Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  ‘No,’ he said. From somewhere deeper in the house he could hear the sound of music: flutes and a lyre. Bronze discs hanging between the pillars of the portico chimed in the faint warm breeze. Standing in the doorway, Castus peered across the garden at the far colonnades. A pair of figures moved over there, slaves passing from one wing of the house to another. For a moment the light from an open door caught them, and Castus blinked and stared. Both of them were wearing sky-blue tunics. Exactly the same as Lepidus’s followers; he was sure of it.

  He took a step across the threshold, and the eunuch gave him an enquiring glance. Other slaves were positioned along the portico, lingering in the shadows; clearly the household staff had been ordered to keep a close eye on their guests, and not allow them to stray.

  But then the sound of a distant gong echoed along the portico.

  ‘Domini,’ the eunuch announced to the room behind him. ‘Please, follow me.’

  Chapter XXI

  The nine senators reclined on the semi-circular couch of the dining chamber. Above them in warm lamplight rose a broad apse decorated with the signs of the zodiac picked out in gold and bright glass. The gods in repose, Castus thought.

  He was disturbed to notice that Volusianus, the old senator he had spoken to in the gardens, was not among them. These were rather younger men, although Pudentianus was by far the youngest. The sons of the chief players, he assumed. Doubtless they would pass on whatever was discussed to their seniors.

  Two stools stood on the marble tiles before the apse. Castus took one and Nigrinus the other, with Felix and Diogenes standing at their backs. The eunuch who had conducted them from the waiting room faded silently from their presence, and Castus heard the gentle thud of the doors closing behind him.

  There were no introductions. Safer, Castus guessed, if they did not know the full names of those who had gathered, treasonably, to hear their offer. But Pudentianus leaned across the circular table, recently cleared of the remains of their sumptuous meal, and muttered to the other men on the couches. Castus heard his own name mentioned, and that of Nigrinus. He was trying not to think about the slaves he had seen outside; it was surely coincidence, he had decided. Or perhaps he had not seen the colour of their tunics too clearly in the lamplight…

  ‘We understand,’ one of the senators declared, ‘that you have an address from the rival emperor in the north?’ He looked eastern, dark-skinned, an Egyptian perhaps, and his voice echoed from beneath the apse.

  Nigrinus cleared his throat, a thin scratching sound. ‘Conscript fathers,’ he said. ‘We come to you as ambassadors from the emperor Flavius Valerius Constantinus Augustus, who even now approaches this city with an army of liberation, to free Rome from the hateful rule of the tyrant.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said another of the senators, a massively fleshy man with a small beard. ‘And yet we have heard this rhetoric before, I think. Just over a century ago, Septimius Severus marched on Rome in a similar fashion. He too gave assurances that the dignity of the Senate would be respected, that no blood would be shed… but within a few years, he had executed scores of our forefathers!’

  A ripple of nodding heads and muttered words from around the dining table.

  ‘How are we to know that your emperor will not prove an even greater tyrant than the one we presently enjoy?’ the Egyptian added.

  ‘You are right to be apprehensive!’ Nigrinus said, and his words carried the slightest touch of a threat. Castus noticed the men on the dining couch stiffen. ‘But our emperor Constantine cares only for the harmony of the world, the harmony of gods and men, and for the sublime majesty of Rome… and the Roman Senate.’

  Getting to his feet, Nigrinus addressed the assembly beneath the apse, standing like an orator and throwing his thin voice across the room. He must have been preparing this speech for months, Castus realised. ‘For the last seven years,’ the notary said, ‘Constantine has ruled the western provinces with strength, justice and wisdom. None complain of his rule! None have been persecuted, save only those who rose in treasonous rebellion against him—’

  ‘Emperors have a way of deciding what is treason and what is not,’ the fat senator broke in. ‘All of us have served Maxentius!’

