The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  ‘Gaiso,’ the interpreter said quietly. ‘War chief of the eastern Salii. Big man.’

  ‘True enough,’ Castus said. The Frankish leader was massively built, his silvered mail stretched over his broad chest and bulbous belly. Gaiso threw back his head, raised one hand, and began roaring out his address. The official interpreter, a pale and undistinguished man, struggled to keep up with the translation.

  ‘What’s he really saying?’ Castus said in a harsh whisper.

  ‘He’s talking about his ancestors,’ Bappo hissed back.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Oh, all their brave deeds. Mainly while they were fighting you! He says that his grandfather led a Frankish army as far as Spain, and his great-uncle travelled as far as the Euxine Sea and stole a Roman fleet to sail all the way home through the Pillars of Hercules, sacking every city he passed.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Castus asked, frowning.

  ‘...decades of friendship with the Roman people,’ the official translator was saying, ‘after learning to put aside worthless war and accept the superior benefits of peace...’

  ‘Oh, it’s true!’ Bappo said. ‘And now he’s saying how his father fought the emperor Constantine’s father.’

  ‘He sounds quite pleased with himself.’

  ‘Ah, my people are great talkers!’

  Sure enough, Gaiso’s story was growing with the telling, the burly chief growing red in the face and smacking his lips as he related the details of his people’s long struggles against the empire. Castus could see men in the ranks beginning to shuffle and mutter; many of the Roman troops understood the Frankish tongue.

  ‘...and now he comes to you, eager to pledge his undying allegiance to the Roman state,’ the translator said, with a weak smile, ‘and to beg that you accept his loyalty and extend the protection of Roman power over his people...’

  The chieftain’s voice boomed on, filling the air with the strange snarls and guttural vowels of the Germanic language. Castus found himself thinking of Ganna, and the words she had whispered to him when they lay together. He quelled the memory at once.

  Gaiso let out a great bellow of laughter. Whatever the nature of the chief’s joke, it was lost on the translator, although Castus could see many of the other Franks smirking happily. Behind him he could hear Bappo stifling his mirth, too.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Ah, a joke,’ Bappo said. ‘Something about a cow and a calf, I didn’t quite catch it all...’

  Castus grunted deep in his throat. He felt his shoulders tightening, his brow growing hot.

  After Gaiso came another chief – Flaochadus, the interpreter explained – and then several more, all with their lengthy and rambling addresses. The sun was high overhead, now, and the square of armoured men and horses seemed to trap and condense the heat. Castus flicked a glance to his left, up at Crispus seated on his throne. The youth sat rigidly, with an expression of extreme discomfort. Beside him stood Bassus, his heavy face closed and inscrutable.

  Finally it was the turn of Bonitus. He paused for a moment, then strode briskly forward, well clear of the mass of other barbarians. With his thumbs hooked in his belt he gazed defiantly at the boy on the throne.

  ‘Caesar,’ he said, loudly and in clear Latin, ‘we have not before met, but I see in you the figure of your father.’

  A stir ran through the officials gathered around the tribunal. Clearly many of them had not expected to encounter barbarians who spoke their language; they craned forward, staring, perplexed and dismayed.

  ‘Twenty years ago,’ Bonitus went on, his accent giving the words an aggressive bite, ‘my own father, Baudulfus, swore allegiance to Rome. Even before then, though he fought against you, he respected your ways and your culture. With my father I have battled against the enemies of your people beyond the frontier – even against our kinsmen of the Chamavi and Chattuari, when they threatened you. My brother served in the Protectores of your father Constantine, and fell in battle with Rome’s foes.’

  Just for a moment, Bonitus glared at Castus, caught his gaze and held it. One heartbeat, then two.

  ‘Now,’ Bonitus declared, raising his hand towards Castus, ‘with this man as your commander on the frontier, I am happy to be a friend of Rome. With your father as emperor, and you as Caesar, I and my people are happy to serve you. The laws of Rome are pleasing to us – even your taxes we can endure. But our lands are poor, our harvests bad, and enemies press upon us from the north and east. Give us leave to cross into your domain and we will serve you better, farm your lands, make soldiers for your armies. If you agree, this is good. If not – so be it.’

