Alex's victory against the coup had bought him security, but it had not bought him peace. In the weeks that followed, a new kind of war began, a war not of swords but of whispers. It was a campaign far more insidious and far more brilliant than a simple assassination attempt, and he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that it was his sister's handiwork.
The report came from Perennis, whose network of spies and informants served as Alex's eyes and ears in the city's teeming underbelly. The Prefect, now bound to Alex by a chain of fear and self-preservation, had become frighteningly efficient.
"It is a new narrative, Caesar," Perennis explained, his voice a low conspiratorial murmur during their morning briefing. "It began in the bathhouses of the Esquiline, spread to the forums, and now it is being whispered by senators in the porticos of the Curia. It is not about your policies. It is about your soul."
Alex listened, a cold knot forming in his stomach. "What is the story?"
"There are… variations," Perennis said, clearly uncomfortable. "The most common version suggests that the divine spirit of your father, Marcus Aurelius, was so profoundly disappointed in the… character of his son that he has refused to grant you his divine blessing from the heavens. They say the gods have intervened."
"Intervened how?"
Perennis hesitated. "Some versions claim the gods have punished you for your past sins and hedonism by 'emptying your mind,' leaving a hollow shell to rule. A man without a true spirit. Others, the more fanciful versions popular in the Subura, whisper that you are possessed by a lemur, a wandering, joyless ghost. They say that is why you no longer frequent the games, why you have lost your taste for wine and celebration."
Alex felt a cold fury rise within him. It was a masterful, diabolical attack. Lucilla couldn't prove he was an imposter from the future, an idea so outlandish no Roman would ever conceive of it. So she was building a new narrative, a supernatural explanation for his radical change in personality. He wasn't an imposter; he was a defective, unholy, or empty version of the real Commodus. It was a rumor that was impossible to fight directly. How does one prove they are not possessed by a joyless ghost? It was designed to sow doubt, to undermine the divine legitimacy that was the bedrock of an emperor's authority.
He didn't have to wait long for her to press her advantage. A formal invitation arrived the next day. The Augusta Lucilla, in her great piety and love for her brother, was sponsoring a major public sacrifice at the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitoline Hill. The ceremony was to "pray for the Emperor's continued health, wisdom, and the favor of the gods."
It was a public trap, and he had no choice but to walk into it. As Pontifex Maximus, the chief priest of Rome, his attendance and participation were mandatory. To refuse would be an admission that the rumors were true, a sign of impiety that would horrify the populace.
The day of the ceremony was bright and clear. The Capitoline Hill was thronged with people, a sea of onlookers held back by the city's Vigiles. Alex, dressed in the heavy, ornate robes of the Pontifex Maximus, felt a hundred thousand eyes on him. He saw Lucilla standing near the great altar, looking serene and pious, her ally Sabina at her side. He saw Senator Metellus and his faction, their faces models of feigned reverence. They were all here to watch him fail.
The ceremony began. The air grew thick with the smoke of incense and burning cedar. A flawless white bull, its horns gilded, was led to the altar. The chief priest of Jupiter's college of pontiffs, a stern old patrician named Flaccus who was a known ally of Metellus, began the rites. He guided Alex through the complex rituals—the washing of the hands, the sprinkling of salted flour on the victim's head. Alex performed each action with a practiced, solemn grace, his mind a whirlwind of memorized facts from a scroll he had studied all morning.
Then came the crucial part. The great prayer. It was his duty as Pontifex Maximus to lead the invocation to Jupiter, a long and ancient prayer passed down through the centuries, filled with archaic language and obscure divine epithets. The scroll he had studied gave him the gist, but Lyra's crash course had never covered the specific, word-for-word text of every major Roman religious ceremony.
He began, his voice strong and clear, echoing across the silent square. He recited the opening lines flawlessly, calling upon the protection of the gods for the Senate and People of Rome. He felt a flicker of confidence. He could do this.
He came to the central passage, the part where he was to invoke Jupiter by his most powerful and sacred titles. "…and we call upon you, greatest of the gods," he intoned, his memory searching for the archaic phrase. He remembered the title for Jupiter as the leader of armies. "We call upon you, Jove Imperator…"
He faltered. The chief priest, Flaccus, who stood beside him, stiffened almost imperceptibly. A low murmur went through the assembled senators. Alex knew instantly he had made a mistake, but he didn't know what it was. He tried to push on, but the damage was done.
When the prayer was finally over and the bull was sacrificed, Flaccus approached him. The old priest's face was a mask of pitying condescension. "A moving prayer, Caesar," he said, his voice just loud enough for the nearby senators to hear. "Though, in this context, when asking for the stability of the city, the proper invocation is to Jove Stator—Jupiter the Stayer. A minor point of theology, of course. The gods surely understand a heart filled with piety, even if the words are… imprecise."
It was a public humiliation, delivered with the smiling face of a helpful correction. It was a devastating blow. To the common people in the crowd, it meant nothing. But to the priests, the senators, the educated elite, it was a glaring, unforgivable error. It was like a Christian pope forgetting the words to the Lord's Prayer. It was proof. Not of an imposter, but of an emperor who was not in his right mind, an emperor who was disconnected from the sacred traditions of his own office.
Alex saw the look of pure, triumphant satisfaction on Lucilla's face. She had won. She had engineered a public test of his legitimacy, and he had failed it. The rumors of the hollow emperor, the joyless ghost, now had a piece of solid, public evidence to anchor them. The whispers would grow into a roar.
He returned to the palace in a state of cold, quiet fury. He felt shaken, outmaneuvered. He had fought off assassins with swords and politicians with logic, but how could he fight this? How could he fight a war of faith and perception?
Maximus was enraged. "This is an insult to your divinity, Caesar! The priest Flaccus must be arrested for his insolence!"
"And what would be the charge, General?" Senator Rufus countered, his face grim. "Correcting the Emperor's grammar? We cannot win this fight with force. This is an attack on belief itself."
Alex waved them both to silence. He felt trapped, cornered by an enemy he couldn't see and a weapon he couldn't counter. In a fit of sheer, desperate frustration, he stalked out of the study and down the long, silent corridors to his secret workshop.
The strange, jury-rigged contraptions sat in the dim light, dusty and silent. The amber friction cylinders. The thermoelectric plates. He had all but given up on them. For weeks, his servants had dutifully cranked the handles and tended the fires, and for weeks, nothing had happened. The project felt like a fool's errand.
He walked over to the table where the dead, black laptop lay. A thin copper wire ran from the assortment of strange devices to the laptop's charging port. He stared at it, a monument to his fading hope. He didn't know what else to do. He had no plan. He had no clear path forward.
All he could do was try. He re-checked the connections, ensuring the wire was secure. He called for a servant to bring fresh coals for the brazier. He laid his own hands on the crank of the amber cylinder, ready to begin the slow, arduous process himself. It was a silent vigil over a dead machine. A prayer for a scientific miracle he didn't know if he still believed in.