Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  At the arched exit gate the crowd was thick. Castus forced his way into it, using his bulk to forge a way through. Several men pushed back against him, or turned with angry stares, but one look at his expression and the raw, glowering scar twisted into his lower jaw and they moved aside. A woman with dangling earrings and a heavily powdered face screeched as he shoved past her; he heard her spit, and mumbled an apology over his shoulder. Then he was through the arch and into the dense echoing gloom beneath the stalls.

  After the bright sunlight, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, but Castus kept moving. He shouldered his way past a knot of men – one swung a punch at him and he swatted it aside – and reached the broad stone steps. Down the flights, he doubled the corner and paced quickly across the entrance hall of the stadium. There was no flash of blue between the bodies, no sign of the man in the dark cape. Castus cursed under his breath as he moved towards the big arches that led outside: the man must have passed through the entrance hall much quicker than he had anticipated.

  Squinting across the sunlit plaza on the far side of the arches, he saw the waiting litter at once. Black wood, sky-blue drapes pulled closed all around. More slaves in livery surrounded it on all sides, keeping back the crowds that spilled from the exit gates of the circus.

  Castus hesitated for a moment, drawing back against the warm stones of the wall. He was scanning the crowd for his quarry, but there was no sign of him. Probably he had already left the circus, and was inside the litter now. Surely the same litter, Castus realised, that Vitalis had seen Sabina getting into, back in Treveris…

  He walked fast across the plaza, steering between the thronging people. One of the liveried slaves, a big man with a shaved head, folded his arms across his chest as he noticed Castus approaching. He drew himself up, squaring his shoulders.

  ‘I want to talk to your master,’ Castus said, stepping in close to the big slave.

  ‘Got an appointment?’ the slave replied. Castus was not sure if he was joking.

  ‘I don’t need one.’ He spat from the corner of his mouth, then raised his staff, pointing to the gold torque he wore at his neck. The slave’s expression did not waver. Castus’s intention had been only to look at the man he was following, to find out his identity; he had been determined, but still calm and detached. Now, suddenly, he was angry. The scar on his jaw flared hot, and he felt the quickening of his blood. Other slaves were joining the shaven-headed man now, drawn by the confrontation. One blow in the face with the head of his staff, Castus thought, and the big man would go down; the slave on the right, the one with the stye in his eye, was no threat, the other he could manage, and then… He pictured himself ripping aside the drapes of the litter…

  ‘Tribune Aurelius Castus!’ a voice cried. Castus saw the big slave’s eyes flick to the left, then drop in deference as he stepped back. He turned, and the man in the dark cape was directly behind him.

  He was not alone. At his shoulder walked Aurelius Evander, commander of the field army, with a dozen dismounted troopers of the Schola Scutariorum surrounding them both. It was Evander who had greeted him.

  ‘Excellency,’ Castus said, touching his brow. The two men had been talking as they approached, and did not appear to have overheard his exchange with the big slave.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a man for the races, tribune,’ Evander said. ‘A fine victory for the Greens!’

  Castus could only reply with a tight nod. The man beside Evander looked familiar now; Castus was sure he had seen him before. His brooch was set with jewels, and the heavy gold ring on his finger was shaped like a pair of leopards clutching a pearl. Not a man to fear the crowd, clearly.

  ‘Castus here is one of the heroes of Segusio, and the battle on the road to Taurinum,’ Evander was explaining to the man with an easy smile. ‘It’s good to see him recovered from his wound!’

  The man in the dark cape did not speak, but he peered at Castus with a cool appraising glance, the most subtle of smiles. I know you, the look said.

  ‘And may I introduce,’ Evander said to Castus, gesturing to the man, ‘his excellency Claudianus Lepidus, just arrived from Treveris. Lepidus is to be our new Master of Dispositions…’

  Yes, Castus thought, he had surely seen this man before. Back at Treveris, when he had served in the Protectores: this Lepidus would have been one of the horde of officials and minor ministers who had passed continually through the marble halls, begging attendance upon the emperor. Castus had always tended to ignore civilians, but he recalled the man’s face now, that hawkish profile and glossy receding hair. Clearly the man had done well for himself. Lepidus was still looking at him – the glance had lasted only a couple of heartbeats, but it was eloquent in its disdain.

