by Ian Ross
‘So?’ Castus asked him. ‘What does it say?’
Diogenes spread the scrap of rolled leather on the tabletop. ‘This column,’ he said, tapping it with a gnarled finger, ‘gives a list of all the military units either currently or shortly to be at Circesium and Soura on the Euphrates. This second column provides their full strength in officers and men, horses and camels. The side column here details the boats and barges collected for supply on the river.’
Castus drew a long breath, widening his eyes. His heart seemed to have slowed suddenly. ‘So that means...?’
‘That means, brother, that we have a big problem!’
Light-headed, Castus sank down onto a stool. He took a long swallow of wine. For a long time now he had known that somebody was giving information to the enemy – somebody well informed of his own movements, for a start. But he had never suspected that information this specific and detailed was being sent to the Persians. And with that information, the enemy would be able to estimate the plans for the forthcoming campaign with considerable accuracy. He muttered a quick prayer of thanks to the gods that it had not reached its destination. But could there be more like it?
‘May I ask where you came across this item?’ Diogenes asked.
‘A woman gave it to me,’ Castus said thickly. He saw Diogenes raise his eyebrows. ‘It was found,’ he said, ‘on a messenger in the desert, heading for Persian territory.’
‘Could this messenger be questioned?’
‘I doubt he’s in any condition to tell anybody anything,’ Castus said. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, cursing. If only he had known the importance of the scroll, he could have asked Hind more about it. Asked to speak to the Saracens who found it – interrogated them, even. Who had been carrying it, and where had it been found? But knowing that would not help him now.
‘These details,’ Diogenes said quietly, running his finger down the inked list again. ‘How many people would have had access to them?’
‘A few. Not many. Maybe a supply clerk at Soura, or somebody in the officium of one of the provincial commanders…’ But even as he spoke, Castus knew that the treasonous message had been sent by somebody much further up the chain of command. Perhaps, he thought with gathering dread, by somebody on his own staff.
‘Leave this with me,’ he said, taking the scrap of leather and rolling it tightly between his fists. ‘There’s nothing more we can do about it tonight.’
When Diogenes had gone, Castus sat for a while in the gathering twilight, not lighting the lamps. He sipped warm wine, tapping the rolled leather against the edge of the table. Then he went to the window, threw open the shutters, and gazed out into the night. No coolness to the air, just the same solid heat. The sky was black and sprayed with stars, the huge moon glaring its light over the flat roofs of the barracks and the town, the perimeter wall and the flat grey desert beyond. Grimly Castus pictured silent messengers galloping across those dark and dusty plains, carrying further treasonous messages that would disclose all his plans and preparations and spell ruin for the Roman army.
Irritably he shook the image from his mind. He was tired, that was all. Four days more and he would depart Palmyra for Emesa, the last stop on his lengthy tour. After that, a return to Antioch and a reunion with Marcellina and his daughter. But with Constantine too, and the Caesar Constantius. The thought of seeing those men again did not gladden his heart. Perhaps, he thought, he really could just walk away from all this. Lay down his command and give up the army once more. It seemed the best thing. Life was worth so much more than the service of the emperors could provide.
A knock on the door, and a sound of a voice. Castus turned from the window, called out permission, and the doorkeeper stepped into the room. Egnatius followed behind him, throwing back his cloak.
‘Excellency,’ the cavalry tribune said, saluting. He appeared baffled by the darkness in the chamber. ‘My apologies for disturbing you at this late hour.’
‘Yes?’ Castus said wearily.
‘I thought you should see this.’ Egnatius waited until the door was closed behind him, then advanced to the central table and placed a tablet upon it. ‘Two of my men were on sentry duty at the Emesa Gate. They stopped a provisions merchant as he was leaving – it seemed a strange hour for him to be setting off – and gave him a thorough search, as you’d ordered. They found this tablet concealed in his baggage.’
Castus felt immediately alert, his mind focusing. His hands trembled slightly as he lit the lamp. To have a second secret communication fall into his hands so soon was surely a gift from the gods. But he could be certain of nothing yet.
