I passed under the low, sturdy limestone walls of Colonia Agrippina’s eastern gatehouse, two Cornuti escorting me, leaving the jumble of red-roofed temples, palaces, workshops and houses and the pall of yellow-grey smoke behind. Outside lay the edge of the empire, demarcated by the mighty Rhenus.
It was a cool, overcast day and the water’s edge was alive with activity: saws rasped, hammers tapped and chisels chattered as men of the Primigenia legion fashioned timber from the plentiful woods of this region. The fresh, sharp scent of pine and cut wood mixed with the rich aroma of the stews and breads being prepared nearby to keep them nourished and encouraged. I made my way through their midst, the ground growing damp and spongy underfoot as I came to the western bank. The shallows too were packed with men standing knee-deep in the water; further out, anchored galleys of the Classis Germanica and a panoply of rafts rocked and swayed against the Rhenus’ fierce and foaming currents.
‘Heave!’ a booming voice cried from the shallows. Spume-soaked marines groaned under the strain as they hauled at ropes to hoist a titanic shaft of fir from the riverside using a web of hooks and pulleys. The timber, hewn of its bark and fashioned to a flat surface on one side, rose with a ghostly groan under its own weight until it was upright. Then, very slowly, they fed the ropes through their hands and lowered the beam like a drawbridge, out over the water. It dipped until it came within arm’s reach of the nearest of the nineteen identical oblong piers that jutted from the furious river like the fins of defiant water demons – cutwaters pointing upstream to break the river’s unending assault.
Ten men were clustered atop that nearest pier; they threw up their hands to take hold of the lowered beam and tossed ropes over the end, guiding the timber towards its place on a groove carved into the edge of the pier. The leader of the ten held one hand up to instruct those on the banks to maintain their control over the wood’s weight. I smiled the driest of smiles, for he looked like the many brave generals and princes I had stood with on the battlefields, ready to give the signal to attack. But today, there would be no battle. Today, I would take the first steps in the final part of my plan to secure the Rhenus frontier… utterly and forever.
His hand dropped. The tension in the ropes eased. The clunk of the wood slotting into position was most satisfying. The first plank had been laid and already the next was being hoisted. The Franks were loath to admit their admiration of the imperial roads, but they would soon marvel at the wonder of my bridge – a bridge that would be firmly under imperial control. Now it was not I who would fear their advance, but they mine.
An odd thing happened then. I noticed something among the activity: not something moving or making some clamour as you might think, but something that stood out for its inertia and silence. A figure. He was a mere onlooker, near the water’s edge but standing back from the works. I couldn’t see his face, for he wore a wide-brimmed hat that cast his features in shade, and his rustic, full-length grey cloak was wrapped around his body in a way that gave no clue as to his station, occupation, ethnicity or even gender. And when a man has a shadow for a face, none but he alone knows upon what his gaze rests. But I was sure… I was certain, that he was staring at me.
The spell was only broken when a voice cooed from behind me. ‘So this bridge of yours… this is what mistress Fausta derides?’
I swung round. There, shuffling onto the damp silt of the western bank towards me, came old Lactantius, his cane sinking into the wet ground as if to defy him as he picked his way through the squads of workers. I glanced back to the bridge-works. The shadow-man was gone. An odd shiver danced across the nape of my neck; I have learned to trust such misgivings now – and only providence spared me from my ignorance that day. ‘Mistress?’ I said with a mischievously arched eyebrow as Lactantius shuffled up beside me. ‘Indeed, and a savage one at that.’
‘You could have had this monstrosity finished by now,’ he tutted, still angered by the muddy banking that sucked at his sandals and muddied the hem of his robe, then glanced upriver to a narrower, calmer section of water. It was true: I had chosen a particularly fierce part of the Rhenus to erect my bridge – over five hundred paces of thrashing rapids wide.
