Imperial Vengence, page 23
Saturninus let out a cry, sucking air between his teeth, and Castus saw that one of the ballista emplacements opposite the Thracian Gate had been struck by a stone from an enemy catapult. The dust cloud was filled with falling splinters. Castus could imagine all too well what was happening down there in the sun-shot haze: the volleys of stinging arrows, the screams of the injured and dying. But from the vantage point of the camp, the details were lost in the distance.
‘Part of me wishes I was down there with them,’ Saturninus said. ‘The other part thanks the gods I’m not!’
Castus grunted his agreement. This attack was unnecessary, he knew; if the emperors had followed his advice, they could have outflanked the city entirely. But the pride of the Augustus would not be challenged, and so men must die in the choking dust and the parching heat. Peering closely at the advancing columns, Castus tried to pick out the unit standards. Nearest the Thracian Gate he saw the Moesiaci, with the Tenth Gemina behind them. To their left were the Divitenses, with Bonitus’s Salian Franks in support. The dark shapes of the war engines ground slowly and steadily forward, into the barrage of missiles from the wall.
Gritting his teeth, Castus willed the advancing men onwards. The dust was so thick that he could see little of what was happening now. Only the tops of the siege towers showed clearly, each one fifty feet high and covered with damp hides to protect against fire. The defenders on the wall ramparts were directing their artillery against them almost exclusively, the towers shuddering as they took the impact of catapult stones and ballista bolts. Flaming darts shot out from the wall, brief spats of arcing fire in the haze.
A wave of distant cheering came from the north-east, and all the officers on the hilltop craned forward, trying to make out what had happened. A groan ran through them: the cheers came from the enemy. One of the big towers had halted and then toppled sideways, crashing to ruin. As the dust cleared Castus could see the tiny figures of men running forward around the wreckage with scaling ladders. His blood beat fast, and there was a steady ringing in his ears.
He glanced to his left again, at the imperial pavilion. Constantine and Crispus were sitting stiffly upright, their eyes locked on the battle. Around them the dignitaries and attendants of the household stood in nervous silence. Compared to the frenzied action happening down on the plain before the wall, the stillness around the imperial party appeared uncanny.
One of the rams had managed to crawl up to the base of the wall near the Thracian Gate, the archers and ballistae on the nearest mounds keeping the defenders from the ramparts above. Men swirled around it, raising shields, others swarming along the base of the wall towards the gate itself. Flashes of flame showed through the haze: the men on the wall had lit fires, or cauldrons of burning materials. Castus caught his breath, staring hard. A moment later the fire cascaded down, falling in a burning torrent over the ram and the men around it.
Another of the siege towers had caught fire as well, black smoke piling from its upper storeys. Not much chance of saving that one, Castus knew. He was pacing back and forth, fists clenched at his sides. He ran his tongue over his teeth, tasted dust, and spat.
For a long time he could see almost nothing at all, the whole wall wreathed in the fog of battle. The catapult arms still leaped, arcing their stones over at the defences, but it was impossible to see how the assault was faring. A stream of injured men came back out of the fog, most of them carried by the army slaves. The cries of pain and thirst were loud enough to reach the imperial enclosure. Messengers came and went, galloping down onto the plain and returning to bring news. On the hilltop, every ear strained for the cries of victory, the trumpets that would signal a breach in the wall, a successful escalade. Only the chaotic distant roar of battle reached them.
But as the breeze drove away the hanging dust and the swirling smoke, all could see the troops had been driven back in confusion from the wall, abandoning the broken and burning siege engines. When Castus glanced up at the imperial pavilion he saw Constantine on his feet, staring with barely suppressed rage before stalking away towards his tent. Only Crispus remained, still seated stiffly, his jaw locked. Then the trumpets sounded the recall, and a sigh rose from the assembled officers.
Once again, the assault had failed.
*
The imperial despatch was triple-sealed for confidentiality. Castus knew that copies would have been sent only to the senior army commanders. Ordering everyone but Diogenes from the tent, he told the secretary to break the seals and read.
