by Ian Ross
The class broke up with noisy haste, the four youths filing past Castus and out through the door with curious sidelong glances. When the room was cleared, the two men stood in silence. Diogenes stared at Castus.
‘Either I am experiencing a phantasm,’ he said warily, ‘or you are once more in the army.’
Castus managed a look of stern authority for a few moments, but could not keep it up. He grinned, took four long strides across the room, and embraced his old friend.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You hope for nothing and fear nothing, eh. Are you happy and free?’
‘If only, brother,’ Diogenes replied with a wry smile. ‘Although if freedom lies in simplicity, I have that at least!’
Sniffing, Castus gazed around the room at the cracked plaster and the cobwebs. From the corner of his eye he noticed the smudged charcoal drawing on one of the benches: a cruel little caricature of Diogenes himself as a wild-eyed stalk sprouting wiry hairs. Coughing quietly, he sat down on the bench and placed his hand over the drawing.
‘I’m supposed to have a dozen students,’ Diogenes was saying, plucking at the hem of his cloak. ‘As you saw, few of them bother to turn up. Oh, they’re decent enough. But their fathers are rich merchants who want a bit of classical education for their offspring, and they’re intolerable! They treat me like one of their own slaves. When I think of the things I’ve seen and done, it grieves me.’
Castus could only shrug, ashamed on his friend’s behalf. Diogenes might play at being a philosopher, but he was still an army veteran. Civilians would never understand these things.
‘You’re visiting Rhodes for some time?’ Diogenes asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘I’m only here briefly,’ Castus told him. ‘There’s a galley down in the harbour, taking on stores and water, and we sail at dawn tomorrow. But I’ve got a few hours free – join me for a cup of wine?’
‘An inspired suggestion,’ Diogenes said, turning to gather an armful of scrolls and tablets. Castus carefully erased the charcoal drawing with the heel of his hand, then led Diogenes to the door.
‘You find me, I’m afraid, in straitened circumstances,’ Diogenes said as they walked out into the fresh air of the agora portico.
‘Looks it. If you don’t mind me saying so.’
The two marines playing dice against the wall snapped to attention as Castus appeared, then stared with unconcealed disdain at the ragged figure of Diogenes. But they fell into step quickly enough as the two men walked across the agora.
‘Well, I’ve known better,’ Diogenes said. ‘In Ephesus I was doing quite well for myself. I married, you know. Sweet girl, a widow, but I fell into a dispute with her relatives. A question of money, very embarrassing – I made some unwise investments. Then some of the Christians in the city had the temerity to accuse me of teaching banned literature, and even of practising sorcery, of all things! I was obliged to leave with some celerity…’
Castus let him talk as they continued downhill, following the broad stepped street that descended to the harbour. The two marines marched along behind them at a discreet distance. He knew that Diogenes was alight with curiosity about his unexpected arrival, and what might have brought him here; he also knew that the other man was holding back his questions for now. But it grieved him to see his old friend brought so low.
‘I confess, brother,’ Diogenes said with a sigh, ‘these recent years have been a disappointment. I am, it seems, neither as clever nor as respectable as I might have imagined. But this is a poor time for the intellect, overall. These days I find myself agreeing with Seneca, who said that the end of all philosophy is to teach us to despise life…’
Castus had heard enough. He paused suddenly in the middle of the street, halting Diogenes with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Very well then,’ he said. ‘Hear me out. I sail tomorrow for Antioch, to take command of the armies in the east. The emperor has commissioned me to oversee the condition of our troops…’
‘The emperor?’ Diogenes broke in, with a frown of dismay and a quick glance at the two marines standing idly nearby; he had never held Constantine in high regard, and the events of a decade ago had only cemented that impression.
‘I’ve been allocated an official military staff, of course,’ Castus said with a dismissive shrug, ‘but I’d prefer to have a man with me I can trust, as private secretary. You know my methods, and I know your capabilities. You wouldn’t be on the army payroll, but I’d pay you from my own funds. If you accept, you’d need to be ready to leave immediately.’
