Two months passed in the blink of an eye.
For the first time in years, the Mojave experienced a kind of stability that once seemed impossible. No raiders. No addicts. The irradiated beasts had been exterminated. The old roaming gangs were either absorbed or destroyed. What remained was something rarely seen in this land: order. Conditions ripe for prosperity.
Water flowed abundantly from Hoover Dam, now fully under our control. Its power output was nearly fully restored, and the electrical pulse of the new city fed factories, machines, and settlements miles away. As I had done before in the territory of the Twin Mothers, every useful piece of technology within my reach was now employed in service of reconstruction—but this time, on a scale never before imagined.
The metro expanded quickly, carved out by heavy machinery and the precise hands of slaves. The vertical hydroponic mega-farms began to rise on the horizon like towers of hope. Cranes and scaffolding dominated the skyline, while the slave population grew daily—driven by new conquest campaigns, tribute, and internal reorganization. And to many people's surprise… so did the number of freedmen.
On the day Caesar's edict was proclaimed, a census was ordered throughout the Legion to determine who was eligible for freedom. It was no simple task. Disorganized records, the scattering of slaves across old campaigns and provinces—everything made the process complex. So we began organizing the data by cross-referencing dates of campaigns, creating a reliable framework to measure each slave's time in service.
At the still-fresh foundations of the Temple of Libertas, thousands of slaves gathered to take the oath that would grant them freedom. One by one, they swore to serve the Legion—even as free men. The official numbers, verified by tributary reports and external provinces, spoke of tens of thousands of slaves liberated in mere weeks.
It was a moment to act with speed and precision.
We knew the risk was real: many freedmen, once unchained, would try to leave Legion territory. Escape. And with them, we would lose a labor force that was valuable, trained, disciplined, and hardened through work.
To preempt this, I took action. Outside the temples where the liberation ceremonies took place, I established stations for merchants, landowners, and business leaders—all ready to offer immediate employment to the newly freed. But none of them could compete with me.
My own construction firm, originally founded to develop cities in New Mexicanorum, expanded rapidly. It was present in every strategic location, offering work with generous pay in denarii, housing included, and clear contracts: ten years of service in exchange for stability, shelter, and a new life. This tempered the economic impact of mass emancipation while laying the foundation for something far more enduring: a new working class—now free—integrated into the Legion's economy.
In time, these freedmen would pay taxes, be drafted, participate in trade. They would produce goods that we would tax fairly.
But something even more important remained: the centralization of Caesar's Empire.
What had once been the Legion's greatest strength—the network of allied tribes and tributaries supplying men and resources for our campaigns—was now a latent threat to imperial stability. As the territory consolidated and the Legion's power extended beyond the Mojave, those tribes still retained a level of autonomy that, while tolerated during conquest, had become a quiet danger to unity.
There was too much freedom.
Their leaders still acted like local kings—deciding when to send tribute, how to train their warriors, what laws to enforce, and most concerning of all, whom to obey first: the legacy of their tribe, or the will of Caesar. Their loyalty was not conviction—it was fear. And fear does not last.
Caesar's desire has always been clear: a strong, authoritarian, centralized government—not a federation of disparate cultures bound by convenience. If we wanted the Legion to outlive the man who founded it, we had to remove the ambiguity. Tear down the old columns and raise a new Rome on solid foundations.
I requested an audience with Caesar in the tactical chamber of the new palace. Campaign maps lined the walls, and his marble table was covered in reports from Malpais and Lanius, still deep in their campaigns to the north and east. Caesar received me without ceremony—straight to business—and immediately began charting the plan to bring our tributaries to heel.
There was no debate on whether it should be done. This was not a question of morality or convenience. To Lord Caesar, it was simply the next inevitable phase. Every empire, he said, upon reaching a certain size, must shed the temporary arrangements that helped build it. The tribes and clans that once served as the Legion's foundation had fulfilled their role.
"It's only a matter of time," he said quietly. "And that time has come."
