by Paul Waters
All along the waterfront the citizens had gathered, a silent staring mass. The magistrates were at the front, dressed in their formal striped robes, craning their necks to see. They looked, I thought, like an assembly of curious, nervous geese. Only Aquinus, standing a little apart – for whatever his natural authority he was not one of the magistrates – kept his eyes ahead. He was looking down at the landing-place, dignified and restrained, with a face under his white beard that was giving nothing away.
On the cutter the pilot barked out the order to ship oars. The vessel glided expertly to its place at the quay. A lanyard was tossed ashore and made fast. The gangboard was lowered; and Flavius Martinus stepped ashore.
He was clean-shaven, with a firm patrician face, not quite arrogant, but one that was long accustomed to authority and privilege. He came from ancient senatorial stock; his ancestors, as Aquinus told me, had been in government when the House of Constantine were still illiterate goatherds.
On the quay he paused, and with a single incurious sweep of his eyes he surveyed the assembled crowd. And we appraised him in return, knowing that the fate of the province lay in his hands. There was a tiny pause; then all the activity of ceremony and officialdom resumed. Gennadius, in his capacity as chief magistrate, stepped forward, and the other magistrates followed, obsequious and smiling.
Meanwhile, from the ship, there disembarked a retinue of civil servants, and I daresay I should not have paid these grey men any attention except that one, just as he was passing, caught his foot on a stray mooring line and stumbled. Thinking he was about to fall I stepped forward and caught him by the arm. His head jerked up and he stared at me, snatching his arm away. For a moment then his eyes dwelt on mine, and I felt a creeping in my hair. It was like the look of some night-time predatory creature, cold and unblinking.
He walked on without a word, but after that I kept my eye on him as he proceeded through the crowd. He scarcely acknowledged the magistrates and decurions, who in their eagerness to please were greeting everyone. He returned their smiles with a look of cold appraisal, moving on even while they were speaking. He was tall, with black hair, not short-cropped like the others’, but long and limp and oiled, so that it clung to his skull. His movements were careful and precise, like a stalking cat.
Presently, when the uneasy rituals were over and we had been dismissed, I went across to where Marcellus was standing and asked if he had noticed the man. I was all set to point him out, but Marcellus knew straightaway whom I meant.
‘He is a notary,’ he said, ‘one of Constantius’s personal agents. His name is Paulus. But they call him “the Chain”.’
‘The Chain?’ I said. ‘But why?’
‘Because in his treason inquiries he manages to implicate anyone he chooses, one after the other, in a chain of conspiracy. Gennadius was telling Grandfather just now. Keep out of his way. He is dangerous.’
‘Too late for that,’ I said, and told him why.
‘Well, he can hardly blame you for saving him from falling on his face.’
‘No,’ I said. But I shuddered all the same, remembering his eyes on me. ‘But why is he here?’ I asked. ‘What has he to investigate? Magnentius did not set foot in Britain, and no one here declared for him.’
Marcellus shrugged. ‘I expect we’ll find out. Constantius trusts no one, and you’ve heard what he’s doing in Gaul. We didn’t declare for Magnentius, that’s true enough; but don’t forget, we didn’t declare for Constantius either.’
After that Aquinus came up, accompanied by old round-faced Gennadius, and we spoke of other things. But next morning early, while I was still dressing in my quarters, there was a tap on my door and Trebius entered. I took one look at his face and said, ‘What has happened?’
‘What do you know of the new governor?’ he asked.
‘Not much. Aquinus has met him before. He’s old-school Italian, born to administration, not the kind of man to upset the apple-cart.’
‘I hope so. I’ve just come from him. I went to present the new guard, but he has refused them. He says he’ll use his own men.’ He paused, and looked at me with his solemn, slightly shy expression. ‘In short,’ he said, ‘he does not trust us.’
‘Then let Martinus guard himself,’ I said with a shrug. ‘But what will he do with the rest of us? Dismiss us all?’
