Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  If you want something done, he told himself, best do it yourself. Or find somebody expendable, who asked no questions, and get them to do it for you… The method had worked for him the past. But already his mind was working, spinning schemes, composing the plausible-sounding story he could feed to his superiors. Yes, he thought, yes, it just might work…

  In the room, first one lamp went out and then the other. Nigrinus edged back down the corridor, smiling as he heard to the voices of the two senators echoing through the darkness, their angry demands turning to nervous confusion, and then to panic.

  Chapter XVI

  The night was hot and close, and there was a cricket rasping in the garden outside his sleeping chamber. Noise, too, from a nearby house: flute music and voices, snatches of laughter. Castus lay awake, sweating under a single sheet, alert for the high whine of mosquitoes.

  He wondered what the men he had left at Verona were doing now. Had Modestus been promoted to centurion in place of Rogatianus? How was Diogenes faring under a new tribune? And what about Macer – was he pleased that Castus had gone? Once again the familiar sense of loss flooded through him. Over these last six months, Castus had come to regard the Second Britannica as his home. The men of the legion, even those that clearly resented and despised him, were his family. He belonged with them. He belonged with the army. Thumping at the bolster beneath his head, he closed his eyes and tried to force himself into sleep.

  No use. He sat up, throwing off the damp sheet. Pulling a loincloth around his hips, he paced out into the garden court, calling in a low voice for the slave who usually slept under the colonnade. There was no reply, only the cricket rasping from the darkened bushes; the court was deserted in the yellow moonlight. Barefoot on the warm tiles, Castus crossed to the low wall between the pillars, stepped across it and sat down facing the garden. The night air was soft on his skin, but his body felt stiff and ached with tense frustration.

  A footstep behind him, and he turned quickly. The barbarian slave was standing in the shadowed gateway from the main courtyard.

  ‘Where’s the child?’ Castus asked.

  ‘He’s sleeping. Dorcas is with him. The other nurse.’

  The woman advanced into the court, her bare feet silent, and leaned against one of the pillars in a patch of moonlight. Her hair was loose, her expression solemn. ‘It’s too warm here,’ she said. ‘In my country it’s never like this.’

  Castus nodded, rubbing at his scalp and feeling the prickle of sweat. At least the flute music had stopped now.

  ‘You cannot sleep?’ the woman said. Her voice was softer, he noticed. Her accent less harsh.

  ‘Too much on my mind.’ It occurred to Castus that it was unusual to be talking like this with one of his slaves, a nursemaid, a barbarian at that. He sensed the rest of the household sleeping around him, the quiet city empty under the moon. Only the insects were awake.

  Quietly the woman paced over to stand behind him; he tensed, flinching as she laid her palms on his shoulders.

  ‘You are wounded,’ she said.

  ‘This?’ He lifted a hand and brushed the scar on his jaw. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Not that,’ she said. Her fingers pressed into his flesh, squeezing at the hard muscle. She put her thumbs on either side of his spine and began massaging his shoulders and back. Castus was surprised at the strength in her hands. After a moment of resistance he let his head fall forward and relaxed. He felt the knots of his body begin to ease.

  ‘You said you have a son?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes. Back in my homeland.’ Her hands were still working, kneading at his shoulders. ‘If he lives, he will be six years now.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’ Castus felt his words slowing, thickening.

  ‘He will grow to be a strong young man,’ Ganna whispered. ‘A great warrior.’

  Castus smiled. A great warrior who would kill many Romans, no doubt… He thought of his own son, of Sabinus; over the last few days at Mediolanum he had seen more of the boy. At least the child seemed to recognise him now, and did not recoil from his attempts at fatherly attention.

  As Ganna massaged his shoulders, he noticed something on her wrist: a simple blue glass bead on a leather thong.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, flicking lightly at the bead. It was scratched with faint symbols or words.

  ‘An old woman I knew gave it to me, a cook in my first house,’ she said. ‘It’s a charm. It protects me from evil.’

