by Ian Ross
‘How menacing it looks,’ Sabina said, twisting in the saddle to gaze across the river at the trees. ‘I was imagining all sorts of barbarians emerging from it – you can almost see figures moving in there if you stare hard enough. Franks, I suppose.’
‘Alamanni, domina, this far south,’ Castus told her. He was in no mood for talking, and marched steadily ahead of the horse.
‘Oh, yes, Alamanni. Like that king, Hrocus, who hangs around the court. Quite a sad figure, don’t you think? All his people have deserted him and gone back to Germania – they said he was becoming too Roman...’
Castus made no reply. It felt good to walk again, even with the mud working up over his boots and leg wrappings. They had drawn some way ahead of the slaves with the luggage, who were making a slow journey of it.
‘Not much of a conversationalist, are you?’ she said, a while later.
‘I wasn’t aware you needed me to entertain you, domina.’
He heard her laugh quietly to herself. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘You’re thinking of that little game with the flower wreaths, before Floralia. I should apologise. I’m sorry. Crescentilla and Plautiana are not as bad as they seem. I’m probably not either. We weren’t laughing at you. Why would we?’
‘I don’t know, domina.’
‘Well, perhaps you’re right. We do get so bored, you know, out here in the provinces, and boredom makes one callous. In Rome we are quite different people – better people, I’m sure.’
‘You miss Rome?’ Castus said. He still had little desire to engage with the conversation, but he liked the sound of the woman’s voice. Nobody of her class had ever really addressed him before – it was quite fascinating, he had to admit.
‘Oh, of course I miss Rome. Wouldn’t you?’
‘I don’t know, domina. I’ve never been there.’
‘I was born there,’ she said. ‘Although my family are from Madaurus in Numidia originally, and Phrygia on my mother’s side... What’s your name anyway?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Aurelius Castus, domina.’
‘Easy to remember, I suppose. And you don’t have to keep calling me that either. You’re a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard, aren’t you? Not so far beneath me, socially speaking.’
Castus shrugged. The social status of the Protectores was largely a matter of convenience, and although he had earned more in the last year than he had done in all his time as a legionary, he still did not feel particularly exalted.
‘What should I call you then?’
He glanced back, and saw her look of amusement.
‘Valeria Domitia Sabina. Clarissima,’ she said.
‘That’s enough names for anybody.’
‘You should meet my father,’ she said, still smiling. ‘He’s a senator, you know. Clarissimus Lucius Valerius Domitius Honoratus Latronianus. My family have been clarissimi for four generations. My great-grandfather served as Praetorian Prefect to the emperor Severus Alexander.’
Was that a good thing? Castus could not remember whether Severus Alexander had been deified, or his memory damned.
‘And your husband?’ he said. There was a slight pause.
‘My husband, Maecius Flavianus,’ she said in a noticeably stiffer tone, ‘is in Africa, serving as rationalis summarum Numidiae.’
‘What’s that?’ Castus felt no need to conceal his ignorance of imperial titles.
‘It means he controls the imperial finances in Numidia. Only of course at the moment he’s serving under Domitius Alexander, who’s a relation of mine, actually, a cousin on my mother’s side, I think. Which makes things difficult, because Maxentius in Rome calls Alexander a rebel and a usurper...’
‘Are you related to Maxentius too?’ Castus could not help smiling as he asked.
‘Him? Certainly not! His father was a common soldier before he became emperor, and his mother was some Syrian nobody...’ Her words trailed off as she realised her mistake. Much the same could be said of Constantine, after all. ‘Meaning no disrespect, of course,’ she added.
Castus raised one shoulder in a half-shrug, and for a while they walked on in silence.
‘You have children?’ he asked. He wanted her to carry on talking; while her words tried his patience, the tone of them captivated him: the slightly rough deepness under the gloss of her voice.
‘No children,’ she said, and he heard the stiffness returning, that cold bitter edge. ‘My husband has little interest in such things; he is often far away, and when he returns he... keeps alternative company. As do I.’
