by M. K. Hume
Conanus was dumbfounded. His commander’s plan was so outrageous, audacious and utterly impossible that the Briton realised it might just work. ‘We’ll need to wash and oil ourselves if we want to look realistic,’ he pointed out. ‘Do those bags contain suitable clothing as well as musical instruments?’
‘Of course! I purchased everything I could think of through the magistrate’s steward, once I’d prised his master’s divan chair from his clutches. He was upset at first, but I exerted my charm on him.’
The cavalrymen laughed.
‘He even volunteered a selection of his master’s perfumes, most of which would stun an ox at ten paces, as well as a supply of his precious oils. I also found razors and whetstones that will add to our fantasy, although I’ve never tried to remove the hair from my arms, legs and shoulders. I might even have to shave myself in some sensitive places, if I’m to make my appearance believable,’ he added, while pointing towards his groin. ‘I’ve heard that the best whores keep themselves hairless and clean, so I’ll have to think about that option.’
‘So you want us to bathe ourselves and deck ourselves out like the celebrants of the Dionysian Rites?’ one of the men asked.
‘Whatever they are,’ Conanus muttered, sotto voce.
Andragathius nodded.
‘What about us?’ one of the remaining four cavalrymen with a close-clipped, military hairstyle asked. There was just a hint of complaint in his voice.
‘At first, I had considered that you would be surplus to my requirement and that some of you should remain here on sentry duty,’ Andragathius replied carefully.
The captain watched as the men’s faces fell with disappointment.
‘But then I realised I’ll need every man I can get, once we’re ensconced inside the camp site. I have no doubts that we will all live – or die – in carrying out this ruse. There’s no point in holding men back when any high-caste whore would have her own guards travelling with her for protection. Her guards would look more like painted lapdogs than useful warriors so, if you’re prepared to dress like a woman’s playthings, then I’ll ask you to come along with us, for good or for ill.’
With smiles of happiness on their faces, the four men began to shed their armour with enthusiasm, while Andragathius ordered the entire troop to move down to the river with all the necessary equipment, oils and combs that would be needed to turn these obvious fighting men into harmless dilettantes.
‘I also have a supply of cosmetics that can be used to good effect.’ Andragathius fished around in his saddlebags, revealing a small leather case designed for a lady’s toilette, as well as a quantity of gauzy women’s underwear that left little to the imagination.
Conanus began to laugh, quietly at first, but his glee became louder as a new thought struck him. ‘I shall enjoy removing your excess hair, sir, because I’ll be watching when you have uncontrollable itches for days and nights to come.’
‘I’ll survive any discomfort as long as Gratian doesn’t survive at all,’ Andragathius retorted before leading the way upstream, to ensure that the remains of their ministrations wouldn’t be detected in the stream that flowed past Gratian’s compound. That was the last thing he wanted.
‘Take your time, lads. It’s certain that Roman soldiers can turn themselves into soft and harmless puppies if their need is great. I have heard that Caesar disguised himself in women’s clothing on one occasion when such a ruse was advantageous to him.’
Conanus brought up the rear of the column of laughing men. On a whim, he turned to have one final look behind him. Except for an abandoned divan chair sitting forlornly in a field beside the Roman road, there was nothing left to warn any unwelcome visitors that Roman warriors were resting in this quiet and peaceful place.
A divan chair as the assassin’s weapon! Conanus almost laughed at the irony of Andragathius’s plan. Then the questing curiosity that always had to know the reasons that drove men to act turned inwards to bedevil him once more. A divan chair, the ultimate ruse to trap a sybarite, spoke readily of the flaws in Gratian’s character. The cold brain that planned this trap was the real Andragathius, except for the one flaw in his nature that drove the commander to adore a man who was unworthy of him.
For Flavius Magnus Maximus, the golden Warrior of the West, wasn’t worthy of the love of a centurion such as Andragathius. Conanus, brother of Maximus’s dead British wife, had seen the cruelty in his brother-in-law’s nature, the faults in the man and the hubris that would ultimately turn into his Achilles’ heel.
