by Ian Ross
Castus frowned. ‘We are?’
‘My father was a sausage-maker, you know,’ Ablabius said, flexing his ringed fingers. ‘As a child I swept the floors of a taverna in Gortyn, and later served drinks in a brothel. You probably look at me and see a perfumed, self-satisfied bureaucrat – and you’d be right in that assessment. But everything I have, I have gained by the sweat of my brow and the work of my hands!’
Castus hid his surprise. He had heard that the Prefect of the East came from humble origins in Crete, but never knew how humble. Whether he had gained so much by honest labour alone was another question.
‘But there are others here, you know, who resent the likes of us,’ Ablabius continued. ‘Men who are born to wealth and power guard it jealously, and disdain those who have risen by merit and industry. Some of these men even mutter that our Sacred Majesty is unwise in promoting the deserving over the heads of those whose only recommendation is their parentage. Such men may seek to undermine us, or work against us.’
‘Who are these men?’ Castus asked in a low growl.
Ablabius smiled again, and nibbled a honey cake. ‘You’ll meet them soon enough. One of them is the governor of the eastern diocese, our Comes Orientis, Domitius Dracilianus. He’s away on a trip to Edessa, but he too will return soon. A difficult man. Until your appointment he had control of the field army in the east, and was not happy about the change of command. Strangely, he claims to be related to you – or to your son at least.’
‘My son?’ Castus’s frown deepened. The name had sounded familiar.
‘Dracilianus is related to your first wife, I think. Which makes your son his second cousin, or something of that nature. The family trees of our senatorial clans form a tangled orchard…’
Of course, Castus thought. His first wife Domitia Sabina had been a daughter of the Roman aristocracy; he had met her cousin, Domitius Latronianus, several times and openly detested him. There had been one more cousin as well, Lepidus; he had conspired against the emperor during the Italian campaign, and Castus had killed the man himself. The thought that another member of the powerful Domitii family held office in the east, and that he would have to work with him, made Castus curse under his breath.
‘I mention this only as a warning,’ the prefect said. ‘I’m sure you are more than capable of ignoring the insults of such men and doing your job. And I wish you the best of luck in it. Let us be allies, if we can, in the endeavours ahead?’
‘Fine,’ Castus said, after a grudging pause. Ablabius extended his hand, and he clasped it in the gesture of concord. Allies they might be, for now – but never for a moment, he told himself, should he trust this man.
IV
Castus had arrived in Antioch looking for a fight, although he had not admitted it to himself at the time. As he approached the largest of the military camps on the broad plain to the west of the city, he suspected that he might have found one.
‘What are those men doing standing in the field?’
He reined in his horse, the rest of his retinue and bodyguard halting behind him while the Protector Iovinus rode over to the sentry at the roadside. Rutted fields of dry stubble spread on either side of the road, which ran straight towards the dark line of the camp fortifications. Squinting in the morning sun, Castus peered at the row of figures that stood outside the perimeter entrenchment. Eight dejected-looking men, all with hair cropped in the military style. But they appeared to be wearing women’s dresses, long garments of thin gaudy cloth that trailed around their ankles.
Iovinus returned. ‘Soldiers under punishment, dominus!’ he said. He was grinning at first, but when he caught sight of Castus’s scowl his face fell.
‘Under whose orders?’
‘General Valerius Mucatra, Comes Rei Militaris,’ Iovinus said. ‘He’s in command of the field army detachments here.’
‘And where is this General Mucatra?’ Castus asked quietly. He had sent notice of his arrival hours before, and would have expected the commanding officers to meet him at the camp gates, but when he looked up the road he saw only a small party of cavalry waiting to receive him.
He nudged his horse forward, and the rest of his retinue formed up around him as he rode towards the camp. Castus had brought only a small bodyguard with him from the city, with Diogenes and the chief members of his military staff. But with his standard-bearer, trumpeter and herald riding in front, his little retinue should be enough to proclaim his authority to anyone he might meet. He knew he would need to assert that authority soon enough.
