The War at the Edge of the World (43 page)

Castus opened his eyes with difficulty. The sunlight drove nails into the back of his skull. He was lying on his back, with a ceiling of tent leather above him, and Valens was sitting beside the bed on a folding stool, eating walnuts.

‘You’ve been looking very like a corpse for a long time now, brother! We were about to break into the funeral fund on your behalf.’

‘How long?’ Castus managed to say. The words ground in his throat like boulders in a rushing stream.

‘Ah, talking too now! Well, it’s been over twenty days since you showed any signs of intelligence. Mind you, in your case that’s a relative thing.’

Castus raised his top lip, but every movement of his face filled his head with fire. He resigned himself to enduring Valens’s wit.

‘Good thing you’ve got such a great solid head, though,’ Valens went on, cracking nuts in his palm. ‘Otherwise that Pictish lad would’ve taken the top of your skull off. As it is, you’ve just got a nice new scar to add to your collection. Shame, though – it’s at the back. Everyone’ll think you got it while you were running away! Ha ha!’

Rolling his neck slightly, Castus could feel the thick linen bound all around his head. When he closed his eyes he felt a plunging sensation, a rush of distorted memories. He had woken from a long aching dream: flames and smoke, thunderous noise, then lost muffled silence.

‘Don’t worry, though, you’ve got a good doctor looking after you. A freedman of the imperial household, sent by the emperor. He’s been feeding you some Greek medicinal slop to dull the pain, so you’re probably not feeling much.’

‘What happened… after?’

‘After the fight? Oh, you didn’t miss anything good. We destroyed the fort and then marched up country for six days – you were slung in a baggage cart, but the rest of us had to walk. We got to the sea, built an altar to Neptune and sacrificed in thanks for a successful campaign, then turned around and headed back south. We’re at Bremenium now, a day north of the Wall.’

The noise of the cracking walnuts was very loud, aching in Castus’s ears. But Valens had a sober look on his face now, and he was leaning forward to speak more quietly.

‘The emperor’s sick. Worse, I mean. That doctor who’s been treating you says there’s some evil matter in his bowels, eating him from the inside. They’ve known about it for over a year, but there’s no cure. And now he’s
approaching the last crisis
. That was the phrase the doctor used anyway.’

Castus lay still for a while, digesting the news. It was noth­ing unexpected, he decided. When he opened his eyes he was surprised to see Valens still there.

‘What about the Pict woman?’ he asked, struggling to form the words. ‘The one who jumped the rampart?’

‘Oh, her? No idea. I didn’t see it myself, but those idiots from the Eighth were saying it was magic. They didn’t find any trace of her outside the wall anyway, so maybe she just vanished into the air! Or more likely made off to some dirty little cave in the mountains to hide out with her brat till we’re gone. Rumour is she was a powerful witch, and beguiled men to do her bidding. Any ideas about that?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ah, well. She won’t be troubling us again…’

Castus tried not to smile. Valens was getting up now, tossing aside his handful of nutshells. He paused, and then came back to stand beside the bed.

‘Another thing,’ he said, lifting a bundle from the floor. ‘You may as well have this, now that you’re alive again.’

Valens unwrapped the bundle, and placed something on Castus’s chest.

‘Awarded for valour, by order of the emperor. First over the enemy wall, and slew their chief in single combat, so they say. In the ancient days of glory you’d have won a golden crown and a lifetime’s honour for it, but now you must be content with that bauble and double rations. Tribune Constantine presented it, and our mule-faced Victorinus accepted it on your behalf, since you looked so dead. Constantine says to tell you:
Don’t lose it this time
.’

His friend left, the tent flap swinging shut behind him, and Castus lay in silence with his hands clasping the twisted ring of a gold torque.

A wet night in Eboracum, and in the fortress of the Sixth Legion the paved courtyard of the headquarters building was packed with men. Torches guttered in the mist, threading smoke through the massed soldiers and painting the wet stone of the porticos and the hulking legion basilica with a moving glow. There were men of all units, the Sixth and the other legion detachments, cavalrymen of the Mauri and Dalmatae, wild tribesmen of the Alamanni. All of them drawn by some uncanny impulse, some current of rumour and dread. Inside the basilica, in the shrine of the standards beneath the busts of ancient deified emperors and the great statue of Victory, the Augustus Flavius Constantius was dying.

