Chapter 1
Things were simpler in here. They were never simple outside. Publius Galerius Calidus rubbed his eyes and looked around the drearily familiar sight of his cell. The stone walls and floor were cold and visibly moist, the gray-green slabs glistening from the blue light that seeped in through the tiny window on the top of the back wall of the cell. Calidus sat at the creaky wooden table near the wall and took a gulp of dirty water from a simple clay pot. He eyed the empty bowl he had placed near the cell door, and grimaced as the nagging pain in his stomach and the queasy weakness of his limbs reminded him that he had not eaten for some time and that the next tiny portion of slop would not come until the next morning. He ran his fingers through his brown stubble. He wasn't sure how long he had been imprisoned. A year and a half, maybe. Or maybe that was just how long it felt.
His lingering memories of life before his imprisonment seemed like a mystic's visions of a past life. He knew they were real and that they were distinctly his, but there seemed to be an invisible barrier between those memories and the mundane visuals of his days in bondage, a divide thicker and more imposing than the expressionless stone façade he faced as he sat and pondered.
There was little else for him to think about in the stale atmosphere of his cell, save for the steady sound of dripping water which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and the rasping voice of the Dunmer in the opposite cell shouting taunts at passing guards. It was difficult to refrain from thinking about his old life when he caught a glimpse of the guards.
Do they even remember that I was once their superior?
He had always admired the Imperial Legion. He had idolized the great legion heroes of the past since he was a small boy. He was proud to have dedicated his life to serving the empire.
I was always loyal. I had never demonstrated otherwise. Why did they turn on me?
But it was not the empire that had turned on him, as he reminded himself. It was Geldall. Prince Geldall Septim, the crown prince to the throne of the Empire of Tamriel. At least Geldall thought he was the crown prince. He certainly told himself that he was entitled to that title as the eldest son of the reigning Septim, Uriel VII. Uriel never explicitly stated who he wanted to succeed him to the throne, and there had been long-standing concerns that none of his sons, neither Geldall nor Enman nor Ebel, were qualified for the immense task to ruling an empire.
Nine hells, Calidus thought, with a shudder of anger. What a foolish, malicious bastard of an Emperor Geldall would make.
He thought back to that day, all those years ago, when he first applied for recruitment into the Imperial Legion. He remembered with utmost clarity the parchment he filled out and signed, the formal document that stated his background and his desire for recruitment. Publius Galerius Calidus. Race: Imperial. Hair: Dark brown. Eyes: Blue. Height: 6'1". Age: 17. Born: 3E 399, Bruma, Cyrodiil. Father: Knight Errant (d. 3E 397). Mother: Council Diplomat.
He had excelled during his months of training, outperforming his fellow recruits in nearly every category. He ran farther, climbed higher, drilled harder, and bested even his superior officers in his favorite phase of training; dueling with wooden swords. He was always eager for glory, constantly seeking to earn the respect of those around and above him. He finished his initial training quickly, and was told that due to his exceptional qualities as a soldier, he would be granted almost any assignment he requested.
"Send me wherever the action is." He had told them. He wanted to travel the empire.
After serving a short time as a guardsman in Bruma, he was transferred to the Imperial City, where he fell in love with the fast-paced urban culture; the sights, sounds, and smells of the heart of an empire. He served only briefly in the Imperial City, however, before being promoted to the rank of trooper and sent to the undeveloped, blighted island of Vvardenfell in the semi-autonomous Imperial province of Morrowind. In the 10 years before his birth, Emperor Uriel Septim VII had been betrayed and impersonated by the imperial battle mage Jagar Tharn, and was subsequently imprisoned in another dimension. Calidus had heard the story often growing up. During the false reign of Jagar Tharn, the interests of the provinces were largely ignored, and the empire's authority over the more distant provinces had begun to wane. In 3E 399, the year Calidus was born, Tharn was defeated by a nameless hero of uncertain origins, and Uriel VII had been freed. He quickly went to work undoing some of the damage Tharn had caused, namely by increasing Imperial troop presences in the provinces more than ever in order to reunite the empire and recentralize authority. Calidus' deployment to Morrowind was part of that effort.
He was stationed at Fort Moonmoth, outside of the city of Balmora. He and his troupe were often sent north into the ashlands in order to stamp out raids on travelling imperial merchants that were being perpetrated by some of the nomadic ashlander tribes. The ashlanders almost never came near the big cities, but they often travelled in the wilderness between settlements to scavenge and raid for supplies when the ash storms got really nasty and food became scarce. Skirmishes often broke out between the ashlanders and the imperial patrols. Often these skirmishes escalated into large pitched battles. Calidus saw his first real combat in one such battle.
