Isle of the Blessed: A Novel of the Roman Empire

Praise for the Eagles and Dragons series…

Historic Novel Society:

…Haviaras handles it all with smooth skill. The world of third-century Rome…is colourfully vivid here, and Haviaras manages to invest even his secondary and tertiary characters with believable, three-dimensional humanity.

Amazon Readers:

Graphic, uncompromising and honest… A novel of heroic men and the truth of the uncompromising horror of close combat total war…

Raw and unswerving in war and peace… New author to me but ranks along side Ben Kane and Simon Scarrow. The attention to detail and all the gory details are inspiring and the author doesn't invite you into the book he drags you by the nasal hairs into the world of Roman life sweat, tears, blood, guts and sheer heroism. Well worth a night’s reading because once started it’s hard to put down.

Historical fiction at its best! … if you like your historical fiction to be an education as well as a fun read, this is the book for you!

Loved this book! I'm an avid fan of Ancient Rome and this story is, perhaps, one of the best I've ever read.

An outstanding and compelling novel!

I would add this author to some of the great historical writers such as Conn Iggulden, Simon Scarrow and David Gemmell. The characters were described in such a way that it was easy to picture them as if they were real and have lived in the past, the book flowed with an ease that any reader, novice to advanced can enjoy and become fully immersed…

One in a series of tales which would rank them alongside Bernard Cornwell, Simon Scarrow, Robert Ludlum, James Boschert and others of their ilk. The story and character development and the pacing of the exciting military actions frankly are superb and edge of your seat! The historical environment and settings have been well researched to make the story lines so very believable!! I can hardly wait for what I hope will be many sequels! If you enjoy Roman historical fiction, you do not want to miss this series!

Goodreads:

… a very entertaining read; Haviaras has both a fluid writing style, and a good eye for historical detail, and explores in far more detail the faith of the average Roman than do most authors.

Kobo:

I can't remember the last time that a book stirred so many emotions! I laughed, cried and cheered my way through this book and can't wait to meet again this wonderful family of characters. Roll on to the next book!

Isle of the Blessed

Eagles and Dragons

Book IV

Adam Alexander Haviaras

Isle of the Blessed and the Eagles and Dragons series

Copyright © 2019 by Adam Alexander Haviaras

Eagles and Dragons Publishing, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication, with the exception of short excerpts for the purposes of book reviews, without the written consent of the author is an infringement of copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-988309-26-2

E-Pub Edition

Cover designed by LLPix Designs

*Please note: To enhance the reader’s experience, there is a glossary of Latin words at the back of this book.

Join the legions!

Sign-up for the Eagles and Dragons Publishing Newsletter

and get a FREE BOOK today.

Subscribers get first access to new releases, special offers,

and much more.

CLICK HERE to get started!

For Angelina, Alexandra, and Athena…

I would not walk the dark wood of this world with anyone else but you.

Για την Αγγελίνα, την Αλεξάνδρα και την Αθηνά…

Δεν θα περπατούσα στο σκοτεινό δάσος αυτού του κόσμου με οποιονδήποτε άλλο εκτός από εσάς.

Isle of the Blessed

A Novel of the Roman Empire

Adam Alexander Haviaras

Prologus

A.D. 209

The rain was icy and sharp as it drove down from iron-grey clouds that clung to the jagged peaks of the hills surrounding the small valley. The rush of a waterfall cascading from hidden heights could be heard, feeding the bubbling river that ran like an artery through the village and out into the expanse of the glen.

In the heart of a gathering of village roundhouses, amid the torches that sputtered beneath the thatch overhangs of two neighbouring houses, Argentocoxus, Chieftain of the Caledonii, waited with three of his bodyguards. He stood wrapped in a long cloak of brown embroidered with silver thread, one hand reaching up to finger the thick rope of the golden torc that ringed his neck. His other hand, rested upon the silver hilt of the longsword that hung at his side.

The chieftain and his men peered into the mist and rain, down the village road, waiting for the arrival of the messenger.

They should be here by now, one of the bodyguards said.

Argentocoxus nodded to the other group standing out in the rain. He knew the villagers were watching him from the cracked shutters of their homes, waiting to see what he would do.

The bodyguard strode out to where three Romans knelt in the middle of the road, facing into the mist. Their hands were bound behind their backs, their mouths gagged with oily rags that made the bile in their throats rise. They dared not move, for the spears held by the enemy warriors behind them would plunge into the backs of their necks before they twitched a muscle.

The chieftain’s bodyguard removed the gag from the first Roman’s mouth and took his hair roughly in his tattooed fist, a short blade at his throat. You said he was coming! That he wanted to talk!

The Roman looked up at the warrior’s face, the braided, drooping moustache dripping with rainwater onto his face. He does want to talk. He was right behind us until your men attacked, the Roman growled. He wants to-

Here they are! the warrior behind the Roman said suddenly.

The bodyguard turned to see four warriors coming toward them, their blades drawn on a single Roman in their midst. He had a sack over his head, and his wrists were bound, but he walked with his head held high.

The bodyguard turned to look at his lord, and Argentocoxus came out into the rain with the other two men at his side. The Roman had asked for this meeting. Now they would see what he wanted. Just before they arrived before him, he glanced back at the roundhouse where he had been standing, to see the open door and darkness within. The situation made him uncomfortable, but he wanted to see where it would lead.

The group arrived and the four warriors pushed the Roman to his knees before Argentocoxus.

Remove his hood, the chieftain said.

One of the men ripped it free and there, looking up at Argentocoxus, was Marcus Claudius Picus.

Good evening, Argentocoxus, Claudius said, his eyes darting to his three men kneeling before him. I see you’ve met my men.

You abandoned them quite easily, Claudius, the chieftain said with disdain. Do you do that to all your men?

I did not trust you. I was right. Claudius made to stand, but was pushed back down.

