Imperial Vengence, page 35
‘But?’ Castus asked.
‘But there’s a faster way. If, maybe, you took a boat down the Italian coast to Aternum, you could follow the Via Valeria straight across the mountains. It’s a rough road, but you could get to Rome ahead of them, perhaps…’
‘Brother,’ said Bonitus, seizing Castus by the shoulders. ‘What are you thinking? If you have the chance now to flee then take it! Go to your villa, to your family. Get away from this madness while there’s time!’
His warriors had gathered around him, still looking casual but with weapons ready. Castus could see the Scutarii troopers shifting back into the gloom around the walls of the yard. The gates were clear. Over by the pyre, Ursio and Felix were pouring wine on the last smoking embers. The Phaselus was in the harbour, Felix had said, the crew ready to sail. Tempting, Castus admitted, to think of steering for Salona, for Marcellina and his family.
‘I can’t run,’ he told the Frankish leader. ‘This storm’s not dying down, and I need to confront it, alone. But you must go – you and your men. Go back to Gaul, to your wife and your son. Your own skies.’
Bonitus stared at him, his brow lowered. Then he gave a curt nod and a laugh. ‘I can never argue with you,’ he said.
Castus turned to the centurion. ‘I’m walking out of this place at dawn,’ he said. ‘Are you or your men going to try and stop me?’
The centurion dropped his gaze for a moment, then shook his head. ‘What are you intending to do?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to Rome,’ Castus told him, slinging the sword belt over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to see the emperor.’
28
Station to station, changing mounts regularly, he had crossed the mountainous spine of Italy from the tiny seaport of Aternum on the Adriatic coast to the rolling hills of Latium. The road across the Apennines was old and poorly maintained, rough with stones and overgrown for stretches, but he had kept up the pace with only the briefest pauses. Through narrow valleys and over steep wooded ridges, he had passed through Corfinium and then Alba Fucens. Now, on the morning of his seventh day since he sailed from Pola, Castus was leaving Tibur and riding on down the wide valley that led to Rome.
He rested for a moment beside the old stone bridge that crossed the river, letting his horse drink. The first rays of the sun cast his shadow across the road, and on the far verge a huge old tomb rose like a fortified tower, capped with scrubby foliage. By now, he knew, Ursio and Felix would have returned to the villa in Dalmatia. Both men had wanted to accompany him on this journey, but he had refused; this was a task he needed to do alone. He had sent them by road from Pola, carrying the message to Marcellina that he had composed in the early hours before his departure. It had been a hard message to write, frowning over the wax tablet in the light of a flickering lamp, his hands still smutty from the ashes of the pyre. Writing was hard enough at the best of times, but trying to trap the meaning of what he wanted to say that night was harder than ever, the stylus slipping in his hands. He hoped he had been sincere. Hoped that she would hear his voice through the imperfection of his words.
Tugging at the reins, he drew the horse back onto the highway and rode onward, passing the streams of other travellers making their way towards the city. The celebrations of the Vicennalia were due to begin that day, and Rome would be crowded for the festivities.
By noon, Castus was passing through the Tiburtina Gate in the eastern wall of the city. He had dressed that morning in his finest embroidered tunic and cloak, and with his eagle-hilted sword and golden neck torque clearly visible a path opened before him as he rode. Only the grimy leather sack slung on his saddle horn drew questioning glances, but the stern fury in his eyes deterred any challenge. It was hot, the July sun burning down over the rooftops, the heat reverberating in the packed streets. Forcing his way through the swelling crowds, Castus rode westwards along the road that crossed the Esquiline slope, through the Arch of Gallienus and down towards the Subura.
In the heart of the city the great public buildings were already decked out for the celebrations, the statues freshly painted and gilded, laurel wreathing the door lintels. Garlands hung across the main streets. As he passed the Porticus of Livia Castus glanced up and saw a line of imperial portrait roundels displayed along the façade. Constantine, and his sons – Castus caught his breath as he recognised the face of Crispus among them. The Roman people, he realised, had not yet been told of the Caesar’s condemnation.