We had thousands of veterans without a purpose—hardened soldiers with no immediate wars to fight. If necessary, they would be used to crush—swiftly and without mercy—those we once called allies. Circumstantial loyalty had to be replaced by absolute obedience. Regional freedom would vanish, replaced by a rigid, centralized structure.
All Legion forces began mobilizing eastward, toward the cities of our tributaries, loyal tribes, and former allies. Not as protectors this time—but as silent conquerors. What was once tolerated would now be absorbed. The Frumentarii network—once focused on infiltrating and destabilizing the NCR—was redirected and reassigned to a new, vital task: internal surveillance. Preventing the tributaries from sharing information. Intercepting any coordination attempts. Crushing resistance before it could breathe. One by one. Isolated, they would be powerless to resist.
Much to my frustration, this required that I abandon direct oversight of the city under construction. I left it in the hands of capable men—but their capacity was limited. They could manage supervision, perhaps—but deep problems would likely await my return. One persistent issue remained unchanged: most of the Legion was illiterate. Trying to govern through scrolls and written orders when the structure cannot read slows every form of modern administration.
There were massive differences between the tributaries—cultural, structural, logistical. Some still lived as nomadic clans. Others had developed into surprisingly complex societies. The most important among them was, without question, the city of Phoenix.
Phoenix, under Legion protection, was our most valuable tributary. It produced most of the chemicals required for smokeless powder. Its industry was a critical link in the Legion's munitions supply chain, and its workshops supplied nearly every active front.
There had already been a rebellion attempt among its leadership—those who believed they could exploit our dependence on their production. Caesar's response was immediate and brutal: the ringleaders were crucified in the central plaza. Their wealth, lands, and titles were redistributed to the local populace. An exemplary punishment. Still, an autonomous system was left in place. Only a handful of legionaries were stationed with the authority to ensure Caesar's ordinances on war production were upheld.
Why was that system allowed to remain? Because central administration was stretched thin. We lacked enough scribes, engineers, and trained magistrates to assume direct control over all regions at once. We had to apply force with precision—then allow functional structures to continue while the new organs of empire solidified.
Much of the old virtual reality training hardware—once designed to instruct Vertibird pilots—was reassigned with a new purpose: education.
We began using it to rapidly train new Legion administrators. Candidates were selected from among legionaries who showed intelligence, discipline, and tactical comprehension. Those who once knew only how to wield a spear now studied accounting, logistics, formal writing, basic civil governance.
It wasn't perfect. But it worked. The need was urgent, and we had no time for years of classical schooling. We had to build a new caste of governors and supervisors capable of managing a growing empire.
With each passing day, the Legion was becoming less a war machine—and more an apparatus of total control.
Meanwhile, Phoenix was addressed without delay. Caesar's order had been clear and did not require repetition.
We arrived like a thunderclap.
We used the railways we had previously constructed to connect the city to the weapon production complexes and the Mojave's main routes. It was one of the few regions with functional railway infrastructure, and now we turned it against them. As the first columns of legionaries descended from armored cars, operative squads were already stationed at the platforms, chemical depots, and munitions factories.
Within an hour, we had seized control of every strategic point in the city. No combat. No resistance. Only shock, silence, and then, submission. We entered the council chamber where Phoenix's old civic and merchant leaders still gathered. We informed them—without drama, without violence, without hollow speeches:
"Your services are no longer required."
We explained that from that day forward, Phoenix was no longer an autonomous tributary but an official governorship of the Legion. No more exceptions. No more special agreements. A new governor trained in our accelerated academies was installed. A permanent garrison of well-equipped legionaries occupied the city's critical infrastructure: the train station, the chemical center, and the former council hall, now converted into the Imperial Administration House.
The lesser tributaries posed no real issue. For years, many had already begun adopting a lifestyle akin to the Legion's, trying to win Caesar's favor. They had absorbed our customs, replicated our hierarchies, and in some cases, adopted our language as their official tongue. Their voluntary Romanization had been slow, but effective. Now, it served my mission well.
No battles were needed. I sat with their leaders and calmly explained that Caesar now demanded more than symbolic loyalty. He wanted direct control. The age of promises and pacts was over.
