The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

‘No, no, no!’ Rufus cried with sudden emphasis, getting to his feet and raising a finger. ‘They are the pastures we use for grazing our herds! The forests we use for timber and for hunting! You wish to fill them with barbarians? These people are thieves and brigands – they know nothing of our culture or civilisation. Bring them within our frontiers and they will wander at will, taking whatever they can find.’

  Fabianus mumbled something about inviting wolves into the sheepfold; Castus ignored him. Rufus’s words were seditious, certainly, and the tone was aggressive, but Castus fought to remain calm. He would not give in to anger. Not yet.

  ‘Then again,’ Rufus said, ‘I also hear you have a barbarian concubine? I hope that familiarity does not lead you to underestimate their danger? It would not do, surely, for the commander of our frontier to be thought a... barbarian lover?’

  Castus drew himself up stiffly, and threw his cloak back from his shoulder. He exhaled. ‘That’s no business of yours, citizen.’

  ‘Forgive me, excellency, I spoke in haste!’ Rufus said, grinning. ‘I meant no criticism. Like all men, I ride my slaves from time to time, women and boys alike. It’s a master’s prerogative. But one should not form attachments with them, of course...’

  At the periphery of his vision, Castus could make out the figures of men stationed on the path and along the bank of the pool. Six, perhaps; maybe more. He still doubted this was more than a performance, but the threat was overt now.

  ‘If you have something you want to say to me,’ he told Rufus, ‘say it now.’

  Rufus sucked his cheeks, frowning. Fabianus had returned to stand beside him.

  ‘It was a shame about Leontius,’ the landowner said. ‘He could have become a very wealthy man. He chose otherwise.’

  ‘He chose to do his duty,’ Castus replied. He thought of the wealth that Latronianus had offered him, and almost wanted to laugh. He was far beyond any temptations that Rufus could provide.

  ‘You know,’ the landowner went on, gazing into the night, ‘the north was proud once. We raised our own emperors here – now we call them usurpers, of course, but in their time they were glorious. Constantine himself was one of them, originally. Now he’s gone to the east, perhaps never to return – but he’s not the sole ruler of the Roman Empire! What would happen, do you think, if someone here – Governor Tiberianus, shall we say – were to make a bid for power? Such things have happened before.’

  ‘And been crushed before,’ Castus said. He knew very well that Magnius Rufus had no intention of supporting Tiberianus. He was talking about himself.

  ‘If any such usurper declared himself,’ Castus continued, ‘it would be my duty to oppose them. And I wouldn’t hesitate to destroy any attempt to usurp imperial authority, with all the troops under my command.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Rufus said. He paused a moment. ‘But do you think your troops would obey you, if you did?’

  *

  They returned to the villa in heavy silence, Castus making an effort to ignore the armed men that still dogged their steps. On the lighted portico he found Dexter waiting for him. The tribune raised an eyebrow, questioning; Castus shook his head curtly.

  ‘I bid you goodnight, excellency,’ Rufus said, smiling broadly as if nothing had happened. ‘Perhaps you might think over what we’ve discussed, and tomorrow we can speak again?’

  Not if I can help it, Castus thought. He had already decided on an early start the next day. Dexter led him through the house and up the stairs to the adjoining rooms set aside for their use. The tribune had already stationed the two guards in the corridor outside, unarmoured but with swords at their sides. Castus nodded his approval; clearly Dexter had guessed something of what had been said that evening.

  In his room, Castus threw off the borrowed cloak, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes. There was a small window, opening onto the tiled roof of the front portico; he checked the latch, and made sure it was secured from the inside. Then he barred the door to the corridor, stripped off his tunic and breeches and extinguished the lamp on the side table. Before he lay down, he fetched his scabbarded sword and laid it beside him on the mattress.

