I stood on the gleaming wet steps of the temple of Jupiter the Thunderer high on the Capitol, towering above the forum, the damp white robes of the pontifex maximus – the city’s chief priest – draped piously over my head and reaching down to the floor as my arms stretched up from the folds, offering devotion to the father of Rome.
Behind me, inside the temple, I could hear the messy business that always followed a sacrifice. When the great deed had been done and the religious observations seen to, someone had to come and clean up the viscera, skin the beast and butcher it ready for the feast. Choice parts of the animal sizzled in a brazier, filling the temple with the overwhelming smoky stench of charring meat. That was one of the reasons I had hurried through the last parts of the ceremony and wandered out to the porticoed steps and the relatively rain-fresh air to be found there.
Gods. Sometimes, despite my role as the empire’s chief priest, I wondered rather irreverently if gods were worth all the effort. I had seen precious few instances of divine intervention in my life, and even fewer for the general good. And yet I seemed to be at one temple or another in the city every few days overseeing a sacrifice or a blessing or some such. Zenas had once opined to me his bafflement that a city whose people seemed to spend every day of the year celebrating one god or another actually managed to get anything done, let alone conquer half the world. Of course, one might put that down to the will of the gods, but I had my private doubts about that too. After all, the Persians, the Goths, the Sarmatians, the Franks – all these peoples we had fought over the years – they all had their own gods, didn’t they? And if we won our great empire through divine will where were their gods? No. Steel, muscle and will drove the state. Gods gave so little compared to what they were given.
Yet despite my misgivings, I kept my hands raised to Jove the Thunderer, worshipping under an open sky as was only right, despite the ceremony having been carried out inside due to the misty rain that had settled over the city. Even on my least pious days, I revered the very fabric of Rome, and that fabric was stitched together with the threads of religion and tradition.
Had I needed an indicator that something was wrong with Rome, I might have bitterly noted that in good years, when I stepped forth from the temple and raised my hands, intoning the ritual words, the people of Rome would be crowding the forum, heads turned skywards, cheering me and celebrating with me. Today there were plenty of people in the forum, despite the wet weather, but precious few were even concerned with my presence.
I finished my prayer, my voice barely loud enough to roll across the Capitol’s summit through the endless muffling of the rain, let alone carry down to the public in the open spaces below. Falling silent, I peered down at the crowds, feeling rather underappreciated and sour. If this was the reception I got at the city’s greatest temple, I was very much in two minds as to whether I would bother with the Aventine temple to Juno that afternoon or leave the duties there to some lesser pontiff.
My bitter musings were interrupted by a roar from below. Frowning, I squinted into the misty rain, across the square on the Capitol with its small pool and shrines, my eyes scouring the forum until they fell upon a knot of citizens in the open space between the temple of the Divine Augustus and the Basilica Iulia. Something was happening there, the people surging this way and that as if involved in either a brutal wrestling match or some rabid dance. I couldn’t see what they were doing at first, the distance being great and the air filled with endless mizzle. Then I caught sight of a brightly painted figure amid the crowd, larger than life, that broad, handsome-in-a-rural-kind-of-way face staring up at me in an accusatory manner.
Constantine.
One of the many statues I had commissioned almost three years ago to celebrate his marriage to my sister – a futile gesture at reconciliation and the binding ties of family. I had since learned that all family ties did was destroy one’s freedom. Yet somehow, despite everything that had happened – even though I had grown to despise what Constantine had become: a man who had defamed my mother and killed my father – it had never occurred to me to have the statues of him removed. Even the one in my aula regia that I passed on a daily basis and that sat at the heart of my palaces. I should have removed them all, really. We Romans are fickle with our heroes – always have been. Over the centuries an emperor’s image might be found on every street corner, and then the Praetorian Guard would draw their blades. The next day the throne would be worn smooth by a new worthy backside and those many busts and statues would be either torn down or reworked to resemble the latest usurper.
Yet Constantine had remained. All across the city his wide, deceiving face smirked out at me. Why had I not ordered them removed? Still, the public seemed to be tearing one down right now. I watched that wide, country-boy face vanish into the press of people as the statue snapped at the ankles and fell, probably crushing some rabid nobody. Why they had suddenly taken it upon themselves to destroy him, I couldn’t say, and I was torn by conflicting emotions at the sight. Part of me was furious that my people would tear down my creations, no matter their nature. Part was abhorrent that the people would destroy the image of an emperor, even if he was now our enemy. A large, seething, wicked part of me was glad they had done it and wished I was there, stamping hobnails into the painted face of the man rumour said had entered into an alliance with Licinius. And the small part that still filled with nerves at the thought of confrontation was grateful that they had done it and not me. Conflict within; conflict without. Conflict everywhere.
