Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  Fausta shook her head just slightly, the silk fluttering.

  ‘Nothing from Rome?’ Sabina asked, her words almost lost in the breeze.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Sabina turned to hide her exasperated sigh. Behind her the rest of the party lingered on the sand, the women in tight little huddles, the eunuchs trying to hold their parasols steady. She looked at them, and felt no warmth in her heart. Never had she felt so constrained, so oppressed, by their presence.

  Back at Treveris it had not been so hard to endure, with all the delights of the palace and the great city around it. But this journey south in the wake of Constantine’s advancing army had been a trial. The last twenty days especially, down the length of the dead-straight Via Aemilia from Mediolanum to the sea, pausing every night in flea-ridden towns and posting stations, sleeping in requisitioned houses little better than barns. At every stop they had been greeted with the same fake glassy-eyed enthusiasm, by citizens who had already greeted a conquering emperor and his army of thirty thousand men eight days before, and now had to extend the same welcome to that emperor’s wife. Sabina had hated it.

  Soon, she thought, soon she would be in Rome, and could free herself of all this. She would have her property back, her wealth restored, and live as fate and her family had once decreed. But that tantalising idea brought its own stir of sickening anxiety: what would grant her these riches? Constantine’s victory, or the wiles of Lepidus?

  Fausta, Sabina knew, had found the journey almost as tedious. She too had been separated from her husband for many months, although in her case it was Constantine’s choice; he preferred not to be distracted by female company during his campaign. Sabina doubted that many of his officers were as scrupulous.

  ‘I received another letter from my husband earlier today,’ Fausta said as she turned from the sea. She raised her voice slightly, so the others would hear and be summoned. ‘Although he tells me little of the war, of course.’

  She was making her way back up the beach towards the waiting litters, the eunuchs springing forward to lay strips of matting over the fine dry sand. ‘Instead he chooses to discuss religious matters,’ Fausta went on as she walked. ‘Can you imagine? Why he thinks I’d be interested in that I don’t know!’

  ‘Religious matters?’ Sabina asked. They were walking in single file now, up the rise of the dune.

  ‘Constantine fears that the gods have deserted him,’ Fausta announced. She paused a moment, to let the tremor of concerned attention pass along the line following her. ‘Apparently he’s becoming more interested in the ideas of the Christians. Their priests follow him everywhere, whispering in his ears… What do you think – is that wise?’

  Before Sabina could answer, one of the eunuchs broke in. ‘Perhaps it would be wise not to opine on the sacred intelligence of the Augustus, domina?’ He was smiling as he spoke, but his words gave Sabina a slight chill.

  ‘Oh, probably,’ Fausta went on, unconcerned. She paused at the top of the dune and turned again to peer at the sea. ‘What do we make of this Christianity, anyway?’ she said. ‘It seems a simple enough faith. Comforting, I suppose. The idea that there’s only one god, and he sees everything and knows everything, even our dreams. And then judges us when we die. But my husband has always been a simple man…’

  Mine too, Sabina thought, oblivious to the flurries of stifled outrage from the eunuchs. But Castus had never been at all drawn to the Christians. Quite the opposite, as far as she knew.

  ‘Mind you,’ Fausta said, ‘I’ll never understand all this stuff about god sending his son to earth and then killing him and then bringing him back to life so everyone can live forever. Do you understand that, Sabina?’

  ‘No, domina.’

  ‘I believe these are theological questions, best left for others…’ the eunuch insisted.

  But now they had reached the litters. Fausta drew aside the drapes of the leading one, beckoning to Sabina.

  ‘Travel with me, sister,’ she said. Sabina caught the jealous glances of the other women; she ignored them.

  They climbed into the litter together, arranging their gowns as they sat at facing ends and the bearers drew the drapes closed around them. A jolt, a lurch, and they were up and moving, the litter swaying smoothly to the bearers’ steps. Fausta waited until they had turned onto the road and the pace had levelled out before speaking again.

  ‘Have you seen anything of… your cousin?’ she asked.

  Sabina stiffened, her stomach tightening and a cold flush running down her back. She shook her head quickly. ‘He’s with the army,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him for several days now.’

