by Ian Ross
Once Diogenes and Eumolpius had left him, Castus sat alone at the broad central table, cleaning and polishing his weapons, armour and equipment in the light of a single lamp. Certain tasks he made a habit of doing himself. There was a solitude in command that he had never experienced before, and it made him uneasy. Once again, he found himself thinking of Brinno, and of his old friend Valens who had died in Germania. Even of Sallustius, who had turned out to be a traitor. All those men he had called brothers; all of them dead now. He missed Sabina too, and thought often of his son.
Stifling a yawn, he set aside his kit and wearily unrolled the scroll that Diogenes had given him to read back in Divodurum. He had been working his way through it for months, but had made little progress, and squinting at the letters made his eyes smart. Caesars, it was called, by somebody called Marius Maximus, a collection of biographies of past emperors of Rome. Diogenes had called it ‘essentially frivolous’, whatever that meant, but Castus was finding it dense enough. Originally the secretary had presented him with a children’s book about talking farm animals, and Castus had stared at him until he removed it and fetched this one instead. So far he had battled his way halfway through the life of the emperor Commodus. Bizarre stuff, it seemed, and it felt somehow perverted, somehow treasonous, to be reading it – but Castus suspected that like most books it was almost entirely invented anyway. And he was getting faster at reading, more confident of picking up meaning from the squiggle of ink.
Outside his chamber the night had grown dark, and the noise from the encampment behind the posting station had stilled. Now there was only the distant cry of a sentry, the last hushed voices from the gate to the road. Castus sat back in his chair and rubbed at his brow. He pushed aside the scroll, letting it curl itself closed. No, he thought, the army was the life he had always known, the one he knew best. He picked up his sword, the long spatha he had been given by the emperor when he had been promoted to tribune. Drawing it from the scabbard, he admired the sheen of the lamplight on the patterned steel. The blade had twin fullers, and the gilded hilt was formed in the shape of an eagle’s head. Always before he had trusted to the standard weapons of the legion armoury; he had never owned such a magnificent weapon as this. The symbol of his command. Up near the hilt, set into the metal, were two facing figures in gold, each the size of a thumbprint.
Mars and Victory, Castus thought as he wiped and oiled the blade. He would need the aid of them both soon enough.
*
‘Other baggage animals!’ Diogenes said, with a bemused smile.
The line of beasts came swaying up the road towards the encampment, the heavy pads of their feet beating the dust, their curving necks shaggy with encrusted dirt. Once of them let out a roaring belch as they passed.
‘Camels?’ Castus said. ‘We’re crossing the mountains with camels?’
‘Our emperor intends to outdo the great Hannibal in taking exotic creatures across the Alps,’ Vitalis said. ‘Although, as you can see, they are exceptionally good at carrying heavy loads. Three or four times the burden of a mule.’
Aelius Vitalis was a pale-skinned man with a neat beard and the lean muscles of an athlete. He had been in the Protectores with Castus; now he was a tribunus vacans, a supernumerary officer attached to the army staff. Castus had been glad to meet him so soon after arriving in Cularo.
‘I have never seen one before,’ Diogenes said, watching with great interest. ‘They look quite ungainly. Are they capable of climbing mountains?’
‘These are,’ Vitalis told him. ‘They’ve been specially bred for it. They terrify horses too – we have to keep them away from the cavalry.’
They turned to watch the line of animals trekking on up the road. Castus was no stranger to camels – he had seen them in the east. These had clearly been brought across from Mauretania and up through Spain; the men leading them had the dark skin, short tunics and thickly braided hair of the Mauri.
Castus and his men had arrived at Cularo after eighteen days on the road from Divodurum, to find the army encamped in a broad green pasture set in a bowl of the mountains. The peaks were vivid in the sun, and all across the fields beyond the town were tents and palisades, troops and horses, a vast array glittering in the clear light.
