by Paul Waters
He withdrew the knife, shoved the youth away, and gave him a clout. ‘Remember,’ he told him, ‘that it is a pagan who spares you!’
The youth staggered, then found his feet and scrambled towards the exit. At the door, where he was out of reach, he paused and turned, and yelled back, vowing he would come and get the old man.
Then he ran off into the night.
The old man looked at me. ‘See what you have spared?’ He slid the knife back into its sheath, and began picking up the weapons scattered about on the floor.
I said, ‘Was it you who lit the lamp, sir?’
‘It was I. My father was the priest here, and his father before him. But I have no son, and soon I shall be too old to fight off these Christian dogs.’
I had been helping him pick up the debris. But now I paused and looking at him said, ‘They claim they will destroy the old gods. But why? I cannot understand it.’
‘So they claim, and so they wish. But if men are prevented from worshipping the gods in one way, they will find another. We may give them different names, but the gods do not change.’
His eyes moved to the statue flickering in the lamplight. ‘The Christians may drive us from the temples, but they cannot drive the truth from men’s souls. And perhaps, one day many years from now, when I am dust and this city is forgotten, some farmer with his plough will stumble upon the image of the goddess, lying here in the earth beneath his share, and he will know her.’
I stooped to pick up a vicious-looking cudgel. It had been lovingly sanded-down and wrapped with string about the handle – a labour of many hours. So much effort, I thought, for such ugliness. And as I bent down, there was a sudden stabbing pain in my side.
I winced and dropped the weapon on the floor. The old man came over and rapidly felt my side, asking where the pain was. A cry from me told him soon enough. He pulled up my tunic and probed at my ribs, muttering to himself. Then he nodded and grunted.
‘It will bruise,’ he said, ‘but the bones are not broken.’ He reached up and felt the back of my head. When he took his fingers away they were red with my blood. ‘But this,’ he said, frowning and naming a concoction of herbs, ‘you must bathe; and afterwards you must rest.’ He looked into my face. ‘You have been here before, haven’t you?’
And when I told him yes, he said, ‘Then come in peace, my friend. But next time bring a dagger.’
Claritas washed my head, and the cook prepared the herbal salve. By the time Marcellus saw me, my side was blue as a storm sky.
‘What were you thinking?’ he cried. ‘How long would you have lain there before someone found your body?’
‘I had promised the god.’
He let out his breath and pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘Everyone has heard of these Christian mobs – except you, it seems. Why do you think the temples are empty? It is because decent people dare not go. They do not want a battle each time they visit a shrine or make an offering to a god, and so they stay at home. The Christians know this. And then, when the temples are empty, they claim it is because the people have ceased to care.’ He looked at me and shook his head. ‘At least next time take me with you.’ He gave me a gentle cuff on the ear.
‘Ouch!’
‘That’s so you remember.’
I smiled, in spite of the pain. I treasured these signs of affection. They were like food to a starving man.
We had met every day since our first meeting, taking advantage of the time he was in London with his grandfather. Each day, with a mixture of nervousness and joy, I wondered what it was he saw in me, who in my own estimation was so flawed.
And though, without doubt, he was beautiful in form, powerful and sleek as a young stag, this was not all that moved me. There was a natural goodness and open simplicity to him. He talked with ease and knowledge, of things which up to then I had supposed were my private thoughts alone. There was nothing that was mean in him, nothing small.
During those first days I took each step carefully, expecting at any moment that he would see me for what I was and tire of me. At first I waited for it. But as the days passed and still he stayed, I began to trust what I found. I became aware of a change in me, a thawing within, like the shafts of dawn through morning mist. I had supposed, inasmuch as I had ever considered it, that my destiny was to find my way through the world alone. Solitude was what the Fates had allotted me. Yet each day with Marcellus brought me signs that after all this was not so. I hardly dared trust what my feelings told. I hardly dared reach for pleasure. I knew – though I lacked the courage to let him see – that my soul cried out for love. I was ardent, but I was wary.