‘That’s what I asked him. He said no, we stay as we are . . . for now. Though we are to swear new allegiance, to Constantius.’
He turned and gazed out through the deep-set window that looked out over the cobbled court. In the silence I could hear the distant voice of a centurion, drilling men on the parade-ground, and the sound of boots on stone, moving in unison.
I said, ‘To swear a new oath is no great surprise. There is something else, Trebius, isn’t there?’
For a moment he did not answer. Then, with his eyes still on the empty court outside, he said, ‘The notary wishes to see me.’
I was strapping on my belt, pushing the thick brown leather through the catch. He did not see my moment’s hesitation.
‘What of it?’ I said lightly. ‘No doubt he will want to speak to us all.’
‘I expect you have not heard it yet, Drusus, but there are rumours about this notary . . .’ He turned at last, and met my eyes. ‘I can face the barbarians without a thought, or any battle you put me in. No man can call me a coward or weak. But these sly inquisitors with their subtle questions and double meanings scare me. They decide what they want, and then trick you into saying it . . . My son is not yet five years old, you know.’
I knew. I had seen the child – and Trebius’s pretty, cheerful wife – going about the fort. He was a bright-eyed boy with a mop of curly light-brown hair like his father’s. He stood to attention and called me ‘sir’ whenever I spoke to him.
‘But Trebius,’ I said, hurrying to reassure him, ‘you have done no wrong; there is no need to fear.’ But even as I spoke, I remembered what my father had said to me on the last day I saw him, and something within me shivered.
I talked on, lest he sense my doubt, and in the end he smiled and thanked me, and said he had better be getting on. I suppose he realized there was nothing more I could say.
That evening, after dark, I called at his private quarters. His wife opened the door and greeted me with a bright smile. I guessed that Trebius had not shared his fears with her.
He was sitting inside at the rough wood table. A single clay lamp burned, and by its light I could see the leathers of his uniform laid out, where his wife had been polishing them. We spoke of this and that, and then, with a touch of her hand, he sent her off. When she had gone he met my eye. He had been smiling at his wife; for a moment the smile still sat on his face, like something forgotten.
‘What happened?’ I said. ‘Did he question you?’
He shook his head, then paused and listened. From somewhere I could hear his wife, talking to the child. She was too far off to hear us.
Trebius rubbed his face with his hand. Then he spoke. ‘He took me to the cellars of the governor’s palace,’ he said. ‘He has requisitioned one of them for himself. He showed me what were, he said, his tools of work, laid out neatly on a long table – tongs, spikes, pliers, hooks, curved blades like pruning knives; and in the centre of the room a chair with straps. By every infernal god, Drusus, I had not realized there were so many instruments of torture.’
I had been standing. I pulled up the stool and sat.
‘Then what?’ I murmured.
He looked me in the face. ‘Nothing; nothing at all. He merely showed me the room, like a carpenter showing his workshop. He picked up the little metal instruments and set them down again, gently, as if they were precious fragile things, and when he had finished he told me I could go.’
Next day, the order went out for the Council to convene, and since no one had told me otherwise, I attended, as part of my old duties.
My mind was on Trebius. I had met Marcellus outside and we had been speaking of hi
m. But as I entered the chamber, I heard from among the press of formal robes and whitened tunics a high-pitched indignant voice that made me turn in surprise.
On the front bench – the seats reserved for the magistrates – a genteel commotion had broken out, and in the midst of it was Bishop Pulcher. His small bejewelled hand was snapping at the air as he remonstrated with Gennadius; and Gennadius, together with some of the other magistrates, was telling him he had no right to be there. But the bishop would not listen. He seemed to have decided he was going to sit on the magistrates’ bench, and, the bench being already full, was attempting to push his way in.
Just then Gennadius caught sight of me and gave me a pleading look. But there was no procedure I knew for dealing with such a breach: such matters were left to tradition, and a general acceptance of good manners. Besides, I could scarcely eject the bishop onto the street, much as I should have liked to. I shrugged back at Gennadius and shook my head.
