The Turkish Secret

The night was cold and dark like a bad omen; the wind, conjured with shadows, chilled the blood; the waning and gaunt moon turned its back on human misery. Marcial’s teeth chattered, but he uttered no complaint. Even if every molar shattered, he would show no sign of weakness. Discreetly, he rubbed his numb limbs to warm them, or feigned a yawn, exhaling breath onto his hands to feel his fingers. He wished he could wrap himself in a thick bear hide over his plumed lorica—so lustrous yet ineffective against the daggers of the wind—or light a fire like the sentinels guarding the palace perimeter. However, at the top of the staircase, at the foot of the main entrance, Marcial maintained the composure of a stone column, with the exception that he was made of flesh and bone, with all the inconveniences that entailed on glacial nights.

The mere thought of voicing the need for warmth struck him as the greatest of madness. His rank as captain of the imperial guard demanded a certain decorum. Over his red wool tunic, he wore armor, and more for distinction than utility, a white cloak fastened at the shoulders that covered his back. The problem was that the wind came head-on. But even if the night added its icy needles, fine iron daggers, to Marcial’s discomfort, he would have bled out with the same stoicism with which he faced his life. At twenty-six, he was the most promising officer in the army, and he had no intention of tarnishing his immaculate record with such an unmanly complaint. Although, if he were honest with himself, his dignity as a captain mattered little to him. He had never been vain or doctrinaire. He hadn’t even pursued a military career out of ambition. A series of coincidences had guided his military life to elevate him, without him resisting, yet without ever believing in the inexorability of his fate. He was grateful to the army, but he did not love the institution. The only thing holding him back at that moment from seeking a thick bear hide was his fellow guard. Displaying character weakness in his presence was a luxury he could not afford.

Beside him, clad in his honorary toga, stood the very commander, the armed arm of the emperor. Approaching fifty, his yellowish gray eyes reflected the wise distrust toward humanity that a life of warfare brings. He was a man of iron and unwavering resolve, unperturbed by cold or human frailty, as if his warrior lineage constituted a second skin, impervious to weaknesses. He had never faltered in the face of the most adverse circumstances. A soldier of ancient lineage, he had earned his stripes through grit, with an unyielding temperament that knew neither mercy nor fear, and combined with his cold blood, formed an impenetrable wall that repeatedly thwarted the skirmishes of barbarians. His name inspired equal dread among his own men and among enemies, possessing such a deterrent power that not a single officer dared disobey his orders, nor did a defeated foe who miraculously survived ever dare to challenge him again.

The commander had risen through the ranks alongside the esteemed Maximian, becoming his right hand; then, when Maximian abdicated after twenty years of rule by order of Diocletian, he went on to serve his successor, the emperor Constantius, whose imperial glory lasted only a year. After Constantius’s death, he changed masters and served Constantine, the son of the unfortunate Constantius, with the same loyalty he had shown to his predecessors. For the commander, it made no difference whether the emperor was one or another. He defended the ideal of the Roman soul, not the skin that temporarily led it.

Marcial felt the cold beginning to seep into his bones, but he preferred to die frozen rather than disappoint his superior. “Complaints,” he remembered the commander once saying, “are the province of women and the weak.” The memory of that phrase was enough to nail him to the ground. The commander hadn’t even excluded children!

In the silence of the night, to ward off the cold and nerves, Marcial recalled the first time he had seen the commander. It was the day he returned victorious from battle, clad in the toga picta and riding his adorned steed, cheered by the crowd. At that moment, Marcial, then only five years old, swore to emulate the feats of that hero. The sight of that glory left such a mark on his youthful soul that he didn’t even notice his own father, whom he hadn’t seen in eight months, riding alongside the other officers behind the commander. But much water had passed under the bridge since then. His views on men and heroes had changed dramatically. He would have liked to reminisce about that anecdote with the commander, but the man’s stern face dissuaded him from trying. Besides, he knew the commander was impervious to flattery and unyielding with familiarities. If he was frightening when calm, at that moment, with a face soured by the long wait in the dead of night, speaking to him, unless responding to his call, felt like a death wish.

