The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  Entering the hall, Luxorius felt his breath catch slightly, as it always did. The room was so vast, so cavernous, so gloriously decorated in shimmering coloured marble and gold, that it was hard not to feel humbled by it. He kept his head down, pacing quickly to his place in the front rank of the prefect’s gathered officium.

  For several moments the assembly waited in near silence, the vast hall filling with the slow susurration of their breath, the scrape and tap of shoes on marble, the rustle of embroidered clothing. Luxorius thought about what the master of letters had told him; he already knew, as everyone in the palace knew, of the actions of Aurelius Castus against the invading barbarians. Almost all had applauded it, publicly at least. But all knew that the young Caesar needed a war, a public demonstration of military aptitude. He would not win the title of Germanicus Maximus by sitting in the palace in Treveris reading poetry.

  If Castus’s actions had calmed the situation on the frontier, then Crispus was unlikely to get his first taste of battle any time soon. Why then, the eunuch wondered, had Bassus decided to send the dux on ahead? Why not wait until the Caesar himself could take the field and at least appear to trounce the barbarians in person? Could it be, he thought, that his chief was playing a different game altogether? One thing was clear: if Luxorius were to arrange another strike against the boy Caesar, it would need to happen far from the security of the palace. Some kind of military expedition might present just the opportunity he needed.

  His thoughts were interrupted by another brassy yell of trumpets. All eyes turned to the far end of the chamber, where the soaring apse and high podium were obscured by drapes of purple silk. With a waft of incense, the drapes were drawn aside; up on the podium, in a high-backed chair of gilded wood, the Caesar sat flanked by his guards and slaves.

  As one, the assembly raised their arms and cried out the salute. ‘Long life!’ Then they sank to their knees on the cold marble.

  Standing again as the first of the orators began his birthday panegyric, Luxorius studied the young man on the throne. He appeared immaculate, his spotty cheeks smoothed with cosmetics, his curly hair lightly gilded and adorned with a jewelled band, his tunic blindingly white. Only as the ringing echo of the salutes faded did Crispus’s mask slip; he smiled, almost shy, then grinned widely.

  The eunuch felt no animosity towards this young man. In fact, he could almost like him. But the vicious twists of his own life had left him immune to sympathy for others. Looking at him now, Luxorius was sure of one thing. The Caesar Crispus was marked for death. The only question was how long it would be before he met his fate.

  CHAPTER X

  ‘Turn her! Turn her – right... harder right! Use your knees. Good – firmer with the reins, steady now... Right, I said!’

  The voice of the instructor carried across the dusty sand to where Castus stood watching in the shade of the wooden portico. The man was jogging beside the pony as it trotted in circuits around the oval practice ground. Mounted on the pony’s back, Castus’s son Sabinus clung tightly to the saddle with a look of intense concentration on his face. As the boy finally managed to draw the pony around the tight curve at the far end of the circuit, Castus felt pride glowing through him.

  ‘He’s coming on,’ the old man beside him said. ‘Still keeps grabbing at the saddle horns, mind. But he’s not so scared as he was.’

  Castus nodded, grunting his assent. Tagmatius was a retired legion drillmaster; Castus had enlisted him to supervise his son’s riding lessons and teach him to use a light wooden practice sword in the rudiments of the armatura weapons drill. The hunched, gruff-voiced campidoctor was gentle enough when he needed to be; Sabinus was terrified of him all the same.

  And now, Castus thought, the boy has two of us here making him nervous. He tried not to stare too intently, tried to smile a little and let his pride show. But he was on edge himself, eager for his son to succeed and to prove himself, for the boy’s own sake. This was the first time Castus had been to the old cavalry practice ground outside the city walls to watch how the lessons were going.

  The pony trotted on up the track, towards the far end of the circuit again. It was a small shaggy beast, no bigger than a mule, but Sabinus looked unnervingly precarious in the saddle. He had appeared even less confident a while earlier, as the old drill instructor prompted him through his sword exercises. But it was necessary, Castus knew: all a part of his education. He had explained that to the boy. He would learn to ride and to handle weapons, just as he learned his Latin and Greek letters and arithmetic with his new paedagogus. He would get the sort of education that his father had been denied; Castus himself had been functionally illiterate until he was in his early thirties, and still felt uncomfortable with reading and writing.

