As April turned to May, Treverorum hosted the Ludi Florae , the spring games, a celebration of fertility, flowers and growth held in honour of the Goddess Flora. With my treasury all but depleted, I funded the whole affair myself, selling armour and trinkets Father had bequeathed to me. In truth they were foul heirlooms, reminding me of the wealth he had enjoyed while Mother and I had been left behind, and I was glad to be rid of them.
The games themselves – races, discus and javelin throwing along with somewhat licentious displays of dancing and acrobatics – were supposed to be a salve to the winter-weary populace, a bold and welcome herald of the warm season. Aye, the people keenly observed the ancient customs, wore bright gowns and vivid wreaths, painted their faces in lurid colours. True enough, the joyous cascade of red and white petals tumbled through the day-by-day more clement air from the top of every high building. Yet I could not fail to recognise the underlying discontent, hidden beneath the paint on those gaunt faces, whispered in snatched, curse-ridden outbursts. They cheered the dancers, aye – though perhaps that was more to do with the rough wine I had commissioned and ordered to be distributed among them, and almost certainly a little to do with the dancers’ gradual state of undress. They whooped with delight at the performing trio of elephants – but who would not marvel at such a spectacle? The magnificent beasts marched into the arena and carefully walked up a wooden ramp and along a narrow plank suspended the height of three men above the sandy ground. But despite such marvels, I heard the grumbles of dissatisfaction in between.
On the last day of the games I took my place on the padded couch – purple like my linen cloak – in the kathisma , overlooking the great, sun-bathed arena as two teams of mock-gladiators sprinted onto the sand. They were painted like the crowd and dressed even more brightly. They leapt and sprung through the mild sunshine in a carefully choreographed routine, eliciting cheers and gasps as, one by one, they ‘killed’ one another with their wooden weapons, each kill being met with a dramatic blast from a horn and a rumble from the timpani drummers. Goats and hares sprung nervously between the fighters – the animals probably fearing for their lives, but not today, for they would be released at the end of the festivities as tradition dictated.
In any case, I paid little attention to the entertainment. My eyes scanned the crowd again and again. I must admit to sporting a foul head thanks to an entire flask of the rough wine – unwatered, much to Fausta’s chagrin – the night before, and that only heightened my disdain for the people whenever I heard them grumbling.
They lamented the growing threat of civil war, and by all the gods, so did I: my dreams were plagued with images of Maxentius and his swollen ranks in Italia, and Galerius and his gargantuan forces hovering in the East. The realms of the two imperial antagonists touched mine at the Alpes Mountains, as if the pressure of our mutual hostility had thrown up those great, rugged peaks. And now the first move in this great game had been made: according to my agents, Licinius – Galerius’ hound – was now mobilising his forces at his Pannonian base, his scouts probing west. Did the cur truly believe he was Augustus of the West as Galerius had proclaimed him? He certainly seemed intent on asserting the claim with brute force. And who would he strike for, Maxentius or me?
My heart swirled with bitter confusion. Maxentius, my old friend, had ridden fortune in his victories over Severus and Galerius. Licinius’ mobilisation was surely the start of a third, decisive strike. Was the end coming for Maxentius? But then it would mean Italia, that great peninsula, which was mine by rights – mine! – would fall into the hands of Licinius and Galerius.
‘The Herdsman will spare none of us when he turns his eye to the north!’ said one of my people, seated just below the kathisma and no doubt unaware that I had arrived. I balled a fist and rested my chin upon it, pretending I hadn’t heard.
‘Or to the south,’ the speaker’s companion replied. I leant forward on the couch a little, straining to hear the male voice over the cheering of the crowd. ‘They say Galerius will be the one to stamp out the African revolt. Perhaps he will – after all, Emperor Constantine has made no move and Maxentius’ efforts have so far yielded no victory.’
I sat back with a rumbling sigh, my lips thin. They talked of the disaster in Africa as if I had personally asked that dog, Domitius Alexander, to snatch that land and steal the grain from my people’s mouths. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and pressed forefinger to thumb, seeking calm – a rare commodity when suffering the morning wrath from last night’s overindulgence. But, mercifully, a spark of reason illuminated the blackness behind my eyelids. For a moment I imagined the twin problems: Licinius’ legions and Alexander’s African forces, hovering to the north and south of Maxentius’ Italia like open jaws.
