I'm delighted to be taking part in The Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour for the first book in Laurence O'Bryan's new series A Dangerous Emperor. A thrilling and adventure filled series about the rise to power of the Roman Emperor Constantine. Please scroll down for an exclusive extract.
About the Book
The first Christian emperor faces ruthless enemies on his journey to power.
Cool
mist settles over the legion advancing toward the Persian army. Constantine,
the son of an emperor, the Roman officer leading the attack, tells his men to
halt - something is wrong.
Before long, the battle rages. He frees a slave named Juliana. She is half Persian and half Roman. As they are pursued to Britannia over land and sea, he learns that she can see the future - his future.
It is 306A.D., long before Constantine the Great converted to Christianity and became the first Christian emperor.
To ensure he survives, he must eliminate his enemies. But who must die first? The priestess, Sybellina, who joined them in Rome and practices dark and seductive magic? Or the brutal legion commanders who surround his father? Or, as Juliana suspects, are those who want him dead even closer?
A
gripping historical novel about Constantine’s bloody rise to power, the woman
who helped him, and the real reason he supported a persecuted Christian
minority, a decision which changed the world into the one we know.
Gesoriacum,
northern Gaul, 306 A.D
In the stone
palace of the governor of Gesoriacum news of the arrival of Constantine, son of
the Emperor of the west, spread as quickly as if a war horn had sounded from
the town gatehouse. Excited whispering spread from the flagstone palace kitchen
to the wooden lookout towers. Even the rats, who outnumbered every other living
thing, by far, knew something was happening.
The Emperor,
Constantius Chlorus, Constantine's father, was busy with matters of state,
meeting his Legates and other senior officers. The meeting, in the basilica,
the largest hall in the palace complex by the port, had begun to bore him. The
arrival of his son at the south-facing town gate, notified to him by an excited
messenger, gave him the opportunity he'd been waiting for to end the
meeting.
"We will
finish," he said. He waved dismissively at the officers around him.
"We will come back to planning how to eradicate the Picts tomorrow."
"Crocus, you
wait behind." Crocus was the commander of his Alemanni cavalry,
auxiliaries who followed their own customs, but were sworn to fight for
Rome.
The chandelier
with fifty candles, hanging by a chain from the central wooden beam, swayed a
little as the double height doors swung open and the salty wind from the sea
swept in.
The Emperor,
Chlorus, was in his mid-fifties. His hair was gray, but still thick. His beard
well-cropped. His iron-gray eyes were shadowed by heavy brows. For military
briefings, such as the one he'd just been conducting, he still wore his old
soot-black chain-mail shirt with the two large medallions from his most illustrious
campaigns secured in position above his heart.
From Chlorus'
leather legionaries' belt hung an ordinary legionaries' dagger, the only weapon
he ever wore these days. It signified his roots as an ordinary legionary. A
purple cloak hung in drapes down his back. He was sturdy, fit for his years,
and tall like his son, and he wore his prestige like a second invisible cloak.
Almost everyone in the town knew that he had, against great odds, reunited the
western Empire since his elevation to the rank of Caesar fourteen years before.
And the officers he commanded, who were filing out of the room, knew exactly
how he had achieved his success.
Crocus waited.
Braziers around the oak map table they'd been standing around kept the chill
from the cloak-penetrating sea breezes at bay. The gray spume flecked channel
that separated Gaul from Britannia, from which the breezes came, could be seen
from two small grilled windows at the end of the room. Crocus went to warm
himself by one of the braziers. The Emperor joined him.
"You
hadn't much to say."
"You
know my opinion about those officers, Emperor. They make my blood run to ice.
Did you not hear them? They think logic wins wars." He rubbed at his
beard. The matted hairs would not be cut until their Summer campaign had ended.
"And they all
know what you think of them."
Crocus made a
noise like an animal growling.
"But
you're right, they are an innocent bunch, though even you must have been young
once. Us two, we make the real decisions, you know that."
Silence flooded
the hall.
"It's your
son, isn't it?" Crocus seemed very sure of himself.
The Emperor looked
around, as if examining the legionary banners that hung from the walls for the
first time. "Perhaps I will find him a post as a senior Tribune."
He paused, turned
to Crocus. "I hear his experience is with cavalry. Do you have room for
another officer?"
Crocus's
expression didn't change.
He knows the
art of hiding his real feelings.
"Whatever you
wish, my Lord. I am sure he's won many laurels. You must be proud of him. The
stories in the taverns about him get more incredible every night." Crocus
passed a hand over the warm coals as if testing how hot they were.
"If
half what they say is true, he's the type who'll be looking for a good post."
Crocus sniffed. "But I'm not sure if our cavalry unit is big enough for
his aspirations. He's the right age to lead a whole Legion, isn't he? The
younger the better, I always say." He looked at the Emperor, a slightly
quizzical expression on his face.
He knows
how I resent getting old.
"He's the
right age, all right," Chlorus answered. He put a hand over the coals to
test their warmth as well. "But he's been away a long time. I once thought
we might never see him again. And do you know, I have no idea why Galerius
released him. That toad never acts unless there's something in it for
him."
"I have no
idea what he wants, Emperor."
"Neither do
I. That's the problem.".
He looked around,
checking to ensure no one else had remained in the hall without them noticing.
There was no one to be seen. The heavy studded doors had been closed from the
outside by his Imperial guards, and the long hall was quiet except for a faint
crackling from the braziers. Thin lines of smoke curled up from them to disappear
high among the blackened rafters.
"May I speak
openly, Emperor?"
"Yes, speak
your mind."
Both Crocus's
hands were testing the heat of the brazier now.
