Rivals in Blood Read online

  Nearby horses were being rapidly saddled. The temperature in the early hours after discovering the plot had plummeted, and the gratitude shown to a spy having fled to the legitimate emperor was to be killed. In the snow of the large villa courtyard where Constans, the youngest son of Constantine the Great had been over wintering, lay the unfortunate victim’s motionless body. Nobody wanted the news to spread. The emperor’s imperial guard had already melted away and a bitter wind swept down from the northwest. The only people to remain here were a slave, Constans and his bodyguards rapidly tugging at stiff leather girth straps that ran beneath the horse’s bellies. The beasts, barely awake themselves in the morning cold, shied at having their mouths pulled open and a freezing iron bit forced inside. For their stubbornness they were thumped. The bridles, then tied, allowed the reins to be thrown over the necks and the three riders mounted from the shaking cupped hands of a slave who was run down by the horsemen struggling to get any grip in the snow. A trail of loose straw bedding and muck pointed to the direction of their escape and as fast as he wanted to be away Constans couldn’t stop the ice from balling up in the hooves of his mount, preventing it from getting a better hold on the surface below.

  ‘Ride to the south!’ he shouted through the chill biting at his throat, his hands and his face.

  ‘They will be after us and we have to make Hispania. Go as fast as you can!’

  The emperor knew that with only three horses at his disposal if one was to fall the rider would be left to fend for himself. Tarraconensis would only mean temporary refuge and from there a boat to Ostia. After that he could move about safely and arrange a meeting with his surviving brother and together plan how to quell the insurrection now burning within Gallia. Anger at the loss of his lands and legions to a man whose life he once saved, led him to swear bitterly that he would take his revenge upon all those who had betrayed him. Cursing, he bent his head lower into the flakes of white ice picking at his face with the wind and pushed the horse into giving more of itself whilst mindful of the road surface and the risk in slipping. Being a good horseman, Constans had once ridden to the aid of Britannia during the winter months in order to protect it and was accustomed to military hardship travelling by both day and night as the emergency demanded. It was the field army that followed him that year and yet the same field army now deserted him. The odds were against success.

  After hours of riding the three of them stopped and estimated that they had travelled a good distance and nobody could have outflanked them with news. The roads were still empty of traffic and those few military patrols that they did encounter were met with a severe caution that if the emperor’s known whereabouts were disclosed then repercussions would follow. A lie was fabricated to the extent that his personal bodyguard were following behind so that he may travel quicker in order to crush fresh reports of a mutiny rising. He was to pass everywhere unhindered and so effectual was the lie that bread and warm broth were immediately brought to sustain them before the onset of another cold hour, although rest and sleep were turned down. Horses were rapidly exchanged although it didn’t pass unnoticed to the guard that upon the sallow weathered face of Constans was written the fear of being pursued as he anxiously glanced to the north and clutched tight his warm beaker. The men at the small fort offered to show the same hospitality to his bodyguard and point them towards the direction that he was travelling in although again they were warned against doing this. As peculiar as it was that the emperor in person had arrived and then left again in as much haste, served to remind the garrison that Fluvius Rhenus may have frozen and the Franks and Alemanni had flooded over. Constans, in their ignorance, was aware of the alarm and had to rapidly organise his defence against it. It had happened before and with the three riders slowly disappearing into the pale yellow light of a setting winter sun they all meekly cheered for them and for the empire at large. Then they bolted the massive oak door and went back to warming their hands and wandering the ramparts awaiting whatever it was that was to eventually come from the north; either more Romans or their enemies.

  Week two found the deposed Constans and his exhausted companions on the verge of collapse having followed Via Domitia south. The snows of inland Gallia had been left far behind only to be replaced instead by the soft coastal rains of Gallia Narbonenesis and after an impatient observation of Castrum Helenae they made plans to enter the town in order to find rest and food before the final rush to the ocean. There was little vestige of the emperor left in him now. A gold ring: an image on a coin. Who would recognise the ragged, bearded man? With water clinging to his stinking cloak and standing shaking beside his broken horse he implored one of the bodyguards to go ahead and find the smallest of town houses. He eventually reported back that there was one and after banging sharply on the gate built into the wall, two of the three men burst through as it opened. A dagger thrust against a slave’s throat ensured his silence as he was rapidly bundled in before them.

  ‘Keep quiet’ said Constans’ companion. ‘Or else you will die! Who lives here and where are they?’

  ‘There is no-one. My master is away in the city’ the slave fearfully replied without indicating which one.

  It was winter and not unusual for the occupant to be absent from such a meagre dwelling as this. Any large city would offer more comfort, especially a bath house.

  ‘Take what you want, anything...’ he pleaded, as if the possessions were his own, at which the soldier punched him hard.

  ‘Once a slave, always a slave’ he growled at the man on the floor clutching his face.

  ‘Is anybody coming back?’

  ‘No’ said the slave through bloodied teeth.

  ‘How far are we from the harbour?’

  ‘You are close’ he struggled to say.

