by Ian Ross
‘Caesar!’ Castus said as he stood up again, in his parade-ground voice. ‘You summoned me?’
‘Did I?’ the boy said, languidly perplexed. ‘Oh, perhaps I did...’
Flavius Julius Crispus was slight of build, mild of features, with pimple-spotted cheeks and downy hair on his upper lip. His face had nothing of his father’s raw-boned ferocity; he took after his Greek mother, although his curly hair was the colour of dark honey and worn rather long.
‘Are the troops settled?’ the young emperor said. ‘Have they been fed and given dry lodgings?’
‘Yes, Caesar,’ Castus replied. It was not his duty to attend to such things, but he assumed the questions were an attempt at sounding authoritative. Castus noticed that the youth was holding a gilded sphere, inscribed with tiny images, turning it lightly between his fingers.
‘We were just discussing the form of the heavens,’ Crispus declared, with greater enthusiasm. ‘I’d always thought that they were spherical, like this ball, with our world shaped like a globe inside.’ He traced his fingertips over the golden sphere, which Castus now saw was inscribed with the figures of the constellations: bears and hunters, scorpions and magical beasts. ‘But Lactantius here tells me that this is not so,’ the boy went on. ‘What do you think?’
‘I know little of the heavens, majesty,’ Castus said stiffly. The old man sitting opposite Crispus, the boy’s tutor Lactantius, was regarding him with vague distaste. ‘But... I have always believed that the world is like a ball, and the constellations revolve around it.’
‘Pah, what use is it to ask a soldier about philosophy?’ Lactantius exclaimed. ‘Perhaps your majesty jests, hmm? Perhaps ask your military thinker to explain how the people on the opposite side of this supposed globe do not fall off? Does their rain fall upwards out of the earth, hmm?’
Castus glared at the man. This Lactantius was a Christian of some sort; according to Diogenes, he had written a book about the unpleasant deaths of various emperors, including Diocletian. As far as Castus was concerned, that was enough to condemn him. Diocletian was a titan, and above criticism.
‘Aren’t heavy things pulled down towards the earth?’ he said, frowning. ‘Just as light things rise into the air? So everything pulls towards the centre, like the spokes of a wheel...’
The boy Caesar raised an eyebrow and smiled, clearly entertained by the exchange. For a moment Lactantius tugged at his fleecy beard, then he shrugged.
‘An implausible fiction,’ he announced. ‘Imagine, majesty, the earth spinning like a wheel! A dizzying concept! Scripture tells us quite plainly that heaven is above us and hell beneath our feet – so how could this globular world be suspended with the heavens on all sides? No – it is patently obvious that the earth is a flat plane, with the heavens set above it.’
Castus cleared his throat loudly. He had better things to do than indulge the strange whims of old men. ‘Do you require anything more of me, Caesar?’
‘No, that will be all,’ the boy said. ‘You may go.’
Castus tried to keep the sour look from his face until he had got out of the room. His cloak was still wet, and he threw it over his shoulder as he marched back along the colonnade outside. Lamplight fell from the open doorways, and he heard the sound of men singing from the barracks compound, the yelp of dogs, distant laughter.
‘Ah, excellency, there you are!’ A figure appeared in a darkened doorway; Castus saw the gleam of light on his shaved head. ‘His eminence has been waiting for you...’
Castus was baffled for a moment, then understood – the summons had come from Bassus, the Praetorian Prefect, not the Caesar. Eminence, excellency, majesty... with all these titles, he thought, it wasn’t surprising the messenger had got confused. If men could call each other by their real names, things would be much simpler.
‘The Caesar detained me,’ he said. ‘But I’m here now.’
The eunuch led him through the dark vestibule into a reception room beyond. Junius Bassus was reclining on a couch, peering at a tablet, but he put it aside and stood up promptly as Castus entered and gave his salute.
