Usurpers

by Q V Hunter

  ‘Then your day is complete, Imperator, for none other than Constans' murderer kneels before you right there.’

  Paulus Catena had made his move.

  Constantius could not disguise his surprise. ‘This messenger is our brother’s assassin?’

  ‘Yes, Imperator.’

  The hateful Hispaniard stepped forward, his mismatched features made only worse by the dust and blood smeared across his sweaty cheeks. ‘I detained this Marcus Gregorianus Numidianus once before to make a formal arrest for your pleasure, but he escaped the Sardica jail before I could extract his confession.’

  I kept my eyes to the ground and felt the Fates rushing in on me from all sides, invisibly encircling me and whispering my doom in my ears. They were saying that for the sake of honor, I was destined to pay this death. As soon as Prefect Titianus had ordered me here, I had foreseen it.

  ‘Is this true? You bear the insignia of an agens.’ It was the voice of the Emperor reaching me through the Fates’ whistling, hissing warnings.

  I needed to face this final hour standing up, looking the Emperor straight in the eyes as I sealed my doom. I rose off my knee and removed my helmet so that he would always remember the face of one who valued truth.

  ‘I am a freedman, Imperator, and the illegitimate son of Commander Atticus Manlius Gregorius. I rode in the arrest party with Commander Gaiso. As agens attached to his detail, I knew the roads and the stations. I carried the documents for the Emperor Constans’ arrest.’

  ‘But all of that exonerates you from responsibility. Whether we like it or not, that’s what an agens is for, among other things.’

  Catena couldn’t wait. ‘He’s playing games with you, Imperator. He’s no road warrant inspector. He’s the man who wielded the death blow that left your brother disemboweled and bleeding to death in the temple dedicated to your mother.’

  Catena pointed his finger at me. ‘That is the hand that struck down Constans as he surrendered his arms with honor.’

  Constantius’ eyes shifted left, right, left, right without moving his head a jot, as if Catena had pulled a lever inside the Emperor’s uneasy mind.

  ‘How do you know this, Catena? We’ve prayed to avenge our brother’s death for over a year. We’ve delayed satisfaction while we fought back the Persians, even while our deepest family loyalty begged us to turn to the West to take our revenge.’ Constantius turned his angry jaw on its stiff, thick neck and faced Catena with a stony gaze.

  Catena’s uneven little eyes blinked under his sovereign’s scrutiny. ‘He’s the assassin. I swear it. It was the talk of Treverorum.’

  ‘Then he must die, without honor, unlike the thousands upon thousands who lie around us this morning. Hand me my sword. It is my duty to our family name to execute this man myself.’

  To my horror, an aide wasted no time in presenting to Constantius a jeweled scabbard hanging off a filigreed leather sword belt.

  ‘Do you wish to confess or pray, messenger?’

  It was the first time in my young life I could have wished to be a Christian, if only to gain another minute or two of precious breath. However, all the honor of my sacrifice as a man who protected his commanding officer to the death would be tainted by such a deception.

  I shook my head, ‘No.’

  Constantius hesitated. He was a suspicious man by reputation. Perhaps he didn’t trust Catena. Perhaps he found his prayer to settle this score was answered too easily. Perhaps he even thought twice about cutting off a young head so filled with Plutarch.

  He laid the razor-sharp blade on the nape of my neck. My skin shivered at the tickle of cold steel. The morning light caught the jewels on the hilt. I saw the tent wall flicker a dazzling green. I realized that these dancing emerald glints of sunlight were the last things I would ever see. And my last act had been to proclaim my Manlius blood to the world. But would history add this footnote to the credit or debit accounts of the dying Manlius clan?

  ‘Are you absolutely sure, Catena? There has been enough wasteful slaughter today.’

  ‘He’s the one, Imperator. If you don’t believe me, ask Eusebius.’ It was a deft move by Catena to call on his hated rival for corroboration.

  I felt Constantius lift the sword off my neck and into the air to strike the blow.

  ‘But he’s not guilty, Constantius,’ said a man at the rear of the tent. ‘My subordinate officer, the notary Paulus Catena, is sadly misinformed.’

