Kindle Edition Download to your Nook (eBook) Download from Apple iTunes (eBook) Amazon Gordon Doherty Category:  Historical Fiction Publisher: Aries, Head of Zeus ISBN-10:  1800242034 Type: Fiction Pages: 338 Copyright: March 4, 2021 ISBN-13: 9781800242036 Price: $3.99 (eBook) The story of Constantine & Maxentius. Their rivalry will change the world forever. Their rivalry will change the world forever.   As competition for the imperial throne intensifies, Constantine and Maxentius realise their childhood friendship cannot last. Each man struggles to control their respective quadrant of empire, battered by currents of politics, religion and personal tragedy, threatened by barbarian forces and enemies within. With their positions becoming at once stronger and more troubled, the strained threads of their friendship begin to unravel. Unfortunate words and misunderstandings finally sever their ties, leaving them as bitter opponents in the greatest game of all, with the throne of Rome the prize. It is a matter that can only be settled by outright war... Praise for Gordon Doherty and Simon Turney: 'A page turner from beginning to end ... A damn fine read' Ben Kane, author of Lionheart 'The Rise of Emperors series is first-rate Roman fiction. Doherty and Turney each breathe life into their respective characters with insight and humanity' Matthew Harffy, author of Wolf of Wessex 'A nuanced portrait of an intriguing emperor' The Times (on Turney's Commodus) 'A meticulously researched and vivid reimagining of an almost forgotten civilisation' Douglas Jackson, author of Hero of Rome (on Doherty's Empires of Bronze) 'An intriguing and highly polished piece of historical fiction' James Tivendale from Grimdark (on Sons of Rome) Excerpt Land of the Seven Mountains, East of the Rhenus, 1st December 308 AD ​ The greatest affront happened at the imperial river city of Carnuntum. That day, in those marbled halls, the Lords of the Tetrarchy assumed they could strip me of my station. I had rebuffed their attempts and let them know in no uncertain terms that I was Constantine and I would remain Augustus of the West, heir to my father’s realm. A mere month had passed since that grand congress and my stubborn refusal. I must admit it had fired my pride to assert myself so and witness them gasping in ire. Yet what might those curs think were they to see me now: crouched in the musty ferns of a Germanian hillside nook like an outlaw, my bear pelt and black leather cuirass blending into the earthy hillside like my dirt-streaked face in the half-light of this sullen winter’s day? A few shafts of watery sunlight penetrated the sea of freezing mist around me, illuminating the semi-frozen hillside: strewn with a frosty carpet of leaves, dotted with dark green spruce and skeletal brown larch. The valley floor below – the one clear path through these roughs – was carpeted with bracken. The cold gnawed on my skin and stung my nostrils, but not so much as to mask that ubiquitous musty stink of the Germanian woods. Hardy ravens cawed somewhere in the skies above the sea of mist, as if to remind me just how far I was from home, yet all down here was still and silent… eerily silent. Then the sudden, hollow drumming of an unseen woodpecker nearby sent an invisible lance of ice through my breast. With a puff of breath I cursed the winged menace, as if it were scouting for the enemy who had drawn me out here. The Bructeri – one of the many tribes in the Frankish confederation – were on the move. Coming this way to cross the Rhenus and pour once more into Gaul… my realm. I only had myself to blame, for early last year I had put two of their many kings to death in Treverorum’s arena. Yes, it was in the name of vengeance that the tribes had mobilised. But now, of all times? Marching to war in the grip of winter? I seethed. And you wonder why we Romans call you barbarians! I could not ignore the tribal threat, yet equally I could ill afford to be here. For back across the river and all over imperial lands, the hearsay and consequences of Carnuntum were already spreading like a plague. A chatter rose within my mind, each voice urgent and shrill, like hooks bring dragged through my head, all demanding attention… I closed my eyes and pressed the tip of my forefinger to my thumb. I fought at first to steady my angry breath. Soon, it slowed. The only noise now was that of gentle birdsong somewhere beyond the hills, and the distant gurgle of the Rhenus. I unlocked a precious vault of distant memories then; of Mother coddling me as a boy. Of Minervina, my sweet wife for precious few years before she had died in childbirth. The two people in my life with whom I had known complete peace. No, I corrected myself, for there was a third. His face ranged alongside those of the other two: Maxentius. I thought of times long gone: the boyhood days when first he and I had met at Treverorum; Maxentius’ wedding celebrations at Sirmium – eventful to say the least; our paths crossing in Antioch and again in Nicomedia where our families spent a whole spring and summer as one. Golden times. Gone now… like our friendship. My