Marcial found himself questioning when and why things had gone awry with the commander. There had been a time when he had treated him like a father. A strict father, but a father nonetheless. His own father, the real one, had died under the command of the very man who now stood before him, trying to fend off a barbarian incursion, and the commander had taken on that responsibility, assuring the son of his fallen officer a career in the army. Later, Marcial’s intelligence and bravery had captivated the commander, promoting him to captain of the imperial guard at just twenty-one. By then, the relationship had shifted; he was like a godson to the commander. He was his protégé. Yet even then, Marcial nostalgically recalled, there were few confidences exchanged. With him, everything fell into speculation, for he hadn’t managed to get close enough to know what the commander thought, felt, loved, or hated. Nonetheless, despite his rough demeanor, their relationship had been good. Until one day, for reasons unknown, the commander began to distrust him, regarding him oddly, eventually avoiding him and withdrawing his words and protection. Just when it seemed the commander was preparing him to be his successor, he suddenly turned against him. Did it have to do with his relationship with Cleo, the emperor’s spoiled niece? “Yes, of course, that’s it,” he said to himself sadly. Being appointed captain of the imperial guard had forced him to move to the palace, where he met Cleo and eventually grew close to her. Did the commander think that power had corrupted him and that he would betray him sooner or later, that the germ of unhealthy ambition was pushing him toward ignoble actions? Or did he believe that Cleo was a bad influence who would lead him to disloyalty and treachery? Did he consider him that weak? These assumptions cut deep. If the commander thought this way, it meant he hadn’t come to know him at all. He was not in the palace like others, out of vanity or greed. The commander should have known that better than anyone. He had promoted him to captain without being asked, and if he lived in the palace, it was not of his own accord but because Constantine liked to keep his most valuable men close and controlled. It was enough for someone to stand out to be called to the palace for one assignment or another. It was his way of binding them to him and restraining the natural ambitions he believed were blossoming in all great spirits, so one could never tell whether his closest collaborators were inspired by esteem or fear.

Marcial’s nerves were justified. And not only because of his company. The company confirmed that this was a matter of utmost importance to the emperor’s interests, a mission that could not be entrusted to just anyone, and, for a change, he had been given only the strictly necessary information to carry out his task. Despite his impeccable record and four years as captain, Constantine still did not include him in his inner circle of trust. All Marcial knew was that they were to wait all night for a man escorted by two scouts. They hadn’t revealed the identity of the individual nor the purpose of his visit. Not even his origin. Such mystery had significantly intrigued him, creating maximum anticipation. He sensed that the commander would be in on the secret, but he didn’t dare ask. The suffocating atmosphere that pervaded the palace when Constantine was restless deterred him from trying through other means. They were on the eve of a battle that promised to be decisive for the future of the Empire, one in which Constantine was betting everything on glory or infamy against Maxentius, his rival in the West, with whom he had been at odds for some time. Their behavior was that of arrogant children accustomed to pomp since infancy who were no longer satisfied with sharing half the reign of a hemisphere. After all, that was governing a quarter, and they hadn’t dismantled the Tetrarchy for such triviality. Marcial reproached himself for this thought, unworthy of his profession and oath. It was not his place to judge the emperors. They surely knew what they were doing. The man they awaited, he deduced, must bring crucial information for Constantine’s interests, and he would fulfill his mission flawlessly. To dispel any dangerous curiosity, he kept repeating one of the maxims of a good soldier: “Orders are neither judged nor questioned: they are executed.” And according to the wisdom of a soldier, the less one knew, the better. The only formula for keeping one’s position and skin intact was to remain silent and obey.

Yet, despite his best efforts to avoid conjecture, repeating to himself the duty of a good soldier like a mantra, it was impossible for him to completely suppress his human nature, which was always so eager to find reasons to understand the world. Thus, as preparations for war against Maxentius were in full swing, the most plausible conjecture was to think that the visitor would be a spy, an ambassador on a secret mission, or a traitor from the opposing side who would bring, along with the promise of a handsome reward, information of utmost importance.

To pass the time, Marcial focused on mentally reviewing the plan. The mission was straightforward: ensure that the three riders arrived safely at the palace, greet them at the entrance, and then follow the commander’s instructions. To prevent any band of rogues, of which there were many roaming the Empire’s nights, from attacking them, he had personally taken charge of distributing his men throughout the streets of Treves. He had stationed squads of ten guards every five kilometers along the road, covering a stretch of twenty kilometers, which marked the beginning of his responsibility. This measure had considerably weakened the palace guard, the only force Constantine trusted, increasingly wary of his own men, which was why the emperor had confined himself to his royal chambers.

