After days of chasing down recalcitrant tribes and retreating when they massed against us, the gruelling struggle with the Franks lessened. It was merely a hiatus – only a fool would believe otherwise – but welcome all the same. We left behind those grim forests, crossed the Rhenus and returned to the empire once more. It was a mercy that we did so, a mercy that several hundred of my men would never enjoy. The sight of their graves, back in the woods, never left me. Every dead comrade, every pyre and every burial is with me, even to this day – from that clash and the many others. But the soldier’s way is to laugh off grief, or at least to make it appear that way.
In my wake, the legionaries of the Minervia sang as they marched, breaths puffing in the icy air, their ribald tunes seeking to outdo those of Krocus and his Regii. I heard Batius lead them in a spirited line about a barbarian’s personal hygiene. There followed a chorus of spluttering disbelief from Krocus, who replied with a feisty verse comparing the length of a legionary’s appendage unfavourably to that of a mouse’s.
I chuckled, guiding Celeritas, my faithful dappled-grey stallion, across a short stretch of meadow – speckled silver with frost – and rode down the hillside that led into the Mosella valley. A look at the mid-morning sun and the meandering river ahead reminded me of the many times I had ridden this path. ‘By noonday we will be home,’ I called over my shoulder. They cheered, distracted from their filthy – if thoroughly entertaining – songs.
Home. A simple, solitary word. A place of sanctuary, warmth and love. For most men, aye. Me? I had called many places my home over the years: Naissus, Salona, Nicomedia, Alexandria, Eboracum, Antioch and others. A soldier’s life had ensured that I never rested in one place too long. Never in any of those fine cities did I truly feel I was in my rightful place. But in Augusta Treverorum, that had changed.
As I rode, I watched the bends of the river peel back before me until I caught sight of the stoutly walled city that had finally granted me a modicum of sanctuary. The towers commanded a fine view along the valley and over the surrounding countryside and the battlements were studded with silvery helms. Red-tiled domes and marble halls – scaffolded and specked with the tiny forms of workers – were taking shape from within as my programme to aggrandise the city’s northern quarter continued. Smoke rose lazily from the countless dwellings within and the sharp, fresh air was suddenly spiced with the scent of it all: baking bread, cooking fish and woodsmoke.
The men saw it too and cheered again. Sighting us, the watch atop the great, smoke-stained eastern gate heralded our return, sounding a trio of cornua , the G-shaped brass horns filling the Mosella valley with a paean that suggested we had not only beaten back the Franks but vanquished them entirely.
We passed under the shadow of the gatehouse and made our way towards the palace. A crowd had gathered on the main avenue and now the pleasant aromas were mixed with the ones that come with any congestion of people: dung, sweat and stale wine to name but a few. They drank and cheered as they tossed petals over us. I could not help but notice the throng was seemingly endless, stretching even beyond the well-wishers. Everywhere I looked, the streets were packed. And I was sure there were even more of those damned timber shacks along the base of every temple, hall and insula . Grubby and gaunt faces everywhere.
The war with the Franks had been devastating. The farmers and land workers had been terrorised by the Frankish raiding parties that had penetrated my lands all too often. Many had abandoned their crops and their homes and fled for the cities. Many – too many – had come here in search of salvation. How could I explain to them that without their hard work in the fields, there would be no grain to feed the many mouths of my realm? And if I could not adequately protect them out there, what right did I have to demand anything of them? I sighed. That was one of the myriad problems I would have to tackle now the business of battle had receded.
Over the cries of adulation though, I heard their laments. Some cried out to me, pleading for food, begging me for coin. Others, however, cried out not to me, but to their gods. Some offered prayer to Ceres, Goddess of the Harvest, at smoke-stained shrines on street corners. Others sang Christian songs together. United in their will, I thought, but then I saw two groups scuffling by one shrine: fighting over a half loaf of bread. A cursed scrap of bread!
‘The gods shun us because you and your followers dishonour them!’ one wild-eyed agitator by the shrine of Ceres snarled, spittle flecking the air as he howled at the Christians. He cradled the bread scrap he had wrested from one Christian and backed away, only for a young man to try and wrest it back.
His friends tried to pull the young one from the confrontation. ‘It is not God’s way, brother,’ they tried to calm him.
‘And that ,’ the wild-eyed one rasped, ‘is why you are a pox on the empire: you’d rather fall to your knees and pray than take up a sword and shield!’
