Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  He got up and crossed the room, taking her by the shoulder as gently as he could. ‘Sabina,’ he said, the name forming deep in his throat.

  She turned and flung her arms around his neck, her embrace sudden and fierce. ‘Don’t leave me like that again,’ she breathed. Her kiss was hungry, desperate. ‘Promise me you won’t go off and get yourself killed without telling me first.’

  *

  The lamps had burned down, and only the last ebb of the brazier lit the room as they lay together in the ruck of blankets. Sabina eased herself up from his shoulder.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘do you have any interesting new scars to show me?’

  Castus shook his head, watching her as she sat and scooped the hair away from her nape to unclip her necklace. Her veering moods no longer confused him as once they had. A slow wash of contentment ran through him, and he closed his eyes. Then he opened them again.

  ‘Those earrings,’ he said, lifting his hand to lightly touch the dangling pearls. ‘Have I seen them before?’

  ‘These? Oh, I don’t know…’ Sabina looked away, letting the hair fall to cover her face. Castus frowned. His wife’s display of anger had been genuine, but she was hiding something else, something deeper.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said, dropping his hand. She paused, glanced quickly at him, then looked away again.

  ‘Nothing! I merely… I wanted to dress well – to welcome you home, I suppose…’ She was already fiddling with the earrings, taking them off.

  Castus tried not to let his disquiet show. The memory of the dying tribune’s words came back to him, insistent and probing. Be careful in Treveris… But he could not help detecting something else, an evasive guilt that she was trying hard to conceal. What had she done?

  Put it out of your mind, he told himself. This is your wife, the mother of your child. Forget it – because if you knew, you would have to act.

  He let out a long sigh and forced a smile, then drew her down beside him again.

  ‘What was he like then, Licinius?’ Sabina asked, settling herself against the heavy muscle of his shoulder. Her voice still held a flicker of unease, and she was trying to cover it.

  ‘Fat,’ he told her. ‘Very small eyes. Blue chin. I think his breath was bad.’

  ‘I shan’t envy the emperor’s sister, then, having to marry him.’ He had told her of that too – there seemed little point concealing things now.

  ‘They told me at Sirmium that Diocletian’s died,’ he said.

  ‘The old emperor? I thought he was dead years ago.’

  Castus shook his head. He did not want to say more: that he had revered Diocletian as long as he could remember. The old man had rebuilt the empire, and held it together with iron strength. For years since his abdication he had lived in well-earned luxury at his fortified villa on the Dalmatian coast. Now that he was gone, there was nothing left to keep the rivals that had succeeded him from open war. Worse, some at Licinius’s court had whispered that the old emperor had taken his own life, in despair at the ruin of his imperial dreams.

  ‘If Diocletian’s really gone,’ Sabina said, her breathy whisper warm against his skin, ‘there’s nothing to stop Constantine from marching south in the spring, is there? Against Maxentius?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He sensed the shadows of unease cloud his mind. War had been Castus’s life for so long, it seemed perverse that he should dread the prospect of this one so greatly. But he would be fighting against other Romans, men of the legions who had once been his brothers. He cast the thought aside. He had killed Romans before now, at Massilia, and it had not been hard. He could do it again, he told himself. It was his duty; it was what he was good at.

  ‘Gods, let it be soon!’ Sabina said. She raised herself on her elbow and ran her fingers over the roughness of his cheek. ‘I can’t stand another winter here! Another month, even… I hate this place…’

  ‘But I thought you wanted me to stay here with you always?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, with a playful lilt in her words. ‘If you’re marching to Rome then you can go with my blessing. That’s exactly what I want you to do!’ She leaned closer, breathing into his ear. ‘Go to Rome, my love. Revenge my family! Kill Maxentius for me…’

  Castus frowned, but he was still smiling as he rolled her over onto the bed beneath him.

