The Roman Empire had no clear-cut method of selecting a legitimate heir to the throne, should a ruler die childless

The Roman Empire had no clear-cut method of selecting a legitimate heir to the throne, should a ruler die childless. Therefore, in the days and weeks immediately following the death of the despised Commodus in the Colosseum, anarchy bubbled in the heart of the Senate, and in the homes of many powerful patricians and generals. Rome needed a ruler, or else the Empire would belong to the mob.

This was the greatest fear of the traditional hierarchy – these few affluent families who still liked to believe that Rome was theirs. The Senate's purported democracy was an embarrassing formality for these men and their sons, who for generations had held the fate of the most part of the civilised world in their hands.

The remains of the insane young Emperor had been swiftly buried by a quick-thinking slave; it was all that could be done to prevent Commodus from being torn to pieces by his exultant enemies. The body of General Maximus, on the other hand, was buried in a splendid wooden box provided by some mystery benefactor. Mourned, it seemed, by most of Rome, making their slow way to his burial in a sullen procession.

In the meantime, the Senate had been happy to instate a Roman consul, Publius Helvius Pertinax, as the new Emperor. It was a dangerous position to fill, one so recently occupied by a notorious despot of the same title. The high-up citizens of Rome held their breaths, a select few rubbing their greedy hands together in anticipation of the fall of yet another ruler.

The heart's wish of Marcus Aurelius, as he chose Maximus to be Protector of Rome after his death, would have been laughed at in these times. The reign of his only son had brought to end the culmination of 84 years of relative stability which his father had striven, stoically and yet effectively, to achieve.

There was a dream that was Rome. These were the wishes of Marcus Aurelius.

Prayers unheeded by cruel gods. It seemed that Maximus Decimus Meridius was gone just as quickly as he had arrived. The power-wielders of the Empire stood in silent concord, never again to mention the name of the great general. Marcus Aurelius's lowly chosen one, and a symbol of all that was passed and lost.

Maximus was gone, but would never be forgotten. Particularly by those who would use his sweeping legacy as a tool to resurrect his lost cause.

* * *

As the opaqueness of night closed in around her, Diana tried to tell herself that she was not alone.

I will make sure you will never be alone.

Remembered those words made her who body feel cold, save for her arms, warmed by the swaddled infant she clutched to her. The night air was mercifully balmy and cool simultaneously. The wooden cart carrying them to the outskirts of Rome was still warm from the sunny assault of the bygone day, and the gentleman driving them was jovial, even as he should have been irritated by Diana's lack of responses to his friendly enquiries.

She was far too busy just trying to remember, to even begin to enjoy all the possible comforts on offer

Nonetheless, the only thing she could even hazily recall of her flight back from Greece was Julia's almost constant wailing to be fed and cleaned. Days had bled into nights as Diana had gradually ceased to sleep, until finally, her mind had almost shut down. Not yet six months old, the child already seemed too loud, too strong and too demanding for her to have possibly been nestling, silent and contented, inside her sweet mother so short a while ago.

Diana's mental oblivion was merely an emotional salve. Her body felt as if every sense had been deactivated, save for her sense of hearing. Julia's cries were as acutely heard and keenly dreaded, as they had been in those first few days. Lady Lucilla, in dying, had all but taken her beloved handmaiden with her.

Her well-meaning gift, this baby, had been the vinegar that revived the younger woman, half-gone, back to life.

Back to life. Diana tried a half-smile, vaguely in the child's direction, her neck feeling like an ancient hinge in dire need of oil. Her face was incapable of sensation.

"We're almost there, Madam," the driver said, blithely happy, and seemingly unaware that she had been ignoring him for the best part of their long journey.

Julia slept soundly, her odd half-smile, neither a warning nor a reassurance to her guardian, unchanged as she dozed. Does not being alone mean being with any living creature that is connected to you in some way? Diana felt the old confusion that had always accompanied her dear Lucilla's teachings – and the intense disappointment that always came with never completely understanding her all-knowing mistress.

She gripped the baby closer to her suddenly, pursing her lips and closing her eyes tightly, her frazzled nerves collapsing as they often did these days. Without warning, an image resurfaced in her mind of the last resting place of Lucilla, once Princess of Rome. Julia whimpered, stirring from her transient sleep.

Seeing his pretty passenger hunched over, apparently in pain, the driver pulled the horse before him to a swift halt.

Feeling the stop, Diana jerked herself straight again, scorched sand and emptiness as piercingly clear in her mind as they had been that day. She squeezed the great lady's child gently with one hand, as if to reassure herself that Julia was still there. Attempting to disregard the driver as he made his way around to where she was seated, she bent over the baby again, whispering and cooing almost obsessively.

