by Q V Hunter
He waved an unfamiliar letter in spidery script in my face. ‘Did you speak to my mother?’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes, you African clod! Contrary to Eastern rumor, I have a natural mother and she wrote me this! Did you speak to her before you left?’
‘No, Imperator.’
‘What is it, Magnentius?’ The hot-blooded Gaiso knew best the dangers of a temper.
‘The old woman warns me not to proceed farther into Pannonia.’
Marcellinus sniggered. Magnentius rounded on him, his thick fist half raised to flatten his magister officiorum. ‘Her prophesies have never been wrong. She warns us of Fates unfavorable to an engagement in Sirmium.’
Gregorius cleared his throat and a number of tribunes standing along the perimeter of the tent’s wall looked uncomfortable. A long silence settled on the assembly in the tent.
‘That’s it, then,’ Magnentius said. ‘We’ve marched too far and we must appease the Fates. We are within a day’s reach of Constantius. Gaiso, get me soothsayers and experts on ritual. Comb the villages.’ His large eyes darted from man to man, all of them looking aghast.
The meeting disbanded with mutters and troubled glances.
Gaiso rode out of the central camp at the head of half a turma of fifteen cavalrymen plus their officer. I slept that night with seven other tent mates of my rank. I wondered if, among those thousands upon thousands of men bedding down in tents of their own all around me, there were any bands of Christian converts sneering at their Emperor’s barbarian follies.
If such ridicule carried into the night, it was cut short at dawn the next day. Reveille sounded on horn after horn across the wide fields of our tents. The legions massed in an enormous circle around Magnentius’ wooden platform to hail their Emperor.
A salute roared up from the men at the sight of Magnentius mounting the wooden steps but the troops’ acclamation plummeted into a sea of confused buzz as we saw a girl of about fifteen in a long white tunic escorted up the wooden steps to the Emperor’s side. A wizened old woman, so bent over with age her nose pointed down at the planks, pulled herself up the steps as well, followed by a small scruffy boy as her only escort.
I was positioned too far away to hear, but I wasn’t too distant to note that Gregorius and Marcellinus—odd allies at the best of times—were nowhere to be seen.
Gaiso stood and enjoyed a borrowed moment of glory to acknowledge a spontaneous cheer from some upstart legion off to the east of the sprawling camp. Silvanus stood rigid to the far side of the platform, flanked on both sides by Frankish officers unknown to me.
Magnentius spoke at length, his voice reaching me only as a vulgar Latin shout riding the wind, something to the effect that the Fates needed propitiating to ensure that the army’s courage and skill would reach its rightful destiny.
Then—without more warning than that—the Emperor took a ceremonial dagger off a pillow presented by the old woman, took hold of the maiden’s long hair, jerked back the poor girl’s head and slit her throat mid-scream.
A roar—half-horror, half-blood-lust—rose up from the legions. The girl’s twitching white shoulders were held over a crude washing basin carried by the boy. Amidst a torrent of nightmarish incantations accompanied by rough gesticulations from the sorceress, the praetorians held out cups to collect the hot spurting blood for the troops to drink with a dilution of wine from vats waiting below.
I was desperate to find Gregorius or even Marcellinus, when horns blasted through this awful procedure. Even the Emperor Magnentius started at the unexpected signal.
Now I pushed forward, despite the resistance of hundreds of hefty pairs of armored shoulders, just in time to see Marcellinus riding into the parade ground. Behind him followed some forty to fifty cavalrymen, their banners carrying the unmistakable Chi-Rho logo of Constantius’ forces.
I took a huge breath when I saw that. It was too late to save the poor girl slumped limp and as white as her dress in the arms of a soldier. But perhaps this ancient blood magic had worked to save the peace after all. Why else would Marcellinus be escorting delegates from the Eastern Army into our camp?
I kept fighting to get a better position to overhear what happened next. ‘Flavius Philippus comes to us from Constantius, to kneel and bargain,’ Magnentius was shouting at the troops by the time I had worked my way within earshot of the platform.
