The Emperor: Diocletian

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The world swayed as Diocletian attempted to rise from his bed. He grabbed for anything to give him support but his blurry, swimming vision was not intent on helping him do so, and he collapsed in a heap on the floor, knocking his desk around as he did so. From the desk fell an ornate dagger, which clattered loudly as it bounced on the floor. Diocletian winced hearing the noise.  Many renowned artists and blacksmiths worked tirelessly bringing this dagger to life. Ingrained in the hilt were small carvings telling the legend of Diocletian, from his communions with Jupiter to leading his troops from horseback into victory. Two Praetorians, the elite members of the Roman Emperor’s personal guard who must’ve heard the commotion, rushed into the room to help the Emperor up. As they did so, Diocletian made a request so softly it barely escaped his lips. 

“Get… Maximian… please.” One of the guards rushed out of the room immediately, and the other helped Diocletian onto the chair at a small desk in the corner of the room. Emperor Diocletian sat, a shriveled man, breathing heavily as he tried to maintain his consciousness. 

“Have I really become so frail as this?” He thought. “I’ve held the Empire in my hand for two decades, and this is how I am to die?” Memories of his multiple duels with death filled him. Many a time had the sword of defeat been pressed to his neck, his loss seemingly inevitable. Yet, here he was, barely alive. He had dodged multiple executions, a lightning strike that had killed a predecessor, too many assassination plans to count, and attempted usurpers to the throne at every turn. 

He hadn’t been quite this close to death since his feud with the then Praetorian Prefect Lucius Aper twenty years previous. This memory always felt vivid, as if it had always been just yesterday the troops burst open the doors of the Imperial litter to find that Lucius Aper had been concealing the death of Emperor Numerian for weeks, and issuing orders in his name the entire time. The army, at Diocletian’s suggestion, had formed a sort of tribunal and put Lucius Aper on trial. Aper begged and pleaded his innocence of the crime, but the army found him guilty. They hailed Diocletian as their new Emperor right there at that moment. Diocletian had then unsheathed his dagger and approached Aper who was becoming more frantic. Then Diocletian had made a confession, and one only Aper ever heard. He spoke softly to Aper, detailing how he himself had been the one to poison Numerian. As Aper attempted to yell this to the gathered crowd, Diocletian plunged his dagger into the convicted man’s abdomen enough times to kill him, and the crowd erupted in cheers. He’d only done this for the good of the Empire. Aper was no good man, and certainly had deserved death, but Diocletian feared he too was corrupted by evil inside. 

This sickness was an attempt on his life that so far was far more successful than any other. It had left him mostly bedridden for the better part of a year. This attempt on his life confused him, as he couldn’t tell who it was wielding the knife. Had someone in his camp poisoned him? As dreadful a thought as that was to Diocletian, there was one more possibility that frightened him more. 

“Jupiter?” He called out to his patron god who guided him in all things. “Have I failed? Have I not been enough? Have I fallen out of favor with you too, oh Lord?” 

The door opened, a cooling breeze entered the room, and in the doorway stood an impressive man. In quite the contrast to Diocletian hunched over dying in simple robes, the man in the doorway wore Roman armor of the finest degree. The overlapping metal plates were inlaid with Rome’s finest gold that reflected all light in such a way as to make its wearer seem glowing brighter than his surroundings at all time.  The vibrant purple sashes draped over his shoulders denoted his regality. In the doorway stood Emperor Maximian. 

Maximian rushed to Diocletian's side, but Diocletian could feel some modicum of strength returning. He waved his hand in Maximian’s direction to ward off any help. 

“You called for me, Diocles?” 

“Thank you for coming, Maximian. I have a request.” 

“Anything.” 

“I need you to prepare my court to go to Dalmatia.” 

Maximian's face betrayed his surprise for a brief moment. “We just got to Nicomedia. You are in absolutely no condition to travel. The Empire cannot afford to lose you right now.” 

“I’ve appointed three other Emperors to rule over the Romans, and I’m looking at one right now. I’m sure you three can handle the Empire if the Gods are to take me.” Diocletian smiled to reassure his worried friend. 

“It can’t work without you, sir.” Why the sudden switch to formality now? 

“Don’t ever let anyone hear an Emperor, an Augustus, call another man sir, Maximian. Now please do as I say.” 

“Of course, Diocles. As always. May I know why Dalmatia?” 

Diocletian sighed, and then sharp stabbing pains in his stomach reminded him of his tenuous hold on life in that moment. After some breaths to recover, Diocletian was able to utter a response. “For the good… of the Empire… I don’t know what to do next. I feel…” More pains shot throughout his body. More recovery breaths followed. “I feel… my answers may lie back home. It’s the only… thing I can think of doing.” 

— 

The Imperial cart hobbled slightly, bumping over the rocks on the road to Dalmatia. At first Diocletian cursed himself for his short sightedness in bringing such a large and cumbersome means of transport. Its bright red and purples combined with the gold bordering also made it an easy target for potential enemies. He did appreciate the soft chairs within, made from the finest furs available. That perk certainly made long journeys like this more bearable. 

Diocletian began to catch whiffs of salty sea in the air as they got ever closer to the Adriatic Coast. Either the sights and smells of lands familiar to the child within him were magically reviving him, or his efforts to find answers back home was a plan favored by the Gods. Either way, he felt much stronger today, and with every hoofbeat that brought him closer to home he felt stronger still. A small smile crept to his face as the sparkling sapphire waters of the Mediterranean Sea came into view. This felt like his first genuine smile in years, one he didn’t have to think about as part of an act. 

