Triumph in Dust Read online

  TRIUMPH IN DUST

  Ian Ross

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About Triumph in Dust

  When the simmering conflict between Rome and Persia threatens once again to ignite into open war, there is only one man the Emperor Constantine can trust to hold the eastern frontier.

  Aurelius Castus, retired general of the empire, has fought long and hard for Rome. When the summons comes to command an army once more, he obeys with a heavy heart. Is he still the fearsome fighting machine of old? Will his young, ambitious officers respect and follow a great soldier of former days?

  But when tragedy strikes the imperial household, Castus must race to defend the last bulwark standing against the might of Persia. In the pitiless heat of the Syrian desert, engulfed by whirling sandstorms and facing a fearless, treacherous foe, Castus knows that the fight ahead will be the fiercest he has ever known, and will very probably be his last.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Triumph in Dust

  Maps

  Epigraph

  Historical Note

  Prologue

  Constantinople, July ad 336

  Part 1

  Chapter I

  Dalmatia, August ad 336

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Part 2

  Chapter VII

  Constantinople, March ad 337

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Part 3

  Chapter XIX

  Antioch, June ad 337

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Part 4

  Chapter XXVII

  Antioch, August ad 337

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Part 5

  Chapter XXXIII

  Antioch, September ad 337

  Chapter XXXIV

  Author’s Note

  About Ian Ross

  About the Twilight of Empire series

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Maps

  When the wall was broken through, when the elephants pressed in,

  When the arrows showered, when men did valiant deeds,

  Then there was a sight for the heavenly ones.

  Ephraim Syrus, Carmina Nisibena

  Historical Note

  Following the defeat of his rival Licinius in AD 324, the Emperor Constantine has reigned for twelve years over a united Roman world. Under his patronage, Christianity continues to gain in strength and influence, while followers of the older religions increasingly feel that the traditional ways of Rome are dying.

  But the emperor himself is getting old, and facing new challenges. In the east, Shapur II, the young and vigorous King of Persia, disputes Constantine’s claim of protection over the Christians living within his domains. In Armenia, a state allied to Rome, the king has converted to the new faith, adding fuel to the simmering fires of Persian resentment.

  Now, as Constantine reaches the thirtieth anniversary of his rule, the ancestral enmity between the two great powers threatens once again to break into open war.

  Prologue

  Constantinople, July AD 336

  ‘Leva!’

  At the word of command, the purple silk drapes rose smoothly upwards, drawn by hidden cords. A stir ran through the men gathered in the great hall of the summer consistorium as they saw the figure of the emperor enthroned on the dais before them. As one, civil ministers and military officers, priests and eunuchs, all in their gorgeously patterned court garments, sank to kneel on the marble floor. Only the bodyguards of the Schola Gentilium remained standing, lining each side of the hall with their shields grounded and their silvered spears upright. The assembly rose to their feet, lifting their hands in salute to the emperor and crying out the acclamation in unison.

  ‘Constantinus Augustus, eternal Augustus! God gave you to us! God save you for us! Your salvation is our salvation!’

  Twice, three times, then four times the shout went up, echoing back from the high panelled ceiling. Then the honour guards that flanked the dais banged the butts of their spears, and all fell silent.

  Seated on the throne, Constantine set his jaw and stared, unblinking. He was sixty-three years old, but still he held himself stiffly upright, his stern face impassive beneath its mask of powder and cosmetics. The weight of the jewelled diadem on his head sent runnels of sweat down his brow, and his shoulders ached beneath the heavy hug of his gold-embroidered cape.

  Flies circled lazily in the beams of sunlight from the tall windows of the apse, and smoke rose from the tripod braziers on either side of the throne, fogging the air with cloying incense. Letting the silence stretch, Constantine studied the faces of the men assembled before him. He saw avarice and awe, reverence and resentment. Someone near the back of the hall stifled a cough.

  They think this is easy.

  But ruling an empire was no easy task. It was a stern duty, a labour of Hercules, and he felt it in his aching bones. Thirty years on the throne: the lavish games and shows of his tricennalia had only just been concluded. Thirty years, and every one harder than the last, with fewer rewards. Had he not done enough? He had brought peace to the Roman world, crushed his enemies and reunited the empire. He had built this great city of Constantinople, dedicated in the name of the One True God. He had raised the Christian faith from persecution to glory, and filled the empire with magnificent churches. He had been generous too; so much gold had flowed from his hands that he doubted there was a single citizen who had not been enriched by his largesse. He had done all that, but still it was not enough. Always the same restless ambitious fury he had known all his life, driving him on, forbidding him happiness. What more could God ask of him? When would he be granted peace?

  He had slept badly the night before, troubled once again by vivid dreams. They were the most terrible dreams, the ones that came to him at the darkest hour of night, when those he had destroyed returned to him. He saw again the proud faces that he had thrown down. Maximian, Maxentius, Licinius. Whispering to him in their anguish. Remember me. Remember me. His own wife, his own eldest son… Remember me when you confront your God. Speak my name at last, and despair…

  ‘Majesty?’