And so there stood Marcial, frozen and steadfast next to the commander at the palace entrance, firm and with his eyes wide open, without uttering a complaint, relinquishing the privileges of his rank and standing guard like a common soldier.

The dark night still reigned, with no sign of dawn, when the sound of hooves pounding on the pavement broke the silence. Marcial sharpened his hearing: there could be no more than five or six riders. It was undoubtedly them. Moments later, he confirmed it. A few minutes later, six riders appeared on the avenue, galloping toward his position. He immediately recognized three of them by their scarlet capes and the matching trappings adorning their battle-hardened steeds. They were men of the imperial guard—his men. The other three riders wore coarse burlap hoods to conceal their identities. Their bulk and expert handling of their mounts betrayed them as soldiers. The guest, situated in the center of the small troop, was of medium height and quite slender, bobbing on his horse like a toy, moving with the clumsy awkwardness of a novice.

As they entered the grand courtyard of the palace, they slowed their pace and continued at a trot. Marcial descended the steps to greet them. Upon reaching their level, the sergeant commanding the group pulled back on the reins and presented his respects. He had fulfilled his orders as entrusted to him. With a decisive gesture, Marcial signaled him to withdraw. His mission had ended. The sergeant, obedient, commanded his men to follow him, and the three of them promptly disappeared toward the stables.

Now that they were close, Marcial could see that the two riders flanking the guest were well-built. Undoubtedly, elite soldiers. This confirmed his suspicions that this was an important mission.

The soldiers nimbly jumped off their horses and removed their sacks. They were dressed in the style of the scouts from the Pannonian legions. Their faces, frank and hardened, bore the marks of the elements and military discipline.

The third man, however, remained on his horse, observing them impassively. His thinness and tattered clothing drew attention. He was wrapped in rough burlap, a sort of coarse woolen tabard, thick and reminiscent of what shepherds wore in winter. A hood, hanging like a veil over his face, concealed his features.

Suddenly, the two soldiers stood at attention and saluted reverentially. The commander, after studying them for a while, stepped out of the shadows to descend the steps. Polite gestures had never been his strong suit, but he returned the soldiers’ salute with a frosty nod.

Without a word, the commander firmly took the reins of the guest’s horse and, with a cold and commanding gesture, invited him to dismount. The guest’s ineptitude as a rider became evident when he nearly tangled in the stirrup and fell flat.

Once on the ground and face to face, the commander greeted him with a slight nod. This was the definitive sign confirming to Marcial the importance of the character, for he had only seen this gesture of humility towards the August one. Despite his legendary composure, certain gestures revealed the significance of the meeting. The commander, with his brow furrowed, tried unsuccessfully to scrutinize the stranger’s features beneath the hood, piquing Marcial’s curiosity even more.

However, the guest seemed unimpressed by the deference shown to him by one of the most powerful men in the Empire. He kept the sack on, and the hood was too wide to reveal his face. The commander grimaced in displeasure at what he must have considered an unforgivable insolence. Any other mortal who hadn’t shown him explicit submission would already be shackled and lashed. Yet this time, the commander clenched his jaw and maintained his composure. Against all appearances, this false beggar must have been a figure of the highest dignity. Marcial had no doubts about it. A spy or a traitor from Majencio would not be treated with such honor. Was he a foreign king? Marcial wondered, increasingly intrigued.

Seeing that the mysterious individual had no intention of revealing himself, the commander invited him to follow, taking him by the arm with a mix of apprehension, somewhere between courtesy and police grip.

They ascended the steps, followed by the two soldiers, who performed their duty with strict zeal, as if they were protecting the very embodiment of Mithras. They had explicit orders not to leave him until he was before the August one himself, and by their beards, they intended to carry out those orders to the letter. Marcial, finally reacting, still stunned by the mystery, instinctively positioned himself to the left of the guest in a protective manner. His life had also been entrusted to him, and he would protect it with his own. He cared not whether the man was an outcast or the devil himself.

