by Ian Ross
Pointless to try and work it all out. The whole strange scene was lost to mystery and confusion. Castus felt his mind growing foggy with weariness, the images of the night turning into a smoky whirl of distorted sensations. He needed to sleep, but he had just eased himself down onto the bed again and closed his eyes when a recollection jolted him awake.
The figure he had seen at the front of the gathering, the woman with the hood. In the brief instant before the lamps had gone out, as the man with the sword had pushed through the crowd, she had turned her head and he had seen her face. Had he recognised her at the time? If so, the sudden confusion that followed had driven it from his mind.
But now, abruptly, he was sure: the woman in the hood had been the nobilissima femina Fausta, the emperor’s wife.
14
‘Only twice in her life,’ Maximian declared, pushing himself up from the couch, ‘is a woman is of any worth... Once on the night of her wedding, when you take her virginity. And again on the day of her funeral, when you get rid of her!’
Polite laughter from the dinner guests, the former emperor’s intimates and officials gathered on the couches around him.
‘Oh, very good, dominus!’ said the eunuch Gorgonius. Scorpianus, one of the Praetorian tribunes, rubbed his big blue chin. He had a smile pasted to his face.
‘I remember one occasion during the campaign in Mauretania against the Quinquegentiani – you remember it, Scorpianus: you were there!’
Scorpianus inclined his head and made a self-deprecatory gesture.
‘Anyway,’ Maximian went on, ‘we’d surrounded one of their strongholds in the mountains; walls looked as old as Troy... We had the son of their chief, a boy of about nine or ten, and we brought him up before the gate and threatened to kill him if they didn’t surrender. So then the boy’s mother, fine-looking woman in a barbaric sort of way, stands up on the wall in sight of the whole army and pulls up her robe... shows off everything! And do you know what she said? Do you think this body is too old to make more sons?’
Maximian tipped back his head and laughed, then banged his cup down on the table. ‘Well, we took the fort in the end. Executed her and the boy, and everyone else in the place too! Or did we sell the boy...? Scorpianus?’
‘I don’t recall, dominus,’ the tribune said with a grimace.
‘A marvellous story,’ Gorgonius said, with an air that suggested he would prefer to move on to a different subject. But his master was not finished yet.
‘What do you think, Constantine?’ Maximian said. ‘Wasn’t there some female chief among the Picts, up there in Britain? What did you do with her?’
Standing on duty at the door of the dining room, Castus suppressed a jolt of concern at the words. He had heard nothing these last four years about Cunomagla, the formidable chieftainess who had, so briefly, shared his bed. Had the emperor learned more about her during his recent visit to Britain?
Constantine was reclining in solitude on the couch facing his father-in-law. He took his time replying. He had drunk as much as Maximian, but held it better. ‘I think I recall something of the sort,’ he said at last. ‘She ran away, I believe, to some cave in the mountains, and was never seen again. I expect she died...’
Castus exhaled slowly in relief. Clearly the emperor knew no more than he did.
But now Maximian was heaving himself up from the couch, calling for Constantine to join him. The other men around the table promptly stood as well, and fell in behind the emperor and his father-in-law as they moved for the door. Behind them, the slaves closed around the circular table, removing the debris of dinner and helping themselves to the scraps left on the dishes.
Maximian walked beside Constantine, throwing one hefty arm around the emperor’s shoulders. As they passed him, Castus heard them talking quietly together; he waited for the entourage to pass through into the reception chamber, then followed behind them at a discreet distance. Beyond the reception chamber was the broad front portico of the villa, lined with tall arched windows with brass grilles that let in a cool whisper of night air. Castus saw Constantine nodding gravely, Maximian swaying as he spoke, no doubt pressing his advice on the great matters of state. The others dropped back, lingering around the tall inlaid doors of the reception chamber, and let the two men walk on alone down the portico, through the pools of light spilled by the lamps across the marble floor.
