The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  A small skiff pulled up beside the bow, and Felix climbed across into it.

  ‘Sure you know what to do?’ Castus hissed.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, dominus,’ Felix said. ‘Be back before you know.’

  ‘And no blood, if you can...’

  ‘I’ve never killed a man yet who wasn’t asking for it!’ Felix said, before telling the single oarsman to shove off from the galley.

  Castus watched the boat moving away upstream, then the men of the Lucusta lifted their oars and let the river’s current carry them gliding back down to where the other ships of the flotilla lay waiting. Small boats moved between them, carrying Castus’s orders for the night ahead. It would be another gamble, he knew; his men could find themselves caught out in the open, trapped between the fort and the city, with barbarian raiders closing in around them. Back on the stern deck of the Satyra he breathed deeply, then exhaled, trying to subdue the churning anxiety in his gut.

  One of the troop barges bumped alongside; Modestus and eighteen men of the Second Legion leaped over onto the galley’s deck. All wore light kit, leather covers concealing their shield blazons. Some carried grapnels and ropes. The other barges and the Frankish boats had already pulled over closer to the western riverbank, ready to close in and disembark when they heard the signal. With a nervous jolt, Castus checked that one of Modestus’s men was carrying a trumpet.

  ‘Boat coming in,’ a hushed voice called from the bow. A moment later, and Felix was hauling himself aboard.

  ‘Sunrise of Liberty!’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Nice watchword, eh? Lucky me – they changed the sentries just after I got up to the road. One of them might wake up with a sore head tomorrow, but no real harm done.’

  ‘Good,’ Castus said. He clenched his jaw – now for the throw of the dice. Already the men on the benches were bending to their oars, the Satyra beginning to haul upriver towards the bridge. On deck, the legionaries removed their helmets and squatted down, covering their spear blades. With any luck, the sentries would be half-blinded by the glow of the riverbank fires, but any glint of metal in the moonlight could be fatal.

  Slow, then slower, the galley crept up towards the bridge. Now the men on deck could hear the rushing flow of the river’s current around the massive stone bridge piers. Above the piers rose the lattice of heavy wooden beams that supported the roadway twelve feet overhead. Castus kept his eyes on the railing of the bridge, alert for a sentry’s movement against the dark sky. With silent oars the Satyra pushed against the current, until the bridge was almost directly over her bows. Hauling himself up, one of the crewmen scaled to the masthead with a grapnel in his hand. As the mast approached the bridge timbers he swung the hook; at once the men on the benches below lifted their oars, the current carrying the galley back until the grappling rope ran taut. Other men heaved on the line, pulling the hull of the ship up against the massive sloping stone blocks of the bridge pier.

  Felix was first to leap. He was up onto the lowest masonry ledge before Castus had seen him move, another grapnel and rope trailing after him. Others climbed up behind him, the ship held now in a web of taut cables as the soldiers clambered from the deck and up the bridge pier, shields slung on their backs. Castus followed, his boots kicking at the mossy, weed-slippery stones. From a distance the piers had looked as smooth as marble; now he saw that there were handholds and ledges all the way up, left by the engineers who had built the bridge less than ten years before. Swinging his arms, he hauled himself upward, trying not to think of the fast-flowing black water beneath him.

  Muscles burning, his wounded bicep flaming, Castus dragged his bulk up the lattice of timber girders. All around him echoed the grunt and thud of climbing men, boots grating on stone and wood. Felix had reached the bridge railing and was checking the roadway in both directions. Another heave, a sliding scramble up a slanted timber, and Castus followed him. Breathing hard, he crouched at the side of the road as the last of the men piled across after him. No figure appeared from the darkness. No call of challenge. The river was quiet beneath them.

  ‘Form up,’ Castus said.

  As the men assembled on the roadway he took his place at their head, then swung his arm and marched forward towards the western bank and the city beyond. The sound of boots on gravel and timber was loud in the night’s stillness. They were approaching the far end of the bridge when they heard the sentry’s challenge.

