Triumph in Dust

by Ian Ross

  ‘Your emperor would surely not be happy for an embassy from his brother monarch to be delayed like this,’ the envoy said warily.

  ‘My emperor would not be happy for armed Persians to be wandering about Syria on their own either,’ Castus replied with a twisted smile. ‘You might get lost, or fall in with bad company!’

  For a few long tense moments Castus thought that the envoy would refuse, or that Zamasp and his men would ignore the envoy’s instructions. But at last the orders were given, and the Persian riders moved off the road and back towards the village just as the first rain began to fall. The envoy Vezhan Gushnasp departed with a fulsome bow, and only Zamasp remained, still in the saddle, watching as the Roman column filed past him in the falling rain.

  Castus sat opposite him, Sabinus and Egnatius flanking him, until the last of the Roman baggage train had moved away up the muddy road towards Hierapolis. He was glad to see that the village was a miserable-looking collection of hovels; doubtless the Persian envoy and his men would have an uncomfortable wait there.

  ‘If your emperor once again fails to see the virtues of reason,’ Zamasp called from the far side of the road, ‘then we may meet again, under less diplomatic conditions.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Castus called back.

  ‘You should not. It will be a sad day for you.’ Zamasp circled his horse on the verge. ‘I would not kill such an old man – no! I think I will cut off your hands and feet and send you crawling home to your emperor.’

  Castus heard Sabinus draw a sharp breath. But the danger had passed now – these were only words.

  ‘But that one, your handsome friend,’ Zamasp said, pointing at Sabinus. ‘Him I will kill. And after I have killed him, I will have the skin peeled from his corpse, dyed and stuffed with chaff, and displayed on the wall of our greatest temple, as my people once did to your Emperor Valerian. And you will watch, helpless, as I do it.’

  He sat for a moment more, staring at Castus through the rain. Then, with the barest movement, he turned his magnificent horse and spurred into a gallop, back towards the village behind him.

  Part 2

  VII

  Constantinople, March AD 337

  ‘Hosanna!’ the voices around her cried. ‘Blessings to the King! Blessings to the one who comes in the name of the Lord!’

  Through the lattice screens of her litter, Marcellina saw a waving forest of greenery filling the street. Palm fronds and olive branches. The people carrying them, calling out the blessings, were dressed in long white unbelted tunics, men and women alike bare-headed and many of them barefoot too. It was the Day of Palms, the beginning of the Paschal week, and Constantinople was thronged with devotees.

  ‘I never knew there were so many Christians in the world!’ Aeliana said. The girl was sitting opposite her mother in the cramped confines of the swaying litter, gazing out with wide eyes.

  ‘Nor did I,’ Marcellina said quietly.

  Pharnax was walking alongside. The scarred ex-gladiator was watching the crowd too, raising an arm now and again if any of the palm-wielding worshippers got too close. He had insisted on accompanying her and Aeliana into the city, sticking close to them as he had done throughout their journey from Dalmatia.

  ‘Leave them,’ Marcellina told him. ‘They mean no harm.’

  Pharnax nodded, but did not appear convinced.

  They were nearing the heart of the city now, the great plaza called the Augusteion. Marcellina had never been to Constantinople before, and the crowds and the huge buildings on all sides felt oppressive. A light drizzly rain was falling, blurring the distance into mist. She had received the message the evening before, granting her permission to attend morning mass in the Church of the Holy Peace, in the presence of the emperor himself. It was not a permission she had requested, or one she desired, but as the wife of the Magister Equitum per Orientem she supposed she had certain obligations. Besides, she was curious. After all these years she had still never seen the Emperor Constantine in person.

  The litter came to a halt as the bearers eased it to the ground. Marcellina glanced out, and saw the façade of the basilica rising before her, the walls and gateway of the pillared forecourt surrounded by armed guards and silentiaries of the imperial retinue. Climbing from the litter with Aeliana, she stood for a while staring around her at the host of richly dressed worshippers converging on the church. She felt dowdy and provincial in their company, and pulled her shawl across her head. From within the church she could hear the sound of chanting.

