by Ian Ross
All his life Castus had known these men, the four of them in effigy, and Diocletian and Galerius in the flesh. Standing before them, he touched his brow in salute, as if to the images of the gods.
Steps led up from the entrance hall to the upper chambers – the clerk had told him that he was expected there. Along the painted corridor at the head of the stairs he reached a row of doors; a sentry outside one of them straightened to attention and gestured for Castus to enter.
The room beyond was large, but held a sense of privacy. Coals burned in a brazier, and Castus took in the three men seated around the low polished table before he snapped to attention.
‘Domini!’ he cried, loud enough to get an echo. From the corner of his eye, he was pleased to notice two of the men flinch slightly. Civilians, in his experience, always expected brutish rigidity in soldiers and it was best to flatter them. Staring at the far wall, he stood braced with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
‘Our apologies, centurion, for calling you here at short notice.’
‘Domini!’ he shouted again, stiffening his shoulders.
‘Yes, thank you. You may stand at ease, centurion.’
Castus rocked back on his heels, dropping his shoulders only slightly. The far wall of the room was painted with a landscape. Goatherds, satyrs. It didn’t resemble anywhere he had ever seen. Certainly not Britain. He lowered his eyes a little until he could see the men at the table. Castus had always possessed an odd intuition when it came to reading other men; he could quickly determine the subtle signs that showed character, mood and intention, while giving nothing away himself. A legacy of his childhood, maybe, and the need to gauge his father’s violently veering moods.
The speaker was Arpagius, governor of the province and prefect of the legion. Castus knew he was from Numidia, a skilled administrator of some kind. A small man, his curled hair greying at the temples, he had a shrewd look, but he was uncomfortable beneath his appearance of dignified calm. The second man was one of the senior tribunes, Rufinius. He had a sour expression, as though he’d just drunk curdled milk. The third sat back from the table, against the wall, studying Castus carefully.
The governor turned now and addressed this third man, something almost deferential in his tone. ‘This is Aurelius Castus, the centurion I told you about,’ he said. ‘He joined us quite recently, only last autumn, in fact, from the Second Legion Herculia at Troesmis.’
‘He appears very young for a centurion,’ the third man said, with an appraising air. ‘Built like an ox, though… What are you, twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’
‘Twenty-eight, dominus.’ Actually Castus was not sure of his exact age, his father never having bothered to inform him of the year he was born. But he thought it better not to raise that fact now.
‘So I expect you were promoted for bravery in the field?’
‘Yes, dominus. By the Caesar Galerius, after the campaign against the Carpi.’
Arpagius stirred, clearing his throat and gesturing at the man who had asked the questions. ‘This is Julius Nigrinus,’ he told Castus, ‘a notary from the imperial court at Treveris. He’s on a tour of inspection here.’
So that explains the deference, Castus thought. He was not sure what imperial notaries actually did, but they seemed to inspire hushed tones. He gave a brisk nod. Nigrinus was wrapped in a cloak. His hair was dull brown, cut in a bowl, and his round smooth face displayed only bland enquiry.
‘You have a Pannonian look,’ the notary went on. ‘Where were you born?’
‘Taurunum, dominus, on the Danube. My father was a veteran of the Fourth Flavia Felix.’
‘Ah, following in his footsteps, good…’
Hardly, Castus thought. His father had been invalided out of the legion before he himself had been born. He had taken up blacksmithing, but was a bitter man and a bad drunk, and had never wanted his son to join the army. You’re too stupid to be a soldier, he had said, grimacing through another morning hangover. What use would the legions have for you? I suppose they could use that great thick head of yours as a battering ram!
‘And you served for some time with the Herculiani prior to your promotion, I understand, in Persia and on the Danube?’ the notary asked. Castus nodded again, staring at the far wall.
‘Yes, dominus. First in the cohorts, then assigned to the lanciarii. I was draco-bearer of my cohort before I was promoted.’
