Dies Saturni, Sextus Mensis Iunii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Saturday, 6th Day of June, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The disappearance of the night watchman Crixus had, as Alexander anticipated, caused barely a ripple in the vast ocean of the Imperial palace's daily life. A man of his low rank, with few connections, would not be widely missed, or his absence long remarked upon. Titus Pullo, Scaeva's hired operative, had apparently been efficient. Alexander had not asked for details of the "permanent removal," nor did Scaeva offer them. Results were what mattered.
Alexander sat in his study, the early morning sun casting long stripes across the mosaic floor. Before him lay Scaeva's preliminary report on General Marcellus – a compilation of official commendations, legionary dispositions, and known senatorial associates. It confirmed Marcellus as a formidable military figure with a strong power base. The more pressing matter, however, was the lingering infection within the palace itself: Piso, the junior cellarer.
Scaeva entered, looking more composed than he had after the interrogation of Crixus. The grim necessities of his new role were perhaps settling upon him, forging a harder edge. "Your Majesty," Scaeva began, "our surveillance on Piso has continued." "Report," Alexander commanded, his voice quiet.
"Piso was visibly agitated for the first day after Crixus failed to appear for his duties," Scaeva stated. "He made several discreet inquiries among other lower servants as to Crixus's whereabouts, but none knew anything. He then attempted, twice, to visit The Broken Oar in the Transtiberim. My operative, Pullo, who now has a presence there, reported that Piso seemed terrified and did not actually enter the tavern, merely loitered nearby before returning to the palace."
"He's running scared," Alexander observed. "Did he try to contact anyone else? Within the palace or outside?"
Scaeva shook his head. "Not directly, Majesty. However, yesterday evening, he was observed attempting to burn several small scrolls in a brazier in a disused storage room near the cellars. One of my newer men, a former bathhouse attendant I've cultivated who has access to such areas, noticed the smoke and intervened subtly, feigning a routine check. He managed to retrieve some partially burned fragments before Piso could destroy them completely." Scaeva carefully laid out a few charred, brittle pieces of papyrus on the table.
Alexander leaned forward, his eyes sharp. Most were too damaged to read, but one fragment, larger than the others, contained a few legible words in a crude hand: "…Volcatius demands full quittance… silver shipment overdue… the medicus's package…"
Medicus. Physician. The physician's package. This was new. This was not just stolen silver or old histories. A physician's package, handled by a gang leader like Volcatius, passing through the palace cellars… the implications were deeply unsettling. It could mean anything from illicit drugs to, far more ominously, poisons.
"Piso was burning this," Alexander said, his voice dangerously soft. "And he was the one who had access to the lesser archive rooms, who passed scrolls to Crixus for Volcatius." He looked up at Scaeva. "This 'physician's package.' Did Crixus mention anything of this?"
Scaeva looked troubled. "No, Your Majesty. He spoke only of silver and old scrolls. If there was something more valuable, or more dangerous, Crixus was either not privy to it, or he was too terrified of Volcatius to speak of it even under duress."
"Or Piso handled that part of the operation himself," Alexander concluded. The boy was clearly more than just a petty thief; he was a knowing accomplice in something far more serious. The "headache tonic" vial Elara had reported now took on a more sinister connotation.
"Majesty," Scaeva said, his voice hesitant, "Piso is now a significant liability. If Volcatius or his Tiber Rats suspect Crixus has talked, or if Piso himself panics and confesses to the wrong person…"
"He will not have the chance," Alexander stated, his decision made with cold finality. Piso, the frightened, greedy fool, had outlived his usefulness as bait and had revealed himself to be entangled in something that could touch Alexander's own safety. The "unseen blade" needed to strike again, quickly and silently. "Scaeva, this Titus Pullo and his associates. Are they capable of… ensuring Piso also disappears from the city? Without a trace, without any connection to us?"
Scaeva met his Emperor's gaze. The ruthlessness there was unclouded. This was not a request; it was an order, a test of Scaeva's own hardening resolve. "They are capable, Your Majesty. Piso is of low rank, few friends. His disappearance, if handled correctly, would cause little stir beyond his immediate family, if he even has any in Rome."
"Handle it, then," Alexander commanded. "Tonight. I want this entire smuggling ring within the palace – Piso, any other low-level collaborators Crixus or Piso might have named that you haven't told me about – excised completely. I want a report by dawn that it is done. And I want Titus Pullo and his men generously compensated from my private purse and then… encouraged to find employment far from Rome, perhaps in one of the rougher frontier provinces. Their continued presence in the city after rendering such services could become… inconvenient." He was already thinking several steps ahead, ensuring loose ends were tied up, that the instruments of his will did not themselves become future liabilities.
"I understand, Majesty," Scaeva said, his face pale but his voice firm. He was learning the cost of direct Imperial service. "And Volcatius? The Tiber Rats?"
"For now, they remain outside our immediate reach without a more overt operation," Alexander said. "But I want them watched. I want to know who this Volcatius truly serves, if anyone beyond his own greed. The 'physician's package' troubles me. That thread must be followed, however carefully." He paused. "This task for Pullo, regarding Piso and his ilk. You will oversee it, Scaeva, but you will not participate directly in the… physical aspects. Your value to me is your mind, your discretion, your ability to manage. Do not dull those assets with work better suited to rougher hands." He was protecting his developing agent, shaping him for more sophisticated tasks.
Scaeva bowed deeply. "Your wisdom guides me, Majesty."
After Scaeva left to carry out his grim orders, Alexander allowed himself a moment of bleak satisfaction. The internal rot was being cut out. It was brutal, yes, but necessary. His past life had taught him that sentimentality in the face of threats, internal or external, was a fatal weakness. He had been betrayed by those he trusted, those he considered friends. He would not make that mistake again. Loyalty would be cultivated, but it would always be verified, and any hint of treachery would be met with swift, decisive, and silent retribution.
Livia found him later that day, her expression conveying a mixture of concern and curiosity. "There are… whispers, Valerius," she began, "that a night watchman named Crixus has vanished without a trace. And some of the lower servants are uneasy. Do you know anything of this?"
Alexander met her gaze coolly. "The palace is a vast place, Mother. Men of low rank come and go. Perhaps he found more lucrative employment, or fled gambling debts. Unless Prefect Varro or the Captain of the Guard bring me a formal report of some consequence, I cannot concern myself with every missing menial." He was testing her, too, seeing how much she knew, or suspected.
Livia held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Of course, my son. You have far weightier matters to attend to." She did not press further, but Alexander sensed she understood more than she let on. She was a creature of the palace, after all; she knew its hidden currents. Her willingness not to probe further was, in itself, a form of tacit approval, or at least acceptance of his need to act as he saw fit to secure his rule.
The Council reports were due in little more than a week. Their contents would lay bare the true state of the Empire's finances, its administration, its military. That would be the bedrock upon which he would build his true agenda. Dealing with Piso and Crixus was merely clearing away some of the debris around the foundation. The larger threats – the ambitious General Marcellus, the maneuvering Senator Cicero, the systemic weaknesses of the Roman state – still loomed.
But as Alexander looked out over the city of Rome that evening, the setting sun bathing its ancient stones in blood-red light, he felt a sense of grim resolve. He was no longer just the boy Valerius. He was Alexander Volkov, armed with the knowledge of one life and the power of another. The unseen blade was his, and he was learning precisely where and when to use it. The sands of power were indeed shifting, and he would be the one to dictate their new patterns.