by Ian Ross
‘As in heaven, so it is on earth,’ a voice said as the cheers died away. Castus turned and saw the old tutor, Lactantius, standing beside him. ‘The light of the father shines through the son!’
‘I thought it was Constantine who likened himself to Christ,’ Castus said in a low voice. ‘Wouldn’t that make Crispus the grandson?’
The old man glanced at him, his mossy grey eyebrows rising in surprise. For a moment he appeared baffled, as if he had been tricked into some error.
‘I believe your grasp of theology is as weak as your philosophy,’ Lactantius said, composing himself with a dry smirk. ‘Your idolatry has blinded you! If only you learned to see with the eyes of faith, God’s truth would be revealed to you.’
‘There’s my god,’ Castus said, flinging up a hand towards the bright morning sun. ‘The light of the world. He warms my face, and I don’t need magic eyes to see him either.’
Lactantius let out a piqued gasp, then turned abruptly and followed Crispus into the basilica.
It was only an hour later, rocking on his heels as the sonorous voice of the orator filled the huge hall, that Castus began to wonder about the appearance of the Second Legion. He had seen only a few of the old faces he recognised in the ranks, but had learned from one of the Protectores that the legion had spent the winter at Mediolanum, and had arrived at Treveris only a few days before, in company with several other new field army detachments. Bringing troops over the Alpine passes while the snow was still on the peaks was a determined undertaking; was such a reinforcement routine, or was there something planned? Unease flickered in the back of his mind, while the orator continued his praises.
‘...longed-for hope of a new age, marked out for the helm of the world! Already your blessed father has schooled you in all the sciences of empire, which youth and tender years now firmly grasp. For us you arise like a new sun from the east – we feel the glow of divine light, the splendour of the world revealed anew...!’
Did emperors always, Castus wondered, have to endure these sorts of platitudes wherever they went? Around him the dignitaries of the imperial retinue stood in respectful silence, stifling their coughs as the incense swirled between them. Up on the throne Crispus sat stiff and immobile, his face an impassive mask.
‘At the first word of your approach, great Caesar, the savage foe slinks back beyond the Rhine. Those who once took the cities of our province by siege now besiege only you, with pleas for peace and mercy! As the Tiber is crowned by bridges, so fortifications now subjugate the northern flood, and the barbarians themselves refashion the shackles of their ancient servitude...!’
Castus made a sound in his throat, and the men to either side of him glanced in his direction. He was glad there were no emissaries of the barbarians present, to hear their slavery declared so publicly. He supposed these panegyrics were all a form of theatre, not intended to represent reality. Even so, it seemed a dangerous sort of hubris.
Now the orator was speaking of ripe wheat growing golden in open fields, grapes swelling on the vine and honey dripping from oaken boughs... Castus angled his head and scanned the crowds filling the rear of the basilica. He picked out Magnius Rufus, and a small group of women near the back. Was Marcellina here? He had seen nothing of her since his brief visit to her husband’s house in the winter. He put the thought from his mind; the oration was finally drawing to a close, and soon enough he would have to present himself to the young emperor, and try to guess what strategy the wisdom of his counsellors had devised.
*
‘Is it really true that the sword of Julius Caesar is kept in a temple here in the city?’ Crispus asked. ‘I’d very much like to see it!’
‘Supposedly, majesty,’ Castus said. ‘But I think the original was lost when the city fell to the barbarians back in the days of Probus.’ He had seen the so-called ‘Sword of Caesar’ months before, shortly after his arrival in the city. It was kept in the temple called the Altar of the Ubi, and the custodians had exhibited it with reverent awe. The undistinguished lump of rusty corrosion had probably never been a weapon. But perhaps Castus should have allowed the young man to retain his illusions?
‘Too bad,’ Crispus said with a shrug. ‘I should have liked to touch something once held by the Immortal Julius. Although,’ he added with a reverent glance at the ceiling, ‘he was just a man, of course...’
