by Ian Ross
‘I suppose I should thank you for agreeing to this as well,’ Pudentianus went on. Castus guessed he was talking to stop himself thinking. ‘As you know, I was keen to avoid the notary learning of this meeting. In the circumstances, and at this stage, I feel you are a far more suitable emissary…’
Less likely to try and take charge, he means. Castus nodded. The young nobleman’s desire to cut Nigrinus out of the negotiations with the Senate was understandable, but risky. No doubt Pudentianus believed that Castus himself would be easier to manipulate. Let him try, Castus thought, and breathed a soft laugh down his nose.
The damp air deadened the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel. For all the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of this place, Castus wished he had somebody with him. Felix, ideally. But the young nobleman had insisted that they come here alone, and did not give the impression of numbers. Only a single slave followed them: a sour-faced, pockmarked man named Naso, one of the two that had come with Pudentianus from Verona. Castus flexed his shoulders and felt the strap tighten across his chest: the shortsword he was wearing beneath his tunic dug reassuringly into his ribs. After his encounter at the baths, he had resolved never to leave the house without a weapon; he did not want to face an armed opponent with empty hands again.
At the end of the long trellised avenue the path broadened at the bank of an ornamental lake. On a marble pedestal stood a sculpture of a naked barbarian apparently stabbing himself in the chest, while a dying woman dangled from his arm. Castus gave it a quick glance, hoping it was not intended as prophetic.
The men standing around the statue turned as Castus and Pudentianus approached. There were six of them, dressed smartly but plainly. Bodyguards, Castus guessed; judging from the hang of their capes and tunics, he knew several were carrying concealed weapons. There were more figures beyond them, slaves standing with their backs to the group, watching the approaches. Clearly, Castus thought, they were taking no chances on being unexpectedly disturbed.
Pudentianus kept walking, spreading his arms wide. The group of bodyguards parted before him, and Castus saw the man seated on the marble bench at the foot of the statue. He was older, heavily built, with thick iron-grey hair. Beneath his hooded eyes were dark pouches of flesh, and his downturned mouth was framed by weighty jowls. As Pudentianus approached he got to his feet, heaving himself up using a stick, then stood still as the younger man embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. Castus noticed the rings on the man’s fingers and the massive jewelled brooch securing his deep blue cloak. As Pudentianus stepped away, the old senator sank down to sit again, as if the effort of standing up had proved tedious for him.
‘Most noble Rufius Volusianus, I greet you!’ Pudentianus said. ‘May the gods pour blessings upon you!’ Compared with the older senator, he seemed barely more than a boy.
‘Harrumph,’ Volusianus said. Castus recalled what Pudentianus had told him about this man: he was one of the leaders of the Senate, former Consul, former Prefect of the City… Also, it seemed, Pudentianus’s uncle.
‘We’ve been hearing a lot about your activities, nephew,’ Volusianus said. His voice was so deep it seemed to come from somewhere beneath the ground. Castus noticed that the man’s eyes did not move as he spoke; his whole face remained oddly immobile. ‘Or the activities of your associates, I suppose,’ the senator went on. ‘Your friends have been spreading a lot of coin about the city. Hmm. Buying up the collegia and the circus factions. Even the Christians. Glad to see your emperor knows the power of gold. The power of blood too.’
He turned his head, swivelling his leaden gaze to peer at Castus. ‘Talking of which,’ he said, ‘who’s this?’
‘This, uncle,’ Pudentianus said, stepping to one side, ‘is the most distinguished Aurelius Castus, a tribune in the army of… of our friend from Gaul.’
‘Tribune eh?’ the old man said.
Castus felt the scar itching on his jaw. His tongue pressed at the gap between his missing teeth. He was wearing an old brown cloak over a plain tunic; nothing in his appearance marked him as anything but a common ex-soldier.
‘Once upon a time,’ Volusianus said, in a distant, musing tone, ‘our legions were commanded by men of the aristocracy. Our tribunes resembled young gods. Now they look like cook-shop bruisers, it seems… Still, that’s convenient, I suppose, if one requires some bruising to be done!’
