by Q V Hunter
Magnentius’ opportunity for consolidation had just slammed shut in his face. The last Constantine Emperor had freed his hands for revenge.
Chapter 16, An Intruder’s Note
—Aquileia, Late July 351 AD—
On my return to my agens duties at the fortress in Aquileia, even the ordinary task of managing the imperial post ate up all my waking hours. Each night as I flung myself down on my narrow bed, I tossed a prayer of thanks to Apodemius for relieving me of my duplicitous commitment to Eusebius’ purposes. Every other member of the court worked night and day the same way. Through the warming months of March, April, and May we all bustled about our tasks with a preoccupying air that masked unspoken tension.
Time and again, when I tried to snatch a moment alone with Gregorius, he brushed me off in his haste. He had no inclination during these politically uneasy days to be seen associating with any curiosus like me. He didn’t even inquire where I’d been during my months of absence. The Sardica episode was officially recorded, filed and forgotten. The tribunes who had survived it better than I gave me a wide berth. My escape was suspicious, not to say embarrassing, to those who had abandoned me, but no one had the authority to interfere with my schola.
As the summer heat mounted, the women of the palace retreated deeper into their cool and sequestered world of seamstresses, lady’s maids and bath attendants. As a rule, I glimpsed very little of Kahina, Roxana or the slender young Empress. I suspect the Emperor himself saw his virgin bride not at all. Once I thought I saw Kahina lingering in a crowded marble corridor that I traversed every morning, but someone called her away before I could greet her.
Eighteen months into his reign, Magnentius had indeed sunk roots into the troubled soil of the West. True to his reputation as a barbarian bull, he scorned the gilt chairs and flapping dragon banners of his Eastern superior, but he indulged his love of horseraces, social baths, loose women and military sport with the gusto of a rugged northerner not exactly born to the purple.
As Magister Officiorum, Marcellinus had his greedy hands as full as he wished, liaising with the ranks of civil servants left back in Mediolanum. For the time being, it looked like his butchery of Nepotianus and the Roman senators had slaked his provincial resentments.
He now managed every corner of the West that measured success by coin. Dodging Gregorius’ festering anger, he fortified himself by selling off any insignia or positions at hand. Then he invented more honors and ranks and sold those off, too. Clearly, Marcellinus was banking that even the disruption of a looming civil war wouldn’t unearth his secret horde of gold back in Augustodunum where his wife safely managed their booming estates.
To make sure everyone knew he disliked getting so rich and powerful, Marcellinus complained nonstop. He condemned uppity Christian bishops controlling ever-bigger estates, dishonest tax commissioners, and hard-bargaining middlemen driving up the price of food and wine handouts for the vast welfare hordes down in the city of Roma.
This summer of anxious peace didn’t suit the agitated Lieutenant Commander Gaiso, either. He stayed friendly with me even as Gregorius kept his distance. The brusque horseman took on the job of upgrading and inspecting the arms factories. When he wasn’t on the move—this week to see Ticinum’s new shields, next week Carnuntum’s stronger bows—he was touring with the Commander of the Stables, inspecting the supply and health of the horses. He had to make sure that the equine taxes were buying the best horseflesh possible and not disappearing into the officer’s pockets.
I said nothing to the vigorous hunter, but Gaiso’s labors left me wondering what difference a sleeker arrowhead or a faster mount could make against Constantius’ Persian-style armor encasing the Eastern cavalry from top to toe.
Gregorius liaised with the praetorian prefects running the crush of legions stationed in a wide crescent to the northwest of Roma and up into central Gallia. Restless soldiers, displaced from their usual job of pushing back barbarian border raids, clamored for food, sex and distraction.
As for Magnentius, over recent months, he’d raised more money to throw thousands of fresh German mercenaries—none of them Christians—into the ranks. He was sure that money and barbarian blood would bind their hearts to his standard.
‘None of them has ever even seen Roma and never will,’ he scoffed. ‘But they’ve seen me. Now I am Roma.’
