by Ian Ross
Castus embraced her, kissing her again. Maddening to think of being separated again so soon after this unexpected meeting. But his mind and body were coursing with energy now. With a last squeeze of his wife’s hand, he climbed down from the carriage and let the drape fall.
*
Castus arrived back in the capital of the eastern provinces on the first day of June, exhausted after two long days in the saddle. It had been a frustrating journey, and Castus’s impatient fury had mounted with every delay – a lame horse, a wrong turning, roads blocked by wagon traffic, a stubbornly uncooperative post station superintendent… By the time he reached Antioch he felt worn to the bone. He had expected the city to be in turmoil, convulsed by anxiety, but as he rode along the broad central avenue with his weary cavalry troopers behind him there seemed only a strange calm pervading the population.
The same calm filled the palace. It felt unnatural, like the pause in the air before a thunderclap. As if everyone was just waiting for the next piece of news to arrive, or the final confirmation of their fears. Because, despite the efforts of the palace officials to keep everything secret, Castus soon realised that word of the emperor’s illness had seeped out into the city. Through the day a crowd grew outside the palace gates, silently waiting. The churches and temples were thronged, sounds of chanted prayers filtering into the streets. A steady stream of devotees entered the unfinished octagonal church outside the palace; Sabinus was one of them, Castus noticed.
It was the following day before Castus managed to track down Flavius Ablabius. The Praetorian Prefect had been either ignoring or deferring his requests for a meeting for many hours. Finally Castus just marched straight into his wing of the palace, shoving aside the guards and the silentiaries at the doors of his chamber. He found the prefect sitting in the riverfront portico, dictating messages to a pair of slave secretaries. Ablabius leaped up with a flustered look, but as Castus stamped to a halt before him the Cretan’s face once more eased into a smile.
‘Why was I not informed of the emperor’s illness?’ Castus demanded before the prefect could speak. ‘Why has no public announcement been made to the city people or the troops?’
‘Magister!’ Ablabius said with a wafting gesture. He was wearing a long gown of Persian fashion, with wide embroidered sleeves. ‘As you can appreciate, in this difficult time there are so many things that need to be done. I have no more hours in my day than you! And before we have more concrete details it seemed foolish to say anything public.’
‘You should have told me. I should have known about it days ago.’
Ablabius nodded gravely, dismissing the slaves with a gesture and then turning to pace along the portico. Castus followed, glowering at him.
‘We had no certain idea of your whereabouts,’ Ablabius said. ‘Even the most trusted messengers can talk, and the last thing we’d want is for news of this unfortunate situation to be carried about the countryside, perhaps to reach the ears of our enemies…’
‘I suspect it already has. When I left Antioch back in March I met a Persian envoy travelling to meet the emperor. He should have returned through here by now.’
‘He did! Around a month ago. I met him, of course, and he seemed a reasonable man. Vezhan Gushnasp was his name…’
‘The emperor fell sick at Pascha too, in Constantinople,’ Castus broke in. ‘This Persian envoy must have known of that. By now he’ll have carried the word of it to Ctesiphon.’
Ablabius appeared momentarily concerned, his face emptying of expression. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘But we have nothing to fear from the Persians, for now at least. Your preparations for the military campaign have surely been sound enough to deter them.’
‘You also placed a man inside my officium to report on my activities,’ Castus said, turning on his heel to confront the prefect. ‘Why?’
For a heartbeat it looked as if Ablabius would deny it. Then he narrowed his eyes and turned to face Castus. ‘I got where I am today,’ he said in a colder tone, ‘by keeping myself well informed of all that happens around me. Of course I maintain my own private intelligence network! How else would I stay a step ahead of my rivals?’
‘But you have no rivals,’ Castus said with a frown. ‘You’re the most powerful man in the east, barring the Caesar Constantius. Or… is the Caesar your rival?’
Colour rose to the Cretan’s face, and he leaned closer to Castus. ‘There will be many challenges in the days ahead,’ he said quietly. ‘Those of us in power will have to work together, yes? So we must keep cool heads, and try not to reach hasty conclusions. Otherwise we could fall into error. And errors can be very costly, magister.’
