Cast Not The Day

by Paul Waters

  For a long while afterwards we were still, gazing at the vast mystery of the universe, and considering the mystery within us, until eventually the footfalls of a passing servant broke the silence and the moment was gone.

  ‘Come,’ said Marcellus, sitting up. ‘You have a long ride tomorrow. You must get some sleep.’

  I returned to London and my life at the governor’s palace.

  The corps of Protectors had been constituted a generation before, when Diocletian was emperor. It was a proving ground for officers, or, under lax generals, a favour to the sons of friends.

  But there was nothing lax about Gratian. No officer, he used to say, should expect his men to perform any task he could not, or would not, do himself. And so, each morning, we were up before dawn, running on the parade-ground, or practising sword-work and javelin-throws, or marching and riding in the fields beyond the city walls. He ran us harder, and drove us further, than any regular trooper. For some it was too much: they broke, and left. But I stayed. I would die before I broke. I took whatever was thrown at me.

  And when we were not out in the field, he set us to studying ancient battles, laying out the dispositions of opposing armies on the square table in his room, showing us the moves that had led to victory or defeat. We learned administration too: for no army, he told us, could survive without a well-managed supply line, and a good general should know how to organize such things, as much as he should know strategy and tactics.

  The summer passed. Out in the fields the ewes were in season, and the farmers gathered the harvest. When I was not occupied with my duties, I was with Marcellus. At the end of the summer, business had brought his grandfather back to the city, and Marcellus came with him.

  In the first months of our friendship it had seemed that there was only he and I. But now, in those weeks of autumn when we were in the city, I began to see what I should have guessed at, that he had a life before he knew me.

  He was popular – how could it be otherwise? – among the sons of Britain’s well-born families. They kept houses in London, and once they knew he was resident in the city, invitations began to arrive.

  To me his friends were always civil. They had been bred to it. The best among them disdained to notice that I was lessened by my father’s death, and by the seizure of all he owned. But I was proud, and defensive, and sensitive to slights; and perhaps because of this I was not always easy with them. I felt I was being brought into a closed circle, a place where I was tolerated, but did not quite belong.

  I perceived something else too, that it was not only among the well-born sons that Marcellus was popular, but the daughters too. With all the alertness of a hunting dog I began to notice significant looks, whispered messages, and all the discreet amatory embassies that, in such circles, make up the ritual of courtship. Afterwards Marcellus would show me some little scented note, or a gift brought by a slave, and say with a laugh, ‘Look what Eutropia sent me.’ Or Clodia; or Vinia; or any number of the eligible secluded daughters of the provincial gentry. I would smile and make some joke. I did not like to admit to myself that I was growing possessive.

  The cadets at the barracks were always boasting, in their rowdy boisterous way, of this or that girl they had tumbled, of their conquests and their plans. At such times I kept my own counsel; I had, I knew, my own reasons for reticence, and told myself my tastes lay elsewhere. I had not, until now, considered what Marcellus felt. At first it had seemed not to matter; now that it did, I could not bring myself to ask him, thinking it base and small-minded.

  I had never given thought to questions of marriage, which simply had not featured in my world. As a boy, it had been part of the pattern of the future, like growing up. Later, at the house of my uncle, mere survival had taken all my strength, and I had thought of nothing beyond that.

  Yet for Marcellus, now that I saw the lives of his friends, I realized marriage was an inevitable duty, one of the constraints and expectations he had always lived with. I tried to imagine what a wife of his would be like; whom he might choose, and how she might regard me. I asked myself what would become of our friendship, and tried to tell myself it did not matter, that I was being foolish.

  But then, alone at night, lying in my bed at the barracks, my heart would tell me what my reason would not admit, that I did not want to share him. It made me ashamed, and secretive.

  I daresay I should have got over such folly in time, and nothing would have come of it. But that autumn an old family friend of his, the son of a rich British aristocrat, returned from Gaul, where he had been at one of the expensive schools of rhetoric. His name was Scapula.

