by Ian Ross
*
‘So what did you make of the Most Blessed Caesar?’ Diogenes asked, speaking from the corner of his mouth.
Castus took his time replying. They were in the main armoury hall of the imperial fabrica, out in the northern suburbs of Antioch, and the noise around them was immense. The air shivered with the sound of beating hammers, the roar of the furnaces, the hiss of quenched iron. The air in the long pillared hall was dense with steam and charcoal smoke, and reeked of hot metal. This was the first occasion since Castus’s meeting with the Caesar the previous day when he could speak without risk of being overheard, but even here he was cautious.
He picked up a newly forged sword blade from the stack on the bench beside him, holding it by the tip and naked tang and angling it to the light. The edges were still blunt, but the dark swirl of the hammered iron showed good craftsmanship.
‘He’s younger than he thinks he is,’ he said, leaning closer to Diogenes. ‘Hungry for power too, although it sits awkwardly on him. His head tells him he can rule; his heart knows he’s not ready for it. For now it’s all play-acting. But he doesn’t care much for me, that I know.’
Diogenes was nodding slowly. ‘You think he could be troublesome? I mean...’
Castus cut him off with a quick sidelong glance, then placed the blade back on the bench and walked on down the hall. He had already asked himself that same question several times: Constantius resented his position, and the power that came with it, but would he really try to undermine an authority that came directly from his father?
‘And through here, excellency,’ said the superintendent of the armoury, ‘we have the helmet workshop.’
In the side aisle of the next hall, a row of men were bent over wooden workbenches beating, shaping and riveting plates of iron into helmets. At the far end, other men were hammering out the decorative sheeting that would cover the bowls; the best helmets, those destined for the guard troops and the officers of the field army, were plated in gold, silver and polished bronze.
Castus strolled down the aisle, overseeing the work with approval. Only as he reached the far end did he notice the tall young man in the uniform of the Protectores, waiting by the rack of finished helmets. For a couple of heartbeats he did not recognise him.
‘Sabinus!’ he cried, breaking into a grin, then took three long strides and threw his arms around his son.
Flavius Aurelius Sabinus was twenty-five years old now, taller than his father and almost as broad in the shoulders. He was handsome too; his appearance reflected more of his mother’s aristocratic Italian and North African heritage than Castus’s own blunt and brutal features. He returned the embrace, then pulled back with a bashful half-smile.
‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘I received an order to transfer to your staff.’
‘Of course you did!’ Castus said, gripping his son by the shoulders, ‘I wrote it myself! And there’s no need to call me that, you know – I’m your father.’
‘And also my commanding officer,’ Sabinus replied quietly, flinching slightly.
Castus’s grin slipped. It was glorious to see his son again; he had been impatiently awaiting their meeting ever since he had heard of the Caesar’s return to Antioch with his retinue. But in all that time, and all the days that preceded it, he had never once considered how Sabinus himself might feel about the reunion. He had never considered that the young man might be uncomfortable, even embarrassed, by the new arrangement. He saw now that he had been foolish.
‘But I give thanks to God for your promotion,’ Sabinus said with stiff formality. Then he turned to Diogenes, and Castus could not help but notice how much warmer and more genuine their greetings appeared.
The business at the fabrica was quickly concluded – Castus ordered that production of body armour and helmets should increase by a third, and more armoury workers should be drafted in to meet demand; he would make another inspection in ten days to check progress. As he moved towards the arched doorway of the hall, Sabinus paused and drew him aside.
‘Father, I’m very grateful for the transfer,’ he said quietly, ‘and happy to see you again too, of course. But, please – I have to ask that you treat me just the same as the other men on your staff. Already I’ve heard the others talking…’
‘Yes, yes,’ Castus broke in tersely. ‘They suspect favouritism. Always happens. But don’t worry about that – I requested you because I need capable men around me that I can trust. And I know you well enough to believe you fit that description.’
‘Thank you,’ Sabinus said. For a moment Castus feared he was about to salute, but he dipped his head instead.