The field army of the east was stationed around Antioch, both in the camps and billeted in the city itself. Castus knew what people had always said about the eastern armies. The balmy and pleasure-loving atmosphere of the Syrian cities was supposed to sap the fighting spirits of soldiers, making them indolent and cowardly in battle. Corruption was rife here too, gnawing the heart out of discipline, morale and efficiency. Or so the stories went.
As the trumpets cried and Castus rode in through the gates and along the broad central avenue of the camp, he feared that that those stories were entirely justified. While many of the troops were assembled to either side of the avenue in good order under their standards, just as many were massed in shambling groups, their officers nowhere to be seen.
There were plenty of good soldiers in the field army, he knew: detachments of the Seventh and Tenth Gemina legions among them. The Tenth had been under his command at the battle of Chrysopolis, and many of the older men in the Seventh had marched east from Spain with the legion twenty years before. It was easy to pick out these veterans: tough weathered-looking men in their middle years, their equipment clean and bright, their formations solid. But there were far too many new recruits, men who knew nothing of the army and appeared to have little conception of discipline. As Castus rode slowly along the avenue, he could not help noticing the large numbers of civilians mingled with the troops, staring like idlers at some public spectacle. Women and children too, and the tent lines beyond them looking more like a bazaar than a military encampment. He set his jaw, breathed deeply, and rode on.
Valerius Mucatra was waiting outside the command tent at the heart of the camp, his tribunes and staff officers arrayed to either side of him. He was a short man, but solidly built, with a shaved head and a thick black beard, and his heavy eyebrows bunched into a frown as he watched Castus approaching. As the herald announced the arrival of the Magister Equitum per Orientem, the assembled officers raised their arms in salute. But meeting him here, rather than at the gates, was a clear gesture of disrespect.
Castus was mounted on the largest and most powerful horse from the palace stables. He was dressed in his gilded muscle cuirass and plumed helmet, his red general’s cloak pinned with a solid gold brooch inscribed with the emperor’s name. He returned the salute, then eased himself down from the saddle, careful not to betray any signs of the aches in his back and thighs. He knew they must already regard him as an old man; no need to add detail to that impression.
‘Magister,’ Mucatra said, touching his brow as Castus strode towards him. ‘We weren’t expecting you to come out here so soon.’ His voice carried a distinct Thracian accent. Castus took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm; then with the briefest glance at Mucatra he walked straight past him and entered the tent. With a baffled frown, the army commander followed, his officers at his heels.
Under the canvas, a spartan selection of basic furnishings stood on the straw matting. Mucatra was soldier enough in that respect at least. Castus turned on his heel and faced him. ‘There are eight men standing outside your fortifications, dressed as prostitutes. Why?’
Mucatra looked startled by the abrupt question, but only briefly. ‘They disobeyed orders,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’d expressly cancelled all leave, but they went into the city on an errand and did not return for a whole day. In the brothels no doubt, so it seemed apt!’
‘And you thought that humiliating them would make them better soldiers?�
� Castus growled. He had given enough punishment in his time, but mocking men, and in the sight of civilians too, was different. ‘They’ll desert at the first opportunity. And the dignity of the army suffers.’
There was a pause as Mucatra digested the accusation. Then he drew a breath, nostrils flaring, and pushed out his chest. This was a confrontation now, with the assembled officers and the men of Castus’s staff as witnesses.
‘The Comes Orientis, his excellency Domitius Dracilianus,’ the commander said slowly, ‘has given me authority over these troops and their discipline. You might take the matter up with him, perhaps.’
I will, Castus thought, as soon as I find him. ‘My authority comes direct from the emperor,’ he said. ‘The Augustus has charged me with making this army ready for war, and I intend to do so. The discipline of your men is disgraceful.’
Mucatra’s face reddened, and Castus could see that he was struggling to contain his wrath as the words struck home. ‘My men will be ready for war when the time comes,’ he said at last, grinding out the words. ‘Presently the nearest Persian is hundreds of miles away on the far side of the Tigris!’