  Staring into the darkness, he thought over the conversation beside the pool. He was angry, and his anger was turning to a hard aggressive energy. Rufus’s sly, arrogant words had been openly treasonous; Castus had the urge to move against him at once. He could order Dexter’s men to seize the landowner, drag him in chains to Treveris to face trial. What evidence did he have? A few words, spoken after a dinner party... Men had been executed for less. But Rufus was wealthy enough to have bought influence even in Treveris; doubtless there were men in the imperial council who would speak for him. Tiberianus too; Castus could only overrule the governor by declaring martial law. Was the threat that serious?

  With a start, he recalled the landowner’s closing words. If Rufus really had conspired in the murder of Leontius, then he had followers in the army as well. Castus could not even trust the men under his own command to support him.

  Another thought struck him, starting icy sweat on his brow: was Ganna safe? Rufus knew about her, and would not hesitate to harm her if he could, as a warning if nothing else. Could anybody here be trusted?

  Enough, Castus told himself. He must take no hasty action now. Fatigue was clouding his mind, the sense of rage seeping from him gradually. He remembered his talk with Marcellina earlier that evening in the library. At once the thought of her calmed his mind. Clearly she had no love for Magnius Rufus. He could rely on her. But would he ever be able to speak intimately with her again?

  Raising his head, he thumped the bolster, then lay down again and rolled onto his side, pulling the quilted blanket across him. The image of Marcellina lingered in his mind as he slid into sleep.

  *

  He was awake. For a moment he felt disorientated, the darkness pressing in around him. Then he felt the cold breeze across the side of his face, the air disturbed by movement. A single heartbeat, and he flung himself up and off the bed, snatching for his sword.

  The knife came down hard into the bolster, striking the frame of the bed beneath. Already Castus was across the room, but before he could draw the sword from its scabbard the figure beside the bed whirled, dragging the knife free, and sprang at him. Ripped horsehair sprayed in the moonlight through the open shutters.

  Castus tried to cry out, but the sound choked within him as the attacker collided with his chest and slammed him back against the wall. With his free hand Castus punched at the man’s face. He could see the gleam of the knife, lifted to strike.

  The attacker was grappling him, and seemed almost invisible in the darkness. When Castus grabbed for his wrist his fingers slipped off something cold and wet. Fear bloomed in his chest: he was fighting a demon, some inhuman thing out of the night... But it was a man: a man stripped to his loincloth, his body thickly coated in black grease. Castus locked his fingers around the man’s throat, squeezing tight. The knife flickered, and he dodged it just in time; the blade stabbed at the wall beside him, gouging the plaster.

  A thud from the door, the bar jumping in its socket. Voices from the corridor outside. Castus heaved against his enemy, but the man had a wiry strength. Teeth glinted in his blackened face.

  Shoving himself back against the wall, Castus brought his knee up hard into the man’s crotch, then swung his head forward. His skull butted against the bridge of the attacker’s nose, and the man let out a yelp of pain. Castus forced his arm out straight, pushing against the man’s windpipe and driving him back, then chopped a hand down against his wrist.

  The knife fell to the floor, the blade ringing. Another blow against the door, and the wood shuddered in its frame. The attacker was staggering, off balance, and Castus drove two more hard punches at his head. The man dropped, scrabbling on the floor for the knife; Castus kicked it clear, and he jumped back into the far corner of the room.

  They stared at each other. In the scrap of moonlight through the open
window Castus made out the pale hair beneath the grease. The man snarled, feral. Then the door exploded inwards, the bar shattering.

  With one swift movement the pale-haired man was on his feet and leaping for the window. He dived through it, like a man diving into water; Castus heard the crack of tiles on the portico roof outside. In the doorway, Dexter stood with drawn sword, the two soldiers crowding in behind him. But by the time Castus reached the window and hurled himself against the sill, the man was gone. Only a smear of black grease was left on the sloping tiles below.

  Down the stairs, there were slaves running through the halls with lamps. Castus strode quickly out to the portico, carrying his sword, with Dexter and his soldiers coming after him. The light of the lamps had dazzled his eyes, and the ground outside the portico was lost in total darkness.

