Under Saturn’s Shadow: A Novel of Ancient Rome (Ebook)

Description

Format : digital (PDF)
Number of pages : 87 pages

Language : English

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What if the most sacred date on our calendar wasn’t a celebration, but a historical crime scene?

December 303 A.D. Lucius Valerius Corvinus, an idealistic jurist sent from Rome, arrives at the remote fortress of Durostorum on the frozen Danube frontier. His mission seems simple: investigate corruption within a forgotten legion of the Empire.

But as the camp prepares for Saturnalia—a week of institutionalized chaos where the world is turned upside down—Lucius uncovers a terrifying truth. The ritual of the « King of Saturnalia, » which he believed to be a harmless game, is actually a literal death sentence: every year, a soldier is chosen for ritual sacrifice to ensure the sun’s return.

When fate selects Decimus, a young, innocent soldier, Lucius is faced with an impossible choice: remain silent and become an accomplice, or defy a tyrannical Legate who rules through fear and superstition. He has only seven days. Seven days of madness and revelry to dismantle an ancestral conspiracy, armed only with his wits and an ancient, heretical manuscript that reveals the secrets of a spiritual war raging for the very soul of Rome.

Under Saturn’s Shadow is a gripping historical mystery that dives into forgotten archives, revealing the staggering truth hidden behind our oldest traditions.

Discover the bloody origin of Christmas and the secret the Empire tried to bury beneath the snow.

 

Excerpt:

Prologue: Night of December 23, 302 A.D.

The Hills of Moesia, far from Rome.

The wind bit into his bare flesh. In the center of a snow-swept clearing, a great bonfire spat sheaves of sparks toward a starless sky—an inky void that even the gods seemed to have fled.

There, circling the blaze, men and women danced. Farmers, woodsmen, perhaps a few deserters. Their faces, smeared with soot and red ochre, were grotesque masks in the flickering firelight. Their movements did not suggest joy, but rather convulsions—spasms set to the dull, hypnotic thrum of a single goat-hide drum. They weren’t celebrating; they were exorcising a fear. The fear of the cold, of the hunger, and of the darkness that, two days past the solstice, was still gaining ground against the light.

Amidst this frenzy, Titus did not dance. He was being dragged, and he was screaming. Two men with arms as gnarled as tree branches held him fast. Only a week ago, these same men had cheered him. They had crowned him with the pilleus, the cap of liberty, and hailed him as the « King of the Saturnalia. » For seven days, he had been their master. He had quaffed their finest wine, gorged on their best meat, and his wildest whims had been obeyed. He had commanded an old money-lender to burn his debt ledgers. He had forced the village magistrate to serve slaves on his knees. It had been a dream—a dizzying fever of absolute power.

Now, the dream was turning into a nightmare. The wine still clouding his mind could no longer stifle the terror rising in his throat. He finally saw the truth in their eyes. It wasn’t worship he read there, but hunger.

He was thrown brutally at the foot of a granite dolmen, an ancient stone the legions had never bothered to topple. The rock was as cold as death. The drum fell silent. The stillness that followed was more terrifying than the din.

An old man stepped forward. He was neither priest nor soldier, but tonight, he was the master of ceremonies. In his hand, he held a flint knife.

« The King has reigned, » he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. « The King has carried our luck and our hopes through the week of chaos. Saturn has had his due. Now, the Unconquered Sun claims his share of life, that he might agree to be reborn. »

The old man turned to the silent crowd.

« Blood for the earth! » he cried.

« The King for the sun! » the crowd roared back.

Titus tried to scream, to plead, but the words withered in his throat. He thought one last time of his mother—of her face full of love. He saw a flash of himself as a child, running through the grass to reach her. He saw her again, welcoming him with open arms. Her grief would be inconsolable, and the thought broke his heart. Would she even have a body to mourn?

The flint caught a brief orange glint, and then came the searing pain. Hot liquid spurted from his throat, cooling almost instantly as it struck the frozen stone.

A cathartic roar rose from the crowd. The fear was purged. The old man dipped his fingers into the gaping wound and traced a symbol onto the granite of the dolmen: a crude circle with a cross at its center. The solar wheel. The pact was renewed.

Slowly, the frenzy subsided. The men and women turned away from the body and drifted back toward the fire, toward the wine, toward the certainty that life would go on for them.

The wind died down and the snow began to fall more heavily, gradually draping the corpse in a white shroud. The cap of liberty lay beside him, a gray smudge in the snow that would soon be stained crimson

 

Chapter 1. Rome, November 303 A.D. One year later.

