“I’ll write to the Curator,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I was always writing letters these days: letters to the governor of Belgica, asking for his support for this or that; letters to the Curator, full of detailed requests and complaints, all of which he answered meticulously but about which little seemed actually to be done; and letters to Chariobaudes, general of the field army in Gaul, asking for the loan of trained centurions and officers whom he always found an excuse not to send. Then there was the difficulty of supplies. These were delivered by the slow waggon post and I relied on this for all food-stuffs, uniforms and arms, timber and stone-work. The trouble here was administrative. It was an imperial service which was controlled by warrant. I was allowed only five warrants a year, which was absurd considering the waggon loads of goods I needed. To obtain more warrants I had to write to the Praefectus Praetorio and it took time for the messengers to get to Arelate and back. Even a messenger needed a warrant. Without it he could not change horses at the posting stations. The first time I wrote the Praefectus replied that I had had my quota for the year. It took another messenger and another warrant to persuade him that I needed special consideration. After that he would always send me a batch of five warrants at a time, but never more. I complained about this on numerous occasions but without effect. He was the Emperor’s representative and he knew his power. I had met him once, a small, insignificant, short-sighted man, now badly running to fat. He had a dry, pedantic way of speaking, rarely smiled and was quite without a sense of humour. His only interest outside his work, besides his plain, dull wife, was his curious passion for Greek sculpture about which he wrote endless dry, dull and worthless monographs which nobody ever read. He was, and I believed it, honest, incorruptible and painstaking at his work; but he had no imagination and this flawed what intelligence he possessed. This was the man with whom I had to work to achieve my purpose and, thinking of him sometimes, I could have wept with frustration. He was so typical of the senior administrators who now controlled the destinies of the imperial provinces. Small wonder then that Rome grew downwards like a cow’s tail.
My principal worry, however, was the shortage of recruits to the auxiliaries. Though I had enough, if need be, to man the signal towers, provide skeleton garrisons for the forts, and to take on those duties that would release my men for the more important task of fighting, I still had hopes that I might raise a field force of reserves from the teeming population in and around Treverorum. I had sent out officers and centurions, in batches, on recruiting drives, but with little success. Between them they had not raised enough men to man a war galley.
“There must be some way of getting them to join,” I said in despair.
“We have taken on all the convicts for the fleet,” said Quintus. “Now, whenever the magistrates sentence a man they offer him the choice of hard labour in the mines with lashes or hard labour in the legion of General Maximus, with pay.”
“What about the slaves?”
“They have all run away or long ago accepted Honorius’ offer and gone to Italia.”
“If I had time to spare I would go to Arelate and make them help me.”
“What help do they give who do not wish to give it,” he said in a sombre voice. “The Praefectus Praetorio would only smile that thin smile of his, and say that the matter must be referred to another meeting of his wretched council.”
“Yes,” I said. “I never met a man so terrified of taking responsibility. The only decisions he ever takes are those that affect his own desires. He is quite selfish and quite useless.”
At that moment Aquila came in. “A message from Flavius at Treverorum, sir.”
I read the letter.
“More trouble,” said Quintus, raising his eyebrow.
“Yes. One of his men has deserted him.”
“Well, we’re best without him then.”
I said grimly, “He’s taken refuge in one of the churches. Flavius tried to get him out and there was trouble with the priests. They have seen it as an opportunity to denounce us. We tax them to the hilt, steal their goods, demand their food, and then even the men who are meant to defend them desert.”
Aquila said, “It could be very awkward, sir.”
“It is.”
“What will you do?”
“I shall have to go and straighten things out.”
“The fuss will die down,” said Quintus calmly.
“Will it? Who will take up arms now, when even Roman soldiers are deserting to seek sanctuary in the middle of the city? Flavius is an idiot. He should have let the man get out of the city and then arrested him.”
“Well, how was he to know the man would run into a church.”
I said irritably, “He just should have known.”
I rode to Treverorum, alone but for my escort. I came to Romulus at sundown, just as they were about to close the gates. While the men picketed their horses in the courtyard I sent a message to Flavius. He arrived very late, having come straight from the house of a friend where he had been dining.
He stared at me like a bewildered bear. He was very drunk.
“Sorry, sir. Didn’t expect you—sir.”
“No,” I said. “I can see that. Which church is this man in? What is his name? What is his record? I am going to see him in the morning. I want to know everything about him now.”
He stared at me helplessly, swaying on his feet. “Tired,” he said.
I rose from my stool, picked up a pitcher and flung the water over him. The shock overbalanced him and he sprawled on the floor, dripping, bruised and winded.
“Talk,” I said. “I’m twice your age and I have just ridden seventy miles in two days. You’ve made a mess of things and I’ve got to clear them up. The sooner you start the sooner we shall both get to bed. Wake up.”
I had hoped my arrival at sundown might have kept my coming a secret but when I went into the street the next morning there was already a crowd waiting. I did not ride; I walked.
“There may be trouble,” said Flavius. “Ride on horseback, sir, and with an escort.”
“Then there will be trouble,” I said.
“Your sword, sir. You’ve forgotten to put it on.”