Castus just stared at the man, eyes wide, his back teeth clenching. He could see the bodyguards shifting their stance slightly, smiling to themselves at the old senator’s wit. It was so insulting, Castus thought, that he was almost amused himself.
‘They’re saying in the city,’ Volusianus went on, speaking to the air, ‘that this Constantine is bringing an army of savage barbarians from the forests of Germania to cut all of our throats and burn Rome to the ground. So tell me, Tribune Aurelius Castus,’ he said, turning abruptly to address him, ‘what does your master want from us?’
For a moment Castus said nothing, holding the man’s weighty gaze. He could sense Pudentianus peering back at him, beginning to fidget and fret. The old senator’s eyes were like pebbles, trapped in the dull putty of his face.
‘The emperor Flavius Constantinus Augustus,’ Castus said at last, careful to keep any ingratiating note from his voice, ‘desires that the Senate and people of Rome withdraw their active support from the usurper in the coming battle. If Maxentius believes that the city will not stand a siege, he will be forced to march out and fight us in the open field. Then he can be defeated.’
‘And if he does not?’
‘Then the city will fall to our assault, and many more will die. My emperor does not wish the capital of the world to be dishonoured in this way.’ Castus heard the words as he spoke them: he had no real idea of how much he was inventing, and how much was true. Volusianus nodded and turned his dead eyes away.
‘The city of Rome has not fallen to a hostile foe in over seven hundred years,’ he said. ‘Maxentius believes he can maintain himself inside the walls against Constantine, as he did against Flavius Severus and Galerius. Some fortune-teller apparently told him once that if he leaves the city evil will befall him! But it’s true that he has become… erratic. Disappointing, in fact. I supported him once, as I’d supported his father Maximian, who came to such an unfortunate end in Gaul…’
His voice had sharpened slightly. Did he know that Castus himself had been involved in that death?
‘But lately Maxentius has disturbed the harmony of the city too much. He has set his troops on the people, and on the nobility. Many of our conscript fathers have lost their property; many have even lost their lives. But I ask, tribune – could your man do any better, hmm?’
‘The emperor Constantine,’ Castus said, slow and steady, ‘has the greatest respect for the Senate. He wishes to restore Rome to her ancient greatness…’
‘And you can give us assurances of this?’
Castus looked quickly at Pudentianus. The young man was glaring at him, almost nodding encouragement.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I cannot, but there is another in our party, a tribune of notaries. He has been authorised to speak in the emperor’s name.’
He could almost hear Pudentianus’s outraged exhalation. But there was no way that Castus was going to agree to cutting Nigrinus out completely. He had no taste for diplomacy himself, and the notary was the one who had planned all this and had the imperial warrant to negotiate. Besides, Castus feared what the man might do if his schemes were too obviously thwarted.
Volusianus tipped his head back a little and sniffed. ‘A very wise man once said, if you want things to stay the same, things must change. So, very well. We will meet with your notary and hear whatever offer he wants to make us. Tomorrow evening, shall we say? The house of Turcius Apronianus on the Esquiline; my nephew can take you there.’
He made a slight stirring gesture in the air with his jewelled fingers, then gazed off towards the lake. Clearly the meeting was at an end.
‘W
ell, that went comparatively well!’ Pudentianus said, with a grin, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘You know, I think he even liked you…’
‘Is that how he shows it? By insulting people to their faces?’ Castus frowned, bemused. The young nobleman’s enthusiasm was disconcerting.
‘You don’t understand,’ Pudentianus said, with a condescending air. ‘Gaius Ceionius Rufius Volusianus is one of the most powerful individuals in Rome. When a man reaches that level, most of humanity is simply invisible to him. That he took any notice of you at all, even addressed you directly, shows that he’s already decided to support us!’
Maybe so, Castus thought, pacing along with his hands clasped behind his back. The sun was beginning to shine through the morning mist, and it was becoming humid. ‘This is all just a game for you, isn’t it?’ he said.
Pudentianus smiled back at him. ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it like that for you too? Winners and losers – why else would you get involved?’
