Imperial Vengence, page 11
There was a group of men gathered at the doorway of his house, and they stepped back into the street as Castus turned the corner. Three of them were his own door slaves; the other two wore army tunics and cloaks, but it took him a few moments to recognise them. As he approached, they assumed the military stance, saluting.
‘Claudius Modestus!’ Castus called. ‘And is that Felix with you there?’
‘Present, dominus!’ the wiry soldier said. But Castus was already throwing his arms around both of them.
‘Heard you were billeted here,’ Modestus said, buffeting Castus’s shoulder. His creased slab of a face split into a fearsome grin. ‘Senior commander now, isn’t it? We got in with the Second yesterday; came down to find you, but everyone at the docks was saying some bearded Greek ape’s in charge here. Guessed that couldn’t be right!’
Modestus had always been an ugly man, and his sunburnt complexion gave him a particularly porcine look. Felix was doing his best to look agreeable, but his long jaw and muscular dangling arms appeared predatory; not surprisingly, the door slaves had refused them admittance.
‘You’re a centurio campidoctor now then, I hear?’ Castus asked Modestus. ‘A drillmaster? Not bad for a drunk and a shirker.’
Modestus screwed up his face even more. ‘Twenty-five years under the standards, excellency,’ he said solemnly. ‘Felix here’s only done half that number.’
‘I remember it well,’ Castus said. Valerius Felix had joined Legion II Britannica back in Gaul, shortly before Castus took command. A taciturn man of unusual talents; he had saved Castus’s life more than once since then.
Looking at them now, Castus realised that he had known these men longer than almost anybody else in his life. Both were around the same age as himself, both moulded by the army, just as he had been. For a moment he felt the familiar nostalgia, almost a sense of loss, that came to him when he remembered the simpler life he had led in the legions.
‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘Take a cup or two of wine.’
Modestus frowned, peering in through the doors, thrown open now at Castus’s arrival. ‘Generous of you, dominus,’ he said with an evasive air. ‘But it’s not really our place… we’re meeting a few others at a bar – low sort of dive, really – and we’re late as it is…’
Castus understood, though it grieved him. Even after all these years, the barriers of rank separated them. ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he said. ‘But I’ll see you at the camp soon enough.’
They left him then, saluting with only the slightest trace of good-humoured mockery, and Castus entered the house. In the vestibule the crowd of petitioners pressed forward: slaves of higher officials, most of them, with a few lower-placed contractors and civilians. Castus waited while his bodyguards pushed a way between them, then marched through into the private area of the house. He was still thinking of the low sort of dive Modestus had mentioned – he would have much preferred to spend his evening in a place like that, drinking with a pack of scarred old soldiers.
‘Anybody important in that mob out there?’ he asked as he entered the chamber set aside as his office.
‘No, dominus,’ Diogenes said. ‘I dealt with the more pressing cases myself. But some of the rest have been waiting since midday.’
‘Midday? Let them come back tomorrow and wait at dawn, then we’ll see if they’re serious.’
He had tried to be scrupulous with his appointments, but it was an impossible task. So much needed doing: people to cajole and direct, judgements to make, documents to assess and clear, all the administration of a vast army flowing through his office, and he needed somehow to keep track of it. It was easy to become dismissive. Easier still, he knew, to fall into corruption.
The letter from Marcellina was waiting for him on the table. Castus had wanted to leave it until he was bathed, freshly dressed and relaxed, but he knew he could wait no longer.
‘There’s a note from your son enclosed with it,’ Diogenes said. Castus had given him permission to check all his correspondence. ‘I didn’t read it, but I notice he has a very elegant hand for his age. Really quite talented with his letters.’
Castus snorted a laugh. Diogenes had personally appointed the boy’s paedagogus, and both he and Marcellina had given Sabinus extra tuition themselves. But how strange it was, he thought, that a son of his could have a very elegant hand… Castus himself had been quite unable to read or write until he was in his thirties, and even now he often found it a trial.
