Swords Around the Throne

by Ian Ross

  ‘Wearing his cloak?’

  Sallustius pondered this. ‘They brew their beer strong in Colonia, brother!’

  They skirted the heaps of bridging timber, cut stone and rubble piled on the riverbank, and returned to their horses. Mounting, they rode back between the wooden barracks of the engineer detachment, through the river gate of the city and up the slope between the temples and the curia to the main street. The ground before the pillared façade of the forum precinct was rutted and strewn with flower heads and petals, trampled into the mud where the dignitaries of the town had gathered at first light to pour their praises upon their departing emperor. Castus and Sallustius had been seconded to the office of the Master of Dispositions, who had posted them at the rear of the convoy. Castus did not mind, although it meant he missed the adventus ceremonies when the imperial retinue arrived at each new settlement along the road. Then again, he considered, once you’ve seen one group of town councillors roaring themselves hoarse and throwing flowers in the air, you had pretty much seen them all.

  Again Castus’s mind circled back to the dead man. It was possible, he told himself, that the death had been an accident. There were several thousand people travelling with the retinue, the population of a large town, and it was surely not impossible that one of them might suffer such an end. But his instincts told him otherwise. Fate sent a prickle up his spine: the man had died by violence.

  He wondered if he should report it to Hierocles, but the chief of the Protectores was not easy to find with the retinue on the road. Besides, he had told only Hierocles about his previous meeting with the man. Again that prickle of apprehension, more insistent now. Hierocles had been a member of the hunting party back in February, when the killers had made an attempt on the emperor’s life. A traitor among the Protectores, Nigrinus had told him. Was it possible, Castus thought, that his own chief could be the guilty man? He fought down the notion; he had no proof, and if it were true then such knowledge could be lethal...

  The carts and carriages were still streaming along the main street towards the south gate, wheels hissing in the mud. It had rained in the night, a heavy summer shower, and the thoroughfares of Colonia had been churned to a sucking morass by wheels and hooves and marching feet. As he nudged his horse back into the shelter of a temple wall to let the column past, Castus noticed the opulence of several of the passing carriages, the women’s faces at the slatted windows.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ he asked.

  Sallustius reined in his horse beside Castus. ‘Didn’t you know?’ he said, twisting his squashed face into a smirk. ‘The nobilissima femina Fausta and her household joined the retinue last night. They’ll be with us for the next few days up the river, all the way to Confluentes.’

  ‘Why? Isn’t it dangerous here for them?’

  ‘But that’s the point!’ Sallustius said, cuffing Castus on the shoulder. ‘What could better demonstrate the sublime security of the empire, and the complete subjugation of the barbarians, than the emperor’s wife and her ladies parading up the bank of the fearsome Rhine? Let the Franks and Alamanni glower from their forests – Rome is untouchable, and the emperor supreme! Didn’t you even listen to that panegyric yesterday?’

  ‘My concentration slipped after a while,’ Castus said ruefully. Even so, it was, he admitted, quite a bold display. The Rhine frontier had been a military zone for generations, ever since the barbarians had first poured across the river in the days of the emperor Valerian. But there was little real danger now, he supposed – not with the Frankish and Alamannic chiefs defeated and under treaty, and thousands of armed men surrounding the imperial party. Since the campaign the previous summer the Germanic tribes had been quiet.

  Even as he considered this, Castus was scanning the passing carriages for one particular face, not even sure if he would recognise her now. Likely she would be wearing the same yellow dress.

  ‘Who are they,’ he asked, ‘these women?’

  ‘Fausta’s ladies?’ Sallustius said with a dismissive air. ‘They’re the wives of officials in Rome, most of them. Sent up here with Maximian’s daughter to remind her what proper civilised company looks like. Not that she cares much about that, by the look of her. To act as hostages too, of course, against the good behaviour of their husbands and families. Although that leaves most of them a little uncomfortable these days, since Maxentius fell out with his father. They’ve rather ended up in the enemy camp.’

  ‘Maxentius isn’t our enemy yet,’ Castus said quietly.

