Chapter 117: The Empress’s Stand
The report from the Subura was a splash of cold water in Alex's face, a harsh reminder that a perfectly logical plan could shatter against the unpredictable rocks of human fear. The riot was escalating. The commander of the City Watch sent a frantic message: his men were being overwhelmed, and he was requesting permission to use lethal force. Alex stood in his study, the sounds of the distant, angry mob a faint, ominous roar carried on the wind. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to maintain control, to crush the dissent, to enforce the quarantine at any cost. It was the logical, necessary choice. It was also the choice that would make him a tyrant.
"Prepare a cohort of the Praetorians," he said, his voice hard as iron. "If the City Watch cannot hold the line, the Guard will."
"No, Caesar."
The voice was quiet, but it cut through the tense atmosphere of the room with the authority of a swung blade. Sabina stood in the doorway, her face pale but her expression one of utter, unshakeable resolve.
"Iron will not win this fight," she said, stepping into the room. "It will only validate their terror. Using the Praetorians on a mob of frightened citizens will be a massacre. You will contain the plague in one building, but you will unleash a plague of hatred against you that will consume the entire city. You cannot be the face of this. In their eyes, you are the Emperor, a distant, terrifying god of war and prophecy. They need to see a human face. They need a mother's touch."
Alex stared at her, his own certainty wavering in the face of her fierce conviction. "Then what is your solution, Sabina? Do we simply let them break the line and unleash this sickness upon us all?"
"No," she said. "We send an ambassador they will listen to." She did not have to say the name. There was only one person in Rome who held that kind of power over the hearts of the common people. A person Sabina despised as a rival, but whose influence she was pragmatic enough to recognize and, now, to use.
She had a plan. A risk so immense it was either a stroke of genius or a final, fatal mistake.
Sabina left the palace not with a cohort of guards, but with a single, swift carriage. She went directly to the headquarters of the Fund for the Families of Rome's Fallen Heroes, a modest but well-appointed building near the Forum. She found Lucilla in the main hall, surrounded by her devoted followers—war widows and volunteers—organizing shipments of food and clothing. Alex's sister had fully inhabited her role, her grief a mantle of power, her compassion a political weapon.
"Augusta," Sabina said, forgoing any of their usual veiled hostilities. There was no time. "There is a riot in the Subura. The people are terrified. They are trying to break a plague quarantine. The Emperor is prepared to use the Praetorians."