Chapter 115: The Future of Rome

September 10, 221 AD, The Curia Julia, Rome.

The grand, halls of the Curia Julia, the traditional and sacred seat of the Roman Senate, had never felt so small.

Normally, a Senate gathering was a chaotic, theater of shouting aristocrats and performative debate.

Today, however, every single patrician, regardless of how vast their foreign estates were or how ancient their bloodline claimed to be, sat in absolute silence.

They looked like frightened schoolchildren, not daring to whisper a single word to the men sitting beside them.

The news was apocalyptic.

Legate Rufinus, commanding the finest, most heavily armored heavy infantry the empire possessed, had been annihilated on the plains of Arausio.

The supply depots in the caves of Massilia had been burned to ash, and the supposedly invincible Roman vanguard had been reduced to fertilizer by explosive sorcery.

It was only at this exact moment that the wealthy, insulated elites of Rome finally understood the threat posed by the Syndicate.

For the first time in their pampered lives, the patricians felt genuine fear.

At the center of this silence stood Consul Valerian, the de facto ruler of the state while the current Emperor wallowed in the ignorant excesses of the imperial palaces.

The ministers and treasury officials were trembling in their white togas, wishing Valerian would scream, throw a goblet, or execute a messenger.

Anything would be better than the emotionless void in the Consul’s dark eyes...

Finally, Valerian broke the silence.

"General Drusus," Valerian said, his gaze fixed straight ahead, staring at nothing. "I require you to conscript four new legions from the Italian countryside immediately."

The command sent a visible shock through the Senate floor.

The empire’s manpower was already stretched incredibly thin.

Decades of brutal border skirmishes, relentless plagues, and the recent massive deployment to Gaul had drained the provinces of able-bodied men. F

urthermore, the Roman populace was no longer blindly eager to march to their deaths for the glory of the Senate.

It was already an open secret in the taverns of Rome that marching against the Forge Master’s heavy artillery was a guaranteed death sentence.

General Drusus stepped forward, looking deeply uncomfortable, but he bowed his head.

"Yes, Consul. I will begin drafting the edicts—"

"A moment, if you please, General."

The sudden interruption shocked the entire room.

The senators turned their heads so fast their necks cracked, eager to see who possessed the suicidal courage to interrupt the Consul in this mood.

It was Marcellus, the Prefect of the Imperial Treasury.

Understanding the intense, murderous glare of the military men, Marcellus raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I apologize for the sudden interruption, General Drusus. I mean absolutely no disrespect to the military command, you must believe me."

Drusus let out a dismissive snort, but he stepped back, allowing the Treasury Prefect the floor.

Marcellus turned to the Consul.

He was terrified of Valerian’s dead eyes, but he forced himself to speak the grim truth because he felt the situation spiraling out of control.

"Consul Valerian, esteemed Senators, I beg you to reconsider this mass conscription," Marcellus pleaded. "The imperial economy is on the verge of absolute collapse. We have permanently lost the immense tax revenues of the Gallic and Iberian provinces. Worse, the Egyptian grain fleets have been entirely intercepted by the rebel navy."

Marcellus took a shaking breath. "Currently, we barely have enough silver in the vaults to pay the Praetorian Guard. If we forcefully conscript forty thousand desperate men without the ability to pay them or feed their families, we will trigger a catastrophic domino effect. The imperial treasury will default, and these new, starving legions won’t march north to fight the Syndicate. They will riot and sack Rome itself."

Most of these men knew absolutely nothing of complex economic theory, but they all clearly understood the brutal math of hungry soldiers.

An unpaid legion was infinitely more dangerous than an invading army...

They looked to Consul Valerian, waiting for his ultimate judgment.

Valerian’s expression didn’t change a fraction.

"I will not rely on the imperial treasury," Valerian stated. "I am officially suspending the Marian Reforms. I am granting the patrician houses the authority to recruit, arm, and field their own private legions, using any means and any wealth they personally possess."

For centuries, ever since the dying days of the late Republic, the central government had stripped the wealthy nobles of their ability to raise private armies, fiercely centralizing all military power under the Emperor to prevent civil war.

Now, Valerian was covertly handing that absolute power back to the aristocracy.

The message was crystal clear:

*Use your private vaults to buy mercenaries and arm your slaves, and you will command them.*

The joy on the faces of the regional governors and patrician families was impossible to hide...

They had just been handed the ultimate prize.

Even though Valerian added a caveat that the private armies would technically fall under the overarching strategic command of General Drusus, the patricians didn’t care.

Once they controlled the swords, they controlled the Senate.

The looming terror of the Syndicate was momentarily eclipsed by the intoxicating promise of absolute military power.

However, Marcellus and the administrative bureaucrats were horrified.

They were the administrative shareholders of the centralized state.

By handing military authority back to the individual noble houses, the power of the central bureaucracy was completely gutted.

Their ledgers meant nothing if the aristocrats had swords.

But Marcellus was looking far beyond his own lost influence...

He knew exactly what this short-sighted policy would do.

It would certainly create a terrifyingly well-funded army to throw at the Syndicate. It would solve the immediate financial crisis by draining the private vaults of the elite.

But in the long term?

If they somehow managed to defeat the Forge Master, Rome would fracture instantly.

Dozens of privately funded warlords would immediately turn their swords on each other, tearing the empire apart in a bloodbath of endless civil war.

Marcellus could not let it happen...

"Consul, you cannot do this!" Marcellus shouted, stepping bravely into the center of the floor. "This will destroy the empire from within! I beg you to reconsider—"

"That is enough," Valerian interrupted.

Valerian didn’t even look at the Prefect. He merely flicked his wrist toward the doors. "Take him to the dungeons."

The entire Senate gasped as four Praetorian Guards marched forward without hesitation, grabbing Marcellus by the arms.

Even though Marcellus had served the treasury faithfully for decades, not a single patrician stood up to defend him.

"Consul, you are making a fatal mistake!" Marcellus screamed as he was dragged backward across the floor. "Think of the future of Rome! Please!"

His pleas echoed through the halls, growing fainter and fainter as he was dragged down into the darkness of the Palatine holding cells...

The regional patricians and General Drusus looked away, exchanging greedy, satisfied glances.

With a single decree, the warlords and the central administrators became mortal enemies.

With the sole voice of opposition removed, the Senate hastily drafted the edicts, permanently ending the career of the Treasury Prefect.

Unknown to the arrogant men sitting in the Curia Julia, this single decision by Consul Valerian would briefly push the Roman military to the absolute peak of its numerical strength, creating the largest, most heavily funded army the world had ever seen.

However, this sudden surge in power was exactly what would guarantee their ultimate doom...

Acting as the poison that would eventually cause the Roman Empire to completely disintegrate.