Swords Around the Throne

by Ian Ross

  Brinno was still talking, giving orders in his own language to the slave. A note of command in his voice that Castus had never heard before. Reeling from the shocks to his skull – the jailer’s head was almost as hard as his own – Castus slumped against the side of the doorframe and waited while the slave fished the keys from the fallen man’s belt and unlocked their shackles. Castus gasped as the agony of release roared through his shoulders and back.

  Flexing his arms, clenching his fists, he paced out through the cell door into the vaulted chamber. Nobody else in sight. Water jug on the table, but that could wait. Light-headed with relief, he lifted his tunic, pulled aside his loincloth and pissed a foaming torrent against the wall.

  ‘Merciful gods,’ he said. ‘I needed that.’

  Lifting the water jug from the table, he tipped it back and drank deeply. Brinno came out of the cell holding the trident. There was a short knife on the table and Castus armed himself with that.

  ‘What about the slave?’ Brinno said. ‘We can’t let him go. It’ll look like he helped us escape.’

  Castus went to the cell doorway and looked inside. The young slave was crouching on the floor beside the body of the jailer. Castus thought at first that he was trying to help his master; then he saw him clasp the man’s throat with his hands and begin to press down...

  ‘Leave him in there.’ He closed the door and turned the key in the lock. ‘He’s got enough bruises already to look like we overpowered him.’

  Brinno drained the last of the water jug and hurled it aside. He hefted the trident. ‘Let’s get out of this filthy place,’ he said.

  Slow and cautious, keeping together, they moved through the maze of underground rooms. Beyond the chamber of the prison cells there were no lamps or torches burning, but bands of faint greyish light fell from the small apertures up near the roof. Whether it was moonlight or dusk Castus could not tell, but when their eyes adjusted it was enough for them to make out the space around them.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Castus said. ‘The slave back there?’

  ‘Heh!’ Brinno replied. ‘I told him the spirits of our ancestors are watching us always. I told him they are angry with those who submit to be ruled by evil men. But they love those who take avenging justice into their hands.’

  ‘He did that, right enough.’

  They slid around a corner into a low room, and Castus recognised the archway that led through to the torture chamber. Not that way. Tracing their steps back, they found another cell with a doorway knocked through the back wall. Edging through the opening, Castus with his knife bared and Brinno gripping the trident, they entered a long chamber that stretched away into darkness to their right. Squat pillars raised a line of arches down the middle, and to either side were stacked bales and crates, with ranks of huge amphorae standing upright like bloated corpses in the faint light from the airshafts.

  ‘Where are we, do you think?’ Brinno whispered.

  ‘Don’t know. Under the forum maybe, or the curia. But there must be steps out of here...’

  Scuffing their feet, careful not to trip on anything in the gloom, they moved down the clear aisle of the huge storage vault.

  ‘Stop,’ Brinno hissed, grabbing Castus by the arm. ‘Somebody’s there.’

  Sure enough, when Castus looked up he could see the light of a moving oil lamp, weaving like a firefly. He crouched, ready with the knife, and as he glanced to his right he saw a dark opening, little more than a crack in the wall, the shape of steps just visible within.

  ‘There...’

  Brinno went first, angling the long trident into the gap. The steps rose steeply, and soon they were in complete darkness. Castus backed slowly upwards, one hand on the slimy stones of the wall. Then there was a turning, and Brinno stopped, cursing.

  ‘A gate – locked, I think.’

  Castus pushed past him, reaching out to grip the iron bars. He ran his hand down and felt heavy chain links, and the rough metal of a rusted lock. Shoving against the bars, he felt no give at all. The gate had not been opened in years.

  Light rose up the narrow stairway. Sounds of scuffing footsteps from below. One man, moving slowly.

  Pushing back past Brinno, Castus leaped down the steps to the turning, then down the lower flight. The man was already at the opening from the storage chamber; Castus rushed him from the dark stairway, ramming him back off his feet. The lamp arced from the man’s hand and cracked on the stone floor, the oil smothering the wick.

  Castus dropped to one knee. He seized the man by the hair and dragged his head up, pointing the knife down at his face. In the faint light he made out the features of his captive. Thanks to all the gods...