  Six days, to be exact. Domitius Claudianus Lepidus had passed through Ariminum on his way south; his duties as Master of Dispositions, in charge of logistics for the imperial retinue, allowed him much freedom of movement. Sabina had been trying to put her cousin out of her mind, but his shadow seemed always upon her. She had continued to act as a conduit for his messages, though, his reports to Rome on Constantine’s movements, the state of his army and the loyalties of his officers; only the promise of what he could give her if he was successful, and the fear of her own punishment if he failed, stopped her confessing everything to the emperor’s officials.

  ‘You opened some of his messages, yes?’ Fausta said quietly. She had dropped her flippant attitude completely now.

  Sabina caught her breath, waiting for the chill to pass. How does she know? ‘That was how I learned that Castus was being sent to Rome,’ she said. ‘And that Lepidus was sending men after him.’

  ‘You warned your husband of this?’

  ‘I tried – I sent a note, but I doubt he ever got it… There was another message as well, to Rome, telling Maxentius’s people to apprehend the mission when it arrived. I destroyed that.’

  ‘You did?’ Fausta said, with a small sharp smile.

  Sabina shrugged. ‘I cannot bear passivity,’ she said. But she was pretending a courage she did not feel. Over and again she had imagined Castus lying dead in some ditch or alleyway, or his body sinking into the depths of the sea. The thought that she could have prevented it, could have saved him if she had acted sooner, horrified her. She had prayed and made sacrifice at every temple on that long road from Mediolanum, and still she woke from nightmares in a panicked sweat.

  Fausta was gazing through a gap in the swinging drapes. It was almost fully dark, but the light of the torches carried by the bearers shone through the thin fabric. She was biting anxiously at the carnelian ring on her little finger.

  ‘How disgusting it is,’ she said, venom in her voice. ‘That vile man, that vile, subtle man… he could bring such harm to all of us.’

  And Sabina knew this was true as well. Several times she had passed messages between Lepidus and Fausta, and she knew what they had offered her: if Constantine lost, Fausta would be widowed and bereft, and suspected of involvement in her father’s death. But Lepidus could intercede with his contacts in Rome, and effect a reconciliation with her brother, Maxentius. Sabina could hardly blame the younger woman for being caught. Once again, Lepidus had baited his hooks well.

  ‘If only he could suffer some small accident or other,’ Fausta said in a musing tone.

  ‘Could it be done?’ Sabina asked quickly, sitting forward.

  Fausta smiled again, with a slow shake of her head. ‘It would be risking too much. He has documents that implicate us, I’m sure. And if it did not succeed…’

  Through the gap in the drapes Sabina saw the pitted old walls of the town of Ariminum. The litter slowed as it passed beneath the great arch that marked the beginning of the old Flaminian Way to Rome, then entered the stone-paved main street of the town.

  ‘But you would do well to keep clear of him,’ Fausta said as the litter drew to a halt. ‘We both would, but it’s harder for me. Maybe you could disappear for a while.’

  ‘Disappear?’

  Fausta just widened her eyes meaningfully – the expression gave her
an appearance of childlike innocence. Then the lids came down again, and her face was perfectly blank as the bearers drew the drapes aside.

  *

  Sabina turned the brief conversation over in her mind as she rode the last distance through the cobbled back lanes to her house. Her own litter was much smaller than Fausta’s, but she was glad of the temporary privacy. The thought of Lepidus brought her nothing but anger and humiliation, and she loathed the part of herself that was still, inexplicably, drawn to him. At least he had ceased his sexual demands, most of the time. He still claimed that he and Sabina would be wed, once they reached Rome and Castus’s death was confirmed, but Sabina wondered if he was growing tired of her. She had realised long ago that he desired only power, and the erotic thrill that power over others gave him.

  The litter slowed, then grated down onto the cobbles. Sabina climbed into the spill of torchlight, drawing her shawl over her head. The door of the requisitioned house opened before her, and she walked inside, too lost in her own considerations to notice the agitation of the slaves.

