Decisions

You wisely accept the imperial boon. Use it to enact vital reforms in your lands before they fall into ruin again. The Emperor's patience isn't endless.

The Emperor admires your tenacity, but it doesn't change your situation. Restore prosperity to your lands before you're removed from power.

You declare that all private homes must serve as temporary shelters for the many victims of the blaze.

The people won't like you mandating the use of their residences for a public emergency, but the alternative outcome is worse.

You publicly decree that all residents and enterprises must reduce their use of water. Bathing in particular is strictly outlawed.

The vigiles and Custodes spread out across the city to enforce your Edict of Water. If your people fall in line, the firestorm will be greatly shortened.

You proclaim an edict that all people must offer prayers and sacrifices at the temples for the protection of the city.

Ben-Baalion grimaces at the exorbitant expense, but the people must view fighting the blaze as a spiritual duty.

You possess higher priorities than the inferno. Best to let your people fend for themselves.

You deploy your cohorts to forcefully spur your citizens into action. The people might bristle at your use of force, but the city must be saved!

If the safety of their community will not motivate them, perhaps money will. You decide to offer a reward to citizens who aid the vigiles.

"Yet more coin flows out from the treasury," Ben-Baalion grumbles, but he carries out your edict. You hope that your people will remember your magnanimity.

Citizens who lack the civic spirit to save their own homes and kin will taste the fruits of their complacency.

You decide, come what may, to allow the inferno to run its course. Ben-Baalion nods in acceptance. After all, you made his work much lighter. All he must do is nothing.

The Emperor will be pleased your city is wealthy and strong enough to weather such storms.

The reputation of your city suffers as its streets fill with former criminals. The Emperor might also have an opinion about the rehabilitation of lawbreakers to battle the inferno. From your perspective, however, at least the Emperor still has a city.

The Imperial Court sends word of the Emperor's disappointment. Though you possessed the power to do something, you chose to let your city burn.

The priests accept your paltry sacrifice with thinly-veiled scorn, but they daren't disparage you. They make a tepid call for their followers to battle the inferno.

As your servants load wagons full of goods in offering, the priests exhort the crowd with fiery oratory, urging them to assist your vigils in battling the inferno.

You counter the priests' insidious claims with a declaration: no god worthy of worship demands gold amidst calamity.

"We shall see soon, Domine, which of us speaks for the God of Fire," challenges the head priest. He then leads his priests and most of the crowd away, leaving you and your vigiles to deal with the inferno on your own.

You decide to outlaw, until further notice, all gatherings that exceed the size of ten. Any who defy this order will be visited by the cohorts.

Ben-Baalion grimaces. This edict will severely restrict labour and quality of life in the city. But a governor must stand strong against troublemakers for the peace of all.

You decide to meet with the dissidents, to hear their valid grievances, and negotiate a reasonable resolution.

Ben-Baalion is relieved. The riots are a symptom of deeper problems that your people will trust you to address.

You command all loyal citizens to lend their strength to subdue the rioters.

Ben-Baalion warns that conscripting people across-the-board will have consequences. However, your people must understand that their city's welfare lies in their own hands.

You publicly declare that residents are forbidden to venture forth from their homes from dusk till dawn. The disobedient shall face the cohorts.

"A basic step," Ben-Baalion comments as he dutifully scribes copies of your proclamation for dissemination throughout the city. If your people can't behave in a civilised manner, then you'll send them to their beds like children.

You proclaim an edict to recall retired veterans back into military service. Furthermore, you authorize extra wages for the cohorts to work all day and all night. The streets will be patrolled until peace returns.

Ben-Baalion's mouth twists as he does the math in his head, but you dismiss him to see it done. Your edict is expensive, but a quick return to sanity should refill your coffers.

You command your legates into the city. When the insurrection is quelled, every tenth rioter will be publicly executed.

Ben-Baalion swallows hard, but bows in deference before leaving you alone with your conscience.

Let the frustrated masses find catharsis, you say with a shrug. After all, the destroyed homes and enterprises belong to the people, and they will be responsible for the outcome. Like children, you will pay no attention to this tantrum.

Ben-Baalion is stunned, but remembers his place. He bows as he leaves you alone with the weight of unforeseen consequences.

As you suspected, many insurrectionists joined the chaos due to lack of basic necessities. When you provide for them, doubt is sewn within the ranks of the rebellion, blunting their force.

As you suspected, many insurrectionists joined the chaos due to lack of basic necessities. When you provide for them, doubt is sewn within the ranks of the rebellion, blunting their force.

To your surprise, the rebellion's leaders agree to a secret meeting where you offer them land and a substantial monetary reward. When they vanish from public view, their followers fall into chaos and despair.

You refuse to reward your enemies in any fashion. You choose instead to empower your allies. If the insurrectionists wish to settle matters in the streets, then you welcome the confrontation.

Surely, the brave custodes already on the streets are enough. You leave the fate of the city in their hands.

Few things inspire dread as much as disease. Silent, deadly, and unseen, a pestilence will make the rioters wary of each other and sap the momentum of their cause.

You order the medici to release their sickest patients on to the streets, grimly anticipating the Emperor's impending displeasure.

Nothing sobers a raucous mob like a fire. You order your most loyal custodes to set your enemies' neighborhoods ablaze.

You will suffer the consequences of the Imperial Court for this turmoil, but by then, the insurrection will be long dispersed.

You command your most loyal custodes to set surreptitious fires in the districts of your foes, while ordering the medici to release their plague-ridden patients onto the streets. With grim resolve, you watch your people abandon rebellion to focus on the ensuing chaos.

Your methods may raise eyebrows in the Imperial Court, but that is a problem for another day.

You dismiss your advisor's cunning suggestions with scorn. Only a weak governor would resort to deceit. You will smash the rebellion with the hammer of deprivation.

Hungry rebels cause little harm, and the Emperor will be pleased by your firm control over the province.

You command your legati to persevere in the conflict. The rebellion will be handled like any other invading army: with relentless battle, step-by-step and day-by-day, until your enemies surrender.

You pledge an offering of denarii to the priests, meeting the lowest of their demands. In return, they devote only a small fraction of their might to your cause.

Hopefully, it will be enough.

Among the leaders of the rebels are many prominent traders and merchants. Ceding their ventures to the priests may harm their operations, but commerce is now the least of your concerns. You need order, and so you agree without hesitation to the priests' terms.

You agree to betroth the priests to suitable noble women orphaned or widowed by the violent chaos of the rebellion. This bold decision violates the sacred bounds of status. The Senate and the Emperor will be scandalized.

Nonetheless, when peace dawns, you will emerge the victor.

You had hoped these priests would display loyalty to your cause, but instead they ply you with exorbitant demands. For their price, you can find far better mercenaries elsewhere.

You exhort your people to recall the teachings of Roman elders, advising them to maintain strict cleanliness to counteract the foul miasma.

"Great wisdom can be mined from history," says Ben-Baalion, pleased.

You instruct every grower and merchant in your city to sell their stocks of medicinal herbs to the city at cost, to be shared freely until the scourge is vanquished.

Ben-Baalion approves of your decisive edict, but you know that seizing the livelihoods of your people may sow seeds of future discontent.

You publicly declare that all those with signs of illness shall remain in their homes until the epidemic subsides. Those who defy your edict will wear chains.

Even as you speak aloud your edict to the crowd, you spot the sick mingling openly with the healthy. Upon hearing your words, they slip away before their neighbors notice their presence.

You proclaim an end to all public games, festivals, and events until further notice. Violators of your edict will pay severe penalties.

The crowd accepts your pronouncements with a stoic acceptance of what must be done.

Even though a dire plague grips your city, you instruct your people to unite their efforts. Should a neighbor fall ill, you implore your people to take precautions but then offer aid and compassion.

