by Q V Hunter
‘Do I know you, agent?’ His smile seemed genuine as his hand braced my forearm with a firm grip but he knew he hadn’t invited me to his party.
‘I’ve just arrived, Secretary, to serve as state courier under the General Magnentius.’
‘Attached to the Ioviani or Herculiani?’ Both legions answered to General Magnentius. As they were the leading fighters of the entire Empire, this single soldier wielded more force than a simple headcount would indicate.
‘I don’t know. It’s a technicality. Wherever the General thinks best.’
‘Ask him now,’ Marcellinus answered. He extended his arm in a wide circle. As the partygoers cleared a space in the center of the floor, he said, ‘Welcome, please, my guest of honor. He graces this house and my son’s special day tonight, bestowing on our humble hospitality all the glory that is the Empire’s!’
I’ve seen matrons swoon over celebrity gladiators. I’ve heard senators who should have known better gush over a precocious rhetorician as if they’d been listening to Virgil himself. But the appearance of General Flavius Magnus Magnentius that night struck the crowd like a thunderbolt from Mount Olympus.
Slaves pulled aside the rich green drapes under an archway. In the hush, we heard heavy boot steps mounting stone steps from some inner chamber behind the dining room. Suddenly Magnentius appeared before us, framed by marble, shoulders braced back and head high, like a carving on a memorial frieze.
‘He looks like a god,’ murmured a tipsy young beauty next to me. The problem to my male eyes was that this god flexed his charismatic muscles only too well, one well-made calf turned out in a pose. He was indeed in his late forties, but still enjoying the prime of maturity and strength.
He had a full head of light brown hair cut in a bowl fringe over large, expressive eyes and a strong, high-bridged nose. His head sat on a bull’s neck set between wide shoulders. He stood a head taller than most of these Gallo-Romans with their darker curls and rotund bellies.
He pursed a pair of generous lips set over his prominent chin with confident amusement at his gaping audience.
This was no Roman, no Easterner, no Gaul, and no Mediterranean of any ilk. It was as though his exotic personality sucked the incensed fug out of the overheated rooms into which we all squeezed. Here was a man whose blood coursed with the freezing winds of the channel dividing Gallia from Britannia and who stood as tall as the dark northern forests where savage bears and boars held sway.
My back straightened like a rod. I hadn’t wasted my years serving the Commander Gregorius in North Africa. I knew how to react to the sight of the General’s polished cuirass and fringe, his bare arms laced with scars and his pristine woolen socks tucked into immaculate parade boots.
Behind his left shoulder a familiar face now appeared—none other than Gaiso, that hearty boar hunter. He descended the steps behind Magnentius. I was glad to see him walk with ease, showing scarcely a trace of his autumn hunting accident. A second officer, so like Magnentius he could only be his brother, followed.
But then my eyes darted, despite myself, to a fourth man behind the general’s other shoulder, someone who was an even more riveting sight to me—but for all the wrong reasons.
The last two years had been kind to my former master, even if the ambush up on the Rhenus so many years before had not. The livid scars that distorted the ravaged cheek under the emptied eye socket had finally lost their magenta fury. They were a dead white now. The full ferocity of his injuries was masked underneath a festive bandanna he twisted around one side of his head for the sake of the festivities. The embroidered head wrap gave his twisted smile a louche but worldly air that set off his brilliant armor.
I was happy to see that his outer swagger had recovered and perhaps some of his inner spirit as well. No doubt his appearance at the side of the supreme western commander reminded these comfy burghers that there were bold men who paid dearly for Gallia’s security and prosperity. Commander Gregorius had once been a man who turned the ladies’ heads. Now I saw he drew their fascinated stares to his scars before they could help themselves and lower their gaze in shock.
I was glad he had Kahina back in Roma. I was content that she’d forgotten our brief embraces and had learned to love the Commander Gregorius instead.