Maximian and his household had been in residence at the Villa Herculis for over a month now, but in all that time the old former emperor had never uttered the slightest disloyalty. He railed against his disrespectful children, his wife – who had remained in Rome with Maxentius – his former colleague Diocletian, and the fickle Roman people, who had so soon neglected his grandeur. Even against the gods. But never a word against Constantine. Maximian had nothing but praise for him.
The emperor had been keeping himself deliberately aloof from his father-in-law since his return from Britain, and this appearance at the villa was a rare event. Castus knew why the emperor had at last decided to visit: the news that Licinius, the rival emperor based on the Danube, had invaded Italy, seized Istria from Maxentius and besieged Aquileia had circulated quickly. Perhaps, he thought as he followed the two men along the portico from the dining hall, Constantine had finally decided to listen to the old man’s advice.
It was later that night, as he returned towards his room, that Castus saw the figure sitting alone at the end of the rear portico. He paced closer at once, suspicious, but only as he opened his mouth to call out a challenge did he recognise the plainly dressed man with a cup of wine in his hand. Castus was momentarily shocked; he had believed that Constantine had retired to his own chambers an hour before.
‘Dominus,’ he said quickly, bowing, and began to kneel.
Constantine raised a finger, dismissing the gesture. ‘No need for that,’ he said curtly. ‘We are not in the palace now.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Approach.’
Castus moved closer, just three paces, then halted and fell into a parade rest posture. His breath was caught in his throat: he hoped the emperor did not require him to sit down, join him in a drink, perhaps...
‘Tell me, soldier,’ the emperor said. ‘Do you believe that the gods send us signs, messages? Do they guide us to the right path, or do they leave us to choose our own way...?’
The directness of the question caught Castus unprepared.
‘I don’t know, dominus,’ he said. He tried to stop himself frowning, but could not determine what answer the emperor wanted to hear. Or even if he wanted an answer at all. For a moment Constantine sat musing.
‘I am waiting for a sign,’ he said. ‘I have waited a long time now, and nothing is clear. So what do I do, eh? The cause of war must be just, would you agree?’
‘Of course, dominus.’ Castus hoped the emperor was not expecting a more insightful answer.
‘Then is it just to declare war against my brother? My brother-in-law, I should say... Or should I aid him against Licinius? I find that I receive contrary advice, mainly from fools and flatterers, and nothing that feels like a clear sign.’ He looked up suddenly, staring at Castus with a piercing eye. ‘So what should I do?’ he said.
Castus shifted his stance, uncomfortable. ‘Seems to me, dominus,’ he said, slowing his words, ‘that it’s like the story of the fox and the lions.’
Constantine stared, and for a moment Castus feared he was offended – was it sacrilege to compare the affairs of emperors to a children’s parable? But perhaps Constantine had never been told the story when he was a boy? He gestured for Castus to continue.
‘Well, dominus,’ Castus said, trying not to let his nerves mangle the words, ‘the story asks who would win in a fight between a fox and two lions. The lions are proud and strong, but the fox is cunning... The ox speaks slyly to the lions, asking which is stronger, and the lions start boasting and then fall to fighting. Of course, the stronger lion wins, but he’s so weakened by the battle that the fox can defeat him with a single blow
.’
It would not, Castus thought as he spoke, be the strategy he favoured himself: for him it was always the bold frontal attack and the gods could decide the consequences. For a long moment the emperor said nothing, staring with a fierce frown. Perhaps he thought the same? But then he barked a laugh. ‘Yes, I like that,’ he said. He stood up, throwing the cup out into the darkness of the garden, and gathered his cloak around him. As he passed, he clapped a hand on Castus’s shoulder. ‘The sophists say that if a man wants peace he should prepare for war. So if I want war, perhaps I should feign peace, hmm?’
Castus nodded, tense with discomfort. Then the emperor turned and moved away down the portico towards his chambers. Castus even heard him singing to himself.
