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“Marcus Artorius Supercilius has arrived, domine, and is waiting in the atrium,” a slave asked, standing patiently a few steps away from Franciscus, who was reclining in the garden. “Should I show him in to you?”
“Yes, yes, how many times do I have to tell you to just let him in?” Franciscus replied, without even opening his eyes, feeling the warmth of the late spring sun on his skin. In the house it was noisy, with the sound of slaves clattering around cleaning, cooking and preparing for the evening, but outside it was quiet and tranquil. The air was sweet with the scent of blossoming flowers and olive trees, and, if Franciscus had opened his eyes, he would’ve seen the deep blue sky soaring above him, free from clouds.
“If I’d known that being a consul was so easy, I would’ve gone up for the position after all,” a dry voice remarked, and Franciscus lazily opened one eye to squint in its direction.
“Artorius!” He cried, sitting up in his seat. “How nice of you to turn up early to help me prepare for the convivium!”
“As if you’re not getting all your slaves to do it for you. When was the last time you ever did any work yourself, I wonder?”
“Come, now, don’t be so grumpy. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Franciscus beckoned the other man over to him, admiring the way the sun bounced off his blonde hair, the way the drape of his toga drew attention to his broad shoulders. “You need some sunshine anyway, you’re ridiculously pale. I’m surprised the other soldiers don’t laugh at you.”
“They don’t laugh at me because I’m a magister militum,” Artorius answered through gritted teeth, “and I could easily have them killed. You seem to forget this quite often.”
He settled down on the chair beside Franciscus, brows drawn angrily, and Franciscus laughed and reached out for his hand, drawing his thumb soothingly over the other’s knuckles.
“It’s good to see that you’ve brought your sociable side along with you today, in order to charm our important guests.”
“You politicians are the ones who do the charming. I don’t want any business with it, no matter how much time you have spare to sunbathe or spend all your money on lavish parties. I’m only here for the food.”
Franciscus laughed his pretty little laugh.
“Of that, I can assure you, there will be plenty.”
The convivium had been planned for months. Franciscus had decked out his enormous house with deep purple drapes, commissioning new murals for the walls and trimming all his plants into perfect shape. He had a reputation to uphold, and Gaius Valerius Franciscus had never backed down from a fight, no matter what his political rivals might’ve said. His slaves had been sent out early that morning to find the freshest produce that Rome could offer, and now they were hurrying about all the rooms, sweeping here and there and making sure everything was spick-and-span for their guests later in the evening.
“When will the others be arriving?” Artorius inquired lightly, glancing over at Franciscus and squinting in the sunlight.
“Not for some time, I should imagine. I will need to get properly dressed before then, but I suppose you could…accompany me inside for some time, hm?” Franciscus raised an eyebrow and watched the hot flush begin to blossom on Artorius’ cheeks.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb your slaves.”
Franciscus scoffed.
“Never mind them, they work around me. I’m sure they’ve had enough time to nosey around in my room anyway. Come on, come inside.”
*
It had been summer when they had first met, and the Francisci were holidaying in their expansive villa near Puteoli. The young Gaius Franciscus had gone for a walk along the beach with his tutor, Eucleides, taking long, deep breaths of the sea air and letting the breeze ruffle his long hair. Eucleides had been pointing out a boat on the horizon, carrying wares from Sicilia or Hispania or somewhere else that Franciscus had no desire to visit, not when Rome itself was ready and waiting for him. His mind had wandered to all the possibilities that Rome held, and everything he was missing out on while here in the countryside, when out the corner of his eye he caught sight of another boy crouched on the sand, skimming stones across the water.
His name was Artorius, he was fifteen years old, and he had raw red marks all over his arms where his magister had beaten him for always forgetting a certain line in The Aeneid. Franciscus had laughed when he found out and Artorius had taken a stubborn disliking to him ever since. Yet whenever Artorius wasn’t at school during the summer, he would always come down to the beach and Franciscus would meet him there, eventually leaving Eucleides back at the villa. Sometimes he would help the other boy with his studying, listening to him reciting Rome’s greatest authors until he was shouting poetry towards the waves that rolled endlessly in. Sometimes they strayed into the town itself, and Franciscus would buy little souvenirs, painted terracotta pots that he found pretty or smooth fabric wraps or replica statues of a local hero.
When the summer was drawing to a close, however, the Francisci were preparing to return to Rome, to rejoin the boy’s father where he was holding office in the city. Franciscus had run down to the beach, Eucleides left far behind him, with a bunch of wildflowers clutched in his hand, and arranged them neatly on Artorius’ head when he saw him. The boy had scowled, shaking his head so that they fell to the sand, but some remained caught in his sandy blond hair. He had refused to look at Franciscus while the other boy told of how he was being dragged back to Rome by his family, how he loved Rome and all its sights very much, and how he would come back to Puteoli next summer to tell Artorius all about it.
“Rich boys like you aren’t supposed to spend time with commoners like me,” had been Artorius’ only reply, face turned towards the sea that came crashing in. The weather was still warm, suffocatingly so, but the sky was overcast and streaked with clouds that crowded above them.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I like you,” Franciscus had said, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. “But we probably won’t see each other for another year, so you’d better wish me well now or you’ll regret it later.”