Castus recalled what Sallustius had told him about the ways of the ladies in Fausta’s household. He made no comment. Behind them the two slaves laboured through the mud with the heavy trunk; one was a youth, with a broad flat face and a pug nose, the other almost an old man. The girl hurried after them with the basket. Night was drawing in, and the river seemed a less peaceful place now.
‘Help me down off this horse, would you,’ Sabina said. ‘Riding’s a lot less comfortable than it looks, and I’d rather walk. Good shoes can be bought.’
Drawing the horse to a halt, Castus stepped up beside her; she reached down and grasped his shoulders, and he took her by the waist and lifted her from the saddle. For a moment he held her in his arms, and her perfume was all around him, a dark sweet musk that reminded him of the markets of Antioch.
‘Thank you,’ she said, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
They walked on along the road, Sabina stepping carefully in the mud with her hems of her gown lifted while Castus led the horse.
‘Will you be returning to Rome soon?’ he asked her.
‘May the gods grant that I do,’ she said quietly. She had moved closer to him as they walked, and her voice had dropped to a whisper against the hush of the night. ‘But it is as the emperor decrees. And with Maxentius controlling Rome it seems unlikely, unless Constantine divorces his wife or sends her away...’ Castus caught the pale flicker of her fingers as she made a warding sign against bad luck. ‘He might – he spends all his time with his concubine and seldom sees the nobilissima femina at all.’
Castus nodded, uncomfortable. This woman, he reminded himself, knew things about the inner life of the court that he did not.
‘But I do miss Rome so much,’ Sabina went on. ‘If you’ve never seen it you could not comprehend... There are houses there the size of small towns, temples and basilicas entirely covered in marble and gold. It’s the mother of cities, the centre of the world.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
He looked at her then. Her shadowed profile was outlined against the radiance of the river, and he saw the proud elegance of her face, the curve of her lip, the line of her nose. He felt an urge to reach out and touch her, to turn her face to his. But then he became aware of himself, and felt heavy and coarse beside her. He knew that he must smell strongly of stale sweat, horse, the dust and mud of the road. Even to feel attracted to her felt shameful. He remembered seeing the woman and her friends in the courtyard and thinking that they resembled members of some other species.
‘Don’t you miss your own home?’ she asked him.
‘My home’s the army,’ he told her. And, yes, he thought, I do miss it.
She staggered and let out a cry as her foot slipped beneath her, and grabbed at his arm to steady herself. Her slender hand gripped his biceps, and he smelled the wave of perfume again, intoxicating in the darkness.
‘That’s Antunnacum up ahead,’ he told her, conscious of the thickness of his voice. ‘See those lights along the valley there? The imperial camp.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with almost a note of disappointment. ‘We should be there in no time.’
A movement from the shadows at the side of the road, and Castus halted suddenly. He had been staring at the distant glow of the encampment, and for a moment he could see nothing of the shapes that seemed to gather from the surrounding darkness. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the hilt of his sword: the woma
n’s presence had distracted him, and he had let his attention slip.
There were men all around them, closing in on both sides. Sabina drew a quick breath, stepping closer to Castus, both hands clasping his arm. He could feel her involuntary shudder as he eased the sword smoothly from his scabbard.
‘Who’s there?’ he said, low and steady. The horse blew and nuzzled at his shoulder.
‘Identify yourselves,’ came a voice in response. Latin, but Castus kept his guard up.
‘Aurelius Castus, Ducenarius of the Protectores of the Sacred Bodyguard.’
He could make out their forms more clearly now. Eight men, wearing military cloaks, several with shields and spears. One of them uncovered a lantern, and for a moment the wavering light flared brightly, throwing wheeling shadows across the road.
‘Aurelius Castus?’ the voice replied. ‘We meet again then, eh?’
Something in the tone was familiar; an ugly memory surfaced in Castus’s mind. The lantern had dazzled him for a moment, but when he blinked and squinted the features of the man before him were clear. He wore the uniform and insignia of a centurion in the Praetorian Cohorts, but the scarred face and sour grimace were the same. The last time Castus had seen them, he had been staring across a battle line.