  Later still, the brazier had died and cold stood over the bed. Castus woke suddenly, stifling a shout. In his mind he still saw the spears of river ice knitting above him, felt the water dragging him down. Brinno was reaching up from the black depths, grinning through broken teeth… Drawing quick breaths, Castus waited for his heartbeat to slow, then pushed the covers away from his body. Sabina lay sleeping, an arm draped across his chest. He slid from her embrace, and she mumbled something but did not wake. Cold tightened his muscles as he crossed to the far corner and drank deeply from the water jug. The bed was too soft for him; he had never got used to plump mattresses. Grimacing, he pulled on his tunic.

  A thin cry came from along the passageway, a baby’s waking wail. Castus left the bedchamber, stepping quietly over the slave sleeping at the threshold. Barefoot on the chilled tiles, he paced across the antechamber and into the passage. There was a flare of light from the courtyard portico, and then a figure appeared at the far end of the passageway: a slave holding a lamp. It was the new wet-nurse, Castus realised, the blonde woman, hurrying towards the child’s room. ‘Elpidia’, Sabina had called her: a slave name. She paused as she saw him, glaring at him for a moment, then moved on.

  Castus passed through the darkened dining room and along the shorter corridor at the far side to a small chamber, lightless and almost bare. A simple wooden bed stood against the far wall; he found it by touch, pulling the rough woollen blankets from the thin mattress and spreading them on the floor. Easing himself down, he stretched out on the hard tiles and pulled the blankets around him.

  Sleep crept over him, comfortable and dreamless. Then, just at the edge of consciousness, he snapped back awake. He remembered where he had seen that blonde slave, the baby’s nutrix, before. Years ago, in a forest in Germania. A valley of burning villages, troops paused beside the path as a file of prisoners went by. She had looked back at him; he remembered the moment with perfect clarity. The expression of proud defiance on her face. The undiluted hatred in her eyes.

  Chapter III

  Ten days later, on the open ground outside the walled city of Divodurum, a thousand men stood in serried ranks beneath a pearl-coloured sky. Low light gleamed off polished iron and burnished bronze. A thousand speartips glittered. A thousand oval shields shone in the greyness, each one freshly painted with the emblem of a red sun-wheel on golden yellow.

  Castus rode slowly along the line of the front rank. Raindrops beaded his gilded helmet, and the breeze pushed at the tall plume of black feathers. When he reached the centre of the line he turned and rode up to the tribunal, slipping from the saddle and climbing onto the turf platform. Gathered behind him were the other senior officers, and the man holding the golden eagle standard of the legion; to either side of the tribunal were trumpeters and heralds. A groom led his horse away as Castus removed his helmet and clasped it beneath his left arm. He saluted the laurel-decked image of the emperor mounted on the standard pole, then turned to face the assembled men of his new command. Feet braced wide, one thumb hooked over his broad leather belt, Castus surveyed the ranks of soldiers. Blankly they stared back at him.

  He coughed quietly to clear his throat, then drew a deep breath and threw back his head.

  ‘Brothers!’ he cried, his voice powering out to the far margins of the field. ‘Men of the Second Britannica... Many of you know me. I served beside you in Britain, and on the Rhine. Many others do not. My name is Aurelius Castus, and by the sacred order of our emperor I have been appointed tribune, to take command of this legion and prepare it for war.’

  Castus paused. He drew from his belt the slim gold-capped ivory scr
oll tube that contained his codicil of appointment from the emperor, the mandate that gave him command of the legion, and held it up for all to see. So many times he had stood through these sorts of addresses, from tribunals all over the empire; but always he had been in the ranks, silently dutiful. Standing up there before so many men, alone in the position of command, was a new and unnerving experience.

  A herald stepped up beside him, taking the ivory tube and unrolling the document. In a flat and sonorous monotone, he began to recite the text of the codicil.

  ‘By the sacred pleasure of our lord and emperor Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus Augustus, Invictus, the most distinguished Aurelius Castus, Ducenarius and Protector, is in honour of his virtues and services advanced to the rank of tribune…’

  As he listened, Castus remembered the ceremony, only five days before, in the huge audience hall of the imperial palace in Treveris. The slow steps he had taken across the polished marble floor, the smoke of incense from the altar where he had made sacrifice, the emperor seated high on his dais, blazing in purple and gold like one of the gods. The promotion was a reward, a recognition for carrying the despatch to Licinius. Only now was Castus beginning to digest its importance.