‘The job of a soldier is to be ready for war at any moment,’ Castus said in a low voice. ‘Your officers and men may think they have an easy winter ahead. They do not.’
He turned as he spoke, glaring at the assembled tribunes. Few could meet his eye, but he saw many angry glances pass between them. Be careful, he told himself. You’re out of practice.
‘I have served in the army for over twenty years, excellency,’ Mucatra said, squaring his shoulders. ‘From what I hear, you’ve spent the last decade in civilian life. Many things have changed since you last wore the belt.’
‘Men don’t change,’ Castus replied. He stared down at the Thracian, guarding his anger. ‘You were at Chrysopolis, yes?’ he asked.
Mucatra nodded tersely. ‘I was a staff tribune,’ he said, and hesitated.
‘In the army of Licinius, wasn’t it?’ Castus went on, in a mild tone. ‘Were you wounded in the fighting?’
‘I was not.’ Mucatra was visibly seething now, his face dark red. ‘But I have served Constantine loyally ever since that day. I will accept no accusations to the contrary!’
‘None intended. But tell me this – how many times have you fought in battle?’
Mucatra could not answer.
‘How many times have you led men in a charge against an enemy shield wall? How many night marches have you made through hostile country? Have you ever stormed a fortification at the head of your troops, and been first across the enemy rampart?’
From the corner of his eye Castus could make out Diogenes trying to suppress a smile. He had said enough already, but a spur of anger drove him on.
‘How many men have you slain in battle? How many wounds do you carry on your body? How many cities have you seen sacked and burned by a conquering army? Have you faced down a charge of cataphracts or clibanarii? Well?’
Mucatra coughed a scornful laugh. ‘No man alive has done all that.’
Castus said nothing.
Silence from the other men in the tent, and the moment stretched long. Finally Mucatra dropped his gaze and exhaled loudly.
‘I’ll return in three days,’ Castus said. ‘I’ll want to see a full parade of all the troops under your command, in battle order. In the meantime, you’ll give my private secretary the codicils of commission and service records of all the officers of ducenarius grade and upwards.’
He left the tent with a sense of nervous exhilaration. He had gone much further than he had intended with Mucatra, but if he was to command these men then he must first control them. The general would be a bitter foe, he knew, and would take a long time to get over his humiliation. So be it.
Returning to his horse, he made a show of checking the tack and bridle while he waited for Diogenes and the other members of his staff. Then, when all were assembled, he gripped the saddle horn and heaved himself up. A sudden stabbing ache in his chest, a wave of nauseating pain down the left side of his body; sweat burst on his brow, but he managed to haul himself into the saddle and sit up straight. His head was spinning, the light crashing around him.
It was nothing, he thought. A passing muscle cramp. But he could feel his heart thudding against his ribs. Inhaling, clenching his jaw, he composed his features and rode out the last swells of pain. He caught Diogenes’ anxious glance, and turned away. Nobody else appeared to have noticed anything.
Clearing his throat, he raised his arm and gave the signal to move.
*
Flavius Julius Constantius, Caesar of the East, returned to Antioch four days later, as the first cold breezes of October brought a foretaste of the coming winter. Castus had expected the young emperor to receive him in the grand audience hall of the palace, but he was directed instead to a garden court in the residential wing.
The Caesar was exercising, running laps of the courtyard with his bodyguards jogging along behind him. Watching from the upper portico, Castus studied the nineteen-year-old ruler of the east with an appraising frown. Constantius did not have the physique of an athlete: he was tall, but his torso appeared stretched and tubular and his legs short and bowed. His complexion was dark, and he wore his hair long at the nape, in the fashionable Germanic style. He completed another lap, legs pumping, then slowed to a halt and braced his arms against a pillar. One of his attendants stepped closer and whispered, pointing to the gallery where Castus stood waiting. Constantius glanced briefly upwards, then left the courtyard.
