Usurpers

by Q V Hunter

  ‘Oh, that left last night by the cisium post,’ I lied. ‘This is a fuller report for the Castra Peregrina only.’ The Senate could wait a few hours, I figured.

  The feisty compact little islander checked the name penned on the parchment flap.

  ‘The old man? Got it.’ He winked as he flung himself into his waiting saddle.

  The gossiping tongues in the tavern’s dining room confirmed that all of Augustodunum knew Gallia now had a new ‘barbarian’ emperor. Within hours, minor landholders in the suburbs and towns farther out would learn it from their servants and field hands. Major landlords were already pocketing payoffs from Marcellinus with a satisfied smile. If the Ioviani and the Herculiani had been ordered to stand by, then suppliers and camp girls making the most of the winter quarters season might well have carried the rumors for miles already towards Constans’ private aides on the hunting trail.

  ‘Less than two hundreds miles away . . .’ If Constans was so close, then Magnentius and his brother were racing with their supporters against time and imperial reprisal.

  I got myself a horse and rode back past the amphitheater and Temple of Jupiter to join the rebel officers as commanded just before the winter sun made its lazy appearance. My horse knew the road. I returned to the Prefect’s villa just as a rim of pink daylight showed over the eastern slopes where I now made out the legions moved into in their predictable rows behind a temporary palisade.

  The burnt-out charcoal ends of Magnentius’ festive garden stuck into the morning mist like stubby blackened thumbs. Hollow-eyed slaves plucked banquet debris from the bushes and moved Marcellinus’ carved and upholstered couches and chairs back into place around the summer dining area outside the house. I stepped over a tiny girl on her knees in the atrium archway scrubbing wine strains and mud clots off the Prefect’s precious floor mosaics.

  The door to the study was open. I tightened up my bootlaces one by one and adjusted my ears to the voices within. Then I stood upright and at the ready I bowed my head, as if protocol, not guile preventing me from announcing myself. I saw the majordomo smile to himself as he passed me by. My agens insignia didn’t fool him. One clever slave still recognized the eavesdropping tricks of another.

  ‘ . . . They’ll all come on board.’ It was Magnentius, carrying the others along with his physical enthusiasm.

  But Decentius sounded worried to me. ‘These are merely formalities, of course, but someone must confirm the allegiance of Claudius Silvanus. Without him, one entire flank remains open.’

  ‘Silvanus is a special case, my brother, as you well know.’ I could guess tell that Magnentius was used to dominating Decentius from childhood.

  ‘Why? Why is Silvanus so special? Does he suffer Constans better than the rest of us?’ Marcellinus’ impatience broke in.

  ‘Study your Franks as closely as you play politics among your Gauls, Marcellinus.’ Magnentius sounded smug at his sponsor’s expense. ‘Silvanus is special because his father Bonitus was the first Frank to ever rise to the rank of magister militum. He fought right beside Constantine against Licinius. You think a soldier tosses that kind of credit with The Family out the window so lightly? ’

  ‘Silvanus will fall into place once Constans gone. Then we bargain for Constantius’ answer with all the cards in our hands.’ Gaiso sounded weary. He had obviously said this many times already during the night.

  ‘No, Marcellinus is right,’ I heard Gregorius weigh in. ‘We should wait for Silvanus. Give the go-ahead this morning to release your profile on a fresh pressing. Put your portrait in everyone’s hand and your slogan on everyone’s lips before Constantius countermands the order. Control the money flow and perhaps we can neutralize the little brother without a regicide on our conscience. Send Constans into exile.’

  Magnentius sounded doubtful. ‘I would prefer the imperial blessing before I release my new coins.’

  ‘Is there a message in that pile for the Senate?’ That was my ex-master again, peevish at Marcellinus’ neglect of historical precedents, including requesting the approval of the Senators in Roma.

  ‘Fuck those useless farts. They’ll do what they’re told sooner or later,’ Marcellinus growled. ‘With almost all the Western legions behind us and new coins in circulation, they’ll have no choice but to grovel.’

