The Picti was a veteran. He might outnumber the enemy, but these were Catephracti, mailed, mounted troopers, highly disciplined and dangerous on such terrain. He screamed a warning, pointing back to the gates, and broke into a run, gesturing at his men to follow. Those quickwitted amongst his warriors had already sensed or seen the danger. Others were too drunk or confused. They only realised the ambush they had walked into when the formidable line of horsemen moved into a trot, then a full charge, the air riven by a hideous rumble of hoofs, the sounds of the night drowned by the clatter of weapons and the heart-chilling war cry of the Roman cavalry. The horsemen swept in, cloaks billowing, swords rising and falling. The tribesmen scattered. Out in the open they were doomed. If they fled towards the wall the riders would pin them against it and cut them down. They had to break free of the wall, retreat into their own territory.
The chieftain raced back to the fort, in through the yawning gate, down the hard-paved gully to the north-facing gate, but when he and his companions reached it, they found it fastened shut, the bar nailed down. Outside echoed the screams of their dying comrades. The riders had fired the heathland by emptying small sacks of oil and throwing in torches to start a blaze. The flames roared up, illuminating the night. The Picti had little defence against such armoured men on their heavy mounts who now loosed powerful shafts from their reinforced Scythian bows. The chieftain turned away from the north gate, desperately searching for his son. He looked towards the ladder leading to the roof, but the Crested Ones were too swift. Some were already dismounting and crowding in through the other gate, bows at the ready. A few of his men tried to reach the ladder, only to be brought down by the long feathered shafts. The chieftain raised his shield and gripped his war club tighter. He recognised that his life-web had been spun to its full. The gods were ready to cut the thread. The Catephracti, hideous figures, faces almost hidden behind their mail coifs, were already pressing forward, bows pulled back. The chieftain smiled. He'd take the swan-path of glory. At least he'd possessed, if only for a short while, the Golden Maid…
Chapter 1
Rome: August 314
Justitia est constans et perpetua voluntas ius suum cuique tribunes.
Justice is the constant and perpetual wish to give everyone their due.
Justinian, Institutes
Most people agreed that the Villa Carina, nestling in the Alban Hills above Rome, was a veritable paradise. 'Most handsome' was the worst sneering jealous critics might descend to, although that made little difference to Senator Valerius Carinus, descendant of a former emperor. Valerius Carinus had amassed a fortune as the owner of an extensive range of quarries throughout Italy. If the Severan Walls of the city needed new stone, the Temple of Serapis fresh glazed tiles, or the Portico of Octavian to be refurbished, Valerius Carinus was your man. His motto was Salve Lucrum – 'Hail Profit' – and he stayed true to this. His critics claimed he washed his hands with wine, bathed in milk and would only allow the rarest silk to rest against his skin. Most of the criticisms were untrue. Carinus owned the most fruitful vineyards in Campania and hired the best chefs, yet he was on most occasions frugal in his eating, breaking his fast every morning only on bread and boiled Attic honey as recommended by the great physician Galen. However, when it came to others, he was always generous, especially to his beloved only daughter Antonia, whose coming of age was being celebrated with the most magnificent party in the sumptuous gardens of the villa. The house itself was grand enough. Many of its chambers were self-contained suites with serving quarters, baths and other amenities. Nevertheless, the fragrant late summer evenings had convinced Carinus that the terraces overlooking the garden with its fountains, ornamental pools and shady nooks would be the best place for Antonia's party. He believed that the cool shade offered by the surrounding ivy-clad plane trees, the greenery of the box hedges and shrubs, the sweetness of the fruit orchards and the perfumed water leaping from the marble fountains were far better than anything else.
Senator Carinus was now congratulating himself on this decision. He sat slightly drunk in his white marble bedroom, separated from the garden terrace by elegant folding doors, cradling his precious ivory goblet and staring down at the mosaic on his bedroom floor celebrating the glories of Pomona, Goddess of Autumn. He half listened to the music from the gardens and heartily wished autumn would soon come: when it did, the insidious heat of the day would break and they could all bask in a refreshing coolness. He staggered to his feet, patting the sleeping slave girls on their bottoms, and crossed to the door. He did not trust his stewards, drunken, ungrateful lot! He would visit his aviaries, make sure their doors were closed and that the lights in the elaborately carved pottery masks with their cut-out eyes were still flaring strong. Above all, he must check on his beloved but spoiled daughter. She was pampered, cosseted and very wilful, but there again, since the death of her mother, Carinus had indulged her every whim. The room swayed slightly. Carinus clutched the wall, feeling slightly queasy, and no wonder, since he'd drunk a great deal very quickly.
