Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Little Boots
Germania, AD 17
The boy hated mud.
Not because it was dirty.
Gaius had never particularly cared about being dirty. Dirt washed away. His mother saw to that, usually while informing him that a son of Germanicus Caesar ought to look like one.
Mud was different.
Mud swallowed things.
Boots disappeared into it. Wagon wheels sank to their hubs. Horses stumbled where the earth looked solid. Men cursed it in Latin, Greek, Gaulish, and a dozen rough languages Gaius did not understand.
The mud of Germania seemed especially hungry.
It clung to the thousands of marching feet around him and sucked at the little leather boots strapped tightly around his own.
Gaius lifted one foot with great effort.
The mud surrendered it with a wet sucking sound.
He stared down angrily.
“Again.”
The legionary beside him laughed.
Gaius looked up.
The soldier immediately attempted to hide his amusement.
It did not work.
“You think this is funny?”
“No, Caesar.”
“You laughed.”
The soldier’s scarred face became painfully serious.
“I coughed.”
“That was not a cough.”
“A strange northern cough, Caesar.”
Gaius narrowed his eyes.
The soldier lasted perhaps three heartbeats before grinning.
Gaius grinned too.
The formation continued around them, thousands of men moving through the wet countryside beneath a sky the color of hammered iron. Standards rose above the columns—the silver eagles of Rome, red banners, painted shields dulled by rain and dirt.
Gaius had grown up among soldiers.
To him, an army did not seem extraordinary.
An army was simply where Father was.
And wherever Father was, Gaius wanted to be.
Ahead, mounted officers gathered near the crest of a low hill. Even from a distance, Gaius recognized one of them immediately.
Germanicus Julius Caesar sat straight-backed upon a dark horse, his red military cloak shifting in the cold wind.
Father.
Men behaved differently when Germanicus appeared.
Gaius had noticed this long ago.
Soldiers stood straighter.
Officers listened more carefully.
Even men old enough to be his grandfather seemed pleased when Germanicus remembered their names.
Gaius did not entirely understand why.
To him, Germanicus was the man who lifted him onto horses, corrected his Latin, laughed too loudly at dinner, and somehow always knew when Gaius had done something he should not have.
To Rome, apparently, he was something else.
The soldier beside Gaius nodded toward Germanicus.
“Your father is looking for you.”
Gaius stopped smiling.
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s looking this way.”
Gaius turned.
Germanicus was indeed staring directly at him.
Even across the distance, Gaius recognized the expression.
It meant:
Come here.
Gaius sighed.
The soldier leaned closer.
“May the gods protect you.”
“You’re afraid of my father?”
“Every sensible man is afraid of his commander.”
“My father doesn’t frighten anyone.”
The soldier gave him a look.
Gaius considered this.
“Much.”
The soldier laughed again.
This time Gaius allowed it.
He trudged uphill.
By the time he reached the officers, mud covered both boots nearly to the ankle.
Germanicus looked down at him.
Then at the boots.
Then back at him.
Gaius waited.
Finally his father said, “I distinctly remember leaving you with your mother.”
“She was busy.”
“That does not normally cause children to wander into marching armies.”
“I wasn’t wandering.”
“No?”
“I knew exactly where I was going.”
One of the officers turned away, badly disguising a smile.
Germanicus noticed.
“Piso.”
The officer straightened immediately.
“Yes, Caesar.”
“If my son joins another column without permission, you are responsible for returning him to his mother.”
Piso glanced at Gaius.
The horror on the man’s face was so genuine that Gaius almost laughed.
“With respect, Caesar, I would rather face the Germans.”
Germanicus smiled.
“So would I.”
Gaius frowned.
“Mother isn’t frightening.”
This produced silence.
Several officers suddenly became intensely interested in the landscape.
Germanicus dismounted.
He crouched until father and son were nearly eye to eye.
“No,” Germanicus said gravely. “Your mother is not frightening.”
Gaius nodded, satisfied.
“She is terrifying.”
The officers erupted.
Gaius looked from one man to another, not entirely understanding why this was funny.
