Death of an Empire (46 page)

Ravenna enjoyed cool sea breezes to complement its temperate climate. The winds that blew in off the sea cleaned the wide streets and blew away dust, light rubbish and the marks of neglect that human beings often leave on their landscapes. Valentinian’s mother, the sainted Galla Placidia, had ruled in all but name during his childhood and now, in death, her spirit looked down on the court from vivid mosaics that decorated any wall that Valentinian could find to dedicate to her, although no images of her face had been created in her honour. In life, Galla Placidia had ordered that her city should be kept scrupulously clean, and, like any good and provident housekeeper, she had arranged for flowering trees to be planted so that the air would remain sweet
throughout the year. Ravenna was small by comparison with Rome, but love had endowed the city with grace, so that remnants of the empress’s devotion still scented the early winds that came in winter from across the Mare Adriaticum.

Illuminated by the dark blue light, Petronius was quietly angry. The man whom Myrddion had met so long ago on the sea journey from Massilia to Ostia was almost wholly changed. Petronius had lost weight and his skin was now stretched tautly over his bones, suggesting athleticism rather than gauntness. Even more indicative, his eyes were haunted and all the smugness in his manner had been swept away by tragic circumstances.

Earlier that day, he had found himself embroiled in a distasteful argument with Flavius Gaudentius, who was even more pretentious than Valentinian, an emperor famous for his arrogance rather than his skills. Aetius’s loathsome son had all his father’s imperiousness, but lacked the ability and the intelligence that his father had demonstrated for generations. This Flavian didn’t soil his pudgy white hands with work or the calluses of the sword, preferring conversation, gossip and devoting hours to dress and grooming. Aetius’s son preened like any peacock within the royal court, consigning his noble wife to the role of a married mouse.

Gaudentius had stopped Petronius on his way to a private audience with Valentinian. Although months had passed since his family tragedy, Petronius was already on edge, having been forced to school his face so that the emperor remained oblivious of the senator’s deep and undiminished animosity.

‘Petronius, a moment! When does Valentinian plan to return to the Capitoline? I’ll die of boredom if I’m forced to endure winter in this hellhole. My wife dislikes the weather and my father has urgent business levying the peasants to fill vacancies in the army. We can’t languish here forever with nothing more entertaining than Valentinian’s religion to keep us amused.’

The question was expressed with such languid disdain and condescension that Petronius had to bite his fleshy lower lip to avoid a rude, insulting retort.

‘Master Gaudentius, I cannot presume to speak for the emperor. Nor is it my place to coerce or cajole my master to reschedule his visit to the Capitoline. We are all my lord Valentinian’s servants, so we must await his pleasure.’

Gaudentius chose to be offended. His wide Hungvari face fell into a frown and his full red lips pursed with pique. ‘You would do well to remember who my father is, Petronius Maximus, before you lecture me about my duty to the throne of the west. The day will come when you will be sorry that you were so curt with me.’

‘Is that a threat, Master Gaudentius? I hardly think that the
magister militum praesentalis
would wish to put his needs above the desires of the emperor of the west.’

Had Gaudentius been a wiser man, he would have registered Petronius’s lightly clenched fist and tensed shoulder muscles. Petronius might have been overly fond of good food, drink and pliant women, but he had been a soldier and he knew the imperatives of life and death on the battlefield. To be threatened and lectured by a spoiled and absurd young man who had forsaken the harsh life of his father was almost too much for the senator to tolerate.

Now, walking beside the lean and mild-faced Heraclius, he relived a number of slights, insults and mortal blows that he laid at the door of Aetius and his family. The secret revenge of his heart was guarded, for equal to his hatred of the Flavians was his loathing for Valentinian, who had turned him into a pander and a cuckold.

Flavius Petronius Maximus had served the Western Empire well, as a praetor, an urban prefect, consul and praetorian prefect of Italia, all before his forty-third birthday. Now in his late fifties, he was a man of extraordinary skill who possessed talents that he disguised under the appearance of a benign epicure.

And so, as he walked along Valentinian’s colonnade, his gut roiled with animosity towards Valentinian and, after him, the loathed Flavius Aetius. Only the satisfaction of achieving his revenge could wipe away a shame that was almost overpowering. Petronius stopped abruptly, so Heraclius also paused, turned and looked carefully into the senator’s burning eyes. The eunuch was always on his guard when he dealt with the senator, for Petronius was clever enough to have retained his exalted place within the maelstrom of power for many years. Petronius was a man to fear under his gilded exterior.

