by Ian Ross
He caught the first of them as he tried to turn his pony. Dapple rammed into the other animal, pitching the rider from the saddle. Castus was already aiming a straight-arm stab at the next man’s face. The man flinched, and Castus flicked his hand down into a slash that opened his forearm.
A pony reared, screaming as its rider tried to control it. The two mounted soldiers were in among the enemy now, yelling as they struck. Castus dragged back on the reins, letting Dapple rear and kick, then smashed his sword down onto another rider’s head. The blade chopped through the man’s hood, and blood sprayed up pink in the rain.
Half of them were down already, dead or injured. Two more were cantering away from the road across the fields. Castus was shouting, ordering his men to catch the fugitives, to get them alive. He saw one of his soldiers dodge a spear-thrust, then slash a rider from the saddle with a backhand cut. Muddy water splashed and spattered around them.
Soldiers ahead of him, circling. Castus saw one of the enemy riders canter closer and aim a javelin; he threw himself forward against the horse’s neck and felt the missile dart past him. As he straightened, a gust of wind flung the rider’s hood back from his head. White-blond hair was plastered against the man’s skull, and as the scarf covering his face dropped Castus saw the expression of hate, the killer’s eyes. He yelled, urging his horse towards the enemy.
The rider turned, his pony rearing. As he galloped clear he struck downwards with his second javelin, stabbing it into the back of one of his injured comrades lying on the road. Then he kicked wildly at the pony’s flanks, hauling at the reins to send the animal plunging over the roadside ditch and into the open ground beyond.
The skirmish was over. One of Castus’s men was kneeling in the mud beside the only fallen enemy who remained alive. He shook his head. Blood soaked the road, filling the ruts and the puddles. The suddenness of the attack had been effective; none of the soldiers were injured.
Four of the attackers had escaped, fleeing in different directions. Castus stared after the white-blond man. The ground between them was broken with ditches and clogged with low scrub, too hazardous to cross at a gallop. Castus drew on the reins, pulling his horse to a halt. The man slowed, glaring back at him.
‘Run to your master!’ Castus bellowed through the rain. ‘Tell him if he tries anything like this again, I’ll come and find him myself. And I’ll kill him!’
He was smiling grimly as he rode back onto the road. Magnius Rufus had covered his tracks well. But if he wanted a war, Castus thought, then he would get one.
PART THREE
CHAPTER XIV
Treveris, March AD 318
Anyone might think, Luxorius mused to himself as he paced along the broad corridor of the palace, that the population of Treveris would have had enough of imperial celebrations by now. Enough of games, enough of parades, certainly enough of panegyric speeches. But apparently they had not. Only days before it had been the birthday of the Augustus Constantine, and today it was the first anniversary of Crispus’s promotion to Caesar; once again the city had been alive with festivity since dawn, the streets garlanded, the area around the palace loud with shouts of acclaim and the braying of trumpets, the crowds in the circus roaring their approval of their young master.
But it was no surprise that the city loved shows so much. There was food from the sacrifices and the public banquets, free entertainment and a good excuse for drunkenness and excess. There was money, too, distributed as donatives to the soldiers and the city officials: new-minted gold coins, stamped with the head of Crispus and the motto Princeps Iuventutis. ‘First Among Youth’. No surprise either, Luxorius thought, that so many people were drawn to the great city, to swell the numbers of the urban mob. A horde of open mouths and open hands, while the surrounding countryside emptied, the villages decayed and the land was swallowed up by the vast slave-farmed estates of the wealthy.
It was not his concern. The eunuch felt little connection, and even less love, for this grey northern land. Let all of Gaul sink into the sea: he would not care. As he moved along the corridor, his soft leather soles padding quietly on the polished marble tiles, he could hear the sounds of singing and chanting drifting in through the tall windows on either side. Now evening was falling, the official celebrations were complete, but the city would not be quiet for many hours to come. There was something disgusting, yet also awe-inspiring, about the passions of the mob.