This Philippus—a tall, noble-looking Roman—raised his arms in greeting and broke into Magnentius’ oratory. He was determined to deliver his message in his own way.
‘ . . . does not become you, Roman citizens all, to make war on fellow Romans. Your Emperor is none other than the son of Constantine with whom you’ve enjoyed many victories, for whom you’ve erected many trophies and memorials over the barbarians who threaten our borders and our way of life.’
Philippus scowled at his host. ‘Flavius Magnus Magnentius should remember the Constantines’ kindness to him and to his parents. And how ironic that it was Constans himself who saved Magnentius from danger in a previous mutiny, and recognizing his long service to the Empire, exalted him to the highest dignities . . . ’
At this reminder of that murky episode from which the Constantines had supposedly rescued him, Magnentius’ jaw shot up. He glowered in undisguised defiance at the enemy envoy’s plea. I observed how this Philippus knew how to get his message across, even to the thousands of men too far to hear his actual words. He spoke slowly and waited between phrases, relying on reports spreading backwards like ripples across a vast pond of armor.
At one point, he spread his arms as if to embrace Magnentius who only shoved him away in rebuke.
Philippus persisted. ‘Leave Italia, Magnentius. Retreat with honor. You shall rule the nations west of the Alps. This is the Emperor Constantius’ offer. Our esteemed ruler desires only to husband the lives of all who stand here before him today. He makes this offer of peaceful joint governance to avoid a fearful struggle pitting the armies of Gallia, Hispanisa, Africa, Britannia against Illyricum and the East. Your Emperor Constantius desires only peace.’
The army was shifting at the visitor’s imploring gestures. A few units started up a clamor of swords banging in rhythm on their shields to show their agreement. Magnentius had to decide whether to swallow Constantius’ offer or fight back, but the troops made it clear they would welcome a peaceful partition of rule.
Magnentius’ face flushed with indignation. He could see in Philippus all the grace, eloquence and breeding he lacked. He knew his command over the men rested on an appeal to their resentments and provincial passions, not their loyalties to the Constantine succession.
With an abrupt thrust of his right arm, he pushed the emissary aside and cut him off with, ‘Men, have you no memory of the abuse, disdain and dishonor your service received under a Constantine drunk, a spendthrift, a tyrant, an enfeebled excuse for a man, a so-called leader who ranked even his prisoners-of-war above yourselves. He laughed at our desire to restore Roman honor, virtue, and order . . .’
As Magnentius chided and cajoled, the refined Philippus was soon eclipsed by the sheer size and bullying energy of his host. Even when I realized with alarm that Philippus was no longer visible on the platform, Magnentius still hadn’t stopped his rallying and railing.
I finally reached the back of the parade ground at the rear of the imperial tents. There I discovered Marcellinus in hurried conference with Silvanus, even as Magnentius’ voice still bellowed and echoed across the valley plain.
I joined a set of tribunes awaiting their orders from the council.
‘That was not pagan ritual. It was nothing more than barbarian savagery,’ Marcellinus was saying.
‘He’s accusing Philippus of coming here only to spy on our numbers,’ Gregorius interrupted, appearing from the scene of the debate. ‘Silvanus has got Philippus in detention in his private tent now, on Magnentius’ orders.’
‘It’s a stupid move, completely out of bounds to treat an envoy that wa
y!’ Marcellinus protested.’
‘I believe Philippus came with a genuine offer. We should take it.’ Gregorius’ instinct was to preserve the Empire’s unity, even in these final precious hours.
Gaiso shook his head. ‘It might be a trap. Constantius could overtake our rear on the road as we retreat. He could pick us off, one ala at a time.’
‘No, I believe Philippus is sincere—and yet, like you Gaiso, I don’t trust the offer,’ Marcellinus said. ‘There is something wrong, something we don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it but we need Silvanus. I want to know how he reads Philippus.’
Behind us there was a deafening roar, ‘To the Sava! To the Sava!’
All color drained from Gregorius’ good cheek. Magnentius had won the day over Philippus. The Commander glanced at me and the others followed with a pregnant silence.
