There are times when the most important concerns of empire become as insignificant as a frosty breath in a sea of fog. Such was the most dreadful September – the most terrible day – of my life. As with all great tragedies, it began with the mundane.
I looked down at the huge map, painted with great care on the hide of a deer and now spread flat on the table in front of us. Volusianus’ face was blank of emotion and etched with only a professional calm, something he now seemed to achieve at all times, withholding any further potential admission of guilt from me. Other than my Dux Militum, who was also my acting Praetorian Prefect, I kept no council that autumn. With Anullinus gone and Zenas still struggling to nail down the traitor Alexander in Africa, I felt unsettled in the presence of the various senators who all had their own agendas, and much as I might condemn Volusianus for what I was certain he had done, I was still heavily reliant upon his abilities and his support.
‘Show me,’ I said quietly.
Dutifully, Volusianus collected the markers and began to place them on the map. A wooden soldier with a standard representing Constantine was slid into place at Treverorum where his strength continued to grow worryingly. The black legionary that seemed wholly appropriate for Galerius stood somewhere in northern Moesia, where rumour had it that that swollen nightmare of an emperor had retreated to a private palace he was building. Daia’s ivory soldier was placed on Nicomedia, where he was busily doing his best, by all accounts, to rekindle the persecutions despite the laws against it. These were my opponents in the great game of empire. But the one that was still in Volusianus’ hand was the one that concerned me right now.
The wooden Licinius hovered over the deerskin for a moment, and then took up position at Sirmium, just a short distance from his evil master in Moesia, but – significantly – a distance towards me…
Recently, Licinius had been probing the northern periphery, making his presence felt among barbarian tribes with whom he no doubt felt quite at home. Now he had settled into a strong base in a great imperial city. But worse was yet to come.
I watched, nibbling my lower lip, as Volusianus put marker after marker on the map, each representing an army – not an individual legion, but a gathering of them. Constantine’s forces were mostly clustered on the eastern edge of his lands, where the endless hordes of Germanic peoples pressed the limit of empire as always, though now he seemed to be hiring them rather than defending against them. Galerius’ forces were spread across the East, as were those of his pet monster, Daia.
My own were largely concentrated in Africa, based on the latest news, though we had a few in northern Italia and some to the south of the peninsula.
Then came Licinius’ men. Half his forces, as I had expected, drew a line of steel and muscle along the Danubius to the north, holding back the tribes. The other half, as I had dreaded, were encamped within my territory, but I could not believe how far inside. My most important north-eastern garrisons were now his. Pola. Tergeste. Aquileia. Osopus. All places that until recently had been my solid defensive line against any threat from the East. And with my attention – and that of my officers and men – firmly centred on the ongoing disaster that was Africa, Licinius had seen and grasped an opportunity to eat away at my territory.
‘I thought you said he’d taken the outposts in Noricum and Raetia?’ I gasped, almost breathless.
In response, he placed more of Licinius’ markers on Teurnia and Anisus in Noricum and Veldidena in Raetia – once my border – this last perilously close to Constantine’s lands, which had given me constant worry. In a way it was comforting to think that Licinius – the legitimate Emperor of the West – might soon form a buffer between my old friend and I. Not that comforting, though. Along with the troubles in the south, he was beginning to enfold me like a shroud.
‘Is there any way we can realistically retake all these places?’
Volusianus pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the map, making the markers tremble as though the earth itself shook. ‘I have already dispatched near seven thousand men from the southern regions of Italia to garrison our second line at Altinum, Tarvisium, Ceneta and Laebactium. They will hold against any further incursions. There are many thousands of men in the north-west keeping an eye on Constantine’s borders, too, so they will prevent Licinius surrounding us to the north.’
‘That is not what I asked,’ I pointed out somewhat peevishly, examining the secondary cordon of defence to our north-east that looked far nearer to home than I would have liked. I wasn’t particularly sure that I preferred Constantine surrounding me to the north any more than Licinius. But, I supposed, at least there was still a chance for peace between my old friend and I. The same could not be said for Licinius.
‘“No” is the answer to your question, Domine.’ Volusianus straightened and folded his arms. ‘We have more men we can draw from the south, but they are there in order to supply a reserve against the need for such in Africa. Given the troubles Zenas seems to be encountering, I am loath to reduce his available manpower. Many of our forces are committed in the south, and those we have in the north-west cannot be moved, lest we open the door to Italia and invite Constantine to wipe his feet on our backsides before entering.’
I still couldn’t quite bring myself to believe my old friend would yet countenance invading my land, but neither was I foolish enough to disabuse Volusianus of the notion.
‘If only Zenas would manage to settle Africa, then we could concentrate on strengthening our northern borders,’ I grumbled. ‘It is not an enviable position to find oneself in: to have to scrabble about defending ourselves against an aggressor while our own lands burn in revolt.’