  ‘Sunrise of Liberty!’ Castus called back, not breaking step. He could make out the forms of the sentries, now, and the spectral white figures of Minerva painted on each shield.

  ‘We didn’t see your signal, mate,’ the first sentry said. ‘You’re supposed to let us know before you come across!’

  ‘Urgent message for the governor,’ Castus said from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Seems like a lot of you to be carrying a messa—’ The sentry’s voice choked as three men grappled him; three more subdued the second sentry, felling him with a muffled volley of thuds and kicks. Castus kept moving.

  Off the bridge, he marched up the muddy road that crossed the dock area to the Mars Gate of the city. To either side in the darkness he could make out the tangled wreckage of demolished warehouses. Destroyed by the defenders, he guessed, to avoid giving cover to anyone assaulting the walls. His breath was tight as he came up the last inclined causeway towards the gate.

  ‘Halt and declare yourselves!’ The cry came from one of the high arched windows of the gate tower. Castus gave the watchword, then waited. Above him the arches glowed with faint firelight. He thought of the artillery on the towers, the archers standing ready. Bolts and arrows were no doubt aimed directly at him.

  The men behind him shuffled and stamped. Some had shifted their shields to the front, ready to block any missiles. Still the gates remained closed.

  ‘Come on, lads!’ Felix yelled. ‘I need to piss! Open up or I’ll do it on your doorstep!’

  A stir of laughter. Castus broke into a grin. He felt the nervous energy inside him jump and flutter. Then he heard the echoing clatter of the great wooden portcullis lifting inside the gate passage, and a moment later the shunt and bang as the locking bar of the gate was lifted.

  They moved in a rush as soon as the first opening appeared between the gates. The men in the passage could do little to oppose them; they fell back, raising their hands as the soldiers stormed between them. Felix slammed the optio in charge against the wall with his shield.

  ‘Modestus, secure each tower,’ Castus said. His heart was thumping. ‘Hold the gates until you’re relieved, then take a force into the city and take the other gates. Felix – bring four men and follow me. Trumpeter – whenever you’re ready.’

  The young man with the trumpet coughed, spat, then raised his horn and blew a long sustained note. Already Modestus and his men were into the towers on either side of the gates, rushing up the steps and raising screams and cries of alarm from within.

  Striding up the dark street from the gate, his nailed boots crunching on the cobbles, Castus saw figures appearing from the doorways and porticos on either side, drawn by the noise and the trumpet’s call. Some of them cried out questions as he passed. He had known cities under siege, before, and all of them had this same feeling of tense anticipation, everyone on the edge of panic. He felt it himself. But at least now he was inside the walls. He had a chance. And he could finally confront Tiberianus.

  He turned the corner opposite the high wall of the Sacred Precinct and marched north, passing the front portico of the Praetorium. There were groups of soldiers in the streets, some of them on sentry duty and others just loitering around the watchfires. None of them challenged him. He was moving fast, with an escort and a sense of purpose. The lack of morale in the city as a whole was almost palpable.

  At least the soldiers on duty at the doors of the governor’s residence appeared alert. They stepped forward as Castus approached, barring the way with their spears.

  ‘Move aside,’ Castus ordered. ‘I
’m going in to speak to the governor.’

  ‘What’s this, boys, a mutiny?’ said one of the guards. He looked as if he might be tempted himself.

  ‘I am Aurelius Castus, Commander of the Frontier, and my troops are taking control of this city. Right now there’s two of you and six of us. Make a decision.’

  The guards exchanged a glance. One of them shrugged, and they moved aside. Felix was already shoving between them to bang on the inlaid panels of the door with his sword hilt. A moment later the locks clashed and the door edged open. Felix threw himself at the gap, and Castus followed him into the house.

  Lamplight shone off the marble in the vestibule, slaves in patterned tunics falling back from the doorway in shock as Castus and his men marched through them. Two pillars at the far end framed an opening to the moonlit central garden; between them stood a grey-bearded man in a red silk robe. Castus recognised him from his previous visits: Tiberianus’s major-domo.

  ‘Where’s the governor?’ he demanded.