‘Immediately…?’ Diogenes said, peering around himself at the sunlit town he had called home for the last three years. Seagulls cried overhead, and the few passing people in the street remained carefully disinterested. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All that I possess is here, little though it is… If I simply left it…’
‘No need to decide right now,’ Castus said. ‘You haven’t had lunch yet?’
Diogenes shook his head, not hiding his pinched expression. Castus guessed that he had not eaten properly in many days.
‘There’s a taverna down on the docks that has good fish,’ he said. ‘Good wine too, they say. We could take a private room there and talk it over.’
‘Perhaps,’ Diogenes said with sudden enthusiasm, ‘we could make it a very long lunch? We have, I think, a number of important matters to discuss...’
*
The fifty-oared Neptune slid out of the harbour of Rhodes at first light. By the time the sun was high the galley was hauling across the open sea. Diogenes had stood at the stern railing as the island fell away to the west, but now he was gazing forward, into the east and the promise of a new future. As Castus had expected, he had not taken much persuading; the previous evening he had closed up his academy, leaving a sign by the door suspending classes indefinitely. With the last of his money he had paid for a decent haircut, and Castus had advanced him a little more to buy some respectable clothes. It was pitiful, even so, to see the meagre possessions that Diogenes had brought from his lodgings. The sailors and marines aboard the galley still regarded him with lingering suspicion, but the news that this eccentric figure was a military veteran, and had taken a wound at the battle of Chrysopolis, granted him a small measure of respect.
It also appeared that Diogenes, in his wanderings, had kept himself far better informed of affairs in the empire than Castus himself had done.
‘So there are four Caesars now?’ Castus asked, baffled. ‘I thought Constantine has only three surviving sons?’
‘He does,’ Diogenes said. They were sitting by the shelter at the stern of the galley, just behind the steersman. ‘The younger Constantine rules as junior emperor in Gaul, Constans in Italy and Constantius in the east. Their father presides over them all.’
Castus remembered meeting all three once, when they were still children, the youngest a baby in the arms of his nurse. Strange to think of them holding imperial power now.
‘But a few years ago,’ Diogenes explained, ‘the emperor promoted the son of his half-brother Flavius Dalmatius to the same rank. Now this young man – Flavius Julius Dalmatius – rules the Danube provinces. Both he and his father distinguished themselves in the recent war with the Goths; the Caesar Dalmatius is a favourite of the army, so they say.’
‘So Constantine intends to split the empire four ways?’ Castus asked, leaning on his fist. ‘Just like Diocletian did once.’
‘So it seems. I suppose he must think that it would be more stable that way. After, of course,’ Diogenes added quickly, ‘he passes on to his eternal rest…’
Both men glanced towards the stern. Iovinus, one of the Protectores assigned to Castus’s retinue, was lingering at the railing, peering across the waves at the distant coast of Lycia. No doubt, Castus thought, Iovinus or one of the other members of his military staff would have been ordered to report back to Constantinople on the progress of the mission, and his own behaviour. Important to avoid saying anything that might sound disloyal to the wrong ears
.
Even so, the division of the empire sounded like a dubious scheme; had Constantine really involved this young Flavius Julius Dalmatius to provide a balance between his ambitious sons? Maybe it would work, Castus thought, although all his experience in the last thirty years suggested that such men would seldom agree to share power. Constantine himself was proof of that.
But it was a beautiful day, with a light breeze and the sun sparkling on the water, and the pleasure of travelling once more soon drew Castus’s thoughts from the tangled concerns of imperial politics. He raised his head, and saw his own purple draco banner waving from the flagstaff above him. Another six or seven days’ voyage would bring him to Antioch, and then the real work could begin.