  He could train the boy, he could give him the best food and lodgings, the most attentive slaves, but he could not make him happy. Castus knew that his son still pined for Rome, still missed his mother grievously. Only when he was with Ganna did he awaken to life and pleasure. Castus knew that there was little he could do about that, and the knowledge ached in his bones.

  ‘Whoa, draw her in now!’ the slave cried, scuffing to a halt. ‘Use the bit – pressure with the knees...’

  Sabinus was leaning well back in his miniature saddle, pulling the reins almost to his chest. The pony might be small, but she was temperamental; she tossed her head, champed the bit, then blew out and came to a sudden stop. The boy jerked up straight in the saddle, beamed for a moment in satisfaction, then tumbled forward over the pony’s neck to land in the dust.

  Castus moved at once, the staff he had been leaning on falling from his hands as he reached out, as if he could somehow catch his son as he fell. But already the instructor was pulling the boy up from the dust, scrubbing at his limbs. Sabinus was trying bravely not to cry.

  They rode together back into the city, sitting side by side in a rattling open carriage. Castus pulled the hem of his cloak around the boy’s shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry I fell off. I didn’t mean to,’ Sabinus said.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ Castus told him, grinning. ‘I’ve fallen off more horses than you’ve ever seen! Everyone needs to take a fall sometimes.’ His scarred jaw made his grin crooked, and the boy glanced up at him with a wary smile.

  The carriage passed through the gloomy arch of the gate and entered the city. A pair of mounted soldiers of Castus’s bodyguard rode ahead and behind the carriage, and the old campidoctor Tagmatius sat on the facing seat. Colonia Agrippina was an ancient settlement, laid out on the familiar Roman grid, but away from the temples and bigger townhouses near the Praetorium on the riverbank the buildings were small and mean-looking. Few rose more than two storeys, with façades of bare brick, wood and pitted plaster. The streets were lined with timber porticos floored with raised plank walkways, and the thoroughfares between them were black with mud and dung. Narrow dank-looking alleys, fogged with charcoal smoke and strung with laundry, split the blocks of houses to either side.

  ‘What have you been learning with your tutor today then?’ Castus asked, scooping a heavy arm around his son’s shoulders.

  ‘About when Aeneus ran away from Carthage,’ Sabinus said.

  ‘Did he now?’ Castus said. He knew nothing about it – history, he assumed. But the idea that his son, his own son, was learning of these things made him blush with a pride so warm it was almost embarrassing. ‘And do you like reading about that, hmm?’

  ‘It’s a bit boring,’ the boy said, hunching his shoulders. ‘I prefer the book about the talking farm animals.’

  They rode on into the city; Castus kept his head straight and only moved his eyes as he scanned the passing streets. The population of Colonia was a strange mixture. More than half were the usual Gallic townspeople, dressed in their plain woollens and hooded cloaks. But among them were more exotic figures, some of them traders from distant parts of the empire. There were barbarians too, from across the river, tall bearded men standing in baffled unease at the str
eet junctions, or gathered at the dark mouths of the wine shops. They were allowed to enter Roman territory without their weapons, provided they left again before darkness fell. There were plenty of beggars, too, huddled around the porticos with their greasy tin bowls, their crutches, their exposed wounds. Castus wished he could shield his son’s eyes from the misery, but it was better he saw it all.

  ‘Defender of the province!’ somebody shouted from the portico, raising his hand in salute. A couple of other voices repeated the acclaim. Castus kept his back straight, not turning in his seat. The carriage slowed as the crowds grew thicker, and more people cried out, saluting him. He was surprised; he had not been back in the city for long after a lengthy tour of the frontier defences. Had the news of his defeat of the raiders really gained him such popularity?

  ‘The gods preserve you, commander!’ a woman called from a street corner. Others just stood and gazed at him as he passed, blank-faced. Castus was, he had to admit, quite prominent in his embroidered cloak and cap, with his gold brooch and the eagle-hilted sword clasped at his side.