Shouldering his way through the crowd at the gate, Castus pushed on through the throng filling the courtyard, Valens and Diogenes a few others close behind him. His head was still bandaged, and a sick dizziness still numbed his limbs, but he felt the strange energy of the gathering urging him forward. Men glanced back at him as he worked his bulk between them. Nobody knew what would happen. The air was charged with fear, anticipation, excitement, like the mood before a riot or a battle.

He reached the tall pillared entrance of the basilica, and saw the doorway blocked by Praetorians with locked shields, Protectores stationed behind them gripping the hilts of their swords. Castus looked back at the sea of men behind him, faces upturned beneath caps and helmets. Ripples of motion ran through the crowd, like shivers, although the night was warm. Here and there fights broke out, quickly quelled. Men shoved and jostled; others climbed up on the portico roofs.

Beside him, Castus saw Valens scrambling up onto the base of a pillar. The noise of the crowd was growing. He shuffled backwards until he felt one of the other pillars behind him, and then eased his swordbelt around and slipped the weapon up under his armpit where he could draw it quickly.

Now a great sigh came from the crowd, and they shifted forward. Castus leaned, peering upwards, and saw that a little fat man had appeared in one of the high arches of the basilica. The fat man raised his arms as the officers yelled for silence. The roar of voices died into a deep hush.

‘Fellow soldiers!’ the little man called out in a high cracked voice. It was the eunuch, Castus realised, who had been in the tent with the dead Pictish chiefs after the battle. A few harsh laughs came from the crowd.

‘Fellow soldiers,’ the eunuch cried again, raising his arms to the sky. ‘The sacred soul of our emperor has ascended to the heavens!’

A vast moan came from the assembled men. A mass of booted feet scraped the paving stones. Some of the men at the back of crowd had already started shouting. The eunuch’s voice rose to a high wail.

‘Our beloved Augustus… Flavius… Valerius… Constantius…
has lived
!’

The chorus of shouts was growing, building into a chant, but Castus could not make out what the men were saying. The crowd seethed and surged.

‘Brothers,’ the eunuch went on, stirring the air with his palms, ‘although this is a solemn day, it is also a joyous day, for now that our emperor stands beside the thrones of the gods, we can revere him as we revere the gods!’

With a shock, Castus made out what the crowd were chanting.

‘
Constantine! Constantine! Constantine!
’

‘…for his sublime virtues, his glorious victories against our savage enemies,’ the eunuch went on, ‘his tireless service to the state, and his piety toward the gods…’

‘
Constantine! Constantine! Constantine!
’ The chant was a pulse in the air, something almost physical. Castus saw scuffles breaking out, men knocked down and pummelled, other men raising their fists to the sky. He looked up at Valens, and saw his friend’s face glowing with wild fervour.

‘Constantine Augustus!’ Valens cried, and the men nearby cheered. Castus remembered seeing him leaving the tent of the notary Nigrinus. How many others had the notary spoken to? How many had he bribed? He touched the golden torque he wore around his neck.
For valour
, he thought.
For loyalty
.

Now the chant was joined by a stamp, a regular crashing beat of hobnailed boots on paving stones. From the far side of the courtyard a solid wedge of men was pushing through the crowd.

‘Soldiers! Noble soldiers!’ the eunuch cried, fanning the air with downward motions. ‘This is not right! Remember your oath! The new Augustus must be Flavius Severus – it is imperial protocol! Soldiers: do not besmirch your victories with dishonour!’

Fierce shouts from below, a volley of wooden cups and broken tiles flung up at the eunuch. Even a javelin, rattling off the basilica wall. Who was Flavius Severus? For a moment Castus could not remember. Then it came to him: Severus Caesar, the junior emperor appointed by Diocletian the year before, as deputy and successor to Constantius. But Severus Caesar was far away in Italia, and Constantine was here, sur­rounded by his father’s loyal troops...

The fat man retreated inside. Now Castus could see that the men pushing their way through the crowd were Germanic warriors of the Alamanni, with their king Hrocus at their head. Many of them carried shields, shoving the crowd aside as they came. Hrocus climbed onto the shoulders of his men, his beard flaming red in the torchlight.

‘Constantine!’ he cried out. ‘Give us Constantine!’