  ‘The said Aurelius Castus is hereby directed to take upon himself the command of the Second Legion Britannica, now at Divodurum, and with the favour of the gods and the sacred majesty of the emperor observe and execute the regulations of his command in obedience to imperial orders, and in all ways exercise and discipline the troops under his charge to attend the warlike demands of the state, in accordance with the glory and dignity of Roman arms. And for so doing this shall be his mandate.’

  The herald’s voice died away into the damp February air. Castus took the scroll tube from him, then stepped forward to address the soldiers once more.

  ‘War is coming,’ he said in a lower voice. ‘All of you know this. I cannot say whether we will march north, against our enemies beyond the Rhine… or against another foe. But we will be ready for anything that is required of us by our emperor.’

  A ripple went through the ranks, and the speartips wavered like a field of long grass in a breeze. Every man there knew who that other foe would be. How many of them, Castus wondered, shared his misgivings about what lay ahead?

  ‘You have been trained well over the winter,’ he went on. ‘Your campidoctor, Julius Macer, has lived up to his reputation.’ He gestured to the man who stood just behind him on the tribunal, the legion’s chief drill instructor. Macer was a veteran in his mid-fifties, solid and iron-stiff, with white hair and a face the colour of boiled bacon.

  ‘You have done well so far,’ Castus called to the assembled men. ‘Over the coming months you will need to do even better. I will not ask you to do anything that I will not do myself. But by the time we are ordered to march, I want this legion to be the very best in the field army of Gaul. I believe you are the men to make it so.’

  He stepped back smartly, nodding to Macer. The drill instructor took his position at the front of the tribunal, crying out in a rasping yell. ‘Salute to our new tribune, Aurelius Castus!’

  Three times the men threw up their arms, shouting out the salute. Castus stood and gazed into the air above them. He felt dazed.

  Macer the drillmaster stepped down from the tribunal, then turned to face Castus. He gave a smart military salute. ‘Dominus!’ he cried. ‘Permission to commence drill!’

  ‘Proceed,’ Castus told him.

  As the white-haired veteran strode away from him, already barking out orders to the centurions, and the brassy yell of the trumpets and horns sounded across the field, Castus watched the men carefully. This was an important moment, he told himself – he should be attentive, remember what he saw. This was the material of his command.

  Legion II Britannica had only been formed the previous autumn, and had been billeted in Divodurum over the winter. Their first tribune had fallen sick soon afterwards, and Macer had been in effective command ever since. They were not a full legion, officially speaking; II Britannica only had the strength of two traditional cohorts, but there were several new units like this in the field army now. If required, their numbers could be bolstered by new drafts, but the smaller scale made them more flexible and gave them better cohesion than the old temporary detachments.

  At the core of Castus’s command were the men of the two British legions that had crossed the sea to Gaul for the Rhine campaign more than three years before; Castus himself had served with one of them, Legion VI Victrix from Eboracum, and had seen much of the other, II Augusta. As he watched them manoeuvre into their drill formations, he recognised many of the faces in the ranks. All of them had volunteered to remain in Gaul, rather than return to their old garrisons and their old legions. They were veterans, blooded in combat, men he could trust.

  But the rest of Legion II Britannica were new recruits, some of them volunteers and others conscripted. They were an unknown mass; had Macer’s winter of training moulded them into soldiers yet? Most of their centurions had been promoted from other legions of the Gallic army. Solid men, he assumed, but he had known many bad centurions in his time.

  Now he watched them carefully, alert for faults, anxious for failings. He realised that he was holding his breath, the cuirass pressing tight against his chest. He forced himself to exhale, breathe, pay attention.

