The Mask of Command

by Ian Ross

  Rufus was still on his feet, still holding the knife. He slumped sideways against the railing, a strangled cry of pain wrenching from his throat. Castus struggled upright again, his wounded hand clasped tight beneath his arm as he held the sword levelled.

  ‘Yield,’ he demanded.

  Turning to stare at him, Rufus let the knife drop. Marcellina was edging towards him too, the heavy stock of the crossbow held like a club. With a long shuddering sigh the landowner straightened, drawing himself stiffly upright against the railing.

  Then he leaned, and pushed himself backwards over the side.

  Castus leaped forward, but he was too slow to grab Rufus with his injured hand. When he peered over the side, he saw the body strike the ground thirty feet below him. For a moment the broken limbs writhed. Then, as Castus watched, the crowd of disarmed slaves gathered around the tower gave a cry and dashed towards Rufus, snatching up sticks and sickles, pitchforks and cudgels. The cordon of troops, baffled, made no move against them as the ragged horde closed around their former master with wails of vengeance. Even from the top of the tower, Castus could hear the sounds of hacking, of flesh pummelled, stamped and gouged.

  His son had joined him at the railing and Castus hid the boy’s eyes with his palm. The troopers were closing in now to drive the slaves away. Two staggering steps back against the wall of the tower and he slid down into a crouch, his wounded left hand clasped tight to his belly, his right arm gripping his son as the boy emerged from his stupor and began to tremble.

  Marcellina knelt beside him, calling to her daughters. She laid a palm on his cheek, leaned closer and kissed him. Then she began tearing her headcloth to use as a bandage.

  Lying back against the wall, his legs stretched before him, Castus felt his son pressed against him, Marcellina easing his maimed hand from the mess of blood and binding it with cloth. Exhaustion ached through him, shards of pain drove through his skull, but when he closed his eyes to the red glaze of evening sunlight he felt only a vast and liberating sense of peace.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  To the victors, the spoils.

  Three days after the total destruction of the Frankish invaders, Flavius Julius Crispus, Caesar of the West, rode back into the city of Colonia Agrippina at the head of his army, to the riotous acclaim of the people. He sat upright in his carriage, dressed in his gilded armour and jewelled helmet, his embroidered purple cloak, and he gripped a gold-tipped lance in his right hand. He kept his eyes straight ahead, never acknowledging the cheers and salutations of the crowds, and as he passed beneath the western gate he dipped his head slightly in the traditional gesture of magnificence. But all could see the grin on the young man’s face, the look of joy in his eyes.

  Beside the carriage, ahead even of the imperial banner-bearer, rode Aurelius Castus, Commander of the Germanic Frontier. His left hand was wrapped in a thick linen bandage, his arm held against his chest with a sling. But he rode steadily, head up and jaw set hard. The timber porticos lining the street were packed with people, all of them cheering; Castus heard his name called, and saw the old drillmaster, Tagmatius, waving from a street corner. He raised his right hand and smiled.

  They passed through the city to the forum, the troops of the victorious army marching beneath their eagles and vexilla, their streaming draco banners. All the field legions and the frontier units that had participated in the campaign had sent their detachments, and between them rode the armoured cavalry of the Cataphractarii and the Horse Guards of the Schola Scutariorum. And at the heart of the Roman array came Bonitus of the Salii, with a guard of his own warriors marching around him.

  In the great hall of the basilica, Crispus sat enthroned upon the dais while the orators declaimed their panegyrics on his glorious victory. Castus stood in the front row, his mutilated hand itching inside its dressings, his left arm numb. He was still weakened from loss of blood, but since the events at the villa of Magnius Rufus there had been little time to consider what had happened. The surgeons at Juliacum had cleaned and dressed his wound, but he would never be able to use a shield effectively again. He wondered whether he had stood in the front line of battle for the last time. But the near-ceaseless violent struggles of the last two weeks had rid him of the lingering darkness of Sabina’s death. He felt fully alive once more, awake in his body. He had his son back, and that meant more to him than any reward.

