EMPIRE OF SHADES

by Gordon Doherty

  Gratian frowned, now seeing the weapon for what it was. A dart. A simple legionary dart, bent out of shape.

  ‘This was found outside, during your speech. A member of the crowd must have smuggled it in.’

  Now Gratian’s hubris returned and he threw fiery looks at the Heruli pair, who lowered their spears. ‘Someone brought a weapon in? My most dependable legion has let me down?’

  The two Heruli avoided the emperor’s stare.

  ‘You two were manning the checkpoints at the city gates were you not?’

  The pair now dropped their heads. ‘Arrest them,’ Gratian said. With a clap of his hands, two of the bright-garbed Alani hurried in and stripped the pair of their weapons.

  ‘Domine,’ another voice protested. It was Tribunus Lanzo, the red-moustachioed leader of the Heruli. ‘I must protest. My men watched the gates well for many hours without relief. And I beg of you, do not have them dragged away by these… dogs.’

  The two Alani turned baleful looks upon Lanzo, then all eyes returned to Gratian in search of a verdict.

  Gratian noticed that one of the arrested Heruli was shaking. A surge of energy coursed through him. He stood tall, utterly sure of himself again. ‘We will travel back to Treverorum at dawn. My men in the city’s dungeons have been perfecting a new technique in recent times: He lifted the helm from one Herul’s head and traced a finger horizontally across the man’s forehead. ‘The cap of the skull can be removed and a man will feel no ill effects. But, strapped to a table, he has no means of fending off vermin, should they choose to tear and chew upon his brain. It is a slow death, I hear… one that allows the victim plenty of time to come to terms with their crimes as the lights slowly dim.’

  ‘Domine,’ Lanzo gasped, face pale. One look from Gratian ended his protest.

  As the arrested pair were led away, Gratian saw Ambrosius, standing in the doorway having heard everything. He cast the Bishop a steely look. I will pay penance. This sin, like the others, will be redressed.

  He turned his attentions back to the artefact, taking the bent dart from Merobaudes’ hand and examining it. ‘A legionary tried to strike me?’

  ‘Aye,’ Merobaudes said. ‘And going by the markings on the steel, it was made in one of the southern Thracian fabricae.’

  Gratian’s eyes drifted along the point of the weapon then to the arched window and the gossamer curtain, thinking of the crowd outside, the many faces. His mind toyed with him, the troubling dream of the bleak moor and the troubling, staring creature upon it rising in his thoughts again, mixing with the myriad eyes and open maws of the plebeian masses. Had the creature been amongst them today?

  ‘Thracia, you say?’ he muttered. That land was still a mess, and probably would be until it suited him to march east and end the crisis. Thracia, a land of many faces. How to whittle away the many and isolate the culprit? That was the challenge. And then he remembered something Theodosius had been agonising over earlier – the matter of numbers. With the satisfaction of a key sliding into a well-oiled lock, he realised exactly what he had to do.

  ‘Guards,’ he cast back over his shoulder, ‘summon my Speculatores…’

  Chapter 4

  Senator Fabillus was a businessman – the kind of man who would stop at nothing to garner wealth. Like most businessmen, he did so merely to protect and furnish with comforts those who mattered to him. And there was only one such.

  He eyed himself in a polished-bronze hand-mirror, edged with silver: the fringe curls of his wig were perfect – like the peaks of a choppy sea. The mask of white lead powder clinging to his cheeks and jowls was flawless – granting him youth anew. He traced a gold-ringed finger over the sculpted edge of the mirror adoringly, as if it was the neck of a lover. Such treasures had always held a place in his heart, but he had never forgotten the first such luxury.

  In boyhood, he had sold his younger sister’s toys to buy himself a pair of fine slippers, and they fair impressed the magnates he had spoken to that day. It had been like climbing a ladder after that. As a young man, he had stolen his mother’s jewellery to buy his way into the Senate. And when his hair began to fall out and his face grew slack, he brought charges against his ageing fisherman father for evading tax. His father was sentenced to a turquoise mine and died within months, but Fabillus received a wonderful inheritance and a chest of treasures from the rival fishing magnate who had lobbied him.