Castus angled his head, staring back at him. The prefect’s words had been almost a threat. Almost, but not quite.
‘As for myself,’ Ablabius said with a sniff, ‘I intend to pray ardently for our emperor to be restored to health. I suggest you do the same.’
*
That evening Castus shared a simple meal with Pharnax in the private chamber of his residence. When it was done and the bodyguard had departed, Aeliana came and stood beside his couch. The girl was bearing up well; after months on the road, a multitude of strange new sights and strange new people, and the confusion of the last few days, she still managed to appear in good spirits. But Castus could see that his daughter was hiding a lot of fearful uncertainty.
‘Will Mama be coming back soon?’ she asked.
‘Of course! Maybe tomorrow or the day after. We’ll all be together again soon enough.’
Aeliana nodded, then pursed her lips. ‘And is it true that the emperor’s sick? That’s what the slaves are saying.’
Castus sat upright; he was about to tell her not to listen to the prattling of slaves… But his daughter was old enough and wise enough to hear the truth.
‘Yes, he’s sick, so they say,’ he told her. He embraced her, drawing her up to sit on his knee, and she settled herself against his chest.
‘But if he dies,’ she asked – he heard the tremble in her voice this time, the tearful catch – ‘if he dies, who’ll rule the empire? Who’ll keep the barbarians away?’
Raising his hand, Castus smoothed the fine brown hair from her face and kissed her brow. ‘If he dies, we’ll have a new emperor soon enough. And as for keeping away the barbarians – that’s my job!’
She peered up at him, wide-eyed; then she saw his crooked smile and nodded, momentarily satisfied. ‘I’ve been praying for the emperor to get better,’ she said in a deliberately serious tone. ‘Praying to Almighty God, I mean. I was wondering, though… Would it work better if I prayed to your gods as well?’
Castus made a noise deep in his throat. He had argued with Marcellina about this before; she was intent that her daughter should be a Christian, rather than grow confused about her faith. Castus had never pressed his side of the argument too forcefully. ‘Pray to whatever you like,’ he said. ‘As long as you mean it, that’s what counts. But sometimes,’ he added, gazing down at her, ‘all the praying in the world won’t help. Everyone dies one day.’
‘When they’re old?’ the girl asked in a querulous voice, and Castus realised that he had said the wrong thing.
‘One day,’ he said with emphasis. ‘But don’t you worry about death, my darling.’ He kissed her again, and drew her more tightly against his chest. Blinking, he was surprised to feel the tears in his eyes. How is it, Castus thought as Aeliana let out a long sigh, that a child can summon feelings that adults are so keen to repress?
A noise broke into his thoughts. He tensed at once, and Aeliana sat up and slid from his embrace. A man had shouted something outside; Castus heard the bang of an opening door, rapid footsteps on the stairs.
He stood up, straightening his tunic. His chest felt tight. Somehow he had been expecting this.
The messenger wore the white uniform of the Corps of Protectores. He stumbled into the room, and took a moment to wipe his face.
‘What is it?’ Castus demanded.
‘Excellency,’ the Protector said.
With a note of dulled surprise Castus noticed that the man was weeping.
‘Excellency…’ he repeated. ‘A message has come from Nicomedia. It’s the emperor…’
‘Speak clearly,’ Castus growled.
The messenger straightened his shoulders, took a breath. ‘Excellency… The emperor Constantinus Augustus has passed to his eternal reward... He’s dead, excellency. Constantine’s dead!’
XIV
‘Friends,’ Ablabius declared gravely. ‘Most of you have already heard the dreadful news. I now have full confirmation of all that we feared. On the eleventh day before the kalends of this month, the fiftieth day of Pentecost, at a villa just outside Nicomedia, our Most Sacred and Beloved Augustus, the emperor Constantine, departed his mortal body and ascended to the heavens.’