Honour, Castus thought. Loyalty. Redemption. Or was that just part of the game too? He remembered the bloody field after the battle at Verona, the heaped corpses, the dying and the slain.
*
Darkness was already falling by the time they left the house the following evening. As they descended the street into the valley a damp breeze was guttering the lamps outside the corner bars and cook shops. Still plenty of people about at that hour, and they moved in a tight column, Pudentianus riding at the centre in a covered litter, with slaves from his household ahead and behind. To any onlooker, he was just a wealthy young man on his way to a dinner party. Walking ahead of the litter, Castus kept the hood of his cloak drawn up to hide his face. He was wary, scanning the groups of men that lingered at the street corners. After his encounter at the baths he was all too aware of the dangers of the city; he had slept badly the night before, disturbed by dreams of pursuit and entrapment. The risks they were running were all too obvious now.
Nigrinus trailed at the back of the group, walking on his own. He had said little to anyone since Pudentianus had told him about the meeting that night, only nodded his agreement. Nothing to show whether he was angered by what had been arranged, or content to go along with it. But Castus could sense the notary’s hatred for the young nobleman wrapped tightly within him.
They passed through a busy area of narrow streets, then turned to the left and climbed again, around the massive stone walls of a market enclosure. The Porticus of Livia, Castus realised: he was trying to keep his bearings and his sense of direction. Behind him, Felix walked silently, content to blend in with the household slaves. At least, Castus thought, if they got lost in this maze of streets Felix would surely know the way out. Past the market, they climbed steadily up the back of the Esquiline Hill, into a region of high garden walls and shadowed gateways. This was where the wealthy had their mansions; as they walked Castus could smell the fragrance of flowering bushes and greenery. A crescent moon rose before them, and the sound of their footsteps echoed between the blank walls.
They had walked for about a mile when the journey came to an abrupt end. In a narrow cobbled lane that dropped downhill towards a dark expanse of parkland, the litter-bearers set down their load and Pudentianus climbed from the cushioned interior. Castus looked to left and right, but saw only bare mossy walls. He looked up, and saw white stucco pillars and the curve of a dome. Then a narrow door opened in the wall beside them.
‘In here,’ Pudentianus said, drawing his cloak around him as he stepped through the door.
The smell of woodsmoke and hot ashes met them as they entered the darkened chamber beyond the door. This was the furnace chamber of the bathrooms, Castus realised; they were slipping into the house through the service quarter, just as he had entered Pudentianus’s own mansion so many times. Moving in silence, they filed up a darkened stairway and emerged into a wide garden courtyard with pillared walks on all sides. At the far end of the garden, beyond the low clipped bushes and the marble pool, was an arrangement of rocks and statuary. Water poured from a spout near the top to flow down in rivulets, lit by lanterns concealed to either side. A startling effect, Castus thought, especially at night.
‘They must be siphoning water from the public aqueducts,’ Diogenes whispered in his ear. ‘Illegal, but I suppose they make the rules…’
Pudentianus paused at the end of the garden while one of his slaves removed his cloak and another arranged his dining robe and tunic. ‘I’ll have to go on ahead,’ he told Castus. ‘The slaves here will attend to you for now, and I’ll send word when you are to follow.’ There was an assertive tone in his voice: already he was showing off his command of the situation.
‘Through here, domini, if you please.’ A household slave with a Frankish-looking hairstyle gestured through a wide doorway leading from the courtyard. With Nigrinus scowling behind him, Diogenes and Felix bringing up the rear, Castus followed the slave into a large chamber set with couches and stools, a low circular table in the centre and tall iron lamp-stands in the corners. At once other slaves entered behind them, bearing platters of food and jugs of wine.
‘Looks like we won’t be dining with the senators,’ Diogenes commented as he surveyed the meal spread before them.
‘Of course not,’ said Nigrinus. ‘We’ll be brought on once they’ve finished, to follow the musicians and the jugglers. A fine bit of after-dinner entertainment.’ He seated himself on a stool near the door, ignoring the food and drink.
