The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  ‘What provocation did the barbarians offer?’ Castus asked, turning deliberately to the governor.

  ‘They often try and seize our grain ships on the river,’ Tiberianus said. Castus had noticed the governor’s eyes flick quickly in Rufus’s direction, as if requesting permission to speak. ‘As you probably know, most of the grain supply for the frontier garrisons, and for the city of Colonia, comes across the sea from Britain. The Rhine is our transit route, but it’s vulnerable. Frequently the barbarians try and impose tolls, or interfere with the river traffic. Last autumn a band of the Chamavi seized a grain freighter that ran aground on a mudbank and pillaged it, killing the crew.’

  ‘And that was after plenty of other mischief!’ Magnius Rufus broke in, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘And so, you see, our valiant dux Leontius was compelled to act at long last... But he led only a small reprisal raid across the river, at the time of one of the Chamavi religious festivals, and his men burned a grove sacred to one of their hideous gods in the process. There’s a rumour,’ he said, widening his eyes dramatically, ‘that the barbarians cursed him for his impiety! Anyway, six months later he was murdered by them, presumably in revenge, while delivering their subsidy payment.’

  Hands fluttered around the table, most of the assembly making warding signs against evil magic. A couple of men dipped their fingers in their wine and flicked droplets onto the mosaic floor as an offering to any spirits in attendance. Castus remained unmoved by the story. He guessed that Leontius had been pressured to act, against his better judgement, and perhaps at a bad time.

  ‘What of the Chamavi?’ he said. ‘They haven’t made any further threats?’

  ‘They’ve been massing warbands since the start of the summer,’ the governor told him. ‘Although, they have yet to try and cross the river. They often attempt something at this time of year though – we have stores of grain from our suppliers in Britain, fodder and other stores for the winter, and they do not. Our lands may not yield much in the way of crops, but we have cattle and sheep aplenty. Meat on the hoof.’

  ‘Tell me of their numbers,’ Castus said, sipping from his cup. He felt saturated with wine already, and the room was hot and thick with the smells of food, but he forced himself to remain collected and reserved. The tribune, Gaudiosus, leaned forward to speak.

  ‘Each of the petty kings has his own retinue of household warriors,’ he said, with a disdainful shrug. ‘Maybe a few hundred strong, maybe less. He grants them wealth, arms and plunder, and they serve him to the death. But beyond that are the masses of common warriors who join the warbands. The Chamavi can certainly muster several thousands of them, but their territory extends many miles north. There could well be more than we know.’ Castus noticed that the man did not address him correctly, as his superior officer. He narrowed his eyes, and nodded for the man to continue.

  ‘To the west, nearer the river estuary, there are the Salii,’ the tribune went on. ‘They’ve been our enemies in the past, but generally nowadays they abide by their treaties.’

  Castus knew of the Salii; his old friend Brinno had been the son of one of their chieftains. Brinno, he recalled, had never had anything good to say about the Chamavi, or the provincials of Germania and Belgica either.

  ‘Then upstream from the Chamavi are the Chattuari,’ Gaudiosus said. ‘There are some other scattered tribes too – Tubantes, Lanciones, Amsivarii – but they are subordinate to the others. Then, furthest south, opposite our city here, are the Bructeri. We call them all Franks, but they have little cohesion. Most of the time they fight among themselves.’

  ‘And long may that continue!’ Rufus declared, to much gruff agreement.

  The gathering had broken up soon after that, Castus collecting his four guards from the door and marching blearily home through the empty streets to the Praetorium. He had slept badly that night, too many thoughts dancing in his mind on the fumes of the drink. He had remembered his Frankish friend Brinno, keenly and painfully. He had remembered the Praetorian Prefect’s strange warning to beware of the provincials. He had thought about Ganna – who had removed herself to a pallet on the floor to escape his mumbling and thrashing – and her longing glances towards the barbarian shore.

  Not surprising that he felt so worn down now, so tired and irritable. With a start he realised that Diogenes had almost reached the end of his troop roster.

  ‘...the Sixth Equites Stablesiani, 268 men, the Eleventh Equites Dalmatorum, 212 men, and the Numerus Equitum Sarmatorum, 284 men. That’s all of them, dominus.’

