I sat in the imperial box at the Circus Maximus, watching the chariots thunder around the Tiber turn, narrowly avoiding the wreckage of two vehicles that had collided three laps back and had been dragged to the side but not yet fully removed. The Greens were ascendant, and there was little chance they would lose this race now.
I cared not.
Every time a chariot reached either curved end of the track and careened into the turn, I saw Romulus in the vehicle, his eyes wide with panic as he lost control. Six laps had passed and, even allowing for the various losses that had left us at this last stage with only three remaining racers, I must have seen Romulus die more than fifty times in this past hour. I couldn’t smile or cheer. I couldn’t take any joy in the race. But neither could I cry, for I was a desiccated, dry husk of a father. Over the past month I had cried until finally not a drop of moisture could pass through my eyes. They felt dry as old parchment and my face ached all the time.
I cared not.
My world had ended that day by the Tiber and I was now a ghost – at best a shadow of myself.
I felt something drip on my foot and I looked down in surprise, missing a spectacular collision as the last Blue rider met with the stone of the spina in a disastrous crash. Small droplets of blood spattered my sandal and the bare foot within. I looked at my hand, white and strained as it clutched something I’d forgotten I was holding. I opened my palm and there was one of my new freshly minted sestertii, clutched so tight that it had cut into my hand in two places and my palm was bleeding. Romulus looked older on the metal disc than I remembered, but then in my mind he had always been a small boy. This Romulus on the coin was a young man. Had I missed him growing up somehow, or had I deliberately ignored it? I would never see him mature. I…
I turned the coin over hurriedly. I couldn’t ponder too long on the face, with no tears left to cry. The reverse was no consolation, since it showed my precious son’s mausoleum.
My gaze rose from the coin, past the last straight of the race, over the crowd filling the seats on the curved end. Off to the south-east, beyond the circus, I could just see the roofs of the great public baths built by the despised Caracalla, spirals of smoke rising into the grey sky above. And between those curling, ethereal columns, in the distance and past the great gate that my engineers had raised with the defences, I knew there lay the Via Appia, though it was not quite visible from here. On that road, three miles from where I sat, lay my new villa, almost complete. And beside the great road, at the edge of the estate, stood the great heavy drum of the mausoleum I had constructed, planned for myself and to house my dynasty like those great tombs of Augustus and Hadrianus. There would be no dynasty. The tomb would only ever contain Romulus, his brother, and myself. And my beautiful, lively boy was the first to inhabit it, not me.
My eyes dropped once more to the coin in my hand and the image of that very mausoleum. I dropped the coin as though discarding it would allow me to shed some of the sorrow. I reached into the small purse at my side and drew out another. The same design. I threw it away. A third. Another design, but still Romulus. I rid myself. Another. Romulus. Discard. Another. Romulus. Discard.
How many coins had I minted that every one I picked up bore my son’s face?
Rome was full of him.
The temple to the Penates in the forum that he had loved had been rededicated to my son on the orders of Volusianus. He thought to please me with the gesture, but now I could not look at the forum without flinching. And Fortunatianus, the governor of Sardinia, had paid for and dedicated a colossal statue to my boy below the Capitol and close to the senate house. So now I couldn’t look at the Capitol without wincing.
One of the Praetorians on guard in the box hurried over to gather up the coins for me and I lifted a snarl to him.
‘Leave them!’
The soldier recoiled and took up his post once more, pale-faced and trembling.
I cared not.
The race ended to thunderous applause and great clamour. The Greens secured their place. Already I could see at the carceres the circus staff beginning preparations for the second race. Could I make it through another race? Every turn was a fresh hell for me, and there were twenty-four races scheduled for the day. Eight drivers in each race. Seven laps. Two curves. I would watch Romulus die over a thousand times today.
Could I do it?
I had almost declined to attend altogether, but Volusianus had persuaded me. They were, after all, Romulus’ funeral games. The races were in his honour; in his memory; in very poor taste, to my mind. But he would have loved them, and in his honour I would make it through as many as I could before I crumbled to dust and blew away in a breath of grief.
In the distance I could hear the crowd at the great amphitheatre yelling wildly at the fights and beast hunts there. Rome mourned in its usual way, with lakes of blood and sporting wagers.
I cared not.
Romulus would have loved this race.