  For a moment more Bonitus stared up at the podium, then with a curt gesture he turned and marched back into the throng of men behind him. At once a muffled hum of voices rose around the tribunal, officials whispering together in swift debate. All fell quiet again as Junius Bassus, Praetorian Prefect of Gaul, moved to stand beside the throne.

  The prefect stood in silence for a long time. Castus heard the sounds of gulls crying along the river, where the patrol boats still churned the waters with their oars. Bassus gave a snort, clearing his throat.

  ‘The Caesar has listened to your words,’ Bassus declared, in a surprisingly loud and confident voice. ‘And he is glad to receive your friendship and loyal acclaim. He has also heard your requests.’

  Another lengthy silence. Castus felt his mood darkening once more.

  ‘The Caesar understands your concerns. He sympathises with the plight of all those who dwell outside our peace. But as the first duty of any father is to protect his own family, so the first duty of a ruler is to preserve the safety and security of his borders. In token of your alliance, we will therefore permit the Salian people to cross the Rhine and dwell within the ancient lands of the Batavi, westwards from here and north of the Mosa. But we cannot permit any further erosion of our province, nor the arrival of so many foreign peoples upon our soil.’

  The translator passed the words to the assembled barbarians and at once there was an outcry of raised voices. Castus was still watching Bonitus: the young chief stood silently, scowling. Gaiso was waving his fist in the air, shouting.

  ‘They say...’ the translator stammered, ‘that the Batavian lands are all salt marsh and bad pasture... they are forsaken lands, and of no use to either Rome or themselves... They say you are repaying their allegiance with worthless mud and water!’

  The ranks of soldiers had tightened, although Castus had heard no order given. Horses stamped and blew, shaking their harness. Up on the tribunal Bassus stood impassive, but his mouth was closed in a tight bud of disapproval.

  ‘The Caesar’s will has been proclaimed!’ a herald cried.

  Slowly the angry uproar died down, the Frankish chiefs and their retinues muttering and casting fierce stares towards the podium. Castus drew in breath – if anything was going to happen, it would happen now. He blinked, and saw Bonitus staring back at him. The Frankish chief shook his head slowly, then looked away.

  For a few long moments it appeared that the Franks would be content to return to their boats. Then two figures came pushing between them. Warriors, both of them; Gaiso’s men, Castus thought. They strode to the front of the throng and kept walking, advancing on the tribunal. Castus’s breath caught as he saw what they were holding.

  ‘What are they doing?’ somebody gasped.

  At once the Protectores had moved to screen the young emperor, raising shields and drawing swords. The two Frankish warriors, both in mail and heavily moustached, came to a halt ten paces away. One of them grunted a few words, then they flung what they were carrying down on the turf before the tribunal, before turning to stride back and join their chiefs.

  Two severed heads rolled on the grass.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Bassus exclaimed, glancing around at the officials and the guards. Castus had taken a step forward, hand on his sword hilt. He peered at the heads: fresh blood still bright; they had
died only moments before. But neither of them looked Roman.

  ‘They said, dominus,’ the interpreter was saying, visibly shocked, ‘that these are the two that took Roman gold to kill the Caesar in his tent tonight!’

  Gaiso let out a grunt of disdain. Then the entire Frankish group turned as one and retreated, their pride intact, to the waiting boats.

  ‘Somebody get that mess out of my sight,’ Bassus said.

  CHAPTER XVI

  ‘It would appear,’ the governor said, ‘that our dealings with the Franks back in the spring achieved the best result possible. Would you not agree?’

  Castus made a sound in his throat. ‘Best of a bad few choices,’ he said. And no thanks to you. Tiberianus tipped his head back; he was contriving to lounge on a very low couch and stare down his nose at the same time. Castus peered intently at the man’s nostril hairs until he looked away, abashed.