Taking the letter, he walked into the shade of the colonnaded garden at the heart of the house, pulled up a chair and sat. Marcellina had inked her words onto five conjoined leaves of thin wood, with Sabinus’s note folded between them. Frowning, he held the little wooden sliver in his big hands and began to read. The letters were certainly elegant, as if his son had copied then from a manual of calligraphy. I salute you dear father. All is well here at Treveris and we are happy. Dulcitia has visited us many times since the wedding and she is happy too…
Castus was smiling as he read, although there was little in the note but the usual polite formulas. He read it again, trying to imagine Sabinus speaking the words to him. But all he could imagine was his son’s labour in writing, his determination to sound like an adult. The written word was so often like that, Castus thought: it concealed more than it communicated.
Next he read the letter from his wife. More rather stiff greetings and family news. Only at the end, on the last leaf, did some genuine feeling break through. We all miss you more than I can say. Do you still think next year we might be reunited in Dalmatia? I long for new places, as I long for you.
They had spoken of that before he left Treveris; for many years Castus had owned a villa on the Dalmatian coast, inherited from his first wife, although he had never seen it. The place had become almost a joke between him and Marcellina, but now it seemed she was serious about the family moving there. Castus pondered the idea for a moment, shrugged, then read on.
There are rumours here of some prophecy or curse you encountered on campaign last summer. I do not believe in such things, of course, but people will always speak ill of those who have risen by merit rather than wealth or favour. I shall pray for you, and pray to see you victorious soon. Your loving wife, A. M.
Castus read the words again, and felt a chill up his spine. He had spoken to nobody about the Alamannic witch and her strange declaration. Only Saturninus had overheard, or so he had thought… Leaning back in the chair he gazed into the slanting afternoon sunlight. So many people had been warning him lately – what did they know that he did not? Was this some test, or the nudgings of a deity? More than anything he wished that Marcellina were here with him, and not a thousand miles away in Belgica. He should have spoken to her before about his doubts, his fears…
‘Dominus!’ a voice called from the passageway. Eumolpius, his orderly, emerged from the shadows. ‘A message, dominus, from the palace!’
‘Another message?’ Castus mumbled. This one was less likely to please him. But already his pulse had quickened. ‘Read it,’ he ordered.
Eumolpius broke the seal and scanned the words. ‘All military officers of senior tribune rank or above are to present themselves at the audience hall of the sacred palace, at the first hour of the night,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
All officers, Castus thought. This could mean only one thing. They were ready to sound the trumpets at last.
‘Eumolpius,’ he said, standing up quickly, ‘I need a cold bath immediately. And my best clothes and clean kit. And I need them fast!’
8
The vestibule of the imperial audience hall was already crowded by the time Castus arrived. Some of the men waiting there had come straight from the camp, unshaven and stinking of sweat; others were finely dressed and freshly scrubbed, some of them even wearing perfume. Castus moved between them, acknowledging salutes and wordless greetings. The doors of the hall were still closed and guarded, but there was a charge of anticipation in the air.
Bonitus appeared from the crowd and clasped Castus by the shoulder. His cloak was thrown back, revealing the glitter of his gold belt buckles and sword fittings. He was keeping his distance from Hrodomarus, the chief of the Alamannic Bucinobantes, who had fought in Constantine’s army for over a decade. There were other Germanic tribal leaders in the gathering too, mingled in uncomfortable proximity with the Roman officers.
Glancing around, Castus saw other men he recognised. Gratianus, the young tribune of the Moesiaci, was a tall muscular man with corded arms, renown for his strength as a wrestler. Then there was Evander, the general who had led Constantine’s army during the Italian campaign. Theophilus was there too; the naval prefect pursed his lips and bobbed his head in a sour greeting.
Saturninus came striding in from the courtyard, and Castus moved quickly to intercept him. With a gesture, he drew the cavalry officer to an alcove on one side of the doorway. No time for lengthy speeches or oblique questions now.