Argentocoxus nodded and his men allowed the Roman to stand. And I do not trust you, or any Roman for that matter.

Claudius smiled. I am perhaps the only Roman you can truly trust. Claudius saw his men looking up at him, followed their eyes to the dark doorway of the roundhouse to his left. He looked back at Argentocoxus, and held up his bound wrists. Do you mind?

The chieftain eyed him warily, but nodded to one of the men who stepped forward to cut the ropes.

Claudius sighed as if bored and rubbed his wrists.

What do you want, Claudius? Argentocoxus asked.

My spies tell me that the Maeatae are making plans for a large-scale assault. You wouldn’t happen to know about this, would you?

Argentocoxus’ eyes went to the roundhouse quickly, but he shook his head. My concern is for my people, and keeping to the truce I made with your emperor.

Yes…my emperor. And the shipments of silver you continue to receive, Claudius said as he stared at the jutting hilt of the chieftain’s sword. Severus is ill, and will not live forever.

So people keep saying, but he appears to live on and on, and Caracalla did not follow through on his plan, Argentocoxus said. He remembered his conversation in the woods of Caledonia after that last battle, when Caesar Caracalla had made him promises, promises that had not been kept.

Trust me when I say that Severus will not last much longer, Claudius said. He eyed his kneeling men again. Plans are in motion.

What plans?

That is not your concern. What should concern you is what I need you to do.

I am not your servant! Argentocoxus said, his voice growing angry at the Roman’s arrogance.

But you are Caesar’s, and I am his, Claudius said. We have a thorn in our side…several really.

Who?

The Dragon and his men.

The chieftain balled his fists, and his mouth tightened. He is in Britannia.

Yes, Claudius responded.

What do you want of me and my people then?

I want you to slaughter the Dragon and his men.

We tried. They are too powerful. Argentocoxus remembered all too well the thunder of horses’ hooves and the roar of dragons upon the battlefield. His nights were riddled with dreams of blood and the massacred bodies of his warriors. It was a crisis his people had never faced before, and now they looked to him to make things right. Is this my chance? A deal with this Roman?

If, you find an ally brave enough to face them…someone with the strength and numbers, it should be easy for you. Claudius looked to the roundhouse and back to the chieftain.

But the truce? If we break it, war will begin again. My people have had their fill of suffering.

They will suffer more if Rome remains here indefinitely, Claudius said. And I for one, do not want to remain here. Even as he said it, the rainwater made him shiver beneath his cuirass. Caesar belongs in Rome, and so do I. But the emperor’s plans, and those of the Praetorian prefect, are to remain and establish a northern capital of the empire. Is that something you want? Peace here means that Rome will stay.

Argentocoxus was silent.

Claudius continued. Let us make a new deal, you and I. You kill the Dragon and his men, and I will see to it that when Severus dies - and that will be soon - Caracalla will pull out of Caledonia for good.

A death sentence for many of my people, Argentocoxus said.

Freedom from Rome, Claudius countered. If you do not have the courage to do so, however, or don’t have an ally who is brave enough, then that is different. Perhaps we really have defeated you?

Enough.

The growl that came from the roundhouse froze the blood of every Caledonian there, including the chieftain.

Claudius smiled and looked toward the doorway where two glowing eyes emerged out of the darkness.

An enormous warrior stepped out into the rain. His chest was bare and tattooed upon it was a wolf, the eyes seeming to glow in the dim light as if they were alive. He had raven-black hair that fell around his shoulders and a torc that was even thicker than the one Argentocoxus wore around his neck.

Claudius noticed the Caledonian chieftain recoil a little as the man approached them, but that he tried to keep his composure.

Argentocoxus, or any of his men, could not hide the fact that they were afraid and awed by this newcomer.

You speak too much, Roman, the new chieftain said. You have a deal.

But- Argentocoxus was about to protest, but one look from the enormous warrior silenced him.

The warrior approached, his blue eyes burning with a fire that surprised even Claudius. The Caledonii may not have the stomach for another war with Rome, but the Maeatae do.

Ah, Claudius said. You are the one.

I am the Wolf. I am a son of the Morrigan, and I am sworn to destroy Rome and the Dragon.

And I don’t care, Claudius said, smiling up at the warrior. All I care about is the death of the Dragon, and leaving this cold, filthy island.

The chieftain laughed, deep and cold as he stared at Claudius. He could use this Roman. If Rome pulled out of Caledonia, then he could rule as overlord of every tribe north of the Wall, and then, sweep south and push Rome out of the island once and for all. But first, he wanted war in the land where they stood, to wipe away the shame Argentocoxus had brought on the tribes, and upon the Morrigan herself.

I will kill this Dragon. I will make him suffer, the chieftain said, his face close to Claudius’. But you will not tell us when. You will not dictate to us, or to me. We will bring war to your doorstep when our Gods deem it timely.

With a speed that seemed entirely unnatural, the chieftain drew his sword and slashed it through the head of the first kneeling Roman in one stroke.

What are you doing? Argentocoxus cried out, his voice full of as much anger and rage as he could muster.

I am sealing this pact with Roman blood! the other chieftain said, as he grabbed the spear from the shocked Caledonian who had been standing behind the Roman. He then bent over, picked up that bloody, gape-eyed head with one hand, and slammed it down on the spearhead. If you betray us, if you dare to ignore the pact the way your caesar did, then it will be your head upon a spear!

The Maeatae chieftain growled, his entire body rising and falling calmly like the blood-loving beast that covered his body.

But Marcus Claudius Picus was not bothered by the sight of his slaughtered man. I will do my part. You worry about doing yours, Chieftain, he said, smirking. He began to walk away, but turned back to go to his remaining two men who knelt, looking up at him.

Without a word, Claudius spun, grabbed the sword from one of the men who had taken him prisoner and plunged it into the chest of one of his men, pulled it out and drove it into the neck of the other, leaving the blade protruding from the gasping man’s flesh.