Diogenes scanned through the tablet, then raised his eyebrows and gave a dry chuckle. Castus stood up, hands clasped at the small of his back.
‘Well, what does it say?’
‘By the sacred will of the Invincible Augustus Flavius Valerius Constantinus… et cetera… ten thousand select sailors and marines of the naval forces are to be despatched to the valley of Kalos Agros on the Bosphorus strait, there to construct and make ready a fleet of landing barges sufficient to transport forty thousand troops. This operation is to be conducted under terms of the strictest secrecy… Once the barges are ready, his excellency Aurelius Evander will remain in command of the besieging troops before Byzantium, while command of the expeditionary force will pass to his excellency Aurelius Castus… Congratulations, dominus!’
Castus grunted in satisfaction. ‘So he did listen,’ he said.
‘Maybe so,’ Diogenes said, turning the tablet with a frown. ‘There’s a postscript though. It says that it was the emperor himself who devised the plan for the operation… on the inspiration of Almighty God!’
18
The four men rode up the slope with the dawn sun in their eyes and the purple and gold draco standard hanging limp above them. One of them carried a green branch, the symbol of parley.
Castus sat in his saddle, waiting as they approached. Beside him on the crest of the ridge were his own standard-bearer and herald, Bonitus and Saturninus, and four staff tribunes. None moved as the emissaries of their enemy drew closer and reined to a halt. The herald carrying the green branch urged his horse a few steps onward.
‘By order of His Imperial Sacred Majesty, the Emperor Gaius Valerius Licinianus Licinius Augustus,’ the herald declared, ‘his excellency Valerius Traianus, comes rei militaris, is empowered to speak!’
Traianus would be the slab-faced military commander at the centre of the group, Castus guessed. A soldier, like himself, and one of Licinius’s senior officers. A spokesman for his emperor, as Castus was for Constantine.
Behind the group of emissaries, across the plateau above the town of Chrysopolis on the Bosphorus shore, stretched the massed ranks of Licinius’s army. Castus could sense Bonitus and Saturninus leaning from their saddles, studying the enemy formations. He tried to keep his gaze locked on the man beneath the draco standard as his own herald called out his rank and title.
Fog still covered the Bosphorus, hiding the city of Byzantium on the far side. The fog had been a blessing: it had cloaked the straits for the last two days, concealing the vast armada of landing barges that had ferried Constantine’s army up the narrows and into the Euxine. It had taken over a month to build the barges, four days to move the army, but Licinius’s scouts had known nothing of it, until after the troops had disembarked on the beaches at the mouth of the Rhebas. They had marched at once, over the hills and twenty miles south to arrive before dark to the west of Licinius’s position. It had all gone smoothly; the gods had been good.
Sitting heavily on his dark gelding, Castus muttered a prayer. Let our good fortune endure a little longer.
‘Aurelius Castus,’ the enemy commander called. ‘I know your name. I remember your face too. We met at Mediolanum, I think, when your emperor and mine arranged their alliance.’
Castus kept his expression immobile. ‘I remember the day well enough,’ he said.
Traianus twitched his mouth into a brief smile. ‘Then you remember the oaths they swore that day? Bonds of everlasting brotherhood. A sacred pact, it was, before the gods. Do you remember that too?’
Castus gave no response. He recalled the graffiti he had seen in Thessalonica. Oathbreaker. Just a word, he thought. Another weapon in the enemy arsenal. He just angled his head slightly; not quite a nod.
‘The Augustus Licinius wishes me to convey his sorrow at the Roman lives lost in your hopeless assault on Byzantium,’ Traianus went on. ‘Truly a shame, for Romans to die fighting Romans, hmm?’
‘So has it ever been,’ Castus said.
‘The Augustus Licinius wishes to offer a truce to your emperor. He will agree to withdraw his garrison from Byzantium and pull them back across the straits. Your man can have the whole of Thrace. The Bosphorus will be the border between the domains of Licinius and Constantine. And this time, let the pact be honoured in full.’