Shortening his reins as the crowd grew thicker, Castus turned off the main street and rode up across the hill beside the Baths of Trajan. There was a unit of horse guardsmen stationed in the open area surrounding the huge Flavian Amphitheatre. More troops in the porticoes of the larger temples. The people thronging the streets appeared in good humour, but Castus knew how quickly the mood of the city mob could turn. How would they react when they learned that the beloved Caesar Crispus was dead by his father’s order? And what about Fausta – she was a daughter of the city, more popular here than anywhere. Would the people accept that she, too, was a criminal?
Up the slope past the Temple of Rome, Castus turned onto the street that climbed towards the imperial palace on the Palatine. He could already see the standards displayed proudly above the main portico: Constantine was in residence. He left his horse in one of the old arcades beneath the wall of Jupiter’s temple, paying a boy to watch over it from the purse of coins that Bonitus had insisted on giving him before he left Pola. Pulling his cloak around him, he slung the leather bag from the saddle horn and marched across the paved square in front of the palace. The doors of the smaller audience chamber stood open, a crowd of petitioners waiting in the portico outside. Castus pushed his way between them, marched straight past the doorkeepers and entered the hall.
Grey marble gloom surrounded him, and his footsteps echoed on the polychrome pavement. More men stood at the far end of the hall, awaiting admittance, dressed in brightly patterned cloaks and tunics. They glanced at Castus as he approached, then moved aside with expressions of startled pique as he marched on through the midst of them. A line of soldiers blocked the far doorway, long-haired Germanic guardsmen of the Schola Gentilium. They straightened to attention, raising their spears to bar the way. Castus stamped to a halt before them.
‘I am Aurelius Castus, Imperial Companion, and I have an urgent message for the emperor from the Caesar Flavius Crispus,’ he declared.
The guardsmen stared at him, unmoving. Did they even understand Latin? Castus’s words had echoed in the vast chamber, and several of the waiting petitioners edged closer and peered at him. A long moment passed, then one of the guardsmen gestured towards the open doorway behind him. Another man appeared from the far room, a court admissionalis in a long white tunic and black cape.
‘Did you hear me?’ Castus growled, throwing back his cloak to show his eagle-hilted sword and the insignia on his tunic. ‘Or do I need to repeat myself?’
The courtier studied him, frowning. Castus could hear whispered voices echoing through from the next chamber. A white-uniformed Protector stepped into the doorway, glanced at him, then signalled to the guards to stand aside.
‘Excellency,’ the Protector said, ‘come this way please.’
Two of the Germanic guards fell into step behind Castus as he followed the officer through the next chamber and out into a sun-filled courtyard. A fountain sent arcing jets splashing into the central pool, the water flowing around a maze-pattern of channels. Castus realised how thirsty he was; he had drunk nothing since leaving Tibur. Palace officials and slaves stepped aside to let them pass.
Castus had only been inside the imperial palace of Rome on a few occasions, and just once had he entered the inner precincts. Back then, Maxentius was master here, and Castus had been his prisoner. As he followed the Protector through the pillared halls and antechambers, Castus tried to keep his sense of direction, but the palace was a vast complex, covering the entire southern plateau of the Palatine Hill, and he was soon bewildered.
Word of his arrival had been sent on ahead; as they entered the second great courtyard a further guard of four Protectores took over from the Germanic troops. Escorted on all sides, Castus advanced through a pair of tall inlaid doors, then through a chamber lined with dazzling mosaics and into a smaller anteroom beyond.
‘Wait here,’ the man leading him said, turning on his heel. ‘The emperor is currently in council, but I’ll send word of your arrival.’
Another of the Protectores took a pace forwards, gesturing for Castus’s sword. Castus drew his lips back in a snarl. ‘See this?’ he said, jerking a thumb at the gold torque around his neck. ‘That means I get to keep my weapon.’
The Protector drew back, neck stiff and eyes narrowed. He glanced towards his comrade, who nodded.
‘The bag?’ one of the other guards said.
Castus hefted the leather sack in his left hand. ‘This is for the emperor’s eyes only,’ he said. ‘And I’ve travelled all the way here from Pola to bring it to him. I doubt he’ll want me to be kept waiting by you!’