Claudius turned calmly to face the spear points and swords levelled at him.

The chieftain of the Maeatae smiled beside the shocked Argentocoxus and his men.

Claudius wiped his hands and began to walk away. You may keep the heads, he called over his shoulder before disappearing into the mist and rain.

Part I

FAMILIAE

A.D. 210

I

Senex Imperator

‘The Aged Emperor’

Peace… Finally, some peace…

Emperor Septimius Severus sat back in the great fur-covered chair that had been set up for him in the lush, green gardens of the imperial palace complex of Eburacum.

His body ached all over, but his cough had finally subsided after an entire morning of receiving various clients and hearing petitions from people wanting things from him - lands, favour, advantages over their enemies, and more.

He pulled the bear fur closely about him to ward off the cool spring air. It felt good to be alone now, after so many pulling at his attention like merchants’ hands in the African animal markets. The emperor was happy to have sent everyone away, even Castor, his faithful freedman who was ever at his side, helping him, tending to him.

I need time, he said to himself, but then laughed, and was pulled into another coughing fit. Hmm. That is the one thing I do not have much of…

Severus peered up at the grey clouds where they hung low, just above the red tile rooftops of the palace. He wondered if, being in Britannia, he had starved himself of the sun’s light so much that it had sped the weakening of his body and soul even more.

No! he chided himself. Fate has set its course and it would be the same were I sitting here, or in the heat and golden light of Leptis Magna.

Since the beginning of the Caledonian campaign, Severus had missed his North African home more than ever - the sights, the smells, the colour and the light, brilliant light that penetrated the eyes such that it filled one with hope. The welcome he had received from the people of his home several years before, when he had returned, had rejuvenated him beyond measure.

Now, he fought against the waves of sadness and despair daily, as brutal an enemy as the Parthians or Caledonii had ever been.

Time…

How many sunrises and sunsets had he seen? How many cycles of moon and stars? He had ruled the world, believed he had been shown favour by the Gods. And yet his body wasted away with him still in it.

The emperor rubbed his eyes as they came down from the sky to rest on the ponds and tall marsh grasses before him. All was dark and deep green, the water black.

The tall grasses shivered then, despite the absence of wind, and Severus continued to stare into them, his eyes searching the spot where they seemed to part as if someone were moving through them.

Castor? the emperor said. What are you doing there?

But there was no answer.

Then, the minute amount of light that had been gracing the garden was completely choked from the sky and the emperor found himself in darkness.

The grasses rustled again.

My son? Severus called out, remembering with regret how Caracalla had thought to murder him before the legions in Caledonia. Come out!

The face that appeared was not that of his son or his freedman, or any other among the living. It was, however, the face of a man he had known.

The man approached slowly, his arms parting the reeds and grasses which hid his legs and waist. He stopped without making a sound or splash in the water.

Clodius? Septimius Severus sat up and forward, nearly falling over but holding on with his pale hands to the knobs of his chair. You are dead, shade!

Severus remembered giving the order for the murder of Clodius Albinus, his one-time friend, then rival claimant to the imperial throne. The troops had brought Severus his family seal after having cut his body up and thrown it in the Rhodanus, along with his family. Yet there the man stood, tall, his short curly hair and beard healthy and vibrant, framing his handsome face.

Albinus smiled knowingly at Severus, and extended his hand to point directly at the emperor.

You are rotting away like a corpse in the desert, Septimius.

And you are dead!

Yes… Murderer and thief!

I stole nothing, Severus insisted. I won the war because I was the strongest and my men the best.

Your legions cannot help you now. Not against the stars that are your fate…

Severus sat back in his chair, struggling to stay upright as the grey face seemed to stretch out to him, the eyes going from black to crimson.

Your time is near… So say the stars upon your ceiling, Septimius.

You cannot frighten me, shade! Severus said, his voice hoarse and angry. I know my fate, and the hour of my death.

Albinus smiled, and teeth fell out of his mouth, even as the skin greyed and shrivelled upon his face and body, and his armour rotted and fell off to reveal his lacerated torso.

You will not see Elysium…ever. The gods will tear you apart as you tore my family apart…as you tore the Empire apart…

No!

Clodius Albinus’ head toppled from his shoulders then, followed by the rest of his savaged form, and Severus drew back to hide beneath the furs.

Get out! the emperor shouted, as his hand grasped for the sword that leaned against his chair. Be gone from me!

Sire! the voice reached out, full of fear and concern. My Emperor, I am here!

The sword Severus had been grasping for fell onto the stone slabs with a loud clang, and he threw the furs aside to look up at Castor with rheumy eyes.

Sire, it is me, the freedman said, his own aged eyes blinking back stinging tears when he saw the emperor in that state. All is well, sire. It is only a passing storm cloud to block out the light. Nothing more.

Septimius Severus gripped Castor’s tunic tightly and pulled him down to hiss into his ear.

I saw him, Castor! Albinus! He is back for vengeance!

As the emperor spoke, Castor put out his hand for one of the slaves to hand him the tonic he had prepared for Severus.

The emperor drank, rivulets running from the corners of his mouth to soak into the fabric of his purple and gold robes.

Come, sire, Castor soothed. I have set the braziers in your chamber alight to ward off this British chill.

With Castor and the slave’s help, Septimius Severus rose from his chair and began the long walk to his private chambers.

The darkness of the corridor was punctuated with fire from the torches, between which stood several Praetorians whom the Praetorian prefect, Papinianus, had chosen specifically for their loyalty.

Two guardsmen saluted, opened the double oak doors to the emperor’s chamber, and closed them once more after Castor led him through.

Inside, Severus made his way directly to a marble altar that stood before bronze statues of Jupiter, Mars, and Baal.

Castor, well used to the emperor’s routines, lit a chunk of fine Syrian frankincense, placed it in the emperor’s hand and supported him as he placed it upon the altar.

