Dies Iovis, Quartus Decimus Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Thursday, 14th Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The air in the smaller Solarium chamber, often used for less formal Imperial audiences, felt charged with a restrained anticipation. Four days had passed since Alexander had first broached the idea of meeting Senator Gallus Cicero to his mother. In that time, his physical strength had continued its upward trajectory; he now moved with an ease that belied the severity of his recent illness, though a certain carefulness remained, a reminder of the body's lingering frailty.
He sat not on a throne, but in a large, high-backed chair of dark, carved wood, cushioned with crimson velvet, placed on a low dais. It was a position of authority, yet not so overwhelmingly regal as to preclude discussion. To his right sat his mother, Empress Dowager Livia, her expression composed, her dark eyes missing nothing. To his left, at a discreet table laden with writing implements, sat Theron, the Master of Scrolls, present at Alexander's request ostensibly to record the proceedings and provide historical context if needed. Alexander knew Theron's presence also lent an air of scholarly diligence to the meeting. Two members of the Imperial Council, men Livia had vouched for as loyal and astute – Fabius Scaurus, the elderly Praefectus Annonae in charge of the city's grain supply, and Valerius Capito, the younger, sharper Quaestor Sacri Palatii responsible for palace finances – were also present, seated slightly behind and to the sides.
Alexander had spent the morning reviewing Theron's notes on Cicero: his voting record, his known associates, summaries of his more famous orations. Cicero was a veteran politician, a renowned orator from an old, respected, though not fabulously wealthy, patrician family. He styled himself a defender of ancient Roman virtues and Senatorial dignity. A dangerous combination of idealism and ambition, Alexander suspected.
The doors opened, and the Chamberlain announced, "Senator Gallus Tullius Cicero, accompanied by Senators Lucius Scribonius Curio and Marcus Porcius Cato."
Cicero entered first, a man perhaps in his late fifties, tall and somewhat gaunt, with a mane of striking white hair that fell to his shoulders. Cicero stood arrow-straight, a man clearly full of his own importance. His toga was flawless, each fold arranged just so. His sharp blue eyes swept the room quickly before they fixed on Alexander, and in that intense look, Alexander saw both the expected deference and a glint of challenge. Behind him came Curio, stout and florid-faced, known for his populist rhetoric, and Cato, younger, leaner, with the intense, unblinking stare of a zealot. This was the core of the "economic reform" caucus.
They performed the customary salutations, Cicero's bow a model of patrician grace.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Cicero began. His voice filled the chamber, smooth and practiced, clearly honed by years of holding the Senate House floor. "We are truly grateful you would see us, especially now, as you regain your health. It shows your commitment to Rome's people, and your willingness to hear the Senate's thoughts."
Alexander inclined his head slightly. "Senator Cicero. Gentlemen. The health of the Empire has been my foremost concern, even during my illness. My mother informed me of your caucus's… earnest deliberations on matters of economic import. I am here to listen." He kept his tone neutral, inviting.
Cicero visibly straightened, if that were possible. "Our worries run deep, Majesty, but the solutions we propose can, we are certain, lead Rome back to greater strength and wealth." He then began to lay out his case. Alexander kept his face intent, as if weighing every word, and from time to time, he made a brief mark on a wax tablet. He knew appearing to take notes would support the image of a young, diligent Emperor, carefully considering all counsel.
Cicero spoke eloquently of the burdens on the treasury, the "unsustainable" cost of the grain dole that fed a significant portion of Rome's urban populace. He argued that it fostered indolence and drained resources that could be better used to strengthen the legions or invest in public works. He then pivoted to the taxes on merchant enterprises and agricultural estates, claiming current rates and collection methods were stifling initiative and driving wealth into hiding, or worse, into the hands of corrupt tax farmers. His solutions were predictable: a phased reduction in the grain dole, replaced by work programs of dubious practicality; a lowering of direct taxes on land and trade, coupled with stricter enforcement against corruption – though the details of this enforcement were vague.
Curio interjected occasionally with passionate, if somewhat simplistic, appeals on behalf of the "common man" who, he claimed, would ultimately benefit from a more robust economy free of excessive state interference. Cato remained silent, his burning gaze fixed on Alexander, as if trying to will him into agreement through sheer intensity.
Alexander let them speak for the better part of an hour. He noted how Cicero's arguments, while couched in terms of public good, often aligned with the known business interests of his key supporters in the Senate. The proposed tax reductions, for instance, would disproportionately benefit the large landholders and established merchant families who formed Cicero's power base. The "work programs" sounded like a way to secure cheap labor for state projects that could then be contracted out to favored individuals. It was a classic play: present self-interest as sound fiscal policy.