  Marcellina had called herself a Christian for many years, although her faith was personal, almost philosophical. She had seldom attended a church service, and preferred reading poetry and literature to religious texts. Cut off in an isolated corner of Dalmatia, she had almost believed that Christianity was something she had invented for herself, a quieter and deeper faith than the ancient religions, the distant and implacable gods of earth and sky that her father had worshipped, and her husband still revered. But seeing her faith proclaimed so loudly and boldly here in the imperial city was a shock. It had not been the first.

  Two nights before, she had stayed at a mansio on the Perinthus road, and shared her dinner table with a pair of bishops, also travelling to Constantinople for the Paschal celebrations. One of them had been a follower of Arius, the other a supporter of Bishop Athanasius, and very soon they had fallen into dispute and violent argument. As the wine flowed, they had hurled abuse at each other – ‘Pervert! Heretic!’ – and would have come to blows had the mansio slaves not separated them. Marcellina had found it a chilling and depressing display. Her Christianity was deeply felt, but she feared it had become just another excuse for men to fight one another. And the world needed no more excuses of that sort.

  ‘Mother!’ a voice said, and Marcellina saw her daughter Maiana hurrying through the crowd, with her husband Laurentius. They embraced, and then Aeliana stretched up on her toes to hug her half-sister. Maiana was Marcellina’s second daughter by her first husband, and she had been living in Constantinople for the last five years. She had prospered, clearly; she was expensively dressed, and rather more plump these days, but looked happy.

  Laurentius, Marcellina’s son-in-law, was a handsome man with a self-satisfied air. He had recently been promoted to ducenarius of the Corps of Notaries, mainly due, Marcellina suspected, to his wife’s connections. Even after his disgrace and retirement, Castus’s reputation still counted for something at the imperial court.

  ‘Mother, can I come with you into the church?’ Aeliana asked, tugging on her hand. ‘I want to see the emperor.’

  ‘No, you must stay out here with Maiana. Pharnax will look after you.’

  The bodyguard was attracting nervous glances from the passing crowd, but appeared entirely unmoved. Pharnax had spent most of his life looking intimidating.

  Taking her son-in-law’s arm, Marcellina walked with him through the gateway into the church courtyard. The guards merely glanced at her invitation with its imperial seal.

  ‘We hear encouraging reports from Antioch,’ Laurentius said, ‘about your husband.’

  ‘Do you?’ Marcellina asked. She had heard only sparingly from Castus since his departure, and she had little idea of what he had been doing in the east.

  ‘Oh yes, he’s getting on well! He seems to have managed to terrify most of the army and half the court. He’ll have them all in fighting shape very soon, no doubt.’

  ‘Why should he want to terrify them?’ Marcellina asked with a slight smile. She knew that many people found her husband imposing. Many people underestimated him too, taking his size and his brutal appearance as evidence of stupidity. Few, she suspected, saw him as he really was, and as she knew him to be.

  ‘Best way to get things done, I suppose!’ Laurentius said, shrugging awkwardly. ‘Besides, there was that attack on him last autumn – that would give anyone a reason for resentment…’

  ‘What attack?’ Marcellina said sharply. She was still tryin
g to smile.

  ‘Oh, dear, you didn’t know?’ Laurentius whispered with a disingenuous frown. Idiot, Marcellina thought. ‘Yes, he was attacked in his quarters by several men. But don’t worry, he fought them off – killed them, in fact! Some army matter, they say, although obviously it leaves a bitter taste…’

  Marcellina made a sound of agreement. She was not surprised that Castus had mentioned nothing about the attack in his letters to her. What could she have done, save worry even more that she did already? But it pained her all the same. She knew her husband was in danger – he had seldom been far from it – but to be thrown back into such peril after so many years of safe retirement seemed unjust. The sooner she joined him in Antioch, she thought, the better for them both.

  ‘Who are those men?’ she asked, hoping to distract herself.

  ‘Them? Persians,’ Laurentius said. ‘The white-faced man is the envoy of King Shapur. They won’t enter the church, of course, but they’re permitted to stand in the courtyard.’