  ‘You have served Rome. And my emperor assures you that your service will be recognised. None will be punished for doing their duty. In fact, all the senatorial offices will be preserved in the hands of their current holders. There will be no trials, no informers and no confiscations. Property illegally seized by the tyrant will be restored, and his oppressive edicts revoked. Peace and justice will prevail…’

  Castus watched the expressions of the assembled senators. Some remained closed, warily suspicious, while others visibly brightened. In their eyes he saw the flash of greed, the satisfaction of self-interest. As Nigrinus spoke, Castus let his gaze wander around the room. Marble on all sides, statues in niches, dazzling wall paintings. The whole house looked like this: he had seen enough of it during the brief trip from the waiting room to realise that this mansion must be one of the finest in Rome. Or perhaps all the houses of the supreme aristocracy were as grand? Why should men who possessed such wealth, such massively upholstered luxury, care who governed them? Then again, Castus thought, only emperors had the power to take all this away. He felt the stirring of a vague sense of admiration for Maxentius, daring to strike against men so wealthy and arrogant.

  Once again he recalled that this was the world that Sabina had known. She would have been comfortable in these surroundings; this was what she had missed for all those years she had spent in Gaul. His mood soured: he could never have given her any of this opulence.

  ‘Tribune?’ somebody repeated. Castus sat up sharply. One of the senators had asked him a question.

  ‘My colleague wished to know,’ the Egyptian said, ‘how you, as a military man, would rate Constantine’s chances against our current emperor?’

  Castus took a moment to compose his thoughts. He felt the pressure of the room upon him; his unease in addressing civilians was nothing new, but this particular gathering unnerved him. Should he stand up? He decided to remain seated.

  ‘The emperor has an army of thirty thousand men,’ he declared. His voice echoed off the high ceiling. ‘Most of them are veterans of the Rhine legions. Already we have defeated the tyrant’s forces three times. We destroyed his cavalry at Taurinum and his infantry at Verona. If he takes the field against us again, he is sure to be defeated once more.’ He heard the fading echo of his words, filled with a certainty he did not possess.

  ‘But Maxentius has fifty thousand, in and around Rome,’ the fat senator said.

  Castus spoke again before he could think. ‘Most of the tyrant’s men are newly raised conscripts, poorly trained and poorly equipped. His only disciplined troops are the Praetorians, the city cohorts and the Horse Guards, with the Second Parthica at Albanum, and they muster less than twenty thousand between them all.’ He was only repeating what he had heard the soldiers telling him at the baths, but spoken like this his words sounded satisfyingly authoritative. He saw them take effect as the group of senators turned to mutter between themselves once more. The apse they were sitting in had an unusual acoustic property: when the men on the couch spoke together their words were near inaudible, but when they addressed the room the curving space above them amplified their speech.

  ‘Constantine is not the only other player in the game, though,’ the Egyptian said. ‘There is also Licinius in Illyricum, and Maximinus Daza in the east…’

  Nigrinus opened his mouth to speak, but Castus cut him off. ‘Licinius is the ally of our emperor,’ he said. ‘They concluded a pact of marriage last winter.’

  ‘You know this?’

  ‘I carried the messages between them myself.’

  Once again a chorus of muttering. Castus caught Nigrinus glancing at him; was he impressed, or annoyed at the lack of diplomatic caution? Impossible to say. Castus found that he did not care. Now he had spoken, he felt the near u
ncontrollable urge to be out of this room, and out of the oppressive presence of these men.

  Nigrinus was speaking again now, pacing in small steps back and forth. ‘When the emperor approaches Rome,’ he was saying, ‘it would greatly aid his cause if the city could be made… uncomfortable for the tyrant. That way he will be less inclined to remain within the walls and chance a siege. I have myself been working with certain of the city factions to inspire demonstrations, or signs of popular disturbance. You might do the same, with your clientele, perhaps, your networks of supporters…’

  ‘You ask that we risk committing sedition, before matters are decided?’ another of the senators said.

  ‘Nothing so dramatic, surely! But you might use your influence. The tyrant is a very superstitious man, so they say. Very inclined to prophecy, oracles and suchlike. I believe at least two of you are members of the College of Fifteen. You are responsible for consulting the books of the Sibylline Oracles, yes? If the tyrant desired such a consultation, you might be a position to return a particular reading.’

  ‘A false reading, you mean?’ the fat senator said. ‘That would be sacrilege!’

