The news of his sister's clandestine meeting was still a cold weight in Alex's gut when the official summons arrived. A delegation of lictors, their ceremonial axes bundled in rods of birchwood, appeared at his palace gates with a formal proclamation. At the request of the esteemed Consul Quintus Metellus, the Senate was being called into a special session to address the "impending grain crisis and its impact on the state treasury."
It was a declaration of war disguised as a civic debate. Alex knew at once that this wasn't about the grain. It was about him. They were dragging him onto their home ground, into the public forum of the Curia, to put his policies—and his very authority—on trial. Maximus advised against attending, arguing that the Emperor was not obligated to answer every summons like a common magistrate. But Alex knew he couldn't refuse. To hide in the palace would be seen as weakness, an admission that he couldn't defend his own decisions. He had to face them.
He entered the Senate House for the second time, but the atmosphere was vastly different. The feigned reverence from his first visit was gone, replaced by a tense, almost electric hostility. The chamber was packed. The conspirators, led by Metellus, sat together on the front benches, their faces grim and determined. They looked like a pack of wolves that had cornered their prey. Even the neutral senators appeared anxious, caught in the crossfire of a battle they wanted no part of.
Alex took his place, standing once more before the emperor's throne, a silent observer as the session began. Metellus, in his role as Consul, did not waste time with pleasantries. He rose, his white toga seeming to shine with self-righteous indignation.
"Honorable fathers," Metellus began, his powerful voice filling the hall. "We gather today under a dark cloud. Not the threat of barbarians on the frontier—a threat our brilliant young Caesar has so ably neutralized—but a threat from within. A threat to the very financial solvency of our glorious empire!"
He paused for dramatic effect, letting his words hang in the air. "Our Caesar, in his noble and compassionate heart, has seen the plight of the common man and has taken action. He has ordered a massive release of our sacred grain reserves at a staggering cost to the state. He has promised vast tracts of land and a decade of tax exemptions to our brave veterans."
He turned, his gaze falling directly on Alex. "These are the acts of a generous spirit. No one can deny this. But I ask you, senators, I ask our Caesar a simple question: Where will the money come from?"
The question was a spear, aimed directly at Alex's perceived weakness.
"The treasury is not a magical font that never runs dry!" Metellus thundered, his voice rising with passion. "It has been drained by two decades of noble but costly warfare! Our coffers are empty! Are you proposing new taxes on the hard-working citizens of Rome to pay for these populist fantasies? Will every merchant and farmer from Britain to Judea be forced to bear the cost of this… imperial largesse?"
He had expertly painted Alex as a fiscally irresponsible amateur, a well-meaning but naive boy whose generosity would bankrupt the state. The conspirators murmured their loud approval.
Before Alex could even formulate a response, the fat landowner, Flavius, heaved himself to his feet. "And what of the blight?" he bellowed, his voice shaking with feigned piety. "Our Emperor, in his wisdom, commands us to burn the sacred gift of Ceres! To let our fields lie fallow in defiance of all tradition! This is not just fiscal madness; it is religious madness! The gods gave us the soil to till, not to scorch! They will surely punish us for such arrogance!"
Now Alex was not just an amateur; he was a heretic, a dangerous radical defying the gods themselves. One by one, other senators from the conspiracy rose to join the chorus, a coordinated assault of criticism. They questioned his authority, his experience, his wisdom. They were trying to overwhelm him, to bait him, to make him lose his temper and reveal the petulant, arrogant boy they all believed was hiding just beneath the surface of his calm facade.
Alex stood silent through it all, his expression unreadable. He weathered the storm of accusations, letting them spend their fury. When the last senator had spoken and a tense silence fell over the chamber, all eyes turned to him.
He walked calmly to the rostrum. He did not seem angry or flustered. He seemed… thoughtful.
"The honorable Consul Metellus speaks of an empty treasury," Alex began, his voice calm but carrying an edge of ice. "On this point, I am in full agreement. The treasury is empty." He let that sink in. "It has been emptied for years. Emptied by men who award themselves lucrative, no-bid contracts to repave roads that are not broken. Emptied by governors who skim profits from provincial taxes and hide their fortunes in villas in Greece."
He paused, and his eyes found Metellus in the crowd. "The Consul asks how we will fund the Veteran's Land Grant. A fair question. Perhaps," Alex said, his voice dropping slightly, "we can begin by cancelling the state contract for the new marble facade on your personal villa on the Esquiline Hill. I have reviewed the records from the public works department. An interesting expense for a city that claims to be so poor."
A collective gasp went through the Senate. It was a stunning, direct blow, backed by specific information he should not have possessed. Metellus's face went white with fury. Perennis's information was proving lethally effective.
Alex then turned his attention to Flavius. "The esteemed Senator Flavius speaks of tradition and fears the wrath of the gods. I ask him this: Was it tradition for our ancestors to watch their children starve when a solution was at hand? Did Romulus himself not defy tradition to build this very city?" He raised his voice. "My methods may seem strange to you. But they are based on a simple, ancient principle that any good farmer understands: a plague that infects a flock must be culled. A rot that infects a harvest must be burned. We will burn the sickness from our fields so that they may be reborn stronger and more fertile than before. That is not heresy, Senator. It is husbandry."
His arguments were sharp, logical, and devastating. He was winning. He could feel the mood in the chamber shifting. The neutral senators were nodding along. He had defended his policies, exposed the hypocrisy of his attackers, and asserted his authority. He was about to deliver his concluding remarks when a minor senator from a lesser family, a man named Celsus who was not part of the main conspiracy, rose respectfully.
"Caesar, if I may," Celsus said. "Your logic regarding the blight is compelling. But my family has shipping interests in Sicily. The governor's reports are unclear. Can you elaborate on the specific impact the port duties of Syracuse will have on the transport of the replacement legume seeds? The merchant families of the region are concerned."
Alex froze.
It was a simple, technical question. A detail. But it was a detail he did not have. Lyra's briefings had been high-level, strategic. She hadn't given him a granular breakdown of Sicilian shipping tariffs. His mind was a complete blank.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second too long. "The… logistics of the transfer are being handled by a commission," he said, his answer vague, non-committal. "Senator Rufus will ensure all duties are… equitable."
It wasn't a major error. To most, it was an acceptable answer. But it was a crack. A tiny fissure in his armor of absolute, unnerving competence. And one person in the chamber saw it with perfect, predatory clarity.
Lucilla.
Watching from the gallery, she saw the hesitation, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. She leaned over and whispered something into the ear of a man sitting beside her—an older, severe-looking senator known for his sharp legal mind and his pedantic obsession with procedure. The man nodded slowly.
A moment later, that senator, Lucius Scribonius Curio, rose to his feet, his hand raised.
"Caesar, a point of legal clarity, if I may, regarding your excellent edict on the Frumentarii." His voice was dry, academic. "You have stated that the new Speculatores will be an external-facing body only. However, the ancient and sacred Lex Cornelia de Maiestate, passed down to us from the great Sulla, grants the emperor's agents broad, undeniable powers to investigate any and all threats to the majesty of the state, both internal and external."
He fixed Alex with a sharp, piercing gaze. "By unilaterally restricting their mandate to external threats, are you not, in fact, illegally abdicating a sacred duty of your office as Pontifex Maximus? An office your divine father held with such reverence?"
The chamber fell silent. The trap was sprung. It was brilliant. It was obscure. It was a piece of procedural, legalistic minutiae he could never have anticipated. He was being accused, in the most technical Roman way possible, of illegally weakening his own office, of failing in his sacred duty.
He was trapped by a law he had never heard of, and the entire Senate was watching him, waiting for him to answer.