Cast Not the Day (28 page)

Gratian turned. His colour had risen. ‘A year,’ he snapped. ‘Perhaps longer. But he will come. In the meantime, we shall hold out against Magnentius. He will not dare move east with his flank unsecured.’

There was a pause and muttering after this. Then a retired magistrate, an old squire in from the country, rose to his feet.

‘Do you mean to
fight
Magnentius then?’

‘Of course.’ Gratian looked at him as if he were a fool.

‘And yet Magnentius claims he is now the rightful emperor in the West. Does that not make
us
the rebels, if we move against him?’

I stole a glance at Leontius. He was standing rigid, but at his side his fingers were tapping angrily. He did not care for all this quibbling talk. It was not how things were done in the hill stations of Pannonia.

‘Constantius,’ answered Gratian slowly, ‘is the senior Augustus.’

‘By whose authority except his own?’ returned the squire. ‘If we resist, Magnentius will strike against us even before Constantius is ready. We must consider the safety of the province, of our homes and families.’

‘Let him strike. We shall repel him.’ Gratian turned impatiently away. But the old man had not finished.

‘It is forbidden for us citizens to bear arms. We cannot defend ourselves. And, even if we were armed, we have forgotten how to fight. The imperial government taxes us, and in return promises us safety, not civil strife. And yet,’ he said, turning and surveying the rows behind him, ‘three times my house has been razed by the Saxons, my livestock slaughtered or carried off, and my people murdered. Three times I have made good what I lost – but I cannot afford to start again. Let the emperors fight their own war! We have no need of it.’

The old man sat down, chewing on his gums in agitation. There were murmurs of agreement, quiet at first, and timid, but rising in confidence and volume. The presiding magistrate beat his rod of office on the floor, calling for order. Gratian frowned at the rows of men in front of him.

‘I understand what you say. I cannot support such a policy.’

The presiding magistrate asked if he would like the Council to move to a vote.

‘No!’ he cried, his anger at last breaking forth, ‘I have not come here for your vote. I shall consider what I have heard, and I will consult elsewhere. You shall have my decision when I have made it.’

In the days that followed, Gratian kept to his quarters. The palace twittered like a roost of starlings; everyone had heard that the meeting of the Council had been a disaster, that he had not received the support he wanted. In the barracks the air was tense, and among the Protectors the factions began in earnest.

Those who had been with Gratian longest, who had come with him from his command in Africa, sided with Constantius. So, of course, did all the Pannonians. The rest kept quiet, which was viewed by the others as support for Magnentius. Blood and tribal loyalty won out; and, though there was much talk, there was no place for reason.

While Gratian waited for his messengers to return from the cities and forts, we were confined to London. When I could, I called at Aquinus’s town-house. Marcellus had not returned. I found I could think of little else.

Eventually I went to Leontius and told him I had a pressing matter I had to attend to.

‘Take a horse,’ he answered. ‘I’ll make sure you’re not missed. Two days, mind. No longer.’

The shadows were lengthening by the time I reached the avenue of poplars that led to the gate. I found Marcellus behind the house, working in the low gully beside the entrance to the hypocaust. His hair and tunic were thick with mortar-dust; he was peering into the dark tunnelled space below the house, while behind him a slave stood waiting, holding a bucket and trowel. The brickwork arch, which formed the entrance, had collapsed. It lay in a heap on the ground. Marcellus had advanced half inside; he had not seen me.

The slave looked up and recognizing me smiled. Just then Marcellus called to him, ‘See here, Cato, it’s as I thought; the beam has collapsed. Come and help me lift it.’

I threw off my cloak and with a secret sign to the slave jumped down and crept in along the passage. Marcellus, up ahead, was saying, ‘Now careful, it’s heavy; you take that side, and I’ll take this.’ I coughed, and he swung round.

‘Drusus!’ he cried.

I could not but laugh at the look of surprise on his dust-smeared face. I stepped up and gripped the end of the timber beam, and together we heaved it back onto its brick post. It took some little while, and when it was done we were both out of breath.

We stopped and looked at each other.

‘Now you’ve got plaster all over your uniform,’ he said. He reached out with his hand, about to dust it off; but then he hesitated, and walked back outside, and sent the slave off on some errand. Turning he said, ‘Why have you come?’

I drew my breath. My tongue felt like lead in my mouth. Eventually I said, ‘I called for you in London. You were not there. I had to see you.’

‘Oh?’ he said coolly. His eyes surveyed the bricks that lay scattered on the grass slope. He stooped down and began arranging them, moving them pointlessly from one side of the fallen structure to the other.

‘Marcellus, what are you doing? They’re as much in the way there as they were before!’

At this he ceased. For a moment he stared at the bricks, then raised his hand to run it through his hair. Then he stopped himself, seeing it was covered with mortar.

He said, ‘You shouldn’t have left me like that.’

I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. I had been thinking all during my long ride from London what to say; but too much had depended on him.

‘You were busy, or don’t you remember? But it doesn’t matter now. Scapula has been putting girls in your way for months. He wanted to see what I would do.’

‘That’s why you were angry.’

I thought of the girl in Dover and said, ‘I had no cause. It’s not my business.’

‘No? I thought I was your business, and you were mine.’

Our eyes met. And then, at last, the words came tumbling out.

