by Scott Hurst
Gerontius scoffed. ‘Bearing your seal? I may have been a fool to elevate you to the imperial purple, Constantine, but you can dupe me no longer! Withdraw your plan to send Constans to Iberia, or you and I are finished!’
Constantine’s eyes were blazing. ‘You forget yourself, Gerontius! A general, telling his Emperor what to do?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Constans goes to Iberia. And you will apologize or find yourself relieved of your command.’
For long seconds the two men stared at each other. Then Gerontius turned on his heel, gesturing his retinue to follow. ‘Tell the men we leave immediately.’
Constantine began screaming, ordering him to stop, but Gerontius didn’t even break his stride. Max was stunned. Had the Emperor just lost the support of his Magister Militum? His right hand man?
Constantine’s face was tense in the narrow light. All bluster had gone now. His voice hoarse with uncertainty he called his advisors to him. In that moment Max understood that power, even great power such as Constantine’s, was just an illusion. No man, not even an Emperor, could survive alone.
With so much at stake Max battled with himself. This was a disaster. Constantine needed Gerontius. Max felt himself caught between his hatred of Guidolin and his need to prevent this catastrophe. His conscience won. ‘My Emperor, the man who consulted with Gerontius…we were… friends… once.’ He paused, hardly believing what he was offering to do. ‘Allow me to approach him. He has the general’s ear. Perhaps this conflict can be healed.’
Pale faced, Constantine waved his hand quickly. ‘Do it, Maximus. There can be no war between brothers.’
Accompanied by Salvius, Max rushed after Gerontius. Heat assailed him as they raced to catch up with Guidolin’s men. Thinking they were being pursued the guards at the rear of the delegation reached for their weapons. Max held his hands wide to indicate his peaceful intent. ‘I would speak with Guidolin on the Emperor’s behalf,’ he shouted.
At his words, the whole party turned. Max found himself facing both Guidolin and Gerontius. ‘Who are you, cur?’ Gerontius snarled. ‘Your face looks familiar. Ah, young Maximus of the Vellauni…’ Gerontius looked unimpressed. ‘This nobody is whom Constantine sends? Does he seek to insult me again?’
Guidolin stepped in, his hand on the general’s arm. Eyes flickering towards Maximus he spoke in a low voice. ‘General, your priority is to bring your detachment safely back to our army in Iberia. I will find out what message this …cur brings from the Emperor.’
Gerontius frowned. ‘Wise words as always, Guidolin.’ With that he marched off, leaving Guidolin and ten of his Dobunnic militia behind.
Pupils constricted in his pale grey eyes, narrowed against the sun, Guidolin stared at Max, victorious. ‘How touching your virtue is, Maximus. Do you seek to heal and unify again? You have debased yourself for nought, though the sight of your humiliation and self-sacrifice pleases me greatly. I have no intention of negotiating with you,’ he crowed. ‘And I have more influence over Gerontius than you could ever imagine.’
Max forced his features to appear unmoved. ‘I see right through you. You seek to make Gerontius Emperor, a Dobunnic Emperor of Rome. Whom you would manipulate, just as you do now.’ Max took in every pock mark on Guidolin’s face, highlighted by the harsh sunshine. The man was capable of anything. ‘You’re behind those forged letters.’
Guidolin’s smile broadened. ‘You have manoeuvred yourself just as close to Constantine. If your man wins, then the Catuvellauni will control Rome and its Empire. We are two men after the same trophy.’ Here his eyes narrowed even more. ‘We have our eyes on the same prize.’
Something in his tone tore at Max. Was it possible he knew about the Torc? How?
But Guidolin had gone on. ‘As to the letters, considering there are eleven of us here against you two, I hope you have proof to back up that accusation.’
‘I have all the proof I need of your treachery and betrayal, scum.’
The smile left Guidolin’s face instantly. He leaned in to Max. ‘You would lecture me on treachery and betrayal, Maximus?’ His voice became a hiss. ‘When you have taken from me the only two women who ever meant anything to me?’ His men had tensed, ready to strike, but Guidolin pulled back, the smile returning to his lips. ‘Much as I would like to kill you now, here in Constantine’s camp the odds are against me, therefore I choose to let you live. Because I’m a victor, Maximus, and history never calls victors scum. That epitaph is reserved for losers…like you.’ He paused menacingly. Before Max could react, Guidolin leaned in once more. ‘You’ve achieved nothing here in Arelate. What will your father think? Worst of all, you’ve failed to find the Great Torc.’