  ‘Dominus! Dominus...’ a voice cried, a ragged figure limping from the crowd. He grabbed at the side of the carriage, grinning up at Castus with crooked teeth. ‘A few coins for a shave, dominus? For an old soldier?’

  ‘Old drunk, you mean,’ the drillmaster growled, raising his stick. ‘I know you!’

  But Castus was already reaching into his belt pouch. The man was hobbling along beside the carriage, still clinging to the side; Castus found a couple of nummi and tossed them to him.

  ‘Blessings on you, dominus!’ the old soldier cried, snatching the coins from the air with surprising dexterity. ‘May the gods preserve you for us!’ He stumbled, dropping back as the carriage moved onwards. ‘Take care,’ he called. ‘Take care they don’t do for you, like they did for Leontius!’

  ‘What?’ Castus grunted, turning sharply in his seat. He had recognised the name at once: his predecessor, the former commander. He wanted to call out, seeing the limping old veteran still staring after him as the crowd swirled across the street behind the carriage.

  ‘Ignore him. He’s a notorious idiot, that one,’ Tagmatius said with a scowl.

  The carriage jolted across the uneven cobbles at a junction, and the old soldier was lost in the crowd. Castus turned again to face forward, trying to ease his frown.

  ‘There’s Ganna!’ Sabinus said suddenly, starting forward on the seat and pointing, as if he were about to call out to her.

  ‘Be still!’ Castus said abruptly, seizing the boy’s arm and dragging it down. ‘Don’t point,’ he said, softening his voice. Sabinus looked startled, and slumped back onto the seat.

  The boy had sharp eyes; Castus himself would not have spotted the slave woman. She was standing under one of the porticos along the street to the right; her head was half covered with her shawl but it was clearly her. Two men stood with her, long-haired and bearded. Barbarians, from across the river. Her own people. Then the carriage had moved on past the junction and she was gone.

  There was nothing unusual about seeing her there, Castus told himself. Ganna was not confined to their quarters; she often went out into the city. He blinked, fighting the urge to order the driver to halt the carriage. Something about the woman’s posture, her attitude, had been wrong. It took him a moment to realise what it had been: the slump of her shoulders, the way she had touched her face as she spoke to the two tribesmen. She had been weeping, Castus was sure of it.

  *

  Striding back into his private meeting chamber in the Praetorium, Castus tossed his cloak to one of the attendants and crossed to the table, sitting back against it. Diogenes glanced up from his work, but saw the look on Castus’s face and did not speak.

  Seeing Ganna in the street had been a surprise, but Castus knew he needed to put that out of his mind for now. He had quite enough worries. Barely a day had passed since his return from the inspection tour of the frontier garrisons, but already he had learned of the private communications the governor had been sending to Prefect Bassus and the office of the Caesar. The people of Colonia might be hailing him as a saviour, but Castus knew that there were others in the province who resented his handling of the Frankish barbarians. They resented the fifty high-born hostages he had billeted at Tungris, at Juliacum and here in the city, and they disliked the idea that Castus would forward the pleas of the Salii directly to the Caesar, bypassing the civilian channels. And now there was this new cause for concern.

  The sentry appeared at the door, ushering Tagmatius into the room.

  ‘You wanted to speak further to me, dominus?’ the retired drillmaster said.

  Castus gestured for him to approach, and to take a seat.

  ‘This is about your son?’

  Castus shook his head briskly, waving away the question. He remained propped against the table.

  ‘That man in the street back there,’ he said. ‘He mentioned something about my predecessor. Take care they don’t do for you, like they did for Leontius. What did he mean by it?’

  Tagmatius sucked at his teeth. ‘Like I said, the man’s a drunken fool. He was with the old Minervia once, but got invalided out after a cart ran over his foot. Since then he’s just prattled about the town, talking nonsense...’

  ‘Nevertheless, he meant something by what he said.’ And you know more than you’re letting on, Castus thought. He had always been able to read a man’s intent in his expression, and with Tagmatius it was easy enough to see that he was hiding something.

