by Paul Waters
When the news of Magnentius’s coup had reached Constans, he had vowed to fight and regain what was his. But his courtiers, the same men who had fed his vanity and promised him he was invincible, now wrung their hands and said that all was lost: the Gallic legions had already declared for the usurper. No one dared tell him, even then, with what speed and enthusiasm they had done so. Upon hearing this, Constans flew into one of his rages. Why had they not warned him? Surely someone among them must have caught a rumour of what was afoot. For what other purpose had he kept an army of costly spies?
The courtiers stared at one another, and repeated what they had already said; and eventually, as realization dawned, Constans’s rage turned to terror. He would go to Autun, he said, and throw himself at Magnentius’s feet. He would ask for mercy. ‘No!’ retorted the courtiers, thinking of their own fate; better to make for the East and his brother Constantius, who would surely help.
And so Constans fled.
He had reached the town of Elne, at the foot of the Pyrenees, when Magnentius’s horsemen overtook him. He ran to the church there, and sought sanctuary. The troops dragged him out, and on the steps they put him to death.
In London, Gratian summoned the Council to assembly. On the afternoon before it met, a deputation of Pannonians went to him, asking to attend him as his escort.
He thanked them, but declined. To take an armed guard into the Council chamber would be a clear sign of his distrust, just when his purpose was to persuade. The Pannonians protested. In the end, he agreed to take Leontius and one other – but unarmed.
No one said what was becoming clear to us all, that the corps, of which we were so proud, was beginning to fracture and divide. One saw it in the mess hall, or in the chance gatherings in corridors and courtyards: Pannonians with Pannonians, Gauls with Gauls, Britons with Britons. Old friendships frayed; whispered conversations were suddenly broken off as one passed, and resumed after.
But it is generosity in adversity that one remembers. Soon after mess there was a tap on my door; it was Leontius, asking me to be the one to accompany him to the Council. He could have chosen a Pannonian, and there were many whispered complaints later that he had not. But he chose me, to show he was above the faction.
We woke next day to low grey sky and steady rain; but at least the fog was gone. At the porch of the basilica a crowd was waiting – decurions, city officials, clerks and common citizens, all curious and afraid. The falling rain hissed on the wrought iron of the cressets; the torches flared and spluttered, sending smoke curling upwards under the coffered stone roof.
Leontius was tense. It would be an easy thing, among so many, for an assassin to strike Gratian down. From the corner of my eye I saw his hand move instinctively to his sword belt; then move away as he remembered we were unarmed. I scanned the crowd as it parted around us, looking for the telltale signs – a conspiratorial nod, an arm seeking under a cloak, an edging forward, a sudden step. But there was nothing; and moments later we were through them, passing over the threshold of the council chamber with its tall bronze doors and marble lintel.
A hush fell as we entered. From the tiered seats the assembled decurions stared. Eyes moved from Gratian to Leontius and me, and then to the place where our swords would have been. I saw their faces and understood that Gratian was right to refuse an armed guard: these men were no threat; an entourage with swords would have smacked of tyranny.
In the front row, I saw Aquinus sitting among the senior magistrates and other officers of the Council; behind them, from the rising tiers, the decurions looked down like birds on a wall. Voices resumed. There was a buzz of tension. The air smelled of incense and lamp-smoke. Leontius and I took up our places, out of the way beside the doors; the presiding magistrate spoke a few words; then Gratian stepped forward, his boots sounding on the black granite floor.
First he outlined the military situation in Gaul, speaking disparagingly of Magnentius, calling him traitor and usurper, predicting that soon Constantius would bring his mighty armies from the East and crush the rebellion. His voice boomed; he spoke too fast. He seemed oddly ill at ease. As I cast my eyes over the faces staring down at him, it came to me that he was used to addressing soldiers, men who listened and obeyed.
Eventually he paused. The only sound was the splutter of the hanging lamps suspended on their long chains. He had not invited questions; but now, breaking the brief silence, someone from high up in the tiered seats called out, asking which legions in the West were loyal to Constantius.