‘In Germania last year, when we took the Brisigavi fort,’ Castus said, low and urgent. ‘You remember the old woman, the witch? You remember what she said?’
Saturninus nodded. No trace of guilt on his face.
‘My wife says they’re talking about it in Treveris. Did you speak of it to anybody?’
‘Not I!’ Saturninus said. ‘But you know how these things get about, brother. Somebody else must have overheard… Think no more of it. Idle gossip.’
Castus frowned, nodding. Surely the man was right, but the thought troubled him. Just then there was a noise from behind them, the exhalation of air as the great doors swung open. With a slap on the shoulder, Castus led Saturninus back into the waiting throng as they began to file into the hall.
The huge space was in darkness, illuminated only by tall lamps set at the far end near the dais. As the officers assembled they fell into rank order; Castus moved to the front and joined the other senior commanders. From there he could see the wooden trestle standing on the lowest step of the dais, a long painted panel set upon it. Turning his head, he tried to make out the pattern on the panel, but at first he could distinguish nothing but curling lines of blue and brown. Then the shape became clear: it was a painted itinerary, he realised, an illustrated route map. He had seen maps before, but nothing this elaborate.
At the left-hand end of the panel was the city of Thessalonica, depicted as a cluster of domes and towers inside a wall. Immediately to the right was the bulging peninsula of Chalcidice, with its three long promontories like the crooked fingers of a mutilated hand reaching out into the blue Aegean. To the right of the peninsula was the Strymonian Gulf, then the island of Thasos, and from there the coast ran straight to the far end of the panel, where the blue curl of the Hebrus River met the sea. Following the coast, a little inland, was a black line: the Via Egnatia, marked along its length with the names of towns and road stations.
Castus was distracted from his absorbed scrutiny of the map by the voice of a herald. A horn sounded, and every man in the hall stood stiffly to attention as the emperor entered by a side door and ascended the dais, his son Crispus following him. Both were dressed in rich purple robes embroidered with golden palm fronds. When they stood upon the dais, the assembled men raised their hands in salute and cried out the acclamation. ‘Constantinus Augustus! Crispus Caesar! May the gods preserve you for us! Your salvation is our salvation...!’
The shouts died into a hush, the men in the hall dropping to one knee as their emperor seated himself upon the tall ivory throne. Crispus took a seat just behind and to the left of him. They would preside over the meeting, but it was Acilius Severus, the Praetorian Prefect, who moved to address the assembly as the officers stood up once more.
‘Brothers,’ he announced in a tone of aristocratic gravity. ‘The hour approaches when we will commence our advance against the tyrant Licinius. All of you here know the just causes for this war, which we undertake with the mandate of heaven. It falls to me now to divulge the plan of our operation, which will lead the loyal troops of our Sacred Augustus to certain victory.’
He gestured towards the wooden panel, and at once two imperial slaves lifted the trestle supporting it and moved it forward into the glow of the lamps. The officers behind Castus shuffled, craning their necks for a better view.
‘You see here the illustrated itinerary of our eastward advance,’ the prefect said. ‘Four days from now, on the kalends of June, the main force of our army, under the command of the Sacred Augustus himself, aided by the comites Flavius Polemius and Flavius Aurelius Evander, will march east from Thessalonica to the Strymonian Gulf. Meanwhile, the fleet of galleys and transports under the command of the most blessed Caesar, aided by the comes Flavius Aurelius Castus and the distinguished Flavius Theophilus, will put to sea and circumnavigate the promontories of Chalcidice, to meet the land forces at Amphipolis and Neapolis.’
As the prefect spoke, Castus glanced up at the emperors upon the dais. Both sat perfectly still, expressionless as ivory statues.
‘Once the fleet has arrived,’ the prefect said, ‘a general advance will commence. The main army will proceed by the Via Egnatia, while the fleet follows their progress along the coast, establishing supply points at regular intervals. The galleys of the fleet must ensure that no enemy cruisers fall upon our transport ships, or gain intelligence of our overall numbers.