Released from his imperial duties, Crispus was back to his youthful self, spreading his gangling limbs across a couch in the private dining room of the Praetorium, while the dog lay at his feet with its pink tongue dangling. A new wing of the building had been opened and freshly cleaned to accommodate him and his retinue, although his stay would be brief.
‘How far is it to Noviomagus,’ Crispus asked, ‘where I’ll be meeting the barbarian kings?’
‘Five days’ march, majesty,’ the Praetorian Prefect replied.
‘Two by river,’ Castus said. ‘I’ve ordered the flagship of the Rhine flotilla down from Mogontiacum.’
‘Excellent!’ Crispus declared. ‘The troops can march at first light tomorrow, and I shall follow them by water three days later.’
Already, Castus had noticed, the young man was showing signs of growing into his role. Eight months had passed since he left the young Caesar on the road, shortly after the ambush in Raetia. He had been a child then, but his experiences of rule in Treveris had given him a brisk sense of his own authority. All the same, Castus also noticed that Prefect Bassus seldom left the young Caesar’s side. Clearly Crispus was not yet trusted to act for himself, whatever he liked to think.
‘This might be a good moment, majesty,’ Bassus said, ‘to go over our policy with regards to these barbarians, and their... requests.’
‘I thought we’d already discussed that?’ Crispus said. His voice cracked and warbled. ‘But maybe we should ask the commander here? Aurelius Castus – you’ve met these barbarians. What do you think of the situation, as a soldier, a fighting man?’
Castus noticed the prefect glancing in his direction with a clouded expression. Crispus too was staring at him, eagerness in his eyes. He remembered the last time he had seen the youth, in the bloody chaos following the ambush; did the Caesar regard him differently now? He swallowed heavily, looked at his feet. ‘I believe some of them can be trusted,’ he said. ‘That is – I think their request for resettlement should be seriously considered... Barbarians serve well in our armies, both on the frontier and with the field troops. We need manpower, and the Franks could provide it.’
‘You see!’ Crispus said, grinning widely at Bassus. ‘I told you it was a good idea! If our commander thinks...’
‘What the commander thinks,’ Bassus said ponderously, ‘is not a matter of imperial policy, majesty. I must remind you that the consistorium have reached certain conclusions on the issue. Only a limited broadening of territorial rights can be considered...’
Castus began to speak, and then stifled his words. He told himself that it was not his concern; he had made no promises to Bonitus and his people, and the other Frankish chiefs were strangers to him. But he had looked forward to the outraged reaction of Rufus and his cabal of landowners.
Crispus was nodding, slightly crestfallen now. It was sobering to notice, Castus thought, how much Bassus controlled the youth. He remembered other emperors he had encountered: Diocletian, stern and unsmiling, the personification of power; Galerius, hearty and overbearing, with his thin twanging voice; Maximian’s tempestuous authority. Then Constantine, this youth’s father, with his ranging moods, his coldly focused ferocity, his threatening jollity. All of them were their own men. Hard to imagine this fifteen-year-old lad living up to that. Could Crispus ever truly be a leader...?
A sudden commotion from the next room disturbed his thoughts: a child’s cry. He tensed quickly, seeing the Protectores at the doorway reaching for their swords. Crispus’s yellow dog lurched upright, snarling, and the young man calmed it with an outstretched hand.
‘Dominus,’ Ca
stus said. ‘I forgot to mention... my son...’
He turned to see the boy stepping through the doorway, clutching his wooden practice sword to his chest. Slaves and eunuchs clustered behind him, and two Protectores flanked him, trying to hide their smiles.
‘We tried to take his weapon from him, dominus,’ one of them said. ‘He wouldn’t hand it over!’
Castus gestured, and Sabinus ran to him. With a protective hand on his son’s shoulder Castus presented him to the Caesar. Crispus had sat up straight on the couch, making a slightly absurd attempt to appear more imperatorial.
‘This is my son, Aurelius Sabinus, majesty. He asked to meet you, if he could.’
