by Ian Ross
Marcellina returned to the city the day after the news of the death, riding in her carriage with Diogenes and Egnatius and the remains of Castus’s military staff accompanying her. She had already learned what had happened, or guessed it. In the private chambers of Castus’s residence, once the slaves were dismissed and they were alone, she fell into his arms and wept.
But she was not crying for the dead emperor.
‘When I think of all you’ve done!’ she said, raising her head and scrubbing the heel of her hand across her cheek. ‘All these months of effort and danger… And now it’s all for nothing! They’re saying you’ll be stripped of your command as soon as Constantius returns.’
‘Who’s saying this?’ Castus asked, cradling her head in his hand.
‘Egnatius and the other officers. Oh, not with any satisfaction – they’re as angry as I am!’
And with good reason, Castus thought. They had shared his struggles for the last three months; if he kept his command he could reward them with honours and promotions. But now they were as friendless as Castus himself.
‘There’s a few people at the court here who might help me, all the same,’ Castus said. ‘For their own reasons. Dracilianus for one, maybe.’
He felt Marcellina shudder violently. ‘That man!’ she said. ‘He makes my skin crawl. He has the eyes of a corpse. Every time he looks at me I feel… violated.’
‘He has that effect on a few people, I think. It’s nothing personal. We’ll just have to hope for the best.’
Marcellina dropped her head against his chest again, holding him tightly. ‘All that you’ve done,’ she mumbled again, ‘just to be dismissed, without thanks, without reward. It’s criminal!’
‘None of us know what the future holds,’ Castus said, running his hand down the curve of her spine. She was still dressed in her travelling clothes, and smelled of dust and faint sweat. Her body was tense, and he felt her shudder as she relaxed. Warmth rose through him, calming his mind. He kissed the top of her head.
‘Peace, let’s hope,’ Marcellina said. Then she kissed him on the lips, took his hand, and led him to the bedchamber.
Hours later, Castus lay beside her as she slept. He thought about peace, that most fragile of states. Only late in his life had he come to desire it. But he felt it now. Frowning, he gazed at the ceiling. For the first time since the news came in, he realised that he would miss Constantine. It was an odd thought, and a troubling one. He had known the emperor for over thirty years, half his life. Everything he had achieved had been by Constantine’s command. The emperor had built him, as he had rebuilt the empire itself on a new foundation. And in some secret part of his soul, Castus had been looking forward to his moment of reconciliation with the man he had both respected and despised for so long. He wanted to stand before him, face to face, and reach some final understanding. Now that was denied to him. Constantine was dead, but his long shadow still lay over them.
And for all his feelings of newfound warmth for the man’s memory, almost affection, Castus could not forget the faces of the dead. Both those he had known, and all those unknown others, the soldiers who had died in their thousands to pave Constantine’s path to glory. Truly, he thought, he had seen enough of war and bloodshed.
Turning on his side, he laid his arm across Marcellina’s back and drew her close. She mumbled in half-sleep, shifting her body into the curve of his own.
Peace, he thought. Yes, that was all he wanted now.
But he would only be granted a few more days of it.
*
The courier arrived on a lathered horse, grey with dust, and galloped in through the Beroea Gate on the fourth day after the news of the emperor’s death had been received. He came at once to Castus’s residence, barely slowing until he entered the courtyard outside and slid from the saddle.
Sabinus found Castus standing by the window in his upper chamber, the message in his hand. The courier, a military despatch rider, stood a few paces away, swaying on his feet with exhaustion.
‘Sit,’ Castus told the rider, then ordered the slaves to bring him water. ‘See his horse is cared for as well.’ He turned to the rider again. ‘Have you shown this despatch to anybody else?’
‘Nobody, excellency. It was addressed to you, so I came here directly.’
‘Good.’ Castus peered down again at the message, frowning. His mind was very clear, but his body felt heavy and slow.
‘Father?’ Sabinus said. ‘What’s happened?’
Castus gestured for his son to follow him into the next room. When they were alone he dropped the message tablet on the couch and turned to Sabinus.
