Alex knelt in the damp soil of the Empress's garden, the morning sun warming his back. He stared at the tiny green sprouts as if they were the most precious jewels in the imperial treasury. And, in truth, they were. Each fragile shoot, pushing its way defiantly through the dark earth, represented a power greater than any legion, a wealth more profound than any gold mine. It was the power of survival.
The elation that surged through him was immense, a giddy, light-headed relief that almost made him laugh aloud. It had worked. His impossible, desperate gamble on a dead root and a ghost of a memory had paid off. For a moment, he allowed himself to bask in the pure, unadulterated triumph of it.
Then, the cold, hard reality of his situation reasserted itself. He counted them. Nine. Nine fragile, infant plants. This wasn't a harvest that could feed a city. This was a genetic archive, a tiny, irreplaceable seed bank. It was everything, and it was also next to nothing. The famine was a raging inferno, and he was holding a single cup of water. He needed to turn that cup into a river, and he needed to do it faster than nature intended.
He rushed back to his study, his mind racing. Timo, his silent, watchful guardian, saw the look on his face and simply bowed, stepping aside to let him pass. Alex went straight to the laptop. The thermoelectric generator had become part of the room's daily ritual, the coals tended, the water refreshed, feeding a constant, life-saving trickle into the machine. The battery icon hovered at a low but stable 3.4%.
"Lyra," he said, his voice urgent. "The tubers have sprouted. Nine viable plants have emerged. I need an emergency agricultural acceleration plan. Now."
Acknowledged, Lyra's voice replied, her systems still running in a low-power state that made her responses feel more deliberate. Analyzing horticultural data. Standard propagation from these nine initial plants will be too slow. Awaiting the natural tuber production for a full harvest would take a minimum of one full growing season. My projections indicate widespread societal collapse, including major riots and military desertions, within four months. We cannot wait for a natural harvest.
"So what do we do?" Alex demanded. "How do we speed it up?"
We must abandon traditional methods and create an optimal growth environment, Lyra explained. We must accelerate the growth cycle of the existing plants and simultaneously maximize propagation from every part of the plant structure. We need to build a greenhouse.
"A greenhouse?" Alex asked. "With what? I don't have glass."
Glass is not a necessity. The objective is to trap heat and humidity. Thinly scraped and oiled parchment, stretched across a wooden frame, will be a sufficient substitute. It will be translucent, allowing sunlight to pass through while retaining a stable, warm, and humid micro-climate. The screen displayed a simple but effective design.
Furthermore, Lyra continued, we cannot rely on the garden soil alone. We must augment the plants' nutrient intake. We will create a hydroponic growth solution.
"A what? A growth potion?"
A precise description. We will mix a solution of water with carefully measured amounts of key minerals. Saltpeter, which your military uses for preserving meat, is an excellent source of nitrates. Crushed animal bones, from the palace kitchens, will provide phosphates. And simple wood ash is rich in potassium. These three macronutrients will dramatically accelerate leafy growth.
"Faster growth is good," Alex said. "But I still only have nine plants."
That is the final step, Lyra said. Vegetative propagation. We cannot just wait for the plants to produce more tubers. That is the slow path. As the plants grow, we will take cuttings from their stems and leaves. If these cuttings are placed in the nutrient solution under the high-humidity conditions of the greenhouse, they will grow new roots. Each cutting will become a new, genetically identical plant. Using this method, we can theoretically turn one plant into twenty or more within a single month. We will multiply our stock exponentially before we even have a first harvest.
The plan was brilliant, a perfect synthesis of scientific principles applied with Bronze Age technology. It was his only path forward.
He knew instantly that he could not do this alone. The work required a delicate touch, meticulous attention to detail, and, above all, absolute secrecy. There was only one person he trusted enough, one person who had already been brought into the outer circle of his secrets.
He found Sabina in her new office in the wing of the palace he had assigned to the Fiscal Reform Commission. She was surrounded by scrolls and abacuses, already deep in the process of untangling Rome's labyrinthine finances. She looked up as he entered, a questioning arch to her eyebrow.