  I disliked him from the start. He could not have been more different from Marcellus. He was gross from an excess of food and drink; he flaunted his wealth; he was coarse; and he possessed an unfailing talent for exploiting the weaknesses of others. With the lavish allowance he got from his doting father, he could afford whatever he wanted; and he denied himself nothing. Yet not all things were for sale, and it was these, which he could not possess, that he desired most.

  He knew how to be charming, when there was something to be gained. Though money did not interest him – he had a surfeit of that – influence did, because influence was power. He liked to play the go-between, he liked to manage people – or, as I saw it, manipulate them. He reminded me of a certain type of pederast, which any youth who has exercised his body and has a modicum of looks will have noticed at the baths, lurking in the shadows, whose souls, through years of pandering to base desire, have grown gross and flabby, until no viciousness is beyond them. They brush up against one in the hot pool, seemingly by accident – until one sees their eyes and feels their searching fingers; or they lie in wait for the unexpected death of a father, or some other upset in the family that has left it short of funds. Then they come forward offering help – at a price.

  Love cannot stay hidden for long. No doubt mine showed in a thousand small ways. And Scapula hated it.

  When I first caught his scornful, appraising eye upon me I supposed he felt envy; but I was wrong. He had no conception of what I had. Friendship for him was not a meeting of minds or a common striving for the good, but a contest for advantage. He was a man whom any kind of goodness offends, because it holds up a mirror to his soul.

  There were usually girls of one sort or another at the parties and dinners we went to; bright educated women who made me laugh and whose company I enjoyed. The girls Scapula invited were different. They attended his gatherings for a fee; they were paid to stimulate the flagging passions of the guests, like spices in a tired stew.

  Even so, it took some time even for me to realize he was putting these girls in Marcellus’s way deliberately. At first I could scarcely credit it. But I watched their rehearsed heavy-handed advances with growing understanding, and growing anger. Marcellus, in his decency and innocence, did not see; but I, with a cynical eye, knew what they were about, and who was behind it.

  I said nothing. I hid my thoughts even from him; out of shame, and contempt for the pettiness of it all. But Scapula, sensing my true feeling with the keenness of a dog snuffling around the midden, would sidle up to me, slap me on the back with false jollity, and ask with a mocking eye why I was so sullen when I should be enjoying myself like everyone else. He would point with his fat finger at one of his girls, ask my opinion, or speculate with a knowing leer whether Marcellus might be lucky tonight.

  To these provocations I would give some short answer; and he, regarding me with the amused eye and dry sophisticated smirk he always wore, would move on.

  He knew what he was doing. It amused him to see me suffer. And he knew I had no defence. He was confronting me with the darkness within my soul, where jealousy lived, and fear, and what I could face least of all, my own weakness.

  But, worse than that, Scapula had found a fault-line in our friendship; and, like a mason hewing stone, he chipped away at it.

  EIGHT

  THE HARVEST WAS IN. The last of the heavy oce
an traders sailed for the mainland. The city prepared to celebrate the autumn festival – and Scapula announced he was holding a party.

  That night Marcellus and I had dined with friends. By the time we arrived at the fashionable mansion of Scapula’s father it was already overflowing with raucous drunken guests.

  As was usual with Scapula’s parties, the room was dark. The only light came from tiny shaded side-lamps, glinting from the alcoves. The air was hot and heavy, and reeked of incense mixed with expensive perfume – the kind of scents from Egypt and Syria my uncle sold in his shop in the forum. Up to then the evening had been pleasant. Now, greeted by the press of people and the sound of braying drunken laughter, I braced myself for something different.

  The doorman took our cloaks. I said frowning to Marcellus, ‘I think half the city must be here.’ After the dinner we had left, it was like an uncouth tumult. I was about to suggest we called for our cloaks and left; but, before I could speak, Scapula’s voice boomed out from among the dark expanse of braying heads, and a moment later he came pushing through the crowd, flushed and laughing, with a golden oak-spray in his hair.