Two of the guards withdrew, leaving the others to stand sentry before the inner doors of the anteroom. A pair of silentiaries entered, taking positions by the outer doors. Castus stood for a while, feeling the exhaustion massing in his head, his legs beginning to ache. He had not had a chance to bathe in many days; he stank of sweat and dust and old smoke. Drawing a long breath, he paced to the padded bench along one wall and sank down to sit. He lowered the leather sack to the floor with a muffled thud.
Light fell from the arched windows high overhead, and Castus tracked it as it moved across the painted plaster. Half an hour passed in silence. The entire vast palace seemed motionless, poised. Closing his eyes for a moment, he lulled himself into a state of glazed calm; then he remembered the danger he was in and woke again with a start. Nervous tension jumped in the pit of his chest. At any moment he expected to hear the tread of nailed boots approaching, the armed men who would seize him and lead him away. Perhaps, he thought, they would confine him in the same basement cell he had occupied when he was a prisoner of Maxentius? All too easy to fall into imagined terrors. He forced himself to remain alert and awake, to keep his head up and show no sign of apprehension.
He had waited for almost an hour when the inner doors creaked back. A small round-faced man in a gorgeously patterned robe appeared in the opening, smiling nervously. ‘I am Arcadius,’ he said, ‘Master of Admissions. The Most Sacred Emperor will grant you a brief audience now, excellency.’
Castus got up quickly, grabbed the sack, and followed Arcadius through the doors and along a broad corridor. At the far end, another set of portals, inlaid with gold and flanked by Protectores and doorkeepers. Another brief wait; Castus felt his mind clear and focus. His blood was flowing fast, as it did before he went into battle. The doors swung open without a sound.
‘This way, excellency.’
*
The chamber beyond was not large, but it glittered with gold and intricate mosaics. The pavement was a depiction of the continents of the earth, surrounded by the constellations of the heavens. At the far end, on a low dais, Constantine was seated on an ivory throne. His chief ministers stood in a half-circle to either side of him. Arcadius called for the room to be cleared, and the guards and attendants retreated. Castus heard the doors sigh closed behind them.
‘Constantine Augustus, your salvation is our salvation!’ he cried. ‘In truth I speak, on my oath I speak!’
‘Approach the Sacred Presence,’ Arcadius murmured.
Castus took five marching steps forward, then set the leather bag down on the low table in the centre of the room. The emperor sat stiffly upright on his throne, glaring at Castus, saying nothing. His face was pale, but his jaw was set hard.
‘What is the meaning of your unannounced appearance?’ said one of the ministers. Castus knew the man: Rutilius Palladius. ‘And what’s that?’ He pointed at the bag on the table.
‘Majesty,’ Castus said, the words grinding in his throat. ‘I come to tell you that your son, the Caesar Flavius Julius Crispus, is dead.’
A collective intake of breath circled the room, but nobody moved; many of these men would have been among those who agreed the Caesar’s death sentence. For three heartbeats there was only tensed silence. Constantine was as still as an ivory statue, but Castus could see the pained fury gathering in his eyes.
‘Do not speak that name in the Sacred Presence!’ Palladius snapped. ‘That name no longer exists!’
But everyone was turning to the emperor now. Slowly Constantine raised a hand to his face. His jewelled fingers shook slightly as he brushed his brow.
‘I have no son of that name,’ he said, his voice grating as cold and hard as the rasp of an iron file.
Castus met his furious gaze and held it. He took one step forward, and loosed the ties that sealed the top of the leather bag. The assembled officials drew back at once, muttering in consternation. He pulled the leather aside, exposing what the bag contained.
The object on the table was a sealed urn, the cheap glazed ceramic looking almost uncouth in the gilded surroundings of the council chamber.
‘Your son’s ashes,’ he said.
‘This is infamous!’ Palladius declared. Castus stepped back from the table and hooked his thumbs in his belt. He had intended, through all the days of his journey here, to do the sensible thing. He had meant to kneel before the emperor, to show respect and contrition, to plead his innocence and to beg for mercy. He had been ready for that. But now, seeing the bitter outrage on the faces around him, the inflexible severity of the emperor’s scorn, a surge of angry pride rose through him. He would not yield; he could not.
