The heavy oaken doors of the Grand Council chamber creaked shut behind Senators Gaius Lepidus and Senator Marcus Pollio, the echoes reverberating down the marbled hallway. Both men walked in silence at first, their footsteps brisk, their faces dark with barely-contained fury. Servants and guards stationed along the corridor instinctively averted their gazes, sensing the storm brewing around the two senators.
Once they reached a secluded alcove near the atrium, Lepidus rounded on Pollio, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “This is intolerable! That insolent boy and his so-called ‘reforms’! He’s gutting us, Marcus. Gutting Rome! And these spineless cowards we call allies? They sit there, mute as fish, when we needed them most.”
Pollio’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. He struck the nearest pillar with the flat of his hand, the sound reverberating through the space. “Not one of them dared to speak out! Not one! They let him dictate terms like a petty tyrant, and now we’re the ones left to pick up the pieces. Our estates, our influence, our rights – all sacrificed on the altar of his so-called justice.”
Lepidus sneered, his lips curling back like a cornered wolf. “Justice? Do not mistake his sanctimony for principle. This is about consolidating power. Stripping the Senate of its authority, making us beggars in our own empire while that brat parades as Rome’s savior.”
“And no one will challenge him,” Pollio spat, pacing in tight circles. “Not after that botched assassination. Curse those fools we trusted! They couldn’t stab a cornered boy without botching it. Now, every senator loyal to us is cowering, afraid to even whisper dissent. Do you see how they looked at us today? Like we carry the plague.”
Lepidus crossed his arms, his mind churning. “They’re cowards. Every one of them. They care more about preserving their estates than preserving Rome. But we—we were not made to be shadows, Marcus. This empire needs leadership. It needs us, not some pretender propped up by auditors and priests.”
Pollio stopped pacing and turned to face Lepidus, his eyes blazing. “And what do you propose? We cannot so much as gather without drawing suspicion. Even the bloody Church stands behind him! He’s boxed us in, Lepidus.”
“For now,” Lepidus said, his voice steady but his tone dangerous. “But boxes are meant to be broken. He’s young, arrogant. These reforms? They’re ambitious—too ambitious. They’ll unravel. And when they do, we will be there to remind Rome who truly holds power.”
Pollio’s anger remained unabated. “And what do we do in the meantime? Smile and nod while he seizes our wealth, empowers auditors to crawl through our ledgers, and lets farmers dictate terms to their betters?”
Lepidus’s sneer deepened, the veins on his temple pulsing with restrained fury. “Smile and nod? Do you think I take pleasure in swallowing this bile? No, Marcus. But we must play the long game. Let him have his fleeting triumph. The boy is gathering firewood for his own pyre. And when it burns, we’ll ensure it’s bright enough for all of Rome to see.”
Pollio, still pacing like a caged lion, growled through gritted teeth. “You speak of patience, Lepidus, but it grows thinner by the day. How can we wait when traitors like Quintus Marcellus crawl at his feet? Did you see him today? Not a whisper of protest. He sat there, nodding like a trained dog, licking the crusts from the emperor’s plate!”
Lepidus laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Marcellus… A man of his lineage reduced to this. A vulture feeding on scraps. He’s sold his dignity for a few promises of safety and a glimmer of influence in the emperor’s new order.”
Pollio snarled. “Safety? Influence? He sold us out, Lepidus! All of us! His silence gave that whelp of an emperor the confidence to push these reforms unchecked. Marcellus was supposed to stand with us, to uphold the Senate’s authority, to preserve Rome’s traditions. Instead, he chose to bow to a child!”
“And for what?” Lepidus added, his voice low and venomous. “For a few kind words? A handful of exemptions for his estates? He’s a fool if he thinks the emperor’s mercy will last. The boy is young, but he is not soft. Marcellus will learn—too late—that traitors are useful only until the crown no longer needs them.”
Pollio stopped pacing and turned sharply, his face a mask of disgust. “And these so-called advisors of his! Farmers and craftsmen whispering in the emperor’s ear as if they have any right to steer the course of Rome. He elevates them—them—to positions of influence while men like us are left to rot in the shadows. It’s an insult!”
Lepidus’s sneer turned into a grimace. “The emperor calls it wisdom. He parades them as ‘the voice of the people,’ as if the rabble knows anything of governance. These plebeians—men who should be grateful simply to till the soil or hammer iron—now claim to shape policy? This is what Rome has come to?”