Castus sat on one of the couches, glancing around the room. The chamber would have graced a palace: walls painted with landscape scenes, and a big multicoloured mosaic on the floor showing a mounted huntsman spearing some sort of writhing beast. Even the dishes and jugs were fine worked silver, and the lamps on the tall stands were ornate bronze, shaped like leaping dolphins. He noticed Felix sitting awkwardly opposite him, knees spread. Castus himself had spent enough time in the palace at Treveris to be comfortable with luxury, but he was reminded that Felix had not.
‘I believe this is flavoured with silphium,’ Diogenes said, sniffing at a dish of roast chicken cutlets in thick pungent sauce. ‘Remarkable. Must be worth its weight in gold…’ He selected a piece and chewed quizzically. ‘Salty,’ he said.
There was an open window at the far end of the room, giving a view over the nocturnal city. Castus went to it and leaned on the sill, breathing in the night air gladly. He would not be sorry to leave Rome, magnificent though it was. In the middle distance, he picked out the great ranked arches of the amphitheatre, lit up by torches. A little to the right of the arches, Castus saw an enormous gilded statue, standing almost as high as the amphitheatre beside it and catching the glow from within.
‘The Colossus of Helios,’ said a voice at his elbow. Castus turned to see Nigrinus beside him. ‘Although,’ the notary went on, ‘Maxentius recently had the face of the sun god recarved to resemble his own son, Romulus. An act of presumptuous impiety, for which the gods will surely punish him!’ He smiled, as if amused by the concept.
‘You believe that?’
‘Of course not!’
For a moment they stood together. Felix and Diogenes were still eating, and neither was close enough to overhear the notary’s words.
‘When we’re taken to the meeting,’ Nigrinus said, his lips barely moving, ‘you must be very careful what you say. Let me make our case – the young fool will try and involve you, no doubt. He’s only attempting to make himself look more important.’
‘Isn’t this meeting what you wanted?’ Castus asked him, growling the words. The notary’s sour humour was beginning to wear at his nerves.
‘Oh, certainly,’ Nigrinus said. ‘But I would have preferred to approach the senate on terms of greater equality. As it is, we come to them as supplicants rather than emissaries. Which is the way they want it, of course… Our friend Pudentianus intends to show us off like hunting trophies.’
‘I didn’t see your methods getting us any closer,’ Castus said. ‘I
care nothing for your sense of pride; all I want is to get this meeting done and get clear of this house, and this city, with my men alive and unharmed. Understand? Then we can get back to being soldiers.’
‘And that’s all that matters to you, hmm?’ Nigrinus said, with an arch smile. He shook his head sadly. ‘All this effort, and it could so easily be wasted.’
‘That’s for you to judge, not me. Have you said your piece?’
‘Not quite. As I was saying, we must watch what we tell them. The aristocracy of Rome is old and scaly in the ways of power. Treat them as you would a bag of snakes. And remember, they would not hesitate to sacrifice any of us if they could benefit from it.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ Castus said, with a humourless smile. How long had he known this man? Seven years, he realised, since he had first met him in the praetorium in distant Eboracum. It was longer than Castus had known any of his friends. Yet here they were thrown together again, by chance or fate. They were supposed to be allies, he reminded himself, not adversaries.
‘I have a proposal for them,’ Nigrinus went on, ignoring his remark. ‘I may need you to back me on some of the finer points, but all you need do is agree to what I say. Is that clear?’
‘Not really. But don’t worry – anything that gets us out of here quicker’s fine with me.’ Castus went back to the table, leaving Nigrinus stony-faced and apparently consumed in thought.
Sitting at the couch, Castus picked at the rich food, but his appetite was gone. A tight knot of agitation filled his belly. He could feel the pommel of the sword strapped beneath his tunic prodding at his armpit; Felix and Diogenes were also armed. Nothing in the house suggested threat, but the weaponry was a reassurance all the same.
Castus tried to empty his mind, pretend he was on some long night-sentry duty. His knee was jumping, and he leaned his fist upon it. Then he got up and marched to the door.
‘Does the dominus desire anything?’ the long-haired slave said, appearing from the shadows. A eunuch, Castus noticed.