You proclaim an edict that no able-bodied person may leave the city without your permission. Your cohorts will escort healthy citizens to and from their labor, and quarantine the sick.

You instruct Ben-Baalion to open the treasury and offer generous rewards to those who return to the city.

"Will people fear sickness, or value opportunity more?" muses Ben-Baalion as he goes forth to see your will done.

Your people must adjust their labour to the whims of the gods. You decide to allow the disease to run its course. It will, after all, only eliminate the weak.

Darkness passes over Ben-Baalion's expression, but he issues your edict nonetheless.

You decree the slaughter of all sheep within the city, a grievous blow to several trades. However, you can take steps to minimize the burden and disruption on your citizens.

Slaughtering every pig will disrupt the city's food supply and other trades, but you resolve to find alternative resources while your farmers recover.

Slaughtering all livestock is a severe action, but the crisis demanded it. You hope that your choice's unforeseen circumstances will be less dire than allowing the spread of the plague.

You choose to preserve the city's livestock and allow the epidemic to run its course. The pestilence will be cruel, but starvation could lead to worse consequences.

You are no fool. You are entrusted with the safety of many influential and wealthy political figures. In exchange for protecting their lives, they'll support the Emperor's preferred candidates for the Senate.

"You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," is an iron law of politics. Some day, you might just need your back scratched by an Emperor.

Your paramount duty as Governor is to safeguard your people without crippling the city, imperial decree or no.

Evacuating all children will save the epidemic's most vulnerable victims, slow its progression, and preserve the city's supply of adult labourers.

Perhaps there's a way to placate the Emperor while being fair to your people. You resolve that everyone should have an equal chance at safety. You establish a lottery to evacuate families of all classes by the drawing of random lots. Within this larger group of evacuees, you can include some of the Emperor's supporters.

Your city's function depends on its able-bodied residents. Despite the broad request, you know for whom the Imperial Court cares. Therefore, you evacuate only the Emperor's strongest noble supporters.

You decide to do nothing. You've built institutions to handle crises. If they can't handle the situation, what good are they?

Vigilant inspections will go a long way to slowing the spread of the epidemic's foul miasma. This is the most reasonable compromise between practical and severe measures.

You command all labourers to take precautions against the epidemic's foul miasma. All shall vigilantly inspect their fellow workers for marks of the disease and cleanse goods before their transport.

Though costly, these measures will limit the spread of the plague.

Constant inspections and labour precautions will slow city commerce to a trickle, but the epidemic is already draining away your city's vitality. In the end, sacrifices must be made to end quickly the suffering of your people.

You'd rather suffer the epidemic than ruin the prosperity you worked so hard to establish. Other methods to quell the miasma surely exist, but for now, your people must endure the pestilence until it burns itself out.

You announce that you have no quarrel with the woman or her followers. They are Roman citizens, after all.

The woman lowers her head in gratitude and relief.


The cult is free to worship their goddess.

With her palm closed around the offered coin, the "goddess" gives a prompt abdication speech. Her followers are left leaderless and bewildered.

The woman is not heard from again.

Let her followers witness the truth of her mortality, you proclaim.


The woman's screams end abruptly soon after.

The would-be goddess protests as she is led away. "I am a citizen! How dare you exile me from Rome? This will not stand!"


The woman, and her cult, are escorted from the province.

You declare that the gods favour, reward, and guide your people. Every moment has meaning.


Your people listen to your oration with growing fervor.

You encourage your people to pursue education and discovery. Collective knowledge improves everyone's future.

The crowd listens with rapt attention as your sound logic cuts through the fog of fear and despair.

Civilisation, you declare, is the fruit of labour, the origin of focus, and of cooperation, practicality, and tenacity.

Among the masses, you spot many stoic faces nodding in agreement.

You dedicate your speech to the gods' most precious gift: Libertas. Freedom. This is the sacred flame that places Roman citizens above the barbarian hordes.

Your people feel encouraged to choose their own paths.

The liberti sag with relief when they hear your verdict. Hope fills their tired eyes.

You've made it clear to all that your citizens, however poor, are not to be mistreated.

As you count the coins, the freedmen storm out of your villa in outrage, but they are otherwise helpless.

Such is the lot of the liberti.

You reassign the libertus and his friends, putting them to other work. After they leave, you issue a firm warning to the villicus, just in case.

The liberti leave without raising a fuss, glad to be liberated of their former posts.

As the girl's ad hoc father, you instruct Ben-Baalion to make the girl's betrothal official. Her face twists in silent dismay at your decree, while the mother exhales with visible relief.

"A wise choice," murmurs Ben-Baalion. "This marriage benefits us all."

Marriage is a family duty, not a personal choice. It is the Roman way.

The girl squeals with delight at your unexpected decision, but the mother falls into despair. "I am ruined," she wails. "The ire of the Senate will fall also on you, Dominus!"

Ben-Baalion firmly ushers the family out of your praetorium. Whatever the fallout, your people shall choose their own destinies.

The mother nods in satisfaction, and the girl sighs in relief. They depart your praetorium.

"Very clever, 'ere," Ben-Baalion praises you, "Marrying her lover would indeed ruin the girl's family. Meanwhile, serving the Virgins would only increase the girl's desirability. Other suitors may appear."

You bought them a year. Let's see what they do with it.

Cheers erupt from the farmers and artisans.

The priests and scholars sulk with disappointment.

The scholars commend your wisdom while the priests promise sacrifices in your honour. The others mutter as they file out of the chamber.

The chamber thunders with cheers.

This edict will drain your purse, but idle money serves no purpose.

Everyone leaves the gathering disappointed, the surest sign in politics of a balanced decision.

If Ben-Baalion reports to the Emperor, then silence serves you best.

You promptly dismiss him from your praetorium.

For the crime of poisoning, you sentence her to execution.

Gasps erupt from the crowd. Most frown on harsh sentences for the elderly. But in your province, the law is applied equally.

The elderly woman weeps with relief as you pronounce your judgment: exile, and confiscation of her property to compensate the victim's family. She will keep her life, such as it is.

Leniency for the elderly is most seemly, but your city's reputation might suffer.

The trader lowers her head in sorrow as the custodes guide her away. A slow death in the mines will bring justice to the dead man's family while making you appear lenient to the elderly.

"This is not justice! I've done nothing wrong!" protests the merchant as the custodes escort him away.

"Which is worse? To anger the gods, or their priests?" murmurs Ben-Baalion.

You declare that the materials are forbidden to him, and he must donate them to real scholars.

The merchant exhales in relief as he is unshackled. Ben-Baalion warns that the priests will not be pleased.

"Corruption! Thief! You desire my wealth for yourself!" the merchant screams. The custodes swiftly drag him away.

"This could damage your city's reputation," your advisor warns.

Indeed, but your judgement should dissuade future perpetrators. If it swells your coffers, then so much the better.

You order the eques to destroy the forbidden codices and offer sacrifice at the temples.

"Be sure that your offering is worthy of the Governor's mercy," warns Ben-Baalion as the custodes unshackle the man.

The merchant folds his hands in gratitude to you.

Your vigiles thank you for providing resources for their most basic proposal. Their focus and dedication will give the people of your island a modicum of safety.

Your vigiles are pleased. They have a lot of work to do, but it will save lives and effort in the future.

Tiled rooftops are durable, but will one day need further maintenance. Until then, the city of your island will be able to undertake riskier ventures.

Your vigiles cheer your name when you decide to upgrade structures with stone. There exists no better material to prevent fires.

The people of your island will live in safety until the reinforced buildings require renovations. Perhaps this is the time to pursue riskier ventures.

The vigiles exchange glances of disappointment. Some glare at you. But in the end, they all lower their heads in respect of your authority and take their leave.