  The assembly turned at the interruption. I thought I recognized my defender’s voice but dared not glance up, for fear my mix of terror and determination to meet the Fates with courage might betray my guilt. The Emperor’s blade hung frozen in the air.

  ‘Catena, my dear fellow, we are all wracked with grief this morning. But even in extremis, we can’t condemn a man, particularly an agens protected by the rule of law, just on hearsay and gossip.’

  ‘How dare you—?’

  ‘Wait, Catena, before you say something you’ll regret. You forget I was briefly part of Magnentius’ court, Imperator. I bear no love for the men who led us to this disaster. Nor will they—if any of their enemy council survives—live to praise the name of Claudius Silvanus. But I do know them and I know their history in this affair. I know that Gaiso, famed for his hunting wiles and peerless in his warrior skills, is the assassin you seek. He boasted of it to me himself. This agens was a mere escort, a North African nobody. He is unworthy of a Constantine’s retribution. Bring Gaiso forward from your prisoners and there you will find true justice.’

  Constantius laid aside his heavy gleaming sword. ‘Stand up, messenger.’

  I stumbled to my feet to see General Silvanus moving forward from the door of the tent.

  ‘Commander Gaiso lies dead, General Silvanus,’ I said.

  A strange smiled glanced across Silvanus’ taut lips. ‘I’m glad Gaiso’s end came on the field then, and not in one of the cells under Catena’s command. Are you sure?’

  ‘This morning I saw his body pierced by a Syrian arrow laid out among the fallen.’

  ‘What do you say to this, Catena?’ The Emperor was an impatient as well as suspicious man. Eusebius had said so long ago. Now I saw for myself the way his large eyes flickered with nervous misgiving back and forth between the handsome, sleek Silvanus and the misshapen Catena.

  Catena knew he was beaten, for now. His smile faded as he exploded with a curse, acknowledged the council members with a curt nod, and marched out of the tent.

  I was excused from the tent myself ten minutes later. I now carried logistical details on emergency medical supplies and body identification-and-disposal procedures to be delivered back to Titianus.

  ‘Marcus!’ It was Silvanus striding from behind to catch up with me.

  ‘Yes, General?’ He had saved my life in that tent, but in my eyes, he was still a traitor to Gregorius. I wondered what he wanted. Was my reprieve just another trap? Silvanus had already proved himself to be fickle and deadly when others were counting on him.

  ‘Did I hear you right in there? You are the son of Gregorius—his own blood, not adopted?’

  ‘Yes, General. My father died last night with the others. His last words were to acknowledge me as his son.’

  Silvanus closed his eyes for a moment as he took this in. Had he kept his troops with Magnentius, Gregorius might be alive today.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you, General. I thank you for repeating Gaiso’s boast. You saved my life.’

  ‘But you are Constans’ killer, aren’t you?’

  I stayed silent, standing at attention, new fear rising up from my boots and filling my chest.

  He kept his voice low. ‘You see, Gaiso never claimed credit. Quite the contrary, he was nothing more than an honest hunter at heart. He would never claim a trophy that wasn’t his. You know that. He praised you for saving his life—not once but twice.’

  ‘Gaiso was no politician, General. We all liked that about him.’ I stayed on my guar
d.

  ‘Yes, I too respected Gaiso for all his hotheaded urges. I knew he was dead when I spoke just then. I saw him take that Syrian arrow and fall from his horse last night. But that’s not why I saved your neck.’

  ‘You just said—?’

  ‘That Gaiso was an honest man, yes. But that’s hardly enough for me to put myself on Catena’s enemies list.’

  ‘Then, why?’

  ‘I did it for that maid Roxana. I owe the girl that much. She has no family, no husband, no sister or brother. She told me one night that you were her only true friend in the entire world.’

  I had to look away to hide my surprise. ‘I wish I’d known. We never said good-bye.’

  ‘She’s the loneliest person I’ve ever met, both brave and foolhardy. I can’t pretend to understand a woman like that. Despite all her talents, that girl is fated to walk a troubled path.’

  ‘I wish her well, General.’

  ‘Perhaps someday you’ll meet her again and make things better for her because of my gesture today?’