‘Constantine’s armies grow, also,’ Volusianus sighed, waving a hand at the concentration of markers on the Rhenus and then tucking it back into the fold of his arms again. ‘We cannot afford to concentrate on the south much longer. Zenas may not be up to the task, and if this uprising continues into the new year we will have to find a resolution, Domine, lest while we look south, your northern enemies advance right to the gates of the city unopposed.’
I nodded unhappily. He was right. I had wanted Zenas to achieve his task quickly and efficiently, but it was not happening. Whether or not the fault lay in Zenas’ poor choices or abilities or, perhaps more charitably, Domitius Alexander had proved to be more wily and stronger than any of us had expected, we could not maintain a campaign there much longer. Every day it continued to threaten the stability of my domain. At least the Christians seemed to have settled down a little now. Eusebius had apparently renounced the tax on their cultists’ return to their churches. Things seemed to be progressing relatively peacefully and, though there were still rumours of troubles, no buildings had burned or riots broken out for almost a month. Now if we could just sort out Africa…
I opened my mouth to say something to Volusianus, but paused at a feverish rapping on the chamber’s door. I frowned. No one should be interrupting us here. Two members of the Guard stood outside to prevent such a thing, and nobody in the palace had the authority to stand them down and approach, barring the man already here with me.
‘Come.’
Volusianus had also now unfolded his arms and stepped forward.
The door opened, and Phaedrus, one of the senior palace freedmen, entered with his head bowed. Behind him came a young man in a dirty, tattered green tunic, and half a dozen Praetorians. I felt nothing but confusion initially at this odd group, then Phaedrus raised his head, and my blood chilled as I caught sight of his pale, gaunt, haunted expression.
‘What is it?’
*
Ravens circled – awful black shapes against a chilling bank of grey that filled the vault of the sky from horizon to horizon.
My joy had ended. In one tumultuous event – one dreadful morning – my life had lost its purpose, its meaning, its direction and its hope.
I stood on the turf, turning a slow circle as if the tidings might change if I found the right angle from which to view them. Here, a mile and a half north of the city walls, even the poor, ramshackle suburbs had petered out, the closest building a large country villa perhaps half a mile away. The great Milvian Bridge that carried the Via Flaminia north arced out across the water, its pylons cutting the fast current of the Tiber into gleaming ribbons that rushed by with a hiss. The river curved downstream from there, around this pleasant meadow, and looped back behind me before snaking its way south and through the city.
Nothing much to see.
A few trees, some areas of undergrowth and a wide expanse of grass. Over at the road itself there were the varied intermittent shapes of the mausolea of countless Roman generations jutting up to the cheerless grey, but I couldn’t look at them. Wouldn’t look at them.
‘Here?’ I asked, rather hollowly.
‘Yes, Domine,’ said the scruffy youth, tear streaks having carved clean lines down his dirty cheeks. It had taken me a long time to recognise the boy, given the state he was in. Young Virius Gallus should have been in a toga, as presentable and austere as his noble line and civic status demanded. I had ranted at him. I had bellowed and screamed in those chambers on the Palatine. I had been so violent in my temper that he had quailed against a wall in desperation. I had even sent for a man to take his head, though Volusianus had talked me out of that, with some difficulty.
I peered around the grass. There were hoof prints everywhere. This was an area of the local countryside where men went hunting and riding every day on both banks of the river. And yet, as luck – luck? – would have it, it took mere moments for one of the Praetorians patrolling the area to pick up the track. He called to me in muted, respectful tones, and I hurried over to him.
There it was.
And now I could see the whole scene in the eye of my mind, just how young Gallus had described it.
Romulus…
I broke down for a while at the mere thought of his name. When Volusianus and one of his men helped me up from the cold turf and I shook them off with muttered nothings, I said it to myself again, a dozen times. A hundred. A thousand. Until it brought only numb horror instead of a hopeless weakening of the knees.
Romulus in his chariot, fuelled by his love of the races. He and Gallus had been re-enacting the recent magnificent win of the Blue hero Thibron over the more experienced Green, Fulvius Primus, which had had all of Rome talking.
The fresh-carved ruts in the grass told the tale in their own gruesome fashion, and with Gallus’ account in mind, I began to follow the lines. Two bigae – smaller chariots drawn by a pair of racing steeds – had contested along this stretch of grass side by side, mere feet apart. I could imagine the speed they had reached in their excitement. Here, the two had almost collided. The right-hand chariot – that of Virius Gallus – had momentarily lurched to the left, almost bumping that of his friend.
The two tracks hurtled on towards the riverbank, beyond which I could see the small engineering crew, commandeered from the strengthening of the Porta Flaminia, at work, surrounded by watchful Praetorians.