  The old man stretched out his arm, pointing to the bath suite at the far side of the garden. ‘But I’m afraid you will be unable to speak to him,’ he said. Castus noticed that the man’s face was wet with tears.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I regret to report, excellency,’ the major-domo said, ‘that the clarissimus Claudius Basilius Tiberianus... has taken his own life.’

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The body floated in the centre of the circular pool, arms spread wide, and the water was dyed rose pink around it. A little steam still coiled from the surface in the light of the lamps set in niches around the room; Tiberianus had clearly ordered his bath heated before he cut his own wrists. His flared nostrils floated just above the bloodied water, his face submerged. Castus stared at the dead man, the fierce energy that had propelled him from the river dying away into a distant sense of loathing. The governor had removed himself from the reach of vengeance.

  ‘Disappointing,’ a voice said. Castus turned sharply. The man beside him had a familiar dark complexion and a shaved head that gleamed in the light of the lamps. ‘A tool of flawed metal,’ the eunuch went on, nodding towards the body in the pool. ‘The slightest pressure, and he bends. He bends and breaks.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Castus said, frowning, his voice jagged with frustration and fatigue. The major-domo had followed him into the bathing chamber, still sniffing back tears.

  ‘I’m what you might call a guest,’ Luxorius said. ‘Though not a willing one. Confined to the city by the orders of the governor. Although those orders do seem to have lapsed with his demise...’

  Before the eunuch could say more, Felix came stamping back in from the garden, one of the soldiers trailing him. ‘We’ve searched the whole house, dominus. Nobody here but the governor’s staff and slaves.’ He raised an eyebrow as he noticed the corpse floating in the bath, and let out a low whistle of interest.

  Castus seized the major-domo by the arm. ‘Where’s my son?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s Sabinus?’

  ‘I believe I can answer that,’ Luxorius said. ‘Your son was here, but he was removed three days ago by the slaves of Magnius Rufus. They said they were taking him and some others – refugees, they called them – to Juliacum.’

  Castus felt a ringing in his head, as if he had been struck. He clenched his fist and pressed it to his brow. Then he snatched up one of the lamps and flung it with a snarling cry of rage at the body floating in the pool. ‘Bastard!’ he shouted, and the word echoed back at him from the vaulted ceiling.

  *

  In the governor’s reception room, Castus sat on the edge of a couch with his shoulders slumped, his head gripped in both hands. His skull felt tight with nausea and anger; his whole body was coursing with it. How had he allowed this to happen? What mistake had he made? And what – the thought spun in his head, maddening – what should he do now? A voice spoke at the edge of his mind. Sabina’s voice, asking where their son had gone, what had been done with him...

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely into his cupped hands. ‘I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do...’

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, excellency,’ the eunuch said, appearing in the doorway. He smiled as he entered the room and seated himself on the facing couch. Two slaves followed him, carrying platters of food and glasses of wine. ‘I thought you might like refreshment. You certainly appear to have had quite a journey. I’d suggest a bath, too, but in the circumstances...’

  Castus stared at him, his jaw slack. But his stomach was growling at the thought of food; he had not eaten or drunk for many hours. Ignoring the eunuch, he snatched up one of the platters and began to eat. Slices of cold meat – smoked pork, perhaps, or venison. He could barely taste it. He grabbed one of the glasses and gulped back wine.

  From the garden portico outside he could hear the clashing sounds of hobnailed boots on mosaic tiles. The rug on the floor was already soiled with muddy prints. Strange to see fully armed soldiers, sweat-stained unshaven men with shields and spears, thronging the governor’s tastefully appointed residence. Only a shame, Castus thought, that Tiberianus did not live to appreciate it. Felix and his men were still searching the governor’s rooms; Castus had sent a message to Diogenes, telling him to find the house of Julius Dulcitius and bring the grain merchant and his family to the governor’s residence. Even from the depths of his angry despair, he knew he had to remain in control, keep people moving. Soon he would have to summon the city councillors, the duumvirs and the curator. And then there was the city itself to contend with, and the barbarian horde camped on the far side of the river... He felt age weighing upon him, the aggressive stamina that had carried him so far now almost drained.

