by Q V Hunter
‘No salutation yet from General Vetranio?’ Magnentius barked at me once morning when we were alone.
‘I certainly wouldn’t expect one, Your Excellency, at least not in his own hand.’
The General rounded on me with a jovial smile in mock irritation. ‘You’re lucky I just downed a good breakfast, you sly African smart-ass. And why in Hades’ name shouldn’t the Danube legions support me?’
‘They may well do so, Imperator. But the General Vetranio was Magister Militum under Constans. Now you’re proposing to put Gaiso, a much younger officer, in the same position.’
‘Yes, that’s true. A bit of poke in the eyes, I suppose.’
‘Of course, there may be a simpler explanation. As a postal cadet, I rode that route and I never once carried a letter written by the good and noble Vetranio.’
‘So what?’
‘I only meant that the old general is well known for his simple heart, his humble birth in Moesia, his loyalty to the late Constantine, his devotion to all the great families of Roma,’ I lowered my voice, ‘and his almost complete illiteracy. They say that despite his advanced age, he still studies his alphabet by oil lamp after supper and even reads letters in the wrong order.’
Magnentius burst into a hearty laugh. ‘And to think all week I’ve risen early just to see his letter pop out of your satchel! Well, Vetranio’s legions are the linchpins to the East. Without his support, I can’t march through the Gates of Trajan between Thracia and Macedonia to Constantinopolis.’
To Constantinopolis? The discovery of his ambition made me swallow hard.
‘Did you ever want to, General?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Of course not, course not. Nonetheless, our reform memo seems to have been lost somewhere on the road between here and Sirmium. Perhaps we’ll have to deliver our message of unity in person to Vetranio sometime soon, right, Agens?’
Magnentius’ confidence was breathtaking—and a little frightening. Power was dropping into his lap too swiftly and too easily. Was it because the gods found this upstart Franco-Breton so irresistible that they showered him with good fortune? Or was it because Marcellinus had bought the blustering general the entire West using hidden funds siphoned off from Constans’ private treasury?
My money was on Marcellinus, not the Fates’ favoritism for his hearty Frankish Mars. I no longer wondered how, from that dusty, underheated office back at the Castra Peregrina, Apodemius had sniffed the wind and smelled treason over the previous year.
For his part, Apodemius now kept his own head low, as he gauged the shift in political winds. To the new Magister Officiorum in Mediolanum, the old spymaster acknowledged the rebels’ administration in a curt, correct message with neither embellishment nor obsequious groveling. He confirmed my appointment as the court postal officer, Praepositus Cursus Publici, without praise or comment and issued Magnentius’ officials diplomata for the free use of the state roads.
Yes, Apodemius had seen this coming but surely not just by counting purple ribbons tied to latrines?
One day, as I supervised the sorting of official mail, the solution hit me. I smiled at the simplicity of it. Apodemius had informants at the imperial mints. Of course Marcellinus had told die makers in Treverorum, Arelate, and Lugdunum in advance to carve Magnentius’ outsized profile for pressing, ‘just in case.’ The triumphant barbarian had insisted a whole new mint be opened in his hometown, Samarobriva, as well. Coin was one of the main tools of legitimacy in the Empire.
Nothing crossed the known world faster than its currency, unless it was news of an imperial death. Pocket change was the quickest form of proclamation known to the Empire. It was the surest way to pass your victory slogan and confident profile through everyone’s palm or purse, from Hadrian’s Wall down to Numidia Militaris.
Now coins brandishing Magnentius’ jutting jaw, cow-eyes, large nose and thick fringe of hair were moving from soldier to streetwalker, from trader to farmer and from penitent to priest. Within weeks, we were all fingering shiny new gold solidi and bronze centenionales bearing rallying cries like ‘Victory and Liberty,’ and ‘Happiness to Roma.’
Although, happiness down in Roma was far from a sure thing.
Constans’ grieving sister, the Augusta Constantia, had disappeared in the direction of Roma. Some said the Lord Chamberlain Eusebius himself had escorted her into the metropolis’ imperial complex but I didn’t believe that.