The light filtering through the basilica’s high windows bore no resemblance to the raw glare of the open sky. It was a domesticated light, diffused by the golden dust kicked up by the footfalls of lawyers, merchants, and litigants. It carried the scent of ancient papyrus, warm wax, and the subtle fragrance of cedar oil used by scribes to preserve their precious scrolls. It was the light of civilization itself.

Before the praetor, the clear voice of Lucius Valerius Corvinus dissected an obscure clause in an archaic will. He did not plead with tears or histrionics; he cited edicts, demonstrating with a surgeon’s precision that the law, in its true spirit, stood on the side of justice. He won. For Lucius, this was more than a mere victory; it was a reaffirmation of his faith. The law was the only rampart against the chaos, tyranny, and superstitions that were once again crawling out from the dark corners of the world.

That was why, that very evening, when the Praetorian Prefect summoned him to his office, Lucius accepted the mission without a moment’s hesitation. Durostorum. A legion stationed on the Danube frontier.

« It is a thankless assignment, Corvinus, » the Prefect had warned him. « Far from everything. The legate there, Bassus, is… how shall I put it… »

Lucius leaned in, intrigued. The mission was proving more complex than he had anticipated. The Prefect continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

« The frontier is a breeding ground for fractured beliefs. Some are returning to the cult of Mithras; others turn toward the Christ of the Jews. Fortunately, as you know, the vast majority adheres to our new state religion, Sol Invictus. »

« I am pleased to hear it, Prefect, » Lucius remarked, wondering where this was leading and what his specific role would be in such a remote Roman camp.

« Unfortunately, evil has not been purged from those distant lands, and strange rumors have reached the ears of Rome. The winters there are long, feeding the fear that the longest night might never end. There are reports of human sacrifices during the Saturnalia… not only in certain backwater villages but—more disturbingly—within the camp of Durostorum itself. »

Lucius knew of the Saturnalia from his parents and grandparents. It was an ancient Roman festival honoring the god Saturn at the winter solstice. Saturn was a terrifying deity, one who had devoured his own children to ensure they could never supplant him—a god of agriculture, dissolution, and chaos. Yet, tradition dictated that before the renewal of spring, a period of chaos was necessary. The most powerful Empire in the world would descend into a fever of madness and total license. Declarations of war were forbidden, courts were shuttered, and the social order was suspended. For seven days of revelry and insanity, everything was inverted: social roles were upended to the point where slaves, dressed in their masters’ clothes, ate at their tables or were even served by them. Orgies were commonplace. It was also a time for exchanging sigillaria—small terracotta figurines. In this way, the terror of darkness’s victory over light was exorcised.

But what Lucius had always found hardest to believe, listening to his family’s stories, was the highlight of the festival: the Saturnalicius princeps. The « Lord of Misrule » was authorized to demand anything he wished, including the most nonsensical, excessive, or humiliating commands.

What would he find in that secluded camp, so far from the orderly gaze of Rome?

That night, as he packed his bags, Lucius lingered before his library. He could only carry one or two scrolls. With a heavy heart, he set aside the orations of Cicero and the poems of Virgil. He chose the legal codes, of course—the tools of his trade. And for his soul, he chose a rare and subversive scroll: De Diebus Festis. It was not merely a collection of traditions, but a philosophical pamphlet that dared to criticize Emperor Aurelian’s political maneuvers thirty years earlier: the establishment of the cult of Sol Invictus and the declaration of its birth, December 25th, as a national holiday. To Lucius, this solar cult was nothing more than state-sponsored superstition, a crude attempt to unify the Empire from the bottom up.

He departed at dawn, certain he was bringing the light of reason to a dark corner of the Empire.

 

The Armory of the Durostorum Camp. Several weeks later, December 303.

The air smelled of aged leather. In a quiet corner, hidden behind stacks of ledgers and crates of arrowheads, Decimus was kneeling. The packed-earth floor was cold against his knees, but he didn’t feel it. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles were white.

He wasn’t praying for glory or victory, as the others did before the altars of the legionary eagles. He asked for neither wealth nor favor. He prayed for something far more difficult to obtain here, at the edge of the world: a quiet heart. A silent strength to endure the constant noise—the clash of weapons during drills, the centurions’ cursing, the coarse laughter of the men and the prostitutes in the barracks at night.

