The War at the Edge of the World (31 page)

They had already heard the news of the battle at the Lagen­tium river crossing. The vanguard of the imperial field force had met the Picts and won a swift and bloody victory over them, the enemy breaking almost at once and fleeing in a ten-mile rout, cut down in their thousands by the cavalry. Already the emperor had declared himself Britannicus Maximus – Conqueror of the Britons.

‘Look there,’ Valens cried, seizing Castus by the arm. ‘The black shields – that’s the First Minervia, my old legion! And the red shields behind them are the Thirtieth Ulpia. Those are some real soldiers…’

The imperial party had passed beneath the gate, and now the troops of the field force were swinging across the bridge and crossing the burnt ground before the fortress walls. Two thousand armoured infantrymen from the legions of the lower Rhine, a thousand cavalry of the Equites Dalmatae and Mauri, and eight hundred fierce Alamannic tribesmen from the forests of Germania. With that small force alone Constantius had beaten the Picts in the field and sent them fleeing back to their wilderness, and there were more troops on the way. Castus felt a sinking sensation in his gut – the failures of the Sixth Legion appeared all the more glaring now.

Cheering and the noise of horns came from inside the fort­ress, from along the colonnaded Praetorian Way that led to the headquarters building. The colonnades were thronged with civilians, refugees from the plundered city and the surrounding countryside, barely held back by a cordon of soldiers. Castus stared down from the wall and wondered whether Marcellina was anywhere among them. In the four days since he had been released from confinement he had failed to find any trace of her: there were more than twenty thousand civilians in the fortress, billeted in the abandoned Eighth and Tenth Cohort barracks, the market, the tribunes’ houses, the baths’ porticos… Over fifty families named Aelius, and Castus had no idea of Marcellina’s brother’s full name. The stewards and city curators had no accurate list of the refugees anyway. At least he had been able to locate Jucunda’s son, the soldier Varialus; wounded now, and soon to be honourably discharged. He was one of the lucky ones.

Castus trailed Valens down the steps from the wall rampart and made his way slowly back to barracks, shouldering through the crowds. There would be a full parade later that day, with the remains of the Sixth and the men of the newly arrived detachments drawn up to salute the emperor. But Castus was still officially in disgrace, and could attend only as a spectator. He preferred to remain in his quarters, waiting. Very soon, he suspected, the attention of the imperial party would swing his way.

He did not have long to wait. Two days later he stood stiffly in the portico of the praetorium, dressed in his best and cleanest tunic and breeches, belts oiled and gleaming, face pink from the razor. Governor Arpagius and his household had been ousted to one of the tribunes’ houses, and the old praetorium redesignated the Sacred Palatium, until the long-neglected imperial residence in the city could be cleaned and repaired and made habitable for the emperor and his retinue.

Castus tried not to consider how much depended on the events of the next hour – his military career, his future, perhaps even his life. The summons had addressed him only as
soldier
, a man without rank or position. He shifted on his heels, but the tight knot of anxiety in his belly remained. The guards at the door wore the silvered scale armour and gilded helmets of the Praetorian Cohorts: hard-faced battle-scarred men, most of them former soldiers from the German and Illyrian legions. They did not meet his eye.

Then his name was called from within, echoing through the marble halls, and Castus marched through the portal and across the mosaic floor of the vestibule, pausing to salute the freshly painted statues of the Augusti and the Caesars standing in their alcove.

Guards led him from the vestibule and around the colonnaded walks of the central garden. In an antechamber with deep red walls, four men of the Corps of Protectores stripped him of his sword and shoulder-belt. As they patted him down for concealed weapons, a eunuch in a starched and gold-embroidered linen tunic spoke in a flat metallic monotone.

‘On first passing through the veil and beholding the Sacred Presence, you will render your salute and acclamation. You will then advance six paces, halt and perform the genuflection.’

Castus nodded, dumb with nerves. The eunuch did not glance at him, but went on with the instructions.

‘You will not speak, nor will you raise your eyes. You will only stand when you are bidden. You will only address the Sacred Presence when questioned directly. Are these protocols understood?’

Another nod. The eunuch closed his eyes. ‘Any infraction of protocol will result in your immediate removal from the Presence,’ he intoned. ‘You may proceed.’