Back in Treverorum, I had delivered mail into the hands of that vixen’s maidservants. So I knew all her regular addresses. My best guess was that she had fled to the sheltering embrace of her aunt Eutropia, one of the old Constantine’s younger half-sisters by his stepmother Theodora.
Eutropia resided at a country estate outside Roma on the Via Nomentana. She had married into the Nepotianii, a formidable clan of aristocrats that could stare down any impertinent eunuch or upstart barbarian soldier. They’d produced two consuls—including Eutropia’s husband fourteen years ago, when I was still a little slave running around the Manlius House and catching all the Roman ladies’ gossip.
In any event, Constantia’s departure must have left hundreds of notaries and scribes, factotums and court hangers-on, lawyers and tribunes idle up in Treverorum where they awaited fresh orders from wherever real power had slunk off to.
For Magnentius, real power only came on the blade of a sword wielded by trusted family or army mates. He chose his imperial praetorians from among crack officers in both the Ioviani and Herculiani. Gaiso was to be the Magister Equitum and Gregorius the Magister Militum. Magnentius readied his brother Decentius to move northwards to consolidate control of Gallia and the Rhenus.
Beyond that, Magnentius kept his heavy-eyed council close to his breast.
We all knew what Marcellinus and he were expecting—that Constantius II would resign himself to Magnentius as co-ruler of the partitioned Empire. Perhaps only Apodemius and I knew what the Franco-Breton was secretly hoping—to advance farther into the East and conquer the entire civilized world.
***
‘Don’t talk to me anymore about Claudius Silvanus!’ Magnentius pounded a thick fist on his table. His roars could be heard bouncing off the marble pillars outside his council chamber. ‘We’ve got all the other Frankish officers recruited from beyond the Rhenus on our side now—Malarich, Mallobaudes, Laniogaisus and yet this—’ he almost sputtered.
His brother Decentius finished his sentence, ‘This Silvanus sent us his “maybe” before I even reached his camp. He’s still biding his time, measuring the options and testing the waters. But he’s the biggest catch, worth a dozen Malarichs. Be patient.’
‘Be patient? We Franks have suffered for two generations, some of our families even longer, waiting for this moment. It won’t come again in our lifetime. Silvanus is a Frank, isn’t he? What’s that bastard’s problem?’
‘I didn’t expect more. The man is careful,’ Gaiso said.
‘He’s out for himself,’ Decentius said.
‘He’s waiting for Constantius out in Persia to give a sign.’ Magnentius said, calming down a bit. ‘I’d do the same in his position, which is why he makes me so angry.’
Gregorius got in the final word on the reticent General Claudius Silvanus. He trained his one good eye on Decentius and Gaiso for support and then counseled, ‘Once we win recognition from Constantius, we don’t need Claudius Silvanus—or his legions. There’s such a thing as being too careful—and paying a price for it later.’
I overheard this conversation because at the first pound of Magnentius’ fist, I had entered with some tardy mail, held back for just such a moment of eavesdropping. I left it with one of the praetorians standing attendance over the Council. Then, as so often during a heated debate, I retreated in a roundabout route to lurk on a stool behind Magnentius’ scribes, two little balding men inherited from the previous regime. They scratched at their wax tablets and snuffled their dripping noses into handkerchiefs all day. They were there to take down letters a
nd record decisions. They never spoke. No one took any notice of them from hour to hour.
I got my best intelligence for Apodemius by keeping those two clerks company. Unfortunately, Apodemius wasn’t the only man who appreciated my inroads.
Marcellinus himself began to watch me out of the corner of his eye. I noticed other signs of the new Magister Officiorium’s displeasure, too. The senior officers who felt kindly towards me just continued to call me ‘the agens’ but more than once I overheard Marcellinus use the nasty nickname ‘curiosus’ within my earshot.
I could swallow insults easily enough, but then he introduced extra guard checks at each stage of the approach to the new ruler’s inner chambers. He was trying to squeeze me, the neutral agent, farther from the inner circle of rebel confidants. Even the Emperor himself sensed something was happening. It was a freezing morning when he decided to speak up.