  ‘So what’s our total strength?’

  ‘Officially, your command should number nearly twelve thousand. However, based on these figures you appear to have about half that.’

  Six thousand men. The number, Castus thought, of a single legion of the old establishment. Once upon a time, he knew, the province of Lower Germania had two full legions to defend it, besides auxiliaries. Back then, of course, the troops were commanded by the provincial governors themselves: no doubt Tiberianus recalled those days fondly. It had been Diocletian, in his great wisdom, who had appointed duces to the military command, leaving the governors to civilian duties... A thought struck him, something that had passed through his turning mind the night before.

  ‘Have you heard of an emperor called Victorinus?’ he asked Diogenes.

  ‘Certainly, dominus. Marcus Piavonius Victorinus, one of the Gallic usurpers. He followed Postumus in the rule of the western provinces, during the time that they broke away from Rome; about fifty years ago, I suppose. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I met a man last night who claimed to be descended from him.’ Piavonius Magnius Rufus – yes, that had been the name. The governor, in a particularly obsequious moment, had pointed out the connection. A dangerous connection too: any man descended from an emperor, even the mere grand-nephew of a usurper, had a dubious claim to the purple. Magnius Rufus had laughed it off, of course, but Castus had heard the pride in his voice.

  ‘Funnily enough, Piavonius Victorinus lost his life in this very building.’

  ‘Murdered by his own officers, by any chance?’

  ‘You know the story! Ah... yes.’

  Castus glanced around the room, as if he might still see the faint bloodstains in the flickering lamplight. He had heard enough tales of usurpers and their bad ends.

  ‘Would you like me to have this man watched, dominus?’ Diogenes said, raising an eyebrow as he reached for a fresh tablet.

  Castus shook his head. Diogenes, he remembered, had certain philosophical ideas about government: to him, state power was the sole guarantor of popular freedom. Doubtless he would relish the chance to persecute a wealthy private individual like Magnius Rufus. But Castus had too much work to be involving himself in intrigues just yet. Besides, Rufus was clearly a man of power and influence here.

  ‘He’s invited me to visit him at his villa, when I have time,’ Castus said, without enthusiasm. ‘I’ll leave it to you to compose a suitably busy schedule.’

  *

  Upstairs, in his private chambers, Castus found Ganna already waiting for him. One of the tall arched windows was open, letting in a cool exhalation of night air, and she sat beside it staring into the darkness on the far side of the river.

  ‘Sabbi’s already sleeping,’ she said as he entered the room. ‘He seems happier now, at last.’

  ‘I’m sure he prefers the lodgings,’ Castus said through a yawn. He dismissed the other two slaves with a gesture, then slopped wine into a cup. It was unwatered, strong. If he wanted to sleep soundly, he reasoned, he needed more drink to quiet his mind.

  Sitting on the couch, Castus looked at the woman beside the window. Only a single lamp burned upon the table, and her figure was half in shadow against the faint moonlight outside.

  ‘You look...’ Castus began, then snorted a quick laugh. ‘You look like some half-tamed wild animal, still longing for the freedom of the wild!’

  He caught the quick movement of her head, and
realised how offensive his words had been. I am tired, he thought, and too clumsy to be civil.

  ‘An animal, you say? It is not my people who are animals. You Romans are the true beasts.’

  Castus made a sound in his throat, and drank more wine. He was not in a mood for argument, not tonight. But Ganna felt differently.

  ‘I see the way they look at you,’ she said coldly. ‘These fine Romans. This governor and all his fat friends. They are wolves! They think you are an animal too, a big stupid bear, and they yap at you and think you will dance for them!’

  ‘Quiet!’ Castus snarled into his cup. He knew this mood of hers well; he should dismiss her now, before things got worse.

  But Ganna had withdrawn into herself once more; meditative, she brought her knees up and clasped them to her chest as she stared out of the window.

  ‘You said to me some days ago,’ she told him, ‘that you could free me and then make me your wife.’

  ‘Uh?’ Castus said, glancing up. He had not been expecting this.