‘Word from Romulianus at Nisibis,’ he said. ‘Our scouts have sighted the Persian army. They’re moving north, on the far side of the Tigris, but they have boats and bridging equipment with them. Looks like they’re planning to cross the river east of Singara.’ He was speaking calmly, but he could feel the tightness in his throat. The kick of his heart.
Sabinus just raised his eyebrows, stunned. ‘Anything about their numbers?’
Clenching his back teeth, Castus turned away and gazed out of the window. ‘The scouts estimate eighty to one hundred thousand,’ he said. ‘They have elephants and large numbers of cavalry, and King Shapur himself is leading them.’
Sabinus let out a low whistle. ‘They saw him?’
‘They saw the royal standard, apparently. None but the Persian king can display it. And this was five days ago.’
‘Before we heard of the emperor’s death! They must have known…’
‘They knew he was sick, yes. Seems that was enough for them. That courier must have flown like Mercury to get here so fast.’
‘So they’ll strike from the east,’ Sabinus said, sitting down on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. ‘Through Singara and Nisibis, then Edessa…’
‘Yes. They’ll know the imperial field army’s immobilised at Nicomedia. And most of our forces in the east are either here at Antioch or stationed on the middle Euphrates. And there’s nobody to order them to advance.’
‘Except you,’ Sabinus said, glancing up.
‘Except me.’
Castus rubbed his knuckles across his scalp. He ought to send a report to Ablabius. That would be the correct procedure. But Ablabius was still obeying the Caesar’s orders that the army was not to move. Or at least, he claimed to be. Dracilianus wanted the troops to remain at Antioch too, in case of civil war. Castus drew a deep breath. He was Magister Equitum per Orientem; he still held supreme military command in the east, and nobody had yet tried to take it from him. He needed to act fast.
‘Summon all senior military officers,’ he told Sabinus. ‘Send riders out to the field army camps. I want all of them here in the city by the second hour of the night, no delays. We assemble at the Katagogion in the old agora. But tell nobody else – no word to the palace ministers, understood?’
‘Understood, dominus!’ Sabinus said, getting to his feet and saluting.
*
The hours passed quickly, the sand glass turning, the great water clock above the palace gate sounding out its metallic chimes. Castus paced his chambers, dictating messages and studying troop rosters. He had already summoned Diogenes, Egnatius and all of his staff who remained in the city. By the time the sun sank below the looming flank of Mons Silpius he had done all he could. It still did not feel enough; at any moment he expected the message from the prefect demanding an explanation, demanding a halt. But none came. His chamber was dyed with the colours of sunset as Castus shrugged on his best tunic and stood while the slaves arrayed him in his arming vest, gilded cuirass and red general’s cloak. Then, with his helmet clasped under his arm, he strode out to the waiting carriage that would take him across the city to the old agora.
The Katagogion of Antioch had once been part of the Baths of Severus; later it had served as a rather palatial lodging house. Now it was the praetorium of the Magister Equitum. Castus was supposed to conduct his official busin
ess there, although he seldom used it. But it was far enough from the palace, and the oversight of the palace ministers, to be useful to him now.
By the time he arrived the forecourt was already crowded with horses and men, soldiers of the field army who had escorted their commanders to the meeting. They moved aside to let Castus through the throng, raising their hands in wary salute. Most of them remembered him well from their rigorous training over the winter.
Slamming open the main doors, Castus strode into the central hall with his staff officers at his back. He was pleased to see that most of the army commanders had already arrived – he noted their faces, and noted the names of those who had failed to attend in time. Over thirty officers: tribunes and prefects, a few senior centurions and drillmasters, most of them in military dress and some of them in armour. And every officer had his slaves and secretaries, his orderly or optio. The crowd parted before Castus, forming an aisle down the centre of the hall, and he strode between them. Expectation on every face. Fear on more than a few.
Mounting the steps to the dais, Castus turned and faced the assembled officers. Sabinus and three more Protectores flanked him, with his personal standard-bearer holding the draco. Another man held the imperial standard, with the image of Constantine still proudly displayed above his sons. A moment of hush, then the officers raised their hands and the words of the salute rang out.