  ‘I expect you’ll be marching towards Juliacum very soon,’ the eunuch said. ‘We received a message earlier today – or yesterday, I suppose – that the main force of the Chamavi and Chattuari were plundering the whole area. If you decide to move in that direction, I would be happy to join you.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Castus asked, his mouth still half full of meat. It was salted ham, he had decided.

  The eunuch gave him a rather cat-like stare. ‘The governor killed himself because he learned that four days ago I managed to smuggle a message out of the city to the Praetorian Prefect at Treveris. By now the most blessed Caesar will have mustered his field troops, and already the advance units will be on the road. If your force can hold the barbarians at Juliacum, the field army can destroy them utterly. I would like to be present to share in the triumph!’

  ‘You seem very confident we’ll win.’

  ‘I’m not a very military person,’ the eunuch said, ‘but I have faith in the power of our armies. We do have the true God on our side, I think!’

  ‘You’re a Christian then?’

  Luxorius lifted the small gold pendant he wore around his neck. But he was still smiling and Castus could not tell whether there was a certain mocking irony in his gesture. He recalled the last time he had seen the eunuch, at Noviomagus on the night before the Caesar met the Salian chiefs.

  ‘You always seem to turn up in unusual places, don’t you?’ he said. ‘I knew a man like that once. He came to a bad end, so I heard.’

  The eunuch just shrugged.

  Castus stood up and crossed the rug to stand beside him. ‘I’d like to know quite what sort of game you’re playing here. You’re the prefect’s servant, right? Or is somebody else giving you orders?’

  For a moment Luxorius smiled again, half closing his eyes, still with that look of subtle irony. Castus drew the knife from the sheath on his belt and slapped it down on the table beside the couch. At the sight of the blade the eunuch flinched, his smile vanishing. A quick tremor of fear passed through him, but then he composed himself.

  ‘There’s no need to threaten me,’ Luxorius said quietly. ‘I assure you, I have lost more in my life already than any man would care to lose. You won’t break me so easily.’

&
nbsp; ‘Tell me why you’re here then,’ Castus said. ‘Who sent you and what are you doing?’

  ‘Could we just say that I serve a higher power?’ Luxorius smiled again. ‘A power that bears you no malice, Aurelius Castus. I freed your assistant, the soldier called Diogenes. I can help you again, if you’ll let me.’

  The lamps had burnt low and a trembling shadow was filling the room. Castus laid his hand on the knife blade, then picked it up and returned it to his belt sheath. ‘I need no more of your help,’ he said. ‘Come with me if you want – you’re still the servant of my superior officer, supposedly. But I don’t want you getting in my way, understood?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Voices from the dark portico outside, and a moment later Diogenes and two soldiers marched into the room and saluted.

  ‘We found Dulcitius’s house, dominus,’ Diogenes said. ‘But somebody else had got there first. The doors were broken and everything inside was in chaos. There was a body laid out in the dining room, under a sheet. Stab wounds to the chest and neck. Priscus here found one of the household slaves, who told us that the dead man was Dulcitius himself. Soldiers killed him, the slave said, and seized his wife and daughters. Apparently they said they were taking them west to join Magnius Rufus at Juliacum.’

  *

  First light of dawn, and Castus stamped heavily up the wooden stairs to the rampart above the gatehouse of the bridgehead fort. The sun was still below the wooded hills to the east, but a seeping grey luminescence showed him the blackened waste of land stretching away from the fort walls towards the belt of trees, the charred stumps of the outer palisade and the burnt ruins of the buildings that had stood along the roadside. Low mist clung in hollows of the land, threaded with smoke.

  ‘They’re camped in a wide arc, just beyond the trees,’ the tribune said, sweeping his arm across the expanse of open ground. ‘Probably four or five thousand of them. Bructeri mostly, as far as we can tell, with some of the Lanciones and others. They made a couple of attempts at the walls, but mostly they’ve just plundered whatever they could get their hands on and burnt the rest.’