Castus snorted a laugh. ‘Don’t joke with me,’ he said. ‘We’ve defeated you on land and water. Byzantium means nothing to us – the city’ll fall soon enough. And now, as you see – our army is already on your shore!’
‘But we outnumber you, brother,’ Traianus said. ‘Look behind me. You see sixty thousand men assembled for battle. How many do you have with you? How many will die, if we fight? How many more Roman lives must be lost for this madness?’
It was not an argument from a position of strength, and both men knew it. But Castus felt the words strike into his soul; he knew the truth of what Traianus said. But this was war. This was the life he had always led.
‘Sure enough, you’ve got the greater number,’ he said. ‘But half of them are Goths, Persians and Armenians. The sweepings of the eastern garrisons. We have the veterans of the Gallic and Pannonian armies, the finest soldiers in the empire, beneath our standards!’
‘Your standards?’ Traianus said, with a cold sneer to his voice that angered Castus. ‘What standards are they? Our army marches behind the images of the gods! Jupiter goes before us, and Mars, and the Unconquered Sun! The ancestral gods of Rome. But your Constantine, so I hear, despises the gods. Your troops march under some gimmick of a banner, some Christian invention! Is that true, brother? Maybe you’re a Christian yourself, heh? Do you worship at the altar of a dead Jew, like your master?’
Castus hunched forward suddenly, and his movement made Ajax stamp and toss his mane. ‘My gods are the same as yours!’ he growled. But he felt the anguish in his heart. He could see Traianus’s cold quiet amusement as his words struck home.
‘Enough of this talk,’ Castus said, hauling on the reins to control his horse. ‘The Augustus Constantine has an offer for your emperor too. Surrender now, and his life will be spared. He’ll be permitted to retire with honour to a place of his choosing. His troops and officers will be permitted to return to their home fortresses with their arms and standards. This war will end, and no more blood will be shed.’
This time it was Traianus’s turn to scoff. ‘What general with an army of sixty thousand would accept that?’ he said. ‘You can tell your emperor to eat his offer for breakfast. Or stick it up his rear if he prefers.’
Castus nodded again. He had expected as much. In the open ground behind Traianus and the riders of his party, others were moving forward now. One of them was a big man on a prancing horse, his long hair bound in a topknot. The Gothic chieftain, Castus guessed. He would not be keen on surrendering either, having brought his people all this way to fight a battle.
‘So be it,’ he said curtly. ‘I salute you, brother. May we not meet on the battlefield.’
Just for a moment, as he returned the salute, Traianus’s slab of a face softened into an expression of something like regret. Then the emissaries turned and rode back to join their legions.
*
‘So we fight?’ Constantine declared, smacking his fist into his palm. ‘Good! I’d feared for a moment that the coward Licinius might accept my terms!’
The emperor was in fine spirits, almost ebullient as he strode back and forth in front of his tent, his senior officers gathered around him. Castus recognised the mood. Nervous tension, fear mingled with enthusiasm. But it made him wary all the same.
‘What could you make out of their dispositions?’
‘They’ve got between fifty and sixty thousand men on the field,’ Castus said. ‘Their left’s anchored on the town of Chrysopolis and the high ground by the Bosphorus shore. Most of their legionary strength is in the centre. Looks like all the Gothic auxilia are together in a mass flanking the legions. There’s a lot of them, but they’re milling about down there. Big cavalry force on the enemy right, down in the dip behind the orchards to the south-east. They’ve got a screen of cataphracts at the front, but most of the rest look to be Gothic light horsemen. Reckon they’ll try and flank us up the valley on that side.’
Constantine nodded. ‘Our spies report much the same.’
He glanced around the circuit of assembled men. Besides Castus there were all of the senior military officers, the comites of the imperial retinue, the Praetorian Prefect Acilius Severus and Rutilius Palladius, Master of Offices, along with Bishop Hosius and a handful of lesser priests.
Constantine drew himself up, head back, and addressed them all. ‘Brothers,’ he announced, ‘this will be the last battle of this long campaign. For nearly ten years I’ve fought Licinius. I never wanted to – his treachery and duplicity drove me to it. But Almighty God has promised us victory, as I am the instrument of His glory!’