Of course, Heraclius knew his secret humiliation. As the Master of the Emperor’s Bedchamber, Heraclius must have organised the lavish dinner and prepared the fresh sheets of seduction to entrap Petronius’s wife, if not with his own hand, then by his explicit orders. Petronius gripped his belt with one hand, fingering the ornate buckle with its pattern of panthers. Unconsciously, his manicured nails scoured the soft leather as he imagined certain throats between his fingers. And one of those throats belonged to Heraclius.

The eunuch saw those murderous fingers, but his eyes remained untroubled. He had lived precariously for years as he catered for the whims of crazed, ambitious men and women. He understood the effort of will that Petronius Maximus exercised to keep his face so bland and courteous, and was amused at how easily the senator betrayed his true feelings with those tell-tale fingers. Heraclius had learned to control every feature in his once-mobile face, so that now no twitching eyebrow or traitorous curl of the lip could betray the malice that coiled around his heart.

Heraclius was a eunuch, the
primicerius sacri cubiculi
, and a man in whom bitterness ran deep because of his castration and his ruined manhood. Having risen to the highest position that a slave could achieve, and being the man physically closest to Valentinian, he enjoyed extraordinary power over amateurs like Petronius Maximus who, for all his posturing and his vast wealth, was merely
a useful tool. Unlike most eunuchs, with their womanish voices, overtly feminine mannerisms and excessive weight gain, Heraclius was thin, his voice was a melodious baritone and he seemed to possess an ageless youth. Time had stood still for Heraclius from the time his balls had been cut off shortly before his sixteenth birthday, an operation that usually resulted in death for a youth so fully grown. His survival had made him a very valuable commodity, for he was a man who had experienced the desires of the flesh, but could never relive the euphoria of masculine love.

Heraclius also burned for revenge, but the object of his hatred was Flavius Aetius, whom he thoroughly despised. Aetius might have been made a patrician, but by Heraclius’s exacting standards the general was nothing but a jumped-up Scythian who exerted too much influence over his master. For his part, Aetius had devised a long list of insulting titles with which he tortured Heraclius whenever he was residing in Ravenna.

The eunuch wasn’t thin-skinned, but he wasn’t a natural homosexual, and he resented the barbs that Aetius lodged in his flesh so readily and so carelessly. Used to giving orders and having his way, Aetius had no respect either for Heraclius’s position or for his manhood, an error that the eunuch nurtured in his heart during the long nights of servitude.

Petronius possessed the potential to sweep Aetius out of Heraclius’s path so that his insults could be repaid in full. The senator had shown his loyalty to Valentinian by enduring the rape of his wife, so the emperor was inclined to treat Petronius like an intelligent lapdog. But Petronius was no man’s tool, and Heraclius was biding his time until he knew that the moment was ripe.

And that moment had come. Petronius had been goaded once too often.

‘I understand your mixed feelings concerning Aetius, my lord,’ Heraclius confided softly. ‘The general is a bully who has undue
influence over my master, but he is also the hero of the Battle of the Catalaunian Plain. Who would the people believe to be the more able protector of Italia? I know he was central to your . . . er . . . problems with our noble emperor, in that Aetius provided the plan that Valentinian used to . . . er . . . gain his heart’s desire at your expense. His only reason for that infamy was boredom and your great wealth, which he envies. Excuse me for speaking so bluntly, but candour should exist between men who are as devoted to the Empire as we are, and will make any sacrifice to remedy the threats to its safety. Aetius goes too far when he makes a jest of family and the sanctity of marriage.’

The tall, husky man beside him audibly ground his teeth at the reminder of his shame. His face darkened, causing the eunuch to smile inwardly at how easily this less-than-noble Roman could be manipulated through his emotions.

‘I do not wish to speak of my wife, Heraclius. Her name has been sullied quite sufficiently already. Remember your place!’

Heraclius resisted the impulse to bridle. Instead, he vowed inwardly that he would induce Valentinian to remove Petronius, once the Roman senator’s influence was no longer needed.