I found I noticed the small, private things about him, and stored them in my secret heart: his well-formed hands, and how he ran his fingers through his hair when he was troubled or embarrassed; the way he paused in speaking and frowned to himself as he collected his thoughts; the blond down on his legs and wrists and forearms, which I should have liked to touch, just to feel it, if I dared; or how he stole quick glances at me when he was talking, to check I was not bored. I knew like some precious perfume the pine-scent of the wash he cleaned his hair with, and the deeper male smell of his body. I had never been so aware of another’s physical presence before: I basked in his attention; I walked in sunlight.
Then at last, too soon, came the time to return to the country.
We parted with promises to meet, and I saw him and his grandfather Aquinus off, walking with them across the bridge, and alongside their carriage till it pulled away.
Returning I paused on the path on the south side of the river, and gazed across the water over the roofs of the city houses to where the columns of the governor’s palace showed in the distance. It would soon be my home. The order had come for me to present myself at the barracks there.
Shortly after, I said my goodbyes at the house, such as they were, and packed up my few possessions in the old oak clothes-chest I had brought from home.
Only the slaves saw me off – Claritas and old Patricus and the cook. Balbus was taken up with business. Lucretia stayed within, in her private rooms. And Albinus, just as on the day I had first arrived, was at the bishop’s.
SEVEN
A STURDY BROWN-HAIRED young Pannonian received me at the barracks. His name was Leontius, and he was head of the corps of Protectors.
He spoke a rough upcountry Latin and had a blunt manner, but seeing I was unsure of myself he was pleasant with me, when a worse man would have delighted in being harsh. So right at the start I decided I liked him.
I was fitted out with a uniform: a kilt and tunic and red woollen cloak, winter leggings, a sword-belt, sword and dagger, and a pair of standard-issue military boots. Then Leontius showed me my room, which I shared with three others, in the barrack-house behind the palace stables.
I had turned seventeen, and what with one thing and another, I felt quite the man. But I soon discovered I was the youngest in the corps; and being new as well, I was the object of all the usual jokes and teasing and curiosity.
Of the others, most had followed Gratian from posting to posting, and regarded themselves as old hands. There were a good many burly Pannonians – which he favoured, being Pannonian himself – but also Africans, Gauls, Spaniards, and a few more recent recruits from Britain.
Gratian, I was informed, expected his cadets to be good horsemen, which I was not. But his great passion, which he had kept since his days as a young recruit, was wrestling.
Anyone who has met a Pannonian will know that this is a sport they adore; and, being on the whole a stocky broad-shouldered race, they are well suited to it. I had not forgotten that it was Gratian’s success in a bout, one day when a general happened to be watching, that led to his being singled out for advancement. Now, it seemed, wrestling was for him the key to all success – the test of a true man – and we were all expected to take part, whether we cared for it or not.
So I was not wholly surprised when, one day that early spring, a few weeks after my arrival, Leo
ntius came to me in the mess and, slapping his hand down on the long rough-wood table, announced with a broad grin, ‘Your turn next, Drusus. You’d better get some extra practice, and put some weight on.’
Along the bench there were some smirks and exchanged laughing glances. I knew what it meant: the new boy was going to get a thrashing. I went to the board in the corridor and checked the team-lists. I was pitted against a wiry Spaniard called Catius. I knew him. He was no great fighter; I could handle him.
But on the evening before the appointed day, as I lay relaxing on my bed, one of my comrades said casually, ‘Have you seen who you’re fighting, Drusus?’
‘Yes, Catius,’ I answered.
‘Not any more,’ he said grinning. ‘You’d better check again.’
I leapt up and hurried off to look.
Catius’s name had been crossed off the list. In its place was written the name ‘Meta’ in an illiterate hand.
Everybody knew Meta. He was a youth from the wild inaccessible hills of Illyria, an ox-like brute with a broken nose and a taste for violence. I stood and stared, with a sinking feeling in my gut. This was their joke – a typical Pannonian joke. Well, I thought, I shall not let them see I care; and when I returned to my room to the curious gaze of my comrades, I merely shrugged and said, ‘It was Catius; now it is Meta. Wish me luck.’