  It was dangerous for me to eavesdrop any longer. I removed my helmet, rapped on the doorframe, and took three smart steps into the study. The general sprawled at a marble writing table behind an impressive pile of documents. The others were spread at random on ornate couches, stools and chairs. Again I was struck by the General’s heavy, expressive eyes and thrusting jaw. He ran a meaty hand through his hair, exposing for an instant a deep dent under his hairline left by someone’s iron sword years before.

  ‘The agens? Is it dawn already?’

  He sighed and gestured for one of Marcellinus’ attendants to open the heavy wall hangings. Feeble gray light gave the sleepless conspirators a spectral look. ‘Agens Numidianus? That’s right.’ He peered at me in the dim dawn light. ‘You’re sure you’re Numidian? You’re not Egyptian, passing yourself off as Numidian, are you?’

  Gregorius’ eyes widened. He’d introduced me himself to the General only few hours before.

  ‘No, General. I’m Numidian.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s right. Mother a seamstress. Good. Numidians are always good on a horse. Egyptians are so useless and sly. You never know where you are with Egyptians, right, gentlemen? Here. These documents of allegiance must go out immediately.’

  ‘The municipal service left the gates within the last hour, General, but I’ll clear these for military riders, marked urgent.’

  Magnentius threw up his hands and grunted. ‘Some things never change, do they? Now I’m Augustus, but I still can’t use the Cursus express service without a clerk to license my riders! Here, here, take them, young Numidianus.’

  Marcellinus blanched. ‘General, you’re overcome by the night’s triumph. You haven’t signed them.’

  Magnentius chuckled as someone fetched pen and ink. It was the kind of moment I was trained for. I scanned each dispatch upside down through lowered eyelids and memorized another report for Apodemius. I tamped down my breath as I realized that via these letters Magnentius was calling in the Empire’s military fighting power from his power base in Britannia to lesser forces stuck out in southwestern Hispania. By roping in these allies, he would secure for himself all of the territory under Constans’ command. That meant nothing less than control of Roman Africa, Italia, Gallia, Hispania and Britannia.

  Apodemius would have loved watching the proceedings now, if only to admire how well Prefect Marcellinus had prepared his coup.

  These letters proposing an alliance across the Western Empire were written on the finest vellum. It was obvious, at last to me, that General Magnentius was not the author of these documents. Their formal salutations, proclamations and exhortations were recorded in the even, clear work of a professional scribe. The General signed his name and new titles with a bold and semi-lettered flourish. The signing took many minutes but eventually I held letters not only to military and civil authorities across Gallia, Britannia, Italia and Hispania, insisting that they needed to pressure Constantius into acceptance of Magnentius, but also to the most powerful bishops as far as Carthago.

  By reaching deep into the strongholds of the new faith, this northern pagan might sway anti-Arian Christian support towards his new regime and away from the Arian Constantius in the East.

  With studied indifference, I folded the expensive papers and readied the wax.

  ‘Hah! I need a new ring!’ Magnentius roared, rolling his general’s signet ring in his palm. He was still digesting the enormity of what the night—and the soft-spoken financial chief—had dropped in his lap.

  ‘I still say we’re in danger until we have Silvanus,’ said Decentius, that lesser physical echo of Magnentius. He had equally limpid but larger blue eyes and longer, more Germanic gold
hair. There was a resigned curve of the same sensual lips, but the jaw was less prominent and the head set on a more gentlemanly neck and shoulders.

  ‘You may be right, Decentius,’ Magnentius said. ‘so you ride this morning for the north. Put our case to Silvanus before Constantius’ alert reaches him from the Persian front.’

  There were a few protests, notably from Gaiso, until Magnentius slammed a wide, hard hand on the polished desk.

  ‘My brother goes. The rest of you might threaten or bribe. But Decentius has always known that truth is the best coin.’

  Marcellinus raised one eyebrow but uttered no objection. He seemed satisfied with his plotting for the moment. As he helped me pack the thick pile of letters into my satchel, I noticed he gave them a proprietary pat with a hand bearing two valuable rings, their colored gems embedded in the thick gold circles.