Severus closed his eyes and swayed as he prayed, his mouth moving quickly, but uttering only incoherent words to the gods before him.

Thank you, Castor, said the voice of the empress as she came up behind him from one of the secret doors to the chamber. I shall care for the emperor now. I will call for you when we are ready to join the others in the triclinium.

My lady, Castor said, bowing low to her, before ushering the slave out and leaving.

Come, Husband, she said, her arm beneath Severus’. It is time to rest.

She led him to the large bed flanked by two burning braziers with bronze lions’ claws for feet.

Septimius Severus sighed once and his eyes focused on the ceiling above where he had ordered the stars painted in the pattern given him by his astrologer - the stars that reminded him his end was near, that it was written.

I hate this feeling of weakness, he said to Julia Domna, his wife and empress.

I know… she said, It is a feeling foreign to you. She held his hand in hers and squeezed.

He nodded, but his eyes widened and he shook his head, unable to forget the visage of death, of the man he had murdered, whose family he had hacked to pieces with the blades of his men.

He saw Albinus’ shade more often recently. It haunted him. It undermined his strength.

Severus had told himself that all of the blood and death, of friends and enemies, had been for the good of the empire. All of it. But certainty was no longer a luxury. The only thing he knew for certain was the message in those stars painted upon his crumbling ceiling.

I shall die soon, he said.

The empress gripped his hand tightly and nodded. Yes, she whispered.

The imperial palace at Eburacum was a place of contrasts. At times it bustled as much inside as any market across the empire, the noise from the city’s streets pouring in through every window and doorway to echo along every hall and corridor. At other times, it was silent and tense, like a prisoner awaiting sentence, or a disciplined army awaiting the call of a cornu to commence battle.

That night, the palace was silent, the darkness suspicious of the torches carried by guards as they made their rounds. Every room was carefully watched, especially the marble triclinium of the imperial family where Caesar Caracalla and his brother Geta sat opposite each other upon couches, their aunt, Julia Maesa, sitting beside the former.

What’s keeping them? Caracalla said. I’m hungry and have duties to attend to! He fidgeted with a knife which he spun on the table top, a small indent forming where the blade turned round.

Father was resting, Geta replied, popping a grape into his mouth, his eyes never meeting those of his brother or aunt. They’ll be here shortly. Mother told me when I passed her in the hall.

Julia Maesa, the empress’ sister, laid her hand upon Caracalla’s arm and smiled. Your father was not feeling well today. Give him time. I think he wishes to speak with you both.

Talk, talk, and more talk, Caracalla said, throwing his black cloak back so that it fell onto the floor behind his couch to reveal his red tunic. We should not remain here in Britannia. The war with the Caledonii is over. We have a treaty.

Father is not well enough to travel. You know this. Travelling will surely kill him, Geta said sadly as he wiped a drop of wine from his blue and gold embroidered tunic.

Caracalla eyed his brother over the flames jutting from several oil lamps amidst the platters of fowl, fish, fresh bread, olives, and cheese that had been laid out by the kitchen slaves for the imperial family. He was angry and resentful, like a bear that had been baited too many times, not with weapons, but with laughter and derision, and the favour of their parents, which Geta seemed ever to enjoy.

Caracalla worked his jaw and ran his fingers through his dense, curly hair. It irked him that Geta walked about Eburacum as if he ruled there. While his brother had held court in Eburacum, Caracalla had bloodied his sword in Caledonia, plunged it into the flesh of their enemies. He had brokered a treaty with the barbarian chieftain, Argentocoxus, and had recovered the line of forts that made up the Roman Gask Ridge.

Much had happened since they had arrived in Britannia. As soon as he had arrived, Caracalla had been pulled into a maelstrom of blood and guts, to be spat out the other side before he had even known what happened. He was proud of his actions, of the wounds he had endured in the campaign, but the act of sitting still and tending to administration alone now irked him no end. He wanted to be in Rome.

At council meetings, his father no longer took his advice, nor did his opinion matter when it came to the running of the Praetorian Guard. Papinianus, the Praetorian prefect, no longer sought his council. In fact, he had been assured by his closest ally, Marcus Claudius Picus, that the emperor, Geta, and the Praetorian Prefect actively sought to exclude him from decisions on the future of the empire.

Caracalla slammed his fist on the table, making a carefully-stacked display of cooked fish collapse to either side, just as the double doors to the triclinium opened and the emperor and empress appeared there, flanked by Praetorians.

Geta rose from his couch and went to his father’s aid, taking Castor’s place at his father’s left arm and helping him down the single step and around the table to the head couch.

I’m glad to see you well, Father, Caracalla said from his couch.

Septimius Severus glanced at his son, but said nothing, reaching instead for the wine cup before him.

I am not well, Severus replied, after taking a sip.

There was silence then, but for the splash of wine as one of the slaves went around the table to fill everyone’s golden cups.

You seem better than you were is all I meant, Caracalla said, reaching for a piece of steaming bread.

The emperor sipped his wine again, his eyes glancing at his sons from the top of his cup while two slaves placed braziers close behind him.

And how are you, Sister? Julia Domna asked Julia Maesa as she reclined across from Caracalla, beside Geta who kissed her hand as she did so.

I am well, though I have to admit that the excitement of Eburacum is fast waning for me. I’m of a mind to go to Londinium to see what entertainments the town has.

You’ll do no such thing. The family stays here, the emperor said to his sister-in-law.

Julia Maesa nodded slowly in acquiescence, her hand reaching for her nephew’s arm again.

The empress pat her husband’s arm too and looked about the comfortable room, golden light reflecting off of the frescoed walls, their beauty blurred by the steam of the hot foot placed before them.

Julia Domna looked tired, her eyes betraying the weight of her worries, but beyond that, her presence soothed most, as did her calm demeanour. She reclined amid the folds of her gold and emerald tunica and stola, her shoulders covered by a matching palla. It was a simple, elegant look to match her tightly bound hair, quite the opposite of her sister who, despite the cold British climate, insisted on going bare-shouldered about the palace.

