Imperial Vengence, page 15
‘We will not be accompanying them,’ Crispus said, tense anger in his voice. ‘Despite my requests, my father has ordered that I remain here with the ships. That means you remain here too.’
‘For how long?’
‘For as long as we have to!’ Crispus snapped. He slumped down on the couch, elbows braced against his thighs. ‘My father believes that Licinius may try and land a force on the coast here and attack him from the rear. We’re supposed to guard against that. But he’s taking most of our best troops with him. We’ll still have Bonitus and his Franks, and I persuaded him to give me the Second Britannica and the Septimani too. But we’re reserves, that’s all. Left to mind the baggage…’
He broke off, dropping his head into his hands. ‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, his voice muffled. ‘We march all the way here from Gaul, with some of the finest soldiers in the empire… I’m twenty-one years old, a grown man! All I want to do is fight at my father’s side, and he denies me…’
‘He’s trying to protect you,’ Castus said. He saw the young man flinch, and wished he had not spoken.
‘Protect me? Did he tell you that? Why should I need protection? If I’m to rule one day – gods allow it won’t be long in coming – then I need to prove myself, in the eyes of everyone!’
Castus noticed the reference. Gods, not God. But he merely nodded. Crispus had lapsed into a sullen distracted state. ‘And yet,’ he said, ‘here we are, sitting on a beach staring at the sea, while other men fight the battles…’
Castus thought of his own son, Sabinus. If he were Constantine, would he let his son follow him to war? Yes, he thought, if he asked, I suppose I would.
‘Sometimes, you know,’ Crispus said, ‘I wish I wasn’t the son of the emperor. I wish I was just a common soldier, a tribune or a centurion. Even a legionary in the ranks. Then I could truly feel alive. You’d seen plenty of battles, by my age?’
‘Just a few fights, majesty. Against the Carpi and Sarmatians on the Danube. But I was your age when we marched out with Galerius to the Persian war.’
‘I saw the pictures on the arch at Thessalonica!’ Crispus said with a smile. ‘Must have been quite a war… Was your father proud of you, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Castus said, uncomfortable. ‘I never saw my father after I left to join the legions. We weren’t close.’ And I tried to kill him. But Castus would say nothing of that.
‘I spoke with my stepmother before we left Thessalonica,’ Crispus said. ‘With Fausta.’ Castus noticed the slight catch in his voice as he spoke the name.
‘I’m sure all your family are concerned for you.’
Crispus laughed. ‘Oh, surely. Far too concerned…! Fausta, though – she told me that my father’s a little jealous of me. Can you believe that? He would never admit it, of course, but she knows. She really is quite amazingly perceptive, and so—’ He broke off, unable to find the right word. Something new had crept into his attitude, Castus noticed. He was fidgeting, restless, tugging at his fingers as he gazed into the diffuse light. The flies circled above him.
‘Do you miss your wife, Castus?’
‘Yes,’ Castus answered at once. He frowned, angered slightly; Crispus had met Marcellina on several occasions, and Sabinus too. How could he believe that Castus would neglect them? ‘Every day I miss them,’ he said.
‘I don’t miss mine at all,’ Crispus said in a dazed mumble. ‘It’s terrible, I know, but days go by when I can barely picture her in my thoughts. Or my child either. My son. Is that wrong of me?’
‘War drives tender thoughts from a man’s mind,’ Castus said quietly. It was no sort of answer, but it was the only one he could give.
*
Two days later the army marched, the troops forming up and filling the air with thick brown dust. It took them until after nightfall to move out, and the sound of their trumpets seemed to echo long after they were gone.
For eleven more days the fleet lay at the beach. Castus drilled his men aboard the ships, and sent out scouts by land and sea to warn of any enemy approach. But there was no sign of a hostile force. The days were hot and sultry, and Crispus remained sulking in his tent. Then, on the morning of the twelfth day, a rider approached along the valley of the Hebrus, galloping hard with a laurel wreath tipping his spear. As soon as he heard the news, Castus ran to find the Caesar.