Artorius had huffed and puffed about the whole affair, but a “Vale” or two had been exchanged with surprising care before they parted.
When Franciscus had returned to Puteoli the following year, he brought the sunshine with him. It seemed to spring from his every step, trailing from his fingertips as he passed through the town on the way to find Artorius. He had rapped cheerily on the door of the house, barely restraining himself from jumping around excitedly, and when the door opened at last, there was Artorius, just as he remembered.
Except not. Because where he had been scrawny, he was stronger, leaner, and that strength thrummed through his body. Where his cheeks had once been wide and rosy, now they had slimmed down, revealing a strong nose and sharp jaw. Where his eyes had once been soft like the grasses that grew on the beach, now they glinted like shards of glass, crinkled at the edge from a smile. Even his thick eyebrows didn’t seem to stand out so much.
Franciscus felt a tug in his gut, and he knew his fate was set in stone.
Blinking away his shock, he returned the other’s smile weakly before it was lost from him forever, and then suddenly Artorius was dragging him away from the house, down to their beach and flopping onto the sand.
They had lain like that for hours, talking about everything they had been up to over the past year. Franciscus had regaled Artorius with stories of lavish parties and chariot racing, tried to put the atmosphere of Rome into his words, to convey the noise that burst out of a tavern of drunken revellers, the smell of cooking food in the air, the marvels of brightly coloured statues on every street corner. In return Artorius had recalled his own stories, of how he had finally managed to recite The Aeneid, how he had gone fishing with his father and brothers and felt the rock of the boat all around him, how he had been frequenting the local palaestra and had been practising his sparring with the other men.
Franciscus’ ears had pricked up at this point, and throughout the whole of their summer he never stopped asking about Artorius’ trips to the palaestra, wanting to know all about these other men who would wrestle him, naked and sweating, and pin him to the ground – or perhaps the other way around. Artorius had seemed oblivious, brows knitted in confusion as he had told Franciscus anyway, glossing over the details and frowning at the sand as he traced patterns in it with his finger. He hadn’t even seemed to notice that Franciscus was paying extra special attention to him, eyes lingering on his face or on his hands, trailing after him wherever he chose to go and draping himself affectionately over Artorius’ shoulders whenever they were alone.
Artorius hadn’t seemed to know, until he had suddenly pressed his lips to Franciscus’ one day in the middle of the summer, with the wind blowing his hair into the other’s face and his shaky hands slowly coming to rest on Franciscus’ waist. Franciscus had responded immediately, catching Artorius’ bottom lip between his own, letting their warm breaths mingle as he cupped Artorius’ cheek. The way they fit together felt so right, as though nothing could ever come close to surpassing this. Franciscus knew it: they were meant to be.
And if two teenage boys had wanted to take it further than that, who could blame them?
*
The guests began to arrive in the evening and were settling in the triclinium. Franciscus had given special attention to this room, decorating the walls with murals of nature and mosaics with colourful geometric patterns. The three couches had a rich red fabric draped over them, with embroidered cushions for each of the guests to support themselves with, and they were arranged in the customary U-shape, with the currently empty table settled in the middle.
Franciscus himself was also dressed up for the occasion, wearing his best toga with strings of sparkling jewels wrapped around his neck and his hands decked out with shiny rings. Artorius had snorted when he saw him but said nothing, instead taking his place at Franciscus’ right.
Anicius Auchenius Bassus, one of the previous year’s consuls, was seated on the first couch, along with his wife Turrenia and their young son. Flavius Philippus, Bassus’ co-consul, was to Franciscus’ left. The other couch was hosting some of Franciscus’ friends from the forum, up-standing people from the senate who had made their names heard in previous years. All these had been welcomed to Franciscus’ dinner table before, and they chattered amongst themselves whilst they waited for their meal to begin.
A slave brought in the gustatio of stuffed dormice, olives and goat’s cheese, and wine was mixed for each of the guests according to their own personal preference. Franciscus spoke with each of his guests, joining all three couches so that the conversation included everyone, and played the part of the charming host. Artorius, reclining beside him, was silent and picked at his food.
“I must say, Francisce,” Philippus began when the mensae primae were brought in, “this banquet you’ve put on for us does look rather splendid.”
There were nods and murmurs of approval from the other guests, who were reaching out to fill their plates with oysters and veal cooked to perfection and flavoured with rosemary, cracking open the shellfish and drizzling garum over their food. The room was filled with the mouth-watering scent of juicy meat and fresh herbs.
“Thank you, Philippe, I am glad that you approve,” Franciscus replied graciously. “I sent slaves all across Italia searching for the very best that could be found. Some of this meat comes from as far as Asia, would you believe? Of course I wouldn’t allow anything less for my guests.”
Artorius rolled his eyes as he tore into his meat, watching the other guests’ reactions carefully from his corner perspective. He kept a respectable distance from Franciscus, well aware of everybody’s eyes on them, but could still feel the warmth radiating from the other man, making him long for lazy summer days when they could be alone. Social decorum had never sat well with him.
