I turned over one of the newly minted copper coins in my cold, stiff fingers, flipping it again and again, reading each face repeatedly as if they were new to me every time.
My father’s profile looked more stately and calm than ever it had in life, veiled and with a crown of laurels. It was a generous likeness, for sure, but it was still most certainly him – as he had been at his height, not bitter and wicked, bloated and worm-ridden in a Gaulish cellar.
Divo Maximiano Optimo Imperatori .
Despite my deification of the old man in the temple and minting coins in remembrance, and despite my generally unexpected care of his memory, that was still a laughable phrase. Divine Maximian, best of emperors . As if any of this current flock who claimed the throne around the empire could claim such a title, myself included. Sitting in the tablinum in the late winter’s cold sunshine, surrounded by the busts of the greatest men of Rome’s thousand years – Augustus, Trajan, Vespasian, Marcus Aurelius – I could hardly compare any living Roman to the heroes of old. But propriety is what it is, and Maximian had in the end done more good for the empire than harm – not for family and friends, but for the state – and so he did not deserve to disappear into the endless night unsung. I had granted him the traditional honours of an emperor.
The coin’s reverse flashed in the sunlight – an image of an eagle with spread wings and the simple legend Memoriae Aeternae – to his eternal memory. I wondered if people a hundred years hence would even know his name. But then, would they know mine? I was maudlin, I admit, and it was not just the fault of the coins or the death of my father.
Volusianus cleared his throat to remind me he was there and I looked up with expressionless eyes at the man I had elevated to the consulate in the coming month for his achievements. He had not yet laid down the control of the Praetorians and, though he would have to, I felt certain he would be best suited remaining in that post.
‘It’s fine,’ I said, tossing the coin to him. His arms unfolded in an instant and his hand shot out, grasping the coin mid-flight.
‘It is incendiary,’ he corrected, without thought to address me with an honorific. He sounded oddly disapproving of the coin, considering his belligerent stance on my old friend. ‘Constantine might well take it as a slight, you realise?’
‘Let him,’ I grunted. I didn’t particularly intend to rile my old friend with the commemoration of the man he had killed, but I was damn well not going to condemn my father just to preserve the fragile peace. After all, Constantine wouldn’t come for me – I knew that still, despite Volusianus’ constant muttering to the contrary. No, my old friend would be quietly offended off in his western eyrie, and our uncomfortable status quo would go on, for while neither of us enjoyed this situation, neither of us could countenance declaring war on the other.
‘Miltiades is waiting for you in the garden,’ Volusianus said quietly.
Wonderful. As if I’d not suffered enough advice and coddling from Volusianus. As I stared off into steely sunlight, my Praetorian Prefect made to leave, but paused at the door and then crossed the room once more, kneeling in front of me. His face was such an uncharacteristic picture of concern it rather took me aback.
‘Why honour your father? He is hardly deserving and you know it. And while it irks me to counsel any course that might satisfy Constantine, I cannot agree with the deification of that old snake.’
I sagged slightly. ‘Do you know how much strength hate requires, Volusianus? I just don’t have the energy to hate the man, and without hate I am left with acceptance. I’ve not had more than a fingernail’s worth of strength or energy since the day…’
Since the day Romulus died. That was not quite true, of course. I had returned to Rome from Africa full of fresh purpose, sure I could take on the yoke of leadership once more, but without Romulus to return to, it had fallen somewhat flat, and without the distraction of a military campaign on which to concentrate, I had quickly slid once more into gloom.
‘Why do you insist on staying in this place?’ Volusianus muttered. ‘It is not healthy. You have the palace of generations of emperors on the Palatine, and a new villa of unsurpassed quality on the Via Appia, yet you wallow in this haunted townhouse like a mourner. It is not right. It’s not good for you, Domine.’
There – an honorific at last. Perhaps fearing to bring to my attention the scene of his crime, for in this very house one of my closest advisors had killed the other. I began to grit my teeth at the memory, my ire rising to eclipse my shroud of despondency. I forced the anger back down and after a hundred heartbeats without an answer, Volusianus sighed and rose, backing away with a bow and leaving the room.
I sat in silence for some time. I stayed in this house because Miltiades had suggested it, and like almost everything the African said it seemed like a good idea when spilled through his lips. This house, at the foot of the Palatine, across from the greatest temple in the world and the amphitheatre of the Flavians, had belonged to Anullinus, and I’d still not let the place go.
Well, I was here because of Miltiades’ advice, and I could not leave him standing in the small perfect garden all day, could I? I rose, nodding my respect to the busts of great men I had had brought from the palace to keep me company in my solitude, and made my way out into the December chill, pulling my toga tighter around myself.