At the end of the corridor he passed through a painted vestibule, between a pair of Protectores standing guard in full scale armour with shields and spears, then approached the tall doors at the far side. He stood for a moment, conscious of the silence, before the doors opened and he advanced into the chamber beyond. The door slave was a eunuch like himself; for a moment their gaze met and lingered, loaded with mutual contempt.
‘Detained by the celebrations, I expect, Luxorius?’ the Praetorian Prefect said. Bassus was reclining on a couch, his heavy beard-covered jowls sunk almost to his chest, his shaven top lip gleaming slightly. The air smelled of incense, perfume and stale sweat.
‘I’m afraid not,’ the eunuch replied, with an agreeable smile. ‘Administration, eminence – the burden of us all.’
There were four other men in the room, seated on high-backed chairs. Cervianus was the head of the Caesar’s Corps of Notaries, while the red-faced Hypatius, comes rei militaris, commanded the main force of the field army. The chief secretary of Bassus’s officium was present, and also Cupitus, Controller of the Sacred Revenues for the Prefecture of Gaul. All but the first were Christians. Slaves stood in silent attendance.
‘Sit,’ Bassus directed, and the eunuch took a chair near his superior’s couch. This was an informal gathering, but an important one. Officially, Caesar Crispus was advised by his consistorium, headed by his prefect. In practice, Bassus opted to discuss affairs with a much smaller group, his own confidants, and make up his mind before taking any new proposal before the full council of state. It allowed him greater freedom; besides, in the consistorium all but the emperor had to remain standing, and Bassus preferred to deliberate in comfort. Luxorius assumed he himself was valued for his impartiality.
‘So, what’s the latest word from the provinces?’ Bassus asked.
‘All seems well at present,’ the chief notary said, dipping his eyes only briefly to the inscribed wax tablet in his lap. ‘The provincials are pleased that the Caesar has most generously remitted their last year’s tax arrears. They praise him with their every breath!’
‘Good,’ said Bassus. ‘That’s the purpose of provincials. How are our finances bearing the loss?’
‘A few squeezes here and there,’ Cupitus said with a sigh. He appeared, Luxorius thought, like a man who could benefit from some squeezes himself. ‘But nothing the treasury can’t smooth away.’
‘Well done. Hopefully it won’t be necessary to extend any further bribes. A small amount of largesse now, and we reap a much greater reward in future taxes paid in full. Does the frontier remain tranquil?’
‘Indeed, eminence,’ the notary said. ‘The tribes of the Franks and Alamanni are all abiding with their treaties. The Franks in particular, it seems, are showing signs of accommodation. The salutary blow recently dealt them by our Dux Germaniae seems to have convinced them of the merits of a deeper cooperation with Rome.’
‘Ah yes, our bull-headed commander on the Rhine,’ Bassus said with a flicker of amusement. ‘He has been, perhaps, a little too efficient!’
Polite smiles from the assembled dignitaries. Luxorius had realised long before that the commander’s diplomatic initiatives had taken Bassus by surprise. The prefect had only wanted the barbarians subdued until a future date, not rendered entirely subservient. But if the commander had exceeded his mandate, he had done so unwittingly, and Bassus could not fault him for it directly without exposing his own duplicity. The young Caesar needed a war; a tranquil frontier would not provide one. So much of our policy, Luxorius thought, is about managing and manipu
lating threat. But he smiled along with the others all the same.
‘And what of the attitudes of the provincial notables?’ the prefect asked. ‘Have there been any further complaints about the actions of his excellency Aurelius Castus?’
‘A few, eminence,’ the chief secretary said with a worried frown. ‘As you know, both the governor and several of the more prominent citizens have stated their displeasure at the commander’s, ah, high-handed attitudes and enactments. He recently dismissed the tribune commanding the fort at Novaesium, on a charge of incompetence and corruption, and appointed the chief centurion of the garrison in his place. The dismissed officer has a number of friends in the province, and has made an official complaint and request for reinstatement.’
‘Ignore it,’ Bassus said. ‘His friends can always be placated. I sent Castus up there to clean the place out. A labour of Hercules! Seems he’s succeeding a little too well in that also...’