Once the dishes from the mensae primae were cleared up, one slave refilled their cups of wine while another brought in the mensae secundae. There were towers of fresh fruit, some familiar and some exotic, with pots of the sweetest honey for dipping. There were pastries, too, filled with berries, and thinly baked wafers coated in sugar. Artorius’ eyes grew wide at the sight and Franciscus grinned knowingly, a teasing glint in his eyes.
The conversation had died down somewhat with the arrival of the final meal, as everybody was enjoying the food too much to speak. Franciscus watched his guests with a smile, eating little of the food himself and instead making sure that they were satisfied. When he glanced to his right, he bit back a laugh.
“Artori, you’ve got honey around your lips,” he noted lightly, and Artorius’ hand reached up to his face nervously, thumb rubbing fiercely at the skin around his mouth.
“Where?” he hissed.
“Here, let me get it.” Franciscus reached out and wiped the honey away, taking his finger into his mouth and sucking off the sweetness until it was clean. Artorius’ eyes followed him, then flicked back nervously to the table. “There. All gone.”
“My, my,” a voice interrupted, Bassus narrowing his eyes at the pair from the other couch, “you two are certainly close, aren’t you? Francisce, you seem to spend a lot of time with this Supercilius. I can’t imagine what you get from him that you cannot get from a wife.”
Artorius stiffened, the sweets forgotten about.
“He’s no mere soldier, Basse,” Franciscus answered, keeping his voice steady where Artorius could not. “He’s a magister militum. I suppose much of my time is spent with him because we have important business to discuss. He advises me on all military matters, since I myself am ignorant of the profession.”
“And I suppose military matters now include wiping each other’s faces clean, yes? I wonder what other sordid activities ‘military matters’ involve.”
“Not the sort that you are implying.” Franciscus’ voice was sharp as ice. “Artorius and I have been close friends for many years; there is a level of trust between us that you could not comprehend. However your insinuations are false, amice, and I would be careful that you don’t make a fool of yourself with these suggestions.”
The room was silent. A slave stood in the corner holding a jug of wine and averting his eyes. Bassus coughed and went back to his meal.
“Right,” said Franciscus with faux cheeriness, “shall we have some music?” He clapped his hands together to summon a musician. “You know, I think those Greeks were onto something with their love of musicians at banquets. I don’t know why it didn’t really catch on here in Rome, but perhaps I shall start a new trend.”
Bassus’ wife was berating him quietly as the musician struck the first chord on the lyre, and the other guests politely ignored the couple, instead chatting with Franciscus about how he had procured the lavish food they had enjoyed. Artorius shuffled over so that he was lying almost on the edge of the couch, keeping himself as far from Franciscus as possible.
Although the conversation was flowing once again, nobody really recovered from the shock of earlier, and so the guests began to take their leave early, thanking Franciscus for a lovely evening before they were off down the road, filled with gossip and other vile thoughts. Franciscus stood in the light of his vestibulum, waving them off before they were out of sight, and Artorius remained in the triclinium alone, sprawled over the cushions as the slaves cleared up around him.
The sound of footsteps on stone signalled Franciscus’ return.
“We need to be more careful,” Artorius said without looking in his direction. “Even an assumption alone can be enough to ruin us. You have your career at stake, I my honour and virtue.”
“I know that, we have discussed this,” Franciscus answered, coming to sit beside him. He reached out to stroke Artorius’ hair and the other flinched away, face hardening. In this light it was all too easy to see the lines of stress around his eyes. “Mellite, don’t hide away from me.”
“I need to go anyway.” The other man slid off the couch and righted himself, adjusting his toga so that the folds fell correctly. “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Francicse.”
“Come on, now, don’t be like that. You know you can stay, you’re always welcome here.”
“No, I really need to be off. I’ve got some business to take care of.” Franciscus sighed, knowing not to fight Artorius’ stubborn nature.
“Then I’ll see you to the door.”
They walked side by side through the atrium in uncomfortable silence, Franciscus turning all possibilities through his mind, and once they reached the vestibulum he caught Artorius’ hand in his own, lifting it to his lips.
“Please don’t let him get to you, amor. We’ve been doing so well this far, haven’t we?” Artorius nodded reluctantly.
“I just don’t want to push it. I don’t want to take that risk.”
“Then we won’t take risks. In here we are safe, I can assure you.”
“Well, we’ll see. Vale, dormias bene.”
Franciscus waved him off down the street before he shut the door, slumping against it with his head in his hands.
*
The law had come in when they were just seventeen. Emperor Theodosius had ordered it on behalf of the church, and already the gossip was flying around the major towns and cities. Men had already been condemned, locked away or worse for their ‘crimes’, and the people in the markets loved to debate the morals of the emperor’s judgement, forgetting the pain of all those who were suffering. They walked by the columns of the temples and the decorated altars as though they had never been there.
Franciscus had run down to Artorius’ house as soon as he heard the news, forgetting about his fancy clothes and his daily studies. He had pounded on his friend’s door, standing in the street with his hair straggly and in his plain tunic, and had called through the window.