  ‘Kill him now!’ Brinno cried, stamping down from the stairway with his trident aimed at the prisoner.

  ‘I can understand your unhappiness...’ Nigrinus said. Castus had his knee on his chest, and was still gripping his hair in his fist.

  ‘Heh! He understands our unhappiness! Kill him!’

  ‘Let me speak first, I beg you.’

  Castus twisted his fist, and felt hair rip from the notary’s scalp. ‘Ten more words, then you die.’

  Nigrinus rolled his eyes to one side, thinking fast. His mouth barely moved as he spoke.

  ‘I have... saved your... lives... you pair... of brainless... imbeciles.’

  Brinno let out a grunt, leaning closer with his trident. ‘Kill him! No – make him show us the way out, and then kill him!’

  ‘What a tempting offer,’ the notary said.

  Castus reversed his knife, and cracked the pommel against the man’s head. Nigrinus flinched and hissed through his teeth.

  ‘Say what you mean,’ Castus told him.

  ‘Maximian’s people planned to have you murdered in your beds last night. I needed to get you out of the city and far away, so I could take you into my custody. They believe I’m part of their conspiracy, but I needed to prove my allegiance... What better way than breaking the oaths of Constantine’s most loyal men? That performance in the torture room was for their benefit, of course...’

  ‘But the villa,’ Brinno said, ‘the aqueduct – that was real. It was no game. Victor died!’

  ‘Of course it was real – it had to be! I hadn’t anticipated that you would defend yourselves so robustly, though. As it was, you cost me a dozen expensive gladiators and several members of the imperial courier service. Delphius in particular was a very effective agent...’

  ‘And you couldn’t have just told us all this beforehand?’ Castus felt his mind swinging between pained belief and outraged denial.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Nigrinus said, grinning, ‘but I didn’t rate your abilities as actors. Far more convincing if the anger was real, no? And I couldn’t risk you giving anything away – I mean, you might actually have been put to torture, and then what?’

  Castus exhaled heavily, then eased his weight off the notary’s chest and released his hair. Nigrinus let out a sob of relief, apparently involuntary. Then he sat up and brushed his hair into place with his fingers.

  ‘You knew about Constantine’s death too?’ Brinno said. He had not lowered the trident. ‘Did you plan that as well?’

  ‘Constantine isn’t dead, you barbarian oaf! Gorgonius sent killers to Treveris, but they failed, I don’t know how. So now – understand this, and please stop waving that trident at me – now the emperor needs us alive! Maximian and his supporters think I’m one of them, but I can’t work alone. I need muscle. I need men I can trust, men Constantine trusts. You’ll have to do, in the circumstances.’

  ‘And how can we trust you?’

  ‘When you get out of this place, look above the main gate of the city. You’ll see the heads of two of your fellow Protectors decorating spikes there. The other two agreed to shift their loyalties to Maximian. As did your friend Sallustius: Maximian bought his allegiance months ago. And besides, if you can’t trust me, whom do you have left? Or would you rather have your heads on spikes too?’


  Castus looked at Brinno, who slowly lowered the trident. The notary was sitting on the ground between them, massaging his chest with stiff fingers.

  ‘Swear upon the gods that this is the truth,’ Castus said, raising the knife again.

  ‘I swear upon the gods that this is the truth,’ Nigrinus said, in the tone of a man with little belief in either.

  ‘If he’s wrong...’ Brinno said. ‘May the gods help us!’

  ‘If he’s wrong,’ Castus replied, ‘I think we’re beyond their help.’

  ‘Maximianus Augustus! Eternal Augustus! The gods preserve you for us! Your salvation is our salvation!’

  Again and again the massed acclamation rang out from the crowds packing the stands of the circus, all the people of Arelate on their feet, all of them saluting, all of them repeating the ritual formulas as the crowd-leaders raised their batons.

  ‘Maximianus Augustus! Eternal Augustus! The gods send you to us! The gods grant you triumph!’

  Noon sun turned the swept sand of the racecourse into a glaring yellow plain. Trumpets sounded from the balustrades above the starting gates, and from the blue shade of the arches below the procession marched forth.