He had already written to Marcellina, telling her to wait until the spring before coming to join him in the east. She would not be happy about the arrangement, but it needed to happen that way. He felt once more the sharp ache of separation. It would be many months before he saw his wife or Aeliana again. But the emperor had been right; Castus had made his choice when he had first seen the message, back home at the villa. Marcellina had been right too, though: he knew he should not have accepted, but he was a soldier and he could not resist the call to arms. It was in his bones, and always had been. He would be pushing himself hard in the coming months. Harder than was wise, certainly. Was he really just a fool, tempted by the promise of power?
Over the creak of the oars and the rush of the waves he heard a dry rasping sound from beside him.
‘What are you chuckling about?’
‘Merely the absurdity of our situation!’ Diogenes said, breaking into a grin. ‘Here we are, two old men setting out to confront the might of the Persian Empire!’
And the emperor back in Constantinople made three, Castus thought grimly.
‘I have a premonition, you know, that I will not return from this trip.’
Castus laughed in surprise. ‘Nothing like beginning with a light heart!’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that in a morbid way. Everyone must die sometime – to live forever would be against nature. What could be better than to spend one’s last days seeing wondrous sights and strange new places? No – I thank you for this opportunity, brother. Already I feel my spirits lifting! But I know I will not be coming back this way again.’
Castus dropped his hand and trapped his thumb between his fingers in a warding sign against bad luck. He was glad of his friend’s good humour. But he prayed that he was wrong.
*
Nearly forty years had passed since Castus had last seen Antioch, but at first glance the Metropolis of the Orient did not appear to have changed a great deal. The regular grid of streets and avenues spread from the banks of the green Orontes to the dark slopes of Mount Silpius, and on an island formed by the branching river was the new city, site of the imperial palace and Hippodrome. As the light galley that had brought him up the river from the seaport of Seleucia Pieria approached the wharf nearest the palace, Castus felt transported back to the time when he was a young soldier in the Second Herculia legion, fresh from the Persian campaign.
Evening was coming on, and the air carried the distinctive odours that he recalled so well: the sweet-sweaty aroma of smoke, dust and spices, mingled with the raw sour smell of drains. How young he had been when he last came to this city, Castus thought. But the past was gone. He was no common soldier now, but a high imperial official soon to be burdened with duties, confined by protocols, and doubtless pestered by intrigues.
The palace at Antioch had been built by Diocletian, and like many of that great soldier-emperor’s constructions it followed the plan of a military camp, albeit on a massive scale. Castus at once felt at home as he passed between the barracks of the bodyguards and the offices of the notaries and the imperial ministries, and entered the central courtyard before the audience hall. But even here there were changes: as he entered the palace, he had seen the vast octagonal shell of a new church, still under construction but soon to be one of the grandest buildings in the city. He put that out of his mind as he dismounted from the carriage that had brought him from the docks, and made his way deeper into the palace, towards the residential quarters that lined the riverbank.
‘Magister! Welcome to Antioch!’ the Praetorian Prefect declared, clasping Castus by the shoulders and rising on his toes to kiss him on both cheeks. They were in the reception room of the prefect’s wing of the palace, the lamplight gleaming off marble and mosaic, and three wide arches opening onto the outer portico that stood high above the river. The evening breeze whispered in across the polished floor.
‘Please, sit – you must be weary after your long journey.’
Castus had spent most of the last ten days sitting down, aboard ship or carriage, and felt far from weary. But he followed the man to a pair of facing couches. The prefect made a slight circling gesture with a raised finger, and the slaves ran to fetch refreshments.
Flavius Ablabius was the most powerful man in the eastern provinces; including the Caesar Constantius, some said. He had a striking appearance, short and pot-bellied, with powerful arms and hands covered with coarse black hair. Castus might have taken him for a stevedore rather than a bureaucrat. His voice was deep and rich with the accent of his native Crete, and he wore a jewelled Christian monogram as a pendant, set with enamelled portraits of the emperors.
‘I’m sorry to say the Caesar is not currently here,’ Ablabius said. ‘He left ten days ago for a trip to Damascus, but he should be returning very soon. Your son Sabinus is with his retinue.’