Maxentius’ problems, I mouthed. Shamefully, it was like a weight toppling from my shoulders. But it was true: my old friend would bear the brunt of these threats before me. More, the beating heart of his realm was in disarray, or so I had heard: Christian Lapsi uprisings in Rome and Popes banished from the city. Now Maxentius had been appalled at the Christian Persecutions as much as I, but I remembered then his rather abrasive opinion on how much – or little – the empire should bend to accommodate the sect. Perhaps his strident approach had stoked those troubles? It worried me that I too had considered banishment of the most troublesome leaders of the faiths – Christian and ancient – from my lands. How close our paths in life wander, old friend. How entwined our journeys have become, I mused with a hint of sadness.
The crying of an infant stirred me. I lifted my head and looked over the balustrade to see a mother and baby in the crowd. The mother’s face was gaunter than most, and her eyes were black-ringed. She fed a handful of bread scraps to the young one, but it was clear to me even at distance that the meal would be inadequate, and the mother would clearly be going without. Now I sighed the deepest of sighs.
For despite the threat of civil war, despite the disastrous revolt in Africa and the loss of its long-term source of grain, it was the stark and immediate lack of food that hovered over my people like an axe. The lands of Gaul should have been enough to tide us over for a winter or two while the African situation was dealt with, but the Frankish raids had driven my many farmers from their countryside homes to seek refuge in the painfully overcrowded streets of my capital and the other major walled cities of eastern Gaul. Thus, the croplands out there still lay untended, the silos and grain pits were now perilously vacuous, and there were precious few replete bellies within Treverorum’s walls.
A hungry man is quick to bite, they say, and my people were famished. All winter they had quarrelled about the empty ovens as they queued for the few loaves of bread; they squabbled about the gods other men chose to worship; they cursed one another for the winter being too cold and their garments being threadbare. And while idle moaning was one thing, I had witnessed all too often throughout that bleak winter how words could lead to blows and to blood.
On that last day of the games, to the discord of the screaming babe, I now noticed just how many sour faces floated in the crowd, mean eyes laden with intent. I saw a team of emaciated agitators in the throng shouting and spitting at a group of sombre-faced Christians on the seats just below them. The air of discontent thickened as those nearby pitched in with curses and shouts in support of one side or the other; a moment later, nearly one quarter of the crowd on the arena’s sloping sides were swaying, turning to the disturbance, snarling and shouting others down. I stood, my heart sinking; for the scene reminded me of the people of Nicomedia in the days of the Great Persecution. So many raised fists, so many snarled threats: all it would take was one spark, and my very own Treverorum might be subjected to large-scale rioting like those foul days in that eastern city.
I gave a Cornuti centurion – standing behind me in the kathisma – a look and the faintest of nods; moments later he brought another two centuries of his feather-helmed warriors to the arena. Magically, the group spoiling for a fight lost their appetite for conflict, and the restless section of the crowd was quelled, like a knotted rope being loosened. For a short while, I almost relaxed, until a voice from the other side of the arena split the air like a cornu.
‘You bring the Bructeri invaders into our lands? Give them our soil to farm as their own?’ the fellow – tall and lantern-jawed – screamed up at me, shaking one fist. It was like a glass shattering in an empty room. The crowd gasped at the man’s daring challenge. Even the mock-gladiators on the arena floor slowed. His eyes were rolling with the effects of wine as he continued: ‘If you claim to be our emperor, then you owe us an answer!’ The crowd looked to him and then up at me in the kathisma, knowing that the shout could not be ignored.
I could have had him dragged from the arena – indeed, two Cornuti soldiers were already barging down through the crowded terraces towards him. Instead, I stepped towards the kathisma’s marble balustrade. A flick of my hand halted the pair of Cornuti forging towards him. I met his withering gaze with one of my own. ‘I bring invaders? ’ I boomed. I had heard mutterings of this along with all the other troubles. Indeed, some small part of me had longed for a public challenge such as this – for it was the only way I could set them right on the matter. ‘When a tribesman sets down his sword, removes his armour and takes up a hoe and a rake, is he still an invader?’
Cornu-voice’s shaking fist fell a fraction as he scratched his head. ‘Well I heard the Bructeri are still well acquainted with their swords. They train in soldiery every day, I am told.’
‘Hisarnis and the Bructeri train to serve the empire,’ I replied swiftly. ‘Remember, it was they who stood firm at the Rhenus when the Chatti tried to invade across the ice.’