  Castus breathed in slowly. He wanted to kill this man, and Lepidus knew it, and did not care.

  ‘Well, we must go,’ Evander declared, taking the man by the arm and motioning towards the litter. ‘Tribune, will you join us for dinner later, perhaps? I have some particularly fine squid, sent up from Genua…’

  ‘Another time, excellency,’ Castus managed to say. But Evander was already walking away, the bodyguard forming around him and Lepidus. They crossed to the litter, and one of the slaves drew aside the sky-blue drapes for them to climb inside.

  Castus watched them depart, motionless in the plaza with the crowd eddying around him. He was burning with an intense feeling of humiliation. The man had as good as challenged him. And there was nothing – nothing whatsoever – that Castus could do to respond.

  *

  ‘I still don’t believe it,’ Vitalis was saying, pacing across the mosaic floor of the reception chamber. ‘I mean, I suspected it… but to have it happen, or not happen…’ The single lamp on the table threw his shadow wheeling around the painted walls. Castus just shrugged.

  ‘Hold still, please, dominus,’ Eumolpius muttered in his usual doleful tone. ‘This buckle is rather tight…’ The slave hissed between his teeth, then gave a last tug at the leather strap and stood back.

  Castus raised his right hand. He bent his elbow, and heard the faintest whisper of polished metal, a slight creak of leather. His arm gleamed in burnished bronze, articulated curves of metal armouring him from wrist to elbow. A manica, it was called; Castus had seen them often enough, but had never worn one himself. It was lighter than he had expected, and not at all cumbersome. Flexing his arm, he clenched his fist a few times, then strode to the table and drew his sword. Two slashes and a stab at the air: the armour did not hinder his movements.

  ‘He was there,’ Vitalis was saying, still pacing near the door. ‘We all saw him – he stood before the altar of the god with his head covered, looking like he was praying or thinking… He made the supplication of wine and incense, but when the sacrificial victims were led in, he turned and walked out of the temple. Like he was offended by the sight of them. It was… unseemly.’

  ‘Completely,’ Castus said. He shared Vitalis’s dismay. But the emperor’s failure to sacrifice to Apollo that morning was only further darkening his already black mood. The memory of his encounter with Lepidus the day before had turned ceaselessly in his mind. Castus had murdered the man a hundred times, but the thought did nothing to ease the deep anguish of his humiliation. He is my wife’s lover. But, no, he had no proof, no evidence at all… Only the knowledge in the man’s eyes, the certainty of that challenge.

  ‘Perhaps, dominus, you would like to try the new cuirass as well?’ Eumolpius said. ‘I’m not sure if the shoulder armour will work with it…’

  Castus nodded. The muscled cuirass was plain polished bronze, but large enough to fit his frame. Like the manica, and a great deal more weapons and armour, it had come from the garrison arsenal of Mediolanum, seized when the city surrendered. Diogenes had got in there quickly, and had managed to requisition enough to outfit sixty of Castus’s front-line troops with plate cuirasses. Several of the other units had done the same, but when Legion II Britannica next took the field, the
y would be arrayed like gods.

  ‘The helmet too?’ Eumolpius said, as he fitted the two halves of the cuirass around Castus’s torso and buckled the straps. ‘I managed to find an armourer in the city to repair the buckled cheek-piece, and a goldsmith to regild it, although it’s not an exact match…’

  ‘Bring it,’ Castus said, holding out his hand. For an army slave, Eumolpius made a bizarrely efficient orderly. It was almost unnatural.

  While the slave fetched his helmet, he swung his arms, inhaled and filled his chest. The cuirass, and the linen arming vest beneath it with fringes of straps at waist and shoulder, felt tight. But it weighed less than a scale hauberk, he could breathe freely, and the shoulder-piece of the manica moved easily when he lifted and turned his arm. Eumolpius handed him the helmet and Castus put it on carefully, wincing as the cheek-plate touched his scar. But he felt no stab of pain.

