The news of the Triumph hung in the air of the carriage, a gilded threat. General Maximus scowled, his instincts immediately recognizing the political machinations behind the honor. A Triumph was the greatest spectacle Rome could offer, a parade of conquest and glory. It was also a logistical nightmare and a political minefield.
"A trap," Maximus grunted, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "They seek to define you before you have even spoken a word in the Curia. They will shower you with laurels to see if you are foolish enough to believe you earned them."
Alex nodded, his mind already racing. He turned to the laptop, which he had discreetly placed on the seat beside him. The battery was a terrifyingly slim line of green: 17%. He had to be surgical with his queries.
"Lyra," he subvocalized, his gaze fixed on the decoded message. "Analyze the political implications of the Triumph. What are my optimal responses?"
"General Maximus's assessment is correct," Lyra's voice replied in his ear, her analysis instantaneous. "The Triumph is a classic political maneuver designed to force you into a predefined role. It creates a lose-lose scenario. Option A: You accept it greedily. This confirms their narrative that you are a vain, glory-seeking boy, no different from the historical Commodus. You alienate the old guard loyal to your father's stoic principles. Option B: You refuse it humbly. They will then paint you as weak, un-Roman, and disrespectful of the Senate's honor. This would be perceived as an insult and would cost you political capital."
"So I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't," Alex muttered under his breath, a phrase that was becoming the mantra of his new life.
"Caesar?" Maximus asked, catching the quiet words.
"A difficult choice, General," Alex said, covering his consultation with the AI. "How do I fight an enemy that attacks me with honors?"
"You cannot fight them in Rome yet, for you are not there," Maximus said, his brow furrowed. "And you cannot refuse the will of the Senate from afar without causing a crisis."
"The General is framing the problem incorrectly," Lyra interjected. "You cannot counter their narrative. Therefore, you must overwhelm it with a new, more compelling one. They are trying to define you as a general. We will define you as a statesman before you ever set foot in the city. We will launch a pre-emptive information campaign."
The idea was brilliant. It was modern political strategy applied to an ancient empire. Don't play defense. Go on the attack. Seize the narrative.
Alex looked up, a new fire in his eyes. "You are right, General. We cannot fight them in Rome. So we will fight them from here. We will use the very speed they fear against them." He turned to Perennis, who had been standing silently, his face a mask of nervous obedience. "Prefect, your network of couriers. I will need your fastest riders. They will carry my will to Rome."
For the next hour, Alex transformed the command carriage into a war room for a new kind of conflict. With Lyra providing the strategic framework and Perennis offering insights into the key players and political fault lines of Rome, Alex dictated a series of imperial edicts. Each was a precisely aimed volley in a war of words, designed to land in Rome long before he did and shape public opinion in his favor.
"First," Alex declared, his voice crisp and decisive. "The Edict of Veteran's Reward." He began to dictate the terms, which Lyra had helped him model for maximum impact and minimal cost. "By the authority of Caesar Lucius Aurelius Commodus Augustus, all legionaries who have served their full twenty-year term and fought with honor in the recent Marcomannic Wars shall be granted a plot of land—twenty iugera—from the state-owned ager publicus in the province of Pannonia. Furthermore, they will be granted full exemption from the poll tax for a period of ten years."
Maximus's eyes widened. This was an act of incredible generosity, a move that would earn the undying loyalty of every common soldier in the army and their families back home.
"Caesar, the treasury…" the General began, concerned.
"The lands I have designated are currently underutilized," Alex said calmly, parroting Lyra's analysis. "Settling them with loyal veterans will increase their productivity, strengthen our border provinces, and the long-term tax revenue will far exceed the short-term cost. It is not an expense, General. It is an investment."
Next, he turned his attention to the volatile populace of Rome itself. "The second edict," he announced. "The Annona Reform Commission. By imperial decree, I hereby establish a commission to conduct a full and transparent audit of the entire grain supply, from the fields of Egypt to the docks of Ostia. Its findings will be made public." He then named the man who would head it: Servius Rufus, a famously incorruptible, if somewhat dull, senator who had been a close friend of his father's.
Perennis's eyebrows shot up. This was a direct strike at the heart of senatorial corruption. Dozens of powerful men skimmed profits from the grain dole, a practice that kept them rich and the populace perpetually on the edge of a bread riot. By launching this commission, Alex was positioning himself as the champion of the common Roman, the fiscally responsible administrator dedicated to their welfare. It was a masterful political stroke.
"These edicts must be dispatched at once," Alex commanded. "But that is only the first wave." He looked at Perennis, his eyes cold. "Your other agents, the ones who trade in whispers and rumors. They have work to do as well."
He then laid out the second phase of the campaign: a series of carefully crafted stories to be "leaked" to the bathhouses, the forums, and the street-corner gossips of Rome. Perennis, the master of such dark arts, listened with a horrified awe, recognizing the work of a genius far beyond his own.
The stories were simple but effective. Tales of the new emperor's pious, three-day fast to honor his father. Whispers of his brilliance in creating the revolutionary "Aurelian Marching Order," which had made the army faster and healthier than at any time in living memory. Anecdotes, likely embellished, of how he spent his evenings studying his father's philosophical treatises and military histories, rather than indulging in the expected feasts and wine.
He was creating a myth. He was building an image of a new Augustus, a second Marcus Aurelius, a figure of profound seriousness and competence. By the time he arrived in Rome, the city would already have an image of him, one painted by his own hand, not by the Senate.
The couriers were dispatched that very night, galloping south with their precious scrolls, a volley of words aimed at the heart of the empire. Alex had seized control of the narrative.
Days later, as the army marched through the foothills of the Alps, another rider arrived, this one having pushed his horse nearly to its death to reach them. The news he brought from Rome was electric.
Perennis decoded the message with trembling hands. "Caesar," he said, his voice filled with disbelief. "It is working beyond all expectation. The Edict of Veteran's Reward has been read to the legions stationed in Italy. They are hailing you as a true soldier's emperor. The grain commission has thrown the Senate into chaos. Your chosen man, Rufus, has accepted the post, and a half-dozen of the most corrupt senators are already trying to obstruct him, which is only making them look guilty. The common people… they are calling you 'Commodus the Just.'"
Alex allowed himself a small, grim smile of satisfaction. The plan had worked. Round one was his.
But Perennis hadn't finished. His face grew pale as he read the final lines of the decoded message. "There is more, Caesar. A new development. A more… personal one."
"What is it?" Alex asked, his smile fading.
"The Augusta Lucilla… your sister… she is not fooled," Perennis said, his voice dropping. "The message says she has dismissed these edicts and the stories as 'uncharacteristic theater.' She is impatient. She refuses to wait for your Triumph in Rome." He looked up, his eyes wide with alarm. "She is riding out from the city with her personal Praetorian cohort to meet you on the road. She says she wants to see this 'new brother' for herself, with her own eyes."
The news landed with the force of a physical blow. The game of long-distance chess was over. The primary antagonist, the person who knew the real Commodus best, the one person he could not easily deceive with grand gestures, was coming to him. The confrontation he had dreaded most was now just days away, unavoidable, on the open road.