by Ian Ross
‘Christians,’ Vitalis hissed. ‘They must be behind this – them or agents of the enemy…’
But now there was motion up on the tribunal. Aurelius Evander, Commander of the Field Army of Gaul, strode to the front and raised his arms for silence. Down in the ranks the centurions were yelling, the tumult of voices dying away, every man eager to know what would happen now.
‘Soldiers of Rome!’ Evander cried in a high and carrying voice. ‘In the name of our lord and emperor, Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus, Unconquered Augustus, I declare these omens to be void! Officers – prepare your men. The army will march, and we shall be victorious! Our mandate is granted by the Divine Will, and the command of heaven!’
The blood from the sacrificial victims was flowing across the tribunal now, running down the ramp in a red torrent as Evander turned and stretched his arms out to the skies, to the faint morning glow from the west. But the sun was hidden by cloud, and just for a moment it appeared that the commander was raising his arms in supplication towards Italy, towards the enemy.
Thunder rolled among the peaks, and it started to rain.
Chapter V
The stone road scaled the side of the mountain, rising in steep inclines and dogleg bends around the rocky outcrops and the stands of high pine. On one side were sheer cliff walls and slopes of dry scree; on the other the ground fell away into a huge gulf of empty air.
Reining in his horse, Castus stood at the edge of the road while the troops climbed past him. Normally he was terrified of heights, but the view before him was so vast it appeared unreal. The air was clear and bright up here, and he felt almost as if he could reach out across the valley and touch the far peaks, run his fingers over the bristle of dark pines and the weathered grey crags of the mountains.
Looking down, he saw the column of soldiers, mules and horses climbing the road below him, a long brown snake coiling up out of the valley. There was a sharp wind in the mountains, but here in the lee of the cliff the sun was hot on his face. The men climbing up the track were sweating hard; Castus knew how they felt – the ache of legs and the burn of lungs. He had walked with them most of the way, but had ridden up to the head of the column to check the camp ground at Druantium, just below the summit of the pass.
This was the tenth day in the mountains, and the going was good. They had marched out of Cularo under heavy cloud and flurries of rain, following a river valley that threaded its way between massive walls of looming rock. They had abandoned the last of the wheeled transport there, and also the mass of camp followers – traders, gamblers, prostitutes and beggars – that trailed any army like weed on the hull of a seagoing ship. They were a fighting force now.
The troops had been sullen at first, demoralised after the poor omens given by the haruspices. But no god had swept them from the high passes, or barred their way with landslides or unseasonal snowdrifts, and a few days later they had crossed the first high pass and dropped down to the fortress of Brigantio, and the spirits of the army had been restored. There was nothing like solid regular marching, Castus thought, to sweat the darkness from a man’s soul.
From the next bend below him he heard the gargling roar of a camel, and a moment later spotted four of the beasts climbing ponderously up the road towards him, each led by a tough, barefoot Moorish handler. The camels had quickly proved their worth; for all their bizarre appearance, they were hardy and apparently indomitable, plodding steadily up the stony slopes. Each soldier carried seventeen days’ rations in a sack slung around his body, but their waterskins could never hold enough for them to drink. The camels carried heavy panniers of water, and the soldiers had soon come to rely on them.
Castus felt his horse tremble as the camels approached; the grey mare blew and tossed her mane, trying to back up further onto the precarious verge. Castus leaned forward and rubbed at her neck. ‘Don’t worry, Dapple,’ he muttered. ‘They’re ugly, but they won’t hurt you.’
The camels climbed past, loping steadily upwards with the panniers flapping and slopping at their sides. Behind them came a column of infantry, red-faced and squinting in the bright sun. Castus glanced down again, looking for the position of his own legion on the road below. Coming round the bend directly beneath him he saw a party of officials, half of them on foot, all of them perspiring freely. He smiled – good to see the civilians working up a sweat – but just as he was about to look away he picked out the figure riding a pony at the back of the group. He grimaced, cleared his throat and spat from the saddle. It seemed the notary Nigrinus was accompanying the army after all.