I said, “I never forget my sword. I want you and one man to come with me. Leave your weapons in the armoury. And keep five paces behind me all the way.”
“I—” He broke off and stared in front of him.
“You are a christian, are you not? I thought you people had a passion to martyr yourselves.”
He gulped.
I said unkindly, “I shall be in good company if anything goes wrong. Besides, I don’t know the way.”
We walked. The crowd pressed about us, fell back to make way for us and then followed curiously. Men and women, boys and girls, little children even; all had that look I had seen on the faces of the crowd at a circus on the arena; the pale excitement of those who wish to see blood spilt without hurt to themselves. At first they smiled, then they stared, and then, as we approached the church, an ugly muttering broke out. A woman laughed, and a voice cried contemptuously, “What else do you expect of a man who believes in a cattle-thieving god?” There were jeers and insults. Someone threw a stone. It hit me on the mouth and I could feel the blood trickling down my chin. A second struck me above the right eye and the bleeding nearly blinded me. I felt sick with pain but I took no notice. They were scum, like all crowds in all cities. It was my soldier who mattered to me, not them.
The crowd was thickest by the square, on the north side of which stood the church. On the steps were a number of priests, and in the midst of them, the Bishop. Artorius was there, too, standing in the shadow of a pillar, his freedmen about him. Of him I took no notice. It was not him I had come to see. As I approached the Bishop a snarl came from the crowd. The spring sunshine shone upon white vestments and red pillars, upon brown and yellow tunics and upon a scarlet cloak and helmets of bronze and gold. I mounted the steps and came face to fac
e with Mauritius, Bishop of Treverorum.
“Good morning,” I said. “It is a fine day. The christians amongst my men send their greetings and pray that you may do them the honour of visiting Moguntiacum so that they may be blessed at your hands.”
“What do you want?” he said.
“I wish to enter the church.”
“I do not allow unbelievers to enter.”
“Can you be sure that I am one? And if I am, is it fitting that another should stay inside it and make it his home?”
“He is a christian.”
“If he is, then you should know that he is a follower of Pelagius, of whom you do not, I believe, approve.” I frowned and closed my eye to avoid the blood. “Perhaps abominate is the right word.”
He looked startled. “It is not true,” he said.
“Oh yes, it is. I know my men even if you do not know yours.”
There was a small silence between us but it was not friendly. The crowd was silent now.
He said, “Even if you are speaking the truth, my church is a sanctuary to all who are persecuted. And while he is there no-one may touch him.”
“Is that the law?” I asked.
He glanced at the Curator. “It is accepted custom,” he said. “It has the force of law.”
“No-one is persecuting him,” I said. “He is a soldier. He volunteered, as did all my men from Britannia. He is under oath. He has deserted. I am entitled to arrest him.”
“Not in my church.”
I said patiently, “I bear no arms. I use no force. I wish merely to talk to one Vibius, a legionary, who has abandoned his duty. Would you not wish to do the same to one who has wandered from his faith?”
He hesitated.
I said, “I will leave my force of strong and brutal men outside; both of them. Do not be alarmed. I shall not destroy your sanctuaries as you have destroyed mine.”
He said, “I do not trust you.”
“But you do. You trust me so much that you leave me and six thousand men to stand between you and your enemies. You trust me so much that you give me no help of your own free will. Not once since I arrived have you offered assistance of any kind. You ignore me and by doing so you trust me.”
He said, “It is not right that a christian world should be defended by a pagan such as yourself. It is a mockery of our faith, a scandal in the eyes of Our Lord.”
“You are quick to pass judgement.”
“It is my duty to speak as my conscience dictates.”
“And let who will, cast the first stone.” I touched my cheek with the tip of my finger.
“You blaspheme.”
“Will you stand in my way all day?”
He said, “I shall stand like that rock upon which our church was built. It is you who are in the way, not I.”
“My lord Bishop.”
“No.”
I said in a whisper, “No-one has made me so angry as you. If you do not let me in to talk to this breaker of oaths, this deserter of his comrades, this perjurer of his soul, I shall do that for which we may both be sorry.”
He smiled. “You do not have authority in this city.”
I shook my head to get rid of the dripping blood. I said, “If I want this man I can take him by force and not even you can stop me. The Praefectus Praetorio of Gaul, even, will back me in this matter.”
He glanced sideways at the Curator. “You would do that?” he asked.
“If you refuse this request, yes.”
He said, “I thought you had come here to defend the state and to uphold its laws.”
“I have.”
He said, gently, “But you cannot do so. You cannot abolish laws in a state; for without laws there is no state.”
I said, impatiently, “You play at words, my lord Bishop.”
“And you threaten me.”
“I threaten no-one. I wish merely to speak to a man who has lost his faith.”
“And who will give it back to him?” he asked contemptuously. “You, with your floggings and your executions?”
“Of course not. Only he can recover for himself what he has lost. Shall I tell you about him? His name is Vibius. His father was a poor shop-keeper in a small town called Canovium in the mountains in the west of Britannia. He had two brothers and three sisters. They were always hungry; the town was dying as towns do, and he could not get work. He took to thieving because it was the only way he could live. He would have ended as a convict in the mines, most likely. But when I formed my legion he joined it. It offered him food and shelter and clothes and money, and the promise of a pension at the end. He had security. He sent half his pay home to his family to help keep them alive.