‘Numidianus, why do you deliver the civil communications later and later each day? The sun’s been up for ten minutes already and we’re in “winter hours.” I feel like I’ve lost half the morning.’
Magnentius was already installed behind his desk in the main imperial building overshadowed by the old Emperor Maximian’s famous fifty-foot towers of twenty-four sides each. He might have become an emperor in title, but at heart he was still a soldier, shaved and uniformed for business at an hour when dilettantes like Clodius were just crawling back to bed down in Roma.
‘Sorry, Imperator. There are certain new protocols installed. I now require special clearance at the gate of the inner courtyard, at the door of the palace and again before entering this council chamber.’
‘By the gods, why? We all know who you are! Do you carry a concealed weapon on your person? Ha!’ He gave a great belly laugh. I thought of the swivel knife inside the high cuff of my boot. I laughed right along.
I dared not point a finger at Marcellinus outright, though he was encircling and isolating Magnentius from independent voices more each week. The Magister Officiorum was buffering and cocooning his emperor deeper inside new layers of civil servants and cumbersome procedures with expertise. You would have thought a military man would have noticed he was falling under an invisible siege of bustling clerics, visiting bishops, economic experts and finicky administrators, but Magnentius was too enthralled with his shiny new coins and military maps to notice.
No, in answering Magnentius that morning, I could not blame Marcellinus for my tardiness. His power was growing, so I chose my words with care.
‘I’m sure tightening up security is necessary, General. It’s up to you, of course, to decide your style of government. But happily, Roma’s long and rich history gives any new Augustus so many models on which to style his government.’
Magnentius lifted his bull-like head to look me square in the eyes. It was a provocative mouthful for a glorified mail boy. Intrigued, he said, ‘Go on, Numidianus. Cough it up.’
I stood straighter and cleared my throat. ‘They say, Imperator, that Trajan was the most beloved of all our emperors since Octavian Augustus himself.’
‘So he was. Spit it out, boy.’
‘Because Trajan was first and foremost a military man, like yourself, General. Tacitus writes that Trajan’s imperial office was no more fortified than the flap of his tent. He was always receptive to the lowliest petitioner or soldier, or any civil servant who sought his favor or brought him news, without appointment or introduction or . . . obstruction.’
‘I see. Well, lucky ol’ Trajan, but I too know my Roman history. That was over two centuries ago. We live in the modern world. In a way, our vast empire is shrinking, son.’
‘Shrinking?’
‘Yes, shrinking, Numidianus! Marcellinus always explains it better than I can but you see, our sophisticated economic links bind our concerns tighter with those of distant regions. It’s not just a question of defending fixed borders any longer. As the Empire expands, our administrative affairs become more intertwined and complicated, Agens. Procedure is important to keep our priorities straight.’
He spread his hands with bewildered distaste over the neat piles of reports Marcellinus had prepared overnight to occupy the Emperor’s morning hours.
‘With respect, General, the Roman Empire might be shrinking when it seems to be expanding, but all I know is, human nature never changes.’
‘How true.’ Magnentius smiled up at the ceiling frescoes, as if fascinated by pastel visions of the Three Great Matrons overseeing our destinies. ‘Where did a Numidian freedman learn about Trajan?’
‘The great Trajan built many of our best roads, aqueducts and towns in Africa. And as you’ll recall, General, I grew up as a slave in the Manlius townhouse in the old capital. My job was to read to the Senator Manlius every morning.’
‘I see. It seems you are doomed to spend your entire life a slave to letters, ha?’ The hearty soldier enjoyed his little puns. ‘Keep reading your history lessons, Agens. You come from the edges of the Empire, like myself, but look how far a humble, hard-working man can travel.’
He slapped his chest. ‘We’re stronger and more robust than those inbred old families. I bring Germanic valor and a Breton’s wit. You bring Numidian speed, not to mention the stubborn endurance of a desert people, I’ll bet. We’re a shot of fresh blood into their inbred, oyster-sucking cliques.’
‘Yes, General.’
‘But all the same, perhaps we provincials can still learn a few things from the wise Romans of old.’ His expression turned wistful. ‘My late wife was always telling me that.’