Julia Maesa’s sea blue stola betrayed the actual season and place in which she found herself.

The empress smiled thinly at her, knowing that the incessantly-full wine cup her sister held aloft warmed her enough.

She did not mind, she supposed. Julia Maesa never imposed upon her own imperial powers. She knows better…

What the empress did mind was the way her sister always seemed to be touching Caracalla, and how, to him, it seemed perfectly natural.

We are not Ptolemies in Alexandria! she thought, uncharacteristically bitter.

Then again, a woman’s relationship with her sister’s son was special and complex.

Julia Maesa, however, had only daughters.

My son, the emperor suddenly said, leaning as much as he could in Geta’s direction as he ripped a chunk from a loaf of warm bread. Tell me about the newest building projects in Eburacum. We’ve spent much time here, and we should enrich the city for it.

An excellent notion, Father, Geta said. He sat straighter, his eyes finally deigning to meet his brother’s gaze, not without flinching at the vehemence he saw there. The engineers have finished the improvements on the city bathhouse and the populace has begun to enjoy them. The people seem pleased. Also, the new docks along the river are improved and expanded. There are many more berths for trading traffic which will feed into the newly refurbished agora of Eburacum. Everyone is pleased.

You’ve done well while we were in the North, Geta, Julia Domna said, her eyes watching Caracalla as she said so, aware that the great tension between them, one of the reasons for the Caledonian campaign, had not dwindled, but rather grown in intensity.

There’s more, Geta interrupted. The bridge across the river, leading to the via Praetoria of the base on the other side, has been strengthened. It should now withstand the occasional rise in the river level.

It’s a shame you can’t do anything about the stink of the river in this place, Caracalla put in.

Julia Domna stared at her older son for a moment and her sister removed her hand slowly. Why don’t you tell us what our second Augustus has been up to? We are no less proud.

Really, Mother? Caracalla scoffed. Well, I’ve finally cleaned all of the blood off of my armour and weapons. He turned to Geta. Actual fighting does get rather messy.

Geta chose to ignore him.

The Gask Ridge remains intact and regular patrols go out to ensure that that does not change. I left Claudius Picus there to oversee things in my absence, and he assures me that all is in hand, and that the Caledonii have not broken the truce.

If they do, Geta laughed, will you ride out and spank them, Brother?

Stop this! the emperor suddenly burst out, throwing a crust of bread that was too hard to chew down onto his plate. His sharp eyes went around the table, resting longer on his two sons to either side of him. You both carry the title of Augustus, just as I do now, and I expect you to act accordingly. You both have your strengths and should use them to your advantage, that of this family, and the empire we rule. Septimius Severus sighed and looked up at the pine ceiling of the triclinium, the beams painted red and blue. There were no stars there, but he could see them nonetheless. He remembered the stars on the days each of his sons were born.

Momentous, his astrologer had said. Propitious…

The emperor knew he had never been nostalgic before. A waste of time! he had thought. The stars only ever shine their light on the way forward…

However, as the day of his own death drew near, and the path before him grew ever shorter, his resolve to shut out the past had dissolved like mist when the sun emerged in Britannia. It was never more so than when he beheld his sons. He looked at them both, even as they spoke, unhearing of the words that escaped their mouths. He remembered their births, and the vow he had made to give Rome a new line of greatness. Before him, emperors like Antoninus and Hadrian had adopted their heirs - the ‘best men for the job’. But Severus had faith in his sons and the stars they were born beneath.

Yes, Caracalla had thought of killing him, but that sort of strength was needed in a ruler. He hoped that it was only his son’s love of him that kept him from carrying out the act, though his loyal troops, Lucius Metellus Anguis among them, were also responsible for stopping the embarrassing event.

All said and done, Severus knew full well that an emperor had to be prepared to kill. What mattered was the outcome of that killing, and if it left the empire, and their family, better or worse off in the Gods’ scheme.

Father! Caracalla suddenly burst out.

The emperor snapped back out of his thoughts, and the smile upon his face faded as quickly as the thoughts of his young children.

How dare you! Severus said to Caracalla.

You aren’t even listening! Caracalla said. I told you I’m considering raising the average rate of pay for all troops. They deserve it after this campaign, and it will bind their loyalty to you."

Buy their loyalty to you, don’t you mean, Brother, Geta said as he dropped a fish spine onto his plate and sucked his fingers. A bit of oil splashed onto the nearest oil lamp and fizzled momentarily.

You mind your tongue, Caracalla growled. I’ve learned a few new things in Caledonia.

Enough! Severus smacked the table, his head and face shaking visibly with pent-up rage and frustration. Your brother is correct to want to please the legions, Geta. Without them and their loyalty, we would not be where we are today. He turned to Caracalla. But be sure that I am not yet dead, despite the rebellion of my body. We may all three be Augusti, but only I am Emperor. Do not try to undermine me.

Gods forbid it, Father! Caracalla said sarcastically.

Severus calmed himself and looked to his wife.

Let us talk of other things. War is not the only way to guarantee the survival of our dynasty in the coming years…

Julia Maesa sat up now and turned toward the emperor whom, before that, she had been ignoring as he ignored her.

Marcus Aurelius saw fit to trust his son to the imperial throne after his death, despite the recommendations of others that Commodus was not fit

He wasn’t! Geta said.

Be still, Severus silenced him. Marcus Aurelius was a wise and warlike emperor. Yes, Commodus had his failings, but he inherited a mess. When I die, I shall leave you with an empire the likes of which has not existed before. I do so with the faith that you will both set aside your quarrelsome relationship and see fit to rule jointly and fairly so that, when the histories are written, they will have naught but good things to say.

You should speak with Senator Dio, then, Julia Maesa put in. He is considering writing a history of our time.