Upon entering the palace, the guest showed not a trace of admiration for the opulence on display. He seemed lost in thought, contemplative, indifferent to the glimpses of power, as if the world’s luxuries evoked not the slightest emotion in him. To Marcial, this seemed the height of oddity. Those who entered the palace for the first time always displayed a mixture of dismay at the weight of their insignificance and fascination at the novel Oriental luxury that Constantine had imported from Nicomedia.

Barely had they entered when a torch was lit at the other end of the reception hall, piercing the darkness with a menacing glow. This theatrical effect, very much to Constantine’s taste, made Marcial’s heart race and caused the soldiers to clench their fists around their swords. The commander, aware of the surprise, emitted a low grunt of displeasure, while the guest displayed an unprecedented composure, not even flinching.

The author of the surprise was Amelius, the Superintendent of the Sacred Bedroom. With his head always shaved and oiled, gleaming, and wearing a green linen tunic, characteristic of palace eunuchs, he vaguely resembled Eleusinian monks. This extravagance was praised by flatterers who delighted in Constantine’s whims and scorned by nostalgic admirers of classical Rome, among whom the commander counted himself. He detested Constantine’s obsession with importing the detestable Eastern fashions. Moreover, depriving a man of his virile attributes seemed to him an unforgivable profanation of the only bond he found between mortals and the gods.

Effeminate and soft, accustomed to the courtly ease, nurtured and polished in the Eastern court of Nicomedia, Amelius possessed a degree of refinement that did not fit in Treveris. His perennial and inscrutable smile drove his enemies to distraction. Each interpreted it according to their mood, with a range of possibilities as broad as the animosities that blossomed in the palace. A similar ambiguity surrounded his age, which, according to speculations, ranged from thirty to sixty.

Amelius observed them in silence with his wide-open eyes, carefully studying the guest, as if Constantine were lurking behind his eyelids, spying on the scene. After a tense silence, he urged them to follow him.

With steady steps, they crossed the dressing room and made their way toward the kitchens. Marcial struggled to understand the route. Perhaps it was some eccentricity of the August one to receive such a special guest in this manner. Did he intend to entertain him with a feast to loosen his tongue? The eunuch moved with stealth, as silent as a statue of salt, adhering to the meticulously studied protocol.

Judging by the commander’s furrowed brow, Marcial was not the only one intrigued at that moment. Only Amelius seemed to know the destination they were heading toward—or at least the path leading to it. This severely offended the commander. He could not bear the thought of the eunuch possessing secrets denied to him. He regarded him with suspicion and envy, detesting the power he wielded with Constantine’s approval. Amelius was particularly cunning, and the commander knew he used his proximity to the August one for his own schemes.

Amelius took out a key and unlocked the pantry door. It was a large, damp room, permeated by the strong odor of stored food. After inviting them to enter and securing the door behind them, he paused before a sturdy wooden shelf supporting large jars of oil and handed the torch to Marcial. Then he produced another key and inserted it into a small slot hidden in the gap between the shelf and the wall. The sound of a lock clicking echoed as the shelf shifted a few inches, releasing the anchor that had secured it to the wall. The eunuch slid the shelf effortlessly, employing an ingenious mechanism of straps that moved it as if it were filled with feathers rather than jars of oil.

“We are about to enter the private territory of the August one,” Amelius announced solemnly. “Only the men of the Sacred Consistory or his personal guard are permitted to bear arms in here.”

The soldiers hesitated, taken aback by the unexpected turn of events. They were elite soldiers, sworn to loyalty, and were guarding what they considered, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner. Their orders had been to deliver him safely to the August Constantine, and now they were being asked to disarm, leaving their mission dependent on the goodwill of this bald man dressed like a woman. Their faces betrayed their reluctance to obey and jeopardize the fulfillment of their duty.

The commander, seeing their resolve to faithfully carry out their orders and not be intimidated by the eunuch’s threat, reacted swiftly.

“Lay down your weapons as you have been ordered!” he exclaimed authoritatively.

The commander was well aware that such eccentricities were characteristic of Constantine, and that Amelius would provide a detailed report of everything that transpired, so he had to tread carefully. Everyone knew that the eunuch was the eyes, ears, and will of Constantine. That was the only reason he remained alive.

