Cast Not the Day (35 page)

‘Hello, Marcellus,’ she said, ‘I think I can guess why you have come.’ And she gave him a humorous look.

‘People are concerned,’ he said, when he had introduced me.

She looked at the piece she was holding – a pyramid with symbols on its sides – then set it down. ‘That is kind,’ she said, ‘but they must not worry on my account.’

‘What did that deacon want?’

‘He told me to clear out. Are you surprised? The bishop has been waiting a long time to close down the schools, and what better place to start than with me?’

‘He is stronger now.’

She gave him a quick, businesslike smile. ‘Then all the more reason to resist, wouldn’t you say?’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I asked if love of wisdom had been declared a crime, and when he answered that he had not heard so, I told him I would continue then. Besides, I have one or two promising pupils, who, given time, will bear the torch onwards; I could not leave them now, when they are in the middle of their studies.’

‘I can’t decide,’ said Marcellus, frowning at her, ‘whether you are brave or reckless.’

She laughed. ‘Those who cannot face danger are the slaves of their attackers; we cannot unlearn the good that we know, merely to suit the whim of the bishop and his henchmen. It is not just the schools he wants to silence; he wants us to abandon the love of excellence, because the ignorant despise it, and that, surely, we cannot acquiesce to. Or do you have some other answer? Would you have me learn swordsmanship?’

He shook his head, and she continued, ‘But it is a beautiful morning; let us go and sit in the sun, and leave others to dwell on ugliness and vice.’

She took us through to the bright courtyard, and brought a tray of refreshments – some pleasing herbal drink in an earthen jar. For a while we spoke of other things. But when we were taking our leave, Marcellus tried once more.

She heard him out, and smiled, and shook her head.

‘We must bear ourselves as we would wish to be judged. Tell Aquinus we stay faithful to philosophy.’

A farmer, who had come to town to stock up for the winter, was caught with a votive lamp in the portico of the old shrine of Ceres. He was accused of offering sacrifice, and when he was dragged before the notary did not deny it, saying he came once each year to the city, and each year when he had completed his business he lit a flame and thanked the god for the harvest. He was never seen again.

One day, a train of mules appeared in the street in daytime, led by a band of the bishop’s supporters. They took the creatures up to the temple of Concord by the Walbrook, tethered ropes around the slender columns, and brought the stone-roofed portico crashing down into the street. Then they set torches to what remained and danced all night around the fire. I could see the glow even from my window at the fort.

It was the morning after this, before dawn when I was still in bed, that I was woken by a knock on my door.

I leapt up naked, then hesitated and turned, and picked up my dagger from where it lay on the chair.

But it was only Marcellus. ‘They have arrested Gennadius,’ he said.

Before answering, I peered out onto the landing and down the stairwell. Then I pulled him into my room. ‘When? What happened?’

‘He went yesterday to Martinus, to protest about the burning of the temple. It was he who had seen to its restoration, and it angered him to see such a fine building destroyed. But Martinus was busy – or so he said – and the notary saw him instead. He told Gennadius he knew nothing about the matter and sent him away. Then, at dawn this morning, guards came banging on his door with a search warrant – you know his house, it’s in the next street to ours. Gennadius admitted them, saying he had nothing to hide. But he had the good sense to send his slave out by the back door to Grandfather, to warn him.’

He poured himself a cup of water from the flask beside my bed and sat down, holding the cup in his hands and staring down at it.

‘I went there straightaway; I ran, taking the alleyway at the back. But by the time I arrived, Gennadius was already gone . . . You should have seen the house, Drusus: it looked as if it had been looted. They had broken up the furniture, and smashed the vases and plate, and torn down the wall-hangings. I found his wife in the pantry, hiding with the maid. I calmed her, and eventually brought her back to the house, and she told us what had happened, once the terror of it had left her enough to get the words out.’

I sat down beside him. ‘What did she say?’ I asked.

‘She said the captain of the guard had produced a letter written in Gennadius’s hand, claiming it incriminated him in treason. And it was his handwriting all right – it was a note he had sent to some merchant a few days before. But the incriminating part was at the bottom, where someone had added an extra line, cursing the emperor. It was in some crude hand, misspelt, clearly not Gennadius – even the colour of the ink was different.’

‘But surely,’ I cried, ‘no one can take this seriously!’

He shrugged. ‘They have already charged him with plotting to kill the emperor, and the sentence is death.’

I stared at him. ‘Where is he now?’

‘In the cells at the governor’s palace.’

I knew the cells. I had seen them when I was still serving under Gratian. They were disused then, a store for discarded furniture and old pots, and anything else that could withstand the damp and the rats. I said, ‘A week in that place will kill him.’

Marcellus drew his hand through his hair and looked at me. ‘That’s what Grandfather said. He has gone to see Martinus.’

‘What?’ I cried.

‘I know . . . I know.’ He shook his head. ‘He says Gennadius is his friend: he will not leave him. I told him at least to take me with him, but he would not. He said it was better that he went alone and spoke to Martinus without an audience, and, if necessary, made claims on their old friendship, privately, one man to another.’

‘But surely he cannot—’ But before I could finish there was a heavy rap on the door. The words froze in my mouth. My eyes met Marcellus’s.

‘I was not followed,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I made sure of it.’

I strode to the door and snatched it open, and for a moment gaped like a fool. It was one of my troop, dressed in his full battle-armour with his marching-pack on his back. He had come to say the men were waiting in the parade-ground, and had I forgotten them? We had arranged for exercises that morning.

I stared at him, and he at me. I was naked still, with my dagger in my hand, like some Homeric image on a carving.

‘You’d better see to your men,’ said Marcellus. ‘I’ll be at the house.’

He moved to the door, but I caught his arm. ‘No, wait. I’m coming with you.’