‘Old friend, your mind and mine are cast from different moulds. If I merely wanted to cross this river then a pontoon boat-bridge would have taken just days to organise. But I want to conquer this river.’ I shook a fist as I said this, and saw Lactantius’ disapproving look. But the old man had stood in session with the imperial court often enough to know that this waterway had been a bane of the empire for countless generations. ‘What use is a border if you do not control it?’
‘What use is a border when you do not intend to stop there?’ he shot back immediately, prodding his cane to the far banks. On the raised banking beyond the waterline there, the old, ruined imperial frontier fort – no more than a tumble of bricks and rotting wood, was awash with Primigenia legionaries working tirelessly to dismantle the tumbledown structure in preparation for the construction that would complement the bridge. A thick line of three centuries of fully armoured comrades formed a perimeter around them, watching the eastern woods for any sign of activity. The Franks had not dared interrupt my works so far… but then they had a habit of surprising me.
‘Divitia was once an imperial bridgehead, and so it will be again,’ I replied a little tersely. The tink-tink of stonemasons’ tools echoed across the water as if to strengthen my retort, as new, vast blocks brought downriver from the Alpes region were shaped for the fortress I had personally designed. Thick, rounded and protruding towers and even sturdier walls, I mouthed. As with every time I thought of such matters, my mind was cast back to my youth and that day I had first met with Maxentius – the boy with the city of wooden blocks… a city with feeble walls. My smile faded, and I don’t know why, but I turned my attention back to Lactantius. ‘With the new Divitia fortress, the Rhenus will be a strong border – an asset instead of a liability. With an impregnable foothold on the eastern banks, the tribes will not be so quick to foray west and leave their homes unguarded – and then we can afford to reduce the garrisons on the riverbank elsewhere.’ And put them to good use in building my Comitatus, I added privately.
‘Armilustrium is but six days away,’ Lactantius scoffed, ‘yet you have your soldiers scurrying to and fro, as active as they would be in the height of campaigning season.’
‘You, the first of Christians, fear the wrath of Mars if we do not store our weapons in his honour and in time for the winter?’ I said, this time with a devious grin.
‘Mars? I, no… gah!’ He flapped a hand at me. ‘I think I understand Fausta’s frustrations with you and your obsession.’
‘Every man needs one, does he not? You with your god, me and my bridge?’ I laughed and looked up to the grey, late afternoon sky, then scooped an arm around his shoulder and steered him back towards the gates of Agrippina. ‘Come, now, let us retire to our quarters, where solid ground and dry shoes await.’
As we walked, I felt that cold, tingling shiver on the back of my neck again, like the winter fingers of a shade stroking my skin.
I was being watched.
*
The fire snapped and crackled, bathing me in warmth as I sat alone by the hearth in Agrippina’s imperial villa, the ascetic whitewashed walls uplit by the dancing shadows and the night outside bathed in pale moonlight. I smoothed a hand across the breast of my fresh green linen tunic and stretched my legs, my aching muscles soothed by the heat. I took a long drink of tart and delicious wine. The heady drink and the delicious loaf of fresh, still-warm bread on the small table by my side did a fine job of massaging the incessant chatter out of my mind. The precarious harvests back in central Gaul, the new tribal regiments and my hopes for their ongoing loyalty, and most of all, the great game of empire. Another mouthful of wine ensued. One by one, the thoughts slipped away – even the odd memory of that shadowy figure by the bridge-works on the river earlier in the day.
‘I’ll have your damned head next time,’ I muttered, wishing I had acted upon instinct. For a moment I felt the spark of anger that comes before battle… then I erupted in laughter, putting the wine cup down and nudging it away. ‘Fausta is right. Fausta is always right. Only a fool sits and drinks cup after cup of poison.’
Silence reigned bar the crackle of the fire. Then, the oddest sense that once again, I wasn’t alone. I turned my head ever so slowly, feeling my skin creep. There, in the blackness of the doorway to the hearth room, was a figure – a shadow – loping towards me. Instinct harnessed my weary body and I leapt from the chair, swinging to face the intruder fully, fists clenched, lungs full, ready to shout for my Cornuti bodyguards. The call never came, the breath spilling back out of my lips as a manic and mirthless, chattering laugh. ‘By all the gods, Batius!’ I roared as the firelight betrayed the figure as none other than my ox-like comrade.