“Artori!” he had shouted. “Are you home?”
“Go away,” came the reply from within the depths of the house. “I don’t want to see you.”
“But I need to talk to you! Don’t leave me out in the cold like this, Artori.”
His pleas had been met with silence. He banged on the door again.
“Artori, come on! Please, mellite!”
Suddenly the door had swung open to reveal a furious Artorius on the other side. He had fisted his hand in Franciscus’ tunic and dragged him into the house, hissing,
“Are you mad? Do you want to be killed? You cannot call me such names!” The door slammed shut behind them.
“But nobody was there, they wouldn’t have heard us.”
“Idiot! Anybody could have heard us. We could be killed for…for what we did, and you want to flaunt it to the whole world?”
“They wouldn’t kill us, though. They’re just saying that as a discouragement, but they wouldn’t actually kill us.”
“They wouldn’t kill you, perhaps, since you’ve got money. But me-“ Artorius had choked on his own words, turning away sharply, and when his voice had returned to him, it was hoarse with pain. “I can’t be seen with you anymore. You need to leave me alone.”
“You can’t expect me to just let you go!” Franciscus protested, pacing the room.
“You have to, it’s better for both of us. We’ll both grow up and marry a pretty girl and have children, and you’ll go on to be consul and I’ll stay here and raise my family. This is what we must do. It’s our duty to the state.”
“But I don’t want that! I don’t want a pretty wife or babies or anything like that. I want you, Artori, te amo.”
Artorius froze.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do. I love you, truly.” Artorius’ shoulders trembled as he shook his head.
“You don’t- you can’t mean that, Francisce, can’t you see? You’ll get us both killed!”
“It doesn’t have to be this way! We can go to Rome, and there are so many people there they’ll never catch onto us. You’re strong – you can go into the army, and I’ll become a quaestor like my family wants. Then once you’re an army leader and I’m a consul we’ll be expected to spend time together, for business, you see?”
Artorius had turned around by this point, but he still wouldn’t meet Franciscus’ eyes.
“You say that like it’s easy,” he muttered, “but it’s not. There’s competition, and it won’t happen just like that.”
“I have faith in you.”
“Faith isn’t enough!” Artorius snapped, and when he looked up, Franciscus could see the tears swimming in his eyes. “Faith means nothing these days, nothing except misery for everyone. What have we left of our ‘faith’, when temples are being destroyed and you can be persecuted for following in your ancestors’ footsteps? You might have had your life handed to you on a silver platter, but the rest of us know the truth, that only the chosen few make it to the top. Ambition gets you nowhere, strength and courage gets you nowhere. Our paths are already chosen, Francisce, and that’s the end of it. I will not stand to see you get hurt because of me.”
He was panting when he had finished, face flushed with anger and embarrassment, fists clenched by his sides. Franciscus stood before him, stunned into silence. Artorius glanced at him and then headed deeper into the house, pouring himself some wine and swallowing it down in one go before he draped himself over a chair.
“I’ll go to Rome with you,” he said, after what felt like years of aching silence. “Whatever you want, I’ll do. But this,” he gestured between them, “this has to stop. Understand?”
“Arto-“ He held up a hand.
“No, that’s final. I refuse to take this risk. You mean the world to me, Francisce, and it’d kill me to see you get hurt.”
*
It was three days after the Kalends of Maius when Artorius returned to Franciscus’ house, kicked the door shut behind him and took the other man into his arms, disappearing into Franciscus’ bedroom and returning two hours later, tying up the straps of his breastplate. Franciscus followed behind him, bare except for the sheet draped over his shoulders, eyes red raw.
“Please,” he was begging, “please reconsider, Artori. You have enough power to refuse them, don’t you?”
“I’ve been given orders, Francisce, and I can’t disobey my superiors,” Artorius sighed, cursing when he trapped his finger in his belt. “It won’t be for long, anyway. All I’m required to do is sort out some mess in Britannia, and then I’ll be home again. I don’t imagine it will take too long.”
“But what if it’s not safe? You could get hurt so easily, you know how wild they are these days. The barbarians are attacking us left, right and centre.”
“This coming from someone of Gallic descent,” Artorius remarked dryly. “I don’t understand what the matter is. I’m a trained soldier, Francisce, and I’ve been on far more dangerous missions than this. After the time I spent on the front lines in Germania, the only way Britannia can hurt me is with the cold.”
Artorius waited for Franciscus’ answering laugh, but none came. He frowned and placed his fingers under Franciscus’ chin, tipping it up to look him in the eye. Franciscus jerked his head away.
“What’s worrying you? It’s not as though I haven’t left before.”
Franciscus was quiet for a moment longer, uncharacteristically nervous as he wondered how much to reveal.
“The senate is in turmoil at the moment,” he confessed, staring at his feet. “Emperor Honorius keeps refusing Alaric’s demands, and we are afraid that he will turn on the city. Rome is weak enough as it is – surely you must know this – and we cannot afford to let it fall any more. I had thought that all I would have to do as consul would be put on expensive games for the people, but I fear that without you here I won’t be able to cope.”
“Francisce, you are stronger than you think.”
