The meeting chamber was ablaze with fiery tirades, barely concealed threats and hectoring cries that would not have been out of place on the battlefield. Seated at the top of the crescent of marble steps upon which the disputants raged, I let my head sink and raked my fingers through my hair. Memories of Galerius’ stinking charnel manor plagued me. But gone now was the Herdsman. Gone now was the liberating sense that, despite all my acts, there was another being in this world who was more dogged, ruthless and loathsome than I.
Since Galerius’ passing, I had heard tales of widespread celebrations across the empire entire: stories of cities exploding with cheer and clouds of colourful petals; praising old gods and new for seeing that the bloodthirsty Augustus had breathed his last. The citizens of my one-time eastern home, Nicomedia – rumour claimed – had even taken the bold step of defacing the statue of Galerius at the port by etching Christian symbols upon the marble. What a legacy, I thought. A man who had set out to become master of the world, and who would be remembered forevermore as a monster.
Now, it seemed, every eye in this world had turned to me.
‘The Herdsman is gone,’ Prefect Baudio of the Second Italica roared. ‘The purple cloak has fallen. Your ranks long to march for you, Domine, to make it yours!’
‘Strike south!’ Hisarnis cried. The iron-haired Bructeri leader was now shorn of his beard and distinctly Roman-looking, even wearing a muscled cuirass over a tunic and sandals. ‘Chase the whelp Maxentius from Rome and make the West your own, then turn the legions to the rising sun and crush the vermin there.’
The officers near the bullish prefect erupted in a chorus of guttural cries.
I thought of Maxentius, of his blade at my throat by the door of Galerius’ death room. Just as his sister had held steel to my neck! Who could I trust in this world if he and she could press a blade to my neck like that? My anger rose like livid sparks from a smith’s furnace. I imagined my legionary ranks grinding Maxentius’ stolen soil under their boots. I envisioned myself throwing him to the ground, pinning him there with a lance, demanding he explain himself.
Once, I would have done anything to help you, to protect you. Now, you are a bane, Maxentius… a bane!
‘The fruit is ripe, Domine,’ said Vitalianus, a decurion of my Protectores . The rider had remained silent on the issue until now, but I could see the light in his eyes as he spoke – enchanted by the prospect of taking the unharnessed empire.
‘It is time,’ Krocus agreed, trying to keep his voice level.
‘Your generals speak in harmony,’ a white-haired noble who now called himself a senator insisted. ‘And your council will support you. Rome’s occupation is an insult to us all. Take it… take the West… then take all of the East. All you need to do is give the word, Domine.’ He hunched forward, rounding his shoulders like a watching crow gathering its wings in readiness for flight, beak primed to persuade me further.
I looked past him, above him and the many faces, seeing a ceremonial bronze shield mounted on the wall above the opposite marble steps. On its tarnished surface was a sullen face. An ageing face. A dull reflection of myself staring back at me. Something Maxentius had said to me at Romuliana came flooding back.
Look upon yourself in a polished shield, Constantine, before you next curse another.
I looked across the sea of proud faces. The empire was leaderless; Maxentius did hold Rome and the south illegally. One word was all they sought, but I felt my heart teetering on the edge of the debate. Once the word was given, there would be no turning back.
‘War will bring death,’ a voice said, cutting through the chamber like vinegar through oil. I looked up, fighting the absurd urge to laugh. Bishop Maternus held a finger up as if to keep the spell of his contrary – if rather obvious – statement alive. ‘The thirty-year reign granted by God must be a righteous one… one not stained in blood.’
Then his crony, Ossius stood, his grey, rubbery lips parting and his tarry voice adding: ‘You clamour for legions to march, for Romans to march upon Romans… like carrion hawks! ’
The many generals bristled at this, the senators too. But most had trouble refuting this stark reality. The bishops had come to Treverorum nearly a year ago. I had welcomed their arrival as a sign of growing support. But they had long outstayed their welcome and they were irritating to say the least. Yet this was something new, something different.
‘On our emperor’s word, a hundred thousand souls might live… or die,’ Maternus insisted. ‘Think of this when you scream for the legions to march!’
I was grateful for their interjection, but then I saw the sparkle in their eyes: the barest glimmer that made me wonder – were they going against the swell of opinion altruistically… or merely because they saw a chance to draw closer to me at the expense of the others?
So I turned to the last two faces in the great chamber, the only two who I could trust to help me make my choice. Batius sat by my left, Lactantius next to him. The pair said nothing, but I saw the looks in their eyes. A more convincing argument than all the chamber occupants combined: power-hungry noblemen, glory-seeking generals and oily clergymen. Batius gave the slightest shake of his head.
‘Roman blood on Roman swords,’ he said softly so only I could hear. ‘Is that what you wish to be remembered for?’ I could hear hesitation somewhere in his words, but weak and nascent at best.
I knew that I would not submit to the calls of the prefects and the senators. Not today. But would they understand? Hard-eyed men. Ambitious men. With an empire up for grabs, might some see themselves as bolder, better men to take it? I eyed them with an equally hard gaze, standing, breathing deeply and reminding myself I was their master. But before I could move my lips to speak, the chamber doors burst open. A pair of Cornuti stumbled in, escorting a hawk-nosed officer in dusty armour, holding underarm a helm with a solid gold fin. Now I would have normally dismissed and admonished the fellow for his hasty and abrupt entrance, but that day I welcomed the hiatus he offered me. I invited him to speak by means of an arched eyebrow.
‘Domine! There are stirrings beyond the south-eastern borders,’ the visitor said, striding into the chamber to stand at the foot of the ring of steps, looking up at me.
And you are? I almost said. But Father’s shade lent me a hand, reminding me of his impossible knack of remembering the name of almost every single soldier under his command. I narrowed my eyes for a moment. Crossus Gavius… Vindex, I realised, recalling one memo among thousands reporting his promotion to the post of Prefect of the I Martia Legio, watchers of Gaul’s south-eastern border forts.
‘Go on, Prefect Vindex.’ I noticed his face brighten at the use of his name.
‘Licinius has crushed the Sarmatians,’ he said.
‘The steppe lancers have been defeated? That is some achievement.’
‘He has held games and triumphal processions in the eastern cities. But it is his latest move that will trouble you more, Domine. He now positions his freed-up armies closer and closer to the West,’ Vindex replied.
‘He taunts you! Turn the legions east: march into his lands and trample him,’ one noble shrieked like a gull, ‘before we have another Herdsman to deal with!’
They were bent on battle, I realised.
‘War with Maxentius must take priority!’ a pontifex snarled.
‘Ha! You speak as if you know the realities of war,’ a general barked over him.
I swung from the gathering, stalking up to the high window, to stand on the sun-soaked balcony replete with a table, a wine jug and cups. I felt their gazes upon my back, heard their whispered exchanges, heard the babble of the streets outside and the buzzing insect song of the countryside beyond become an infernal, rasping din. I tried pressing forefinger and thumb together… to no avail, for my thoughts only spun faster and fierier. Only one truth held through it all: the delicate balance of the empire remained. Licinius, Maxentius and I. It would take a brave man, perhaps a foolish man… maybe a wicked man… to move first.
‘The legions are to remain where they are,’ I snapped over my shoulder, pouring neat wine with a tremor in my hand and drinking a cup in two great, untasting gulps, then swinging back to face them all. ‘The council is over. Now leave me.’
Their voices erupted again in a din the likes of which I have rarely heard in civilised climes.