  Magnentius wrapped up the business of their long night. ‘Marcellinus, give the mints their instructions to prepare the fresh dies. But we wait, I repeat, we wait until Decentius signs up Silvanus. Constantius might still come around and if he does, then you’ll see, my modest reticence will do me credit.’

  I could see Marcellinus was balancing his role as conspirator with courtier. For the moment, the cautious courtier won out.

  Magnentius turned to my ex-master. ‘Gregorius, I spoke too rashly of those old women in their togas back in Roma. You’re good to remind us that there are certain niceties that still matter in the mustier corners of this vast empire. There’s no harm in observing the ritual of asking the Senate for their blessing.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear you say so, General.’

  ‘Draft me an address to the Senate in your finest Latin. You know, the kind of thing your father would appreciate. Tell them I’ll be appointing a new prefect for Roma in all peace and goodwill.’ Gregorius nodded and then marched out the room without a glance in my direction. We had stood six feet and yet worlds apart from each other. He had looked strained and anxious.

  Gaiso was the only man among them who seemed as fresh as a schoolboy spying on the ladies’ baths but of all the officers, he’d abstained from the drinking the night before. I’d spotted him, aloof and sober, admiring the musicians from a comfortable brocade-stuffed perch.

  ‘Gaiso?’

  ‘Yes, General?’

  ‘Why do you dawdle like a lady’s maid?’

  Gaiso gave his new emperor a wide grin of understanding and rubbed his hands.

  ‘Hunting time?’

  I’d seen that smile in the forest valley outside Treverorum. His famous bloodlust was up again.

  Magnentius nodded and sank his out-sized head on the back of his chair. He closed his eyes at last. His deep baritone voice was more impressive when he whispered than when he proclaimed.

  ‘The runt is yours.’

  ***

  ‘You’re riding with us, Numidianus!’ Gaiso yelled to me as he dragged some junior officers and a turma of about thirty cavalry riders from their comfortable tents on the slopes of Augustodunum. I’d returned to the gatehouse to catch the next outgoing Cursus messengers. I’d registered all the dispatches and encoded a private update for Apodemius. The work had been rushed through in ten stolen minutes. The code I used could be broken by anybody who knew the low-security system but speed was more important now and it was the best I could do.

  None of this race against a time-candle would matter if Constantius accepted Magnentius as Emperor of the West. But if Constantius opposed himself to the ambition of his commander-in-chief, everything hung in the balance. Our careworn Empire would shatter into a patchwork of uneasy alliances and betrayals.

  Gaiso shouted at me again. ‘Come on, Numidianus, we need a state escort if the arrest is to be done properly.’ He laughed at his own preposterous gesture to legal procedure. ‘Besides, I know you love a good hunt!’

  We rode four abreast, heading north in the direction of Augustabona. We sought the hunting grounds last favored by Constans’ entourage, which lay between the two towns on a straight north-south axis. However a sharp-eyed scout half an hour ahead of us galloped back with the news that farther up the road where there was much less traffic, the tracks weren’t churned up at all.

  It was obvious that Constans’ party had headed south by a minor road instead. We raced back and turned onto the southbound highway. It took a wide curve of about eighty miles to reach Decetia. Perhaps we could surprise Constans there.

  By the end of that same afternoon when, parched and dusty, we raced dusk to reach Decetia, a town councilor on the road told us that Constans had heard the news of General Magnentius’ bid for the purple—they all had—within hours of the Marcellinus’ announcement. Constans’ court had ridden through Decetia at noon, scouring the river town for food and riding clothes.

  So we’d lost the advantage of surprise. Now the hunter’s canny stealth gave way to brute speed.

  ‘He’s going to try to hold us off in Avaricum until he gets backup troops,’ Gaiso’s scout suggested. The boy was a local with good common sense, but I could have drawn the same conclusion based on my reading of The Gallic Wars. The fortress town of Avaricum once held off a siege by the great Caesar for twenty-five days. They fell only to a massive assault, after which Julius massacred the region’s 40,000 resistant Gauls.