At the commander’s direct order, the soldiers did not hesitate to comply and leaned their swords and daggers against the wall. Here, no argument was possible. The commander’s reputation transcended borders.

Marcial couldn’t comprehend it all. For a moment, he felt the temptation to lay down his arms as well, forgetting his rank, but the commander, noticing his intent, stopped him with a gesture.

Amelius reclaimed the torch from Marcial and stepped with determination through the opening in the wall. The others followed suit.

They traversed a narrow and damp corridor about thirty meters long, running parallel to the kitchen wall, at the end of which there was a bend where a faint, flickering light timidly challenged the darkness. Upon turning the corner, at almost a right angle, they found a small passageway barely ten meters long, leading to an open cell that glimmered with a ghostly light.

Marcial had never seen a cell like this. Instead of iron bars, there stood a massive oak door swung wide open. It was a spacious, vaulted room, well-ventilated by two opposing openings in the dome that ensured a flow of air and served as windows. Amelius lit several wall torches, which immediately bathed the room in a pleasant glow. The fireplace crackled vigorously, keeping the space warm. It was sumptuously decorated, immaculately clean, and perfumed with spearmint. The plastered walls were adorned with charming bucolic scenes.

There was a large canopied bed, furnished with ample linens for a comfortable night’s sleep. Beside the bed stood a low table with a clay jug full of fresh water and a basket of candied fruit. None of the discomforts that might plague the sleep of prisoners had a place in this luxurious cell.

Additionally, there was a large table laden with several new scrolls, a quill, and an inkwell, alongside a cushioned chair. A small bookshelf, filled with various volumes, invited one to pass the hours engrossed in reading. There was even an adjoining bathroom to the room.

Marcial stood agape. He was unaware that such a place existed in the palace—a chamber fit for an emperor disguised as a secret cell. He couldn’t help but recall the whispers circulating in the palace, claiming that Constantine was still meeting secretly with Minervina, his first wife and the mother of Crispus, his only son to date. Everyone knew that Minervina was the love of his life—a love thwarted when the august Maximian compelled him to repudiate her and marry his daughter, Fausta, in order to recognize him as Caesar. This place, thought Marcial, whether the rumors are true or not, could serve perfectly to satisfy a furtive love without inciting the jealousy of the legitimate wife.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Amelius indicated to the guest with great courtesy. “The august one will see you as soon as possible.”

The guest nodded, showing no sign of impatience and asking nothing.

This only further unsettled Marcial. Who was this man for whom such an extraordinary protocol had been activated, displaying so little interest in what was happening?

Despite the warmth radiating from the fireplace, he remained cloaked in his cape, hood still drawn low, obscuring his face from view.

Amelius stoked the fire in the hearth and, after scanning the room to ensure everything was in order, gestured courteously for the commander and Marcial to exit the chamber.

The two soldiers stared at him, astonished. Without daring to protest, but wearing worried expressions, they watched as the eunuch left them locked in with the prisoner, offering no explanation.

Amelius turned the key in the lock and handed it to Marcial.

“From this moment on, you are responsible for him,” he said in a menacing tone.

“What am I supposed to do?” Marcial asked, bewildered.

“Wait for orders.”

“Here, standing?”

“Standing or sitting, whichever you prefer,” Amelius replied with biting sarcasm, showing no sympathy for Marcial’s disorientation. “And whatever happens, you cannot enter the cell under penalty of death. Nor can you speak with them, understood?”

“And if they try to communicate with me?” he asked somewhat naively.

“You are blind and deaf to whatever happens inside the cell.”

The tone was threatening, and Marcial dared not question the order, despite his many doubts and questions about his new and unexpected mission.

“How long will I be here?”

“The time necessary!” the commander exclaimed angrily. “That’s none of your concern,” he declared, visibly agitated. The situation was fraying his nerves. Unable to challenge the authority the eunuch wielded through Constantine, he was taking it out on Marcial. Despite the chill of the night, sweat beaded on his forehead. He loathed the idea of the eunuch calling the shots in his presence.

“We are the only ones in the know,” Amelius said with a macabre smile, lowering his voice and urging the commander to follow suit. It was clear he relished in getting under his skin. “From this moment on, only you have the key to enter. No one else can do so. Whatever happens, you will be held responsible.”