  ‘You’re safe, thank the gods!’ Rufus cried, coming out of the house in his sleeping tunic. His armed retainers were filling the portico now, waving their burning torches out into the night. ‘I can only apologise, excellency! One of my own slaves,’ he went on, shaking his head and grimacing. ‘I gave him his freedom only this evening! You see, this is how barbarians repay you... Doubtless he wished to avenge your recent slaughter of his people!’

  Castus turned away from him, unable to bear the sight of the man. The energy of combat was still racing in his blood, tremors of delayed shock running through him. He felt suddenly sick, and fought it down. How much more, he wondered, had Rufus promised the man who had attacked him? As he stared angrily at the torches waving in the dark, intended to dazzle his eyes rather than illuminate anything, he understood that the hired slave had not been ordered to kill him: the window shutters had been rigged to open from the outside, but the knife blow that should have struck him had fallen a moment too late. This had been a warning, a goad. And he could expect more of the same.

  CHAPTER XIII

  From the tall windows of the Praetorium Castus gazed out at the river, the water moving smooth and dark as cold oil. On the far side the pastures that ran down to the bank were white with hoar frost, the bare trees beyond massing to the horizon. Winter had come early to the frontier, whirling in on an icy northern wind. People said that some years the Rhine froze. Castus could well believe it; he had seen the ice-covered Danube once. He stared at the water.

  ‘Where was it?’ he asked, turning from the window.

  ‘In the stable of the riding school, dominus,’ Tagmatius told him. The old drill instructor stood at attention, his eyes bleary and blinking. ‘Must have taken at least one man to hold her, another to do the cutting. They just left her there in the stall. Lot of blood.’

  ‘My son saw this?’

  Tagmatius shook his head. ‘I checked the stable before he went in, luckily. Can’t have happened long before, though. First light, probably. The optio there reckoned they’d got a slaughterman to do it.’

  Castus frowned, nodding. Doubtless his son had been intended to find the dead pony. This was his warning – it had taken two months to come. Anger uncoiled in his chest, and he clasped his fists at the small of his back.

  ‘How many people had access to the stables last night?’

  ‘Quite a few. Slaves and such. There’s a sentry on the gate but plenty come and go. The optio said he’ll have the slaves whipped and questioned, but I doubt he’ll find much.’

  Castus rubbed his jaw. The killing of a pony was not a matter for the army; he could inform the city aedile, but he doubted that the official would discover much.

  ‘It’s not right!’ the drillmaster said, his face reddening. ‘Killing poor beasts and scaring children!’

  ‘Let me know if you hear anything more,’ Castus said. ‘And have the pony disposed of somewhere in private. Nobody must know of this, understand?’

  Tagmatius nodded grimly. Castus waited until the man had gone, then turned back to the window. His mind seethed with frustration. Enemies surrounded him, but he had no way of determining who they were. Magnius Rufus, certainly; the governor, most probably. But beyond them were others, a great many others: the whole province and the frontier were riven with treachery and deceit, civilian and military alike. Gods below, these are the people I’m supposed to be protecting...

  No, he would tell nobody about the dead pony, just as he had kept quiet about the feigned attack at Rufus’s villa. Doubtless the governor had spies among his staff, and Rufus too, and he could not allow them to discover that he had been affected by this. Whatever remained of his authority rested on the projection of confidence. He must appear in control, invulnerable. The mask of command.

  Already Castus had dictated a report to the Praetorian Prefect about Magnius Rufus, and the essentials of what the landowner had said at the villa. Diogenes had taken it down, and Castus had given it personally to one of the agentes in rebus attached to his staff, a confidential messenger of proven loyalty. He was covering his back; if word of Rufus’s intentions leaked out, Castus himself did not want to appear complicit. And if Bassus himself decided to act, so be it.

  The subterfuge was not to his tastes. Always before Castus had favoured the direct approach, attack as the best defence, a straight assault against any foe, with sword in hand. But here, in this land where friends and enemies appeared the same, where loyalty and treason seemed to merge and flow like the branching rivers at the mouth of the Rhine, he was blind to what faced him, and he could not act clearly.