‘I’ve just had word from the consularis governor of Germania Secunda,’ the Praetorian Prefect said, pacing across the room. ‘He reports that the barbarians on the lower Rhine are becoming threatening. One of the Frankish tribes, I believe. As you know, since the previous Dux Germaniae was killed by the barbarians back in March, the frontier has been without a military commander. I believe you knew Valerius Leontius?’
‘He was my senior commander during the Italian campaign,’ Castus said. ‘A good soldier.’ A good man, too, and something close to a friend, although he did not say that to Bassus. He had heard of Leontius’s death two months before, and relished the opportunity of avenging it.
‘Anyway,’ Bassus went on, ‘it’s imperative that you travel on to Colonia Agrippina without delay and assess the situation.’
Castus nodded, hooking his thumbs into his belt. ‘I could move faster by river, dominus.’
‘Quite so. I shall despatch an order to the Rhine flotilla to send ships upriver to meet you at... shall we say Argentorate? You can remain with us until we reach Vindonissa, then move on more rapidly from there.’
Bassus might look complacent, but he was obviously capable. Already Castus was turning the new schedule over in his mind: three days would take him to Vindonissa, three more to the river port at Argentorate. From there, another two or three days downstream by ship and he would be at Colonia Agrippina, the capital of the Rhine provinces.
‘Did the governor say anything more about the situation?’
‘Unfortunately not. I gather it’s more potential than actuality at present, but you’d best be there as soon as you can. All these Frankish tribes have sworn peace with Rome, but they are not a trustworthy people. I’ve lost count of the times the Augustus has had to beat them into obedient submission.’
Castus cleared his throat. He had fought in several of those campaigns himself. The one against the Bructeri he remembered in particular: he had saved Constantine’s life in battle, and won promotion to the Protectores as a result. That was also, he reminded himself, the campaign that had sacked Ganna’s village, and led to her enslavement.
‘There’s something else, before you go,’ Bassus said with a confidential air. ‘I’d intended to speak of this later, but since you’ll be leaving us soon, it must be now.’
He paused, weighing his words. Castus tried not to respond too obviously to the ominous tone. ‘Dominus?’ he said.
‘When you reach Colonia Agrippina, you must ensure that, uh... that your position does not become compromised, shall we say.’ Once again Bassus paused, pursing his lips so his jowls quivered beneath his beard. ‘We have heard disturbing rumours of the attitudes, the behaviour, of some of the provincials. Even some of our own officials in Germania and Belgica. They have a somewhat independent spirit, it seems. They may, perhaps, attempt to influence you unduly. Perhaps thinking you merely a simple soldier...’ He gave a primping smirk, as if to suggest that he would never think such a thing himself.
‘Dominus, if there’s something I should know...’
Bassus held up a hand, shaking his head. ‘No, no – there’s nothing more definite I can tell you at this point. Just be wary. And remember: all power descends from the Augustus Constantine. All power is channelled through the Caesar Crispus. There is no other conduit. Crispus rules in the west now, and he must be seen to rule. Do I make myself clear?’
Not at all, Castus thought. But the prefect appeared to have made his point.
Outside again, Castus left the commander’s residence and crossed the cobbled lane to the mansio in the far corner of the fortress. The rain had stopped, finally, and the air smelled of smoke and wet horses. Turning over the prefect’s words, he still felt unsure of their meaning. It was warning, perhaps even a threat – but beyond that it was entirely cryptic.
Once again Castus asked himself why he had been chosen for thi
s command. He had earned it, by rank and service, but there was more than that. He had never been known for ostentation or greed – quite the opposite. Was he thought to be immune from the temptation of bribery? Or was it, Castus thought with a start, that there was something he was supposed not to notice?
Enough. These thoughts got him nowhere, and he would find out the meaning of the prefect’s warning soon enough. Already his mind felt sharper, his body flowing with fresh energy at the thought of escaping this slow imperial procession at last. Free of the need for deference and protocol, he could make his own pace and be his own master.
Leaving his bodyguards in the outer chamber, Castus climbed the lamplit wooden stairway to the suite of upper rooms where his household was lodged for the night. His mind was still filled with considerations of the journey ahead and what he might find in Germania, and he frowned as he saw Ganna sitting outside his son’s room. She stood up as he approached.
