Cast Not the Day (38 page)

Our pursuers were closing on us. I caught Marcellus’s eye. He nodded, and then we swung round to face them.

They stumbled to a stop; but quickly they collected themselves and came swaggering closer, gathering round us, making a show of sizing us up. Eyes darted to my empty sword belt, and back to my face.

I thought fast, taking in my surroundings. Close by there was an empty market table; we might rush and upturn it, and break off the legs for weapons. I touched my arm against Marcellus and signalled with my eyes; he gave a slight nod, understanding.

The youths edged closer, nervously encircling us. None of them had drawn a dagger, not yet; but I could see their hands were poised under their cloaks. They were afraid of us, unsure what we intended, even though we were outnumbered ten to one.

I tensed and drew in my breath, ready to shout the signal to Marcellus and leap sideways. But then a voice cried, ‘Wait!’

The youths parted; then from behind, Albinus stepped out.

I glared at him. It had not occurred to me that he could be the ringleader.

‘Well, it’s cousin Drusus, the soldier boy,’ he drawled. ‘Has no one told you it’s dangerous these days to walk about the city after dark?’

The youths around him snuffled in amusement. But Marcellus said coldly, ‘So why, then, are you here? You may find more than you seek.’

The laughter died. Albinus’s head jerked round, and his face formed into a sneer. He stepped up until he was directly in front of Marcellus, then paused and stared at him. He had to pull himself up, I noticed, for though they were the same height, only Marcellus held himself straight. Then, insolently, taking the hem of Marcellus’s cloak between his fingers he rubbed it, in the way my uncle did when he was buying cloth.

‘So this,’ he said, ‘is the famous grandson of Quintus Aquinus, whom my little cousin thinks so much of.’

I have learned in life that there are different types of bravery. Mine comes hot, born of anger and fear. It has seen me through, up to now; but it is a kind of blindness. Marcellus’s, however, like his grandfather’s, came from some other place, cool and hard and full of self-knowledge, like a sword forged in a furnace and honed to a fine edge. In a slow but powerful movement he brought his hand up and locked his fingers around Albinus’s thin wrist, paused, then prised his hand away.

‘And who,’ he said, with a voice of contempt, ‘are you?’

Albinus glowered, rubbing his wrist. ‘Hasn’t the soldierboy told you about his cousin Albinus, then?’

‘He has,’ said Marcellus. ‘What of it? You are not he. His cousin is a merchant’s son, not a common street-brawler.’

Albinus caught his breath. He pulled himself to his full height. He looked like some pi-dog who has strayed around a corner and encountered a lion in its path. But I was in no doubt of the danger. My eyes took in his every movement, waiting for what I was sure would come, when his hand would snatch within his cloak for the dagger. I stood ready to leap, even if it was the last thing I did.

Perhaps he sensed my thoughts. Something made him look at me. I locked my eyes on his and in a low voice said, ‘Leave it, Albinus, do you hear me? If you harm him I shall kill you. I swear it.’

He stared at me, and I glared back at him, my heart full of anger and the knowledge of the truth of my words. I saw his weak chin begin to quiver, and then he flinched and looked away.

In the loud mocking voice I had heard so often he cried, ‘Do you suppose I do not remember, brave soldierboy, when you first came to our house, trailing around like a whelp, crying yourself to sleep. Ha! Did you think I did not know? I listened at the door to hear your snivelling.’ He gave a braying laugh and jabbed his finger at my face. ‘Do you think I did not see the need in your eyes? You would have done anything to be loved. Now you have a smart uniform and important friends, but beneath it all you are still the same snot-nosed orphan, crying for his mother.’

I heard Marcellus stir. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter.’