  He greeted Marcellus with fulsome warmth, turning his back on me, seemingly by accident. I was used to these slights. I left them talking and wandered off; then I ran into a friend, and next time I looked, both Marcellus and Scapula had gone.

  I took a drink and edged through the crowd to the terrace. The guests were spilling out down the steps, onto the lawns and walkways of the garden. One of Scapula’s flute-girls came sidling up and began some patter, complimenting me on my looks and feeling the muscles in my arm and such things. I sent her away. Then I saw someone I knew from the governor’s palace, and went to talk to him and his friends.

  Time passed. A slave came by with more wine and I took it. Marcellus was lost somewhere in the throng of people. I talked, and drank, and drank some more; and presently, when the group I was with broke up, I turned back into the hot, crowded room. By now it was almost impossible to move. Someone shoved me hard on the shoulder and I turned. It was Scapula.

  ‘Looking for Marcellus?’ he asked over the din.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No?’ He gave a flick of his eyebrows to show he knew I was lying. ‘Well he was looking for you. What do you make of the company tonight? There are some pretty girls, don’t you think? Pretty and available. They ought to be; they cost enough.’

  I gave some short answer and moved to get away from him. But he raised a blocking arm.

  ‘Let me save you some time,’ he went on. ‘Marcellus went that way, into the garden.’ He threw me an arch look, adding, ‘Oh, but now I think of it, he may not want to see you; not quite yet. You see, he had company. Marcellus knows how to enjoy himself, even if you do not.’

  He aimed his barbs well, but I would rather have died than let him see it. ‘Good,’ I said coolly. ‘I daresay I’ll see him later.’ And before he could speak again I went pushing off in the other direction. One of the hired girls accosted me, and this time I paused and spoke to her, I forget of what. But, of course, curiosity soon got the better of me, and when I passed an open doorway to the garden I stepped outside.

  Small covered lamps had been placed along the balustrade of the terrace. They glowed red and blue, but cast little light. Beyond, narrow paths extended into the shadows, leading off between the tall shrubs. I could not see Marcellus among the people gathered there.

  I finished my wine and set down the cup. Not wishing to return inside, I made my way down the steps to a stone bench at an ornamental pool, thinking to sit alone for a while. In such little ways do we delude ourselves. I even paused at the pool and watched the dark shape of a swimming carp. Then, as though pulled by some unseen thread, I walked on.

  There was no moon; away from the terrace it was hard to see. The path was lined with high bushing shrubs. I paused and considered. I knew I was being foolish; once again I had allowed Scapula to goad me. I drew a deep breath and looked up at the night sky. My vision swayed and I blinked. I had drunk more than usual; and at Scapula’s the wine was always strong.

  By now my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and I went on. Soon the path widened, opening into an arboured walkway. I glanced back; I was some way from the house. I could hear the laughter carried in waves, braying and ugly. Then, somewhere close, I heard a different sound.

  I turned. A figure was seated under the arbour, in a recess in the high wall, half-concealed by climbing plants.

  Even in the deep darkness I knew his form. ‘Marcellus?’ I whispered, and at this his head turned.

  ‘Oh Drusus, it’s you. Where were you?’ His voice sounded thick and strange.

  I took a step forward, saying, ‘What are you doing out here, all on your own? I was—’ But then a movement silenced me, and I perceived he was not alone after all.

  ‘This is Lollia,’ he said.

  From the darkness beside him a tousled girl with crimped hair jutted her head forward and glared at me.

  ‘Hello Lollia,’ I said, too woodenly for manners. I had seen her earlier, with Scapula; she had been laughing a great hoarse laugh at some crude joke of his; but now she only flinched her face in a way that made it clear I was intruding.