  Castus had never looked for promotion or high honours, or expected them. In his twenty years in the army he had tried only to do his duty, support his emperor and his comrades, be the best he could and not disgrace his legion or his rank. And yet he had risen all the same. It felt precarious, daunting. Would he have the courage, the clarity of mind to live up to what was expected of him now?

  As the troops reassembled in the ranks, and the trumpets rang out, Castus raised his eyes to the dull silvery gleam showing through the clouds. Unconquered Sun, Light against Darkness… Let me lead these men well. Support me. Do not let me fail them.

  *

  ‘They tell me you were with Galerius on the Persian campaign, dominus,’ Macer said.

  Castus nodded. They were in the main chamber of his quarters, a suite of rooms on the upper floor of an old bathhouse, and his orderly slave, Eumolpius, was prising at the catch that fastened the breastplate of his gilded cuirass. Castus had bought the armour cheaply in Treveris just before he left, and it constricted his torso and rubbed at his neck uncomfortably. The catch came free, and the slave lifted the plates from his body. Castus inhaled gratefully, filling his chest, then swung his arms.

  ‘I was in Persia myself, quite a few years before you,’ the drillmaster went on, propping himself in the alcove of the window. ‘I joined the legions in the days of the deified Aurelian. The Tenth Gemina – best legion there is, or it used to be…’ He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He had a thin mouth, almost lipless, and a voice like grinding gravel. ‘Then I was on the Danube under Probus, and went east into Persia with Carus. After that I fought at the Margus in Diocletian’s army, when he made himself emperor of the world. I came west with Maximian for the Mauretanian campaign, and here I’ve been ever since.’

  Castus nodded again, then took a cup of wine from the table. Forty years, he thought – the drillmaster had served forty years, and never risen above a senior centurion’s rank. Macer, he knew only too well, regarded the legion as his own. No doubt he resented a man twenty years his junior being installed above him. Castus knew that he needed to be careful – Macer could be an ally or an adversary, but he could not allow the older man to claim authority here.

  ‘It’s good to have an officer of such experience,’ he said, his tone stiff and abrasive. ‘I can see the men have responded well. Much of what I saw on the drill field was commendable.’ He placed the cup down and spread his hands on the table.

  ‘Much?’ Macer said, shoving the word through the narrow slot of his mouth.

  Castus sniffed. ‘Your centurions are too keen to use the stick,’ he said. ‘Too often they
push their men from the rear, watching out for stragglers. They should be in front, setting an example.’

  Macer drew a long breath. His ruddy face coloured even more deeply, glowing up into the roots of his white hair. ‘Soldiers need discipline,’ he said.

  ‘You herd goats with a stick. You don’t lead men with one.’

  It was an old saying, but it struck home. Castus could almost feel the heat of the drill instructor’s anger radiating across the room. He noticed his orderly, Eumolpius, staring intently at the corner of the ceiling, and for a moment wondered if he had gone too far. From the portico below the window came the slow tread of a passing sentry, and a trumpet called the change of the watch.

  ‘However,’ Castus said, with deliberate emphasis, ‘aside from that, I trust you to exercise the men as you see fit.’ He leaned forward, his fists braced on the table, and stared at Macer. They had to work together, after all. A moment of stubborn silence, then the older man twitched his shoulder and glanced out of the window again.

  ‘Tell me about the legion,’ Castus said, easing himself down onto one of the stools. He picked up his cup and swirled the wine inside it.

  Macer gave another curt half-shrug. ‘Many of the men are fit and able,’ he said. ‘The troops from the old British legions, I mean. Most have served ten years at least. There’s some rivalry between them – the Augusta men and the Sixth – but I find that it adds a sense of competition. Some of the centurions are good too: Attalus, Blaesus, Rogatianus…’

  Castus knew Rogatianus well; the dark wiry African had joined the Sixth Legion back in Britain, and had fought against the Picts and on the Rhine. His optio, Modestus, was a familiar face too. Castus had known him from his very first days in Eboracum, and had promoted him to his current position. There were others as well, men he knew and recognised. It was a reassurance to have them with him.