Walking slowly, like a man lost in a dream, I followed the lines as they weaved and straightened and then finally curved. I could see how it had happened. Even though there was no way from evidence on the ground alone to judge whether the two tracks had been made at the same moment, I could see that Romulus…
Another long, heart-breaking pause…
Romulus had managed to pull ahead of his friend Gallus, perhaps by even more than a length. It came as no surprise. My son was… my son had been athletic and brave. He had pulled ahead, but the extra speed had reduced the space available and he had been forced into a nightmarishly tight turn. How Gallus had avoided running straight into him was beyond me, but somehow he had. And here, where the two tracks separated properly, was the evidence that the gods had deserted me. Gallus’ tracks disappeared off to the right, away from the river. Romulus’ not quite so. I followed the ruts, noting with horror the unbroken turf in sections, where the wheels had bounced and skipped. I could imagine Romulus, now knowing that something was horribly wrong, desperately gripping the reins and holding on as the vehicle bucked and threw him this way and that. I could almost see the panic in his eyes.
I cried again for a while, then.
The turn was too sharp and had put undue stress upon the vehicle.
Through the clearing tears I could see the deep scar in the grass where the pole had broken, leaving poor Romulus in the dire position of riding a chariot no longer attached to its horses, except by the reins in his hands. An experienced rider in the circus would have tied the reins to his wrists or waist for safety, and bore a small knife to cut himself free if the worst should happen. Romulus was not an experienced circus rider. He had seen the danger and had made the wrong choice, letting go of the reins. The horses had thundered off, dragging the stump of the broken pole between them.
But Romulus in his chariot…
The vehicle was light and unstable on its twin wheels with no beasts to guide it. At best it would have tipped over forward or backwards and thrown Romulus out.
The gods had not been kind. Before the chariot had the opportunity to do either, the right-hand wheel had struck a rock. I could see the rock. I could see the score mark across it and the mud where the wheel had hit. And the whole vehicle, along with its driver, had pitched into the air, bounced twice – here, and here – and then plunged into the torrent of the Tiber.
And now I was standing at the river’s edge, my heart in tatters, watching as engineers worked feverishly from a raft they had requisitioned. The remains of the chariot were coming out of the water and there… oh, gods preserve us… there was Romulus.
I ran into the water.
I couldn’t help myself. I suspect I was crying. No, I know I was. I was bellowing my son’s name, wading into the deadly Tiber that had claimed a million lives and more in its time, my vision a blur of tears, screaming his name until I was hoarse and rasping, and then still calling for him in whispers in the hope that that pale shape in the blue tunic lying so still on the raft would sit up and wave.
Two Praetorians dragged me back out of the water. They must have been unbelievably brave to wade in after me, given the armour they bore, which could so easily pull a man to his doom in that torrent. I shouted things, but no one could hear, for my voice had rasped and cracked into nothing. I was led to a fallen tree and made to sit, where I shuddered again and again, racked with horror and loss.
At the time, I was so utterly absorbed in my grief that I had entirely forgotten about the others, but now, as I watched the macabre recovery in the water, I saw Valeria out of the corner of my eye, wandering slowly down to the water’s edge, her arms folded, and even my ice queen shivered in this cold. She stopped at the bank and I saw her shake once or twice. Then she turned, her face a marble mask of imperious solemnity as she walked away from the scene of our son’s death. Not once did she look at me. Nor, I suspect, did she look at Euna, holding the hand of our second boy, who sat, twisted and misshapen in the seat of the small, decorative pilentum carriage that habitually conveyed him any distance. At a distorted word and a jerky gesture from Aurelius, the two Numidian slaves drew the vehicle closer to the river.
The raft was nearing the bank now.
I rose from my perch. My knees failed me and I fell back. I shook for some time, in horror and grief and pain, then finally rose once more on unsteady legs, and began to close on the scene. I cannot describe the feelings that flooded me as they lifted Romulus’ alabaster body from the raft and carried it across to the litter prepared for it. I only know that I had never known such grief existed. I had never experienced anything approaching it, and I never have since. No one who has not gone through it can comprehend the pain. I have spoken to others who have lost their children and even most of them cannot see it as I did. A few, whose children were their life as Romulus was mine, clearly understood, for they had no words. They said everything that could be said with their eyes alone.
I stood and watched my boy, half expecting him to jump up and laugh at his latest misadventure, but the voice that finally insisted itself upon me came instead from behind.
‘Vaaavur.’
Aurelius had said it three times, I think, before I realised my poor, crippled second son had been speaking to me.
‘Yes, Aurelius?’
‘E own ooof. I own e ooof?’
A fresh agony ran through me and it took me some time to compose myself enough to reply to my innocent little five-year-old’s question.
‘He cannot move, Aurelius. Romulus is dead.’
There. I had said it.
A name. A condition. Two such I could never have imagined hearing together. Almost automatically, I bent and placed a coin beneath his tongue as Aurelius looked down at his brother – one of few people in the whole world who had looked after him and treated him as a human – and he wept. I had never seen Aurelius weep. Despite everything with which nature and the gods had seen fit to burden the young boy, I had never seen him cry. But, for Romulus, he mourned.
I could not. To mourn would be to accept what had happened and it would be many months before that could happen. For now, it was September in Rome, Africa was still in revolt and Licinius was eating at my borders. And my son was dead.
Romulus was gone.
And the troubles of empire could wait until I was prepared to breathe again.