Triumph in Dust

by Ian Ross

  Castus stopped, turning quickly on his heel to confront the other man. Vorodes blinked, but held his ground.

  ‘What’s discussed by the emperor is no business of yours, citizen.’

  ‘Indeed not. But all of us know of recent events in Armenia. We know of the embassies sent by the Persians, and of the haste with which they returned. We’ve known only peace here for nearly forty years, excellency. If that’s about to change, it would be pleasant to get some forewarning.’

  Pleasant it might be, Castus thought. But any reassurance that Constantine was not planning an advance through Nisibis to the Tigris would be as good as an admission that the emperor would direct his troops down the Euphrates instead. And such information could no doubt be valuable to the enemy.

  ‘The emperor has the wellbeing of all citizens at the forefront of his mind,’ he said, picking the words with care. ‘He is, as I’m sure you know, a great lover of peace.’ It was an atrocious lie, but he could say nothing more.

  Vorodes led him out of the gateway at the far end of the silk portico, around the flank of a public bath and back to the central colonnaded avenue. He seemed resigned to the fact that Castus would tell him no more about the plans for the coming war.

  ‘If you still intend to pay a visit on Bishop Iacob, strategos,’ the curator said, ‘then best do it soon. He usually retires to pray in the middle of the afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Castus said.

  ‘But be careful. I have little time for the Christian faith, but the bishop is said to be a man of great power. A sort of sorcerer, you might say. He once cursed a group of women washing clothes in the river – they were partially naked, I believe, and refused to cover themselves – and caused all of their hair to fall out. And then he cursed a Persian merchant, for some fault or other, and the man exploded like a statue struck by lightning! Or so people say, at least.’

  Castus raised an eyebrow. But he clasped his thumb between his fingers all the same, as a warding sign against evil.

  ‘But I would be honoured if you came to my house for dinner this evening.’ Vorodes smiled. ‘If you have time, of course. I’d like to reassure myself that you haven’t gone bald, and you are, shall we say, still all in one piece!’

  IX

  Nisibis was a city of temples. Besides the grand Tychaeion opposite the market, there were huge edifices dedicated to Baal Shamin and Beth Samas, to Sin and Tar’atha and Na’bu. The names were alien, but Castus recognised them all the same: Jupiter and Sol, Luna, Venus and Mercury. Gods he knew well, wearing the masks and costumes of a different land.

  By contrast, the fifteen or so Christian churches in the city appeared rather modest. Even the synagogues of the Jews and the fire temple of the Zoroastrians were larger and more splendid. Only one – the Church of the Saviour – was impressive in size. That was Bishop Iacob’s stronghold. And that was where Castus would have to go to find him. At least, he thought as he approached it along the colonnaded central avenue, the church had a commanding location. Built on the eastern flank of the citadel mount, the broad entrance steps and plain-looking face of the basilica loomed over the crowds in the agora below like a rebuke.

  Climbing the steps, with Sabinus and the two bodyguards behind him, Castus kept his back straight and his chin up. He was a representative of the emperor, and of the might of the Roman army. Churches did not intimidate him, and neither did sorcerer-priests who could make men explode. So he told himself as he strode across the paved atrium court at the head of the steps, towards the massively carved main door of the basilica.

  A cluster of either worshippers or beggars hung around the atrium and the doorway; it was hard, Castus thought, to tell the difference. They shrank away from him as he approached, several making pious gestures against evil. Castus snorted a laugh at the irony; now he was the bringer of ill omen! At the doors he halted, cracking the tip of his staff down on the paving. It occurred to him that he had never before entered a Christian church.

  ‘What do we do?’ he whispered over his shoulder to Sabinus. ‘Do I just… walk in?’

  ‘The church is open to all, Father,’ Sabinus replied quietly. ‘I’ll go in first if you like. But we cannot enter carrying weapons.’

  He stepped past Castus, slinging his sword baldric from his shoulder and passing it to one of the guards that accompanied them. Shrugging down his annoyance, Castus did the same. ‘Make sure you don’t lose it,’ he said through his teeth.

