THE EMPEROR’S BASTARD

My father had four sons.

Three were born beneath the painted ceilings of the Palatine, with Greek tutors, wet nurses, and slaves whose sole occupation was making certain the imperial children never experienced a moment’s discomfort.

I was born above a laundry near the Aventine, where my mother washed the blood and piss out of legionaries’ tunics.

Lucius inherited Father’s estates in Campania. Publius received a villa overlooking the Bay of Neapolis. Quintus was given enough gold to purchase half the brothels in Rome, which, judging by the state of his finances, he’d made a respectable attempt at doing.

I was sent to the Ninth Legion at seventeen.

The gods have a peculiar sense of humor.

Seventeen years later, I commanded six legions, had conquered two rebellious provinces, and possessed a collection of scars that made the women in the eastern garrisons considerably more interested in me than the Senate ever had been.

My soldiers called me Imperator.

My father called me Gaius when he wanted something and bastard when he didn’t.

Then the old prick died.

And Rome, which had survived fires, famines, plagues, and several exceptionally incompetent emperors, apparently couldn’t survive a week without someone trying to seize his throne.

By the time I reached the capital, my eldest brother had occupied the imperial palace. The Praetorian Guard controlled the approaches to the Palatine, the Senate had convened three emergency sessions, and every ambitious patrician in the city was suddenly discovering a personal friendship with our beloved deceased father.

I hadn’t even unpacked.

Four days after his death, they burned him.

The funeral pyre rose above the Campus Martius, an enormous wooden construction draped in purple and gold. Priests had sacrificed white bulls at dawn, augurs had examined their entrails, and the Vestal Virgins had attended beneath their white veils while the imperial household offered prayers to Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

Father would have enjoyed the spectacle.

He’d always liked an expensive performance, particularly when somebody else was paying.

Afterward came the solemn procession to the Temple of Divus Julius, where the Senate would formally deliberate upon his deification.

A man who’d once ordered a cook flogged because his oysters were warm was about to become a god.

I’d have liked to hear Jupiter’s opinion on that.

The Forum was packed.

Senators in white togas edged with purple stood beneath the colonnades. Praetorians guarded the approaches to the Curia, their polished cuirasses reflecting the afternoon sun. Incense drifted from bronze censers, mingling with the smell of hot limestone, crushed laurel, sacrificial smoke, and the sweat of several thousand Romans pressed together beneath an unforgiving sky.

Above us, the gilded statues of the Caesars watched from their marble pedestals.

I stood beside one of them, adjusting the clasp of my scarlet military cloak while my senior centurion, Titus Varro, inspected the funeral offerings with the unmistakable interest of a man wondering how much they were worth.

“That golden eagle alone could pay the Ninth for a month,” Titus muttered, nodding toward an enormous ceremonial standard.

I followed his gaze. The gilded bird stood beneath a silk canopy, surrounded by silver bowls and ceremonial wreaths. “Two months, if the Senate’s accountant doesn’t get his hands on it first.”

Titus scratched at the scar crossing his chin. “Your father certainly knew how to spend money.”

“He was particularly talented at spending mine.” I took another mouthful of watered wine, already regretting the decision to wear a cuirass in the afternoon heat.

The old centurion gave a quiet snort, then turned his attention toward the Praetorians assembling beside the rostra.

His expression changed.

“General. Vitellius has brought another cohort.”

I looked toward the temple steps.

The Praetorian Prefect stood beneath a crimson awning, speaking quietly with my eldest brother, Lucius Aurelianus Marcellus. Lucius wore the purple-bordered toga of a magistrate and a golden laurel wreath that he had absolutely no business wearing yet.

Near him stood Publius, pale and watchful, while Quintus entertained two young senators with a joke that appeared to involve a senator’s wife.

Three brothers.

Three would-be emperors.

And not one of the bastards had ever commanded so much as a century in battle.

“How many Praetorians?” I asked.

Titus counted the ranks beneath the colonnade before answering. “Four cohorts within the Forum. More at the Palatine.”

I watched another pair of guards take position beside the entrance to the Curia. “That’s a great many swords for a family funeral.”

“He doesn’t trust you,” Titus said, lowering his voice.

“Lucius doesn’t trust his own mother. Why should I be special?” I glanced at the golden wreath resting on my brother’s head. Father hadn’t been declared divine yet, and Lucius was already dressing for his coronation.

The old centurion didn’t smile. His attention had moved toward the northern approach to the Forum.

“Your legions are six miles outside the city.”

I knew exactly where they were.

