Chapter 1

For every one of his twelve years of life, Marius Henricus Maximinus had always known exactly who he was. The adored only son of Marius Victorus Maximinus and his wife Rubinia, scion of a noble plebeian family, who lived in a comfortable townhouse near the Forum and attended its business with his father daily, who had his own tutor to teach him Greek, logic, grammar, geometry, music, and other arts of the civilized man, and who was surely destined for a post as legionnaire commander or provincial prefect. Until he was ten, Henricus had been sponsored by Emma Julia Aurelia, the daughter of the praetor urbani, but then her father had been made governor of far Britannia, and she had left Rome for good. Sometimes he missed her; she had taken a personal interest in him that went beyond the usual, and he had always thought of her as a favorite aunt or elder sister. Now in her place, Regina Sabina Milia saw to the maintenance of his interests instead, and Henricus was often reminded of what a fortunate lad he was, to have had two such great women as his patronesses. With the world at his disposal and a future as bright as the midday sun on the sea, he had never had cause to question anything about his life, and greatly doubted that he ever would.

It was the ides of February, the celebration of Lupercalia, in the year of the consulship of Hadrianus and Caesar, when Henricus' tidy existence fell to pieces.

Choking and coughing, shivering under the cloak that one of the household slaves had wrapped around him, Henricus stared frantically into the maelstrom of hungry flames that danced and devoured the black skeleton of the house. The smoke stung his eyes and the cold mud squelched under his bare feet; he had been rushed out with no time to dress. But his father had then plunged back in to find his mother, and neither of them had yet emerged. There was no way to say how the inferno had started, but Lupercalia was customarily a time for wild street parties and masked youths in shaggy furs lashing women with whips to grant them fertility; an unattended festival fire, perhaps, or a drunken Luperci supposing it would be fun, not knowing that the house was occupied. The tale of the she-wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus had always been a particular favorite of Rubinia Maximinia, but as she was a properly married woman, she no longer participated in the celebrations. All three of them had been asleep as the flames spread and burning embers rained down, and barely woken in time.

Henricus squinted through the haze. Shouts were spreading; neighbors were rushing in with buckets of water drawn up from the aqueducts, trying to put the blaze out before it could spread through the tightly packed insulae of the central city; such a dreadful thing had happened in Nero's time, he knew. But all he could think about was his parents, praying for them to appear. He wondered how long it had been, if it should have been so much. Of course Papa wouldn't leave Mama behind. They'd be there – any moment now, he'd see them –

Henricus' heart began to thunder in his ears. He clenched his fists, and had to be physically prevented from charging into the flames himself, a burly manservant grabbing him and dragging him back. Wanted to be a hero, wanted to save them all but couldn't, his tears making white streaks in the mask of soot covering his face, as the sparks kept on fountaining ten, twenty, thirty feet high, and he finally understood that they were not coming, were never coming again.

The bodies of Marius Victorus and Rubinia were removed from the still-smoking rubble by the light of grey dawn. They were so scorched as to be nearly unrecognizable, and the servants attempted to prevent Henricus from seeing, but were not entirely successful. Shrouds were placed over them, and a cart brought to take them to the crematorium; the bodies of the dead were polluting and could not remain among the living. But as their only living relative had been their now-orphaned son, it was a matter of concern as to who would finance and perform the proper funerary rites. For that matter, the custody and care of Henricus himself was now under some contention. Who would take him in, finish his education, or otherwise supervise his adolescence and formation into a virtuous Roman citizen? Patrician boys were often adopted or supported as wards of the state by the emperor or other highly ranking noblemen, but the Maximinii, no matter how affluent and respected, were still plebeians. It would not be suitable.

After a hushed, worried conversation among the surviving household, only one option was reached. They had to take him to Regina.

It was midmorning, though still as foggy and dim as daybreak, when the filthy, grief-stricken, stunned Henricus was driven up the hill in an ox-cart, to the elegant villa where his patroness made her residence. Regina Sabina Milia kept property, power, slaves, wealth, and clients in her own name, and was completely ruthless to any and all men who attempted to interfere, and after several painful lessons learned, they had decided enough was enough and left her well alone. She was a legend of a woman, still beautiful despite being almost fifty; there were rich silver streaks in her black hair, but her face remained smooth and unlined. It was whispered she used a salve made of gold dust, honey, asses' milk, and the blood of virgins to achieve such a remarkable effect. Yet despite this fearsome reputation, she had always been cordial to Henricus, and once her gatekeepers had taken stock of his tragic estate, they hurried to see if she would receive him. Returning with the news that the lady had not yet risen, but had nonetheless consented to an audience, they wiped the worst of the soot off and escorted him into the inner sanctum.