  ‘Who’s the taller man behind him, with the curving moustaches? He looks… vicious.’

  ‘I don’t remember his name,’ her son-in-law said. ‘The chief of the envoy’s bodyguards, I think. Come – let’s go inside.’

  After the damp grey daylight, the darkened interior of the basilica resembled a vast cavern. Bodies packed the aisles, and the air was fogged with cloying incense, but when Marcellina glanced upwards she saw the high vaulted ceiling glowing with paintings of birds and flying angels.

  Laurentius led her through the press at the doors, and then she left him and shuffled to her designated position in the women’s section, near the back of the hall in one of the side aisles. From there, Marcellina could peer between a couple of pillars and, if she angled her head, see the high altar in the distant apse. Priests, presbyters and deacons flanked the apse, and the Bishop of Constantinople stood before it, reading from a codex.

  ‘Blessed is the one that comes in the name of the Lord,’ the bishop intoned:

  ‘The True Word against the Lie,

  The Saviour against the Destroyer,

  The Prince of Peace against he who stirs up war…’

  A loud cry from the doors, and at once a rustling stir ran through the crowd. Everyone in the church was sinking to their knees, some even prostrating themselves on the marble floor.

  ‘The emperor!’ the woman beside Marcellina hissed as she knelt.

  Marcellina dropped to kneel beside her, feeling the blast of clean air from the open doors, the almost palpable wave of awe filling the room as the emperor passed along the central aisle. As she heard his footsteps get closer she risked a glance upwards. Constantine was pacing slowly, and his heavy court robes were so stiff with embroidery that he appeared to be gliding. His jowled chin was tucked down against his chest, his large beakish nose aimed at the floor, and he looked as though he was scowling.

  This is the man, Marcellina thought, I have despised for over a decade. This is the man I can never forgive. The man who put his own son to death; the man who raised up my husband, and then tried to destroy him… This is the man.

  Constantine passed out of sight, taking a place somewhere near the front of the hall, close to the altar. The congregation rose, and soon the massed verses of the Psalms filled the cavernous space.

  ‘Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord?

  Who may stand in this holy place?

  The one who has clean hands and a pure heart…’

  Lulled by the echoing voices, the heavy scents and the warmth of the bodies all around her, Marcellina let her mind drift. She would remain in Constantinople for the rest of the Paschal week, and then move on. The road ahead crossed Bithynia and Galatia, Cappadocia and Cilicia. A long road and an exhausting one, all the way to Antioch. Would Castus be there when she arrived? Would he be safe, unharmed...?

  Abruptly, Marcellina became aware of the sound of coughing from the front of the basilica. Others appeared to notice it too, and the chant faltered. The coughing continued, then turned to a hacking gasp. Leaning forward between the pillars, Marcellina stared towards the apse, and her eyes widened. It was the emperor, she could now make out. Constantine himself, bent forward and racked by coughs, the eunuchs and guards rushing to attend him.

  Whispered words spread through the congregation as the last chanting died. The bishop was glancing anxiously towards the emperor, who had managed to stifle his coughing fit but was still gasping, his back heaving. At an imperceptible signal, the guards around the emperor marched swiftly towards the basilica doors, lining the aisle. Constantine was already making for the exit, flanked by eunuchs who supported his elbows, and another who dabbed at his mouth with a linen cloth. In a great wave the congregation sank to its knees, and Marcellina knelt with them.

  But just as the emperor neared the far doors he was struck by another fit of coughing. Marcellina glanced up quickly, and in that instant she caught sight of Constantine as he turned his head in her direction. His face was dark red, his chin flecked with blood and spittle.

  And in his eyes was a look of stark, mortal terror.

  VIII

  The raucous crowing of a cockerel roused Castus from troubled sleep.

  His mind was still whirling: in his dream the deep water was surrounding him, panic thrashing in his chest, his consciousness shrinking as he felt death dragging him downwards. He shuddered, then winced sharply as he opened his eyes to the sunlight angling from the high window. Somewhere outside, the cockerel let out its harsh cry once more.