I’d ordered the standards halted beyond the pomerium. Whatever my brothers thought of me, I wasn’t about to give the Senate grounds to accuse me of marching an army into Rome.

Not yet, anyway.

“Tell the tribunes to keep the men fed and sober,” I said. “And make certain no one accepts orders from a Praetorian officer.”

Titus inclined his head, though his eyes remained on the soldiers surrounding the square. “And if Lucius closes the gates?”

I examined my brother beneath the awning.

“Then he’s going to have a very difficult conversation with the grain merchants tomorrow.”

Before Titus could answer, the trumpets sounded.

The priests emerged first, followed by the pontifex maximus and twelve lictors carrying the fasces. The senators rose as Lucius ascended the rostra to deliver the funeral oration.

He spoke beautifully.

He always had.

Father’s wisdom. Father’s mercy. Father’s devotion to Rome. His victories, his generosity, his sacred duty to the gods.

At one point Lucius described him as a loving husband.

I nearly choked on my wine.

Father had maintained three official mistresses, two unofficial ones, and enough illegitimate children to keep the imperial accountants occupied for years.

Still, the senators applauded.

They applauded everything.

I was beginning to suspect they did it because it was easier than thinking.

Then Lucius stopped speaking.

He received a wax tablet from Aulus Vitellius, read it, and went very still.

A murmur passed between the men gathered behind him.

I watched the Praetorian Prefect give a small signal.

Two ranks of guards moved toward the entrances to the Forum.

The procession had been surrounded.

My cup stopped halfway to my mouth.

“Titus.”

The centurion had already seen the movement. His hand settled against the leather belt beneath his cloak.

“I see it,” he murmured.

Lucius raised his hand, demanding silence.

“Conscript Fathers,” he began, “there is a matter concerning our divine father’s death which must be brought before the Senate and the people of Rome.”

I set down my wine.

Something about his voice made my stomach tighten.

“The imperial physicians have concluded that Caesar did not die of natural causes.”

A wave of voices swept across the Forum.

Lucius waited until the disturbance subsided, then placed both hands upon the edge of the rostra.

“Our father was murdered. Poison was administered within the imperial household, by one who enjoyed his confidence and abused the privileges of his court.”

That was when he said your name.

And for the first time that afternoon, I forgot about the heat.

I knew you.

Everyone in the imperial household knew you.

For years, you’d occupied a position within Father’s inner court that most senators would have sold their ancestral estates to obtain. You had the emperor’s personal confidence, access to his private correspondence, and a place at gatherings where even consuls required invitations.

I’d encountered you during my visits to Rome, at imperial dinners, religious ceremonies, and the private audiences Father conducted behind the guarded doors of the Palatine.

You weren’t some nameless servant they could drag before the crowd and condemn without consequence.

You belonged to the highest circles of imperial society.

Which made this considerably worse.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Titus turned toward me, his brow furrowing. “General?”

I didn’t answer.

The bronze doors of the Curia opened.

You emerged between two Praetorians, escorted down the broad marble steps beneath the eyes of the assembled Senate.

The sight sent a fresh disturbance through the crowd.

Several senators rose. Others immediately began whispering to their neighbors. An elderly patrician near the front protested loudly enough that a Praetorian ordered him to sit.

Lucius watched you approach the rostra.

No chains.

That was clever.

Chains would have offended half the aristocracy. A formal escort allowed him to pretend this was a lawful proceeding rather than a public humiliation.

“The accused held a position of extraordinary trust,” Lucius declared. “Such privilege granted access to the emperor’s private chambers, his physicians, and the table at which he took his final meal.”

I looked at Vitellius.

The Prefect stood perfectly still, one hand resting upon the ivory hilt of his gladius.

“And what evidence has been presented?” I called.

My voice carried across the Forum.

Lucius’s eyes found me immediately. His expression tightened, but he maintained the dignified posture he’d practiced since childhood.

“Brother, this matter is being handled by the proper authorities.”

“Wonderful. Then they won’t mind answering.” I stepped away from the colonnade, aware of several senators turning to follow my progress.

Lucius drew himself upright. He glanced toward Vitellius before addressing the crowd again.

“The imperial physicians discovered poison in the remains of our father’s final wine.”

“Which poison?” I asked.

Silence.

I took a few steps toward the rostra.

“Come now, Lucius. You said the physicians discovered it. Hemlock? Aconite? Something imported from Alexandria? I’d imagine they’d have written it down.”

Lucius’s mouth tightened. He gathered the folds of his toga over one shoulder, glaring at me from the platform.