‘There are also the reports from the dux himself,’ the chief notary said. ‘They chiefly concern the planned imperial tour of the frontier cities next month. His excellency has suggested that the Caesar meets with the chiefs of the Salian Franks to answer their pleas for resettlement within our borders. He proposes the town of Noviomagus as a suitable venue.’
‘Yes,’ Bassus said, tapping his fingers against his thigh. ‘This... requires some thought, I believe. How long has it been since an emperor met directly with the barbarians?’
‘Over three years, eminence,’ the secretary said. ‘Since the most blessed Augustus Constantine accepted the surrender of the combined Frankish tribes.’
‘Would it demonstrate greater strength for the Caesar Crispus to meet with these chiefs at Noviomagus, then?’ Bassus was speaking quietly, as if turning the ideas in his mind. ‘Or should we instead summon them to appear before his majesty at Colonia, say, or even here at Treveris?’
‘The chiefs apparently refuse to travel so far, eminence,’ the secretary broke in. ‘They fear being murdered by our provincials, apparently...’
Bassus grunted. Clearly he already knew this, and had spent quite a long time considering it. ‘Even so,’ he said. ‘They could be compelled. We must not appear too ready to respect their qualms. Besides, the decision has already been taken – would the barbarians be more tractable if they were confronted by the Caesar in person, rather than by his subordinates?’
There was a long silence. Bassus was studying his fingernails, not glancing up as he waited for the views of the assembly.
‘Might it be dangerous, eminence, for the Caesar to travel so close to the frontier?’ Cupitus said. His eyes flicked back and forth, as if seeking support from the others.
‘A strong force of my field troops would accompany him,’ said Hypatius, the military man. ‘He would be in no danger, I assure you.’
‘And yet, if the barbarians are... displeased by the answer?’
The two men glared at each other. No love there, Luxorius knew.
The eunuch sat forward a little in his chair, trying for the right mixture of candour and cool reserve. He did not wish to appear too eager. ‘It seems to me, domini,’ he said, ignoring the mutters of distaste from the other men present, ‘that our purposes could well be served by having the Caesar travel to meet the barbarians in person. After all, we wish these Salii to remain as our allies in any further conflicts with their Frankish brethren.’
‘So what?’ Hypatius broke in, with a dismissive gesture. ‘One group of barbarians is much the same as another.’
‘Allow my cubicularius to speak,’ Bassus commanded, and then nodded to Luxorius to continue. Luxorius permitted himself a moment of silent satisfaction. He knew that the prefect wanted him to frame the view that he, Bassus himself, wished to present. But he also knew that it would serve his own purpose. Nearly a year had passed since Fausta had given him his mission to strike down the young Caesar; a year, and nothing to show but one botched attempt back in Raetia. Now there was the real possibility that Crispus would once more leave the safety of the palace and journey into the wilder country of the frontier. It would be difficult, but the opportunity was there, and tantalising.
‘What better illustration could there be of the sublime confidence of the most blessed Caesar,’ he said, ‘than to appear himself, in person, on the very frontier? Would the barbarians not be overawed by the spectacle of their ruler surrounded by the glittering array of his army and court? Their displeasure at his judgements would be mollified by the very fact of his presence! A magnanimous gesture, and a demonstration of power...’
A more lengthy silence followed his words, the men of the assembly unsure whether to agree, or to continue with their objections. Bassus remained apparently unmoved. Watching the prefect, Luxorius knew that there was nothing beneath his smooth and urbane exterior. After a year spent in his presence, Luxorius knew the truth: Bassus might be the supreme functionary of the Caesar’s court, the power behind the throne of the western empire, but he was a hollow man, with neither beliefs nor aspirations beyond the maintenance of his power and prestige. He was not even aware of his own duplicity. Striking at Crispus would accord with Luxorius’s outstanding commitment to Fausta, but the thought of pricking Bassus’s pompous self-regard and complacence was even more attractive.
‘An agreeable suggestion,’ the prefect said at last. ‘I believe we must give it our fullest consideration.’ Everyone present knew what that meant: no further discussion was required.
‘There is another matter, concerning the Dux Germaniae,’ the chief notary said, consulting his tablet. ‘I refer to his claims that several prominent landowners have expressed themselves treasonously, and even conspired against him. Our own agents in the officia of both the dux and the governor can find no corroborating evidence. I confess I don’t know what to do about it... What does your eminence suggest?’