Regina was sitting up in bed, with a bare-chested man asleep next to her. Like everything else about her, the identity of her lover was scandalous: Robin had been a slave brought to Rome as a prisoner of war almost fifteen years ago, but Regina had manumitted him – and, it was widely rumored, entered into a morganatic marriage with him the instant her son-in-law, David Aurelius, was out of the picture. If so, it was just one of the secrets that she kept. But seeing Henricus bedraggled and tearstained, she quickly pulled on a robe and stood up, crossing the floor to him. "You poor child. I heard what happened."

All he felt capable of was to nod numbly, as Regina led him off into a more private antechamber and had her slaves fetch a late breakfast. Henricus was not at all hungry and could only nibble. But he gathered himself enough to stammer, "What – what is going to happen to me?"

Regina eyed him. She seemed to be debating whether or not to say something. "Don't worry," she said at last. "I'll cover the funeral costs. Your parents will be sent decently to their rest."

Henricus opened his mouth to thank her, but a sob came out instead, and he finally broke down, weeping while Regina placed a light hand on his shoulder and offered him a cloth to wipe his eyes. At last she said, "You'll be wondering after your future, I suppose?"

Henricus hiccupped and nodded miserably.

"I'd be willing to adopt you as my own son and heir," Regina told him. "I promised your mother that I'd look after you and. . . well, regardless of what I thought of her asinine foolery in the first place, an oath is an oath. And I plainly will have no children of my own."

"What?" Henricus, momentarily distracted from his troubles, frowned. "My mother? What did you promise Rubinia?"

Regina opened and shut her mouth. She hesitated, which must have been a first. Then, slowly and carefully as if to be sure he understood, she said, "I didn't promise Rubinia anything."

"But you said – "

"Aye, I did." Regina arched a plucked eyebrow.

"But. . ."

She said nothing. She waited.

Henricus felt as if the world, once more, was crumbling out from under him, going up in smoke. "Are you," he stammered. "Are you saying that she. . . that she wasn't my mother?"

"Clever lad." Regina sat back in her chair. "This is no way to find it out, and you have my sympathy. But no. You were adopted at birth by Marius Victorus and his wife, who had never succeeded in having any children of their own, and who were the sort of people who could be trusted not to reveal your true identity. Your mother – your real mother – could not have kept you. Far too great a dishonor for such an honorable and upstanding family." She snorted.

"But – " Henricus gabbled for a third time. "But then – my – who – who was she?"

Regina considered him a moment longer, then picked up her wine cup and polished off the last of it. "Honestly," she said. "Do you truly have no idea?"

For that final instant, everything was still a blur and nothing made sense. He wanted to shake her and demand that she stop speaking in a sphinx's riddles, grappling with the overwhelming conviction that everyone in his life had lied to him and nobody could be trusted. And then, just as suddenly and horrifyingly, it hit.

"Mistress Aurelia," he croaked. "Emma?"

Regina raised her empty goblet as if in toast. "Bravo."

"But she. . . but she. . ." She left me, Henricus wanted to say. But I wasn't supposed to know who she was. Why not? What could be so horrible, so shameful, that it must be concealed and never even spoken of? Mistress Aurelia had never taken a husband after her betrothed had died in Gaul, so a highborn daughter bearing a child out of wedlock would be scandal enough – but still, hardly unprecedented. There must be more to it, and a second, rather understandable question occurred to him. "But then. . . who is my. . . my father?" The word stuck in his throat. It had always belonged to Marius Victorus.

Regina paused. "I don't know. Emma never said."

Henricus gripped the edge of the table. "I want to find out."

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"You're always much happier knowing something in theory, than you are in truth. It could only disappoint you."

"But I want to!" Henricus cried. "Everyone lied to me. Everyone. I don't want to stay here and take on another one. Is Emma still in Britannia? I want to go there, I want to ask, I need to – "

"Henri," Regina interrupted. "It's foolish. Utterly foolish. I'm not sending you all the way to Britannia to confront your birth mother, when she was the one who made the choice to give you up in the first place. She doesn't want you as her son, do you understand? She made a mistake and she has to pay for the consequences. Stay here as my son, however, and you'll have everything you want. Londinium is much too far away and it's much too dangerous to travel there, with the new uprisings of the Brigantes and the Caledonians. You're not going."

Henricus stared her down mulishly. "I want to."