He paused for a moment, eyes closed, fingers flickering to his brow. Castus felt the sweat on his back. He noticed several of the other officers making pious gestures.
‘Already God has shown his blessings to us,’ the emperor declared, raising one finger to point at the sky. ‘My adversary, deceived by the false reports of our spies, has sent a strong division of his army south to the Hellespont, believing we would cross the straits there. Now he stands before us, weakened but still defiant. The hour has come for us to end his unjust rule, and together to avenge his crimes.’
A stir of agreement from the assembly. The emperor called Crispus to his side. He embraced his son, kissing him, then stood with his arm around the young man’s shoulders.
‘You all know your positions,’ he said. ‘I myself will command the cavalry on our right, with Polemius leading the infantry. My son here, the Caesar Crispus, will command the left flank. You, Aurelius Castus, will command the centre. Go now to your places, and let us pray for a righteous victory!’
‘Augustus! Augustus! May God preserve you! Your salvation is our salvation!’
As the last ringing words of the imperial salute faded, and the assembly broke up, Constantine paced over to Castus and took him by the arm. ‘Walk with me a moment,’ the emperor said. His voice was quiet, strained.
One of the members of the assembly had lingered behind. A young man Castus had never seen before, with a dark complexion and a large nose, the downy beard on his chin making him look even more youthful.
‘Hormisdas!’ Constantine called, beckoning the young man closer. ‘This is Aurelius Castus, the finest of my commanders.’ He gave Castus a slap on the shoulder. ‘Castus, this young man Hormisdas is a prince of the Persians. By rights he should be king – perhaps one day he will be!’
The young Persian lowered his head in greeting, and made a fluid gesture of salute. Castus just grunted and nodded.
‘You must hear Hormisdas’s story some time,’ Constantine said, ‘about how he escaped from the King of Persia’s dungeons. Quite remarkable! But now I must speak to you alone.’
Hormisdas needed no word of dismissal; he bowed again and departed.
‘I wanted to express my gratitude,’ the emperor said, the awkward tone returning to his voice now they were alone again. He led Castus a few paces from the tent and paused, gazing at the sky. ‘I know it was your suggestion that we cross the straits. A good suggestion! I may have thought of it myself, in time, but I was blinded by anger and pride. By hubris, as the Greeks would say. I see that now. I know I should have given you the credit for it.’
Castus made a noncommittal sound. But, he thought.
‘But,’ the emperor said. ‘As you know, the course of this war is directed by God. It’s important, you know, for the troops to believe that. To see the truth of it. I believe it – I feel it right here.’ He smacked his fist against his chest, and the gilded bronze of his muscled cuirass rang like a muffled bell. ‘So you see, I had to give the credit to the divine wisdom. I hope you can appreciate that.’
‘I do, majesty,’ Castus said, trying not to frown too heavily. In fact, he cared little who took credit for the plan; only that it had worked so far.
‘We are – all of us – instruments of God’s will,’ Constantine said, his voice animated suddenly by an unnerving fervour. ‘Even you, brother, though you may not admit it. Not yet, I mean.’
Castus narrowed his eyes, feeling the swelling in his neck, the gathering affront. He forced himself to confront Constantine directly. The emperor had not shaved, and the stubble on his jaw was silver-grey. His hair was the colour of old iron, flecked with rust. But his eyes were clear and bright, shining with certainty.
‘How long has it been since we first stood together in battle now?’ Constantine asked. ‘Since Gaul?’
‘Since Britain, majesty.’
‘That long?’ Constantine widened his eyes, then grasped Castus by the shoulder once more. ‘I meant what I said to that Persian boy,’ he went on. ‘You’re the best soldier I’ve known, Aurelius Castus. That’s why I’m placing you in command of my centre. Give me victory today,’ he said, and the tremor in his voice betrayed him. ‘Give me that and I will grant you anything, understand?’
‘May the gods guide us to it,’ Castus said.
He saw the flicker of doubt cross the emperor’s face, then clear. ‘Your gods – and mine,’ Constantine replied.
