Imperial Vengence, page 22
The other officer was nodding as well.
‘Give me some time,’ Castus said, hesitant. If he was going to present the idea to the emperors, he needed to be sure it would work. But he already knew he would do it. The only question was how the stratagem might be carried out.
*
Back in Castus’s campaign tent an hour later, Diogenes found the plan he had prepared. Castus unrolled it with one hand, holding it flat on the boards of the table. He had established his headquarters at the camp of the naval troops, near the Propontis shore where the galleys were drawn up; the cooler air from the sea was a blessing after the heat of the siege lines.
‘I would suggest,’ Diogenes said, ‘that the place marked as Kalos Agros would be suitable for the embarkation of a force of the size you’re suggesting.’
Castus sat for a long time peering at the map, tracing the lines with a thick finger. The transports that had arrived with the fleet were too few to carry all the troops required, and of too deep a draught to land on a hostile shore. Galleys could do it, but there were too few of them. He tapped at the place on the map marked Kalos Agros. Wooded valley, above deep bay. Good water supply. It lay about ten miles up the straits, opposite a headland marked Hieron – Sacred Promontory. The Asian shore there was steep and heavily forested. Nobody would expect a landing, and it would be madness to attempt one. Further north, though – Castus traced his finger around the jagged line of the coast – there was a beach on the Euxine shore, where the river Rhebas met the sea…
Castus lifted his hand, and the map curled back into a tight roll. Diogenes was studiously appearing disinterested.
‘You had this idea a while ago, am I right?’ Castus asked with a slow smile.
‘It did occur to me a few days ago, yes,’ the secretary said. ‘I’ve prepared a few notes, if you’re interested. I considered a fleet of landing rafts, built at Kalos Agros, to carry the troops across the straits. Quite an amount of work, perhaps…’
But better than doing nothing, Castus knew. He was glad of the secretary’s interest. Since Eumolpius’s death Diogenes had seemed morose and withdrawn, given to sighing heavily and gazing into the middle distance. Castus almost suspected that there may have been some sexual connection between the two men; such things were not unknown in the army, and Diogenes had certainly never appeared interested in women. But could he really not have noticed it, if so?
At least his new orderly, a jug-eared Greek youth named Glycon, seemed unlikely to kindle anyone’s desires. He was able enough, if dull-witted and often clumsy. Castus missed Eumolpius’s attentive efficiency more every day.
As if summoned by the thought, Glycon appeared at the tent doorway, still holding one of Castus’s greaves, which he had been polishing. ‘Dominus,’ the orderly said. ‘A soldier here for you – Felix?’
‘Show him in.’
Felix, too, had been suffering from the loss of his friend. He stood silently before Castus, not looking anywhere.
‘As you know,’ Castus said, in a curt tone that hid his feelings, ‘the Second Britannica is to be broken up. The legion took heavy losses at the Hellespont. The remaining men will reinforce other units of the field army, while a cadre of centurions and veterans will be sent back to Gaul to recruit a new legion under the old name.’
Felix nodded very slightly, impassive, showing no expression. He would have heard the news already.
‘With the loss of Centurion Modestus, there’s a vacancy in the command ranks. I intend to promote you to centurion in his place. Either you can return to Gaul as an ordinarius in the new legion, or join my staff as supernumerary. I leave the choice up to you.’
Felix twisted his lips, pondering, although Castus could see by the steadiness of his gaze that the decision had been made as soon as he spoke the words.
‘I’ve been with the old legion twelve years, dominus,’ Felix said in his gnarled accent. ‘It’s like my home now. My family. But it’s not the same with Modestus gone, and a lot of other old faces too. Not sure if I’d be much good at staff jobs, though.’
‘I’m sure we’d find some uses for you,’ Castus said with a brisk nod. He noticed a glance pass between Diogenes and Felix. They were old comrades too, he remembered.
‘Be glad of it then,’ Felix said. ‘Excellency,’ he added.
‘Just one question,’ Castus said. ‘I wanted to ask before… The prefect, back at Eleus. How did you get into his tent that night?’
‘Don’t know what you mean, excellency,’ Felix said, stone-faced.