“Must you turn everything into a spectacle?”

I glanced toward the crowd.

“You’re accusing a member of the imperial court of murdering Caesar in front of several thousand spectators. I’d say you’ve got a considerable head start.”

Titus appeared at my shoulder. His attention remained fixed on the eastern colonnade rather than the argument.

“General,” he warned quietly, “the Praetorians are moving.”

I saw them.

Four guards had left their posts beneath the eastern colonnade. Another six stood between the Curia and the Temple of Castor and Pollux.

Vitellius wasn’t preparing to disperse the crowd.

He was preparing to prevent anyone from interfering.

Lucius descended from the rostra, his face flushed beneath the afternoon sun.

“Our father’s blood demands justice, Gaius.”

“Of course it does.” I stopped at the foot of the steps, close enough to see the sweat gathering beneath his golden wreath.

Lucius lifted his chin. “You would deny him that?”

“No. I’d prefer to know who actually killed him before we start chopping heads off.” I glanced toward the senators nearest the platform, several of whom looked increasingly uncomfortable.

An angry murmur rose from their benches.

Lucius seized upon it immediately.

“The accused will be examined under the authority of the Praetorian Prefect. The Senate shall receive the findings tomorrow.”

Examined.

I knew what that meant.

I’d spent seventeen years hearing reports from provincial governors who used the same word to describe men who emerged from their questioning rooms unable to stand.

And Vitellius had a reputation for being particularly thorough.

I looked toward you again.

Then I saw the Prefect give another signal.

One of the guards shifted his grip on the short length of cord hanging from his belt.

Not an ordinary escort, then.

They intended to take you beneath the Palatine, into the interrogation chambers where inconvenient people confessed to whatever was required of them.

I stepped forward.

“No.”

Lucius stared at me, apparently astonished that I hadn’t simply allowed him to finish. “Excuse me?”

“The accused won’t be going anywhere with Vitellius.” I looked toward the Prefect, who had already begun descending the steps.

His expression hardened. “General, you have no authority to interfere with a lawful investigation.”

I turned fully toward him.

“Aulus, I’ve watched you spend ten years investigating men who somehow always turn out to be guilty. It’s an impressive talent.”

The old soldier’s jaw flexed. His fingers tightened around the ivory hilt of his sword.

“Mind your words.”

“Mind yours.” I let the answer carry far enough for the nearest senators to hear.

The guards shifted their weight.

Titus came forward beside me. He wasn’t wearing armor, only a plain white tunic beneath his dark cloak, but I knew where he kept his dagger.

So did Vitellius.

Lucius looked between us, his expression hardening as Titus took his place at my shoulder.

“You would threaten the Praetorian Guard inside the sacred boundary of Rome?” my brother demanded.

I glanced at the soldiers gathering beneath the colonnade. Several had already loosened their swords in their scabbards. I kept my hands where everyone could see them.

“Not unless they give me a reason.”

Lucius descended another step, the purple hem of his toga dragging across the marble. He pointed toward the entrance to the Curia.

“Then stand aside.”

Rather than move, I turned toward the senators assembled beneath the portico.

“Conscript Fathers,” I called, “are we holding a trial, or have we decided that the Praetorian Prefect may torture members of the imperial household whenever my brother finds it convenient?”

That did it.

A senator from the old Cornelian family rose immediately. Another followed. Someone demanded a formal hearing. From the rear benches came a shout about ancient liberties and the dignity of Rome.

The familiar sound of rich men becoming principled when they believed their own privileges might be threatened.

I almost smiled.

Lucius didn’t.

He looked ready to have Jupiter strike us all dead.

“Enough!” he shouted, raising a hand above the growing uproar.

The Forum gradually fell quiet.

He faced me, breathing heavily, his attention flicking toward the senators who had begun openly questioning his decision.

“If you insist upon interfering, then you may assume custody of the accused until the Senate has examined the evidence.”

A dangerous concession.

Too easy.

I narrowed my eyes.

Lucius stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the threat feel personal.

“But hear me clearly, Gaius. You will be responsible for ensuring that the accused appears before the Senate at dawn. Any attempt to flee, conceal evidence, or obstruct the investigation will constitute treason against Rome.”

There it was.

If you escaped, I became a traitor.

If you died in my custody, I became responsible.

And if you were innocent, Lucius would have twenty-four hours to manufacture enough evidence to condemn us both.

Clever bastard.

I looked at him for a long moment.

Then I smiled.

“Agreed.”