eyes peeled open, a sour taste rising from the back of my throat. Maxentius, I mouthed, sourly this time. These days, there remained only two strands of commonality between us: our estrangement from the Tetrarchy – me as the ‘False Augustus’ and him declared as an outright enemy of Rome – and our will to each make the West our own. Yet it was duly mine. How could the man who had once been like a brother to me stubbornly believed it was his? How! An animal howl penetrated the fog from somewhere down on the bracken-strewn path: lasting, guttural and untamed., my thoughts scattering like birds. A loquacious man once told me that a soldier is but a man with a sword. Well, just as a man stirs when the sun rises and hungers when his belly grows empty, a soldier becomes an altered beast when he hears the savage harbingers of battle. My shoulders stiffened, my mouth drained of moisture and my eyes grew keen like a hawk’s, sensing every lick of fog that moved down there, hearing the blood crashing in my ears like a war drum. When they came, it was as if they had leapt from my nightmares. The curtain of fog split and the dark shapes spewed forth like a murky, distended torrent along the valley floor. Like heralds from Tartarus, they were: fire in their eyes and flowing red locks and beards to match. They wore wolfskins on their heads, complete with fangs and glaring glass eyes as if to exaggerate their ferocity… as if they needed to! I counted as best I could as they ran through the semi-frozen mud: hundreds, a thousand…nearly two thousand, clutching sharpened steel and cajoling each other with gruff, guttural chants and cries cast from snarling mouths. Even the verbose fool with the low opinion of soldiers could not have mistaken such a sight: the Bructeri were coming to war. From my refuge among the ferns, I twisted to look over my shoulder. Nothing… nothing to be seen. My cohort were well placed and well-hidden along the crests this side of the vale. Just two cohorts – one of the Minervia and one of the Cornuti – merely nine hundred men against at least twice that number, for it was all I could spare. Every other force of mine was stretched thinly across my eastern and southern borders – hastened there as soon as I had returned from Carnuntum. After that I had barely enough time to rouse the Cornuti from Treverorum and these hardy Minervia ranks from the river fortress at Bonna and bring them here. I caught sight of one hiding centurion, his head rising above a tuft of long grass and the whites of his eyes wide at the sight of the Bructeri. His gaze flicked from the flood of warriors along the valley floor to me and back again. He wore dark leather armour, just as I had demanded of the rest of his comrades. Dark, like these infernal woods. Black, like the clash that was to come. I saw his chest rising and falling, his tongue darting out to dampen his lips. He and every other legionary waited not on the right moment, they waited on me. But damn, they would have risen and charged down those valley sides onto sharpened stakes for me, so fiercely loyal were they. I placed a hand on the hilt of my spatha, watching the passing Bructeri. My gaze latched onto one tall, broad warrior in the midst of their procession. This was their leader, Hisarnis – instantly recognisable from his flowing iron-grey hair and braided beard – a wily general. He cajoled his men by beating his well-honed francisca axe against the boss of his shield – painted gold and adorned with the emblem of a blood-red winged demon – and bellowing out some homily. It was time. I shot up to my full height and tore the blade from my scabbard with a steely zing, thrusting it overhead. ‘Minervia, rise!’ At once, a trio of buccinas blared, the wail of the horns filling the vale. The valley sides came alive: a line of my legionaries rose up on this ridge from their hiding place, clad in a hard carapace of black armour and carrying dark green shields, glistening like giant scarabs. Across the void rose a line of leather-armoured Cornuti bearing twin feathers on their helms. This regiment had once been a Frankish tribe. Now, they served as a fine bodyguard. Leading them was big Batius, my one-time childhood mentor, now Tribunus of the Cornuti and more than a brother to me. A bull of a man with an oversized jaw permanently shaded in stubble who had never once shown a hint of fear despite the many wars we had been through. I saw him hold his sword aloft like me, and as I chopped my blade down like an accusing finger towards the valley floor, so did he. ‘Advance!’ I roared. ‘Advance!’ Batius roared, the back of his throat as red as the twin serpents on his Cornuti shield and the twin feathers jutting from the sides of his helm shuddering. The two parties of my men unleashed a cry and surged downhill, boots snapping and crunching through bracken and undergrowth, each line converging on the valley floor like the jaws of a wolf. I slid on my plumed helm, wrenched the chin-strap tight and surged after them. I took a place on the right of the line and rapped my sword on my iron shield boss, urging those running with me to do likewise with their spears, ushering a din of iron over the valley. The valley floor jostled before me as I charged, my bear pelt rippling in my wake. Again I thought of the fat, slovenly whoresons in Carnuntum. If only they could see me now, I thought again, this time with a feverish grin, look me in the eye and tell me I am not Protector of the West. The torrent of Bructeri fighters stumbled and slowed, their heads switching this way and that, faces agape as they beheld the waves of imperial soldiers haring down towards them from either side. Hisarnis yelled some command to the man by his side who blew into a war horn furiously, again and again, the wail rising high into the air and no doubt sailing over the forest for many miles, then the Bructeri leader howled to his rough column of men to draw together, the front and rear contracting into the middle and forming a packed oval. They passed shields to those on the edges and those within the oval hoisted more shields overhead, obeying Hisarnis’ frantic orders and taking the shape of a testudo-like formation they had picked up from centuries of fighting against the legions. ‘Don’t let them gather!’ I snarled across the line of legionaries as we ran. My Minervia officers pounced on this. ‘Spiculae!’ they bellowed as we came to within fifty paces of the valley floor. I heard the same cry echoing from Batius’ lot descending the opposite slope. The legionaries slowed a fraction and raised their javelins, before hurling them like swooping broods of raptors down onto the packed Bructeri. The breath stilled in my lungs: battle, you see, trades in a currency of heartbeats. A moment sooner, and the spiculae would have riven the Bructeri warriors and might even have ended this before swords could clash. But the Bructeri presented their screen of shields and a thick rattle of steel striking wood rang out as the javelins quivered – nine in every ten blocked. Yes, a swathe of these forest warriors fell in puffs of blood where their shields crumbled or were held too low, but we had been too slow. At least the horn-blower with the seemingly bottomless lungs had been struck, I realised. The fellow was gawping, swaying, the horn still at his lips but a spiculum that had plunged into the mouth of the instrument and torn through his throat now jutted from the back of his neck, putting paid to his efforts. A gout of dark blood spat from the horn and he collapsed. ‘Onwards!’ I bellowed, knowing each man would have seen his javelin strike evaded or blocked and read this as the first signs of reversal. I had seen it before – the tides of combat changing on the natural ebb and flow of a man’s courage. Indeed, I too felt a pang of fright at the thought that it could all end here in this filthy wilderness: the dogs from Carnuntum would surely laud news of the False Augustus’ ignominious death in such a clash and hoot with laughter at the thought of my corpse rotting in the Germanian woods like a parody of Varus. So I raced a few steps ahead of the line, such was my desire to show my ranks that the day could still be ours. ‘They march to pillage your homes. They journey to slaughter your families. End their journey here, now!’ It seemed to reignite their spirit, and a fresh roar erupted along the line as we completed our descent then bounded onto the valley floor and came to within thirty paces of the corralled Bructeri. Hisarnis’ mouth stretched wide as he bawled some jagged cry, flecking the air with spittle. I did not hear the order, but the sight of the Bructeri drawing their francisca axes underarm was a spectacle that any legionary serving on the Rhenus knew well from his blackest nightmares, and I barely needed to shout my next command. ‘Shields, low!’ I bellowed as the Bructeri hurled the axes across the ground. The weapons skipped and leapt, kicking up shards of bracken and showers of semi-frozen mud. I lowered my shield just before one thwacked into it, burying itself deep into the timber and even part-cleaving the iron boss. I heard and almost felt the thick crunch of bone by my side as one of my men was too slow, the axe smashing his ankle, sweeping his leg away under him and sending him into the air, head and feet changing places, helmet falling away. He tumbled forward across the ground and another two axes punched into him – one breaching and almost disappearing inside his leather armour and into his chest cavity, the other hammering into his helmetless forehead and casting a gout of dark blood from the deep and instantly mortal wound. From the corner of my eye and in Batius’ line opposite I saw plenty more fall. Hisarnis boomed again, and this time the Bructeri hoisted their ango javelins overhead. My flesh crept at the sight of these missiles and their viciously barbed heads. ‘Shields, up!’ I cried as the javelins sailed up, then dipped and hurtled down at us. A classic and deadly combination attacking low with the ground axe then high with the spears. As I swept my shield up. I caught sight of the glint in Hisarnis’ eye – that look that betrays a man’s hubris in sight of victory. The barbed javelins smacked into my two closing lines and I was sure nearly a hundred more of my precious legionaries fell. I saw one pirouette, gawping skywards and along the shaft of the ango that had plunged right through his cheek – now spouting blood. But still my forces ran until there were but paces between us and our foe. I heard Hisarnis roar with his men in defiance, saw them brace, then I leapt at their lines with my shoulder wedged behind my shield. A great clatter of timber on timber and the rasp of iron striking iron rang out. The breath was forced from my lungs in the shoving that followed. I battered my shield into the face of one foe, breaking his nose, then slid my spatha round and up into the gut of another. Our weaker numbers had somehow upheld the momentum of our charge down the valley and we pushed against Hisarnis’ Bructeri pack, Batius’ lot pushing likewise on the other side. ‘Stay together,’ I cried, but within moments, the battle lines crumbled into a frantic melee: legionaries spearing out, slashing with their swords, Bructeri hacking through flesh with their axes and blades, men rolling in the mud, fists and legs flying as men grappled one another. Dirt and blood flew up all around me. I blocked the longsword strike of one warrior then ducked what I thought was a flying axe, only to realise it was the cap of one of Batius’ men’s skulls. The maimed legionary gazed absently at the top of his head, hurtling away at pace like a discus, as runnels of black blood slopped down the sides of his face like a grotesque volcano before he crumpled to the ground. When another ango javelin hummed past me I pounced upon the thrower, butting at his face and feeling his teeth crack as my brow met his mouth. I ran him through before he could draw his sword, then found myself facing Hisarnis. Now this man was some age, but still he resembled a bull standing on its hind legs. He drew out an axe in each hand and goaded me to come for him. ‘Come, then, rogue-emperor!’ he snarled, his grey hair plastered to his face with dirt and blood. News from Carnuntum had obviously travelled far and fast, permeating even across the imperial borders and into this accursed land, I realised, trying as best I could to ignore the insult. ‘You must have thought you had us?’ he continued, circling. Blades flashed all around me, men falling in swathes. ‘But a good general thinks a step ahead, aye?’ he said with a throaty chuckle. ‘Which is why I split my men. March divided and fight as one… is that not a maxim of your famed legions?’ I noticed him glance past my shoulder to the valley side behind me as he said this. I levelled my sword at him then snatched a look there and saw how the fog there swished and swirled again. I thought of the barbarian war horn and those frantic signals. Hisarnis grinned broadly now, glancing round and seeing how my men were locked in combat, ensnared. ‘Now it is just a matter of waiting for them to come… ’ I replied as calmly as I could: ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ I watched as his brow knitted in confusion, the hubris clearly fading, then added: ‘A good general plans one step ahead. A better one looks beyond.’ Now the confusion vanished, replaced with outright horror as he looked again past my shoulder. At the same time, like rodents scattering from a flame, the Bructeri warriors around us drew back from the skirmish and away from that slope, gasps of lament filling the air as they beheld what had appeared up there, while my men erupted in a chorus of victorious cheers. 'No!’ Hisarnis gasped, staggering back a few steps, his eyes riveted to the brim of the slope behind me. ‘Here are your reinforcements, Noble Hisarnis!’ a jagged voice called from the valley top behind me. I did not turn around. I did not need to. A moment of near silence followed, with just the gasping of exhausted men to be heard. Then came the thud-thud-thud of something heavy bouncing down the slope. The severed head of Hisarnis’ general, still bent in a death rictus, rolled past me and to a halt before the aged chieftain. Now I turned away from the spluttering Hisarnis to behold the line of hide-armoured, wild-haired men up there who had brought the gruesome gift. These were the Regii, once men of these forests before my late father had recruited them to serve as his bodyguard. A thousand strong, I had made sure never to commit them to any frontier or garrison post. They existed to shield me and edge days like this – days when my legions were thinly stretched. Their leader, Krocus, his auburn, pointed beard and long, bound hair framing a somewhat manic and craggy expression, looked at me like an expectant mastiff at mealtime. It would have been so easy to let him and his warriors loose upon the Bructeri, but I shook my head. With a slight slump of disappointment, Krocus peeled the spiral-etched conical helm from his head and stabbed his sword into the earth. I turned back to Hisarnis. ‘Now, unless you have anticipated my ruse and have another wing of men on their way, I believe this fight is over.’ The clatter of enemy weapons being thrown to the ground was answer enough.