Severus paused, frustrated at the interruption, but nodded politely at his sister-in-law before continuing.

You would both do well to make your peace, for when I pass from this world…that will be the time when the imperial throne is at its most vulnerable.

They were all silent, aware of the sad and severe truth that the emperor had just uttered. They held all the power in the world amongst them, and yet, the Gods could snuff out that flame in a heartbeat.

Caracalla stared directly at his father, and the emperor stared back at him, holding his gaze as if that would help him to ascertain his thoughts. Just as he was about to speak, say something to break the feeling of guilt that weighed upon him, one of the slaves touched him on the shoulder.

Sire, the slave whispered. Marcus Claudius Picus awaits you in the atrium.

Tell him Caesar is busy, Julia Domna said, her voice firm.

No! Caracalla countered. He may have news. He turned to the slave. Tell him I am coming.

The slave scurried away through the open doors which were then closed by the guards outside.

He deigns to disturb our meal? the emperor said.

Frankly, I don’t know how you can tolerate that man, Geta said. He’s an animal from what I hear.

Caracalla stood and leaned upon his fists on the table opposite his younger brother. Because he gets things done, little Caesar.

Geta scoffed.

Caracalla turned to leave. I won’t return this evening, he said as he pulled open the doors and went out into the torchlit corridor.

Caracalla strode quickly down the corridors, acknowledging the Praetorian troops he passed along the way.

They saluted back at him, keenly aware that he would be stepping into his father’s place in the near future.

His long cloak billowed behind him as he went, always with a determined step, as if with purpose or anger, most often the two indistinguishable in him. The corridor led into the atrium where the open part of the roof allowed a mist of rain to fall into the pool of the impluvium.

There, beside the water, Marcus Claudius Picus stood with his eyes closed, the rain falling on his face to give it a sheen in the firelight radiating from the red and white walls at the outer edge of the atrium.

What is it? Caracalla demanded, coming right up into Claudius’ face. You had better have a good reason for this interruption. Caracalla looked him up and down. You haven’t even cleaned the mud from your armour.

Claudius slowly opened his cold blue eyes and turned to Caracalla. For a moment, he did not salute, but the young Caesar’s eyes dared him not to, and so he stretched his arm out slowly.

Augustus, Claudius said.

Well? Caracalla relaxed a little, but his eyes continued to bore into the man. It must be something important for you to interrupt me at this hour.

It is, Claudius answered, throwing back his black cloak to reveal his muddy cuirass and greaves. He had obviously been riding for some time. I received word from some of my scouts north of the wall.

Yes?

They found the bodies.

Really? Caracalla stepped back, his shoulders caving in a little, as if a wave of relief washed over his spirit. They’re dead?

Not who you think, sire. The Metelli live. It was the bodies of our men… he cleared his throat, …your men, which they found.

Caracalla’s fists balled and Claudius thought for a moment he would pommel him as he had done on occasion.

All of them? Caracalla asked.

Yes. They also found the body of Centurion Kasen.

What? So, he did go to help them. Caracalla walked around to the other side of the impluvium, his chin in his hand. He had stopped trusting Alerio some time ago, but to know that he was finally out of the way gave him some comfort, even though the Metelli were still alive.

Alerio must have overheard us speaking and gone to warn the Metelli, or stop our men from carrying out their orders.

Caracalla looked up from the water, his eyes full of anger, and before Claudius could react, Caracalla’s fist slammed into the side of his head, sending him reeling onto the black and white mosaic floor.

You’ve failed again, Marcus! Caracalla spat at him and then walked over and pulled him to his feet.

Claudius did not fight back as he would have liked to, but let himself be man-handled by Caracalla. He did, however, meet his gaze directly.

It is only a matter of time, he said, his lip bleeding to blend with the mud upon his face.

Make no mistake, Claudius Picus. I can put you right back where I found you on the death lists. The only reason you are alive is that I need you for certain tasks, this one the main among them. You have a great number of men and spies at your disposal, so you should be able to rid me of one troublesome man, his wife and children, no? Is that too much for you? Has Lucius Metellus Anguis proven once and for all to be the better man than you?

Claudius’ cold exterior cracked then and he stepped forward to meet his Caesar nose to nose.

No… he growled.

Then prove it to your emperor, Caracalla said. For that is what I am. And you… You are nothing unless I say you are.

Yes, sire, Claudius found his calm again and stood down.

Good. Now, I want you to use your vast spy network to watch the Metelli, perhaps infiltrate their surroundings. I don’t care how you do it, but do it you must.

Why can’t we just kill them in their sleep?

While the emperor lives, such a thing would not be wise. The best course of action is to find some proof, real or not, of his guilt or suspicion of treason.

That won’t be easy, Claudius acknowledged.

Then I can find someone else who will -

No, sire! Claudius jumped in. I shall see to it.

Good.

And if the emperor should…join the Gods? Claudius asked, his voice lower now so that only Caracalla should hear him.

Then you may dispose of them as you see fit. Just don’t fail again.

Oh, I won’t, Claudius said, a smile coming to his thin lips.

As the moon emerged over the rooftops of Eburacum that night, its cold light trying to penetrate the veil of heavy rain clouds over the city, Emperor Septimius Severus lay still in his bed, staring once more up at the ceiling of his rooms.

Incense burned upon the altar, the blue smoke rising slowly to snake its way among the beams above. It reminded him of the sand serpents that wound their way across the sands of Africa when the Gods blew gently from their distant caves.

How I used to love watching them…so long ago.

He turned his head to see Castor asleep in the chair beside one of the braziers, the fold of a scroll from Rome gripped gently in his limp hand.

Severus could not remember the matter in the letter, so tedious it was. However, he comforted himself with the fact that he would leave his sons with few enemies at their gates, most of their opponents having been eliminated in the years since he had donned the purple.

He thought of their grievous behaviour toward each other, and it pained him. He worried that they would be each other’s worst enemies.