  ‘And yet, not wholly unknown,’ the Egyptian said, just loud enough for his remark to carry. He probed at his chin, considering. ‘What might this particular reading be?’

  ‘Oh, something vague enough to be oracular,’ Nigrinus told him. ‘And yet sufficient to sway the mind of a man debating the outcome of open battle. Perhaps something like…’ He paused, as if thinking. ‘…Once battle is joined, the enemy of Rome shall perish!’

  Castus stifled a snort of surprise. Nobody could be in any doubt that the notary had dreamed that one up long ago. Whatever did it mean?

  ‘Certainly it leaves things open,’ the Egyptian said. ‘And so could not be said to be untrue, either way.’

  ‘But tell me,’ said another of the senators, a grave-faced man who had not yet spoken, ‘is it true that your emperor favours the Christians unduly?’

  Castus exhaled heavily, barely listening to Nigrinus’s circling reply – the harmony of men and gods, the security of the state, the importance of unity – and instead issuing a silent prayer that this meeting be allowed to end soon. Surely now, he thought, they had achieved their aim in the city. Could more be done? Surely now they could make preparations to depart, and find their way back to the army. Already Constantine was at Forum Sempronii, they had learned that morning, and his troops were marching southwards daily on the Flaminian Way across the Apennines. Almighty God, Unconquered Sun, let me be with them soon…

  He found himself staring at one of the younger senators on the couches, reclining beside Pudentianus. The man had not spoken, and seemed to be holding himself back from the debate. Squinting slightly, Castus observed him from the corner of his eye. He had a lean, handsome face and sharply receding hair; he was familiar somehow, but Castus could not place him. Then the man raised his hand idly and scratched his jaw, and Castus noticed the ring he was wearing: two golden leopards, clasping a pearl. The memory came to him suddenly. Lepidus had worn a very similar ring. And there was a clear resemblance between the two of them.

  But now, it appeared, the meeting was concluded; Nigrinus was bowing with stiff courtesy to the men on the couches and pacing towards the doors. Castus stood up, nodded once, and followed him. He expected little result from what he had just witnessed. These men would not, he was sure, stir themselves to any great exertions on Constantine’s behalf. Secure in their wealth and privilege, they would continue to sit on their hands and watch from the sidelines as the armies fought and men died. He felt a surge of anger and disgust, and a desire that something should wake these men from their sleep of centuries, disturb their godlike repose.

  In the painted vestibule outside the audience chamber the party were directed to wait, while the senators conferred among themselves. There were benches along the walls, but Castus remained standing. How much longer must they remain in this place? Palms in terracotta vases stretched to the panelled ceiling, and against one wall was a huge bronze urn, polished to a mirror shine and set on a fluted pedestal.

  ‘It states here,’ Diogenes said, stooping to read the inscription on the pedestal, ‘that this was the urn that floated Hercules to the island of Erytheia, which I doubt, although it looks almost large enough…’

  Castus noticed that he could see the doorway of the audience chamber behind him reflected in the side of the urn, swimming in the smooth curve of the metal. Within the doorway was the chamber itself, the figures of the senators in their apse like the inhabitants of a miniature golden world. He stepped to one side, and saw in the metal the far side of the vestibule, and a doorway into another room. A flash of sky blue: the two slaves he had seen in the courtyard had passed across the reflection.

  Stepping back, he shot a quick glance into the chamber and saw the senator he had noticed earlier, the one wearing the leopard ring, getting up from the couches and walking towards a side door that would connect with the other room. All around the vestibule, household slaves and eunuchs stood sentinel, blocking the exits.

  ‘I need a distraction,’ he said to Diogenes, speaking from the side of his mouth.

  ‘What sort of distraction?’

  ‘Use your ingenuity!’

  He was already pacing across the vestibule towards the far door. In the next room he could see the senator meeting his pair of slaves and moving away along a corridor.

  From behind him came the sudden hollow boom of bronze. A cry, and the slaves at the doorways hurried forward. Diogenes’s voice cut through the exclamations. ‘So sorry! I just leaned against it a moment – is it dented?’

