Triumph in Dust

by Ian Ross

  The sun appeared, a hot coal balanced on the black rim of the world, and he hauled himself to his feet and raised his arms, crying out the salute to his god. Sol Invictus, Ruler of Heaven, Lord of Daybreak…

  Nearly a month had passed since he had witnessed his own end. He had stood in the darkness and seen his own headless corpse dragged through the camp, still dressed in its finery. Some of the soldiers had wept; others had taken the opportunity to stamp on the body, and spit upon it. Only an hour or two previously they had been acclaiming him emperor. He saw the severed head too, mounted on a spear, bobbing above the milling crowd. Almost unrecognisable now, so bloodied and battered, caked in dust. But he had often noticed that severed heads are hard to tell apart.

  As the morning grew warmer, he breakfasted on a nugget of stale bread and the last dribble of olive oil, washed down with warm water. His tomb was once a natural cave, high in the escarpment ten miles north of the city of Nisibis. At some ancient time it had been carved deeper and used as a burial place, but the sepulchre had long ago vanished. More recently, so he had heard, a Christian hermit had made his home there, until he was driven away by brigands. Now the people in the little village down the valley brought him food and drink, leaving them a short distance from the cave mouth. Perhaps, he thought, they believed he was a new hermit, and would work miracles for them? They would be disappointed, if so.

  He looked like a hermit, he supposed, with his beard grown tangled and grey, his hair matted, his tunic stained as brown as dust. It was October now and the nights were growing cold, but he dared not light a fire. Instead he lay in his cave at night, wrapped in a blanket shroud, and thought about the living and the dead. He thought about his wife and his daughter, and prayed that he would see them again. He thought of his son, who had been with him at the end. About others too, faces from his past.

  Often at night he dreamed of Constantine. The dead emperor visited him in his tomb, and sat beside him. At first Constantine had tried to explain himself, and all that he had been forced to do. But lately the emperor’s ghost had fallen silent, and just sat with his head hanging in sorrow and shame.

  Often too he relived that last desperate night in the camp beyond Nisibis. The body in the rear chamber of his tent had already begun to stiffen, and it had been a struggle to drag the clothes from it. Lycianus was a slightly smaller man, but after losing so much weight in the last few months, he found that the scout commander’s clothes fitted him well enough. Dressing the corpse in his own uniform was more difficult. Sabinus had joined him, stepping silently through from the outer chamber, and together they had wrestled the tunic and breeches onto the corpse, the belts and cloak, the golden brooch. He had even cut away the smallest finger of Lycianus’s left hand, to match his own wound. It was hard grisly work in the half-darkness. And when it was done, they had hacked the head from the body and concealed it in rags. Sabinus would ensure that it went missing, after enough people had seen it carried on its spear.

  His son had told Egnatius alone about the ruse; the tribune had joined them, and together with Sabinus had dragged the body from the tent. Several of the other officers must have suspected the deception, but they said nothing about it. He had waited in the shadows of the rear chamber, a hood pulled over his face, until the tumult had moved away from his tent; then he had followed. For a few moments he had lingered, just to catch a glimpse of what was happening. It was enough. The sight had chilled his soul, and he’d felt dread scrabbling in his throat.

  Sabinus, again, had led him from the camp that same night, and conducted him to the city of Nisibis. It had been Ephraim, the young presbyter, who had concealed him within the gloomy hall of the great church on the citadel mount. Ironic, after he had derided the Christians so much, that they sheltered him now. And, once a few days had passed, it was Ephraim’s church slaves that had led him up here to the old cave tomb on the escarpment, and arranged for the villagers to supply him with all he needed.

  He had been lucky. So lucky it made his head reel and panic kick in his chest when he thought about it for too long. But he forced himself to sit calmly, staring at the sunlight and cloud shadow that moved across the great dusty plain below him, until the feelings passed.

  *

  He had been watching the distant rider for an hour, the solitary figure growing distinct from the wavering heat of noon. The rider wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, and was climbing the trail up the rocky valley slowly, his horse picking its way with care, two mules and a second horse behind him. The sound of the hooves was unnaturally loud in the silence.