Your medici thank you for funding their most basic proposal. It will grant the people of your island a solid period of health.

Your medici profusely express their gratitude. A thorough cleansing of the city will surely keep miasma at bay.

For a time at least, the people of your island will be able to undertake more demanding tasks.

Thrilled by your generous decision, the medici stand and applaud. Taking thorough measures will ensure that the citizens of your island live long, healthy lives.

Perhaps you should consider taking advantage of the city's new resilience.

The sullen medici depart your praetorium. While their intentions are commendable, their paranoid measures are too expensive. Perhaps that will change in the future.

The people of your island embrace Epicureanism. They strive for simple pleasures: friendship, shared meals, good conversation, and laughter. Markets shift to local produce as your citizens prioritize self-sufficiency.

However, temples stand quieter as the new teachings dispel your people's fear of the gods. Some grumble at the lack of grand ornaments, celebrations, and spectacles. For you, it's a small price for peace.

The Neoplatonist viewpoint is mystical. Your people reinterpret the gods and goddesses as symbols of the Indescribable One, the hidden source of all. Lively debates and masterful lectures are now common in your island as seekers of truth find a new home there.

Their ideas are fascinating, but far more important to your authority is their detachment from worldly concerns and material struggles that could seed civil unrest.

The citizens of your island embrace duty and resilience under the influence of Stoic virtues. Your magistrates demonstrate frugality and justice, earning public trust.

As Stoicism is favored in Rome, your city quickly grows in the esteem of the Imperial Court. Some Senators consider your island a model society for the rest of the Empire.

Traditional Roman pragmatism will promote the stability of your island. Let the streets fill with boisterous festivals. Let the temples overflow with worship and sacrifice. Let spectacle dazzle and unite the citizens!

Your scholars thank you profusely for indulging their request. The citizens of your island will make good use of their limited, but beneficial, time with Sapphira Balbilla.

Your scholars cheer when you proclaim your decision to pay the Great Magistra Docta generously for her time. They promise you that she'll be worth every denarius. Indeed, the citizens of your island are about to enter an intellectual and educational golden age.

Impressed by your dedication to the mental upliftment of your citizens, Sapphira Balbilla praises your name far and wide as a model governor. your island becomes one of her favourite cities, and she single-handedly raises the literacy of your realm.

Your people will benefit from her teaching methods for a long time to come.

The scholars of your island sigh when you announce your decision, but they must accept it. You have other priorities at the moment.

Surely another opportunity will arise someday.

Ben-Baalion drafts your reply, accepting only half of the refugees. Other governors must do their part.

Meanwhile, you must think of something for the new workers to do.

You sense a unique opportunity to curry favor with the Emperor, perhaps gaining a reputation for altruism. As long as you fortify your city to prevent chaos, the extra workers could allow you to pursue new projects.

Ben-Baalion departs to draft your missive. While your decision won't win you any imperial favors, you refuse to risk chaos in your regions. Your long-term influence and prosperity are better served by policies that support stability.

While you appreciate Ben-Baalion's perspective, you care more that your own people understand how much you've done for them.

If you continue to govern well, and your people know about it, they'll act as your best laudators.

Ben-Baalion is right. Fairly or not, words often overshadow actual deeds.

You've done good work. The Empire should know about it.

Quality Roman laudators come at a steep price. If their exaltations win favor for you in the Imperial Court, though, they could quickly pay for themselves.

You express your disagreement with Ben-Baalion. There are benefits to commissioning laudators, but you wish to prioritize other investments.

You lead your city through a grand ceremony of music and splendour for Mars. By the end, the faces of your people shine with passion and courage. There's no obstacle they won't overcome for your sake, even on the battlefield.

You preside over a public sacrifice to Neptune. Refurbished and upgraded military and merchant vessels participate in a procession around your island. By the climax, the citizens look with awe upon your naval might.

Public sacrifices to Juno, the Mother and Queen of all the gods, promote optimism, peace, and prosperity. She's the protector of marriage, children, and society.

The celebration is a precious moment of well-being and unity.

Everyone respectfully attends the public sacrifice dedicated to increasing the numen (divine power) of the Emperor. The somber priests hide their disappointment, but this ritual isn't what they had in mind.

Your citizens play along, but they know that you're the primary beneficiary of this spectacle.

The priests may complain, but you prefer the current balance of power between yourself and them. Whosoever wishes to worship may do so with their own time and resources. You have more important priorities.

Ben-Baalion nods in agreement. This seems like a good opportunity to fill up the treasury... if you govern with care.

Ben-Ballion raises an eyebrow at your decision, but nods in obedience. You're raising the tribute near to the breaking point.

You may need to implement countermeasures.

You decree that the treasury must sustain itself with the current rate of tribute. Placing further strain on the people is unnecessary and unwise.

The young man trembles and pleads with you as your custodes drag him out.

Rolling your eyes, you consider cultivating tougher citizens. The man is lucky, really. Your sentence won't even leave scars.

The young man wails in despair, begging for mercy on his poor mother and siblings, as the custodes drag him away to his new and distant island home.

Oh well. Ludis cum igne, ureris. Play with fire, get burned.

The young man weeps with relief as your custodes remove his manacles. When questioned, he admits that he only wanted to impress a girl.

He backs out of your chamber, vowing to sing your praises to any who will listen.

The young man exhales a sigh of heavy relief. He backs away promising never again to commit this crime.

You mildly rebuke Ben-Baalion for bringing this case before you. If leaders punished every person who spoke ill of them, no time would be left in the day.

You decide that the princess should meet the everyday people, without whom the city would not function.

During the feast, the gracious princess converses with your citizens, inquiring after their daily lives with genuine interest. She's younger than you had imagined, with an elderly woman as her chaperone... who sternly nods her approval. You are even left with funds to spare.

You consider the feast a success, but some in the Imperial Court will disagree.

You invite to the feast a number of noble bachelors. Even if the event doesn't result in a marriage alliance, you'll be known as a governor who creates opportunities for the elite.

On the day of the feast, the youthful princess navigates through the far older men with practiced ease, engaging in pleasant conversation, offending no one, avoiding those who monopolize her time.

However, her elderly chaperone glares at you with disapproval. Your strategic hospitality may win you friends among the nobility, but not the Imperial Court.

You invite the wealthiest landowners and merchants, the most influential scholars, and the most revered of the city's priests to the feast. Everyone wishes to meet the princess from Aegyptus, a living scion of an ancient lineage. Your ability to bring prominent figures under your hospitality earns you praise from across the Empire.

The splendid feast fulfills the Imperial Court's expectations. From across the chamber, the young regal's elderly, stern chaperone catches your gaze and offers you a subtle nod.

You spare no expense, expanding the feast into a grand city-wide celebration. Commoners and nobles alike are invited to partake in your island's vibrant culture. The streets buzz with music, games, performances, and public feasts.

During the celebration, you spot the princess laughing, singing, and dancing with both the low-born and high. You even catch her stodgy, elderly chaperone enjoying one too many drinks.

Your bold decision has earned you a reputation throughout the Empire as a governor who unites and uplifts the people.

You invite elite guests to the feast by random lots, ensuring fairness. You have more urgent matters to address and don't wish to fuss over the entertainment of a young princess.

The feast proceeds smoothly. The courteous Aegyptian princess meets a broad sampling of your people, then thanks you for your hospitality before continuing her tour of the Empire.

Tolerating any theft, even of bread, will invite more. Flooding warehouses with workers and guards will solve the problem early.

Only the hungry steal bread. You set up a little annona to distribute surplus food to the poor. The atmosphere of your island grows hopeful.

If the prefect can't protect the warehouses, you'll find someone who can. You can't throw precious money and labor at every new problem.

Various communities, like the Celts and Agyptians, have been granted exemptions in exchange for higher tribute.