  They were in the sumptuous reception room of the governor’s Colonia townhouse, midsummer sunlight slanting in through the open doors from the portico. The floor mosaic was almost concealed beneath a thick rug of Persian design; the wine that Castus had been offered came in a glass goblet held in a mesh of filigree gold.

  Despite the intense and mutual dislike between them, Castus and the governor were obliged by protocol to meet once a month or so and exchange pleasantries. Castus had kept himself busy with his official duties for the last month, however, and this was the first time he and Tiberianus had met since the affair at Noviomagus.

  ‘It seems to me,’ the governor said, getting up abruptly and pacing back and forth on his rug, ‘that we have three options in regard to our barbarian neighbours. Either we give them silver, we give them land, or we fight them. It surprises me that you seem so... loath, shall we say, to attack them. One would think that the battlefield was your native place, no? Scenes of gore and slaughter your meat and drink? Perhaps the delights of peace, of noble high office, have dulled your appetites?’

  Castus refused to rise to the provocation. He had grown accustomed to the governor’s displays of arrogance, his insults both veiled and naked. This was the man, he thought, who conspired to have me send Ganna away, who conspired to threaten me by terrorising my son... But he had no proof of that, of course. Nothing but the certainty of his intuition. He did not care. He knew that he was invulnerable to the governor’s scorn; he had made himself that way. Let them hate me, so long as they fear me.

  Some emperor had said that, Castus remembered – one of the bad ones, probably. He had often wondered why so many of Rome’s rulers in ancient times had seemed so passionate in their cruelty, so very tyrannical. Now he thought he knew. Power offered these temptations. So many times he had wished death or savage injury upon Tiberianus, upon Magnius Rufus, upon all their cabal of corrupted minds. Without the bonds of discipline and duty, would he have given way to his impulses? He remembered a story he had read in one of the books Diogenes gave him, back when he was practising his letters. The emperor Severus, the Divine Severus, had ridden his horse over the corpse of a fallen rival, making the animal kick and trample the body, in full view of his assembled troops. It was a display of rage. Castus knew all about that now, but he hoped he would never descend to such things. Did the gods not strike down their enemies? Were they not wrathful, vengeful, merciless? Severus might have become a god, and was doubtless a great and mighty emperor, but still he had been a man, with all the mortal failings.

  ‘Talking of recent events,’ Tiberianus went on, ‘did you ever discover if there was any truth to the story of the barbarians paid to attack the Sacred Majesty?’

  ‘No,’ Castus told him. ‘The notaries investigated, but they found nothing. Could be the Franks were just making a statement. You didn’t hear anything yourself?’

  The governor puffed his cheeks, then made a tutting sound and shook his head. ‘Perhaps some kind of a threat, then? You never can tell, with these savage types.’

  Castus shrugged. He knew that if the governor’s spies had plumbed the depths of that mystery, Tiberianus would tell him nothing about it. No confidences passed between them.

  ‘Before you go,’ Tiberianus said – Castus had made no movement to leave – ‘I wondered whether you might be considering giving your troops some exercise across the river? They do get so restless in the summer months, before the harvest comes in. I’m thinking of that unfortunate episode at Novaesium...’

  Castus knew what he meant. Earlier that month a small party of barbarians had crossed the Rhine in a boat and tried to steal a couple of cows. It was a minor affair: mounted troops from the nearest fort had intercepted them, and few of the raiders had survived to return home.

  ‘I consider that matter dealt with,’ Castus said.

  ‘Yes, I know, but it does create a certain apprehension among the population. I’ve been forced to mention it in my report to the Praetorian Prefect. I thought perhaps a swift reprisal expedition might be in order? Against the Bructeri, for example. Burn a few huts, round up some captives...’

  Castus raised an eyebrow, and said nothing.

  ‘The truth is, I’m intending to give a display of wild beasts at the opening of the Games of Apollo next month, and some barbarian prisoners would make ideal prey. The Sacred Augustus Constantine gave a similar show at Treveris, of course, many years ago.’

