I Rule Rome with a God-Tier AI-Chapter 151: Breaking Ground

The Roman sun beat down on the Subura, but its rays barely penetrated the narrow, winding alleys, failing to dry the perpetual dampness of the gutters or dispel the rank smell of human life packed too tightly together. This was the beating, bleeding heart of the city's plebeian masses, a chaotic maze of towering, rickety insulae, noisy taverns, and crowded market stalls. It was a place of vibrant, desperate life, and it was here that the first battle of Alex's holy war was to be fought.

A full cohort of the Legio II Augusta, the "Augustan Legion," marched into the district in perfect, disciplined columns. The sound of their hobnailed caligae on the worn cobblestones was a strange, unwelcome rhythm in a place accustomed to the cacophony of shouting merchants and crying children. These were battle-hardened veterans of the British frontier, men who had faced down painted Iceni warriors in misty forests. Today, their armor was replaced with simple wool tunics, their shields and pila left in the barracks. In their hands, they carried not the gladius, but the pickaxe, the shovel, and the heavy sledgehammer.

The citizens of the Subura watched their arrival with a deep, ingrained suspicion. They peered from the windows of their teetering tenement blocks and from the mouths of dark, uninviting alleyways. The presence of the army in the city streets, far from the frontier, usually meant one of three things: a riot was being suppressed, a political purge was underway, or a new emperor had just seized the throne and was securing his power. None of them were good omens.

The legionaries halted in a small, crowded piazza. Their centurion, a broad-shouldered, pragmatic officer from Gaul named Longinus, surveyed the scene with a grim expression. His orders were clear: secure this square and begin excavation for the first major junction of the new sewer network. The engineering diagrams provided by Master Celer were a model of clarity. The human reality, however, was a chaotic mess. The piazza was choked with market stalls selling everything from cheap wine to fly-blown fish, and a river of people flowed through it, a current that would not be easily diverted.

"Clear the square!" Longinus bellowed, his voice accustomed to being heard over the din of battle. "Official business of the Emperor! All stalls and carts are to be removed immediately!"

His order was met not with compliance, but with a wave of angry defiance. A belligerent butcher, a thick-necked man with arms like hams, planted himself in front of his cart of bloody carcasses and brandished a meat cleaver. "I've paid my taxes for this spot!" he roared. "The Emperor won't see a single denarius from me if I can't sell my meat! Go find some other street to dig your ditch!"

Others quickly joined his protest. A baker screamed that her ovens would go cold if the legionaries blocked her access to the wood delivery carts. A tavern owner swore he'd lose a week's profit. Insults and refuse began to rain down from the tenement windows above. The local gang leaders, lounging in the shade of a crumbling fountain, watched with predatory amusement, seeing this intrusion by state power as a direct challenge to their own unofficial authority over the neighborhood. The situation was rapidly escalating, threatening to turn into a full-blown riot before a single stone was moved. Longinus's men formed a defensive line, their hands instinctively moving to the short swords on their belts.

Just as the centurion was contemplating a tactical withdrawal to avoid bloodshed, a new sound cut through the din: the clatter of heavy cavalry hooves. A small contingent of Praetorian Guards, their plumed helmets and gleaming armor a world away from the legionaries' simple work clothes, trotted into the square, parting the crowd like the bow of a ship. Behind them, riding a magnificent black warhorse, was General Gaius Maximus.

He was the Shield of Humanity, the Emperor's Sword, the hero of the Danube. He radiated an aura of calm, unshakeable authority that years of command had forged into his very being. He didn't shout. He didn't draw his weapon. He simply dismounted, handed the reins to a guard, and strode into the heart of the standoff. He walked directly toward the belligerent butcher, who suddenly looked much less intimidating.

Maximus surveyed the angry crowd, his gaze sweeping over them, taking in their fear, their poverty, and their defiance. When he spoke, his voice was not the angry bellow of a commander, but the powerful, resonant boom of a true believer addressing his flock.

"Citizens of Rome!" he began, his voice easily carrying over the muttering crowd. "Look around you! Look at the filth in your streets! Smell the sickness in the air! The gods have blessed us with the greatest city in the world, but we have allowed the forces of chaos and decay to fester in our very homes!"

He paused, letting the uncomfortable truth of his words sink in. "The Divine Emperor Commodus, in his wisdom, has seen this spiritual sickness. He has seen the plague that it breeds, the weakness that it sews in the hearts of our children. And he has commanded that it be PURGED!"

He turned and pointed a mailed fist towards the silent, disciplined legionaries. "These men are not here as soldiers today! They are not here to oppress you or to disrupt your lives! They are here as priests of iron and stone! They are the vanguard of a holy war against the pestilence that has haunted this city for generations! They are here to bring the gift of clean water—a gift from the gods themselves—to every man, woman, and child in this district!"

His voice rose to a crescendo, filled with a fiery conviction that was utterly genuine. "To stand in their way is to embrace the sickness! It is to stand against the will of the gods! It is to stand against the future health of your own children! Make way for the Emperor's work! Make way for the purification of Rome!"

The speech was a masterstroke of the new state theology. It transformed a disruptive public works project into a divine crusade. The crowd, stunned by the general's presence and stirred by his powerful rhetoric, fell silent. The butcher lowered his cleaver, his expression shifting from anger to confusion.

It was in that moment of stunned silence that the centurion, Longinus, saw his opening. He stepped quietly to Maximus's side. "General," he murmured, his voice low. "Your words have moved them. But their bellies are still empty. If we simply tear up their street, they lose their livelihood for months. It is a holy work, but a man cannot feed his family on piety alone."

"What do you propose, Centurion?" Maximus asked, recognizing the practical wisdom in the man's words.

"We make them part of the project, not its victims," Longinus said. "We have the funds. Let us offer to pay them. A day's wage from the project's treasury for every shopkeeper forced to close. It will cost us little, and it will buy us their compliance. And we can hire their sons as laborers. Pay them a fair wage to dig alongside my men. Let them build their new Rome with their own hands."

Maximus looked at the centurion, a flicker of deep respect in his eyes. This was the perfect synergy: the high-minded divine purpose delivered from the top, and the practical, human compassion applied on the ground. "Do it," Maximus commanded. "See that it is done."

Longinus walked back to the butcher, who was still standing uncertainly by his cart. "You," the centurion said, his voice now calm and reasonable. "You will be paid ten denarii for your lost business today. And your boy there," he nodded towards a lanky teenager lurking behind the cart, "he looks strong. He can earn five denarii by sunset working with my men. What say you?"

The butcher stared, his mind struggling to process the offer. Ten denarii was more than he would make in three days of selling meat. He looked at his son, then at the disciplined legionaries, then at the imposing figure of the great General Maximus. The dam of resistance broke. With a grunt, he grabbed the handles of his cart and, with his son's help, began to wheel it away.

His action triggered a chain reaction. The baker, the tavern owner, the fishmonger—all seeing a chance for payment instead of poverty—began to clear their stalls. The first, small battle in the war against decay had been won, not just with authority and faith, but with a simple, practical act of compassion.

Maximus stood watching, a grim but profound satisfaction on his face as the sound of pickaxes striking cobblestones began to echo through the Subura. The purification of Rome had begun. Not with blood, but with sweat, stone, and silver.