The folds of my white robe were starting to become saturated and I felt the rain drip from the end of my nose. Perhaps it was time to go back inside.
I turned and the lictors who stood in neat lines to either side, keeping citizens away from the imperial person – or at least there to do so had there been any citizens on the Capitol – turned on their heels like soldiers, preparing to follow me wherever I went. Two figures, though, had emerged from the rain around the corner of the temple and were scurrying towards me. Volusianus was dressed in his toga, but you would never meet a man who carried such a military bearing even in civil dress. He wore the white robe like a cuirass, and the clacking and scraping of military boots beneath the hem complemented the bulge near the armpit where a sword hilt showed through the toga. Behind him was Zenas, similarly dressed in a toga yet managing to look less like a soldier and more like a politician. Both men wore scowls and I knew from their looks alone that trouble had raised its ugly head again. They wouldn’t wear such faces for the smashing of a statue. Indeed, Volusianus had advocated just that more than once.
‘Domine,’ Volusianus began in respectful tones, aware that he was standing before a temple to our greatest god and surrounded by very edgy lictors.
‘What is it, Volusianus?’
‘Have you heard the rumours yet?’
I frowned and my gaze slipped to Zenas, who had turned an equally furrowed brow on his companion. ‘Respectfully,’ the Christian said to my Praetorian Prefect, ‘that is not the most urgent issue here.’
‘It is the only issue here,’ snapped Volusianus angrily.
‘The provocation to war is less important than rumour ?’
The prefect turned on Zenas, more or less ignoring me now. ‘The “provocation to war ”, as you call it, Zenas, is the direct result of the rumours, and something that should have been done years ago in my opinion.’
‘That, Volusianus, is because you want war without understanding the consequences. We could…’
‘AHEM!’ I barked, silencing the pair of them, leaving them standing less than a foot apart as though about to butt heads, glaring at one another. It was so reminiscent of Volusianus and Anullinus in earlier days that it set my teeth on edge just to look at them.
‘Domine,’ Volusianus said again, flashing a warning glance at Zenas, ‘there is news.’
‘Rumour,’ corrected Zenas, earning an exasperated, angry snarl.
‘Rumour ,’ the prefect repeated, ‘has reached the city concerning your noble father.’
My father? My father was dead. Had been now for quite some time. And even I, who had had him deified and minted coins in his memory, might baulk at applying the term ‘noble’ to the fat, usurping martinet who had ruled my life with not even an echo of love. Still, I was interested. I nodded for him to go on.
‘It seems, Domine, that what we understood of your father’s passing was only part of the story. The men we have in Constantine’s court have gleaned more knowledge. It seems that the truth is darker. Your father was not permitted to end himself honourably as we had thought. Constantine, it seems, made an example of him. It appears that he was garrotted, in public. Gasping out his last breaths as the cord bit into his throat while Constantine’s barbaric soldiers, his shaved barbarians in Roman tunics, leered on from the square.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘I spotted rather a lot of “appears ” and “seems ” among your words, Volusianus. You do not sound sure.’
‘Domine, this is coming from the mouths of our own men. From the frumentarii. From Ancharius Pansa, in fact, a man with an unparalleled knowledge of subterfuge, infiltration and intelligence gathering.’
‘If the men we sent to Constantine’s cities are sending us back information, why do I hear nothing useful about troops and supplies and political divisions, just rumours of personal attacks? Why are rumours abounding in Rome about he and Licinius when I have had no such confirmation?’
That being said, with my recently so-tarnished opinion of my old friend, I would not put such a thing past him. Garrotted in public? That was no way for an emperor to die. I saw him in the eye of my mind, collapsing to his knees on the stone of Massilia’s forum, blood sheeting from his neck. Then I saw once more the painted face of Constantine falling into the crowd. Suspicion filled me, and I pursed my lips, drawing in a deep breath.
‘Is there the slightest chance, Volusianus, that this information has reached the Roman people before it reached my own ears.’