Pollio’s voice rose, echoing through the alcove. “And we thought we had stopped it! We blocked their entry into the Grand Council, kept them from defiling its dignity with their filth. But no—those wretches slithered into the emperor’s confidence instead. Now, instead of speaking from the floor, they whisper behind closed doors, poisoning his mind with their peasant drivel!”
Lepidus’s expression darkened further, his voice low but seething with malice. “Do you think it was their craft alone? No, Marcus. It was the emperor’s design. He let us think we had won, let us believe we’d protected the Council from their influence. And all the while, he invited them to his table, gave them his ear, elevated them above us. Above us!”
Pollio slammed his fist against the pillar again, the crack of flesh on stone punctuating his words. “It should have been us, Lepidus. Men of standing, men of Rome. Not these lowborn vermin. We have the experience, the wisdom, the lineage. And yet we are sidelined, while these… these nobodies dictate the future of the empire!”
Lepidus stepped closer, his eyes glinting with cold determination. “Do not forget who we are, Marcus. We are Rome’s foundation. Let the boy stack his house of cards. It will fall. It must fall. And when it does, the Senate—the true Senate—will rise again.”
Pollio met Lepidus’s gaze, his fury tempered only by the faintest flicker of resolve. “Then we must act. Not recklessly, not like before, but decisively. We cannot let him reshape Rome in his image. We must be ready to strike when the time is right.”
Lepidus glanced around the corridor, his sharp eyes scanning the passing servants and guards. The palace bustled with activity, but no one lingered long near the two senators, their dark mood an invisible force repelling onlookers. Satisfied they were not overheard, Lepidus leaned closer to Pollio.
“Not here,” he murmured. “We need privacy.”
Pollio nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. Without another word, Lepidus strode down the corridor, his pace brisk and determined. Pollio followed, his steps echoing on the marble floors as they exited the palace through a side entrance.
Outside, the cool evening air did little to temper their fury. Lepidus’s carriage awaited them—a finely crafted vehicle adorned with understated yet elegant gilding, a reminder of his status. The driver, a stoic older man, inclined his head as the two senators approached.
“To my residence,” Lepidus ordered curtly, climbing into the carriage. Pollio followed, slamming the door behind him as he settled into the cushioned seat. The carriage lurched forward, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone providing a steady backdrop to their simmering anger.
For a while, neither man spoke, the tension between them thick and palpable. Finally, Pollio broke the silence.
“Do you think anyone suspects us?” he asked, his tone clipped.
Lepidus scoffed. “Suspects? Perhaps. But proof? None. The assassination attempt was a failure.”
Pollio scowled. “Yet here we are, skulking through the city like common criminals while that whelp sits on his throne, playing emperor. It’s intolerable.”
Lepidus didn’t reply immediately, his gaze fixed on the passing streets. The grandeur of the imperial palace gave way to the quieter elegance of the patrician quarter, where his estate lay. The carriage slowed as they approached the high gates of Lepidus’s residence, flanked by two guards in polished armor. They saluted as the senators disembarked.
“Inside,” Lepidus said, his voice low but commanding. “We need to speak freely.”
The two men entered the mansion, its marble floors and intricate mosaics reflecting the flickering light of oil lamps. Servants bowed as they passed, swiftly retreating to leave their master and his guest in peace. Lepidus led Pollio to his private study, a spacious room lined with shelves of scrolls and adorned with maps of the empire.
Once the heavy door shut behind them, Lepidus poured two cups of wine from a silver decanter, handing one to Pollio before seating himself behind the desk. Pollio remained standing, his restless energy keeping him on his feet.
“We cannot go on like this,” Pollio began, his voice sharp with frustration. “The emperor tightens his grip with every passing day. This tax reform is only the beginning. He’ll bleed us dry, Lepidus. And our so-called allies? They do nothing! Marcellus, that groveling fool, has abandoned us entirely.”
Lepidus swirled the wine in his cup, his expression grim. “Marcellus has chosen his side—for now. But do not mistake his cowardice for loyalty. He serves himself, not the emperor. When the tide turns, he’ll grovel at our feet as readily as he does at the boy’s.”
“And if the tide doesn’t turn?” Pollio demanded, slamming his fist onto the desk. “What then, Lepidus? Do we wait until we’re stripped of everything? Our wealth, our estates, our dignity?”
Lepidus set his cup down, his gaze steely. “No. We act. Carefully, decisively. And I might know the person we need. Crassus.”
Pollio frowned, his brow furrowing. “Crassus? Orestes’s lackey? What good is he to us?”