‘A pair of shoes—’ I gasped, seeing his bare and silent feet ‘—a knock upon the door—’ I gestured to the entrance through which he had come, then threw my hands up in the air ‘—a shout… a belch, would have served as a nice warning that you were here.’
Batius scowled and looked at his bare feet balefully. ‘Shoes? Nah – dropped a bloody axe on my foot today. Blunt side mind you,’ he mused, then shook his head and affixed me with an urgent look.
Now this was the Batius I knew, and this was a look of his I could not mistake. ‘Batius?’ I said, then saw the message scroll he carried. ‘Something has developed?’ At once the faces from the fire reappeared in my mind. ‘Licinius has struck out north?’ I guessed.
Batius shook his head and handed the scroll over. ‘This is not a military matter, Domine.’
As I took it, Batius pressed a hand to my shoulder. ‘A messenger from Rome brought it in and he gave me the gist of its contents.’
‘From Rome?’ I said, my voice faint.
Batius drew in a weary breath. ‘Aye. And I feel it would be best read alone. I will be downstairs with the guards.’
I barely noticed him leaving, for my eyes were fixed upon the seal – an unmistakeable image: the Goddess Roma, seated in her temple, spear and crested war-helm jutting imperiously. The seal of…
Maxentius?
How long was it since we had last communicated? Too long, my mind replied instantly. So many moons of nothing but ruminations over where our friendship had foundered. So many times when I had gloried at his reported troubles and failures. I felt shame then, and for the first time in an age, wished things had not gone so wrong between us.
I broke the red wax disc and unfurled the scroll. My mouth grew dry as I read and recognised his way with words, his modesty, his gentle manner.
I trust life in the north treats you and my sister well? How is young Crispus? Have you taught him how to ride? I often think of big Batius too, and how he must be enjoying the winters there, for he was always complaining about the heat in Antioch!
He asked of old Lactantius and my mother too. This was the Maxentius of old. Not at all like the clipped, cold missives I had received in the days after Carnuntum. It felt as if… as if something had changed.
And by all the gods it had.
I came to the line that made sense of Batius’ recommendation that I read it alone. My heart slowed and my eyes widened as I read it again and again and I swear I felt the icy water of the Rhenus enter my veins.
Times here in Rome have become darker than I could ever have imagined. I speak not of the city or the empire, but of the soul closest to my heart. Romulus, my dear, sweet boy, has perished. He lived the life of a thousand heroes, but his death has condemned me to a life more bleak than all the great tragedies combined. I thought it only fair to reach out to you, old friend, you whom he once thought of as an uncle. I will never forget that day in Nicomedia when you and I rescued him from the silo fire. Gods, if only I could have saved him this time too…
I noticed the darker spots on the scroll. Rainwater from the messenger’s journey, I told myself, knowing they were in truth my old friend’s dried tears. My throat tightened as I thought back to those days in Nicomedia. Young Romulus had been almost ever-present at my chambers. The affable lad had helped Minervina during her pregnancy, entertaining her with childish games and stories, all the while eager to see Crispus come into the world. I had taught him how to ride at the city stables. He had been a genial youth indeed, unspoilt yet by the black things in life.