And then, to Albinus, ‘We fashion ourselves by the image of what we want to be. Is this where your philosophy has led you, Cousin?’ And as I spoke I felt strange and detached, and there was a creeping in my hair, as I sometimes feel before a storm, or in the presence of a god. His words had cut deep, as he had intended; but it was not that which had left my mind taut and clear. It was as though I were looking down upon my life from some great height, seeing myself and all the world in true perspective, as a soaring eagle looks down on the land beneath, all as a whole, each part in its place.

The moment passed even before I had known it. Yet I felt changed. Around me the youths were staring, and Albinus was looking at me with a face that was ravaged and broken.

Then, with a lunge, he jerked his head and spat in my face.

‘This time I spare you,’ he cried, ‘because it is in my power and I choose it. But you will not be so lucky again, little soldier.’

He broke into his harsh laugh, and went striding off, followed by the others.

But as he passed under the archway with its flickering torches he glanced back, darting a look at me; and once more, for a brief moment, I saw below the mask, to the wilderness that lay beneath.

Meanwhile, all around us, the madness surged and spread, destroying the natural bonds of man with man.

The bishop denounced his enemies, and one by one they were arrested. At first they had been taken in the dead of night. Now, in broad day, men who had crossed him, or who possessed something he or his supporters wanted, were dragged off on some pretext, while the mob stood in the street like carrion-birds, waiting to loot whatever was of value from their homes.

And yet Aquinus, whom the bishop hated most of all, remained untouched. I asked Marcellus about it, saying, ‘Is it his knowing Martinus that keeps them away?’

He shrugged. ‘I know no more than you; he will not speak of it. Do you imagine the bishop and the notary fear Martinus? Somehow I doubt it.’

‘No,’ I conceded, remembering the man and his vain chatter.

And when I thought about it, it seemed to me these men of the bishop’s were like the crowds who desecrated the temples, afraid to bring down what was best and highest, beginning instead with what was easy, as hunting dogs will snap at the heels of a noble stag, and yet hold back from the kill, until the creature has been felled by another and lies defenceless.

Almost daily, during those dark shortening days of late November, we called at Heliodora’s school, fearing for her safety. One morning we arrived to find a group of her students gathered in the yard, speaking with the old silversmith who owned the shop outside. They turned in alarm when we entered, and relief showed on their faces when they saw who it was.

‘What has happened?’ said Marcellus.

One of the group – an intent, firm-featured girl from a poor family who was one of Heliodora’s prize students – said, ‘The bishop has just left. He came with the deacon and some others.’

‘They have taken her.’

‘Oh no, Marcellus,’ she replied. ‘She is inside; she went to sit down for a moment . . . but here she is now.’

We turned, and there she was, in the doorway beside the column, looking as bright and boyish as ever.

‘What did they want?’ cried Marcellus, striding across the courtyard to her.

‘The bishop had certain questions he wished to ask, and would I please accompany him.’

‘But you are here!’

‘I told him no. I told him I had a class to teach, and he was interrupting. I told him if he had anything serious to ask me – which I doubted – he could ask me here and now and be done with it, and I could get on with my work. But why are you staring? You look as though you had seen a ghost.’

‘I almost think I have. What then?’

‘Then he left. He is a coward at heart. He had no questions, of course – but I had one or two for him. I asked him whether he thought he was furthering the cause of truth by murdering everyone who disagreed with him.’

‘By God!’ whispered Marcellus, shaking his head.

‘Yes, indeed. And what does our poor bishop know of God? He is shining on his outward side, but within is all corruption.’ She gave a brief laugh. ‘But now’ – turning to her wide-eyed students – ‘let us resume our study of Plato, who has something to say about such cases as this, I believe.’

It was, by all accounts, the last class she gave. That evening, when darkness had fallen, a band of monks paid her a visit and carried her off to a nearby church. What happened next we only discovered long after. For a while they questioned her in some sort of parody of a trial. Then they condemned her for being unnatural – a favourite accusation of the bishop’s – and demanded that she recant the heresy of her teaching, though what that heresy was they could not say. In the end they stripped her and burned her with hot oil and cut her with knives, and when they were done with that they bore her almost lifeless body back to the school, set light to the building, and cast her into the flames.