I snorted at this. The Christians were in the main reluctant to resort to violence, but a fair few had rationalised the word of their God with the reality of their world. Christians served in my legions, no doubt. I recalled then the boyhood memory of that lone Christian legionary on the walls of Naissus.
My thoughts were scattered when the young lad threw his friends off and lunged at the wild-eyed fellow with the bread. In moments, fists were flying and I saw a flash of steel as one man near the shrine of Ceres leapt in with a knife. The sight of faith-fuelled hatred sent a shiver through me – so reminiscent of the persecutions in the East that had brought the great cities there to their knees. Not in my realm, I avowed, not in my city… not in my home. I turned to nod over my shoulder. Batius read the signal and dispatched twelve Cornuti men, who swiftly broke up the trouble.
On we rode and I cast a cold eye at the old basilica as we passed it: the place where my journey had begun, all those years ago on the day my father had chosen to marry into the line of succession. It was something my rivals were keen to remind me of: Constantine the beggar, with not a drop of true imperial blood in his veins. It was with a wry smile that I beheld the roped-off ruin. For only the façade of the old place remained, you see, with a new, grander hall being constructed behind it. A glorious structure that would smother those foul rumours about my worthiness. We passed the huge wool mill, the arms fabrica, the baths and the amphitheatre, then came to the city barracks.
Batius and Krocus had the men fall out here, where they were to see out the rest of the winter. The heaving crowds thinned a little and the three of us then proceeded to the foot of the palace complex: a vast, rectangular peristyle enclosing gardens and orchards. In the centre, like a marble mountain rising from a sea of green, stood a stack of vaulted, red-roofed halls, the tallest of which stood nearly twice as high as the city walls. The two Cornuti standing watch at the entrance to the peristyle stiffened and saluted, clacking their amber shields to their leather-armoured chests, the winter breeze ruffling the feathers they wore either side of their helms.
They parted and we entered the palace gardens, the air thick with the scent of winter blooms. Fountains babbled and birds trilled, hopping from the branches of poplar trees to the beds of pink cyclamen and yellow mimosa. I eyed the palace high sides, etched with tendrils of ivy and beautified with tessellated balconies and gently billowing silken drapes.
Home . My lips played with a smile. For it was only now, freed from the travels of a mere soldier, shorn of the bonds of foul masters and with this marvel of a city to call my own, that I realised it all meant so little: all the broad streets and fine towers, every gilded statue and magnificent hall. I would have been happy with a bare room in a listing insula. Home, you see, is not a matter of mortar, stone or fineries – such things are inconsequential. Home is the place where your loved ones await you. And when they appeared on the steps, I swear my heart swelled against my ribs.
‘Father!’ Crispus cried, skipping down the stairs and crunching across the gravel, his curls bouncing in his wake. I leapt down from Celeritas’ back and crouched, arms extended to catch him. He thudded into me and I stood, lifting him in my embrace. Such moments a man must savour, especially when he is oft apart from his family. Indeed, in my boy’s five summers, I had seen all too little of him. Perhaps it was a penance I inflicted upon myself: part of me still believed it had been my fault his mother had died. Sweet Minervina, my first love, had breathed her last as he had breathed his first… and I was not there to save her.
Upon his neck I caught scent of rosewater, and this sped the dark memory from my mind before it could fully form. More, it conjured a joyous grin on my face.
‘You grew tired of eating raw boar in the woods?’ Fausta said, striding over in Crispus’ wake, a stronger waft of the rosewater perfume she wore coming with her.
Some called my marriage to Fausta a political investment, a desperate attempt to buy legitimacy and noble blood. But I had agreed to marry Maxentius’ sister not to play the game of power, but because I enjoyed her company, because I trusted her. In truth, part of me did believe our marriage might heal the rift between me and her brother, but is it purely cold and political to desire renewed peace with a one-time friend? In any case, I feared that such hopes were all but faded. Still, Fausta was mine and I hers. She was a fine mother to Crispus too. Just thirteen years old, we had yet to share a bed. She was showing the signs of womanhood, and had taken to wearing kohl and ochre on her fine-boned face, her dark curls bunched on top of her head and spiralling down to her waist: a true beauty. But in truth I craved her company and conversation more than anything else, for she was a shrewd one for her age – always challenging my thoughts, slapping down my hubris when it threatened to veil my wisdom and simply… being there.
My bond with Fausta was but one link to Maxentius’ family, and a fine one at that. The other one… not so.