The consul jerked his head up in surprise to see his lover smiling softly at him.
“There is nothing I can do about leaving. I wish I could stay to comfort you, I do, but orders must be carried out. And I’ll be back before you know it, I promise.” He placed a hand on Franciscus’ shoulder and squeezed tightly, Franciscus’ eyes fluttering closed as he nodded.
Taking the crimson cloak from Artorius’ hands, he arranged it over the other man’s shoulders, pinning it to his uniform with a brooch, and stepped back to look at him. He seemed stronger, dressed like this, a powerful image of the might of the Roman Empire. In bed and at home he was just Artorius, the boy with the choppy hair and the big eyebrows and freckly arms, but dressed up in his military regalia it was impossible to feel anything but admiration. Franciscus’ eyes stung.
He stepped forward again, placing his hands on Artorius’ cheeks, and kissed him, pouring out all his grief and love and everything between them. Tears began to drip from his lashes again, wiped away by Artorius’ capable hands, until it become impossible to stay pressed together.
Reluctantly, Artorius removed himself from Franciscus’ embrace, picking up his helmet as he made his way to the vestibulum. He took a deep breath to steady himself before he turned back to Franciscus, prepared to say his goodbyes.
“And off my brave Achilles goes to war,” Franciscus murmured miserably.
Their eyes caught, hearts pounding wildly in their chests. Artorius’ laugh caught painfully in his throat.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to clear out the barbarians from Britannia, not fight the Trojans. I’m no hero.”
“Come back to me.”
“I will. I promise.”
*
The house was empty without Artorius, even if he didn’t live there. Franciscus kept expecting to turn a corner and seem him there, reading copies of Juvenal and Horace in his study, sneaking fruit out of the storage, or wandering in the garden and cooing at the flowers. In his absence there was only silence.
Often he thought back to when Artorius had first left to fight. Franciscus had brought him back to Rome, set him up with a modest house on the Esquiline, and introduced him to his father’s influential friends at a banquet. Artorius had been just as awkward back then, hair brushed neatly as he resisted the urge to twist the fabric of his toga from nerves. And then he’d been whisked off to the frontiers of the Empire, and Franciscus had spent his first summer without him in years. On the day of his return, Artorius had stormed into Franciscus’ house a changed man, and kissed him, kissed him until he could hardly breathe, as though the threat that loomed over them had died in the fighting. They had been afraid, yes, but Franciscus knew there was always fear in love. At least, there was in Rome.
He distracted himself from his misery by spending most of his time in the forum, keeping up on political matters. Alaric’s threat still loomed over the city, haunting the people so that they glanced behind their backs when they turned the corner, half expecting a tribe of Visigoths to come stampeding down the streets. Honorius’ continuous refusal of his demands was creating tension among the senators, too, who were anxious about the consequences. There were those who were loyal to the emperor’s decisions, who asserted that Rome could only maintain its dominance if it didn’t pander to foreigners; then there were those who considered some of the demands reasonable, justified even, and the debates raged on for days.
Three months this had gone on, and all the time Franciscus wondered where Artorius was, what he was doing, what places he was seeing. Part of him longed to be out there with him, to experience the Empire beyond the holidays at the summer villa and the glamour of the City itself, but mostly he just wished that Artorius was here in Rome, here in his arms. Even the games that he managed to put on couldn’t please him, and the roaring of the crowds rang painfully in his ears. He watched indifferently as the chariots went around and around, his fellow senators returning home with arms full of money that they’d won through bets, Franciscus going home empty handed. The next day would be the same story, of arguments in the senate house and crowds in the Circus and loneliness, charioteers chasing the thoughts around his head.
That was until the Visigoths turned up outside Rome.
Alaric had had enough, and now the City was going to pay. The Visigoths had been armed and marched to Rome, brandishing spears and fresh knowledge of Roman military tactics. At the sight of the army gathering outside of the city walls, the terrified people rushed through the streets, desperate for safety and not knowing where they might find it. All the roads were packed with people, trampling on each other in their haste, shoving others into walls as they squeezed through the crowds. The whole City quaked in terror, the soldiers drawing the gates closed against the enemy, cutting off their contacts with the rest of the Empire, and the senate raced to the forum for an emergency meeting.
Franciscus sat on the benches with the other senators and worried, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. It was almost as though they could feel the panic of the people as food supplies dwindled, and no doubt there would be anger at the emperor that could lead to riots and mutinies. The rest of the Empire would be watching on, perhaps hoping to follow Alaric’s example, in order to obtain their freedom after so many years of insurrections.
All eyes turned to Franciscus, their consul, when there was a chance to speak, looking to him for guidance. He stood slowly and made himself known, holding his head high so that they would never know how scared he was.
“Fellow senators, is it not obvious what it is we must do?” he asked, spreading his arms wide to his audience. “Honorius does not want to give in to the demands of the barbarian – and as we have proved through our many meetings, there is justice in this decision. Rome’s message to outsiders must be clear, that we shall never surrender our superiority, no matter the circumstances. However, what kind of justice puts pride before its people? What kind of justice could sit back and watch Roman supremacy crumble through its fingers?”
