Rivals in Blood Page 11

  From his chair Magnentius rose to his feet immediately and pulled the envoy away from speaking further. Spinning him around and out of hearing distance from the experienced ranks of soldiers he looked him straight in the face.

  ‘They have heard enough from you. What is Constantius offering?’ he demanded to know.

  Looking over his shoulder for signs of discontent the envoy dully replied.

  ‘Your army could grow impatient at your reluctance to hear my offer, Magnentius. Be careful in case they turn.’

  ‘Speak your offer as it is I that will calm them!’

  ‘Then hear me when I repeat the words of Constantius! You are to retreat back to your provinces, the ones stolen from the emperor’s bother, Constans. You are to remain there and make no claim upon the East.’

  It wasn’t the offer expected and because of it Flavius Phillipus was immediately arrested.

  That evening Magnentius quietly thought over what he had said until he was assured that his decision was the right one and the following day, summoned his army to parade the one more time.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon’ he began to say.

  ‘You heard a small part of the lies of Constantius. I am the emperor and no other man can rule in my place. He wants me to retreat.’

  There was a silence at his words which were difficult to comprehend. Was it the acceptance of war or the disappointment at a failed treaty?

  ‘If we return then he may attack us as we march with our backs turned. He could sow unrest with the tribes of Germania who may also attack us. He may even attack us in the future. Remember, he has rejected my daughter’s hand in marriage and therefore despises me. We have not come here to gift a victory to our enemies. We have come here to unite as one empire and rid it of the last son of Constantine. There will be one final battle to secure our future and after that we can rest! Legions of the west, in your honour, follow me; we fight on.’

  There was an enormous roar at his resolve and a feeling that their cause would prevail. One battle, one final battle and they could return home if the fates were to agree, but with autumn closing in they needed to get Constantius to commit his army before the snows came.

  Magnentius therefore continued to throw his men forward until eventually cornered the two armies faced each other on the wide river plain straddling the south bank of Fluvius Dravus. Nearby stood the town of Mursa and inside the smallest of chapels sheltered the emperor Constantius.

  Kneeling on a simple floor of mortar and facing the eastern wall decorated with painted figures he remained there throughout the day of battle, eyes tightly closed and in prayer. The door would open and soft voices were heard outside describing what they had personally witnessed before being repeated again inside. Together with his own superstitious interjection of belief, the news of the massacre was delivered by Valens, bishop of Mursa, to the most eager of ears. Angels of the Lord he said had fought for Constantius and heralded victory over the rebels. The fight was done and the struggle for the time being over.

  Chapter VIII

  AD353-354

  REFLECTIONS

  Despite Vapincum being situated quietly in the cool of the southern mountains of Gallia it was still a very hot August day. Travellers had stopped moving freely on the Via Domitia and the walled town gave the appearance of it being deserted. Only a few stragglers left over from the once mighty army of Magnentius restlessly moved about, looking for, and then forgetting what it was that they were doing as panic stalked them in having to confront their past.

  A map lay across a table and a scribe had tried to count what reserves the emperor had left before he also took the decision to flee for clearly written down on parchment it was true. Numerically there weren’t the legions left that he thought and to attempt to ride north to Britannia and raise another army was pointless. Now extremely tired and physically weakened at being constantly harassed by everything and everyone, Magnentius could only close his eyes and drift into sleep. This was their opportunity and seeing the beaten man slumped on his couch allowed more of his bodyguard to escape without having to trouble their consciences. For a few hours he rested until woken by a deputation of town elders gathered about him and demanding what they were to do? Like troubled geese and in a fluster of some alarm they all began to talk at once.

  ‘My Lord’ they started to complain. ‘The soldiers of Constantius are about us and have looted the temples. They no longer fear the gods. Is your cause lost, because they seek you?’

  Eventually they were told to be silent by a loyal servant who brought some order with his manners.

  Of course Magnentius knew the answer and angered by the simplicity of their pathetic demands fought back. Walking to a table to take a drink of warm water before then spitting out what hadn’t satisfied his thirst he turned to confront them and their fears.

  ‘Look to yourselves’ he said easily.

  An empty room that had so recently contained the remnant of his army bore witness to the fact that currently everybody else was running but despite his size and stature though they weren’t to be dismissed. Only by withdrawing his sword did they choose to go. At that point a trusted advisor pushing his way forward through them entered.

  ‘My Lord, Constantius’ army is much closer now’ he had to say without any fear of repercussion.

  ‘I know’ contritely answered Magnentius.

  ‘What will happen to you?’

  He didn’t reply immediately but reflected upon the mistakes of his three years in power. Vetranio, the battle of Mursa, the massacre of twenty four thousand men, Marcellinus killed, the disloyalty of Claudius Silvanus and his cavalry to the ranks of the enemy, the appeal by his Bishops to the clemency of Constantius and now this, the final defeat. The revolt was over; his rule at its end. No longer did he appear agitated at the thought of having to decide the fate of others and spared no memory of Salvius Castus or Flavius Martinus. He didn’t remember them.