‘He wants you,’ she said, motioning with her head towards the door. ‘The girl’s in there with him.’
The chamber beyond the door was dim, lit only by a clay lamp that glowed gently in the corner. A girl of thirteen knelt beside the bed, mumbling a breathy song, but as Castus entered she fell silent in fright, then backed away on her knees with her head lowered. Castus had bought the round-cheeked, buck-toothed slave to help Ganna look after his son, but she was barely more than a child herself and appeared petrified most of the time. It irritated him; so many people seemed cowed by his presence these days.
Pulling up a stool, Castus exhaled heavily and sat beside the bed. He made an effort to ease his frown and appear less formidable, but his son did not look reassured. Sabinus lay with the blanket pulled up to his chin, his face pale in the lamp’s glow.
‘Can’t sleep?’ Castus said, his voice lowering to a gentle rasp. The boy shook his head.
‘He’s frightened,’ Ganna said from behind him.
Castus touched his son’s cheek, then ran his palm across his head. He knew that he was too soft on the boy – Ganna had complained about it. The first thing Castus had done when the two of them arrived with him was to dismiss Sabinus’s tutor; he learned that the paedagogus had flogged him for some failing in his lessons. The boy must be shown discipline, he knew that – but he remembered all too well the terror he had felt for his own father, terror that turned to hatred. He refused to let his son experience that. Perhaps that was just a weakness in him; the boy was unhappy, often moody and tearful, and Castus was all too aware that he knew nothing of children and how they should be raised.
‘What’s he afraid of?’ he said sternly, addressing the two slaves.
‘It’s the lake,’ the boy said quietly, then rolled his eyes towards the shuttered window. ‘I heard a man say it was bottomless... and there are barbarians who come across it in boats and cut people to pieces...’
Castus snorted a laugh, but the boy looked genuinely scared. Easy to understand his fear; they had passed several lakes on their journey through northern Italy, but they had been inside Roman territory then. Lake Brigantio was the first frontier that the boy had seen: on the far side was another world. Pointless to try and explain to him that Ganna, his own nurse, was a barbarian; in the boy’s mind, those outside the boundaries of civilisation were bloodthirsty savages, less than human. It was what he had been taught, back in Rome.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Castus said, forcing himself to smile. ‘They wouldn’t dare come near this fortress, would they? Nobody’s crossed this frontier in a very long time! You’re safe here, and you’ll stay safe. Just sleep now.’
Sabinus nodded bleakly, then closed his eyes and turned his head from Castus’s hand. Castus could not help glancing briefly at the shutters himself. The presence of the lake outside, that great expanse of deep cold water in the blackness of the night, did feel ominous.
‘When will we go back to Rome?’ the boy said in a sleepy mumble.
Castus hid his wince of regret. ‘Not for a long while yet,’ he said. ‘But don’t think about that now. Your home’s here, with us...’
Sabinus sighed, rolling over into the embrace of the blanket. He was not asleep, but clearly wanted his father to think he was. Castus gazed at him a moment longer, gave the boy’s shoulder a clumsy pat, and stood up. As he left the room he heard the two slaves talking in hushed voices, then the boy’s quiet, tearful sniff.
Guilt twisted inside him as he returned to his own chamber along the hall. Once again he wondered if he had done the right thing by taking his son from Rome. The idea that the boy could be lost to him, adopted into some stranger’s family – worse, into the family of a man like Latronianus – made his heart ache. But how much of it was pride? He did not know.
Another hour had passed before Ganna came to join him. The sound of the door latch startled Castus from the edge of sleep, and he opened his eyes to see her standing beside the bed. In the faint moonlight through the gap in the shutters he watched her shed her rough green tunic. Her back still showed a tracery of old whip scars. Her previous master had been fond of the lash.
‘How is he?’ Castus asked as she lifted the blanket and slid in beside him.
