Eagle in the Snow (13 page)

Back in the city we established ourselves in Romulus and sent for the Curator and his staff. Brieflly I told him the news. He went white when he learned that our stay was to be extended indefinitely.

“What can we do for you?” he asked cautiously.

“Firstly, there’s the matter of trading dishonesty. My quartermaster made a contract with a number of leather-smiths here for the supply of boots. They were to be made in standard sizes and each was to contain four thicknesses of leather in the sole. When they were delivered and issued it was found that they had only two thicknesses of leather. Here is a pair in proof of the matter.”

Artorius turned the boot over in his hand. “This is a matter for the courts.”

“I have not the time to go to the courts to sue the man for fraud. I need the boots now, not in four months time.”

He said nervously, “How can I help?”

“I am not going to pay again for a fresh supply. Quintus Veronius has the details. A word from you, and a little pressure, and the matter is attended to. You had better tell your guilds that my legion has an unusual quartermaster—one who is honest. He neither makes money for himself nor allows others to make a profit out of him. Value for value is all we ask.”

He nodded, speechless. He owned two big estates to the south of the city and kept herds of cattle and goats that supplied much of the leather for the entire district. And he knew that I knew this thing.

“One other matter. The grain supply we received last week, and for which we paid, was two pounds underweight in each sack. I know, because I weighed them myself. This also, Quintus Veronius will deal with.”

I paused and looked at the silent, hostile faces around me.

“And now,” I said gently. “I want men for the army.”

The Curator stiffened and I saw his knuckles whiten. But he kept himself admirably in check.

He said apologetically, “I don’t really think—”

“Just a moment,” I said. I took from my tunic a rolled letter than even Quintus had not seen. “I had this a week ago. It is from an old friend, a man named Saturninus, who succeeded me in command of Borcovicum, a fort on the Great Wall where I used to serve. Would you like to hear what he says?”

I had their interest now, and Quintus was looking at me with something of the old expression that I had not seen since the early days with Stilicho.

“The Wall has been abandoned, the whole seventy miles of it. Do you know what that means? The garrisons have gone and the local people use the stones to build their houses with. The great gates lie open and rattle in the wind until they drop to the ground from their rusted hinges. Nothing moves along the sentry walks except the wild cats, while the kestrels fly above the empty towers and leave their droppings on the roofs where our sentries once kept watch. The forts crumble in the rain and the slates drop from the roof of the house in which I once lived.” At my side, Quintus started violently and I saw, out of the corner of my eye, his knuckles whiten as he clenched his hands. He, too, had his memories then. . . “Only the inscriptions remain to commemorate the men who served there. . . .”

I broke off and turned away and looked out at the road that led north to where my legion stood at arms. What had happened to her stone? Did it stand upright still or was it lying on the damp ground, covered with weeds? What did it matter anyway?

I thought of the words I had carved on the stone. ‘She died but not altogether.’ Saturninus had suggested them. It was what she believed and perhaps she was right. But I found it hard sometimes, to think that it could be so.

I turned and said, “Even Corstopitum is an empty husk. And Eburacum where the Sixth Legion once proclaimed an emperor of Rome, is deserted too. The troops have moved south and the great headquarters is an abandoned barrack, occupied only by mice.”

“Is that what you want to happen here? Do you want your city to sink into the ground and have the wild birds build their nests in the scrub which hides its ruins? Because if it is I will take my legion and go, and let the Alemanni do their worst.”

A senator, who owned half the vineyards in the area, said, in exasperation, “What exactly do you want?”

“What do you want, Statitius?” I said politely. “Shall I tell you—peace. You were born here, and your family before you. Your ancestors never knew peace or security till Rome came. Peace means soldiers; soldiers mean pay; pay means taxes.”

Statitius yawned. “Oh, if it’s more money then—”

“No.”

The Curator, his face pale, said hoarsely, “How can we help more than you have had us help already?”

“I want men—young men—who are willing to become soldiers. And I need educated young men who can be trained to become their future officers. Is it too much to ask that the people of Gaul learn to defend themselves?”