David's Book Blurg
When last we were with Constantine and Maxentius their friendship was fractured, their childhood connection and long standing respect hanging by a thread as they both struggle to gain power within the empire.

War is coming.. but neither side want to admit it or is ready to make the first move.

Doherty and Turney cowrite perfectly, each depicting the role of an emperor and the struggles they faced… money, religion, love, betrayal, murder.. its all there!

I’ve been a big fan of both authors since I caught the reading bug and Masters of Rome didn’t disappoint, it’s a real talent to make history come alive, to add passion..and the knowledge and talent of both authors shines through.

For the action fans there’s some brilliantly depicted military actions on Constantine’s part that I just loved..things could have turned out very differently.

The story really helped me as a reader see the fragility of those in power.. sometimes there is no right decision.. someone will always be unhappy.. but as Maxentius learns the hard way you can only run away from your troubles for so long, sooner or later it will come back to bite you in the arse and towards the end of the book you see the wolves biting at his heals leading to one of the worst decisions he could ever make.

The most interesting bit for me was the advisors both Constantine and Maxentius took guidance from.. They were so heavily relied upon and actually had more power/control than the emperors themselves really.. the trust they had in these individuals must have put a major strain on the relationship.

Both emperors suffer from grief, leading to some rash actions but you could really feel how the events could have played out this way. Mental health is a massive topic these days.. I can’t imagine the mental health of these rulers was all that good to be honest, you really feel for them. I don’t think either really wanted war.. but they are left with little option in order to take the power they truly believe is theirs.

For someone like me who loves the period but doesn’t know a lot of the history it’s great to have it come to life so majestically and what I always appreciate even more is the author notes which clarify where they may have deviated from facts, or made assumptions as there are things we just will never know for sure.. I think that’s why I love the genre.. there’s scope to weave a wonderful tale into history as we know it.

Wonderfully written, powerful, raw emotion. Simply WOW!

Looking forward to the next instalment in the series.

My thanks go to Netgalley and the publisher for a review copy. I’ve purchased a copy myself too.. Had it pre-ordered.. I just couldn’t say no to being able to read the book early 😊

5/5 Stars!

What Cathy Read Next
The authors throw the reader right into the action with an account of a ferocious battle between the forces of Constantine and a barbarian tribe in a Frankish forest. It’s one of the first in a series of great set pieces in the book including a chariot race in the Circus Maximus that could have straight out of the film Ben Hur, and a battle on a frozen river.

Told in alternating chapters from the point of view of Constantine in Gaul and Maxentius in Rome, it soon becomes apparent that although they may be rivals for control of the Roman Empire, they share a similar range of problems – religious conflict, personal tragedy as well as political, military and financial concerns. In fact, their position is neatly summed up by the chief of the Bructeri tribe when he remarks to Constantine, “I know of the the dark pall of trouble that gathers over your empire. Factions forming. Armies swelling. A storm of war is coming”.

More than anything, Constantine and Maxentius regret the demise of their former friendship. At one point, the death of a mutual foe seems to offer a glimpse of a different future. ‘It was one of those moments where the world hangs in the balance. Where destiny spins on a knifepoint.’ As students of this period of history will know that moment of opportunity passes making a clash between the two men inevitable.

Masters of Rome is the story of a struggle for power waged between, and often within, families. As you would expect from two such well-regarded authors of historical fiction, there is a wealth of detail about everything from weaponry to social customs, religious practices and Roman curses. The book ends at a tantalizing point in the two former friends’ rivalry setting things up nicely for what will be the final instalment in the trilogy.

In three words: Action-packed, gripping, immersive

History, the Interesting Bits!
Oh boy! What a story!

Last year I read a wonderful book by two of my favourite authors, Simon Turney and Gordon Doherty. Sons of Rome was a fabulous adventure looking at the early years of two future rival for the Roman imperial title, Maxentius and Constantine. Told from two viewpoints, each author had his own character: Turney was Maxentius and Doherty was Constantine. In Masters of Rome, they have continued the story and increased the pace, getting to the heart of the struggles and threats the two leading protagonists face.


Masters of Rome is a fascinating tale of the Roman Empire and the struggle between its various rulers and the factions they engendered. The politics are high drama, the manipulations of friends and advisers demonstrate the dangers of great power and politics; you cannot trust anyone! Friendships are stretched to the limits, though Maxentius and Constantine are reluctant to break that tenuous link, the inevitability of it, as both try to realise their ambitions, is a driving force in the book.

And then there are Maxentius and Constantine themselves. As a reader, you feel that you must pick a side. I thought I would be on Team Constantine, but then Maxentius did something notable and I wavered. The conflict in the pages causes a reciprocal conflict in the reader. The truth is, both emperors did things they should be proud of, and both made big mistakes. At the heart of this books is the truth about all men; they have their strengths and weaknesses. Each has noble traits, and each has his flaws. Ultimately, they are both likable characters, which is what makes their story so fascinating.


As a reader you are torn, between the two, just as Rome was.

The tension is relentless.

The drama is palpable.