by Ian Ross
Trees all around him now. The man with the crossbow had his weapon loaded and raised. He loosed, and Castus had only a moment to crouch over the horse’s neck before he felt the bolt cutting the air above his head.
The bowman threw his weapon aside and turned to run, making for a long snow-covered bank rising from the clearing.
‘Grab him!’ somebody shouted. ‘Get him alive!’ The men in the clearing had seen what was happening now. Another horse came crashing between the bushes on the far side of the slope: Brinno, sword in hand, galloping to cut off the huntsman’s escape.
Castus shook his head as shards of ice flickered against his face. The fleeing man was just ahead of him, his sheepskin cape swinging behind him as he ran. More shouts from either side, other figures closing in, but Castus was closest and gaining fast on the fugitive.
The running man reached the snow and hurled himself up the slope, but the heavy horse came ploughing through the frozen undergrowth behind him. Castus dropped his sword and dragged back hard on the reins; leaning from the saddle, he seized the fugitive’s trailing cape with one outstretched arm. The man screamed as Castus dragged him off his feet. Then blood sprayed up against the horse’s flank.
A black bolt jutted from the side of the man’s neck. His body fell limp, almost dragging Castus from the saddle. Castus released his grip on the cape and the man dropped. When he looked up, he saw one of the hunting party, a fleshy bald-headed man in a blue tunic and brown mantle, quickly handing the crossbow back to the huntsman beside him.
‘I had him!’ Castus yelled, breathing hard. ‘I had him – alive!’
‘He threatened our emperor, and I... acted on instinct,’ the man in blue said. His voice was unbroken – a eunuch.
Castus twisted the reins and backed the horse away. Behind him in the clearing the last saga of the hunt was being played out, the boar blowing bloody spume as it died, the victorious emperor raising his killing spear to the applause of his retinue.
Observed by only a few, the corpse of the fallen man lay twisted beneath the sheepskin cape. The snow around the body was spattered pink, then reddened and soaked into black as the blood welled from the body.
9
Night had fallen by the time the hunting party returned to Treveris. Nothing had been said about the attempt to murder the emperor – the matter was best forgotten, it seemed. An unfortunate accident, and at worst the act of a madman. But Castus could not forget the look on the man’s face as he threw aside the crossbow and turned to run; neither could he forget the speed with which the eunuch in the blue tunic had shot the fugitive down. If the man’s bolt had not struck the horse, nobody but Castus himself would have seen it. If it had struck the emperor, or even passed close enough to distract him, the boar would have knocked him down with ease. And if the emperor fell, who would step into his place? Even to think like that ran ice through Castus’s veins.
Tired after their labours, the emperor and his guests soon departed to their beds, but Castus and Brinno were on sentry duty that night and it was nearly midnight by the time they returned to their quarters in the precinct of the Protectores. Castus was climbing the steps to his room when he heard the slave in the atrium below asking for him.
‘You want me in particular?’ he called over the balcony.
‘Aurelius Castus and Flavius Brinno,’ the slave replied.
‘What’s it about?’
‘I cannot say, dominus. I was just ordered to find you and bring you...’
The night was achingly cold, and both men wrapped themselves in their cloaks again before following the slave. Outside, across courtyards empty in stark moonlight, they were led down darkened passages, deeper into the labyrinths of the palace.
In a side chamber of the hall of notaries, gloomy and thick with the smoke of oil lamps, the slave left them. There were two men waiting there. The first, lounging on the corner couch with a smirk on his face, Castus did not recognise. The second, perched stiffly on a folding stool, was a thin man with reddened eyes and a clump of ugly bowl-cut hair, dressed all in grey. Castus did not try to hide his disdain.
‘Forgive us for summoning you at this unusual hour,’ the thin man said. His voice was sharp and bitter as a knife blade. ‘Some business is best conducted while others sleep. I am Julius Nigrinus, Tribune of Notaries, and my associate Flaccianus here is an officer of the agentes in rebus. I believe I know one of you already.’
‘We’ve met,’ Castus said. His jaw cracked as he yawned.
‘I shan’t keep you long. Earlier today, as you know, an attempt was made on the life of our beloved Augustus Constantine.’ Nigrinus paused, and Castus noticed him wetting his lips with his tongue. ‘I have been ordered to conduct an inquiry into the matter, and discover who was responsible for this treasonous act.’
‘The men who tried it are already dead,’ Brinno said, his Germanic accent giving the words a harsh clip.
‘Indeed. Your comrade here saw to one of them, and as for the other... Very convenient, would you not say, that both died before they could be questioned? Convenient for those who paid them, and planned this outrage...’
‘I killed the first man because he was trying to kill me,’ Castus said. ‘I had the second one – if that eunuch hadn’t shot him he’d be alive now.’ He was trying to guard his anger, but the memory of all that this notary had done in Britain four years before felt fresh in his mind. The men who had died for his schemes.
‘Ah, yes, the eunuch,’ Nigrinus said quietly. ‘His name is Gorgonius. He is the steward of the former emperor Maximian’s household. Have you met him before, perhaps?’
‘Never.’ Castus could see the man at the back of the room, Flaccianus, smirking to himself again. Remain calm, he told himself.