‘A fine warrior in the making, I see,’ Crispus said, and waved the boy closer. Castus urged his son to approach, and Sabinus took a few steps forward. Now he was in the room, surrounded by strange adults, his resolve had deserted him.
‘Give me your sword,’ Crispus said, stretching out his hand. Sabinus, awestruck and trembling, glanced nervously back at his father, then held the weapon out, hilt extended. Crispus took it, raising an eyebrow. ‘A proper weapon,’ he said, running his palm along the splintered wooden blade. ‘I may not get to handle the sword of Julius Caesar, friends, but this will do!’
He raised the wooden sword, and his attendants laughed dutifully. Even Bassus mimed a chuckle. Castus stood behind his son, laying his palms on the boy’s shoulders. Perhaps, he thought, this young man would not make such a bad emperor after all.
*
The town of Noviomagus stood on the banks of the Vahalis, a river which branched from the Rhine a hundred miles upstream from the sea. Flat marshland surrounded it on both sides of the river. Once, in the distant days of Rome’s glory, legions were based at this place. The ruins of their fortresses still showed as grassy hummocks, but the only permanent fortification now was a palisaded entrenchment on a low rise near the riverbank, home to a numerus of Batavian exploratores. Below the fort was a civilian settlement, a ragged place of shacks and wooden huts, populated mainly by Frankish settlers and a few merchants from Belgica and the provinces of Germania. Now, very temporarily, it was the centre of imperial administration in Gaul.
The troops of the field army detachments had arrived the day before, nearly two thousand marching legionaries of the Second Britannica, Lanciarii and Martenses, together with half as many horsemen of the Scutarii and Promoti. With them had come the bulk of the Caesar’s retinue, the wagons and carriages that transported his staff and slaves, and the officials of the essential ministries of state. It was early evening by the time the Bellona and her escort of smaller vessels rounded the bend in the river and came to anchor in midstream. The soldiers lined the bank and cried out the imperial salutes as the Caesar was rowed ashore in a barge. The white imperial pavilion already stood waiting for him, at the heart of the newly entrenched camp.
Castus came ashore in the next boat. The two-day voyage downriver had been pleasant enough, the young Caesar ordering the ships close in to the left bank several times, so he could inspect the forts and watchtowers as they passed. Castus had pointed out the new constructions, and told the young man what he knew of the various peoples who inhabited the far side of the river. The Praetorian Prefect, Bassus, had kept out of the way, apparently content that his charge could not wreck the western empire while seated on the deck of a river galley.
In the last glow of the evening sun, Castus went up to the fort and got the report from the officer commanding the numerus. The tribune was a sullen man, who appeared to resent his posting, but his report was adequately detailed. The delegations of the Salian Franks were assembled on the north bank of the Vahalis and the chiefs would cross with their retinues early the next day; in the meantime, the river would be guarded by Roman shipping and patrol boats. As he left the fort, Castus gazed across the dark river at the glow of fires on the far bank, the rising smoke trails. He felt a stir of unease; the Franks would not be getting what they wanted from the new emperor. Would they be content with the minor concessions Bassus was allowing them? If not, what would they do? He looked down at the Roman encampment, the regular tent lines inside the fortified enclosure, the pavilions of the emperor and his retinue, and for the first time in his life the sight of Roman troops in the field did not gladden his heart.
After passing the report to Bassus and his clerks, Castus decided not to return to his own tent straight away. Two days on the confined deck of a liburnian galley had left him restless, and he knew he would sleep little. With only a pair of bodyguards accompanying him he walked down from the camp towards the riverbank. It was almost fully dark by now, but he could still make out the small patrol boats rowing slowly against the current, keeping the cordon of the river closed. The air smelled of mud and wet sedge, and a light rain was falling, misting the glow of the fires on the far bank. Castus walked in silence for half an hour, consumed in thought.
He was just turning back for the camp when he heard a shout from away to his left, the cry of a sentry in the darkness. His two bodyguards reached at once for their swords. A lone figure came out of the gloom, stumbling on the damp turf, arms raised.
