by Ian Ross
And war, surely, would be a balm to his soul. Two years before, he had watched as his cavalry slaughtered the Goths on the snowy banks of the Danube, and had felt only anger at the senseless waste of manpower. But the Persians were different: they were the ancestral foe of the Roman people. Every emperor had dreamed of crushing the might of Persia, and a few had attempted it. The dream of Great Alexander, the ultimate conquest. Yes, Constantine told himself, this was his true destiny: he would carry the proud standards of Christianity eastwards, beyond the Euphrates and the Tigris. In the name of God he would destroy the kingdom of Iran-Shahr once and for all. That would be his finest achievement, his gift to mankind and to the heavens.
And if he did that, surely God would forgive him his crimes.
Surely he would dream no more of the mocking dead, of the wife and son he had condemned and then erased from history. War had lifted him to supreme power; war would be his legacy. All the blackness of his soul would be scoured away by the blood of his enemies. Then, and only then, could he undergo baptism, and meet his God with a pure heart.
‘We have, I think, an established set of plans for a campaign against the Persians?’ the Master of Offices was saying.
‘Updated every year,’ the prefect replied with a shrug. ‘As circumstances change. But mobilising the eastern armies and preparing them for full-scale war would take a considerable time… Financing it would be difficult too; the provinces are still recovering from the effects of the Syrian famine eighteen months ago, and most of our tax-gatherers have no effective way of increasing their surpluses…’
‘Find a way,’ Constantine snapped. ‘There’s always gold, if you know where to look.’
‘Presumably, majesty,’ the Master of Offices said, ‘your second son, the Caesar Constantius, would be taking command of the proposed campaign, as he’s already based in Antioch?’
‘I’ll be taking command myself,’ Constantine said. ‘My son is brave and confident, but he has no experience in these matters. I, on the other hand, have been leading armies all my life. He will be my deputy. And I want the armies mobilised for war by the opening of the campaign season next year.’
‘The harvest in Syria and Mesopotamia is in late May and June, majesty,’ the Master of Offices said, exchanging a glance with the prefect. ‘We would need to wait until then in order to have sufficient fodder and supplies, even with direct requisitioning. But if we could delay until later, perhaps, after the summer… a campaign in winter would be quite feasible…’
‘No!’ Constantine shouted, pounding his fist on the table. ‘We attack next summer, as soon as the harvests are gathered in! Everything must be ready by then. Delay any longer and Shapur will think I’m weak and timid. He’ll have time to muster a force to oppose me.’
‘Then, majesty, you would need to appoint somebody to prepare the eastern troops, I think – if, as you suggest, the Caesar Constantius is inexperienced, and our current government in the east is largely civilian. Could we consider our options for a suitable senior commander, perhaps?’
Constantine frowned, then glared at them. Already they were conspiring to steal his glory! But he knew what they were up to – every one of his ministers had military men among his clients and followers, eager officers they would push forward for the new senior position in the east. He could not allow that – he would make his own decisions, and not let them snatch control away from him.
‘I will nominate a commander myself,’ he said quietly, dropping his chin to rest on his knotted hands. He frowned deeply, thinking – there were plenty of capable officers in the army, but fewer and fewer as the years went by. Not many that he could trust. Not many that would be free of the web of patronage and favouritism that enveloped the imperial court. No, he needed a soldier of the old school, somebody who knew his job and would be impervious to the flatteries and temptations of high office. Where now were the soldiers he had known in his younger days, those brave and capable officers who had led his armies to victory after victory?
Old, he realised. Or dead, or retired to comfortable oblivion… For a few long moments he pondered, sensing his grip on the situation slackening.
A name came to him, unbidden. A name he had not even considered for many years. He was tempted to dismiss the idea; it was eccentric, perhaps dangerous – but the suddenness of his intuition felt startling. Had God prompted him? He had known such things. And perhaps, he thought… perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all?
‘You have a suitable officer in mind, majesty?’ the prefect asked with a guarded frown.
A slow smile tightened Constantine’s lips, and he raised his head.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I believe I do.’
Part 1
I
Dalmatia, August AD 336
The three men walked in file, down the path through the pines to the edge of the sea. Still early, and the land was in shadow, but the morning sun was bright on the calm blue expanse of the bay. One of the three stepped onto the shelf of rock that jutted above the water; from here he could see the little island, less than a stade out from shore. He kicked off his sandals, and felt the warmth of the previous day through the soles of his feet. The water below him was deep and clear, translucent blue-green over a bed of white stones. Stripping off his tunic, he passed it to one of the slaves behind him and stretched his arms above his head.
Aurelius Castus was sixty years old, but his body was still solid and heavy with muscle. His tanned flesh was scored with the pale tracery of old battle wounds, his silver-grey hair and beard shorn in a military crop. The first sun caught the crown of his head, and he closed his eyes and breathed in, filling his chest with cool air and the scents of the pines, the dry earth and the sea. He exhaled slowly, drew another breath, then took two steps forward and dived.