‘Of course, master. As long as you remember who is the real villain in your family tragedy. Flavius Aetius has set his sights on the throne, either by assassinating my master and taking his place, or by elevating his idle son. You are a threat to his strategy, for you have distinguished yourself during many years of service to the Empire. Aetius has made you a laughing stock to weaken your position, which indicates that his ambitions are so large that nothing will deter him from pursuing his chosen path. Regrettably, the barbarians of Gaul, Scythia and the north support him.’

‘Aetius is what he has always been, a barbarian who courts the Hungvari and the Goths as his most ardent supporters,’ Petronius retorted, his fleshy jaw stiffening with distaste. He neither trusted
nor liked Heraclius, but if he desired to take revenge on Valentinian without being killed by the emperor’s personal guard, then he must play a waiting game. He needed this vile, unnatural creature with his smooth, benign face and soothing voice.

Mentally, Petronius returned to his unpleasant meeting with Gaudentius earlier in the day. The senator’s urbanity and temper had been tried to breaking point by Gaudentius’s whining and threats, but he had somehow managed to maintain an air of patrician calm. Until Gaudentius took a parting shot.

‘Give my . . . respects to your wife, sir. I have heard much of her beauty and her . . . chastity.’

Petronius’s fists had clenched involuntarily at the slight. That the general should find his invidious situation amusing, and then share vulgar gossip with his odious son, filled the senator’s belly with gall.

Petronius squirmed internally. If he had one dangerous weakness, then his love of gambling was his undoing, at least for a man of honour. The senator upbraided himself for agreeing to play dice with Valentinian, but he’d been in his cups and reckless with Bacchus’s bravado.

When the time had come to pay his debt to the emperor, Valentinian had spurned gold as a means of payment. He asked for Petronius’s family ring, a demand that the senator couldn’t refuse, although it was an offence to the ancestors to hand a family heirloom to someone who was foreign to his gens.

How Valentinian had used that ring would shame the senator forever, while proving that Valentinian was a vicious rapist, in thought and in deed. That Aetius had sat at the gaming table, smiling and uttering pleasantries while he had hatched his cruel plan, made Petronius Maximus ill with hatred. Now, spurred by Gaudentius’s jibes, he came to a decision.

‘Aetius has spent a lifetime destroying everyone who stood in
his path. What happened to Flavius Felix and his wife? Although Aetius owed Flavius Felix his loyalty as his supreme commander, he had them murdered! What happened to Bonifacius, who was also his commander? Dead, after a battle against Flavius Aetius! Where is Sebastianus? Exiled to Constantinople! Every great man who stood between Aetius and ultimate power has been thrust aside by the general. He does as he chooses, regardless of cost. He must be destroyed, or else we’ll all be forced to bend our knees to him. I, for one, would rather perish before that day dawns.’

‘Are we agreed that Aetius must be prised away from Valentinian?’ Heraclius asked, smiling with mock servility. ‘And that we will use whatever force is necessary?’ The slave could tell that Petronius was like a frightened horse that must be gentled before he was ridden.

‘Yes. I will speak to Valentinian in private. But he’ll not believe me because of our past disagreements and the situation with my wife. Our master will only act against Aetius if he is sure. He will distrust me and think that I am motivated by anger and a desire for revenge. That’s where you come in, Heraclius, because Valentinian trusts you. Your word will go far towards persuading him, because he will be unable to sleep comfortably if we both repeat the same tale. I’ll provide the facts and explain the distrust that the patricians feel for the Scythian, but Valentinian will take more notice of you.’

Heraclius smiled tightly. ‘I’m here to serve my master’s interests, which I will do to the best of my ability, for Aetius’s continued existence imperils my master’s life.’

Petronius felt a momentary twinge of caution. He hadn’t survived to the respectable age of fifty-eight without knowing deception when he saw it. Heraclius’s smile was like that of a satisfied cat torturing a mouse.

I refuse to be devoured by this obsequious fucking eunuch, Petronius thought recklessly. He’s just a means to an end. The senator’s mind swam with imperial possibilities, but they could only be considered if Aetius was permanently removed. In perfect accord and enmity, Petronius and Heraclius recommenced their steady, measured stroll along Valentinian’s colonnade. The velvet dark muffled their footsteps so that they became one with the night until they disappeared into the enveloping shadows.