  Just inside the door, Sabinus wetted his fingers from a stone basin and touched them to his brow; Castus refused to repeat the gesture.

  The inside of the basilica was dark after the noon sunlight, but as Castus’s eyes adjusted he saw the brilliantly coloured mosaics covering the walls, the vaulted ceiling, the floor underfoot. He scanned the pictures, and saw crowds of people with strange blank faces moving in procession, animals being herded into a boat, terrified soldiers overwhelmed by the rushing sea…

  ‘Enemy of Christ!’ a voice declared in heavily accented Greek. ‘Commander of the host of Satan! Persecutor of the faithful! You dare to enter God’s house with innocent blood on your hands?’

  Castus turned, and saw that one of the beggars from the doorway had followed him into the basilica. He was old – surely a decade older than Castus himself – with a perfectly bald head and a white-stubbled chin, and wore a rough brown cape with a grey tunic beneath.

  ‘I’ve never persecuted any of your faithful, bishop,’ Castus said, realising the man’s identity. ‘I never had the opportunity.’ He heard Sabinus hiss through his teeth.

  ‘You were a follower of the impious Diocletian, the God-hating Galerius?’ the bishop said. ‘You still venerate them, yes, as they burn in hellfire, and suck upon the teats of Satan?’

  Victorinus, one of the Protectores, took a step forward, his hand moving instinctively towards the absent hilt of his sword. Castus waved him back. Cocking his head, he gave Iacob a twisted half-smile. The bishop appeared more absurd than offensive. Hard to imagine such a man having any real power. Although appearances were deceptive.

  ‘You’re welcome to your bigoted views, priest,’ Castus said. ‘But save your energy. The emperor I serve is Christian, and so is his son.’

  Now it was Iacob’s turn to laugh. An unsettling sight; his teeth were crooked and blackened. ‘Yes, God has lifted the lamp of truth above the Palatine itself! We rejoice that our Augustus’s heart has been filled with the Lord’s love… So may Christ banish all falsehood. But what of his son, the Caesar? Is it true that he has sympathies for the heretical beliefs of Arius, whom the Almighty caused to explode on the toilet for his detestable sins?’

  Castus grimaced, bemused. ‘He’s a Christian, as everyone knows.’

  ‘So he doesn’t favour the insane idea that Christ was somehow made, as a pot is made on a wheel, by God Almighty, out of some inferior substance?’ the bishop said, stabbing the air with his finger and almost gnashing his teeth in his fervour. ‘That the Son is a mere demiurge, rather than a being coexistent and eternal...? Or are you uninformed about the doctrinal controversies of our Church?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m informed about the doctrinal controversies of your Church?’

  ‘The Caesar is orthodox in his beliefs,’ Sabinus said quickly. Their voices were echoing in the darkness of the basilica.

  ‘Aah? Let us hope so,’ the bishop said.

  Turning to face him squarely, Castus hooked his thumbs in his belt and stuck out his jaw. ‘I care nothing for your religious disputes,’ he said in a low tone. ‘But I’m told you’re a person of influence in this city. I need to know that you’d use that influence wisely in a time of war.’

  ‘Oh, have no fear of that, strategos,’ the bishop said with a cracked smile. ‘The Persians are the confirmed enemies of the Church, and all Christians hate them for their persecutions. You’ll find no greater supporters of Rome in this city than my congregation. If you’re looking for those who might prefer a new master, you shoul
d think of looking elsewhere.’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Those who would find it hard to enter the Lord’s kingdom. And those whose ancestors sinned against the light. And those who worship in the empty sepulchres of demons! Those are your enemies, strategos.’

  Castus had heard enough. But as he was leaving the church, another man came hurrying up to him. A younger priest in a long tunic of clean unbleached wool. ‘Excellency,’ he said, bowing his head, ‘please excuse the bishop. The holy father Iacob was fasting for many days over Pascha, and he struggles to contain his holiness…’

  ‘Quite all right,’ Castus said curtly. ‘You can tell your bishop that I found the meeting very instructive. Let’s both hope we don’t need to repeat it, eh?’

