‘I don’t know, dominus,’ he said. He tried to stop himself frowning, but could not determine what answer the emperor wanted to hear. Or even if he wanted an answer at all. For a moment Constantine sat musing.
‘I am waiting for a sign,’ he said. ‘I have waited a long time now, and nothing is clear. So what do I do, eh? The cause of war must be just, would you agree?’
‘Of course, dominus.’ Castus hoped the emperor was not expecting a more insightful answer.
‘Then is it just to declare war against my brother? My brother-in-law, I should say… Or should I aid him against Licinius? I find that I receive contrary advice, mainly from fools and flatterers, and nothing that feels like a clear sign.’ He looked up suddenly, staring at Castus with a piercing eye. ‘So what should I do?’ he said.
Castus shifted his stance, uncomfortable. ‘Seems to me, dominus,’ he said, slowing his words, ‘that it’s like the story of the fox and the lions.’
Constantine stared, and for a moment Castus feared he was offended – was it sacrilege to compare the affairs of emperors to a children’s parable? But perhaps Constantine had never been told the story when he was a boy? He gestured for Castus to continue.
‘Well, dominus,’ Castus said, trying not to let his nerves mangle the words, ‘the story asks who would win in a fight between a fox and two lions. The lions are proud and strong, but the fox is cunning… The ox speaks slyly to the lions, asking which is stronger, and the lions start boasting and then fall to fighting. Of course, the stronger lion wins, but he’s so weakened by the battle that the fox can defeat him with a single blow.’
It would not, Castus thought as he spoke, be the strategy he favoured himself: for him it was always the bold frontal attack and the gods could decide the consequences. For a long moment the emperor said nothing, staring with a fierce frown. Perhaps he thought the same? But then he barked a laugh. ‘Yes, I like that,’ he said. He stood up, throwing the cup out into the darkness of the garden, and gathered his cloak around him. As he passed, he clapped a hand on Castus’s shoulder. ‘The sophists say that if a man wants peace he should prepare for war. So if I want war, perhaps I should feign peace, hmm?’
Castus nodded, tense with discomfort. Then the emperor turned and moved away down the portico towards his chambers. Castus even heard him singing to himself.
It was two days later that the women invaded. As the carriages approached along the road from the river, the birds rose and shrieked around the eaves, as if in warning. For over a month the Villa Herculis had been a male domain, only Maximian and his staff of secretaries and eunuchs, his slaves and his bodyguards in residence. But now his daughter Fausta was to pay her father an official visit.
Since the night at the necropolis Castus had barely seen Sabina, and had not once had an opportunity to speak with her. He was not accustomed to frustrated desire; always before in life he had sought women when he needed them, and found them easily enough. Afrodisia in Britain he had cared for deeply, even perhaps loved in a way, but she had been a prostitute. Marcellina the envoy’s daughter had been the only woman to tempt him to greater feeling, and she was far beyond his hopes.
With Sabina it was different, and for the first time he had experienced the racking torment of longing. She had used him, he thought, and it pained him that he felt unable to erase her from his mind.
When Fausta and her entourage arrived at the villa, Maximian was waiting on the front steps to receive her. His eight Protectores flanked him, and the courtyard and the road beyond were lined with the slaves of his household, crying out salutations. Fausta descended from her carriage, bowed her head and stood before Maximian, reciting the customary greeting.
‘In the name of Juno, Isis and Minerva and all the gods I salute you, Father. If you are well I am well. May my presence here bring good fortune upon your house.’
Maximian stiffly descended the steps and kissed his daughter, then turned without another word and walked back inside.
‘Here they come,’ Sallustius muttered from the side of his mouth. ‘A torrent of hairdressers. A cascade of eunuchs…’
But Castus could only stare at the carriages drawn up in the courtyard. The ladies descended one by one, first Plautiana and then Crescentilla, then several others he did not know. Finally he saw Sabina, a veil partly covering her face. With the other Protectores he stood at attention as the ladies filed up the steps to the rear portico of the villa. Only as she passed him did Sabina glance up, lifting the veil for a moment. She met his eyes, and seemed to mouth something to him, but he could not catch the words.
Serapion found him later that afternoon. Castus was in the stone-lined changing rooms of the baths, dressing after a lukewarm soak: Fausta and her retinue had used the suite earlier, and there was little heated water remaining. He pulled his tunic over his head, and when he looked up the eunuch was standing in the doorway that led to the courtyard. A gust of cool air seemed to follow Serapion as he entered the room.
‘You have a habit of appearing at unexpected moments,’ Castus said. ‘Is it deliberate?’
Serapion gave a short, cold smile. He stood a few paces from Castus, gazing into the far corner of the room as he spoke. ‘I have a message from my mistress,’ he said. ‘She will see you tonight, if you so choose. Do you know the garden house by the riverbank, with the fountain court?’
Castus just nodded. He knew the place well enough. His blood was flowing quickly, but the sweat was cold on his brow.
‘There is a bedchamber at the end of the corridor of the dancers. Go there at the start of the second watch. Do not be late – she is tired and cannot wait long.’
Serapion looked at him directly for the first time, and Castus found it hard to read his expression. Was it amusement in his eyes, or contempt? Then some other thought passed across his face, and the eunuch turned sharply and stalked from the room.
The rest of the day passed in a torment of anticipation. When evening came Castus was pacing the mosaic floors of the main audience hall, glancing repeatedly at the tall water clock that stood beside the main doors. A fascinating mechanism – he had not seen its like before – but he cursed it for the slow regular drip of its hours. Night had fallen by the time he was relieved, and he returned to his chamber to change into the dull red tunic and cloak he had worn on his last meeting with Sabina. He felt uncomfortable with the idea of disguise, and creeping about in the shadows like a spy or a thief did not appeal to him. But it seemed necessary. He picked up his sword, then thought for a moment and laid it aside. Surely that would not be required… but he strapped a military dagger to his waist belt, as a reassurance.
Leaving the villa by a side door at the back of the wing used by the Protectores, he doubled around the building and dropped down into the garden terraces. The night felt thick and humid. Mist had moved up from the river, beading his cloak with moisture. When he looked back at the villa the lamps along the front portico shone though a haze, and he heard the sound of laughter coming from one of the guest suites, quickly muffled by the mist. As Castus paced along the upper garden walk he expected the greyness ahead to form into the shapes of figures.
But the gardens were abandoned to the night. He skirted the long ornamental pool, a gulf of blackness in the mist, passed through a pillared gazebo and down the steps, and then saw the garden house before him with the ground beyond dropping into the dark emptiness of the river. It was a small building, intended for accommodating guests, or the associates of guests, not sufficiently exalted to stay in the main villa. A simple quadrangle of rooms surrounded a courtyard where a dry fountain stood above a cracked stone basin. Castus stepped through the narrow entrance gate, then through the open vestibule into the courtyard.