Gratian’s head jerked up, searching for the speaker. For a moment, before his face set, his irritation showed. Who were these civic nobodies to question him on military matters?
‘They have all declared for the usurper,’ he answered.
‘So Magnentius holds Gaul, Spain and Italy?’
‘For now, that is true.’ He turned his head away, indicating that the exchange was over.
But the speaker continued, ‘There is a rumour that Illyricum has also declared.’
Gratian’s mouth hardened.
‘I did not tell you,’ he answered slowly, ‘that the emperor would not have to fight—’
‘You mean Constantius?’
‘I mean the emperor. There is no other.’
‘But Constantius is at war with the Persians. He must be half a year away.’
‘He will disengage, or make peace, or send another army.’
‘How long,’ someone else called from the back, ‘will it take him to assemble such an army?’
Gratian turned. His colour had risen. ‘A year,’ he snapped. ‘Perhaps longer. But he will come. In the meantime, we shall hold out against Magnentius. He will not dare move east with his flank unsecured.’
There was a pause and muttering after this. Then a retired magistrate, an old squire in from the country, rose to his feet.
‘Do you mean to fight Magnentius then?’
‘Of course.’ Gratian looked at him as if he were a fool.
‘And yet Magnentius claims he is now the rightful emperor in the West. Does that not make us the rebels, if we move against him?’
I stole a glance at Leontius. He was standing rigid, but at his side his fingers were tapping angrily. He did not care for all this quibbling talk. It was not how things were done in the hill stations of Pannonia.
‘Constantius,’ answered Gratian slowly, ‘is the senior Augustus.’
‘By whose authority except his own?’ returned the squire. ‘If we resist, Magnentius will strike against us even before Constantius is ready. We must consider the safety of the province, of our homes and families.’
‘Let him strike. We shall repel him.’ Gratian turned impatiently away. But the old man had not finished.
‘It is forbidden for us citizens to bear arms. We cannot defend ourselves. And, even if we were armed, we have forgotten how to fight. The imperial government taxes us, and in return promises us safety, not civil strife. And yet,’ he said, turning and surveying the rows behind him, ‘three times my house has been razed by the Saxons, my livestock slaughtered or carried off, and my people murdered. Three times I have made good what I lost – but I cannot afford to start again. Let the emperors fight their own war! We have no need of it.’
The old man sat down, chewing on his gums in agitation. There were murmurs of agreement, quiet at first, and timid, but rising in confidence and volume. The presiding magistrate beat his rod of office on the floor, calling for order. Gratian frowned at the rows of men in front of him.
‘I understand what you say. I cannot support such a policy.’
The presiding magistrate asked if he would like the Council to move to a vote.
‘No!’ he cried, his anger at last breaking forth, ‘I have not come here for your vote. I shall consider what I have heard, and I will consult elsewhere. You shall have my decision when I have made it.’
In the days that followed, Gratian kept to his quarters. The palace twittered like a roost of starlings; everyone had
heard that the meeting of the Council had been a disaster, that he had not received the support he wanted. In the barracks the air was tense, and among the Protectors the factions began in earnest.
Those who had been with Gratian longest, who had come with him from his command in Africa, sided with Constantius. So, of course, did all the Pannonians. The rest kept quiet, which was viewed by the others as support for Magnentius. Blood and tribal loyalty won out; and, though there was much talk, there was no place for reason.
While Gratian waited for his messengers to return from the cities and forts, we were confined to London. When I could, I called at Aquinus’s town-house. Marcellus had not returned. I found I could think of little else.
Eventually I went to Leontius and told him I had a pressing matter I had to attend to.
‘Take a horse,’ he answered. ‘I’ll make sure you’re not missed. Two days, mind. No longer.’