Together they walked towards the sunlight and clean air of the courtyard. There was much that needed doing that day, and Castus hoped that he would have the opportunity soon enough to rebuild his relationship with his son, once the awkwardness of their initial meeting had worn off. With a sour pang he remembered that there would be an imperial banquet at the palace that evening: he would be the guest of honour, seated beside the young Caesar. Yet more formality, and more guarding of his words and gestures. The sooner he could conclude his business in Antioch, he thought, the better.
‘Aurelius Castus!’ a voice cried as he emerged from the hall. ‘Excellency – so glad to meet you at last!’
Castus squinted into the sunlight with a scowl of annoyance; he wanted no further meetings today. The man crossing the armoury courtyard towards him wore an urbane smile offset by the coldness of his hooded eyes. He was middle-aged, but his neatly cropped hair had already receded from his bald scalp. His tunic and cloak were of deep blue, plain but expensively fashionable, and his only jewellery was a gold medallion portrait of the emperor, worn as a brooch. Slaves and attendants trailed him.
Domitius Dracilianus, Castus realised, trying to ease his scowl as the man approached. Governor of the Diocese of the East.
‘Forgive me for my absence when you arrived here, dominus,’ the Comes Orientis said. ‘I was in Edessa, and set off as soon as I heard the news.’
Castus submitted to the embrace of greeting. There was something restless and very sharp about the man’s expression, he noticed, although his eyes remained unnervingly stony. A clear resemblance to Castus’s first wife too, and to Sabinus.
‘Cousin, good to see you again,’ Dracilianus said, embracing the young Protector. ‘You have a fine son, excellency,’ he said to Castus.
‘I know,’ Castus replied, squaring his shoulders. He glanced at Sabinus, who still appeared uncomfortable in his presence.
‘But I’m glad I had a chance to meet you before the banquet this evening,’ Dracilianus said in a more confidential tone. ‘I wanted to speak with you – in some privacy, if that would be possible?’
Castus shrugged. There were horses waiting to take him and his staff back to his headquarters in the palace, and he did not have much time to spare. ‘If you make it quick,’ he said.
He gestured to Diogenes, who inclined his head and moved towards the horses. The rest of the staff followed behind him. ‘Sabinus – stay with us,’ Castus said.
Placing a palm on Castus’s shoulder, Dracilianus led him a short way along the armoury portico, with Sabinus pacing behind them.
‘As you know, I’ve been in command of the military forces here for several months,’ Dracilianus said, ‘but I’m a civilian, of course, and know little of the military life. Your presence here is a great help. I’ll retain control of the logistical and supply side of things though, and if you need anything more I’d be glad to assist.’
He paused – they were out of earshot of the men waiting by the fabrica gates now. ‘I must say, it’s fascinating to meet you,’ he went on. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you over the years.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Oh, merely stories,’ Dracilianus said with a light shrug. ‘My cousin Latronianus in Rome used to talk of you, of course. I’m afraid he probably didn’t leave a good impression. Not the most flexible of men. But still
I consider that we have a family connection.’
Castus exhaled, trying not to frown too obviously. He had never wanted any connection with the Domitii family.
‘And then, naturally,’ Dracilianus said, beginning to pace once more, ‘there are the honours you’ve won in battle. There are few military men alive today, I would think, who have your experience. Our Most Blessed Caesar may seem a little headstrong, but I assure you that he knows how vital you are to the military situation here.’
Castus peered at the man from the corner of his eye. It was hard to know if he was being entirely serious, or just trying to appear loyal. Dracilianus gave a quick secretive smile. He knows everything, Castus realised. Doubtless he had already spoken to his ally Mucatra too.
‘I believe you’re a follower of the traditional religion?’ Dracilianus went on, dropping his voice. ‘That’s good. There are far too many Christians in the administration for my tastes – it helps to keep a balance.’
Glancing back, Castus saw that Sabinus was still following close behind them, appearing not to be listening.
‘It’s the faith of our emperor,’ he said, ‘and of our Caesar.’
