‘The emperor’s coming back early from Britain,’ Victor went on. ‘And Maximian’s leaving the palace. Which means we’re going with him… to somewhere called the Villa Herculis, wherever that is.’
Castus knew of the place: it was a few miles up the river. He thanked Victor for the information and walked on towards his chamber. Perhaps it was best to get out of the Sacred Palace, he thought. He had grown used to it over the last year, but it felt hazardous all the same. Would this Villa Herculis be any better?
Back in his chamber he threw himself down on the bed. Sabina’s scent was still lingering in the folds of his cloak and tunic, and he stood up again and stripped them off. Sweat ran down his back. For a few heartbeats he stood in the gloom, remembering keenly the sensation of her body pressed against him, her mouth…
But then another thought came to him: M… A… X… Was the name supposed to be Maxentius? Or was it Maximian? Somebody in that subterranean room had known the answer, he was sure. The same person who had paid to ask the question. The same person, perhaps, who had rushed up to stop it when only the first three letters of the name had been uttered. Castus thought back to the faces in the crowd, trying to place them. The eunuch, Gorgonius, Maximian’s steward: what had become of him?
Pointless to try and work it all out. The whole strange scene was lost to mystery and confusion. Castus felt his mind growing foggy with weariness, the images of the night turning into a smoky whirl of distorted sensations. He needed to sleep, but he had just eased himself down onto the bed again and closed his eyes when a recollection jolted him awake.
The figure he had seen at the front of the gathering, the woman with the hood. In the brief instant before the lamps had gone out, as the man with the sword had pushed through the crowd, she had turned her head and he had seen her face. Had he recognised her at the time? If so, the sudden confusion that followed had driven it from his mind.
But now, abruptly, he was sure: the woman in the hood had been the nobilissima femina Fausta, the emperor’s wife.
14
‘Only twice in her life,’ Maximian declared, pushing himself up from the couch, ‘is a woman is of any worth… Once on the night of her wedding, when you take her virginity. And again on the day of her funeral, when you get rid of her!’
Polite laughter from the dinner guests, the former emperor’s intimates and officials gathered on the couches around him.
‘Oh, very good, dominus!’ said the eunuch Gorgonius. Scorpianus, one of the Praetorian tribunes, rubbed his big blue chin. He had a smile pasted to his face.
‘I remember one occasion during the campaign in Mauretania against the Quinquegentiani – you remember it, Scorpianus: you were there!’
Scorpianus inclined his head and made a self-deprecatory gesture.
‘Anyway,’ Maximian went on, ‘we’d surrounded one of their strongholds in the mountains; walls looked as old as Troy… We had the son of their chief, a boy of about nine or ten, and we brought him up before the gate and threatened to kill him if they didn’t surrender. So then the boy’s mother, fine-looking woman in a barbaric sort of way, stands up on the wall in sight of the whole army and pulls up her robe… shows off everything! And do you know what she said? Do you think this body is too old to make more sons?’
Maximian tipped back his head and laughed, then banged his cup down on the table. ‘Well, we took the fort in the end. Executed her and the boy, and everyone else in the place too! Or did we sell the boy…? Scorpianus?’
‘I don’t recall, dominus,’ the tribune said with a grimace.
‘A marvellous story,’ Gorgonius said, with an air that suggested he would prefer to move on to a different subject. But his master was not finished yet.
‘What do you think, Constantine?’ Maximian said. ‘Wasn’t there some female chief among the Picts, up there in Britain? What did you do with her?’
Standing on duty at the door of the dining room, Castus suppressed a jolt of concern at the words. He had heard nothing these last four years about Cunomagla, the formidable chieftainess who had, so briefly, shared his bed. Had the emperor learned more about her during his recent visit to Britain?
Constantine was reclining in solitude on the couch facing his father-in-law. He took his time replying. He had drunk as much as Maximian, but held it better. ‘I think I recall something of the sort,’ he said at last. ‘She ran away, I believe, to some cave in the mountains, and was never seen again. I expect she died…’
Castus exhaled slowly in relief. Clearly the emperor knew no more than he did.
But now Maximian was heaving himself up from the couch, calling for Constantine to join him. The other men around the table promptly stood as well, and fell in behind the emperor and his father-in-law as they moved for the door. Behind them, the slaves closed around the circular table, removing the debris of dinner and helping themselves to the scraps left on the dishes.
Maximian walked beside Constantine, throwing one hefty arm around the emperor’s shoulders. As they passed him, Castus heard them talking quietly together; he waited for the entourage to pass through into the reception chamber, then followed behind them at a discreet distance. Beyond the reception chamber was the broad front portico of the villa, lined with tall arched windows with brass grilles that let in a cool whisper of night air. Castus saw Constantine nodding gravely, Maximian swaying as he spoke, no doubt pressing his advice on the great matters of state. The others dropped back, lingering around the tall inlaid doors of the reception chamber, and let the two men walk on alone down the portico, through the pools of light spilled by the lamps across the marble floor.
Maximian and his household had been in residence at the Villa Herculis for over a month now, but in all that time the old former emperor had never uttered the slightest disloyalty. He railed against his disrespectful children, his wife – who had remained in Rome with Maxentius – his former colleague Diocletian, and the fickle Roman people, who had so soon neglected his grandeur. Even against the gods. But never a word against Constantine. Maximian had nothing but praise for him.
The emperor had been keeping himself deliberately aloof from his father-in-law since his return from Britain, and this appearance at the villa was a rare event. Castus knew why the emperor had at last decided to visit: the news that Licinius, the rival emperor based on the Danube, had invaded Italy, seized Istria from Maxentius and besieged Aquileia had circulated quickly. Perhaps, he thought as he followed the two men along the portico from the dining hall, Constantine had finally decided to listen to the old man’s advice.
It was later that night, as he returned towards his room, that Castus saw the figure sitting alone at the end of the rear portico. He paced closer at once, suspicious, but only as he opened his mouth to call out a challenge did he recognise the plainly dressed man with a cup of wine in his hand. Castus was momentarily shocked; he had believed that Constantine had retired to his own chambers an hour before.
‘Dominus,’ he said quickly, bowing, and began to kneel.
Constantine raised a finger, dismissing the gesture. ‘No need for that,’ he said curtly. ‘We are not in the palace now.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Approach.’
Castus moved closer, just three paces, then halted and fell into a parade rest posture. His breath was caught in his throat: he hoped the emperor did not require him to sit down, join him in a drink, perhaps…
‘Tell me, soldier,’ the emperor said. ‘Do you believe that the gods send us signs, messages? Do they guide us to the right path, or do they leave us to choose our own way…?’
The directness of the question caught Castus unprepared.