Death of an Empire (53 page)

Gaudentius gave the messenger, who called himself Gwylym, a goblet of wine and bade him speak freely. After draining the cup to the lees and examining his host with a knowing grin, Gwylym began to recite the message from Thraustila.

‘Aetius’s murderer is dead, my lord, my lady, slain by your
husband and Optilia at the Campus Martius. Your noble husband also slew the vile catamite, Heraclius, who plotted with the emperor to assassinate Aetius, so your father’s shade has been fed with the blood of his murderers. Hail to Optilia and Thraustila, and to Flavius Petronius Maximus who protects them.’

Flavia wanted to vomit with fear. The rich food and sweet wine she had consumed caught at the back of her throat and her hands tore at the tassels on her couch until they ripped away from the rich pillow.

‘Aye, praise to Optilia and Thraustila who struck these blows,’ Gaudentius cried, and clapped his hands like a child. ‘Tell us more – every detail.’

‘I saw Valentinian’s death with my own eyes, master, although I wasn’t part of the assassination.’

‘Every detail, Gwylym! The walls in this villa are safe, so you needn’t fear discovery.’

‘Rumour has it that Valentinian refused to give Petronius the full control of the army that Aetius enjoyed, so the senator was insulted.’

‘A mistake, to be sure,’ Flavia murmured.

‘Aye, it was a mistake on the part of the emperor. On the sixteenth day of March, Valentinian decided that he needed to hone his skills with the bow, so he went to the Campus Martius with a full retinue of bodyguards. The emperor was so foolish as to turn his back on his guards to notch his arrow and, as he turned, Optilia struck him in the temple with his knife. When Valentinian looked back at his attackers, Optilia finished him off. At the same time, your noble husband slit the eunuch’s throat. Heraclius squealed like a pig and tried to run, but the lifeblood only pumped out of him faster.’

‘Didn’t the rest of the guard try to save Valentinian?’ Flavia asked, her knuckles clenched so tightly that the bone seemed to shine whitely through the skin.

‘Why, my lady? We all knew that Valentinian murdered our general and that Heraclius put him up to it. We were glad when Optilia and Thraustila took his toga, his crown and his sword to give to Petronius Maximus, for we now have a new emperor, one who is also a warrior.’

‘Gods, is Petronius Maximus the new emperor?’ Flavia gasped.

‘Aye, lady. Petronius has married Licinia Eudoxia and banned the marriage of her daughter Eudocia to the son of the Vandal king. The empress is very angry – but what can she do?’

‘What indeed!’ Flavia answered tersely.

‘Your husband asked me to tell you that he now serves the new emperor, Flavius Petronius Maximus. Hail to Emperor Flavius Petronius Maximus.’

‘Hail,’ brother and sister murmured in unison.

‘Your husband also sends this chest to you for safekeeping, Lady Flavia. He hopes to be with you soon, but Geiseric of the Vandals has entered Italia and must be repelled. The king of the Vandals is insulted that the marriage to Eudocia has been refused. Petronius has sent for the Visigoths to save the Holy City, but until they come, all loyal servants of the Empire must fight to save the throne and Rome.’

‘Dear heavens,’ Flavia muttered under her breath. Gaudentius nodded placidly.

As soon as Gwylym left the room with their thanks and a gold coin for his trouble, Flavia rounded on her brother. ‘Are you insane, Gaudentius? Do you seriously expect that we will survive the murder of Valentinian? Petronius hates you – so you can lay any odds on the brevity of your survival when he returns to Ravenna. Have you forgotten his wife, Lydia?’

‘Come now, Flavia. I’m still married to the daughter of the empress, and Petronius isn’t immortal. What do I have to fear?’

With an exasperated expression on her pretty face, Flavia began to count off on her fingers the reasons why they should flee as soon as possible.

‘First, I’m married to the murderer of an emperor, and he’s your brother-in-law. Second, our father caused the death of the new emperor’s wife. Third, the new emperor hates you for sneering at him, times beyond counting. Fourth . . . must I go on?’ She paused, but her brother only shrugged. ‘Obviously I must. Fourth, there mightn’t be a Rome if the Vandals have their way, and even your marriage to Placidia won’t save you from them.’

