The Emperor's Blood (e-novella)

by M. K. Hume

  Of Gratian there had been no sign, except for the evidence of lamps in the grand tent that spoke of a continuing feast and the women who served, danced and offered other, less comely pleasures.

  Decimus, the captain of the guard, stared at his second-in-command with an unreadable expression on his clean-shaven face as the strange cavalcade came into full view.

  ‘That’s something different! A divan chair! I presume it must be a female of some status who has come to pay her respects to the emperor.’

  ‘He hardly needs more female company to keep him and his snivelling bum boys in a happy frame of mind,’ his companion muttered sullenly.

  ‘You’d best watch what you say, Cnaeus. The master has ears everywhere and he’s not disposed to like us overmuch. He’s not worth dying for, that’s for certain.’

  ‘It’s more the pity that Magnus Maximus didn’t finish the bastard off when he had the chance,’ Cnaeus added dourly. But he was careful to keep his voice lowered – just in case.

  ‘Go down and find out what those fools want,’ Decimus ordered gruffly, pointing in the direction of the capering harp player, whose wild hair and heavy cosmetics marked a man-woman who was rather attractive under the mess of stiblum, henna and lapis lazuli. As he gazed over the bearers, the four guards and the other entertainers, Decimus was impressed with the physical attractiveness of the man-flesh that was on such blatant display. ‘This woman obviously likes to have a supply of fresh and pretty meat around her,’ Decimus murmured to himself.

  ‘It’s a shame I’m not of their persuasion,’ the Roman officer continued, but then rejected the thought of Eros with his own sex. He gave a grunt of disgust and directed a heterosexual curse towards the emperor’s tent, from where the sounds of hilarious laughter rivalled the racket caused by the newcomers.

  The strangers came to a halt at the makeshift gate and waited, quiet now that they had reached their destination. Cnaeus reached them and spoke to the pretty boy with the harp, a caricature of a maiden who simpered and waved his hands suggestively in such a manner that Decimus could understand him, even from a distance. Cnaeus moved towards the divan and spoke briefly to the hidden occupant. All that Decimus could see was a smooth and shapely leg that terminated in a grotesquely towering golden heel.

  Shaking his head in wonder, Cnaeus came bounding back through the gates which were firmly closed behind him by one of the guards.

  ‘The dancers and entertainers are the servants and slaves of a Lady Minerva who wishes to offer her salutations to Emperor Gratian. She assures me that she is an important personage in these parts. Apparently, she has a large villa nearby. To judge by their clothes and the opulence of the divan chair, she has some access to coin, but possesses fuck-all in the way of good taste. Did you see those damned sandals? What do you want me to tell them?’

  ‘Send one of the men to the emperor and explain why we’ve been forced to interrupt his entertainments.’ Then Decimus paused and smiled cheekily. ‘On second thoughts, it’d be best if you went yourself! Our lads would make a hash of such a tale if they had to offer explanations to Gratian. I’d like my head to remain on my shoulders.’

  With a surly salute that caused Decimus to scowl at his junior officer, Cnaeus stalked away, disapproval evident in every line of his body.

  As the newcomers and the Praetorian Guard cooled their heels impatiently, Gratian took his time to gather his wine-muddled thoughts before deciding to investigate the source of this interruption to his festivities. Eventually, the tent flap was held open by Cnaeus to allow Gratian and his sycophants to tumble out into the firelight, as noisy in their curiosity and drunkenness as the now silent strangers had been in their approach to the emperor’s bivouac.

  With an imperious, albeit drunken, gesture, Gratian demanded Decimus’s presence in the centre of the compound. Swearing under his breath at the prospect of being treated like a servant, Decimus hurried to obey the ruler of the world, as it was currently measured.

  With no apparent loss of dignity, Decimus bowed deeply to his master before striking his breast armour with his clenched fist.

  ‘I am yours to command, my emperor. What are your orders?’

  ‘What say you of this Lady Minerva and her servants? Should I permit them to join our festivities?’