  He was in Nisibis, he remembered, in his sleeping chamber in the Strategion. The sea was hundreds of miles away, and he was alive.

  Keeping his eyes tightly closed against the daylight, he struggled to raise himself from the mattress. His head felt poisoned, and there was a stinging pain behind his temples. Was he sick? Then he remembered how much he had drunk the night before. Years since he had been so reckless in his cups. He had sat up late after dinner, drinking with his military officers; a welcome release at the time, but now he felt foolish for it. Yawning until he felt his jaw click, he scrubbed at his scalp with his knuckles. He shouted – it sounded more like a dog barking – and Vallio, his slave orderly, bobbed his head around the door.

  ‘Water,’ Castus croaked, raising his head.

  Vallio returned almost immediately, bringing an earthenware jug of cool water, a bowl and a cup. Castus splashed his face, then drank deeply. Levering himself upright, he managed to stand and stretch his arms above his head. Flashes of hot colour danced in his skull.

  ‘Outside,’ he said, then pulled on a tunic and lumbered across the room towards the door.

  The Strategion of Nisibis stood on the southern edge of the citadel mount, the only area of high ground in the city. It was usually the residence of the Dux Mesopotamiae, the commander of the military forces in the province, but for now it was Castus’s temporary home. The complex was built in the local style: around a central courtyard garden of ornamental palms were rooms with thick mud-brick walls, small high windows and vaulted ceilings to provide cool shade in the long summer months. That may be the case, Castus thought, but for all the faded paintings on the plastered walls the chambers still felt like the inside of a tomb.

  Passing through the vestibule, he stamped up the steps to the flat roof. Awnings provided shade, and there was the faintest whisper of a morning breeze. Groaning, he eased himself down onto a stool and waited while the slaves brought more water and a dish of bread and olive oil.

  Castus had arrived in Nisibis two days before. After leaving Hormisdas at Edessa, he had journeyed up into the Armenian foothills to survey the new defences of the town of Amida and the upper Tigris valley. Descending once more to the fertile Mesopotamian plains, his party had entered a different season; the warm sunlight and clear blue skies of springtime were a blessing after the long months of cold and gloom.

  Nearly forty years had passed since Castus had last visited this place. He had been a legionary then,
serving in the army of the Emperor Galerius, who had camped his troops outside the city of Colonia Septimia Nisibis. Castus had remained in camp and not entered the city itself, but he had heard a lot about the place. Half a dozen times over the centuries, he knew, Rome had swallowed Nisibis up and spat it back out again, and while it was a Roman city now it had never seemed truly a part of the empire.

  To the south of the citadel mount, the ground dropped to the level expanse of the military castrum, built over a hundred years before by the deified emperor Septimius Severus. That same emperor had rebuilt the walls, extending them to encompass the castrum and the new city district that spread away eastward to the bank of the river Mygdonius. Chewing on the hard bread, Castus gazed over the camp. Birds of prey were circling above the parade ground and the regular lines of barrack buildings; kites, Castus guessed from their broad wingspan. The sky was already deep blue, and the sun getting hot. Beyond the wall the green cultivated land stretched to the flat horizon.

  He had spent much of the previous day down in the camp, reviewing the troops and meeting with the dux, Romulianus, and the other military officers. Three thousand men were garrisoned here, of the First and Sixth Parthica legions, with the same number based at the fortress of Singara, four days’ march south-east on the edge of the open desert.

  ‘I want to send half your legionary and cavalry strength south to Circesium on the Euphrates,’ Castus had told the dux the day before. ‘They’ll wait there with the other frontier detachments and join the imperial field army in two months’ time.’

  Romulianus had made no immediate response, but Castus could see that the man was not happy. He had expected as much, and continued: ‘The remainder of your force,’ he said, ‘will remain here to guard the fortifications. Nisibis is the bulwark of our north-eastern frontier. If the enemy try to send a force through Mesopotamia to outflank our advance on the Euphrates, they’ll need to break the defences here. With the force remaining to you, you’ll have enough men to stop them.’