‘What is my obvious weakness?’ Conanus asked himself on the empty field in sight of the low hill that lay beyond it. Emptiness answered him, in a fashion, so that Conanus, a Briton who feared nothing that he could understand, began to shiver in the warm breeze.
‘All is good!’ he muttered and tried to convince himself of the truth of these three words. For once, he agreed with his commander’s use of every available man in this desperate endeavour. ‘We’ll either live or die during this night. But, by God, I swear that Gratian will die too, even if Andragathius should fail. The emperor will be amazed to find what damage can be done with a harp string wrapped around a man’s throat.’
And, with these bloodthirsty utterances, Conanus sauntered after the rest of the men as he whistled tunelessly between his teeth.
CHAPTER VI
A Terrible Female
Lente currite noctis equi.
Run slowly, horses of the night.
Ovid, Amores, Bk 1
Procul hinc, procul este, severae!
Far hence, keep from me, you grim women!
Ovid, Amores, Bk 2
Later, after his blood had cooled and he had the leisure to consider the whole, mad escapade, Conanus would find unfailing amusement in his recollection of the events of that fateful night. Somehow, the cavalrymen had put aside any fear of death and discovered an unexpected amusement and pleasure in disguising themselves for the task that was required of them. Perhaps even fighting men have a sense of the ridiculous. Taking their lead from Andragathius, who was almost cheerful as he scrubbed his skin to a ruddy cleanliness with white river sand, the men adopted a festive mood, as if they were dressing for a spot of leave in a friendly city.
The change to Andragathius’s demeanour was almost shocking to Conanus. The captain seemed to relish his disguise, as he entered into a transformation of his hardened body, creating a whore’s voluptuousness with an enthusiasm that took Conanus aback. He submitted to a sharp blade in the Briton’s hand without any semblance of fear, while marvelling at the eventual smoothness of his chest, forearms and legs with obvious pleasure.
Conanus, amazed, was forced to reassess everything he believed to be true about his commander.
For his own part, Andragathius felt a strange freedom as he prepared for this deception. Horse’s voice whispered in the back of his brain, encouraging the transformation from warrior to whore with amusement and approval. ‘Good work, Pig Boy! We can stick it to all those well-born bastards who killed me! Strike deeply . . . and I’ll happily guide your hand.’
Despite wondering if he had been afflicted by a form of madness, the captain still enjoyed the warmth and completeness of a man who has stumbled on a path that will lead him to his true destiny. As for his men, they were instructed to cleanse their bodies, while paying particular attention to their hands and feet, including their nails. Mindful that the cosmetic box contained henna, Conanus suggested that their nails should be painted to further strengthen their disguises. ‘For what Roman soldier would ever paint his nails?’ the Briton asked cheerfully.
Then, painstakingly, the troops set to work on each other with razors and knives that had been honed with whetstones so that their torsos, skulls, limbs and skin should be smooth and hairless. Several Romano-Gallic men despaired at the loss of their moustaches, but the captain had
allocated tasks to every man, even the guards, so they were encouraged to think of the requirements needed to fulfil their roles. As some of these cavalrymen had served in strange and exotic locations throughout the Roman world, they aped the appearances of prostitutes, male and female, whom they had seen during their travels and, for those Britons who were less experienced, they proffered advice and assistance. One young cavalryman, Blasius, who had a boyish appearance once his body hair was removed, was encouraged to accentuate his effeminate and youthful features with cosmetics, although he blushed hotly at he carried out this task. Conanus explained how his attractive face, atop a beautifully proportioned and muscular body, might draw attention away from Andragathius who, even scrubbed and shaved, could only hope to pass as a woman on the darkest of dark nights.