"Five years
we've fought together, my Lord. We've cut off Frankish raiding parties and we threw
back two hungry tribes who wished to take the best Roman estates at the edge of
our territories. I won my place at your right hand through my skill in battle,
and in leading my men to victory, but I hold my place now through my wit in
understanding the men around me. Is that not so?" He waited for the
Emperor to reply.
"It is."
"Well, I must
tell you this. Every spring my daughter asks why I must go away and fight for
you Romans again, and every year I tell her we are accumulating booty and
fighting to secure the peace of a great Empire and our place in it." He
stood up even straighter and pushed his chest out.
"But every
year the booty gets smaller, and as for peace, it's as far away as ever. These
Picts," he spat the word out, "What gold will they have? A few torcs
and bracelets that when melted down won't even pay my men for a month's
fighting. We need rich cities to plunder, Emperor. How else can we get ready
for when our axe hands grow weak and our daughters look for dowries?"
The Emperor's eyebrow
rose slightly. "Tell your daughter we have plans for another ten years of
campaigns. After Caledonia we will take Hibernia and then . . ." He
waited, weighing the effect his words were having. "The forests of the
Franks. There'll be little gold I know in all of this, but there'll be land we
can farm, and tribespeople for our slave trade. We will allocate these new
lands to all who fight with us when the task is done, and I promise you, your
tribe will be granted enough to easily pay the dowries of a hundred
daughters."
Crocus shrugged
indifferently.
"There
are many risks to every plan, Emperor. You know this. The greatest threats
arise around our own camp fires, even from our own hearths." His hands
went out, palm up, in a gesture of finality.
"You
cannot think Constantine is a threat already!" The Emperor laughed. He'd
thought about it, but he wouldn't give Crocus the satisfaction of knowing any
of his fears.
"Not a
threat, Emperor." Crocus replied. "But you must know if we give him a
senior position in the cavalry, he'll quickly earn the loyalty of his men. You
know that. Even if he's half as good as they say, he'll get respect for who he
is, for being your son. And then he'll want more. And he'll have some of our
best as his blood brothers then. Who knows what he'll aspire to. Do you?"
"So how
do you suggest I deal with him Crocus, and remember he's not Hannibal arriving
at our gates with his elephants."
How far did
Crocus think he should go?
"When a son
comes of age for position in our tribe, Emperor, he either fights his father,
submits to his father's every wish, or he is banished." His tone dropped.
"And do you know which is the most difficult way for a father?
Winning." He pointed a finger at the Emperor. "Being the victor if
the fighting path is chosen. Sacrificing a son is not easy, but the price of
power was always high."
The Emperor didn't
reply. His silence hung in the room.
"All I say is
that you must consider what even the dogs know, the cubs of the strongest want themselves
to be the strongest. It is only natural. Your son will pick his path, if you do
not pick it for him." Crocus braced himself on the flagstone floor, his
feet shifting wider. "If you need services from me, Emperor, any service
at all, I am your loyal servant." He bowed his head slightly.
The Emperor
knew at once what he was referring to. Crocus had arranged for two disaffected
officers to disappear in the past twelve months and he dealt with local
disaffection quickly. All that made him useful.
"I know
what the dogs know, but I am no Agamemnon. No sacrifice has been demanded of
me. If there's no room for him in your cavalry, I'll not force him on you. Go
now, fetch him here. Fetch Constantine. I will greet him publicly."
Crocus saluted,
turned and strode away.
The Emperor stared
into the glowing embers of the brazier. Was Crocus right? Would Constantine be
a danger, not a support? No, he had to give his son a chance.
Bloody Alemanni
succession rituals. They are not the Roman way. Constantine had survived the
east. He deserved a place with his father. He remembered the tall adoring youth
he'd sent away, against every familial feeling, to Diocletian's palace many
years before. Now he should make amends.
No. That would
only make his son soft. He remembered his long ago promises. You have nothing
to fear. That was all lies. So, did he still feel guilty? Was that why he was
so wound up by his son's arrival? Does he bring back too many memories of his
mother. The dismal Helena.
He'd have to make
provision for her now.
She could move
back to Treveris, now that he'd vacated the city. He would notify her. But
would she want to come and visit Constantine? That would be interesting,
especially if Theodora got to hear about it all.
Old wives and new
rarely get on well in Imperial circles.
As he walked down
the flagstone corridor that was lined with small busts of the great Emperors,
the aching pain in his stomach returned. Cursing the sickness that had reduced
his nights to sleeplessness and dull pain, he held the palm of his hand firm
against the pit of his stomach.
Prepare for
everything.
That was what
Diocletian always used to say, whenever he'd been asked for advice.
And he'd almost
decided what to do about Constantine. He just needed answers to a few
questions. Why had Galerius released Constantine at this time?
The ache in his
stomach felt worse as he considered it all.
For years, he'd
imagined helping his son when he returned, and now that time had arrived, the
idea suddenly seemed unwise. Why was that? He'd striven hard not to spoil the
boy? Had he gone too far?
He stopped, leaned
a hand against the red brick wall, sniffed. He could smell salt. Salt and damp.
Decay taints every crevice in this place. It's even in the plaster. It never
survives too long on this coast. He rubbed the wall. A small crimson coated
piece crumbled into his hand. He examined it, looked at its perfect shiny skin
and then its fragile powdery underside.
Why was everything
so flimsy, so fleeting, every shiny victory so soon forgotten, every pleasure
gone so soon after the moment it was felt, while all around the wolves stalked,
waiting for their opportunity?
He'd fought his
way up only to find his greatest task now was to thwart others who tried to
follow his example. Powdery ash trickled through his fingers, drifting to the
foot polished floor.
Everything would
be different now that his son had arrived. He'd known that, felt it
instinctively, since he'd first heard Constantine was coming. But did that mean
Constantine would be the wolf? How would he know?
The last piece of the plaster crumbled through his fingers and fell to the floor.
*********
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