  ‘You look like Mars descended to the earth,’ Vitalis said, leaning against the doorframe. ‘You should find a mirror and admire yourself, brother!’

  Castus gave him a crooked smile, then gestured to the slave to help him off with the armour. Vitalis had asked him what had happened after they had left the circus the day before, but Castus had told him little. He lost the man in the crowd, he said. Even to speak of it was painful, and felt strangely demeaning.

  And soon Sabina would be joining him. Fausta and her retinue had already crossed the mountains, and were at Taurinum; Sabina, surely, was travelling with them. At least, Castus thought, she would approve of the accommodation: this requisitioned townhouse was larger, if older, than the one he rented in Treveris. It had a large pillared central courtyard, several reception chambers and a smaller private garden to one side. There was little furniture – Castus slept on the floor on his bedroll – but that could be arranged.

  The thought of seeing his wife again, of confronting her about her relations with Lepidus, was unnerving. Castus had considered questioning the procurator, Metrodorus, about it beforehand, but the idea felt dirty and underhand. Far better to speak to her directly. And then what? If she confessed to infidelity he would be obliged to act, it was the law: he must divorce her, denounce her, she must be punished. It would be a public disgrace; it would be shameful. The thought of losing Sabina, and the idea that he might be accusing her unjustly, ached in his bones. Castus had no proof of his wife’s guilt, and part of him desperately wanted to disbelieve it.

  Vitalis had left, and Castus was sitting alone when Diogenes tapped at the doorframe, cleared his throat and saluted.

  ‘Macer’s here, dominus. With Attalus and the three prisoners.’

  Castus groaned wearily. His head was aching, the side of his face itched furiously, and mosquitoes were whining in his ears. Mediolanum might be the Queen of the Plains, but it was also the kingdom of the mosquito. He swatted at his neck, clapped at the air and then studied his palm. No trace of blood.

  ‘Show them in,’ he said.

  There had been a handful of disciplinary cases since the legion had taken up billets in the city. Not surprising: off-duty soldiers, civilians and lots of alcohol were a poor mix. Castus had ordered fatigue duty and ration cuts: he had never been fond of harsh discipline, whatever Macer advised, and the memory of the three men flogged and executed on the drill field a few days before was still fresh in his mind.

  He seated himself heavily on his folding stool, facing the door, as Macer and the other men marched in from the courtyard. The three accused were from Attalus’s century, and their centurion was accompanying them. All wore their tunics unbelted, and had suitably woeful expressions.

  ‘Dominus,’ Macer declared, standing stiffly with his baton clasped in both hands. ‘Three soldiers presented for judgment! Scutio, Trocundus and Gaetulicus, all from the century of Attalus.’

  Castus gazed wearily at the three men. Trocundus he knew: a veteran. The other two were newer recruits. ‘What are they accused of?’

  ‘Dominus,’ said Macer, gravel in his voice, ‘the owner of their lodgings accuses them of raping his wife.’

  ‘All three of them?’

  Macer nodded.

  Attalus stepped forward, looking surly. In a low voice, the centurion outlined the men’s exemplary service, their clean record, their military excellence. Trocundus had fought in the front line at the battle on the road to Taurinum; Gaetulicus had scaled one of the assault ladders at Segusio.

  Castus felt the pressure massing in his head. His neck ached, and he wanted a drink of water. ‘What have you got to say for yourselves?’ he asked the accused men.

  ‘Dominus,’ said the older one, Trocundus. Clearly the leader of the trio. ‘It wasn’t like the man says. It wasn’t rape, I mean.’

  ‘What was it?’ Castus felt his knee jumping. He forced himself to breathe slowly.

  ‘She wanted us to do it!’ the second man said. Scutio. With a jolt of appalled disbelief, Castus noticed that the man was trying to hide a smirk.

  ‘Explain yourself.’ It was all he could do the force the words out. Macer was glaring at him; Castus saw the muscle bunching in the drillmaster’s jaw, his knuckles tight as he gripped his baton.