Castus stood in silence. Once he spoke, he knew, there could be no turning back. In the flickering glow of the lamps, the faded paintings on the walls appeared to loom from shadow.
Quietly he cleared his throat. ‘Brothers,’ he declared, his voice rolling out over the heads of the assembly and echoing from the vaulted ceiling. ‘The Persians are on the march. King Shapur has taken advantage of our uncertain condition, and means to invade our empire from the east. His army is currently on the upper Tigris, in considerable force. They may already have crossed the river into our territory.’
Uncertain condition, he thought. A nice euphemism. Every man before him now knew that the emperor was dead, although such a thing could not be spoken of aloud. But Castus could see the effect of his words. The assembled officers stood straighter, gazing up at him in attentive silence. Down at the front of the crowd, Castus saw the muscular, black-bearded commander Valerius Mucatra, his shaved head gleaming in the lamplight. A knot of his loyal subordinates stood arrayed behind him. If only, Castus thought, he had rid himself of that man while he had the chance… But it was too late now.
‘The Dux Mesopotamiae, his excellency Julius Romulianus, is holding his troops at Singara, Nisibis, and the fortresses on the upper Tigris,’ Castus continued. ‘But he can only be expected to delay the Persian advance for a short time. It’s vital that we move to reinforce him as soon as possible, with all the strength we can muster.’
In his mind, numbers were still whirling. For hours he had been turning them over, as if he could increase them by mental effort alone. But he knew that, with the emperor’s own field army immobilised, whatever force he could draw together would be insufficient to oppose the Persian advance. There were eighteen thousand men of the eastern field army here at Antioch; another twenty thousand scattered between the garrison fortresses in Mesopotamia and Osrhoene. As many again were gathered at the mustering points on the Euphrates: would the messengers he had dispatched that day reach them fast enough? Would their commanders act with sufficient speed to rouse their troops and march them north to meet him on the road? Castus had also sent a message to Lycianus, ordering him to cross the Euphrates by the boat bridge at Soura and join him at Edessa. He was to bring as many of Hind’s Saracen symmachiarii with him as possible.
Plans and strategies – but all of them so tenuous, so hurriedly assembled. And so easily they could collapse into ruin.
‘You intend to take the entire army east, excellency?’ Mucatra asked in a gruff tone.
‘All our troops, yes,’ Castus replied. ‘We muster at first light on the old drill ground. I’ll set out myself with a cavalry vanguard once the sun’s up. With me will go the Equites Armigeri, the Equites Armeniaci Sagittarii and the Third Equites Stablesiani. Tribune Flavius Egnatius will lead them, as my deputy. We’ll ride east by rapid stages to Edessa, changing horses along the way. When we get there, we should meet the detachments from the Euphrates.’
Silence from the assembly. Mucatra just stared, frowning.
‘Meanwhile,’ Castus said, ‘the comes rei militaris Valerius Mucatra will get the leading detachments of the field army on the march that same day: the First and Fourth Italica, the Seventh and Tenth Gemina, Fifth Macedonica and Fourth Martia, together with the two Flavia legions and the rest of the cavalry. The remainder of the army will follow as soon as they can under their own commanders.
‘You’ll be pushing your men hard! They’ll be eating dust for thirty miles a day, between stations. Every man is to carry seven days’ rations in his pack. I’ve ordered ninety thousand modii of grain milled in readiness for us at Edessa, together with oil, wine, salted meat and fodder. We assemble and resupply there, on the ides.’
He paused, letting his words register and giving the secretaries time to scribble in their tablets. A few of the officers had gasped as he told them what was required of them. He was not surprised. Months sitting idle at Antioch, and now this. His throat was dry and his head was beginning to ache, but he still felt the surging energy that had propelled him through the day flaming in his blood. How long before that energy burned out?
‘One question,’ Mucatra said, his harshly accented voice cutting through the stir of whispers.
Castus turned to him, jutting his jaw.
‘What if this is a ruse?’ Mucatra asked. ‘I mean to say, what if the Persians are making a feint attack from the east to draw all our forces in that direction – only then to attack up the Euphrates?’