Cornu-voice’s forehead drew tight and he scoffed, momentarily lost for words. ‘Franks on our lands,’ he muttered after a pause, ‘taking up Roman weapons, filling their bellies from crops grown on our soil—’
‘There is plentiful soil out there,’ I replied briskly, gesturing up over the lip of the arena and towards the city walls. ‘The lands have been free of Frankish invaders for over a month.’ I pinned him with a fiery look.
A murmur of confusion rattled around the crowd. I had tried – damn them I had tried – to spread word of this truth in the past month, but so few had dared to leave the safety of Treverorum’s walls.
‘Your name?’ I demanded of the heckler.
Cornu-voice hesitated, but realised he had no choice but to reply. ‘Noster. Statius Epidius Noster.’
‘And what is your trade, Noster?’
Noster shrugged. ‘I am a farmer… was a farmer.’
‘You were chased inside these walls by the Frankish raids?’
He nodded. ‘Like so many others; I have lived in the street shacks throughout winter like a beggar.’
I arched an eyebrow, my hand still extended towards the countryside outside the city. ‘The raids have been stopped, yet your cheeks grow more gaunt and I’d wager that your belly feels hollower with every passing day.’
‘And my three daughters too – ill with hunger, they are,’ he said, his voice cracking.
‘Then tell me, Farmer, who will till and tend the lands? Who will bring crops to feed you and your girls?’
Noster’s vexed features softened just a fraction.
I turned my head slowly to address the entire crowd now: ‘The lands of Gaul are safe, from the fort at Bonna in the north to Argentorate in the south. The tribes from across the Rhenus have been halted.’ I couldn’t help but add for the time being silently, but it was true for now: my cohorts were well stationed – if thinly stretched – to cover the Rhenus frontier, and – praise Sol Invictus, Flora and the pleasant heat of spring – there were no more fears of ice fords and the like. Added to this, two more tribes – the Petulantes and the Ubii – had agreed terms like the Bructeri, and were readying to come to imperial lands in peace. Two more workforces to till the lands and potentially two fresh regiments – regiments that for once might not need to be assigned straight to the borders. Instead I now had the opportunity to build my Comitatus. ‘If you fled to this city for protection then I urge you now to go, return to your homes in the country. You will be safe. The crops you planted before you left might yet be salvageable. You will have a chance to address the stark shortage of grain before it becomes a famine.’
Not a soul replied, but I could see the defiance in their eyes gutter and fade, replaced by realisation. A fresh muttering then spread as the people asked one another if it was true, if they could return home. Not that any of them did so – at least not immediately. But a few days later when the first creaky wagons had arrived from Hisarnis’ embryonic settlement, laden with cabbages and spelt, the voices fell silent. The many gaunt faces watched this unsolicited tribute as it trundled through Treverorum’s streets, the lead Bructeri wagon driver more than a little bemused at the sea of staring eyes.
That night and for days afterwards, my people feasted on the robust but plentiful fare in open taverns around roaring hearths. I heard their chatter change: growing ever warmer and brighter like the month of May. ‘If those hairy bastard Bructeri are farming the stinking fens in the north in peace, then perhaps the land is safe?’ I heard Noster the farmer’s familiar cornu-like voice bawl one evening, the words echoing from the streets up to the open, vaulted windows of my palace chambers. In the days that followed, the crush of refugees within Treverorum’s avenues eased as streams of them headed out into the countryside to reclaim their lost homes. Messengers took word of this to all of the major Gallic cities afflicted in the same manner as Treverorum.
From the palace’s highest chambers, I watched them go and sent with them a prayer – a prayer to all the gods.
*
It was nearing the end of May when I climbed the stone stairwell in Treverorum’s northern gatehouse and emerged onto the paved roof of the fortified tower. Alone, I rested my palms on the silvery stonework of the parapet. The tower afforded me a god-like view of my realm: I could see for miles. I must admit that my spirit soared as the heralds of summer grasped my every sense: the early evening heat, the nutty scent of freshly harvested barley, the dust motes floating idly in the pastoral air. The lands themselves were a patchwork of gold and green fields, streaked with spreading orange light from the dipping sun, speckled with lowing oxen, mules and workers tending the early wheat, planted in the cold season before the Frankish troubles and now almost ready to reap. Up on that tower, far from my bickering court, distant from the hordes of Roman steel I knew I would one day have to face… I think I truly remembered what it was to be joyous. And what man could fail to rejoice when the same word hung on every set of lips – harvest!