The shadows were lengthening by the time I reached the avenue of poplars that led to the gate. I found Marcellus behind the house, working in the low gully beside the entrance to the hypocaust. His hair and tunic were thick with mortar-dust; he was peering into the dark tunnelled space below the house, while behind him a slave stood waiting, holding a bucket and trowel. The brickwork arch, which formed the entrance, had collapsed. It lay in a heap on the ground. Marcellus had advanced half inside; he had not seen me.
The slave looked up and recognizing me smiled. Just then Marcellus called to him, ‘See here, Cato, it’s as I thought; the beam has collapsed. Come and help me lift it.’
I threw off my cloak and with a secret sign to the slave jumped down and crept in along the passage. Marcellus, up ahead, was saying, ‘Now careful, it’s heavy; you take that side, and I’ll take this.’ I coughed, and he swung round.
‘Drusus!’ he cried.
I could not but laugh at the look of surprise on his dust-smeared face. I stepped up and gripped the end of the timber beam, and together we heaved it back onto its brick post. It took some little while, and when it was done we were both out of breath.
We stopped and looked at each other.
‘Now you’ve got plaster all over your uniform,’ he said. He reached out with his hand, about to dust it off; but then he hesitated, and walked back outside, and sent the slave off on some errand. Turning he said, ‘Why have you come?’
I drew my breath. My tongue felt like lead in my mouth. Eventually I said, ‘I called for you in London. You were not there. I had to see you.’
‘Oh?’ he said coolly. His eyes surveyed the bricks that lay scattered on the grass slope. He stooped down and began arranging them, moving them pointlessly from one side of the fallen structure to the other.
‘Marcellus, what are you doing? They’re as much in the way there as they were before!’
At this he ceased. For a moment he stared at the bricks, then raised his hand to run it through his hair. Then he stopped himself, seeing it was covered with mortar.
He said, ‘You shouldn’t have left me like that.’
I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. I had been thinking all during my long ride from London what to say; but too much had depended on him.
‘You were busy, or don’t you remember? But it doesn’t matter now. Scapula has been putting girls in your way for months. He wanted to see what I would do.’
‘That’s why you were angry.’
I thought of the girl in Dover and said, ‘I had no cause. It’s not my business.’
‘No? I thought I was your business, and you were mine.’
Our eyes met. And then, at last, the words came tumbling out.
‘I am sorry, Marcellus,’ I cried. ‘I had to face down my own weakness, or what use is my friendship, if I cannot for my own sake be good? I was jealous, and ashamed of it. I love you more than my own life, if you want to know; but no man can possess another. This one thing I had to find alone.’
He paused, frowning. Then he said, ‘You know what Scapula is saying?’
‘No; what?’
‘He is saying that we are lovers.’
I kicked angrily at a fallen brick. ‘To Hades with him! Let him say what he likes.’
‘Are you ashamed of it?’
‘No, Marcellus; never.’ Then, looking at him, I said, ‘I should be proud, if it were true.’
He gave a smile. There was a smear of dust across his forehead where he had wiped it. ‘What else,’ he asked, placing his hand on my shoulder, ‘are we about? And I, for one, can think of no other whose love I should rather have.’
And then we embraced.
But not for long, for suddenly there was a scrambling in the gravel behind me and before I could turn I was struck by a great thump in my side. It sent us both reeling.
I jumped round with a shout; but Marcellus began to laugh.
‘Ufa, you stupid beast!’ he cried. The great clumsy dog had come bounding into the ditch, and was jumping and prancing at our feet.
‘See,’ he said smiling, ‘we had better be careful; he’s jealous already.’ He knelt down and ruffled the dog’s fur. Then, glancing up with a serious face, he said, ‘You will stay tonight?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll stay.’
That evening we ate alone in the great dining-room with its damask couches, panelled walls, and ancient faded tapestries. A single lamp was burning on a standard of wrought Italian silver; it formed an island of light around the table and couches, enclosing and illuminating us, leaving the rest in shadow.