As Guidolin marched off laughing, Salvius had to hold Max back. The bastard knew he was looking for the Torc. That meant he was searching for it too. The bastard would never be worthy to wear it, but Christ knew the mayhem he would cause trying. The thought of his rival, the man who had violated his wife, abusing that great symbol of unity without understanding what it meant, trading off its power to create an evil realm for his selfish ends, he would never allow that to happen. The Torc was his. His birthright, the symbol his people would one day rally under. ‘How did he find out?’ he groaned out loud. The Torc was to be his strength, if he were worthy, not Guidolin’s.
Salvius shook his head, confused. ‘No one knows about it but the men on the scouting trip with us, men loyal to the end.’
Madoc came running across the hot sand, murder written on his face. ‘Guidolin is here? Let me at him!’
Max held up his hand. ‘If we kill him, we really will have a civil war on our hands.’
Grunting, Madoc reluctantly removed his hand from his sword hilt. ‘Might be worth it,’ he said angrily.
‘Indeed,’ Max managed through gritted teeth. ‘Come with me. I have to report back to Constantine.’
In the basilica Constantine was standing over a table, deep in consultation with his advisers. He looked up as they approached. The fury on his face had gone, to be replaced by something else, a look Max found hard to read. ‘Well?’
Max grimaced. ‘He wouldn’t negotiate. In fact he was the man who stirred Gerontius up against you. Perhaps if we remove him from Gerontius’ side there could be reconciliation?’
Constantine looked unconvinced. ‘This insurrection has been coming for some time. Gerontius assisted me in my rise to power, thinking to control me like some puppet. He has grown jealous.’ Once again Constantine’s face was contorted with hatred. ‘I would not have chosen conflict at this time, not yet. But if Gerontius wants a war, then a war we will have.’ Constantine turned to survey his advisors. ‘I fear, gentlemen, we must prepare ourselves to fight the enemy within.’
Max was horrified. Had they left behind a civil war in Britain, only to find another here?
Constantine tuned back to him, giving him a glimmer of hope. ‘Dine with me tonight, young Maximus. We would value your advice on this man Guidolin.’
*****
As the evening approached, Max was still restless and irritable. He’d been re-reading Sabrina’s letter, trying to get Guidolin’s leering face out of his mind. For the hundredth time since arriving in this God forsaken place he wished that Paulinus was with him. Why was Paulinus asking him to make a social call in Arelate? He was in Gaul for war, not duty visits. The old monk’s message danced in front of his eyes again – its whole tone was strange. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. And that strange greeting: “True One, Royal Catuvellaunian”. The formality was curious. And why arrange the words in that clumsy order? The odd greeting ran through his head again and again.
Sitting bolt upright Max looked at the note again. This time it was as though the first letters stood out like beacons. ‘T…O…R…C’.
He needed to get to Massilia and fast. Tomorrow, if possible. Tonight he was summoned to dine with the Emperor.
Max made another decision, based on his gut. He was going armed. Guidolin was capable of anything.
&nbs
p; At sunset he saluted the guards at the basilica entrance, crossing the marble floor to the ante room where Constantine took his meals. Lamplight spilled out into the near darkness. Max had expected the dinner to be a sober event, with Constantine seeking advice on how to end the conflict with Gerontius. It seemed the Emperor had other plans. He could hear the sound of music and laughter. When would Constantine do something to win his respect? Max entered, carefully laying down his cloak, his short sword concealed within. Turning to find the source of the music he saw three men, all with the suntanned skin of the Mediterranean, playing instruments. Constantine and two of his close advisors, that fat milksop Gaius Esuvius and his crony Flavius Ausonius, were drinking and laughing together, whilst watching three beautiful women dancing in the centre of the room. The women all had the same dark complexion as the performers. The musicians sat solemn-faced but the women were smiling, flirting with their eyes and lips as they moved languidly in the evening heat.