The prefect had the grace to look a little embarrassed ‘The lady Valeria once reminded you, Domine, that rumour travels faster and is more damaging than any arrow. She urged you to blacken Constantine’s reputation and set me to the task, but it would appear that he is doing the job for us.’
‘You are sure of the truth of this?’ I asked.
‘Sure? No, Domine. I can say nothing for certain that has come from another man’s lips, but I have no valid reason to doubt it. Do you?’
Zenas was almost vibrating with urgency, and I switched my gaze to him, an action he took as permission to address me.
‘They are tearing down Constantine’s statues and smashing his busts.’
‘I saw it in the forum just now.’
‘Domine, it is happening all across the city, like a wave of hatred.’
‘Rumour?’ I prompted Volusianus darkly.
‘The spies bring us other information, Domine. But this is… incendiary.’
‘Constantine will learn that his statues are being smashed.’ I shrugged. ‘Given his own acts, I hardly think he can stand on some moral high ground and take offence. Could he confront me over the matter, I might retort with a question as to how many statues he had raised to his brother-in-law across his cold, wintry empire. No. He has no right to be offended. In fact, perhaps we should enact a law restricting his image. We might destroy all his images, even the ones in my own palace. Why should the plebs have all the fun, eh?’
Zenas paled. ‘Domine, do we really want to push Constantine any further? Word will reach him of this violation and he will feel honour-bound to do something about it. If you will not stop this destruction, then you must prepare for war.’
‘Constantine is not ready for war.’
Volusianus now rounded on me. ‘How can you say that, Domine? He rode forth with an army to scourge Licinius and, if what we hear is true, bound the dog to him. If there was a treaty of non-aggression between himself and Licinius, Constantine would no longer need to fear for his other borders and would be at liberty to turn his attentions to you. Worse yet, what will happen if Licinius decides there is much to be gained from joining Constantine in marching on Rome?’
‘Licinius’ army outnumber Constantine severely. If he has beaten the dog then it was through trickery and deceit, not strength of arms. If Licinius was shrewd, Constantine’s head should now be bouncing around on the tip of a Licinian spear. Also, our army is bigger than either Licinius’ or Constantine’s, and no one could trust Licinius enough to invite him to join them. No. Constantine, even if he wanted to come for us, couldn’t do so yet.’
‘Even if Constantine and Licinius do not join together, what value is our huge army if the pair take turns at us, like crows at a hanging body.’ Volusianus sighed. ‘Domine, I told you that the spies bring us other news also. Men from Constantine’s armies are beginning to concentrate in southern Gaul, and only a fool would think this a deterrent to Licinius even if these rumours we hear are false.’ I scowled at the implication I was being foolish, but he was in full flow now. ‘Constantinian scouts have been seen in the passes of the Alpes. You cannot imagine they are there to enjoy the mountain air and some of that fine Raetian cheese? Constantine masses men at our border, and we provoke him.’
‘I thought that was what you wanted?’ I snapped rather harshly.
‘Yes,’ Volusianus barked in reply, forgetting his honorifics in his irritation. ‘Yes, I advocate severing all ties with your brother-in-law. I advocate driving him mad with hate and anger, because angry, hateful men make mistakes. And I advocate war, because until you are undisputed master of the West you will never be able to face Daia or Licinius. I advocate war. A war of extinction. And it will be cruel – Roman against Roman – legions butchering legions, yet it is necessary. Yes, I agree with all of that!’
I was leaning back as though a hurricane had emerged between his teeth.
‘But,’ Volusianus spat angrily, ‘not without being prepared . We are not prepared for war. Our armies are spread throughout Italia and Africa, concentrated in the north to some extent, but even then spread out to ward off attacks from any side. And we should be drawing defensive lines, fortifying cities. Choosing battlefields for when we need them and clearing out the populace from danger zones. We should be building defensive systems. In half a decade, Hadrian built a stone wall eighty miles long with fortresses, milecastles, ditches and crossing points. We have more men in the north than he had in Britannia and they do nothing but train. We might not have that sort of time, but they should be preparing the region as best they can.’
‘Though we might not wish to push the men too far, Domine,’ interrupted Zenas, earning another black look.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because pay is scarce. It filters into the more important veteran units first, and those in places of high value. But there is not enough to pay every man each month, and there is the constant threat of dissent.’
I rounded on Volusianus. ‘Why am I finding out about this now?’