Hearing his own voice ring out around the marble walls of the Senate House made him grow in confidence, and he could see the nodding of other senators around him.
He continued: “This is not the justice that you and I believe in. Therefore, I propose that we send a delegation to the emperor, in order to convince him of this. He is in Ravenna – it is no surprise that he cannot feel the pain of his citizens when he is so far away. Yet we are witnesses to Rome’s hour of need, and we must not allow ourselves to neglect it.”
He predicted their assent and applause before he had even finished, and when another senator rose to propose that they recall the army in order to defend the city, he felt his heart threatening to burst from his chest. Because the army meant Artorius, and Artorius meant safety, no matter how many food shortages and debates with the emperor they would have to endure.
When Franciscus walked back to his house on the Palatine that evening, he could see the panic in the eyes of the citizens, and imagined he could even hear the noise of the enemy army beyond the city walls, bustling about within their camp as they prepared the weapons and battle formations. Yet within his heart it was tranquil, and Franciscus followed the steady beat in his veins, calm with the knowledge that he could get through this. Artorius would return.
*
Artorius looked up from the letter in his hands and out the tent flap to where the rain was pouring down, the ground so soaked that any new water splashed up from the grass. Rome was better than this weather any day, even a Rome under siege, and he wouldn’t miss this when he returned. The Gallic land had done nothing for him, and the British land had been worse. The people paid him no heed, ignoring his commands in favour of their own tribal kings, and the coastlines were wrecked by the frequent invasions. Celts and Romans and Angles and Jutes alike mingled together in the towns until all law and order had been lost, and nothing that Artorius attempted ever took hold. They needed a proper politician, like Franciscus, who could lead them back to peace, not a soldier like Artorius.
No, leaving Britannia would be no great loss, but they had only just arrived. His soldiers had been marched all the way from Rome to the edge of Gallia, sent out day by day to try and march on Londinium, and retreating when they were pushed back again and again. They were weary with exhaustion, tired and sick from the weather, and Artorius felt his grip on their loyalty slipping like the waves that washed against the sand. Telling them to turn around now and simply head home would surely be a disaster mission.
The letter had come from Franciscus himself, yet it was stiff and formal, lacking his usual additions and petnames. No doubt it was to avoid any issues should the letter be intercepted, but it disappointed Artorius somewhat. Never before had he felt so homesick when away on a campaign, yet here he felt the tug in his chest almost every day. It would take all his restraint not to run and find Franciscus as soon as they reached the city walls once again.
And yet by that point, what would Rome be? It would take them ages to get back to the City, and if they were already under siege and desperate for army assistance, that would mean that the threat was growing worse by the minute. By the time they returned to Rome within the next two months, how many people would have already starved? How many people would have lost faith in Rome and defected to the enemy?
Artorius scowled and tore his gaze away from the endless rain. If Honorius were to lose his throne, he would get the punishment he deserved. All of them deserved it, all those who threw their wealth around without caring, and watched as their own city crumbled before them, driven into the ground by foreign powers and strange new customs, all the old glory lost. Nobody was exempt, not even Artorius himself, not even Franciscus, who revelled in parties and luxury, who suited it all so well.
Artorius would never have the heart to punish him, though, no matter how much he may deserve it. Franciscus at least tried. He tried for Artorius, and that was enough to win his heart.
The army would begin their retreat the next morning.
*
A delegation of senators, headed by Franciscus, had eventually been chosen to make the trip to Ravenna, where Honorius was waiting, tucked safely away from the danger of the city’s siege. They had sneaked out of one of the lesser known entrances to the city on horseback, accompanied by a handful of soldiers should they be intercepted by the Visigoths, and reached Ravenna in good time. They had been accepted into the residence of the emperor and were now waiting for him to give them audience.
A door slamming open signalled his arrival, and he walked in clothed in all his fineries, trailed by what seemed like hundreds of attendants. It was a stark contrast to the current state of Rome.
“Yes, you wished to see me?” he asked after he had taken a seat, voice ringing out through the grand hall.
Franciscus stepped forward.
“We have come to petition you regarding the demands of Alaric the Visigoth.”
Honorius rolled his eyes and groaned.
“As if I haven’t heard enough of this. I have made my decision, and it’s final.”
“Ah, well, we do understand your concerns, princeps, however the senate has decreed that certain armies have to be brought back to Rome from their positions on the frontiers of the Empire. Legions stationed in Britannia, Hispania and Illyricum have all been recalled in order to defend the City, and this leaves our borders rather weak. I am sure that you understand how this might be an issue for us.”
Franciscus wrung his hands behind his back as he waited for the reply.
“Well, is it really necessary to bring troops back here? It’s not as though we need anybody else to defend the City.” Franciscus frowned.
“I’m not entirely sure I understand what you mean. The City is under siege and people are starving. The Visigoths have taken Portus and supplies are running low. We don’t just need to defend the City, we need to engage with Alaric’s troops or negotiate for peace. That’s the only way Rome will ever be free again.”
Honorius sighed as though he were Atlas bearing his burden, not the emperor of Rome.