Marcial swallowed hard. He knew he was being lied to. At the very least, Constantine would have a copy. And from the eunuch’s cunning gaze, he sensed that he might have another.

“Any more questions?” The eunuch directed his gaze toward the commander, malice gleaming in his eyes.

“So… I can’t move from here?” Marcial interjected, sensing that it would be detrimental for both of them if the commander lost his composure.

Despite carrying the weight of a responsibility that seemed directly tied to the future of the Empire, Marcial was focused on more human concerns. That gloomy hallway lacked even straw to lie down on or a place to relieve himself. Not to mention the cold, which promised to be a real nuisance. With frustration, he remembered the bear skin cloak he had chosen not to wear for fear of disappointing the commander. Now the commander would go to sleep warm in his chamber while he remained in that freezing corridor suffering.

“It’s not necessary for you to stay here all the time,” Amelius finally took pity on him. “In fact, you shouldn’t. You’ll bring him food at night when the kitchen closes,” he said, gesturing to the low postern door, secured with a latch that could only be opened from the outside.

“But at night…”

“Yes, there will only be leftovers,” he said, reading Marcial’s thoughts. “Make them as presentable as you can. There’s always firewood in the kitchen, in addition to food. Make sure he has enough to keep warm.”

After studying Marcial’s expression of astonishment, the eunuch continued:

“You must ensure that no one sees you and discovers the hiding place. You will answer to the august one if the guest escapes or if anyone starts asking questions. And every night, after you bring him the food,”—he reached into his tunic and pulled out an extremely tall and slender glass hourglass—“you will stand guard until all the sand has poured out three times in a row. If by then no one has come for him, you may leave. But if we come for him, you will remain here until the guest returns to his cell. Or until we leave it,” he added with a sinister tone. “You must be armed and on guard at all times. You will only open the cell if the ones coming for him are either him,” he said, pointing to the commander, “or me. But you will not allow either of us to be alone with him at any time.”

“And what if the august one comes?”

“What do you think?!” the commander exploded, deeply irritated by the situation and the eunuch’s haughty tone.

“If the august one were to come, you would kneel before him to let him do as he pleases,” Amelius replied with a devilish calm. “But he will never come alone,” he added, a sinister smile forming on his lips.

“Should I not even leave him alone with you?” Marcial asked, wanting to clarify and avoid compromising himself should the need arise.

“Neither with me nor with our dear commander,” the eunuch retorted, fixing a cynical gaze on him. It was a direct message, just in case he felt tempted.

The commander bit his tongue, the tension turning his face a sickly green.

“What if the orders change and one of you tells me he needs to see him alone?”

“You immediately inform the august one in person to confirm if it’s true.”

“And what if he resists?” Marcial asked, wanting to ensure that if that demon showed up alone to try one of his tricks, he would have a golden opportunity to run him through with complete legitimacy.

“You run him through with your sword,” Amelius confirmed, just as he had anticipated. “You will answer with your life if you do not follow the orders as I am dictating them to you.”

“He said to no one!” the commander exploded again, rage threatening to burst his head if he didn’t find a way out. “What part didn’t you understand?! Not even the very gods if they were to pay a visit!”

The eunuch, phlegmatic and visibly satisfied, smiled victoriously for having provoked the commander, and without further hesitation, he headed toward the exit, followed by the commander, who muttered acridly behind him, battling his demons to resist the temptation to slit the eunuch’s throat right there. He hated the insolent eunuch with all his might.

Marcial, hesitant, followed them at a respectful distance.

The eunuch stopped abruptly and turned.

“Where are you going?” he asked Marcial.

“It’s almost dawn…” Marcial replied, frustrated.

“Tonight doesn’t count because the guest isn’t alone,” he said, referring to the soldiers who had been locked up with him. “Stay here and wait for me. I’ll be back shortly. And you better be here when I return.”

Marcial thought he perceived a certain smile in the eunuch’s eyes. He found amusement in his bewilderment and in provoking the commander. “Demon of a eunuch,” Marcial cursed inwardly. “Another gem the august one kept hidden from us,” he thought as he lost sight of them.

Author’s note:

Thank you all for following this story! Your support means the world to me. The next thrilling installment is coming this Friday! Mark your calendars, and get ready for more mystery, suspense, and surprises.