Such exemptions might anger the gods, or worse, the Emperor, but it will fill your coffers nicely.

Jewish leaders agree to provide administrative support for your legions. However, placing productive labourers into your service will lower their community's ability to pay tribute.

You accept their terms, lower their tribute, and consider what you will do with your new, more efficient, military.

In exchange for the exemption, you request that Jewish leaders erect inscriptions throughout the provinces glorifying Rome and the Emperor. They consider this a fair compromise, but warn that this will incur substantial costs and lower their ability to pay tribute.

You agree to the exemption for religious events. Though they must participate in civic events, they need not pray to the Emperor; rather, they must pray for the health of the Emperor and the prosperity of Rome.

You urge them to keep your compromise quiet. You don't want the Celts, Aegyptians, and Zoroastrians requesting their own favors.

You present your offering to the oracle of Apollo. The Sibyl breathes deeply from the brazier’s burning incense. Her eyes flutter and her head tilts back as she enters a holy trance.

"Iuno, Regina Elysii, filum aureum per fata tua texit."

"Juno, Queen of Elysium, weaves a golden thread through your destiny!"

You present your offering to the oracle of Apollo. The Sibyl breathes deeply from the brazier’s burning incense. Her eyes flutter and her head tilts back as she enters a holy trance.

"Dii silent! Quaeris scientiam ultra id quod fatum permittit!

"The gods are silent! You seek knowledge beyond what Fate allows!"

You present your offering to the oracle of Apollo. The Sibyl breathes deeply from the brazier’s burning incense. Her eyes flutter and her head tilts back as she enters a holy trance.

Mars, velut leo potens rugiens, inimicos tuos insequitur. Vae omnibus qui signum belli tuum provocant!"

"Mars roars as a mighty lion, stalking your foes. Woe befalls all who challenge your battle standard!"

You present your offering to the oracle of Apollo. The Sibyl breathes deeply from the brazier’s burning incense. Her eyes flutter and her head tilts back as she enters a holy trance.

"Dii silent! Quaeris scientiam ultra id quod fatum permittit!

"The gods are silent! You seek knowledge beyond what Fate allows!"

You present your offering to the oracle of Apollo. The Sibyl breathes deeply from the brazier’s burning incense. Her eyes flutter and her head tilts back as she enters a holy trance.

"Vesta, flamma aeterna Romae, urbem tuam radiante amplexu fovet!"

"Vesta, eternal flame of Rome, cradles your city in her radiant embrace!"

You present your offering to the oracle of Apollo. The Sibyl breathes deeply from the brazier’s burning incense. Her eyes flutter and her head tilts back as she enters a holy trance.

"Dii silent! Quaeris scientiam ultra id quod fatum permittit!

"The gods are silent! You seek knowledge beyond what Fate allows!"

You wave away your priests with scorn. Prophecies are ephemeral as words etched upon the sands of the shore.

The Emperor gets what the Emperor wants. You appoint an elderly priest who genuinely believes the Emperor is a god. He spends his days pressuring the citizens into civic devotion. At night, he writes tedious, detailed treatises on the divine essence of the Emperor.

He won't inspire the masses, but he won't cause much trouble either.

The Emperor would be better served by someone who can attract new believers. You enlist the service of a fiery young man whose oratory is famous across the province.

He defends the doctrines of the Imperial Cult with a mixture of logic and trickeries of speech that draws crowds. Indeed, the people become dependent on his persuasive rhetoric.

It is you, not the Emperor, who must govern despite Imperial decrees. You select a pragmatic man who shares your interest in regional stability. Unlike most Roman priests, he engages in business, and has little interest in educating the masses on doctrine. He enforces the will of the Imperial cult the old fashioned way: with money and, if need be, the edge of the sword.

You possess little interest in the Imperial cult, but you understand its importance in maintaining the stability of the Empire. You appoint a devout priest of Jupiter to head your city's Imperial cult. He is a well-educated, decent man. Your citizens like him and enjoy his oratory.

As long as he stays out of your way, he'll serve both you and the Emperor well.

The drain on your coffers is worth the investment. Your city's leading traders are grateful that you're lessening the silt's negative impact.

Extra funds are unnecessary. Instead, you reassign laborers to help with the dredging work.

You make a major investment in the dredging project to restore normal operations, which pleases your city's traders.

Slowly but surely, the dredging will get done. You instruct your prefect to perform the work with existing resources.

You rule in favor of the retired legionaries, granting them the disputed lands as the sacred promise of the Empire for their loyal service. Unfortunately, these veterans are likely to settle into modest family farms, rather than large ventures, and won't contribute much to your city's prosperity. Meanwhile, merchants, traders, and landowners will believe that a contract in your island means nothing.

To the outrage of the veterans, you uphold the legal rights of the landowners. What good will small family farms contribute to your city's prosperity? The former warriors may try to incite unrest, but they're old, tired, and used up. Surely, they can be controlled.

You decree the fertile lands of your island be divided evenly, granting half to the veterans for their farms and half to the landowners for their agricultural and mining estates.

Both factions accuse you of denying their rightful claims. You tersely warn them that they could lose everything, if you so choose, silencing their protests. The veterans accept their portion as sufficient, and the landowners exploit their allocated land.

Either group may attempt to stir unrest, but you're confident you can deal with them.

By lifting the burden of the census off your people, you've turned a dreaded obligation into a non-event, earning praise as a benevolent governor. However, the Senate accuses you of undercounting to avoid imperial obligations. You are issued a warning.

Your census method is disruptive, but your people are not unhappy about it. They treat the remainder of the day as a restful break. Meanwhile, you earn a commendation from the Senate for your swift and efficient execution.

Mandating an exact count of every person in your city maximizes tribute for both yourself and Rome. However, your people deeply resent this intrusive process, and you gain a reputation as an overbearing governor. You deflect the blame upon the Senate and reap the benefits.

Conducting a census disrupts daily life. Trusting the heads of households to report their own obligations may invite dishonesty, but a few select audits should ensure that most remain truthful.

The owners of Eudoxos don't own his family members, and therefore possess no leverage against him. As Governor, that doesn't apply to you. You threaten to execute his wife and send his adult children to the mines. You accuse him of murdering a senator of Rome with his defiance.

The brave doctor's resolve cracks under your pressure. He agrees to treat the senator if you ensure that his owners won't punish him. Over the next few days, the senator makes a full recovery.

Slaves, liberti, and plebeians around your city now avoid you. Apparently, word gets around.

Eudoxos gasps in shock and relief, then bows at your feet. You lift him up as a free man, a new libertus.

True to his word, the former slave cures the senator using his secret remedy. Soon after, you learn Eudoxos and his family have left your city. Though it cost you, you hope the elderly physician finds peace.

The city's slaves, liberti, and plebeians treat you with newfound respect. The senator pledges to one day return the favor.

You withdraw from the spectacle. The slave owners can execute Eudoxos if they wish. As for the senator, hunting accidents claim lives often enough. You dismiss them all to sort out their own mess.

Days later, word reaches you of the senator's passing. Eudoxos, however, was too valuable to kill.

If it is calm waters for which the Emperor prays, you muse, then surely the will of Jupiter, and yours, coincide.

Calidus's brow rises. "Jupiter and I both are well-served by such a... pious governor."

Jupiter, you reply, can calm his seas without the intervention of a lowly governor.

"Perhaps," the Emperor replies, "but they are perturbed by disloyalty. Ofttimes violently so."

Senators who have never stepped foot outside of the Eternal City should consult their well-traveled Emperor in such matters, you contend. You will send them back to their homes or to their gods.

Respectfully, you will not risk the wrath of Minerva by slaughtering the innocent.

Calidus drains his wine glass and stands. "Take care, Governor. Minerva is not the only one with the power to blight your lands."