  Sallustius snorted down his nose. ‘Can’t have two cocks in the barnyard,’ he said. ‘Why ask about the women anyway? Fancy one of them, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Castus said, too quickly, and glanced away. ‘I’ve never spoken to them!’

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if you did,’ Sallustius went on in a worldly tone. ‘There are some peaches among them. And they’re no Vestals either, brother – I hear quite a few stories going around the palace. What do you expect? Stuck up here, far from their husbands. Those eunuchs they’ve got surrounding them can’t massage that itch away. Oh, make no mistake, they might be the daughters of senators, but between their legs they’re as hot as any Lupanar whore... And I speak from experience, brother.’

  Castus gave him a sidelong look. Sallustius made much of his comprehensive, near-universal experience with women, but in this case at least his claim seemed doubtful. But what did Castus know – perhaps these things happened?

  The last of the carriages had slipped past now, and the street was filled with the slow-moving train of ox carts and marching soldiers that formed the tail of the column. Castus sat and watched from his horse as the rearguard tramped by, then turned to follow them. Outside the southern gate of the city the road was a mire of mud and dung, and within a mile the rain started falling again. But the image of the dead man in the river would not fade.

  For days the imperial retinue crawled southwards, along the narrow road that followed the western bank of the Rhine. Three miles it stretched, from the vanguard cavalry to the marching troops that brought up the rear. Over three thousand people, Castus thought to himself as he picked his way in the opposite direction along the verge of the road. Nearly two thousand horses; more than two hundred carts, carriages and wagons. The gods knew how many oxen. He had seen whole armies move with less. They were five days south of Colonia Agrippina now, and every town and fort and military settlement they passed was left stripped behind them, storehouses empty, nothing to show for the glory of hosting the emperor and his retinue but a vast amount of dung.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way!’ a wit called out to him from the marching ranks of the rearguard.

  ‘Forgot something, did you?’

  Castus smiled tightly and urged his horse onward. An hour before, he had been summoned to speak to the Master of Dispositions, Nicomachus Cassianus: a consignment of despatches had been mislaid at Rigomagus and Cassianus badly needed them delivered to him at the next station, Antunnacum, by nightfall.

  Six miles back to Rigomagus, twelve from there on to Antunnacum. Castus wished that Sallustius had been chosen for the task instead – he was still not comfortable in the saddle and he felt the rigours of many days’ riding in every bone and muscle. His rump was sore and his thighs ached, but he pushed himself onward, thinking only of whatever sort of bath he might be able to get when the day was done.

  The river here passed between steep slopes, the trees rising on the far bank dense and green up to the crest of the valley. The road followed a narrow strip of level ground that traced the curves of the river, climbing in places to cut across a wide bend before descending again to the waterside. Now and again as he rode Castus glanced to his right, across the grey expanse of water at the stacked forests of the eastern bank. Had there been anyone in those trees, watching the progress of the emperor and his retinue? Was there anybody still there now, watching him?

  It was late afternoon by the time he arrived back at Rigomagus, and after the tur
moil of the imperial visit the town seemed to have slumped into an exhausted torpor. Castus was directed to an upper room of the praetorium, where a man sat lounging on a couch with his boots propped on a low table, eating walnuts.

  ‘Hope you’re not looking for dinner,’ he said as Castus entered. ‘Unless you like nuts, that is.’

  Castus stood solidly in the doorway. He knew the man at once: the hair curled with thick grease, the rings on his fingers and the smug half-smile. Flaccianus was clearly pretending not to recognise him, but Castus was tired and hungry, and in no mood for games. ‘I’m here on the orders of Nicomachus Cassianus, magister dispositionum,’ he announced, ‘to collect a package of imperial despatches and take them to Antunnacum.’

  Flaccianus stirred slightly, but did not rise. ‘I have the despatches,’ he said. ‘As a courier of the agentes in rebus, I have responsibility for them. No need to worry – I’ll leave tomorrow morning and give them to your man Cassianus myself when I get to Antunnacum.’

