by Paul Waters
I said, ‘Let me speak to him.’
‘Go ahead. We have all tried – Clemens; the groom boy; even the maids. But yes, go to him. He has been in his study since first light.’
Aquinus was sitting in a high-backed oak-wood chair beside the little charcoal-burning stove that warmed the room, wrapped in his thick winter cloak. He glanced round when I entered. Under his white beard his face looked gaunt and pale.
I greeted him, and in my clumsy way I tried to lead into what I had come for. I saw him regarding me with irony in his eyes, and after a while he said, ‘I know why you are here, so let us dispense with all this talk about the weather and my health, and come to the matter.’
So I said what I had to say.
He listened without interruption. When I had finished he said, ‘You are young; I do not know if you will understand. But I shall try to explain. All my life, I have striven to bring to government a co-incidence of power and wisdom. Without it there can be no good city, and no civilized life. But it is a constant struggle against ignorance and folly, for power is seldom wise, and wisdom seldom powerful. It is, you might say, a Sisyphean task. But if the city becomes destructive of what is best, then men will desert it and find some other, lesser place to fulfil their natures – their high-walled farms and gardens, or, as the Christians do, their monasteries. But these places are not an answer; they are not an alternative. No matter how remote the place or how high the walls, they cannot last if the city is corrupted. For such reasons as this I have served in public life, and I believe that my efforts, and the efforts of others such as your late father, have achieved some success: the province has prospered while Rome squabbled and Gaul was overrun. But now all we have built is torn apart by blind and evil men. My friends are murdered; farmers are chased off the land; the fields are barren and the people go hungry. It must be faced.’
I drew my breath to speak, but he raised his hand.
‘Do you suppose, if I run away, they will not find me? Shall I hide in the forest, cowering in fear, and wait to be hunted like an animal? No, Drusus. This is my home, and there is no place to run. I grow old. I feel it. I shall face the end true to what I have lived for.’
He ceased, but when I tried to speak my voice broke and I choked on my words.
He smiled and, rising from his chair, came to me, and rested his hand on my shoulder.
Presently he said, ‘Come then; the gods have spared us foreknowledge; but they have granted us reason enough to discern what is right, and where our duty lies. Let us not presume to know what tomorrow holds. Now call Clemens for me, and tell him to bring us some warmed wine, for the days are growing chill.’
ELEVEN
TWO DAYS LATER, on the day, as it happened, of my twentieth birthday, a youth came to the barracks with a message.
I looked from him to the sealed note. The note did not look official. Nor did the youth.
‘Who sent you?’ I asked.
He glanced at me nervously. I was dressed in my uniform. I suppose, to this slender boy, I must have seemed quite fearsome.
‘My master Balbus,’ he stuttered. ‘Lucius Balbus the merchant. He says he knows you, that you are a friend of his.’
I opened the letter. It was the first time I had seen anything written in my uncle’s hand that was not a shipping-list or tally of accounts.
‘Balbus to his nephew Drusus, greetings,’ it began, and after a long stilted preamble asked if I would call on him at his shop in the forum, ending diffidently with, ‘The boy who brings this will direct you, if you have forgotten the place.’
Of course I had not forgotten. I sent the youth off, changed into civilian clothes, and set out across the city.
The shop was just as I remembered it – brightly painted walls done up to look like marble; here and there an expensive vase set into an alcove; costly perfumes ranged on silk-draped garlanded shelves in petite bottles of coloured glass; wines for tasting; expensive draperies.
The same dapper youth who had brought the note was there. Balbus came hurrying from behind. He was all smiles and civilities, as if I were one of his rich clients; but I could tell from his eyes that something was wrong. He dismissed the boy, and asked me to sit and drink a cup of wine with him.
He conducted me through to the lounge at the back, with its upholstered couches and fine furniture, the place where he entertained his most valued customers. He poured the wine himself, from a figured enamelled jar, fussing over it, avoiding my gaze. He had grown fatter, under his rich clothes. His heavy face had become florid. Only his hair, inexpertly dyed an absurd crow’s-wing black, was the same as before.
For a while he talked aimlessly, fiddling with his wine-cup. But eventually he sighed, and setting down his cup with a hint of impatience, came to the point. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘with your connections, whether perhaps you might put a word in for me with Flavius Martinus the governor. Business has been bad, what with the recent troubles. I find I have overspent and am embarrassed.’
I looked at him in his plush clothes, in his lavish shop, and thought of Trebius and Gennadius and Aquinus. I paused before I answered. Even now, at the age of twenty, I was not always master of my anger.
‘I am sorry, Uncle,’ I said, ‘but you have been misinformed. I have no connection with Martinus.’
‘Ah; yes. Of course. But you see, I thought you might call on him, on my behalf. I need the business. I have suffered losses, and my expenses are high, and—’
‘I do not think,’ I said, gently interrupting him, ‘they would even let me through the palace gates. And if they did, I should probably never leave. I am no friend of Martinus, sir; nor of that monster the notary either.’
