Swords Around the Throne (15 page)

‘You want us to spy for you?' Castus said heavily. He shrugged off the crude implied threat.

‘Such a weighty term,' Nigrinus said casually. ‘All I require is that you remember the vow you took when you were made Protectores.'

‘I have no need to be reminded of my vow, especially not by you.'
And I will do nothing to help you
, he thought.

Nigrinus stared at him for a moment, then smiled as he exhaled through his nose. ‘Of course not,' he said. ‘We are, all of us, servants of the Sacred Augustus. Let all of our efforts be directed towards his continuing majesty, eh?'

* * *

‘...Then Romulus, wolf-nursed, proudly clad

In the she-wolf's tawny pelt, shall further the race,

And bestow upon the Romans his own name.

To them I give no bounds of time or power,

But empire without end...'

The voice came from behind the tall bronze-studded doors of the emperor's private office, his
tablinum
. A child's voice, a boy speaking clearly enough for his words to carry through the close-woven latticed panels of the door and across the painted atrium to the point where Castus was standing on guard duty. Castus himself knew the lines well: Virgil, the same verses that the former teacher Diogenes had made him copy time after time during his writing lessons.

Sounds like you've been getting the same kind of lessons, lad
, he thought.

He shifted his weight gently from foot to foot, while keeping his posture completely immobile. Castus had spent uncountable hours standing on guard, back when he was a legionary, and he could remain like this all day if required and think nothing of it. He had no spear or shield, no helmet, no armour to weigh his shoulders. Only his sword, belted high at his side.

The floor of the atrium was polished marble, grey and white tiles. On the walls, gods in armour battled giant men with serpents for legs, casting them down into the sea or into pits in the earth. Castus frowned slightly as he gazed at the painted figure: had the painter intended the god to look so much like Constantine? And, now he came to notice it, was the largest of the serpent-legged giants, a red-faced, bearded figure, supposed to resemble so closely the emperor's father-in-law Maximian?

Castus blinked the thoughts away, letting the images on the walls drift out of focus. A wandering mind could conjure dangerous fantasies, after all.

‘...Even Juno, my queen,

Dread tormentor of land, sky and sea,

Will yield to better judgement, and with me,

Protect and bless the Romans, masters of the world...'

The imperial palace was a place of long silences and distant echoing voices. Even now, after seven months, Castus still found it unsettling. At its heart was the great basilica, the imperial audience hall, and all around it spread a complex of gardens and porticos, offices and barracks, with the private apartments of the emperor and his household beyond. The complex had expanded over the years, consuming and incorporating whole blocks of housing; now it took up almost a quarter of the space inside the walls of the city of Treveris.

Constantine liked to conduct business while marching from one part of the palace to another, and his progress along the wide corridors and porticos was always attended by a vast array of secretaries and petitioners, officials both military and civilian, slaves and eunuchs, with Castus and a few other Protectores keeping a close and wary eye upon them all.

There were grander events as well. Already Castus had attended several formal banquets, standing stiffly to one side of the hall while the emperor and his guests drank and ate. On the emperor's birthday in February, and the birthday of his deified father in March, and on the festivals of the Cerialia and Tubilustrium, Castus had taken his place behind the imperial dais, dressed in his embroidered white uniform, his silvered helmet and his red belts, carrying the black oval shield with the golden emblem of the Protectores. He had marched with his fellow bodyguards through the streets of the city in the great ceremonial processions, every man's spear wreathed in laurel.

But the emperor, for all his daily appearances, was still a remote and unknowable figure. An awesome figure – and that, Castus thought, was how it should be. Sometimes, as he barked out instructions to his staff, or when leaving some hall of state, Constantine would glance in his direction, but Castus always kept his expression entirely blank. And if the emperor recognised him at all, he never showed it openly.

A shadow fell across the tiled floor, jolting Castus from his thoughts. He glanced around to see a man enter the atrium from the portico. The newcomer was small, almost puny, with a dry shrunken face, but his tunic and cloak were well cut and embroidered, and his round cap and gold-clasped belt proclaimed his membership of the imperial offices.