Crispus was still in his tent, the tablet that the messenger had brought him gripped in his hands. Even as Castus entered he could see the spring in the young man’s pacing step, the energy of excitement flowing through him.
‘There’s been a battle!’ Crispus announced. ‘A great battle, at Adrianople. My father has defeated Licinius and driven his army from the field!’
‘Glad to hear it. The gods are good. And your god too…’
‘My father’s been injured,’ Crispus said, with a momentary frown. ‘Just a minor spear wound to the thigh. He’s fine – he assures me he’s fine. Licinius has retreated with the remains of his army towards Byzantium.’
Please gods, Castus thought, don’t let this be the end of it. Twice before Constantine had let Licinius survive after losing a battle.
‘And the enemy fleet? Any news of them?’
‘Yes!’ Crispus declared with a grin. ‘The entirety of Licinius’s fleet is in the Propontis, guarding the straits of the Hellespont. My father intends to besiege Byzantium by land. As for us – we’re to sail tomorrow for the mouth of the Hellespont, force a passage through the enemy ships and blockade Byzantium from the sea!’
Now Castus could see why the young man was so elated. He grinned himself, a crooked snarl of satisfaction. ‘I’ll ready the troops,’ he said.
‘Do it!’ Crispus took a long step forward, throwing his arms around Castus in a tight embrace. ‘My father must have known this would happen – he planned for it all along! This will be my battle!’
He stepped back and spun on his heel, then raised his hands. Spreading his arms wide, tipping back his head, he cried aloud, ‘Thanks be to God!’
*
The Virtus Augusta, Crispus’s flagship, was a far larger vessel than the Artemisia. Castus would rather have sailed aboard the smaller galley, as he had before, but Crispus had requested his presence. That meant sharing a deck with Theophilus, unfortunately, but with the new mood of decisive action Castus found he could endure it. Theophilus himself seemed to find his company less congenial.
‘I trust, strategos,’ the prefect said, ‘that when we reach the Hellespont you will leave the direction of the battle – the naval battle – to me? I do have authority in the matter of ships, after all.’
‘Of course,’ Castus said. ‘Don’t bother yourself about that.’ He had no intention of leaving the direction of anything to this man. He would not trust Theophilus to direct cattle.
‘We should make Imbros before dark,’ Theophilus said, raising his nose to sniff speculatively at the breeze. ‘They do say, you know, that the currents are very strong down the Hellespont, and with this north-east wind blowing so steadily we would be best to remain at Imbros and wait for a change in the weather.’
‘Could do,’ Castus said, not looking at him. The galley was moving fast under billowing canvas, the sea glittering blue all around and the rest of the fleet spread out behind them, white sails in formation.
Theophilus made a sound of satisfaction. ‘Good,’ he said, appearing quite surprised. ‘Then we are agreed!’
He made his way, stumbling slightly, up the heeling deck towards the cabin beneath the stern. Castus remained sitting by the rail, enjoying the fresh wind and the sunlight. The crew of the galley were relaxing on their benches, oars shipped; the Etesian winds showed no signs of slackening, and they would be safe in harbour on the island of Imbros well before dusk.
A shout from the forward deck, and men leaned from their benches across the lee rail. Castus stood up and followed their gaze. Dolphins were swimming alongside the ship, their sleek grey bodies flashing through the waves. As Castus watched, one of them leaped in an arc from the water. The men on the benches cheered and raised their hands, as if in greeting. The dolphins sported around the ship, racing it, darting ahead and then weaving back alongside.
‘They lead us to victory!’ Crispus called from the aft deck.
Castus was smiling as he made his way back past the steering position to the little canvas shelter at the stern where the Caesar was sitting. ‘A good omen!’ he said.
Crispus had a scroll in his lap. ‘I suppose it must be!’ he said. ‘Beautiful creatures, anyway. It does the men good to see them.’ He turned and gazed at the fleet, the galleys and the transports, with an expression of deep satisfaction. ‘They spread sail for the open sea, their spirits buoyant, their bronze beaks churning the waves to foam!’
‘Hmm?’