  Gratian was swaying gently to the rhythm of the wine that was coursing through his blood. His carefully dressed hair, artfully curled to cover a bald spot where his hair was receding from above his broad forehead, had been disarrayed by the caresses of a girl who was barely out of puberty and was clinging to his arm like a limpet. Her hazel eyes were feral and ancient in the dim light.

  Decimus cleared his suddenly dry throat. ‘This Lady Minerva comes to us with twenty men at her back and without the courtesy of revealing her true name, master. I feel inclined to send her packing to wherever it was that she came from.’

  Gratian chewed over this wise advice with a bland expression on his handsome face, one that was already softening from the effects of dissipation. ‘I’ve known many whores to hide behind fanciful names. Are her guards armed? Could they offer any appreciable threat?’

  ‘Even the most pampered of hounds are capable of delivering a painful bite if they are provoked. The armour worn by her four guards is worse than useless, and was designed for show rather than for combat. As fighting men, they wouldn’t be a match for any of our soldiers.’

  ‘So? Why should I deprive my loyal soldiers of some sport and pleasure? Perhaps this Lady Minerva will prove to be amusing, but we’ll never know if we don’t speak with her.’

  Gratian’s petulant voice caused the blood to flush to Decimus’s head.

  ‘I’d have to warn you that any such invitation to complete strangers might be foolhardy, my lord. Even twenty determined enemies could be dangerous to the safety of our column.’

  Put out by any contradiction that ran contrary to his desired course of action, Gratian rose to his full height, wrapped his purple toga around his thickening body and snapped his fingers at a slender sophisticate who was standing behind his left hand.

  ‘Satisfy my curiosity, Herminius. Be a dear and speak with these interlopers. You might ask them why I should permit them to take part in my feast.’

  The sycophant minced away, but Decimus continued with his attempts to influence his emperor’s decision.

  ‘Sir, with all due respect, I must beg you to take my advice. Is this a suitable hour to receive visitors? How could any honest person appear out of nowhere, uninvited, to offer their salutations, with armed men at their back? Be reasonable, my emperor. Please, call out the guard and send this whore back to her villa . . . if such a place exists.’

  ‘Have you become the emperor of Rome, Decimus? Are you the new master of the Seven Hills? Do the gods and gentle Jesus guide your hand? No? Then stand down, Decimus, because I will decide who enters or leaves my camp.’

  ‘But I can’t be held responsible, sire . . .’

  ‘You won’t! Captain of the Praetorian Guard or no, I’ll order the skin to be flayed off your back unless you become silent and learn to obey orders.’

  While cursing himself inwardly at his foolishness in contradicting the addled wishes of his emperor, and angered by the threat of a punishment that would only be meted out to the lowliest slave, Decimus stepped backwards, bowed his head and saluted his master once more.

  The small, vicious battle of wills came to an end as Herminius returned to his master, flicking his long black hair back over his shoulders as he flounced over the grass.

  ‘Well?’ Gratian snapped. He was still annoyed by the disagreement with the Praetorian officer and was now inclined to feel aggrieved with everyone.

  ‘I spoke with Lady Minerva’s steward, a servant called Hyacinth. He is a very persuasive young man. He explained that his mistress is a retired woman from Cabillonum who
ran a house in this province that catered to a variety of unusual tastes, especially those pleasures associated with the mysteries of pain. Her skills ensured that she retired with sufficient gold to maintain a pleasant lifestyle whereby she only provides special services to clients of her choosing, at times and in places that she feels are worthy of her.’

  ‘Hmmmn! Interesting!’ Gratian murmured, but his manner implied that he wasn’t totally impressed.

  ‘I was granted permission to speak with the lady, although she hides her face behind a veil. From her words, I thought she might be an interesting and knowledgeable lady who could provide some unusual . . . er . . . additions to our own revelries. Perhaps you could talk to her for yourself, sire. I couldn’t see much danger in a motley bunch of musicians, dancers and several indolent guards who appear to be of little use against the most incompetent legionnaire. One of their guards is almost completely bald.’

  Herminius flicked his own long locks back over his shoulder.