  Constans, although now enjoying watching another man suffer in his turn, ordered his friend to stop and go and fetch the third man. The horses, he said, were to be left outside the city as they were exhausted anyway. There was no-one to look after them and they could only risk one night’s rest. After a quick search of the building he slid away in the same manner that he had arrived returning with their companion. The slave meanwhile was put to work and sufficient food was found for them although not to the standards of the imperial table. To Constans, the irony of the situation couldn’t be more vivid as he picked through the scraps. Here was an emperor in the town and one who no longer commanded any authority at all and having to eat the poorest of meals. Sadness and hatred had filled his heart and anxiety crowded his mind as shortly they would have to attempt the forced passage away. The walls in this simple house were his temporary sanctuary whilst outside the pursuit continued. He that ruled, would rule no more, but as troubled as he was Constans looked favourably upon his two weary friends vowing enormous riches for them at the bringing down of Magnentius. Until death he was still the emperor, he still commanded an army in Illyricum and he still had his god, Christos.

  Drawing straws from the emperor’s righteous hand led to Constans and one of his bodyguards resting whilst the unfortunate second man remained on duty; first walking the street outside, and thereafter coming back indoors. It was Februarius and the nights were cold. A small fire was started in the iron brazier of the main room that warmed them, yet so mentally and physically tired were they that rest was hard to find. Constans, lying on the only couch, stared morosely at the surroundings before turning his gaze to the man wrapped in his own cloak and prostrate at his feet. He was his favourite. In a corner the slave fearfully crouched, wondering who the intruders were. Oblivious of him, the emperor beckoned his bodyguard up onto the bed to lie beside his master and after being drawn close to him he allowed his face to be gently stroked and soft words of belief to be whispered in his ear. He held him tight fearful of ever wanting to let him go and bundled together in the damp warmth of their mutual clothing they both fell asleep safe in the arms of the other. In his only dream the ocean was as close as it could be. He could hear it, smell it, taste it
, yet on the harbour wall stood his grandmother, and she could only call out silently to him as the ship neared. Words he couldn’t hear.

  Eventually the time to leave came with the slow eastern light of morning crawling into the sky. Nobody had come near the house all night save only a few going past to open up a market stall but they suspected nothing. Cockerels crowed out that it was safe to go. Their prisoner, the slave, was forced into describing the quickest way to a harbour, any harbour, and whatever food that could be carried in a bag was taken. He was to be left behind with a threat that if he was seen again by them, he would die the cruellest of deaths. The side door opened carefully and out they spilt from the shelter of the house and into the narrow streets beyond with one bodyguard leading, Constans following and behind him the third man. It was early and the cool air served to wash the thought of capture from their minds and intoxicate them into believing that everything was going to be in their favour. Although still damp from the previous day’s rain the excitement of their task warmed them and with every perilous step towards the ocean, Magnentius too would come closer to his own death. Then there came the call that stopped them.

  ‘You are no longer wanted, Flavius Julius Constans.’

  A sharp voice reverberated off the walls and came from Gaiso, one of Magnenetius’ recognisable agents. The officer had stepped forward to block a passage radiating from the small square from which other roads stretched to potential freedom. With the raising of his left arm all the other routes were quickly filled with running soldiers clutching their round shields and spears. Wooden window shutters that had opened from houses framing the commotion quickly shut again for fear of any involvement. Then the shuffling stopped and allowed everybody to hear the plea.

  ‘Gaiso; I know you. If I am free, then why have you brought these traitors?’ the emperor questioned nervously.

  ‘In my freedom I command you to leave.’

  His heart was beating fast.

  Moments passed at which there was no response to his authority and at the perceived reluctance of Gaiso or his men to stand aside, Constans’ bodyguards moved forward drawing their swords. He directed his ire towards the implacable soldiers staring at him from behind the nose guards of their iron helmets. Still nobody moved. Then taking a few steps backwards he tried another previously well executed bribe.

  ‘To any man here that joins me...’ he shouted in a shrill youthful voice and across them in an arc, whilst above birds flew towards the sea.

  ‘To any man here I will raise you up in rank and you will serve under my protection and in my household where you shall be safe. Step forward. You have my trust.’

  Not one man moved. Constans, lowering his arms and sensing his own failure to convince Gaiso otherwise, whispered to his men to drop their guard, take their own steps backwards and without warning them turned and ran for a door that he had noticed was open. A flight of spears rapidly followed, some ricocheting from the stone columns adorning the temple but most, if not all, finding their targets in the unprotected soft flesh of his bodyguard who wore no armour. As the two men stumbled to the ground they were efficiently murdered by the oncoming tide of men. There was no time for Constans to mourn them.

  In the patchy grey light of the building hid an emperor. It wasn’t the house of his own living god, Christos, but of a pagan god, the stone image of which stared impassively from its marble plinth. It offered no comfort and no sanctuary. Framed outside against the horizon were the ranks of Magnentius’ men moving towards putting an end to their prey, and as they crept ever closer what light was available was largely extinguished by their bodies pushing through the door. Constans, his own sword drawn, now threw it down imploringly at Gaiso’s boots as the ultimate gesture of submission. It clattered and tumbled across the hard floor before resting, unused.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ he asked, shaking as he suddenly anticipated his own fate.