“That is—that is the business of the Magister Equitum per Gallias.”

“I am not concerned about the paper army of a paper general.”

“Oh! How many then?”

“As many as we can get. I want troops
I
command. I need at least twelve hundred for my fleet alone. I want fifteen thousand men on the Rhenus.”

“We cannot force them to take up arms,” Artorius said. “The conscription is done annually by different districts each year. It is not the city’s turn this year.”

“This is an emergency and, if necessary, I will conscript, if I have to. But with your help it may not be necessary.”

“Conscription cannot be imposed without the sanction of the Praefectus Praetorio,” he said doggedly.

“When I rode through the forum this morning there were great queues of the poor, lining up to receive their free distribution of bread and bacon that the city gives them each day.” I glanced sideways as the door opened and Mauritius, Bishop of Treverorum, entered the room. “That is charitable work indeed. But not all of those poor were either young children or old men. They could earn that food, and, by earning it, be more useful than they are. They are free men.”

The Bishop said, “It is sinful for christians to take up arms against each other.”

“You,” I said. “You live in a world where you make sins. You would not be happy without them. Would you?”

“I shall forbid it from the pulpit.”

I said, “Just what do you want from our Empire?”

He said, “Rome is the house of christianity and by our works shall you know us. I pray as do we all that, for the miracle vouchsafed to the blessed Constantine, we shall see eternal Rome ascend to heaven in a ball of fire!”

“If you are not careful you will see Augusta Treverorum ascend in the same manner. But sooner than you think.” I paused. I said, “Who has influence in this city beside our Bishop here? Who is interested in life rather than death?”

Artorius said, nervously, “Julianus Septimus.”

“Who is he?”

“He used to hold my office in the days of Valentinian. He is an old man now but he is rich, and he lives across the river, six miles up the road. He has two sons and a fine house.”

“Would he help me?”

“He is a pagan,” said the Bishop.

“Then he probably will.”

I left Quintus to read my proclamation in the forum while I set out along the twisting, hill road to visit the man who had once known Valentinian. It was a hot day, the wooded hills soaked up the heat and I could feel the sweat from my horse through the saddle cloth against my thighs. I rode through a gorge shadowed by the sun, turned right to ford a pebbled stream of bubbling water and entered a track that led between vineyards on the left and furrowed land on the right to a large, low rectangular villa whose yellow tiled roof seemed to shimmer in the heat. I dismounted, my horse was taken by servants and, as in a dream, I followed a barefoot slave through a courtyard where a fountain played and two girls laughed as they threw a ball to each other in the leaf-mottled sunlight. My host was in the large reception room in the north wing and I stood there admiring the elaborately patterned mosaic on the floor and the plastered walls against which, on pedestals, stood the busts of long dead ancestors. He did not seem surprised to see me and, while we drank wine and talked politely of nothing and everything, I thought of my bleak quarters in Moguntiacum and of how I, too, had once thought to own such a house.

I said, politely, “I seem to have made a bad beginning with the Council. They don’t like soldiers.”

A faint smile creased his face. “So I have heard. Taxes and soldiers go together,” he added cryptically.

“What of this young man who is now Curator? I find it hard to talk to him. Do you know him well?”

“Artorius. Hardly. He is young and ambitious and keen. His grandfather was a freedman, I believe.”

“Then he has done well for himself.”

“I suppose so. His father certainly managed to establish himself in the curial class. But that might well happen in a city like Mediolanum.” He spoke with a tinge of contempt.

“Is that where he comes from? I thought—”

“Oh yes. I would have thought the accent was obvious. He trained as an advocate, I believe; held one or two minor civic posts and then secured an office in the imperial service—something to do with finance. Then he came here. His appointment was unusual to say the least of it—even irregular. For, as you know, the Curator is normally appointed from out of the local council.” He paused to drink his wine delicately. “But then, you know how it is. Influence was brought to bear. I was against the appointment myself.” He shrugged. “One cannot argue with a Praefectus Praetorio.” He added grudgingly, “Still, he is efficient, so my old friends tell me.”