‘Well, yes,’ Dracilianus replied, smiling again. ‘Although there are some who hope to profit by the association. You’ve met the Praetorian Prefect already, I suppose?’
‘Ablabius? Yes. Why?’
‘He’s probably already insinuated things about me,’ Dracilianus said, a note of spite creeping into his voice. ‘Probably given you the tale of his rise to wealth and glory as well. That man’s gained his current position solely with the help of a lot of waxed tablets and a very moist signet ring! He is entirely amoral, and has the convictions of a windsock. I’m afraid he’s also been engaging in secret communications with Flavius Dalmatius, the father of the Caesar Dalmatius.’
Castus halted, turning to face Dracilianus. ‘They’re secret, but you know all about them?’ he said.
‘In my position it helps to remain informed. There is, of course, nothing directly treasonous about Ablabius’s correspondence; he’s too clever for that. But many of us suspect that he favours Dalmatius over Constantius, and perhaps even intends to set himself up as regent over all the Caesars, in the unfortunate event of our Augustus passing away…’
‘I’m a soldier,’ Castus broke in. ‘I have a military job to do, and I intend to devote myself to that. I’m not interested in getting involved in any of your palace intrigues.’
Dracilianus stared back at him, his eyes glazed and lifeless. ‘But you already are involved,’ he said. ‘Here we both are, talking privately together… Plenty of people to see us, and you can wager that there are spies among them, ready to report our meeting to the prefect. Soon he’ll know of our conversation, although he won’t know what we talked about. Will you be the one to tell him?’
‘And you came all the way out here just to stage this little drama?’
‘Oh, I’m just being friendly,’ Dracilianus said. ‘And I do have your best interests at heart. But you should be very careful in Antioch, excellency. This city is a nest of scorpions!’
V
Long after nightfall, Castus sat slumped on the couch in his private chamber. At least he had survived the banquet; he had eaten as little as possible, and drunk even less, but even so it had been a trial. He felt his stomach roil, and let out a low belch.
‘They say that the eastern provinces inspire refinement in the manners,’ Diogenes commented wearily. ‘With you, it seems to be having the opposite effect.’
‘Just expressing my inner self,’ Castus said, and took another sip of watered vinegar wine.
‘Ah, humour! There’s hope for you yet, perhaps.’
Castus coughed a laugh. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What else?’
Diogenes was seated on the far side of the room, a stack of tablets on the table beside him in the light of a triple-branched bronze lamp. A couple of fat moths battered and flicked around the flames.
‘These records suggest,’ Diogenes said, picking up one of the tablets, ‘that over half the officers of the field army owe their positions to recent appointment, and have no previous military experience. Most seem to have purchased their commissions or gained them via patronage, although it’s impossible to be sure. But I’m reliably informed that the tribune of the Fourth Equites Cataphractarii bought his codicil of appointment from the Primicerius of the Sacred Bedchamber, for thirty solidi!’
Castus snorted. ‘I’d forgotten your talent for sneaking around.’
Diogenes appeared affronted. ‘The quest for knowledge takes many forms,’ he sniffed.
Castus raised a palm in apology; he had meant no offence. As for what Diogenes had discovered, he knew that such things had always happened in the army, even in his day, although the abuse seemed to be endemic here in the east. ‘Selling smoke’, it was called. And with so many senior positions occupied by political appointees, there was little chance for deserving men from the ranks to rise in the military hierarchy. Already he had made some changes: he had dismissed the absentee tribune of the Tenth Gemina, and promoted one of the ordinarius centurions to temporary command of the legion in his place. Flavius Barbatio was a proper soldier, a blunt-featured Pannonian who reminded Castus of his own younger self. No doubt he would make a decent praepositus, and in time Castus might get him a permanent commission as tribune.
But corruption in the army seemed a bottomless pit, and rooting it out would take months. Already he had received complaints from citizens at the rapacity of the army requisitioning agents and the abuses of the troops billeted upon them. Some soldiers had taken to charging entire villages protection money, and even fighting off the tax-collectors on behalf of their new ‘clients’. Castus rubbed his jaw and grimaced ruefully. Truly he had been given a job nobody else wanted.