‘Yes, General.’ I nodded and turned, nearly stumbling over my own boots into Marcellinus who had slipped into the chamber and now lurked right behind me. ‘Outside, Agens,’ he muttered.
Red-faced, I marched back double-time in the direction of my cubicle near the courtyard gates.
‘Agens Numidianus!’
‘Yes, Magister!’ I turned and trotted back. Marcellinus waited for me at the palace entrance. He held out his palm to stop me at the foot of the steps, looking up at him like a penitent in a temple or a criminal in a public trial.
‘From now on, you report to me alone before dawn with the mail sack. We’ll decide together which dispatches need to trouble the Emperor. He’s a busy man. We mustn’t waste his time.’
‘With respect, Magister, that’s contrary to procedure. Each and every message addressed to him must reach his desk.’
‘You question my judgment, curiosus?’
I stiffened. ‘’Course not, Magister. But our training is rigid for a reason. Mail goes to the name written on the front.’
‘I’m the Magister Officiorum now. The heads of all the scholae, including that of the agentes in rebus, report to me.’
I bowed and nodded, playing for time. ‘And in his wise reforms, the Great Diocletian ruled that each agens reports from post or province to his schola superior in Roma. Only the schola master himself answers to you. Our Lord Constantine upheld the system and so does Constantius in the East.’
‘Cumbersome and unnecessary. It may be time for reform of that, too,’ Marcellinus sneered.
I kept the mail satchel pressed tight under my arm. ‘I regret if the current system frustrates intended reforms. Meanwhile I follow orders, no matter my personal inclination to do away with unnecessary bureaucracy.’
I raised one eyebrow and directed his gaze around the courtyard. The sun had cleared the eastern wall of the palace. Hundreds of secretaries, notaries and clerks hurried under their cloaks across the windy space. Marcellinus’ mushrooming palace staff had arrived for the start of another workday.
‘That’s quite a mouthful for an African nobody. I’m astonished Gregorius breeds such arrogance in his slaves. The Manlius household in Roma must be quite a hotbed of democracy.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Magister. The outgoing rider leaves any minute.’
My face burned with self-reproach. How stupid, stupid, stupid I was! Back in Numidia, my recruiter Leo had warned me—an o
ver-educated slave heading off on a volo’s mission—not to betray my cover story by showing off. Leo’s own mentor, Apodemius, had taken me on. But he viewed my fancy education at Senator Manlius’ knees as much an Achilles Heel as an asset to the schola. If I shot off my mouth in the wrong direction, my mission could be ruined.
And now for my cleverness, I’d done exactly that. I had made a firm enemy of arguably the most powerful man in the West, Marcellinus.
It was a frosty morning but I rinsed the nervous sweat off my face in an icy basin back in my private cubicle. I returned to my post and steadied myself to liaise with the next rider. Over the next hour, the agentes’ routine pushed the Magister Officiorum out of my thoughts.
But Marcellinus hadn’t forgotten me. Within that same day he tried to have me transferred from the Mediolanum court. Magnentius overruled him. One week later, as I sorted the dawn dispatches, I discovered a scrap of a letter addressed to me, but bearing no visible message.
Later that same evening, when I was finally alone, I heated the scrap over my oil lantern. As I expected, the writing in acetum became visible. I read only a humorous poem: ‘Which rules the World? The Coin or the Sword? The shining weapon catches the sunlight but the edge of the coin seems sharper than the blade.’ There was no signature—only a cartoon of a field mouse.
And I could not yet answer the Mouse’s question, despite public tensions that told their own story.
One day Magnentius mustered his Ioviani and Herculiani legion commanders, their tribunes and centurions from their winter quarters to an assembly in the outer courtyard of the palace.
‘We’re marching eastward, men! For Aquileia!’
A cheer went up from the troops. At least Aquileia was warmer this time of year.
A startled Marcellinus, his arms full of documents, pushed his way through the ranks of officer to protest.
‘Imperator, we discussed this in the Council. We agreed to wait until spring. We have open-ended correspondence with the court up north and the Julians are still covered with snow. The mountain passes will be—’