Max couldn’t help staring at the tallest dancer. Lithe and delicate, she was wearing a dress of such thin material that in the lamplight she might as well have been naked. She was barely more than a girl, he realised. Catching his look she shimmied across the room towards him, shaking her perfect hips. As she reached him, she leaned backwards, moving her shoulders in time to the music, until her crotch began rubbing against his. Max found himself blushing, struggling to control his body’s instincts. Noticing his discomfort Constantine laughed and waved Max over. ‘You don’t have to take her in front of us, if you’re shy, Maximus. Have her later, in private, if you like.’
Max looked at the girl’s exotic face. Smiling at him she deliberately spread her thighs. For a heartbeat he was tempted. Nobody would ever know. He swallowed and a thought came to him. He had promised Sabrina he’d write. He’d do that later. ‘You’re very generous, Constantine, but I’ll pass for now.’
Constantine laughed, enjoying his unease. ‘After today’s events I decided we should cheer ourselves up a bit. The troupe just arrived today from Iberia. Pretty little things, aren’t they?’
‘Quite so.’ Max moved sideways around the dancer, who was still grinding her pelvis at him and grinning flirtatiously. To his surprise Constantine beckoned him to lie on couch next to him again. ‘Sit, young Maximus. Fill your stomach as you feast your eyes.’ Max settled down, choosing slices of roast pork to compliment the rich wine. Another dancer settled herself on Constantine’s couch.
‘Not bad, eh, Maximus? And this is just a taste of what life will be when we take Rome off that pathetic weakling Honorius.’ Constantine turned and spat on the floor. ‘A mighty empire like Rome deserves a mighty emperor and we’ll give it one, won’t we, Max? That patronizing shit Gerontius won’t stop us either.’
Max muttered something non-committal. The Emperor began fondling one of the girls openly, groping between her legs. ‘So Max, tell us about this Guidolin. We would know something about him before we crush him and his master like the insects they are.’
How to convince him Guidolin had helped engineer the split? ‘Guidolin is ambitious, Emperor. Extremely ambitious. And extremely ruthless.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Constantine grunted, taking the dancer’s hand and moving it to his own crotch, where she set to work. Trying to ignore her administrations Max raised his voice, the better to retain Constantine’s attention. ‘I beg you, Emperor, do not underestimate him. He will do anything; sacrifice anyone to gain more power for himself.’
Constantine shrugged again. ‘Wouldn’t we all, Maximus? Wouldn’t you? The fruits of power,’ he laughed, yanking down the delicate material covering the girl’s breasts, ‘are many and sweet.’
The young dancer approached Max again. He deliberately ignored her, fighting not to get caught up in the illusion she was creating. He needed to stay alert. ‘Despite the fruits of power, I want to put my people first, my Emperor. As I’m sure you do.’
But Constantine was distracted by the woman’s skilful fingers. The young dancer lifted one foot onto the edge of Max’s couch, raising her long, tanned leg and exposing her crotch. Her body undulating, she simulated lovemaking; her thighs pearled with beads of sweat in the glow of the candlelight. Max’s eyes were drawn to the dark triangle at the base of her stomach. The other dancer had moved too and was now straddling Constantine. As she eased herself into position Max heard the Emperor’s groan of pleasure. ‘Mediterranean women are the best, Maximus. Full of fire and sun and passion.’ The girl began moving more quickly on top of him, thrusting with her hips in time to the music. Max looked around. Flavius, Constantine’s Master of the Horse and Gaius, his Imperial Secretary, were sharing the third dancing girl, her face buried in Flavius’s lap whilst behind her Gaius gripped her waist, a look of ecstasy on his bloated face.
The young dancer moved even closer, raising her eyebrows, her question obvious. Though he could smell her perfume, Max held up his hands to refuse, but her hand moved to his thigh, the long fingers stealing towards his crotch. Max felt himself respond, despite himself. He forced himself to think of Sabrina to stop himself taking her right there on the couch.