He tugged on the reins and set Dapple’s head downhill, letting the horse pick her way down the narrow verge clear of the marching column.
*
‘Are you aware, dominus,’ Diogenes said, ‘that the road we’ve been following was originally built by the demigod Hercules?’
‘Eh?’ Castus replied. His secretary was sitting cross-legged in the scant light of a cooking fire, bent over the tablet in his lap to shield it from the wind. ‘Did you read that in a book?’
‘Oh, no, it’s a well-known story. Apparently he came this way after stealing the cattle of Geryon, down in Iberia.’
Castus raised his eyebrows, then finished the last of his salt pork and hardtack and set his dish down on the springy turf. They were sitting outside his tent, a more capacious structure than Castus had used as a centurion. All around them, the night was filled with the glimmer of fires.
The army was camped on the broad mountain pastures just below the summit of the pass; there was a cold hard wind blowing from the west, and the fires trailed sparks out into the darkness. High above them to the east, the peak of Mons Matrona showed black against the night sky. A few last traces of snow on the summit glowed like cold blue scars.
‘You should sleep,’ Castus told Diogenes. Most of the other men had already crawled into their tents, exhausted after the long day’s climb. He gulped vinegar wine from his canteen, swilling the last scraps of food from his teeth. ‘What are you doing anyway? Writing letters?’
Castus had made no more progress with Marius Maximus and his Caesars. Too many other things to do to think about books. But the sight of the secretary’s rapid, able scratching was fascinating all the same. Behind him, the wind heaved at the tent and the guy-ropes groaned.
‘Well,’ Diogenes said, with a slight cough of embarrassment, ‘I’m actually making a few notes for a treatise I intend to write.’
‘Really?’ Castus said, doubtful. Diogenes had an endless ability to perplex him.
‘Yes. I’m considering a scheme for the ideal form of government… A plan for reordering the state, to maximise the happiness of the multitude and end all war.’
Castus snorted a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t say that kind of thing too loud around here!’
‘Why?’ Diogenes said, dropping into a whisper. He glanced up at the night sky, then gave a rueful smile. ‘Might the gods overhear me?’
‘No, soldiers might overhear you. If you find a way to end all war, we’ll be out of a job!’
‘Ah, yes,’ the secretary muttered. ‘I should remember the fate of Probus…’
Castus shook his head, bemused, then stood up from the fire. His thigh muscles still ached from his long ride that day, and he needed exercise before sleeping. Eumolpius climbed wearily to his feet, but Castus gestured for the orderly to stay where he was. ‘Get some rest,’ he told the young slave as he threw his cloak around him. ‘I’m taking a walk…’
Pacing away from the fire, he made his way between the tent lines of his legion. Here and there he greeted one of the centurions, or one of the small parties still gathered around the fires, talking in hushed, weary voices. Once he had checked that all was well, he carried on walking. Out past the horse lines, the mule corral and the enclosure where the camels were tethered, he moved into the deeper night. A sentry called a challenge, and he gave the response.
It was cold, and away from the glow of the fires the sky appe
ared huge and very black, the stars brilliant and numerous between the scudding clouds. Castus tipped back his head and filled his lungs with the clean thin air. Truly he felt as if he were standing on the roof of the world.
Still he felt a clawing doubt in his mind. Once again he remembered Vitalis’s comment about Sabina. Jealousy was an entirely new experience for Castus; it left him unsettled, pained, disgusted with himself. But the thought of his wife in Treveris, enjoying herself with her well-dressed friend, was a constant goad… It was the way she had been raised, he supposed, the manners of the aristocracy; Sabina had been a married woman when Castus had first met her, after all. No, there was nothing he could do about it, he knew that. Not yet.
Shrugging, he pulled his cloak tighter around his body and turned back towards the spark-trails flung by the scattered fires. As he neared his own tent lines, he saw a figure running from the darkness. His heard his own name called.
‘What is it?’