His fingers loosened and slipped into the pocket of his tunic, closing around a small piece of smooth wood. He pulled it out and looked at it in the dim light. It was a fish, so crudely carved it might have been mistaken for a mere splinter. But to Decimus, it was everything. An ichthys. The symbol of his faith, inherited from his mother in Antioch—a faith he chose to keep hidden. Being a soldier of Rome was difficult enough; being a soldier of Christ in such a place was a burden that felt almost unbearable.

The heavy armory door creaked open, spilling a rectangle of gray light and the thundering voice of Crixus into the relative silence.

« There you are! Always lurking in the corners, Decimus. What little god are you praying to now? Is he going to save you from sharpening the gladii? »

Decimus quickly pocketed the wooden fish and stood up, brushing the dust from his knees. Crixus was his polar opposite: a mass of muscle, his tanned face marked by a scar that slashed through one eyebrow, possessed of an unshakable self-confidence.

« I was checking the parchment inventory, » Decimus lied.

Crixus let out a booming laugh.

« The inventory! Soon enough, you won’t have to worry about that. The Great Festival of Sol Invictus is about to begin. Done our way, if you catch my meaning, » he added with a conspiratorial wink.

« No, I don’t follow… »

« The Saturnalia, man! » Crixus said, indifferent to the fact that the festival was practiced less and less across the Empire. « No more fatigues, no more centurions riding our backs for seven days! Our brave legate thinks it’s a good idea to keep the old traditions alive—the ones the Empire wants us to forget. »

« You should drink some wine, Decimus, » Crixus continued, noting the boy’s lack of reaction. « It’d loosen you up. You’re as pale as a corpse. »

Crixus laughed again, a sound so infectious it made Decimus smile despite himself. The Saturnalia? Was he joking? A week of debauchery, idolatry, and excess—everything his faith commanded him to shun.

« I’m not much of a drinker, » he replied simply.

« Oh, we noticed, » Crixus said, giving him a slap on the back that made him stagger. « You’re always off on your own. But maybe you’ll get lucky this year. Maybe fate will choose you. »

A cold dread tightened in Decimus’s stomach.

« Choose me… for what? »

« To be the King, of course! Just like Lucius Flavius last year. Lucky bastard. For a whole week, he lived like a Caesar. He ate like a god, drank like a sieve, and even the legate had to obey him. »

Crixus lowered his voice, his expression turning strangely somber.

« And then… he got his reward. A place of honor. »

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken meaning. Decimus had heard the rumors—the muffled whispers about the fate of previous kings, stories of « disappearances » or « accidents » immediately following the festivities. In the countryside, far from the oversight of the legions, it was said to be even worse. No one spoke of it openly; the men simply drowned their fear in wine.

« I… I don’t think I’m cut out to be a king, » Decimus murmured.

Crixus shrugged.

« Fate doesn’t ask for your opinion. Come on. The centurion is waiting. »

As Crixus walked out, Decimus remained motionless. His fear was no longer a vague anxiety; it was a bone-chilling certainty. In the eyes of these men, he was different. Quiet. Weak. The perfect target. But he reminded himself that only lots would decide, and that thought gave him a small measure of comfort.

His hand returned to his pocket, his fingers closing around the little wooden fish, warm and smooth against his skin.

 

Legate Bassus, Durostorum Camp, December 303.

The ninth hour was approaching. Gaius Fulvius Bassus had no desire to receive a jurist from Rome. In an alcove of his headquarters, he stared at a dark wooden idol: Saturn. Hooded, his face indistinct, polished by the passing years—but it was undeniably the ancient god. A god far older and wilder than the majestic version worshipped in the temples of Rome. Before the statuette, Bassus laid out an offering: three sheep’s knucklebones, perfectly polished, and a cup of the bitter wine that passed for luxury on this frontier. He uttered no formal prayer. He simply stared at the idol of Saturn, his face a mask of indifference.

 

Twenty years ago, as a young tribune full of certainties, Bassus had arrived on these banks to bring the civilization of Rome to the wilds. But his predecessor, old Caelius, had left him no choice. Instead of handing over the legion’s ledgers, which lay forgotten and dusty in a corner, he had summoned Bassus to the darkened praetorium, a place where no common legionnaire was permitted to enter.

« Here, your law books will be useless against the winter, » Caelius had said. « To ward off the fear of the endless, frozen nights, the men prefer our gods. The Sol Invictus imposed by Rome? They have no use for it. »

Bassus had said nothing then. He had been raised in the new state cult—cleaner, more reassuring than these debauched barbarities. Faced with a declining, debt-ridden empire, many Romans had begun to doubt their old gods. Thanks to Emperor Aurelian, the people were finding cohesion again around Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun.