  He shuffled and straightened, pouting and resting one hand on the gold stripe of his silk pallium. Damn, but the garment was uncomfortable, he grumbled inwardly. Protesting voices outside drew his attentions to the arched windows of his marble villa – perched on the third hill of Constantinople, trapped in the sickly yellow tinge that hung over the overcrowded hive of a city. The stink of the all-too-close streets was only masked by the brisk early February air. The clamour had been growing in this last week – ever since the emperor had returned from his crowning ceremony in Sirmium. First they complained that the emperor had shunned the eastern capital – deeming the countryside around it to be too dangerous – and had chosen to return to Thessalonica instead. Then they moaned about the hefty taxes he had announced from that more southern city. Fabillus agreed with the filthy crowds – the taxes were too high. But then, he had plenty of private business dealings which went unaccounted for. He smiled, thinking of the replete coin vault in the cellar of each of his homes.

  Still, within a month or so the place would be dog-hot and even more crowded. His villa, resting high above the worst streets, would offer little respite. He sniffed the air, enjoying the sweet scent of his perfume. Then he caught a whiff of a pungent odour, something like rotting onions and fresh dung. Not from me, surely, he thought, recalling his bath in rose-scented water this morning. His nose wrinkled and he looked down at the elderly body slave fussing around with the hem of his pallium. The wretch had certainly not bathed today… nor, most likely, in the last month.

  He raised a ringed hand, lining up for a blow to the back of the slave’s unsuspecting head, when a voice cut across his thoughts.

  ‘You’re sure about this, Master?’

  Fabillus turned to see the dog-ugly thug leaning in the shade by the doorway. Clad in a black breastplate, Pulcher’s haggard, olive-skinned face and bare arms were just as unwashed as the slave’s. The bodyguard flicked from his thumb a battered old copper medallion etched with a fish, catching it and flicking it over and over again. A business token, a tatty and sad final reminder of Father’s fishing fleet.

  ‘Do I look unsure?’ he snapped in reply. ‘Constantinople grows more cramped and stinking with every passing day. The emperor and his officials insist that I cannot sail to my vineyards in Bithynia. Why? Am I a child?’

  Pulcher replied in a measured tone that belied his brutish appearance: ‘You cannot sail because the galleys, cogs and fishing boats in the harbour are fully engaged, shipping emergency grain between the port cities.’

  ‘You were never bound to be a clever one, were you, Pulcher?’ Fabillus chortled. ‘When you served my father on the fishing boats, he said you had a good mind. But I think he was wrong. Money always finds a way.’

  With the sound of slapping feet, another slave – Stichus: young, emaciated and shorn of hair – entered the high hall. He halted, straightening his whipped back with a flinch of pain, his bruised eyes not daring to meet Fabillus’. The senator scowled at the newcomer: this cur had served him turned milk yesterday. Merely scourging the wretch had been a mercy. The whip would come out again as soon as the wounds from the last flogging had healed, he decided… and in the meantime the boy could please him in other ways.

  ‘Master, I have just come from the Neorion docks,’ Stichus said. ‘The cog you organised has been commandeered.’

  Fabillus’ neck lengthened like a gull’s. ‘Commandeered? By whom?’

  ‘By the emperor, Master. All vessels are to-’

  ‘-be used for keeping the port cities replete with grain,’ Fabillus finished sourly for him
. He noticed Pulcher’s lips rise ever so slightly at one edge. The big ugly bastard was laughing at him. ‘Then to the pits with that filthy cog. I hope it sinks. To Hades with Bithynia,’ he spat, then swung to the western window, overlooking the capital’s sprawling wards and the land walls which wrapped them, then on into the countryside beyond. ‘My wagon awaits outside?’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Stichus replied.

  ‘Then instead of taking me to the docks, it can take me out through the land gates. My villa rustica lies empty, out in the meadows, just a few hours ride away.’

  Pulcher closed his eyes as if he had a headache. ‘But Emperor Theodosius issued the land curfew for a good reason – the countryside is not safe.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Fabillus said. ‘Use your brain, Pulcher,’ he tapped a finger against his temple, ‘or whatever mush is in there. When did you last set eyes upon this fictitious band of Goths, eh?’

  Pulcher gazed across his thick arms, laced with pink scar welts. ‘Master, I used to serve in the legions, and I faced the Goths many times. I underestimated them once… but never again.’

  ‘Then you will serve me well, Pulcher… and earn your pay for once. When was the last time you did anything other than bother me with your half-cooked thoughts? You possess brawn, I brains.’

