Imperial Vengence, page 6
‘Fausta?’ Castus said beneath his breath. He had not seen the emperor’s wife for many years, and the memory of her stirred something in his chest. He had not even known that she too would be travelling this same road. Quelling the unexpected mood of trepidation, he gestured the superintendent forward and then followed him across the yard through the rain-dashed puddles. Ursio and the other men of his guard came striding after him.
The guards beneath the wooden portico – men of the Lanciarii in waxed rain capes and hoods – stamped to attention as they recognised his rank. Castus nodded to them, then stepped gratefully into the dim lamplight of the stone-flagged entrance lobby. He unlaced his dripping cloak and tossed it to the door slave.
Another slave was pulling off his muddy boots when a figure appeared from the inner doorway. Castus glanced up briefly, taking in the dark complexion and the perfectly shaven head that shone like polished wood. As the slave slipped clean shoes onto his feet, he remembered where he had seen that face before.
‘I know you,’ Castus said. Luxorius, he remembered: a eunuch who had served as chamberlain to the Praetorian Prefect, many years ago in Gaul.
‘Ah, yes, we’ve met!’ Luxorius said. ‘And how surprising to see you again, excellency…’
Castus was still staring at him. He had not expected to encounter this eunuch again, but he remembered all too clearly what had happened when they last met. He had no proof, but he was convinced that Luxorius had made several attempts to murder the Caesar Crispus. The eunuch had almost admitted as much, but he had left Treveris soon afterwards; Castus had hoped that Luxorius was gone for good. And yet here he was, alive and well…
Standing, Castus paced across the lobby, and the eunuch backed up a step closer to the wall. ‘My mistress, the nobilissima femina, is currently bathing,’ the eunuch said, ‘but she’s been told of your arrival. You and the, ah, young Caesar…’
Castus grunted tightly, staring at the eunuch a moment longer and then striding past him. The superintendent was gesturing for Castus to follow him along the covered passageway that circled the inner court.
A few steps, and then cold realisation struck him so hard he almost gasped.
‘Dominus?’ Diogenes said, coming up behind him. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I’ve been a fool,’ Castus whispered through his teeth. He turned and spoke quickly, urgently, to Ursio. ‘Find that bald eunuch we just passed,’ he told the big Sarmatian. ‘Find him and stick close to him. Don’t let him out of your sight, understand?’
Ursio gave a brisk nod, then stalked back down the passage towards the lobby.
Ignoring Diogenes’ concerned frown, Castus forced himself to walk on after the superintendent. With every step he struggled to keep the anger and dread from showing on his features.
‘Through here, excellency,’ the superintendent said, bowing almost double as he drew aside the curtain from the doorway at the end of the passage. The mansio was not a large building, but it had a wing of heated rooms; Castus stepped through the curtain and entered the scented warmth of one of the larger chambers.
In the lamplight he saw two or three women turning from their conversation, a group of slave maids and another eunuch waiting attendance upon them. One of the slaves, a tall young woman in a yellow tunic with very dark skin and braided hair – Aethiopian, Castus guessed – was arranging goblets on a tray in the centre of the room. She straightened, facing him with lowered gaze.
‘My mistress is still dressing after her bath, dominus,’ the slave said, with a slight lisp to her voice. ‘She asks that you take some wine, and she’ll join you shortly.’ She looked up quickly, the flash of a smile in her eyes.
Clearing his throat, squaring his shoulders, Castus hooked his thumbs in his belt and remained standing, trying to appear oblivious to the probing glances of the women on the couches at the far end of the room. Fausta’s companions, he guessed; his first wife would have been among their number once. For a few long moments nobody spoke, everyone frozen like actors in a stage tableau.
Then the curtain covering the far doorway parted, and the emperor’s wife entered the room. She was dressed in a tunic of dark blue patterned silk, her hair still wrapped in the shawl she had worn in the bath, but pendants of pearl and gold hung from her ears, and she wore a heavy gold medallion suspended from a neck ring, embossed with a portrait of her husband Constantine. Castus caught her scent as she approached him. Musky myrrh and roses. That perfume alone must cost a purse of gold.