‘Before he took his own life,’ he declared, ‘Crispus asked that you consider him solely responsible for the charges against him. Fausta is innocent, as are the other accused. He asked that you forgive him, as a loving father forgives his son.’
For a long moment there was silence. Castus held the emperor’s stare, seeing the harrowed torment burning in his eyes. Then Constantine let out a low groan and covered his face with one hand.
‘Take it away,’ the emperor said quietly, flicking his fingers at the urn on the table. ‘Get it out of my sight. Take it to the Via Appia and smash it between the old tombs, scatter the contents – go!’
Palladius himself rushed over to the table, lifting the urn gingerly in both hands as if it might burst open and spray the ashes across the room.
‘As for you,’ the emperor said, dropping his hand to gaze at Castus once more. ‘You can get out as well. Surrender yourself to my guards. You are not to leave the palace until…’ His voice faltered, and he glanced away. Just for a moment he appeared to be struggling to breathe. Colour rose in his cheeks. Castus saw him swallow heavily, then the emperor raised a hand and pointed towards the doors.
‘This way, excellency,’ Arcadius said, his voice drained of all warmth as he took Castus’s arm.
*
The guards were waiting outside the doors, but they had not yet heard the order and Castus marched straight through their cordon. Arcadius’s outraged cries followed him as he crossed the anteroom and strode out into the colonnade of the garden courtyard. He took a swift right, pacing fast. Running steps behind him, shouts. In only moments he would be cut off and surrounded.
Had he really expected the emperor to react any differently? No, but he had done what he had to do. He had looked Constantine in the eye and seen the truth of his anguish, his deadly resolve. Blood hammered in his head, and he gripped the hilt of his sword, trying not to break into a run. Men were behind him now, dogging his steps, calling out to him to stop. He did not pause. The possibility of violence flickered all around him, and he choked a laugh. He could barely breathe, let alone fight.
‘Halt,’ a voice commanded, and a figure barred his way. Castus blinked, and recognised the man before him. He was wearing the white uniform of a tribune of Protectores now, but Castus broke into a grin. ‘Gratianus!’ he said. ‘Have you come to arrest me?’
‘What have you done, brother?’ Gratianus hissed between his teeth. From the corner of his eye Castus could see other men running along the colonnades, Protectores and Germanic bodyguards. The soldiers at his heels had halted too, looking to Gratianus for instruction.
‘Two of you, come with me,’ Gratianus ordered. ‘The rest, back to your positions! What do you think this is, a gymnasium?’ He gestured curtly to Castus, and then led the way along the colonnade walk and through the doorway at the end. In the chamber beyond he turned suddenly and grabbed Castus by the shoulder.
‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘Is the Caesar dead?’
‘He’s dead by his own hand,’ Castus told him.
Gratianus closed his eyes, breathing a curse. Still gripping Castus by the shoulder, he led him quickly out of the chamber by the far door and into the sunlight again. They were in a raised portico above a long sunken garden, shaped like a hippodrome. A few scattered figures strolled along the garden walks, but none glanced up. Gratianus nodded to the two Protectores, and they hung back inside the chamber doors.
‘Where’s Fausta?’ Castus said.
‘The Augusta? She’s not here. I heard she’s being kept at the Sessorian Palace, in the custody of the Augusta Helena.’
Castus knew the place: an old imperial residence out on the far eastern corner of the city, just inside the walls. He glanced around the circuit of the colonnaded garden; all seemed quiet, tranquil even, but he knew he was surrounded by guards.
‘You can’t escape, brother!’ Gratianus said in an urgent whisper. ‘They’d catch up with you, wherever you went.’
‘I don’t mean to escape. There’s something I need to do. A matter of honour.’ Yes, he thought, an oath to a man on the threshold of death was nothing less than sacred. And there was still a chance to fulfil it.
Gratianus sucked a breath between his teeth. His brow was bunched tight. The word honour hung in the air between them. Both knew its power.