  Pushing himself away from the table, Castus dragged over a stool and sat facing the old man. ‘You’re out of the army now,’ he said. ‘You’re not under my orders. So I’m not asking you as your superior officer – I’m asking you man to man. How did Leontius die?’

  Tagmatius took his time answering. Eumolpius appeared bearing a tray with two cups of wine, and the old man brightened visibly. He took a drink, chewed his lips, then peered up into the far corner of the room. ‘It was back in the spring,’ he said. ‘Dux Leontius had gone up to the frontier to supervise the subsidy payment to the barbarians. There’d been some problems with it before, which is why he went in person...’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Place called Castra Herculis, I believe. Abandoned fort, up by the Rhine north of Noviomagus. We’ve used it as a place to meet the barbarians for decades. Anyway, Leontius went up there to hand over the silver, and he never came back. The story was the barbarians tried something, or there was an argument. A fight broke out, and Leontius died. Along with a fair few barbarians too. That was the last time we sent a subsidy to them.’

  ‘You don’t believe it?’

  Tagmatius gave a guarded smile. ‘There were rumours,’ he said. ‘Nobody knows for sure, except them that were there. But Leontius wasn’t popular. The men didn’t care for him – thought he was a bit stiff, a bit pompous. But he argued with the governor, too, and with some of the local big men. You know the ones I mean.’

  Castus nodded, glancing away to conceal his unease. He had heard tales before of unpopular officers being secretly murdered by their own soldiers – they ran through the army like a vein, and always had done. Back in Italy, several of his men had attempted to do the same to him. And if there was a shipment of silver thrown into the situation too, he could well believe it.

  ‘Who were the troops that went to the meeting with him? Who commanded them?’

  ‘That I couldn’t say,’ Tagmatius replied. ‘I’ve been out of the army a long old while!’

  Castus glanced at Diogenes, who nodded. There should be a record somewhere of the unit that had accompanied Leontius that day.

  When the old man had left, Castus fell to pacing heavy steps from one side of the room to the other and back. ‘What do you make of it?’ he asked Diogenes.

  ‘Could be it happened as they said,’ the secretary suggested, raising his eyebrows. ‘Or the troops killed him to steal the silver for themselves. But if that were the cas
e, they would have been discovered by now. Mutinous soldiers are not good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So perhaps they were taking orders from somebody else. In which case...’

  In which case I need to know who, and why.

  Castus nodded, then forced himself to stop pacing and sit down again. Nothing to be gained by worrying at the problem. He thought over what he knew of the senior officers under his command, the ones he had met during his tour of the river garrisons. Not one of them he would particularly trust. Tribune Gaudiosus, across the bridge at Divitia fortress, was idle and vain and apparently very close to the governor. The prefect of the fortress of Tricensima to the north was old, timid and vague. The tribune commanding the numerus of scouts at Noviomagus may have been a decent leader, but had appeared sullen and almost insubordinate. The men they commanded had not been much better: half of them were barbarian recruits, barely a step away from the tribesmen they were supposed to be guarding against. The rest were too old, or too young, and all were too inexperienced.

  The junior officers had been better, some of them: Dexter in particular, and some of the other commanders of the strongpoints along the road to Tungris. But this had always been the problem with the new frontier-defence system: the able officers, and the best of the troops, were promoted to the field army units, and the borders manned by the rejects and the time-served veterans, bulked up with irregulars. Half of the garrison at Tricensima were made up of men from the old Praetorian Guard of Maxentius: they had been good soldiers, once, but defeat on the field of the Milvian Bridge five years before had broken their pride and their sense of discipline. Now they were just serving out their time, resenting their new home and the emperor who had sent them there.

  ‘Some messages came for you, dominus, while you were away,’ Diogenes said in a rather speculative tone. ‘Perhaps you’d care to hear them now?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Castus said, breaking from his stream of thought. ‘Yes – read them to me.’ He knew that Diogenes had taken to opening and reading his messages, and trusted him to do it; ever since that terrible day in the camp in Thracia, when the news of Sabina’s death had come as such a shock, Castus preferred to give his secretary time to digest the importance of any fresh information.