  ‘Use slaves, if you must,’ Castus told him.

  The governor angled a long and searching glare down his nose. ‘That simply wouldn’t be the same.’

  *

  Seething, Castus marched back along the street from the governor’s residence towards the Praetorium. Now that he was no longer in the man’s presence, he thought back over Tiberianus’s words; they had been intended as jibes, but was there any truth in them? Perhaps, Castus considered, he really had become less attuned to war in recent years? Once he would have believed that attacking and destroying the barbarians was the only honourable option. Was it only age that had made him more cautious in his thinking, or had something else changed him?

  It was only a short distance back to the Praetorium, so a carriage or horses had not seemed necessary: four of his bodyguards were accompanying him, and there was no risk of trouble. But Castus had forgotten that today was the local festival of Fortuna; the goddess was extremely popular among the poor and unemployed of the city, who all hoped for luck’s rewards, and the streets around her temple were thronged with people in a state of wild excitement. Already the two guards that preceded him were shoving between the bodies that blocked the route, calling out to them to clear a path.

  ‘Wait,’ Castus ordered, seeing another tumultuous horde coming from the direction of the forum to besiege the temple precinct. He glanced down a side street, wondering if it might be quicker to make a detour around the area rather than continue to push through the mob. No doubt Tiberianus would find it highly amusing if he heard that Castus had been forced into some undignified shoving match with the city’s rabble. He was just about to give the order to change route when he saw a covered litter waiting in the lee of the temple wall, the bearers standing idle around it. As he watched, he saw the thick drape screening the interior drawn aside and a woman’s shawled head appear in the opening.

  ‘Over there,’ he said at once, and his bodyguards fell into step around him as he crossed the street. Had he recognised the woman in the litter? He was not sure, but that did not matter; his duty was clear.

  ‘Your way’s blocked by the mob, domina,’ he said as he approached. The two bearers and the slave that went before them stepped aside, lowering their heads – all three were Franks by the look of it. The drapes opened a little more, and the passenger leaned from the litter and drew her shawl back.

  ‘So it seems,’ Marcellina said. She betrayed only a flicker of recognition, a slight widening of the eyes and a suppressed smile. Almost as if, Castus thought, she had waited here on purpose, to try and meet him... ‘But please, don’t concern yourself,’ she said. ‘The crowd will clear soon, and I�
��ve got letters to write.’

  Castus glanced into the litter and saw the tablets and stylus laid on a small writing block cradled between the cushions.

  ‘All the same,’ he said, conscious of the four bodyguards standing behind him, the slaves waiting all around, ‘I’d be honoured to accompany you back to your house.’

  Marcellina thought for a moment, then nodded and slid her tablets beneath the cushions. She lay back, and the bearers heaved on their poles and lifted the litter between them. Castus fell into step beside her, the bodyguards forming a cordon ahead and behind. He had already guessed that there was little chance in this meeting; Marcellina had been waiting at a spot she knew he must pass.

  Along the side lane they turned into a parallel street, wider and less congested. Castus had no idea where Marcellina’s husband’s house might be, but there was a slave to lead them and he was content to accompany her. For a while they made their way in silence, the noise of the streets swelling and then fading around them as they passed into an area of larger residences.

  ‘I’d hoped to see you before this,’ Marcellina said, holding the drapes part-closed and speaking through the gap. ‘But I’m so seldom in the city, and it’s difficult...’

  ‘I wanted to see you too,’ Castus replied, speaking barely above a whisper. ‘To thank you – your warning back at the house last winter—’

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said quickly. She moved a little closer to the drapes, dropping her voice. ‘Please don’t blame my husband too much for what happened. I know you must, but... He’s my husband and I’m very fond of him. But he’s weak, and stronger men have him in their power.’

  Castus grunted, nodding. He had guessed as much. Everywhere the strong and resolute imposed themselves upon the fainthearted. It was the way of the world. ‘These others,’ he said quickly, glancing through the drapes, ‘do they try to influence you as well? Do they... I don’t know... threaten you?’