‘Tribune Castus?’ the messenger said. ‘Dominus, you’re requested to report to the quarters of comes rei militaris Aurelius Evander…’
‘Lead the way,’ Castus told him.
Moving fast, they strode through the smoky gloom of the troop encampments to the imperial enclosure on the level ground at the head of the valley. In contrast to the nocturnal quiet of the rest of the camp, the enclosure was still busy, the tents brightly lit from within. The messenger led Castus through the lines of mounted guards and Protectores, past the great white pavilion that housed the emperor, then threw aside the flap of one of the large tents beyond.
Castus stepped into lamplit warmth and the smell of leather and straw matting. There was a folding table at the rear of the space, with secretaries and slaves working. Other men, orderlies and supernumerary officers, came and went. The wind shoved at the tent walls, making the leather boom and the lamp flames waver.
‘Tribune,’ said a voice from the shadows. ‘Come in and sit down.’ Aurelius Evander, Commander of the Field Army of Gaul, was seated on a stool beside the brazier, a cup in his hand. Castus saluted, then lowered himself onto the other stool. He had known Evander back in Treveris, although with the difference in rank he had never felt close to the man.
‘Have some wine,’ the commander said, taking a cup from the side table. ‘Better than the stuff your soldiers drink, I’m sure. I had it lugged up the mountain by camel, if you can believe it!’
Castus thanked him, and sipped politely. He knew he had not been brought here to drink wine. Evander was in his late forties, with tightly curled iron-grey hair and a look of vain self-approval. He was brisk, confident, keen on his own importance, but not a bad commander from what Castus had heard.
‘Tomorrow,’ Evander said, with no further preamble, ‘we commence our advance down the passes into Italy. The enemy will certainly have fortified posts along the way, with signal beacons to send warning of attackers. They may have blocked the narrower passages, or set ambushes. I intend, therefore, to send a small, lightly equipped force ahead of the main army to clear and secure the road.’
Castus nodded. Sensible – he would have done the same himself.
‘Obviously it’s vital that the enemy positions are taken quickly. If any of the signal fires are lit, our advantage of surprise will be lost. Tribune, I want your Second Britannica to form the core of the advance guard, with you in overall command.’
‘Thank you, dominus,’ Castus said. He had not been expecting this.
‘You’ll have exploratores going ahead of you, of course, to scout the route. Your men will march unarmoured and lightly armed, but they should carry picks and axes in case there are barricades or fortified places in the way. I saw them on the march up here. They looked strong – you have a formidable drillmaster, I believe.’
‘Julius Macer, dominus. He… has quite a bit of vinegar in his blood.’
Evander nodded, pursing his lips. ‘Be careful he doesn’t tax them too hard. You drive goats with a stick, not men.’
Castus felt a prickle of annoyance up his spine, remembering that he had used that old phrase himself. ‘Yes, dominus, I’ll make sure of that.’
‘At least it seems that the business of the omens at Cularo has been forgotten,’ Evander said. ‘We must put our trust in the protecting gods, eh?’
Castus nodded dutifully and put down the cup, ready to be dismissed. As he did so, he noticed the strange stillness that had come over everyone in the tent. Evander stood up, then dropped to one knee. The secretaries and orderlies were doing the same. Castus glanced around, lowering his eyes quickly. All he saw was a pair of fine red leather shoes with jewelled straps, then he was kneeling as well.
‘On your feet,’ the emperor said, addressing the gathering. ‘We’re not at court now.’ He had slipped into the tent without announcement, dressed in a simple soldier’s cloak and hood.
Evander stood up and saluted, and the rest followed his lead. Constantine acknowledged the salutes with a raised hand. Then he looked around, and his gaze came to rest on Castus.
‘I know you, do I not?’ he said. ‘Aurelius Castus, I think.’
Castus managed a curt nod. The emperor smiled and slapped a hand onto his shoulder. ‘Evander here tells me your men will be forging our path down the mountains tomorrow.’ His grip tightened. ‘Clear out their strongholds, tribune,’ he said gravely. ‘Don’t let our enemies know we’re coming.’
