He stretched his heavy arms along the marble rim of the bath and closed his eyes. Steam filled his nostrils. His stomach growled, and he considered getting one of his men to fetch a couple of honey cakes from the stall under the portico outside…
‘Centurion Castus? Is Centurion Aurelius Castus here?’
He opened one eye, staring into the fog. The caller was standing in the arched doorway, fully dressed. A military clerk from legion headquarters.
Castus lowered himself in the bath until his chin touched the water, willing the man to go away and leave him in peace. But already he could hear the others pointing him out and the scrape and tap of the clerk’s boots on the tiled floor as he approached.
A voice through the steam. ‘Are you Centurion Castus?’
Head back on the marble, Castus stared up at the man. Grunted.
‘You’re ordered to report to the praetorium,’ the clerk said, with a cold smile.
Castus stretched his limbs in the water. ‘Can’t it wait?’
‘The order comes from the distinguished Aurelius Arpagius. You’re to come immediately…’
Sighing heavily, Castus closed his eyes again for a moment. A summons from the governor. Unusual, but he didn’t let his curiosity show. The clerk tapped his foot on the tiles. Then, with a sudden movement, Castus pushed himself up and out of the bath. The water surged up with him, soaking the clerk’s tunic.
‘Right then, let’s go. Unless you want to give me time to get dressed first?’
Back through the early evening gloom, dressed and scrubbing a towel over his damp bristling hair, Castus followed the clerk towards the praetorium, the governor’s residence at the heart of the fortress. Unlike most other legions in the empire, the Sixth was still commanded by a civilian, the Praeses Governor of Britannia Secunda. Most of the time, though, Aurelius Arpagius concerned himself with administering his province, leaving the running of the legion to his tribunes and senior centurions. Castus had never spoken to the man – hardly even seen him, except at the triennial pay parades. He had no idea what such an exalted figure might want with him now – and in the praetorium itself as well.
At the corner of the headquarters building, a stooped figure stood in the rain. His damp tunic hung unbelted to his shins, and his hair was slicked flat. He pulled himself upright as Castus approached.
‘Centurion!’
Castus paused, letting the clerk idle ahead of him. ‘How long’s it been now, Modestus?’
‘Eight hours, centurion.’ The man’s head bobbed as he spoke, his jaw working.
‘Remind me why you’re here?’
‘Drunk in barracks, centurion. Won’t happen again.’
Castus snorted a laugh. Modestus was a repeat offender. But he could not remember how long he’d ordered the man to stand here on punishment.
‘Get back to the barracks and dry off.’
‘Thank you, centurion…’ Modestus looked like he was about to say more, and Castus dismissed him with a slap on the shoulder. From the lane beside the headquarters, the clerk was clearing his throat noisily.
Around the corner, they reached the shelter of the praetorium portico. The clerk left him there, and Castus marched through the high, pillared doorway into the entrance hall. His boots clattered on the marble floor, and sentries to either side straight shy;ened to attention. At the far end of the hall, arched doors opened to a pillared garden at the heart of the building, lost in evening murk and rain. Between the doorways, lit by a flaming brazier, four statues stood in a raised niche.
Castus approached, bowing his head. The statues were near life size: four men in the gilded cuirasses and short capes of Roman military officers. Their painted faces were stern and blunt, with the heavy features of Pannonian peasant soldiers, just like those of Castus himself. The emperors, the four rulers of the Roman world: the Augusti Diocletian and Maximian, and the Caesars Galerius and Constantius. All of them looked alike, but each Augustus clasped his Caesar in a paternal embrace.
All his life Castus had known these men, the four of them in effigy, and Diocletian and Galerius in the flesh. Standing before them, he touched his brow in salute, as if to the images of the gods.
Steps led up from the entrance hall to the upper chambers – the clerk had told him that he was expected there. Along the painted corridor at the head of the stairs he reached a row of doors; a sentry outside one of them straightened to attention and gestured for Castus to enter.
The room beyond was large, but held a sense of privacy. Coals burned in a brazier, and Castus took in the three men seated around the low polished table before he snapped to attention.
‘Domini!’ he cried, loud enough to get an echo. From the corner of his eye, he was pleased to notice two of the men flinch slightly. Civilians, in his experience, always expected brutish rigidity in soldiers and it was best to flatter them. Staring at the far wall, he stood braced with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
‘Our apologies, centurion, for calling you here at short notice.’
‘Domini!’ he shouted again, stiffening his shoulders.
‘Yes, thank you. You may stand at ease, centurion.’
Castus rocked back on his heels, dropping his shoulders only slightly. The far wall of the room was painted with a landscape. Goatherds, satyrs. It didn’t resemble anywhere he had ever seen. Certainly not Britain. He lowered his eyes a little until he could see the men at the table. Castus had always possessed an odd intuition when it came to reading other men; he could quickly determine the subtle signs that showed character, mood and intention, while giving nothing away himself. A legacy of his childhood, maybe, and the need to gauge his father’s violently veering moods.
The speaker was Arpagius, governor of the province and prefect of the legion. Castus knew he was from Numidia, a skilled administrator of some kind. A small man, his curled hair greying at the temples, he had a shrewd look, but he was uncomfortable beneath his appearance of dignified calm. The second man was one of the senior tribunes, Rufinius. He had a sour expression, as though he’d just drunk curdled milk. The third sat back from the table, against the wall, studying Castus carefully.
The governor turned now and addressed this third man, something almost deferential in his tone. ‘This is Aurelius Castus, the centurion I told you about,’ he said. ‘He joined us quite recently, only last autumn, in fact, from the Second Legion Herculia at Troesmis.’
‘He appears very young for a centurion,’ the third man said, with an appraising air. ‘Built like an ox, though… What are you, twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’
‘Twenty-eight, dominus.’ Actually Castus was not sure of his exact age, his father never having bothered to inform him of the year he was born. But he thought it better not to raise that fact now.
‘So I expect you were promoted for bravery in the field?’
‘Yes, dominus. By the Caesar Galerius, after the campaign against the Carpi.’
Arpagius stirred, clearing his throat and gesturing at the man who had asked the questions. ‘This is Julius Nigrinus,’ he told Castus, ‘a notary from the imperial court at Treveris. He’s on a tour of inspection here.’
So that explains the deference, Castus thought. He was not sure what imperial notaries actually did, but they seemed to inspire hushed tones. He gave a brisk nod. Nigrinus was wrapped in a cloak. His hair was dull brown, cut in a bowl, and his round smooth face displayed only bland enquiry.