‘Because it’s strange, is it not, that the two of you were so quick to go in pursuit of the men? Perhaps with the second you were merely holding him, so this eunuch Gorgonius could get a clear shot?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Brinno said, raising his voice. He looked as though he wanted to leap across the room and attack the notary.
Nigrinus spread his palms in a placatory gesture, but his eyes remained cold, filled with subtle menace. How much power, Castus wondered, did this man really have?
‘It has come to my attention,’ Nigrinus went on, apparently unmoved by Brinno’s display of anger, ‘that there may be a traitor within the Corps of Protectores.’
‘Not possible!’ Brinno hissed. Castus remained silent. He remembered all too well this game of insinuations, of crafty threats and bargains.
‘Shocking, but true. This person is apparently working in collaboration with agents of a rival power. Perhaps of Maxentius in Rome. Perhaps... somebody else.’
‘And you think one of us is this traitor?’ Brinno’s eyes were wide with fury.
Nigrinus merely smiled. ‘Let us say, some might have reason to suspect so. However, I know that you, Flavius Brinno, are the son of a Frankish chieftain. You owe everything to the emperor Constantine, you are formidably devoted to him, so I hear. As for you...’ He turned to Castus. ‘We have, as you remind me, had dealings with each other before. You seem to me a very... dependable person.’
Expendable, he means, Castus thought. His back teeth were clamped tight.
‘You saved the life of the emperor back in Germania, and he selected you personally for his guard. You seem unlikely to forget such a thing. There are many duplicitous people around us. However, I rather think you... lack the guile for duplicity, shall we say.’
Castus knew very well what he was saying. Let him think that. Many others had thought the same way. The idea that these two men, and perhaps others like them, had been observing him for all these months, studying and assessing how he might be used, made his skin crawl and his scalp contract. But he managed to smile. He refused to be outmanoeuvred by this man again.
‘Loyalty can never be taken for granted,’ Nigrinus went on. ‘It must be demonstrated. Conspicuously demonstra
ted. So if you wish to be considered loyal, you would do well to be vigilant. Watch your comrades carefully, pay attention to anything they may say or do. I would remind you that in cases of potential treason, all immunity from questioning is withdrawn. That includes questioning by torture...’
‘You want us to spy for you?’ Castus said heavily. He shrugged off the crude implied threat.
‘Such a weighty term,’ Nigrinus said casually. ‘All I require is that you remember the vow you took when you were made Protectores.’
‘I have no need to be reminded of my vow, especially not by you.’ And I will do nothing to help you, he thought.
Nigrinus stared at him for a moment, then smiled as he exhaled through his nose. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘We are, all of us, servants of the Sacred Augustus. Let all of our efforts be directed towards his continuing majesty, eh?’
* * *
‘...Then Romulus, wolf-nursed, proudly clad
In the she-wolf’s tawny pelt, shall further the race,
And bestow upon the Romans his own name.
To them I give no bounds of time or power,
But empire without end...’
The voice came from behind the tall bronze-studded doors of the emperor’s private office, his tablinum. A child’s voice, a boy speaking clearly enough for his words to carry through the close-woven latticed panels of the door and across the painted atrium to the point where Castus was standing on guard duty. Castus himself knew the lines well: Virgil, the same verses that the former teacher Diogenes had made him copy time after time during his writing lessons.
Sounds like you’ve been getting the same kind of lessons, lad, he thought.
He shifted his weight gently from foot to foot, while keeping his posture completely immobile. Castus had spent uncountable hours standing on guard, back when he was a legionary, and he could remain like this all day if required and think nothing of it. He had no spear or shield, no helmet, no armour to weigh his shoulders. Only his sword, belted high at his side.
The floor of the atrium was polished marble, grey and white tiles. On the walls, gods in armour battled giant men with serpents for legs, casting them down into the sea or into pits in the earth. Castus frowned slightly as he gazed at the painted figure: had the painter intended the god to look so much like Constantine? And, now he came to notice it, was the largest of the serpent-legged giants, a red-faced, bearded figure, supposed to resemble so closely the emperor’s father-in-law Maximian?
Castus blinked the thoughts away, letting the images on the walls drift out of focus. A wandering mind could conjure dangerous fantasies, after all.
‘...Even Juno, my queen,
Dread tormentor of land, sky and sea,
Will yield to better judgement, and with me,
Protect and bless the Romans, masters of the world...’
The imperial palace was a place of long silences and distant echoing voices. Even now, after seven months, Castus still found it unsettling. At its heart was the great basilica, the imperial audience hall, and all around it spread a complex of gardens and porticos, offices and barracks, with the private apartments of the emperor and his household beyond. The complex had expanded over the years, consuming and incorporating whole blocks of housing; now it took up almost a quarter of the space inside the walls of the city of Treveris.
Constantine liked to conduct business while marching from one part of the palace to another, and his progress along the wide corridors and porticos was always attended by a vast array of secretaries and petitioners, officials both military and civilian, slaves and eunuchs, with Castus and a few other Protectores keeping a close and wary eye upon them all.