  Has it worked? he thought. But he remembered what she had told him of her former master, and said nothing. Her palms tightened around the muscles of his neck, her thumbs still kneading at his spine. Castus could feel the weight of her body pressed against his back, her hair against his shoulder as she leaned closer over him.

  ‘When will you go back to your war?’ she asked.

  ‘Whenever my war calls for me.’

  She bent forward, her hair falling to shadow her face, and her breath was warm and soft on his skin of his neck. He felt strangely vulnerable, and a disturbing sensation of tenderness was running through him.

  ‘You should take me with you, and your son,’ she whispered. Her fingers lightly traced the scarred welt on his jaw. ‘Then Sabbi can see his father leading his warriors, and I can make sure you don’t get injured again.’

  Castus reached up, and his hand found the nape of her neck. Twisting, he drew her down to him and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  For two heartbeats they were locked together, then he stood up abruptly and took her in his arms. Confusion and desire coiled through him. As he ran his palm down her back he felt the stipple of old whip-scars through the thin fabric of her tunic.

  ‘I don’t want to be like your old master,’ he said.

  ‘No, you’re not. Slaves must do what their master commands. But in my heart I am a free woman, and I decide what I want.’ She kissed him again, and he felt her smiling. What god, he thought, had allowed him this?

  But then a child’s cry drifted through from the far wing of the house, and the other nurse began calling Ganna’s name. Her slave name: El-pi-di-ahhh!

  She stepped away, neatly evading Castus’s reaching hand, and without another glance she strode barefoot through the darkened gateway.

  *

  Castus woke to the sound of voices from the outer courtyard. It was daylight, and the slanted shadow on the wall of his sleeping chamber told him that the second hour of the morning had already passed. He cleared his throat, stretched, then threw himself to one side and stood up off the bed in one smooth motion. The flex of his limbs pleased him; he was still supple, after so many indolent days. Scrubbing at his head and his unshaven jaw, he paced out into the colonnade of the garden court.

  ‘Tribune Aurelius Castus?’ The figure at the gateway of the court wore the dusty cape and boots of a military despatch rider. Castus realised that he was still completely naked, but he could not retreat back into his room and fetch a tunic. He just nodded, with a curt grunt.

  ‘Message for you, dominus,’ the rider said, offering a slim folded tablet. The man had a disapproving look on his face, which Castus found quite understandable; what sort of military officer was still lounging around naked in bed at this hour?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the tablet. He called for one of the slaves to take the man to the reception room and give him food and drink, then retreated into his chamber. Dropping the tablet on the side table, he drank a cup of warm water and dressed himself quickly in tunic and slippers. Already his mind felt focused, his body tight with anticipation. He had noticed the wax seal that closed the tablet, the imprint of the imperial sigil.

  Out in the garden court again, he sat down on the wall between the pillars, broke the seal and peered at the message inked on the wood. He was glad the despatch rider was not there to see him puzzling over the letters. But it was simple enough, and after he had read it out loud to himself, slowly, there could be no doubt.

  He was to present himself at the
Villa Decentiana, on Lake Benacus, at the earliest available moment. Castus knew the place; he had passed it on the march to Verona, and on the journey back west. He knew that the emperor was staying there.

  ‘Philo!’ he called, summoning the slave who currently acted as his orderly. ‘Philo – hot water and a razor! Pack my clothes and bags, pack everything…!’

  He was on his feet, pacing back and forth between the pillars and the door of his chamber. He wanted to run, or dance. He wanted to set off immediately. Instead he turned, and his wild lopsided grin slipped as he saw Ganna stepping through into the court, carrying his son at her shoulder. On her face, sober regret mingled with pride.

  ‘You are going back to your war?’ she said.

  Castus nodded. ‘If the gods will it,’ he said.

  She stepped forward, holding the child out in her arms. ‘Take him,’ she said.

  Clumsily, Castus reached out and took his son from her. He still did not feel comfortable holding the child, the soft wrapped weight so delicate in his arms, but at least now the boy looked up at him with an expression of recognition, even of pleasure. Castus felt the side of his mouth twitch into a smile again.