Titus made a strangled noise beside me.

Lucius’s expression shifted.

He’d expected me to refuse.

That was satisfying.

I stepped onto the lowest stair and turned toward Vitellius.

“Your men can withdraw.”

The Prefect hesitated, looking toward Lucius instead of obeying. “Caesar—”

“Your Caesar has just given his instructions,” I interrupted, resting one hand against my sword belt. “I’d hate to see you accused of disobedience.”

A few Praetorians exchanged glances.

Vitellius finally inclined his head and ordered them back.

I waited until the nearest guard had moved away before speaking to Titus.

“Find us rooms at the Domus Aemilia. The northern entrance, not the one facing the Forum.”

Titus leaned closer, lowering his voice as a pair of senators passed within earshot. “General, that house belongs to Senator Faustus.”

I remembered Faustus rather well. The man had spent three years petitioning the Senate to have my command revoked after I’d publicly accused him of stealing military funds.

“Then he’ll be delighted to entertain us,” I said.

Titus gave me a look of profound disbelief. “He hates you.”

“Most people do.” I adjusted the strap of my cuirass, which had been digging into my shoulder since sunrise. “Tell him we’re bringing our own wine.”

Titus muttered something about the gods testing his patience, then departed with two veterans.

That left me beside the rostra as the senators resumed their frantic whispering.

Above the Forum, Jupiter’s bronze statue gleamed in the afternoon sun. The priests had resumed their chanting, and somewhere behind the Curia, a mule was making an almighty racket. Rome was carrying on around us as though the emperor hadn’t been murdered and half his sons weren’t preparing to kill the other half.

I turned toward you.

I’d known you for years. Seen you at Father’s banquets, seated among consuls and provincial governors, close enough to the emperor to speak without waiting to be addressed. You’d survived the Palatine’s intrigues longer than most senators survived their marriages.

That didn’t make you innocent.

It made you worth questioning.

I caught sight of two Praetorians lingering beneath the eastern portico. One had his hand resting on his gladius. The other was watching you.

“Vitellius!”

The Prefect turned.

I pointed toward his men. “Get those bastards away from my prisoner.”

His expression darkened. “General, they have orders—”

“I don’t give a fuck what orders they have.” I took a step toward him. “The Senate has placed the accused in my custody. That means your men keep their distance. Understood?”

For a moment, I thought the arrogant prick might actually draw his sword.

Then he gave a stiff nod and signaled the guards back.

Good.

I was getting bloody tired of arguing.

When I turned back to you, the last of my patience had gone with the afternoon heat. My cuirass was digging into my ribs, Father’s funeral had turned into a political ambush, and I’d somehow acquired responsibility for the one person in Rome my brother seemed particularly eager to have killed.

“Listen carefully.”

I moved closer, keeping my voice low.

“You’re coming with me. Not to the Palatine, not to Vitellius’s fucking interrogation rooms. I’ve got men securing a house near the Forum. You’ll be safe enough there, provided nobody does anything stupid.”

I adjusted the leather strap beneath my shoulder, then glanced toward the northern street where Titus had disappeared.

“Now, I don’t know whether you poisoned Father. I don’t know what you were doing at his last banquet, and I certainly don’t know why Lucius has decided to make a public spectacle of you.”

My jaw tightened.

“But I’ve watched men confess to all sorts of shit after three hours with a hot iron. I won’t be taking the word of some poor bastard who’s been tortured into agreeing with a Praetorian.”

A pair of legionary veterans appeared at the entrance to the Forum. I recognized them immediately and raised two fingers, signaling them to hold their position.

Then I looked back at you.

“Tomorrow, my brother intends to put you before the Senate and have you condemned. If he’s got witnesses, I’ll find them. If he’s bought them, I’ll find that out too.”

I leaned closer, the bronze plates of my cuirass creaking against the leather beneath.

“And if you did kill the old bastard, I’d rather hear it from you before I put my neck on the block defending you.”

Behind us, the Praetorians began changing their formation. Three men moved toward the northern archway, cutting across the route Titus had taken.

I noticed.

Of course I fucking noticed.

Seventeen years commanding legions had taught me to recognize an ambush, even when the men arranging it wore imperial purple.

My hand settled on the pommel of my gladius.

“Right. We’re moving.”

I shifted to the side, keeping the soldiers in sight while leaving the passage beside me clear.

Then I looked at you once more.

“Before we go, I want one answer.”

A Praetorian’s hobnailed sandals scraped against the marble behind us.

“Did you poison my father?”