‘Ah, really?’ The notary spoke quietly, and far too smoothly. He settled himself deeper into his cloak, although with the brazier glowing the room was not cold. ‘Then you must know the condition of the Danubian army very well, I should say?’
Something in the man’s tone was angling, ominous. Castus felt a slight prickle of perspiration at the back of his neck. He nodded, staring at the wall and trying not to let his discomfort show. The noise of the rain outside was a steady rushing hiss.
‘And how would you describe this condition? Are the troops… loyal?’
‘Yes, dominus!’ Castus declared, surprised. ‘Of course… All soldiers of Rome are loyal to the emperors.’ He had spoken loudly to cover his apprehension. His distaste as well: the suggestion that the elite Danubian legions might be less than loyal felt like a personal insult.
‘To the emperors, yes. But are they loyal to all the emperors equally, would you say?’
Sweat broke on Castus’s back and trickled down his spine. He had the bizarre sensation that he was being accused of something. What was happening here? What had these men been discussing before he entered the room? His sense of intuition had almost deserted him. Worryingly, he noticed that Arpagius was looking increasingly uncomfortable, dabbing at his brow with his cuff. The tribune, Rufinius, looked grimmer than ever.
‘Yes, they’re loyal to all the emperors. Dominus.’
The notary smiled and made a slight humming noise. ‘That’s good to know,’ he said. ‘But tell me – I believe the son of our western Caesar Constantius was on the Persian expedition. A man named Constantine. He would have been a junior tribune then. Did you happen to see him at all?’
‘Yes, dominus. He led one of the allied cavalry squadrons at Oxsa. After the battle he… gave me this torque with his own hand.’ Castus dropped his chin, feeling the clasp of the golden circlet at his throat.
‘And was he popular with the troops?’
‘Certainly. He was a good soldier.’
Tribune Constantine – Castus remembered him well enough, even years later. That long bony face and solid jaw, those deep-set, rather intense eyes. He thought back to a day in the south of Mesopotamia: the imperial party had gone to view the ancient ruins of Babylon, and Castus had been one of the guards. He remembered the young Constantine standing alone on a dusty mound, staring out across the burnt brown walls with a look of deep concentration. Look at him, one of the other soldiers had muttered. Reckons he’s Alexander the Great…
‘Perhaps,’ said the governor, Arpagius, abruptly, ‘perhaps we’ve questioned the centurion enough now?’
‘Ah, yes, my apologies, I was only curious,’ the notary said. He shifted forward a little, still gazing at Castus.
‘The notary Nigrinus has brought a certain matter to our attention,’ Arpagius went on. ‘We considered that, since you have some experience of the, ah, the mood of the troops outside the province, we might share it with you, centurion.’
‘A matter, dominus?’
‘Yes. Some rather momentous news. But we must bind you with the strictest secrecy. What you are about to hear must not leave this room. Soon enough everyone will know about it, but for now we must keep it quiet. Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ Castus said warily. He had no desire to know of any secrets.
‘On the first day of next month,’ Arpagius went on, ‘our lords the Augusti Diocletian and Maximian will resign their imperial power at Nicomedia and Milan, and transfer supreme rule to the Caesars, Galerius and Constantius. New Caesars will be appointed to the junior positions. In this way the empire
will be rejuvenated and stability maintained.’
Castus opened his mouth, but could not speak. His body felt suddenly rooted to the floor. All his life, Diocletian and Maximian had been the rulers of the Roman world, akin to the gods. A cold sweat spread across his brow. How could men like gods simply resign? How could others replace them? He was dizzy, as if the world had shifted on its axis.
‘The new Caesars’, Arpagius said, ‘will be Flavius Severus in the west and Maximinus Daza in the east.’
The names fell limply across the table. Castus was lost in shock.
‘Are these men familiar to you?’ the notary asked.
‘No, dominus. I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Hah, yes,’ the tribune said, speaking for the first time. ‘Neither have we!’
