by Ian Ross
The herald cried out the official greeting, in the name of the emperor Constantine, Invincible Augustus, Germanicus Maximus, and of Leontius himself, Commander of the Frontier.
‘What are they so amused about?’ Leontius hissed through his teeth.
‘Excellency,’ the interpreter told him, ‘they are saying that Rome has brought tribute to their king, and this is good.’
Leontius clenched his fists around the reins, and his horse snorted and champed at the bit. ‘Explain to them,’ he said, snapping out the words, ‘that Rome does not pay tribute to anybody! I have come here to oversee the transfer of our annual subsidy to the Chamavi, as agreed in the treaty that their king made when he surrendered to the Invincible Augustus Constantine three years ago! Tell them that!’
He could hear the tribune beside him making a whistling sound between his teeth. Be calm, he told himself. Maintain dignity. He had always had a short temper, and the sight of barbarians gloating openly in his presence grated on his nerves.
‘Send the mules forward,’ he said. ‘Get it over with.’
Like most soldiers, Leontius found the practice of subsidising barbarian tribes deeply dishonourable. But he knew, for all the bold claims of the orators in their imperial panegyrics, all the triumphal parades and exhibitions of captives, that this was the rule along large stretches of the frontier. Barbarians could be crushed in battle, pounded until they were subservient, but short of wiping them out utterly – a lengthy and costly undertaking – it was often more economical to pay them to remain tranquil. Roman treasure kept kings friendly to Rome in power, and gave them the strength to suppress their own foes. It also, in time, became an addiction: the steady drip of bullion from across the frontier made them slaves in their own land, unable to exist without imperial largesse. It was ignoble, but it worked.
These Chamavi certainly looked ignoble enough, crowding forward as they sighted the mules and their load, letting out loud whoops of triumph. Leontius scanned the country to either side: his small escort of soldiers had spread out to guard the approaches to the site, and a party of them had occupied the old wall of the fortifications to the left. There was always a chance that some other group of warriors would try and seize what they had not earned with their promises.
A chance, too, that the Roman troops themselves might be tempted by greed. If Leontius felt the subsidy payment stick in his craw, he could imagine how much worse it must be for the common soldiers to watch several years’ worth of pay passed into the hands of their enemies. There had been irregularities in previous years, subsidies going missing, and that was why Leontius had elected to oversee the transfer himself this year.
Now the mules were unloaded and the heavy leather pannier bags flung down, clanking, onto the trodden grass. Crowding forward, the barbarians gathered around the bags, some of them squatting on their haunches as they ripped open the ties and dumped the contents onto the ground. Silver gleamed in the grey light.
Leontius suppressed a brief smile at the sight of it. The subsidy payments were not in coin, nor in bar silver. Instead the leather sacks held broken fragments, the remains of silver dishes and bowls, chains and cups, all roughly hacked into chunks of a similar size and weight. No barbarian king would gloat over this hoard and pretend that it was booty from a scavenging raid.
But the barbarians appeared unmoved; they had seen the like before. One of them, an old man with straggling iron-grey hair and a stringy moustache, had brought a set of scales, twin cups suspended on chains from the balance yard, and a selection of lead weights. The man squatting beside him scraped at each chunk of silver, tested it between his teeth, then passed it to the old man to be weighed in the balance. The others gathered around them had fallen silent now, watching the operation with close interest.
One of the barbarians remained apart from the others; their leader, Leontius guessed. He was young, his clothes well cut and embroidered with silver thread. Leaning on a spear, he stood with a look of studied indifference. At his feet sat a lean black hound. How easy it would be, Leontius thought, to cut them all down now...
Even as the notion passed through his mind, he became aware of the soldiers on either flank moving forward. The mounted scouts were almost at the riverbank; if they spurred forward now they could cut the barbarian party off from their boats and their route of escape. Leontius shrugged off his unease. His men were just being dutifully cautious, that was all. Raising himself in his saddle, he glanced in both directions, but beyond the cordon of his own men he saw nothing. Trees, reeds and the drab land stretching away to the flat horizon.