Then Germanicus placed both hands beneath his son’s arms and lifted him easily onto the horse.
“Come.”
“Where?”
“You wanted to march with soldiers.”
“Yes.”
“Then you may see what soldiers march toward.”
Germanicus mounted behind him.
The horse moved uphill.
From the crest, the world changed.
The Roman column stretched behind them farther than Gaius could see. Men, horses, wagons, engineers, servants, animals, equipment—the moving machinery of empire.
Ahead lay forest.
Endless forest.
Dark pines and bare-limbed trees stretched across rolling country beneath the cold sky.
Somewhere inside that wilderness were tribes who did not belong to Rome.
Gaius knew this because adults spoke about them constantly.
Cherusci.
Chatti.
Bructeri.
Names spoken over maps by men who believed the world could be organized by drawing lines across parchment.
Germanicus pointed into the distance.
“Do you see that river?”
Gaius squinted.
A pale thread wound between trees.
“Yes.”
“Beyond it are villages that have never seen Rome.”
Gaius thought about this.
“How?”
Germanicus smiled faintly.
“How what?”
“How have they never seen Rome?”
“Rome is very far away.”
“But Rome is everywhere.”
Several officers exchanged glances.
Germanicus did not laugh this time.
“No,” he said. “Rome believes it is everywhere.”
Gaius looked back at him.
There were moments when his father spoke differently.
Quietly.
As though answering a question larger than the one Gaius had asked.
Germanicus pointed toward the legionary column.
“What you see behind us exists because men believe in Rome. The soldiers. The roads. The law. The Senate. The emperor.”
“Great-grandfather.”
“Tiberius.”
Gaius knew the name, although he did not think of the emperor as Great-grandfather unless adults insisted upon it.
Germanicus continued.
“An empire is not stone, Gaius. Nor walls. Nor armies.”
“What is it?”
“A promise.”
“To whom?”
“To everyone who lives beneath it.”
Gaius frowned.
“What does Rome promise?”
Germanicus looked toward the dark forest.
“That tomorrow will resemble today.”
The answer disappointed him.
“That isn’t much of a promise.”
His father laughed softly.
“One day you may think differently.”
A horn sounded below.
Germanicus turned immediately.
Another call answered from farther along the column.
Officers began issuing orders.
Gaius felt his father’s body change behind him.
The warmth disappeared from his voice.
The commander returned.
“What is it?” Gaius asked.
“Scouts.”
“Germans?”
“Perhaps.”
Gaius twisted around excitedly.
“Can I see?”
“No.”
“Father—”
“No.”
The answer carried enough authority that Gaius stopped.
Germanicus guided the horse toward the column.
Men were already forming defensive lines.
Shields shifted.
Spears lowered.
Archers moved forward.
Gaius suddenly realized that the laughing soldiers around him were gone.
In their place stood something frighteningly efficient.
Rome preparing to kill.
Germanicus handed the reins to an aide.
“Take him to Agrippina.”
“I can stay.”
“No.”
“I won’t get in the way.”
“Gaius.”
“I want to see.”
Germanicus looked at him.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then his father rested one hand against the side of his head.
“You will see enough war in your life.”
Gaius did not understand why those words made him uneasy.
He allowed the aide to lead the horse away.
Agrippina was waiting.
This was worse than Germans.
Gaius entered the command tent cautiously.
His mother stood beside a wooden table covered in maps, letters, and wax tablets. Servants moved quietly around her.
Agrippina the Elder had been beautiful for as long as Gaius could remember.
He had also learned that beauty did not prevent fury.
She looked down at his muddy boots.
Then at him.
“Where were you?”
“With Father.”
“That was not where I left you.”
“No.”
“You were told to remain here.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you did not.”
“No.”
Agrippina folded her arms.
Gaius decided silence might now be useful.
His mother waited.
This was unbearable.
Finally he said, “The soldiers like me.”
“I am delighted.”
“They call me Caligula.”
Agrippina’s expression changed slightly.
The nickname had followed him for years.
Little Boot.