  ‘Well then, I have a thing to say.’ Ganna turned on her seat to face him. ‘Free me, marry me, and come with me.’

  ‘To your people? To barbaricum?’

  ‘Yes! Bring Sabbi too. Nobody would harm you, if you were with me. You would be accepted – a great warrior. We could live together, in freedom. Away from these Roman wolves.’

  ‘You forget,’ Castus said loudly, unable to keep the anger from his voice, ‘that I’ve seen your country. You think I would want that life? I’ve marched from one end of the empire to the other in the service of my emperor – my son’s lived in Rome itself. Why should we throw that away for your so-called freedom? The freedom of savages!’

  He heard the dying echo of his voice, and hated the words he had spoken. Had the views of Rufus and the governor already infected him? But he knew he was trying to deny his impulse: just for a fleeting moment the idea had grabbed at him – it would be so easy – before the hooks of his allegiance had dragged him back. He saw Ganna’s face closing against him.

  ‘Very well. I have said my words. I say no more.’

  Castus felt his head throbbing, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. He wanted to apologise, but could not bring himself to do it. He could almost laugh – the Dux Limitis Germaniae wanting to apologise to his own slave... Just for a moment the big smirking face of Magnius Rufus appeared to him. Was he really so dissimilar to that man?

  ‘You talk to me of Rome,’ Ganna said, her voice tight with suppressed rage. ‘You, too, forget. I lived there for eight long years. I know it far better than you! I know the way these civilised Romans behave. I know what foul things they do in their great houses. Your own wife, she behaved no better than a beast—’

  ‘Enough!’ Castus shouted, on his feet suddenly. He knew she was hurt and angry, and trying to injure him, but this he could not allow. ‘Say nothing of my wife! You are a slave – know your place!’

  ‘My place?’ she said, standing up as well. ‘What is that?’ With a single fierce gesture she pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall long and blonde over her shoulders. She ripped out the brooch at her shoulder and her tunic dropped to her feet. Naked, she strode to the couch and flung herself down upon it. ‘Is this my place? This is the use you have for me? To nurse your son, and fuck on your command?’

  ‘Stop this,’ Castus said hoarsely. He bent down, wincing, and snatched up her fallen tunic. Ganna sat up, cross-legged on the mattress.

  ‘You know how your wife died, excellency?’

  He took two long steps towards her before he managed to halt himself. His fists were clenched, the tunic trailing from his locked fingers.

  ‘She died of a fever,’ he said, knowing already that it was a lie.

  ‘She died giving birth to a child that came too soon. The child died too.’

  No need for her to say more; Castus knew it all now. He had not been with Sabina for over nine months when she died. ‘Whose?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Nobody. A man. Not you.’

  Turning on his heel, Castus flung the tunic towards the couch. ‘Get dressed and get out,’ he said. ‘Go to your own quarters.’

  He did not hear her leave. When he was alone he sank down on the couch, pressing his bunched knuckles to his face. In some way he had known all along, or his fears had whispered the truth to him. Sabina had always been easily tempted. But what a fool he had been. No better than a beast. A dancing bear. His heavy shoulders were locked in misery. Never again, he told himself. Never again would he allow himself to become that vulnerable.

  Clumsily pouring more wine, he drank it back quickly, as if he could eclipse the thoughts in his head. A great sigh ran through him, and he hurled the cup and its contents at the far wall. Getting up, he snuffed the lamp with his fingers, barely feeling the flame burn his thumb. Then he staggered through into the sleeping cubicle, hauling off his clothes.

  It was several hours later, in the dead of the night, that he woke again with a gasp. His head reeled; then he heard the sound again. The crash of hobnailed boots on the tiled floor of the portico downstairs. Shouts filtered up to him, echoed into indistinction.

  By the time the messenger arrived Castus was already on his feet, pulling on his tunic. Lamplight spilled through the opening door. It was a soldier, his cloak thick with dust.

  ‘Dominus!’ he said as he entered the room, saluting quickly. ‘Message from the commander at Tricensima: The Chamavi and Chattuari have crossed the river in force. They’re burning and destroying everything in their path.’