“I don’t understand why he wished to come here,” I said, puzzled.

“Oh, that is easy to explain.” The thin lips curled a little. “He wished to escape his own past. This is still an important city and under the eye of the Praefectus he may yet go far. He will do well for himself by his own modest standards.”

I smiled. “He takes a keen interest in trade.”

“Oh yes, and in land too. He has made money, that young man. And invested it wisely, too. A modest villa for his family, so I understand. Not that I have seen it, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“Everyone wants land. They think it means security. Perhaps it did once.” He paused and took another sip of his wine. “Of course, things are very different now—difficult too. My peasants, as is customary, pay a tenth of their crop but they are lazy and I find it difficult in getting my rents from them. They don’t work as hard as they used to. They run away when they cannot pay and it is hard to find others to work the land in their place. Food is scarce too.” He nibbled a grape. “We used to get grain from Britannia, but the deliveries are now so uncertain. In season, of course, we get roast swan and wild duck. That is something.”

“You had harder times when you held office in the city.”

His pale eyes brightened. “The central government was strong then. We had a Valentinian and not a Honorius. It was dreadful for a time, but we drove them back and prosperity slowly returned.”

“It could again.”

“These Franks aren’t bad fellows. It was the best thing that foreigner, Stilicho, ever did, to settle them on this side of the river. With all the slaves running away we need young men to work on the farms.”

“Do they?”

He did not answer me. He said, “And is that what you want? Men for your army?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if they won’t join, you can only conscript them.”

“Yes, I may have to do that. But I would like volunteers also. I was hoping that you might persuade—use your influence—you are much respected—the situation is dangerous.”

“Oh, they always say that. But nothing happens. A few raids, perhaps, but little harm done.”

“What happens when they raid you?”

“Oh, I give them some silver and they go away. Curious that. They have no use for gold. Just as well. I should be ruined if they had.”

I said, “We are all in very great danger. You remember that other time. Then an army, armed war bands, plundered the country. This time it will be worse. They won’t merely steal and murder and then go away. They will steal and murder—yes—and they will stay.”

“We can go to Italia,” he said. “If it is really as bad as you say. I have estates there in the south. I have cousins in Africa too. A rich land that. They tell me many people are going there now. The climate is so much better.”

“The rich,” I said.

“But naturally. The artisans and the peasants could not afford the journey.”

“I need men, desperately. I hoped that your sons—”

“My sons are middle-aged.” He smiled. “I am an old man. I have grandsons, of course.”

“They would do. They would do well. I need an example set. I want auxiliary alae with young men like your grandsons to lead them.”

“I am not sure—”

“Would you ask them?” I insisted. “Military service is honourable. Young men like adventure.”

“But not death,” he said drily.

“It is better than dishonour,” I said lightly.

He seemed to shrink inside his chair.

I said, “Would you ask them.”

He hesitated.

“Let me ask them then? I must.”

He said, “Your determination—you remind me of Theodosius—the emperor, of course.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes. He was my friend.” He spoke with a flash of pride.

“I am glad,” I said. “You see, I knew his father.”

His hands began to tremble. He said, “I think you had better go. I am very tired.”

“You said I could see your grandsons.”

“They are not here. I remember—they are out riding. I had forgotten.”

“I can wait.”

“They may not come back for—” He broke off as voices sounded on the terrace outside and his hands dropped helplessly to his lap. There was the sound of laughter and scuffling and a dark young man entered, to be followed by a boy in his third year of the toga. They were fine boys all right. I would have been proud if they had been my sons.

They fell silent as they saw me and stood awkwardly in the doorway. They looked at my riding dress and at my helmet in the crook of my arm, and their faces wore a curious expression, compounded—I could have sworn it—of fear and hatred. I waited stiffly for Julianus Septimus to introduce me. He said nothing but I heard a gasp and the wine cup fell to the floor with a crash.