“I’ve told Alaric this personally, and I’ll tell you again now: the Huns have promised us their support against the Visigoths. 10,000 of them will come to Rome and protect us. The Visigoths should be quaking in their boots at the very thought of the consequences should they make an attack on Rome.”
“What about the days when Rome didn’t need to rely on foreigners to defend the City?” one of the senators interjected. “Even our own armies are filled with mercenary soldiers and foederati, and we have become dependent on tribes from the fringes of the Empire to fight our battles for us. If Alaric had never been given such power in the first place, and instead it had gone to a more capable Roman general, he would never have had the audacity to challenge you now.”
Honorius cocked his head to one side, as though he was considering this.
“You raise a valid point,” he said, “however we cannot change the past. What’s done is done, and now we must simply wait for the Huns to arrive. What more can I say?”
Franciscus was stunned. They had barely been there for five minutes and Honorius was already beginning to dismiss them. Surely this couldn’t have been a wasted journey?
“I do hope you have other business here in Ravenna,” the emperor was saying, “to make your journey worthwhile. Of course you are welcome to stay for a meal here, should you wish. I’m sure you’re all upstanding ci-“
“Where are these 10,000 Huns then?” Franciscus demanded, cutting off the emperor. He felt the scrutiny of everybody in the whole hall, the whole palace, the whole Empire even, watching him, and he worked to keep his voice strong and steady. “You say that they will come – when will they come? Will they come in time to stop the Roman people dying from starvation? Will they come before Alaric decides we’re weak enough to be attacked, or before the other Germanic tribes catch on to our weaknesses and get the same idea? Will they come before Rome itself falls to the Visigoths? I don’t see them anywhere.”
He heard the shocked gasps of the senators behind him but paid them no heed, instead watching Honorius’ face carefully to gauge his reaction, buoyed up by his pride at his own dissent. The emperor barely twitched.
“Come here,” he ordered, beckoning Franciscus with his hand. The consul stepped forward, heart sinking in his chest with every reverberation of his sandals slapping against the stone floor. “You’re Gaius Valerius Franciscus, yes? Am I right in believing you’re a consul for this year?”
Franciscus straightened at the mention of his position, acutely aware of his own appearance, and nodded firmly.
“Your co-consul.”
Honorius’ eyes flashed.
“And do you know what it means to be a consul?”
“I represent the voice of the Roman people.”
“No. No, you do not. Perhaps once, in the very old days, when the system was inferior and corrupt, but no longer. A consul in Rome, in my Rome, is meant to put on games. You are meant to keep the people pleased.” Honorius rose from his seat, towering over Franciscus from where he was stood on the dais. “What you are not meant to do is stick your nose in where it isn’t wanted. You are certainly not meant to question the emperor. Is that understood?”
Franciscus meant to say, “Yes.” He meant to be herded along as he had always been, forced into the role by his tutor, by his family, by his lineage. He meant to step back and learn his place.
The word never came. He knew that, if he even opened his mouth to speak, everything would come pouring out, and then there would be no remorse. His heart hammered in his throat.
“Is. That. Understood?” Honorius repeated, growling through gritted teeth.
“I do not think we have the same definition of democracy, Honori. Should I ask my tutor to teach me again?”
It was so quiet that Franciscus could hear his heartbeat pulsing through his veins, rushing in his ears. The guards lining the walls shifted. Honorius’ lips flickered into a parody of a smile.
“I don’t believe that will be necessary. I doubt that your education was particularly sound at all, considering what you’ve grown up to be. A Roman is meant to be dignified, proud and impenetrable, and yet you…well, there are stories about you.”
Franciscus’ eyes flew wide and his thoughts immediately centred on Artorius.
“Yes,” Honorius continued, “you know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you? Some people choose to ignore the stories, pass them off as ugly rumours, because they’ve met you and they like you. You’re a charming man, Francisce, everybody admits it. And yet I believe you turn that charm in the wrong direction. Do you?”
“No. I do not,” Franciscus asserted, feeling the guilt at the lie rise and twist his stomach. Honorius smirked knowingly.
“Well, I could always torture the truth out of your slaves, if that would suit you? I’m sure there’ll be no need for drastic measures like that, though. Tell me, Francisce, do you like to take it, or have you got a little slut who takes it for you?”
Franciscus trembled with rage.
“Or perhaps – now here’s an idea! – it has something to do with that soldier you spend all your time with. Supercilius, wasn’t that his name? Yes, Bassus told me about him, lovely green eyes. I might pluck them out and use them as a decoration, what do you think?”
“You couldn’t touch him. He’s a magister militum. He’s untouchable.”
“So you seem to think, and yet you are a consul, and I think we’ve proved that ‘untouchable’ only applies to me.”
“I’ll show you ‘untouchable’,” Franciscus seethed. Leaving his conscience behind, he leapt forwards, hurling himself at the emperor as he channelled all of his fear and fury. Honorius didn’t even flinch as Franciscus came flying towards him, fists reared back ready to slam into his smug face.