The stars above beckoned him once more, and he gazed up. Odd that it was at such times as these that his mind now gave him the most clarity, a clarity that previously was only to be had in battle, whether on the fields of Mars or in the Senate.

There was a gentle knock upon the door, and Severus looked, expecting to see Julia Domna enter to see him comfortable before settling in for the night. It had become her habit since arriving in Britannia to bring him a cup of infused herbs to help alleviate his cough through the night, a concoction she insisted on mixing herself since the treaty with the Caledonii and their son’s embarrassing display.

However, it was not the empress who entered when Castor rose sleepily and opened the door.

Papinianus, Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, appeared and whispered that he had some urgent business to speak with the emperor about.

Castor, to his credit, tried to delay it until morning, but Papinianus was persistent.

Castor, Severus said as he sat up slowly, adjusting his gouty, aching legs beneath the thick covers. The Praetorian prefect has every right to speak with me. He nodded to Papinianus. What is it, my friend?

Papinianus bowed and entered the lavish room. The glow cast from the braziers shone off of his black and brown cuirass which he kept clean and well-polished at all times.

Sire, Papinianus sat on the chair which stood beside the bed. He waved away the cup of wine which Castor offered him and leaned close to the emperor.

You have something important to say to me, it seems… I wonder what? Severus looked keenly at his prefect and could discern the great discomfort upon his brow.

Severus may have been weak of body, but he was still a good judge of men.

Do you wish for Castor to leave us?

No need, sire. For I know and trust Castor as well as you. Papinianus leaned in and rubbed his balding head.

The two of them had aged with time, even more so since arriving in Britannia, but whereas the emperor’s body had been wasting away, his mind intact, Papinianus felt as though the worries upon his shoulders would crush him, drive him mad, though his body had not yet betrayed him.

Sire, it is about your son.

Geta?

No, sire. It is about Marcus.

I thank you for not using that ridiculous name the men insist on calling him. For a caesar to be named after a bit of clothing…

Yes, sire. Well… I know you love him well -

He is my firstborn son. Severus’ voice was slightly harder, but he allowed Papinianus to speak.

I am afraid, sire, that he may try again to…to…harm your imperial majesty. Papinianus exhaled deeply, the sweat appearing upon his brow.

Severus’ head straightened and his eyes narrowed. You had better explain yourself, Prefect. I do not take this sort of accusation lightly.

Nor do I, sire. Believe me. But ever since the treaty with the Caledonii, and your son’s attempt to -

His rash thought to kill me, the emperor corrected. He made no attempt.

Even so, sire. It is my charge to see to your safety in this world, and so I have had a watch kept upon him at times. I believe he still harbours thoughts of harming you.

Papinianus stood and paced before the end of the bed, the emperor’s eyes following him every second, boring into him.

What proof can you offer of these harboured thoughts, Papinianus? Have you a mind-reader among your staff?

No sire. Some of the men I had set to watching him and his friends have gone missing. Besides, it is obvious that he bears you no love.

As is often the case between fathers and sons.

It is not so with Geta, though, is it?

Geta is different.

I quite agree.

What is your point? If you have no proof of further treachery on the part of my son, then all you have done this moment is endanger yourself in my eyes.

Papinianus was taken aback, and a look of betrayal lashed his old face them. Sire, I have ever been loyal to you and your family. Your family is my family!

My wife’s family is your family, and yes, I am aware of your loyalties. But I cannot leave this world knowing that my son does not have someone such as you minding his back at all times. You must be ruthless in this task.

Sire, the Gods have not called you to them yet.

There was a pause and Severus pulled at his long, white and black beard. No, they have not. He looked up at the ceiling.

Papinianus decided to push one more time.

"Sire, if it comes to light that your son, Marcus, is conspiring against you, then I must advise that you…that you execute him with all haste. As your friend and protector, I know I risk my life in telling you this, but I do so because the Gods compel me to.

He expected Septimius Severus to rise from his bed, a final image of his former self, take up the golden-hilted gladius that stood beside the bed, and dispatch him then and there to put him out of his misery.

But the emperor merely looked upon Papinianus with pity.

My friend, you do not understand the love one has for a son… Even were it true, I could not carry out such an act, even as the divine Marcus Aurelius could not.

Sire. Papinianus stood straight, his composure regained, his disappointment acute.

But make no mistake, that if you come to me with such a suggestion again, I will have no qualms about ending your life.

Out of the corner of his eye, Papinianus saw Castor stiffen. They had often spoken of Caracalla and the threat he posed. They had talked of taking this opportunity to set the emperor upon the correct, though supremely difficult course he had only just suggested.

It seemed, however, that it was no use.

There will be no need, sire, to take my life, Papinianus said. For I remain your loyal servant, and that of your family.

Good, Severus leaned back as if the intensity of his thinking then had exhausted him. Remember, Prefect, that when I die, Marcus will be the Empire’s greatest strength and weapon against Rome’s would-be enemies. And trust me when I say that Rome will always have enemies.

II

Anguis Domus

‘The Dragon’s Home’

Even the Gods are capable of worry.

Most mortals do not believe it so. Most believe them harsh and uncaring, or supremely indifferent.

But some gods do worry. Some care so deeply that even on the heavenly verges of the world, they can lay awake, restless and chasing sleep when the mortals they care for, whom they have protected, are destined for trials not of Olympus’ devising.

The Gods would seek to protect mortals from themselves, but there are some things that the rules of divine order strictly ordain.

From the high slopes of Olympus, in their gleaming halls, in the shade of their eternally fruitful trees beside the clarion trickle of their fountains, the Gods hear and see all.

They care, and feel. They love, and hate, the same as their mortal children, but for an eternity.

Oh yes… The Gods do worry…

It was the harsh clang of swords that drew the Gods’ gaze that day.