  The kneeling body slave’s knee rolled over Fabillus’ toe, and he roared, batting down with the bronze mirror, striking the man hard on the back of the head. ‘You buffoon, be careful.’

  The old slave muffled a lasting wince, cowering, cupping a hand over the stripes of blood that rolled from the blunt scalp wound. ‘I’m sorry, Master,’ he quailed without looking up.

  Fabillus grunted and jerked a leg as if kicking away a pestering dog, sending the old body slave tumbling onto his back. He slipped on his sandals then snapped his fingers and called behind him in Pulcher’s direction: ‘Come, bring my bags, and two vases of Rhodian wine.’

  Striding through the villa entrance, he squinted as he walked out into the full glare of the late winter sun then climbed aboard his wagon, waiting under a silk canopy. The old body slave and the emaciated Stichus sat either side of him. Pulcher sat opposite him as the wagon set off, bumping and swaying through Constantinople’s packed main way, heading for the land gates.

  ‘Beggars and ingrates,’ Fabillus muttered under his breath at the demonstrating groups and demagogues in the Forum of the Bull. ‘Whelps,’ he groused when he saw some children playing in a travertine fountain. They came to the shadow of the mighty Golden Gates, where the eyes of busy soldiers on the battlements looked down, astonished. ‘Enjoy your soldier-gruel and filthy wine,’ he muttered confidently, only falling silent when the wagon halted there.

  A sentry approached and peered into the wagon. ‘Senator? There’s a curfew here and in all the coastal cities. No commercial or private travel is allo-’

  Fabillus pressed a pair of gold solidi into the man’s hands, smiling, straightening his senatorial robes. ‘But you have the authority to allow imperial travel, surely.’ The sentry backed away, gulping. A moment later and the gates were opened.

  The wagon picked up a fair pace and the country air rushed into the wagon through the open windows. It was like a cool, playful hand tickling his skin. ‘Ah, see?’ he said as green-gold fields and broom hills flashed past them. ‘Is this not the choice of the wise man?’ He simpered, eyeing Pulcher askance. But the bodyguard was watching the passing countryside with flinty eyes and his right hand flexed near his battered old soldier-sword.

  Fabillus chuckled, then turned to the two slaves. ‘Tonight, I’ll let you two prepare the villa’s baths,’ he mused to the old one who had dressed him, then regarded the meek Stichus, a spark of lust rising within him. He raised and poked one ringed finger at the boy. ‘You, you can join me.’

  Stichus’ face drained of colour as Fabillus slid his hand up and under his tunic, groping roughly at the boy’s genitals. Pulcher’s trance flickered for a moment, his hard eyes darting back towards Fabillus, his jaw working on unsaid words. Fabillus grinned and said in a low, menacing tone: ‘Watch the countryside, Pulcher. Earn your pay.’

  They came to the walled villa at noon, riding through a corridor of cypress trees towards high iron gates. The wagon slowed and Pulcher hopped out, landing with the barest of sounds, crouching a little, head turning like an owl’s. ‘No slaves?’ he whispered to his master. ‘And where is the estate keeper?’

  ‘But damn!’ Fabillus screeched, his white-painted face now banded with sweat-stripes, a bulge near his crotch advertising his honed lust. ‘Will you just get the bloody gates open.’

  Pulcher’s top lip rose and fell in a flash. He stalked over to the gates, noticing that they were unlatched. His eyes scoured the gardens within: winter jasmine hugged the walls and thrushes sang sweetly from the orchard trees and fonts. No estate keeper or slaves… but nothing else suspicious either. He opened the gates with care to keep the iron groan to a minimum. The wagon rolled inside, halting on a sun-bleached courtyard.

  Fabillus hopped down from the wagon. ‘Pour me a cup of wine,’ he clicked his fingers at the old slave, then turned a hawk’s glare on Stichus. ‘And you, perhaps we should have a quiet rest together just now, eh?’ he panted.

  Young Stichus slid from the carriage as if being dragged.

  Fabillus beckoned him inside. ‘Now, there should be some oil around here,’ he chuckled, licking his lips, ‘which will make things a bit less painful for you maybe? If you do as I ask, I might let you use it.’