‘Virgil! The Aeneid, of course. Surely you know it? How I wish I’d brought the works of Homer with me, too – we’ll be passing the site of ancient Troy, you know. Battleground of gods and heroes! Being here has entirely reawakened my love of poetry… But this is perhaps more useful,’ he said, raising the scroll from his lap. ‘Marcus Agrippa’s account of the battle of Actium. I intend to make a full study of it over the next day or two – I’m sure there are lessons in it for us.’
‘No doubt,’ Castus said, unconvinced. He lowered himself to squat, braced against the railing. ‘I was speaking to Hierax last night,’ he said, ‘and he told me all he knows about the navigation around the Hellespont. The peninsula that divides it from the sea is shaped like a finger, very narrow at the tip.’
‘The Thracian Chersonese,’ Crispus said. ‘I’ve seen a plan of it.’
Castus nodded, remembering the sketch that Hierax had drawn in the sand as he described the strength of the current within the straits, the treacherous narrows.
‘Once we’re at Imbros,’ Castus said, ‘I want to take a small advance force across to the northern shore of the peninsula. We’ll arrive at night, cross to the opposite shore under cover of darkness and take a position overlooking the entrance to the straits. From there we should be able to get a glimpse of the enemy fleet and work out their movements.’
‘Good,’ Crispus said. The look of inspired glee had left his face; he was all sober concentration now. ‘But should you not send a junior officer to lead the expedition?’
Castus avoided his eye; he knew the Caesar was right, but he was impatient. ‘I want to see the lie of the land myself, as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘I’ll take two hundred men of the Second Britannica, with the same number of Bonitus’s Franks. That should be enough men to take the position and hold it until the fleet can work around the tip of the peninsula. There’s an anchorage just inside the mouth of the Hellespont, at Eleus on the north shore. We can gather the ships and men there.’
‘Very good,’ Crispus said. He turned his head to gaze at the sea, sucking in his cheeks. ‘I only wish I could go with you.’
‘No,’ Castus said firmly. ‘You need to stay with the fleet. If we left Theophilus in charge he’d sink every ship.’
Crispus stifled a grin, and made a hushing gesture. The prefect was down in the cabin just below their feet. ‘He’s not as bad as you think,’ he went on in a whisper. ‘My father wouldn’t have appointed him if he was.’
Castus just shrugged. In the emperor’s court, there were more reasons for promotion than mere competence.
‘But yes,’ Crispus sighed. ‘I will remain at Imbros, and bring the fleet into the mouth of the straits once you’ve established your position. And I’ll be praying for your success, brother!’
*
Thirty-six hours later, a moonless night and a rolling swell, and the squadron of light galleys moved silently out of the bay of Imbros into the open sea. Castus stood on the narrow aft deck of the lead ship, the Hippocampus. Ahead of him, the raised gangway between the rowing benches was crowded with armed men crouched with their shields and weapons. The waves rolled past in the darkness.
As they approached the shore of the peninsula the galleys dropped their sails and lowered masts and yards to the deck. Unshipping their oars, the crews pulled onwards towards the low black coastline.
‘Won’t be long now, strategos,’ said the Greek navarch, Dexippus. ‘We’ll run you as far south as we can, then find a good landing beach. Should have you and your men on the sand in half an hour.’
Castus grunted his thanks. With no moon, the sky above was bright with stars, and when he stared up at them they seemed to spin in the blackness. He could smell the land now, the green scent across the waves. The noise of surf, too. No lights showed on the dark peninsula; if the enemy had lookouts there, they were well hidden. He had left Diogenes, Eumolpius and the rest of his staff back at Imbros, but Ursio sat on the deck wrapped in his cloak. The big taciturn Sarmatian was carefully sharpening his sword with a whetstone; if there was fighting ahead, Castus would be glad of his company.
The motion of the oars changed, the helmsman leaning on the steering bars to bring the Hippocampus around in a gentle curve towards the beach. The other ships followed his lead at once, spreading out into an advancing line. In the faint light, Castus saw their hooked prows cutting the water, leaving thin streaks of foam on the black sea. He checked his belts, his sword, then put on his helmet and tied the laces beneath his chin. Beside him, Ursio raised a skin of water. Castus waved it away. His throat was dry, but there was a cold churning nausea in his gut. Not the motion of the sea, but the thought of what lay ahead.