  My head cleared; my illusions fell away. I ought to have turned on my heels and strode off. But, fool that I was, I hesitated and peered through the darkness at him, sensing, though I could not tell what, that something was amiss. As I paused, the girl cried in her harsh voice, ‘What! Can’t you see we’re busy?’

  I looked at Marcellus in amazement, but he just fell back in her arms, and gazed at me with amused, unfocused eyes. Only then did it come to me that he was falling drunk. It took me aback more than you might suppose, for he was always restrained with wine.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ I muttered, more out of surprise than anything else.

  The girl snapped back, ‘And what’s it to you?’

  There were many answers I might have given; but I was not going to let this creature of Scapula’s trample on my pride. I turned to go, and in that instant, somewhere close behind me, I heard a movement, the scuff of a shoe on stone. I swung round, knowing even before I saw him what I should find.

  Half-hidden in the shadow of a tall oleander, Scapula was cowering. I might have guessed he would not have missed this for the world. He grinned, looking sheepish. I suppose he had thought he could slink off into the bushes before I saw him.

  My misery turned to anger then. ‘Seen enough, have you?’ I shouted, ‘or do you need a little longer for your pleasure?’ And to make my meaning clear I added a few barrack-terms, which I am reluctant to set down. I shoved past him; but as I strode away I heard his hurried steps behind.

  I was halfway through the door to the street when he caught me. He grabbed me roughly by the shoulder, swinging me round.

  ‘What now!’ I shouted, rounding on him.

  Heads turned; voices fell silent.

  ‘Why so angry?’ he mocked. ‘There are plenty of others like Lollia, just take your pick.’ He paused, pretending to think, then added slowly, ‘Or perhaps it is not him you envy, but her?’

  He said no more, because my fist had closed his mouth for him. He stumbled; his foot caught on an upturned tile beside the path; his arms went up; and he fell crashing backwards into a privet bush.

  Two days later, at first light, I rode from the barracks with a troop of my comrades. We crossed the bridge over the Thames and took the road south, which leads through the Downs to the coast. Gratian had called for a snap inspection of the shore-forts before the winter set in. I was the first to volunteer.

  We passed through remote hamlets. Children came running from simple earth-built huts to see the horses and the fine soldiers. On high ground, or beside water, or in the midst of ancient groves, we saw old country shrines, simple crude work of wood and thatch. Anywhere near the city such places would have been desecrated and smashed; but here they were swept clean, and planted with flowers, and
adorned with harvest offerings.

  One or two of my comrades sneered, and made jokes about rustic peasants, for there were Christians even in the Protectors. But they soon fell silent. We were far from the city: the Church counted for nothing here, and their clever words sounded empty and foolish.

  On the afternoon of the third day the blue-grey sea showed on the horizon and we saw our destination, the towering walls of Pevensey fort, with its new stonework rising sheer and white, dwarfing the fishing settlement beside it.

  Gratian had been wise to send out a chance inspection. The garrison, which according to the reports was at full complement and ready to ward off any invasion, turned out to be half empty. There were no lookouts posted, so that we were able to ride through the open gates and into the inner court unchallenged. Even then it was only a sleepy guard who stuck his head out of an upper window and called down, asking what we wanted.

  The garrison captain was summoned. Leontius was severe; but, standing in the corner, I had my eye on the captain’s face when he thought no one was looking. He was a burly black-bearded man from Gaul, and he scarcely troubled to hide his sneer of contempt. He was not going to be told his job by some over-promoted upstart come swanning down from London. The barbarians could be forgotten; Constans had driven them out, and the forts would keep it that way. Besides, his men had not gone far, only to their mothers and wives and children, and what was the harm in that? They would drift back in time.

  Next day we took the coast road to Lympne. The navy had once been stationed here, till the imperial authorities diverted the funds elsewhere to meet some crisis or other. Now the town was faded and half-empty. We saw to the fort, then rode on to Dover, with its twin lighthouses beckoning from the hilltop.