The camel-handlers were not the only strangers in the camp. The field army contained men of all nations, or so it seemed. There were barbarian contingents from Germania, and auxiliaries from Spain and all across Gaul. New troops had come from Britain, and all the legions and cavalry squadrons of the Rhine army had sent their detachments. Even Legion VI Gemina, who had fought against Constantine at Massilia, had sent a pair of cohorts from Spain to join the force, many of the soldiers dressed in antique-looking segmented armour. More than twenty thousand men were encamped across the plain between the surrounding walls of the mountains.
‘Remember Hrocus, the Alamannic king?’ Vitalis asked, the trimmed beard giving his smile a leering quality.
‘The one who hung around the court in Treveris, getting drunk?’
‘That’s him. His son, Hrodomarus, is camped just over the river with eight thousand of his Bucinobantes.’
They walked together away from the road, to their tethered horses. Castus had acquired a strongly built grey mare, a reassuringly placid animal that went by the very unmilitary name of Dapple. Never before had he felt so secure in the saddle, but he still preferred to walk if he could. Mounting up, he sent Diogenes back to the Second Legion camp, then followed Vitalis down towards the river. They were due to attend a meeting of the army staff and officers.
‘They won’t tell us much. The emperor’s still up on the Rhine, in theory at least,’ Vitalis said as they rode. ‘Although we all know he’ll be arriving here any day. Just a ruse to fool the enemy spies, like leaving it so late in the year before starting the invasion. By now Maxentius’ll have decided that Constantine’s campaigning on the Rhine this summer, and he’ll move his forces east to Aquileia, against the feint from Licinius. But that would be thanks to you, heh!’
Castus smiled tightly. He did not like to be reminded of that nightmarish winter journey through the Agri Decumates and across the Danube. Maybe it had aided the emperor’s strategies, but as far as he could see the expedition had not been worth the sacrifice of so many good men.
They rode down to the river and waded across. Just upstream, a party of soldiers were bathing in the shallows, laughing and splashing the cold water into glittering fountains.
‘I saw the emperor, up in Treveris at the beginning of the month,’ Vitalis said. Castus caught the uneasy shift in his voice.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Nothing really,’ Vitalis said quickly. ‘It’s just…’ He dropped his voice. ‘They say he spends too much time with the Christian priests these days. There are so many of them at court, they fill the corridors like flocks of geese… It was Floralia when I was there, and I heard a rumour that the emperor refused to sacrifice to the goddess during the festival. I can’t be sure – I saw nothing unusual myself. But people are worried, brother.’
Castus nodded, frowning. He had been so willing to deny the rumours when he had first heard them from Sabina. Perhaps, he thought, there was some other explanation?
‘We’ll see soon enough,’ he said. ‘There’ll have to be a sacrifice before we march, to purify the army and ask the blessing of the gods. That and the divination by the haruspices. The emperor couldn’t refuse that…’
Briefly he thought of the stories he had heard, stories told in military camps around smoking cook fires, of generals cursed by the heavens, signs of divine displeasure ignored, defeat and death preordained. Anyone refusing the gods their due came to a bad end, it was clear.
‘I saw your wife at Treveris too,’ Vitalis said, ‘during the festival.’
Castus noticed that the ominous tone had not left his friend’s voice.
‘She was with the emperor’s wife and her retinue, I suppose?’
‘No,’ Vit
alis said, peering away towards the distant mountains. ‘Actually she was with a man – a friend, I assume. I didn’t recognise him, but he looked like one of officials of the palace—’
‘Describe this man,’ Castus cut in. It was absurd, he knew, but his heart felt clenched in his chest. Vitalis gazed across at him warily.
‘A little younger than us, well dressed,’ he said. ‘They got into his litter together after the games. All his slaves were wearing the same light blue livery, I noticed. A wealthy man, I’d say.’
Castus turned his head, fighting to keep the look of consternation from his face. His mouth was dry, and there was sweat on his palms as he gripped the reins. He knew that Sabina had her own life in Treveris, of course he knew that – but his friend’s words hinted at more. They hinted at a suspicion that Vitalis dared not express.