Miltiades was standing there next to the small fountain, watching the play of water, shivering badly. Rome in winter was a far cry from his familiar Africa. He looked up as I approached, and bowed his head respectfully.
‘Domine.’
‘Miltiades. What brings you here?’
‘You have been curiously absent from public life for two days, Imperator. I fear for your disposition when that happens.’
I had been absent. Not ‘curiously’, though, I would have said. Quite expectedly, in fact. I had had my heart torn out by the loss of Romulus, lived in a constant state of uncertainty as to whether I could even open myself to Valeria, suffered a brief respite while concentrating on the downfall of Alexander, only to entirely miss the golden opportunity for catharsis the auspex had told me to expect, and then returned to a troubled city. As for my disposition…
I laughed with no humour at all. ‘What would you have me do? I attend to the business of state. Young Aurelius is off by the sea with his tutor, Romulus is… gone. Valeria might as well be. Social occasions are hardly leaping out at me.’
Miltiades stepped directly in front of me, eyes narrowed as he peered into my face.
‘You have been in this house ten days now. How does it make you feel?’
‘Cold,’ I shivered, pulling my toga even tighter.
‘You dissemble, Domine. Talk to me. How does this building make you feel?’
I frowned and folded my arms, remembering my rising ire back in the office. ‘Mostly angry,’ I replied simply. ‘At Anullinus for leaving me when I still needed his help. At Volusianus for being the man who dispatched him, and for being too valuable to me to punish. At a world where I am not allowed two advisors who can work together.’
‘Good.’
‘Good?’
‘Yes.’ The African smiled indulgently. ‘You have spent far too long feeling morose and put upon, sad and hollow. These are negative emotions that can only do you harm. But there are, strangely, negative emotions that can do you good. Anger is one. Fear is another. Frustration, too. These are emotions that are generally caused by evil, but which spur a man into action rather than driving him to solitude. And that is what you need, Domine. All those who know you of old tell me that you were a young man of spirit and of optimism. That you dreamed of building and restoring. That the very reason you agreed to take on the purple robe in this city was to put right a floundering world in which the Roman people suffered. Now they no longer do so because of the work you have done on their behalf. But suffering moves from heart to heart like a canker, and in healing the city and its people, you have taken on their pain and their sadness. Now it is time for you to let that go.’
‘But how can I?’ It seemed an impossible task.
‘Give your suffering to me, Domine. I can take it.’
I shook my head, not so much to say no, as to try and clear it of the endless conflicts it seemed to contain. Miltiades gave me an oddly knowing smile.
‘You came to stay in this place when I suggested it, and in doing so left your villa and the tomb of Romulus. I am sure I do not need to remind you that you used to break down even upon losing sight of that mausoleum. Now for ten days you have not seen it, and yet you have not run back. You are beginning to accept things, and with acceptance comes ease. Now revel in the anger you feel in this place. Anything that overwhelms the sadness and the urge to retreat into a shell.’
‘But I still have no one to turn to. No one but you , I mean,’ I added with an odd pang of guilt.
‘Go to your wife.’
‘My wife ?’ I said, startled. ‘That will hardly ease my suffering.’
‘Do not underestimate the human heart, Domine. You have suffered long and hard, but you must remember that the lady Valeria has suffered also. She has lost a son and now, if word is to be believed, she is in danger of losing a father. And she cannot turn to her husband, for there is a chasm between you. One of you must build the bridge, and you, Domine, are the builder, are you not?’
I blinked. As I mentioned before, everything that passed this man’s lips seemed like a good idea. It was partially why I kept him close. Unlike most of the Christians I had come across, who seemed determined to suffer endlessly for their cult, Miltiades seemed filled with the need to build, grow and support, and that was something sadly lacking in my life in those dark days. I simply nodded. I couldn’t find words to reply, and I just turned and walked from the garden. I didn’t see his face, but I would be willing to bet a chest of gold coins that he was smiling indulgently at my back.
Half an hour later I was in the imperial palace, which had never been much to my taste, but had remained home to Valeria in her frosty misery. I found her standing on the old Tiberian balconies, overlooking the forum. She was alone, and I realised with a guilty start that in over a year I had only ever seen her alone. Was this a trick of Miltiades? Such sudden revelations?
She turned as I emerged from the doorway and I could see that she had been crying. Something new crested within me to break down the shell of sadness I habitually wore, but this time it was not anger. It was sympathy. Without words, I crossed to her, walked around in front, putting my back to Rome and the world that threatened to weigh me down, and I enfolded Valeria in my arms. I stood there for some time, holding tight to that ice-cold figure, and then the most unexpected thing happened. Her arms reached around me and mirrored the clasp. We embraced, and a decade of ice seemed to melt as we warmed each other.
Damn you, Miltiades, if you aren’t the shrewdest man I ever met!