If only he were here…
I glanced across at Valeria. She never went anywhere with me anymore. We had not spoken civilly in years. We lived a sham of a marriage, tied together against our will, and had done for almost all our joined lives. But today she was in the imperial box with me. For Romulus. It struck me as odd that she seemed to care more now that he had gone than she ever had while he’d lived. Her face had lost the ubiquitous sneer of haughty ire to be replaced by a blank visage, like an unpainted marble bust.
I had not known she was capable of grief.
Had I not been wallowing so deep in my own, I might have actually felt for her.
The seat that lay between us was empty, with just Romulus’ circlet of bronze on a purple cushion. Was he here in spirit? He would have so loved to be here.
‘I shall build you a circus,’ I whispered under my breath to the shade of my son. Valeria flicked a look at me, then returned her cold gaze to the track.
‘I shall build a circus as grand as this at the villa, beside your tomb so that you can watch every race. And I shall hold games every year on your naming day, and races whenever I am there, and you can watch them with me from your mausoleum.’
Because that I cared about.
*
That night, the busy day of games done, I sat in my private retreat, the Palatine library, staring into the room’s darkest corner in my latest fit of hollow anguish. A hiss drew my attention to the brazier that kept the room warm as a large piece of charcoal released a breath and settled. Flames. I remembered again that day in Nicomedia – the burning granary from which Constantine and I had saved Romulus.
Glorious days, in retrospect, despite the evils of the time, for my boy had still lived and my old friend and I had shared a closeness that had somehow in so few years become a gulf the size of an ocean, rolling between us.
Odd that I was thinking of Constantine at that moment – a prescient thing perhaps, for there came three gentle raps on the door before it opened – a sign that Volusianus had arrived.
I turned to see my only remaining close advisor fully clothed against the late autumn weather. Even though the business of state seemed now such a pointless thing to me, I couldn’t help but think that he finally brought news of Africa. Had Alexander fallen? Had Zenas? Were we a reunited domain at last?
Whatever it was, the news did not appear to be good. Volusianus’ face was dark.
‘What is it? Africa?’
He shook his head. ‘The messenger has returned from Germania.’
I felt a tiny flicker in my heart. An ember of life remained, apparently. I had managed, even in my sea of grief, to pen a letter to my old friend. With the icy wall between Valeria and I, I’d concluded that only Constantine might understand what I was going through, and despite all that had happened, he remained the man who had saved Romulus from the fire. Though the world would never be good again, perhaps Constantine and I could still be reconciled. Just that one weak ray of light might come out of this great tragedy. ‘Constantine?’ I said. ‘He has replied? I wondered if he might come in person.’
Volusianus’ face remained immobile. ‘The messenger returned in a box, Maxentius.’
Maxentius? Not majesty, or imperator, or domine, but just a name. At other times I might have exploded with rage. But I was too drained to feel anything these days.
‘What happened?’
‘The messenger failed.’
I frowned. How could a messenger fail?
‘You’ve lost me, Volusianus. Did Constantine read my message? Did he reply?’
The prefect rolled his eyes and folded his arms. ‘Will you forget the letter? It was the real message that failed.’
‘Will you speak plainly, Volusianus. I am too tired for your riddles.’
‘Clemens failed. His blade was sent back in the same box, snapped off at the hilt.’
I frowned still for a moment, and then realisation struck me and my eyes widened.
‘His blade ? Why would the messenger carry a blade into… no! Surely not?’ My eyes searched Volusianus for some sign I had assumed wrongly. They found none. ‘You tried to have Constantine killed ?’
‘Of course,’ sighed Volusianus. ‘Was that not the whole purpose of your letter?’
I stared in disbelief. ‘My letter was to inform an old friend of Romulus’ death, and instead you take one tragedy and try to use it to forge another?’ My heart was pounding with a heady mix of ire and fear, such as I had felt that day I chased Severus’ forces over the causeway at Septem Balnea. But this was no battle. This was…
‘Your enemy’s death would be a blessing, Domine, not a tragedy.’
I almost exploded, such was my incredulity and my fury.
‘How dare you use my correspondence to conceal your clandestine activities? How dare you try and take the life of my old friend without my permission? I am incensed! I am…’
‘Permission?’ snorted Volusianus. ‘Domine, I sought your permission the only way I could. Do you not recall me asking if I should send Clemens , since he would likely make it into Constantine’s presence?’
‘Well, yes…’
‘Clemens , Domine. The master of the frumentarii. If the point had just been a letter we could have sent a courier, not a killer.’