  ‘Well, dominus, you could tell… She was always showing herself off, wearing these thin gowns that let you see everything…’

  The third man was smiling to himself now. Even Attalus looked vaguely amused. Only Trocundus maintained his sober grimace.

  ‘You could tell she wasn’t getting any from her husband,’ Scutio said, with something like a wink. ‘Only natural she goes looking for it elsewhere. You know how it is, dominus! You leave women alone and they go wandering...’

  Castus drew a long breath. Then he stood up sharply, crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed Scutio by the throat and slammed him back against the wall. With one blow he broke the man’s nose with the side of his hand. Blood spattered on the painted plaster.

  Behind him he could hear Macer’s hiss of surprise. The soldier named Gaetulicus let out a fearful whine. Castus rammed Scutio’s head against the wall again.

  ‘You don’t talk like that to me,’ he said quietly. Then he released the man, letting him slide to the floor.

  Turning on his heel, Castus seized Trocundus by the neck of his tunic, then kicked his leg out from under him. Trocundus dropped and lay on his back, hands lifted before him, eyes wide.

  ‘Tribune!’ Attalus cried. ‘This isn’t right…’

  Castus just glanced at him as he strode back to the table. He felt very calm, sure of himself, as he did in the heat of battle. He picked up his sword and drew the blade from the scabbard, then turned to face the accused men. He could smell urine; one of them had pissed in his breeches.

  ‘Dominus,’ said Macer in an urgent growl. ‘Control yourself.’

  ‘You three’ – Castus pointed the sword at the three rapists – ‘have disgraced the name of soldiers.’ He realised he was shouting – his words echoed back from the far wall. ‘You deserve the most severe penalty, all of you! You deserve to be discharged without honour, flogged and executed, like those poor bastards on the drill field the other day…’

  Scutio, the man he had struck, was curled in a protective crouch at the base of the wall, choking back tears of pain. Gaetulicus was still standing, looking faint with fear, while Trocundus lay on the floor at his feet.

  ‘Drillmaster,’ Castus said. ‘When the deified Aurelian was a tribune, how did he punish rapists?’

  Macer replied in a low voice. ‘I believe he tied them between two bent trees, dominus… then released the trees so they were torn limb from limb.’

  Castus nodded coldly, then slapped the blade into the palm of his hand. Already he could feel his anger shifting to a strange distant loathing. Not just for the three cringing prisoners either. He knew that the rage he felt sprang from a deeper well; it was personal. And he had already crossed a dangerous line. Suddenly he felt very tired, very heavy. He seated himself on the stool again and laid the sword across his knees.
>
  He would gladly have sent these men to their deaths. It would be justice. He would have killed them himself. But he knew, all too clearly he knew, that his own shame and humiliation were propelling him. He thought of the victim, some woman he would never know. Would her ruined life be improved in any way by the deaths of these men? Castus was an officer; his authority came from the emperor, and through him from the gods. His justice must not seem arbitrary, or it would be nothing but tyranny. Besides, he did not know if the morale of the troops could take another round of floggings or executions. The symmetry of the three rapists and the three men that had died on the forks was unappealing.

  Exhaling, he pressed his fingers into his brow, kneading the bunched flesh. ‘We are at war,’ he said, thick-voiced. ‘Therefore, the traditional punishment for this crime will be suspended. But all three of the accused will lose their immunities of service and be reduced to the lowest grade.’

  ‘Dominus!’ Attalus said quickly. ‘I must protest – Trocundus is a twelve-year veteran, he was about to make optio…’

  ‘Silence!’ Castus said. His glare swept the room. Macer was chewing his cheek; even Diogenes, by the door, had a look of startled apprehension. ‘All three will be placed on double fatigue duty for the next four months, and their rations will be cut by half. Also, they will pay an indemnity to the victim to the value of two pieces of gold per man.’

  ‘But the men aren’t paid for another month!’ Attalus cried. ‘They don’t have that amount of coin!’

  ‘Then the money will be taken from the funeral fund of their century.’

  Attalus tightened his jaw, affronted. Castus did not care; he had not forgotten the centurion’s expression of amusement moments before.