‘I need to speak to the emperor at once,' he declared.

Castus looked at him, impassive. The man took a step towards the doors of the tablinum; Castus stepped forward too, blocking his way.

‘I told you, I need to speak to the emperor. It's very important!'

The man appeared nervous, jumpy. His thin top lip quivered as he spoke, and Castus could see his tongue darting inside his mouth.

‘No,' Castus said. He stood with feet braced, thumbs hooked in his belt.

Angling his body left and right, the man made a show of looking around Castus at the sealed doors. His nostrils flared. He took a quick step, and Castus blocked him again. There was only the breadth of two palms between them.

‘Listen,' the man hissed, weaving his hands and then knitting his fingers. ‘I have information... for the ears of the Augustus alone! Vital information, concerning the wellbeing of our Sacred Dominus... I can make it worth your while to admit me.'

He was already reaching for his belt pouch. Castus hardened his jaw, placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and leaned in close to the man's face.

‘I said no.'

‘Oh, yes, you have your duty, don't you!' The man's whisper was harsh, echoing. ‘Easy for you, I suppose, with your big stupid face... I'm telling you the emperor is in danger!'

Castus blinked, uncomfortably reminded of that midnight meeting with the notary back in February. Nearly two months had passed since then, and he had heard nothing more of Nigrinus or his secretive investigations. Could this be a test? He was careful now not to let his interest show.

‘If you want to see him,' he said, slowly and heavily, ‘you must speak to the Master of Admissions, who will give you an appointment. If he feels it justified.'

‘The Master of Admissions! And how do I know that he isn't one of the plotters? In fact, how do I know that
you
aren't? What's your name?'

Castus glowered, breathing slowly into the man's face, saying nothing.

‘Well... well, you can't force me to leave. I shall wait!'

The man retreated to a carved wooden bench beneath the painting of the battling gods and giants. Castus shrugged. How had the man even got into this part of the palace anyway?

A few moments passed, and then came the sound of footsteps from behind the doors. Castus stepped aside as the bronze rings turned and the doors swung open. First two slaves stepped over the threshold, holding the doors, and then a small boy walked calmly out into the atrium, followed by an old man, his tutor. The boy was about six years old, curly-haired and smartly dressed in an embroidered dark blue tunic and breeches; he had something of his father's face, but softened by youth and milder blood.

Flavius Crispus was Constantine's son, by his concubine. Castus knew of the lady too – the domina Julia Minervina was a Greek woman, and she had been with Constantine for over ten years; Sallustius had told him that the emperor still loved her and doted on the child. Since the emperor's marriage to Maximian's daughter, Minervina had lived in a house just outside the palace compound, with a covered passage and door leading to the emperor's own apartments. Already Castus felt he knew more than enough about that.

Looking at the boy now, Castus had a sudden recollection of another child: the son of Cunomagla of the Picts. What would that boy be doing now? At least, Castus thought, he would never have to recite Virgil to his father.

But Crispus walked with a proud step; presumably his father had been pleased. The boy passed through the atrium and out into the portico, slaves all around and his tutor following behind, and the doors of the tablinum swung closed after him. Castus moved to stand in front of the doors, but the small man had already leaped to his feet and darted out after the boy and his party.

The man's words lingered in Castus's mind, unsettling him. There was no action he could take, but even so it was his duty to report what had happened. And not, he thought, to Nigrinus either, or his odious assistant. He waited another half an hour, the time lagging. His leg muscles were beginning to ache slightly, and he reminded himself that he had been a much younger man when he had stood sentry watch as a legionary.

Finally he heard steps from the portico, and Brinno entered the atrium. The young barbarian gave a casual salute, and then slapped Castus lightly on the shoulder.

‘Greetings, brother!' he whispered. ‘Is he still in there?'

‘Yes, but I need to go and see the chief,' Castus told him, speaking from the corner of his mouth. ‘Can you take the door until I get back?'