‘Better. Sleeping,’ she told him, her long limbs binding close against him on the narrow mattress. From outside came the distant step of a sentry on the rampart walkway.
They had been lovers for nearly four months now, ever since she had left Rome and come to join him in Aquileia. Nothing shameful about that – most men bedded their slaves; it was only unusual that it had taken so long. While Sabina lived, Ganna had been unwilling to come to his bed, and Castus had been unwilling to force her. He had thought often of freeing her, of course. It would have been easily done. But she had made it plain to him that she would not remain in his household, or with him, if he did. She would go home, to Germania.
‘If you want that,’ she had told him, ‘free me now. But if you want me to stay, don’t. Somebody has to look after your child.’
It was strange, he thought, almost stubborn of her. As if her pride would only allow her to be with him, and to care for his son, under duress. She said she hated all Romans, but when they were alone together she was passionate, giving everything. Her body was womanly but strong, lean with muscle; sometimes, when they lay together, she would whisper to him in her own language, and he found the strange music of her words not alien and barbaric but intoxicating, arousing.
Lying beside her now, running his big scarred hand lazily through her hair, Castus realised that he cared deeply for this woman. It was madness, he knew: she was a slave, a barbarian and a sworn enemy of the Roman people. But he felt such tenderness for her, even if he understood so little of her mind or her heart.
‘What would you do,’ he asked her, ‘if you went back to Germania?’
‘Find my son, of course,’ she replied, and shoved at his shoulder. Castus gave a rueful flinch. Too often he forgot that she had a child of her own; she had not seen him in nearly a decade. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘I could die happily, in my own land.’
‘Would you marry again?’
She snorted a laugh. ‘Who would marry me now? I’m an old woman.’
‘You’re a dozen years younger than me,’ he said, and she laughed again.
‘And you’re an old man. See,’ she said, rubbing her fingers against his temples. ‘Your hair’s become grey. You are fat!’ She prodded him in the belly.
Castus growled deep in his throat, rolling over and pinning her to the bed. Renewed desire stirred inside him.
‘If I freed you I could marry you myself,’ he said in a breath. Just for a moment he imagined it: her proud scorn in the salons of the mighty. A tempting fantasy. Then he felt the laughter ripple through her body.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘I think you are really as stupid as men say.’ But when she kissed the ugly scar on his jaw, he felt her smiling.
‘Freedom is not something to give and take,’ she whispered. ‘You Romans will never underst
and that.’
CHAPTER IV
‘You seem unusually cheerful, dominus,’ Diogenes said as he rode beside Castus. ‘Does the prospect of fighting entire nations of barbarians really gladden the heart so much?’
‘It’d be good to face somebody who isn’t fighting under a Roman banner for a change,’ Castus said. ‘That would gladden me, certainly.’
Diogenes himself looked happier these days; since Castus’s promotion, his secretary had gained the new title princeps officiorum, chief of his military staff, and all the extra pay and added dignity that went with it. But it was true, Castus thought, that his own spirits felt lifted too. They had left the lake and its gloomy waters behind them now, and were moving through rough wooded country, the road climbing and descending broken ridges and crossing streams swollen to muddy brown torrents by the rains. The morning was clear and bright, and Castus’s small party rode at the head of the column.
But it was not just the sunlight and the open road before him, or the prospect of his new command either, that had improved his mood. For nearly a decade, Castus had been in close proximity to the emperor and his court, first as Protector and then tribune. He had followed Constantine loyally, but the relentless round of civil wars, the emperor’s grim ambition for total rule, had worn at Castus’s nerves. The increasing power and influence of the Christians troubled him too; his own faith was strictly traditional, and the rise of this new cult threatened his sense of the divine order, whatever his emperor might believe. Worse still, the society of the court was haunted by the memory of Sabina. Castus had first encountered her there, and her shade had stood over him in all his official duties.
Now, in this fresh northern light, he felt liberated both from the oppressive confines of court protocol, the emperor’s beliefs and ambitions, and the lingering memory of his dead wife. He would not have admitted that to anyone, but he knew in his heart that it was true.