‘Ach, there’s always one thing to spoil a perfectly good day,’ Batius groaned under his breath, squinting at the steps and the shaded arched doorway of the palace.
‘Hmm,’ Krocus agreed, ‘you may have the cock of a mouse and the brain of an ox, but I’ll agree with you on that.’
Krocus and Batius in grudging agreement? That meant only one thing: a common threat. I looked over to the steps with them and I must admit my heart sank a little. The portly, waddling figure who lumbered down the steps reeked of many things: wine and meat, usually, but always, always , trouble.
‘Maximian,’ I hailed him, the tenor in my voice underlining my feelings.
‘Constantine,’ he replied, those hooded green eyes appraising as always. Such a different creature to Fausta. Where his daughter sought truce and tranquillity, Maximian craved strife and friction – enough at least to create a gap into which he could barge uninvited.
He was ruddy-faced, overweight and somewhat unkempt with a bushy, silver-flecked beard and swirl of hair. Now, you might ask why I, Master of the West, might mistrust such a fellow? Well, for one thing he was none other than Maxentius’ estranged father: banished from Italia by his son, the man had come grovelling to me, as his daughter’s husband, for succour. Crucially though, he was no mere outcast parent, oh no: in times past, this one had been Augustus of the West. Behind the affable and harmless appearance lay a quicksilver mind, bred on the game of power. So why did I endure his presence in my home, my sanctuary?
Fausta squeezed my hand. My heart grew warm. Is that answer enough?
An uneven crunching on the gravel alerted me to the presence of another, approaching from the maze of paths within the gardens. I turned to the pair shuffling towards me: Mother, lined with age and yet still such a beauty. Her eyes, azure like mine, sparkled like the Christian Chi-Rho on her neck chain. ‘My boy,’ she said in a frail voice, ‘my dear boy.’
Linking arms with her was a shrivelled, white-haired and bearded old man shuffling with the aid of a cane. He seemed more absorbed with the butterfly resting on his forefinger than with my arrival.
‘Isn’t it a marvel?’ Lactantius cooed at the patterns on the creature’s wings. ‘And just last moon, it was another thing entirely. It makes you wonder what truly happens inside the chrysalis, to change a creature so entirely.’
Now he looked up at me, a canny glint in his eyes. ‘One has to wonder: can a man do the same? Change his entire being, his beliefs… his faith, even?’
I stared at my old tutor in disbelief, then roared with laughter. ‘By all the gods, man, you will turn any conversation to your faith, won’t you?’
The Chi-Rho on his necklace – just like Mother’s – sparkled as if in tacit reply. He flicked his finger gently, sending the butterfly fluttering off back to the gardens. ‘Well, there has to be room to talk of faith amid all else that goes on,’ he reasoned.
‘Aye, perhaps. And there is much talking to be done,’ I agreed, looking to the mid-level of the palace. It was here that I received dignitaries, assigned legions and drew up plans. I would be spending much time there in the coming days.
*
Not long after dusk, two days later, the sky over Treverorum was inky black and strewn with a silvery sand of stars. I could still hear the people down on the streets, beseeching me for grain and coin or trading barbed insults. They were restless – a microcosm of the empire, almost. I shut out the clamour and fixed my attentions on the squabbling mass before me instead.
The great meeting chamber was like a beacon in the night, its arched windows open to the elements. A fire roared at the far end, its light dancing on the marble floor, the frescoed walls and the high, gold-veined ceiling. The sides of the room were lined with marble steps – like a mini amphitheatre – and a collection of advisors, dignitaries and notable figures were gathered upon them. Sixty or more voices squabbling like the throngs outside. Lactantius stood near the Christian bishops I had invited along: Maternus of Colonia Agrippina, Reticius of Augustodunum, Marinus of Arelate and Ossius of Colonia Patricia; four men made from the same mould as Lactantius by the looks of it – aged, too shrewd for their own good and wearing the same righteous expression.
I thought that perhaps they might help strengthen my reputation if they were to hear my plans to resist any invasion effort from Galerius, the great persecutor. Deliberately placed on the far side of the room were the priests and leaders of the imperial cults: a cluster of haruspices , the diviners of the future; the hooded Rex Sacrorum , master of sacrifice; and a number of pontifices and temple keepers too. Acting as something of a breakwater in between stood a collection of noblemen, equestrians who had served my father well, and the best officers from my legions. With them, of course, were Batius and Krocus, each of them looking askance at Maximian, who stood nearby.