  A hush had fallen over the great hall, the assembled masses silent before their enthroned young ruler. Castus glanced up at Crispus, and saw how the boy had changed. He was more at ease with himself now, the relief of having proven himself in battle giving him a look of genuine confidence and command. One by one the officers of the field army approached the throne, kneeling to kiss the imperial robe and receive their tokens of favour. Castus heard his own name called, and shrugged himself out of his trance.

  Slowly he paced across the marble floor, saluted, and then took the few more steps to the dais. He stifled a groan as he knelt, gathered the hem of the robe and raised it to his lips, then offered his right hand. An attendant placed white silk across his palm, and then Crispus leaned forward and placed the ivory tablet upon it.

  ‘Aurelius Castus,’ the herald declared, ‘for your courageous service in battle against the enemies of our state, we elevate you to the dignity of comes rei militaris.’

  Companion in military affairs. One of the senior officers of the army of Gaul. Castus kept his head bowed as he raised himself to stand and retreat backwards down the steps. He had known of his promotion, but to hear the words, to hold the official symbol of rank in his hand, was a rare and potent blessing. He was trying not to smile too openly as he took his place at the front of the assembly once more.

  Now Bonitus’s name was called. The Salian chief advanced across the floor to the dais, dressed in his finest embroidered tunic and breeches. He knelt, and performed the adoration with impressive ease.

  ‘Bonitus, son of Baudulfus, for your loyal service to the Roman state we grant you citizenship, and the dignity of praefectus gentilorum, to rank with the Ducenarii of Protectors. Furthermore, we decree that your people shall be settled on vacant land within the province of Gaul, as subjects of Rome.’

  Castus felt a beat of satisfaction in his chest. Bonitus’s reward had been his doing; he had insisted on it, argued for it to the Praetorian Prefect. As the Frankish chief paced back to join the assembled officers he glanced across at Castus. The slightest nod, the briefest smile, then he raised his head proudly and walked on.

  Once the Caesar had made his departure, the assembly broke up. Castus was relieved; there would be feasting later that day, probably more speeches, more stiff formality, but for now he was free. As he moved through the crowd towards the doors of the basilica, he sensed a presence beside him.

  ‘Allow me to be the first to congratulate you,’ the eunuch said in a smooth quiet voice. ‘A well-deserved promotion!’

  Castus glared at him, his mood of liberation souring. He had seen little of Luxorius since he left him on the battlefield, moments after Dexter’s death. The eunuch had chosen his moment well: they were surrounded by people, the noise of voices echoing in the vast marble hall. There could be no confrontation here.

  ‘I know what you did,’ Castus said through narrowed lips. ‘But I don’t know why. What did you offer him? Dexter, I mean? A purse of gold, if he committed one last crime?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Luxorius said with a smile. ‘And if I did, I’d have to wonder what evidence you possess...’

  ‘None. As you know. And no evidence for the attack last year in Raetia, or the Frankish killers you hired at Noviomagus. You won’t get another chance, I promise you that.’

  Luxorius raised his eyebrows, still smiling. ‘As for that, you need not worry,’ he said briskly. ‘His eminence the prefect has very kindly accepted my request to leave the province and rejoin the court of the Augustus. The climate here, I find, doesn’t suit me.’


  They were still walking, but as they passed through the doors into the vestibule Castus halted and turned to face the eunuch, leaning closer as he spoke. The crowd around them had thinned. ‘So tell me why. Who’s giving you orders? Licinius?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Luxorius said, glancing away. ‘But duty compels us to some strange things, as I’m sure you know. Perhaps one day you’ll discover the truth, and then you might understand.’

  He bowed slightly, then paced quickly away.

  Castus exhaled, frowning as he watched the eunuch melt into the crowd around the doors. It was true: he had nothing to prove his suspicions – his certainties – that Luxorius had made several attempts on the life of the Caesar. Reporting those suspicions could do more harm than good. All he knew was the attempts had failed. And now the eunuch would vanish once more.

  ‘To Hades with him,’ Castus said under his breath.

  The vestibule was emptying and, as the slow tide of finely dressed figures flowed out through the tall main portal, Castus noticed the group standing near the smaller doors at the far end. He turned at once, pacing quickly towards them. As he approached, Sabinus broke away from his tutor and his nurse and ran across the polished marble floor to greet him. Castus knelt, hugging the boy with his right arm.