*
Two more days passed, and the force assembled at Cularo grew larger still. The men trained at arms, swam in the river, quarrelled and gambled away their donative money, while clouds gathered to wreath the mountains and the temperature dropped. Then, at dawn on the third day, the word passed rapidly though the camp: the emperor had arrived.
Constantine had ridden in under cover of darkness, having travelled by horse relays from the Rhine. All that day the soldiers waited, as if they would get the signal to march at any moment, but the emperor was secreted with his senior officers and army commanders. Another night went by, the talk around the fires in the encampment alternately loud and bragging, then subdued by anxious thoughts. Finally, on a damp grey dawn with a feel of thunder in the air, the trumpets sounded the assembly.
Castus led his men out in their finest array, fully armoured in gleaming metal, best parade tunics and uncovered shields. Marching in regular step, the legion followed the road across the plain towards the assembly field with their standards proudly displayed before them. The eagle was carried by a massive young man called Antoninus, one of the tallest and broadest soldiers in the army. Walking beside him, Castus felt almost puny by comparison.
All across the plain he could see the dispersed units of the field army converging. It was a bold sight, enough to stir the blood. Twenty-five thousand of the best fighting men in the world, primed for a campaign that would rival anything from history; or so the soldiers had been telling each other. Troops of cavalry cantered along the road, passing the marching infantrymen. Castus identified the Equites Dalmatae and Mauri, the Scutarii and Sagittarii, plus other units he had not seen before. The barbarian contingents were roaring out their warrior ballads, waving their spears as they sang. Some of them already appeared to be drunk.
At the far side of the field, in front of the imperial encampment, a high tribunal had been raised, built of stacked turf in the traditional way. Behind it the mountains were a towering rampart of gloomy stone, their peaks lost in the low cloud. Castus marched his men into position, then left Macer in command as he strode forward to the base of the tribunal to stand with the other officers. Turning, he looked back at the formations of troops that seemed to fill the plain between the rivers and the mountains.
Trumpets rang out, incense swirled in the damp heavy air, and a ripple went through the massed ranks as the emperor ascended the tribunal. Castus snatched a glance back over his shoulder. The platform above him was ringed with standards, the golden eagles of the legions and the banners of the cavalry mingled with the dracos and flags of the other contingents. In front of the standards stood the chiefs of the civilian staff and the senior army officers. All the military men were dressed in burnished gold cuirasses and white cloaks, the civilians in heavily embroidered capes and tunics. But his eye was drawn to the figure standing alone at the front of the tribunal, dressed in a simple purple cloak. Constantine looked gaunt, his face raw and his eyes rimmed with red. He stood stiffly, glaring out over the ranks of his army. Then he raised his hand.
‘Fellow soldiers!’ the emperor cried, and his voice was hard and abrasive in the morning haze. ‘Fellow soldiers… I see before me an invincible army! I see before me an army that has conquered the wild tribes of Germania and Britain, which has crushed rebellion here in Gaul, which has restored security to our frontiers and peace to our provinces!’
His shout echoed slightly as he paused, a faint boom from the mountains.
‘I see men conscious of so many glories, so many victories, and yet eager for more. I tell you now, the hour has come for you to surpass yourselves!’
A stir went through the ranks, like the low sigh of wind between the high peaks.
‘Brothers, Italy is oppressed by a cruel tyranny! Rome herself, the mistress of nations, mother of our empire and centre of our world, is held captive by a monster who calls himself emperor! This man, this weak and impious man, has tried to blacken the name of Rome with his crimes. He has tried to extinguish the light of the world!
‘Just as his father rose up in treacherous revolt against me, so has this man – whose name is too shameful to mention – committed treason against us all with his villainous reign… My friends, I cannot allow these crimes to go unpunished! Today, by the divine will and the sacred command of heaven, we begin a just war, a war of righteous liberation!’
Cheers burst from the assembled troops, the drumming rattle of spears against shields, the rising chant of Constantine, Constantine… Castus felt his heart swell in his chest, but already the centurions were calling for silence. The emperor had thrown back his cape to reveal the armour beneath, and raised his hand once more.
