Swords Around the Throne

by Ian Ross

  Urbicus lunged forward suddenly, reaching for the broad-bladed dagger hanging from his belt. He was fast, but Castus was faster; whipping out his arm, he seized the centurion’s wrist, trapping his hand over the dagger hilt. His other arm was up, elbow out, ramming against Urbicus’s throat and knocking him back against the cart behind him.

  The two men collided, grunting breath, and the timbers of the wagon groaned beneath their weight. From the corner of his eye Castus saw the Praetorians to either side take a step forward. He saw the centurion’s bared teeth close to his face, felt the flex of muscle and the sour hiss of the man’s breath as he tried to wrestle his hand free. At any moment the first blows would fall on his exposed back, the first spear stab between his shoulder blades...

  A cry came from over by the gateway, and a jostle of movement. The knot of Praetorians broke apart. Castus shoved himself back, releasing Urbicus and taking two long steps away from him. Now he could see what was happening: two of the slaves loading the chests onto the wagon had lost their grip, and the load had slipped from between their hands and crashed to the muddy cobbles. The wood fractured as the iron restraining bands burst apart. Silver spilled bright in the dirt.

  After a brief shocked pause, the crowd surged across the street, many of them dropping to their knees to scrabble at the cobbles.

  Urbicus glanced around, squinting, then shoved himself past Castus. ‘We’re not finished yet, you and me,’ he said over his shoulder, then strode towards the wagon.

  Coins were scattered in the mud, freshly minted and bearing the profile of the emperor Constantine. At once Urbicus and his Praetorians closed in, kicking and striking at the crowd to drive them back before locking their spears in a barrier around the shattered chest of silver. Castus was pacing backwards across the street, keeping clear of the confusion, watching everything.

  Another figure came striding from the gateway, hedged with guards. Castus knew him at once: Scorpianus, the burly Praetorian tribune with the big blue chin, who had often joined Maximian at dinner. He called to Urbicus, and the centurion saluted smartly. With a jolt of realisation, Castus remembered the night on the road beside the Rhine. Urbicus had seen him with Sabina. And now Urbicus reported to Scorpianus. What had Sabina told him? They knew that I had feelings for you. I don’t know how... Urbicus and Scorpianus, he thought. And above them – who? He felt a chill of clarity: the outlines of the plot laid against him were easier to make out now.

  Castus counted the wagons again as he backed away across the street, trying to work out how many chests each carried. The big building was surely the imperial mint, second only to Treveris in all of Gaul: the place must have been almost emptied. And if the Praetorians were guarding it, all that coin and bullion was surely not going to Cularo with the field army.

  The tribune stood beside the broken chest, legs spread wide and fists on hips, glaring at the crowd as it shrank away from Urbicus and his men. At his feet, slaves scraped up the gush of silver and poured it into sacks, making sure to find and retrieve every last solitary coin from the dirt.

  The following morning, the great convoy moved out of Lugdunum; a day later, at Vienne, it divided. The field army troops led by the dux, Gaudentius, marched eastwards towards the mountains, while a smaller but more diverse retinue continued along the river road to the south. Maximian travelled with his own household and that of his daughter, a column of carriages and carts raising the dust, with the marching Praetorians and their heavy-laden wagons bringing up the rear.

  After the slow ten-day journey down the banks of the green Rhodanus, Maximian and his cavalcade appeared before the crumbling walls of the ancient city of Arelate. His arrival, Castus guessed, had been announced well in advance: the city councillors, prominent citizens, the priests of all the cults and the chief members of all the municipal collegia lined the road before the single remaining gateway, crying out joyous salutes and acclamations to their former Augustus.

  Maximian and his household rode in through the gates, and behind them, flanked on all sides by marching Praetorians and horsemen, rolled the six heavy wagons with all the coin and bullion from the imperial mint of Lugdunum. The cries of the city notables went on until the last wagon had passed, as if they were greeting one of the gods descended from the heavens to grace their city.