By now, through a mixture of shooing with his hands, and vulgar pushing, the bishop had managed to insert himself into a space too small for him, and was sitting with a look of triumph on his reddened face. And then Aquinus walked in. He paused at the door and greeted me. Then he turned, and I saw his white eyebrows rise. The bishop was wedged on the front bench, smoothing down the folds of his silk mantle, which had become creased and twisted in the unseemly struggle.
Aquinus hesitated; but only for an instant. Then he walked across the polished floor and took his seat in one of the rows behind, inclining his head at the magistrates as he passed, ignoring the bishop who sat beaming up at him.
There was no more time to think on this. There was a stir at the tall double doors beside me, and then Martinus strode in, dressed in a long white robe with its senatorial band of purple, followed by his entourage of officials – and among them, dim and grey against the bright clothing of the others, moving with his gliding fastidious gait, was the notary.
The chamber fell silent. The session was declared open. Martinus stepped forward.
‘I bring the emperor’s words to you,’ he began. ‘His eternity the most noble Constantius has been’ – and here he paused, affecting to find the appropriate word – ‘disappointed . . . disappointed that Britain did not declare for him during the rebellion, and assist him in the conduct of the just war recently ended.’ He looked round at the staring faces. No one made a sound. He spoke in a clear well-schooled patrician Latin, each cadence measured, each word perfectly formed and precise. ‘But now,’ he went on, ‘the traitor Magnentius is dead, and the divine emperor considers his victory was ordained by the one God, in Whom he has unswerving faith. It is his pleasure and command, therefore, that laws hitherto enacted, but ignored, shall now be enforced with renewed rigour. Consequently all heathen temples shall be closed forthwith; all sacrifices shall be banned, and all worship of false images forbidden – upon pain of death.’
There was an appalled silence. Eyes strayed from Martinus to the bishop, understanding now why he had been so eager to attend. This was his triumph; it was written all over his self-satisfied face.
Martinus turned to where, among the entourage, the notary was sitting on a wooden bench, his thin long-fingered hands resting oddly on his lap, his face as expressionless as a corpse. ‘The emperor,’ he continued, ‘has sent to accompany me his personal agent, the notary Paulus, whose commission it is to investigate treason in the province. It is the emperor’s belief that the roots of rebellion run deep. They will now be uncovered. The notary has full authority, upon the emperor’s express instruction, and is to be given every assistance. I trust that is clear to all.’
There was a murmur like the flutter of birds, for by now word had got round of the notary’s arrival, and his reputation. But no one spoke; there was nothing to say. Everyone knew that Martinus was not there to consult, but to instruct.
‘I really cannot see,’ said Gennadius later, ‘why he does not dissolve the Council and have done with it.’
It was the evening of the same day. We were sitting in the study of Aquinus’s town-house, with its plain chairs of polished wood, its lattice-doored book-cupboards, and shelves of neatly labelled scrolls. I had come to see Marcellus, and had encountered Gennadius walking up the street from his own house, accompanied by one of his house-slaves.
‘Because,’ answered Aquinus, ‘it suits Constantius to preserve the form of freedom, like all tyrants. But we are all guilty in his eyes.’
‘He cannot execute us all!’ cried Gennadius with a quick laugh.
But Aquinus did not laugh, and, seeing this, Gennadius broke off with an appalled look on his broad farmer’s face. ‘But he must know we did only what was best for the province,’ he continued. ‘Surely he must see that? Gaul is in ruins, and Britain prospers. What more evidence does he need?’ He picked up his wine-cup from the little oak side-table beside his chair, then immediately set it down again as a new thought came to him. ‘And what was the bishop doing? Did you see him smiling and nodding at that dreadful notary like some theatre clown?’
‘It is rumoured they have become friends.’
‘Well, like attracts like. Even so, surely he would not ally himself with such a creature.’
‘The bishop is a man I find difficult to predict. But if one thinks the worst of him, one is seldom wrong. And as far as I can tell, he is a man who would set alight his house in order to bake a loaf.’
