Chapter 1

Titus Flavius Caesar Lucius – dies Veneris, 30 September DCCCXLIX ad urbe condita (Friday, September 28, 96 AD) - Sarmisegetusa Regia

At 16, I was technically too young to command legions, but that doesn’t matter when your father is the emperor. Anyway, I had proven a better general than the late Cornelius Fuscus and now sat on the throne of the more recently belated Decebalus. My concubine, Bernardus, had removed my sandals and was cleaning the dirt of the battle from my feet with his tongue. Most men would have simply had him wash them but I enjoyed the sensuality of this process. Bernardus, a Hibernian slave who had been purchased for me as a gift by General Agricola, did too, and before long he was reaching up to remove my subligaculum.

At that precise moment we were interrupted by a messenger.

“This had better be important,” I said, gesturing to my erect cock.

“Your most glorious father...”

“Get on with it.”

“Has been assassinated.”

I stood up and looked at Bernardus. “This will have to wait, get my armor.”

I turned back to the messenger. “Who is responsible for this?”

“Parthenius, supported by most of the Senate and the Praetorian Guard.”

“I take it the latter institution is on their way here?”

“They will have reached Aquileia by now.”

“Very well then, find the Tribunes and have them meet me here, and tell the legions to prepare to march in the morning.”

I stayed up all that night and rode at the head of the army the next day. I was exhausted by the time we made camp outside of Tibiscum. Fortunately, Bernardus was waiting for me in my tent. His pale body shone like an unpainted statue beneath his bright red hair.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Help me get undressed.”

He did as I had commanded and then repeated the procedure with my feet until I was erect again. Then he took me into his mouth and gently sucked me off. He swallowed my seed and then lay down next to me. He took me in his strong arms. Bernardus was four years older than me and ever since he’d been given to me he had comforted me during my periodic bouts of melancholy.

“Do you wish to avenge your father?” he asked, his thick Hibernian accent catching on the ‘Patrem.’

“I’m not concerned about that as much. We were never very close. I don’t want to end up like him, though.”

“You want to set an example.”

“Exactly. But first I’ll have to win on the battlefield.”

“You have nothing to worry about there. You’re ten times the general as those schemers.”

“Let’s hope so.”