‘I’ve thought it over,’ Bassus said. ‘Our commander is an unsubtle sort, and perhaps gives and takes offence too freely. I have ordered him to desist from any further direct dealings with the men in question, and to take no further action unless to safeguard the dignity of his office. We know that some of these landowners are over-mighty, but they must be kept compliant to our wishes.’
‘Very wise, eminence,’ the notary said.
‘Meanwhile, order your people to continue their investigations. Keep me informed of any progress.’
The notary nodded, and Luxorius noticed the prefect’s secretary scratching a memorandum of it himself. As it happened, he had recently become friendly with the secretary, who was very keen on discussions of a religious nature. No doubt, the eunuch thought, he would soon learn of what the investigations had uncovered.
Bassus gave a satisfied sigh, and gestured for the slaves to bring refreshment. The evening’s work was done, it seemed. In his mind, Luxorius was already composing the carefully worded message he would send to Fausta.
‘Now,’ Bassus said, ‘you really must try these preserved cherries. A gift from one of those landowners you mentioned. Steeped in honey and wine. The flavour is quite exquisite!’
CHAPTER XV
In the streets of Colonia Agrippina the crowds were roaring. The route from the south gate to the forum was garlanded and lined with the flags of the city collegia and images of the gods, and the noise of horns and flutes competed with the cheers of the multitude. People had climbed up onto the roofs of the porticos and larger houses, precarious on the wet tiles as they gazed down at the imperial procession passing below. In the midst of it all, Caesar Crispus rode in an open carriage, keeping his head straight and his gaze fixed on the road ahead, with a skinny yellow dog seated beside him.
From the steps of the basilica, Castus could hear the noise as the procession approached. It had rained two hours before, but now the sky was clear and the spring sun made the city shine as if it had been scrubbed in honour of the Caesar’s arrival. On all sides of the forum the dignitaries of the city were drawn up in order of precedence, all of
them in their stiff heavy robes. Castus could see Magnius Rufus in the front row, his proud face composed in a suitably reverent expression. Behind him was his snakelike neighbour, Fabianus, and behind them Dulcitius. Castus tightened his jaw, and tried to resist the urge to stare. Instead he fixed his gaze on the Christian bishop, Euphrates, standing in uncomfortable proximity to the more traditional priests and the representatives of the Jews of the city, all waiting to greet their young master.
The governor was beside Castus on the steps. Tiberianus had cooperated fully enough with him in the planning of this imperial adventus, but the mood of hostility still lingered between them. All winter Castus had endured it, but nothing more had happened to suggest open conflict. Rufus and his friends had made no further attempts at intimidation. The weather had been wet but mild, the river had not frozen and the barbarians had remained quiet. The impression of calm, Castus thought, was almost too much of a good thing.
With a blast of trumpets the first troops of the imperial entourage came swinging into the paved expanse of the forum. Castus picked out their shield blazons and could not hide his delighted smile as he saw the red sun-wheel on yellow, the emblem of II Britannica, the legion he had commanded himself for many years. He had believed they were still in the east, with Constantine. The men of the Second deployed along the left of the forum; opposite them were troops carrying blue shields with the image of the war god, emblem of the Martenses, the field detachment of Legion I Martia. Together they formed a broad avenue of shields and bristling spears.
The procession moved down the avenue between the lines of soldiers, first the Horse Guards in their glistening armour, their banners flying, and then the Caesar in his carriage. Many of the dignitaries sank to their knees as he passed, and then the carriage drew to a halt before the steps of the basilica. Crispus dismounted, then climbed the steps with his Protectores forming a cordon around him. Tiberianus approached, dropping on one knee on the lower step to perform the adoratio, kissing the hem of the young emperor’s gold-embroidered purple cloak. Once the governor had moved back, Castus did the same. Crispus stood in the sunlight, and the massed cheers of the crowd filled the forum. The mood of grandeur and ritual was punctured only by the yellow dog, which was happily pissing against the wall of the basilica.