The emperor himself had promoted Leontius to this position. It was a great honour to command the military forces of the Rhine frontier, shabby and scarce though they were. Leontius told himself that, but wished all the same that he was elsewhere. He had fought in Constantine’s army all through the campaign in Italy over four years ago, and distinguished himself at the battle of the Milvian Bridge. Now Constantine was far away to the east, in Illyricum, arranging the new treaty with his rival Licinius; there had been great battles, Leontius had heard, great glory. He himself had seen none of it. Here in Germania Secunda, northernmost of the Gallic provinces, there were only the impertinent and conniving provincials to deal with, and uncouth, grasping barbarians like these Chamavi.
The last of the bags was emptied, and the old man with the balance had weighed the remaining few chunks of silver. Others behind him were piling the treasure into wicker baskets, ready to lug back to the boats.
‘What are the scouts doing on the flanks?’ Leontius said to the tribune beside him. He could see the horsemen moving away from the overgrown fortifications and gathering near the riverbank.
‘I’m not sure, excellency,’ the officer replied. His face was blank behind the nasal bar of his helmet. ‘Maybe they’ve caught sight of something?’
‘Call them back. We’re almost done here.’
The tribune nodded, the gilding on his helmet winking in the low light. He turned in the saddle and gestured to one of the soldiers behind him.
Something struck Leontius a blow in the small of his back. For an instant he thought that one of the riders had accidentally shoved him with a spear-butt. Then pain ripped up through his chest and he arced in the saddle, crying out. His head reeled, agony bursting white light through his skull, and he felt hands grappling him as he slipped sideways.
‘Treachery!’ the tribune shouted. ‘Barbarian treachery! Strike them all down!’
Leontius felt himself fall heavily to the ground beside his horse. The blade that had stabbed into his back had ripped free as he toppled, and his body was a pump of blood. His eyes were open, and through the sickening waves of pain that crushed him he saw the troops – his own troops – rushing in from either side, butchering the barbarians where they stood. The mounted scouts rode up from the riverbank, slashing at the fugitives.
He was still trying to speak, trying to shout for help, but his willpower was fading, submerged in pain and terror. Lying on his side, his legs kicking feebly at the ground, he watched the Chamavi leader hacked down by a pair of soldiers. He watched the tribune calmly picking up a fallen barbarian spear. The officer walked back towards him.
‘What...?’ Leontius managed to say. Blood was soaking the ground all around him. ‘What are you...?’
The tribune’s face was in shadow, but Leontius heard the sound of his breath as he inhaled. He closed his eyes, helpless. The spear rose, then fell.
Standing over the body of his commanding officer, the tribune twisted the shaft of the spear slightly, making sure the gash in the dead man’s neck was clearly visible. The deep stab wound in his back could be concealed.
Down by the river, the last of the barbarians was trapped between a pair of mounted scouts. The riders circled him, baiting him. Then, when he turned to confront one of them, the other drove a javelin between his shoulders. The Chamavi leader’s black hound was still bounding around the body of its fallen master,
barking and snarling. A soldier stepped up to it, bent his bow, then shot an arrow through the animal’s throat. The barking choked off, and there was silence. Only the sound of the distant geese on the river.
The tribune nodded to himself, satisfied. No survivors.
CHAPTER II
Sirmium, May AD 317
She woke with a start of terror, and her whole body was running with sweat. For a moment she lay on the bed, breathing fast, sensing the gloom of her chamber pulsing to the rhythm of her blood. It was a dream, she told herself, a nightmare, but it had gripped her totally: the darkness had taken form, a hot black mist surrounding her and enclosing her. It was in her throat, like smoke or steam, choking off her breath, and she was powerless against it. Illuminated in the darkness she had seen terrible things: her father’s corpse swinging from the roof beams, his swollen face leering at her; her brother’s severed head bobbing grotesquely on the end of a lance, the dead lips smiling, forming words she could not hear.