Some said I had dared to form a senate of sorts within the lofty halls of my palace. I looked upon it as pure necessity, for the empire was on the brink of war. I had to know everything there was to know.
‘Domine?’ a voice said, scattering my thoughts. It was the shaven-headed Prefect Baudio, leader of the Second Italica legion. They were stationed right now in the eye of the storm: on the hills of Noricum where my realm met that claimed by Maxentius in the south and the dominion of Galerius and his underlings in the East. ‘You asked me to bring word of the borders?’
There was no urgency in his tone, so no imminent danger, I surmised. But there was something about his inability to hold my gaze that told me he had displeasing news to impart. ‘Please, tell all.’
‘The hill forts are complete and they will hold back all but the stoutest of attacks,’ he said. ‘But… but there have been issues with the garrison.’
‘Issues?’
He gulped and nodded. ‘Some men have deserted – fled south over the mountains and into Italia. One cohort has lost over forty men.’
I sat forward in my chair, my searing look enough of a prompt for him to continue.
‘Some believe… wrongly… that the emperor in Rome holds greater claim to the West.’ A bead of sweat darted down his face. ‘They say Maxentius is… is of the nobler blood.’
It was like a dagger to my breast. Heat spread over my face and chest and I wanted to break something – something hard – over the man’s skull. It ushered back memories of that childhood day in this very city, when Father had abandoned Mother, marrying into the Tetrarchy and rendering me – in some people’s eyes – as nothing but a bastard son. Such slurs had followed me since that day and there were some in my own realm, and outwith, who revelled in repeating them.
A concerned murmur spread over the crowd, and I was sure I saw a few of the nobles smirking. I will watch these ones closely, I decided privately. Maximian was the only one to react blithely.
‘Nonsense!’ he boomed, stepping forward onto the floor. ‘My son is but a shadow of the rightful emperor who raised him.’ He gestured at himself as he said this. I saw Krocus and Batius roll their eyes. He strolled down from the opposite stair, across the floor and up the steps to stand behind my chair, resting a sage hand on the back of it. ‘Rumour spreads about his clumsy handling of the Christians within Rome’s walls. Any troops who flee south to his heel will quickly realise they are better off back here. Need the people of the West look any further than this city for leadership? I stand by Constantine’s side as a vouchsafe for his fittingness and nobil—’
‘And what of the other legions?’ I cut in, stopping Maximian’s restless tongue, casting my eyes across the other commanders.
‘The Eighth Augusta are loyal to you, utterly,’ one grey-haired, lithe officer shouted confidently, slapping a fist to his chest.
‘As are the Thirtieth Ulpia Victrix,’ said another.
‘The Seventh Gemina will march into the jaws of Cerberus on your word, Domine,’ another cried, outdoing the others. Suddenly, the room was alive with shouts as my legionary commanders avowed their loyalty. Still, though, I noticed a few who had not spoken.
My eyes turned to slits as I imagined their inner thoughts. It had confirmed what I had always suspected: I would have to continue the legacy of Diocletian’s military reforms. The old Augustus had begun breaking up the ancient legions – most five thousand strong – into smaller units, a thousand men in each. By doing this he had diluted the power of any one unit, while giving himself many more of these smaller legions to station around trouble spots on the borders and, crucially, gathering the most loyal of these new-style regiments around him as a Comitatus – a central reserve of crack brigades, a private army, even. A voice within spat horrible abuse at me for treading in the footsteps of that old tyrant, but was it anything other than prudent?
I realised the claims of loyalty had ebbed and all waited on my response. ‘Your fidelity is noted. Stay vigilant, for war might break out on any given day.’
I then looked to the men of opposing faiths on each side of the hall. Here, equidistant between them, I wondered at Mother’s advice to me as a boy: that every man must journey to find his own god. Father had worshipped Mars and I had followed in his tradition. Damn, I had spent most of my life at war, so it seemed apt that I should offer tribute to this awesome and ancient divinity. Was Mars my god? I did not know, then. I only knew for certain that I was still on my journey, yet to reach my destination. My thoughts settled and returned to the matter in hand. ‘And now I must turn my attentions to the strife within. This city knows no restrictions on what god a man can worship, yet I saw blood spilled between warring faiths on my streets.’
Bishop Marinus – the man who had given a Christian blessing to my marriage with Fausta – spoke first. ‘Your toleration is acclaimed, Domine. While my fellow Christians might choose not to worship an emperor, they venerate you for your kindness. From the Rhenus to the far corners of Hispania, they speak your name with bright hearts.’