Next morning the corps assembled, crowding round the horse-paddock, buzzing with excited chatter. They cheered when I took up my position – everyone likes the underdog – but there was no doubt in any of their faces of the outcome, and I could see why.
I had some muscle on my body, but compared with the Illyrian beast in the far corner I was a milk-skinned weakling. It was not a fair fight, and I had already understood it was never intended to be. It was an offering, a sacrifice, a breaking-in. And I was the victim.
I watched him nodding and grinning his peg-toothed grin with his clique of thickset friends, grunting as they imparted advice, rocking from foot to foot like a wrought-up bull. In my mind I ran through my strategy one last time. He would crush me if I let him; it was no good taking him head-on. My only chance was speed, and whatever skill I possessed.
The signal drum sounded. I stepped forward onto the sand, naked but for my loincloth. Around the paddock my comrades raised a cheer. I pranced and shifted, getting the feel of the sand under my toes, moving my limbs to warm them, for it was a cold, clear morning.
On the far side my opponent began advancing, plodding forward in rigid splay-legged movements like an ox heaving a plough. I eyed him carefully. His thighs were like oak-trunks, so wide and knotted with muscle that they chafed as he moved. His bare feet, tiny in comparison, looked absurd beneath his great slab-like bulk. It seemed almost impious that he had turned himself into such a creature.
At the edge of the paddock the crowd shifted and drew apart, and through the corner of my eye I saw Gratian step forward to the rail. Another reason not to be humiliated, I thought bleakly. And then, as I looked back at my opponent, I knew that humiliation was the least of my worries. I wondered how many this Illyrian monster had killed, and whether Gratian would permit the fight to go so far. Gratian prided himself on being a hard man; he did not make concessions to weakness.
I pushed all these concerns from my mind. My opponent had halted; and now, in some fighting-ritual he had learned, he began slapping the flats of his hands on his muscle-twisted upper arms, and glancing back to grin at his friends. One might have supposed I was not there at all, so little attention did he pay me, and it was clear he did not expect to exert himself. He intended to make a spectacle of my defeat.
His friends guffawed at his antics and called encouragements. But someone else in the crowd shouted, ‘Get on with it!’
Then, with a lolling shake of his head, he charged.
The ground under my feet thudded with his footfalls. I watched him carefully, gauged the speed and direction of his advance, and prepared to leap. I tensed; but at the last moment something made me hold back and I stilled myself, and thought again. His attack was too obvious: surely it was a decoy, to hide some cleverer trick. I paused, but he kept on coming, grunting as he loped forward, his bulging face set in concentration, as if movement alone took up every resource of his mind.
Remembering what I had learned from Durano, I searched his body with my eyes for the first telltale sign – a twitch of muscle, an involuntary sideways glance – anything that would show me he was about to swerve, or leap, or throw himself down to trip me. But none of these things happened, and at the last moment, when he was almost upon me, I threw myself to the left, rolled and straightened, and thrust out my right leg in his path.
His small feet skidded in the sand. But either his dull mind or his hulking body did not respond fast enough. His ankles struck my outstretched calf, and for good measure I used my other leg to give him a side-kick. He gave a furious bellow, then fell forward, slewing into the ground on his convex belly like some ungainly overweight flightless bird.
All around the paddock the audience broke into merry laughter. This was fun they had not expected. They called to me and whistled, but I had no time to acknowledge them. The Illyrian was already up again, wiping his face and spitting sand. The whole of his thick upper body had purpled with rage. He was not the kind that cared to be laughed at.
I thought quickly. So far, he had supposed I could be toyed with as a cat plays with a mouse. Now he knew different. His next attack would be more dangerous. I remembered Durano’s lessons, and cleared my mind, and silently spoke my little private formula against fear.