The Exalted Mother’s face beams with approval. “To beautify your cities is to honour the Empire, and me. See it done swiftly."

Objectives: Build and Sustain

Plant 100 Foliage & Horticulture
Erect 100 Sculptures & Statuary
Build 100 Structures & Buildings

The voice of the Empress turns cold in rebuke. “Don't mistake my patience and benign countenance for weakness. Roman citizens must not live in squalor. Increase your capabilities, or I will appoint another in your place."

You swear that the will of the Empress is your command. Pleased at your resolve, she honours you with a nod.

"The gods will surely aid you, and your people ever love you," she says.

Objectives:

Buy 1000t of any Goods
Sell 1000t of any Goods

"What a sad little worm you are," she sighs, and dismisses you out of hand.

"Wound! Don't kill!" shouts your munerator to the fighters.

The crowd goes wild as the dimachaeri burst into sudden speed and grace. Your blood stirs at their incredible skill.

At last, the fighter from Albion slashes the arm of his opponent. Thanks to you, it's enough for victory.

Thunderous cheering shakes the Amphitheatre!

At your decision, a priest of Mars performs a libation, pouring wine into a brazier. He focuses eyes upon the flames, straining to read its omens.

"The flames burn steady, not erratic. Mighty Mars declares the victor to be... Aegyptus!"

The crowd leaps to their feet to applaud the declared champion.

In the arena, the dimachaeri embrace in shared relief.

The crowd cheers wildly at your gesture. Soon, the air fills with their chants of "Mercy" and "Death"! You wait patiently for the cries of one to overpower the other.

The cheers for "Mercy" prevail over the weaker, morbid cries for blood. The dimachaeri raise their twin blades to the sky in gratitude to the cheering crowd.

The cheers urging "Death" for the two dimachaeri deafen the sky. At your gesture, a line of sagittarii (archers) step forward and aim their bows and arrows down into the arena. You lower your arm, and the two dimachaeri fall under a hail of deadly arrows. The crowds erupts, wildly chanting your praises.

The power of the mob is fearsome indeed.

At your gesture, a line of sagittarii aim their bows and arrows from their elevated position near the crowd. The two dimachaerii notice and immediately drop their weapons. Heaving in exhaustion, the two men embrace.

The crowd falls into shocked silence. The thumps of arrows piercing leather, and the meaty fall of the two fighters, can be distinctly heard.

The crowd boos your decision to grant mercy to the recalcitrant fighters. Taunts and jeers follow the dimachaeri as they exit the arena floor arm in arm.

Three of your bravest champions face the patrician's elite warriors on the arena sand. The Amphitheatre shakes with your people's roars as the combat erupts.

"The lady's servant was stopped while attempting to drug your champions," whispers your munerator.

The patrician scowls as your gladiators carve swiftly through her fighters. "You'll regret this, Governor," she growls.

Three of your champions stumble onto the arena floor.

"They've been drugged!" your munerator mutters.

The patrician's fighters quickly outmaneuver and bloody your faltering gladiators. The lady accepts her well-won denarii from your purse.

"You lost the wager, but won my favor," she says. "I will express our newfound friendship at my next meeting with the Emperor."

"The lady bribed a servant to drug our champions," whispers the munerator as the match begins. "I fed the poison instead to hers."

Your people shake the Amphitheatre with cheers as your champions soundly defeat their sluggish foes.

"Clever, Governor," the lady sighs, handing over the promised denarii, "but stupid. It is ofttimes worthwhile to lose a wager in order to win another."

Three of your champions circle their sluggish opponents on the arena sands.

"The lady bribed a servant to drug our gladiators," murmurs your munerator. "I fed the poison instead to hers."

However, to your shock, your heroes' weapons shatter and break in the clash. Despite their impairment, the lady's fighters quickly overwhelm yours.

"Clever, Governor," taunts the lady, her palm opening for her winnings, "but not clever enough."

You take the wager - and allow the patrician's cohorts full access to your fighters before the match. Sure enough, your gladiators appear to have been fed a narcotic draught. The sluggish fight ends quickly, with your opponent the victor.

"You are shrewd, Governor," she says. "You lost the wager, but won my favor. I shall speak well of you to the Emperor."

With humble apologies, you decline the lady's wager. Indignant, she leaves your presence.

The munerator thanks you. "Citizens and fighters alike will praise you for maintaining the integrity of the games, domine."

You signal your permission for the battle to continue. No matter the outcome, no matter the history, this brave Celt gladiator deserves his victory.

The crowd hisses when "Julius Caesar" falls dead. If the cohorts weren't here, you suspect some in the mob would jump to the arena floor and join the battle. The Celt raises his weapons to the furious spectators and leaves with dignity.

You sigh. This result may require some cleaning up.

At your signal, the crowd roars. The arena gates open and another wave of "legionaries" join the battle against "Vercingetorix".

The Celt warrior manages to slay or maim half of his new opponents, but falls at last to his knees, bleeding and exhausted. "Julius Caesar" ends his life with a swift strike to the throat.

The Roman crowd leaps to their feet, relishing the bloodsport, but you fear the consequences. Stories of this Celt's bravery will travel far and wide.

At your signal, sagittarii (archers) fire a warning volley at "Vercingetorix's" feet. With a roar of frustration, the Celt warrior throws down his weapons in surrender to "Julius Caesar."

Reluctant applause ripples through the disappointed crowd. This suits you fine. The last thing you need is riots in the streets and the displeasure of the Emperor.

Lavender garlands adorn the Amphitheatre's statues and arches, perfuming the air for miles in pleasant contrast to the grim and bloody gladiatorial spectacle.

You are known thereafter as a Roman governor of high culture and sophistication.

During the games, servants weave through the Amphitheatre carrying baskets of bread and amphorae of wine. The citizens cheer your lavish gratia. Together, you share a moment with your people, lifting a toast to the valiant gladiators who fought this day.

Your gladiatorial games dazzle with spectacle. The fighters battle amidst beauty, and your generous gratia of food and drink elevates the games into a celebration of their bravery.

The sky above your island thunders with chants of your name from citizens and gladiators alike. Visitors and traders will spread tales of your imperium's glory.

The Amphitheatre of your island stands unadorned. Your citizens leave early, without fanfare.

Your treasury is bolstered due to your careful administration, fortifying your imperium against harder times.

You instruct your munerator to weave practice battles between soldiers and gladiators into the games. This will increase discipline and motivation within the ranks, while leaving the lethal battles to the professionals.

You grant the full request of your legatus, and your eques Master of Games accepts your decree with quiet resignation. Though the price may be steep in terms of your people's satisfaction and your cities' renown, you have sensed a rare opportunity to forge a mightier army.

You will not risk the lives of soldiers to trivial arena games, and you will not disappoint your citizens with bloodless battles. The legatus legionis will have to inspire his men another way.

Your munerator cringes, but dares not question your decision. On the day of naumachia, you empty the prisons, conscripting criminals to fight the naval battle games.

However, spectacle turns quickly into farce. Almost none of them possess sailing or fighting skills. Most cannot even swim. The crowd roars with laughter.

Afterward, well-known gladiators and renowned teams do not take your gladiatorial games seriously.

The Master of Games is delighted. "Truly generous, domine! I'll arrange it immediately!"

The Amphitheatre of your island hosts champions from every corner of the Empire, delivering a violent naval spectacle that proclaims the glory of your imperium far and wide.

You command your munerator to reduce the naumachia's scale rather than find additional fighters. He sighs in resignation. "As you decree, domine," he vows.

On the day of the games, your naumachia battles appear a bit sparse. Even so, the crowd enjoys them well enough.