  Ganna slipped off the leather thong with its blue glass bead. As Castus stood holding the boy, she tied it around his right wrist.

  ‘For protection,’ she said. ‘You need it more than I.’

  *

  Exactly two days later, Castus stood waiting in an antechamber of the Villa Decentiana, gazing out through an open window at the dark blue waters of Lake Benacus and the distant mountains glowing in the September sun. He was still dusty and saddle-sore from his journey, and since his arrival he had gained no idea of the reason for the summons, or who had issued it. The emperor was nowhere in evidence. Castus stood easily, chewing slightly at the ridge of scar tissue inside his cheek and trying to subdue the sense of trapped irritation fluttering in his chest.

  The slave beside the far doorway cleared his throat, and Castus nodded, paced heavily across the chamber and stepped through into the next room.

  ‘The distinguished Aurelius Castus, tribunus vacans,’ the slave intoned, then closed the door firmly behind him.

  There were five men seated on the couches at the far end of the room, with a stool set before them. Castus saluted, then crossed to the stool and sat down. One of the faces he recognised at once: the vigorous-looking white-haired Christian priest that Castus had seen speaking to the emperor in his tent. A moment later, with an unpleasant sense of premonition, he noticed that another of the men was the notary Julius Nigrinus.

  ‘Greetings, tribune,’ said the man seated at the centre of the group, with a papery smile. He was the oldest of them, plainly dressed but with an air of importance. For a moment the group appeared to be studying Castus, saying nothing.

  ‘Well, he doesn’t look like a spy!’ the priest said.

  ‘All the better,’ commented the old man. ‘Tell me, tribune,’ he went on, ‘have you ever been to Rome?’

  ‘No, dominus.’ Castus felt his scarred jaw itching. The sense of subterfuge and conspiracy in the room was almost palpable, and he liked it not one bit.

  ‘Good, good,’ the old man said. ‘You do know, however, that many of the tyrant’s soldiers come from the Danubian territories, just as you do? Rome at present is full of Pannonians and Moesians, it seems.’

  Castus just nodded, frowning. The five men on the couches appeared to be conducting a silent conversation in slight shifts of expression alone.

  ‘Domini,’ he said, with heavy emphasis. ‘I was summoned here for some purpose, I think?’

  The old man gave his fragile smile again. ‘Forgive us, yes,’ he said. ‘First, you should know who we are. My name is Flavius Ummidius, and I am First Secretary of the Corps of Notaries of the Sacred Augustus. My colleague Nigrinus I believe you already know.’

  Nigrinus inclined his head in greeting. Castus felt his guts tense, and managed a tight nod in reply.

  ‘Here on my left is his excellency Burrius Agrippinus, princeps of the agentes in rebus, and on my right the esteemed Bishop of Corduba, Hosius. With the bishop you see one of his young deacons, Stephanus.’

  Christians at a meeting of imperial ministers? Castus hid his unease. The young man beside the bishop had a fervent stare, slightly bulbous eyes and a small, pursed mouth.

  ‘As to our purpose in summoning you here,’ Ummidius went on, ‘we have a certain matter in which you may be able to assist us, and in so doing assist yourself!’

  Did this man, Castus wondered, always speak like this? He forced himself to pay attention, and pick out the meaning from the circling politeness of the words.

  ‘Some days ago, a young man arrived here from Rome. His name is Publius Pomponius Bassus Pudentianus, and he is the son of a senator recently proscribed by the tyrant. He left the capital with the stated intention of travelling to his family’s estates in Sardinia, but instead sailed north and then travelled here to offer his services to the Sacred Augustus Constantine. It is our intention that Pudentianus travel back to Rome, with certain verbal messages and assurances to the members of the Senate that might aid in winning them to our cause.’

  ‘Young men of the aristocracy,’ said Agrippinus, the head of the agentes in rebus, ‘never travel without a retinue. Slaves, bodyguards, attendants… So we have an opportunity to infiltrate a number of our own people into Rome, to gather intelligence and make contact with dissident factions in the city.’