  CHAPTER VII

  The horsemen were sweating in their mail as they rode through the deserted village. The day was hot, and the air stank of burnt thatch and smoke. Something else too: Castus caught the smell, and for a moment it was pleasant, but then his guts clenched. He had not eaten that morning, and was glad of it.

  ‘These two must have tried to put up a fight,’ the cavalry commander said. ‘Either that or the barbarians were just making an example of them.’

  The bodies had been strung up on the beam of a house and a fire lit beneath them. Flames had burnt away most of the lower limbs and charred the remaining flesh. The horsemen rode by in column, each man glancing grim-faced at the scene.

  ‘What about them?’ Castus asked, nodding away to the right between the plundered huts. More bodies lay in the wreckage: women, and what might have been a child. Naked limbs, bloodied and crusted with flies.

  Castus knew scenes like this one all too well. He had seen the Roman army do such things to enemy villages often enough; it was the way of war. But these slaughtered villagers had been under his protection.

  The cavalry commander made a sound in his throat. ‘They’ll have taken the rest as slaves, dominus,’ he said, kicking his horse into motion again. ‘The scouts have picked up the trail ahead – we should be able to catch them. Nothing we can do for these here.’

  Castus glanced one more time at the bodies, then followed him.

  Ulpius Dexter, Prefect of the Sixth Equites Stablesiani, was tanned and weathered as old saddle-leather, his face lean and corded. Castus had caught up with him and his men earlier that day, and already they had tracked and destroyed two smaller bands of raiders. The Stablesiani were garrison cavalry, one of the units stationed at strongpoints along the supply road that stretched west from Colonia to Tungris, intended to intercept barbarian raiders who managed to cross the Rhine into Roman territory. All of them had moved north as soon as they heard of the invasion; spread out across fifty miles of country, scouts moving ahead of them, they were harrying the raiders northwards along the valley of the Mosa.

  ‘Trouble is,’ Dexter said, ‘when they split up into small bands like this it’s impossible to catch them all. We get a few dozen, maybe, but by the time we’ve brought enough force against them the main body have escaped over the river with whatever they’ve taken.’

  Castus grunted his agreement. This time, he thought, things might be different. Two days h
ad passed since he first got word of the Chamavi invasion; had the messages he had dictated in the early hours of that morning been received in time, and understood? Had the navarch Senecio managed to turn his ships around before his journey back upriver? In his mind Castus saw the country ahead of him: the long sweep of the Rhine enclosing the open pastures of Toxandria and the broad valley of the Mosa, the wild marshy lands in between. His stratagem needed coordination; he needed his subordinate officers to move quickly and effectively. He had no idea, this early in his command, whether they would do so.

  They were an hour further north when they sighted the enemy. The raiders were strung out along an expanse of meadow edged with trees, driving the prisoners and stolen cattle ahead of them; about fifty men with spears and shields, few of them armoured and most burdened with sacks of plunder. As they heard the hooves, the wailing horns, they broke into a run, but already there were armoured horsemen crashing out of the trees and galloping between them, killing the stragglers.

  Castus watched the way the cavalrymen operated: the riders split up into groups of four, some with lances and others with bows they shot from the saddle, breaking up the enemy and cutting down any who stood to fight.

  ‘Best method against these pillagers,’ Dexter said between breaths as they rode. ‘Sometimes they try and defend themselves, but mostly they run. Then it’s easy.’

  As he skirted the upper slope of the meadow, Castus could see the Chamavi scattering in confusion, the horsemen reaping them at the gallop. On the far side, a group of the barbarians had managed to gather in a defensive ring, shields raised. Among them Castus spotted one prominent figure, a warrior in mail armour and a plumed helmet, with a blue and white shield. As the last fugitives died or threw down their arms, the riders began to circle in on the ring of shields.

  Castus had spent many hours on the road, slept poorly or not at all, and his mind and body felt hot and stiff with fatigue. As chief commander, his place was here in the periphery, directing the course of events. He should let the troops under his command do the fighting. He should, but he could not. All the frustration of these last two days boiled up in him now, all the pain of what he had learned about Sabina, the memory of the plundered village, the burnt and mutilated dead, mounting together into a solid black rage.