  He remained seated until the rider had reached the head of the trail. Then he stood. The man on the horse sat upright in the saddle, surprised, then pushed the hat back from his face. His weathered features bunched into a grin.

  ‘Brother!’ he said. ‘You’ve turned the colour of dust! I didn’t see you until you stood up – like you’d risen from the ground!’

  Then he slid nimbly from his horse and strode to the cave mouth. The two men embraced.

  ‘Aurelius Castus,’ Diogenes said, gripping his friend by the shoulders. ‘You are the Christian Lazarus, risen from the grave!’

  Castus grinned back at him, then broke into a laugh. Hearing his own name after so long was glorious. Like returning to life once more. ‘I’d offer you wine and oysters, but I’m short of supplies,’ he said. His own voice sounded strange in his ears, the words lumpy in his mouth. Weeks had passed since he had spoken to another living person.

  ‘Well, you’re lucky I have a little left,’ Diogenes said. He went back to one of the mules and pulled a skin from the saddlebag, throwing it to Castus. Castus caught it, pulled out the bung with his teeth, and swigged back wine.

  ‘Gods, that’s good…’

  Diogenes sat down with a sigh, crossing his legs, and fanned himself with his hat. His three-legged dog curled itself in the dust beside him. Flies whirled around them both. ‘I can’t see that you’re prospering out here in the wilderness,’ he said.

  Castus took another swig of wine, then passed the skin back. ‘You’ve been in Antioch?’ he asked with abrupt urgency. ‘You saw Marcellina?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Diogenes said. And then he told Castus everything that had happened.

  Castus listened, his mouth slack, his eyebrows bunched. When Diogenes had finished speaking he rocked back on his haunches and let out a cracked laugh. ‘And Mucatra too, you say? I congratulate you on your tactical thinking, brother!’

  ‘It wasn’t me, so much. Hormisdas was behind most of what happened in the city, and your wife. She has unforeseen organisational talents, you know. And by now Constantius will have returned to take up the throne in Antioch. I didn’t stay long enough to see him arrive in triumph. There’s a new prefect though, one Septimius Acindynus. He’s already issued a proclamation in the emperor’s name, thanking the loyal citizens of Antioch for ridding the city of traitors and conspirators. Can you imagine it?’

  ‘What else could Constantius do, I suppose? He couldn’t execute everyone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to guess,’ Diogenes said, frowning. ‘I have grave doubts about that one. Your new emperor, I fear, is not a gentle soul.’

  ‘My emperor?’ Castus asked. ‘Not yours?’

  Diogenes smiled, pulling his hat back on. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I shall not be accompanying you back west, I fear. I will be taking a different road!’

  ‘You said once that you wouldn’t make that journey again.’

  ‘I won’t. There’s a caravan assembling at Nisibis, and I’ll be travelling east with them. I know some of the merchants – Sogdians mostly, with a few from further east. I intend to travel towards the rising sun, and seek out the wisdom of distant lands. The west is dead to me now – and what better way to spend my final years?’

  ‘You’re going to Persia?’ Castus asked, amazed.

  ‘Through Persia, yes, while the roads are still open. But if divine providence allows it I’ll travel further still, to the
lands of the Yaudheyas and the Guptas. As far as the road takes me, in the mortal span I have left. One day I hope to sit upon the banks of the Ganga, brother, and learn the philosophies of the gymnosophists!’

  He fell silent, peering away towards the eastern horizon with a look of such intense yearning and anticipation that Castus could only smile in response.

  ‘We won’t meet again then?’ he asked, after a while.

  ‘Not in this world,’ Diogenes replied.

  *

  They parted the following morning, at a fork in the road that led south to Nisibis and west towards Edessa. Diogenes had given Castus a horse and one of the two mules; in the baggage was a change of clean clothes, provisions for the journey and a heavy purse of coin. A sword too, a simple cavalryman’s spatha which Castus hoped he would not need.

  ‘You remember what I told you?’ Diogenes said as they dismounted. ‘The place you’re to meet?’

  ‘I remember.’