  17

  Closing one eye, Castus squinted along the shaft of the arrow, trying to keep the head aimed straight at the target on the far side of the meadow. His right biceps ached as he kept the powerful bow at full draw. He exhaled slowly, trying not to let his aim waver, and then released the arrow. The fletching grazed his wrist as it flew. Veering in the air, the arrow skimmed the top of the straw target bale and arced away into the long grass at the far side. Castus could already hear Brinno’s disbelieving laughter.

  ‘I don’t understand it!’ the younger man cried. ‘You’re a terrible horseman, and now I find you’re an even worse archer!’

  Castus frowned at the bow in his left fist. None of his arrows had so far struck the target; somehow he just could not make them fly the way he wanted. Brinno had hit the centre of the target with almost every arrow he had shot.

  ‘It’s strange,’ Brinno went on, still grinning. ‘With a sword and shield you’re like a fortress. You can throw a javelin fair enough. But give you a bow and you’re like a child! I don’t know what sort of soldiers they make where you come from.’

  They picked up their swordbelts and put them on. Castus was glad that some of the warmth had returned to their friendship since their arrival in the south. Perhaps, he thought, Brinno had decided to trust him after all. The shadows were already long across the meadow, and the noise of the crickets was a steady pulse. Slaves were poking through the long grass, collecting Castus’s spent arrows.

  Pinning the brooch to secure his cloak, Castus walked across to the far side of the meadow, where the grass sloped down to the edge of the river. The water looked an almost luminous blue-green at this hour, the river curving slowly away to the south, beneath the blackened pontoons of the floating bridge, to lap the stone quays and old wooden pilings of the city. There were figures moving on the far riverbank, and Castus levelled his palm against the low sun to watch them. Soldiers; a lot of soldiers.

  Seeing them brought a stab of nostalgia. Envy too – only that morning news had arrived that the Franks had once more broken their treaties and raided across the Rhine, trying to burn the bridge at Colonia Agrippina. Constantine was about to lead his army against them, and Castus dearly wished that he could be there with them.

  But the soldiers across the river were not with Constantine either.

  ‘Who are they?’ Brinno asked, coming to join him.

  Castus stared, trying to pick out the emblems on their shields, or to make some estimate of their numbers. ‘Must be the troops from Spain,’ he said. ‘I heard Sallustius mention them yesterday.’

  ‘Maybe going to join the field army at Cularo?’ Brinno suggested. There was a note of uncertainty in his voice. ‘Could be Gaudentius and his men are going back north, to support the emperor on the Rhine, and these are going to replace them. Strange they should stop here, though...’

  ‘They’re billeted in the old warehouses over there. Looks like three or four thousand men.’

  Brinno whistled between his teeth. The slaves had finished collecting the arrows, and were waiting by the path. Beyond them to the south, the old walls of Arelate were glowing in the evening sun.

  It had once been a great city, the oldest in Gaul, though never, Castus suspected, as great as its inhabitants liked to claim. But the place had a tired air, a sense of long privilege and dignified repose. In all its history it had never been attacked by a hostile foe; those three-hundred-year-old walls were sagging and neglected, entirely collapsed or built over in some places, the ramparts and walkways grown with grass in others. Maximian and his entourage had taken up residence in a complex of buildings that stretched along the river, one used by the governors of Narbones
e Gaul a century before.

  They had only been in Arelate a few days, but already Castus was feeling uncomfortably constrained. There was something in the air here, a gathering threat that he did not like to try and identify clearly. The sense of stagnation and quiet in the city felt deceptive. Seeing the troops assembling across the river, Castus was struck by a sudden intuition, something he felt he had known for a long time but had not wanted to consider directly.

  ‘What’s on your mind, brother?’ Brinno asked.

  Castus shrugged, unwilling to try and answer but not wanting to concoct some plausible lie. He had told Brinno enough of those already. He knew that his friend’s question was not asked lightly. The sound of the crickets rose again into the silence between them.

  Brinno turned suddenly, clasping Castus by the shoulder. ‘I am not a fool!’ he declared. His Frankish accent made the words sound harsh. ‘Something troubles you... Something troubles you for many days now!’

