The midday sun cast long shadows over the Forum Romanum, illuminating the once-magnificent heart of Rome with a golden hue. Statues of past emperors and victorious generals loomed over the marble walkways, their expressions frozen in eternal triumph. Yet beneath their stony gazes, the streets teemed with a different Rome—one burdened by decay, desperation, and quiet ruin.
Decimus Aelius Galerianus rode slowly through the city, his horse's hooves clattering against the worn cobblestones. He had been away for years, stationed in the provinces, commanding legions along the crumbling frontier. Now, recalled to Rome, he saw the empire not through the eyes of a soldier but as an administrator, an observer of its slow collapse.
The scent of rotting grain filled the air as he passed a long line of citizens—plebeians, former soldiers, and even desperate freedmen—waiting for the state's grain dole. The queue stretched for blocks, men and women clutching empty baskets, murmuring anxiously about rumors of shortages. The grain warehouses stood tall in the distance, their iron doors guarded by legionaries in dull, unpolished armor. The plebs were restless, eyes darting toward the guards, some whispering of riots should the supplies run out again.
Rome, once the conqueror of the world, was now dependent on foreign grain to feed its own people.
Decimus reined in his horse near the Arch of Septimius Severus, watching as an argument broke out in the line. A gaunt man, little more than skin and bone, shoved a merchant draped in fine silks.
"You hoard it all, you bastards!" the man spat. "The fields are dry, and you profit while our children starve!"
The merchant sneered. "That's the price of the gods' will. Pay if you want bread."
A fight nearly broke out before the city guards intervened, their dull expressions revealing their disinterest. They had seen this too many times before. Decimus turned his horse away, his grip tightening on the reins.
He rode past the great villas of the aristocracy, where laughter and music floated from within. Behind high walls, Rome's senatorial elite feasted on honeyed dates, roasted boar, and wine so rich it was almost black. The stark contrast between their excess and the suffering in the streets made his stomach turn.
That evening, Decimus attended a banquet himself. A senator, Gaius Lavinius, had invited him to discuss his future now that he had returned to Rome. Lavinius was a master of politics, a man whose words were always laced with hidden meanings.
The dining hall was extravagant, illuminated by flickering oil lamps, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and saffron. Slaves moved between reclining guests, refilling goblets of wine and placing more delicacies upon golden plates. Decimus listened as the men around him spoke of petty rivalries, of securing more lucrative governorships, of which barbarian tribe was causing trouble this time.
Not one word about the fields outside the city.
"The world is as it has always been, Decimus," Lavinius said when the topic of Rome's struggles came up. "The plebs complain, the Senate schemes, the provinces send tribute, and the legions keep the frontiers. This cycle has endured for centuries. Do not trouble yourself trying to change it."
Decimus stared into his wine, silent for a moment. "And what happens when the legions can no longer hold the frontiers? When the fields stop producing enough grain? When there's no tribute left to send?"
Lavinius chuckled. "Then we shall enjoy our feasts while we still can."
The words haunted Decimus as he rode home that night. The senators had no interest in saving Rome—only in wringing the last profits from its corpse.
The next morning, he rode beyond the city walls to the farms that once fed the empire. What he found chilled him.
Abandoned fields stretched to the horizon, once-fertile land reduced to dry, cracked earth. The same grains planted year after year had stripped the soil of its nutrients, leaving it barren. Farmers toiled in the dirt, their faces weary, their harvests meager.
An old veteran, his back bent with age, wiped sweat from his brow as Decimus approached. "The land's dying, sir," he said, gesturing at the empty fields. "Used to feed a hundred families. Now we barely scrape enough for our own."
Decimus dismounted and knelt, scooping up a handful of soil. It crumbled in his hands—dust, lifeless.
He had seen enough. Rome wasn't dying because of barbarian invasions or scheming senators. It was dying because its foundation—its land, its farmers, its people—had been neglected for too long.
That night, under the flickering light of an oil lamp, Decimus laid out his first plan.
Crop rotation. Irrigation. Land reforms. A way to restore what had been lost.
Rome didn't need another war. It needed a farmer's touch.
And if no one else would do it, then he would.