They were staring at me because that I was the only neutral officer, the only agens in sight. It was now my responsibility to stand by, near the tent where Philippus had been detained, and to collect any message he wanted to dispatch to Constantius on the other side.
I was discussing this with Gaiso when someone caught my eye.
Hanging to one side with other less senior officers, was that so-called Roman ‘noble,’ the aristocrat Urban Prefect Titianus who had left Anicetus to the butchery of Nepotianus’ convicts and then abandoned me in Sardica for the pleasure of Paulus Catena’s personal perversity.
It took me a few moments to recognize this helmeted man listening intently and silently to the ongoing debate around us. But he had already recognized me.
‘I know you, Agens Numidianus.’
‘Prefect Titianus.’ I had nothing good to say to him.
‘I’m glad to see you here.’
‘I’m certainly lucky to be here, no thanks to you.’
‘There is no time for recriminations or petty scores. I may need you. Magnentius has just decided to send me with a delegation to Constantius to urge his retreat eastwards to the Persian front. I know you are a trustworthy escort.’
‘Magnentius wants Constantius to retreat?’ I was appalled. ‘The acclamation of so many soldiers can intoxicate even a great man like the Emperor,’ I said. ‘He should reconsider. The entire Empire might be too much, even for the reforming Magnentius. Forgive me for declining your invitation but I serve my schola first. Your delegation has no need of me.’
‘But you know the court of Constantius well.’
‘As I said, my posting is here.’
I nodded in salute and announced myself at the tent where Silvanus still detained Philippus under Magnentius’ orders. I expected to find Philippus there under protest and the even-handed Silvanus dominating him with his usual cool command.
Instead I stumbled on an unexpected scene.
Far from acting his warden, the Claudius Silvanus was seated on a camp stool and leaning nose to nose in conversation with the rejected envoy. I took up a discreet position and watched from the anonymity of a cluster of guards. The two officers continued their hurried and eager conference. Perhaps Silvanus saw a chance to broker a peace for us all. Philippus’ expression was of concentration and agreement, not fear. The two officers didn’t notice me but kept on in rapid-fire conversation for almost ten minutes. Finally, the two men nodded, stood up and slapped each other on the shoulder with an exchange of satisfied glances.
I slipped away to find Commander Gregorius at once. I felt the rush of suspicion at Silvanus’ calm expression now meeting the memory of Roxana’s sly smile. Was this her last, darkest secret? Was this her conspiracy with Eusebius made reality? Had she infected Silvanus with doubt as strong as a poison concocted by Eusebius and honeyed with her pillow whispers? Or could Silvanus be trusted to win over Philippus to some kind of accommodation with his barbarian emperor?
‘Commander, I strongly suspect General Silvanus of making a deal with the court of Constantius. But what nature of their accord, I can’t say. He’s in the imperial tent now, saying goodbye to Philippus.’
‘Silvanus is a sound man, as sound as they come. You’re talking treason.’
‘No, Commander, listen to me. He was the last to join up to your cause—‘
‘I won’t listen to slander.’
‘Please, Commander. There is a doubt. Cast your mind back over the last year. Wasn’t Silvanus always the man with the last word in any debate? Wasn’t he the reasonable voice who weighed all sides first. Wasn’t he the least passionate, the least headstrong, and the least committed?’
Gregorius rounded on me. ‘Shut up, Marcus! How can you judge a man like Silvanus, commander of tens of thousands, who are cheering him out there right now? Do you think he’s a man to stake his honor and give word to us and then simply turn tail?’
‘I saw his face just now.’
‘Leave him to it. He’ll do his utmost to bring Phillipus around. I’m sure of him. Yes, the gods help us, perhaps the two of them can negotiate us out of this situation.’
‘There’s more, Commader. Silvanus is bedmates with Roxana—’
‘A stupid housemaid—’
‘A spy for the East.’
He paused, and his scarred mouth curled with disbelief. ‘A woman? A woman! It’s unheard of. And even if your fantasy were true, Marcus, does that make her any worse than yourself, an agens? I’ve seen the way you look at her, Marcus. You only wish she were your kind. You could have had a respectable life as my freedman in some trade or business, owing only homage to the Manlii instead of playing messenger boy to—oh, I don’t know.’