My prefect gave me a bitter look. ‘With respect, Domine, I warned you about precisely this two months ago. You paid the Christians off and that drained the treasury. Left too little to pay the men. Now your Christians—’ he nodded, sneering, at Zenas ‘—are happy and fat and wealthy and our borders tremble under the angry boots of unpaid soldiers.’
‘Then we need more money,’ I said decisively. Volusianus almost rolled his eyes at the statement of the obvious.
‘Money has to come from somewhere, Domine,’ Zenas put in. ‘That inevitably means from the people in the end, and the people are already heavily taxed. The buildings, the walls, the army, the war – everything has cost the people dearly. I must warn you against further taxation.’
I felt my frustration growing as I shook the water from my head covering, then was unable to settle the soggy wool back into its position. I fought with it for a long moment and then with a bark of anger threw it down to hang among the other folds, allowing the cleansing rain to wet my scalp.
‘Then give me another solution. We need money but you advise me not to raise any.’
Volusianus harrumphed and looked at Zenas. The two men seemed to have some silent conversation, carried out through their eyes. The younger Christian sighed and shrugged. ‘War.’
Volusianus chewed his lip for a moment as I frowned, then nodded slowly. ‘Maybe that’s the only way. Maybe we don’t prepare any more, after all. If we prepare, we give Constantine more time to ready himself. Perhaps we simply move the bulk of the forces north and commit? Try and take him while he is equally unprepared?’
‘What?’ I frowned. I knew what they were saying, of course, but it seemed incredible, especially given how Volusianus in particular had been advocating precisely the opposite mere moments ago.
‘War, Domine,’ Volusianus said, receiving a nod from Zenas. ‘You cannot afford to pay the troops, and tax is no solution. Taxing the rich will destroy your support and credibility. Taxing the poor will risk revolt. Taxing the outlying regions might send them running to your opposition. Tax is not a viable option. But if we went to war with Constantine now, the army would be too occupied to worry about missing pay for a month or two. And by the time things had been settled and we were in control of the Alpes and southern Gaul, the troops would be inevitably fewer, while our funds would have grown through plunder. Hardly an elegant solution, Domine, I grant you, but a solution nonetheless.’
I blinked. War? Was he mad? Save on troop wages by killing off my army in a war in the mountains? No. I still did not believe Constantine would come for me. Even if the desire was in him, the practicalities were lacking. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t manage it. He wouldn’t dare. And I would not go down in history as a man who launched a civil war, killing Romans and family in the process. If that had to happen, Constantine would have to start it.
‘No.’
‘Domine, I fear you do not have the luxury of too many options. Besides, when Constantine hears of this destruction of his images, he might well decide we are far more of an enemy than he had thought and come for us. I admit that I was wrong to advocate preparation just now. Strike first. Licinius would sit on the periphery and watch. He and Constantine might have a pact of non-aggression, or they might not, but either way he would not waste men if he can let others do his work for him. He will let us deal with Constantine. I am certain of that.’
‘No. Never.’
Zenas was nodding along with Volusianus now, which was a worrying development and a sure indicator that I was making the wrong decision. But I still made it, even aware that I was probably being unwise. I could do nothing else. I would not start a civil war with my brother-in-law.
‘That is my final word on the matter. No to war. Shuffle around some troops if you wish. Set them digging ditches and raising ramparts if you think it will help, but we will not march beyond our territory. I will speak to my treasury officials. We will work out the bare minimum of funds we require and I will have a blanket tax put on the entire empire. The load will be borne equally by all and will be the lightest load we can make it. The people will understand. It is for their security, after all.’
‘Domine, this is folly,’ Zenas said quietly but urgently.
‘It may be, but it is also my command. I shall have the tax levied urgently and we will get the money to the army within the month. And if you are worried about such a fictitious build-up of men in the south of Constantine’s domain, Volusianus, take the three legions covering the major Italian ports and send them north to Verona and Aquileia. They can support the troops on the border.’ I saw Volusianus winding up for another tirade and turned my back on him, throwing my sodden robe over my head again and fussing angrily at its positioning as I snapped my fingers to the lictors and we stomped off.
It was the wrong decision, and I knew it. It was also the only one open to me.
I took out my anger on the seven busts of Constantine I found on the Palatine, and that grand statue of him in my aula regia, smashing marble until my knuckles bled.