  In the gloomy paved court at the heart of the house she threw off her shawl and called for wine. The sea air had left her skin feeling clammy; she would have a bath, she decided, and then go to bed early and hope for sleep. But why were the slaves all staring at her?

  It was the barbarian nursemaid who spoke, coming from the bedroom at the rear of the house with a bundle in her arms. ‘He was here.’

  ‘Who?’ Sabina demanded, affronted for a moment; she had never liked the blonde slave, and found her attitude dangerously close to insolence at times… but then she realised, and a spear of ice passed through her. ‘When?’

  ‘Before one hour,’ the nurse said. Elpidia, that was her name, Sabina remembered – or was it Ganna? ‘He was angry. Shouting. Angry at you. Domina, we must go!’

  For a few heartbeats Sabina was lost in confusion, turning a slow circle between the brick pillars. The barbarian slave was carrying bundled clothes and blankets, she saw now. ‘There is a carriage, at the back…’

  ‘Where’s the boy?’ Sabina said. ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘He is safe. This man threatened to take him, but I would not allow it.’

  Think, Sabina told herself. She was breathing rapidly, trying to digest what was happening. How had Lepidus discovered what she had done? Now she saw the spreading bruise on the slave’s cheek, dark red already rising to blue. He had hit her; he had threatened to steal the boy…

  A crash from the front hall, the cry of one of the door slaves, then a man’s voice echoing through the gloom. Sabina turned on her heel, retreating. Too late: Lepidus was already striding into the court, unpinning his cloak and flinging it at one of the other slaves. He was grinning, but his eyes were hard.

  ‘Domitia Valeria Sabina, I find you at home, finally!’ he announced. ‘If you are well, I am well!’

  ‘His excellency Domitius Claudianus Lepidus,’ the door steward mumbled weakly, following the man in from the hall.

  A child’s cry filtered through from the bedrooms at the rear of the house, then a rising wail. Sabina noticed the barbarian nursemaid edging around the margins of the court, her eyes on Lepidus.

  ‘What is this disturbance?’ she said. ‘You’ve woken my child!’ She hoped her voice would not betray her terror.

  ‘I mean to do more than wake him,’ Lepidus said, still pacing closer with that familiar prowling step. Two of his own slaves had followed him in from the street. ‘Why did you destroy my letters?’ he asked, cocking his head to one side. ‘Why did you open and read my correspondence? It was really very disloyal of you!’

  Sabina was moving slowly backwards, poised on her toes with every step. Her son was still crying in the back room, a regular pulse of sound. Nobody moved to attend to him.

  ‘Perhaps we could discuss this later… over a meal?’ Sabina said. ‘Perhaps some wine?’ She was stalling, hoping that something would come to her, some plan of action, or just some courage.

  ‘I think not,’ Lepidus said. He moved very fast, crossing the court in two quick strides and seizing her by the arm. His fingers dug hard into her flesh. ‘I think I want to discuss this now, here.’

  The assault shocked her; Lepidus had never been openly violent before. He was dragging her towards one of the bedrooms that opened off the courtyard.

  ‘No, please, ‘ she heard herself saying. ‘Not like this, not here – not in front of the slaves…’ Still the absurd desire for decorum, for dignity – it was instinctive. But Lepidus paid no attention.

  For a moment Sabina struggled against him, but he had a wiry strength that she could not resist. ‘When my husband returns he’ll murder you!’ she hissed.

  ‘Your husband is dead,’ Lepidus declared. He grinned, tightening his grip on her arm as her body slackened, her willpower weakening. ‘I’m afraid Aurelius Castus was captured by agents of Maxentius in Rome,’ he said. ‘He was executed!’

  Sabina felt a sudden pain in her chest. Her breath grew short. He was lying – she told herself it was a lie, but she felt sick. Madness was beating in her head.

  A flash of green at the margin of her vision, and the slave nurse threw herself forward with a ringing shriek. Her attack caught Lepidus unprepared – he turned his head just as the woman swung a blow at him, and her fist cracked against his cheekbone. He cried out, releasing his grip on Sabina’s arm, then reeled back to trip over an urn set between two of the pillars.