I boggled. Clemens was a killer, trained and by trade. He was just such an important one that I often forgot that and saw him instead as an officer, advisor and administrator. Why had we sent the head of the imperial spies and assassins with the letter if not to kill my old friend? Simply: I had not realised I had agreed to it. Volusianus had been subtle and circumspect in the matter, for it would not do for an emperor to order an assassination. It would ruin my reputation, and so Volusianus thought he had secured my consent without a direct approval. I had been so lost in my grief I had not noticed.
‘We must send another message,’ I hissed.
‘Yes. With a swifter knife,’ added Volusianus.
I growled quietly. ‘Not another killer. Another letter . Explaining that the last visitor was a mistake and should not have happened. An apology, even.’
‘Domine, that would be foolish and pointless.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘Foolish because while you cling to this fallacy that Constantine is your friend and that somehow the gods will make everything right between you; that time has long passed. There is no reconciliation in your future. There can only be a reckoning, and one of you will not walk away from that confrontation. Foolish because if a single blade in the night can end Constantine then we might be able to avoid a vast war of territory and imperium that will tear the West apart and leave the whole empire as carrion to be picked over by Galerius and his pets. Foolish because we should not apologise for an act of war, because we are at war with Constantine, no matter what you think. The first battle has not been fought yet, but we are at war.’
I shook my head. It couldn’t be true. Constantine would never come for me, and despite the gulf between us, I would never go for him. There would be another solution. There had to be.
‘And pointless, Domine, because Constantine would not accept an apology. He would not believe it, or would twist it into some oath of subordination. We have struck at him, and he will not shake your hand after that. Pointless because we were just lucky enough to get our assassin to him before he got around to sending one for you. Pointless because Clemens will not be the last man I send. I would send the whole of the frumentarii if I thought it might save us a war.’
‘He will reconcile. I know it.’
‘No, Domine, he won’t. And soon Licinius will forge further west, either for Constantine or for you. And looking at his troop dispositions and gains in north-eastern Italia, the clever money is on you as his target. Only with a combined West can any man hope to defeat an invasion from the East. With our army and Constantine’s new German regiments together, we could defeat Licinius. But Constantine will never join us to fight our enemy, for you and he claim the same imperium. Licinius can only be beaten if either you or Constantine alone control all the military power of the West, and it is my job to make sure that it is you who achieves that, not him.’
‘I will not be party to assassinations.’
‘No, Domine. You won’t. For I shall not ask permission next time.’
I stared at the man. How did he believe he had the authority for such a thing? Had I still any doubt that Volusianus had been the man who wielded the blade against my other advisor in that bathhouse, it would have melted away now. If my Dux Militum could blithely decide to kill my oldest friend, then how difficult would it have been for him to remove a personal opponent? If I had not needed him so much, his head would have rolled away many times by now. In the end I simply glared in silence, and finally, after a dangerous pause, Volusianus bowed and retreated from the room, closing the door.
How had it come to this?
Somehow this room now felt tainted, as though it held assassins and murderers in the shadowed corners. Suppressing a shiver, I left the library. Volusianus had gone and the corridors were empty, even of slaves and guards. I felt alone. Totally alone.
I wandered for some time, calling in to see my poor boy Aurelius. He was my son and I loved him, even though he could never be Romulus. He would grow older yet, but the best physicians in Rome were all agreed that in his condition he would be lucky to live to manhood, and would certainly perish soon after if he did. And he would never address the senate. And he would never marry and sire me a grandson. I loved him, but even from the beginning I had hardened myself – prepared myself for the inevitable day that I would lose him. His presence, sleeping curled up in his room, stoked another tiny ember in my heart. Would such a tiny glow in such a dark place allow me to go on, I wondered? Would that I had the strength of spirit these Christians seemed to have, then I might be able to face my loss with less pain. Perhaps they are stronger than us in the end.
Sometime later I found myself approaching Romulus’ room and I almost turned away. I only went there when I felt strong enough, which was rarely the case. But for some reason there was a flicker of light coming from his room. I felt my heart leap with joy and hope for a moment, but I stamped down on it, forcing that false hope away. My boy was gone and there was no changing that.
I padded softly down the corridor and turned into the doorway.
Valeria stood in the centre of the room, an oil lamp in her hand. She had her back to me, and arrayed on the floor before her were Romulus’ favourite toys.
‘Valeria?’
I said it softly, soothingly.
She turned, that marble mask of cold dispassion still on her face, and without acknowledging my presence she walked past me and away from the chamber, leaving me standing in the darkness in our son’s room amid his toys.
And I discovered then that my well of tears had not run dry after all.