The prefect paused to cover his eyes; then his hand strayed to the Christian medallion at his neck. ‘He died of a lingering infection of the lungs, with recurring fevers. Shortly before the end, he was baptised into the Holy Church of God. He now sits at the side of his father, the Almighty.’
Dropping his hand, Ablabius swept his gaze around the twenty other men gathered by lamplight in the marble-lined council chamber. The doors were firmly closed, silentiaries stationed before them. Only the most senior officials of the court and the army had been permitted to attend. All remained standing except the prefect, who sat on an ornate folding stool before them. The hush in the room felt awesome, almost supernatural.
‘Based on the messages we have received so far,’ Ablabius went on, ‘it seems impossible that the Most Blessed Caesar Constantius could have reached his father before the final hour. So we do not know what instructions the emperor might, or might not, have given regarding the succession.’
Standing towards the back of the chamber, Castus tightened his jaw. This was what Ablabius was most concerned about, for all his pious words. But several of the men in the room were still digesting the news, and the shocked grief that it had summoned in them. It was a shock, Castus had to admit, even if most had expected it. Some of the younger officials had known only Constantine’s rule for their entire adult lives. Some were red-eyed and tearful. One of the eunuchs, the Primicerius of the Sacred Bedchamber, wept openly and silently.
‘So what now?’ said Dracilianus, the Comes Orientis, with a brisk snap. Of all the assembly, only he and Ablabius appeared totally in control of themselves. Castus shifted his gaze between them. The prefect, seated on his thronelike stool marshalling his display of piety; his rival Dracilianus, tight-lipped and tensed with anticipation. The air between them seemed almost to quiver with the strength of their mutual hatred.
‘What now, my dear Dracilianus?’ the prefect said with the barest hint of a smile. ‘Well, we could assume that the four Caesars – the three sons of the Augustus and their cousin Flavius Julius Dalmatius – will succeed immediately to joint rule. But that might be pre-emptory, don’t you think? If Constantine gave no confirmation of his wishes, will these young men, or those who advise them, agree to share power? The younger Constantine is in Gaul, Constans in Italy and Dalmatius on the Danube. They must meet and debate their terms.’
Castus had always known that Ablabius was a man fatally in love with power. Seeing him now, at the moment of his greatest authority, Castus could tell how much the prefect was enjoying himself. Beneath the mask of sorrow, Ablabius was practically sweating with pleasure.
‘And what do we do until the Caesars decide?’ Dracilianus cut in with a sour smile. ‘Declare a republic, perhaps? A temporary one, of course. Perhaps you, Ablabius, could declare yourself our Dictator?’
‘Until then,’ Ablabius said, raising his voice suddenly, angrily, so it echoed, ‘we are in the lap of the gods! Or God, I should say… The Roman state stands upon a precipice! One false step could mean ruin for us all. And so we must be prudent.’
‘Prudent?’ echoed one of the ministers.
‘Our official line,’ Ablabius declared, gathering his hanging sleeves, ‘is that Constantine Augustus still rules. While his body is dead his immortal spirit endures, his divine genius – all laws and pronouncements, all coin issues, everything will continue to be done in his name.’
A stir ran through the assembly. Dracilianus was smiling quietly to himself.
‘Ox shit!’ Castus said loudly, taking a step forward.
The muttering voices were instantly silenced as the echo of his words filled the chamber.
‘Do you expect my troops to serve in the name of a dead emperor?’ Castus went on, his jaw clenched. ‘Do you expect them to salute a corpse?’
‘Magister!’ said the Chief Treasurer, a slack-faced elderly man. ‘You speak impiously of the Sacred Augustus!’
‘The Sacred Augustus is dead,’ Castus growled. He stared around the room, fixing each man with a fierce glare. ‘All of you know that I’ve been loyal to Constantine all my life…’
Muttering again, and several of the ministers averted their eyes from him.
‘All my life!’ Castus repeated, almost shouting now. ‘But we’re facing an imminent war with Persia, a war the emperor himself decreed, and both the army and the people need to know who’s in command!’
His words died away into a brief silence.
