Queen of the Night

Diocletian the old Emperor

Maxentius formerly Emperor of the West, defeated and killed by Constantine at the Milvian Bridge

Constantine new Emperor of the West

Helena Constantine's mother, Empress and Augusta

Licinius Emperor in the East

Anastasius Christian priest and scribe, secretary to Helena

Burrus German mercenary, Captain of Helena's bodyguard

Chrysis chamberlain

Ophelion imperial spy

Cassius Chaerea imperial spy

Sesothenes high priest

Carinus senator and merchant

Antonia his daughter

Theodore an actor

General Aurelian

Urbana Aurelian's second wife

Cassia former courtesan, close friend of Urbana

Alexander Aurelian's only son by his first wife

Casca a physician

Leartus a eunuch

Postulus centurion

Stathylus decurion

Crispus, Secundus, Petilius, Lusius cavalrymen

Militiades Pope, Bishop of Rome

Sylvester Militiades' assistant, principal priest in the Christian community in Rome

Polybius the owner

Poppaoe his common-law wife

Oceanus former gladiator

Januaria serving maid

Claudia Polybius' niece

Murranus a gladiator

Simon the Stoic

Petronius the Pimp

Sallust the Searcher

Sorry tavern boy

Caligua tavern cat

Apuleius the Apothecary

Callista his wife

Venutus the Vine-dresser

Torquatus the Tonsor

Narcissus the Neat former embalmer

Mercury the Messenger tavern herald

During the trial of Christ, Pilate, according to the gospels, wanted to free the prisoner. He was stopped by a cry that if he did so he would be no friend of Caesar's. According to commentators, Pilate recognised the threat. Every Roman governor and official was closely scrutinised by secret agents of the Emperor, 'the Agentes in Rebus', literally 'the Doers of Things'! The Roman Empire had a police force, both military and civil, though these differed from region to region, but it would be inaccurate to claim the Empire had anything akin to detectives or our own CID. Instead, the Emperor and his leading politicians paid vast sums to informers and spies. These were often difficult to control; as Walsingham, Elizabeth I's master spy, once wryly remarked, 'He wasn't too sure who his own men were working for, himself or the opposition.'

The Agentes in Rebus were a class apart amongst this horde of gossip-collectors, tale-bearers and, sometimes, very dangerous informers. The emperors used them, and their testimony could mean the end of a promising career. This certainly applied to the bloody and byzantine period at the beginning of the fourth century ad.

The Emperor Diocletian had divided the Empire into East and West. Each division had its own emperor, and a lieutenant, who took the title of Caesar. The Empire was facing economic problems and barbarian incursions. Its state religion was threatened by the thriving Christian Church, which was making its presence felt in all provinces at every level of society.

In ad 312 a young general, Constantine, supported by his mother Helena, a British-born woman who was already flirting with the Christian Church, decided to make his bid for the Empire of the West. He marched down Italy and met his rival Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge. According to Eusebius, Constantine's biographer, the would-be Emperor saw a vision of the cross underneath the words 'In hoc signo vinces' ('In this sign you will conquer'). Constantine, the story goes, told his troops to adopt the Christian symbol and won an outstanding victory. He defeated and killed Maxentius and marched into Rome. Constantine was now Emperor of the West, his only rival Licinius, who ruled the eastern empire. Constantine, heavily influenced by his mother, grasped the reins of government and began to negotiate with the Christian Church to end centuries of persecution. Nevertheless, intrigue and murder still held sway. There was unfinished business in Rome and the Agentes in Rebus had their hands full… Helena favoured the Christian Church but soon realised that intrigue, robbery and murder were no respec-tors of emperor or priest.

lacta alea est.

The die is cast.

Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars

The tribesmen, the Picti, slipped through the summer darkness to gather in the pitch-black copse of trees. They had already visited the sacred stones on the summit of the Hill of Sacrifice a few miles further north, where their priest had made the blood offering, the heart of the Roman scout caught earlier in the day. They had watched the man, eyes drugged, face slack, being stripped, bound and laid on the altar stone. The high priest's obsidian knife had flashed in the setting sun and fell just as their chanting reached its climax. Afterwards the chieftain had massed the entire war band and they had swarmed here to recover what was theirs – or rather his – by right: the Golden Maid, taken by the Men of Iron, the Crested Ones, who hid behind their wall of stone. The chieftain, so determined on vengeance, had even brought his only son, a mere boy, the sacred insignia etched on his thigh, to his first blooding. The boy was now a member of the war band, hair plaited, face and body daubed in war paint.

The Picti stared out at the brooding, crenellated wall of the fortress, the house of the Crested Ones, the Romani, with their body armour and eagle standards. The war band had attacked two days previously, bringing up specially prepared ladders, but had been beaten back, so they'd watched and waited. The chieftain had begun to wonder about the stories that had come whispering like the wind across the heather. How the Crested Ones were fighting amongst themselves, weakening their defences along the Great Wall, an abrupt change from a month ago when the Romani had launched their own raid and captured the Golden Maid. Since then, nothing but silence except for that solitary scout. The Picti had tortured him and forced the sacred drink down his throat, and the scout had confessed how his companions in the mile fort were few, divided and unsupported. They were weak, ripe for the scything.