Gaudentius waved his hand in dismissal of her arguments, so Flavia tried a different tack. ‘I know you think that Petronius is a fool, but I travelled with him to Ostia before my marriage and I can assure you that he is a man who cherishes a grudge. Why won’t you listen, brother? Father would have understood, I know.’ Flavia rang a small golden bell to summon her maid.

‘Father is dead,’ Gaudentius replied crudely. ‘And a good thing too, if he ever learned what you really thought of your marriage vows. You might be my sister, but you’d make a street harlot appear almost virginal.’

Flavia slapped him with the full force of her arm and Gaudentius bit his tongue. He stifled an oath and would have struck her back if Flavia’s steward hadn’t interrupted them.

‘Order my maids to pack, including that strongbox,’ Flavia instructed the laconic, ageing Hun before turning back to face her brother. ‘My plan is to catch the first available ship to Constantinople. You can take your chances with the Western Empire if you wish, but I’m heading to the east while I still have my head on my shoulders.’ Flavia rose from her eating couch with all her natural, feline grace. ‘If you plan to stop me, then good luck to you, my brother, for you’ll need it. A street harlot knows how to protect herself.’

As she swept out of Gaudentius’s perfumed presence, he threw one parting shot after his sister. ‘May you have joy in Constantinople, Flavia, for they have no time for women who are less virtuous than God requires. And when you’re forced to return, see if you can still find a man prepared to protect you in this city, for everyone here knows what a slut you are!’

Flavia’s only response was a long peal of laughter, for she knew what was in the strongbox. It held a sizeable fortune in gold that was now hers – and her brother wouldn’t know what a treasure she carried until she had slipped through his fingers.

Outside the villa, Gwylym waited in the shadows and grinned slyly to himself. Although he had been unable to break into the strongbox, he was certain he was right about the gold that lay within it. The weight had bowed down his spare horse on the long journey from Rome. He’d have stolen the whole thing and run for the nearest port, but Thraustila had taken the precaution of sending a troop of six trusted Hungvari officers with Gwylym to ensure his safety.

Gwylym had been shocked when Aetius had been murdered. Somehow, he had never expected the Roman general to be assailable like other, more fallible men, so his faith in the unshakeable power of all things Roman had been blunted. He was further from home than he could imagine, and surrounded by enemies who wouldn’t hesitate to destroy him, so Aetius should pay for his straitened circumstances. Even dead, the
magister militum
could provide Gwylym with a little nest egg for the future through the agency of his upstart of a daughter.

All Gwylym had to do was wait.

Flavia drove her servants like a slavemaster, intent as she was on stripping the villa of everything that was portable and held some value. She even had recourse to a small whip which she used
liberally on the back of any foolish maid who slowed the bruising pace she set as, hysterically, she jammed precious clothing into chests and secreted a pile of fabulous jewels in another strong box and buried it under a pile of linen clothing. Even small ivory, gold and silver figurines found their way into her chests as she looted the house for anything of worth that could be taken with her on her journey.

Grumbling, her brother had returned to his luxurious apartments while she was selecting the servants who would accompany her to Constantinople. Flavia had filled the entry hall with boxes and chests and was donning a travelling cloak when Gwylym used the knocker on her door to announce his presence. Having watched as a litter and a travelling carriage came to the door of her villa, the Celt had reasoned that Flavia was preparing to bolt for the harbour and a boat to Constantinople, so if he was to receive any benefit from the strongbox and its contents he must act quickly and with stealth. He had already ascertained that four strong bearers had arrived to accompany Thraustila’s wife to the embarkation point, so it would be difficult to steal the strongbox by force alone.

Gwylym had served Aetius well, especially in the delicate task of engineering the accident that should have removed Cleoxenes from Pope Leo’s delegation to Mantua. By chance, the nosy healer from Segontium had circumvented Gwylym’s careful plans and frustrated Aetius’s hopes of direct credit for Attila’s retreat from Italia. During this time, Gwylym had provided the general’s best intelligence and removed several other problems from his path, so in his own mind he was owed a parting gift for his services. Flavia, that spoiled and lustful creature whom not even her father had respected, would now provide a bounty, whether she desired to help him or not.

Flavia opened the heavy door in answer to his summons, and
would have closed it immediately if he hadn’t used his boot to prevent her.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, surrounded by her chattels and frightened womenfolk.