There were grander events as well. Already Castus had attended several formal banquets, standing stiffly to one side of the hall while the emperor and his guests drank and ate. On the emperor’s birthday in February, and the birthday of his deified father in March, and on the festivals of the Cerialia and Tubilustrium, Castus had taken his place behind the imperial dais, dressed in his embroidered white uniform, his silvered helmet and his red belts, carrying the black oval shield with the golden emblem of the Protectores. He had marched with his fellow bodyguards through the streets of the city in the great ceremonial processions, every man’s spear wreathed in laurel.
But the emperor, for all his daily appearances, was still a remote and unknowable figure. An awesome figure – and that, Castus thought, was how it should be. Sometimes, as he barked out instructions to his staff, or when leaving some hall of state, Constantine would glance in his direction, but Castus always kept his expression entirely blank. And if the emperor recognised him at all, he never showed it openly.
A shadow fell across the tiled floor, jolting Castus from his thoughts. He glanced around to see a man enter the atrium from the portico. The newcomer was small, almost puny, with a dry shrunken face, but his tunic and cloak were well cut and embroidered, and his round cap and gold-clasped belt proclaimed his membership of the imperial offices.
‘I need to speak to the emperor at once,’ he declared.
Castus looked at him, impassive. The man took a step towards the doors of the tablinum; Castus stepped forward too, blocking his way.
‘I told you, I need to speak to the emperor. It’s very important!’
The man appeared nervous, jumpy. His thin top lip quivered as he spoke, and Castus could see his tongue darting inside his mouth.
‘No,’ Castus said. He stood with feet braced, thumbs hooked in his belt.
Angling his body left and right, the man made a show of looking around Castus at the sealed doors. His nostrils flared. He took a quick step, and Castus blocked him again. There was only the breadth of two palms between them.
‘Listen,’ the man hissed, weaving his hands and then knitting his fingers. ‘I have information... for the ears of the Augustus alone! Vital information, concerning the wellbeing of our Sacred Dominus... I can make it worth your while to admit me.’
He was already reaching for his belt pouch. Castus hardened his jaw, placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and leaned in close to the man’s face.
‘I said no.’
‘Oh, yes, you have your duty, don’t you!’ The man’s whisper was harsh, echoing. ‘Easy for you, I suppose, with your big stupid face... I’m telling you the emperor is in danger!’
Castus blinked, uncomfortably reminded of that midnight meeting with the notary back in February. Nearly two months had passed since then, and he had heard nothing more of Nigrinus or his secretive investigations. Could this be a test? He was careful now not to let his interest show.
‘If you want to see him,’ he said, slowly and heavily, ‘you must speak to the Master of Admissions, who will give you an appointment. If he feels it justified.’
‘The Master of Admissions! And how do I know that he isn’t one of the plotters? In fact, how do I know that you aren’t? What’s your name?’
Castus glowered, breathing slowly into the man’s face, saying nothing.
‘Well... well, you can’t force me to leave. I shall wait!’
The man retreated to a carved wooden bench beneath the painting of the battling gods and giants. Castus shrugged. How had the man even got into this part of the palace anyway?
A few moments passed, and then came the sound of footsteps from behind the doors. Castus stepped aside as the bronze rings turned and the doors swung open. First two slaves stepped over the threshold, holding the doors, and then a small boy walked calmly out into the atrium, followed by an old man, his tutor. The boy was about six years old, curly-haired and smartly dressed in an embroidered dark blue tunic and breeches; he had something of his father’s face, but softened by youth and milder blood.
Flavius Crispus was Constantine’s son, by his concubine. Castus knew of the lady too – the domina Julia Minervina was a Greek woman, and she had been with Constantine for over ten years; Sallustius had told him that the emperor still loved her and doted on the child. Since the
emperor’s marriage to Maximian’s daughter, Minervina had lived in a house just outside the palace compound, with a covered passage and door leading to the emperor’s own apartments. Already Castus felt he knew more than enough about that.
Looking at the boy now, Castus had a sudden recollection of another child: the son of Cunomagla of the Picts. What would that boy be doing now? At least, Castus thought, he would never have to recite Virgil to his father.
But Crispus walked with a proud step; presumably his father had been pleased. The boy passed through the atrium and out into the portico, slaves all around and his tutor following behind, and the doors of the tablinum swung closed after him. Castus moved to stand in front of the doors, but the small man had already leaped to his feet and darted out after the boy and his party.
The man’s words lingered in Castus’s mind, unsettling him. There was no action he could take, but even so it was his duty to report what had happened. And not, he thought, to Nigrinus either, or his odious assistant. He waited another half an hour, the time lagging. His leg muscles were beginning to ache slightly, and he reminded himself that he had been a much younger man when he had stood sentry watch as a legionary.
Finally he heard steps from the portico, and Brinno entered the atrium. The young barbarian gave a casual salute, and then slapped Castus lightly on the shoulder.
‘Greetings, brother!’ he whispered. ‘Is he still in there?’
‘Yes, but I need to go and see the chief,’ Castus told him, speaking from the corner of his mouth. ‘Can you take the door until I get back?’
Brinno nodded, falling easily into a guard posture.