After careful consideration, you agree to half of the request. Your crews will still benefit while preserving the spectacle of naumachia. Meanwhile, a stronger navy will allow you to repel hostile forces and secure your trade routes more easily. And who knows? Perhaps, you might seize an opportunity to reshape the relationships between you and your rivals.

Your eques munerator is disappointed, but you have broader considerations than just profit. Strengthening your naval crews in the naumachia could reshape the balance of power in the Empire.

Much to your munerator's relief, you decide to preserve your naumachia's customary splendour. You have no imminent plans to use your naval forces, and disappointed citizens lighten your purse.

Flavia Horatia is delighted to hear you promote Glyndr.

But while his colourful trousers cause much comment, his defensive fighting style seems to bore the audience... Oh well, he got his chance.

The mention of the mystery fighter gives rise to many rumors. Who wouldn't want to add glory to their name? You expect a record attendance at the next games.

Only Flavia Horatia doesn't seem too excited...

You point to a Libertus who isn't quick enough to edge away. He's looking at you with shaking hands.

"I don't know much about fighting, guv..." he says.

Your choice doesn't seem to stir up much excitement, but he is dragged to the bowels of the arena anyway.

With one swift motion, the Murmillo runs him through. The giant collapses, coughing blood.

"Favillus! Favillus!", the crowd salutes their victor. "He of the ashes" - A name fit for a gladiator. The crowd loved your show!

Gigantulas groans, half-conscious.

"Favillus! Favillus!", the crowd yells, "he of the ashes".

Gigantulas has retired from the arena to serve you!

Favillus takes out a small dagger and stabs him. The blood blossoms like a flower on the man's chest.

The crowd cheers loudly, and a senator you've never seen before claps you on the back.

Publius, who has gone pale, mumbles his thanks.

Jeers and catcalls accompany him as he exits the arena.

You have gained a specialist!

The news spreads faster than the plague. Favillus is banned. The governor is ruining the games.

Flavia Horatia (the second richest patrician) heaves a sigh of relief.

Patrician Happiness increased! Liberti, Plebeian and Equites Happiness decreased!

Flavia Horatia fixes you with an icy stare.

"You realize", she says, "that my family holds seats in the senate. You will regret this".

Seems like there is going to be trouble, but at least your people will be entertained.

Patrician Happiness decreased! Liberti, Plebeian and Equites Happiness increased!

It never hurts to please the powerful.

You instruct your guards to let the mysterious man called Cassius in, should he show up.

You can't shake off the feeling that something is going to happen to Favillus...

You toss the letter aside. No one tells you what to do.

As you leave the arena, you hear rumors that the great families in your city are gathering...

It never hurts to please the powerful.

You instruct your guards to let the mysterious man called Cassius in, should he show up.

You can't shake off the feeling that something is going to happen to Favillus...

You sit back and watch as the satyrs try to chuck spears at Favillus. Their aim is pretty terrible.

"Governor!", the patrician scoffs, but you ignore her. She mutters something about "assemblies" before swooping out majestically, her hair springing from its pins.

Favillus has given the satyrs a sound beating and is now offering their leaf crowns to the giraffe.
All in all, a pretty good show.

Chief Glyndr leans on his shield and watches Favillus stumble about. The fighter's usual grace seems to be naught but a memory - he can barely stand.

The first blow rattles Favillus' skull. He manages to strike back, but Glyndr presses on. Defeat is inevitable. Favillus' legs buckle. Glyndr reaches down and pulls off Favillus' helmet...

"By the gods!", the patrician exclaims. "Horatius - that is my son! My son!".

The new recruits are standing at attention, clearly nervous.

Favillus, on the other hand, gently sways, like a man standing on deck during a storm. He's tiring fast as he parries their blows. After a full hour in the glaring sun, his knees give way. Together, the two victors pull off Favillus' helmet...

"By the gods!", the patrician exclaims. "Horatius - that is my son! My son!".

Chief Glyndr is using his favourite strategy — he's hiding behind his shield. The crowd is openly booing him as Favillus, although injured, sends a true hail of blows raining down on the barbarian chief. But his breath is shallow, and he's clutching his side.

There is a gasp as Glyndr steps in and leaves him with a small cut — is that it? No. Favillus twirls away. But his arm twitches. The chief closes in, bending his injured arm backwards. With a grim smile, he pulls off the warrior's helmet...

"By the gods!", the patrician exclaims. "Horatius — that is my son! My son!".

The two new recruits seem petrified by the sight of Favillus. Despite his considerable injuries, he is chasing them around. One of them bends his knee to yield, and Favillus lifts his hand to salute you.

That is when they both leap for his blade. One of them kicks his already bruised chest. Once on the ground, they pull off his helmet.

"But that's my son!", the patrician yells. "Horatius!".

A lamentation rises from the crowd. The patrician looks on, too stunned to speak.

Favillus meets your eyes. "Fine", he says. "You choose the hour. I choose the means". He fumbles with a flask, sets it to his lips, and drinks. The effect is immediate.

The patrician screams as he topples over, clutching at her carefully braided curls. Favillus dies as thousands watch.

"The best games yet. Incredible!", a Lanista compliments you. "I should like to learn from you, and offer you my services".

Favillus stares at you. Then an incredulous smile spreads across his face. "You really mean it? Can I stay with you... in your villa?". For a second, you can see the boy he must have been. A lonely boy.

The arena is chanting "Favillus - Favillus - Favillus". Wild cheering is followed by first toasts in your name. The patrician has lost all colour. "You can't do this", she says weakly. But you already have.

"You heard the governor, Horatius. Come", the patrician says, her lips quivering.

But Favillus doesn't even look at her. The next thing you see, he's tackling the man holding him. It's a fight, if anything, more desperate than the last.

It takes ten men to drag him out of the arena. "We are infinitely grateful", the Patrician remarks on her way out. "You will hear from me!".

Congratulations! I have the utmost trust in you, Governor.

The Emperor is a little disappointed with this outcome.

You may be up for promotion again in the future if another eligible candidate is not found.

Caecilia tilts her head, listening to a voice you cannot hear, then she nods. Yours is a symbolic offering, the kind a peasant family could be expected to make, but it is better than nothing at all.

Caecilia presses a hand to her heart. Pigs are valuable, their blood and meat nourishing. "Our Praetor is wise", she says, "and does not falter".

Caecilia extends a hand, as if to touch your face, then pulls away. Many leagues separate you, cemented by your station. But she stands taller as she expresses her profound gratitude.

Horses will allow for a swift evacuation and can help save people from the rubble. They are beyond price.

Impressed by your devotion, Caecilia vows to proclaim your glory (and Vulcan's) throughout Latium.

Caecilia pauses in silence as guards move to escort her away. "You are making a mistake," she concludes at last. "I pray the gods will interrupt you."

You send Ben-Baalion out with an edict. Soldiers will be conscripted from every Roman household. Only the Fates know when the mountain will show his wrath. But if he does, you will be ready.

Town criers roam the city to announce a voluntary call for recruits with some imperial coin to sweeten the deal. There is some response, though you will have to settle for the braver folks.

You decide to stand fast with the forces you have. Hopefully, they will prove adequate.

You decide to increase the production of food and clothes at an increased upkeep cost. The people of Latium can thank you for it later.

You decide not to interfere with the ongoing production of goods. Survival depends on many factors, after all.

Tiles will serve, though they do have a tendency to come crashing down in droves during earthquakes. Still, it is better than nothing.

Concrete is sturdy enough, though who knows if it can withstand the wrath of a god. If only it looked more aesthetic...

You decline Ben's proposal. It is probably too late for such extensive reworks. You will find other ways to prepare for disaster.

The senate and your ruler are visibly impressed. Not many pass through such fire unscathed.

Your report may or may not be based on real events, but now the senate feels confident to impose new tribute requirements upon you. Some of your wealthier citizens are also known to disagree with your version of the truth.

