A chair squeaked on marble, and slow heavy steps approached them.
‘So these are the men who will defend me with their lives?’ A deep voice, loud and rough-edged. ‘Look up! Let me see you!’
The man before them was aged around sixty, his face reddened and swollen above a black beard twisted with grey. This was the man, Castus thought, who had ruled the world beside Diocletian for two decades. The man whose image he had saluted when he had first joined the legions.
Maximian, the Man like Hercules.
The former emperor paced before them, moving down the line of Protectores and inspecting each man.
‘My former colleague Diocletian,’ he said, ‘used to favour ceremony and protocol. All this Persian-style bowing and prostration. My son-in-law thinks the same way. I do not – I prefer to look men in the eye, get the measure of them… No, I don’t have time for courtliness or etiquette. Politics neither. I left all that to Diocletian too. Now I defer to my son-in-law Constantine, of course…’ He made a half-turn, and sketched a bow towards the back of the room. Constantine remained seated on his chair upon the dais, unmoving, expressionless.
‘So, I am merely your commander,’ Maximian went on, pacing slowly. ‘But remember, all of you, that I was your emperor for twenty years! I still expect discipline from you. Proper soldierly conduct! Don’t forget that.’
He paused before Brinno, drawing himself up to stare at the young man.
‘You Frankish, boy?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, dominus. My father is Baudulfus, war chief of the northriver Salii.’
‘Salii, eh? I remember them. Fought against them myself! Maybe I crossed blades with your father, eh?’
Brinno swallowed heavily, nodding. Maximian moved on.
‘How about you, soldier? What’s your name?’
‘Aurelius Castus, dominus!’
‘Aha, yes, I’ve heard of you. You’re the one that pulled my son-in-law out of that river in Germania!’
Castus glanced quickly towards the emperor. Constantine shifted slightly on his chair, but said nothing.
‘Yes, dominus!’
‘Good man… good. Tell you, though, you’d have had a harder job trying that with me. Eh? Eh! Carrying a bit more weight these days!’ Maximian slapped a palm against his meaty chest. He took another step, then quickly turned back to Castus again.
‘What do you think, soldier – you’re a big man, could you take me on, hm?’
Castus tried to keep his face blank. He felt the attention of the whole room upon him. Maximian was right in front of him; Castus saw the small eyes, the pouched cheeks, the network of broken veins dark red around his nostrils. He smelled the wine on the man’s breath.
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t like to try, dominus.’
‘Ha! That’s right!’ Maximian declared with a grin. ‘Nobody takes me on. Fucked if they did, ha ha!’
He paced back towards the dais, hands clasped behind him. Halfway back to his chair he stopped again and flung out a stubby finger.
‘Least I’m not as fat as him!’ he said, pointing at the eunuch with the shaven head. ‘That’s Gorgonius, my castrensis, the steward of my household. If you have any trouble with my staff or slaves, you go to him, understood?’
‘Yes, dominus!’ the men said in unison.
Surely now they would be dismissed, Castus thought. But why did Constantine keep the old emperor so close to him like this? He remembered what Valens had told him once, the year before. Honour him, and watch him as you watch a snake. Maybe that was all it was. But perhaps, Castus wondered, there was more to it? Nobody else, after all, would dare talk to Constantine like that, or talk about him in the emperor’s own presence. Castus knew all too well the solitary burden of authority; he had never forgotten the words his old centurion had told him once. The bronze mask of command. Perhaps Constantine enjoyed having the old man to spar with him, drink with him and treat him like a human being, not a god, and to tell him truths that others were too cowed or obedient to dream of uttering?
Maximian was stamping heavily back up the steps to the dais, but a ripple ran through the room, an almost imperceptible shift of attention. Castus saw the old emperor pause, saw Constantine straighten in his chair. The men beside him shuffled, drawing themselves up more smartly.
‘The nobilissima femina Valeria Maxima Fausta,’ the slave at the door intoned.
A scent in the air at first, rose-water and saffron. Then the hiss of silk on marble, and the emperor’s wife and her ladies approached the dais. Castus kept his eyes on the far wall, where a pair of painted peacocks stood beneath an arch of flowering trees.
‘Daughter!’ Maximian exclaimed, stepping down from the dais. From the corner of his eye Castus saw him embrace Fausta and kiss her heavily. Then Constantine descended to the floor, and she accepted his rather stiffer embrace. Angling his gaze, Castus saw the slave maids and the eunuchs, and behind them the women in their brightly patterned gowns. It took him a moment to pick Sabina out, and when he did he saw that she was looking right back at him. She blushed quickly and turned her face away.
‘These are the men whom your husband has ordered to protect me,’ Maximian said to his daughter. ‘And you as well, if your lord husband is obliged to leave you here while he attends to his duties abroad…’
Castus tried not to react to the words. The trip to Britain was not a military expedition; ordinarily, there would be no reason for Fausta not to accompany her husband. Was he travelling with his concubine and her son instead?
Wordlessly, Fausta moved along the line of Protectores just as her father had done. Each man kept his eyes fixed on the back wall, never daring to glance at her. When she reached Castus she seemed to linger for a moment. Gathering his nerves, he dropped his gaze to meet hers.
The emperor’s wife was a short girl, almost plump, aged sixteen or seventeen. She wore a tunica and mantle of richest purple and blue, woven and embroidered with silver. Pearls were roped in her hair, thick necklaces of amber and gold around her neck. Her eyes were deeply lidded and protruded slightly, giving her a languid look, but her round face wore an expression of sour displeasure. Castus remembered feeling sorry for her. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps the girl was just spoilt, or even stupid. But he knew too well that appearances could deceive.
A moment passed, two heartbeats, and then Fausta moved on, turning from the line of Protectores and briefly bowing to her husband. Then she moved towards the door, her entourage of ladies, eunuchs and slaves swirling in her wake. The tension seemed to flow from the room after her.
‘Women!’ Maximian exclaimed with hefty relief, then clapped his hands. A brief stir of amusement ran through the audience chamber.
‘Protectores,’ the Praetorian Prefect called. ‘You are dismissed!’
* * *
Three steps to the left, boots scuffing dust, and he dodged the sweeping blow.
His opponent leaped in fast with a backhand cut, and Castus caught it on his shield and turned it. Two more wild blows; he parried the first and dodged the second, still circling. The sun moved around him; now it was hot on his bare back. He stepped quickly forward, shield raised, then swung a low cut beneath the rim. Weapons clashed and grated. The response came fast: two heavy hammering blows that he only just blocked with his shield. Wicker cracked, and he felt the jolt up his arm.
Sweat ran into his eyes. He was thirty-two years old, and age was against him. His opponent was six years younger and a hand’s breadth taller; he had speed and he had a longer reach. But he had not been trained to use his shield as a weapon. Castus had: he waited, taking the blows, soaking up the attack until his opponent made too quick a lunge, then he struck. Throwing his weight into the hollow of his shield he surged forward, battering his opponent off balance. A swing to the right, and he hooked the rim of his shield around that of his opponent and twisted hard. A cry as the shield turned, opening his adversary’s unprotected left flank, then Castus jabbed hard and felt the blow meet flesh.