Crashing down into the water, he kicked up from the seabed and back to the surface, gasping at the shock of the cold. A few sweeping breaststrokes carried him clear of the rocks, then he struck out for the island in a powerful front crawl. Occasionally he glanced towards his destination, although he knew its position by heart. It was not much of an island, just a hump of rocks jutting from the sea, crowned by a dry fringe of scrub; the smallest and closest of the group that stood just off the end of the peninsula. Salt water stung his eyes, and he felt the sun on his shoulders and the back of his head.
These morning swims had become a routine for him. Two or three times a week this summer he had swum out to the island and back, just as he had done nearly every summer for the last decade. It was not only necessary exercise; the ritual cleared and focused his mind. The sense of repetition was a welcome echo of the life he had known in the army. For a while each day, as he swam, he could forget himself. He could forget his aged and battered body, his scarred face and mutilated left hand. He was no longer Flavius Aurelius Castus, comes rei militaris, retired general of the Imperial Roman Army. His life held no victories, and no deaths. No dishonour, and no disgrace. Instead he felt only the symmetry of his body in the water, the stretch and flex of muscle and the action of breath, the steady living flow of the sea all around him.
For ten years he had known this. Ten years of peace, contentment and security: he never failed to thank the gods. There were times, certainly, that he missed his old life: the blood-rushing thrill of battle and the fierce comradeship of the legions. But he fought down such memories. If they pressed too hard, he had only to remember how close he had come to losing everything.
Halfway out from the shore he slackened his stroke, let his legs sink and rested, treading water, rising and falling with the sea swells. When he turned his head to the right he could see the cove at the head of the bay, a mile distant but clearly visible. He picked out the white colonnades of the villa’s front portico, the red tiles of the roof, the land rising behind it in olive groves and orchards to the wooded hills, all hazed by the morning sun. Yes, he thought, fate had been kind to him, after everything. He had a home, lands and wealth, a fa
mily, and he was married to the woman he loved. To have risen from nothing and to have gained all this seemed a rare blessing.
A slight tremor in his chest, and the faint twitch of what could be a cramp in his leg. Every year this morning exertion drew more from him. When would he grow too old for this? Not yet, Castus told himself. He flexed his limbs, then kicked forward once more towards the island.
Twenty more strokes. He was close now, his strength undiminished. This far from shore the sun was hot on the water, glaring bright whenever he opened his eyes.
He dipped his head, and something struck him a hard blow on the chest. Pain engulfed the muscles of his left arm, sudden panic driving through him like black lightning. He was sinking, sucking in water as he gasped. Had he collided with something beneath the surface? Or had some creature risen from the depths and rammed into him? But the water was bearing him under, his mind numb, his limbs powerless. The punch had come from within, he realised… from his own body. Choking, he felt his lungs contract and knew that he was about to die.
For a few long moments the confusion and shock stunned him. Blood beat in his head, a muffled thumping in his ears, and the last air burst from his mouth and rushed in streams of bubbles around his face. He had a sudden clear image of his corpse being dragged from the sea, the sorrow of his loved ones… Then fury gripped him, a desperate savage desire to live. From deep inside, he summoned the energy to kick out at the heavy water, to stretch his right arm upwards, as if he could grasp the surface and haul himself up. He was thrashing, pressure all around him and his heart like a lifeless rock in his chest.
With a crash of water he burst back into glaring light and air. He filled his lungs, then let out a shuddering cry. The pain had faded to a throbbing ache, but he had never felt so weak, never so alone. He caught a glimpse of the island, and it seemed stades away from him. Willing himself to slow his breathing, to relax the panicked clench of his muscles, he concentrated on treading water and keeping his head above the surface.
He was alive; he had survived somehow, though he knew he should be dead. What had happened? What god had struck him? With a rush of shame he remembered his comfortable thoughts of only moments before, and they seemed like fatal hubris.
Trying to move as slowly and calmly as possible, he began to push forward again through the water. A relaxed breaststroke, but still he felt the grinding pain in his muscles, the fluttering anxiety in his chest, and the cold nausea rushing through him. At any instant, whatever had almost crippled him could strike once again. Waves buffeted at his face, and he sucked water as he felt the strength pouring from his limbs.
Finally, with a grim sense of victory, he saw the rocky flank of the island ahead of him. A few more strokes, and he could drop his legs and feel shingle grating between his toes. He hauled himself up from the water, feeling the weight of his body pooling inside him. Stumbling, he scrambled between the rocks and the rasping scrub bushes along the shore, then eased himself down to sit. The morning sun burned in his eyes.
Trembling, choking on air, he sat and waited for the nausea to pass. The left side of his chest and his arm still ached, with a strange burning numbness that he had never experienced before. The distance back to land appeared vast; he should attract the attention of his slaves, call for a boat to come out to the island. But at once the thought felt shameful. If he showed such weakness, it would be the end of him.
Now the immediate terror had passed, Castus felt a sense of glazed wonder at his escape from death. Had his life been preserved only for it to be snatched from him on the return swim? He had never entirely believed in fate, or in divine control over mortal lives. But the idea that his survival was a matter of chance alone was dizzying.