  Diogenes had already searched through the records left by the murdered officer, Leontius; any that might have related to the delivery of the subsidies, or mentioned the troops that had accompanied him on his last journey to the river, had been lost or destroyed. All Castus had to guide him were suspicions and doubts.

  Staring at the cold water sliding past beneath the bridge outside, he felt the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. He knew what he had to do, and he had been delaying it too long.

  *

  Two hours later, Ganna stood alone in the centre of the large room. She was wearing her simple green dress, a shawl around her shoulders and her blonde hair hanging loose. In her grey eyes was a look of resignation mingled with defiance. Castus could barely meet her gaze; how had she already guessed what he was intending?

  ‘I have decided,’ he announced stiffly, the words souring his mouth, ‘to send my son Sabinus back to Rome. He will be happier there, surrounded by familiar things, and he will get a better education in the capital than here on the frontier.’

  And he’ll be a lot safer, he thought. Ganna said nothing, but Castus could see the slight twitch of her cheek.

  ‘As a sign of gratitude for the care you have given my son,’ he said, urging the words out, ‘I am giving you your freedom. My secretary Diogenes is drawing up a document of manumission as we speak. You won’t gain full Roman citizenship, as you were a captive taken in war, but your freed status will give you certain legal protections.’ His throat tightened, and he stifled a cough. ‘You can remain here as part of my household if you wish, but you are free to return to your own country if not.’

  There was a long silence. Castus forced himself to look at her. That face he knew so well, now closed against him.

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ she said. ‘But if you do this, you know I must.’

  He nodded. He wanted to tell her of his reasons, of the threat to her if she remained with him, the threat to them all. But he was steeled to his task now, and there could be no turning back. He remembered the old maxim his first commander had taught him. Never try to hold what you cannot defend.

  ‘A convoy of merchants leaves for Bructeri territory early tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘You can go with them.’

  He saw her throat tighten, and she sniffed. So soon – but it had to be done quickly, before his resolve slackened.

  ‘Do it then,’ she told him. ‘If you’re going to do it, get it done.’

  ‘There’s no need...’ he started to say.

  ‘Do it! There must be witnesses. I know how you
Romans love everything to be correct.’

  Castus barked a command, and at once the sentry and two of the clerks appeared in the doorway. A moment later, Diogenes and Eumolpius joined them.

  Ganna remained motionless as he approached her.

  ‘It is my wish,’ he declared, ‘that this slave, Ganna of the Bructeri, be freed.’

  He took a breath, wanting to hold back, not to go through with it. He saw the challenge in her eyes. Raising his hand, he swung it at her face; at the last moment he pulled the blow, and his fingers brushed her cheek in a rough caress.

  ‘Do it properly!’ she hissed. ‘I need to feel it.’

  Again he swung his hand, and his open palm slapped across her cheek. Her head jerked, and she closed her eyes as the colour rose to her face.

  ‘With these blows I liberate you from the power of my hand,’ he said, reciting the words in a deadened voice. ‘And from the violence of slavery.’

  He raised his left hand, and slapped her other cheek. The print of his palm bloomed pink on her skin. The men at the far end of the room nodded, signifying that they had witnessed the act of manumission. Diogenes cleared his throat.

  ‘I now declare that you are a free woman,’ Castus said.

  Then he stepped forward and threw his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace. Ganna pressed herself against his shoulder, and he could hear her choking back tears.

  *

  The next morning, an hour after dawn, they stood together on the bridge in the cold grey mist. The merchant caravan – two wagons and a train of mules – waited on the roadway. Behind him, Castus could hear his bodyguards stamping and blowing on their cupped hands.

  Dropping to her knees on the mud of the road, Ganna embraced Sabinus. The boy clung to her, his fingers knotting around the rough weave of her cloak, and Castus heard her whispering to him. The boy nodded, gulping as he cried. Castus stared at the river, hardly daring to breathe.

  Standing up, Ganna brushed at the mud on her tunic.

  ‘You’ll send me word that you’re safe?’ Castus said.