"Caesar," she said. "To what do I owe the honor? Has Senator Metellus's ghost come to complain about my new tax inquiry?"
"I need your help, Sabina," he said, his tone serious, dispensing with all pretense. "With something more important than taxes. Come with me."
He led her to the secluded garden, to the small plot of earth where the nine precious sprouts were pushing through the soil. He explained the situation, the desperate race against time. He told her Lyra's plan—the parchment greenhouse, the potion of ash and bone, the cutting of stems to create new life.
She listened, her expression shifting from wry amusement to skeptical curiosity, and finally to a dawning understanding of the sheer, desperate audacity of his plan.
"By the gods, Caesar," she breathed, looking from the tiny plants to his earnest face. "You are not just an emperor. You are some strange new breed of farmer-magician." She shook her head in disbelief. "A house of parchment? A potion of bone-dust? You truly believe this will work?"
"It has to," he said simply, the weight of his conviction evident in his voice. "It is our only hope."
His desperation, more than any logical argument, seemed to sway her. A flicker of her usual cynicism was replaced by a look of profound, almost compassionate gravity. "Very well, my farmer-magician," she said with a small, wry smile. "Show me what you need me to do."
That began their strange, secret collaboration. For the next week, they became co-conspirators in the most important agricultural project in the world. By day, they were the Emperor and his powerful financial advisor, engaged in the high-stakes politics of the city. But at night, they would meet in the secret garden, two shadows working by the light of a single, shielded lantern.
They built the greenhouse themselves, with the help of the silent, ever-present Timo. They constructed a low wooden frame and stretched thin, oiled goat-skin parchment across it, creating a small, translucent house that glowed with a soft, warm light from within.
They mixed the "growth potion," with Alex grinding bones and saltpeter with a pestle and mortar while Sabina, her fine silk robes protected by a rough servant's apron, carefully measured out the proportions into a large clay basin of water. They worked together with an easy, unspoken camaraderie, their earlier political sparring replaced by the quiet focus of a shared, vital task. In these stolen hours, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and growing things, Alex felt a sense of peace, a connection he had not felt with anyone since arriving in this time.
Finally, the moment came. The plants in the greenhouse, nurtured by the heat and the nutrient-rich water, had grown strong and verdant. It was time for the first cutting.
Under the lantern's glow, with Sabina watching intently, Alex selected the healthiest plant. He consulted the image Lyra had provided him, identifying the correct place to make the incision—just below a leaf node. The act felt like performing delicate surgery, his hand holding the small bronze knife with surgical precision. He made a clean cut, taking a small piece of stem with two healthy leaves.
He held the cutting in his palm. It was so small, so fragile. The future of millions rested on this tiny piece of vegetable matter.
He carefully placed the stem into a separate, smaller pot filled with the same nutrient-rich soil, and watered it with their strange potion.
"And now?" Sabina whispered, her voice filled with a tension that mirrored his own.
"Now," Alex said, placing the pot in the warmest corner of their makeshift greenhouse, "we wait. And we pray to whatever gods are listening that this little piece of stem can find the will to grow roots."
He stood up, his back aching, his hands stained with dirt. He looked at the rows of healthy parent plants and the single, tiny cutting in its own pot. He had done it. He had taken the first step on the long road to saving his city.
At that exact moment, the heavy wooden door to the garden creaked open. General Gaius Maximus stood there, his armored form silhouetted against the torchlight of the palace corridors. His face, usually a mask of grim determination, was etched with a new and alarming urgency. He did not seem to notice the strange parchment house or the work they were doing. His eyes were fixed on Alex.
"Caesar," he said, his voice a low, urgent growl that cut through the quiet night. "Forgive the intrusion. But you need to see this." He didn't offer any explanation. He simply said, with a gravity that made Alex's blood run cold, "Come with me to the western wall of the palace. Now."