  ‘Has anybody heard news of my brother?’ He asked instead.

  ‘Yes, I have’ replied his friend.

  ‘For good or bad, don’t be afraid to speak.’

  ‘If he uses the legions I left him with he could fight his way to my aid; I Minerva, XXX Ulpia, XXII Primigenia and VIII Augustus.’

  ‘This is no longer possible my Lord: You won’t know but Constantius has bribed the Franks and Alemanni to cross Fluvius Rhenus. Your brother is currently besieged by them in Senonae. Africa and Hispannia are under the emperor’s control too. There is little help to be had from anywhere.’

  Magnentius sighed deeply before momentarily fighting to draw his breath.

  ‘You had better run too.’ He gasped.

  ‘Go to the west if you can, then north. May fate be your only guide!’ and with that he ushered him to the door through which he also went and down the steps into the furnace of the afternoon sun.

  Sensing both that his enemies were even closer now by the complete lack of military discipline and seeing civilian order breaking down he listened acutely to a few men standing watch on the walls beginning to shout in favour of Constantius as emperor. Their desertion hurt him like the deepest wound that now couldn’t heal but he understood. They must have seen the banners of the vanguard approaching. It was time to go. Walking back up the small flight of stone steps he bolted the door behind him, knelt down and withdrew his sword before slumping forward upon its blade. With eyes still open upon the world that he had tried to rule and with blood pooling upon the floor his reluctant end came quickly.

  Outside the walls of Senonae the dubious news of Magnentius’ death was delivered by Chnodomarius, chief of the Alemanni. In a mocking gesture he implored Decentius to come out and surrender his life to him. He may be more lenient than Constantius. Understanding that he was surrounded and would never be able to reach his brother and also remembering his pledge in Augustodunum which left him with little choice, Decentius elected to have his men hang him.

  Seven months later and far to the north throu
gh the bitter cold of Februarius trudged Salvius Castus; a survivor of the conflict that he had endured but now a prisoner being sent to Britannia amongst the remnants of tribe of the Abulci. Nothing about his return to the island was triumphant and as his boat docked at Portus Dubris he was forced off unceremoniously at the end of a spear. Others hadn’t fared so well with the survivors of Mursa being despatched to the empty deserts of the east and fed into the war against the Persians. He was only spared, as when captured hiding, his sword although pitted carried no signs of recent war damage. Stripped of his horse and beaten for cowardice, it was decreed that Salvius wasn’t fighting to depose Constantius but had been enlisted against his will and after remorsefully begging forgiveness he was permitted to return home. However, there was a punishment to endure and for that he was going to serve the emperor with twenty five years of his life in the army. First being sent to Londinium and there afterwards to wherever expendable men were needed the most.

  As the flakes of snow drove into his face like arrow heads across the flat road he continued to slump forward but in no longer having to bear arms he found it easier to clutch his cloak tightly around his neck with one hand whilst the other was tucked inside for warmth. Not a single man of the one hundred men alongside him bore the proud semblance of military standing but visibly carried with them the dishevelled stigma of dishonour. They were all hungry; food was sparsely given and discipline freely administered in its place by mounted guards who couldn’t care for their lives one way or the other.

  News of Constantius’ victory would have already heralded itself in the island and there would be no resistance to the changes coming as Britannia exhausted itself in supporting the rebellion. As for Salvius, he thought of his wife. Londinium was getting closer and with every crippled step came the belief that she may be there waiting with her father, the vicarius. He could influence things with the guard and his son in law be released into the caring arms of Faustina. What had become of Magnentius? He wasn’t sure but his insurrection was clearly over and would the population of Londinium suffer for it?

  They marched on slowly with the inevitability that at some time they would come to a stop. For three years he had been doing that not knowing where the end was or how to find it. Magnentius had been the leader of men blindly following in their obedience until Mursa, and then Vapincum eventually brought him to a halt. Every step forward came as the last one did; unrepentant and no longer filled with excitement or opportunity.

  A cart came towards them out of the heavy grey sky with a shout to mind it allowing Salvius, who peered out from behind the man before him, just enough time to plan. Never stopping or swerving which could have driven it off the agger, it continued on its course amongst the troop forcing them apart and when no one saw him Salvius slipped away alongside it, stooping low to its dark wooden silhouette as it travelled in the opposite direction. If he had feared immediate recapture he needn’t have worried for the man previously traipsing alongside him had assumed that he had taken up the column elsewhere as it reformed and therefore said nothing. The two parties therefore drifted apart and when confident that he could show himself to the wagon driver Salvius stood up and came forward. Assuming that he was being robbed he went to strike his attacker with the same stick used to force the oxen on but Salvius took it from him. The man cowered expecting now to be struck himself.

  ‘No,’ said Salvius, tired of violence.

  ‘I am not going to harm you. I want to get into Londinium. Can you return?’

  The wagon driver straightened up and asked who his attacker was. The shortest of conversations ensued after which the man unemotionally agreed to hide Salvius in the cart as he returned. However, that he couldn’t do immediately.