Castus snorted a laugh. ‘All right. Let’s say somebody did – how would this person get into his tent?’
Felix paused a while, pretending to think it over. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps they could turn themselves into an insect and fly through the air. Excellency.’
Castus blinked slowly, then grinned. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I should never have asked.’
And Felix gave a slight twitch of a smile in return, as if acknowledging a compliment.
*
‘The Most Sacred Augustus is in the tabernacle,’ the old priest declared. ‘And the most blessed Caesar is with him.’
‘In the what?’ Castus asked. He had never heard the word before.
‘The tabernacle,’ the priest repeated, with emphasis. He smiled; Castus knew the man – Hosius, Bishop of Corduba. He had been following Constantine’s court around for over a decade, but still appeared full of stern vitality, for all his white hair. ‘The tabernacle,’ he explained, ‘is a tent of prayer and spiritual communion, erected outside the camp as the Holy Scriptures tell us was done by the Ancient Prophet himself. The cloud of God’s power descends to earth there.’
‘Really?’ Castus said. He could see no cloud in the hot blue sky. Only the ever-present haze of dust that hung in a low fog over the main camp of Constantine’s army. ‘I’ll wait then,’ he said.
It was midday, and the area around the imperial enclosure was unusually quiet and almost deserted. Castus felt troubled as he made his way to the smaller enclosure of the Caesar’s tents, with Ursio pacing silently behind him. He had seen very little of Crispus since their arrival before Byzantium; the young Caesar had spent much of his time with his father, and in the vast network of camps and siege entrenchments there had been few opportunities to meet. But the thought of speaking to him now, outlining the plan that he and Diogenes had devised, made Castus strangely apprehensive. The news about the tabernacle did not ease his mind.
Had Crispus forgotten the pledge he had made, before the Hellespont battle, to return to the old gods? Had he perhaps forgotten Castus’s vow to support him in his bid for power? Now that he was back in the presence of the Augustus and the imperial court, Castus was coming to regret his words. It seemed a rash thing to suggest, and possibly dangerous. He had staked so much of his reputation, even his life, on the capricious ambitions of a very young man. But perhaps, Castus thought, the Caesar was only biding his time? Perhaps trying to win his father over to his way of thinking? The prospect made Castus shudder. There was no way, he knew, that the emperor would agree to hand over power to his son. Not without a fight. And where would his own allegiances lie then?
In the outer chamber of Crispus’s pavilion, slaves brought a stool and snow-chilled water. Castus had no idea where they had found the snow in this season on the shores of the Propontis, but the refreshment was more than welcome. He sat in silence, Ursio standing behind him with his thumbs hooked in his belt. Half an hour passed, then a little more, before Castus heard the sound of trumpets, the running feet and cries of acclamation, and guessed the emperors had returned to the camp. It occurred to him that he could just leave now; Crispus would never know that he had come here on this errand, which was already beginning to feel foolish.
But then Crispus was there, sweeping into the tent and hurling his purple cloak at one of the slaves. ‘Castus!’ he said, surprised and perhaps a little annoyed to find he had company.
Castus stood up quickly, then knelt and raised his hand in salute. By the time he was on his feet again Crispus had paced across the tent and dropped down onto a couch. Castus remained standing. Already he could see that the young man was uncomfortable, aggravated.
‘Well?’ Crispus said. ‘What brings you here? It’s been days since I last saw you.’
‘It’s about the progress of the siege, majesty,’ he said. ‘I’ve been discussing it with a number of other officers, and we thought you should hear what we considered.’
‘Did you?’ Crispus said without warmth. ‘So you’ve devised some plan, eh? Some stratagem?’
‘It was my secretary Diogenes who came up with the idea, majesty.’
‘Oh yes, that clever old man of yours. What’s he discovered in his books now? Are we to emulate the battle plans of the deified Julius, or perhaps Alexander the Great? Well, sit down and tell me.’
Castus bit back his reply. He had seen this mood of petulant sarcasm in Crispus before, but never expressed with this amount of bitterness. He pulled up a stool, took a long breath. Say what you need to say, then get out.