‘Tell the doorkeeper to summon Diogenes,’ he said, picking up the tablet and breaking the seal. He studied the wax, disappointed not to see the same cryptic sets of letters and numbers he had seen on the leather scroll.
‘Looks like Greek,’ he said, and passed the tablet to Egnatius.
The tribune frowned deeply, angling the tablet to the light as he peered at it, then shrugged. ‘I can’t read Greek myself,’ he said. ‘Just a blur to me!’
The two men were sitting at the table drinking wine by the time Diogenes appeared. The secretary had obviously been asleep, but was wakeful enough now. He took the tablet, bent his head over it, then gave a dry chuckle.
‘No codes here at least,’ he said. ‘But the content is interesting. It concerns you.’
‘Me?’ Castus said.
‘Indeed so. The writer of the message believes that you’ve exceeded your authority in dealing with the Saracens. He claims, I am afraid to say, that you show signs of weariness, advanced age and confusion, and lack the stamina for command decisions!’
Startled, Castus could make no reply. Then he slammed his fist down on the table. ‘Bastard!’ he growled. ‘Who wrote it? And who’s it for?’
‘That I can’t say,’ Diogenes replied, still studying the tablet. ‘There are no names, and no sign of a destination. Presumably the messenger knew where to take it.’
‘I have the merchant in the cells,’ Egnatius said. ‘We’ll soon wring the truth out of him!’
Struck by a thought, Castus took the rolled leather scroll from his belt pouch and tossed it down beside the tablet. ‘Is the writing the same, can you tell...? I mean, did the same person write both messages?’
‘I know what you mean,’ Diogenes said with an irritated nod. He scrutinised both documents, taking his time. ‘Hard to be sure, but I think not.’
Castus exhaled. Presumably one of the messages might have been copied by another hand. Or perhaps the traitor used a scribe...? He was still fighting down the insult of the second message.
‘However,’ Diogenes declared, sitting upright suddenly, ‘I strongly suspect that whoever wrote on the tablet here also wrote this.’ His eye had fallen on one of the stack of documents on the table. Taking it, he held it close to the light, glancing repeatedly between it and the tablet. ‘Yes, yes… the Greek characters are formed in the same idiosyncratic way! The shape of the kappa here, for example… a very eccentric oblique downstroke…’
‘You’re sure?’
Diogenes sat upright again, red-eyed. ‘As I say, I can’t be sure. But it seems likely. Who wrote this other document?’
Castus took it from him and glanced quickly at it. A slow dark fury rose through his body. He turned to Egnatius.
‘Take four of your men,’ he growled. ‘And bring me Claudius Sollemnis.’
*
It was past midnight when the prisoner appeared, and they were all assembled to meet him. Castus stood behind the table, flanked by Egnatius and Sabinus, as the two cavalry troopers who had dragged Sollemnis from his bed stamped into the room. Sollemnis himself hung between them, still bleary and dressed in his sleeping tunic. He appeared confused by the sudden arrest. The taciturn Gaul was either shamming, Castus thought, or he was genuinely innocent.
The leather scroll lay upon the table, opened to show the inked message. Castus watched ca
refully as Sollemnis glanced at it. No sign of recognition in the man’s eyes. Then he threw the tablet down on the table. This time Sollemnis responded; his jaw dropped, and the breath appeared to rush from his body.
‘Talk,’ Castus told him.
Sollemnis swallowed heavily, then composed himself. He drew back his shoulders and looked Castus in the eye. ‘I was following the orders I was given,’ he said.
‘Whose orders?’ Egnatius demanding, taking a step forward.
For a moment the prisoner gave no answer, glancing warily between the men who confronted him. ‘The orders of the Praetorian Prefect, his eminence Flavius Ablabius,’ he said.
‘So you’re his spy?’ Sabinus said with an outraged scowl.
‘He’s the emperor’s most senior officer in the east!’ Sollemnis exclaimed. ‘And I am a loyal servant of the emperor.’
‘But why?’ Sabinus broke in. ‘Why should the prefect need this?’
