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calculating
ab urbe condita,
meaning since the foundation of the city, but
anno domini nostri iesu –
in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Flavius himself had been taught Greek by the monk Dionysius from Scythia, and it was he who in secret had come up with the new dating system, the little monk whose books he used to carry while he had scurried to and fro between the Greek and Latin libraries on either side of Trajan’s Column in Rome, selecting works of Christian virtue to be copied in the
scriptoria
and others to be discarded as amoral and corrupt. On hearing of his appointment to Carthage, Flavius had revisited the Greek library in order to consult the military historians, and he had been shocked by the gaps on the shelves; he had taken away Polybius’ work on Carthage in order to preserve it from the monks, on the ostensible grounds that it would be needed in the field as a training manual for the fighting to come.
    It was a changing world, and not just in the libraries. The old patrician families were still there, the senators and equestrians, the ancient
gens
like his mother’s family, but their power was in name only; the new aristocracy consisted of the priests and the bishops. Christians for generations now had been able to worship openly, free at last from centuries of persecution; the old temples had been converted into churches, and new basilicas had been completed. Yet many eschewed those places and continued to worship privately in their houses or in secret underground rooms, in caves and catacombs. For them, the promise of Christianity had been of a religion without priests, a religion of the common people, and the Church of Rome and of Constantinople was nothing more than the old religion in a new guise, with arcane rituals and fear of divine retribution and obligatory paths to salvation that enslaved the congregation to the priesthood. And for the emperors and the generals, the peace-loving prophet of the Gospels was no longer sufficient to gird the Church for its role in the war of all wars, for the coming darkness; Christ needed now to be armoured, to be recreated in the image of Mars Ultor – the Avenger – to be placed in front of the soldiers on the battlefield to dissuade them from dropping their arms and following the path of Augustine to the City of God where the priests could hold no sway and the only emperor was the true divinity.
    Flavius turned and saw the distant cloud of dust that Macrobius had spotted to the south-west, and took a deep breath. There were no priests here today, and there was no flaming cross for the soldiers to follow. What mattered now was not the smiting power of the Lord or the mercy of Christ but the small superstitions and rituals that had kept soldiers’ courage up since time immemorial: snatched prayers, a lucky charm, a statuette of a loved one tucked into a pouch on a belt. He pulled out the little silver cross he wore around his neck, held it tight for a few moments and then folded it back under his chainmail. The time had passed even for that. All that mattered now was to keep his nerve, to keep fear at bay, to focus on cold steel and battle lust and the desire to kill.

2
    Flavius pulled the last tendrils of meat off the leg of venison with his teeth and tossed the bone away, wiping the grease from his stubble with the back of his sleeve. He already felt better, and could sense the beginning of something like warmth spreading through his body. He turned away the offer of wine, fearful of becoming drowsy, and instead took the drink that Macrobius had passed him –
catha,
an infusion of leaves from the eastern desert that the frontier soldiers had learnt from the nomads to drink to keep themselves awake. He drained the wooden bowl and passed it back to Macrobius, who took a wad of the leaves and shoved them in his cheek, chewing them and spitting out the pieces of stem. He eyed Flavius, speaking with his cheek full. ‘Once