  ‘Father! I saw you up on the stage. I wanted to shout out, but Bissula said it wasn’t allowed...’

  ‘Not a stage, lad,’ Castus said, grinning. ‘It’s called a dais. Stages are for pantomimes!’ But the boy was right, he thought. It was all theatre, all performance.

  Standing, holding his son clasped to his side, Castus walked over to the group remaining near the doors. Marcellina stood with her daughters on either side of her, a pair of slave maids keeping a discreet distance. She was dressed once more in her elegant tunic and mantle, her braided hair covered by a light shawl, the very image of respectable Roman femininity. A smudge of cosmetic hid the reddened bruise on her temple. But when she smiled, Castus saw the warm light in her eyes.

  ‘Comes rei militaris,’ she said, pronouncing the title with slight, amused mockery. ‘You deserve it.’

  Castus could only shrug. The two girls were gazing at him, the older one with an air of mature formality. The younger girl stared at his bandaged hand with open curiosity, sticking her tongue from the corner of her mouth. They were still recovering from their ordeal, Castus knew, as his son was too. But children are resilient, he was learning. It would take these girls a long time yet to digest the reality of their father’s death. Longer still before they saw Castus himself as anything but a stranger. But he was willing to give them all the time they needed.

  ‘I suppose soon you’ll be leaving us,’ Marcellina said, a catch in her voice. ‘Going to Treveris, to the Caesar’s court.’

  Castus nodded. ‘It’s not such a bad place.’ He drew a breath, then lightly brushed her cheek with his fingers. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  ‘A merchant’s widow with two children?’ she replied, trying to laugh. ‘You’re a great man now, a wealthy man. I—’ She broke off, then silently took his hand, raising it to her lips and kissing his scarred knuckles.

  He spoke again.

  ‘Come with me.’

  EPILOGUE

  Aquileia, August AD 318

  The laurelled letter arrived at the beginning of the month, carried by a dust-covered messenger who had ridden by horse relays all the way from Colonia Agrippina. Word of the Caesar’s triumph over the Frankish invaders spread fast. Constantine himself, it was reported, had greeted the news with a cry of joy, falling on his knees and raising his hands in thanks to heaven. His son had won his first victory; he had been blooded in combat and saluted by the troops on the field of battle. He was a man, and an emperor. At once the palace decreed a five-day festival to celebrate the achievement and a new coin issue to commemorate the vanquishing of the barbarians.

  Fausta kept a smile on her face the whole time, and even managed a show of enthusiasm when she congratulated her husband. Not that Constantine was paying her much attention; between the glad tidings from Gaul and the rumours of Sarmatian and Suebic threats on the Danube, the emperor had little time for domestic affairs. He spent all his time closeted with his military commanders, or storming about the polished corridors of the palace snapping out orders. Soon the mobile court would travel on to Mediolanum, and perhaps after that they would return east to Sirmium. Even so, Fausta had to endure several days of banqueting and an endless series of races and games before she could retreat to the sanctuary of her own wing of the palace.

  August in Aquileia was hot, and in the evenings the breeze filled her chambers with the smell of the salt lagoons around the head of the Adriatic. She felt, she thought, rather empty now. For so many months she had been hoping for a different sort of news from the west. Yet now Crispus was not only alive, but triumphantly assured in his father’s eyes. Constantine could speak only of him; he seemed to have forgotten the two infant sons that Fausta had given him.

  ‘So, you failed,’ she said.

  The eunuch merely smiled and inclined his head. He had arrived several days after the messenger from Gaul. Clearly he had travelled at considerable speed himself, Fausta thought, although his appearance at the palace was so quiet that it had caused barely a ripple of notice.

  ‘It was... somewhat more difficult than I’d anticipated,’ Luxorius said. ‘Although there were a number of occasions when I came close to bringing the matter to a conclusion.’

  ‘Close isn’t good enough.’

  They were sitting in her private chamber, on facing chairs, the windows open to the dank salty breeze. Fausta fanned herself gently, and sipped wine from a glass goblet. She had been drinking heavily these recent days; alcohol helped her maintain an appearance of tranquillity.