Wide-eyed, she stared into the darkness until the familiar dimensions of the room appeared to her. She must have cried out as she woke; one of the slave girls had already risen from her palette on the floor and was crouching over her.
‘Domina?’ the girl said, shaking off sleep. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she said abruptly. The girl was Aethiopian, her skin blending with the darkness; it seemed an ill omen, suddenly, and she tried not to flinch from the slave’s touch.
‘Is it the child, domina? Shall I send for your husband?’
‘No! No, of course not. I told you it was nothing. Do you think the Augustus would care to be disturbed for such a trifling matter?’
Sitting up, instinctively moving her palms to cradle her swollen belly, she swung her legs from the bed. Constantine put much faith in dreams; he thought they carried messages from his god. Certainly he must not hear about this one. Besides, the nobilissima femina Fausta was a proud woman; she would not want her husband to know that she was a victim of night terrors.
‘What’s that disgusting smell?’ she said, sniffing and then coughing.
‘I’m sorry, domina,’ the other slave said, hurrying to her side. ‘One of the lamps was not properly snuffed – the wick was smouldering.’
That, Fausta thought, would explain her dreams of smoke. If only it were that simple...
Her sleeping tunic was soaked with sweat, the linen clinging to her skin. She stood up and started dragging it off over her head; the Aethiopian girl moved to help, and Fausta swatted her away.
‘I can do it! Open the shutters and air the room. And bring lights, and water. Something to drink too – my throat’s parched.’
She flung the tunic away from her and walked naked to the centre of the room. The Aethiopian – her name was Niobe – swung open the shutters, and cool night air breathed in through the window’s bronze grille. The other slave was already bringing a taper and relighting the lamps. In the flickering glow Fausta saw the shapes of the room appearing from darkness, the furniture and the paintings on the walls. She was in her own bedchamber, in the imperial palace of Sirmium, surrounded by her husband’s retinue and his loyal soldiers. This was not Rome; it was not Arelate. She was safe here. But nothing in Fausta’s twenty-four years of life had given her much belief in safety.
Niobe returned with a basin of water, and Fausta crouched over it and splashed her face, then sat on a stool and let the girl wash her body with a damp cloth. The other slave brought clean linen towels and a cup of white wine, still slightly chilled from the snow-cellar below the palace. Sitting on the stool, sipping wine, Fausta felt herself regaining possession over her mind and body.
There was a large mirror of polished silver in the corner of the room, and Fausta regarded herself in its reflection. No, she was not old yet, even if she felt twice her age. So much she had experienced, in so little time. Pushing her unbound hair back from her shoulders she turned on the stool and drew herself up straight, confronting her image in the silver. The years had been kind to her, and the lamplight was kinder still. Even now, six months pregnant with her second child, there was nothing remaining of the plump frightened girl she had been when she was married. Fausta had put on weight during her last pregnancy, but dieting and exercise had rid her of it. Hopefully she would do the same this time around. Her breasts were still far too big, but otherwise she was pleased with her appearance. She was a mature woman, impressive if not quite beautiful, the wife of the emperor of the western world, mother to his heir.
She was glad, she thought as she turned from the mirror, that she had been sleeping alone that night. The Augustus had come to her bed only infrequently in the months before her pregnancy was announced, at those times of the month when his doctors told him she would be most fertile; he would not have wanted to be with her now, in her gravid state. Matters of the body disgusted him. He seemed to take little pleasure in the act itself; the Christian advisors that surrounded him these days claimed that sex displeased their god in some way. Neither did Fausta enjoy it – Constantine performed in bed as she imagined he must do on the battlefield: promptly, aggressively and with remarkable celerity. Fausta did not care. She had never loved anyone, and never been loved either. The idea that this strange uncomfortable bed-wrestling could be a token of affection was utterly alien to her. Only once had she experienced anything different, and that had been many years ago. Almost another lifetime.