Egnatius stifled a laugh. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he said. ‘Flavius Ablabius is full of schemes. Everyone knows it. He’s always plotting to undermine everyone around him. He wants confidential reports on everything we do, so he can use them to his advantage!’
Castus circled the table, taking the tablet and holding it before Sollemnis. The Gaul was sweating heavily, his jaw tight.
‘You believe what you wrote here?’ Castus asked him in a low voice.
Sollemnis nodded curtly. ‘That’s my assessment of the situation,’ he said. ‘Excellency,’ he added.
Castus could not fault his bravery at least. Nor could he forgive it. Dropping the tablet, he seized Sollemnis by the front of his tunic and dragged him close. ‘You dare to say these things about me?’ he hissed. But he knew he was acting from weakness, and from malice. The accusations in the message had struck at him, and he could not let it show. With a snarl of disgust he shoved the man away from him. ‘Take him back to his quarters,’ he told Egnatius. ‘He’s to remain here under guard when we leave for Antioch.’
Sollemnis was trembling as the two soldiers led him away.
‘So,’ Diogenes said, once the prisoner was gone. ‘We’ve uncovered one spy tonight, at least. But whoever wrote this,’ he said, plucking at the leather scroll, ‘still remains concealed!’
*
The road to Emesa led westwards, and after three days Castus and his party had left the desert fringes far behind them. They travelled now between spreading fields of wheat and barley, ripe for the harvest. After so long in the desolate wilderness, the sight of cultivated land and green hills, the flanks of the mountains on the far horizon, was a balm to the eyes. Traffic on the road had increased too, with carts and gangs of labourers moving out of the towns and cities into the fields. The men of the cavalry escort and Castus’s staff rode in good spirits, sensing ahead of them the end of this lengthy tour of the frontiers, and a return to the comforts of Antioch.
Castus himself could not share in their pleasure. He knew these men well, most of them by name, even the slaves who handled the baggage camels. He had fought beside them, shared their meals and their camp fires. But the terrible words that Diogenes had read to him that night in Palmyra still gouged at his soul. How many of these men, he thought, believed him to be weary and confused, and lacking in stamina? How many of them thought he was too old and too tired for his job? Did they talk about him behind his back – laugh about him even?
He tried to push those thoughts from his mind. He had always believed that men should be judged by their actions, not their words. And had he not given all that he possessed over these last months? Still, the taint of failure lingered. He would not be returning to Antioch in strength, conscious that he had fulfilled his mission, but rather with a crippling sense of weakness and regret.
Lycianus had gone, taking his Saracen irregulars back east towards Circesium. Castus would meet him again on the Euphrates at Soura, they had agreed; privately he was glad that the scout commander would not be returning to Antioch with him. Sollemnis was back in Palmyra, confined and under guard. And soon enough Castus would have to confront the man who had ordered Sollemnis to spy on him. Anger filled his chest as he recalled the syrupy platitudes that Flavius Ablabius had spoken when they first met the previous autumn. His insincere pleas of allegiance, his warnings to beware of the other courtiers. At least, Castus thought, he had never been taken in by the man. But what of those others? What of Domitius Dracilianus, and his ally Mucatra? The possibility that they too had placed spies within his officium had already occurred to him. All of them conspiring against one another, all of them playing for power and influence. Above them, the Caesar Constantius. And above Constantius, the emperor himself.
Too easy, Castus thought, to let gloom engulf him. But perhaps Sollemnis had been right? Perhaps the tasks and responsibilities of high command were too arduous for him now. He knew how they chafed at him, and how fiercely he longed for an end to them. He was a simple man, and he was getting old. Perhaps he should just accept his own limitations?
He was still an hour’s ride east of Emesa when the spiral of dust appeared on the road ahead. For a long while Castus paid no attention to it. A carriage, travelling fast in the opposite direction: several of them had passed in the last few days, carrying imperial couriers or tax officials, or landowners travelling out to their country villas for the harvest.