Already he had been on the island for far longer than usual. He could see the two slaves on the shore standing beneath the pines, peering across the water, and he waved to them. He was relieved that neither appeared to have noticed his moment of pain and panic. With a sense of gathering dread he got to his feet, then scrambled down the side of the rock and waded back into the water. Tremors of fear gripped him as the sea rose around his chest.
Pushing away from the shelving seabed he began to swim, the same slow cautious stroke, keeping his head up. His left arm felt weak, but he could move it. His chest was tight, his muscles burning. With every movement he expected the explosion of pain from inside him.
The journey was gruelling, and took an age. As he drew closer to the shore he felt the fear mounting as his blood flowed more rapidly. But he kept to the same pace, only breaking stroke as he neared the shelf of rock. He stretched out his arm, and one of the slaves reached down and helped to haul him from the water.
‘Slow today, dominus!’ the slave said with a grin.
‘Tired,’ Castus managed to reply through clenched teeth. ‘Slept badly last night.’
The sun was hot along the shore by now, and Castus stood upright, breathing deeply as the other slave sluiced the salt from his body with a flask of fresh water. He took the flask, drained the rest of the water in three long swallows, then scrubbed himself dry with a rough linen towel and pulled his tunic on.
‘Go on back ahead of me,’ he told the slaves. ‘Got a bit of cramp.’
They nodded and turned for the path; if they suspected what had happened they gave no sign of it. Castus wondered how he must look. He half expected his face to be leaden grey, his limbs marbled. Once the two slaves had vanished from sight up the path between the trees he leaned against the trunk of a pine, willing the sickness to pass. Violent shudders ran through him, and he felt as though he had been kicked in the chest by a horse.
Resisting the urge to slump down at the base of the tree, he flung the damp towel across his shoulder and began to climb the path. After a few paces it curved to the left, following the line of the shore. It was a mile back to the villa, and Castus knew every step of the way. Even so, he moved carefully, pausing to rest at times, wary of exerting himself. As he walked, the feeling of wonder at his survival returned to him. He had stepped up to the threshold of death; he had sensed the darkness beyond. If the gods had not meant him to die, he thought, then perhaps what had happened had been a warning. He could die in his sleep and know nothing of it. The realisation of how complacent he had become was stunning.
But the familiar path along the wooded shore calmed him, and restored his spirits. Morning sun slanted down through the trees, waking the life all around him. Birds sang, and insects whirred in the shafts of light. Halfway back to the villa, Castus stepped off the path into a shaded grove. There was a low mound in the centre, scattered with the dried petals of flowers. Pulling himself up straight, he touched his brow reverently. Months had passed since he had last turned aside to visit this place. It was a tomb, and the mound held the ashes of a young man that Castus had once saluted as emperor.
Caesar Crispus had been the oldest son of Constantine, and would have been his heir if cruel fortune had not ended his life. Accused of treason and adultery, and condemned to death by his father’s order, Crispus had taken poison. Castus had been there with him at the end, just as he had been with the emperor’s wife Fausta, the lover of the young Caesar, when she too had died. The tragedy of those deaths had almost been eclipsed, for Castus, by the doom that had very nearly fallen on him and his family.
Again the cold tremor from inside him, the whisper of mortality. Crispus and Fausta had both died, and he, Castus, had survived the accusations of treason, the disgrace, and lived to grow old in comfort in this forgotten corner of Dalmatia. The world had asked nothing more of him; could he ask any more of the world?
*
Marcellina was already sitting out in the front portico by the time Castus returned to the villa. He saw her as he climbed the steps to the boat dock, and at once straightened his back again and tried to compose his features. But he could tell as he approached that she had some idea of what had happened to him; even if the slaves had said nothing, his wife had always been keenly intuitiv
e of his moods.
‘Good swim?’ she asked as he paced across the portico to join her. She was trying not to let her concern show, but he noticed her slight frown and the deeper note of enquiry in her voice.
‘Got a bit weary towards the end,’ he said, shrugging. He had no wish to alarm her any further. She took his hand, with a light pressure that sent a ripple of emotion through his body. Quickly he leaned down and kissed her.
‘You smell of the sea,’ she told him, smiling.
Marcellina had grown up in the wild borderlands of north Britain; even after so many years, the sea and the warm Adriatic sunlight filled her with joy. She was a couple of years short of fifty, but looked much younger still. Her face only showed the lines of age when she smiled; her hair was lightly shot with grey, but often she coloured it with henna. Standing beside her in the morning shade of the portico, Castus felt more powerfully than he had for years the sense of calm peace that she evoked in him, a sensation he had seldom known in his life before they met. And how close I came to losing all this, he thought.
‘I’ll take my breakfast in my chamber, I think,’ he said. He still did not trust himself not to betray the fear of what had happened during his swim. ‘Could you tell them to bring it in to me?’
She nodded, then relaxed in her cane chair and closed her eyes. The ease of their life together was a rare blessing, and always had been.