  ‘I am your rightful emperor and I have my army. Why do they not want me, Gaiso? Why do they not want me? What have I done wrong? I am twenty seven years of age. I can grow old with them. I can change. Why don’t they love me?’

  He was on his knees, his arms spread outwards.

  Gaiso kicked the sword back to him with the toe of his boot and then impatient at the lack of a noble attempt at death, he retreated from the condemned man and simply ordered...

  ‘Throw.’

  Constans and his life story met all too briefly before he collapsed crying, and looked upon by the face of an outcast god. Their task was over, the temple silently emptied of its witnesses and Magnentius would rule in his place.

  Far to the north the snows of winter were just a melting memory and Magnentius was found not only enjoying the news and the early warmth of spring, but also the early grasp upon the reins. He had ordered the limitanei from their camps to practice and recalled all but the necessary cavalry units out on patrol. Accommodation for them would have to be found in the cities which proved to be unpopular. He met their commanders at Bonna where he spoke about the season’s plans. There were to be no punitive raids into Germania but only embassies were allowed to warn the Franks about attacking Gallia, whilst he himself would shortly be sailing for Britannia. Once in the island he would take stock of the garrison and remove all the troops necessary for opposing Constantius. In such a short time Marcellinus had done well preparing an inventory of what his master commanded. Every soldier that had otherwise been sick now raised himself up invigorated by the changes that he saw happening. Every guard overlooking his static defence itched a little more at the thought of being on the move, although their families weren’t as keen. This was their time to attack. This was the opportunity for change that they yearned for and now found themselves part of. Yet no one had given any thought to a commander fighting, who he was fighting against and then afterwards, if victorious, having to rule in his place. It didn’t matter.

  Chapter III

  AD350

  TAKEN

  The waters of Fluvius Sabrinus glinted in the far distance whilst the white headed mountains of Siluria rose to meet the sky. Sail shapes across the waves, like childish clouds, were momentarily seen and then lost as the view changed and all colours merged into blue, grey and green. Meanwhile on land trampled grass smelt sweet underfoot as work progressed to put fresh horses through their paces sifting the good from the bad. This was Salvius’ family farm in what used to be Durotrigia.

  Faustina, dutifully accompanying her husband on this trip, stood well back as the corralled excited animals were urged forward by experienced slaves and past a single man purposely waving a large oval shield at them. A gate opened and then closed quickly as one by one they were forced to face the threat. Timid ones that baulked were sent into this paddock, the braver ones that didn’t, into that. The latter were for the cavalry, whilst the former were for the cart. It looked very efficient leaving Salvius to explain to his nervous wife that his family had been doing this for many years and were accustomed to the danger or more correctly he admitted, it was the slaves that were accustomed to the danger. Once sorted, the wild horses could be gently encouraged to take a rider, and then after learn to accept their new life. When all had been trained they were offered to the army requisition officer to purchase and taken away. He wasn’t due for another two months which from experience appeared plenty of time, but following the coldest of winters after their marriage the previous summer the land hadn’t been suitable for starting this year’s crop. Time was short and Salvius was there to help his sick father get the work done as the army wouldn’t be kept waiting.

  A strong young man with a proud stance, he flourished in the responsibility given to him and was knowledgeable of every horse that they had produced for sale. Holding firm to the ambition that his father in law would secure him an easy entry into the ranks of the military as a requisition officer, he joyfully went about his task. What could be better: A beautiful wife, a good salary and a posting in Britannia? However, Faustina fe
lt far differently and was unlike her mother in that respect.

  Now bored of the constant shouting of men, the foaming sweat of horses, the clashing of the gates and very much everything else involved, she chose to drift away alone and back towards the villa where she little expected much in the way of the educated talk of the classes and indeed found nothing to her liking. Lunch would be provided when the men stopped working and the slaves there admitted their ignorance at who to feed first. Was it them or her? Therefore, clutching a piece of bread in her hand and noticing a dog loose in the yard, she excitedly called to it and then played with it like a child would a toy, rolling it to and fro on its back. The dog only wanted the bread and with bare teeth it snatched it from her hand before sloping off to eat it. This reinforced how the day was growing more wearisome and her anger grew in that her husband hadn’t noticed so she went to find something else to do.

  Once separated, the better horses were quickly appraised for any signs of ill health. Their feet were cleaned and inspected for cuts, bruises or heat. Those slightly lame were put to one side for stabling and allowed the time to recover. Whilst quiet, their mouths were held open and a quick look at the teeth was undertaken to ascertain the age of the animal as no records existed. The army would be more thorough and write down these details. Their rough coats, still heavy with winter fullness, were then examined for hidden sores, bites and kick wounds. Finally, they were segregated into mares and stallions and kept in two secure pens, in one of which stood Salvius. He was struggling with one animal that had had enough of the day. It was proving thoroughly wild having lately been running freely across the open moors of Durotrigia. Now with being captured and its head so low to the ground and neck arched, it trotted to and fro, unable to settle. Salvius, admiring the raw beauty of its form, watched it pacing about before seizing his chance at joining it in the pen. Jumping the fence and landing on his feet his actions took it by complete surprise and staring him directly in the face it snorted disapproval at his proximity.