With his back to the pillar and his hand on the hilt of his sword, Castus craned upwards and stared in through the door of the basilica. The wall of Praetorians was moving too now, driving the crowd back with their shields and spearshafts. Castus leaped up onto a pillar base beside Valens. Within the block of Praetorians he could make out the lone figure with a cloak pulled over his head.

Rufinius, Prefect of the Sixth Legion, was up in the arch of the basilica now, yelling at the riotous crowd.

‘Men! Respect the wishes of the emperors! This is mutiny!’

‘
No! Get down!
’ the crowd cried in response. The tight mass of Alamanni had halted, and now the Praetorians were driving out from the basilica doors with Constantine between them. As the man passed, Castus saw his ruddy face and firm jutting jaw, his cheeks wet with tears. But was he smiling too? Castus blinked, and Constantine had moved on.

Out in the courtyard there was chaos, a milling riot of men pushing forward and back, screams, angry faces raised in the torchlight. Rufinius had given up trying to calm them. Now the Praetorians were leading a white horse from under the portico – where had that come from? – and helping Constantine to mount. The horse, terrified by the noise, champed and shied, rolling its eyes. All around there was struggle and confusion. Castus saw a body of men from the Rhine legions trying to forge their way through the cordon of guardsmen.

‘Are they trying to murder him?’ Diogenes called from behind the pillar. ‘Should we… go and protect him?’

Castus shook his head. He was watching Constantine care­fully: he was gesturing to the crowd, trying to wave them back, mopping his face with his free hand as if he were wiping away tears. Was this real, or theatre? Castus could not tell. But the violence in the courtyard was real enough. Soon there would be bloodshed.

‘Constantine, we pray to you!’ the Alamannic king bawled out in his bad Latin. ‘You must be our leader! You must be our Augustus! The army lusts for your rule! The world awaits you!’

And now Constantine was down off the horse, a tumult of bodies all around him. A moment later and he appeared again, raised on the locked and levelled shields of Hrocus’s warriors. Cheers rolled down from the men on the high porticos, and the courtyard echoed with shouts of acclamation. Even the Praetorians were cheering now, raising their palms in salute.

Swaying on the shields, Constantine struggled to stand upright, raising his face to the light. Hrocus, lifted on the shoulders of his men, seized a purple robe from the hands of a Praetorian and cast it around Constantine’s shoulders; one of the Protectores raised a golden circlet on the tip of a spear, and another placed it on Constantine’s head.

‘Augustus!’ the soldiers shouted, banging their weapons and stamping their feet. ‘Invincible Augustus Constantine! The gods preserve you – your rule is our salvation!’

And still the chant went on.

‘
CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE! CONSTANTINE!
’

‘And
that
,’ Valens said, leaning closer, his eyes alight with joy, ‘is how we make emperors at the edge of the world!’

‘Oh, no,’ Diogenes called from behind the pillar. ‘That is how we make
gods
.’

But Castus was still staring at the man raised on the shields. Constantine stood proudly now, the purple swath­ing his shoulders, his hawklike nose and firm chin shining in the torch­light. He raised an open palm, accepting the acclamation of the soldiers, and as he did so he turned and stared straight across the heads of the crowd to where Castus was standing.

Pushing himself away from the pillar, Castus threw up his hand, shouting into the roar of the crowd.

‘Constantine Augustus! Invincible Emperor!’

The sun was low and the breeze freshening as they approached the gates of the fortress. Castus could smell autumn in the air. Behind him on the road, the line of soldiers increased their pace with the promise of home.

‘Close up,’ Castus called over his shoulder, smacking his staff into his palm. ‘Military step!’

A muffled grumble, but the men did as he ordered. All of them were tired and filthy from a day mending roads, but they were soldiers and not labourers. Castus heard the regular crunch of boots on gravel. Woodsmoke was rising from the furnaces of the bath-house inside the walls.

Two months had passed since the great imperial entourage had departed Eboracum, bearing their new-made emperor off to Gaul. The fortress had soon fallen back into those same slow regular routines that Castus had found when he had first arrived there, two years before. But he was glad of the routines now, happy to pass his days in simple duty. He was centurion of a frontier legion, even if he still wore the fine gold torque of valour around his neck. How long, he wondered, would he remain so content?