  Castus squinted and looked away, unwilling to shape his thoughts into speech.

  ‘Heh!’ Brinno exclaimed, shaking him roughly. ‘We’re not women, always gabbling about things. But if there’s something you need to say... You can trust me, brother.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t speak of it before,’ Castus said. It was hard to utter the words; he felt them in his mouth, clumsy and sour. ‘I don’t know what to believe, but... yes, I think something’s wrong.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Brinno urged.

  Castus glanced back over his shoulder; the slaves were far away, waiting for them at the far side of the meadow. Nobody could hear them.

  ‘Back in Lugdunum,’ he began, ‘I saw Praetorians loading the silver from the imperial mint onto carts. Those same carts they brought down here.’

  Brinno nodded, knotting his brows.

  ‘At the time I wasn’t sure why, but those troops over there...’ He gestured across the river. ‘You’re right, it’s strange they’ve come so far south. If they were marching to Cularo there would be no need.’

  ‘Perhaps they come to pay respect to Maximian?’

  ‘Perhaps. Those Spanish legions served with him in the Mauretanian war ten years ago. Once of them was formed by Maximian himself. But I was thinking... that amount of silver would buy the loyalty of a lot of men.’

  Brinno stepped back with a hiss of amazement. ‘Brother, what are you thinking?’ he said.

  ‘I’m thinking that somebody here wants to use the coin from the mint to pay the Spanish troops. To bribe them. Not just them either – look how much Maximian’s been spending since he got here. Games and shows every night. Banquets in the palace. He’s buying the provincials, the governors and the city councillors. You know he asked Constantine to let Fausta and her household come south with him?’

  ‘He asked for that? Why? He hates having women around him!’

  ‘Perhaps so they can’t be used as hostages?’ Castus felt a nervous energy running through him. He had been suppressing these thoughts for so long, it was a heady sensation to put them into words. But he was afraid too, as if by speaking about these things he was giving them substance.

  ‘But it can’t be true,’ Brinno whispered. ‘Even if those men over there were bought, there’s only three or four thousand of them... Not enough to stand up to the Rhine legions! But then...’ He thought for a moment. ‘If the Rhine army is tied up with this new campaign against my treacherous bastard brethren in Germania, perhaps they might be enough to try something...’

  Castus nodded. ‘Maximian was being very friendly to Gaudentius, the commander of the force that went to Cularo. They were always at dinner together, them and that Praetorian tribune, Scorpianus. And Gaudentius left us after Lugdunum...’

  ‘And another four thousand men with him,’ Brinno said quietly. He was gazing across the river. From the far bank came the distant sound of laughter.

  ‘Plenty more in Italy too, with Maxentius. If the mountain passes were held for him, he could cross without difficulty.’

  Brinno rubbed his palms across his face. He looked jittery, as if he wanted to attack something. ‘So... who do we trust? I don’t know, brother...’

  ‘I feel likewise,’ Castus said. He had never liked subterfuge and politics. Even considering these things seemed to leave a stain upon his honour. He took a last glance across the river at the assembling troops, then turned back to follow the slaves in the direction of the city.

  The path climbed the slope to the road. Ranks of tall dark cypresses threw their long shadows across the gravel, and to either side, beyond the trees, were scattered huts and sheds between cultivated plots and tiny orchards. All this land had once been a northern suburb of Arelate, but as the city had shrunk back inside its old walls so the ruined buildings had become overgrown, populated only by squatters and the poor.

  Castus and Brinno walked in silence, with the slaves going on ahead of them. A cool evening breeze came from the river. As the battered arch that marked the northern boundary of the city came into view, Castus heard the rattle of wheels on gravel behind him, and moved off the road. A two-wheeled mule cart was approaching, with a heavy ox wagon and several riders following behind. The cart had a wicker roof over it, and the two men inside were lost in its shade. Travellers from the north were not uncommon, and Castus paid them no attention until Brinno nudged his arm.