Lepidus leaned forward, his fingers steepled, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Crassus is far more than Orestes’s lackey. He is ambitious—hungry for influence and status. He’s tethered to Orestes now because that’s where he sees opportunity, but we both know Orestes’s grip is weakening. Crassus is clever enough to sense that. If we approach him carefully, show him a path to something greater, he might just listen.”
Pollio’s skepticism was evident in the furrow of his brow. “And what makes you think Crassus won’t use us as pawns? Men like him are loyal only to themselves.”
Lepidus smirked, swirling the wine in his cup before taking a measured sip. “That is precisely why he’s valuable. Crassus is no ideologue. He does not care for the emperor’s vision or Orestes’s schemes. He cares for power, and we can offer him a piece of the future—if we play this right.”
A few days later, in the dimly lit study of Lepidus’s grand mansion, the soft glow of oil lamps cast a warm, flickering light over the polished marble floors and dark wood shelves lined with scrolls and tablets. The air smelled faintly of wine and parchment. Sitting comfortably in an elegantly upholstered chair, Senator Gaius Lepidus exuded calm authority, his finely woven toga impeccably draped.
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Across from him sat Crassus, the ambitious advisor of Orestes, his sharp features and calculating gaze betraying little. Marcus Pollio stood nearby, his arms crossed, a scowl etched into his face as he leaned casually against the desk.
The tension in the room was palpable, but the conversation remained polite—a delicate dance of veiled words and hidden intentions. Lepidus swirled his cup of wine slowly, his gaze fixed on Crassus with an expression of practiced neutrality. Pollio’s presence loomed near the desk, his arms crossed, his eyes flicking between the two men.
Crassus, for his part, wore a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other lightly holding his own cup. “I must say, Senator Lepidus, your invitation was… intriguing. It’s not often that we have the luxury of such a private and civilized discussion.”
Lepidus inclined his head slightly, his voice smooth. “Civilized discussions are the foundation of Rome’s greatness, Crassus. Unfortunately, they seem increasingly rare in these uncertain times.”
Crassus raised an eyebrow, his tone lightly amused. “Uncertain, yes, but also… dynamic. The emperor’s energy, his reforms—some might call it a revitalization.”
Pollio snorted, unable to contain his disdain. “Revitalization? Is that what you call stripping the Senate of its authority? Or perhaps you’re referring to empowering peasants and craftsmen while men of lineage are sidelined like common beggars?”
Lepidus held up a hand, his tone measured. “Marcus, let us not be overly hasty. I am sure Crassus appreciates the complexities of governance. After all, he serves as Orestes’s most trusted advisor. A man in such a position must surely see the broader picture.”
Crassus’s smile tightened slightly, but he remained composed. “Indeed, Senator. One must see beyond immediate grievances to the potential of what might come. Rome is… evolving, as it always has.”
“Evolving,” Lepidus echoed, his voice carrying the faintest edge. He leaned forward slightly, placing his cup on the table. “An interesting choice of words. But evolution is rarely kind to tradition, is it? One must wonder how far evolution should be allowed to go before it becomes… unrecognizable.”
Crassus tilted his head, his gaze sharpening as he studied Lepidus. “And what, Senator, do you believe should be preserved?”
Pollio interjected, his voice brimming with suppressed anger. “The principles that made Rome great! The Senate, the nobility, the rightful order of things. Not this charade of reforms that elevates rabble and undermines those who have dedicated their lives to Rome’s prosperity.”
Crassus turned to Pollio, his smile faint but pointed. “Strong words, Senator Pollio. But words alone rarely change the course of history. Actions, alliances—these are the true levers of power.”
Lepidus nodded slowly, a calculating glint in his eyes. “Precisely, Crassus. Words are fleeting, but actions endure. Which is why I believe men like us—those who understand the delicate balance of power—must tread carefully. Rome’s stability depends on it.”
Lepidus paused for a moment, studying Crassus’s reaction, his expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate calm, he leaned back in his chair, setting his cup of wine aside. His tone softened, almost conversational, yet laden with implication.
“Stability is a delicate thing, Crassus,” Lepidus began, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest of his chair. “It requires more than decrees and reforms. It requires the alignment of those who understand Rome’s true foundations—men with experience, resources, and a shared vision for what the empire should be.”
Crassus tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, though his smile remained intact. “A shared vision, you say? That is an intriguing thought, Senator. But visions can be... subjective. What is it you imagine this shared vision entails?”
Pollio shifted uncomfortably, his scowl deepening. His eyes darted to Lepidus, clearly caught off guard by the unfolding exchange. Lepidus, however, seemed entirely at ease.