‘Should we meet the enemy in force,’ the prefect went on, ‘the troops carried on the ships will be landed on the right flank of the main army. If we do not, the advance will proceed to the mouth of the Hebrus. From here we will prepare a further advance against the enemy, wherever he may be, to pin his army and crush him in battle.’
A stir of muttered words came from the assembled officers. It seemed a good enough plan, Castus thought, although his own role would be no more than a guard over the seaborne supply convoy.
Acilius Severus cleared his throat lightly, appearing suddenly evasive and a little unsure of himself. ‘There’s another matter,’ he said.
After a pause, he continued. ‘It is the desire of the Sacred Augustus that this campaign be conducted under the sole guidance of Almighty God, and Christ His Son. Accordingly, there will be no prayers or sacrifices to any other deities or spirits by our army, nor will auspices or omens be sought.’
A moment of silence, then a vast collective intake of breath, and a harsh rumble of muttering. The prefect raised his voice to speak over the noise.
‘Just as this is a war between light and darkness, and of truth against falsehood, so our army will take as its standard the conquering symbol of the true God. This standard, the Sacred Labarum, will precede our army, as the images of the false gods once did, and all soldiers will revere it as they revere the persons of their emperors.’
At his gesture, three men in the white uniforms of the Protectores marched from one side of the hall into the light. Two carried silvered spears, while the third carried a tall military standard. But at the top of the pole, where an eagle or the statue of a god would once have been displayed, there was a large gilded symbol: the conjoined X and P, set within a circular wreath of golden laurel. The sign of the Christian faith.
Voices broke from the chorus of gasps and cries. Castus heard the word sacrilege. Somebody behind him whispered: ‘The troops will never accept this! They’ll mutiny!’
‘Silence!’ cried the herald, then repeated the order.
Castus stared, disbelieving, at the standard. He felt a dull pressure in his chest, a swelling in his neck. Behind him now was a breathless hush. He glanced at Evander, but the senior commander would not meet his eye; clearly, some men had known of this decision in advance. He was unable to hide his expression of anguish.
‘Aurelius Castus.’ The voice boomed from the dais, amplified by the tall apse behind it. The emperor had dropped his blank mask and was leaning forward from his throne. ‘You have something you wish to say?’
Castus felt a jolt of naked terror run through him. The other officers were shuffling back, leaving him exposed at the front of the hall. Why had he alone been picked out? He did not know, but he knew he must speak for them all now.
‘Majesty,’ he said, almost choking as he spoke. He tried to clear his mind, to find the right phrases. His words echoed in the darkness. ‘Majesty, I have served over thirty years in the army. I have fought in twenty campaigns, over fifteen pitched battles. Many under your own command. The legions have always carried the images of the gods into battle. They have always made sacrifice and given prayers to the divine spirits before going to war. This is our way… But this change, this new rule…’
The words clotted in his mouth, and he felt the pressure all around him: expectation, guilt, fear. He could say no more, and the silence stretched long.
‘And so, what?’ Constantine declared. ‘You think the troops would not fight bravely without these empty symbols and rituals? You think their courage would fail them? You think they would no longer be loyal?’
Castus said nothing. In his mind, he saw temples burning.
The emperor got up suddenly. Standing tall, he appeared to tower over the assembled men below him. ‘You, yourself,’ he said, pointing at Castus, ‘fought at the glorious battle of Milvian Bridge! Did I not order this same sign, this holy sign of the Almighty God, painted on the shields of our troops? Were we not victorious then?’
His voice had risen. He was almost shouting now, his words rolling like thunder in the vast space of the hall. ‘Why should our soldiers not recognise and revere the God that brings them victory? Why should they cling to the false idols that bring only defeat for our enemies? With this standard before us, there is no way that we can fail to conquer – this has been revealed to me! Go now, all of you – go to your junior officers and your men and tell them what you have heard here. Go joyously! But tell them this: any man who refuses to serve loyally will be branded a deserter and a traitor to his sacred oath!’