‘Aurelius Castus!’ Fausta said, smiling. ‘It’s been years. Too long!’
‘Domina,’ Castus said, swallowing the knot in his throat as he dropped to one knee. He had known Fausta since she was a girl, a plump newly-wed lost in the treacherous currents of court intrigue. She must be over thirty now, he thought. Mother to the emperor’s children. But there was something instantly captivating about her, troublingly so, and Castus realised with a pulse of consternation that she too must remember the connection there had once been between them. He had managed successfully to quell the memory, almost to forget about it, until now. Some things are too dangerous to remember.
‘Oh, stand up, please,’ she said. ‘In this barbaric place there’s no point in protocols! Tomorrow we’ll be at Naissus and can resume our courtly functions, but for now we can be free citizens together, I’d say. Hasn’t Niobe given you wine?’
‘I…’ the dark girl said, widening her eyes.
‘I’d prefer to wait until the Caesar Crispus joins us,’ Castus said stiffly. ‘He should be here at any moment. I must apologise if our arrival has… inconvenienced you.’
‘Not at all! It’s a relief to have some familiar old faces around. This journey’s been so tiring. We can dine together, yes? I’m sure this crude establishment can scrape together some porridge and beans, or whatever they have… And you’ll be travelling on with us towards Serdica?’
‘No, domina. We travel south from Naissus, direct to Thessalonica. We’ll be leaving early, and moving fast.’
‘Ah yes,’ Fausta said, with a light shrug, ‘the usual military haste, I suppose.’
For all her casual attitude, Castus knew that the strain in their words must be obvious. He was trying to appear unmoved by her presence, but the shock of his realisation about Luxorius was still rioting in his body.
He had assumed, back in Gaul seven years before, that the eunuch must have been taking his orders from the rival emperor Licinius, or some other enemy of Constantine. But now the eunuch had reappeared, in Fausta’s retinue. Could it be that he was her servant all along? And if so – the thought was monstrous, incredible – could Fausta have plotted her stepson’s murder? With every moment Castus found the idea more plausible. It made a terrible sense, after all: Crispus stood between Fausta’s own children and their father’s favour; between them and the throne itself.
But he could still hardly bring himself to believe it. How, if she had planned such a thing, could she appear so oblivious of it now, so languorously unconcerned? Castus felt another swell of cold nausea rise from his stomach.
‘Niobe,’ Fausta said, turning to the Aethiopian slave, ‘tell the nurses to bring the children in here. They’ll be eager to meet their renowned big brother, I’m sure!’
Voices came from the passage as the slave left, footsteps on the tiled floor, then the curtain was swept aside and Crispus strode into the chamber. His hair was wet and clinging to his head, and he scrubbed his fingers through it before flicking his hand at the floor, exhaling loudly.
‘Warmth!’ he cried. ‘Dry warmth!’
Then he caught sight of Fausta, and stopped short. For a couple of heartbeats they stared at each other, clearly uncertain how to behave.
‘The hero of Gaul!’ Fausta said with a tight smile. ‘Greetings, stepson.’
‘Nobilissima femina,’ Crispus said, a shy catch in his voice. He paced forward and the two of them embraced, slightly awkwardly, Crispus kissing Fausta on both cheeks.
‘This is an unexpected meeting in such a drab place,’ Fausta said. Castus sensed the haughtiness creeping into her voice, the ceremonial stiffness into her posture. ‘I don’t believe I’ve see you since…’
‘My wedding, domina,’ Crispus told her. ‘Serdica, nearly three years ago.’
‘Quite so. Your dear wife is well, I hope? And I hear you have a child now?’
‘A son,’ Crispus said with a grin. He appeared, Castus thought, very young and unsure of himself in Fausta’s presence. There was barely a decade between them, even so; Castus himself felt like an old man by comparison.
But now Niobe was returning, three children and a nursemaid carrying a baby following her. The children, two boys and a small girl, were already dressed in their linen sleeping tunics; they shuffled into a line, glancing suspiciously at Crispus.