“I turned him into a soldier—a good one—and he gained a self-respect he never had before. He can neither read nor write, but he is clever with his hands and makes leather harness for the horses when he is not fighting. He can build a bridge or make a road, mend a leaking roof or repair a broken wall. You would find him useful in this crumbling city, my lord Bishop. All these things he learned as a soldier.”
I paused. I said, “He served with me in Italia. Then we came here. He met a girl in the city; she is the daughter of a man who makes glass ornaments to sell to people of your faith; and he wanted to marry her. The girl’s father said no, he was a legionary. He would be here to-day and gone to-morrow. He was not to be trusted. This made him miserable. He was homesick, too. He had learned that his mother had died. So he deserted. He had some idea of leaving the city, sending for the girl and taking her home. He is not very clever at thinking. He did not think much about what would happen afterwards.
“But what will happen if he does go home? The district he lives in is full of people whose sons have joined my legion. Many of them have since died. Will he be happy with his shame? Will they let him be happy? Will his girl be proud of him when he returns to thieving? Will she grow to despise him as a man who ran away? How much of their time will they spend in a sweat of fear, waiting for the authorities to catch up with them? You are the expert on souls and a man’s conscience. Not I.”
He said, “Is this true, what you have told me?”
“I may be a pagan, but I am also a soldier. I know my men.”
He frowned and his hands played with the cross about his neck.
I said, “We have, both of us, laws to obey. Let me render unto Caesar those things that are Caesar’s, and I will let you render unto God those things which axe His.”
He stood aside and I walked alone into the church.
When I came out again into the bright sunlight the crowd had gone and the square was empty. Only Flavius and my soldier stood there on the steps, at a little distance from the Bishop.
“Well?” he asked.
I blinked. The light, amongst other things, blinded me. I said harshly, “I spoke to a beggar inside. He told me that Vibius crept up to the great door and listened to our conversation through the crack. When he heard me say—that I would—take him by force if need be, he—he left the door and went to the far side where they sometimes sit and play at dice when no-one is about.”
The Bishop raised his head sharply.
“He is in your hands now,” I said.
I threw the dagger that all legionaries carry on to the steps and held out my hands. They were covered in blood.
I walked down the steps. I said, “Pray for him if you can. He must have been so unhappy, so afraid, so very lonely to do what he did. I, too, have known such despair.”
I heard a voice behind me say, “Maximus.” Out in the square I turned and looked back up the steps to the silent figure at the top. I said, “He had no faith in either of us.”
I turned and walked away from the church. At that moment all that I wanted to do was to be alone.
On the tenth night of May I was woken by a trumpet blowing the alarm. It was a wet night and I shivered on the wall and wrapped my cloak about me as I listened to the swirl of the water and watched the signal beacons flare across t
he river. On either side of me the troops stood waiting. Faintly through the darkness I heard cries and shouting.
“The outposts are being driven in,” I said. “Pray that they make the boats in time.”
At dawn, while I was drinking a cup of hot wine, for it was bitterly cold and the rain was still in our faces, we saw movement on the other bank; little parties of men launching the boats that lay concealed there. They were not attacked and I assumed that the enemy were content to let them go.
“Tell the centurion-in-charge to report to me when he gets in,” I said to Barbatio. “Tell half the men to stand down and keep watch for any boat bearing a blue cloth on a pole. It will be from Marcomir. He may have news for us, too.”
The centurion rubbed a sore on his nose. He was hot, excited and tired and the steam rose from his wet cloak. He had little to say. All the posts had reported movement in the country to the east and south—this was before the moon rose—all had been attacked a little after midnight. In accordance with their instructions they had fired the beacons and withdrawn half an hour later.
“Were the attacks in strength?”
The centurion said grimly, “If we hadn’t left when we did, sir, we should all be dead by now.”
“How many casualties?”
“Three dead and four wounded, sir.”
I returned to the river. The sun was up and a mass of tribesmen were moving slowly from the woods that surrounded the old villa district to the water’s edge. There must have been between five and eight thousand, all told. An excited decurion from a cavalry patrol to the south of the camp rode in to report that the mouth of the Moenus was crowded, for as far back as he could see, with a fleet of small boats. “Filled with armed men, sir.”
“Order up the nearest ships of the Rhenus fleet,” I said.
“I have done so, sir,” came the reply. He was torn between apprehension, lest he had done the wrong thing, and pride in his own initiative.
“Good,” I said. “Signal them to attack, but they are to keep out of the narrows. They will be trapped if they go too far in.”
My building of the fleet justified itself that morning. The three ships moved rapidly into the mouth and, executing a series of turning movements, opened fire with their ballistae, using both fireballs and iron projectiles. Those of the enemies’ boats that tried to close and board had their crews shot to pieces by the archers, while their craft were set on fire. The action lasted a little over an hour and by the end of that time half the enemy boats had retreated to a safe point up-stream. The other half had been sunk.
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