Carinus sat down on a stool, chewing his lip. If the truth be known, he hadn't really wanted this party, not with those abductions taking place in Rome. Wealthy young men and women snatched from their home or a street in the city, kept bound in the dark and only released for sacks of gold and silver. Who could be responsible for creating such fear? So serious had the crisis become that a delegation of senators had visited the Imperial Palace. They'd bowed low, given tactful speeches, conceded that times were violent but pointed out that this surge in crime involved their precious sons and daughters! Carinus had joined the last delegation. Emperor Constantine, God's Chosen, had sat glaring with bulbous eyes as the representatives of the Great Ones of Rome had demanded that the kidnappings and hostage-takings cease forthwith.
Constantine's wine-purpled face had deepened in colour as he fought to control his seething fury.
However, Carinus and his colleagues were equally wary of Helena, the Emperor's powerful mother, sitting on a high gold-encrusted stool to the right of her beloved son. As usual, Helena had been dressed demurely in a long-sleeved dalmaticus or tunic edged with purple, sandals on her feet, an embroidered stole about her shoulders. The Empress' greying hair was bound up from her face in a thick plait wrapped round her head,in the old-fashioned style and pinned with a diamond. No oil moistened, no paint or powder gilded that long, severe face with its sensuous lips, high cheekbones and expressive eyes which had turned agate-hard as Helena listened to their representations. Her only sign of agitation was the constant fiddling with her ivory-handled fan of brilliantly coloured peacock feathers. Every so often she would snap this open to cool herself, or summon forward Burrus, the burly captain of her German mercenaries, so she could sip from a clay beaker of water he held. Burrus was a fearsome figure with his shaggy hair, beard and moustache, light blue eyes glaring from a ruddy face. Despite the heat, he wore a grey fur cape across his motley armour. He reminded Carinus of a great bear from the northern forests which he'd brought to Rome to fight in the arena. In fact the more often he met Burrus, the more the similarity became apparent, both man and beast being highly dangerous and volatile. During the meeting, Burrus' stubby fingers kept caressing the hilt of his broadsword, as if he couldn't understand why his imperial mistress had to listen to these speeches. One word from
Helena and Burrus would have taken all their heads. Behind the Empress stood an innocuous, bland-faced but equally dangerous man, Anastasius, Helena's deaf-mute secretary. He was dressed in a simple white tunic with no jewellery except for the ring on the middle finger of his left hand, which proclaimed he enjoyed the full support of the August Ones.
During that meeting, the sweat had coursed down Carinus' body, due as much to fear as to the heat, especially when Aurelian Saturninus, undoubtedly spurred on by his viper-tongued wife Urbana, had talked about how the lawlessness could be construed as a sign of weakness in Constantine's government. Helena and her son might have emerged victorious after the recent battle at the Milvian Bridge; Constantine might have ended the civil war and destroyed his rival Maxentius, but, as the former General Aurelian trumpeted, power brought responsibility, not only on the borders of Rome, but along the streets and alleyways of the city. Helena's eyes had narrowed at that and Carinus had coughed loudly, a warning to the old general that he'd gone far enough.
Ah well! Carinus rose, opened the folding doors and stared across the exquisite paradise bathed in the light of the full moon. He walked out on to the terrace and picked up the alabaster cup of chilled white wine his valet had placed on the marbled table. For a moment he forgot his fears. This was what he called the 'natural' part of the garden, where his beehives, made out of hollowed bark and plaited osier twigs, stood next to the wild plants his bees preferred: thyme, saffron, crocus, lime, blossom, hyacinths, their fragrance spreading everywhere. Carinus gazed into the darkness broken by pools of light from the lamps and candles. Faint music still sounded but this was almost drowned by the laughter and chatter of Antonia's guests, replete with hare cooked in thyme sauce, spiced pork, dormice stuffed with honey, quail, duck and the best wines from the Senator's cellars. A girl's laugh, followed by a playful scream, echoed from the trees around the Artemis Fountain. As Carinus sipped his wine, he just hoped Antonia was safe and keeping that Greek actor Theodore at more than arm's length.