Forcing himself to speak calmly, he laid out the plan. He continued speaking even when Crispus gave no impression of comprehending, even of listening. Every few moments the young Caesar’s expression would clear, as if some detail had penetrated his mind, then he was frowning and sullen again.
‘We think it could work,’ Castus concluded. ‘Cross the Bosphorus and outflank the enemy with a landing on the Asian shore, take the war to him.’
Crispus sat pondering, his mouth sourly pursed. ‘We don’t have the ships to carry an army of that size,’ he said at last, spreading his palms. ‘And if we did, they’re of too deep a draught for that sort of work.’
‘So we build rafts, or barges. There’s plenty of timber in the valley of Kalos Agros, and a voyage from there up the straits to the Euxine shore would only take a few hours, with the galleys towing the troop transports.’
‘No, no,’ Crispus said, shaking his head. He gave a weary shrug. ‘It’s impossible. My father is intent on taking Byzantium – he’s ordered another assault, ten days from now; the orders are already going out to build new rams and mobile siege towers. Almighty God, you see, has told him in a dream that the city will fall. And so – it will fall.’
With a jolt of sudden awareness, Castus realised that the young man must already have made a similar suggestion to Constantine, and been refused. And what more had they discussed? In the tabernacle, no doubt – where else could they converse in private?
‘Majesty,’ he said in a low voice, leaning closer. ‘You remember what we talked about, before the Hellespont battle? Have you spoken to the Augustus about it already?’
The slightest nod from Crispus, and Castus’s feeling of apprehension turned to dread. The fool – the reckless fool. Of course Constantine had refused to consider abdication. Of course the suggestion of it had angered him. It was too soon.
‘How much did you tell him?’ he asked, the taste of ash in his mouth.
Crispus flicked a worried glance at Ursio, and Castus nodded. The big Sarmatian could be trusted.
‘I merely raised the issue,’ Crispus said. ‘Don’t worry, I mentioned no names, no conspirators… But that’s why this plan of yours is impossible. If my father suspected that his officers had been discussing things behind his back, questioning his strategy... a cabal of soldiers, with some connection to me. It would be… unwise.’
‘I see that,’ Castus said quietly. He felt the prickle of cold sweat on his brow.
*
It took only a day for his premonition of danger to be realised. Castus was making his way back through the naval camp after surveying the ships dragged up on the shore, and as he approached his own tents he saw the four horses tethered beside the dusty roadway, two of the riders standing with them, unfamiliar men in dark cloaks who regarded him warily. The other two riders were already waiting for him in the bright sunlight before his command tent. One of them wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, the other was bare-headed, his balding scalp red with burn. Castus recognised them both at once.
‘Excellency,’ Diogenes said as he moved towards the tent. ‘These two officers of the agentes in rebus wish to speak with you.’ He gave a wry sniff; clearly he too remembered the evening in Athens, back in the spring, when they had last encountered these men.
Castus paused, his jaw set, then gestured to Glycon to bring stools out into the sun. Flavius Innocentius and his associate must have been waiting for some time already in the heat, but he would not allow them the luxury of shade.
The orderly set out the stools, and Castus sat and nodded for his visitors to do likewise. Innocentius peeled off his hat, fanned himself with it for a moment, a smirk flickering across his face, then shrugged and sat down. The sunburnt man, Gracilis, remained standing.
‘Well, what do you want?’ Castus asked brusquely.
‘Merely a few moments of your busy day,’ Innocentius said. He placed the hat across his knees. ‘I understand you were one of the last men to see the distinguished Flavius Theophilus before his untimely end. What can you tell me of his death?’
‘He stabbed himself. Everyone knows that.’ Felix was standing by the tent to his right, and Castus forced himself not to glance in his direction.
‘Stabbed himself,’ the agent repeated. ‘What became of his body?’
‘I put all the bodies of those slain in the battle aboard captured ships, towed them out to sea and burned them. The ground was too hard to dig graves, and the bodies were already swelling in the heat. Doubtless Theophilus went with them.’
