Even the strongest state is vulnerable to its past.
2020, Roma Nova. Carina Mitela investigates a potential rebellion but discovers the long-buried secret that ignited the attempted uprising links directly to her own powerful family.
1683, Vienna. As Europe struggles against the Ottoman onslaught, Honoria Mitela leads her troops into the desperate battle to save besieged Vienna. The fate of Europe – and of Roma Nova itself – hangs in the balance.
1849, Central Italy. Statia Mitela’s impulsive act saves one life but jeopardises Roma Nova’s very existence and threatens her descendants with public disgrace, financial ruin and permanent exile.
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Three stories of the women of the Mitela family, descendants of the founders of Roma Nova, bound by blood and courage.
Publication Date: May 14th, 2026
Publisher: Pulcheria Press
Pages: 162
Genre: Collection of alternative history short(ish) stories
Praise
“All three stories in this collection deal with honour and the question of being true to oneself, especially if this entails running the risk of coming into conflict with the state and the status quo. All three central women are physically and morally brave, even rash. Their strength of spirit is never in doubt.”
Lorna Fergusson, Fictionfire
“For anyone who has read and enjoyed the Roma Nova stories before, this collection of novellas is a must. And if you haven’t, then please start from the beginning with INCEPTIO – you’ll be hooked!”
Christina Courtenay, bestselling author of romantic time-travel fiction
Excerpt
Excerpt from the beginning of Revolution?, the first story in the HEROICA collection
Set in the European country of Roma Nova, the last part of the Roman Empire that has survived from the late 4th century into the 21st.. Disquieting news comes from Brancadorum, a sleepy, rural town in the east.
Roma Nova, 2020
‘You are joking!’
‘You think subversive activity threatening Roma Nova is a joke?’ Legate Conradus Mitelus, head of the Praetorian Guard Special Forces, and for good or bad, also my husband, frowned at me. We’d been at a concert the previous night, headlined by Antonia Canora. Her sultry contralto voice and boho appearance, allied with the sheer emotion of her delivery, had made it an outstanding spectacle. I’d felt drained by the end of it. Although I’d drunk a beakerful of the ginger and malt restorative first thing this morning, my head was still fragile. The last thing I could do with was a briefing meeting about the potential overthrow of my country. I know preventing such things was our job as Praetorians, but at that precise moment, I could hardly prevent a yawn from ballooning up my throat.
‘No, of course not,’ I said hastily and glanced at Centurion Marcus Flavius for support. He didn’t show the least flicker of emotion on his face, just polite attention to what the legate was saying. ‘But surely this is just somebody letting off steam,’ I continued. ‘Nobody with half a brain would believe them.’
‘Unfortunately, Captain,’ Conrad said, reminding me of my place in the military hierarchy, ‘a number of brainless idiots appear to demonstrate the opposite.’
‘I apologise for my outburst. Sir,’ I added, remembering we were in a formal environment in the PGSF headquarters and that here he was my commanding officer. ‘But I’m shocked to hear such a thing is starting to spread. I’ve read accounts online and in my grandmother’s newspapers, but I thought it was just some crazies spouting lies.’ Apart from being the location of the national Roma Nova Air Force base, Brancadorum was the agricultural back end of nowhere.
Like most Western countries, our little nation allowed free expression as long as it wasn’t hate speech or incitement to racial prejudice or deterioration into a full-blown riot.
‘Subversion comes in many forms. Twisting minds seems to be the flavour of the moment, especially in the east.’ He looked away. The early spring sunshine coming through the armoured glass floor-to-ceiling window made a pale yellow pool on his desk, reflected on the tight lines of his face. The regulation cream walls of his large office were broken up by several bookshelves, some prints and maps and a display cupboard. The little gold eagle I’d bought him at Christie’s on our previous trip to London glistened behind its glass doors with the same early morning light and grim expression.
‘If I may, sir?’ Flavius raised his hand. ‘Captain Mitela is not the only one who’s surprised. I was comparing notes with an air force colleague about the upcoming all-arms training exercise and she expressed the same concern. Apparently, some rabble-rouser in the forum there has been attracting a reasonable crowd – around two hundred or so.’
‘What was he saying?’