  For a few long moments they looked at each other, and then Castus pulled him into a firm embrace. ‘Be careful out there, brother,’ he said. ‘You’ll be meeting some very strange people where you’re going.’

  Diogenes grinned. ‘I can’t wait!’ Then he scrambled back into the saddle. The dog yapped and bounded along beside him as he moved off.

  Castus watched him ride away. Diogenes turned once and waved back at him, then his trotting figure dwindled into the haze of the distance until it was obscured by the dust of the road. For a while Castus remained standing there, whispering a silent prayer to the protecting gods. Then he swung himself back into the saddle and turned his horse towards the west.

  For twelve days he rode, skirting the larger cities and avoiding the places where he might be recognised, sleeping at village inns or beside the road, wrapped in his cloak. From Edessa he took the old road to the Euphrates, crossing the river by ferry east of Samosata. He bathed there, and had his hair and beard trimmed in the city market. Then he moved on, through Commagene and the hill country of eastern Cilicia. Finally, a day ahead of schedule, he arrived at his destination.

  It was an old shrine, set back from the road in a grove of trees, two miles from the town of Tarsus. Diogenes had known of the place, from the time he had spent living in that area years before. He had told Castus the date he was to be there too: nine days before the kalends of November.

  Castus found the place easily enough, the building half-ruined, the doors long gone and only a dusty cell remaining. No way of telling which god might once have been revered here. But he tied up his horse and mule in the grove, and spent the night in the cell with a saddlebag for a pillow. The next morning was fresh, dew on the grass beneath the trees and the feel of autumn in the air. He rose, splashed his face with water, and was standing on the broken steps before the shrine by sunrise.

  He waited an hour, and another. Then, far off in the distance, he saw the carriage approaching on the long straight road between the lines of trees, coming from the direction of the town. A man rode beside it, wrapped in a military cloak. Castus felt his mind whirling with nervous hope and dread. It had been so long.

  Aeliana saw him first, jumping down from the carriage as soon as it halted on the road and running through the dappled morning sunlight beneath the trees. Castus descended the steps and met her, kneeling as the girl launched herself forward into his arms.

  ‘I prayed!’ Aeliana cried as he hugged her. ‘Papa, I prayed to all the gods for you to come back – and you did! It’s like a miracle!’

  Castus grinned. ‘I suppose it is.’ He knew that the girl had been told nothing of his survival until recently. It was better that way – if she had been questioned, she might have revealed the deception. But everything seemed forgiven now.

  He stood up again, keeping his daughter clasped to his side as Marcellina approached. Her mourning clothes were gone, but she was still plainly dressed, wearing no jewels or fine fabrics. She was smiling, her face glowing as she stood and stared at him, her hands clasped over her breast. Never, Castus thought, had she looked so gorgeous.

  ‘Come here,’ he growled, taking three paces towards his wife and throwing his arms around her. He could feel her tears on his neck, but she was laughing with relief and joy.

  Sabinus arrived next, after tethering his horse. Beneath his cloak he wore the uniform of the Protectores, and the gold torque at his neck had a medallion portrait of Constantius Augustus. Castus embraced him too, pounding him on the back. He wanted to dance, to scream, to wave his arms to the sky and thank the gods.

  ‘There’s a boat at the river dock in Tarsus,’ Marcellina said, pressing her hand against Castus’s chest. ‘It’ll carry us across to Cyprus, and from there we can take ship for Athens. We’ll travel slowly north through Greece, and we can be back at the villa by the ides of November.’

  Castus was still grinning. His face was beginning to hurt. ‘And who am I going to be?’ he asked her.

  ‘My bodyguard, for now,’ Marcellina said with a sly smile. ‘A former soldier, of course. But once we reach Athens you can return to being my husband again.’

  ‘Athens,’ Castus groaned, and kissed her deeply.

  Sabinus came back down the steps of the shrine, and Castus clasped him by the shoulder. ‘You’re returning to Antioch then?’

