In the anteroom outside he dressed quickly: tunic, boots and breeches, then the padded linen vest and the cuirass of silvered scale armour. Brinno came from his own room, and the two Protectores checked the straps and lacing on each other’s armour before putting on their belts. Neither spoke. Brinno wore an expression of sour and savage discomfort. Armed and equipped, helmets beneath their arms, they walked together down the steps and through the cool shadows of the courtyard behind the kitchens, then out onto the broad front portico of the palace.
The imperial retinue was already assembling. On the paved area between the portico and the upper wall of the theatre, fifty men of the horse guards stood beside their mounts. Along the portico were gathered the commanders of the military units and the ministers of state, all the members of the consistorium in their stiff court garments. Castus was surprised to see a group of women at the margin of the group: Fausta, dressed in a heavy cloak that looked like a shroud, and Sabina among the others at her back. He took up his position below the steps of the portico. Scorpianus, the Praetorian Prefect, marched from the house. To the east the sun was just breaking the horizon, washing the portico with golden light as a voice rang out from the doorway.
‘Our Lord and Emperor Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maximianus, Herculius, Pius, Felix, Unconquered Augustus!’
Maximian walked from the house into the blaze of sunlight, and the assembly sank to their knees before him, their acclamations blending into a vast rush of sound.
‘Maximianus Augustus! Eternal Augustus! The gods preserve you for us! Your salvation is our salvation!’
When Castus looked up he saw the emperor standing above him. No longer did Maximian resemble a wine-sodden old actor, no more a harried and desperate figure. Now, with the sunlight gleaming off his gilded breastplate and greaves, his golden helmet in the form of an eagle, crested with tall feathers, his gold-embroidered purple cape and tunic, he looked entirely like an emperor.
Descending the steps slowly, with ponderous gravity, Maximian paced between the ranks of the horse guard. A four-wheeled open carriage, decked with laurels and drawn by six white horses, was waiting for him at the top of the road that curved down to the forum. Maximian climbed aboard, standing stiffly, not making the slightest gesture to acknowledge the salutes and cries of his people. Then the entourage formed up into a column, the horses moved forward, and the emperor began his progress through the city.
Below the theatre the city was still in shadow, but the eaves of the houses and the pediments of the larger buildings around the agora blazed gold above the procession as it turned into the wide main street. Castus, marching beside the emperor’s carriage, saw that few civilians were showing themselves. Except for the knots of soldiers at the intersections, grey-faced, red-eyed and unshaven, the city seemed deserted by its citizens. The procession moved in near silence along the main street, Maximian standing motionless on the carriage, one hand resting on his sword hilt, gazing ahead of him.
At last the arches of the Rome Gate rose before them. The carriage drew to a halt and the emperor climbed down, waiting a moment for his guards and ministers to form around him, then throwing back his cloak and striding to the entranceway and the steps that led up to the ramparts. Castus followed the throng as they clattered up the narrow stairway. He was feeling almost breathless; the morning was already growing hot, and the air felt still and clammy as a warm damp rag pressed against his face.
The stairs turned, then climbed again and brought them out into the open sunlight of the walkway above the gates as the horns blared from the towers on either side. Blinking, Castus shuffled between the other men, trying to take up a position far to the rear of the group. He noticed Scorpianus peering at him. The Praetorian Prefect gave a quick smile, shook his head, and gestured for Castus to move forward and join the men flanking the emperor. Sallustius moved aside to give him room.
Low sun almost eclipsed the landscape outside the gates. In the still air the purple banners hung limp from their poles.
At first Castus could see only the dust cloud raised by the approaching riders, a haze of gold as it rose into the rays of the sun. Then, as he stared, he made out the small group of horsemen. Unlike the men gathered above the gate, none of them wore armour; they were dressed quite deliberately in civilian garb, the clothing of peace. They drew nearer, and Castus recognised Probinus, Constantine’s prefect, riding in the lead. And in the small group behind him rode Constantine himself, dressed in a white tunic and purple cloak. Castus felt a surge of sickening dizziness. In the bright light of day he was exposed before the eyes of the rightful emperor. His treachery was clear for all to see. Stand straight, he told himself. Head up, chest out. Helmet beneath one arm, thumb hooked in his belt. There was no point in trying to hide now.
The group around Constantine halted and Probinus rode on alone. As the dust cloud faded, Castus could see the troops gathered further along the road. Cavalry guards, their spears winking in the dawn sun. Beyond them, on the sloping ground so recently cleared of olive groves, the infantry were assembled, blocks of men appearing from the haze, lines of shields emerging from grey shadow. Squinting, Castus tried to estimate their number. Six thousand, maybe? They outnumbered the defenders, but not by so much. He tried to pick out the individual shields, identify the legions. He saw the black shields of I Minervia, the bright green of XXII Primigenia. No sign of VI Victrix’s winged victory emblem, and Castus was glad of that. The thought of Diogenes, Modestus and Rogatianus throwing themselves into the assault on the city was painful.
Glancing to one side and then the other, Castus saw Maximian’s soldiers gathered at the ramparts of the walls and towers, their armour shining and their banners bright. They crowded the battlements, formidable in number.
Probinus had approached to within bowshot of the walls, and drawn to a halt.
‘Maximian!’ he cried, raising himself in the saddle. ‘In the name of the emperor Constantine Augustus I call on you to open the gates of this city and surrender yourself to the Sacred Clemency!’
All eyes turned, just briefly, to Maximian. The golden figure remained motionless, only the feathers of his helmet crest stirring slightly.
‘Maximian!’ the prefect called out again. ‘I beg you, cease this impious rebellion! Spare the lives of your soldiers and supporters… Spare this city from the violence of assault! In the name of the emperor I promise that you and your people will be treated with respect and forgiveness!’
‘Emperor?’ Maximian shouted. His voice boomed out from the walls. ‘There is no emperor here but me! I am supreme ruler, and eternal Augustus. I, who stood beside the mighty Diocletian at the head of the Roman state!’
‘In the name of Constantine Augustus,’ the prefect called out as his horse champed and tossed its mane, ‘I beg you to reconsider your actions. This rebellion is unbecoming to you, who have won such glory in the past! You have been honoured and given wealth and high status – what more do you desire? You have been seduced by the lying words of traitors…’ He broke off, raising his hand to his face as if he were wiping away tears.
‘Who talks to me of treachery?’ Maximian cried. ‘You, Probinus? I raised you myself, promoted you – and this is your gratitude? Half the men standing with me now gave their oath to Constantine! Some of his most loyal officers, even his Protectores. All have now returned to their true allegiance!’