‘Oh, yes,’ Satrius Urbicus said. ‘You weren’t the only one who got promotion after that fight back in Germania. And I still haven’t forgotten you, either. Who’s your lady friend?’
Sabina had stepped quickly away from Castus as soon as the lantern appeared. She pulled the hem of her shawl across her face, but her shoulders were tight with anger. Castus heard a couple of the Praetorians laughing quietly in the darkness.
‘You address me as dominus,’ he said in a growl. He was still holding his naked sword. ‘And the lady is none of your concern.’
Urbicus hissed between his teeth, stepping closer. It seemed that his men advanced a step too. Castus had already used his sword in anger once that day; if he did it again now, men would die. He flicked his gaze between them, judging distances. There were too many; he could take down three, maybe four, but if they all set upon him at once he would have no chance. And he had the woman to consider...
‘I’m travelling on imperial duty,’ he said, in as calm and clear a tone as he could muster, though he spoke through his teeth and his jaw was locked. ‘Let us through.’
The centurion was close enough that Castus could smell the damp wool of his cloak. ‘Seems of me, dominus,’ Urbicus said, ‘that this might be an ideal opportunity for you and me to settle a few things. A dark road, no bystanders or witnesses... And my optio here’s taken a fancy to your sweet little friend.’
The soldier with the lantern grinned, showing crooked teeth.
Sabina stepped forward quickly, drawing herself up and throwing the shawl back from her face. The lamplight gleamed off her gold jewellery. ‘You heard what the Protector said,’ she declared, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘I am a lady of the imperial household – step aside and let us pass!’
In her voice was the unmistakeable note of privilege, of authority. Castus saw a ripple pass through the squad of Praetorians as they recognised the truth of her words. Behind him he could hear the slaves approaching, the two men with the trunk and the maid. He smiled, slipping the sword into his scabbard. Urbicus took a step back, and another. Then the rest of his men retreated, and the road was clear.
‘I’ll be looking out for you, Aurelius Castus,’ the centurion said quietly. ‘Next time, maybe we’ll meet on the battlefield...’ He made that same weighing gesture with his cupped palm. Castus spat air between his teeth, then tugged at the horse’s bridle and walked on, the others following him through the open cordon of Praetorians and down the road.
Silence for a time, all of them eager not to appear to be hurrying. Castus saw Sabina touch her face with a trembling hand.
‘What a charming character,’ she said after a while. Her voice was taut, but she managed to sound calm. ‘Friend of yours?’
‘I brushed up against him once or twice,’ Castus replied. Now that the moment had passed he felt the rage hot inside him, the shaming sense of powerlessness. He knew that he should thank her, but could not find the words.
Another hundred paces, and they entered the spill of torchlight. The walls of the town were before them, with the horse lines and pavilions of the retinue set up all around it.
‘Well,’ Sabina said, turning to him. ‘Thank you for escorting me.’ She paused a moment, her arms across her chest, her eyes holding his gaze. The slaves were gathered behind her, shuffling with the baggage. Castus could only nod curtly.
‘I hope we’ll meet again soon,’ she said. And then she turned and walked away.
Castus hefted the bag of despatches on to his shoulder. He thought of the cold bath that awaited him. ‘I hope so too,’ he said quietly.
12
‘Constantine Augustus! The gods preserve you for us! Your salvation is our salvation!’
The collective salute died away in echoes as the eight Protectores advanced and dropped to their knees on the cold marble. On the far side of the audience chamber of the emperor’s private apartments, Constantine was seated beside Maximian on a low dais. To one side stood Probinus, the Praetorian Prefect. To the other side stood a heavy-fleshed eunuch with a shaven head; the same eunuch Castus had seen in the hunting party back in February – the one who had shot and killed the man that had tried to murder Constantine.
‘Rise, and stand before your emperor,’ Probinus said.
