Chapter 95: The Price of Bread
Back in Rome, Sabina waged a war with no trumpets and no marching legions. Her battlefield was the city itself, a complex, sprawling organism whose health was measured in the price of a loaf of bread. The initial, fiery patriotism for the war in the East had begun to cool, replaced by the low, familiar hum of anxiety that always accompanied a major military campaign. War was expensive, and its first and most immediate casualty was always the stability of the marketplace.
The price of grain, the lifeblood of the city, had begun to rise. It was not yet a crisis, but it was a worrying trend. With the eastern legions requisitioning vast amounts of wheat from the Syrian and Egyptian provinces, the normal, steady flow of grain ships to the port of Ostia had become less reliable. Delays were more frequent, cargo sizes smaller. The great commercial engine of Rome was beginning to feel the strain.
And this, Sabina knew, was exactly the moment Pertinax's allies had been waiting for. The 'precautions' he had taken before his departure—the secret stockpile of legitimate Egyptian wheat he had amassed under his authority as head of the Granary Trust—had transformed from a political gambit into the city's only real buffer against hunger. And the senators loyal to him began to use this fact like a weapon.
A delegation of them, led by a silver-tongued patrician named Glabrio, a known and vocal supporter of Pertinax, requested an audience with Sabina. They came to her offices near the treasury, their faces masks of deep, civic concern.
"Lady Sabina," Glabrio began, his voice dripping with false sincerity. "We come to you with heavy hearts. The people grow restless. The bakers complain of shortages. The grain ships from Alexandria are delayed by storms and, some say, by the needs of the army." He sighed, a theatrical gesture of sorrow. "We are fortunate that the noble Pertinax, in his great wisdom and foresight, established a reserve for just such a contingency. We implore you, on behalf of the good people of Rome, to open these reserves. Stabilize the price of bread. Avert this coming crisis."
The trap was as elegant as it was obvious. The reserves were technically under the authority of Pertinax's office. For Sabina to use them, she would have to issue an emergency decree, an act that would be seen as a public admission that the Emperor's own plans had been insufficient, and that it was Pertinax, the man he had exiled, who was the true savior of the city. His reputation would soar. If she refused, and the prices continued to rise, she risked bread riots in the streets and would be branded as a heartless bureaucrat who had allowed the people to starve while hoarding the city's resources.
Sabina listened to their performance with a placid, unreadable expression. She understood the game perfectly. And she had no intention of playing it by their rules.
She did not argue. She did not refuse. She smiled, a warm, reassuring smile that immediately put the senators on edge. "Your concern for the people does you great credit, Senator Glabrio," she said smoothly. "The Emperor shares your conviction that the citizens of Rome must not suffer due to this just and necessary war. I will, of course, take immediate action."
But her action was not what they expected. The next day, she did not issue an edict to open Pertinax's granaries. Instead, she convened a meeting in her offices. Not with senators, but with the real power behind the city's food supply: the heads of the powerful bakers', millers', and shipping guilds. These were hard-faced, practical men of commerce who cared little for politics and everything for the bottom line.
They entered her office expecting to be threatened or harangued about price-gouging. Instead, Sabina offered them wine and treated them not as subjects, but as business partners.