‘I am sorry, Marcellus,’ I cried. ‘I had to face down my own weakness, or what use is my friendship, if I cannot for my own sake be good? I was jealous, and ashamed of it. I love you more than my own life, if you want to know; but no man can possess another. This one thing I had to find alone.’

He paused, frowning. Then he said, ‘You know what Scapula is saying?’

‘No; what?’

‘He is saying that we are lovers.’

I kicked angrily at a fallen brick. ‘To Hades with him! Let him say what he likes.’

‘Are you ashamed of it?’

‘No, Marcellus; never.’ Then, looking at him, I said, ‘I should be proud, if it were true.’

He gave a smile. There was a smear of dust across his forehead where he had wiped it. ‘What else,’ he asked, placing his hand on my shoulder, ‘are we about? And I, for one, can think of no other whose love I should rather have.’

And then we embraced.

But not for long, for suddenly there was a scrambling in the gravel behind me and before I could turn I was struck by a great thump in my side. It sent us both reeling.

I jumped round with a shout; but Marcellus began to laugh.

‘Ufa, you stupid beast!’ he cried. The great clumsy dog had come bounding into the ditch, and was jumping and prancing at our feet.

‘See,’ he said smiling, ‘we had better be careful; he’s jealous already.’ He knelt down and ruffled the dog’s fur. Then, glancing up with a serious face, he said, ‘You will stay tonight?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll stay.’

That evening we ate alone in the great dining-room with its damask couches, panelled walls, and ancient faded tapestries. A single lamp was burning on a standard of wrought Italian silver; it formed an island of light around the table and couches, enclosing and illuminating us, leaving the rest in shadow.

Marcellus had ordered up a flask of their best wine, a golden Moselle, and when the plates were cleared we sat over our cups and talked into the night, with Ufa sprawled contentedly at our feet.

He asked if I had seen his grandfather, saying, ‘He wrote to me, telling me to lay in stores and see to the outer walls.’

‘What, even here? But the Saxons have never come this far.’

‘It is not the Saxons that concern him. He says that if it comes to war, everything may collapse. It has happened before, and we had best look to our own safety, if no one else will.’

For a while then we talked of the events in Gaul, and the corps of Protectors, and what the future held. A little later he said, ‘You know, you gave Scapula quite a black eye. He told everyone he had tripped, but I knew it was you.’

‘He deserved it. He wanted to see how far he could push me; now he has found out.’

‘He bears grudges, and has a powerful family.’

‘Then I shall watch out for myself. Besides, he won’t be inviting me to any more of his parties.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I hated them anyway, and in truth I shouldn’t have gone at all, except he came to me one day and said I was keeping you cooped up like a virgin bride, and couldn’t I see you were yearning to get out.’ He frowned at this, and I saw he was blushing. To hide it he went on, ‘He said a lot of other things besides. I wonder sometimes where he gets it all from.’

I shook my head. I could imagine well enough. Scapula made vice and innuendo his business, as a rider knows his reins and saddle. But all I said was, ‘I wish you’d told me. I hated them too; I only went because of you.’

‘Really?’ Our eyes met, and we laughed.

But presently he grew serious once more and said, ‘You know, I have spent my whole life trying to get away from the likes of Scapula and his set; and sometimes I think my mother’s only purpose is to force them on me.’

‘How so?’ I said, sitting up. ‘What has your mother to do with it?’

‘She sees them as noble, marrying stock. It’s all she thinks about. As for me, I’d rather drown myself than marry into a family like that.’

‘But surely that girl—’

‘She has nothing to do with it; she was just one of Scapula’s hired playmates. But he has a sister – not that he ever lets
her
loose at those parties of his. But it’s her my mother had her eyes on . . . No longer though. I’ve told her. We argued.’

‘But Marcellus, that’s terrible. Why will she not leave you be?’

‘Why?’ He shrugged. ‘She wants a grandson, that’s why. All she thinks of is the bloodline, which ends with me.’

I frowned, wondering if this was in the nature of mothers. But then another thought came to me, and I set down my cup and looked at him. ‘But she does not suppose, does she, that I stand in your way? I would never do that. You know, if that’s what you want . . .’

‘Oh, there is time enough for that.’ He smiled into my eyes. ‘But you are here now . . . let the bloodline wait.’

O
NE BY ONE,
Gratian’s messengers returned from the cities.

Gratian, brisk and irritable, kept to his quarters. But one evening, just as we were finishing dinner, he appeared unannounced at the door of the mess hall. He always held himself straight. Inasmuch as he had learned deportment, it was to bear himself like a trooper on the parade-ground. But his face looked drawn, and the strain was showing about his eyes.

The chatter died away as he was noticed; and after a moment he came and sat among us at the long raw-wood table. Leontius poured a cup of wine and set it before him. ‘What news, sir?’ he asked.

Gratian paused, frowning at the dark wine. All across Britain, he said, the message was the same. Without the support of the cities he could not hold the province. This support, he now realized, he did not have.

Immediately the room broke into shouts of anger and support, and wild suggestions for action. ‘No,’ he said, raising his voice for quiet. He did not intend to start his own civil war in Britain. ‘Africa is still loyal to Constantius. I shall return there.’ He would take with him those Protectors and troops who wished to join the cause of the East. But there would be no compulsion; each must make his own choice. We had been friends, and he hoped, somehow, that we could remain so, whatever the future held; for the present disruptions would surely pass.