‘Who’s there?’ the sentry cried again. ‘Identify yourself!’
‘Please, no need for alarm!’ a voice said. ‘I... I was walking by the river and I got lost in the darkness...’
Castus remained still, watching the figure as it approached. He thought he recognised the voice, but for a few long moments he could see little of the face or form. A torch flared suddenly, bursting colours across his vision, and when he held up his hand, blinking against the glare, he saw the gleaming shaved head of the prefect’s eunuch secretary, the Egyptian, Luxorius.
‘Dangerous place to go wandering by yourself,’ Castus said.
The eunuch smiled, still keeping his hands raised. ‘I’m afraid nightfall caught me unawares!’ Luxorius said. ‘Perhaps, excellency, I could follow you back to the camp?’
Castus grunted, gesturing for the eunuch to follow him. He remembered noticing something familiar about the Egyptian when he saw him last, during the journey from Aquileia. Now, in the slanting light of the torch, he realised what it was. Many years ago, in Rome, he had encountered another Egyptian eunuch, the chamberlain of the usurper Maxentius. Merops – that had been his name. What had happened to him? The resemblance was striking. But the thought of those days in Rome brought another half-forgotten face to his mind: the notary Nigrinus, who had disappeared at that same time. Somehow in the tangle of memory the two had become intertwined.
Castus shook his head, clearing the fog of recollection. This eunuch of Bassus’s surely had no connection to either Merops or Nigrinus. But a lingering intuition sparked in his mind all the same. It did little to dispel his sense of unease.
All that night he lay half awake, listening to the light patter of rain on tent leather, the distant roaring of the barbarians around their feasting fires, alert for the first cry of alarm or attack. But the night passed quietly on the Roman shore. By first light the next day the troops were assembled, the ranks of armed men forming a huge hollow square on all sides of the podium of stacked turf where the Caesar would sit enthroned to receive the barbarian chiefs.
Castus took his position to the left of the podium, dressed in his burnished armour and embroidered cloak, his plumed helmet held in the crook of his arm. Standing stiffly at attention, he sucked down the fresh morning air, dispelling the after-images of fragmented dreams that still flickered across his dulled mind. His breakfast of bread, oil and watered wine churned in his guts, and he belched quietly.
Trumpets split the air as the Caesar mounted the podium, flanked by his Protectores, with Bassus clambering after him. Crispus seated himself on a high-backed chair of gilded oak, a cushion of gold-encrusted purple beneath him and a long purple draco banner snapping and coiling above his head. Mounted troops of the Schola Scutariorum formed up in a tight block behind the podium. Castus caught the sweet reek of horseshit, mingling with
the scent of trampled grass.
Looking along the ranks of the assembled troops, it was impossible not to feel a sense of pride at the awesome display of Roman military might. Castus smiled to himself, his spirits slightly restored. Yes, he thought, this was where he belonged. Although he would rather have been in the ranks himself, instead of his position of prominence beside the tribunal.
The first of the barbarian chiefs had already crossed the river, and steadily they were assembling on the bank. When all had reached the Roman shore they advanced, escorted by troops, into the centre of the hollow square to face the emperor on his raised throne. Castus watched them; if any were awed by the military display, they did not show it. The Franks walked proudly, heads high, not deigning to stare at the soldiers surrounding them on all sides. Castus saw Bonitus among them, and the similarity to his brother Brinno seemed even more striking now.
Gathering in a great mass, as if contemptuous of the regular formation of the Roman troops, the barbarians parted to let their chiefs through to the front. There were six of them, all powerful-looking men with thick moustaches. Out of respect, they had been permitted to carry their swords. Now they drew the weapons, holding them hilt-first towards the figure of the boy-emperor, points directed at their throats. With one rumbling voice they called out the imperial salutation.
‘Who’s that in the front?’ Castus said from the corner of his mouth. He had an interpreter beside him, Bappo, the frog-faced Frankish recruit of the Equites Stablesiani, who had joined the retinue on its journey north.