I didn’t wait any longer to be recognized—it would have seemed unnatural, even derelict in duty, not to announce myself immediately to the men who would make use of my services. The other top men were gathering in force at one end of the room, eager to bask in the reflected charisma of the great general.
I greeted Magnentius and presented him with my identifying papers. With a bow of my head, I nodded to Gaiso and greeted Gregorius in turn, my heart pounding with fear that he still harbored all his rage and grief at my defection back in Africa. He might even sabotage the first few minutes of my appointment with some sour dismissal.
‘Marcus Gregorianus Numidianus?’ Magnentius read out loud, turning to the wounded veteran behind him.
My fears vanished as I heard Gregorius answer the General, ‘Formerly our own volo, General, and dear to our family as the only child of Lady Laetitia’s Numidian seamstress. Marcus earned his freedman status and much praise through his surveillance of the Donatist extremists during the Macarius affair.’
‘Joined the agentes, I see,’ Magnentius said. He examined my expression, as if searching for the telltale mark of Apodemius on my forehead. ‘I already have enough aides on my staff, but you lads have many talents, I’ve learned, some of them less obvious than others. What’s your specialty, boy?’
‘High-speed communications, postal route control and relay delivery, road inspection, basic accounting and first-class secretarial certificate, Latin and Greek, General. I look forward to liaising with your legions’ communications officers.’
We had drawn an audience of fascinated civilians. I’d omitted mentioning my training in poisons and antidotes, surreptitious memorization, silent assassination skills, night surveillance, invisible and coded communications, surprise arrest, and finally, detention and escort skills—and the General knew it full well.
And I almost blushed, because once again, I’d been caught showing off, trying to impress Gregorius with how far I’d come from serving canapés and sweeping out the foyer back in Roma.
Magnentius chuckled and glanced over at Marcellinus who suppressed his own amusement at my youthful boasting. ‘Thank you, Agens. Report back to me before dawn.’
I bowed and retreated. For at least an hour, I mingled and made conversation with the ranks of junior officers wending around the lavishly decorated rooms. I sipped my wine with care and listened to the gossip, all of it growing more and more irritable and querulous.
After four hours of nonstop plucking and tooting, the hired musicians were taking longer and longer breaks between sessions. No guest dared leave until the Prefect of the Treasury signaled that his star general was finished with us all—but where had our host and guest of honor gone now?
Both men had finished their rounds of the different banqueting tables and had disappeared back into the study. The excitement was over and the atmosphere grew fidgety. Slaves aired out the suffocating rooms, letting in the winter’s chill. Hundreds of women asked for their warm wraps and held their inebriated husbands up by the elbows. They were all depleted of conversation and hoping for release. It was past midnight and yet the wealthy Marcellinus was not to be denied his fabulous party. He’d paid the musicians to keep going. There was an audible sigh of frustration as they tuned up and resumed yet another round of familiar strains.
‘Marcus, you’ve done well for yourself.’ Here was Gregorius at last. I could not help but look at him with love and hope for forgiveness with every ounce of my soul.
‘Thank you, Commander. You’re looking much improved since I saw you last.’ Up close, I saw how much not only his scars but also his pride had softened in a few brief years.
‘My new lady Kahina is the elixir, Marcus. She has given us
an heir—and what a child he is!’
‘A great joy for the Manlius House. I paid my respects to your family while in Roma but—’
‘Everything fine, then? Good, good.’
I didn’t want to worry him just then with Verus’ tattling on Clodius or Kahina’s worry about his father, the Senator.
‘It’s like a second chance at life, Marcus. Not much could separate me from such happiness if I didn’t think my duty held me here to counsel the General.’
‘If it’s duty to Magnentius that keeps you so hale, Commander, then I welcome serving him, too.’
‘He’s a soldier in a thousand, boy. More than twenty years in the field, undefeated in any skirmish, a fighter to the very marrow of his bones. Let’s drink to him.’