Seeing his silence, Caelius had pulled a flint knife from his tunic and brandished it before him, a strange glint in his eyes. « Your first duty will be to appease the gods. By doing so, you appease the men. They need this week of madness when winter sets in, believe me. This isn’t the comfort of Rome. The dark days here are terrifying. »

Caelius had passed on what he knew before retiring somewhere under the sun. Bassus hadn’t listened to his advice at first, dismissed it as the ramblings of a backward, superstitious old fool. But on December 17th, the first day of the Saturnalia, the men had grown restless, unable to understand why the festivities weren’t taking place. The next day, fights broke out; the men beat the weakest among them. On the third day, Bassus witnessed a violent ceremony: a young, red-haired soldier had been tied to a pillory with ivy and crowned with holly—two plants that remained green through the winter. The men surrounding him were howling, demanding a sacrifice. Bassus realized that day that he would have to continue Caelius’s work: the soldiers demanded blood for light’s victory over darkness. They wanted their king—chosen to carry the sins and fears of the community. Only sacrifice could ensure the sun’s return. Every year since, he had done as Caelius had: he rigged the lot to designate the king. He would choose the weakest, or the troublemaker.

 

Bassus’s gaze fell upon the list of soldiers lying on his table. He already knew who would be king this year.

 

Lucius, Arrival at Durostorum Camp, December 303.

« This muddy earth reeks of despair. » That was the first thought to cross Lucius Valerius Corvinus’s mind as he stepped onto the banks of the Danube. The river, vast and gray under a leaden sky, felt less like a border and more like the end of the civilized world. Behind him lay the province of Moesia, already rustic and savage to his city-bred eyes. Ahead lay the infinite lands of the Getae—a dark, threatening smudge over which the winter wind seemed to sharpen its invisible blades.

The fort itself was a shapeless mass of wood and earth, bristling with rickety palisades. Inside, Roman discipline struggled against the cold, the boredom, and the dampness that seeped into one’s bones. The legionnaires who eyed him as he passed lacked the luster of the troops who paraded on the Campus Martius. Their gazes were hollow, worn down by months spent repairing ramparts and cleaning the camp rather than fighting.

Lucius Valerius Corvinus’s official mission was an audit. An elegant word from Rome to describe a sordid task. A mundane affair for a jurist of the imperial administration—a distasteful but necessary routine to maintain the Empire’s cohesion. Unofficially, his mission was to discover if the rumors of human sacrifice were well-founded.

A centurion with a broken nose and a salt-and-pepper beard, a man named Marcus, was tasked with leading him to his quarters.

« Welcome to Durostorum, Counselor, » he called out without looking back. « I hope you aren’t too attached to marble and Falernian wine. »

« I am here for the law, Centurion, not for comfort, » Lucius replied, carefully stepping over a foul-smelling drainage ditch.

The centurion let out a sound that was more of a grunt than a laugh.

« The law. It wears thin this far from Rome. Especially in this season. » He stopped before a shack that was barely larger than the others. « Your quarters, » he said. « The legate will see you after the ninth hour. He is… occupied. »

Lucius felt the word was poorly chosen. « Occupied » wasn’t the right term. The air in the camp was thick with something else. A tension that had nothing to do with joy. It was a nearly religious fever—a sort of contained madness that vibrated through the air.

« You’ve arrived just in time for our festival, » Marcus added, finally looking him in the eye. « Don’t take offense at it, Counselor, » he said after a slight hesitation, realizing an outsider would be present.

Lucius forced a polite smile. To him, a disciple of Zeno and Seneca, the idea of overturning the natural order, even for a week, was an absurdity. Chaos was no remedy. Why not be satisfied with Sol Invictus on December 25th and celebrate the return of the light?

Once alone in his quarters—a cold room that smelled of wet wool and smoke—Lucius unpacked his belongings. He took out his wax tablets, his styli, and his scrolls of legal codes. Then, with great care, he unfurled his most precious possession: his philosophical manuscript, a copy of De Diebus Festis, a symposium of scholars on the nature of Roman festivals.

The wind picked up, making the wooden structure groan. Outside, voices rose—louder, wilder than normal discipline should have allowed. It was the sound of anticipation.

His mission suddenly seemed absurd. The camp was merely indulging in the Saturnalia, a practice still widespread in the provinces. There was nothing reprehensible about it. These rumors of human sacrifice had to be an aberration.