  Constantine flinched, irritated that he had let his mind wander. He focused once more on the scene before him. A eunuch knelt beside the throne. ‘Majesty,’ he said again in a sibilant whisper. ‘The ambassadors of the King of Persia?’

  Tightening his lips slightly, the emperor raised a finger from the arm of his throne. At his signal, the Magister Admissionum climbed to the lower step of the dais, raised his gold staff of office, and cried out in a voice that echoed down the hall.

  ‘Let Vezhan Gushnasp, the envoy of Shapur the Second, King of the Persians, and those who accompany him, be called!’

  A sonorous note from the water organ in the side chamber, and a file of white-uniformed Protectores entered through the far doors of the hall. Once they had formed up in a double row facing the central aisle, the Persian delegation followed them in from the
vestibule.

  Constantine had kept the Persians waiting for nearly ten days now, all through the celebrations of the tricennalia, and had been happy to do so. Let them witness the might of the Roman Empire, he thought. Let them marvel at the passions of the crowd, the glory of the imperial salutations. Let them see everything, and take word of it back to their upstart king in Ctesiphon. He had already seen the inventory of the official gifts: ten gold-embroidered carpets, six saddles panelled in ivory and set with gemstones, eighteen peacock-feather fans, a couch made of elephants’ tusks… the list went on. Constantine was unmoved by it; he was satiated with luxuries. Now the men who had brought those gifts all the way from the royal court on the Tigris stood before him.

  Vezhan Gushnasp, the chief envoy, had a bone-white face and pointed black beard; he wore a gown of gold-worked crimson silk and a tall white hat. Not daring to glance up at the dais, he advanced slowly between the ranks of soldiers until he reached the disc of purple marble set into the floor. Then, with a crumple of silk, he prostrated himself full-length, touching his forehead to the stone. Constantine hid his smile; he rather liked this Persian form of genuflection. Perhaps, he thought, he should introduce it to the Roman court as well? His sons would like that, he knew; they had a taste for the obsequious.

  Getting to his feet, the ambassador walked slowly forward to the foot of the dais. Climbing the first two steps, he prostrated himself once more. Reaching out with one hand, he took the trailing hem of the emperor’s purple robe and touched it lightly to his lips. Then he shuffled backwards from the dais, stood up, and retreated to the purple disc once more.

  ‘The letter from the King of Persia, sublimnity,’ the eunuch beside the throne whispered, proffering a sealed roll of parchment on his silk-veiled palms. Constantine took it, moving only his forearm and keeping the rest of his body immobile. He raised the scroll, tapped the royal seal against his mouth and then laid it aside once more; there was no need for him to read it, and he knew very well what it would say. Another slight signal.

  ‘Let the envoy of the King of the Persians speak!’ the Magister Admissionum declared.

  Vezhan Gushnasp raised his eyes for the first time, and a thin smile showed though his beard.

  ‘His Immortal Mazda-Worshipping Majesty, Shapur the Second,’ the envoy cried, ‘King of the Iranians and the Non-Iranians, of the Race of the Gods, Brother of the Sun and Moon, Master of the four corners of the World, bids his brother, the Great Constantinus Augustus of the Romans, greetings and good health.’

  Constantine tightened his grip on the arms of the throne. It was not mere hubris that had caused him to delay the audience with the Persians. He had wanted to wait until the festivities were finished. For this meeting, he would need all his fury, all his assurance. Already he could feel his blood beating faster, stirring the ashes of his heart. But he kept his expression blank, his voice mild.

  ‘And how is my brother the King of Persia?’ he asked. ‘In good health too, I hope?’

  ‘By the grace of the ever-loving Ahura-Mazda, the king prospers.’

  ‘I rejoice to hear it. And why has the king sent this new embassy to us so soon?’

  ‘Majesty,’ the envoy said, drawing himself upright and tipping back his head, ‘it has come to the divine ears of my sovereign, the all-powerful King Shapur, that certain devotees of lies have been spreading rumours about affairs in the east. Rumours, majesty, that may upset the understanding and concord between the great nations of Rome and Persia, which bestride the world like twin colossi, illuminating the hearts of all men like two great lamps burning with the fires of truth…’

  ‘Enough!’ Constantine declared suddenly. ‘I know very well why you have come here, Vezhan Gushnasp.’ The foreign syllables left a sour taste on his tongue, like dirt. ‘You were last here two years ago. Do you remember what I said to you then?’

  ‘I seem to recall, majesty…’

  ‘Two years ago, you came to us with a request from your king that Rome supply him with a certain quantity of iron ore. To make weapons to defend his eastern border against barbarians, so you said.’

  ‘A request your majesty was generous enough to grant.’

  ‘I did! And I told you why I granted it. I knew that your king was enlarging his army, and needed iron to equip his troops. And what did I tell you? It does not accord with the honour of Rome that her soldiers fight enemies who are inadequately armed!’

  ‘Your majesty has a commendable sense of humour!’