‘Constantine Junior, Constantius, Constantina and baby Constans,’ Fausta said. ‘My husband is hardly inventive with his names, as you can tell. Salute your noble brother, children!’ she commanded.
‘Greetings, noble brother,’ the three children dutifully intoned.
Castus backed away from the group slightly as Crispus greeted each child in turn, stooping to kiss them, then touching the baby Constans lightly on the brow. The older boy, Constantine Junior, was Caesar too, he remembered. It had always seemed absurd to Castus that such a young child should hold the title. Seeing the boy now, eight years old and half asleep, it seemed almost laughable. He glanced at Fausta instead: she appeared nervous, biting her lip and twisting the carnelian ring on her smallest finger. She would have murdered her stepson for these children.
*
‘She’s an impressive woman, don’t you think, my stepmother?’ Crispus said later, as they sat soaking in the warm pool of the mansio baths. ‘Very assured, for a female. Very intelligent too, I believe, with an independent mind.’
‘True enough,’ Castus replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. If he let the slightest hint of his suspicions slip out, he knew that Crispus would notice and demand to know more. If only, he thought, Marcellina were here with him; he could confide in her, and she would know what to do. His wife had a cool sense of reason that he had come to rely upon. He had missed her badly ever since leaving Treveris; he needed her counsel now.
‘I’ve never really spoken with Fausta before, you know,’ Crispus went on, spreading his arms along the stone rim of the basin. ‘We’ve only met at court, with my father present. Would you say she’s… quite attractive?’
‘Quite,’ Castus said with gathering discomfort. He stood up quickly, showering water, and grabbed one of the coarse linen towels from the bath slave.
‘I can tell she likes you, actually,’ Crispus said, smiling. ‘You’ve met before, I think?’
‘Once, and long ago.’ Castus flung the towel around his shoulders, turning his back to hide his unease.
*
They ate in the gloomy main chamber, Fausta and Crispus sharing one of the old-fashioned couches and Castus and Saturninus another. Fausta’s three lady companions reclined in silence on the third couch. Protectores stood guard at the doorways, and the kitchen slaves dashed rapidly in and out of the room with lowered heads, bringing stewed meats and coarse bread, pickled olives and flagons of acidic white wine flavoured with herbs.
‘You must tell me all about your exploits in Gaul, Crispus,’ Fausta said as she picked at her food. ‘We’ve all heard stories of your victories over the barbarians!’
‘Oh, you should ask Castus really,’ Crispus replied, smiling across the table. ‘He’s been in command most of the time – he’s kept me from anything like real fighting!’
For a moment Castus feared that the story of the lost helmet would come up; he could do without that duplicity becoming common knowledge. Fausta was gazing at him with that slightly mocking look of enquiry he knew well, her large eyes heavy-lidded, her full lips just suggesting a smile. He shrugged, stuffing his mouth with bread and meat.
‘Ah, these military men are so commendably modest,’ Fausta said with a sigh. ‘And now you’re both going off to fight a war against Licinius? Good thing too – I never liked him. I only saw him once, at Mediolanum, but he seemed a lumpish sort of man, not at all an emperor. He smells sour, like stale wine dregs, and his eyes are too close together.’
‘Hardly a reason to fight him, domina!’ Crispus laughed. He assumed a pious air. ‘He’s also been persecuting the Christians in his territories, of course.’
‘Well, I couldn’t fault him for that,’ Fausta said.
‘Really? I…’ Crispus had an expression of bemused incomprehension. Could it be, Castus wondered, that the young man thought everyone at court was a fellow Christian? Crispus was still watching Fausta, puzzled, as if waiting for some further explanation. Then a slow and knowing smile crept over his face, and he looked away.
The furnace was pumping heat up through the tiled floor, and the air in the room was close and perfumed. Castus was trying not to watch Fausta too obviously, but now and again she caught his eye. A quick tremor in her expression, mingled fear and challenge. She knows, he thought. She knows that I suspect her.
Wiping his mouth and throwing down his napkin, he stood up from the table. ‘Majesty,’ he said to Crispus, ‘we have an early start tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me?’
Crispus waved his dismissal, and Fausta gave a slow nod of accord.