Your account of the eruption commands grave interest. When you mention the shortages, advisors are called for, and you are quickly dismissed.

Everyone comes to Rome hoping for something. You're just one of many supplicants, and the day is long.

Your report is received with visible disappointment. The destruction of your cities is viewed as a sign of missing safeguards. Worse, a sign of bad governance. You will receive substantial aid, but your dignity has taken a hit.

Your factual account seems to meet with grim approval. It seems evident that no one expected you to escape such a disaster unscathed. On the whole, this could have gone a lot worse.

Your plea for help has been heard. Caecilia agrees to send some of her townsfolk to your cities. Your display of helplessness doesn't gain you any points with the population, though. They say someone wrote yet another song about the sniffling governor of Latium.

Your offer of aid receives general acclaim, even if it is going to slow down your economy for a while. Your people are proud of you. They boast of your generosity, and draw bad caricatures of your neighboring rivals, all on their knees.

Caecilia gladly sends her skilled botanists and scholars that understand how the ashes affects your crops. Meanwhile, your workers replenish the island's faltering source of strong shoulders.

Caecilia herself may do as she pleases— she is a Sybil (oracle) after all, and mistreating her could prove unlucky. But you don't answer to her. You are the governor.

A few extra hours of labour every day shouldn't be too painful, especially compared to going hungry.

In the end, you hear many complaints, but at least your people are alive to complain, and the work is quickly gaining traction.

The work of recovery can be dirty, backbreaking and cruel. At least this way, it will be over sooner.

You choose to let your farmers pick their own pace. In time, what was lost shall be recovered.

You proclaim a small reduction in tribute owed by all citizens. While your measures won't make a huge difference, they'll at least smooth over some of the sharper edges.

Your drastic reduction in tribute is the news of the day, carried by well-dressed messengers, street urchins, town criers and slaves. You are, some say, like a lighthouse to your people. Now you just have to make sure that ship doesn't sink.

You decide not to change the tribute. None of your expenses have gone away in the aftermath of Occasus. If anything, they've multiplied.

Instructed and managed by Ben-Baalion, your little troupe performs admirably. You suspect he has written most of the verses himself. And as for your people, they walk their daily lives now with a new sense of pride. They endured Vulcan's wrath and lived to tell the tale.

You engage the great names of the day to lionize the survival of your people in their works. Cat, Vigil, Bovid. Matched with the tearful accounts of real survivors, those stories and plays quickly conquer the stage.

Soon, sympathetic Romans from all over the Empire donate money and supplies to the steadfast people of Latium.

Your people don't need musicians or poets to know their worth. That money is going elsewhere for now.

You proclaim that all heads of households should survey their crops and submit a report to your magistrates. There may be some risk in digging around the ash, but your people should be equal to it.

The Equites in question prove to be extremely educated and equally pricey. You can't afford as many of them as you would like, but at least they catalogue wilt, fire damage and crop failure quite precisely.

Recovery shall proceed a little faster.

Sending out a drove of imperial inspectors allows you to map out the extensive damage suffered by your farms. Your magistrates know exactly where to prioritize their efforts, allowing for a faster recovery.

You command your magistrates to perform the inspections. While they will almost certainly be overstretched, here's a chance for them to prove themselves to their fellow Romans.

Your legions march against a mutual enemy: hunger, homelessness and hazardous debris. Your citizens welcome them like heroes.

Your soldiers are needed elsewhere, to discourage the enemy— or the enemies— you have made. Repairs will progress at their own speed.

Shortly after, you receive an answer from the Emperor, granting you the aid you requested. You are to lead the province through this age of turmoil and darkness. You are also asked not to disappoint. Especially now.

Shortly after, you receive an answer from the Emperor, granting you the aid you requested. You are to lead the province through this age of turmoil and darkness. You are also asked not to disappoint. Especially now.

Shortly after, you receive an answer from the Emperor, granting you the aid you requested. You are to lead the province through this age of turmoil and darkness. You are also asked not to disappoint. Especially now.

The answer you receive is brief, but approving. Ben-Baalion seems quite concerned that you did not ask for aid, but he doesn't get to decide.

A governor's work is never done. Perhaps you'll take to the streets, solve problems with your own two hands. Or perhaps you'll simply sit back, watch, let Latium be judged by Vulcan, let the gray demeanour of Occassus soak into your soul. Only you can say.

The fate of Ambrosia may still be fresh in the memory of your people, but the presence of coin right here and now clearly wins out. Volunteers line up to reinforce your vigiles and custodes.

The city slows down as workers lay down their tools to pray. Their voices lift in song, sacrifices burn bright, and people gather around the braziers for warmth.

The crowd is peaceful, and tensions seem to disperse as prayers clear the air.

The city slows down as workers lay down their tools to pray. There is some sporadic chanting, but it seems your people's hearts are not in it.

All eyes keep are glued to the horizon, to the looming heights of the great mountain.

The fear of Vulcan must not become greater than the respect for your rule. All who engage in unrest will face certain death at the hands of your custodes.

Your people will have a better chance of surviving the volcano than surviving your displeasure.

The fear of Vulcan must not become greater than the respect for your rule. All who engage in unrest will face certain death at the hands of your custodes.

Your people will have a better chance of surviving the volcano than surviving your displeasure.

You stay the course, trusting that you've built an imperium resilient enough to weather any storm.

You open your food stockpiles to the priesthood of Vulcan, and the acolytes get right to it, teaching acceptance over shared meals.

Occasus may or may not erupt, but at least your people are more productive and less panicked thanks to the newcomers.

You provide every city with sacred items to please the fiery god— shining metals, garlands, wafting incense, and sleek obsidian that draws the eye.

When the Acolytes arrive, they find in your people willing listeners.

Caecilia seems distraught by your answer. To force your people to face the coming darkness without an inch of solace or support, why, you must not like them very much.

She hopes Fortuna may favour you, even if Vulcan does not.

Your workers stumble upon veins of flawless obsidian, black as midnight. These lands will yield abundant wealth once Occasus finally relents. You just need to be ready.

Unfortunately, the thick noxious fumes of Occasus quickly prove fatal— especially with workers unused to mines stumbling about in the dark. Your expedition has a number of casualties to mourn.

Though it cost you, sending legion engineers reduced the risk of your little mission.

They locate flawless obsidian, black as midnight. These lands will yield abundant wealth once Occasus finally relents. You just need to be ready.

Unfortunately, the thick noxious fumes of Occasus quickly prove fatal— especially when more people are using up what little breathable air there is. Your expedition has a number of casualties to mourn.

You decline Caecilia's request. It's no use to risk the lives of your people on this dangerous terrain.

The name of the Imperator is invoked, loudly. After a period of initial confusion, the people of Latium take the hint. Some will be impressed by your professed loyalty... others might think you a bit of a bootlicker.

The Hippodrome crowd, led by the actors, works itself into a pious frenzy. Prayers mingle with the clamour of spinning wheels: surely the races have never been this blessed.

The claques improvise a chant in your honour and the crowd picks it up right away. It's kind of catchy. Who knows what the Emperor will think of such obvious self-aggrandization. But that's a problem for another day.

Let the people cheer for whoever they favour, be they skilled, divine, or a horse. That is what the races are for.

The soft, green grass does much to restore the spirits of Polyidus. His fans flock to Albion and return raving about Celtic cheese and beer.

Polyidus enjoys his days with the legion, who spoil the horse. In turn, he shows them his paces. A graffiti appears overnight. "Even if you can't race, we still love you, Polyidus."

Polyidus is eagely tended to by your devoted villa staff. The stallion prances about and bows his great head like a foreign dignitary.
And dignitaries come to visit him: even senators like to watch him run.

Prestige has increased.