He remembered the feeling of exhilaration. The blood pumping through his veins, the adrenaline coursing through him, the comradeship he felt hearing the war cries of his brothers in arms. He remembered how the fighting came so easily to him, like an intricate dance – not to the lute and choir, but to the whizzing of arrows and the clash of weapons. He remembered the pride he felt facing his enemies and cutting them down, one by one. Combat was like no other form of interaction. There was nothing more emotional or more personal than two men, hungry for glory, in a contest for the retaining of their very lives. A dunmer would approach him, clad in netch hide and chitin shell, and Calidus would maneuver around, always light on his feet, dodging a spear thrust and parrying another. In their dance the two men would pay tribute to one another, showing their mutual respect with their skill and ferocity, until the dunmer would make a mistake. He would overreach, or leave his core exposed, and Calidus would reap the reward that came with conquering the will of another man with his own; the thrill of opening the man's torso with a crisp swipe of his blade, hearing his agonized cries, and nodding at his writhing form in a final show of honor before finishing him off. Then he would turn and plant his feet as he sighted the approach of another foe.
He had savored the taste of victory that night. He and some of his soldier friends had returned to Balmora intent on celebrating their triumph to the fullest. They went to the Eight Plates tavern and indulged their glory with Cyrodiilic brandy, their laughter becoming louder and their social restraints melting away in the hazy blur of intoxication. He had capped off his night with what may have been the sweetest prize of all: a beautiful, blonde Nord girl, who easily succumbed to Calidus' handsome face, masculine composure, and impish grin.
He could still remember the way she had felt pressed against him later that night in the room he had rented. Her gleaming eyes, her smooth young skin, her lovely curvaceous body, her rounded breasts, her flowing hair, her soft lips…
A sharp whistle cut through the prison and snapped Calidus back to the present moment. It came from the cell across from his. The dunmer was trying to get his attention.
"Hey, Imperial bastard! Do you know when we get to eat next? I'm starving over here."
"Not until tomorrow, Dreth. Once a day, as always." Calidus responded lazily.
"I heard that the prison is becoming over crowded, and that if they have to take in any new inmates, they'll start killing off the old ones."
Valen Dreth was always one for conjuring up paranoid conspiracies in his head. As annoying as he was, Calidus couldn't help but have pity for him. He had been locked up in that lonely cell for years longer than anyone, his only form of amusement coming in the form of pressing up against the bars, barking insults at passers-by and fabricating lonely fantasies in his head. It was no wonder that he was starting to slip into insanity. Calidus wasn't really sure what crime Dreth had even committed that had lead to such a long stint in the prison.
"Don't be ridiculous, Dark Elf. We're all but forgotten down here. We're not even worth killing in their eyes. They'll just start crowding multiple inmates into single cells."
"Great," Dreth replied, "I was just telling Heniel how this place didn't stink quite enough. Glad to know they're working on that problem."
He heard a sigh come from the Breton's cell down the hall.
Calidus lay on the stip of fabric covering a wooden board that was supposed to pass for a bed. He closed his eyes and visualized his past, his only form of escape from that deplorable prison.
After serving a few years in Vvardenfell, he was again moved to Morrowind's capital city of Mournhold, where he had the honor of serving in the retinue of the Royal Imperial Guard of Morrowind's king Helseth Hlaalu. Serving on a king's royal retinue was a dramatically different experience than the often brutal fighting in the untamed ashlands of Vvardenfell. Yet to Calidus' surprise, the intricacies of court intrigue and diplomacy between Helseth and his court and the "goddess" Almalexia that the Dunmer Tribunal temple worshipped proved to be virtually every bit as exciting as the thrill of battle. He bore witness to the king's court meetings and took part in negotiations between the ever-growing Imperial presence around Mournhold and the representatives of Almalexia.
And then there was the night he would never forget, when he crossed paths with the famous dunmer courtesan, Barenziah. He was on duty in the courtyard of the palace when she emerged from her quarters, flanked by two bodyguards. He admired the elegance of her steps, synergizing with the flow of her extravagant royal gown. Although she had aged, her facial features were still strikingly beautiful. He had broken all level of military discipline and professionalism, deciding that he could not miss the opportunity to exchange words with such a famous icon of Morrowind. He broke into an undignified run to catch up with her, and was stopped just short of reaching her by the menacing halberds of her bodyguards. Barenziah had looked bewildered to turn around and see the young legion soldier struggling against two others to get closer to her.
"Milady! Lady Barenziah!" he was gasping as her bodyguards threatened to skewer him on the spot.
She called her guards to restraint, allowing Calidus to catch his breath.
"Yes, young man?" she had asked in a light, delicate tone, smiling enigmatically.
It was only then that he had realized that he had prepared absolutely nothing to say to her.
"I…um…I just wanted to…" he was struggling to find words and becoming lost in her intelligent, captivating gaze.
"I read your book!" he shouted suddenly.
She had laughed softly at his outburst. Both of her bodyguards had smirked with amusement.
"Will that be all, Imperial?" she said politely.
