The Mask of Command

  THE MASK OF COMMAND

  Ian Ross

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

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  About Mask of Command

  A treacherous act of murder throws the western provinces into turmoil and Aurelius Castus is ordered to take command of the military forces on the Rhine. But he soon discovers that on the frontier the boundaries between civilisation and barbarism, freedom and slavery, honour and treason have little meaning.

  At the very heart of the conflict are two vulnerable boys – Emperor Constantine’s young heir, Crispus, and Castus’s own beloved son, Sabinus. Only Castus stands between them and men who would kill them.

  With all that he loves in danger, Castus and a handful of loyal men must fight to defend the Roman Empire. But in the heat of battle, can he distinguish friend from enemy?

  Galea diademate, sceptris pila mutentur: auri praemium ferri labore meruisti.

  Let helmet be exchanged for diadem, spear for sceptre: you earned the reward of gold with the work of iron.

  Symmachus

  In tranquillo esse quisque gubernator potest.

  In a calm sea, anyone can hold the helm.

  Publilius Syrus

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome page

  About Mask of Command

  Epigraph

  Maps

  Historical Note

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part 2

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part 3

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part 4

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About Ian Ross

  About the Twilight of Empire series

  From the Editor of this Book

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Maps

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Over four years have passed since Emperor Constantine seized Rome and gained supremacy in the west. His ally Licinius, having destroyed their mutual rival Maximinus Daza, has claimed the eastern territories. United by treaty, the two men have agreed to rule the empire between them.

  But already this delicate alliance is collapsing into war. Once again, Roman marches against Roman as Licinius and Constantine vie for sole power, with the disputed territories of the Danube provinces as their battleground.

  Constantine’s favoured religion, Christianity, continues to gain influence and attract followers. Meanwhile, on the frontiers of the empire, new enemies grow in strength and wait for the moment when Rome’s weakness will allow them to strike.

  PROLOGUE

  Campus Ardiensis, Thracia, January AD 317

  The plain was covered with the wrack of war.

  Many times the opposing armies had clashed, drawn back, and then clashed again, arrows and javelins flickering beneath winter clouds that boiled like dark smoke. Now the coarse and frost-stiffened grass and the ice-rimed pools bristled with spent missiles and shattered shields. The bodies of men and horses clogged the bloodied turf. Iron gleamed dull in the fading light, and the wind made the battle cries and the trumpet calls indistinguishable from the wails of the dying.

  On a low ridge to the north of the plain, a group of men crouched below a stand of twisted black hawthorns, gazing out over the battlefield. The banners and shield blazons were lost in the gathering murk, and for a few long moments it was impossible for the observers to say which army fought for Constantine and which for Licinius. Impossible to say who was winning, and what had been lost. But already the first snow was whirling in from the south, and the men on the ridge knew that few of the wounded left between the battle lines would survive the night.

  The youngest of the group, a supernumerary centurion with a wind-reddened face, threw out an arm suddenly and pointed. ‘I see it!’ he cried. ‘Just to the right of the centre – the imperial standard! Constantine must be there...’ He turned to the big man beside him, who knelt, impassive, wrapped in his cloak. ‘Dominus,’ the centurion said. ‘Should we give the order to advance? The track will take us straight down onto the plain – we can reinforce the battle line at the centre...’

  The senior officer unlaced his gilded helmet and lifted it from his head. He squinted, and his coarse heavy features bunched as he seemed to sniff the breeze.

  ‘No,’ he said. The word steamed in the frigid air.

  ‘But, dominus... why delay any longer? Surely the emperor needs us...?’ The centurion was young, untested in war and eager to prove himself. Behind them, on the track, five thousand soldiers waited in column with their baggage and equipment. Two days’ forced march had brought them here – surely now they could turn the tide of the battle?

  ‘I said no.’

  The big man rubbed a palm along his jaw, through the rasp of stubble and the ugly scar that knotted his cheek. He studied the battlefield before him, and the young centurion saw the calculation in his eyes. He put his helmet back on.

  ‘The army’s strong enough at the centre,’ he said. ‘There’s another track to our left, running along the rear of this ridge. It should take us down onto the plain to the east. We swing around that way and we can hit the enemy on their flank.’

  The centurion blinked, and then stared at the land ahead of him. Snowflakes whirled in the wind, almost hypnotic.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ the commander said curtly. ‘Get down there, find the emperor and report our position! Tell him that I intend to outflank the enemy lines on the left. Go!’

  ‘Dominus!’ the centurion said, saluting as he leaped to his feet. He turned and ran down the slope to where the horses were tethered. The commander watched the young man vault into the saddle, then spur his horse into a gallop down the trail towards the distant standards at the centre of the battle line. He exhaled, breathing a curse as he recalled the old adage. War is sweet to the untried. An experienced man fears it with all his heart.

