Dies Solis, Tertius Mensis Maii, Anno Urbis Conditae MCCXXX
(Sunday, 3rd Day of May, Year of the Founding of the City 1230)
The spark, once a solitary point of defiance in an infinite void, began to expand. It was not a gentle blossoming, but an agonizing rush, a torrent of sensation flooding into a consciousness that had known only oblivion. Alexander Volkov, or what remained of him, felt himself stretched, pulled, then slammed into something new, something… confining.
A dull throbbing started behind his eyes, growing with each stuttering beat of a heart that felt too fast, too young. Sound, muted at first, sharpened into a cacophony: the distant, rhythmic clang of metal, the murmur of hushed voices just beyond his perception, the rustle of fabric incredibly close. Light, a searing pain against eyelids that felt fused shut, forced its way through in slivers of agonizing brightness. He tried to recoil, to shield himself, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive, like waterlogged timber.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the remnants of Alexander's ingrained control. Where was he? What was this? His last memory was the crushing weight on his chest, the marble floor, the fading light of his penthouse. Death. He had died. This place, these sensations, were not death.
With a monumental effort that felt like tearing his own skin, he forced his eyelids open.
Blurry shapes swam before him. Gold, crimson, dark wood. A high, impossibly ornate ceiling arched far above, painted with figures he couldn't quite discern, their faded grandeur speaking of immense age and wealth. He was lying on something soft, yielding. Silk sheets, impossibly smooth against skin that felt… wrong. Too smooth, too unblemished. He tried to lift a hand, and this time, a slender limb, pale and unfamiliar, moved into his field of vision. It was not his hand. His hands had been broader, calloused by years, scarred by a life lived hard. This hand was that of a youth, barely a man.
A gasp, sharp and close, cut through the haze. "He awakes! The Emperor awakes! Fetch Physician Lycomedes, quickly!"
Emperor?
The word echoed in the chaotic space where Alexander Volkov's memories collided with this new, bewildering reality. He tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness washing over him, making the opulent room spin. The throbbing in his head intensified. He was weak, far weaker than he had ever been in his adult life.
A woman's face swam into view, hovering above him. She was older, lines of worry etched around her kind eyes, her hair streaked with grey beneath a simple cap. Her dress was plain but well-made. A servant, perhaps. Relief and concern warred on her features.
"Your Majesty," she breathed, her voice trembling slightly. "Praised be all the gods, you have returned to us."
Alexander stared at her, his mind a maelstrom. Your Majesty. Emperor. The words didn't connect to him, not to Alexander Volkov, the fallen CEO. Yet, there was an undeniable reality to the rich chamber, the woman's deference, the alien weakness of his own body.
He tried to speak, his throat dry, a mere croak emerging. "Water…"
Instantly, the woman was moving. She returned with a silver goblet, cool to the touch, and gently helped him raise his head to sip. The water was cool, clean, easing the fire in his throat. As he drank, he took in more of the room. Massive tapestries depicting heroic scenes hung on stone walls. Heavy velvet curtains, the color of dried blood, were drawn across tall windows, allowing only slivers of daylight to penetrate. A single brazier glowed in a corner, casting flickering shadows. This was no hospital. This was a palace.
The memories of Alexander Volkov, his life, his ambitions, his betrayals, his lonely death – they were all still there, vivid and sharp. But now they were overlaid, or perhaps contained within, a new set of… impressions. Faint, ghostly memories that were not his own. Snippets of a different life: tutors, martial training, courtly etiquette, the heavy weight of a golden circlet. And a name, whispered in his mind: Valerius. Valerius Aelius Augustus.
Reincarnation. The concept, once a philosophical curiosity, now slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. He, Alexander Volkov, was in another man's body. A young emperor's body.
The irony was not lost on him. From a titan of modern industry, brought low by treachery, to… this. An emperor. Power. The very thing he had craved, the ultimate control he had mused upon in his dying moments. Had some cosmic entity been listening?
Before he could process further, the heavy wooden door of the chamber creaked open, and a man swept in, followed by two others who remained respectfully at the threshold. The newcomer was tall, garbed in a deep blue robe that denoted status. His face was lean, intelligent, his eyes sharp and assessing as they fell upon Alexander. This must be Lycomedes, the physician.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Lycomedes said, his voice a calm baritone, though Alexander detected a flicker of surprise, perhaps relief, in his eyes. He approached the bed, the older female servant stepping back deferentially. "It is a blessing to see you conscious. How do you feel?"
How did he feel? Like his mind had been shattered and crudely reassembled in an alien shell. Like he was a ghost piloting a stranger's flesh. But Alexander Volkov had not built an empire by revealing his turmoil. Control, even in the face of the utterly inexplicable, was paramount.
He focused, forcing clarity into his voice, pitching it lower than his initial croak. "Weak. My head… aches." The words felt foreign on his tongue, the language familiar yet subtly different from any he knew, as if filtered through another's understanding. The ghostly memories of Valerius supplied the cadence, the pronunciation.
Lycomedes nodded, his expression becoming more clinical. "To be expected, Majesty, after such a prolonged fever. We feared… well, we feared the worst. You have been lost to us for near a fortnight."
A fortnight. Fourteen days. Long enough for an empire to teeter, for vultures to circle. Alexander's mind, already racing, seized on that. This wasn't just a second chance; it was a position of immense, if currently fragile, power. He needed information, and quickly. He couldn't afford to appear as addled as he felt.