  It was only as he was marching up the slope towards the Strategion that he thought to ask Sabinus what the old bishop had meant by his last remark.

  ‘In the holy texts, Christ said that the rich would find it hard to enter heaven,’ Sabinus explained with an embarrassed shrug. ‘They would be the members of the city council, I expect. The Jews sinned against the light by condemning Jesus. And those in the empty sepulchres would be the followers of the traditional religions.’

  Castus snorted. ‘Doesn’t leave us many people to trust then, does it?’ And in the dusty air he could almost hear the bishop laughing at him.

  *

  ‘And so you survived your meeting with our fearsome priest?’ Gidnadius, the Praeses Mesopotamiae, asked. ‘He didn’t try to curse you, transform you into an animal, anything like that?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ Castus told the governor. They were reclining on the couches in Vorodes’s rooftop dining chamber. The curator’s house stood on the northern slope of the citadel mount, close to the Strategion. Three of the chamber’s walls had wide arches opening onto the roof garden, framing views across the city, the line of the walls and the open country beyond.

  ‘In fact,’ Castus went on, ‘I suspect all the ranting is a sort of defence. He seemed more eager to warn me than curse me.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Vorodes replied, but said no more.

  ‘He was insulting,’ Sabinus broke in. ‘The bishop, I mean. Eccentrics like him give the faith a bad name.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t linger too long in the east, young man,’ the governor said. ‘Eastern religions are amazingly devoted to eccentricity!’

  The dinner was more relaxed than Castus might have feared, and after a long day pacing the hot streets it was pleasant to recline on silken couches and sip chilled white wine. Slaves stood around the margins of the room with feather fans on long bamboo poles, waving the flies away from the table, and a cooling evening breeze flowed through the open archways. Jewelled silver incense holders shaped like scorpions flavoured the air with their smoke.

  Castus felt on edge all the same though, and tried to say as little as possible. Luckily Gidnadius, despite being a smug and fussy little man, was garrulous enough, praising the qualities of the various wines, the roast lamb in spiced apricot sauce, the asparagus and cucumber salad, even the pickled eggs. He quizzed Sabinus too about affairs at the palace in Antioch; clearly he was anxious to escape from Mesopotamia himself, and to rise in the imperial hierarchy.

  Vorodes was a suitably gracious host. His son Barnaeus sat beside him; already a council member at barely sixteen years old, the boy was content to listen and say little. But the curator’s wife had also joined them for dinner, and Castus found his attention far more drawn to her. Aurelia Sohaemia was a woman of around forty, dressed in a simple gown of plain white silk, a scarf draping her head and ivory bracelets on her bare arms. Castus had seen her before, he realised, in the crowd when he first entered the city. She had been dressed in the local style then, the towering beaded headdress and gauzy veil across her face and shoulders almost concealing her appearance. But he recognised her all the same. Her long features gave her an Arab or Persian look, and she could almost have appeared mournfully grave, but when she glanced in his direction Castus caught the quick intelligence in her eyes, the spark of warmth.

  Gods, he thought to himself, and tried to concentrate on his food, and the conversation between Gidnadius and the others at the table. For over six months now he had been surrounded almost exclusively by men. The Caesar’s court in Antioch was an entirely male domain, and in his travels since leaving the capital Castus had encountered only a few female slaves and matronly wives of officials. Every time he glanced up he seemed to catch Sohaemia’s eye, and felt his blood quicken. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. Don’t be an old fool, after all this time…

  When the meal was done, Vorodes called three musicians to entertain the guests with plangent melodies on the Armenian harp. As they played, Castus raised himself from the couch and went to the wide opening that led to the roof garden outside. Plants stood in terracotta urns, and the air smelled of herbs and blossom. The sun had set but there was still plenty of light in the sky; the mountains along the northern horizon stood out clear and black. The lines of the city walls were plain to see, the double ramparts and towers picked out by sentry fires. Within their circuit spread the tight-packed streets and houses of the city itself, a landscape of flat roofs in the low evening light, with the pillared shapes of temples and the domes of bathhouses rising between them. From this vantage, Castus could see almost the entire city as far as the northern gates. He heard distant chanting, dogs barking, the lowing of camels. The air had that characteristic smell of the eastern provinces, a dusty smoky yellow-brown scent. Dung fires and spices, Castus assumed. Something else too, a hint of musk and rosewater…

  With a start he realised that the curator’s wife had joined him on the rooftop. Sohaemia had a shawl around her bare shoulders, although the air was still warm. She stood close beside him, miming a shudder.