The soldiers had given it to him because of the miniature uniform he sometimes wore among the legions, complete with tiny caligae modeled after military footwear.
Gaius liked the name.
His mother did not.
“Your name,” Agrippina said, “is Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus.”
“That is too long.”
“It is the name of your family.”
“Caligula is shorter.”
“Caligula is a joke.”
“The soldiers don’t think so.”
“The soldiers also believe fermented barley is breakfast.”
Gaius considered defending them.
He thought better of it.
Agrippina walked closer and knelt in front of him.
She took his face between her hands.
“You must listen when I tell you something.”
“I listen.”
“You hear.”
Gaius frowned.
“They’re the same.”
“No.”
Something in her face had changed.
The anger was gone.
Fear had replaced it.
That frightened him more.
She lowered her voice.
“There are people who watch this family.”
“Why?”
“Because of your father.”
“Everyone loves Father.”
“Yes.”
That single word seemed to carry another meaning.
Gaius waited.
Agrippina glanced around the tent before continuing.
“That is exactly why you must learn to obey.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to.”
For a moment she simply looked at him.
Then she brushed damp hair from his forehead.
“One day.”
Gaius hated those words.
Adults used them when they did not want to explain something.
He pulled away slightly.
“Father tells me things.”
“Your father thinks truth protects people.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Agrippina looked toward the tent entrance.
“No.”
Before Gaius could ask anything more, shouting sounded outside.
A messenger entered.
“Lady Agrippina.”
“What?”
The young soldier bowed.
“Caesar requests you.”
Her face tightened.
“Why?”
The messenger hesitated.
“There has been fighting.”
Gaius brightened.
Agrippina saw him.
“You remain here.”
“But—”
“Here.”
This time he obeyed.
She followed the messenger outside.
Gaius waited.
One hundred heartbeats.
Perhaps two hundred.
Then he slipped through the rear of the tent.
Nobody noticed him.
That was one advantage of being small.
The camp had become chaos.
Wounded soldiers were being carried toward medical tents. Horses screamed. Men shouted for water, bandages, surgeons.
Gaius moved between them.
He had seen wounded men before.
Not like this.
One legionary sat in the mud staring at the place where his left hand had been.
Another had an arrow buried deep beneath his collarbone.
A man screamed for his mother while two surgeons held him down.
Gaius slowed.
The world smelled different.
Iron.
Smoke.
Sweat.
Blood.
He suddenly wished he had remained with Agrippina.
Then someone grabbed him.
Gaius spun around.
The soldier who had laughed at his muddy boots earlier stood behind him.
Except now he was bleeding.
A dark stain covered half his tunic.
“You,” the soldier muttered.
Gaius stared.
“You’re hurt.”
“I had noticed.”
“Did a German do that?”
“No. I cut myself shaving.”
Gaius nearly smiled.
The soldier’s knees buckled.
Gaius reached out instinctively, although there was no possibility of catching a grown man.
Others rushed forward.
They lowered the legionary onto a stretcher.
As they carried him away, something fell from beneath the soldier’s armor.
A small object landed in the mud.
Gaius saw it.
Nobody else did.
He picked it up.
At first he thought it was a coin.
It was not.
Black stone.
Oval.
Smooth around the edges.
A symbol had been carved into its surface.
Gaius wiped away the mud with his thumb.
Three curved lines surrounded a dark central circle.
He had never seen anything like it.
The moment his skin touched the carving—
the world disappeared.
For less than a heartbeat.
No camp.
No soldiers.
No sky.
Only darkness.
And somewhere impossibly far away—
something breathing.
Gaius dropped the stone.
Sound returned all at once.
Shouting.
Horses.
Men.
Rain.
He stared at the object lying in the mud.
His heart hammered.
He should have run.
Instead he picked it up again.
Nothing happened.
The stone was merely stone.
“Gaius!”
His father.
Gaius turned.
Germanicus crossed the camp toward him with Agrippina only a few steps behind.
Neither looked pleased.
Gaius quickly closed his fist around the stone.