Let’s drink to us, I thought. We had survived our first encounter well. Considering the old days, it was a stiff and inhibited conversation, but he’d held back whatever anger or hurt he still harbored.
I poured wine into my ex-master’s empty cup for him. With half of one hand lost in battle, he had trouble pouring his own drink. I knew the man better than myself, as the knack of anticipating his thirst or hunger before my own needs wasn’t forgotten that soon. I could see now by the blaze of wall torches and bright oil lamps that he, too, was more than ready to get to bed. But decades of service had trained him to betray not an iota of fatigue. We watched the flagging crowd eyeing the door behind which our host and his military celebrity still lingered.
‘Let’s hope our Emperor Constans appreciates the General’s talents. During my time in Treverorum, Commander, I heard not one single word of praise for General Magnentius, but only admiration of the Emperor’s captive German archers.’
Gregorius paused over the lip of his ornate goblet and dropped his one good eye to study the intricate mosaics on the floor. The pregnant pause warned me that while I’d wangled myself into the ranks of the agentes in rebus, I’d still breached my lowly status in his eyes by alluding to Constans’ vices.
At last he said, ‘Right now Emperor Constans is hunting less than two hundred miles from here. Perhaps he’ll come to stay in Augustodunum. Then he might realize how the strength of his reign rests on this General’s shoulders. Long live the Emperor.’
‘Long live the Emperor.’ I drained my own cup and took this chance to study Gregorius’ face—at least as much of his expression as could be seen through his ruined features. I read great faith in the dependability of this professional commander-in-chief. Apodemius’ reports of unrest in the military might be exaggerated. Mere dissatisfaction at Constans’ titular command hardly constituted a political crisis. My first report in the morning would allay these rumors of ‘roiling’ soldiers’ troublemaking.
Within another five seconds, the Commander’s expression had turned from concern to shock. For all my months of training and ambition, the next five minutes of this deadly night proved me a total failure as agens.
Marcellinus reappeared in the study doorway and lifted both hands to make a final speech. His guests greeted him with dutiful applause and readied their soggy smiles to bid him thanks and farewell. The musicians stopped cold and with studied determination, slung their instruments into leather carrier bags.
‘Friends, I haven’t gathered you here tonight to merely mark a family anniversary. By now you must have realized that there is not a single leading family of Gallia without a representative here—a cousin, a nephew or an in-law, someone who will be able to carry tonight’s news to all corners of our province—maybe even farther—and rally the honor of the Western Empire behind a man who deserves our respect.’
Magnentius suddenly strode into the center of the room, draped in the only color forbidden to all but the imperial family. A purple cloak of silky velvet was anchored to his shoulders with golden braid. It swung down to pool around his heavy boots. A gold diadem studded with emeralds sat on his thick curls.
The crowd gasped in confusion and exhaustion. ‘Why is he wearing purple?’ a thick, deep voice shouted from the back.
‘I will tell you why, Lucius. As a young man, Flavius Magnus Magnentius lived among the Gallic Laeti tribe, where he acquired a proper Latin education. Then he joined Constantine’s forces in the final campaign against Licinius. He distinguished himself at both Adrianople and Chrysopolis. I fought under his command against the Alemanni on the Rhenus four years later and against the Goths on the Danube four years after that. So I was not surprised to hear that it was he who engineered support for the defenders along the banks of the Alsa River where Constantine II perished.’
‘We demand to know why he’s wearing purple.’ The shouts grew from curious murmurs to an angry, drunken clamor.
‘Because our treasury is being emptied out by a spendthrift pansy party boy who is destroying our defenses and lowering our state’s morale. Romans up north are expected to march in the dust behind—no—even serve upon German favorites, prisoners-of-war who have lost all sense of their own honor or shame.’
‘But at least he’s a Constantine!’ shouted one loyal loner.