From where Far-Shooting Apollo and Venus sat beneath the bows of an ancient, broad-limbed olive tree upon the slopes of their Olympian eyrie, their starry eyes went to the green mound far to the North, where white clouds raced across a cool blue Spring sky.

Apollo leaned against the gnarled trunk, his silver bow and quiver laid upon the emerald grass at his feet, his blue cloak snapping occasionally at Zephyrus’ behest. He leaned forward to peer over the edge of the world, and Love followed his gaze from where she sat amidst long-stemmed blossoms, her stola of purest white floating just above the ground, around the feet of its heavenly wearer.

Together they stared across the lands, across time, to that one, far-distant spot.

The two opponents circled each other, their blades poised, eager.

The Gods gazed upon the sweaty brows of the fighters, the reaction of their lean muscles. They admired the way they danced around death. They could hear the rapid beat of their hearts as they thrust and parried, attacked and retreated.

They are preparing… Venus said to Apollo.

The Far-Shooter nodded and hung his head, his hair hiding his brilliant eyes as a cloud that passes before the sun dims the light of the world. A storm is coming. They need to be prepared. Apollo looked up at the sky again and felt the weight of the knowledge coursing through his fiery veins.

We can intervene…

He shook his head and turned to her. Not this time.

Love stood then and walked to the very edge of the precipice. She wanted to reach out and touch them, protect them. All of them.

We must stand by and watch then? Venus said.

Apollo turned to her, but said nothing, for even as his lips began to utter the words, the clang of swordsong reached them, then a cry of pain.

They turned back to watch once more, from beneath the shivering silver-green leaves of the tree.

Are you all right?

Adara Metella gazed up at the hand extended toward her, nodded, grasped it, and was pulled up.

Lucius won’t thank you for cutting me, but we need to make this as realistic as possible if I’m to be any good at it. Adara wiped the dark strands of hair from her sweaty brow, and dabbed at the blood on her arm where Briana’s sword had caught her. Again! she panted, crouching for another attack.

Good! Briana said, smiling, her face rosy with the exertion of the fight. Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson yet.

She attacked, and Adara parried the slash away with her own sword, spinning, and sending the fist of her left hand to strike out at the back of Briana’s head as she passed.

The Briton’s recovery was quick and she was instantly facing Adara again, pushing her backward on the defensive. Attack me! Briana yelled as she pressed her advantage. Don’t slow down! Find a way in!

Adara stumbled then and, sensing immediately the blow to come, rolled backward twice, quickly down the slope of the hill before landing on her feet again and parrying just in time to slip in close to Briana and elbow her in the chest so that she fell backward onto the grass with Adara’s blade at her throat.

Briana looked up, catching her breath, and smiled. Good, she croaked. And if it were a real enemy, you would not stop there, I hope, but drive your blade into the neck or abdomen without hesitation.

Adara nodded, sweat pouring from her brow as the two of them went to the table nearby where a jug of water and two cups waited for them.

There was a hooting from nearby and the two women turned to see Lucius, Einion, Phoebus and Calliope sitting near the woodpile where the two men had supposedly been chopping wood, but instead seemed to have enjoyed the entertainment just fine, with the children marvelling at the skill the two displayed.

You’re getting old, Briana! Einion teased his sister, laughing as he took in the mud up her backside.

You’re next! she joked before taking a long drink. She looked up the hill at the two men and children, and smiled. Lucius seems quite impressed with your skill. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so much.

Adara turned to see her husband staring at her and returned his wave, letting him know she was fine.

Just a scratch! she yelled.

The truth was that in the months since Briana had begun training her everyday, she had suffered much worse injuries - bumps, bruises, cuts and gashes that would have turned her mother’s hair white.

But she never felt so alive, so strong. She enjoyed her training, as well as the sisterly bond it had nurtured between herself and Briana, something she had not dreamed of having again since the tragedy in North Africa when Alene Metella was murdered.

He worries for me, Adara said, looking from Lucius back to Briana who was tying her long, dark blond braids together again.

Trust me, he would worry more if you did not know how to defend yourself.

I suppose, Adara said, her gaze scanning the green landscape that surrounded them, the place that had been their home since they arrived in southern Britannia. But I suppose here in the South, there is far less danger than in Eburacum, or north of the wall, in Caledonia.

Aye, Briana said. Maybe. She put her cup down Are you ready for a bit more?

Adara nodded. Yes. A little more. Then I have to wash the children. She looked up at their smiling faces as they prepared to watch more practice. Seems as though they got into the animal pens again.

They both laughed and took positions.

Attack! Briana said as Adara’s blade whistled past her head.

From his position upon a large, downed trunk beside the woodpile, Lucius Metellus Anguis watched his wife push herself to her limits in her training. He had never imagined her to be so good at it, but he knew how hard she had worked for the skills she had acquired.

What do you think of Mama’s fighting? he asked his daughter, Calliope, who rested in his lap with the sun on her face as she watched.

I think she’s is wonderful! the girl said. Like one of the warriors from the stories from Greece that you have told us. The one about the daughters of Ares.

Einion smiled and looked over at Lucius who smiled back and squeezed his daughter.

Yes. She is magnificent, Lucius said as he watched the two women spar again.

And you Phoebus? Einion asked Lucius’ son. What do you think of your mother now? Maybe you won’t feel so inclined to disobey when she tells you to go to bed now, eh? the Briton laughed and ruffled Phoebus’ hair.

I knew she could do it, the boy said, not taking his eyes off of them, watching every move and sword thrust as if taking note for his own training which Lucius and Einion had taken turns at.

Good lad, Lucius said, almost to himself.

It seemed only yesterday when he had met Adara at the banquet on the Palatine Hill in Rome all those years ago.

Has it been so long?

So much had happened to their family since then…separation, births, deaths…so much…

And now he watched his proper Athenian wife train like one of the warrior British women he’d read about, or like an Amazon of old, a daughter of Ares as Calliope had put