‘Anyway, as you can imagine, we must handle the transfer of allegiance with the utmost care and tact,’ Arpagius said. ‘It may be, you see, that some of the barbarian peoples will see this as evidence of weakness, rather than of strength.’
‘Strength?’ Castus spoke without thinking. He noticed Nigrinus’s quiet nod.
‘Of course,’ the notary said. ‘To step down from absolute power, and peaceably hand the direction of the state to a chosen successor, surely demonstrates the stability and strength of the imperial system, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I suppose so, dominus. It’s just… It’s going to be a shock for the men.’
‘Naturally,’ the governor said. ‘Which is why we’re informing certain selected centurions of the legion well in advance. The news will be circulated in good time, so all the men are acquainted with it by the time of the ceremony. There will be, I need not add, an acclamation bonus for every soldier and officer.’
Castus raised his head. He had not even thought of bonuses.
‘I can see you approve of that! Good. But for now, as I said, speak nothing of this to anyone.’
‘Not a word, dominus.’
Along the corridor and down the steps, Castus thought back over what had happened. Already his memory of that short strange interview was becoming blurred. Had he imagined the odd insinuations in the notary’s questions? Why had he asked about the Danube legions, and the tribune Constantine? Halfway down the stairs he paused suddenly. He had already forgotten the names of the two new Caesars. But neither of them was Constantine: the son of the current Caesar was being passed over. So why had the notary asked about the loyalties of the troops?
Shaking his head, Castus tried to quell the questions in his mind. He was a soldier, a simple man, and matters of politics were far above him. Still, he felt needled, apprehensive. Something had been going on in that room, and he had seen only a part of it, a brief glimpse exposed. Whatever it was, it was surely none of his concern, but he felt implicated anyway.
In the entrance hall he paused again before the statues of the emperors. Those mighty figures, rulers of his life, seemed different to him now. Sad, somehow, and lost, for all the strength of their mutual embrace. He touched his brow once more in quiet salute, then he marched out into the darkness and the rain.
A month later, on the first day of May, Legion VI Victrix assembled in full strength on the broad expanse of the parade ground outside the western wall of the fortress. Under a slate-grey sky, every man stared forward at the distant tribunal and the rising smoke from the sacrificial altars. They all knew what was happening now; there were no more secrets. But the promise of four gold pieces and a pound of silver per man had dulled the initial shock, and only the excitement of novelty stirred their ranks.
From his place in the Third Cohort, Castus watched the tribunes mount the tribunal, reverently removing the portrait images of Diocletian and Maximian from the legion standards and raising those of Constantius and Galerius in their places. Two new busts, two new Caesars, now filled the lower places. But all the busts looked similar, and from a distance it was hard to see any difference anyway.
Now the representatives of each cohort filed forward to take the oath of allegiance, the rest all following their words. It was a familiar ceremony, repeated every year. A festive mood spread through the legion: soon there would be fresh meat from the sacrifices in their bellies, and newly minted gold in their hands. The world might have tilted slightly, but only briefly, and now order was restored.
Castus tried to share their feelings. Still, as he stared at the standards, he felt a prickle of doubt. Why, he could not say.
But then the cheers of acclamation rang out, the troops throwing up their arms and yelling out the traditional cries, and the noise drowned out all further questions.
‘Constantius and Galerius, invincible Augusti! Severus and Maximinus, most noble Caesars! Emperors! Masters of the World!’
Everything had changed, Castus thought. But everything had stayed the same.
2
‘Shield… wall!’
Fifty-six shields clashed together in a rapid percussion, locking like tiles on a sloping roof. Fifty-six armoured bodies in four ranks, crouched and standing with spears levelled through the gaps. Each midnight-blue shield was painted with the emblem of the Sixth Legion: a winged figure of the goddess Victory with gold palm and laurel wreath. Castus waited for three heartbeats then yelled again.
‘Half-step… ad-vance!’