  Castus was already out through the door, slipping into the next room and along the corridor. For once he was glad that his shoes had no hobnails, and he could move quickly and silently. He caught sight of the senator and the two slaves as they turned a corner at the far end of the corridor.

  Breaking into a jog, he reached the corner and peered around into a smaller garden court. A fountain trilled at the centre, the water catching the light of the lamps suspended between the pillars. The senator was passing through a low arched doorway at the far side, leaving his two slave attendants to wait in the courtyard. Castus waited, counting his breaths. Then he straightened his tunic and walked casually around the corner of the corridor and across the garden court. The slaves glanced at him, frowning, but did not move to stop him as he followed their master through the arch.

  The chamber beyond was semi-circular, and lit dimly with another of the tall dolphin lamps. Monochrome mosaics on the floor, paintings of cavorting nymphs on the ceiling, and around the curve of the far wall a polished marble bench with six holes. Castus suppressed a wry grin: it appeared that the aristocracy of Rome even shat in splendour.

  His quarry was already seated at the latrine, frowning as he saw Castus enter the chamber. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to call out to his slaves outside, but Castus moved too quickly. The lamplight fluttered wildly as he crossed the floor; then he seized the man by the throat and hauled him up off the bench, pinning him against the wall with a forearm across his neck. The senator’s legs were still entangled in his breeches.

  ‘What is this?’ the man managed to gasp. ‘This is an outrage!’

  He raised his hand to try and push Castus away from him, and the gold leopard ring shone in the lamplight.

  ‘Claudianus Lepidus,’ Castus said, baring his teeth close to the man’s face. ‘You know him?’ There was a wiping stick tipped with wet sponge beside the latrine; he snatched it up and levelled it at the senator’s face. ‘Start talking, or you’ll get a taste of this!’

  A moment of feigned incomprehension; Castus pressed his arm harder, feinting with the dripping sponge-stick. The senator gagged, horrified, then nodded. Sweat was beading on his brow.

  ‘My brother,’ he said. ‘He’s my brother. But… he was exiled many years ago. He was never a member of the Senate. Please – release me and I
can explain!’

  Castus held the man locked against the wall a moment more, then gave him a last shove and let him drop. He tossed the stick aside. ‘I warn you, I’m armed,’ he said. ‘But I could kill you with my bare hands if I wanted.’

  ‘No need for that, I beg you,’ the senator said, clasping his throat. ‘I assure you, we are allies. In fact, I believe we’re related.’

  Castus seized the man by the shoulder again, making him flinch.

  ‘My name is Domitius Saturninus Latronianus!’ the senator exclaimed, raising his palms in entreaty. ‘You’re married to my cousin, yes? The domina Valeria Domitia Sabina?’

  ‘Yes,’ Castus said, too startled to say more.

  ‘You must understand,’ Latronianus went on, still looking queasy with fright, ‘my brother is not… an honourable man. We have long been opposed in our views and allegiances. He believes that if he serves the tyrant against Constantine, Maxentius will reward him with promotion to the Senate and a share of the property seized from your wife’s family.’

  ‘Serves him how?’ Castus kept his hand on the sword concealed beneath his tunic. There was still no sound from the garden court outside the chamber, but it would not be long before they were disturbed. The senator drew a cloth from his sleeve and dabbed it across his brow.

  ‘My brother has developed a network of informers in the north,’ he said. ‘Highly placed people who… pass messages and supply information. He has a plan to disrupt the supply lines of Constantine’s advance. I know little about it…’

  ‘Tell me.’ Already Castus had realised the terrible possibility: could Sabina be one of those highly placed people?

  Latronianus gave a loose shrug, glancing around the chamber. ‘I believe my brother intends to raise a mutiny among the naval troops at Ravenna, and the garrisons along the roads to the north. Have them restore their old allegiance to Maxentius at the last moment. He’s promised their officers gold payments from Rome.’

  Castus caught his breath. If Ravenna and the other garrisons declared for Maxentius again, Constantine and his troops would be cut off in the Apennines, with no route of supply. With winter coming on, the tyrant’s forces would only have to wait for hunger, cold and desertion to reduce the invading army to nothing.