His boots crunched loudly on the polished floor as Castus followed the guards through a doorway, across a corridor and into a large hall. A purple drape was drawn aside, and he walked forward into the smell of incense. Something else, he thought. Something medicinal, like the smell of the hospital wards.

He stopped, saluted. ‘
Ave, Augustus!
’ he cried, and the echo crashed back from the high marble walls. Six stamping paces and he dropped to one knee, head lowered, heart kicking in his chest.

The sound of his voice died into silence. A cold breeze was sweeping across the marble floor. At the periphery of his vision Castus could make out the guards lining the walls, their boots and their grounded black and gold shields. ‘You may rise,’ a dry voice said.

Castus stood to attention, thumbs hooked in his belt. Now he could see the edge of the dais at the far end of the hall. The feet of the seated emperor, his red leather shoes sewn with pearls, jewels on the straps. He remembered the aftermath of Oxsa, seven years before, Caesar Galerius appearing before him out of the fog of dust and pain. This was quite different: this was how emperors were supposed to be experienced by their subjects.

‘Aurelius Castus, formerly Centurion, Third Cohort, Sixth Legion,’ the dry voice said. A herald, Castus realised. The emperor had not spoken. He dared to raise his eyes slightly – he could make out the figure on the dais more clearly now. Constantius sat in a high-backed chair, still wrapped in his purple cloak. His head hung forward, his nose jutting like the beak of a bird of prey, his lean heavy jaw set firmly. Castus tried to hide his shock: even from the edge of vision he could see how tired the emperor looked. His skin was yellow-grey with fatigue.

‘Yes,’ the emperor said. The single word hung in the air for a few moments. ‘You’re the one who went north with the envoy, got captured, then escaped.’ His voice still had a distinct Pannonian accent, much like Castus’s own. The emperor had been born only a hundred miles or so from the town where Castus had grown up.

‘The praeses Arpagius has informed us of your exploits,’ the emperor went on. ‘It all sounds very…
unusual
. Were you given any help in your escape from the barbarian citadel?’

Castus felt his throat lock. A direct question – he had to answer. He not had told Arpagius about Cunomagla or her role; he had not trusted the man with that information. But now, alone in the centre of a marble hall surrounded by armed guards, in the presence of the emperor, he felt he could say nothing about it. Sweat rolled down his forehead.

‘No, dominus,’ he said.

‘I see,’ the emperor said. He paused. ‘Then you were daring indeed. We commend you on your actions.’

Castus took a long slow breath, and tried not to exhale too visibly. Shame stirred in his belly; he had promised Cunomagla, but he must find another opportunity to honour that debt.

‘Our secretaries inform us that you previously served with the Second Legion Herculia, against the Sarmatae and Carpi and on the Persian campaign. Is this correct?’

‘Yes, dominus.’

‘I remember him, Father,’ a second voice said. Castus glanced up, surprised, and met the eyes of the other figure on the dais, who stood beside the emperor’s chair. A man in his early thirties with a raw ruddy face, he was dressed in the white uniform of a tribune of the Protectores, but the resemblance to the emperor was obvious. The same beaked nose and lantern jaw, the same intense stare. But while the emperor appeared tired and ill, this man stood straight-backed, his eyes burning with effortless authority. Constantine, Castus remembered. The emperor’s son.

‘At Oxsa, dominus,’ he heard himself saying. ‘You gave me a gold torque for valour.’

‘I did!’ Constantine replied with a slight smile. ‘But you do not wear it now.’

‘The Picts took it from me, dominus. When I was captured.’

‘And you would like the opportunity to win it back, I expect?’

‘Yes, dominus. Or to earn another like it.’

A stir came from the assembled guards and secretaries, and Castus flinched. Had he overstepped the bounds of protocol? But a moment later the emperor too smiled, and gave a short cough of laughter.

‘Your attitude pleases us,’ the emperor said. ‘It’s good to meet a Pannonian soldier who knows his business in this place. We order that you be restored to your rank as centurion, with immediate effect. We need all the skilled men we can find, eh?’

‘Thank you, dominus,’ Castus said with lowered eyes.