It is written that one may take on the properties of what is consumed. Or, in other words, you are what you eat.
And so, Polyidus becomes the breakfast of champions. Bene comede.

You place the future of the horse in the hands of its fans. Let them pay for its feed and lodgings if they care so very much.

Every day is a day at the races. When the Hippodrome is not in use, amateurs are renting out unused chariots to take them for a spin. The occasional mass collision hardly detracts from the cheerful atmosphere.

Taxation is good for the fiscus, but the price increase scares off many potential customers. More chariots for you, then.

Patricians are happy to pay to travel in the style of the Scathach. After all, a chariot isn't just a chariot. Not if the governor is selling it. Let us hope supply can keep up with demand.

Why attempt to govern the popularity of chariots? Fixating on such insignificant matters is the privilege of those with lesser duties.

The calm quiet of the sanctuary seems well-suited to soothe hot tempers. Some take up your offer to pray for better luck. Others, the select few, give thanks for victory.

The fictions of the theatre may seem pale, compared to the real, raw action at the Hippodrome. But the drama, the tension, the comedy and the tragedy - that is no less real.

What better comfort after a lost wager, than to place another wager? Visit the gambling house! After all, most gamblers quit before they win big.

Let the people rest if they so choose. It is hardly your business what they get up to after dark.

The auspex invokes the name of Neptunus equestris: father of horses. The thundering of the waves and the thundering of hooves are both within his domain. May that thunder now inspire the devout.

The Mother of Mares has many foals, even here, far beyond the vast meadows of Albion. In invoking Epona, you do not only encourage her followers, but give thanks to the true heroes of the races: the horses.

Castor Horse-breaker, and Pollux, Scion of Jupiter, are invoked as tradition prescribes. Their rites are wrought with every crack of the whip, with every turn of the corner and creak of the wheel: twin guiding stars that illuminate your city.

It is the might of the emperor that drives forward such great spectacle: it is his divine will that grants you authority. This nod to your imperial patron will not be lost on anyone.

The dedication of the brave charioteers is enough. Whatever prayers they hold in their hearts is enough. The adulation of the crowds is enough. No god could hold it against you, though the auspex might.

It might be cheap, tasteless gruel, but it's free. Your freedmen (Liberti) leave with a smile on their faces. Your other citizens don't seem too pleased...

Your humble gift appeals to the Plebeians, who mumble their thanks: Though those of Equestrian ranks and Patrician birth show little appetite for humility.

What you provide bears the hallmark of quality: Flavour-filled Roman wines that would not disgrace any dinner table. Your Equites are happy drunks. But there are those who enjoy their singing a little less...

You present them with priceless delicacies; one small mouthful costing more than a year's hard labour. Such grandiosity cannot easily be stomached, except by those with a stomach for grandiosity...

Spectators flee the Hippodrome as slabs of concrete, hurled by an unwilling, unwitting platoon of slaves, slam into the stands.

Ben-Baalion looks at you, his eyes pose a single question: "Why?" But he does not speak, but tugs urgently at your sleeve. The crowd is starting to "return" your gifts, hurling rocks and slabs. Time to leave.

The crowd disperses, disappointed, but it's not like you owe them anything. They will forget all about it once they receive their next ration.

The crucial moment of any race is every single moment, right from the start until the very end. A robust frame will not give way under constant strain: a reliable racer will serve you better than a fast but very dead one.

Burdens reduced, the horses will be able to go much faster. Though a lamp that burns twice as bright burns twice as fast.

The new harnesses are fit for comfort. With less strain on the horses, they will be able to endure longer on the race track, though they may not feel the urgency when the stakes are highest...

This craftsman might mean well, or he might be out to sabotage the chariot. These things are not unheard of. Best not to take the risk.

Your charioteer is instructed to eat nothing but cabbage and drink nothing but cabbage-water for three days, to "reset the humours".

Afterwards, they do report an increase in vitality, and a vigorous appetite for anything that is not a cabbage. The treatment seems to be a success.

Your charioteer is instructed to eat nothing but cabbage and drink nothing but cabbage-water for three days, to "reset the humours".

Three days pass, but your charioteer seems unchanged, except for an increase in lethargy. The treatment does not seem to be a success...

Your racer receives an admixture of horse blood, dirt, and a final, secret ingredient. Foul stuff, but allegedly a favourite of Gaius Nemedes, a Lycian racing legend.

The next day, your charioteer seems to have been reborn anew; clear skin, supple joints, sharp reflexes.Hard to say what did it, but they sure look fit to take over the track.

Your racer receives an admixture of horse blood, dirt, and a final, secret ingredient. Foul stuff, but allegedly a favourite of Gaius Nemedes, a Lycian racing legend.

The next day, your charioteer reports the sort of gastric distress traditionally inflicted by skewered "meats" of unknown origin. This will surely not improve their racing abilities.

Under darkness of night, the physician instructs your charioteer to drink a Dionysiac porridge. Together, they enter the very bowels of the earth: the tunnels beneath Occasus.

At sunrise the next day, they emerge. Your charioteer claims to have ridden alongside Helios, raced the Chariot Hyperion and absorbed all the glories of Sol Invictus. Who knows? As invincible as they appear now, it may even be true.

Under darkness of night, the physician instructs your charioteer to drink a Dionysiac porridge. Together, they enter the very bowels of the earth: the tunnels beneath Occasus.

At sunrise the next day, they emerge; your charioteer has to be carried. The physician shakes his head ever so slightly.

When your charioteer recovers, they are but a shadow of their former self. Whatever they saw in that mountain haunts them still.

Better not to risk one's health and wallet on the strange medications of strange medics. Cato wrote of this.

You praise the ingenuity of Roman architects, horse trainers and chariot builders: all the planning that went into making this day a success, from starting gate to finish line.

Your eloquence and expert knowledge impresses the crowd. Your Hippodrome's Splendour has increased.

You start out on a lengthy speech extolling the ingenuity of the races. In the heat of the moment, things get a little muddled. You end up praising three-legged chariots and five-wheeled horses.

It's all rather embarassing. Your Hippodrome's Splendour has decreased.

As Helios draws the sun across the sky, as Neptune's steeds thunder across the waves; where there is a chariot, there is a god. Your speech is one of such piety and passion that even Concordia would weep to hear it.

Your Hippodrome's Splendour has increased.

You invoke the gods and speak of how they, too, race chariots and spend a lot of time contemplating horses.

Priests and pontifexes denounce your speech, citing it as an example of how common entertainment causes moral degradation. Your Hippodrome's Splendour decreases.

Is it not virtuous to be victorious? Is it not prestigious to own a chariot and crew? Every small coin pledged, every race won, that is a victory for the empire.

Your speech has caused the Hippodrome to gain Splendour and popularity, especially among the wealthy.

You talk a lot about glory and magnificence, but do little to embody it.
If anything, your speech seems to remind people of how few of your lofty goals have actually been achieved in this city.

Your Hippodrome's Splendour has decreased.

You mumble some hasty words, and drop the mappa (white handkerchief) that marks the start of the races. Five minutes later, neither you nor your spectators can remember what you said. Perhaps that is for the best.

Diokles takes up residence at your Hippodrome, speaking to your charioteers, correcting their posture and admiring their horses. It may only be for a day, but his presence is inspiring. Their training is certainly progressing faster.

Diokles confidently takes over the daily practice bouts. It's astonishing to watch him work: it is like the horses respond to his very thoughts. Your racers learn a lot by imitation.

Diokles takes up residence at your Hippodrome. Soon enough he knows the name of every horse and racer, their virtues as well as their vices.

He knows what makes them baulk, and he works them through it: and as fear loses its hold, their progress is nothing short of astonishing.

You politely decline. Diokles may count on his good fortunes to make him another fortune, but he won't have yours.