The peace that settled over Rome was the calm of a graveyard. The proscriptions had worked with terrifying efficiency. The Senate was no longer a den of vipers, but a chamber of chastened, obedient men who passed Alex's edicts with unanimous, fearful consent. The city was quiet, his power absolute. But as he looked at the maps in his study, Alex knew that the serpent he had slain in Rome was merely the tail of a much larger beast. The true head lay a thousand miles to the east, in the heart of the Parthian Empire.
He spent two full days locked in his study with Lyra. Timo, his silent guardian, stood watch outside the door, ensuring his emperor's "communion with Minerva" was undisturbed. Inside, Alex absorbed a lifetime of strategic knowledge. The laptop's battery, sustained by the constant, patient work of the thermoelectric generator, hovered at a healthy 19%, allowing Lyra to function at near-full capacity.
She presented him with a full strategic analysis of his new enemy, her screen glowing with maps of Mesopotamia, troop dispositions, and complex political diagrams.
Analysis complete, her voice stated, crisp and clear. The military of the Parthian Arsacid Dynasty is formidable, but specialized. Their power is centered on two key units: heavy cataphract cavalry, fully armored lancers who act as a shock force, and highly mobile horse archers who excel at harassment and skirmishing tactics.
Lyra displayed historical battle simulations on the screen, ghostly legions clashing with swarms of cavalry. A direct land invasion of their territory, following the path of the Euphrates, would be a logistical nightmare. The climate is unforgiving, the supply lines long and vulnerable. My projections indicate a 68% probability of failure, mirroring the historical catastrophes of Marcus Licinius Crassus at Carrhae and Mark Antony's later campaigns. A conventional war is statistically inadvisable.
"So I can't fight them head-on," Alex muttered, pacing the room. "Then how do I fight them?"
You do not fight their army, Lyra corrected. You fight their empire. Parthia is not a monolithic state like Rome. It is a loose feudal confederation. The King of Kings, Vologases IV, holds a tenuous control over a collection of powerful, rival noble houses, each with their own armies, ambitions, and ancient grievances. The empire's greatest strength—its decentralized, flexible military—is also its critical vulnerability.
The screen lit up with a political network map, showing the intricate web of alliances and rivalries between the great Parthian families. It was a tangled mess of blood feuds and ambition. An idea, cold and ruthless, began to form in Alex's mind. He would not march on Parthia. He would let Parthia march on itself.
He convened his council the next morning. When he laid out his plan, the deep divisions within his own inner circle were immediately laid bare.
"We will not declare war," Alex announced, his voice calm and decisive as he stood before the map of the East. "A war would be costly, long, and the outcome uncertain. It would drain our already strained treasury and pull our legions away from the European frontiers. It is a fool's gambit."
Senator Rufus nodded, a look of profound relief on his face. He had been dreading the announcement of another endless, bloody campaign.
"Instead," Alex continued, "we will wage a different kind of war. A shadow war. We will not send legions. We will send gold, whispers, and weapons. We will use Parthia's own internal divisions against them. We will find the most ambitious and discontented of their nobles, and we will secretly fund and encourage their rebellion against their king."
The relief on Rufus's face curdled into pure horror. "Caesar!" he gasped, his voice trembling with indignation. "You cannot be serious! You speak of funding rebellions? Of inciting civil war in a neighboring empire? This is the work of assassins, spies, and criminals, not Roman statesmen! It is dishonorable! The proper course of action is to send a diplomatic envoy to Ctesiphon. We will present King Vologases with the proof of Metellus's treason and demand reparations. We will act as a state of laws, not as a band of shadowy provocateurs!"
Maximus, who had been listening with a grim intensity, let out a short, sharp snort of contempt. "Diplomacy is the weapon you use when you cannot win a war, Senator," the general growled. "The Emperor's plan is sound. It is strategically brilliant. Why risk a single Roman legionary's life when we can pay Parthian to kill Parthian? A divided Parthia, consumed by its own civil war, cannot threaten Rome. It is the purest form of victory."