The tribesmen now squatted, all eyes on their chieftain. He sat a little forward of them in the fringe of trees as if studying every step of the open heather stretching between the copse and the Great Wall. The chieftain was feathered and painted for war. Full of fury against an enemy who'd taken what was his, he sat sniffing the air like a wolf, then raised a hand. The war band stiffened; their leader had decided to attack, brave the open ground, defying the possibility that the Crested Ones might dispatch a charging line of cavalry through the great double gates of their fort. The Picti feared this above all, being caught out in the open by the fiercesome Catephracti Cavalry, armoured men on fast-moving horses, wheeling and turning, spears jabbing in a hail of iron, swords cutting like sickles at harvest time.

The moon slipped between the clouds. The night air was still. An owl hooted. The faint sound of other animals and birds echoed. The chieftain edged forward. He paused for a few heartbeats, rose to a crouch and charged silently into the night, his war band surging behind him. They streamed across the moorland, dark, sinister figures armed with club, axe, stabbing dirk and shield. The wall reared above them, silent and forbidding. The double gates of the mile fort were closed fast. The Picti glimpsed the glow of an oil lamp through a window, and the flicker of orange flame from the beacon on top of the tower licked the night sky, yet no horn or trumpet blew the alarm. Makeshift ladders, poles with pegs along each side, were placed hurriedly against the stone. The Picti clambered up, jumping through the crenellations on to the desolate fighting platform at the top. The beacon fire glowed hot in its iron brazier but there were no guards, no Romani. The Picti pulled back the heavy wooden trapdoor and poured down the steps into the narrow rooms below: empty, nothing but sconce torches glowing.

The chieftain raced through a recess into the room beyond, his comrades clustering behind. A solitary Roman struggled to his feet from a cot bed. He was unarmed, heavy-eyed with sleep. He was reaching for the tamarisk twig broom, the only weapon at hand, but war club and axe fell, smashing his skull, splashing the walls with his brains and blood. The Roman, dressed only in his tunic, slumped to the ground, drenched in gofe, eyes dulling, as the Picti swept through the rest of the fort chambers. A shout of victory brought the chieftain to the steps leading down into a cellar,- his followers had found the pay chest, a small coffer full of silver. He gestured at them to reseal it; it was a great find, but the chieftain ground his teeth in anger for the Golden Maid was not here! He stood in the square courtyard, heart thumping, blood seething. He had a choice. He could retreat through the narrow alleyway, force the wooden gates at the far end and escape back on to the moorland, or he could breach the south-facing gates leading out beyond the wall and sweep down to plunder and pillage the isolated settlements and villas beyond.

The chieftain glared up at the sky. He was a fearsome, war-like figure, his thick hair and beard caked with the blood of his enemies, his swarthy skin festooned with sacred war paint, magical roundels etched all over his body. He ran a finger around the rim of his war belt, then stared down at his feet and rejoiced at how they were smeared with the blood of his enemy. He gripped his long shield and, with the other hand, raised his axe club, howling like a wolf. His war band responded. They had found jars of posca, the coarse legionary wine, and were eagerly ladling it into their mouths, making themselves ripe for more mischief. True, they had not discovered the Golden Maid, but they had taken a mile fort, a fortress along the hated wall. No sooner had he given his war cry than the chieftain began to regret his impetuousness. His flesh tingled as the sweat cooled, the fury ebbed and his mind grew clearer, sharper, more cunning. He pushed back his lime-stained hair and stared at the double wooden gates facing south. Should he open them or retreat back to his settlement, to the women with their weaving and the minstrels with their silver-noted harps? There'd be feasting and dancing; perhaps he'd done enough to boast about before the camp fires? All around him milled his men. One, already drunk from the posca, had fixed the severed head of the Roman on the end of a pole, the jagged neck still wet with blood, the eyes half closed, the mouth red and gaping. Another had castrated the man, displaying the severed testicles on the point of a spear.

The chieftain remained still. He was confused. He'd expected to find the Golden Maid but there was nothing except that solitary Roman. Was he an officer? A sick soldier left by his comrades? Had the Romani left because of their own dissensions? But why were the torches, oil lamps and beacon glowing? He hesitated too long; his warriors were already moving, swinging open the gates facing south. Like a turbulent river eager to break free from an obstacle, the Picti streamed across the heathland south of the wall. The chieftain, beckoning his son to join him, had no choice but to follow. The cold night air swirled around them, chilling their sweat. They could already glimpse pinpricks of light beckoning them on to villas and farmsteads where they might find women, plunder, horses and other riches.

The war party fanned out across gorse, the long grass bending under the strong night breeze. The moon had broken free of the clouds; the sky was star-lit and clear. They hurried forward like a wolf pack eager for the kill. Their chieftain was moving to the front when he heard the clink of chain, the creak of harness, the neigh of a horse. He froze stock-still like a hunting dog, eyes peering through the darkness. Shapes were approaching, horsemen spreading out into an arc; a number carried flaring torches. The chieftain narrowed his eyes, wiping away the lime-mingled sweat. He tried to count. Eight, maybe nine horsemen, perhaps even more, were moving slowly towards his war party of about thirty men.