‘Your beauty might save the rest of us from close scrutiny. Just imagine you’re someone else who has a different name and history behind you, and then you’ll find your disguise is more natural,’ Conanus suggested. Then he winked conspiratorially at the younger man. ‘Think of the tales you’ll be able to tell at the camp fires in days to come.’
When Blasius still seemed unsure of his role, Conanus lost all patience.
‘We’re not asking you to fuck for Gratian, just . . . just promise him that you will! You’ll have to use your eyes and your body to convince him that you’re his for the taking. In years to come, your friends will love your stories of this night and whores will queue up to win the heart of a man who seduced an emperor. We must all do our duty, Blasius, according to our skills. Our commander is making a far greater fool of himself than you, and he has none of your physical advantages. Stop complaining and be a man!’
Aware of the joke he had just unwittingly made, Conanus began to laugh and, gradually, Blasius followed suit until the cavalryman entered into the spirit of his disguise by swaying his hips and buttocks suggestively until the river was alive with laughing and splashing men.
Man by man, the cavalrymen finished the necessary hair removal and then returned to the river to wash their hair or their bald heads. Then the Britons oiled their locks and dressed their wild manes into controlled confections that did wonders to disguise their manliness.
The day was almost done, but the twilight offered sufficient light to return to the divan. There, to snickers of amusement, the six most powerful and hulking Britons stripped and donned coloured loincloths of exotic fabrics. Then they put on their thick leather military belts that were tightly cinched to accentuate their waists. Finally, the bearers covered their feet with their well cleaned and highly polished boots, while Conanus gave each man several necklaces, arm rings and earrings to decorate their bodies. As they took up their positions on the poles, the men tasked to carry the divan chair checked to ensure that their narrowest knives had been inserted into the sheaths built into the linings of their boots.
The musicians wore the same loincloths but were also issued with diaphanous robes that were cinched tightly with sashes made from a vivid, glossy fabric. Their feet were shod in sandals of a suitable size, lest an observant Praetorian realised that all the entertainers were wearing military footwear. Once again, small weapons were hidden in their robes and sashes and, in Conanus’s case, within his long hair. A thin, flexible blade in a slender scabbard was attached to his opulent paste necklaces so that it hung down his back under the spiralling curls, as if it was another piece of jewellery. Without the slightest trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness, Conanus covered his fingers with rings and began to paint his nails with henna.
Some clever disguises had been achieved by the men who had been instructed to play the part of guards and they had turned themselves into parodies of guardsmen by the addition of odd pieces of armour that had found their way into the wagon. Where Andragathius had found the sets of oversized and overdecorated armour was a puzzle that was never answered, although Conanus hazarded a guess that the sets had originated in the storerooms of Septimus, the magistrate. The Briton sneered contemptuously when he thought of a fat, greedy man who played the part of a warrior on feast days, a lordling who boasted of his unfettered power over the awe-struck citizens of Cabillonum through his ridiculous body armour.
‘At least that rubbish will serve some useful purpose,’ the Briton muttered as he attempted to coax some tuneful sounds from his harp. Eventually, his fingers remembered some old patterns and something resembling music was achieved.
Andragathius’s men tried to muffle their laughter with their fists jammed into their mouths when their captain swayed away from the wagon, resplendent in a wig of such a vivid and unnatural shade of red that it hurt Conanus’s eyes, even in the half-light. Layers of sea-green gauze covered his lean body, lending it soft angles that revealed little of his usual upright bearing. His feet were shod in golden sandals and he dripped in paste and cheap metal jewellery so that he tinkled as he walked. His bared arms and flashes of shaved leg were actually well formed, now that the body hair had been stripped away. But, for all that, his features remained aggressively masculine under his strong eyebrows.
‘You are one ugly woman, sir,’ Conanus said evenly without a trace of humour on his painted lips. ‘Do you have something we could use to hide your face?’
‘Of course! I didn’t think I’d make much of a woman, so I have a half-veil and a fan that I can hide behind, once I’m settled in the divan chair.’
