The imperial city of Rome had rarely looked so impressive. The rains of early November had washed the dust and smoke from the air, and in the low autumn sunlight the city appeared to gleam. Against a leaden sky the temples on the Capitoline Hill rose clear and distinct.
Aurelius Castus stood on the balcony of a house on the slope of the Aventine, taking in the view. Across the valley he could see the pillared exedra of the palace, where he had met with Maxentius the month before. Below it stretched the vast stadium of the Circus Maximus. The stands down there were still packed; Constantine had decreed ten days of games to celebrate his entry into the city, and the Roman people had responded with their usual enthusiasm. Castus might have expected them to be glutted by such things, after the constant lavish spectacles laid on by their previous ruler, but apparently they had an inexhaustible appetite for entertainment.
He would not be joining them himself. Since the glorious adventus, he had kept himself apart from the jubilation. He had seen too much of emperors and the business of empire. In his soul he no longer cared what Constantine said or did, or what was said or done in his name.
And what would he do, in fact, the latest emperor of Rome? He had already forgiven all those supporters of Maxentius who remained in the city. Only the Praetorians had been punished: the entire ancient corps had been disbanded, and the survivors exiled to the frontier armies. The barracks of the Horse Guards had been seized, and then given to the Christians to turn into a grand new basilica. They at least were jubilant, and praised their new ruler.
Constantine himself would remain in the city until the spring, and then march north to Mediolanum, to meet with his brother emperor Licinius and decide how to divide the Roman world between them. Maximinus Daza still ruled in the east; would they join with him and split the empire three ways, or would there be further war? When he considered these things, Castus saw only the heaped corpses along the banks of the Tiber, the river running with blood. Too many men had died to bring Constantine to victory. Too many Roman soldiers had been killed by men they could have called brothers.
Castus clasped his hands behind his back. He breathed in slowly, stilling his mind, then turned and paced into the reception chamber of the house. This had been one of Sabina’s father’s properties once, seized by the tyrant after the old man’s execution. Maxentius had given it to a tribune of the Praetorians, but that man had died at the Milvian Bridge, and now Castus had commandeered it as his own lodgings. He would have the deeds made over to his wife in time. It would be easy enough to do: in Rome, officers of Constantine’s victorious army could have anything they wanted.
But there was only one thing that Castus wanted.
Standing in the reception chamber, he listened to the voices filtering through from the vestibule, then from the inner courtyard. Eumolpius appeared in the doorway, dressed in a freshly pressed white tunic.
‘The domina Valeria Domitia Sabina,’ he gravely intoned, eyes to the ceiling.
For ten days Castus had rehearsed this meeting in his mind, tormenting himself with possibilities, rejecting them all. In his heart he had forgiven his wife, or at least tried to, but still he felt all too keenly, too painfully, the distance between them. Now he stood, straight-backed and silent, and watched her as she entered the room.
Sabina still wore her travelling clothes, the hem of her long tunic spattered with the mud of the Flaminian Way. She looked drawn and tired. Castus had expected her to be remote and aloof, or to fling herself at his feet in some feigned display of repentance. But he was surprised to see the tears in her eyes.
‘This house,’ she said, gazing around at the walls as she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘I always loved this house. It was my favourite. I never expected to see it again. How did you know?’
Castus said nothing. He had not known. But had his wife really thought she would never return to Rome? A woman like her, raised in this city, could never have truly believed that a Gallic usurper and a half-barbarian army might be victorious. That, he thought, was how Lepidus had snared her. Castus could imagine it, and in a way he could not blame her. And with Lepidus dead, and Julius Nigrinus rumoured to be dead too, there was no one who could speak of what she had done. Except perhaps Fausta, and she had reasons of her own for remaining silent.
Now Sabina crossed the room and stood before him. She laid her hands upon his shoulders, then lightly touched a palm to his cheek.
‘Husband,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
She leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips.
‘They told me you were dead.’
Castus did not move, did not speak. The scar on his jaw burned with a cold fire. For so long he had been angry, but he felt nothing of that inside him now. Sabina’s eyes held a clear sad honesty, and she smiled as she looked at him.
‘A truce?’ she said.
‘A truce,’ he replied. Then he embraced her. Both of them knew that much time must pass before they could ask for more.
Sabina left the room with her maids, but Ganna remained waiting by the door, the boy cradled in her arms.
‘How is he?’ Castus asked as she approached.
‘Growing heavier every day,’ Ganna said. ‘Soon he will be as big as you, I think.’
The child stirred as Castus took him from her. Wide-eyed, he gazed at his father, then cried out a stream of incomprehensible words: ‘Babamah! Mumbada! Walala!’
‘He speaks your language now?’ Castus asked, and Ganna smiled.
The weight of the boy in his arms was strangely comforting. Castus stared down at him, frowning, moved. Then the boy reached up with his small hands, clouted Castus on the chin, and chuckled.
‘He has the right idea,’ Ganna said.
Supporting the boy in the crook of one arm, Castus pressed his hand to the woman’s cheek. The blue amulet she had given him caught the light. She closed her eyes, then turned her head, kissing his wrist.
Sabina was standing in the doorway, and Castus noticed the quick play of conflicting emotion across her face. Pained realisation, a brief swell of anger, and then resignation. Her expression cleared and she glanced away, then crossed to the far doorway that led to the balcony. Castus handed the child back to Ganna and went to join his wife. The distant roar of the circus crowd was drifting up on the breeze.
‘They love him now. Constantine,’ Sabina said. ‘The hero of the Roman people. I heard an orator saying that he’s ascended to the summit of the world. His deeds and his fame will live for evermore. And so on. It must be strange, don’t you think, to become a godlike being?’
Castus just grunted. The thought of eternal fame held no attractions for him. All his life he had wanted only to do his duty, support his emperor and his brother soldiers. He wondered if he could ever want anything so simple again.
‘And what of us?’ Sabina asked. ‘We must live in our less exalted realm, with all our failings, I suppose.’ She took his hand, a slight subtle pressure. Castus could hear the wry smile in her voice. ‘Once we are gone all our great deeds will be forgotten.’
Far away across the city, a flight of birds circled over the temples of the Capitoline Hill, their wings catching the sunlight. Castus watched them for a moment. He felt a slow surge of exultation rising within him.
‘Then thank the gods we are mortal!’
~
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