He hadn't been able to utter another word to her. He was trapped in the warmth of her smile, the violent color and subtle intensity of her eyes.
She had chuckled again and gone on her way. It was one of the only times in Calidus' life that a woman had left him feeling embarrassed.
From Morrowind he had been transferred to a legion troop that was tasked with quelling tensions between the Dunmer in western Morrowind and the Nords of Skyrim, leading to a series of clashes with both sides. As order began to be restored and the untamed clans of Skyrim were slowly brought back into the Imperial fold, Calidus spent most of his time in Windhelm, drinking ale to warm his insides and participating in what he felt was the greatest aspect of Nord culture: fighting in the snow while drunk. The effects of the liquor coupled with the numbing effect of Skyrim's bitter cold meant that he could take a nasty shot from a Nord brute and not feel a thing until the next morning. He would enter the local mead hall, bundled up in thick furs, and wait for the first passing glance or comment to stir him for a fight.
It wasn't long before the legion leadership got wind of his reputation for vice and violence, and it was decided that he would be transferred again to a new trouble area. This time he would be leading troops into battle, and to mark this new responsibility he was given the title of Knight Bachelor. He was sent south, placed at the command of the Argonia Legion, a legion tasked with reclaiming some of the border swamplands that had been overtaken by the Argonians of Black Marsh, as well as rendering assistance to King Helseth of Morrowind's efforts to stamp out Dunmer slavers who were still operating in Black Marsh.
The terrain of Black Marsh was almost impossible to navigate, and it only became more treacherous the deeper into the interior the legions went. The fighting was savage, and In the end the Argonia Legion campaign was met with limited success.
After Black Marsh he had served in a number of locales throughout western Tamriel. Serving briefly in the Imperial naval fleet as part of its effort to defeat piracy that was becoming ever more common on shipping lanes between the Summerset Isles and mainland Tamriel, and participating in legion campaigns in Hammerfell and High Rock.
And then, without any explanation, he had been recalled back to Cyrodiil.
"You have shown tremendous individual ability in your years of legion service." The blades representative had told him at Cloud Ruler Temple outside of Bruma.
"You are being offered membership as an operative of the Blades. You will be taking on subtle and politically sensitive tasks that will have an impact on the entire empire, but we feel that you are more than up to the challenge."
And so he had begun his days as an operative of the Blades.
As he had with his basic training, he excelled in his Blades training and was quickly sent into the field to do the will of the Emperor. He proved tremendously effective, as always, and quickly rose through the ranks of the order. Within a few years, he was one of the ranking blades operatives of the entire Empire, and his orders began to come not from his superiors within the Blades, but from the Emperor himself.
He remembered the first time he had met Uriel Septim VII face to face. He was permitted access to the private living quarters of the Emperor, an honor allowed to few but the most distinguished servants of the empire. The floor was lavishly decorated, the dark red carpet accentuated by drapery of gold and violet, the perennial colors of royalty and authority. Calidus had felt severely outclassed, in his casual worn brown robes, with his hood pulled back and bunching up around his shoulders as he knelt before his majesty.
The emperor was standing in the chamber, clad in the traditional regal robes of violet, outlined with white fur on the bottom and at around the top. His silver hair was brightened by the lighting, giving him an ethereal quality.
He remembered the way he felt when the emperor first focused his gaze on him. He came to feel the same way every time the emperor looked at him. It was like he could take one glance at you, and understand you completely, his soft eyes looking not at yours, but through them, and into the inner workings of your mind; your hopes, your fears, your concerns – the essence of your soul. It was always rumored about the Septims that they could see more than "Lesser men", and the way they saw people was no exception. As nervous as he had been about that first meeting, that very first look had erased all anxiety, and from that point on Calidus had always felt at ease around Uriel Septim.
"Publius Galerius Calidus, right? You've had quite a record of service in the legions. I've read a lot about you. My advisors tell me that you've had the most well-rounded experience of service of anyone in the empire. You're a heavy drinker, a womanizer, a gambler, a duelist, a brawler, a good liar, and that you've got a bit of a reckless streak. "
"I'm also a hell of a shot with a bow, my liege." Calidus had said, rising to his feet.
"Modest, too!" Uriel had chuckled, his smile pushing his wrinkled cheekbones upward to cover his eyes, reducing them to tiny spots of reflected light.
"I think you'll fit right in around here, Publius. You seem perfectly suited to court life. You're going to serve me as the sharpened tip of the imperial spear. You will work as my informant and advisor. I don't think there's any reason to sugarcoat what exactly your role is going to be in my service, agent. You're going to spy for me. You're going to be my enforcer both in the Imperial City and in the proinces. The Elder Council has been getting quite disruptive lately, and I've gotten wind of several alleged conspiracies against the empire. I'm going to need someone like you with an ear to the ground. I've arranged to let you stay in the Imperial guest quarters. You'll be reporting directly to me from here on out, am I understood?"
"Understood."