Chapter I: A God in Twilight
The scent of salt and the restless sea filled the cryptoporticus, winding through its damp stone corridors. Diocletian walked in measured steps, his sandals brushing against the cool marble floor. This evening ritual had become a part of him, as much as war had once been.
Perhaps that was why he had chosen this bay of golden flowers and endless blue waters. Here, he was far from the treacherous games of power, tending to his small garden, finding peace in the slow growth of cabbage within the towering walls of his palace.
He had conquered vast lands, shaped the fate of an empire. Now, his satisfaction lay in a few square feet of soil.
The irony was not lost on him.
A great emperor—now a farmer.
He sighed, his gaze drifting beyond the harbor, toward the island of deer. Small in appearance, yet endless in its wealth. But its true treasure was not gold or silver—it was stone.
For a moment, he felt a kinship with it.
Pure white at its core, yet weathered by the world.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Master, your dinner is ready in the triclinium. Tonight, you have—”
Diocletian lifted a hand, slowly, toward the sea.
Lucius, his ever-loyal servant, understood.
With a nod, he stepped back and withdrew into the corridors, as silently as the afternoon maestral wind.
But the sea did not listen.
It continued its song, a rhythmic iamb of waves, whispering something just beyond understanding.
Inside the triclinium, the golden glow of torches danced against the polished marble. The air was thick with the scent of roast fowl, honeyed wine, and spiced garum. A feast fit for an emperor.
And yet, Diocletian hesitated.
Lifting a goblet, he poured himself a cup of sabbaia—the thick, frothy brew of Illyrian warriors.
Roman wine lacked spirit. This was the taste of home.
He took a slow sip, the bitterness settling deep within him.
“In sabbaia veritas,” he murmured.
A smirk touched his lips. If only the Senate had known that the man they once hailed as Lord of the World would take more joy in a peasant’s beer than in their lavish tributes.
His fingers brushed against an apple. He turned it in his hands, then, with a swift motion, sliced it with his seax, splitting it into four equal pieces.
Just like his empire.
The smirk faded.
It had been a grand idea, the Tetrarchy—a divided empire, held together by four men. He and Maximian as Augusti, Constantius and Galerius as Caesars. A balance of power. A strategy to secure Rome’s future.
Had it worked?
His gaze fell upon the quartered apple before him.
Rome.
What was Rome?
Glory? Power? The scepter of the gods?
Or just… cabbage?
No.
Rome was the sword.
From beyond the walls, the faint clang of steel reached him—the rhythmic clash of gladii, the drills of legionaries in the northern wing of the palace, near the Golden Gate.
They still trained here, though he wondered if any of them remembered his battles, his victories.
For he had not always been a god carved in stone.
But what was he now?
The sky beyond the Peristyle darkened. Shadows stretched across the African red granite columns, creeping toward the black sphinxes that guarded Jupiter’s Temple.
There, once, he had stood before the people—a living god, a reincarnation of Jupiter on earth.
And yet, tonight, in the solitude of his own palace, he felt something unseen shifting in the air.
Something that watched him from the darkness.
The Whisper in the Night
“Dioklesss…”
A whisper—thin, curling like smoke through the corridors.
“Dioklessssss…“
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Diocletian’s journey has only begun.
The past is waiting.
The ghosts are restless.
And the Red Shadow is not done with him yet.
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