The bitter roots of my defection from his family’s patronage sank far deeper than I suspected but I had to keep trying before it was too late.
‘You’re wrong, Commander.’ I chased after his brisk steps in the direction of the tumult raging beyond. ‘Roxana is nothing to me. She’s nothing like me. She’s a double agent, working for Eusebius, the most powerful eunuch at Constantius’ side. I know that person. He made me an offer to betray our schola, too. Whatever you do to beg Magnentius for a peaceful deal, Eusebius is working to annihilate any peace, so he can spread his web wider from Antiochia to Burgundium like a mammoth spider.’
Now Gregorius paused. I had called everything into question—his commitment, judgment, and even his survival. I faced him eye to eye and thought I detected for a flickering instant some wavering in his mind. For he knew that I was not only an ex-Numidian house slave, as jumped-up on the day of my manumission as freedmen come, but also his own unacknowledged flesh and blood. He could not help but listen to that, once he’d had a chance to digest my warning.
But who could think straight in this mayhem? The shouts and pounding on shields hadn’t stopped rolling around us, wave by wave. In vain, the tubicens blew signals for retreat. Some over-excited units were already testing the cold waters of the Sava, boat or bridge crossing be damned.
‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning,’ he said as if there was nothing more to say, but I noticed that he marched off alone still deep in thought towards his own tent. A dozen other officers huddled in conference turned to watch his retreating back, glanced at me and then returned to their anxious debate.
***
I dreamt that night I was riding in a wagon. Its ironbound wheels thundered on the paving stones beneath my cushioned head and shook my shoulders as it trundled along.
I opened my eyes. The rumbling around me was no dream. Men shouted outside the leather walls of our tent. A couple of my mates, barely dressed, had gone outside already to see what was happening. I tossed my short cloak over my shoulders and joined the crowd gathering outside. Along the entire lane of tents, dozens of soldiers emerged half-naked from their slumbers.
‘What is it? Did we miss a signal?’
‘What’s up?’
‘We on the move?’
‘Sounds like an attack.’
‘It’s on the far side, near the river. We’re waiting for a report.’
I ran towards the center of the enc
ampment. I had no intention of waiting for some half-baked rumor to reach me via thousands of sleepy men, some of them far from sober. Before I could even reach the command staff’s central tents, I saw a forest of standards and banners ribboning off towards the East.
I mounted the driver’s bench of a supply wagon and peered over thousands of men across the plain. The sun was just rising over the river. At first all I saw was the gray light shattered into a pinkish haze by a broad dust cloud lifting off our camp and hovering in the distant sky.
That cloud meant that a column of men and horses was already marching away from our camp. Thousands upon thousands of them, in tight formation and at a controlled and regular march, had set off without a horn signal or warning shout to disturb the dawn. If my estimate was right, they’d already been sneaking off for at least half an hour. The line extended so far, I couldn’t see their standard bearers, but the standing body positioned at attention and waiting for their turn to file out was beyond numbering.
‘What’s going on?’ I jumped off the wagon and stopped a pair of men trotting back to their tent-mates to report.
‘It’s General Silvanus. The bastard is defecting with all his legions to the other side!’
Why had Silvanus waited until our armies were poised for engagement, until men were sharpening their weapons and adjusting saddles? Perhaps because of honor or perhaps because of simple doubt, Silvanus had hesitated until he heard out the arguments of the envoy Philippus. I didn’t know Silvanus as well as Roxana did but I could imagine him weighing the odds, comparing the numbers, and finally balancing the envoy’s persuasive words against the dangling white corpse of a girl murdered out of superstition.
The last man in turned out to be the first man out the rebellion’s door. Now it was too late to argue him back.
Thirty thousand men were on the move and there was nothing Magnentius could do to stop General Silvanus leading them away. The balance of power held by the blind Fates, so delicately poised between the forces under Constantius and those under Magnentius, had just tipped towards the imperial son.