‘I will, dominus.’ Castus felt a swell of pride filling his body. Not for himself, but for his men. His legion.
‘Well, then. Are you ready for war?’
‘Ready,’ Castus said, and could not help grinning.
*
The valley was in shadow, but the peaks of the mountains were still blazing in the evening sun. Crouching in the cover of the trees, Castus stared down at the patchy grey-green fields and the stony stream bed crossing the valley floor below him.
‘You see it, dominus?’ the exarch said. ‘Up to the right, on the slope above the bridge.’
Castus nodded. ‘I see it now.’
The road descended a steep wooded ravine onto the flatter ground beside the stream, crossing the low stone bridge before angling to the left to follow the valley. High rocky slopes on all sides. Set above the angle of the road was a small fortification, little more than a high stone curtain wall enclosing some huts. As Castus watched, a heavy door in the wall swung open and a man stepped out. Military boots and leggings, a round fur cap: a soldier, but he wore no armour and gave no impression of vigilance. With a spear over his shoulder he strolled down to the stream and vanished behind some scrubby bushes.
‘Now look up further, on top of the rocky outcrop there, above the trees.’
The exarch and his small unit of exploratores had scouted this position already, but they had kept carefully out of sight of the men at the guard-post. Castus knew that they had captured a few stray watchmen further up the valley – it was best not ask what had happened to them – but this was the first inhabited place the exarch and his men had encountered since descending the pass that morning.
Castus lifted his gaze from the fortification, up the thickly wooded slope to the crest of the outcrop overlooking the road. This time he saw it at once: a stone and timber watchtower, jutting up above the treetops. He could even make out the shape of the sentry standing on the platform at the top. No doubt they had a well-laid signal beacon up there too, ready to be fired.
‘How many men?’ Castus asked.
‘My scouts reckon six up in the watchtower, dominus. Probably twice as many in the burgus down below.’
Castus grunted. He had brought two centuries of his legionaries down the ravine with him, and there were as many again of the Brisigavi, plus a score of exploratores. This little garrison of burgarii stood no chance against them, but all the enemy needed to do was fire their signal beacon and the fight was lost. Shoving his way backwards over the pelt of pine needles, Castus crawled between the trees and rejoined his men.
; ‘There’s no way to slip around behind them in any force,’ he said. ‘So we have to take them head on. First we need to deal with that signal tower and make sure they can’t send a message down the valley. Then we have to seal the road beyond their post, so their runners can’t get through. Once that’s done, we can move.’
Nods from his men, quiet and confident. Rogatianus was leading one of the centuries, with Attalus, one of Macer’s protégés, in charge of the other.
‘Attalus,’ Castus said, ‘take half your men and work along the far side of the valley. Keep inside the tree cover and make sure you’re not seen. When you’re past the burgus, drop down and cross the river. Hold a position there and stop anyone trying to escape that way. Got it?’
The centurion casually shrugged one shoulder. He was a strongly built man with short-cropped black stubble dug into his hollow cheeks. Castus did not like him, but he led his men effectively.
‘Get moving, then.’
Attalus and his group of men filed away down the slope towards the road. A short distance away, a group of Germanic auxilia, Alamannic warriors of the Brisigavi, squatted in the bushes. They reminded Castus of the guides that had led his party through the wilderness that last winter, and then deserted them. He hissed at their leader, and he raised his spear in greeting.
‘I need you to take your warriors up through the trees above the burgus,’ Castus said when the leader joined him. ‘Don’t break cover. You need to surround the signal tower, then close in and take it without causing any disturbance. Make sure nobody up there warns the others below. When the tower’s yours, wave a branch from the rampart.’
‘I understand, my friend,’ the Alamannic leader said, and showed his crooked teeth in a wide grin. ‘It’s like you say: We do what is told, and for the commands we are ready.’
Castus straightened up, watching as the hooded warriors slipped silently across the hillside between the pines.