Meanwhile, these droves of longhaired warriors strained the resources of town after town. Field workers and slaves suffered in silence but educated Gallo-Romans and Italian city fathers were unnerved by the demands of these vast encampments. Their growing sea of tents lapped like a tide, gaining yards of ground closer and closer to the protective town walls each night. The various city elders sent a constant stream of delegations to Magnentius to beg relief. Aquileia’s imperial reception rooms crowded up like provincial meeting halls.
Of course, the Aquileians didn’t complain. What wealth still remained in the Western Empire swiftly made their money purses bulge. Quick-thinking food vendors set up lean-tos against the outer walls of the imperial courtyard to sell cool drinks against the midday summer heat. Even the prostitutes were making enough off imperial military traffic to leave off work by mid-morning for a solitary siesta.
In his attempt to avoid constant interruption, Magnentius shifted his morning exercises to a pre-dawn stint of weights and running. He held his dawn council in the privacy and cleansing steam of the imperial baths. I reported daily, twice with the dispatches from Mediolanum and beyond before his main meal and twice again in the afternoon and end of the day.
‘It can’t hold, Magnentius. Decentius needs help, now.’ Gaiso was saying in the baths one hot day. Wearing nothing but a towel, he’d just read a report from the Caesar up on the Rhenus. ‘Constantius is funneling gold to these tribes behind our backs in secret. It’s a betrayal of his own Empire, but effective. Decentius can’t get the upper hand. He needs more forces to push back each time the Alemanni gain ground. They can’t break through walls but they besiege the towns with weapons as good as ours.’
‘Time to return the legions to their border fortresses?’ Marcellinus had finished with his rub down. He tipped his slave well and sat up on his couch. ‘This morning’s report does it for me. If Constantius spends June in Sardica, I’ll wager that’s it for the summer. We don’t need any blessing if he leaves us alone.’
‘Send me back as the head of the northern legions to help Decentius mop it up, Imperator,’ Gaiso said. For him, hunting any prey—feckless emperor, ferocious boar, or Alemannic chieftain—was better than sitting out the summer on the southern coast like a holiday maker.
‘No. It’s too soon to lower our defenses,’ Gregorius said. ‘We have no Constantine heir, the Senate still has empty seats, and Nepotianus’ skull may be picked clean but thanks to you, Marcellinus, it still rattles on the gatepost over Roman heads. We must negotiate again.’
Provoked by heat and steam, Gregorius’ savage white scars and empty eye socket looked all the more shocking without the pomp of a uniform to dignify them. He pulled a bath sheet tighter around his shoulders as if only he felt a sudden draft chilling the room.
Marcellinus stood up and commanded our attention with both hands on his solid waist. ‘Gregorius, exactly what is this peace worth if it bankrupts every merchant and landlord between here and Lugdunum? We end up ruling an empire overrun with Alemanni. They can’t read so much as a bar tab, much less a tax bill. As we sit here, the East only gets richer and stronger.’
‘Some people in the West are getting rich, too,’ Silvanus said, eyeing Marcellinus. He dashed cool water from a bucket over his head and groin. ‘So, we send Decentius temporary reinforcements, but no general retreat?’
As usual, General Silvanus was the moderate voice, the man who kept the peace among the councilors. Roxana’s reports of Silvanus as the inner circle’s calm and steady core matched my own observations. He was always ready to flatter Marcellinus’ vanity or soothe Gregorius’ seething grief ov
er the Senator. He commanded great loyalty from the thousands of troops he’d added to the rebel side. For his part, Gaiso made it clear that he respected the Frankish general’s fighting skills.
I also noticed one other important thing. General Claudius Silvanus only chose battles he was sure to win.
But now, it seemed, none of them might have a choice. As usual, I’d read and memorized the mail in advance for sending the most salient intelligence to Apodemius. And one early June morning, I learned before any of these men running the western world that something momentous had occurred overnight.
Now out of curiosity, I’d lingered almost too long at the bathing conference for a chance to warn Gregorius. With reluctance, I made to leave. I’d reached the passage leading out of the large echoing central pool room when Magnentius looked up from the morning’s dispatches and called, ‘Wait, Agens. Wait over there.’