Castus fought down the swell of disappointment. He had learned of the Caesar’s absence already, but had been hoping to meet Sabinus as soon as he arrived.
‘We’ve prepared suitable quarters for you and your staff within the palace precincts,’ Ablabius went on. He was speaking in Latin; Castus was fluent enough in the demotic Greek spoken in the east, but the prefect seemed eager to demonstrate his Romanitas. ‘You also have a public audience hall and offices in the forum of the main city. However, you’ll hear about all that later. For now, please do relax and rest. The baths are heating and everything you might desire is on hand!’
The slaves returned, bringing cups of wine and a dish of warm honey cakes. ‘Do try one of these cakes,’ the prefect said with a smile. Castus had the absurd impression he had made them himself. Usually he was very good at judging men by their attitudes and appearance, but Flavius Ablabius appeared inscrutable. He took one of the cakes and tried a piece.
‘Bit sweet for my tastes,’ he said, dropping the rest back onto the dish. The honey gummed his fingers.
Ablabius grinned, highly amused. ‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘A true soldier of the old model! Too many here are sadly corrupted by luxury. But as for you – well, your reputation precedes you!’
‘What reputation would that be?’ Castus asked, his guard rising suddenly. He was aware that many people must know of his connection with the deaths of Crispus and Fausta ten years before.
‘Oh, your military reputation, of course!’ But the prefect’s smile said plainly that he had implied more than that. ‘And, may I say,’ he went on, ‘a man of your capabilities is certainly what we require here in the east, in our current situation.’
Castus just nodded, wary of flattery. He was already far too experienced in the insincerities of court life. But there were things he needed to know; better to hold back his misgivings until he could determine friends from enemies.
‘What’s your assessment of this current situation?’ he asked. He had been briefed before leaving Constantinople, but wanted the views of those closer to the scene.
Ablabius let out a long and eloquent sigh. ‘As you know,’ he said, ‘the King of Persia, Shapur the Second, is still a young man. Not yet thirty. But he’s vigorous, and eager to assert himself. He’s been king a long time – he was proclaimed as such before he was even born…’
‘Is that possible?’ Castus asked with a frown.
‘It i
s! The crown was placed upon his mother’s swollen belly while he was still in the womb. This did mean, of course, that we had little trouble from the Persians for a long time, with the king still an infant. Nearly two decades of peace on our eastern frontiers.’
‘But now?’
‘But now Shapur is a man, and things have changed. About ten years ago, when he first came of age, he dismissed his more cautious advisors and began to see himself as a warrior monarch. He made war first upon the Saraceni, the Arab brigands of the desert. Then, more recently, he turned his attentions to Armenia. Now it seems he wishes to try his strength with us, and avenge the humiliating defeats of past ages.’
‘And what is his strength?’ Castus asked, swirling the wine in his cup.
‘Considerable. Going on current intelligence, Shapur can summon an army of somewhere between one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand men.’
Castus whistled quietly. The field army based around Antioch numbered only eighteen thousand; the emperor’s own forces in Thracia and at Constantinople were thirty thousand strong, and the duces who commanded the frontier armies had around sixty thousand between them, in theory at least. Even if every Roman soldier in the eastern provinces were gathered for battle, the Persians would still outnumber them.
‘But most of the Persian troops are peasant levies,’ Castus said.
‘True enough. Although overwhelming numbers can win wars, as you doubtless know. And Shapur has his noble cavalry, his Aswaran. His bodyguard too, and a great many mercenaries. His troops have been fighting in Armenia and on his eastern border, while ours have known little but perfect peace for over a decade.’
‘Which is why I’m here,’ Castus said flatly.
‘Which is why you’re here!’ Ablabius replied, smiling. ‘But it’s not only our soldiers who lack experience,’ he went on. ‘Increasingly, we see officers, even senior commanders, who have never served in the ranks. Never stood in the line of battle, one might say, or breathed the dust and sweat of the common man. That’s why we need you here!’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You and I are quite similar, I believe.’