“It entails,” Lepidus said slowly, his gaze fixed on Crassus, “ensuring that Rome remains governed by those who understand her intricacies. Her history. Her soul.” He allowed the words to hang in the air before continuing, his voice now carrying a slight edge. “The emperor’s ambitions, while commendable in their vigor, are... idealistic. Youthful. But youth has its limits. Rome demands experience.”
Crassus’s smile faltered for the briefest moment, his sharp mind catching the subtle shift in tone. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled. “Experience is indeed valuable, Senator. But experience alone does not guarantee progress. Sometimes, the old ways must give way to something new.”
Lepidus inclined his head, acknowledging the point with a faint smile. “True. But progress need not come at the expense of Rome’s stability—or the men who have dedicated their lives to maintaining it.”
Pollio finally broke his silence, his voice tense. “What Lepidus means, Crassus, is that there are many—myself included—who find the current trajectory deeply concerning. And we are not alone. There is a growing discontent among the Senate, the landowners.”
Crassus raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Discontent, you say? That is... an interesting observation.”
Lepidus leaned forward slightly, his tone taking on a conspiratorial edge. “Discontent, Crassus, can be a powerful force. It can destabilize, yes—but it can also realign. Properly channeled, it can lay the foundation for something far more enduring.”
Crassus studied Lepidus carefully, the wheels in his mind turning. “And what, precisely, are you proposing, Senator? Speak plainly.”
Lepidus allowed a faint smile to cross his lips. “Plainly? Very well. I propose that men of vision—men like us—consider what Rome truly needs. If the emperor’s direction proves untenable, there must be an alternative. Someone with the respect of the Senate. The resources to command loyalty. The ambition to guide Rome into a new era.”
Pollio’s mouth fell open, his shock evident. “Lepidus—” he began, but his voice faltered as he looked between the two men.
Crassus, too, seemed momentarily taken aback, though he quickly masked it with a thoughtful expression. “An alternative, you say?” His voice was calm, but there was a glint of something in his eyes—a spark of ambition beginning to surface. “That is... a bold proposition, Senator.”
“Bold times demand bold solutions,” Lepidus replied smoothly. “And bold men to see them through. Men who can unite the discontented factions. Men who understand that stability requires strength, not sentimentality.”
Crassus leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And such a man... you believe he could count on support? Resources? Perhaps even troops?”
Lepidus’s smile widened ever so slightly. “Hypothetically, such a man would not stand alone. There are many—wealthy, influential, and disillusioned—who would rally behind a leader they could trust. Financial support, logistical backing... even military aid. All these things could be arranged, provided the vision aligns.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Lepidus’s words settling over them like a heavy cloak. Pollio remained frozen, his mouth slightly agape, while Crassus appeared lost in thought, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his chair.
Finally, Crassus spoke, his voice measured. “You paint an intriguing picture, Senator. But such decisions cannot be made lightly. They require... careful consideration.”
Lepidus let the silence linger, his calculating gaze never leaving Crassus. Then, with a deliberate motion, he leaned forward, his fingers interlocking on the polished desk between them. His voice was calm, yet it carried a weight that made both Pollio and Crassus sit a little straighter.
“Of course, careful consideration is essential,” Lepidus said smoothly. “But so is timing. Opportunities, as you well know, do not wait for us to deliberate endlessly. They appear briefly—like the flicker of a torch in the wind—and vanish just as quickly. I would hate for us to miss such an opportunity.”
Crassus’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly, the glimmer of curiosity mingling with suspicion. “And what opportunity do you propose we might seize, Senator?”
Lepidus allowed a faint smile, measured and deliberate. “The emperor is bold, perhaps too bold. His reforms stretch the fabric of Rome to its limit. The Senate grumbles. The landowners stew in resentment. Even the foederati, whose loyalty was bought by Orestes with gold and land, grow restless. This is not a stable foundation—it is kindling waiting for a spark.”
Pollio, still recovering from his earlier shock, cleared his throat nervously. “And you believe we can... provide that spark?” he asked, his voice faltering slightly.
Lepidus ignored Pollio for a moment, his attention fully on Crassus. “Not a spark,” Lepidus corrected. “A steady flame. A beacon, if you will. One that can guide Rome back to stability and strength.”
Crassus leaned forward slightly, his fingers still steepled. “And this beacon, I presume, is not the Senate?”
“No,” Lepidus replied, his tone crisp. “The Senate is fractured, hesitant. It lacks the cohesion and decisiveness Rome needs. But a single figure—a man of ambition, resourcefulness, and vision—could rally those discontented factions. With the right backing, he could bring order to chaos.”