  ‘It was no joke,’ Constantine said quietly. Seldom had anyone commended his sense of humour. ‘For a long time we have heard the pleas of the followers of the true religion within your master’s domains,’ he went on, ‘telling of the persecutions directed against them. We have informed your master that all Christians are under our protection, and he has promised us that he will alter his course of action.

  ‘And yet,’ he said, raising one finger towards the ceiling, ‘only a month ago, we received news from the east that your king has stirred up sedition in the kingdom of Armenia, and raised a rebellion to depose our ally, King Tigranes, a pious monarch and a follower of the Christian faith. Not only that, he sent his own troops into Armenia to seize Tigranes and his family, and then to burn out his eyes with hot coals!’

  His voice had risen to a shout. Now Constantine swept his robe around him and stood up, striding to the edge of the dais. He saw that the envoy was trying hard not to quail before him. The rest of the assembly stood in stunned silence. Many would not have heard the news from Armenia; doubtless the Persians had hoped that the emperor knew little about it either. If so, they had hoped in vain.

  ‘Are these mere rumours?’ Constantine shouted, raising a clenched fist. ‘You cannot deny them! How does your king account for these atrocious crimes?’

  ‘Majesty,’ said the envoy, fanning his hands in a placatory gesture, ‘there may have been certain regrettable acts, carried out by over-zealous servants of my sovereign, but…’

  ‘Be silent!’ Constantine commanded. He thrust his chin forward, staring down at the envoy. Behind the mask of fury he was savouring this moment. Nobody knew what he was about to do; he alone held the fate of the world in his hands. He felt the heat of power surrounding him, the aura of invincibility like a golden penumbra cloaking his ageing body.

  ‘You will return to your king,’ he said gravely, ‘and tell him of our displeasure. You will tell him that unless he returns the family of King Tigranes to power, and pays a full compensation for the unholy mutilation of that monarch, and withdraws all Persian troops and Persian supporters from the kingdom of Armenia, he can expect the full irresistible might of the Roman army to be directed against him.’

  He paused, staring down at the assembly. Many among them appeared shocked now, even nervous. Others, he was glad to see, were barely concealing their smiles. The envoy Vezhan Gushnasp had grown even paler, struggling to contain his affronted anguish.

  ‘Majesty,’ he said in a strained voice. ‘The world is held in a delicate balance… a most delicate balance. Far be it from me to suggest a course of action to one so exalted, but surely any differences can be solved by moderate means…’

  ‘You have heard my words!’ Constantine declared. ‘Now go, and take them back to your master. And tell him this too – if he wishes for more Roman iron then he will get it. In the hands of Roman soldiers!’

  *

  ‘Get this thing off me,’ he said as he walked, fumbling irritably with the massive jewelled brooch that secured his robe. Two eunuchs hastened to obey, drawing the cloak from his shoulders as the emperor paced through into the private chamber adjoining the audience hall. Rid of robe and diadem, Constantine eased himself down onto a chair and waited while the slaves removed his purple leather shoes. Only then did he take up the cup of wine set ready for him on the circular table and swallow three long draughts.

  ‘Majesty,’ the Praetorian Prefect said, bowing his head as he followed the eunuchs into the room. The Ma
ster of Offices and the Superintendent of the Bedchamber trailed behind him; all of them looked similarly perplexed.

  ‘Majesty,’ the prefect said again. ‘Are you entirely sure that it was wise to dismiss the envoys so abruptly?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ Constantine snapped. He placed the cup back down on the table, pleased to notice that his hands were admirably steady. ‘Arrange for the diplomatic gifts to be returned as well.’

  ‘But surely the Persian king can never agree to these demands? It amounts, in effect, to a declaration of war. Surely it’s not too late to have the embassy recalled – after such a salutary shock, no doubt, they will be more pliable? Unless, of course, you genuinely intend war with Persia?’

  ‘Yes I genuinely intend war with Persia,’ the emperor said, raising his voice. He felt his neck swelling with anger. ‘What part of that statement do you fail to comprehend?’

  His ministers exchanged glances, and again Constantine felt that pulse of absolute power, absolute certainty. It was almost dizzying; he took another drink.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, setting the cup down, ‘I was instructed to do this by God himself. In a dream.’

  ‘Ah,’ the prefect said, abashed. ‘Well, in that case… perhaps we might convene a meeting of the imperial council…?’

  Yes, yes, Constantine thought. They would talk and offer their guidance, their quibbling objections, couched in the usual extravagant praise. But he had made his decision, and made it publicly. He had cast the dice. Too long had he endured the provocations of the Persians. Too long had he sat on thrones and listened to men talking, the endless whittling words of legal experts and fawning courtiers.

  They thought he was too old, he knew that. Maybe they thought he would retire one day soon, like Diocletian before him, who had gone off to his seaside villa to grow cabbages. Most of them were probably already making their plans for the approaching succession, gambling on which among his squabbling sons would make the best candidate, which of them would be best placed to capitalise on his death. The thought of a full-scale military campaign at this stage threw all of their plans into the air. Good, Constantine thought. Let them live in the moment for a change! He would die as he had lived, with the reins of power firmly in his grasp.