Marcellus had ordered up a flask of their best wine, a golden Moselle, and when the plates were cleared we sat over our cups and talked into the night, with Ufa sprawled contentedly at our feet.
He asked if I had seen his grandfather, saying, ‘He wrote to me, telling me to lay in stores and see to the outer walls.’
‘What, even here? But the Saxons have never come this far.’
‘It is not the Saxons that concern him. He says that if it comes to war, everything may collapse. It has happened before, and we had best look to our own safety, if no one else will.’
For a while then we talked of the events in Gaul, and the corps of Protectors, and what the future held. A little later he said, ‘You know, you gave Scapula quite a black eye. He told everyone he had tripped, but I knew it was you.’
‘He deserved it. He wanted to see how far he could push me; now he has found out.’
‘He bears grudges, and has a powerful family.’
‘Then I shall watch out for myself. Besides, he won’t be inviting me to any more of his parties.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I hated them anyway, and in truth I shouldn’t have gone at all, except he came to me one day and said I was keeping you cooped up like a virgin bride, and couldn’t I see you were yearning to get out.’ He frowned at this, and I saw he was blushing. To hide it he went on, ‘He said a lot of other things besides. I wonder sometimes where he gets it all from.’
I shook my head. I could imagine well enough. Scapula made vice and innuendo his business, as a rider knows his reins and saddle. But all I said was, ‘I wish you’d told me. I hated them too; I only went because of you.’
‘Really?’ Our eyes met, and we laughed.
But presently he grew serious once more and said, ‘You know, I have spent my whole life trying to get away from the likes of Scapula and his set; and sometimes I think my mother’s only purpose is to force them on me.’
‘How so?’ I said, sitting up. ‘What has your mother to do with it?’
‘She sees them as noble, marrying stock. It’s all she thinks about. As for me, I’d rather drown myself than marry into a family like that.’
‘But surely that girl—’
‘She has nothing to do with it; she was just one of Scapula’s hired playmates. But he has a sister – not that he ever lets her loose at those parties of his. But it’s her my mother had her eyes on . . . No longer though. I’ve told her. We argued.’
‘But Marcellus, that’s terrible. Why
will she not leave you be?’
‘Why?’ He shrugged. ‘She wants a grandson, that’s why. All she thinks of is the bloodline, which ends with me.’
I frowned, wondering if this was in the nature of mothers. But then another thought came to me, and I set down my cup and looked at him. ‘But she does not suppose, does she, that I stand in your way? I would never do that. You know, if that’s what you want . . .’
‘Oh, there is time enough for that.’ He smiled into my eyes. ‘But you are here now . . . let the bloodline wait.’
NINE
ONE BY ONE, Gratian’s messengers returned from the cities.
Gratian, brisk and irritable, kept to his quarters. But one evening, just as we were finishing dinner, he appeared unannounced at the door of the mess hall. He always held himself straight. Inasmuch as he had learned deportment, it was to bear himself like a trooper on the parade-ground. But his face looked drawn, and the strain was showing about his eyes.
The chatter died away as he was noticed; and after a moment he came and sat among us at the long raw-wood table. Leontius poured a cup of wine and set it before him. ‘What news, sir?’ he asked.
Gratian paused, frowning at the dark wine. All across Britain, he said, the message was the same. Without the support of the cities he could not hold the province. This support, he now realized, he did not have.
Immediately the room broke into shouts of anger and support, and wild suggestions for action. ‘No,’ he said, raising his voice for quiet. He did not intend to start his own civil war in Britain. ‘Africa is still loyal to Constantius. I shall return there.’ He would take with him those Protectors and troops who wished to join the cause of the East. But there would be no compulsion; each must make his own choice. We had been friends, and he hoped, somehow, that we could remain so, whatever the future held; for the present disruptions would surely pass.
This said, he got to his feet, and without looking round strode out, leaving his wine still untouched on the table. It was like watching some proud and aged wolf, beaten at last by a young rival, carry himself off defeated to lick his wounds alone.