  ‘Why?’ enquired Salvius who couldn’t shirk the embarrassment at having the roadside ditches clearly pointed out to him.

  First they would have to turn the cart about but somewhere else.

  Once inside the city, Salvius bid the man farewell and although he couldn’t thank him materially he did give a promise to help another in need if he could. The wagon driver smiled as if he had been given a gift, a secret of his own personal belief and then trudged on. Slowly he was swallowed up by the pedestrian traffic milling across the road like mist over the fields and soon lost in the comings and goings of Londinium. Salvius needed to get to Martinus. With darkness falling and the snow lying where feet and wheels hadn’t discoloured it everything was becoming a blur. Without money, without friends, without anything the fortunes of war were obvious to him. Lose and you had nothing. Win and you took everything.

  Having found the imperial palace he saw it dimly lit but imagined that his father in law would be settling down inside to dine with him; he would be interested in his tales of war and then provide him with the opportunity of living a new life. He would listen intently as Salvius declared his love for his daughter and plans for their future. He would agree and be satisfied in his choice of a son in law. The gods would prevail in their support of this union and nothing would break it. Tentatively then he approached the doors supported by majestic columns either side. This night though unlike the last time he had been there it appeared menacing and with threat. A guard immediately confronted him demanding that:

  ‘In the name of Imperator Caesar Flavius Julius Constantius Augustus state your business here!’

  Just hearing the emperor’s name cast a shiver into Salvius who could only reply...

  ‘I am here to talk with the vicarius, Flavius Martinus’ trying his best at being officious.

  The guard pushed him off with a spear across his chest.

  ‘Go’ he demanded before resuming his unrelenting stance.

  ‘Listen to me’ again pleaded the stranger.

  ‘I am the son in law of the vicarius.’

  He hoped that would have been enough and relaxed as he waited for admission.

  The man who had never seen war himself looked upon the ragged profile before him: Lank hair, unkempt appearance, lacking any weapon, in pain and without any wearing of military dress. Would a man like Flavius Martinus really have brought this stranger into his household? Where was the man’s stature and bearing? He carried none. Therefore he demanded that Salvius leave.

  Behind the guard a group apparition of figures appeared and silently moved from left to right along a corridor absorbed in low conversation amongst themselves. Salvius mistakenly cried out to them.

  ‘My Lord, it is I Salvius Castus!’

  Without heads turning in any acknowledgement, on they walked.

  ‘Shut up and leave, or else!’ threatened the guard.

  Salvius, utterly dejected at his dismissal, had nowhere else to go but militarily turned about to face the first of many cold nights cast out. The thought of admitting his mistake in escaping and then returning to the garrison in the city had crossed his mind. He would be severely punished if he did but he would live and find shelter out of this weather. He coughed at the irony; Flavius Martinus was to give him a career and here it was on the steps of his palace as a destitute and fugitive. About to set off, a voice other than the guard’s, called him back.

  ‘Salvius Castus, I heard you say?’ it enquired as it followed him.

  ‘Yes’ was the lonely reply in a tone so quiet as to doubt itself.

  ‘Who is your wife?’

  ‘Faustina: She is my wife’ he replied remembering her and expecting her to appear from behind the figure.

  ‘And where did you marry, Salvius?’ it went on to ask.

  ‘The Villa Juliana.’

  ‘Then come quick.’ It said.

  ‘It is impossible for the vicarius to see you tonight but you can shelter here and I will arrange for him to speak with you in the morning.’

  Jubilant at last that somebody had believed his story he edged his way through the door of the imperial palace of Londinium and following the palace official was shown to a room where he rested.

  After a disturbed night’s sleep and with the
opaque light of morning Salvius opened his eyes to a new day full of hope. Flavius Martinus was here and the revolt he hoped had finished. He lay back on his bed and wondered who to thank for his fortune. How could he reward them and in what manner? The door to his room opened and in walked the vicarius.

  Neither man easily recognised the other. Gone were the trappings of imperial power that Flavius had worn so respectfully. A worried frown now bore heavily upon his face and told that he knew more about the repercussions of insurrection than his son in law. He looked drawn and frightened. Salvius immediately got off his bed but unable to greet his unemotional father in law with any warmth just stared at him. In return a disappointed Flavius stared back with little to say.

  ‘My only son, thank the gods that you are still alive but you are not safe here’ he whispered without offering an explanation as to why.

  Salvius was scared.

  ‘Is the war going to reach Britannia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is Faustina?’

  ‘She is safe but she has changed Salvius. She is not the same woman that you left behind.’

  Martinus had curiously said that before.

  ‘Does she still want me? Does she remember me?’

  ‘Yes, I believe she does. I will immediately send a messenger to her but you have to find your way back to the Villa Juliana. Trust me when I say that she will be there. From then on you can live your own lives. I have provided some money for you. Now get dressed quickly and leave. It will soon be very dangerous for you to be found here with me.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. Will you join us?’ requested Salvius clutching his hand tightly but remembering the weakness therein and not wanting to embarrass nor hurt him.