When Ablabius spoke again his voice was quiet, his tone cutting. ‘You speak of loyalty,’ he said, ‘and yet only ten years ago you were dismissed in disgrace from the emperor’s court. Isn’t that so? I hardly think this is the time to be stressing such qualities!’
Castus glared at him, feeling the rage seething in his chest. He could hear the slight sniffs of amusement from the gathered ministers. Yes, he thought, he had no friends at the court of Antioch; he had always known that. His position now was weaker than ever. And if Constantius returned, with the full authority of Augustus, he could expect no better. For the first time, he considered the empire falling into the hands of that arrogant and inexperienced nineteen-year-old. The thought was chilling.
‘As for the Persians,’ the prefect said, ‘we need fear nothing from them, not for some time. The recent embassy to Constantinople did much to calm tensions between our empire and theirs. So, friends – let us return to our labours, and await further developments. All in God’s own time!’
*
Marching quickly along the darkened corridor of the palace, anger in his stride, Castus heard a voice calling his name. He turned, fists clenched.
‘A moment, if I could,’ Dracilianus said. He gestured for Castus to walk with him, further into the shadowed depths of the corridor.
‘What do you want with me now?’ Castus growled.
Dracilianus laid a hand upon his sleeve. ‘We both know, brother, the game that Ablabius is trying to play.’
‘Do we?’ And what of your own game?
‘I told you before that he favours Flavius Julius Dalmatius above the other Caesars. But his greatest wish is to set the four of them against each other, prolong their disputes and set himself up as controller of the outcome. The power behind the throne, whoever ends up sitting on it!’
They had reached a gloomy vestibule, far from any listening ears, lit only by a single flickering lamp in a wall niche.
‘That’s none of my concern,’ Castus said, pausing as Dracilianus hung back in the shadows.
‘Ah, but it is! You see, there’s something the prefect didn’t tell you… Before he left Antioch, Caesar Constantius left very explicit instructions that nothing is to happen in his absence. Nothing! In particular, there are to be no further military movements. The main force of the imperial field army is still at Nicomedia, with advanced units all along the road as far as Tarsus; they won’t move any further without orders. The eastern field army is to remain in camp here at Antioch. Constantius hopes to lead both armies himself against the Persians, of course, once his power is secure.’
‘If only the Persians were so obliging!’
‘Yes, well,’ Dracilianu
s said, and a curious spasm passed across his features, almost hideous in the lamplight. ‘That’s not the issue, you see. We may need the army here.’
‘Why?’
Glancing quickly back over his shoulder, Dracilianus leaned closer. There was something unnatural in his cold eyes now that Castus did not like at all. ‘Think!’ he said. ‘The Caesars have little love for each other, and the three sons of Constantine detest their cousin Dalmatius. What are the chances they’ll agree to share power? And if they do not… well, if it comes to war between them, we may need to pick our side and seize power in the east. Valerius Mucatra commands the eastern field army – a good man, although I know you’ve had your disagreements – but you’re the commander in chief. I need to know I can rely on you, if the time comes.’
Castus felt a swell of sickening dread rising in his throat. He remembered the bloody field after the battle at Milvian Bridge, the even greater carnage after Chrysopolis… He had believed that never again would he see Roman soldiers killing each other. The thought of another civil war was horrifying. And yet it was all too possible.
‘And which side are you on, Dracilianus?’
The other man smiled, then took a step backwards, his face vanishing into the darkness. ‘The right side, of course,’ he said from the shadows. ‘The side of justice. And of the security and power of the Roman Empire!’
*
The following days passed in a haze of suppressed anxiety. No news came from Nicomedia, none from Constantinople. The crowds still gathered outside the palace gates, worshippers thronged the churches and the temples, but a strange uneasy calm pervaded everything. Ablabius had circulated careful rumours that the emperor had recovered from his illness and once more sat upon the throne. Few believed them, perhaps, but it was enough to prevent any outbursts of popular grief or anger. Through the long hot summer days, under the punishing Syrian sun, Antioch simmered and sweated in a torpor of fearful uncertainty.