‘Constans had disgraced his robes. Let someone worthy take up the diadem. Here is a man who has already protected our welfare for past decades at risk to his own life and limb. He is prepared to strengthen our resources, not weaken them. He will restore our Empire to its fullest potential, not drag it deeper into the mud. Tonight the Ioviani and Herculiani legions lead where honor dictates. I humbly pledge before you to follow their example and serve their comes. Be proud to hail our new Emperor, Flavius Magnus Magnentius!’
An army cornet sounded in the dark night outside. All heads turned. As the horn faded, we heard a thunder of thousands of horses’ hooves pound the soft earth around the villa’s garden walls. A dozen tribunes from the Ioviani and Herculiani wearing full battle dress marched into the house. Lining up in two columns under their red and blue standards, they saluted Magnentius with an orchestrated sounding of their swords upon their shields.
In the pregnant darkness of the night, the Ioviani and the Herculiani troops, some three thousand men, had surrounded the prefect’s villa.
It had all been perfectly orchestrated. It was nothing less than a coup.
Magnentius stood braced on both sides now by devoted officers, all of them hailing their new sovereign. He beamed at the open mouths of the civilians gaping at his confident splendor. Marcellinus stepped aside to make way for the procession of hardened warriors led by Commander Gaiso and the General’s brother, Decentius, parting the crowd for the General himself.
So these were the New Men of our world. They’d served the Constantinian throne faithfully for decades and gathered to their breasts all the power, acclaim, treasure and freedom the Empire offered. Such men had no private need to risk their necks and hard-won fortunes on a frivolous political gamble. Nothing could express better the army’s final disgust at the reign of Constans than committing treason by moving to replace him.
I closed my eyes for a moment, horrified and fascinated at what we were witnessing but a voice inside me could not protest or condemn them. I’d seen that weakling myself bent over a granite rock, naked and vulgar as the rough stone that supported him, inviting the Empire’s enemies to express their ridicule and contempt on his person in the most personal manner possible.
So, as so often in past centuries, the Roman Army had decided. They’d been driven by a sick, self-destructive family and corrupting court to a noble cause. They were staking everything to save the Western Empire and yet . . . I saw only dismay and confusion cross Gregorius’ face as he heard the familiar shoulder horns blare forth outside to answer the cornets.
What I saw was so obvious, it required no special training in observation skills. I could read it on my ex-master’s expression. Marcellinus, Magnentius and Decentius had not warned Gregorius. They had not trusted him, a Manlius and the scion of one of Roman’ oldest families, with their momentous plan. Half hypnotized, half-dazed, he moved forward to hail Magnentius.
I was already calculating the minutes and hours it would take my report to reach Apodemius. The purple ribbons symbolizing an imperial prince discarded on the dung heap of history had warned the old spymaster. My report would merely explain how and when.
Already, I feared that for the Commander, this news came too late.
Chapter 8, Hunting Constans
—The Villa Marcellinum, Augustodunum—
The night was nearly spent by the time I found myself a place to sleep. I endured one hour of restless tossing on my rented pallet and then I abandoned the effort. I spent the next two hours or so hanging around the city gates. I sipped diluted wine in a tavern and breakfasted on a little curd cheese and nuts, always keeping my ears wide open to any news entering the city.
Deliverymen bringing in the season’s scant pickings for the morning market grabbed a snack at tables around me. I now heard the common man’s version of the party at Marcellinus’ the previous evening, with all the extravagance and astonishment multiplied ten times over in the telling.
Whores returning from luxury villas in the hills beyond slept through it all on top of bushels of pitted apples and the last harvest loads of turnips.
I entrusted my sealed dispatch for Apodemius to the first rider leaving the main gate station. He was a young Romano-Briton. I hoped I could trust him but then, only a few years ago I’d been starting out myself, a North African taking messages from the hands of a more senior man. I authorized him to wear the white helmet feather reserved for urgent messages to ensure him first priority as he changed horses en route.
‘My first white feather,’ he said, fixing it into his headgear’s leather strap. ‘For the Senate?’