  We rode on and rested for only a few hours in a state mansio permitted to our party by the permanent licenses I carried. The next morning Avaricum stood in the distance, peaceful and prosperous-looking. After three centuries, its famous walls looked as impregnable as ever. But closer to hand, we passed empty granaries and barren fields. We encountered no welcome and no resistance. For the first time, I saw the destitution Constans’ court of luxury and indolence imposed on innocent citizens.

  We trotted into the city past beggars covered in lice. Our horsetails brushed aside children with swollen bellies. We found no imperial court waiting for us. But we did see that Marcellinus and his merchant contacts across central Gallia were right—the towns were running short of food and spring was still months away The welfare rolls were lengthening without relief as Constans, Constantia, and their costly entourages emptied the imperial coffers on personal luxuries and frivolous travels.

  Despite their confusion and poverty, the Avaricum elders rallied at the sight of Gaiso leading us into the forum. They rang their church bells to call the townspeople away from their hearths and in from their labors to line the main thoroughfare and watch us make our way towards the state hostel. They cheered us when Gaiso handed the mayor pouches hefty with silver coins for repairs and social welfare. Not for nothing did they call Marcellinus the ‘Count of Imperial Largesse.’ Even our back-up horses were curried and watered while we listened to the city councilors. The old gray heads bore no love for Constans, but expressed fears that a dispute over the throne meant only disorder and more hungry mouths for them.

  ‘What are we getting for our taxes if there’s no relief, no grain and no oil from Roma to keep us going until spring?’ one gnarled wise man complained.

  ‘Under the General Magnentius, you’ll receive all the assistance you need,’ Gaiso promised. He swore an oath on his battered sword that Avaricum would not be shortchanged any longer.

  And so we continued travelling and after witnessing a handful of such brief exchanges, I realized that Marcellinus had prepared Gaiso well. However drastically Constans had impoverished Gallia, the Prefect was confident finances could recover fast once the junior Constantine was out of the way.

  Meanwhile, I was learning new roads and making new contacts at every stop, all of it useful for my schola. I marveled that, even as fast as we were travelling, news of the ‘Usurper Barbarian’ was always well ahead of us, invisibly flying forward and outward between villages, fields and relay stations via the network of human nature that even the imperial roads or Mercury’s wings couldn’t have equaled.

  We’d been riding nonstop since dawn, snacking in our saddles and urging our horses up and down stee
p ravines and craggy cliffs as the terrain turned thick-wooded and rough. We rode at a steady pace but found no trace of Constans. We got no tipoffs from random travellers, either, including a group of pilgrims for Jerusalem following their noses stuck into the latest guidebook.

  Nothing was fast enough for Gaiso. His energy never flagged. Our scouts were returning to us, more discouraged each time, with mere rumors, especially when we met them at a forked junction giving no hint of Constans’ direction.

  To the southwest lay Augustoritum and the freezing waves of the sea, and to the southeast sat Augustonetum, the volcano-ringed city between us and the teeming metropolis Lugdunum farther east.

  ‘We’ll catch him at Aginnum,’ Gaiso shouted over his shoulder to all of us, which meant no rest for anyone in Augustoritum’s comfortable baths. Instead we’d be charging due south into the night by torchlight.

  If I ever doubted that Gaiso was a formidable hunter, that night proved it. He had a way of making the hunt the entire focus of his mind, body and spirit. He was like a man that the mythmakers conjured up in their rolling sagas full of gods, goddesses and their mortal favorites. Any prey filled his heart with courage and drive.

  His enthusiasm was contagious to me, but not necessary all the others. Aginnum was almost in each but some in the squadron wanted to turn back. They grumbled that it was impossible for Constans to move that quickly and discreetly, for all the bribes between Londinium and Antiochia. The trail had gone cold. We’d underestimated the guile hidden under those blond curls and long eyelashes. How could any emperor so flamboyant have passed through this countryside unseen?

  Only then, those gods that watched over the Gaisos of this world gave us a lucky break. We were riding hard when suddenly our horses were blocked at a junction on the paved road by a bold-voiced redheaded shrew of about thirty. She looked like a refugee with only her fading beauty to sell—or so we assumed. She stood, her frozen toes gripping the stones, her hands blue with cold. She clutched the rope of a heavy sack balanced behind her weather-reddened bare shoulders.