"You do not have my permission, and I am your patroness and now your legal guardian. It does not matter who sired you. If you are wise, you won't breathe a word of any of this, accept the offer of my name and status and protection, and be grateful for it. Mark me and mark me well. If you start digging for old bones, you never know what ghosts you'll awake instead."

"But I – "

"You are very young, and out of your head with grief and confusion and betrayal. Now is no time to make such decisions. When you've had a bath and bed, you'll see it as I do."

"I don't – " Henricus started to get to his feet.

Regina, looking past him, clapped her hands. "Guards."

For the next fortnight, that was how it was. Henricus had everything his heart could desire, his own room overlooking the city, every strange delicacy he had ever wanted to try, but the only time he was allowed out of the villa was for his parents' (he could not think of them as anything but his parents, regardless) funeral at the cemetery outside the city walls. The rest of the time, someone was always watching him, no matter how unobtrusively, and he was utterly miserable. Even when he wept for his parents, for being lied to, for being left alone, Regina would always appear with more promises to mend it. But she couldn't, she wasn't listening, and he was at his wit's end as what to do.

Finally, he decided on escape. It was plain that she was never going to grant him leaving the house on her own accord, so he would have to outwit her. Slowly, carefully, he began hoarding food and supplies in a bag, which he hid under his bed. He'd have to scrape up money from somewhere. Work out how to get to Britannia. It was Roman territory all the way there, he could just follow the road, it couldn't be all that difficult. Stow away on some merchant's cart or attach himself to a legion. Heroes had brave adventures all the time, didn't let the odds stand in their way. He'd have to do the same.

At last, a suitable evening arrived. Regina was entertaining some of her clients at an elaborate cena, which would proceed very late into the night and involve much imbibing and conviviality. Once he was sure that they were all engaged, Henricus snuck away to his room and changed. A sturdy dark woolen toga and hooded mantle, leather sandals, good plain traveling clothes. Grabbed his bag from under the bed, slung it over his shoulder, and crept out through the colonnades into the dark garden. Laughter and light drifted from the hall, and he paused one final moment to look back at it. Then steeled himself, asked the protection of Mercury as god of travelers, and took a –

"Where are you going, boy?"

Henricus' foot froze in midstep, and as he windmilled to keep his balance, nearly fell flat. He managed to avoid it, but spun around to see Robin, leaning against the low stone wall and watching him interestedly. Damnation, he should have remembered that Robin would not be attending the feast, that he might keep Regina company in bed and in private but never in public. He opened and shut his mouth in useless search of an excuse. "I – I was – "

Robin eyed him with weary sympathy. "I know what you were doing. Trust me, lad, I do. She's trying to keep you close, but she doesn't yet know that if you have to use force to keep it prisoned, it doesn't belong to you at all. How on earth did you think you were going to get away, though? And then do what? Walk to Britannia by yourself?"

"I – "

Robin considered him for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he seemed to come to a decision. Gripped Henricus firmly by the shoulder and escorted him through the maze of the gardens, out through the postern gate and down to the marketplace, which was only now starting to disperse as men sought out the comforts of taverna and brothel and hearth. There was still plenty of commerce, however, and Henricus stood tensely as Robin negotiated with someone in a low-voiced language he didn't understand – it wasn't Latin, that was for certain. Just as he was starting to wonder if Robin was turning him in for a profit, the older man motioned him over. "Get on."

"What – ?"

"It's a trading caravan," Robin said tersely. "They can take you as far as northern Gaul, possibly to Londinium. Try not to be recognized. Go."

"You're helping me?" Henricus' jaw sagged. "Why?"

Robin looked briefly as if he wanted to say something. Instead he reached for an iron ring on his smallest finger, twisted it off, and dropped it into the boy's hand. It was tarnished and old, worked with intricate Celtic knots, and was too big for even Henricus' thumb. He tucked it into his bag, then looked back at Robin again. "What's this for?"

"My wife gave it to me. It may be useful where you're going, it may not."

"Regina?" Henricus was even more puzzled.

"No." Robin hesitated. "Marian. Now hurry up, would you? Go!"

Henricus scrambled aboard the cart as indicated, still unable to quite believe his turn in fortune, half expecting that they would be stopped at the city gates and he would be hauled back to the villa in high dudgeon. But as the driver cracked the whip over the oxen's back and they started to move, as it was true, as he was somehow leaving Rome after all, on his way to wild and uncharted lands, to a hero's journey, to adventure, to (he much hoped) the truth, he could not help but look back at Robin and stammer out a final question. "Why?"

For a final instant, Henricus thought he would not answer. Then, as Robin was already fading into the night, his last words blew as a whisper on the wind.

"Because you look so very much like your father."