This time he tried to trick me with a feint. It was one for which Durano would have slapped me, for being too obvious. I held my ground, undeceived. Then, with a sudden bellowing cry, he came at me like a wild thing, all flailing arms and piggish furious eyes. I crouched, balancing myself with my outstretched arms, and threw a deliberate, nervous glance leftwards; and this he read just as I hoped. I saw him compensating in his step, preparing to move in the direction of my glance; and when the moment came, I jumped not left but right.
I thought I had foiled him again; but this time he was prepared, knowing now I was a trickster. He swerved to cut me off; then lunged at me, snatching with his fingers.
I leapt back. I almost fell. But I righted myself, span round, and as he passed I slammed into his huge broad back with a force that would have felled any normal man. But I might as well have run into a barn wall. I merely bounced off him. I stood and stared, momentarily dazed and at a loss. And all the while he was turning, growling like a bear, and raising his arms to seize me.
I threw myself down before him. He blinked and stared. I think he supposed I was about to prostrate myself in supplication. But I was not beaten yet. He clubbed his fists and took a downward swing at me. It would have broken my ribs; but I rolled and avoided it, then grabbed his thigh with my arms, shoved his back, and pulled. The hold was poor, but he was half-turned and off his balance, and I was using his own force against him.
One moment it seemed nothing would shift him; the next he came crashing down beside me.
At once I scrambled onto his back. He heaved and bellowed and kicked; but I was on his neck with all my weight. I grabbed his wrist and forced his arm behind him, bending it upwards. ‘Yield!’ I cried.
Everywhere the crowd was yelling and whistling.
‘Yield, you fool!’ I shouted again in his ear, ‘Must I break your arm?’
But the great writhing mass beneath me refused to give way.
He tried to get up. I smashed him down. All around me the voices were chanting, ‘Yield! Yield! Yield!’
He cursed and bucked, trying to throw me off. I forced his arm hard up. He cried out. Even prone like this and held in a lock, he was hard to manage. He was too strong for me, and slippery with sweat.
I sensed a change in the crowd, like a false note in a concert. Some of them, their voices hoarse and thick with blood-lust, had begun urging me to break the Illyrian’s arm
. It was his sword arm. They knew it was. They did not care.
Then, with a sudden ringing shout, Gratian’s voice broke out over all the rest. ‘Give way, you idiot! Where is your honour?’
The Illyrian froze beneath me. I think, in his blind rage, he had forgotten Gratian was there. Beneath my thighs his great barrel-chest exhaled. Then slowly, grudgingly, he raised his palm from the sand and gave the sign of submission. And, all around me, the crowd broke into a deafening roar.
Later, when I was drying off in the bath-house, Leontius came and found me.
‘Well you’re a dark horse, young Drusus,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘You didn’t tell us you could fight like that. Gratian is talking of nothing else.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I expect I surprised him.’
I threw the towel down on the bench, and rummaged among my clothes.
‘What is it? You won.’
‘I know, Leontius. It’s just that I don’t care for this kind of fighting. That’s all.’
He laughed and said, ‘Don’t let Gratian hear you say that. Remember, this is the army.’
I turned and looked at him.
‘Yes, it’s the army, and I will kill when I need to. But did you not hear the cries? There were people baying for blood, calling for me to break his arm. He isn’t my friend – even less so now, I daresay. But he isn’t some barbarian either, come to burn our homes and kill our families. He is one of us, a comrade – even if he is as stupid as a peasant’s ox.’
Leontius frowned at me. After a moment he said, ‘I know. I heard them.’
He stood for a while in silence, watching me as I dressed. Then he said, ‘Would you have done it – broken his arm?’
I paused and turned. It was a question I had been thinking about all the while I was in the baths.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Those are the rules, if a man will not yield. But I don’t have to enjoy it.’
He nodded slowly and drew a long breath. I saw him glance up and down the room before he spoke again. Then, dropping his voice, he said, ‘I’ll tell you something, Drusus, but don’t you dare breathe it to another soul. I don’t care for Gratian’s accursed wrestling either, and that’s far worse, because I’m a Pannonian like him, and it’s supposed to run in my blood.’