They stood, eyes to the floor, while the two men on the dais inspected them. Castus barely heard the voice of the Praetorian Prefect telling them what he already knew: all eight would be attached to the household of former emperor Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maximianus, father of the nobilissima femina Fausta, until such time as the Sacred Presence once again required their services. Several of the men stirred, breathing deeply as they absorbed the news. Aside from Brinno, Castus had told none of the others what he had heard.
A chair squeaked on marble, and slow heavy steps approached them.
‘So these are the men who will defend me with their lives?’ A deep voice, loud and rough-edged. ‘Look up! Let me see you!’
The man before them was aged around sixty, his face reddened and swollen above a black beard twisted with grey. This was the man, Castus thought, who had ruled the world beside Diocletian for two decades. The man whose image he had saluted when he had first joined the legions.
Maximian, the Man like Hercules.
The former emperor paced before them, moving down the line of Protectores and inspecting each man.
‘My former colleague Diocletian,’ he said, ‘used to favour ceremony and protocol. All this Persian-style bowing and prostration. My son-in-law thinks the same way. I do not – I prefer to look men in the eye, get the measure of them... No, I don’t have time for courtliness or etiquette. Politics neither. I left all that to Diocletian too. Now I defer to my son-in-law Constantine, of course...’ He made a half-turn, and sketched a bow towards the back of the room. Constantine remained seated on his chair upon the dais, unmoving, expressionless.
‘So, I am merely your commander,’ Maximian went on, pacing slowly. ‘But remember, all of you, that I was your emperor for twenty years! I still expect discipline from you. Proper soldierly conduct! Don’t forget that.’
He paused before Brinno, drawing himself up to stare at the young man.
‘You Frankish, boy?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, dominus. My father is Baudulfus, war chief of the northriver Salii.’
‘Salii, eh? I remember them. Fought against them myself! Maybe I crossed blades with your father, eh?’
Brinno swallowed heavily, nodding. Maximian moved on.
‘How about you, soldier? What’s your name?’
‘Aurelius Castus, dominus!’
‘Aha, yes, I’ve heard of you. You’re the one that pulled my son-in-law out of that river in Germania!’
Castus glanced quickly towards the emperor. Constantine shifted slightly on his chair, but said nothing.
‘Yes, dominus!’
‘Good man... good. Tell you, though, you’d have had a harder job trying that with me. Eh? Eh! Carrying a bit more weight these days!’ Maximian slapped a palm against his meaty chest. He took another step, then quickly turned back to Castus again.
‘What do you think, soldier – you’re a big man, could you take me on, hm?’
Castus tried to keep his face blank. He felt the attention of the whole room upon him. Maximian was right in front of him; Castus saw the small eyes, the pouched cheeks, the network of broken veins dark red around his nostrils. He smelled the wine on the man’s breath.
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t like to try, dominus.’
‘Ha! That’s right!’ Maximian declared with a grin. ‘Nobody takes me on. Fucked if they did, ha ha!’
He paced back towards the dais, hands clasped behind him. Halfway back to his chair he stopped again and flung out a stubby finger.
‘Least I’m not as fat as him!’ he said, pointing at the eunuch with the shaven head. ‘That’s Gorgonius, my castrensis, the steward of my household. If you have any trouble with my staff or slaves, you go to him, understood?’
‘Yes, dominus!’ the men said in unison.
Surely now they would be dismissed, Castus thought. But why did Constantine keep the old emperor so close to him like this? He remembered what Valens had told him once, the year before. Honour him, and watch him as you watch a snake. Maybe that was all it was. But perhaps, Castus wondered, there was more to it? Nobody else, after all, would dare talk to Constantine like that, or talk about him in the emperor’s own presence. Castus knew all too well the solitary burden of authority; he had never forgotten the words his old centurion had told him once. The bronze mask of command. Perhaps Constantine enjoyed having the old man to spar with him, drink with him and treat him like a human being, not a god, and to tell him truths that others were too cowed or obedient to dream of uttering?