We ran through the streets to Aquinus’s town-house. Just as Marcellus reached for the bronze lion-head doorknocker, the door swung open and Clemens appeared, with one of Gennadius’s slaves standing behind him.

‘Oh, sir, there you are! I was just coming to find you.’

‘We are going to the palace,’ said Marcellus.

‘There is no need, they are here – the master, and Gennadius too.’

We found them in the formal sitting-room with its four painted panels of the seasons – spring, summer, autumn and winter – each season portrayed as a garlanded nymph, set against a backdrop of fields and vineyards and columned shrines. Gennadius was sitting on the couch, with his plump grey-haired wife beside him, and she was looking at him as if he had just climbed off his death-bier. He had not had time to shave; under the night-stubble his broad face was drawn and wan. One of the house-slaves had brought a cup of warmed wine and a dish of rusks. They stood forgotten on a little threelegged table beside him.

Aquinus said, ‘I think, Gennadius, we had better begin again, now that Marcellus and Drusus are here.’

And so, between them, they told us what had happened.

Aquinus, when he arrived at the palace, had insisted on seeing the governor, and would take no denial. There followed some argument with the officials, but eventually he was admitted.

‘Martinus was still in his night-robe. I had clearly woken him. He told me he knew nothing of the matter. So I asked him to summon the notary Paulus, and when, after a long delay, he finally appeared, I demanded to see the offending letter. The notary, if you can believe this, refused.’

‘I imagine,’ said Gennadius, ‘he had not finished reworking it.’

‘Perhaps so; but this was too much even for Martinus. He ordered the notary to fetch the letter forthwith, and, after an excessive wait and with a good deal of reluctance, it was finally produced. Really, I have never seen such a thing! Only a fool could give credence to such an illiterate scrawl – and that is what I told him.’

‘You told the notary
that
?’ I cried, shocked out of all civility.

Aquinus gave me a grave look. ‘How not? The whole thing was a clear lie, a fabrication. I told the notary he must have been misled by one of his over-zealous subordinates, unless, perhaps, he could think of some other explanation.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He grew angry. I shall not dwell on all he said; but after some dispute he conceded that there might after all have been an error, and he would look into it.’

I shook my head, wondering at his coolness. But only when Gennadius and his wife had gone to another room to rest did I say, ‘You should not have gone alone, sir. You took a great risk.’

He frowned under his white beard. ‘Yes, Drusus, and I am grateful for your concern; but as I have already said to Marcellus, there are laws of friendship which transcend any law the emperor may decree. Besides, I was guided by hard prudential reason, as well as decency. Gennadius was innocent. If we allow the bishop and his notary friend to move against him, then who will be next?’

After this, the last thing I expected was for Martinus to seek Aquinus out. Perhaps he felt shame. At all events, a few days later, Aquinus asked me if I was free next evening to dine, saying with an ironic sparkle in his eye, ‘A guest has invited himself to dinner, and you may like to meet him. It is the governor.’

Martinus arrived next day at sunset, accompanied by an entourage of guards who waited in the street. He greeted us with easy, well-bred courtesy, the kind that comes to certain men without having to think. He was finely dressed in a woollen close-weave tunic with a simple border in green and gold; an inlaid belt; a small swan brooch of chased silver; a signet set with red cornelian. There was nothing forced, nothing showy, nothing out of place.

He complimented Aquinus on the banquet, adding that he prided himself on being a judge of good food; and in between the compliments he talked at length of his Italian estates, which were extensive, and of the schools of Rome where he and Aquinus had first known each other. He related minor political gossip – which friend of his was in the ascendancy and which had suffered a fall. He spoke in affectionate detail about the alterations he was making to his villa near Arpinum, where he was adding a summer dining-room which opened onto a raised terrace.

It was all very civilized – or it would have been, if he had given any sign of awareness or concern for the barbarism on his doorstep.

It was only during dessert – stuffed figs and almond-cakes sweetened with honey – that Aquinus raised the question of the bishop and the notary. At this, Martinus’s face took on the pained expression of a connoisseur of music who hears a false note at a concert, and with a sigh he set his glass bowl down on the table beside him.

‘Of course the whole business with Gennadius was unfortunate. I have asked the notary Paulus to investigate, and indeed, since you have raised the matter, let me tell you that only this morning he assured me that the whole affair was a misunderstanding. You were right, my dear Aquinus, it was the fault of some underling, and I believe he will be reprimanded. I cannot understand how such a thing can happen; but . . . well, there it is, you know the wheels of government seldom turn as smoothly as one would wish.’

He held out his bowl to the slave, who had offered him a second helping. ‘Still, let us not taint this pleasant evening with the matter. I need hardly tell you that the quality of officials nowadays is not what it was. One must accustom oneself to the realities, and we are not in Italy, alas.’

I was sitting diagonally opposite Aquinus. For a moment, while Martinus was talking, our eyes met, and I saw a flash of humour – or anger – there. I turned my attention to my food. It would not have done to smile.

When Martinus had finished, Aquinus said in a level voice, ‘I am glad you have managed to resolve the whole unfortunate affair to your satisfaction. I must say, I regret it ever happened at all. Gennadius’s house was turned over and ruined, quite needlessly.’

‘Indeed, it is a sorry business. I am sure nothing like this will happen again. The notary assured me that only the guilty have anything to fear.’ And then, raising his eyes from his food, which he had been prodding and exploring with a spoon, ‘Even so, let us not forget that the notary Paulus enjoys the
full
confidence of Con-stantius.’

‘No doubt he does.’

There was a slight pause. Then Martinus went on, ‘We must bend with the wind, as my father used to tell me. It would have been better for all of us if the civil strife in Gaul had never taken place. I am sure you understand.’