Andragathius pinned the veil into position and, with this correction, his dark eyes were the only visible facial features. Surprisingly, they were almost beautiful.
‘Sit still for a moment, sir. Your veil helps a little, but I think I can improve your looks further with some more cosmetics.’
Then, as Conanus attempted to apply kohl around the eyes and a hint of lapis lazuli on his commander’s eyelids, he was forced to reach upward. His commanding officer seemed to have grown considerably.
A raised eyebrow asked the obvious question, so Andragathius answered by cautiously extending one large, narrow foot. He was wearing exotically carved heels on his sandals that lifted his height by a good five inches.
‘How do you expect to walk in those things?’ Conanus asked, fascinated by the difference that these gilded sandals made to his gruff commander.
‘I can’t! But with luck, I won’t have to, will I? Can you believe that these things were the property of Septimus as well? At least I think they were. The buffoon wouldn’t tell me who they belonged to when I offered to pay for them.’
‘You’d better remain seated then! I can’t paint a beanpole!’
Conanus had good eyes, a deft hand and long experience of women and their fripperies. By the time he had finished, Andragathius looked nothing like himself and, in the dark and reclining, might just pass muster as a handsome, mature woman.
‘Your voice will let you down,’ Conanus suggested, although he was secretly pleased with his ministrations.
‘I believe my voice will pass muster,’ the commander replied in a rich contralto, a voice that was throaty and full of sexual promise. Then his voice returned to its usual gruff crispness. ‘One thing, Conanus! If you ever speak of the disguise I’ve used on this night, then you can expect to have your throat slit from ear to ear.’
Conanus cleared his threatened throat and nodded. The look in the centurion’s eyes was a study in black humour and grim warning.
‘You can be assured that I’ll remain as silent as the grave.’
‘Good! My name is Lady Minerva, an obvious pseudonym that no one will believe. As far as the emperor is concerned, I have come from my villa outside of Cabillonum to entertain him. I will be placing myself at his disposal. You are Hyacinth, my steward and a slave.’
Well . . . that puts me in my place, Conanus thought as Andragathius wished his men good hunting in the hours to come.
Andragathius placed his gladius and the personal weapons of several of his men un
der the travelling chair. Then he secreted his knife, well honed and loosened inside its scabbard, below the gilt-fringed pillow. But Conanus noticed that he placed a superstitious kiss on its shining surface before he hid the blade away, and seemed to pray over it for a short moment.
Then, despite his ridiculous heels, he positioned himself in the divan so that part of one leg was revealed and his robe was allowed to fall open to expose a smooth, hairless shoulder below the veil. The bearers moved into their places silently, took the strain and rose to their feet.
As Conanus and his harp led the procession with his musicians, Blasius practised dance steps culled from his Bavarian childhood, while the cavalcade began to wind its way down the road leading towards the destiny that Lady Fortuna had preordained for them.
Bells rang out, while small, hand-held drums belted out a beat to which capering feet could dance. At the same time, whistles shrilled piercingly so that the country air shivered with the clamour of frenzied excitement. By the light of the full moon, the Praetorian sentries stared out from the earthworks of the temporary fortress at an incongruous sight that came over the hill and wound its way towards the north gate. These disciplined warriors, who normally took such inordinate pride in their reputation, were soon giggling and sniggering at the sight of an exotic, grotesque party that was approaching the camp.
Behind the guardsmen, legionnaires had been enjoying a night of unusual pleasure that had come to them as a gift from their emperor. In cups of ale and purloined wine, the men drank to his health, while gorging themselves on freshly roasted meat until their faces were greasy and they were forced to lick their fingers clean in order to hold the knives that would carve off even more slices from the slowly rotating beef and sheep carcasses. The Praetorians kept themselves aloof from the carousing throng, sneering at the women who shrieked and giggled as they ran from fire pit to fire pit. In the faded light, the harridans had suddenly turned into beautiful women.