I flopped unconsciously back into my seat, dropping the letter and gazing into the dying fire again, thinking of the riots in Nicomedia that day and Romulus trapped in a blazing grain silo. Maxentius and I – presently so set upon quarrel – had acted in union and without hesitation. We braved the flames, we conquered them… we saved little Romulus. Yes, I had been bitter for a time about it all; for that very day, Minervina had perished giving birth to Crispus, and I had not been by her side because of the riots and the fires. But time had brought me to realise that even if I had been with her, I could not have saved her. It made me wonder if anything I had ever done really mattered. Minervina was gone. And now Maxentius was my enemy, or so the game of empire had dictated. Now Romulus was dead…
I stood, as if to fend off the stinging sensation behind my eyes. I strode to the balcony doors, sweeping them open to walk onto the veranda and lean against the thick, cold grey stone balustrade. From there I could smell the crisp night air, tinged with woodsmoke and the scent of autumn bloom from the courtyard and gardens three storeys below. And I could see across the moonlit, red rooftops of Agrippina: smoke meandered from the chimneys of hundreds of homes, taverns glowed orange, and sentries glinted like argentine shards on the walls. Beyond lay the river. The mighty river, with the reflection of the crescent, waxing moon dancing on its surface like a sharpened sickle. The skeletal outline of my bridge-works was less than impressive in the low light, and in any case, my attentions were on the waters. I could not help but feel Maxentius’ pain. In my mind’s eye I imagined little Crispus falling into the Rhenus and almost sobbed at the idea of my boy meeting a fate such as Romulus’. I let my head loll forward to compose myself.
‘Our choices, our rash words, our pride-fuelled ignorance,’ I whispered into the night, ‘pales to nothing in the harsh light of a young one lost. What world have we created, old friend, a world where we have refused to sit together since the fires of Nicomedia? Were we not allies back then, united in our loathing of Galerius?’
I wondered what Maxentius’ response might be, were he there to give it. Yet once more I could hear nothing but the crackling, dying fire behind me.
And… the faintest sound. A hissing. A drawing of breath.
Right behind me.
Not Batius.
I spun on my heel just as a short, silver, leaf-shaped blade shot through the space I had been occupying, penetrating what would have been my kidneys. There was a minute hiatus where I stared into the shadow-face of the intruder. The wide-brimmed hat; the long, grey robe. I saw but a streak of yellow as a mouth within the shadow, contorted into a snarl, and the silver blade came up for my gut. I slammed a forearm down blocking the strike – sending the blade clattering across the balcony floor where it came to rest somewhere within the shadows.
In reply, the foe bashed both palms against my shoulders, barging me back onto the balustrade. I fell back across the coping stone, arms and legs flailing to balance, then he turned one shoulder to me and rammed it into my raised thigh, toppling me over the edge completely. I cried out, knowing I had no purchase to halt my fall. Time slowed. I clawed uselessly at the night air, sensing the long fall and the cold, hard flagstones below upon which I would surely dash out my brains. I saw only a flurry of movement and torchlight on the balcony as it slipped from my eye line – movement accompanied by a sudden series of barking shouts. Then I plummeted.
Just as I had all but accepted my fate, a ham-like hand grasped my flailing forearm. My shoulder jarred as my fall was halted and I swung against the outside of the balustrade. I looked up, seeing a Cornuti soldier and, on the end of the meaty hand, Batius, his eyes wide.
‘Domine,’ he grunted as he hauled me back over the balustrade and onto the safety of the balcony floor.
Gasping, I looked around, seeing another Cornuti drawing his sword from the chest of the supine shadow-man. Blood and air escaped the would-be assassin’s mortal wound with a hiss, and an oddly incongruous gentle sigh came from the fellow’s lips as he expired. The wide-brimmed hat rolled free of his face; he was an ageing man, face lined and pitted with the scars of some pox. He had green eyes and a cruel mouth – albeit locked in a death grimace.
As the Cornuti wiped his sword on a rag, I stood, looking the dead assassin over and over. ‘Who is he?’ I asked. The Cornuti who had killed him held out his hands.
‘I have never seen this one, Domine,’ he said. ‘Not within this city.’
The other Cornuti agreed.
Batius, however, looked upon the corpse with a lengthening expression, sadness in his eyes. ‘It is him,’ the big man said, his voice laced with despair.
‘Him?’ I asked.
Batius looked me in the eye. ‘It is the messenger. The messenger from Rome.’