  Then Gratian allowed himself a tight, wine-affected smile as he patted down his own tousled curls while, behind his back, Decimus was grinding his teeth in frustration.

  ‘You’ll allow our visitors to enter the bivouac, Decimus. No further argument! Just let them in and send them along to me. We’ll wait here, so make it snappy!’

  If Gratian had tried to insult Decimus deliberately, he could not have chosen words or a manner that was better designed to infuriate the Praetorian. Centuries of noble service by generations of his family had stiffened the spine of Decimus, so he lifted his chin and stalked away towards the bivouac’s northern entry.

  ‘Open the gates, Cnaeus! Allow Mistress Minerva and her servants into the compound. Don’t argue with me. Just obey!’

  As the gate swung open, Conanus summed up the stiff, affronted faces of the guardsman and drew his fingers across the harp strings in an approximation of a chord. He began to sing in the highest voice he could muster, while strumming an almost passable passage on the instrument. He dredged up the words to a long-forgotten ditty devoted to the white thighs and pointed breasts of Venus. As the visitors recommenced their music, dancing and song, and the divan chair was lifted high on muscular shoulders, Conanus winked a promise to Decimus as he passed through the rudimentary fortifications and swung his hips in the easy sexuality of Elen, his dead sister. The expression on the face of the Praetorian commander was thunderous and Conanus guessed that the emperor had overridden the captain’s wise advice.

  It’s all the better if Shithead has upset his guardsmen, Conanus thought as he capered into a makeshift series of steps designed to draw all eyes to his smooth, muscular body. Let them argue amongst themselves, for all Andragathius needs is a single, suitable moment to make his strike and complete his mission.

  Conanus could see a gaggle of aristocrats standing with the light of a fire pit behind them, so he directed his musicians and dancers towards it, aware of the smiles and catcalls from the common legionnaires who had risen from their own feasting to enjoy this new form of entertainment.

  When the whole noisy throng reached a point within ten feet of the emperor and his friends, Conanus halted and kneeled on the boot-scuffed grass. He bowed his head in supplication, although he could see the Praetorian Guardsmen were still standing on the earthworks, studiously ignoring the emperor, his sycophantic friends and Gratian’s recently admitted guests.

  Excellent! Conanus thought with an exultant feeling of fierce joy. Around him, his comrades were abasing themselves, so Conanus permitted himself a tight smile as Gratian ordered the newcomers to their feet.

  If Conanus expected to speak to Gratian, he had underestimated the hubris of the ruler of the Seven Hills.

  ‘I don’t speak with dogs when their mistress awaits me,’ Gratian said with a lewd wink.

  As Gratian strolled towards the travelling divan, the bearers lowered their poles to the earth and stepped away from the vehicle. Glued to his spot on the grass, Conanus played surreptitiously with his hair and adjusted the narrow knife in its scabbard so that it was ready for action. He had already decided that his first victim would be the unfortunate fool, Herminius, who was joking lasciviously with his comrades while allowing his eyes to caress the demurely beautiful Blasius.

  ‘Come out, Mistress Minerva, and show your charms to your emperor.’

  A long, smooth and shapely leg was revealed through the gauzy curtain of the divan chair. Even Gratian, for all his worldliness, was riveted by the exotic heels on the golden sandals that adorned a long and slender foot embellished with henna-red nails that seemed like five drops of dried blood in the inadequate light from the fire pits and the torches. A single hand snaked out of the gloom within the divan chair. This appendage was also tipped with blood-red nails.

  ‘Lord and Master of all you survey,’ a throaty voice purred out from the shadows. ‘Come and join me in the warm darkness and I’ll show you all those wondrous pleasures that you have dreamed of but never found. My love will be for you – and for you alone!’

  The promise in that rich voice was explicit. Although Conanus knew what awaited Gratian in the divan chair, he could have sworn that this woman was promising unimaginable paroxysms of physical desire.

  Gratian paused momentarily.