The two men glared at each other, the soldier's ruthless pragmatism clashing with the statesman's code of honor. Alex then turned to the other two members of his council.
Perennis was practically vibrating with excitement. This was the world he came from, the game he understood better than anyone. Whispers, secret gold, turning allies against each other—it was like poetry to him. "The general is correct, Caesar," he said, his voice a low, eager hiss. "A brilliant strategy. My network already has contacts in the trading cities of Dura-Europos and Palmyra. We can have agents in Ctesiphon within two months."
Sabina, ever the pragmatist, saw the plan not through the lens of honor or espionage, but of economics. "Parthia controls the primary overland routes of the Silk Road," she noted, her eyes alight with calculation. "A civil war would shatter their control. The trade routes would become chaotic. In that chaos, an organized power—namely, Rome—could step in to 'stabilize' the region. We could divert the flow of silk and spices through our own provinces in Syria, taxing it and controlling it. The potential profits for the Roman treasury are… immense."
The council was split, two for and one vehemently against. Alex listened to their arguments, but his mind was already made up. Rufus's moral objections were noble, the ideals of a better world. But Alex lived in this one, a world of hard choices and necessary evils.
He looked at the old senator, his expression unyielding. "Senator, your belief in the honor of states is admirable. But we have proof that Parthia has no such honor. They tried to burn our house down with a traitor's hand. I will not send a polite letter of complaint in response. I will burn their house down from within before they can try again."
He turned to the others, his voice now crisp with command. The debate was over. He was giving orders.
"This will be a three-pronged attack," he declared. "Sabina, you will command the economic war. I want you to use your network of merchants and bankers. I want you to disrupt their economy. Lyra has provided me with the metallurgical analysis of their silver drachms. We will mint counterfeit currency, indistinguishable from their own, and use it to flood their eastern markets. We will devalue their money and sow financial chaos."
Sabina's eyes widened. It was financial warfare on a scale never before imagined. She smiled, a wolfish, predatory grin. "A fascinating challenge, Caesar."
"Perennis," Alex continued, "you will handle the political destabilization. As you said, get your agents into Ctesiphon, into Susa, into Ecbatana. Find me the hungriest, most ambitious noble. The one who hates King Vologases the most. Make contact. Offer him a future on the throne, backed by the gold of Rome."
Perennis bowed low, his face alight with purpose. "I will bring you your rebel king, Caesar."
"And you, Maximus," Alex said, turning to his general. "Your Speculatores will have the most dangerous job. You will not engage in direct combat. Your mission is threefold: map every Parthian fortress and military road on the border, identify their weaknesses, and, once Perennis has found our candidate, your men will be the ones to secretly train and supply his rebel army. You will turn a mob of feudal levies into a disciplined fighting force capable of challenging the King of Kings."
Maximus nodded, his face set like stone. "We will be your invisible legion, Caesar."
The plan was in motion. It was ruthless, dishonorable, and brilliant. As the others prepared to leave, eager to begin their dark work, Senator Rufus remained. His face was a mask of deep, profound sorrow.
He approached Alex after the others had gone. "Caesar," he said, his voice heavy. "I have supported you. I defended you in the Senate. I believed you were a new hope for Rome, a return to the virtues of your father." He shook his head slowly. "But proscriptions… and now this… this war of shadows. I fear the man I chose to support is vanishing, replaced by something colder and harder."
Alex looked at his most honorable advisor, the moral compass of his council, and felt a pang of something he could almost call regret. But he crushed it. The new reality demanded a new kind of emperor.
"The man you chose to support was a naive imposter who would have gotten you all killed on the Danube frontier," Alex said, his voice as cold and hard as polished marble. "I am the man who gets things done, Senator." He held the old man's gaze. "I suggest you decide, and quickly, which one you prefer to serve."
The chasm between them had just become unbridgeable. Rufus bowed stiffly, not with the warmth of an ally, but with the cool formality of a subordinate, and left the study without another word. Alex was left alone with his ruthless, necessary plan, having just silenced the last, best voice of his own conscience.