I snorted. ‘Don’t speak my name… honour me! Quell the people’s ire!’ I looked from the bishops to the temple priests of the old gods, my hands extended. ‘Tell me what can be done to assuage the unrest?’
Silence. Then the Rex Sacrorum spoke through taut lips, raising and pointing a shaking finger at the Christian bishops: ‘They are a blight on the strength and fibre of your realm, Domine. They know nothing of the virtues that saw Rome blossom and claim the world as its own. While the mortal sons of Sol Invictus seek to solve the famine and overcrowding in this city… they rest on their knees, meekly praying, assuming their God will grant them bread from nothing. While the worshippers of Mars enlist in your legions and aid the fight to drive back the Franks so the crops can be re-established, they cower, happy to let us risk our lives.’
I arched an eyebrow at this. It stoked that childhood memory again. ‘When I was a boy, I once saw a legionary on the walls of Naissus, braving the wrath of a foul storm while his comrades ran for cover. A Christian legionary.’ A series of muted gasps sounded. ‘Such a thing exists, you see.’ I even noticed a few of the legionary commanders look around nervously, hoping no eyes were upon them. ‘The persecutions were brutal, and many of the faith still choose to conceal it.’ I stood, casting my hands in the air. ‘Fighting, distrust, suspicion… I want an end to it. As I call upon my legionary commanders to watch my borders, I also call upon you—’ I addressed both religious parties ‘—to find a way to bring harmony to my cities.’
Such a short series of words for such a lofty demand. But one I had to designate. I could not be in all of the cities in my realm at once. These men ruled the hearts of the populace in a way I never could. They had to find appeasement between themselves and their clashing faiths and teach their followers that such was the way. The bishops and the temple priests bowed and genuflected, pledging to do what they could. I wanted to believe in them, I truly did, but something within told me I would have to find an answer myself. At that moment, such a challenge felt akin to donning a blindfold and rummaging in a sack of snakes to find a rope.
Wine, bread, meat and fruit were brought in and on we talked until only a few hours remained before dawn. I dissolved the council and sat alone for some time, mulling over the mixture of offences and platitudes that had come out of it all. My head was pounding. No grain, civil strife, the cursed trade embargo… and my coffers, surely they were all but drained. How much longer could I afford to pay the legions? Soon I would see more desertions… but on a massive scale.
Footsteps sounded. A messenger was shown into the hall. Nervously, he came to me and bowed. I recognised him: a rider from the legionary fortress at Bonna. It threw me back to our recent foray in the tribal lands. The frost, the mud, the stink of blood – it all came blasting at me like a blizzard of icy needles. The flurry of memories eased, and I recalled how one of those early battles had ended… the oath. Hisarnis’ pledge. The ransom of tribal silver. Enough to part-fill the drained coffers. Enough perhaps to fund my armies into next summer. That was why the rider was here! For a moment I was like a boy, roused with optimism. The ides of the month had been and gone and this man had come to tell me that Hisarnis had delivered his promised bounty. And then the manic thoughts crumbled when I remembered the twist in that tale: the imperial coin of Galerius in the dead tribesman’s purse. The oath had been a lie.
‘The Frankish treasure wagons were due three days ago, yet none have arrived, Domine. Hisarnis of the Bructeri has reneged on his—’
‘Of course he has,’ I cut him off with an angry growl and a humourless laugh. I took a deep drink of wine, gulped and sighed. My thoughts creaked this way and that, chained as always by the pressures of state and power. I had almost forgotten about the two tribal wretches we had brought back from the forest campaign, and at first when I remembered them, they were a distraction. But the image of them sitting chained below the palace kept returning to me unbidden. Slowly, however, I realised that those two might just unlock the promised silver after all.
‘In the morning, go back to Bonna Fortress,’ I instructed the messenger. ‘Tell the garrison there to expect my return, and soon. Tell them to prepare to march once more into the woods.’
‘To battle the tribes again?’ the man said, paling.
I leaned forward, smiling the fiercest of smiles. ‘No. This time we go straight to Chief Hisarnis, to his village.’
‘Domine,’ the man croaked, the word inflected with doubt, ‘his village is set deep, deep in the forests, well protected by the terrain and outlying settlements.’
‘If Hisarnis wants his brothers back alive, then we will meet no resistance. I will sit at his table and he will give me the answers he owes me. This time, he will pay with the promised silver… or his family’s blood.’