And this was no commonplace harvest. This was the result of extraordinary endeavour and industry of my people; more, it signalled a rebirth of sorts, a rediscovery of that precious commodity – hope.
I watched the wagons – so many of them – trundling in from those fertile meadows towards the four main city gates, laden with early crops: barley, broad beans, carrots, leeks, radishes, beets, asparagus, spinach, turnips, onions, apples, gooseberries, cherries, currants and rhubarb. And as the wagons entered the city, others left, having swapped their bounty for sacks of grain and seed vegetables to sow the next batches. The fare might, might , be enough to see us through the summer and the following winter.
I heard the excited chatter of the populace down in the city streets behind me. It was all down to them, you see: for at last my subjects, worshippers of old gods and new, were working together. Why? Some might say that adversity had driven them to it, but I like to think that as their emperor, I played my part in paving the road for the farmers to return to their lands. Fittingly, it was a familiar, cornu-like voice from down on the north road that stirred me from my thoughts.
‘Hold the cart! I’ve got a stone in my boot,’ Noster the lantern-jawed giant bellowed, handing the steering pole of the small vehicle heaped with cabbages to one of his three girls. They were heading into Treverorum with the salvaged winter crop like so many others.
In the glare of the evening light, I can’t be sure, but I think he might even have looked up at the tower for a moment. Perhaps he saw me. I wondered what he might think of me now. A worthy emperor? Had I won the hearts of my people? I smiled at the thought, only for it to be tempered with the contrasting opinions of the few but powerful nobles who still saw me as a false king. Not a soul dared to whisper it, but at the gathering of my council the previous night, I had seen stark disapproval in the eyes of some. They would not be won over by the saving of the harvest. The memory was like the sting of a scorpion, robbing me of my elation. I slumped forward, putting all my weight on my palms and hanging my head. ‘Damn you,’ I cursed myself. ‘You cure one pox only to strengthen another.’
‘Domine,’ a gentle voice spoke behind me.
I turned my head to see a legionary – one of the Minervia vexillatio who garrisoned this gatehouse. He was young, lithe and with nothing but the down of youth on his narrow chin. I realised he must have been there for some time.
‘Be wary of the stonework there,’ he said, pointing at the limestone block upon which my right hand rested. I noticed how a fine trickle of dust fell from the mortar as the monolith trembled ever so slightly under my weight. Were I twice as heavy – about the size of big Batius – the battlement might have crumbled before me and sent me plunging from the tower. ‘It has been due for repair for some time.’
I stood upright and snorted. ‘Now’s as good a time as any.’
The legionary nodded briskly. ‘I’ll see it is done, Domine.’
He turned towards the staircase and descended into the tower, when the evening light glinted on something on his collar. ‘Spare me one moment,’ I said.
He halted, gulping and turning back to me, climbing back up the stairs.
‘At ease,’ I said, seeing that it was indeed another Chi-Rho amulet – silver but well tarnished – that had caught my attention. I was at once transported back to my childhood, to the storm that rocked Naissus and the one soldier – no doubt long dead by now – who had braved its wrath on the city walls.
He shuffled uncomfortably under my gaze, raising a hand gingerly as if to tuck the piece away inside his mail shirt.
‘Come now, soldier. If you truly believe you will be scorned for your faith then I have failed,’ I said, somewhat dismayed.
The lad gulped and jabbed out his tongue to dampen his lips. ‘But you are emperor, Domine. I heard that none who wear the purple approve of my god.’
I recalled again Maxentius and the Christian troubles in Rome. The thought steered me in my words. ‘My mother follows the Christ. You think I would disapprove of her?’ I said. ‘My father worshipped Mars, and so do I. And in my times on the battlefield, Sol Invictus has guided me, protected me. I am not in the practice of shunning gods, nor suppressing the faiths of others – it is a fool’s strategy.’ My mind flashed with memories of the persecution riots and the horrible torture-deaths in Nicomedia’s arena. ‘One I have seen play out in its most horrific form.’
He let his hand fall back to his side. ‘Then it is true… they say you were there, in the East, when many of my faith burned.’
My face lengthened. ‘I was. I witnessed many Romans die at the hands of other Romans.’ I saw the battle of fear and faith in his eyes. ‘The persecutions swept the East, but its flames licked at the edges of the West too, did they not?’ I asked, knowing that the quarrels I had witnessed in my time in Treverorum were but an aftermath of those days.