‘A sad end for a vir perfectissimus,’ Innocentius said, ‘a man selected by the emperor himself.’ His smirking attitude was probing at Castus’s nerves. ‘How easy is it, would you say, to stab yourself repeatedly in the belly?’
‘Want to find out?’ Castus asked. He motioned to Ursio, and the Sarmatian took three steps forward, sweeping out his sword and levelling it at the agent’s body. ‘Just fall forward.’
Innocentius did not flinch, and his smile did not slip. Ursio stepped away and sheathed his sword. ‘I believe his excellency is trying to intimidate us, Gracilis,’ the agent said to the balding man behind him. Gracilis said nothing. ‘Perhaps he wishes he could strike us down, as he strikes his enemies in battle? Well, there are those who say that Theophilus was a traitor, and had a hand in the blaze at Thessalonica. Perhaps he killed himself from shame?’
‘What would you know of shame, torturer?’ Castus said. ‘Believe it if you like. I’m just a soldier, I don’t concern myself with these things.’
‘Ah yes, a soldier. And a good one! The emperor thinks most highly of you. But it’s odd, Aurelius Castus, how often your name is connected with certain strange and… unmilitary events.’
Castus sat still, trying not to frown. The sun was hot on the back of his head, but it was glaring into the eyes of Innocentius and his associate.
‘Are you certain we wouldn’t like to move into the shade of your tent?’ the agent asked. ‘Some things are better discussed in private.’
‘I have nothing to hide from my men,’ Castus told him.
‘Very well,’ Innocentius said. ‘Earlier this year, you were present at a mansio in Dardania, when a possible attempt was made on the life of the Caesar Crispus.’
‘It was nothing!’ Castus declared. ‘Plenty were there and saw it. He was in no danger.’
‘Perhaps he was not. But somebody came to your room shortly before the event, I think? And a woman slept in your bed that night. Perhaps the same woman?’
Castus clenched his jaw. He was sweating, and he could feel the colour rise in his face. Obviously the agent had questioned the mansio superintendent and the slaves. ‘What business of that of yours?’ he asked.
‘Anything that pertains to the security of the state is my business,’ Innocentius replied. ‘I am a seeker of truth, as I told your friend the nobilissima femina Fausta not long ago. Do you deny that she came to your chamber?’
Castus could sense the discomfort of the men around him. They were trying not to look at him. There was a knot in his throat, and he coughed to clear it. ‘Yes, I deny it,’ he said. He drew himself upright on the stool.
‘Ah, then perhaps my source was mistaken. Slaves have been known to lie. But doubtless the truth will emerge in time, with a little prompting.’
Innocentius stood up quickly, swatted the hat against his leg and tugged it back over his head. ‘I think we have nothing more to learn here today, Gracilis,’ he said. He gave a slight bow towards Castus, then paced back towards his waiting horse.
Castus exhaled, feeling the burn on the back of his neck. Ursio and Felix were watching the agents ride away, hands on the hilts of their swords. A seeker of truth, Castus thought. And may the gods forbid he ever finds it.
*
From a dusty brown hilltop half a mile to the west of the city walls, the group of officers squinted into the morning sun. To their left, ringed by guards, the Emperor Constantine and his son Crispus sat beneath a white canopy, surveying the preparations for the second assault on the defences of Byzantium.
A stir went through the assembled men; Constantine had stood up and paced forward into the sunlight. His gilded cuirass and gold-embroidered cape blazed. He gestured, and a moment later the trumpets rang out. Castus heard a multitude of horns echoing the signal.
‘Let the games begin!’ Saturninus said with a grim smile.
Dust eddied up from the plain as the troops began to advance towards the wall. At the head of each column, gangs of slaves heaved forward a hulking war engine: battering rams in hide-covered wheeled sheds, and tall creaking assault towers. From the mounds, and from the plain behind them, the artillery had begun its barrage. Castus saw the huge arms of the catapults slamming upwards, the slings lobbing boulders at the defences. Peering into the dusty glare of sunlight, he made out the ballista crews on top of the mounds spanning their machines, shooting, reloading. The noise rolled back across the plain to the camp: a steady percussive thud and crack, cut through with trumpet calls.