Germanicus stopped in front of him.
“What did I tell you?”
“To stay with Mother.”
“And what did your mother tell you?”
“To stay in the tent.”
“And where are you?”
Gaius looked down.
“Not in the tent.”
Agrippina made a sound that might have been anger or relief.
Germanicus stared at his son.
Then he noticed Gaius’s clenched fist.
“What are you holding?”
“Nothing.”
Germanicus extended his hand.
Gaius hesitated.
“Gaius.”
Slowly, he opened his fingers.
The stone lay in his palm.
Germanicus’s expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
Gaius noticed.
His father picked it up.
“Where did you find this?”
“A soldier dropped it.”
“Which soldier?”
“The one who was walking with me.”
Germanicus looked toward the medical tents.
“Marcus!”
An officer approached.
“Caesar.”
“Find the legionary assigned near my son’s group this morning.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
Germanicus looked again at the stone.
Agrippina stepped closer.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You recognize it.”
“No.”
“You looked as though you did.”
Germanicus’s jaw tightened.
Gaius watched both of them.
Adults were hiding something again.
He was certain of it.
Germanicus turned the stone over.
On the reverse side, almost invisible beneath dried mud, was another carving.
Letters.
Not Latin.
Not Greek.
Germanicus stared at them.
The color slowly left his face.
“Father?”
Germanicus did not answer.
Agrippina touched his arm.
“What?”
He handed her the object.
She looked at the inscription.
“I can’t read this.”
“Neither can I.”
“Then why are you frightened?”
Germanicus looked toward the northern forest.
For a long moment, rain tapped softly against armor and canvas.
Finally he spoke.
“Because I’ve seen it before.”
Gaius felt something cold move through his stomach.
“Where?”
His father looked down at him.
“Far from here.”
“When?”
Germanicus took the stone back.
“Before you were born.”
Gaius waited.
His father said nothing else.
“Where did you see it?”
Germanicus’s eyes returned to the symbol.
“Egypt.”
A horn sounded from the far end of camp.
Nobody moved.
Agrippina lowered her voice.
“What happened in Egypt?”
Germanicus closed his hand around the stone.
“Nothing.”
She stared at him.
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
That answer silenced her.
Germanicus looked again toward the endless trees.
Rain streaked across his face.
Gaius watched his father for several seconds before asking the question neither adult seemed willing to ask.
“What does the symbol mean?”
Germanicus looked down at his son.
Something passed through his expression.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Perhaps even regret.
“I don’t know.”
This time Gaius knew immediately that his father was lying.
That night he dreamed of a man beneath the earth.
Gaius could not see his face.
Only two hands resting upon black stone.
Chains disappeared into darkness behind him.
Somewhere water dripped with maddening regularity.
The man raised his head.
Gaius tried to wake.
He could not.
The darkness moved closer.
Then came a voice.
Old.
Weak.
Almost forgotten.
Yet somehow amused.
Little Caesar.
Gaius stopped breathing.
The unseen man smiled.
Not yet.
Gaius awoke screaming.
Agrippina reached him first.
She pulled him against her while servants hurried into the chamber with lamps.
Germanicus entered moments later carrying a sword.
“What happened?”
Gaius struggled to breathe.
“A man.”
“What man?”
“In the dark.”
Germanicus froze.
Agrippina felt it.
She looked at her husband.
Gaius did not notice.
His eyes had fallen upon the table across the room.
Something rested beside his father’s maps.
The black stone.
Germanicus had wrapped it in cloth.
But during the night the cloth had somehow come undone.
The carved symbol faced Gaius.
Three curved lines.
One dark circle.
And although every lamp in the tent burned steadily—
the stone seemed to cast a shadow of its own.
Gaius pointed.
“He knew my name.”
Silence filled the chamber.
Germanicus slowly followed his son’s finger.
For the first time in Gaius’s life, he saw something he had never believed possible.
His father was afraid.
Outside, thunder rolled across Germania.
And more than a thousand miles away, beneath land that Rome had not yet learned to fear, something ancient opened its eyes.