  Castus took a few strides across the floor, pushing back his cape to show the patches on his tunic and the sword at his side.

  ‘As a Protector of the Sacred Bodyguard,’ he growled, ‘I outrank you. The despatches now, and I’ll be on my way.’

  The agent slid his boots off the table. He shot a glance towards the far end of the room, where a pair of slaves were working at a desk, compiling accounts. Swift oily apprehension slid across his face; he hid it quickly, but Castus had noticed the nervous flicker of the man’s eyes. An image came to him of the dead man in the river at Colonia, and he had the unnerving intuition that this man had been somehow connected to that death.

  ‘Do I need to tell you again?’ he said slowly.

  With a sigh Flaccianus got to his feet, brushing the residue of the walnuts from his hands. The heavy rings on his fingers clicked together.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, then made for the far end of the room. Castus stamped after him, and the agent paused and glanced back with a baffled smile.

  ‘I’m not waiting anywhere,’ Castus told him.

  The agent went to a doorway; he tried to shut the door after him but Castus trapped it with his foot and pushed his way through. The chamber beyond was small, and the light fell dimly through a latticed window high in the wall beneath the eaves. Flaccianus was already shuffling together the tablets and scroll tubes that lay on the central table. He turned quickly, but Castus closed the distance between them in one long stride, forcing the agent back against the table as he brought the edge of his heavy broadsword up to the man’s throat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Flaccianus managed to gasp. His face drained of colour, and his mouth stretched into a terrified grimace.

  ‘Next time a senior officer gives you an order,’ Castus said quietly, holding the honed blade against the agent’s windpipe, ‘don’t think about making excuses.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare harm me!’

  ‘Want to find out?’ Castus tugged slightly at the blade, and Flaccianus let out a tight hiss as the edge nicked his skin. Then Castus stepped back, reversing the sword and slamming it back into his scabbard.

  Flaccianus dodged quickly around the table, scrabbling for the documents. Castus could see that many of them had been opened and read. After stuffing the documents back into the leather despatch bag and tying the seal, Flaccianus shoved it across the table towards Castus.

  ‘I apologise if I seemed... disrespectful,’ he said with a tight smile, trying to regain his composure. ‘Please forgive me. In fact I have some information for you. From Nigrinus.’ Even with the table between them he still seemed nervous.

  ‘What information?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Flaccianus said. He was clearly relishing the reversal of power. ‘Very soon,’ he said, ‘our emperor Constantine will be departing on a journey to Britain. You won’t be accompanying him...’

  Castus made no comment. His hand idled on his sword hilt. Flaccianus noticed, and his fingers went to his throat, where a tiny spot of blood still showed against his pallid skin. ‘It’s been decided,’ he went on quickly, ‘that it would suit the dignity of the former emperor Maximian for a small personal guard of Protectores to be attached to his household during the absence of the imperial retinue, and quite possibly also after their return. You’ll be one of them.’

  Castus shrugged, digesting the news without expression.

  ‘So you see,’ the agent said, ‘you’ll be ideally placed to observe the activities of Maximian’s retinue... and report any suspicions you might have!’

  ‘Tell your master,’ Castus growled, picking up the leather despatch bag, ‘that he can find another spy.’

  He turned to leave, but at the door he paused, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

  ‘That dead man at Colonia,’ he said. ‘You know anything about how he died?’

  The bead of blood on the agent’s throat jogged slightly. He took a moment before he could answer.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ he said, with a bland smile.

  But he did. Castus was certain of it.

  11

  The sun was low to the west, and the road along the riverbank was in deep shadow. Across the water, the forested eastern shore glowed gold and green in the last of the light. Castus rode heavily, the bag of despatches slung over his saddle horn, but the horse seemed to sense the end of the day’s journey and kept up a smart pace. They passed around a tight bend of the river, where the road was clasped between the water and the trees; Castus’s senses had grown so dulled by the motion of riding and the slow quiet of the evening that he would have missed the carriage completely had a shout not drawn his attention.