"Not a stone there to mark her…not one they provided, anyway," she babbled, almost inaudibly. "We gave her an honourable burial, one almost due a princess. I found some beautiful pebbles for the spot, and we prayed. We prayed for days. I hope you're listening to this. I hope this stays in your memory. Once you grow, I can never repeat these things." Her voice trembling as Julia closed her overlarge blue eyes, Diana allowed a stray tear to drop onto the child's cheek, before wiping it away.

"I know it's late, Madam," the driver said, after waiting a moment to allow mother and child to converse uninterrupted. "It may take another two or three days to get to a place where you may stay. Would you like some water?" Respectfully, he wiped the mouthpiece of the flask he held before offering it to her.

Diana shook her head, not making eye contact, startled by the pain which resulted. She rubbed the back of her aching neck. "I have plenty."

"Do you wish me to find some milk for your daughter?"

Diana felt her cheeks burn. It had occurred to her that all onlookers on this open-air journey would see that she did not nurse Julia herself. Nevertheless, this man did not have to make it so apparent to her. "No, thank you," she rasped.

"Is there anything, anything at all, that you require?" the driver continued, gently persistent. "There are not many resources in these parts, but I will try to get you anything you want. I will do my best."

Raising her eyes, burning with tiredness, to the sky, Diana spoke silently to Lucilla.

So will I. I will do my best, though that may not be good enough.

* * *

Quintus sat at his desk, his head bent over his books, the lamplight around him so low as to hide the identity of the person who had just entered the room. That was the way he preferred it – complete solitude. As the swift footsteps of the stranger ceased, however, the other man stiffened, recognising the familiar movements of his pestering manservant. More bad news, no doubt.

"Yes?" he said, his voice low, not bothering to turn his head.

"There is news from the Senate, sir. The new Emperor has been sworn in."

Quintus was silent for a long moment. When he answered, his voice was low and weary. "So soon."

"Yes, sir. The senators realised that they could wait no longer. Many men have made very valid claims to the throne in recent days. There has been near chaos."

"Really. How do we know that they are not all just impetuous fools?"

Not grasping what his master meant, Didius fumbled for an answer. "The last thing we all need is a civil war, sir."

Quintus sighed, lifting a bundle of papers and holding them up to the dimmed yellow light, squinting to read the words. Mulling over the mistakes of others, past and present, was the only way he knew how to forget his own. The events at the Senate and around the wealthy, power-consumed regions of Rome – all the disorder and rivalry, the panic and uncertainty – had little or nothing to do with him anymore. The thought made him burn with envy for the ones these things did concern.

"This new emperor. Do you know where he comes from?"

"I do not, sir." Didius was taken aback suddenly by the jaded irritation in his master's eyes as he turned to look at him, kindling like an old fire set slowly alight once more. "Do you wish me to find out for you?"

Quintus made a non-committal gesture at the younger man. He didn't care in the slightest whom the latest no-count lamb to the slaughter was. His thirst for information was purely selfish – he needed desperately to know, though his pride would not allow him to admit it, that there were men who had made more foolish choices than he had.

Didius lingered in the doorway, his brow furrowed as if he were considering something.

"Well? What else?" Quintus asked testily.

The manservant's mouth curved into a smile he had obviously been fighting to conceal. "There is a rumour that might interest some people, come from Greece…a silly handmaiden brought it back from some little jaunt. It concerns the Lady Lucilla."

Quintus had all but stopped listening at the detail that a female was the origin of the little snippet. His heart then thumped at the mention of Lucilla, and his chin actually fell. He tried to quash the interest evident in his voice.

"Tell me."

"Well, it is basically a rumour, but it could well be fairly substantiated. Some boys went back to the island and found no living soul remaining there, you see."

His master sniffed with impatience. "What does it mean?"

"They say she has perished, sir."

Thoughts and memories tore so fast through Quintus's mind that he could hardly put them in order. Among all his most pertinent recollections of his past career, hers was the only feminine face he could remember in any scene. All his life, all women had meant nothing to him, bar her.

The last time he had seen her, she had been stood before him, brave, upright, and so starkly beautiful and intelligent that she defied description or definition. She was as no human being he had ever known – or, as he believed, had ever lived.

She had been dying then, far below the surface of her lovely skin, which was greying and beginning to show some of the pain underneath. Put away that night, so as to hide the consequences of the catastrophic reign of her brother. He had known, and he had done nothing. Now dead, and buried in obscure Grecian sand, that splendid woman nothing more than a spectacle for gossiping peasants.

"It is not a rumour," he said simply.

"Pardon me, sir?"

"…Nothing. Is that all?" He rose from his desk with difficulty, numb and unthinking, a vision of her fine head and determined expression branded onto his brain like an engraving in gleaming brass.

"No, sir." Didius took a breath, revelling in his position as messenger. "They also say that while away, she bore an illegitimate child, which lived and was taken from the island. Supposedly, it resides within these city walls as we speak."