  ‘I know that man,’ he said, his voice tight.

  Standing on the verge in the shade of the cypresses, they waited until the cart had drawn level with them. The driver dragged on the reins and the mules came to a halt. Both the vehicle and its passengers were covered in grey dust, and it took Castus a moment to recognise the man who sat beside the driver.

  ‘A good evening to you both,’ Nigrinus said. He was blinking, his eyes reddened from the dust. He shook at the mantle that covered him like a blanket, and grey plumes rose around him. ‘I had hoped to meet you in Arelate, but it seems some helpful god has directed that our paths cross even sooner...’

  Behind the cart the ox wagon had also heaved to a stop. Castus saw that one of the riders following behind it was the imperial agent, Flaccianus. Brinno was staring at the man in the cart in hostile silence.

  ‘What do you want here?’ Castus said. ‘You’re supposed to be in Treveris, with the emperor.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but matters have called me south.’ Nigrinus gave a thin smile, and his face under its mask of dust appeared ghoulish. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘at some point soon, we might speak together? I’m sure you must have learned a great deal during your time with the former Augustus?’

  ‘Nothing that need concern you,’ Castus said. He had hoped to have no more dealings with the notary, or his repulsive assistant.

  Nigrinus’s smile did not slip. ‘Well,’ he said, with a few last dabs at his dusty mantle. ‘I’m sure there will be plenty of time for you to think about that!’

  He made a curt stabbing gesture, and the driver flicked the reins. The mules heaved forward again, and Castus and Brinno stood aside as the cart, the wagon and the riders moved past them towards the outlying buildings of the city. Flaccianus, the last rider, glanced back as he passed with an expression of knowing disdain.

  Brinno spat in the dust after them.

  It was past midnight when Castus was woken suddenly by the sound of a cry from the courtyard, a slamming door and voices from the room downstairs. He lay on his bed for a moment, disorientated; he felt he had not been properly sleeping, but the memory of a dream was still vivid in his mind: Sabina, an underground room, terror in the darkness and a man with the face of a white dog...

  He heard another shout, and his mind returned to clear focus. With one roll he was up off the bed, dragging on his tunic and snatching up his swordbelt as he moved for the door. Stepping out onto the wooden balcony, he leaned over the railing and looked down into the large chamber below.

  The scene was lit by two flickering oil lamps. Sallustius had come in from the night dragging a thin man behind him. Victor w
as there too, both of them with drawn swords. Castus took the stairs in four leaps and went to join them.

  As Castus reached them, Sallustius flung his prisoner against the central table, then wrestled him down onto a bench. The man was ragged and unshaven, dressed in a tunic almost black with mud and old stains. His face was swollen and bruised on one side, and his lips were flecked with blood. Sallustius held his sword at the man’s throat.

  ‘Please, domini... Please forgive me if I’ve wronged you!’ the man cried. ‘I told you what I was doing! This is a mistake, an error. Please, there’s no need for violence!’ Tears were running down his bruised face, and he was cringing on the bench, clasping his arms around his chest.

  Castus went to the table and poured himself a cup of water from the jug. He took two long swallows, then dashed the rest of the water in the man’s face.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said.

  The man fell silent at once, swaying on the bench with his mouth open in shock.

  ‘What happened?’ Castus asked. Brinno was coming down the stairs now, blinking sleepily.

  ‘We caught him on the rear portico,’ Sallustius said, ‘coming up from the river towards Maximian’s apartments. Victor challenged him and he ran – but unfortunately for him I was at the other end of the portico, and he ran right into my fist...’

  ‘He had this,’ Victor said, and threw a short dagger in an ornate scabbard down on the table. ‘That’s no weapon for a beggar like you!’ he sneered at the prisoner. ‘You were planning to get into the apartments and murder somebody. Eh?’ he added, smacking the cringing man across the top of his skull.

  ‘Domini, please, I told you,’ the man said. ‘I was paid to deliver it to the eunuch Gorgonius. That’s all – I can show you the gold piece they gave me to do it!’