  Already his two bodyguards had closed in to flank him as he scrambled to his feet. The blonde slave stood in the centre of the courtyard, fists clenched, breathing fast. She made another move towards Lepidus, but he was faster; he sprang forward and shoved her away from him with a stiff-armed blow.

  ‘Secure her!’ he yelled to his bodyguards. ‘The bitch is out of control!’

  Once more he lurched towards Sabina, his glaze of urbane civility gone now, his arms out to seize her again. Breathless, she flinched away from him and raised her hand. Her fingers found the burled head of the long bronze pin that secured her braids, and plucked it free. Lepidus snatched at her, and Sabina swung her hand down with a finger’s length of sharp metal jutting from her fist, driving the pin through the muscle of his left forearm. She felt it grate against bone, and twisted. A thin spray of blood spattered her hand.

  For a single heartbeat Lepidus stared down at the spike piercing his arm, then he doubled over with an animal bellow of pain.

  At once everyone was in motion, everyone shouting. The courtyard echoed with shrieks. Sabina’s own slaves, released from their shocked stasis, moved to surround her as Lepidus’s men ran to assist their master. Sabina felt the barbarian woman take her by the shoulders, a firm grasp, urging her back towards the far doorway.

  ‘We must go now. Come – there is a carriage ready.’

  ‘My child,’ Sabina said, faint with shock at what she had done. ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘He is safe – he comes with us.’

  Lepidus had collapsed against a pillar, grey-faced and gasping, clutching his injured arm as one of his slaves tried to extract the pin from the wound. Sabina heard his high scream as Ganna conducted her down the darkened corridor that led to the rear of the house. Then she was outside, in the narrow cobbled lane where a light two-wheeled carriage stood waiting. She was moving in a dream, sickened but strangely exultant as she climbed into the carriage and felt it sway into motion.

  The barbarian woman sat beside her, holding the child wrapped in a shawl. Sabinus had stopped crying now, and his face was a white disc staring out from the wool that surrounded his head. Sabina took the boy, clasping him in her lap, and felt the fear and madness pouring out of her. When she went to touch the child’s face she noticed that her hand was still wet with blood.

  ‘Will he live?’ she said, her voice catching. ‘Lepidus?’

  ‘Sadly, I think yes,’ Ganna replied.

  Sabina glanced from the carriage and saw the black waters of the river as
they crossed the long bridge to the north of the city. She was a fugitive, but she was free. For a while at least. Then she remembered what Lepidus had told her. Castus could not be dead – she refused to believe it.

  But only the gods could save her husband now. The same gods that their emperor seemed so eager to deny.

  Chapter XXIII

  He had expected chains. He had expected a dank, lightless cell, like the one he had known in the dungeons of Arelate. But as Castus groped up through the levels of pain into consciousness, he realised that he was lying on a bed in a large room, with daylight filtering dimly through an open door. What had happened? His head was pounding, and his jaw felt massively swollen, but when he moved it there was no spear of pain. No broken bones, and the scar had not reopened. His body felt battered, and he guessed he had been dragged down stairs.

  Nigrinus, he thought. Nigrinus had done this. Once again the notary had played false; once again men had died for it. He wondered if Felix had managed to escape; there would be people in the city who might aid him, conceal him. Diogenes too, if he had survived. The slaves at Pudentianus’s house had always liked him, and would give him shelter if he could get there undetected... As for himself, he was a prisoner. Castus struggled to raise his head, to sit up. Waves of nausea flowed through him.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ a voice said. ‘There is no fighting here.’

  With difficulty, Castus turned his head. The speaker stood a short distance away. He was a small man with a dark, greyish complexion and a soft and pliable look. A eunuch, Castus assumed.

  ‘You are not badly injured,’ the eunuch went on in a light and slightly lisping voice. ‘No thanks to our Praetorians. Your face is bruised, and you have wounds on your leg and shoulder, which I have had cleaned and dressed. Thank the gods they built you of such strong stuff.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Castus managed to say. His skull felt twisted out of shape.

  ‘I am Valerius Merops, cubicularius. And you are Aurelius Castus, Ducenarius of Protectores and tribune in the army of the pretender of Gaul.’