  ‘Yes, General.’ It was easy to say. I doubted I would ever meet Roxana again. But Silvanus was satisfied. He nodded and marched back to the imperial tents.

  I didn’t dare ask such a senior officer why he chose to betray Gaiso and Gregorius as well as Magnentius and Marcellinus. These were difficult times. Perhaps Silvanus realized deep down that the Empire still needed the banner of legitimate succession to survive its coming trials. Magnentius had meant no less well, but the barbarian was brash, immoderate and premature in his timing. He was the wrong man rising at the wrong hour.

  But maybe that wasn’t the reason Silvanus defected at the head of thousands that fateful morning. I think deep down I already guessed who had tipped him in favor of Constantius. Whomever she reported to now, Roxana had applied her deadly Castra lessons well.

  Chapter 21, On the Imperial Blade

  —Southeastern Gallia—

  To my surprise, I got promoted from eques to biarchus rank—for completing a mission ‘requiring both discretionary judgment in difficult circumstances and loyalty to the neutral duties prescribed by our training.’ The commendation came from none other than Constantius’ senior staff now installed in Mediolanum. Apodemius must have raised his eyebrows with irony when he signed off on that memo.

  I didn’t deserve it, but who was going to argue with more pay?

  I was certainly luckier than the fifty-four thousand fighters guys stacked on the cremation piles that September morning in Pannonia. Someday a new Plutarch or Virgil would write about them, but for now only men like myself survived to tell our grandchildren about the day the Roman Army committed suicide.

  It was the biggest casualty total that anybody could think of and not something the Empire dared risk again. More than ever, Constantius was riddled with suspicion and anxiety—Eusebius was right about that—but the Emperor’s distrust seemed justified when it came to the survivors of Mursa.

  He did keep his promise not to punish the legions loyal to Magnentius’ cause—even the Franks, Hispaniards and Celtic survivors who hated his family’s guts—but that was the extent of his clemency. His Eastern forces had been shredded. He needed Magnentius’ ‘barbarian’ Romans as battlefront fodder. He sent them marching off to an early death on the Persian border. We heard rumors of bands of legionaries burying their insignia, armor and standards in farmlands and forests in a rush to avoid Persian duty. They became outlaws instead. I heard some even crossed the border and hid among the Goths.

  Either way, surviving Mursa carried its own punishment.

  Civilian supporters weren’t going to escape the Emperor’s wrath, either. All across Gallia and Italia, recriminations and reprisals were turning ugly. Even as Constantius’ elite forces entered the palace in Mediolanum to re-establish his court, they discovered that a boatload of Romans loyal to Magnentius had reached the eastern coast and set sail for sanctuary in Greece.

  When they heard Magnentius and Decentius were on the run, the business cronies and friends of Marcellinus and his vast network of Gallo-Roman merchants and moneylenders took to back roads leading north. Constantius urged them to return and promised an amnesty but few believed in such mercy from a Constantine.

  The political refugees fled so fast, we heard, they left the gates to their suburban gardens still swinging off the latch. They’d been sighted in dozens of different mule, carriage and wagon caravans making tortured progress along obscure farm tracks considered safe from Cursus inspectors. Constantius loyalists seized their property before the refugees had crossed the horizon.

  But the refugees weren’t safe no matter how far or fast they travelled. Paulus Catena posted undercover informants at taverns and market squares all across upper Gallia. Reading the accounts coming in, I pitied the lost reformers, searching for some wasteland where they could subsist on whatever coins lay hidden on them.

  These people weren’t the type to stay in isolated pockets of obscurity forever. It was only a matter of time before they banded back together with a false sense of safety and made themselves a juicy target for Constantius’ implacable revenge.

  Was Kahina among these refugees? Or had she hunkered down with Leo and Clodius in Ostia? Could she have fled to safer boltholes down in Numidia where she hide with family and childhood friends? There was nothing I could do right now, but I hoped the Augusta Justina, under house arrest in Mediolanum, could tell me.

  With a little guilt, I thought of the jeweled rings I’d salvaged from the battlefield for Marcellinus’ wife. They might be more than enough to buy her safe passage to Spain or North Africa but how could I return them? Was she still alive?