‘A load of lies, but with tiny germs of truth about archaic systems and Roma Nova’s imperial structure being out of date and undemocratic. He called for a people’s republic.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘There’s always one. But we’re a constitutional monarchy now. I know that in theory Imperatrix Silvia has more power than many rulers, but she still has to work within the Senate and Representatives’ framework. Even the Ancients’ republic eventually became an empire, not the other way round.’
‘That didn’t always go so well,’ Flavius said sourly.
‘But there were some good periods: the pax romana lasted two hundred years.’ I was the optimistic sort. ‘Well, maybe not at the end in the fifth century,’ I added.
‘Apparently, this rabble-rouser – name of Clodius Novus – has a core group around him,’ the legate read from his screen. ‘And before either of you say it, the name is obviously a pseudonym, trying to hint at a parallel with Publius Clodius Pulcher, the old Republican political mob leader.’
‘He was a nasty piece of work, wasn’t he, sir?’ Flavius said.
‘Yes, a violent manipulator, typical of the gangster type of factionalism in the late Republic. If he hadn’t been killed by his rival Milo, the gods know what he’d have gone on to do.’
‘No sign of a latter-day Milo?’ I asked, furiously trying to remember all the details of the history of that time.
Conrad rubbed his forehead at the hairline – a sign he was troubled. And I didn’t think it was about my lack of historical knowledge.
‘No, thank goodness – he was just another thuggish political agitator, after all. Between them and their corrupt practices and constant incitement to riot they made Ancient Rome intolerable. Anyway, that was then. We certainly don’t want a repeat now.’
‘What exactly have these agitators been doing apart from making a few ranty speeches?’ I said.
Conrad consulted his screen for a moment before switching his gaze back to us.
‘He and his group have been digging up dirt of every kind – mostly fabricated – and circulating it as truths the authorities have been hiding from ordinary people,’ he said. ‘According to rumours, the public meetings are becoming more like rallies.’
‘But surely people will see through it?’ I saw his normally serious face wore a more strained expression than usual.
‘It seems not,’ he replied.
‘Aren’t you going to ask the Brancadorum custodes to intervene?’
‘Ah, this is where it becomes delicate. I contacted Silenus Fornax, a former PGSF guard, who retired to a small farm near Brancadorum, which he bought with his ex-service grant. His children are grown and work here in the city. His wife died a few years ago. He now runs the local branch of the old comrades’ association.’
‘So, an upright citizen!’
Conrad frowned at me. ‘Fornax was a staunch, if dull, long-serving soldier, totally loyal. But I haven’t heard back from him for a couple of days.’
‘No phone call or message, sir?’ Flavius asked.
‘He’s not a fan of technology – he uses a dumb phone when he remembers to charge it.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, I asked him to put out feelers about what was going on in Brancadorum. He’s not the subtlest person, but he knows the area and people. I didn’t want to alert the custodes as it might compromise his investigation, which is informal at best. The other thing is that to our knowledge no law’s been broken. So far, nobody’s filed a complaint. If the scarabs go in heavy-handed, the organisers will screech repression of civil liberties.’
‘Then what is our mission?’ I asked.
‘I want you to designate a small team to go to Brancadorum, make contact with Fornax and covertly observe events.’ He tapped on his keyboard and our phones pinged Fornax’s photo – a typical grizzled vet with a steady stare into the camera. ‘I’m also recommissioning the group which counters political movements attempting to undermine Roma Nova. But we need some hard facts. That is the mission, effective immediately.’
‘I’ll put a team together straightaway. Centurion Flavius can lead on this.’ I raised an eyebrow in Flavius’s direction. He nodded.
‘Only a few, maximum three, or it will make these people suspicious.’ He shot a hard look at me. ‘Actually, Carina, go yourself.’
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Alison Morton
Alison Morton writes award-winning thrillers featuring tough but compassionate heroines. Her twelve-book Roma Nova series is set in an imaginary European country where a remnant of the Roman Empire has survived into the 21st century and is ruled by women who face conspiracy, revolution and heartache but use a sharp line in dialogue.
She blends her fascination for Ancient Rome with six years’ military service and a life of reading crime, historical and thriller fiction. On the way, she collected a BA in modern languages and an MA in history.
Alison lives in Poitou in France, the home of Mélisende, the heroine of her three contemporary thrillers, Double Identity, Double Pursuit and Double Stakes.
For the latest news, subscribe to her newsletter at https://www.alison-morton.com/newsletter/ and receive 'Welcome to Alison Morton’s Thriller Worlds' as a thank you gift.
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