In fact, the laughter and screaming Carinus heard was that of his daughter, who had taken Theodore, an up-and-coming actor from the island of Cos, deep into the trees to the artificial glade around the cool, splashing waters of the Artemis Fountain. The circle of grass around the fountain, interspersed with coloured stone, was lit by a myriad of oil lamps in translucent jars. Nevertheless, despite the light and the open space, Antonia had assured Theodore they'd be alone, for this was her special place. Now naked except for a coronet of myrtle, orange blossom and verbena, Antonia sprawled on a cold marble bench as Theodore stripped naked to show her the love letters on his body, his present to her on her birthday. Antonia, drunk on the red and white wines of Campania, giggled as Theodore took a pot of ash and rubbed the grey powder into his skin, explaining how with the juice of tithymals he could draw any letters he wished and they would remain invisible until the ash revealed them.
'See,' Theodore walked over to the bench, 'this is the opening line from Seneca's Oedipus. Read it.'
Antonia, giggling, pushed her face near the muscle-hard stomach of this gorgeous actor and, in the light of the lamps, slowly read the words.
'Now night has fled. The fitful sun is back to rise.'
She glanced up coyly.
'To rise what?'
Theodore pointed down to the letters just above the hair in his crotch.
Antonia, wetting her lips, moved her face even closer and was about to read when she caught a movement behind Theodore.
'Go away!' she screamed.
Theodore whirled round. Dark shapes, like wraiths from Hades, slipped out of the darkness, a half-circle of cloaked figures, faces hidden behind grotesque masks, in their hands short stabbing swords and clubs.
'What!' Theodore sprang forward.
Antonia heard the hard smack of a fist and Theodore collapsed, lips bubbling on spurting blood. She opened her mouth to scream, but the night-wraiths were swifter. She was seized, a gag pushed into her mouth, a piece of sacking thrown over her head, her wrists and ankles bound. Then she was thrown over a muscular shoulder and a gloved hand smacked her plump bottom. Antonia wriggled; another, harder blow jarred her back and a hoarse voice ordered her to be silent or she'd be killed.
The kidnappers moved swiftly, silent as ghosts. Antonia was carried across the garden. She heard the undergrowth snapping and cracking and the distant sounds of the party. Theodore had yet to raise the alarm. The abductors stopped; Antonia was put down, turned around, made to feel dizzy and then dragged on. She was pushed against a hard wall, roughly hauled over it and the flight began again. This time she wasn't carried but pushed and shoved; now and again a dagger would prick her neck as a sign for her to remain quiet. She felt a deep sense of despair. She was out in the countryside. No one was here to save her!
The abductors knew their way well. Antonia's bare legs and feet were scored by brambles and gorse, but still they pushed her forward. When she complained about the pain in her side, they tied a rope around her hands and dragged her as if she was some captive in a triumphant procession. Now and again she heard the occasional sound, the creak of a cart, but otherwise silence, except for the breathing of her captors. She couldn't believe it! She'd heard of the kidnappings in Rome, but now it had happened to her, so swiftly, so quickly. How had they found their way through her father's gardens to her secret place at the Artemis Fountain? She was jerked on, and tried to make sense of where she was going but eventually gave up. She concentrated only on one thing: obeying her captors. She knew she'd be safe if she did that. At one point they stopped and allowed her to rest, and she was given a sip of water and some dried bread; then the horror continued.
Antonia was aware of orders being whispered, of men fanning out either side of her, but she had no sense of where she was going. She began to cry, pleading about the pain in her feet. A rough pair of sandals was given to her, the thongs tied and she was pulled on. Now she was no longer moving through countryside but stumbling over masonry, and she wondered where she was. She sensed the gang were becoming more vigilant now that the ground had changed. Eventually they stopped and Antonia was thrust down some steps. The air smelled mildewed and dry. She was in some sort of man-made tunnel. The air was cold, and she could feel sharp rocks on either side. Where could this be? What underground tunnels existed in Rome? The sewers? She stumbled and screamed as her hand felt a skull. She was in some sort of cemetery, perhaps the great catacombs which ranged under the Appian Way. Yes, that would make sense,- a few miles from her father's villa by a quick, secure route. Would she be imprisoned here? Sobbing and crying, she was pushed into a cavern and left there.