Castus inhaled deeply, filling his chest, before replying. He had considered that himself. It was possible, he knew. And if it was true, he was throwing the entire eastern empire into peril. But the peril was there, however he acted. And what he needed now was a show of supreme confidence.
‘Our scouts in the east have reported that the enemy carries the royal standard at their head. I’m no expert on the Persians, but I believe that means the king himself is leading them.’
‘And you’re certain of this… belief?’ Mucatra said. ‘How do you know?’
Castus stared down at him. Then he smiled, and gestured to the hooded figure who stood, unobtrusive, to one side of the room. ‘He told me.’
Throwing back his hood, Hormisdas climbed to the lower step of the dais. The young Persian prince had only returned to the city the day before, from his country estate south of Daphne. Castus had been glad to see him; he was even more glad of his presence now.
‘His excellency Aurelius Castus is quite correct,’ Hormisdas said in a conversational tone that nonetheless carried to the back of the hall. ‘The Dirafsh-i-Kaviyan is carried only by the King of Iran-Shahr himself. And King Shapur would not place himself at the head of a diversionary force.’
‘So you’re taking advice from the Persians now?’ Mucatra said in a low growl. ‘And they’ve got good eyes, these scouts, to pick out a single banner in the middle of an army!’
‘Oh, the Dirafsh-i-Kaviyan’s very distinctive,’ Hormisdas replied casually. ‘Twelve feet square, bright purple and red, and covered in gold and jewels. You really couldn’t miss it!’
The swell of laughter was almost a relief. But Castus could sense the nervous energy gathered in the darkened hall. He felt it himself; every tendon in his body felt drawn tight.
‘Brothers!’ he cried. ‘You’ve heard my commands. All of us have a long night ahead, and an early start tomorrow. Go – and may we meet again in Edessa a week from now!’
The assembly broke up, most of the officers turning at once and making for the doors. Only when they reached the far end of the hall did the talking begin, a torrent of voices rushing together.
‘I wish I were going with you,’ Hormisdas said as Castus stepped down from the dais. ‘But as it is, I could only march to war against my own people with the express permission of the emperor. Which, in our uncertain condition may be difficult to obtain!’
‘You’re better off here,’ Castus told him. ‘But staying out of the city might be a good idea. Things could get ugly.’
‘Oh, I fully intend to observe the ugliness at close quarters,’ Hormisdas said with a shrug. ‘I enjoy your violent Roman spectacles, you know. But if you need a safe refuge for your wife and household, my villa beyond Daphne is quite commodious.’
‘I’ll consider that, thanks,’ Castus told him. ‘How do you say good luck in Persian?’
‘You don’t need Persian luck,’ Hormisdas said with a cool smile. ‘You need Roman luck, my friend. Lots of Roman luck. My people fight hard, and Shapur has Ahura-Mazda on his side!’
‘Don’t worry. The Roman army isn’t in the habit of losing battles.’
*
Leaving the hall, Castus walked into a scene of torchlit commotion. The courtyard was filled with milling figures, officers mounting horses or calling for their slaves, soldiers forming up around their commanders, and a mass of civilian onlookers in the gathering darkness of the agora beyond them. But amidst the crowd stood a large litter, eight bearers waiting beside it, the purple drapes displaying the insignia of the Praetorian Prefect. Castus halted on the steps, seeing Ablabius striding towards him through the throng.
‘Have you entirely lost your mind?’ the prefect demanded. He was dressed in a light tunic of patterned silk; Castus guessed he had come straight from a disturbed dinner as soon as he heard what was happening. Ablabius had soldiers with him too, palace guardsmen of the Schola Armaturae.
‘Far from it,’ Castus said. Some of the troops and officers had gathered behind him, others flanked him on the steps. He was surprised to notice Valerius Mucatra among them, backing him.
‘The Caesar Constantius left strict orders that the field army was to remain at Antioch!’ Ablabius cried. ‘Now you intend to take our entire military force on some doomed expedition into Mesopotamia!’