I sought a bench as far from the furnace flues as possible and watched.
‘Constantius has made his move. At last.’ He looked up from the report and nodded at each of the rebels, one by one. ‘He had moved west and camped halfway between Sardica and the Alps.’
‘We blocked the passes. He can’t get through,’ Gaiso said.
‘He’s aiming for Atrans. I know it.’ Magnentius slapped his naked beefy thigh.
I knew Atrans, a vital and fortified postal hub on the Cursus network between Emona and Celeia. It nestled next to the Sava River coursing down a narrow green Alpine valley marking the border between Italia and Noricum.
‘Gaiso is right. Atrans is secured. There’s nothing Constantius can do.’ Gregorius seemed satisfied with that. I hoped Gaiso was right. I was relieved to think my ex-master was out of danger.
‘No, we can do better,’ Magnentius said. ‘We’re not a bunch of helpless girls weaving baskets around a fire. We wait for Constantius at Atrans and wipe him out in an ambush—’
‘No!’ Gregorius shot to his feet. ‘There’s no need for war.’
‘Sit down, Atticus,’ Magnentius ordered. ‘We’re going to finish this, once and for all. We’ve got every Gaul, Celtic Iberian, Frank and Saxon warrior behind us. We’ve got the fiercest legions of the Empire, all drawn up and standing ready, right out there! We’ve got thousands of barbarian auxiliaries and mercenaries chomping at the bit. They came down here because I promised that every prisoner they take will become their personal property, from the generals and commanders to the last javelin thrower, and that all captured baggage and property will be their plunder. They want to see that promise come true.’ It was not the heat of the baths that sent the red blood coursing through his cheeks.
‘You’re not describing civil war. You’re describing the end of the world,’ murmured Marcellinus. ‘For once, I agree with Atticus Manlius Gregorius. To lose such a fight, which we could only take to the bitter end, would be the end of all of us, of everything.’
Magnentius exploded with pent-up energy. ‘But we’re sure to win, Marcellinus! I know what makes men fight. I know how to lead such soldiers—not from the rear like Constantine’s cowardly runts, but from the front, like a true emperor.’
‘So you’re resolved?’ Gaiso closed his eyes with relief and then leaned forward to shake Magnentius’ meaty hand.
‘We meet Constantius at Atrans.’
Stark naked, the Emperor of the West strode out of the baths for his offices. His advisers followed one by one, with divided hearts.
***
‘I will speak to you, Commander, whether you like it or not.’
I had blocked Gregorius from crossing the outer courtyard on his way from a briefing for lower-ranked officers.
‘I have no time,’ he said. He brushed past me.
‘You have no choice, Commander.’
‘How dare you!’ He kept on striding across the broad pavement towards the offices he shared with Gaiso.
I drew my sword. It was the first time in our long decades together that he looked at me exactly as one man looks at a complete stranger. I was undeterred. ‘You will listen.’
He stopped, aghast at the sight of my blade catching the summer sunrays.
‘I will listen, Marcus, because then I can prosecute you as a freedman for threatening the very master to whom he still owes allegiance under law. Do your job, whatever it is, and leave me alone.’
‘True, I answer to others now, as well as to the memory of your house. And I tell you out of love for that house, Commander, as well as loyalty to the Empire, that if Magnentius fights, the chances are that he will lose. The Manlius family risks ruin. I have seen with my own eyes that Constantius leads a formidable force, not just in numbers—’
‘We have more troops by far—’
‘Not in armaments. You’re not balanced in armaments, Commander. The cavalry under Constantius rides like impenetrable statues cast from molten metal hammered out by Zeus himself.’
His eye twitched. He hesitated for an instant before asking, ‘You’ve seen this?’
‘In Sardica. Cataphracts they call clibanarii. Constantius stole the designs off the Persians, probably by torturing them for information. I saw Constantius’ mounted legionaries exercising in these encasements of armor. They were riding and fighting, as flexible and invulnerable as gods.’