‘Let no man say,’ he shouted, his voice sounding ragged now, the words cracking, ‘that I wished for this fight, or sought it! Instead, as the heavens are my witness, I have tried for months and for years to reason with this man, to persuade him from his evil course. But one cannot reason with insanity. So, enough false promises! Enough worthless pacts! No longer can I regard with indifference the mutilation of Italy. The honour of Rome imposes this war upon us… Our frontiers are secured behind us, the Rhine strongly guarded by your fellow troops. The enemy has a great army, but his soldiers are raw conscripts, weak and demoralised. Let the mountains ahead of us be the gateway to victory! Follow me, and the thunderbolt of your valour shall strike the foe and scatter him, and the road to Rome shall be open to our glory!’
‘Constantine! Constantine! Constantine...!’
This time the cries of acclamation were universal: the whole army setting up the chant, the clashing of weapons almost overwhelming. Through it, Castus could make out the chilling war cries of the barbarians, and even the roaring of the camels. Trumpets brayed, horns blared and cymbals clashed, and in a reeking cloud of incense the priests began to lead the sacrificial animals in the ritual procession around the perimeter of the assembly.
As the priests made their way along the far side of the field, Castus let his eye wander over the groups of officers and officials gathered at the base of the tribunal. He gave a brief nod of greeting to those he recognised, but there were a great many he did not. Then he saw one face in particular, and a flush of anger rose through him. The ugly bowl-cut hair and thin, colourless features would ordinarily be forgettable, but Castus knew them only too well; Julius Nigrinus, tribune of the Schola Notariorum, had crossed his path too many times. Clamping his jaw tight, Castus forced himself to look away. With any luck, he thought, the man had not noticed him, and would not be accompanying the army into Italy. As far as Castus was concerned, he was quite welcome to go and work at his sordid intrigues elsewhere.
The procession of priests had circled the assembly, and they were leading their animals up the ramp onto the tribunal, where an altar was already smoking in readiness for the sacrifice. There were three animals, as tradition decreed: a pig, a sheep and a bull. The bull plodded along placidly enough, tossing the flower garlands that decked its horns. The pig too appeared unmoved by the noise and activity, but the sheep was terrified and stubborn, and the priests had to haul it along by force. Already a bad omen, Castus thought, then hastily tried to rever
se the observation. Even thinking about bad omens was a bad omen – these things were sent by the gods. He struggled to clear his mind.
Up on the tribunal the emperor stood ready, freshly dressed in his ceremonial robe. The priests gathered around him in the smoke from the altar, and one by one the animals were herded forward. From where he was standing Castus could not make out what was happening, but he heard the thud of the axe and smelled the rich iron scent of the fresh blood. As each victim died a grunting sigh came from the assembled troops.
Now the haruspices moved in, their white robes stirring around them. They would be removing the internal organs of the animals for inspection, Castus knew. He had seen it done many times before. Next they would pronounce the message they had read in the bloodied chunks of flesh. Castus felt no worry there – he had never known them say anything negative. It was impious, but he had always assumed they were paid not to. The only true omens came from the sky, Castus had always believed.
There was a lengthy pause. Smoke eddied across the raised tribunal, and Castus could hear the troops beginning to shift and mutter. Here and there a centurion hissed for silence.
‘What’s happening?’ Castus asked from the side of his mouth. He dared not turn and look, not now. Whispers were passing between the men gathered beside him.
‘The omens are bad!’ Vitalis said under his breath. His face looked bone white. ‘The diviners say the army must not cross the mountains!’
This time Castus did look back, craning his neck to see the emperor stalking down the ramp from the tribunal, a streak of blood on his white robe. Behind him, the priests were still gathered in the smoke from the altar around the carcasses of the sacrificial animals, several of them bloodied to the elbows. The mutterings from the troops were gathering to a low roar of suppressed sound.
‘Look at them!’ Vitalis said in a harsh whisper, his mouth twisting. Castus followed his glance, and saw a group of civilians gathered at the far side of the field. They looked like priests, most them with grey beards.