It was two days later that the women invaded. As the carriages approached along the road from the river, the birds rose and shrieked around the eaves, as if in warning. For over a month the Villa Herculis had been a male domain, only Maximian and his staff of secretaries and eunuchs, his slaves and his bodyguards in residence. But now his daughter Fausta was to pay her father an official visit.
Since the night at the necropolis Castus had barely seen Sabina, and had not once had an opportunity to speak with her. He was not accustomed to frustrated desire; always before in life he had sought women when he needed them, and found them easily enough. Afrodisia in Britain he had cared for deeply, even perhaps loved in a way, but she had been a prostitute. Marcellina the envoy’s daughter had been the only woman to tempt him to greater feeling, and she was far beyond his hopes.
With Sabina it was different, and for the first time he had experienced the racking torment of longing. She had used him, he thought, and it pained him that he felt unable to erase her from his mind.
When Fausta and her entourage arrived at the villa, Maximian was waiting on the front steps to receive her. His eight Protectores flanked him, and the courtyard and the road beyond were lined with the slaves of his household, crying out salutations. Fausta descended from her carriage, bowed her head and stood before Maximian, reciting the customary greeting.
‘In the name of Juno, Isis and Minerva and all the gods I salute you, Father. If you are well I am well. May my presence here bring good fortune upon your house.’
Maximian stiffly descended the steps and kissed his daughter, then turned without another word and walked back inside.
‘Here they come,’ Sallustius muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘A torrent of hairdressers. A cascade of eunuchs...’
But Castus could only stare at the carriages drawn up in the courtyard. The ladies descended one by one, first Plautiana and then Crescentilla, then several others he did not know. Finally he saw Sabina, a veil partly covering her face. With the other Protectores he stood at attention as the ladies filed up the steps to the rear portico of the villa. Only as she passed him did Sabina glance up, lifting the veil for a moment. She met his eyes, and seemed to mouth something to him, but he could not catch the words.
Serapion found him later that afternoon. Castus was in the stone-lined changing rooms of the baths, dressing after a lukewarm soak: Fausta and her retinue had used the suite earlier, and there was little heated water remaining. He pulled his tunic over his head, and when he looked up the eunuch was standing in the doorway that led to the courtyard. A gust of cool air seemed to follow Serapion as he entered the room.
‘You have a habit of appearing at unexpected moments,’ Castus said. ‘Is it deliberate?’
Serapion gave a short, cold smile. He stood a few paces from Castus, gazing into the far corner of the room as he spoke. ‘I have a message from my mistress,’ he said. ‘She will see you tonight, if you so choose. Do you know the garden house by the riverbank, with the fountain court?’
Castus just nodded. He knew the place well enough. His blood was flowing quickly, but the sweat was cold on his brow.
‘There is a bedchamber at the end of the corridor of the dancers. Go there at the start of the second watch. Do not be late – she is tired and cannot wait long.’
Serapion looked at him directly for the first time, and Castus found it hard to read his expression. Was it amusement in his eyes, or contempt? Then some other thought passed across his face, and the eunuch turned sharply and stalked from the room.
The rest of the day passed in a torment of anticipation. When evening came Castus was pacing the mosaic floors of the main audience hall, glancing repeatedly at the tall water clock that stood beside the main doors. A fascinating mechanism – he had not seen its like before – but he cursed it for the slow regular drip of its hours. Night had fallen by the time he was relieved, and he returned to his chamber to change into the dull red tunic and cloak he had worn on his last meeting with Sabina. He felt uncomfortable with the idea of disguise, and creeping about in the shadows like a spy or a thief did not appeal to him. But it seemed necessary. He picked up his sword, then thought for a moment and laid it aside. Surely that would not be required... but he strapped a military dagger to his waist belt, as a reassurance.
Leaving the villa by a side door at the back of the wing used by the Protectores, he doubled around the building and dropped down into the garden terraces. The night felt thick and humid. Mist had moved up from the river, beading his cloak with moisture. When he looked back at the villa the lamps along the front portico shone though a haze, and he heard the sound of laughter coming from one of the guest suites, quickly muffled by the mist. As Castus paced along the upper garden walk he expected the greyness ahead to form into the shapes of figures.