  Aurelius Castus, Tribune and Protector of the Sacred Retinue, praepositus legionum and commander of the detached column, was forty years old and had spent over half his life in the armies of Rome. He knew war intimately, as he knew fear. But he also knew that the centurion was right; there was no time for delay now. For over a month he had been leading his column through the barren hills of central Thracia, trying to intercept Licinius before he could link up with his reinforcements from Byzantium. Two days before, scouts had brought word that the enemy had evaded him; Licinius had already gathered an army at Adrianople, and Constantine himself was advancing to confront him. The last two days’ rapid march had been shadowed by the threat of disgrace, of failure. Now, Castus and his men had a chance to redeem themselves. But there was so little time, and any mistake could bring disaster.

  Striding back down from the ridge, he could see the men of his column waiting on the track to the north. He knew that
all of them were weary, hungry and cold after marching sixty miles on muddy hill tracks in freezing rain, with no hot food and little sleep, their baggage carts and oxen abandoned far behind them. Castus had ordered a rest while he went forward to reconnoitre, a brief pause for the men to eat and drink from their canteens. But already many of them were back on their feet and forming up in line of march, grim-faced as they huddled in their cloaks, gripping their shields and weapons with numbed hands. In the fading light Castus saw their faces, pinched and grey; he saw the exhaustion in their eyes. He felt it too, but he carried the burden of command.

  At the core of the column were a thousand men of Castus’s own legion, II Britannica, veterans who had fought for Constantine for nearly a decade on the Rhine and in Italy. Them he could trust. His only cavalry were the mounted scouts and a few hundred troopers of the Equites Mauri. But the rest of his command was made up of half-trained recruits, barbarian auxilia and men conscripted from among the prisoners of war. Would they manage a difficult flanking march in gathering darkness, and then a charge into the heart of the battlefield?

  ‘Pass the word down the line,’ Castus ordered his deputy as he returned to the horses. ‘No signals, no trumpets – keep silent. Every man to dump kit and cloak and prepare for battle. Mules and slaves to the rear – the Raetovarii to remain here as baggage guards, the rest to advance on my command.’ He called to the leader of his mounted scouts: ‘Decurion, have your men spread out along the north side of the ridge. Check the track’s clear, and flush out any scouts or enemy skirmishers you find.’

  The decurion saluted, then wheeled his horse. From the far side of the ridge came the distant cries of trumpets, the roar of combat. The fighting was intensifying once more. All along the column men stiffened, raising their heads, as if they might hear the screams of death carried on the air. A ripple passed through them: fear mixed with resolve.

  Castus swung himself up onto his horse. His heart was beating heavily, and he tried to slow his breathing. He needed to appear perfectly calm and fearless now, perfectly in control of the situation. So much depended on his judgement, and his officers needed to see him and be reassured by him. The wind shoved at the plume of black feathers on his helmet. Reaching up, Castus fumbled at the heavy gold brooch that secured his cloak. It was inscribed with Constantine’s name; the emperor himself had presented it to him, two years before in Rome, on the tenth anniversary of his rule. Remembering that day brought other thoughts: his wife Sabina had been with him then, and she was in Rome now. His wife, and their young son with her. When would he see them again?

  Castus swore under his breath. His cold-clumsy fingers could barely flex the brooch pin from its socket. It came free, and he tried to hide the tremors in his hands as he let the cloak drop.

  Behind him the troops were forming up, the centurions’ voices carrying as hushed snarls. Castus urged his horse forward as his orderly took his cloak and his mounted bodyguard assembled. A quick glance back: the troops were ready, the confused mill of figures on the track forming into a single tight column behind their standards. Castus raised his hand, then let it drop, and with a low rumble of thudding boots and clinking metal, muffled curses and hissed orders, the column lurched into motion.

  Thorn bushes lined the track below the ridge, and the soldiers moved rapidly and in silence. The wind boomed and whined above them, and the snow was beginning to settle in sheltered places among the thorns and on the higher slopes to either side. As he rode, Castus remembered the night march that the Caesar Galerius had made many years before, when he outflanked the Persian king’s army. Castus himself had been a legionary then, in the ranks, but he remembered the uncanny fear of it, the sure sense that they would be discovered at any moment, that the darkness was filled with watching enemies. He knew that many of the men behind him now would be feeling the same way, those whose minds were not too deadened by exhaustion. If he closed his eyes he could sense the land around him, the proximity of the battlefield, the angle of their march. He prayed silently that his gamble would pay off, that he was not leading thousands of men to their deaths for nothing. But even as he prayed, he knew that the gods were seldom just.

  This, after all, was a battle that should not have happened.

