The praetorian guard had proclaimed Lulianius as emperor, but the real power of Rome rested with the legions, and they were outside the walls. The praetorians deserted their choice, and when they'd gone over to Severus, so had the senate. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but not when the sword's at your throat.
Lulianius had been murdered and later the praetorians were exiled to within a hundred miles of the city with the warning that if any should return they would be put to death. Severus had formed a new guard of his own men and the senate had confirmed his claim as emperor; but before July he'd had to leave for the east to deal with Niger. Three engagements had been fought, the last of which took place at Issus, where Niger had been killed. It had taken Severus another two years to pacify the regions of the east and in the process, and destroyed a good portion of Byzantium.
After that, he'd turned his attentions to the west and Albinus, who'd made Britain his stronghold and had strong forces to the north of Gaul.
Severus still needed the support of the senate, and had so far lived up to his bargain with them. None had been put to death and they blessed his achievements and gave him the laurels of conqueror and savior of the empire. With the support of the senate and fresh forces, he met Albinus on a plain to the north of Lyon between the Saone and the Rhone rivers.
The old man wiped a tear from his eye at the remembrance. "That," he continued, "was the worst conflict between Roman armies since the battle of Philippi." He swallowed a drink and continued.
"My Lord Albinus knew the battle was lost, and before the final blow was struck, he ordered me to leave the field and flee to Britain. I obeyed, and this," he indicated the sleeping boy, "is the reason. He is the natural son of Albinus and as such, is condemned to death. The mother, my own daughter, took her life at the news of Albinus death. That is why we are here-to avoid the proscription that has come forth. Now that Severus has eliminated all his opposition, he has taken his mask off. In order to legitimize his succession, he has proclaimed that he is the son of Marcus Aurelius and the brother of Commodus."
He paused for a moment to catch his breath. The passion of his story was tiring him. "So far, Severus has put over sixty senators to death on charges of having sympathized with Albinus. I have come to this place with hopes for taking a ship to Spain. There I will find sanctuary for the son of Albinus, my grandson, among friends who will see that he is protected,"
Weariness was overcoming the old man. Casca told him to rest and that he would watch over them this night. In the morning he would help them find a ship that would take them to Spain. He liked this aged gentleman and wished him well, but he feared that Rome was too powerful an enemy to leave alive anyone that might later have claim against the throne. The first law of power was to survive at any and all costs; and what was the value of one sleeping child against the glory of being known as the master of the world? Shaking his head sadly, he knew the answer: none! There was little chance that the boy would ever grow to manhood.
That night while the three others slept, Casca sat in the red glow of the fireplace and kept watch over the sleepers. One hand to his bared sword, he waited for the dawn and the passing of the winter storm. The others in the room did not miss the implications of the bared sword, and decided to leave the matter alone for the night.
One by one, all fell into their own state of sleep. The inn was silent, save for the crackling of the fire, which Casca replenished from time to time, and for the snoring of the men in their sleep. Several times Casca felt himself starting to doze off, but his head would jerk back up as if startled by something, and his eyes would come into instant focus.
He used old soldier's tricks to keep himself awake-breathing deeply to pump air into his lungs, standing for a while and stamping his feet, stretching his body-anything to keep his mind alert. For he knew that if he slept, there would be death in this room tonight; and he didn't care to experience that crap merely because he couldn't manage to stay awake for a few hours.
The boy snored softly in a child's slumber, and Casca pitied him. Through no fault of his own the youngster's was bound up in the fate of the empire and subject to its harsh laws. Casca knew from experience that fate was often cruel. Intellectually, he understood the laws of power and its survival. He knew some people felt that it would be better for all concerned that this single child should die now, for in later years he might prove to be the rallying figure that would bring thousands to their death in war uprisings. One small death in exchange for many?
The hours crept by until, instinctively, he knew the hour of daybreak was near.
Going from one to the other he shook his companions gently into awareness. The silence outside told them that the storm had passed over.
Waking the innkeeper, they settled their bill and bought a packet of food for each to take with him. Scaevola wrapped his grandson in the boy's cloak and took him by the hand as they left the smoky confines of the inn.
They walked through the narrow, icy streets; those streets were clean now, but with the coming of spring, the filth that lay below the blanket of virgin snow would come again into its own. Before leaving, Casca had looked over the men in the tavern and had waited until Scaevola and the child were safely outside with Glam before speaking. Softly, almost gently, he warned those awake and watching.
"If I see even one of you outside, you'll die. The old man and the boy are not for the likes of you. Leave them alone or sing your death songs before leaving." The soft, deadly intent of the manner in which he spoke did more to convince the thieves and murderers present to let these easy pickings go. After all, there would be others; there was no rush. Time was always on the side of the killer, and they knew it.
The door closed behind him as he moved a little faster to catch up with Glam and the others, now heading for the river. There they contracted the services of a fisherman to take them downriver to the estuary where the old man and his ward could find a vessel to sail them to what was hoped would be the safety of far-off Spain.
As for Casca and Glam, the fisherman would set them on the other side of the river in Germania. He and Glam had had enough of civilization and now longed for the clean isolation of the primordial forests. At least there the dangers were clear, the men easy to understand, and the reasons for living and dying less complicated.
Scaevola held his grandson's left hand while the boy waved with his right a good-bye to the Roman and his hairy companion. Casca wished he could have done more for them. He liked the praetor, but he could detect the smell of a man already dead about him, and knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Each had to follow what Glam called his "weird," and reach his own destiny, wherever it might be. As for the boy, Casca merely sighed and his head felt a little heavier. The circle turns; it has happened before and it shall happen again: one small life for many.
Ambition is the greatest disease and killer of man that the world has ever known. More than any plague, man's desire to inflict his will on others has caused the senseless deaths of millions, and to what end? All kings must die. What then have they accomplished with their ambition and self-delusion of power? For their lives are nothing more than fleeting moments in the course of centuries, and don't really matter all that much.
Glam broke trail into a line of pines that marked the end of the world, at least as Rome knew it. They were back in his lands now and he was content. He breathed in deeply the crisp, clean air and kicked up a flurry of snow from a covered bush.
"Hey there, you Dago titmouse," Glam called out, "knock off the long face. Everything awaits us. Somewhere out there." He indicated the deep woods, pointing. "Yes, my friend, somewhere out there lies adventures for us and a good clean warrior's life. Don't worry about the old man; he'll do all right for himself and the boy. And if he doesn't, he's only living the life that the gods have ordained-so why fight it?" He urged Casca on, "Come on, you Latin castratto, or I'll beat you to the women."