But as the carriage approached the leading riders of the column it slowed, and he heard the shouts of the two slaves that galloped alongside. Roused from his bitter thoughts, Castus spurred his horse forward to investigate; Sabinus was quick to follow him.
By the time he had ridden to the head of the column the carriage had halted, the two slaves dismounted beside it, Egnatius leaning from the saddle to speak with the driver. It was a fast two-horse gig, a covered frame on the back screening the passenger, and both driver and hangings were pale with the dust of the road.
As Castus approached, Egnatius straightened up with a grin on his face, beckoning him closer. ‘It seems your day has improved, brother!’ the tribune said.
Castus reined in his horse a few paces from the carriage, frowning in bemusement. The hangings that screened the rear of the carriage shifted, and a figure peered out. A woman, swathed in a shawl. Then she dropped the shawl from her face, and Castus widened his eyes.
‘Marcellina!’
At once he slipped from the saddle, tossed the reins to Sabinus and ran to the side of the carriage. He threw his arms around his wife, drawing her into a fierce embrace, then kissed her deeply.
‘Why are you here?’ he exclaimed, beginning to laugh as the joy rose through him. Her touch, the feel of her body, had instantly eclipsed the dread and misgivings in his heart. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked again.
Then he noticed the expression on her face, the tension in her hand as she clasped him. Marcellina looked harried, dark circles beneath her eyes, her brow creased.
‘Husband,’ she said, and her smile was taut with worry. ‘I thank God I found you! I’d thought I would have to ride all the way to Palmyra!’
‘Where’s Aeliana?’ Castus asked, his grin slipping. ‘Why are you travelling alone? Where’s Pharnax...? What’s happened?’
She drew him close again, still with that tense smile, and whispered to him, ‘I must talk to you! Get into the carriage with me…’
Castus gestured to Egnatius, who ordered his men to dismount and move off the road. Sabinus remained in the saddle, staring, perplexed. Attempting to hide his consternation, Castus scrambled up into the carriage beside his wife and drew the drape across behind him. The axle creaked beneath him, and the carriage bed swayed. In the close confines of the screened rear seat he pulled Marcellina into an embrace once more. For a few heartbeats she was silent, the joy of their reunion stilling her anxiety.
‘Tell me,’ Castus said, drawing back.
‘The emperor is sick,’ his wife said in a hurried whisper. ‘Very sick, and close to death, they say…’
‘Gods!�
� Castus hissed. ‘Where? He should be close to Antioch by now?’
Marcellina shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no. He only got as far as Nicomedia. He was first taken ill during Paschal week, nearly two months ago – I saw it! We were told he’d recovered, and when I left Constantinople all was well… But shortly after he set off for the east he fell sick again, and was taken to some thermal baths near Nicomedia. The last message reached Antioch five days ago. The sickness has got worse. Caesar Constantius left the city at once by relay carriage, to go to his father’s side. But all this I know from rumour, from palace gossip… The high officials are trying to keep the news secret. They wouldn’t even send a messenger to inform you!’
‘If the Caesar’s gone to Nicomedia, who’s in charge?’ Castus demanded, but he already knew the answer.
‘The Praetorian Prefect, Ablabius. He’s issued strict orders that nobody is to talk of the emperor’s health. I petitioned him to send word to you, but got no reply. So I had to come myself… I rode as fast as I could…’
‘You should have sent Pharnax!’ Castus said, gripping her arms as anguish mounted in him.
‘How could I remain there in Antioch, knowing nothing?’ Marcellina said, and Castus heard the fury and frustration in her voice. ‘I had to come myself – Pharnax is guarding Aeliana and the household. But you must return to Antioch at once!’
Castus nodded, dropping his head. He stroked her cheek with his scarred left hand, gratitude for her prompt action mingling with tumbling fears. ‘I’ll ride,’ he said, ‘and change horses at the posting stations. Sabinus can come with me, and a few of the cavalry troopers, no more. Can you follow in the carriage?’
‘If I must,’ Marcellina said. Both of them knew that he could move faster alone now. ‘After travelling for two months to reach Antioch I’m getting quite used to life on the road!’