"A fortnight?" he repeated, letting a hint of disorientation color his tone. It wouldn't do to seem too clear-headed immediately. "The fever… it clouds my memory." A convenient excuse.
Lycomedes' eyes softened with understanding. "That is not uncommon, Majesty. It will return. For now, you must rest. Your strength needs to be replenished." He gestured to one of the men at the door, who quickly came forward with a tray bearing a small vial and a cup. "A restorative draught. It will aid your recovery."
Alexander watched the physician prepare the drink. His ingrained paranoia, honed by Thorne and Vance's betrayal, screamed at him not to trust blindly. But he was weak, and a physician, at least in theory, was meant to heal. He needed to play along, for now. He allowed Lycomedes to help him drink the potion. It was bitter, herbal, but a strange warmth spread through him almost immediately, dulling the ache in his head.
"My mother," Alexander said, the name surfacing from Valerius's residual consciousness. "The Empress Dowager… Livia. Is she well?" He needed to see who was close, who mattered in this new life.
Lycomedes smiled faintly. "The Empress Dowager has barely left the vicinity of your chambers, Majesty. She has been constant in her vigil. I shall inform her that you are awake and lucid. It will bring her immense joy." He paused. "And perhaps some peace to the city. Rumors of your… condition… have been unsettling."
Unsettling. An understatement, Alexander suspected. An emperor on his deathbed was an invitation to chaos, to ambition. He recalled his own ruthless takeovers. Human nature, he was certain, was no different here, regardless of the era or the trappings of power.
"The city…" Alexander murmured, testing the waters. "Has all remained… orderly?"
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Lycomedes' face before it smoothed again into professional concern. "There have been… anxieties, Majesty. But the Prefect of the City, Titus Varro, has maintained order. Your swift recovery will quell any lingering disquiet."
Titus Varro. Another name to file away. Alexander nodded slowly. "Good. See that my mother is informed. And Lycomedes…" he fixed the physician with a look that was more Volkov than Valerius, a sharpness that brooked no evasion, "…I expect a full account of my illness, and the state of affairs I have… missed, when I am stronger."
Lycomedes met his gaze, a brief moment of surprise registering before he bowed his head. "Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Your health is our paramount concern. Rest now. We shall speak again when you are more recovered." With another bow, the physician and his attendants withdrew, leaving Alexander alone with the elderly servant, whose name, he vaguely recalled from Valerius's mind, was Elara. Elara. The name sent a shiver down his spine, a bitter echo of his betrayer. He would have to be careful not to let such coincidences unnerve him.
Alone, or as alone as an Emperor likely ever was, Alexander Volkov let out a slow, deliberate breath. The opulence of the room, the title of Emperor, the strange young body he inhabited – it was all too real to be a dream, too bizarre for his dying mind to conjure.
He was Valerius Aelius Augustus, eighteen years of age, Emperor of what he presumed was some iteration of the Roman Empire. And he, Alexander Volkov, forty-seven years of corporate warfare etched into his soul, was now at the helm.
A grim smile touched his lips. Betrayed and broken in one life, granted supreme authority in another. The cosmic irony was staggering. But Alexander was not one to question fortune, however strange its guise. He was one to seize it.
This "Roman Empire" – what was its state? Lycomedes' careful phrasing hinted at underlying tensions. "Anxieties." "Disquiet." Those were words used by men trying to downplay instability. His "prolonged fever" would have been a perfect opportunity for factions to maneuver, for rivals to test the waters.
He thought of his new family. A mother, Livia. Were there siblings? Cousins? Uncles? Each one a potential ally, or a potential viper. His past life had taught him the brutal lesson that blood was no guarantee of loyalty.
The constitutional monarchy structure the original prompt mentioned was interesting. Total power, yet constrained by a constitution? That sounded like a recipe for conflict, or a system deliberately designed to be subverted by a strong hand. Alexander had toppled boards and rewritten corporate charters; a mere constitution would not intimidate him if it stood in the way of true control.
His first priority was information. He needed to understand the political landscape, the key players, the strengths and weaknesses of this empire, and his own position within it. He needed to know who his enemies were, because he had no doubt they existed. And then, he would begin to rebuild, to consolidate, to expand. Not just the empire, but his own absolute authority.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. The ghostly memories of Valerius were a jumbled archive he needed to sift through. They were faint, like echoes of someone else's life, but they were there. Knowledge of this world, its customs, its people. He would need to integrate them, make them his own, while overlaying them with his own ruthless pragmatism and strategic acumen.
The weariness was still profound, the young body still frail from its recent ordeal. But within that frail form, the mind of Alexander Volkov was already at work, cold, calculating, and utterly determined. He had been given a second chance, a kingdom, an empire.
He would not fail again. He would not be betrayed again. This time, he would be the one holding all the cards, the one whose will was absolute. The path to becoming a tyrant might be gradual, but the first step was being taken now, in the quiet of this grand bedchamber, as a new emperor, with an old, cold soul, began to plan. He needed to appear as the young, perhaps slightly changed Valerius, while Volkov learned the ropes.
A soft knock came at the door. Elara, the servant, moved to open it. Alexander composed his features into an expression of tired, gentle inquiry, the mask of the recovering young emperor settling into place. The game had already begun.