And one moment he was in the air, the next he was pinned to the ground with a spear, head slamming against the cold stone. The cries of the other senators swam in the air as Franciscus choked, head lolling to the side. Blood soaked through his pale toga as he grasped at the spear protruding from his chest, and sobs tore from his throat with the effort of trying to breathe.
The other senators were fixed in place, and could only watch on in horror as Franciscus bled his life out in the middle of the floor, lips forming words that never came to life.
“What a mess,” Honorius complained, turning his nose up. He glanced over at the terrified senators. “I don’t suppose there was anything else you wished to speak to me about?”
*
The messenger reached the army when they were resting at Lugdunum. Rumours hurried through the camp, twittering in the ears of the soldiers who were eating together or cleaning their weapons. They spoke in hushed voices, eyes glancing towards Artorius’ tent in the middle of the camp, where he was alone as always. For a moment it was deathly silent.
Then Artorius tore from the tent, racing towards the stables. He seized upon the first horse he saw, hauling himself onto it without a saddle, ignoring the shouts of the soldiers that had crowded around him.
“Out of my way!” he barked, tugging the reins towards him. “The dux is in charge now; I have important business in Rome. Abeste!”
He stormed through the crowds, rushing to escape from the camp and the city before he lost himself. He drove his horse faster and faster, the Gallic countryside racing by as he pushed himself and the animal to their limits, the wind drying his tears from his cheeks before they saw the light of day. Driven by his grief, he rode without inhibition, blind to the pain that was flaring up in his hips and the thirst that parched his throat. Nothing mattered except that Franciscus was dead, his Franciscus; all other concerns crumbled beneath the weight of his pain.
He arrived at Ravenna ravenous and hoarse, demanding to hear the fate of the body of the consul. He was shown into a house on the outskirts of the city, owned by one of the senators in the delegation, who had taken it upon himself to be responsible for Franciscus’ funeral. He received the grieving Artorius with a grim look, the words of the emperor ringing in his mind.
Franciscus’ body was laid out on the funeral bier at the back of the atrium. He had been dressed in a fresh toga, plain white, nothing like the clothes he used to wear, his wound hidden carefully beneath the folds of the fabric. Sprigs of laurel and leaves of ivy had been positioned decoratively around the body, and Franciscus’ eyes were sealed shut in peaceful rest.
The image swam before Artorius’ eyes as he crept into the atrium, swallowing down his tears in order to retain a modicum of his former virtue. He stood in front of the funeral bier and stared down at Franciscus’ body, the body he had touched and loved for so many years, a body once full of life and vibrancy, now so still.
The tiny sliver of hope that it had just been a rumour or a bad dream died at the sight, and Artorius’ heart perished along with it. It wasn’t right. None of this was right.
“It will be a Christian funeral, of course,” the senator was telling him, as though Artorius could even listen. “With what the emperor said about him, I believe it’s more than he should perhaps be granted, but nevertheless he was a consul.”
“He should have been taken back to Rome, to be with his family,” Artorius muttered, never taking his eyes from Franciscus’ face. “He should have thousands upon thousands of guests, the most lavish banquet and funeral games, have his will read out to the public. No funeral you could put on for him would ever be worthy of such a man.”
“I understand that you are upset, but it would not be possible to transport him to Rome in this state. The City is not capable of supporting such things any longer, and it wouldn’t be safe for us to travel with such a load.” Artorius could hear the senator shifting around beside him, could almost feel his eyes boring into his back. He refused to budge. “Besides, it would not be right to go against the will of the emperor. Honorius has spoken.”
“Do you believe I care what Honorius thinks?” Artorius hissed, the suppressed tears and screaming forcing tremors through his body. “Do you think that Honorius’ opinion matters to me, after what he has done to me?” He turned around and glared. “I could kill him.”
The senator balked, as though he suddenly remembered who Artorius was and how much power he wielded.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said firmly, with no betrayal of his inner thoughts. “You soldiers think that you’re worth far more than you are these days.”
“I should kill him.” Artorius paced before the bier, fists clenching and unclenching. “Nobody would miss him. What has he ever done for Rome? Allowed it to be besieged by a German, and for what? So that he could kill a consul? Kill an innocent man?”
“Come now, Artori, there’s no need for this,” the senator assured him, reaching to try and calm him down. Artorius batted his hands away.
“I should take my revenge. For Rome. For its people. For Franciscus.” His voice caught and he raked a hand through his hair, tearing at his scalp. “And how could I let this happen? I, who promised that I would come back safe and sound, am here, and yet he lies there lifeless. It was supposed to be me! Rome is supposed to be safe! And now all my promises have come crumbling down…like Rome itself…” His voice drifted away as Artorius sank to the ground, leaning against the bier, and he reached for Franciscus’ hand, smoothing his thumb over waxy skin.
The senator jumped about nervously.
“This is dangerous talk. You ought not to spout this out in public or else you’ll find yourself with the same fate.”
Artorius looked up and glared, brows drawn menacingly. The senator paled.
“J-Just take these words of warning. We could do without any more tragedies.” Artorius turned away, eyes squeezed closed as he lay his head by Franciscus. Silent tears dripped onto the stone. “I’ll leave you two alone.”