  ‘And now my husband’s golden bastard is the pride of Gaul,’ she said, unable to keep the sour resentment from her voice. She inhaled sharply, regaining her composure. She would not appear weakened by this, especially not in front of a eunuch. She was still an emperor’s wife.

  ‘He made quite an impressive show, the young Crispus,’ Luxorius said with a slanting smile. Was he goading her? Fausta fought down her irritation. ‘He marched back into Colonia Agrippina at the head of his troops, you know... Though I dislike military spectacles, it really was quite thrilling. Having been on the battlefield myself...’

  ‘You? On a battlefield?’ Fausta snorted a laugh, then covered her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘The things I do for you,’ Luxorius said, shrugging.

  She had expected him to make some claim on her sympathy. Fausta had been all too aware of the risks she ran employing the eunuch like this. Now that he had failed, the risks remained. If it were ever discovered... Ever since his arrival was announced, she had been contemplating having him disposed of, fingering the murderous thought in her mind. It was an almost irresistible temptation. But even with her fears, her night terrors and the plots they bred, Fausta still believed that she was a good person. A virtuous person, despite everything. Certainly she had planned to have Minervina killed, as she had planned the death of Minervina’s son Crispus. She had prayed for it – the memory gave a cold thrill of guilt. Destroy them both, kill them, exterminate them, O wrathful gods. Cleanse the earth of them entirely...

  But to kill a loyal servitor, just because he had failed her, was the sure mark of tyranny. Her father and her brother would not have hesitated. Constantine would not have hesitated. But she was not them, she told herself that. And the eunuch may still have his uses. He owed her his life, although he did not know it yet.

  ‘So why did you leave Gaul? And so promptly too...’

  ‘I came to believe my position had been, shall we say, compromised,’ Luxorius said.

  Fausta tried to hide her dismay. ‘You were discovered? How?’ Gods, if the fool had allowed her name to be mentioned in connection with this... Panic fluttered against her breastbone.

 
But the eunuch appeared unconcerned. He shrugged, and made a vague circling gesture. ‘Nothing so alarming,’ he said. ‘But my activities had come to the notice of certain figures. Including your... ah... friend, Aurelius Castus.’

  ‘He’s not been harmed, by... anybody?’

  ‘No! And certainly not by me, if that’s what you mean. He was slightly wounded, but such is the way with soldiers. No, in fact he’s been honoured by the Caesar. Promoted to his military council, no less. I ought to add that it was this same man who personally defeated two of my attempts to accomplish our design. I believe he suspected me, or had some intuition at least.’

  ‘He had evidence?’

  ‘None,’ Luxorius said, with a slight wince, as if appalled that she had underestimated him. ‘But if he guessed my purpose, I sincerely doubt he knew why. In any case, if he’d made any report of his suspicions, I would never have reached this place alive.’

  No doubt, Fausta thought. The agentes in rebus would have left the eunuch’s body lying in some mountain valley, to be gnawed by wolves. But the knowledge that a man she had trusted, a man she had felt warmly towards, had been the cause of the eunuch’s failure was bitter news. Now, she realised, Castus would surely be the Caesar’s loyal supporter. And Crispus would have many others like him, officers of the army of Gaul, devoted to his service and more than ready to back his claim to rule when the time came. Ready, even if the boy himself was not, to eradicate anyone who stood in his way.

  But perhaps, she thought, it did not have to be like that. She swallowed down the gall of her disappointment. Wallowing in failure would do her no good – that path led to surrender, to passivity and defeat.

  An idea was taking form in her mind. Something new, something she had not considered before. Aurelius Castus had frustrated her plans in Gaul, but sooner or later Crispus would need to return eastwards to join his father. A dependable officer, securely placed within the Caesar’s own staff, the Caesar’s own trust, could be useful to her... Fausta had always considered Castus an ally. Could she turn him more deliberately to her cause? If the eunuch’s plans had failed because of this man, could she somehow compel him, even trick him, into doing what Luxorius had found impossible? A slight sweat prickled on her brow. But the eunuch had guessed what she was thinking.