  ‘The most important task of the mission,’ Ummidius said, ‘would be to undermine the tyrant’s bases of support, by any means available. He will be less inclined to try and wait out a siege if he thinks the city populace may turn against him. We can defeat him in open battle, but if he remains behind the walls of Rome, well…’

  Castus grunted in affirmation; Verona and now Aquileia were demonstrating how difficult sieges could be. It seemed a good enough plan. But the idea that he had a part to play in it seemed ominous. He glanced at Nigrinus: this, he knew, was his doing.

  ‘We thought, perhaps,’ Ummidius went on, ‘that you would be especially effective in liaising with the tyrant’s soldiers, bearing in mind your common origin. Perhaps determining their dispositions, their morale and the strength of their loyalty. Even sowing the seeds of unrest among them...?’

  It was the amphitheatre at Verona again, Castus thought. On a massive scale. Every muscle in his body felt tense, and he was struggling to keep his expression neutral. This was insane; it was a death sentence. More importantly, it was also extremely dishonourable. For a tribune of the Roman army, a man who held the rank of ducenarius of the Corps of Protectores, to conceal his true identity was bad enough; to do so in order to try to incite disloyalty and mutiny was even worse.

  ‘You would be travelling with several others, of course,’ Agrippinus said. ‘Stephanus here will accompany the group. Once in the city he will endeavour to make contact with the Christian leaders of Rome and assure them of Constantine’s regard for their faith. Also, Julius Nigrinus will be going, in the guise of the young man’s secretary. He will carry letters of credit to raise funds in our interest, and coordinate negotiations with the Senate and with the city factions.’

  Nigrinus was saying nothing, but Castus recognised all too easily the attitude of nervous excitement concealed by the man’s blank expression. Several times already he had found himself trapped in the notary’s schemes. Each time, men had died. Castus would rather have throttled Nigrinus with his bare hands than agree to go along with another of his intricately unpleasant projects.

  ‘What role would I be expected to play, then?’

  ‘We thought you would make a convincing bodyguard for Pudentianus,’ said Ummidius. ‘A former gladiator, perhaps, from the Carthage arena; that would explain your battle scars, of course. And as a freedman, you would be immune from conscription into the tyrant’s army, which would be inconvenient!’

  A couple of the men laughed. Castus did not.

/>   ‘You don’t have to agree now,’ Agrippinus said. ‘Although we’ll need your answer by the end of the day. The mission is set to depart imminently; Julius Nigrinus would be able to brief you further, if you accept. I would add that a service of this nature would certainly commend you to our Augustus, and serve to wipe away any… lingering taint on your reputation.’

  ‘If, on the other hand, you decline it,’ Ummidius added, ‘I’m afraid that the highly confidential nature of what we have told you would mean that you could not be further employed until the tyrant is defeated. In fact, you would be obliged to remain under house arrest, for security purposes.’

  Castus sat up straight on the stool, but felt his body reeling with what he had been told. Two avenues of possibility lay before him: on the one hand, ignominy and virtual imprisonment; on the other, a desperate and dishonourable mission into the heart of the enemy camp, under the direction of a man he detested. Neither seemed appealing.

  ‘Take a few hours to consider,’ Agrippinus said. ‘If you need them.’

  *

  Castus was sitting on the steps of the outer portico when Nigrinus found him, watching the last of the sun lighting the snow-capped mountains on the far shore of the lake. Fishermen were dragging their boats up the stony beach below the villa – at least, Castus assumed they were fishermen. In his current mood he could almost believe them to be undercover agentes in rebus.

  ‘I can quite understand,’ the plain-looking notary said as he leaned against a pillar of the portico, ‘why you would be dubious about this proposal.’

  ‘Was it your idea?’ Castus said, glancing around at him.

  Nigrinus was gazing out at the lake. ‘I made a few suggestions,’ he said. ‘I would add that, although the more political aspects of the situation would be under my control, you would have total freedom of action. I would not be giving you orders, I mean.’