Crassus tilted his head, his curiosity now fully engaged. “Hypothetically, such a man would require significant backing. Gold. Troops. The allegiance of key players. Do you believe these things could materialize?”
Lepidus’s smile widened slightly, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “I believe they already exist. Men like Marcus and myself represent only a fraction of the influence ready to align with a leader who shares our vision. We control estates, wealth, and the loyalty of those disillusioned by the emperor’s rule. Thirty thousand solidi could be made available to such a man—enough to turn the foederati to his side, as Orestes once did.”
Pollio’s eyes widened in shock, and he struggled to keep his composure. Crassus, on the other hand, remained composed, though his fingers ceased their drumming. His gaze sharpened, and a faint smile played at the corners of his lips.
“And troops?” Crassus asked, his tone measured.
Lepidus leaned back slightly, as if weighing his words carefully. “Troops can be... arranged. Five hundred militia, drawn discreetly from our estates and those of our allies. They would not be seasoned veterans, but they would be enough to secure key positions when the time comes.”
Pollio, unable to contain himself, blurted out, “Lepidus! This is—”
“Necessary,” Lepidus interrupted sharply, his gaze cutting to Pollio like a blade. “It is necessary, Marcus. The emperor tightens his grip with every passing day. If we do not act now, there will be no one left to act.”
Crassus’s smile grew, though it remained enigmatic. “And this hypothetical man,” he said slowly, his tone almost playful, “he would have to move quickly, I imagine. Before the emperor’s reforms take root and his grip becomes unbreakable.”
Lepidus nodded, his expression serious. “Precisely. The window is narrow, Crassus. Decisions must be made soon—very soon.”
For a long moment, the room fell silent again, the tension palpable. Crassus studied Lepidus carefully, his sharp mind undoubtedly calculating the risks and rewards of such an offer. Finally, he leaned back, his smile faint but unmistakable.
“Your offer is intriguing, Senator,” Crassus said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of ambition. “I will give it the consideration it deserves. But rest assured, I understand the importance of timing.”
Lepidus inclined his head, his smile returning. “That is all I ask, Crassus. Consideration, and perhaps... action. Rome’s future may depend on it.”
Crassus stood, his movements deliberate and composed. “A fascinating discussion, Senators. I thank you for your hospitality and candor.”
Lepidus rose as well, extending a hand. “The pleasure is ours, Crassus. Let us hope this is the beginning of a fruitful understanding.”
Crassus clasped Lepidus’s hand briefly, his smile never wavering. “Perhaps it is.”
With that, Crassus turned and left the study, his footsteps echoing softly down the marble hallway. As the door closed behind him, Pollio turned to Lepidus, his face a mix of shock and incredulity.
“Lepidus,” Pollio hissed, “thirty thousand solidi? Troops? Do you realize what you’ve just—”
“I know exactly what I’ve done, Marcus,” Lepidus interrupted coolly. “And if Crassus is half the man I believe him to be, so does he.”
A tense few days passed in the wake of Crassus’s departure. The grand halls of Lepidus’s mansion, usually alive with the quiet bustle of servants and the murmur of political intrigue, now felt oppressively silent. Pollio, unable to mask his unease, spent much of the time pacing or glaring at the study’s closed doors, muttering sharp rebukes about Lepidus’s audacity. Lepidus, on the other hand, remained composed, his face a mask of careful detachment as he waited.
The message came late in the evening, delivered by a courier whose tunic bore no insignia—discretion being paramount. Lepidus opened the small scroll with deliberate precision, his expression betraying nothing as he read. Pollio hovered nearby, his fingers twitching with anticipation.
“Well?” Pollio demanded, his voice taut with barely suppressed urgency. “What does it say?”
Lepidus took a deep breath, setting the scroll down on his desk before meeting Pollio’s anxious gaze. “Crassus has reached out to the foederati,” he said, his tone measured but carrying a weight that sent a chill through the room. “He awaits their answer.”
Pollio’s eyes widened. “He’s actually done it,” he whispered, as if the gravity of the situation had only now fully dawned on him. “Do you realize what this means, Lepidus? If the foederati agree—”
Lepidus silenced him with a sharp glance, then slowly stood, the flickering light of the oil lamps casting long shadows across his face. He picked up a cup of wine from the table, swirling it absently as he stared into the distance. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low but laced with a quiet intensity.
“Alea iacta est.”
The Latin phrase hung in the air like a sword suspended by a thread, its meaning unmistakable. The die is cast. There was no turning back.