The block jolted forward, the men moving together with shields tight. One step then pause, another step then pause, the low collective chant: ‘Vic-trix, Vic-trix…’ From the rear ranks Timotheus, who looked far too young to be an optio, kept the formation steady.
‘Halt! By the right – open ranks!’
The block of men shuffled and then spread, the wall of shields opening into a skirmishing line with the second and third ranks moving up to cover the gaps. It was a difficult manoeuvre, and the century managed it well. Castus felt a brief warm glow of satisfaction. From the margins of the drill field, men and officers from other units had gathered to watch.
‘From the rear – ready wasps!’
A hollow rattle as the rear-rank men plucked the darts from behind their shields. The legion had not made much use of the weighted throwing dart before Castus had joined them. A hundred yards away across the drill field stood the row of straw-stuffed practice targets.
‘Loose!’
With a combined grunt, the rear-rankers hurled their darts. Then, in practised sequence, came more darts from the forward ranks, each volley arcing against the dull sky and raining down. Castus flicked his eyes between his men and the targets – most of the darts had fallen short or gone wide, but a few thudded home into the straw.
Now a volley of javelins followed the darts, the century advancing steadily by half-steps, kicking up the gravel of the drill field. Then swords rattled from scabbards along the line and the men halted, waiting for the order to charge. They could see the straw targets bristling with darts and javelins.
Castus felt his chest swell with fierce joy. These were his men; he had trained them and formed them, and he could sense the pride they took in their abilities now, their collective strength. He threw back his head to cry out the order that would send the wedge of armoured men into a charge. Would it be like this, he thought, in a real battle? Would they be so determined then, so disciplined? And would he have the nerve to command them effectively?
‘You’re showing me up, young man!’
Castus turned on his heel. Ursicinus, the legion’s senior drill instructor, stood with fists on hips. He was a wiry man, and looked like an old grey rat. Castus was a head taller and a foot broader, but the habit of deference was hard to break; he straightened at once and touched his brow in rapid salute.
‘Oh, don’t let me stop you,’ Ursicinus said, smiling sourly. His own drills usually involved marching practice, and leaving the men standing at attention for hours in the rain – the best way, he claimed, to instil a habit of patient obedience.
‘Probably enough for today,’ Castus muttered. He was tempted to continue anyway – order his men to charge, yelling, at
the practice stumps with levelled blades. But Ursicinus was one of the highest-ranking veterans in the legion, and Castus knew enough not to try and antagonise him.
‘Optio! Fall the men out.’
Timotheus raised his staff, then he barked the order and the formation broke apart.
‘Impressive, I suppose,’ the drill instructor said. He tapped Castus’s mailed chest with his staff. ‘Just don’t think you’re going to turn them into one of those crack Danube legions! There’s not much call for them out here, y’know.’
‘What would you know about that?’ Castus said under his breath as the older man stalked away. Months of training his century whenever he got the chance – whenever they were spared from mending roads or walls or digging out latrines, or being sent off to guard the supply convoys – had turned what had been a shambolic set of men into something approaching soldiers. They had hated him for it at first, Castus knew that; he had beaten them hard, and managed to discharge some of the worst idlers into other centuries. But now he liked to think that they appreciated the distinction. Now it was only the disdain of the other officers he had to contend with: men like Ursicinus, forty years in the legion and never fought in battle, ground smooth by the routines of camp life and resentful of any suggestion that he might be wrong.
Pfft! Castus said to himself, and twitched an obscene gesture at the departing instructor. Optio Timotheus caught his eyes and grinned – the younger soldiers had picked up his enthusiasm much more quickly.
‘Shall I take them back to barracks, centurion?’
Castus nodded. Young Timotheus was tough on the men, bit too much vinegar in his blood, but would make a good officer one day. As a deputy, he was perfect. His harsh yells drifted away over the gravel of the drill field as he formed up the men and set them marching back towards the fortress gates. He even got them singing as they left the field.