Many accepted outright. Others hesitated, but did not resist. They had grown used to following our lead. Formalizing their inclusion was merely the final step. They needed no persuasion—only guidance.
I took this opportunity to pursue another key goal: the strategic relocation of tribal populations. I ordered the movement of minor clans to zones nearer logistical hubs, transport routes, and planned future cities. This allowed closer control and easier integration into our economy and military.
It was a quiet operation—almost diplomatic. Yet its impact would be lasting. Each relocated tribe received designated lands, access to basic infrastructure, and a clear chain of command.
My own tribe—more accurately, my property—was not an issue. If this had happened before I became Caesar's heir, I might have fought it. But now, I simply handed over the local administration I had built to a loyal legionary governor. The structure was already in place. Discipline. Order. Function.
The same occurred in the governorship of Mexicanorum. It was already operating as a direct province of the Legion. I didn't need to send troops—only a letter, declaring that from now on, they reported directly to Caesar from his new palace in New Rome.
That was enough. No one protested. No one objected. They were already within the fold. Now, it was just formal.
The territories Lanius had conquered were, for the most part, empty.
Dog City was fully under our control. Smoke still rose from some ruins, but organized resistance was gone. Of the remaining zones, only two cities survived the wrath of the loyal Butcher. Survive, if it could be called that.
Both were under heavy legionary control. Patrols marched the streets day and night. The few remaining leaders knew full well that defiance meant their heads would hang from the walls.
We sent formal orders: civil authority would immediately shift to imperial command, local militias dissolved, records centralized, and taxes collected.
Pecos Colony was, in many ways, amusing.
They had a democratic system—improvised, but functional. It was the only government that truly wasted more of my time than it was worth, thanks to Sheila, the colony's leader. Charismatic, no doubt. And oddly close to the Legion—too close, considering how loudly they claimed to despise our rule.
Thousands of their youth—second sons, unemployed, system outcasts—had joined as urban legionaries, guarding trade routes, serving in Mexicanorum, or working as auxiliaries on the border. They knew that with us, at least, there was food, purpose, and order.
Still, Sheila demanded another vote. Almost begged me to preserve the illusion that this was their choice. I found it pointless, but allowed it. Again. And again, I won.
Not through fear. Not through manipulation. Through comfort. Pecos had lived too long beside chaos to romanticize freedom. They had seen what being alone meant. Now, with the Legion providing stability and structure, they clung to it.
A decree made it official. Pecos was annexed.
Sheila didn't protest. She just lowered her gaze and thanked me for "respecting her will."
Todd… well, Todd is Todd. And Todd is Texan.
An arms capitalist, central figure in the Texas Arms Association. Charismatic, cold. He didn't care for politics. He cared for gold.
The gift was simple: a share of the gold recovered from the NCR and Sierra Madre. No questions. No demands. Just the glint of gold. He personally ensured his Association friends walked away smiling, their pockets heavy, as I became their new "major investor."
He and his circle surrendered their political autonomy without a sound. In return, they remained the Legion's official suppliers. Their factories stayed open. Their routes protected. Their names etched on our weapons.
Simple trade: gold for order.
For Todd, that was enough.
I handled the larger tributaries—those with political weight, strategic production, or logistical control. But it didn't end there. Minor tribes, mid-sized cities, distant settlements—they too had to be absorbed. Not all welcomed the imperial structure.
Some were pacified with a rapid show of force: seize local leaders, disarm guards, install new administration. But not all fell so easily.
The most primitive tribes were the hardest. Living on the fringes, hardened by generations of survival, they knew no flag. No politics. Only blood and land. When cornered, they chose to fight. And they fought with ferocity.
Tribal resistance flared across multiple regions—mountains, valleys, caravan trails. Some attacks were coordinated, most were not. But all stemmed from one instinct: the desire to live without a Caesar.
We responded as the Legion always does.
Blitz warfare turned into a slow-burning campaign. We fought village by village. Broke totems. Burned symbols. Razed temples. Executed shamans. We imposed Caesar's law.
And when the last tribal spear fell, Caesar ceased to be a distant name.
He became law. Destiny. Master.
Now... only the strongest allies remained.