Chapter 1

46 AD

Galerius Manlius Britannicus opened his eyes. Footsteps—light, hesitant—echoed through the marble resonance of his private chamber. He rarely slept with his powers fully activated within Rome's walls, the constant mental hum too draining, but tonight suspicion had been a restless bedfellow. He had made an exception.

His hand slid silently to the pugio tucked beneath his pillow. With a mere thought, he drew upon his innate reserves, the familiar shift sharpening his hearing, heightened his reflexes. The steps drew closer, the soft scrape of sandals halting midway across the floor mosaic. A faint, cool breeze, unexpected, brushed his scalp. Galerius frowned. He distinctly remembered latching the window shutters before sleep claimed him.

A familiar reedy voice cut through the silence, barely more than a whisper, yet carrying clearly to his enhanced senses. "Lower your knife, Galerius. I am not here to fight."

Galerius sat up, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the linen tunic that stretched across a torso marked by decades of warfare. A jagged scar ran from his left collarbone toward his sternum—a Dacian blade that had nearly found his heart. His calloused hands, weapons-worn and steady, remained close to the dagger as his eyes instantly adjusted to the low light, scanning the chamber. The bedside oil lamp, left burning low, cast flickering orange light that danced across painted frescoes depicting Jupiter's triumph over the Titans, the rich blues and golds seeming to pulse in the wavering illumination. The cool marble beneath his feet carried the weight of Roman craftsmanship, each vein in the stone carefully selected, each surface polished to mirror-smoothness. His gaze followed the interplay of light and shadow across the smooth columns framing his alcove until it settled on the partially illuminated figure seated stiffly in the corner armchair, a place usually reserved for honored guests, not men accused of plotting to murder the Imperator.

As with all the Blessed, Lysander's face hadn't aged a day past his prime, forever fixed at thirty years. Tonight, though, exhaustion carved hollows beneath cheekbones usually sharp with certainty. His familiar crimson cloak, once a vibrant symbol of his station near the Imperator, now hung in tatters, ripped short to his thighs, sections dark and stiffened with what could only be blood. Galerius sharpened his vision just slightly, enough to catch the glint in Lysander's eyes as they met his—still sharp, unsettlingly lucid despite the man's wretched state.

A muscle twitched in Galerius's jaw. Sympathy? The thought was unwelcome, foreign, quickly suppressed. Yet, the image lingered: Lysander standing straighter, younger, eyes alight with the fierce hope they had both shared for a reformed Empire. Brothers-in-arms, then. Clay, unshaped. But time, ambition, and the different facets of honor had forged them on separate anvils. They were weapons honed for different purposes now, their paths no longer aligned.

"You've looked better, Lysander," Galerius said, his tone clipped, devoid of warmth. "I trust your assailants fared worse."

If Lysander registered the jibe, he hid it behind a mask of weariness. Galerius considered boosting his sight further, pushing past the retinal burn to dissect the man's micro-expressions, but the meager dinner he'd picked at earlier cautioned prudence. Energy needed conservation; who knew what else tonight held?

"They sent Caius to apprehend me," Lysander said flatly, his voice raspy. "I practically raised that boy, groomed him for the Praetorian Guard." He sighed, a sound heavy with genuine weariness, or perhaps just well-practiced performance. "A pity. I'd hoped he would prove useful—to me... and to the Empire."

Galerius's lip curled slightly. Two-facedness was the currency of Roman politics, expected, even necessary. Yet, hearing Lysander speak so dismissively of a boy he'd molded grated. Galerius had once, foolishly perhaps, hoped for a bedrock of sincerity beneath Lysander's polished exterior.

"Seems the Empire has no further use for you, Lysander," he replied coolly.

Galerius allowed himself a moment to savor the sight–the tattered cloak, the weary slump that couldn't quite hide the man's innate pride. Decades of Lysander's veiled condescension lessened the sting of this present ugliness.

"I need your help, brother," Lysander said, leaning forward slightly, the movement stiff. “They framed me,” he stated.

Galerius tightened his grip on the pugio beside him. "You stand accused of more than petty theft, Lysander. Whispers name you conspirator in a plot to murder the Imperator."

"And you believe that?" Lysander's tone flared, laced with an anger more potent than fear.

Galerius lowered the blade slightly, the sharp edge resting against his thigh. He recalled countless hours, years ago, listening to Lysander's impassioned speeches dissecting the Empire's injustices, its hypocrisies. Whatever horrors Lysander had gleaned from the minds of Rome's citizens and slaves, they had only fueled the fierce certainty in his eyes, the unwavering belief in his own destiny. Though never spoken aloud, Galerius had long suspected Lysander saw himself not just as a servant of Rome, but its potential savior.

"Would you deny coveting the purple?" Galerius asked, his voice soft but pointed.

Lysander sneered, a fleeting expression of contempt. "Do you truly think I would sully myself by joining Asiaticus' clumsy scheme?"

"It doesn't matter what I think." Galerius placed the dagger back beside his pillow, a deliberate gesture. "You face the gravest charge a Blessed can: plotting to overthrow the Empire itself. Blaessus won't miss the chance to make a brutal example of you."

"Understand this, Galerius..." Lysander's voice dropped, taking on a measured, almost warning tone. "If I am removed from the court, it will be a grave loss for the Empire. And for you. You'll lose the memory of a friend, a brother. And you will gain an enemy you cannot afford."

Lysander rose, his movements careful, measured despite his state. He walked toward the wall opposite the bed, his gaze settling on a carved relief depicting Galerius's hard-won victories in Germania. His finger, stained dark at the tip, traced the edge of the scene with mock reverence. "Impressive triumphs, brother. But where's your shame? No relief carved for the Varian disaster? Perhaps they feared naming it the Galerian disaster?"

Galerius offered a tight grin, though the bile of Teutoberg Forest rose unbidden in his throat. "Careful, Lysander. Such talk might wake the household guards, and their loyalty isn't to you."

Lysander's snarl was fleeting, instantly replaced by that unsettling, weary calm. "They'll come for you too, Galerius, just as they came for me. The moment you cease being their prized weapon, they'll discard you. Replace you with some eager young buck—another banner boy for their deadly games."

The words struck their mark, conjuring an image Galerius couldn't quite banish: himself, shackled and kneeling before the indifferent face of Imperial judgment. A downturned thumb. Execution without hesitation.

Still, he shook his head, pushing the vision away. "Leave, Lysander. Before your blood stains my floor. Blessed blood is notoriously difficult to clean."

Lysander lingered a moment longer, his expression unreadable in the flickering lamplight. "Remember this night, Galerius. The next time you see my face, it might be mounted on a pike outside the Forum—and you will know your inaction put it there.”

With that, he turned, a shadow detaching itself from the deeper gloom, and slipped out as silently as he had entered.

Galerius listened, stretching his hearing to its limit, following the faint, fading echo of those hesitant footsteps until they vanished entirely into the sounds of the Roman night.

Then finally, he closed his eyes.