  At its head came the new military commanders of Maximian’s army: Scorpianus, dressed in silvered cuirass and peacock-plumed helmet in his new role as Praetorian Prefect, and beside him Gaudentius, the former commander of the Alpine force, now holding the rank of comes rei militaris, Companion in Military Affairs. Behind them the prefects of the legions from Spain, the centurions of the Praetorian Cohort and the tribunes of the legionary and auxilia detachments that Gaudentius had led down from Cularo.

  Behind the officers, marching in glittering array with their standards proudly adorned with images of the newly restored emperor, came the troops. First the Praetorians, then the troops from Spain: four thousand men of Legion VI Hispana Maximiana and Legion VII Gemina Maximiana. After them were the mixed detachments from the Rhine army, with their small cavalry force. To the cheers of the crowd, they marched down the length of the circus, around the curve at the far end and back up the course to form in their units before the imperial podium that overlooked the finish line.

  Eight thousand men, Castus thought. They made a fine sight, worthy of a better emperor. He knew that the soldiers had already been paid their acclamation donatives: a gold piece and two pounds of silver per man. He wondered how much was left now of the hoard taken from the mint at Lugdunum. But the soldiers looked happy, as rich men often do.

  Castus was standing before the lowest tier of the seating, facing out over the assembled troops with his back to the imperial podium. The altar constructed on the sand below was still smoking; the priests from the sacred fraternities of Arelate were still gathering the meat of the sacrificial animals. On the seats just behind Castus, the city councillors and the provincial governors were sitting together, all of them now pledged to Maximian’s cause. No mention had been made of the emperor’s son, Maxentius.

  The new emperor himself sat high in the podium, red faced and impassive. Eternal Augustus, Castus thought to himself: that was the message of the new regime. Maximian had never abdicated with Diocletian: that had been a mere administrative error; he had been emperor all along, the Senior Augustus, entitled to rule over the entire empire... The citizens of Arelate seemed impressed anyway. But they had already benefited from the golden rays of the emperor’s favour.

  Castus had seen Fausta seated some distance to her father’s right, dressed now in muted clothes befitting her supposed widowed status. Somewhere among those gathered around her would be Sabina, but Castus did not have time to look. Besides, he did not want to see her, did not want her to see him. It was shameful enough just having to appear in public.

  Sallustius was standing four paces to his left. He had tried to apologise to Castus and Brinno already. He had been born in Rome, he had told them, he had family there. He wanted to return to his home city one day, and not with a hostile army. Brinno had just turned away in disgust. But Castus tried to forgive the man, or at least feign forgiveness. Were they not all feigning loyalty, after all?

  Only the day before he had gone dutifully to the shrines of Jupiter, Isis and Sol Invictus and given sacrifice, as he had promised, for having escaped alive from the aqueduct. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been easier to have died, like Victor. But another part of him felt that his escape had been an illusion: in his soul he was still perched on that high and veering precipice, still trying to pace that narrow path above a vast and yawning void.

  Horns sounded from the military array, and the delegates of the troops began to step forward and take their oaths. When all had spoken, it was the turn of the Protectores. Castus had already sworn in private, of course. This was the public display of loyalty to the new regime. In his mind was the closing phrase of the vow he had taken to Constantine in the audience hall of Treveris. The terrible penalties of disloyalty.

  ...I impose a curse upon myself encompassing the destruction and total extinction of my body, soul, life, children, and my entire family, so neither earth nor sea may receive their bodies nor bear fruit for them...

  Turning towards the podium, towards the glowering figure of Maximian, Castus raised his hand in salute and joined his voice to the others in crying out the oath.

  May the gods forgive me. May the true emperor forgive me.

  But the words in his head were drowned out by the ringing cheers of the crowd.

  Part Four

  20

  ‘By the fucking almighty balls of Jove, why is he still alive?’

