The Curia Hostilia was buzzing like a disturbed hornet's nest. The air within the Senate House, usually thick with a drowsy sense of self-importance, was charged with a nervous, predatory energy. Senators gathered in tight-knit clumps, their whispers rustling like dry leaves. Rumors, the true currency of Rome, had been flowing like cheap wine: the Emperor was secluded, his grand agricultural project a silent failure, the legions on the Danube restive. For the first time since Alex's brutal consolidation of power, the scent of vulnerability was on the wind, and the old wolves were beginning to stir.
At the center of this web of speculation sat Publius Helvius Pertinax. He was an island of tranquility in a sea of anxiety. He didn't partake in the whispers. He didn't need to. He simply sat in his place, his back ramrod straight, his expression one of sober dignity. He received the subtle nods and respectful glances from his colleagues with a grave, almost imperceptible inclination of his head. He had become the silent repository of their hopes, the living symbol of the old, stable Rome they yearned for. He was the sun to the Emperor's strange, unnerving shadow.
When the heavy bronze doors swung open, a hush fell over the chamber. Alex entered. He was not flanked by his usual retinue of hulking German guards, a move that would have projected fear. He was not preceded by lictors clearing his path. He walked in alone, his stride measured and confident, his purple-bordered toga seeming to draw all light and attention to him. He radiated an aura of absolute, unbothered command that was in itself a weapon. He let the silence stretch, forcing every man in the room to focus entirely on him, before he ascended the rostrum.
"Honorable Senators," he began, his voice calm and clear, carrying effortlessly to the furthest corners of the Curia. He did not shout; he compelled them to listen. "I have come to speak to you today about success."
He paused, letting the unexpected word hang in the air, a hook cast into the waters of their intrigue.
"I speak not of my own successes. Not of battles won or treaties signed. I speak of a success that has blossomed here, in the heart of Rome. The success of one of your own. A man who, while others debated theory, acted on reality. While others schemed for position, he served the people."
He slowly turned his gaze, sweeping it across the rows of seated senators until it landed, with deliberate weight, on Pertinax. The older man sat bolt upright, his face a mask of iron control, betraying nothing.
"Prefect Pertinax," Alex declared, his voice ringing with what sounded like genuine admiration. "Your work on the Aqua Marcia has not gone unnoticed by the throne, nor by the people of Rome. You have given water to the thirsty. You have restored a vital artery of this great city. You have reminded us all what true Roman virtue looks like, not in words, but in deeds."
A wave of profound confusion washed over the Senate. This was praise, effusive and public. It was the opposite of the rebuke they had expected. Pertinax, caught off guard, could only offer a stiff, formal nod of acknowledgement, his mind clearly racing to decipher the Emperor's angle.
"Such service," Alex continued, his voice swelling with magnanimity, "is a resource too precious to be confined to a single office. Such talent is wasted on aqueducts and street patrols alone, important though they may be!" He raised his voice, making a grand, sweeping gesture to encompass the entire chamber. "Therefore, by my authority as your Emperor, I am today promoting Publius Helvius Pertinax. I am naming him the new head of the Cura Annonae Imperialis—the Imperial Grain Trust!"
Stunned, absolute silence descended. Jaws literally hung open. The Cura Annonae was not just another title; it was the office responsible for the procurement and distribution of the entire food supply for the city of Rome. It controlled the grain fleets from Egypt, the vast public granaries at Ostia, the entire logistical network that kept the million-strong population from starving. In practical terms, it was the second most powerful position in the Roman state, second only to the Emperor himself. Alex had just handed his greatest political rival the keys to the kingdom.
Alex smiled, but it was not a warm smile. It was the thin, sharp smile of a seasoned chess master who has just placed his opponent in an inescapable check.
"Who better to manage the people's bread than the man who has already given them water?" he asked the silent room, the logic seemingly unassailable. "Lord Pertinax will have my full authority. He will command the grain fleets. He will manage the imperial granaries. He will oversee the fair and just distribution of all foodstuffs to the citizens of this city."
Then came the masterstroke. The venom carefully mixed into the celebratory wine. Alex's eyes locked onto Pertinax's, and his voice became hard as iron.
"And his first, most vital task," he declared, ensuring every senator heard the weight of the responsibility being transferred, "will be to oversee the successful and timely distribution of the coming harvest from my new imperial farms. A harvest of unprecedented size, which promises to end the threat of famine in this city forever."
The trap was sprung, elegant in its brutality. Publicly, Alex appeared confident, magnanimous, a ruler so secure in his power that he could lavishly reward the competence of a potential rival. He had embraced the people's hero, making Pertinax's cause his own.
But privately, every man in that room, from the lowest quaestor to the most senior patrician, understood the terrifying reality of what had just occurred. Alex had brilliantly shackled Pertinax to his own most pressing and volatile problem. The mysterious, rumored-to-be-failing "miracle grain" was now Pertinax's responsibility. If the grain distribution succeeded, the glory would be shared with the Emperor who had discovered it. But if it failed—if there were riots, if the grain was tainted, if the people starved—it would no longer be the distant, god-like Emperor on the Palatine who would be blamed. It would be Pertinax, the man in charge of the granaries, the man whose hands were on the scales, who would face the feral wrath of the Roman mob. Alex had not given him a promotion; he had handed him a crown of thorns, a poisoned chalice offered on a golden platter.
Pertinax rose slowly to his feet, the silence in the Curia so absolute it felt like a physical pressure. Every eye was on him. He knew it was a trap. He saw the jaws of it closing around him with terrifying clarity. But he also knew he could not refuse. To do so would be to admit weakness. It would show fear. It would be a public declaration that he was unwilling to accept the sacred responsibility of feeding Rome, instantly shattering the very foundation of his populist support. He would go from being the "Servant of the City" to a coward in the space of a single breath. He was caught.
His face was a mask carved from stone, his dark eyes betraying a flicker of grudging, hateful respect for the young Emperor's political savagery. He inclined his head in a deep, formal bow.
"I accept this great honor, Caesar," Pertinax said, his voice dangerously level, a controlled volcano of fury. "I will serve Rome, as is my duty."
The two men locked eyes across the floor of the Senate House. They were no longer just rivals circling one another. They were now symbiotic enemies, chained together at the wrist, engaged in a political death match where the prize was Rome itself.