Sons of Rome (Rise of Emperors) by Simon Turney & Gordon Doherty

Author:Simon Turney & Gordon Doherty [Turney, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781800242098
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2020-10-14T18:00:00+00:00

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ICOMEDIA , FEBRUARY 306 AD

I strode through the dark, echoing palace corridors, marshalled by a pair of Joviani. I wore a thick woollen tunic, but I could feel the icy touch of their spatha points on the small of my back – the steel as cold as the winter storm that raged in the night outside.

The Herdsman had summoned me, you see – as I knew he would. He had heard rumours that my mother and Crispus had not been seen for many days. Now, Crispus was a shy lad and Mother cared little for breezing around the palace like others who lived there; the pair often spent days at a time in our quarters and in the sunshine of our private peristyle in the palace’s southern wing. But it seemed that the slaves and the Joviani legionaries had been keeping a keen ear to our walls and heard none of my boy’s playful laughter, or Mother’s fawning words to him.

And neither would they, the dogs! For both were long gone from this black city and far from the cancerous creature who sat on its throne. I had sent them north, a month ago. Both were dressed in rags and set sail in a trade cog, Lactantius and Batius with them. By now they would have crossed the Hellespont and be travelling by wagon through western Thracia – far from the menace of Galerius.

The Herdsman well knew this, I reckoned. He did not summon me that evening to find out their whereabouts. He wanted only one thing: my head. His reign had been tyrannical so far: no resident of the palace was allowed to leave without his express permission, you see, and this latest of my misdemeanours seemed like it might be my last.

We stopped at the throne room and one Joviani pushed open the doors. The other grunted and jabbed his blade forward. I took the hint and stepped inside, while they closed the door and remained on watch in the corridor. For a moment, there was only the noise of the winter gale howling outside as I glanced around the dark, cavernous hall: arched, coloured glass windows framed the raised throne at one end, the other walls edged with shadowy colonnade. It was the room where Diocletian had scrutinised me on that dark day of Minervina’s death, the white streak of regret freshly emblazoned on his locks.

Today, Galerius was the chief incumbent, seated at his long dining table at the heart of the hall, where two lamps provided bubbles of orange light in the darkness. The two of us were alone, it seemed. The table was laden with food, and the Herdsman was already devouring what looked like his second plateful. His knife chinked and grated on the plate and rasped as he sawed at the hunk of white meat upon it. This was mixed with a riot of gurgling and belching.

‘Ah, Constantine!’ He looked up like a father welcoming a returning son. ‘Sit! Sit!’

His ill-fitting, friendly demeanour was probably the most chilling thing I have ever witnessed.

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