Internally, Alexander dissected their points with the cold precision of a corporate auditor. The grain dole was a massive expense, a potential point of leverage or vulnerability for any ruler. But simply cutting it without a viable alternative for the urban poor was a recipe for riots, something his father's reign, according to Theron's notes, had carefully avoided. The tax system was likely inefficient and riddled with corruption, as it was in most large states throughout history. Cicero's proposed solutions, however, seemed designed more to shift the burden than to create genuine, equitable reform.
When Cicero finally paused, drawing a breath, Alexander spoke, his voice calm. "Your exposition is most thorough, Senator. You paint a concerning picture of our economic state." He turned slightly towards Fabius Scaurus, the elderly Praefectus Annonae. "Prefect Scaurus, your long years managing the grain supply must give you a clear view. Does Senator Cicero's worry about the dole's cost match your own experience?"
Scaurus, whose tired face showed the constant strain of his duties, took a moment. "Your Majesty, Senator Cicero's passion is evident. The annona is a heavy draw on our funds, that is true. It is always on our minds. But what it provides in civic peace, in the simple ability of our people to survive, is beyond measure. Any sudden or severe changes… those could bring great trouble. We look for ways to be more efficient, always." His words were measured, the careful speech of an old official caught between political forces.
Alexander nodded, then looked at Valerius Capito, the Quaestor. "And the matter of tax revenues, Quaestor? Senator Cicero suggests our current methods are counterproductive."
Capito, younger and more direct than Scaurus, replied, "Majesty, the treasury faces many demands. While I agree that dishonest tax collectors are a constant problem we fight, a broad cut to our main revenues, without solid, proven alternatives, would make it very hard for the State to pay for what it must, including the legions Senator Cicero rightly wants to see strong."
Cicero's expression tightened almost imperceptibly at these polite but firm rebuttals from the Emperor's officials. Alexander had not challenged him directly but had instead used his council members to introduce counterarguments and highlight the complexities.
"These are, indeed, weighty matters, with many interconnected factors," Alexander said, looking back at Cicero. "Your proposals for work programs, Senator. What specific infrastructure projects did you envision, and how would they be funded and managed to avoid the very inefficiencies you decry elsewhere?" He posed a practical, almost technical question, moving away from broad ideology.
Cicero, who clearly preferred grand speeches to the gritty details of how things worked, paused for just a beat too long before he started on a description of aqueduct repairs and road maintenance. He remained hazy, however, on exactly how these would be paid for or run. Alexander listened patiently, making another mark on his tablet.
The meeting went on like this for another half hour. Alexander kept asking his clarifying questions, his face giving nothing away. He pressed them on how they saw things playing out in the provinces, what they thought about the stability of the coinage, and if they'd considered how different groups of people might be helped or hurt by their ideas.
He gave no hint of his own opinions, no indication of agreement or disagreement.
Finally, he rose slightly in his chair, a subtle signal that the audience was drawing to a close. "Senators Cicero, Curio, Cato. I thank you for bringing these matters to my attention with such… conviction. You have given me much to consider. The economic health of our Empire is, as I said, paramount. I shall reflect on your counsel and discuss these issues further with the Imperial Council."
Cicero bowed again, perhaps a little less confidently than before. "We are grateful for your time, Your Majesty. We trust that our loyal desire to serve Rome will be recognized."
"All loyal service to Rome is recognized, Senator," Alexander replied, his expression unreadable.
As the senators were escorted out, Livia turned to Alexander, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Instructive, as I predicted."
"Indeed, Mother," Alexander said. "Senator Cicero is a skilled orator. And his companions are… enthusiastic."
"Cicero believes himself the conscience of Rome," Livia said, her tone dry. "He mistakes his own ambition for patriotic duty. His proposals would enrich his faction and destabilize the city, mark my words."
"His arguments regarding the inefficiency of the tax system and the potential for corruption may have some merit, however self-serving his proposed solutions," Alexander mused, more to himself than to her. He was already thinking of how he might tackle those issues, for his own benefit and the strengthening of his central control, not for the enrichment of senatorial landowners.
"Perhaps," Livia conceded. "But any reforms must be carefully managed, Valerius. And driven by the Imperial office, not by a grasping Senate faction."
Alexander nodded slowly. "My thoughts align with yours on that, Mother." He looked at the notes on his wax tablet. Cicero had revealed much: his priorities, his allies, his methods of persuasion, and his faction's vulnerabilities. The audience had been more than instructive; it had been a valuable reconnaissance. He'd heard their public positions; he could guess at their private aims. He also knew that just ignoring them, which Livia might prefer, wasn't smart. They were a real political force, no matter how flawed he found their reasons. He would have to figure out how to sidestep their opposition, maybe use some of their ideas if it suited him, or, if it came to it, break their influence entirely. But that was for later. For now, he had listened. And learned.