The legionary’s eyes moistened a little, as if stung by the salt of some distant, painful memory. ‘There were incidents,’ he said.
I wondered then if his instinctive move to hide his Chi-Rho was a behaviour learned from that time. ‘Some say the Christians’ greatest weakness is their unwillingness to fight. Many believe that no Christian will serve in the legions. Yet you stand before me with the symbol of that god over your heart and a spear in your hand. And I have seen many more of your kind within my ranks, swaddled in iron.’
He smiled at this. It was a warm, gentle smile that suggested he was no longer nervous. His eyes grew distant and he spoke wistfully: ‘Moses carried a rod and Aaron wore a buckle, and John the Baptist is girt with leather and Joshua the son of Nun leads a line of march.’ His far-off gaze sharpened upon me. ‘It is not about whether we fight… it is about how and why.’
I found his smile infectious. ‘By all the gods, soldier – yours, mine and every other – I wish the Persecutors had but a pinch of your wisdom.’ I thought of Galerius – that vile, bloated bastard. The Herdsman had so much to answer for. Yet it was he who dared to question me . I might well have put him in his place the previous winter at the Alpine passes, but as long as he remained Augustus of the East, backed by countless legions, he would pose a perpetual question over me and my station. ‘And let us thank all of the gods that those bleak days are over.’
The soldier straightened a little. ‘Domine, they are not over. Still the coals of hatred glow. In Africa, it seems that the rebel who has declared himself emperor still sends my like to the arena to be skinned, burned and sawn into pieces for his amusement. They say that in Tingis, when a Christian legionary refused to fight – by setting down his armour and sword in the parade ground and praying instead – he, his wife and his twelve sons were decapitated as punishment.’
I tried but failed to remove the look of revulsion from my face. ‘Yet there must be many others like him – Christians who will not fight?’
‘Thousands, Domine, in Africa and as many again in this part of Gaul alone,’ he replied. ‘They are wandering souls.’
‘What differs between a man like you and men like them?’ I asked, nodding to his spear.
He took a moment to think it over, then answered gently: ‘Belief, Domine. They do not believe that an earthly man can lead them. I do.’
Something about the way he held my gaze stoked the most ferocious pride within me. A pride and self-belief I had sought throughout all my years suffering accusations of illegitimacy. Despite the many times I had marched at the head of thousands of men, never, never , had I received such a personal, heartfelt acclamation.
I stepped back from the lad, leaning against a sound section of parapet and gazing into the setting sun. A silence ensued. I absently drew a gold coin from my purse and began tilting it over my knuckles, back and forth. I recalled Father’s words from his deathbed. Harnessing the army is like grappling a wolf by the ears. Only a hearty donative of gold brought them to my side.
‘Perhaps it is not always about gold, Father,’ I muttered.
‘Domine?’ the young legionary said, confused.
I looked up. ‘My thoughts escape my lips,’ I said with a shake of the head. ‘Now I will leave you to your shift.’ I met his eyes before I turned to head for the stairs. ‘Remember that I value men who will fight for me, legionary. I would never ask such a man to hide his faith.’
With that, I descended into the shadows of the stairwell, my thoughts churning. In what had been a day of swinging emotions, my mood once more darkened as I thought over the young legionary’s account of the pretender, Domitius Alexander, and his splinter African empire. Alexander had just moved sharply up my long list of enemies. The staunch efforts here in Gaul to bring in the early harvest might have lessened the threat of the African grain shortage, but Alexander’s very existence as self-proclaimed emperor of a huge tract of the West – my realm – was an affront to me. And news of the festering remnant of the persecutions in that distant land gave the whole affair an extra, noxious edge.
For just a moment, I found myself aligning with my one-time friend, Maxentius: perhaps it would be best for all if he could topple Alexander from his stolen throne. After all, that would solve the long-term grain crisis, for when he had previously called Africa his own, Maxentius – despite his brazen embargoes on the trade of wool, wax, honey, gemstones and other commodities between his lands and mine – had never stopped African grain from reaching my lands.
And if Alexander fell… it would mean only Maxentius himself remained as a false emperor in my dominion. Just one last foe between me and a unification of the West?
In the space of those few heartbeats, all thoughts of gods and virtue were banished from my mind.