Soon within eyeshot stood a large island, and Diocletian’s gaze was not deviating from a modest hut sitting near the center. It would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else at this distance, but he kept his eye on it intently. His hand instinctively traveled to the ornately designed dagger sheathed on his hip. Many renowned artists and blacksmiths worked tirelessly bringing this dagger to life. Diocletian stared at the house his father had at some point died in as his fingertips continued to trace the propaganda laced within the hilt of his small blade. 

His father had been a blacksmith for some time. Tradition was in his family that the father would craft a dagger specifically for his son when his son became a man, symbolizing a passing of the torch. Diocles’ dagger had been crafted already when he was a boy. He’d seen it with his own eyes. One day, however, young Diocles had let slip his dreams to become a farmer. He wanted to save the crumbling Empire by feeding it. His father berated and beat him for this, ashamed that his son had no intention of being a “real man” and joining the legions to defend the frontiers of the Empire. Young Diocles never received his dagger, and had never seen it since that day, over five decades previous. 

When Diocles became Governor of this very province, having capitulated to his father’s demands and joined the legions and rising quickly through the ranks, he imprisoned his father on the island he was gazing at. He’d never spoken to him again, and the father had passed away quietly and completely alone. 

The horse cart stopped with a slight jerk, and soon a call came from outside. “Where to, sir?” 

Emperor Diocletian was still weakened, but strong enough to climb out and reply. “That island, Spalatum. Take me there and leave me be while I commune with the past.” The soldier nodded. 

After a few hours struggling to make it down, Diocletian limped his way into the doorway of the hut. Vegetation had completely eaten it away, and the door fell inwards with a crash as soon as he touched it. He made his way through the abandoned home to the remains of a bed in the back. Some bones were strewn across it, and at the head of the bed layed a human skull. The room began to swim a bit as Diocletian wondered if his judgment had once again been misplaced. Up until his declaration of war upon the Christians living within his Empire, he’d thought himself to be of sound mind, the ultimate rational thinker. He’d lost that war and countless lives of innocents were eliminated as a result. Could he even trust himself anymore? “What answers could I have possibly hoped for here?” He thought. 

He slowly made his way out back, where he remembered playing in the forest as a child. It was where his beloved mother was buried. The trip could be made worthwhile if only to visit her one last time. Eventually he found himself at the gravestone that read “Dioclea.” He approached it and sat down on the ground, the stone supporting his back. He leaned forward and buried his face in his arms. He could fall asleep here if he wasn’t ready. He raised his head to make sure he didn’t slip away into sweet sleep.  

A few yards away he spotted something else, another engraved stone indicating a burial site he’d never seen before. As quickly as he could, he made his way over to it to investigate. The inscription became clear when he got closer. “For Diocles” it read. It had to have been left by his father. The deteriorated remnants of a shovel lay by a tree nearby. He called for a guard to bring him a shovel, and one was found and brought to him rather quickly. He began to dig, ignoring the sickness still making his muscles ache constantly. The thunk of the shovel hitting something solid invigorated him to dig faster. 

After a while, he was able to pull out a chest. It was big enough to be a struggle to pull out of the hole, but not big enough to render the task impossible. Once the chest was clear of its resting spot, he unlatched it and swung it open. 

Inside laid strewn bits of parchment, eaten away by years left untouched and unseen. Diocletian brought his fingertips over the parchment delicately to see if he could pull any of it out, but to no avail. He felt something solid lying underneath, however. 

He brushed away the crumbling parchment to reveal what sat below. He recognized the hilt immediately. It was the dagger he’d seen half a century ago, but it’d been reshaped by a master blacksmith into a some sort of small one handed sickle. He picked it up gently and examined it. It wouldn’t actually be very practical, but it was clear that that hadn’t been the point. He dropped the sickle in the box for a moment and brought both his hands to his belt. He loosened the tie of his dagger’s hilt from around his hip, and laid both hilt and dagger in the box, taking the sickle out. After a few more moments he’d tied the sickle to his hip so it stayed attached to his body as he moved around. 

— 

Diocletian was once again at the hut door on the island of Spalatum, but this time no vegetation plagued the door or walls. He’d distinctly remembered climbing back into his carriage to make his way back to Nicomedia, collapsing in the seat, ailed once more by disease. This was a vision, his head playing tricks, as it often did when death was breathing down his neck and consciousness seemed unattainable. He’d learned to let these visions play out. 

He opened the door, and made his way to the same bed that had held the remains of his father. In the bed, however, was his father alive. Sick almost exactly as Diocletian himself was in reality, but alive. Diocletian rushed to his bed side and grasped his smiling fathers outstretched hand. After a few moments, he plucked up the courage to speak. 

“Dad… Was I enough for you? Did I do enough for you?” Diocletian maintained eye contact, eagerly awaiting a response. To his dismay, his father chuckled in response to the serious inquiry. 

“Were you enough for me?” His father chuckled. “Son. Were you enough… for you?” 

There it was. The answer. 

— 

Maximian approached Diocletian, led by a member of Diocletian’s guard, to the spot where the now retired Emperor tended to a small farm. He got up quickly for the elderly man he was, as he had now long been free of the sickness. 

“Diocles. The Empire will collapse under civil war again. It needs us back on the throne. Rome needs you back on the throne.” 

“Rome. The army. The Emperors. The citizens. My father. I’ve lived enough of my life living it for others. I’ve done what I can for the Empire, and now I must do what I can for me.” Maximain looked as if he were about to interject, but Diocletian verbally cut him off. “If you could show the cabbage that I planted with my own hands to your emperor, he definitely wouldn't dare suggest that I replace the peace and happiness of this place with the storms of a never-satisfied lust for power.” 

Maximian saluted at this final answer, turned around, and began to walk away, leaving the old retiree to tend to his cabbages.