courier arrived, galloping into the palace courtyard, his horse lathered, himself covered in the dust of a hard ride from the coast. It was a message for Perennis, who brought it to Alex at once, his hand shaking as he broke the seal.
"Caesar," Perennis breathed, his eyes wide as he read the coded message. "It is from my agent in Gades. The archaeological search… it has yielded something."
Alex's heart hammered in his chest. "A text? A map?"
"No, Caesar," Perennis said, a look of utter disbelief on his face. "Something physical. In a deep, sealed Carthaginian tomb, one that has been untouched for over five hundred years, they found a small cache of burial goods. Among them was a sealed terracotta amphora, perfectly preserved in the dry sand." He looked up at Alex.
"Inside, they found several small, shriveled, dark objects. The local experts have no name for them. They look like nothing more than strange, lumpy, dried-out roots." He took a shaky breath. "They are being sent to you under heavy armed guard. They will be here within the fortnight."
He had found them. Or rather, a ghost of them. The last, mummified, seemingly dead remnants of a crop that had been extinct in the Old World for centuries. Now he faced an even greater, more impossible challenge: trying to bring a dead plant back to life.