It was said that men who hated their own homes were bound to be miserable. What, then, was an emperor who hated the mere sight of his own halls? Except, of course, accursed.
Bastard, bastard. There is a bastard in our midst.
The carved bronze eagles mounted along the walls every fifteen paces seemed to screech the words down at him, glaring with polished, furious eyes at the illegitimate creature walking below.
There were likely grand, tragic verses a bard could have composed about his plight, of that, Tiberius had no doubt. A younger, softer boy might have even delighted in trying to rhyme them.
The thought made him stop dead in his tracks on the runner. When was the last time he had felt delighted? Even satisfied? Happy...?
