I Rule Rome with a God-Tier AI-Chapter 107: The Augustan Edicts

A week after the Triumph, the euphoria in Rome had not faded. It had, in fact, deepened into a palpable sense of a new golden age. The first shipments of the Parthian tribute had begun to arrive at the port of Ostia—heavy wagons groaning under the weight of gold bullion and long barges laden with Egyptian grain, now freed up from military requisitions. The treasury, so recently on the verge of collapse, was suddenly overflowing. Alex's popularity was not just high; it was absolute, celestial. He had the kind of political capital that few emperors, even the great Augustus himself, had ever enjoyed. And he intended to spend every last ounce of it.

He convened a special session of the Senate. The mood in the Curia was utterly transformed. The usual air of cynical debate and factional squabbling was gone, replaced by an almost sycophantic eagerness. The senators, their political teeth drawn by the exile of Pertinax and their pockets soon to be lined by the influx of Eastern wealth, were ready to rubber-stamp a god's every whim.

Alex entered not as a conquering general, but as a sober statesman. He stood before them, his expression serious, his voice calm and reasoned. He was here not to celebrate, but to build.

"Honorable Fathers," he began, his voice carrying a weight of historical purpose. "Victory on the battlefield is a fleeting thing. True, lasting glory is built not with the sword, but with the law. We have secured our borders. Now, we must secure our foundations." He skillfully framed his coming reforms not as a radical new invention, but as a wise and necessary return to the past. "I have spent many nights studying the works of our first and greatest Emperor, the Divine Augustus. And in his wisdom, I have found the blueprint for a stable and prosperous Rome. It is time we returned to it."

He presented them with a series of sweeping reforms, bundled together under the grand, unimpeachable title of the "Augustan Edicts." Each edict, guided by Lyra's deep, dispassionate analysis of the core systemic flaws that had led to Rome's historical decline, was a masterstroke of political engineering. Each was designed to solve a critical, long-term problem while being almost impossible for any senator to oppose publicly.

First came the Land Reform Edict. "Our greatest strength has always been the Roman soldier," Alex declared. "But for too long, we have allowed our veterans, the very men who bleed for this empire, to return to a life of poverty and uncertainty, becoming a source of instability and ripe for the promises of usurpers." He unrolled a large map. "The vast new territories acquired in the East, the crown lands of Parthia now under our control, and the seized estates of the proscribed senators who conspired against the state, will be consolidated into a new Imperial Land Bank. From this day forward, every legionary who completes his twenty years of honorable service will be granted not a meager pension, but a full, working farm, a plot of land he and his family can call their own, for all time."

The plan was brilliant. It solved the perennial Roman problem of restless, landless, unemployed veterans, the very men who had fueled a century of civil wars. It turned a source of profound instability into a new class of loyal, property-owning citizens. How could any senator vote against "Honoring Our Veterans"? To do so would be political suicide.

Next, he presented the Currency Reform Edict. He held up two coins: an old, worn denarius from a previous reign, and a newly minted coin from his own treasury. "Look at this," he said, tossing the old coin onto the floor with a dull clink. "Debased. Clipped. Filled with more lead and tin than silver. It is a lie in metal form. A currency of deceit that fuels inflation, ruins merchants, and makes a mockery of an honest day's wage." He then held up the new coin, which gleamed in the light. "The Parthian tribute will not be wasted on frivolous games or monuments to my own vanity. It will be used to restore the honor of Roman commerce."

"I hereby decree a full recall of all old silver coinage," he announced. "A new coin, bearing the likeness of my divine father, will be minted. We shall call it the Aurelian. And each coin will have a guaranteed, state-certified, ninety-five percent purity of silver. We will give the people a currency they can trust. We will end the plague of inflation and restore faith in our economy."

Again, the move was unassailable. He was tackling the deep, structural problem of hyperinflation that had historically crippled the later empire. The merchants and the common people would adore him for it, and the senators, many of whom had profited from the old, corrupt system, dared not voice their objections.

Finally, Alex turned his attention to the most dangerous and delicate problem of all: the Praetorian Guard. The emperor-makers. The emperor-killers. "The Praetorian Guard exists for one purpose and one purpose only," he stated, his voice turning to cold steel. "To protect the sacred person of the Emperor. Yet, history shows they have too often forgotten this oath, interfering in the politics of the state and staining this city with the blood of the very men they were sworn to defend."

His reform was a masterful combination of carrot and stick. "To reward their loyalty to me and to the imperial house, I am immediately doubling the pay of every Praetorian guardsman." A murmur of approval went through the hall. This would bind the current Guard to him with chains of gold. "However," he continued, his voice dropping, "I am also signing into law an edict that formally and forever forbids the Guard from interfering in matters of political succession. Any Praetorian, from the lowest guardsman to the Prefect himself, found to be conspiring in the choice of a new emperor will be guilty of high treason, and the entire Guard will be immediately disbanded, its name and honors struck from the records of Rome in eternal disgrace."

To give the edict teeth, he announced the formation of a new, rival legion, to be named the Legio I Commodiana, who would be permanently garrisoned at a newly constructed fortress in the Alban Hills, just outside the city. They would be an elite, heavily armed force, loyal only to the Emperor. For the first time, a check and balance would exist against the Praetorians' monopoly on military power within the capital.

The Augustan Edicts were a revolution disguised as a restoration. In a single session, Alex had laid the groundwork to solve three of the most critical problems that had led to the historical fall of Rome.

Having secured the army, the economy, and his own person, he moved to the final, most radical reform. The Lex de Successione. The Law of Succession.

"Fathers," he said, his voice now quiet and somber. "What is the greatest plague to strike this city? It is not the Germans at the gates, nor the famine in the streets. It is the uncertainty of the dawn. The fear that we will wake to find the Emperor dead and the legions marching on each other to claim the empty throne. It is this fear that has bled Rome for a hundred years."

He proposed a new system, a hybrid of the two most successful methods Rome had ever known. "Like the Five Good Emperors before us, the reigning Augustus will formally adopt a chosen heir, a man of proven merit and virtue. However, to prevent the rise of another Caligula or Nero, this choice must be ratified by a two-thirds vote of this august body, the Senate."

The senators leaned forward, their minds racing. This gave them a real, tangible stake in a peaceful transition. It made them partners in the process, not just spectators or potential kingmakers for a usurper. It was a brilliant compromise.

Alex let them absorb the implications before he delivered the final shock of the day.

"And to show my own profound faith in this new era of stability," he declared, his voice ringing with purpose, "to prove that this is not a law for some distant future but for now, I will invoke it myself. I will now choose my heir and present him to you for your ratification."

A dead silence fell over the Curia. Alex was only nineteen years old. He was in perfect health. He had no children. He had no brothers. Who could he possibly choose? Every senator's heart began to pound, their ambitions and fears running wild. The future of the Roman Empire was about to be decided in the next breath.