  Nobody seemed sure any more what had caused the rupture between Constantine and Licinius. Some dispute, some accusation. The soldiers did not care; to them it was obvious that two men could not share the empire between them. Back in early October they had fought Licinius, on the plain outside the town of Cibalae, and defeated him. But, with his army destroyed, Licinius had managed to escape the field with his mounted bodyguard and flee. Now Constantine had to face him again, and his new army gathered from the eastern provinces. This time, Castus thought, there must surely be a conclusive victory. But in the gathering darkness and the falling temperature, the threatening snow, the chances of that were fading fast.

  Ahead the track narrowed, the thorn trees closing in on either side. Castus’s breath caught in his chest: what if this was a dead end, with no exit onto the plain to the south? His stomach churned, acid heat rising to the back of his throat. But then he saw the scouts ahead of him. He kicked his horse into a canter and joined them.

  ‘Dominus,’ the decurion said, saluting. The man had snow in his beard, and his breath sent up a plume of steam. ‘The track drops into a defile just ahead, curving to the right. It’s narrow, but it opens after about a hundred paces onto the plain. We’ve checked all along the ridge, and the enemy haven’t sighted us yet.’ He was grinning as he spoke, and Castus grinned too. The gods had been generous so far at least.

  Turning in the saddle, Castus waved to the junior tribune heading the column that snaked back up the track. A moment later he saw the standards dip and swing, and the line of marching men doubled their pace. He was grateful for the wind now; the noise of the advance seemed very loud here, but nobody down on the plain would hear it.

  Drawing aside, he sat on his horse with his bodyguards and staff officers around him, watching the column as it marched down towards the defile. The light troops and half the cavalry had passed him already; now the men of II Britannica were filing along the track. He had commanded this legion for years, and among them he saw many faces he recognised. Some of them called out to him, greeting him by name; others just raised their hands in salute.

  For a moment more Castus paused, giving orders to the tribunes. He heard the snap in his voice, the note of anger that covered his nerves. Messengers were galloping back along the column, carrying his orders to the unit leaders. So much hung on his words now. As soon as his column cleared the defile they would be visible to the enemy.

  Around the bend in the track, Castus entered the narrows. The wind caught him, driving snow into his eyes. He blinked, wiped his face, and then the open plain was before him. He felt his breathing slow, his chest contracting inside his burnished cuirass.

  From his vantage point on the ridge the battle had seemed clear enough, the lines and dispositions easy to read. But from down here it was formless, a chaos of milling figures in the murk. Castus could not even tell whether his advance had brought him out facing the enemy flank, or that of Constantine’s army. Panic quickened his blood, and he fought it down. There was no time left for consideration, no time for further plans. Everything was about speed now, about aggression.

  Already the light troops had cleared the defile and were fanning out across the sloping ground that dropped to the plain. Behind them the advance units of II Britannica were pressing forward, massing into attack formation. As Castus watched them he felt a surge of pride rising through him. His mounted bodyguard were gathered close around him now, and his personal standard-bearer carrying the long blood-red draco banner hissing and snapping in the wind. Castus loosened the sword in his scabbard, took a long breath, and then slid down from the saddle, throwing the reins to his orderly. As he marched towards the head of the formation a voice cried after him, one of the staff tribunes.

 
‘Dominus! You should remain here – your place is with us!’

  Castus shook his head. This would be an infantry fight, and he wanted to be where he was needed.

  ‘Would you have me send another man to do what I will not?’ he called back in a voice that all the front-rank troops could hear. He drew his sword, and the cheers strengthened him.

  Now he could see the enemy lines far away across the plain beginning to re-form, the cries of the officers reaching him on the wind as they tried to wheel the men of their reserves into a line to oppose this new threat on their flank. Their accents were unfamiliar, and Castus did not recognise the blazons on their white shields. He gave a low grunt of relief; surely these were Licinius’s troops. There were trumpet calls from away to his right, sounds of fighting, but in the flurrying snow and the gathering dusk he could not make out what was happening there. It did not matter; his only task now was to smash at the enemy flank with all the force he could bring to bear.

  Still he waited. He wanted only to give the signal to attack, but the longer he could delay the more of his men would be able to clear the defile and assemble in attack formation. O greatest gods: Sol Invictus, Mars and Jupiter... do not let me fail now...

  Tension rippled through his body. He felt it from the men behind him as well, the ranks bunching forward, every soldier taut with the anticipation of battle. Another few heartbeats: then he had waited long enough.

  ‘Constantine!’ he yelled, raising his sword. A rush of breath, and the cry was echoed back in a massed shout. Then a din of spears clashed against shield rims, of screamed curses and shouts of defiance, cut through with trumpet blasts. Nothing would hold his men back now. Castus swung his sword down, took a step forward, and heard the command to advance bellowed all along the front ranks.

  Three hundred paces to the enemy formation. The wind was roaring all around him, barbed with ice, and the whirling snow confused his vision.