‘What are you suggesting I do with this information? Warn Magnentius? Or defect out of cowardice?’
‘If you only could, Commander, for the sake of Lady Kahina and the child. But if you try to defect, I have orders from the highest authority of my schola to stop you—for good. Any defection would shatter the last illusion of a stalemate that’s holding the peace by a thread. It would tip the West right into the Emperor Constantius’ lap. And too many people support Emperor Magnentius now for the reprisals not to be horrendous. A negotiation from strength is the only hope for peace.’
His face, already twisted by hardened cords of scar, grimaced with irony. ‘You seem to have learned an awful lot—’
‘At the Senator’s knee, Commander.’ I bowed my head.
His ruined face crumpled. Despite himself, grief washed across his ruined features. He turned away, stiff with indignation and remorse. If he blamed me for not preventing the Senator’s death, I had to ignore it now.
‘The only way out, Commander, is a truce that saves the Western Army. Negotiations must go forward.’
‘I agree.’ He turned back to me, composed again. ‘We can only hope that a solid defense at Atrans will set Constantius back on his heels. I’ll fight to keep this peace, Marcus. I’m no Gaiso or Silvanus. You know better than any man alive, I have no more eyes or hands to spare.’
I sheathed my sword and knelt on one knee in front of him. ‘Commander, I can now add that when ordered to kill you if you defected, I swore I would kill myself first.’
He laid a hand on the back of my neck and fingered the familiar neck cord of my bulla. For a moment, I felt he was leaning on me for support. He withdrew his hand and in a kinder tone, asked, ‘You loved my father very much, didn’t you Marcus?’
‘I could not have loved my own grandfather more, Commander.’
I saw the few fingers of his maimed hand clench into a sudden fist, turning the shiny scars white with tension. Then, with a sudden turn of his back, he paced off into the late summer dusk.
***
Later that night, footsteps pattered past my sleeping cubicle towards the gate lodge where we kept the dispatch bags under lock and key. I crept out of bed, armed with my small swivel knife hidden up my tunic sleeve. I looked harmless enough, but if someone was trying to tamper with the imperial post, I had to be prepared for a struggle. I took a deep breath, ready to make an arrest that would stick, no matter how ferocious the resistance.
Nobody disturbed our communication lines without paying a painful price.
Through the lodge window, I saw a dark, hooded figure rustling from one spot to another in the shadows. He didn’t seem to be stealing anything, because in a minute, he’d slipped back out thr
ough the small wooden door, as unencumbered as before. He replaced the latch with the perfect silence of a trained burglar.
I slunk along, following him back through outer courtyard, and then the inner courtyard, sticking close to the walls as we both slipped past dozing sentries and into the imperial palace. It wasn’t hard to shadow him in my bare feet as he slipped through the corridors with a surety that told me he was no stranger to these halls himself.
We moved like this for nearly ten minutes, stopping and then continuing on in absolute silence. This was no amateur. He stayed nearly invisible in the gloom, making no sound. Twice I nearly lost him, but a slight movement in the moonlight shining through a window or the shift of a grey shade along a corridor told me he was making his way deeper and closer to the private recesses of the imperial chambers.
If this were an assassin, I’d have to make my move in seconds before he had the time to kill. It was too late to raise the palace praetorians. After months of boredom and summer heat, they had dropped their guard. The intruder was seconds away from gaining access to one of the sleeping commanders.
I dashed forward and cornering him, I lunged and got him to the ground. I pressed my short blade to his neck and ripped off his hood.
Roxana smiled up at me in the dark. ‘They should have given you better marks back at the Castra.’
I dropped her and stood up. ‘I suppose you’ve got some explanation. The mailbags are my job.’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t help it if your hours and mine don’t match.’
‘What were you stealing?’ She made no resistance as I searched her. In fact, she made it seem like an embrace. Suddenly I felt her drawing me close to her with a different kind of urgency.
‘Don’t play with me, Roxana. Your job is Silvanus.’