Some instinct in him realised the music had stopped. The same instinct that hurled him off the couch, just as the lyre player’s thin blade sliced into the cushion behind him. He rolled across the room, grabbing his sword from its hiding place in one fluid movement. Turning he saw the musician hurling himself at him, dagger raised for another strike. A second musician screamed ‘Greetings from Guidolin!’ as he lunged at him too. Max brought his sword up into the man’s stomach, withdrawing it and slashing at his neck as he fell. Scanning the room Max hurled himself towards Constantine. The dancer who only moments before had been writhing on top of the Emperor was now holding him down for the flute player to skewer.
For all his bulk Constantine was surprisingly swift. Breaking free of the girl’s grip he kicked his attacker in the side, sending him sprawling to the floor where Max finished him off. It was too late for Flavius and Gaius. They were already dead.
Two of the girls had fled. The remaining girl, the one who had serviced Constantine and the last of the musicians were backed into a corner by Constantine’s bodyguards who’d rushed into the room. They cut them down. Moments later other guards dragged in the other two dancers. One was already dead. The other, the girl who had danced for Max, was badly wounded. Mercilessly the guards thrust her into a kneeling position in front of the Emperor.
‘Who ordered you to do this?’ Constantine screamed. ‘Was it Gerontius?’
In her terror and pain she could hardly get the words out. ‘The flute player said he’d give us gold.’
Max spoke quietly. ‘My attacker named Guidolin.’
‘Who is under Gerontius’ command!’ Constantine almost howled with anger. ‘The General will pay for this!’ He gestured to the bodyguard, who instantly reached down and slit the girl’s throat, before throwing her twitching body onto the floor. Max watched her blood ooze across the stone, feeling nauseous.
Turning to Constantine he tried once more to help Constantine see the true influence behind the attempt. ‘Gerontius may not have known of Guidolin’s plans.’
The Emperor grunted, anger and fear beginning to drain out of him. ‘That I find hard to believe. But you saved my life tonight. And you have earned my trust, young Maximus. How can I repay you? Name your reward.’
He didn’t have to think twice. Knowing Guidolin was after the Torc now too, he was desperate for a chance to seek out Sol Invictus, the sect who had taken the Torc. ‘Give me permission, Emperor, to lead a cavalry troop down to Massilia.’ Needing a reason Constantine would find convincing he pulled back his shoulders and decided to stick with the truth as far as possible. ‘I have heard that a small number of the rogue sect you routed near Massilia survived. They should be dealt with.’
Constantine surveyed him thoughtfully. ‘Massilia, that nest of spies and traitors? Astonishing, is it not, that such elements endure, albeit in small n
umbers? As emperor it is my sacred duty to stamp out false religion. By all means head for Massilia. Whilst you’re down there kill some of them for me. Kill them all, for that matter!’ As if to prove his point, Constantine kicked the prone corpse of the young dancer. ‘Let tonight be a warning to you, Maximus. If you suspect someone of being a traitor, don’t wait until you’re sure. Kill them first. Safer that way.’
*****
That night Max had a dream. He dreamed of the bear he had seen at Guidolin’s fort. He saw it up close, saw the way it circled its territory as though desperately searching for something. In his dream he came closer, wanting to feel its power. But when the bear turned its head to see him, there were scars on its muzzle, and its ear was frayed, signs of battles fought. When he awoke he felt restless. Strange that he should dream such a thing as he too set out on his search. What battles would he face now, what enemies would threaten him?
Or did his dream signify Guidolin and his bear cult? The man would surely be back on his way to Iberia with Gerontius. The thought that his enemy was no closer to finding the Torc than he was gave him some comfort at least. What if this foray to Massilia was all a massive waste of time? His chances of finding the great relic were small, but perhaps he’d find some clue, some small thing else to lead him on, give him hope.
Max briefed Salvius about their excursion to the southern city. ‘Let Madoc know what we plan too. We leave at the sixth hour. But first I need to make a short visit to a friend of Paulinus, here in Arelate. Have a troop of thirty horsemen ready to leave when I return.’
Leaving camp Max walked out into the crowded streets of the city. He found his heart full; part hope, part dread. Was he reading more into Paulinus’s note than there was? Was his friend sending him to someone useful? And what of this friend he should visit? The thought weighed heavy. Perhaps all he’d find was some dusty old acquaintance, with no clues to offer him at all. He’d know soon enough.