Diogenes was waiting in the passage outside. ‘Pass an order to Ursio,’ Castus told him quietly. ‘He’s to stand guard outside the eunuch’s door tonight. If the eunuch leaves his chamber for any reason, tell Ursio to follow him closely. He can use any force necessary.’
Castus’s own chambers lay at the far end of the building, opening off the passageway. He set the lamp down on the side table and closed the door behind him with a deep gasp of relief. Unbuckling his belts, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots and tunic. The cold air felt good against his skin. Kneeling beside the low table, he reached into his belt pouch and drew out a small linen bag.
From the bag he took a bronze figurine, a horse with a large head and a flaring mane. His son had given it to him when he left Treveris; Sabinus had owned the little statuette for many years, and Castus had assumed that he had grown too old for such toys and trinkets. It had surprised him when the boy had pressed it into his hand at the moment of departure. He remembered the look on his son’s face, the solemn unspoken desire. Come back to us.
Raising the statuette to his lips, he kissed it lightly and then set it on the table in the circle of lamplight. Yes, he thought, I promise.
He took a second memento from the bag. A silver amulet, embossed with linked dolphins. Another gift, from Marcellina this time. She had claimed that her priest, Agricius, had blessed it; Castus had not been pleased by the idea at the time, but he found that he did not care so much now. It was a reminder of her, and precious because of that alone. He kissed the amulet, too, and laid it beside the horse figurine. Closing his eyes, he muttered a brief prayer. To the gods of the hearth, the protecting deities: watch over those I love and keep them safe until I return.
Taking a pinch of incense from the dish on the table, he sprinkled it over the lamp flame. Then he took his sword and propped it against the wall beside the bed, and concealed his military dagger beneath the bolster. This was surely the most heavily guarded mansio in the Danube provinces, but he had learned not to trust in apparent security. Pulling off his breeches, pulling on his sleeping tunic, he shivered in the cold draught for a moment and then snuffed out the lamp. Stretched on the narrow straw mattress, he pulled the musty quilt and blankets over himself.
*
It seemed only moments before he was awake again, but his instincts told him it was the dead of night. Already his hand was beneath the bolster, gripping the hilt of the dagger; he knew from experience that a shorter blade was more effective in the dark.
The click of the latch had woken him. Now he saw the figure entering the room, dimly lit by a covered lantern. As the door closed he caught the lingering trace of her perfume.
‘I need to speak to you alone,’ Fausta said as she set the lantern down on the table and uncovered the flame. ‘This seemed the best way. You should be more careful – your guards are easily bribed.’
Ursio would not have proved so tractable, Castus thought, and cursed himself for sending the Protector elsewhere; then cursed himself again as he realised how incriminating it would appear if this meeting were ever discovered. He eased his hand away from the dagger and he shoved himself upright until he could sit with his back against the wall.
‘You’re the wife of my emperor,’ he said quietly. ‘How could I refuse you? But this is dangerous, domina.’
There was a stool beside the table, but Fausta remained standing. She was dressed in a long linen tunic, a plain shawl draped across her unbound hair.
‘Dangerous, yes,’ she said. She took a step towards the bed. Castus felt even more strongly than he had in the chamber earlier the force of memory upon him: the recollection of that shameful night when he had lain with her unawares. They had both been fooled then, both used by powers that cared nothing for their security. Things were different now. They had nobody else to blame.
‘I know you suspect me of… certain plots. Certain actions,’ she said.
‘You sent your eunuch to Gaul to attempt the murder of your stepson, I know that.’
He heard Fausta take a long breath. He half expected her to deny it, but she did not. Not exactly. ‘I’ve made certain errors in the past,’ she said. ‘All my life I’ve felt my way forward, like someone walking in a dark room. I’ve feared for my life – did you know that? The lives of my children, too. So, yes, I have made mistakes. But I am surer of myself now.’
‘And this is what you came to tell me?’
Fausta shuddered slightly, then took another step and sank down to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. She seemed very human now, very far from the regal figure, the emperor’s wife, to whom Castus had grown accustomed.