  Stichus said nothing. Fabillus stepped through to the cucina, then halted when he saw that some of the plates, pots, vases and containers were missing from the shelves. A buzzing sound drew his eyes to the low table: plates lay upon it, bearing small mounds of spoiled food, flies clouding around. ‘I’ll have that estate keeper’s balls,’ Fabillus hissed, stepping towards the table.

  He halted just as he stepped into an arch of sunlight cast by the opening into the peristyle. Now he could feel the buzz of the flies – almost as if they were under his skin because, from the corner of his eye, he saw something unreal… an imitation of life. He looked round to face it: the estate keeper and the three slaves he had forced to stay here, hanging from the peristyle canopy on ropes, eyes bulging, faces blue and bloated, black tongues hanging from their mouths. He stepped out towards them, unable to tear his gaze from their death stares.

  Crunch! The sound of eating, right by his side.

  Turning, he felt his bowels flip over and his bladder bulge. A brute – a dirty, blonde-braided brute of a man – eyed him in bemusement, sitting on a stool in the peristyle’s shade, cutting slices from an apple and lifting them to his bearded mouth with a knife. He was draped in Roman mail, still stained with the blood of the legionary it had been taken from.

  ‘You… you’re a Goth?’

  ‘I am Reiks Ortwin, steward of these lands by Iudex Fritigern’s command,’ the Goth said calmly in good Greek. ‘And you are a senator.’ He munched another apple slice then gestured lazily at the hanging three. ‘These ones were loyal. They wouldn’t tell me where your treasures were. But you will. I can see it in your face: unlike them, you are weak.’

  Fabillus’ eyes flicked inadvertently to the flagstoned floor inside the villa, the strongbox under the loose stone contained a fair portion of his wealth.

  Reiks Ortwin grinned, standing and glancing at that same flagstone. ‘As easy as that.’

  Fabillus’ heart nearly leapt from his mouth as the Goth brushed past him, reeking of woodsmoke and oil, then went over to the loose stone and used an iron rod to prize it from the floor.

  ‘Take my coins, Goth,’ Fabillus stammered as Ortwin lifted a wooden chest from the sunken pit, ‘and I will be going. You have not heard the last of this though.’

  Ortwin barked something, but not at Fabillus and not in Greek. An unseen other appeared at the cucina door, holding an axe. This Goth stank, his breath fetid as he stepped forward and held the axe blade to Fabillus’
chin, tilting his head up as if evaluating a horse. Fabillus felt the cold steel rest there, and a hot wash of urine pouring down his legs. Then his bowels gave way and there was the revolting noise of what sounded like porridge being squirted from a drinking skin, and suddenly his loincloth felt hot and heavy.

  The Goth’s nose wrinkled. ‘This Roman smells bad.’

  Reiks Ortwin stepped over, weighing handfuls of gold coins, spitting an apple pip out. ‘Aye, perhaps not worth dragging out his death – not sure if I could stand the stink.’

  Fabillus did not dare to move his head, but in the instant when Ortwin and the axeman’s eyes were not on his, he rolled his eyes to the side, searching indoors, down the passageway to the villa entrance, seeing that Stichus had backed away there. The older slave, bearing the cup of wine, was with him. And Pulcher too. All three yet unseen by the Goths. Salvation!

  Pulcher stooped a little to whisper something in the two slaves’ ears. They crept away, back towards the villa’s front entrance and the waiting wagon, while Pulcher remained, poised and staring at the confrontation.

  Pul-cher, Fabillus mouthed mutely. The big oaf would save him now.

  Pulcher’s eyes met Fabillus’. The bodyguard took the battered fish medallion from his purse, flicked it up from his thumb, caught it and placed it silently on the sideboard. This is for your Father, he mouthed back before turning away to follow the slaves.

  With a zing, Reiks Ortwin drew a knife and snatched back Fabillus’ attentions. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said, cupping the back of Fabillus’ neck with one hand, then positioning the tip of the blunt knife just above his pubic bone.

  ‘No… no!’ Fabillus wailed, before the Goth plunged the knife in deep. It was blunt, and he had to wriggle and wrench it a few times before it found a hold, then he ripped it up in ragged steps until it crunched against Fabillus’ breastbone.

  Fabillus heard a wet slap and stared down to see his own guts quivering on the ground like a mutilated octopus, steam rising from the glistening, blue-grey pile. A heartbeat later, he fell on top of them, shuddering and gasping in his own filth.