‘You will make a further and more detailed report to my notaries,’ the emperor went on, in a harder, brisker tone, ‘giving all pertinent information on the Picts, their forces, their leaders and their strongholds. Centurion, you are dismissed.’

Castus saluted, then paced backwards until he reached the purple drapes and passed out of the Sacred Presence. He dared not breathe until he reached the fresh air of the garden colonnades.

He was halfway across the vestibule to the main doors when he heard his name called again. The eunuch in the embroidered linen tunic gestured to him.

‘Centurion Castus,’ the man said again, in that same flat voice. ‘You will now make your report to the notary. Come.’

Already?
Castus thought, with dull foreboding. He had been looking forward to finding Valens and drinking a cup of good wine, in celebration. The eunuch nodded, as if in answer to the silent question. Foolish to imagine, Castus told himself, that he had escaped with such ease.

He followed the eunuch down narrowing corridors, away from the palatial wings of the praetorium and into the admin­istrative area. The eunuch paused at an open door, and motioned with his palm. The room beyond was a small dining chamber, the couches moved back to the walls and a couple of chairs placed beside a low table in the centre. A man in a plain blue tunic sat waiting. Castus recognised him at once. That bland face, the skinny throat, the ugly bowl-cut hair. Julius Nigrinus, Tribune of Notaries.

Castus felt an uneasy pressure growing at the nape of his neck. The door was closed, and they were alone.

‘Please be seated,’ Nigrinus said. ‘Take some wine, if you like.’

Castus sat down. The notary had a waxed tablet open in his hands, and was passing his eyes over the written text.

‘This is the report you gave to Arpagius,’ he said. He closed the tablet and dropped it on the table. ‘A fascinating document. Is it all true?’

‘Of course,’ Castus said. He could barely hear the notary’s quiet laugh.

‘Stirring stuff!’ Nigrinus went on. He sipped wine. ‘Of course, I’m sad­dened to learn of the death of Aelius Marcellinus. And Strabo too, particularly. Strabo was one of my most effective agents in this province.’

‘Your agents, dominus?’ Important to retain the correct address, Castus told himself. This was not personal.

‘Yes, mine. I’ve been in charge of all the intelligence opera­tions in Britannia Secunda for some years now. So, as you can imagine, centurion, I’m very interested in what you can tell me of…
affairs
in the north.’

His voice was too smooth, too subtle. Castus tried to remain impassive. The man was goading him in some way. But to what end?

‘Was there anything, do you think, that you failed to mention when you made your report?’

The line was before him now. Castus dared himself to step across it. Nigrinus was an imperial officer, a tribune, and it was his duty to tell him everything he knew. Had Cunomagla not asked him to do just that? Tell the imperial command about her support for Rome, her innocence in the deaths of the king and the others? Yes, Castus thought – but whom was he to tell, and when? He stayed silent.

‘Arpagius tells me’, the notary went on, ‘that you did mention something to him, subsequent to your official report. He tells me you claim to have spoken with a renegade Roman officer named Julius Decentius. Shortly before putting him to death, of course… He tells me that this Decentius made certain allega­tions about imperial involvement in the uprising. Do you have anything to say about that?’

‘I told the governor all I know… dominus.’

‘Indeed.’ Nigrinus picked up a gold stylus and circled it between his fingers. ‘Well, it’s an extraordinary story.’

‘So is it true?’ Castus felt the heat rise to his face as he spoke. The notary put down the stylus. When he spoke again his voice was stony cold.

‘True?’ he said. ‘Is it true that the emperor planned to provoke an uprising among the Picts? What do you think, Centurion?’

‘I… I don’t know. Dominus.’

‘The emperor,’ Nigrinus said, leaning forward, ‘does not
plan
anything! The emperor merely
wishes
for certain things to be. It is up to others to plan – others such as me, centurion. And others still to carry out those plans.’

Castus clamped his jaw shut and spoke through his teeth. ‘My men died!’

‘They were soldiers. Dying is
their job
.’

A long moment passed, glaring. Castus had already been threatened with death for desertion – what would the punish­ment be, he wondered, for murdering an officer of the imperial household? Perhaps one day he would find out. But not yet – not with the balance so steeply set against him. He breathed out, tried to ease his shoulders down from their aggressive hunch.