Clemens tapped at the door and announced that supper was ready. ‘But come, Gennadius,’ said Aquinus, ‘will you not eat with us?’
‘No, no. Thank you.’ He got up to leave, adding with a frown, ‘It is said Constantius trusts no one but his spies, and even they are spied upon.’
‘Still, we have Martinus.’
‘I did not see much evidence of moderation there. He made Constantius sound like an Asiatic despot.’
‘I fear he portrayed him accurately.’
Gennadius shook his head. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
Aquinus said, ‘I knew Martinus once, long ago, when I was a student in Rome. No doubt he too is watched. But he is an honourable man.’
‘I hope you are right. We live in a world where the cart leads the mule, and I confess I no longer understand it. It is time I returned to the country and left government to the young.’
But in the days following his address to the Council, Martinus invited the leading citizens to the governor’s palace, and it was reported by those who attended that the notary was nowhere in evidence. Martinus, they said, was courteous, charming and urbane; he sought their opinions on minor affairs of state, and afterwards was praised for his good sense and humanity. When next I saw Gennadius he was in a better mood, saying he supposed his fears had been excessive.
The spring equinox passed. The whitethorn was in blossom, and the city air was scented with lime-flowers. One bright morning Marcellus walked into my room at the fort and asked me to come out riding. I agreed without questioning him. His face had told me enough.
We crossed the bridge and turned east, taking the tracks through reeds and marsh grass beside the river.
Marcellus drove his horse hard. After some time, when the city was far behind and the river had widened into the slow-flowing estuary, he turned off and walked his horse up a path that climbed a grassy knoll clustered with yellow-flowering gorse and heather tufts. He dismounted at the top, tethered his horse, and from his saddle-bag took the little pack of food he had brought. We sat on the grass. But instead of eating he gazed absently across the river plain and the glinting water beyond.
For a while I ate in silence, leaving him to his thoughts. His mother had been to visit; I had not seen him for some days. Presently I broke off a fistful of bread and held it out. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘before I finish it all.’
He took the bread from my hand and looked at it.
‘What happened?’ I said. ‘Or will you suffer in silence?’
He set the lump of bread down beside him and clasped his arms around his knees
. ‘We fought again. Remember last week, when she took me off to the country?’
I nodded. She had wanted him to visit an uncle.
‘I knew she was up to something. Remember I told you? Well she took me to meet the daughter of some nobody she knows. I shouldn’t have minded if only she had told me first; but I found out only when we were at the gates. It was humiliating, as if I were some child having a cure forced on it.’
‘What then?’
‘Oh, we sat on couches sipping drinks and picking at sweetmeats and trying not to look at each other, while my mother talked on and on, and the girl’s father sized me up like a stallion at a horse fair . . . Here, you eat this; I’m not hungry. I tell you, Drusus, it makes me not want to marry at all.’ He looked up. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘So no luck for the squire’s daughter then?’
He threw the lump of bread at me, but by then he too was smiling, in spite of himself. ‘You’d think,’ he said, ‘that Mother was breeding hounds. In truth the girl was pleasant enough, in a dull, country sort of way. But with her father and my mother there, we scarcely spoke ten words.’
But after this his mood lifted a little. He ate some bread and olives, and drank the wine I had brought. Presently he said, ‘You know, afterwards, she even went to Grandfather, to get him to speak to me. Can you believe it? It makes me angry.’
I asked him what Aquinus had said.
‘He just laughed. He told her time was a wise counsellor – whatever he means by that. Anyway, she didn’t like that either, and now she has gone back to the country to sulk.’ He gave a deep frown and plucked at the grass. After a long pause he said, ‘You’re the only one I can tell these things to.’
I nodded. Sitting close, I could smell the weathered leather of his riding tunic, and the male scent that was all his own. He had fallen silent again, and was frowning out across the plain with its ash and hazel saplings and shining marsh-pools. The wind had dropped; high flat clouds were streaking in from the east, casting shadows beneath them.