‘At least you seem to have made yourself the most unpopular man in Antioch,’ Diogenes said. ‘The Caesar and his officials resent your authority, the army officers resent your promotions, the soldiers hate your discipline and the city people hate the new grain tax you’ve imposed. Not bad after less than a week. If we keep this up, our only friends out here might be the Persians!’
‘Oh, they’ll have reason to hate me too, soon enough.’
‘At least we’re allowed to kill the Persians…’
Castus smiled. Antioch was a fractious city, and rioting seemed a regular occurrence. He hoped it would not come to that, whatever additional burdens he had to place on the people here. His concern was more for the higher levels of government; sitting in the banqueting hall that evening, he had been all too aware of the currents of mistrust, even open hostility, flowing between the guests. Plenty of it directed his way too. He knew how to build an army, but without a united government to back it up his preparations would be useless. Still, he thought, all that would doubtless change once Constantine arrived in early summer next year. Once he himself had done all the hard work.
‘Get some sleep,’ he told Diogenes. As a civilian, the secretary had not attended the banquet, but he was yawning and red-eyed from his administrative work. Nodding his thanks, Diogenes collected the tablets and departed.
Alone, Castus got up from the couch and paced a circuit of the room. He was tired too, but his digestion was troubling him, and the nagging anxieties of the day as well. He slapped at one of the moths around the lamp, but it fluttered out of his reach. The far door was open, the archway giving access to the upper portico of the building’s internal courtyard. Hoping for fresher air, Castus pulled aside the drape. The lamplight flickered his shadow over the wall as he stepped outside.
The moon hung over the rooftops of the palace precinct, and from somewhere nearby Castus could hear the voices of soldiers, singing a barracks song he remembered from his youth. The great water clock above the Gate of Hours sounded, twelve ringing notes. Castus leaned heavily on the railing between the portico pillars, staring down into the darkness of the courtyard. Not for the first time, he wished that
Marcellina were already here with him. A silent prayer for her safekeeping, directed to the black sky above. But it would be months before she joined him in Antioch. In the early spring, once the weather cleared, he would set off on a lengthy tour of the frontier districts; there were troops garrisoned in cities and fortresses all across Syria and Mesopotamia, and he would need to visit every one. Only then, once he returned to Antioch, could he expect to see his wife again. He felt the weight of his duties heavy on his shoulders, and the ache of separation.
Voices rose from the courtyard below him. Sentries, Castus realised, guarding the lower chambers of the building. For a while he ignored them – just two men, speaking quietly together in Greek as they passed the long hours of darkness. But then one of the men spoke again, and his words caught Castus’s attention. Frowning, he suppressed a slight guilty shudder – he had never cared for those who spied or intruded on others. Then he took four quiet paces along the portico, until he stood directly above the sentries, and leaned across the railing.
‘And he was there, the old man himself?’ the first voice asked.
‘He was the one! He gave him the poison with his own hand. So Metrophanes was saying. Whether it was on the emperor’s orders or not, he was the one that killed… you know who…’
Castus felt his stomach clench, and he gripped the railing tighter. He knew all too well what they were talking about. It was true that he had given Caesar Crispus the poison that had killed him, more than a decade ago. What else had the soldiers heard about him? Metrophanes was the numerarius of his military staff, his chief accountant. Castus had been aware that stories of what had happened years before might have leaked out, however much the emperor had tried to suppress them. But the realisation that his staff, his own men, were discussing his role in it all was painful.
The old man, he thought. So that was what they called him now!
He wanted to shout down to the sentries, demand that they explain themselves. But that would just make things worse. Swallowing his shame, his bitter anguish, Castus paced silently back along the portico and into his chamber. No doubt, he thought, one of those men that had attended the banquet earlier had been responsible for circulating the rumours about him, to undermine his authority. Once stories like that took wing, he knew, it was almost impossible to trap them. Any attempt he might make to deny them would only make things worse.