  ‘Glory to the gods! I prayed to Lady Isis to send us deliverance, and it has arrived!’

  For a moment he thought it was a woman calling out. He reined in his horse and drew closer, one hand going instinctively to his sword hilt.

  It was not a woman, but neither was it a man. As the figure came towards him Castus saw the silver collar winking in the shadow, the unnaturally smooth face. Serapion, they had called him, he remembered.

  ‘We have a broken axletree, it seems,’ the eunuch said, clasping his hands before him. If he recognised Castus, he did not show it. ‘We thought it might be spliced, but the repairs will take some time. The commander of the rearguard was supposed to send riders to help us, but there’s been nobody... I see by those patches on your cloak and tunic that you are a Protector, however...’

  Castus glanced at the carriage. It was small, a closed box of lattice-sided wood mounted high on a wagon chassis. The front nearside wheel was off, the axle propped on timbers. The draught horses had been released from their traces and stood cropping the verge, while three slaves sat by the fallen wheel, one of them chewing on a stem of grass while the other two tried to light a fire.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Castus said. ‘I’m carrying despatches, and they need to be in Antunnacum before nightfall.’ He looked up at the sky; already the first stars were showing.

  ‘How far is it from here?’ called a voice from inside the carriage. A curtain screened the interior.

  ‘Two or three miles. I’ll send someone back to you when I get there.’

  Castus tugged on the reins and nudged the horse into motion.

  ‘Wait,’ the voice called, commanding.

  Castus turned, saddle leather creaking beneath him. The curtain was drawn aside, the door of the carriage opened and a woman stepped down from inside.

  ‘If it’s only two miles I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘Anything’s better than spending a night on a wet riverbank with only slaves and a eunuch for company.’

  Castus knew her at once, but it was a few moments before he saw the slightest flicker of recognition on the woman’s face, swiftly dispelled. She wore deep red instead of the yellow gown, with a shawl of fine white wool draped around her shoulders and drawn up over her hair.

  ‘Domina Sabina,’ the eunuch was saying, ‘the road, as you see, is very mudd
y, and soon it will be dark. I really think...’

  Castus was looking at her shoes: soft red leather openwork, not much good for walking long distance. The woman caught his eye and gave him a cool smile.

  ‘I’m sure the noble Protector would allow me to perch on his horse,’ she said.

  ‘Domina, really, riding is no fit activity for women!’

  ‘I only need cling to the saddle – we won’t be performing any equestrian exercises, I assure you. Cinna and Petrus can bring the brass trunk with my overnight things. Xanthe can bring my wicker case, the round one. You can wait here with the carriage, Serapion. Protect it from thieves in the night...’

  Castus sighed heavily, and drummed his fingers on the saddle horn. He was very tempted to put spurs to his horse and ride on before anyone could try and stop him. The woman, Sabina, was already marshalling her slaves and having them pack the trunk and basket. With a low groan he slipped from the saddle and dropped to the ground, feeling the cramps racking his leg muscles. It would be good to walk for a while anyway, he told himself, although he would have preferred it to be his own decision. He took the saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder – he was not letting that out of his sight.

  ‘What a big horse,’ Sabina said, walking carefully across the wet mud as Castus waited holding the bridle.

  ‘I’m a big man.’

  ‘No doubt,’ she said lightly. The two slaves lifted her between them onto the saddle, where she sat with her legs to one side, gripping the leather saddle horn. Without further delay Castus gave a tug on the reins and set off, the horse walking after him and the slaves lagging along the road behind with the luggage. The eunuch, the other slave and the remaining maidservant gathered around the crippled coach, gazing in apprehension across the river as the evening darkened into night.

  There were no other travellers on the road, and for a while they walked in silence, on around the next bend in the river until the carriage was out of sight behind them. The only sounds were the steady beat of the horse’s hooves in the mud, the jingle of the bridle and the occasional cry of a waterbird. The Rhine took on a grey-blue sheen in the evening light, the smooth flow appearing almost motionless as the forests on the far bank dropped into shadow.