  Maximian’s roar echoed through the audience chamber and out to the corridor. Standing guard beside the open doors, Castus resisted the urge to turn and glance back into the room. The new emperor had been drinking since just after lunch; it was dusk now. Castus had seen Maximian drunk often enough, but had never witnessed him so angry. The news of Constantine’s rapid advance southward from the Rhine had arrived only hours before.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to see to it?’ he yelled. ‘Why did I make you Praetorian Prefect, Scorpianus, if you couldn’t even manage that? You were supposed to send men to kill him, not warn him! How hard is it?’

  On the far side of the door, Sallustius stood motionless. When he glanced across at him, Castus saw the face of his former friend creased with embarrassed anguish. Scorpianus was speaking now, his measured tones tight with discomfort.

  ‘Most Sacred Augustus,’ the Praetorian Prefect said, ‘I assure you that the men we sent were the very best. They were apprehended on the road – some traitor must have given warning... But they will give nothing away, even under the fiercest torture...’

  A sudden ringing crash: Maximian had either thrown his cup at the wall or kicked over a table. Castus could hear his snarls of outrage, his stamping strides as he paced from one side of the room to the other.

  ‘So now,’ Maximian said in a low growl, ‘my bastard son-in-law is marching against me. He dares! He dares march against the Man Like Hercules! That horse-faced fraud. I never liked him, Scorpianus. He has no sense of fucking humour.’

  Castus heard the prefect making sounds of assent. There were several others in the audience hall, but they were sensibly keeping quiet.

  ‘And to think,’ Maximian went on, ‘I made his father everything he was! I raised him up, his father Constantius, with my own hand, do you know that?’

  ‘Yes, your divinity,’ Scorpianus replied.

  ‘Appointed him my prefect, then my Caesar... And this is how his son repays me, can you credit it? Where are the gods? Where is justice?’

  ‘I don’t know, your divinity.’

  For a while they fell silent, and Castus strained to hear what was happening. He kept his head motionless, staring across the corridor at the darkening windows above the courtyard. A chair grunted on the marble floor, then Maximian spoke again.

  ‘Haven’t we got people in his retinue? I am the Senior Augustus, the Maximum Augustus, of the entire R
oman Empire, and if I want somebody to die they are dead!’

  ‘Quite right, emperor,’ Scorpianus told him crisply. ‘We have many agents, as you know. One of them will see to him before long...’

  ‘Or maybe one of his will see to me, eh?’ Maximian broke in. ‘Half my people are traitors anyway – betrayed one emperor, could betray another...’

  ‘Oh, no, divinity. Your troops and officers are devoted to your cause...’

  But the emperor’s mood had clearly shifted. There was another silence, and then Maximian spoke again in an imploring voice.

  ‘I never asked to fight Constantine!’ he cried. ‘The gods know I did not! I would have ruled by his side. He could have been my subordinate, my Caesar, as his father was before him. I could even have loved him, as a son-in-law. But no!’

  ‘Sacred Augustus, the gods have decreed your rule...’

  ‘Shut up!’ the emperor shouted, and Castus could almost see Scorpianus flinch. The shout died away in echoes.

  ‘Surrounded by traitors,’ Maximian said. ‘My daughter’s no better – I told her what to do! I told her to wave those huge tits of hers around a bit more. He’d soon have given up that dry old stick Minervina then, and we’d have an heir to cement the union! But, no, she’d rather sulk and pout and stuff her face, the pig...’

  Silence from Scorpianus, and the others in the room. Castus was not surprised; they had learned by now that it was never wise to agree too strongly with Maximian’s outbursts. The emperor had an unnervingly acute memory.

  ‘Send those two guards in here!’ he demanded suddenly. Castus tensed, and caught Sallustius doing the same. A moment later, Scorpianus stepped through the doors and gestured to both of them.

  They followed him back into the audience chamber. Maximian was slumped on a carved wooden chair set upon the low dais in the centre. Only ten days had passed since he had been acclaimed Augustus once more, but he seemed to have aged years. His face was flushed and pouched, his hair and bristling beard run through with grey, and the hands that gripped the arms of the chair were corded with veins. Shards of shattered glass and pottery on the floor showed the evidence of the emperor’s rage. The two Protectores stamped to a halt at a respectful distance, saluted, and dropped to kneel before him.