But the gardens were abandoned to the night. He skirted the long ornamental pool, a gulf of blackness in the mist, passed through a pillared gazebo and down the steps, and then saw the garden house before him with the ground beyond dropping into the dark emptiness of the river. It was a small building, intended for accommodating guests, or the associates of guests, not sufficiently exalted to stay in the main villa. A simple quadrangle of rooms surrounded a courtyard where a dry fountain stood above a cracked stone basin. Castus stepped through the narrow entrance gate, then through the open vestibule into the courtyard.
A single lamp burned in a niche beside one of the doors. Were it not for that, the whole house would have seemed deserted. Crossing the courtyard in ten long careful strides, Castus reached the open door. Another lamp just inside illuminated the end of the corridor: painted girls danced and somersaulted along the length of the wall and away into darkness. At the far end, almost invisible in the shadow, a single door stood partly open. Castus could already smell her scent lingering in the air.
He wanted to call out, speak her name, but the stillness of the night and the empty building around him seemed to forbid all sound. He paced silently along the corridor, running his fingertips over the painted dancers, until he reached the door.
‘Sabina?’ he managed to whisper. The word came out as a hoarse croak. He lifted his hand and edged the door open.
Complete darkness inside, or so it seemed at first. Castus felt the prickle of nerves running up his spine. Her scent again, fresh and strong. Then he made out the bed set against the far wall, and the motion in the darkness as she rolled from beneath the covers.
‘Come here,’ she said. He stepped into the room and pushed the door closed behind him. His senses reeled: the awareness of danger, of trespass, eclipsed by the surge of desire. He shed his cloak at the threshold; he unbuckled his belt and it fell to the floor. Pulling off his tunic, he crossed the room, into the field of her warmth. There was a shuttered window high above the bed, but enough grey light seeped between the panels of the shutters for him to make out her pale form as she pushed back the covers. Then her arms were around him, drawing him down onto the bed, and there was nothing in his mind but the feel of her body, the taste of her lips and her skin.
Her thighs were parted, and he eased his body down onto her. He could hear her breathing, loud and rapid. She seemed nervous. For the first time since he had entered the room a knot of alarm twisted at
the back of his skull. Sabina had never seemed nervous before, not even in the necropolis. He raised himself on one arm and looked down at her, seeing only the curves of her body in the faint light. He laid a palm on her breast: it was full and round. As he blinked he could almost make out the shape of her face changing from the image in his mind to something else.
‘Gods below, what is this?’ he said from the back of his throat.
He reared up onto his knees, stretching an arm to grab at the shutters. One heave, and the catch burst; the shutters swung open and the grey misty light fell over the bed. The girl beneath him let out a cry and rolled, covering her face. But Castus had already seen that it was not Sabina in the bed with him.
Ice filled his veins, and his heart slammed against the top of his chest. He was gripping the girl by her arm, turning her, hardly believing what he had seen.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ she whispered, with a sob in her voice. ‘Please... this wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t do this... they made me...’
Up off the bed in one bound, Castus staggered immediately and fell to the floor. His breeches were still tangled around his knees, and he hauled them up. Gasping breath, he pulled on his tunic and cloak, then snatched up his belt and dagger from the floor. When he glanced back he saw only the bunched covers, and the shape of the girl hiding beneath them.
There was a figure in the passageway as he threw open the door. The shadow darted across the painted frieze of dancers, but Castus moved faster. One lunging grab, and he had the fugitive by the arm, spinning him and slamming him against the wall. The big knife was already bared in his fist.
‘If you kill me now,’ Serapion said in a choked gasp, ‘others will know of it.’
Castus shoved harder against him, his forearm pressed into the eunuch’s throat and the dagger pricking the skin beneath his jaw. ‘Who will know?’ he hissed. ‘Who arranged this?’