No one witnessed it, or so they claimed. Even the old silversmith, who had seen the monks arrive as he was closing his shop, said, when we asked him, that he would not testify, for there was no point in bringing certain death down upon his own head too. As for the authorities, they said it was an accident – no doubt a spilled lamp, or a stray spark of an untended fire.

But everyone knew – everyone knew, and those who thought it was unjust merely shook their heads and said nothing.

‘Do you think she expected it?’ I asked Marcellus, when we had gone to inspect the ruins. ‘Did she know they would come?’

‘I believe so,’ he said. ‘She could have run; that was what they wanted. But she would not.’ He looked away, and rubbed his face with his hand, and trudged off alone through the charred and smoking embers.

Something caught at my foot and I glanced down. It was the blackened remains of a lyre. Gently I picked it up. The strings were gone; the carved wood was crisped to charcoal; the tortoiseshell box was cracked and black with soot.

For a moment I stared at it; then I cast it down in disgust and grief and anger. For it seemed, that day, there would never again be a place for music, or beauty, in the world.

The Council met at last. I put on my tribune’s uniform and took my old position at the back of the chamber. On the front bench, at one end, was the place where Gennadius always sat. No one had taken it. In the rows behind, the ranks of decurions were much thinned. I wondered how many had stayed away, and how many were dead.

The notary entered, moving in his odd, fastidious way, drably dressed as if he were just another minor official, his pale, long face cold and immobile. At his side, like a preening peacock beside a raven, walked the bishop.

They paused. The bishop said something, and as he spoke he glanced behind him. We soon saw why. From outside came the sound of military boots on stone. The decurions turned and stared as a troop of about twenty guards marched in, armed with swords. At a sign from the notary they fanned out, taking up positions at the foot of each of the stairways that led up between the seats. A murmur rustled along the benches. I looked across to where Aquinus was sitting at the front. He had paused from talking to the man beside him and was frowning with disapproval. Further up, from his place high up on the tiered seats, Marcellus caught my eye and nodded grimly, as if to say, ‘Are you surprised?’

The velvet glove was off the iron fist: this was tyranny pure and simple. Up on the benches I could see the minds of the decurions working in their faces, and as they digested what they saw, their outrage turned to fear.

I had almost forgotten the governor himself; but now Martinus entered. His old patrician poise had deserted him. His face looked flushed and anxious. Rather than take the floor, he moved off to one side and sat on a chair. It was the notary who stepped forward.

I had never heard him speak before, but now his voice cut through the fearful silence. It was thin and sharp and precise, like a surgeon’s tool, or an instrument of torture. He repeated the same absurd charges concerning the harvest: that the decurions and their rich friends had caused it to fail; that they were storing grain secretly, to keep food from the people. It was, he said, a deliberate attempt to undermine the imperial authority. He could conclude only one thing: that another Magnentius was in their midst, fomenting rebellion. He suspected the traitors were in this very room; but wherever they were he would uncover them, even if every man in Britain had to be put to the rack.

The horrified decurions gaped down at him. I glanced across the chamber at Martinus. He was looking directly ahead, with a distracted, empty look on his face. I remembered what Trebius had said, that the real power lay with the notary. He had seen it well enough: had it only now dawned upon the governor himself?

My eyes passed to the slab-faced guards. I wondered what order they had been given. Whatever it was, we should find out soon enough. Even Aquinus could not speak now, at the point of a sword. This was not a debate or a consultation; it was a trial; and, perhaps, an execution too. I thought of Martinus and his bland complacent inaction, and my heart filled with contempt. And then I thought of myself. Was I not also worthy of contempt? What else had I done but submit? And this, I reflected, was indeed the nature of tyranny, that even the tyrannized become complicit in the end, robbed of their humanity, sick of soul, party to their own enslavement.