  If anyone was keen to interrogate the ringleaders who still lived, it was that vicious Catena. Not to be denied his entertainments, I’d seen him gallop out of Mediolanum at the head of a cohort making straight for the channel. Magnentius still had sympathizers up in Britannia who remembered his British father enslaved by Constantine. Catena was planning a blockade to prevent the Gallo-Romans from finding shelter in the villages north of Londinium.

  And the defeated Emperor Magnentius? He had first fled Mursa with what forces he could muster from the plains of slaughter. They had reached Italia from where he sent desperate messages by army runner offering a new settlement with Constantius.

  Then as Constantius finally set up in Mediolanum, we heard Magnentius had reached Gallia. But when he rallied the survivors there and appeared before them, they’d raised their arms in salute—and hailed the name of Constantius instead.

  Then we got a report that Magnentius was making a run for it with only his mother and brother for company. The trio had slipped past agents watching for them in Augusta Taurinorum. They’d headed up into the thick woods covering the Alpine passes still best known to the descendants of the Taurini tribe.

  There was only one road through Taurinorum. Magnentius was leading his brother and mother to a two-bit walled village called Cularo founded by the Allobroges tribe to the west. They were falling straight into a trap.

  Constantius requested a ducenarius from among the most senior agentes capable of tracking Magnentius down. There’d be no confusion this time about the authority to finish off an emperor—even a usurping barbarian one. But as someone who knew the man and his ways, I was called up as part of the arrest squadron.

  I’d never ridden this road before. After we trailed out of Taurinorum and started climbing, it hardly deserved the name of road. Engineers had carved a trail out of nothing but forest, rock and fog.

  Our leader, a man named Caelius, was no Gaiso—rash, passionate or fast. He was like a well-trained senior bay dog, always keeping his nose forward in the saddle, watching the ground, and riding carefully off the rocky track to spare his horse’s hooves and keep our progress silent.

  ‘That’s it over there.’ One of our scouts returned from a sortie and directed our gaze across a valley at a small walled town.

  Cularo sat next to a bridge spanning the naviga
ble torrents of freezing snowmelt that tumbled across these Alpine ranges down into the Rhondanus River. If Magnentius had anyone keeping watch, we would be spotted filing across that bridge.

  ‘We’ll cross at night,’ Caelius said.

  ‘We have a contact—a stable hand—waiting to fodder the horses,’ the scout said.

  Caelius twisted around in his saddle. ‘Numidianus, where would Magnentius hide? Where will we find him?’

  ‘He’s not the rat-in-the-hole type,’ I answered. ‘He’s a large, burly man, brusque in temperament and a man of the people who prefers to stand tall. He can wear anything, eat anything and even sleep with anything. He’ll feel right at home with the lowliest farmer, but he’s not one to skulk under a bed. I bet he has already recruited all of Cularo to his cause.’

  ‘I see. We don’t want to take the whole town, just one man. Let’s try not to rouse them.’

  We spent the night hidden in the trees on the far side of the bridge, with only our heavy cloaks to protect us from the dripping trees. As far as we knew, no one but our stable boy knew we were there. An hour before daylight, Caelius signaled us to move forward.

  We left the horses tethered with the boy and started toward the town. We were lucky. We were invisible under the sinking moon blanketed by heavy cloud, but the darkness made it harder for us to feel our route down the steep slope without tumbling into the deadly ravine rushing far below us. The ground underfoot was uneven and loose. One man nearly slipped off the cliff when he put his weight on an outreach of unsupported ground. He only caught himself by a branch long enough for us to pull him to safety.

  The sliver of moon had hardly shifted down in the sky but it seemed a lifetime before we reached the bridge. It was no wonder of Roman engineering made of stone arches and even paving. It was made of rope and wood and just wide enough for a team of oxen to drag a wagon over.

  Crouching low and moving slowly, Caelius crossed it in half a minute, only stopping to test a suspicious plank or two. I was astonished to see how this veteran could move like a slippery eel, low and noiseless, by favoring the soft wooden slats and avoiding the noise of his boot studs on the iron reinforcements.