He remembered Crispus’s question. Do you miss your wife? Marcellina was very close to his thoughts now, her presence almost tangible. He remembered her pleas that he should not throw himself into danger. Over a month of waiting and slow ponderous advancing had wrung that promise from his soul. He reached into the bunched folds of his cloak and touched the silver amulet she had given him. Dolphins, he thought. Like the ones they had seen from the ship. Surely a good omen, but still he was troubled.
Trust in yourself. Trust in the men you command. He always had, but something else stirred in him now. A sense of deep fatigue, a presentiment of disaster ahead. Had he grown too old for war?
For a few long moments he felt lost, indecisive and alone. There was no god he could ask for guidance, no higher power that could aid him. His heart was throbbing in his chest, and his legs felt stiff and cold. He felt very aware of everything around him, his senses sharp. The taste of salt on his lips, the tug of the breeze and the groan of the deck beneath him, the plash of the oar-blades as they bit the waves, the creak of the cables lashing the steering oar: all of it keen and vivid in the darkness.
‘Brace yourselves!’ Dexippus called in a rasping whisper along the deck. The men on the gangway bunched and shuffled closer together, hefting their shields. The noise of the surf on the beach was loud now.
From deep inside his body, Castus felt the energy of command rushing through him, driving the shadows from his mind and dispelling all doubts.
Then the oarsmen gave a last long pull with the oncoming wave, the surf seethed along both sides of the hull, and the long keel of the galley grated onto the dark sand of the enemy shore.
12
Boots thudded on the deck planking as the troops moved quickly forward along the gangway to the bows, hefting weapons and shields. Muffled curses as the first men leaped over the side, another incoming wave soaking them to the knees. Castus followed them up the gangway, then waited for the hissing backwash to pass below him before jumping down from the bow onto the wet black sand. The oarsmen were already in the water, primed to heave the galley back off the beach as soon as they heard the order.
‘Good hunting, strategos!’ Dexippus called. ‘We’ll stay offshore until we see your signal!’
Castus raised his hand, although he knew the navarch could barely distinguish him in the darkness; the signal would either be a message of success, or a demand for evacuation. Now that he was ashore, he could make out the shape of the land ahead of him. The beach was narrow, and behind it was a steep escarpment thick with dry shaggy vegetation and scored with shallow ravines. He had brought two guides on the expedition, fishermen from Imbros who claimed to know the coast and the tracks that would take them across to the shore of the Hellespont. Between two and four miles, Castus estimated, although it was hard to be sure.
‘Everyone is here,’ said a voice from the darkness. Bonitus appeared out of the night, his familiar form altered by the thick cloak piled around his shoulders. ‘My men at least. Not sure of yours! Hmm? Maybe they are lost, or drowned in the sea?’
‘You got ears, barbarian?’ Castus growled, and hoped Bonitus could see his smile. All around them was the familiar low noise of armed men forming up, the hushed voices and the snarls of the centurions, the clatter of shields and spearshafts.
‘I suggest to you,’ Bonitus said, ‘I send my men ahead. They know to move silently in the night. Unlike yours.’
‘That’s why you’re here,’ Castus told him, gripping his shoulder. ‘Find the guides and have them lead you: they speak enough Latin to make themselves understood. We’ll form up and follow close behind. Remember the watchword?’
‘Virtus Augusta!’ Bonitus said, and then he was gone.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Castus could make out the troops gathering around their centurions. None of the men wore body armour, and some had short hooded capes to hide the gleam of their helmets. They carried no standards, but many were lugging bundles of entrenching tools, spare javelins and arrows, cooking equipment and big slopping waterskins. Castus had no idea how long they would have to hold their position before the fleet arrived. He moved along the beach, Ursio a silent presence just behind him, and called out in a low growl until he located the tribune heading the detachment.
‘We’re following the auxilia,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the lead, with Modestus and his century. Have the other centurions lead their men after me. Every man to sling his shield, and keep clear of the thorn thickets. Try not to get lost!’