At least the act had yielded results. She had given Constantine a son already, and with luck she would give him a second in three months’ time. Surely the gods must love her, if nobody else did... Constantine Junior was just a baby, hardly even a person at all, but he and the child growing in her belly were her security. Surely now he could not tire of her, could not set her aside? Her only rival, her husband’s concubine Minervina, had died a year after Constantine captured Rome. It was ironic, Fausta thought, that after all her plots and prayers the woman had succumbed to a winter fever. Natural causes, after all the unnatural ones Fausta had planned.
But she knew that she could never become complacent. Whatever respect and dignity she was given, whatever marks of favour and acceptance, she knew they were only conditional. She had taken her husband’s own family name after the birth of her first son: now she was Flavia Maxima Fausta, fully a part of the Flavian dynasty. But she was still the daughter of Maximian, the man who had once been Augustus of the west, the man who had risen in rebellion against Constantine and died a traitor’s death with his head in a noose at the residency in Arelate. She was still the sister of Maxentius, the tyrant of Rome, defeated in battle by Constantine, his body dishonoured and mocked. Nobody could forget these things. Constantine himself certainly never would, no matter how many sons Fausta gave him.
She knew all about the perils of power and status, the long terrible drop from prestige into disgrace, failure and ignoble death. The very palace she now called home had belonged to Licinius only a few months before; another man her husband had once called brother, and then defeated and expelled. It was that knowledge which brought the night terrors, the hideous images her sleeping mind could not conceal from her.
Minervina might be dead, but her child still lived, and prospered. Crispus, Constantine’s son by his concubine, was only fourteen but had many years advantage over any of Fausta’s present or future offspring. Despite Crispus’s uncertain parentage, Constantine doted upon him. And now he had been proclaimed Caesar, princeps iuventutis, the ‘first among youth’. As junior emperor, he was the anointed successor to Constantine’s rule. Granted, the treaty agreed with Licinius at Serdica in March had also named Fausta’s son and the rival emperor’s boy Licinianus as co-Caesars, but they were just infants, too young for the position to mean anything.
Fausta knew little of Crispus; he had spent most of his time in Treveris and Rome, and seemed a quiet and withdrawn child, fond of studying ancient poetry and apparently dominated by his Christian tutors. But she knew the threat he posed to her. If Constant
ine were to die – the thought itself felt treasonous, ill-omened – then Crispus would succeed to his throne. And what would become of her own children then? If the boy himself did not move against them, his supporters and advisors certainly would. Against them, and against their mother. Her life would be worth nothing. And in this new empire of fathers and sons, what real power did she possess?
Slumping forward on the stool, caressing the smooth firm swelling of her belly, she fought down a shudder. Darkness filled her mind, a shadow of her terrible dreams. These were the thoughts that had oppressed her over this last year. Only very recently had a possible solution to the problem of Crispus presented itself, but it was dangerous. Hideously dangerous.
Enough, she thought. She had dwelled in confused considerations for too long, but now she was awake, resolute. Something needed to be done, and quickly. Gods below, guide me now; wall me off from fear, and from mercy. She drank back the last of the wine and dropped the cup onto the floor.
‘Domina?’ the slave, Niobe, said.
‘What hour of the night is it?’
‘The night is still timeless, domina. Dawn is far away.’
‘No matter. Summon the eunuch, Luxorius.’
The girl stared at her for a moment, surprised. ‘Now, domina?’ Then she saw the severity of Fausta’s mood, bowed quickly and left the room.
‘You’d better find me something to wear,’ Fausta told the other slave.
By the time the eunuch arrived, less than an hour later, she was sitting in a high-backed cane chair, dressed in a tunic of rich blue silk, her hair brushed and plaited and arranged with pearls. If Luxorius was surprised to find the emperor’s pregnant wife so composed in the middle of the night, he did not show it. The eunuch bowed as he entered the room, then seated himself facing her. He was small, only slightly fleshy, with a round, intelligent face and a dark complexion that betrayed his origins in southern Egypt. His head was shaved perfectly bald.