  ‘My husband has already asked if you could tell us more about the emperor’s strategy,’ she said. Her voice was low, slightly husky. Castus could not tell if she was being deliberately seductive. ‘I know,’ she went on, ‘that you cannot give us any details. I respect your discretion.’

  When he had seen her glancing his way in the dining room, Castus had assumed that the curator had instructed his wife to charm him. Now he realised that things were the other way around. Of the two of them, Sohaemia was in charge here; she had told her husband what to ask in the market that day.

  ‘I don’t direct the emperor’s intentions,’ Castus said. ‘I just prepare the ground. I’m more a steward than a military commander.’

  She laughed lightly, though her nose. Then she half turned towards him, watching his profile as she spoke. ‘Our lives here are very delicately balanced,’ she said. ‘You look at this city before you, and you see – what? Wealth, stability, commerce? Strong walls, a confident populace? All those things are here, but none of them can guarantee safety. Everything we have gained, everything we love and value, can be snatched from us in an instant. You military men, emperors and generals, you think of the armies and the campaign plans, the chances of victory and defeat. But out here we have to live with the consequences. So we have to plan for every eventuality. Armies bleed lands and cities alike, strategos. And wars kill more than just soldiers. You understand what I mean.’

  Castus was trying not to look directly at the woman beside him, but he felt the intimacy of her presence in the gathering darkness. ‘From what I know,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘you need not fear. Constantine won’t direct his armies this way.’

  He heard her exhale. She touched him on the shoulder, then pressed her palm against the muscle of his chest. ‘Thank you,’ she said. For a long moment she held the touch, then she went back inside.

  *

  Hours past midnight, and Castus lay sleepless on his mattress, staring into the darkness. Somewhere above him a moth was flitting around the ceiling, battering its wings against the walls. Had he told the curator’s wife too much? Strictly speaking, he decided, he had. Had he done it purely because
he desired her? Once again yes.

  With a low groan he rolled onto his side and pulled the corner of the blanket over his head. The chamber was hot and airless, and he could still hear the moth fluttering about. He thought of Marcellina. She would be in Constantinople by now, he guessed, or even on the road eastwards already. Another couple of months, sixty days at most, and he would see her again. He missed her badly; how stupid he had been, he thought, to feel attracted to another.

  In all his life, Marcellina had been the only woman to understand him, and see him for who he truly was. Castus had loved his first wife, Sabina, in a tortuous sort of way. But whatever affection she had returned had always been tainted by bitterness. Then there had been the Frankish slave, Ganna. And the emperor’s wife Fausta too, whom Castus had almost hated and almost loved. Beyond them: a barbarian woman in the wilds beyond the northern frontier, an army prostitute in Britain, and a few more elsewhere. Now he came to think about it, Castus thought, he had been quite absurdly chaste.

  All the more reason not to be misled now.

  Sighing with annoyance, he sat up on the mattress and threw off the blanket. He had no idea of the hour; some time had passed since he last heard the calls of sentries from the military lines. The sky was already lightening with the coming dawn.

  And somewhere on the far side of the hill the cockerel began to crow.

  X

  They were a day’s ride north of Singara when they entered the desert. Since leaving Nisibis their route had taken them first through the fertile well-irrigated lands along the Mygdonius River, then across an expanse of scrubby fields and rough pastures. Now, quite suddenly, all signs of cultivation, and of civilisation, had fallen away. Castus and his escort rode across a vast ochre-grey plain of stone and dust, scored by dry ravines, and the horizon stretched empty and flat in all directions. It was the harshest and most alien landscape he had ever encountered.