  The emperor had survived numerous treasonous plots in Rome and had overcome dangers that were unimaginable to any common soldier, to whom matters of life and death were uncomplicated and commonplace. A brief moment of hesitation was the only sign that, despite being drunk on wine and hubris, his instinctive sense of self-preservation still warned Gratian that he must take care.

  But the night was warm and his blood had been heated by his need for new sensations. Safe in the midst of his camp and surrounded by his Praetorian Guards, Gratian decided it would be perfectly safe to dally with this beautiful prize who was his for the taking. Unfortunately, the Three Fates who control the measure of fragile human life were already measuring out the skein of his, while the oldest crone was preparing her deadly shears.

  Gratian lifted his hand to part the curtain and slid into the warm darkness of the travelling divan. He turned briefly towards his comrades and flashed one last grin of triumph and leering sexual anticipation in their direction.

  A moment of silence followed. Then a shrill shriek like the scream of a slaughtered pig was followed by a suddenly muffled groan. A long streak of something wet and red spurted across the inside of the gauze curtains to drip down on to the grass. The divan rocked in a short and sudden fit of movement.

  Without waiting for further confirmation that Gratian had met his end, Conanus drew his narrow blade and leaped towards Herminius without warning. The narrow blade opened the exquisite’s throat and, from long experience, Conanus stepped aside to avoid the spurting blood that sprayed from the main arteries in the neck. However, the blade had been trapped between the neck bones and protruded on each side of Herminius’s throat like an obscene collar. Still, the sudden jet of arterial blood missed the Briton, who had already torn a harp string free and wrapped it around the throat of his next victim. He felt the jet of warm blood cover his hands as the gut string parted the bulging flesh of the unfortunate courtier who choked and died. Around him, Gratian’s friends were perishing while the musicians and dancers were transformed into half-naked savages who were ravenously searching for blood. Within moments, a carelessly laid-out sprawl of reddened bodies was all that remained of Gratian’s drinking companions.

  As Decimus and his guardsmen came running and the shocked legionnaires scurried to find their discarded weaponry, Andragathius burst out of the divan chair as a wild apparition of a woman who had been thoroughly drenched in blood. In one hand, he wielded his gladius while, in the other, he held the bloodstained knife that had turned the still-twitching body of the emperor into so much spoiling meat. With a wild cry, he tore off the red wig and its deceptive veil to stand half-
naked in the firelight. He was a preternatural and androgynous figure, running with fresh blood.

  The few armed legionnaires shrank away from him in superstitious horror.

  ‘Put up your swords,’ Andragathius roared. The Praetorians surrounding the small group had now reclaimed their swords from the divan chair and were standing at the ready. ‘I have no desire to stain my blades with the blood of my brothers in a fight over the body of a cowardly emperor who escaped his fate and ran from the battlefield. I offer you the choice of surrendering and swearing your allegiance to Emperor Maximus as your comrades so swore on the field at Lutetia. Alternatively, you may depart for Rome in complete safety. I’ll not stop you, nor will any man in my company. Make your choices, men, for we will honour your decision, even if it results in the deaths of us all. Be advised that my men will not die easily.’

  Decimus spat in the dirt and lowered his gladius so that the blade pointed towards the ground. ‘Who am I addressing? Give me a name if you are an honest warrior of Rome.’

  ‘My name is Andragathius and I am a centurion of the legion that is stationed in Britannia. I am the master of Maximus’s cataphractarii and I have been sent by my master to hold Gratian to account for his cowardice. His Alans are all dead. They were brutal men whom we hated, but each and every one was a brave and honourable warrior who was far too valuable to be abandoned on the field of combat. Those brave men died for Gratian – and for their vows!’

  Decimus absorbed what he had been told. Like most soldiers of Rome, he had no love for the Alans who served in Gratian’s army. But he had eaten with their commanders and knew that they were loyal to their oaths. Under other circumstances, he might have switched his allegiance to Maximus, given the high-handed manner used by the dead emperor to discipline his most loyal officers, but Decimus had made a compelling oath to the City of the Seven Hills and those emperors who were raised to the purple through birth or the will of the people. He could not, and would not, serve any man who crowned himself by force of arms.