  ‘Yes,’ his son said. ‘I’ve been promised a promotion to tribune…’ His tanned and scarred features, and the patch over his eye, gave him a severe look, beyond his years. His voice gained an abrupt urgency. ‘Father, let me petition the emperor on your behalf. Now everything’s in the open, we could explain what happened. Even if I don’t tell them that you still live – your name could be fully cleared, all your honours and titles restored! We’ve already presented Constantius with the Persian diadem and the standards we took at Narasara… They speak of you as a hero in Antioch!’

  ‘No,’ Castus said firmly, tightening his grip on Sabinus’s shoulder. ‘My name’s still my own, and I need no titles. I’m going back home, and I want nothing more from any emperor. Let the world think I’m dead and gone. I’m sorry, Sabinus – you’ll have to live with the deception. But that’s how it must be. And you’ve proved yourself well enough – my reputation won’t help or hinder you now.’

  ‘Very well,’ Sabinus said after a pause, dropping his gaze. Then he looked his father in the eye again and smiled. ‘I’ll visit you,’ he said. ‘When I have enough leave. I can tell you all that’s happened, out there in the world.’

  ‘You do that,’ Castus told him, and pride caught at his voice. Then he embraced his son once more.

  Sabinus walked with Aeliana down to the carriage, and Castus stood with Marcellina before the old shrine.

  ‘How long do we have, do you think?’ she asked, taking his arm. ‘Sabinus told me what happened to you during the siege. Are you fully recovered now?’

  ‘I have another ten years of life, at least. A doctor told me!’

  ‘Since when have you listened to doctors?’

  Castus shrugged, grinning. Ten more years: he could ask for nothing more. And that would be the greatest of his victories.

  The world would go on. The turmoils of empire would continue. Constantius would march his armies across the parched plains of Syria and Mesopotamia. Cities would fall to siege, or defend themselves heroically, and men would fight and die in the smiting sun and the dust. And the courtiers and bureaucrats, the tribunes and the generals would plot and conspire, one against another. Castus cared no more. All he wanted was to return to his home, his villa by the sea in a forgotten corner of Dalmatia.

  Perhaps one day the empire itself would collapse into ruin, and all the monuments of Rome would be abandoned, like the little roadside shrine in the grove of trees, with nobody even to recall the names of the gods and the emperors that had once been revered there. All their glory, all of their triumphs, would be nothing but empty dust.

  Marcellina reached up and ran her fingers through the scrub of his beard. Then she clasped his
face between her palms and kissed him.

  ‘Do you truly mean what you said?’ she asked. ‘You won’t miss the army? You want nothing more of wars and battles?’

  ‘I meant it with all my heart,’ Castus said. ‘I have all I need right here with me now.’

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

  Author’s Note

  About Ian Ross

  The Twilight of Empire Series

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Author’s Note

  The Middle East has long been the arena of competing empires and ideologies. The site of ancient Nisibis lies on the border of Syria and Turkey; a few half-buried pillars are all that remains of the old city, marooned in no man’s land between the barbed-wire fences and minefields. Current events provide a sobering reminder that the conflicts of the ancient world have their distant echoes today.

  The war between Rome and Persia that began with Constantine’s death in AD 337 was to continue for a quarter-century, but compelling victories were denied to both sides. The imperial concord between Constantius II and his two brothers, sealed in blood, lasted only a few years; in AD 340 the elder brother was defeated and killed in a brief and bitter civil war with the younger, who in turn was murdered by agents of a usurper ten years later. After crushing the rebellion in the west, Constantius ruled as senior Augustus for another decade, until he in turn was challenged by his half-nephew Julian. Before he had a chance to confront this new threat, he died, consigning the empire to Julian’s hands.

  Determined to force a conclusion to the simmering conflict with Persia, Julian (called ‘the Apostate’ by Christians for his attempts to revive traditional religion) led an army into the east in AD 363. The campaign ended in disaster: Julian was mortally wounded in a battle near the Tigris, and his successor, eager to extricate himself from an impossible situation, agreed a truce with the Persians that involved the handover of the contested city of Nisibis and a swathe of frontier territory. To contemporaries, it was one of the greatest humiliations suffered by Rome in all her history, although it was soon overshadowed by further woes.