Moments later a silentiarius appeared, bidding Castus to follow him through the passage and out to the broad pillared river terrace of the palace. Castus knew that his first encounter with the Caesar had been intentional; he understood what message it was intended to convey.
The terrace stood high on the river wall: five hundred paces of colonnaded walkway with a view out over the curve of the Orontes and the wide flat lands beyond, all the way to the dark line of the Taurus Mountains on the horizon. Constantius was already waiting there when Castus arrived, still dressed in his short tunic, a linen towel around his neck. He remained standing between the pillars, watching the small boats on the river below as Castus knelt before him and gave the salute.
‘Flavius Aurelius Castus,’ the young man said in a thin high voice. ‘You come to us highly recommended by my father.’
‘Glad to hear it, majesty.’ Castus stood up and assumed a parade stance. He was aware that the Caesar had not once glanced in his direction.
‘Although I am surprised,’ Constantius said briskly, turning from the pillars. He rubbed the sweat from his face with the towel, then flung it aside and clicked his fingers. A slave brought a stool for him to sit. Castus recalled the boy’s father doing something similar back in Constantinople.
‘Surprised?’
‘Yes!’ Constantius said, sitting down. ‘While I would not question my father’s wisdom, it does seem strange that the eastern armies should need a dedicated senior commander to oversee their training and preparation. I’ve inspected them myself, and their qualities are obvious. I’ve trained with them myself too, both cavalry and infantry. Our troops are the finest that the empire has ever produced. I don’t see that your position here is entirely justified.’
Castus inhaled slowly, trying not to tighten his jaw. The last five days in Antioch had revealed the scale of the task before him. Diogenes and the numerarius of his military staff were at that moment working through the accounts and muster rolls of the field army units, and had already found an alarming number of discrepancies. But it was not Castus’s job to challenge the young emperor; not so soon, at least.
‘Surely the Augustus meant no slight on our troops,’ he said, squaring his shoulders. ‘But a campaign on the scale he’s intending takes a lot of work.’
‘Oh, true enough,’ Constantius replied, gazing at the river again. ‘Humbling the might of Persia is no easy undertaking. But it can be done – and perhaps it s
hould have been done before now.’
With a pinch of unease Castus realised the implication of his words. Clearly, he thought, Constantius had wanted to lead the attack on Persia himself. It galled the young man that he must wait for his father to come and take over, and that another officer had been installed to keep him away from direct command in the meantime.
But now Constantius appeared struck by another thought. He rubbed at his chin. ‘I’m told you knew my mother,’ he said. ‘And you were with her when she died. Is that true?’
Castus’s discomfort climbed higher. He had indeed known Fausta, far better than he could ever dare admit. And he remembered all too vividly the moment of her death, in the overheated baths of the Sessorian Palace in Rome. But Fausta, like Crispus, had been erased from history: could her son really support that? He had only been a boy of nine at the time, and Fausta had never been the most maternal of women, but surely it had marked him deeply.
‘I was honoured to meet your mother a few times,’ Castus said carefully. ‘And, yes, I was present when she died.’
‘A tragic accident, so they tell me. My grandmother, the Sainted Helena, always refused to speak about it. I wonder if there’s anything more you could tell me?’
‘Nothing, majesty. An accident, true enough.’ How could he say more, when even speaking Fausta’s name was a crime?
But with the mention of the Caesar’s mother, Castus noticed his resemblance to her. He had some of his father’s mannerisms, but Fausta showed in his colouring, the way he narrowed his eyes, the petulant set of his lips. Did the influence extend to his character as well? Castus hoped not. A combination of Constantine’s ruthless lust for power and Fausta’s suspicious and devious intelligence could be truly dangerous.
‘I suppose you must also know that I’m aware of your connection with my late stepbrother as well,’ Constantius said, idly studying his fingernails. ‘We should all be careful, I think. Those around you tend to come to bad ends!’