‘A moment of your time only,’ Gwylym replied ingratiatingly. After all, honey traps more flies than vinegar, and he had no intention of using force until he had no other recourse. ‘Preferably in private, madam, where I can give you a message from your father.’

Flavia was torn, just as Gwylym had intended she should be. As much as she loved anyone, Flavia had adored her father, and a message that was virtually from the grave was a compelling temptation. With an elegant wave of one hand, she indicated the ransacked scriptorium and followed the gnarled warrior into the disordered room, closing the door firmly behind her, but prudently refraining from securing the lock.

Flavia opened the conversation briskly. ‘What do you want of me? A message from my father seems unlikely, since he’s been dead for months.’

‘He took great pride in your intelligence, my lady, and he deemed you to be more of a man than his son, if I may speak so boldly. He instructed me to call upon you if anything should happen to him. He also assured me that you would be . . . appreciative of my efforts on his behalf.’

Flavia frowned. What did this horrid little man expect of her? Was it money? If so, he was out of luck.

‘He expected me to give you gold? My father wasn’t prone to moments of generosity, so why should he have made an exception for you?’

‘I hadn’t planned to speak so bluntly, my lady, but your father entrusted me with any number of . . . delicate tasks, which perhaps were not so honourable as his reputation might suggest. Included among them was the delivery of the items from Thraustila that I
left with you earlier. Surely you don’t wish me to elaborate, Lady Flavia, for what I have done for your family is private and the details are best kept away from the prying eyes of the authorities, especially the supporters of Emperor Petronius Maximus. I haven’t been paid by your father for my most recent services because his death occurred before I received my stipend.’

The oily threat in Gwylym’s voice was absorbed by Flavia without comment. However, she smiled disarmingly and tossed her red bronze curls flirtatiously, leaving Gwylym to believe that she acknowledged his right to payment.

‘I am certain we can come to an equable arrangement that will be satisfactory to us both, Gwylym . . . that is your name, isn’t it? I will do much for any man who has given good service to my father, especially if he wishes to continue in my employ.’

‘I’m sure the matter of your father’s indebtedness can be resolved, Lady Flavia. It is my intention to return to my homeland in Armorica as soon as it can be arranged, and I understand that you plan to journey to Constantinople in the Eastern Empire. I’d not have the eastern emperor privy to your father’s plans to assume the throne of Rome, for such knowledge would be dangerous for the daughter of a man I served with so much loyalty. In turn, I would appreciate your decision to assist an old soldier to return to his distant homeland. Once I am far away, there can be no chance of untoward gossip concerning your father’s activities immediately prior to his untimely death.’

In a hard voice, Flavia summed up Gwylym’s ambiguous threats. ‘If I should pay you to return to your western home, then you’ll make no trouble for me in the Eastern Empire, is that correct? Have I understood your unspoken demands correctly?’

Gwylym nodded. ‘In a nutshell, my lady, that’s it.’

His oily smile enraged Flavia, but she kept her expression calm.
‘Very well, Gwylym.’ She smiled softly. ‘The strongbox is in the villa forecourt. Come with me.’ With her usual grace, she led the way back to the entryway to the villa, where she paused before her steward, a tall and grizzled Hun.

‘Fetch me my wrap so I can be protected from the chill,’ she murmured softly.

Gwylym waited impatiently while the steward glanced down at the visitor with blank eyes before disappearing into the bowels of the house. Then Flavia passed through the double doors and into the forecourt. Her demeanour was icy, so Gwylym should have been warned, but the old Celt warrior had lived violently for five decades, and still trusted to his ruthlessness to save him from the consequences of his actions.

‘Wait here!’ Flavia ordered him imperiously, and strode towards the carriage, where three burly menservants waited.

‘Take him,’ she whispered quietly, and Gwylym immediately found himself surrounded. Unsurprised, he drew his sword with a wicked hiss and dropped into a fighting crouch. His face was bland and unconcerned because he still saw no difficulty in coping with unarmed men. After all, he had killed more capable men than these oafs while armed with lesser weapons than his fighting sword.

‘You’re making a mistake, Lady Flavia,’ he hissed as he backed away slowly, keeping his opponents in view. ‘I expected you to try some form of treachery, so tell your bully boys to step away. I still insist on your coin for my silence, but I’m feeling far less friendly than I was when I first arrived here.’