Brinno nodded, falling easily into a guard posture.

‘There's a man roaming about trying to get in there – I've sent him away once but he might come back.'

‘Don't worry about him,' Brinno said, and lowered his brow.

Afternoon sun threw stripes between the pillars of the colonnade. Castus paced quickly through the light and shade, around the curve of the portico and through the vestibule, saluting the two fellow Protectores who stood sentry there, into the central court. It was quite possible, he knew, that the small man had been a mere fantasist, seeking attention or preferment from the emperor for some concocted tale. But something about the man's nervous desperation had seemed genuine – he had feared more than just rejection. Perhaps he had even feared for his life? Castus had always been good at reading character from the signs that others inadvertently revealed, but in this case he could not trust his judgement.

Hierocles, Primicerius of Protectores, was a stern and humourless man, once a senior centurion but now carrying rather more fat than muscle, and Castus suspected that his mask of rigid discipline concealed the fear of a faint heart. He found the primericerius in the archive room of his offices, and stood at attention before him as he narrated briefly what had happened in the Atrium of the Giants.

‘Did you take the name of this man, his position?' Hierocles asked. He had barely glanced up from the codex in his lap.

‘No, dominus!'

The primicerius appeared to consider the matter for a moment. ‘No matter, then,' he said. ‘I shall pass your information to the relevant officials, and they will investigate. No doubt this man will be traced and questioned appropriately. You may return to your station.'

‘Yes, dominus!'

Castus turned crisply and paced from the room. Out in the portico of the central court again he rubbed a knuckle across his scalp. He had expected no great reaction from his chief, but even so Hierocles' apparent disinterest was startling. Perhaps, he thought, people frequently brought him this sort of allegation? Perhaps he had been stupid to give it any credence at all?

Heavy with disquiet, Castus retraced his steps through the vestibule and around the curved portico. To his left, between the pillars, the semi-circular garden was green in the spring sunlight, a statue of Triton rising from the pool at its heart, but Castus felt his mood darkening

There was a fountain between the pillars, water gushing from a lead pipe in the mouth of a stone dolphin, and Castus paused to dip his head and take several thirsty gulps. He straightened up, eyes closed, and stretched his back until he felt the cartilage in his neck crack.

‘Ah,' a voice said sharply. ‘Just what I'm looking for!'

Castus turned quickly, blinking at the figure standing in one of the bands of light between the pillars.

He seemed to have come from nowhere. Of indeterminate age, compactly built like an athlete or a dancer, he was neatly dressed and wore a silver collar. His face had the bland smoothness of a child but his eyes were sharp with wry intelligence. Another eunuch, Castus realised, and thought of Sallustius's tales of the warm bath, the bench and the pliers. The man bowed slightly, as if remembering his position.

‘What do you want?' Castus said curtly.

‘I want a man!' the eunuch declared. ‘Seems I've found one. Follow me, please.'

‘I'm on duty. I don't have time to help you...'

‘A whisper of time is all I need, dominus. Come – come, you won't be missed, and it would oblige my mistress greatly.'

He had already set off around the portico, turning to gesture briskly over his shoulder. His slippers made no sound on the mosaic floor – felt-soled, Castus guessed. He frowned, irritated, and rubbed the back of his neck; he was not accustomed to taking instructions from slaves, even ones wearing silver collars. After his meeting with the nervous man in the atrium he felt wary. But he was curious too, and nothing in the eunuch's manner suggested danger. A swift glance back around the portico – nobody in sight – then he straightened his shoulders and marched after the eunuch as he slipped away though an open doorway.

‘This had better be quick,' he said, but the eunuch gave no sign of hearing him. He led Castus through another courtyard, half in shadow, down a paved alleyway between high brick walls, through another door and then along a narrow passage whose ceiling rose into gloom. There was a scent in the air, something soft that Castus did not recognise. He realised that they were entering the part of the palace called the Domus Faustae, the apartments set aside for the emperor's wife and her retinue.