His head swung round to the latticed partition behind. But I had checked before I spoke: the poison of fear had infected me too.
‘You need not worry,’ I said. ‘There is no one here.’
He nodded to himself, a great lolling melancholy bull, dressed up in silks and gold chains; and as he did so I regarded him, reflecting on how, after these years of silence, he had sought me out only to further his own business, which through his folly and greed he had brought to ruin.
‘What of Lucretia?’ I said. ‘Perhaps she could sell some of her jewels.’
‘We have quarrelled; besides, I dare not. She was always a pious woman, Drusus, as you know, and she feels her husband and her son have been a disappointment and a trial. Nowadays she devotes her time to the bishop and to holy work.’ He paused, and stared sadly at the dainty, gilded table. ‘She tells me I have failed her, and I suppose I have. So you see, I could not ask her for help. Her jewels are important to her. She says they are all she has left.’
I nodded and looked down. I even felt sorry for him.
‘Albinus too?’ I asked, remembering how in her eyes he could do no wrong.
‘Albinus has not grown up quite as we had hoped.’
He fell silent and looked at me helplessly. I reached across to the wine-jar and filled my cup, and filled his too, reflecting on the terrible consequences of what we cannot see. And for a while, before the shop-boy returned, we drank together, and remembered.
The sword-work I had caught Marcellus practising in the garden was no more than a private ritual of desperation. He knew as well as I that he could not fight off the guards if they came.
He knew, too, that it was forbidden for a citizen to carry weapons; though it seemed at that time that only the innocent lacked the means to defend themselves. I was reminded of this myself, one winter afternoon shortly before the Council was due to meet. Marcellus and I had gone to the basilica together, on some small business of Aquinus’s.
The matter took longer than expected. By the time we emerged the night-time cressets had been kindled around the forum wall. We were talking of something or other when Marcellus suddenly paused on the steps. I looked round, following his gaze.
A misty rain had begun to fall. The forum square was empty. Then, ahead, between us and the pilla
red archway to the street, I saw a group of youths, clustered under the light of a cresset.
‘The bishop’s men,’ I said. ‘Let’s go back inside. We can ask to leave by the rear door.’
I turned. But Marcellus stood firm. ‘No,’ he said, glaring out across the square. ‘Who are they to take away our freedom?’
I heard the steel in his voice and my stomach tightened. Seeing his mind was set I said, ‘Come on then; but by the Dog stop staring at them.’
We descended the basilica steps and strode out across the wet flagstones.
After a moment Marcellus gestured and said, ‘Who is that one, the one looking at you?’
I clenched my teeth and glanced up. At first they all looked the same: surly bitter faces pale in the gloom of evening, turning in on one another or glaring about with an air of menace. But then the night breeze blew and the cresset flickered, and I saw with a start that one of the dark-clad youths was looking directly at me.
Cold recognition dawned. It was a face I knew. Lines had formed there since I had last seen him, setting his sulky, pouting frown into a fixed expression of malice. His hair was hacked, in the style which just then was the fashion among a certain type of city youth. But the round shoulders and slovenly posture were just as I remembered them. Bitterly I said, ‘It is my cousin Albinus.’
I averted my eyes and walked on, aware we were drawing their interest. But I had forgotten I was wearing my uniform; and now, as we drew closer, one of the youths began jeering and calling out mocking insults, as if to be a soldier were disgraceful.
Marcellus stiffened. ‘No,’ I muttered, taking his elbow and urging him on. ‘Remember, we have no weapons. There are at least twenty of them.’
But it was too late. There was a shout, and the sound of running feet. I glanced ahead, gauging the distance to the gate. We could make it, if we ran. But even as this thought came to me, I saw others move out from the shadows under the colonnade, blocking our path.
Our pursuers were closing on us. I caught Marcellus’s eye. He nodded, and then we swung round to face them.
They stumbled to a stop; but quickly they collected themselves and came swaggering closer, gathering round us, making a show of sizing us up. Eyes darted to my empty sword belt, and back to my face.
I thought fast, taking in my surroundings. Close by there was an empty market table; we might rush and upturn it, and break off the legs for weapons. I touched my arm against Marcellus and signalled with my eyes; he gave a slight nod, understanding.
The youths edged closer, nervously encircling us. None of them had drawn a dagger, not yet; but I could see their hands were poised under their cloaks. They were afraid of us, unsure what we intended, even though we were outnumbered ten to one.
I tensed and drew in my breath, ready to shout the signal to Marcellus and leap sideways. But then a voice cried, ‘Wait!’
The youths parted; then from behind, Albinus stepped out.
I glared at him. It had not occurred to me that he could be the ringleader.
‘Well, it’s cousin Drusus, the soldier boy,’ he drawled. ‘Has no one told you it’s dangerous these days to walk about the city after dark?’
The youths around him snuffled in amusement. But Marcellus said coldly, ‘So why, then, are you here? You may find more than you seek.’
The laughter died. Albinus’s head jerked round, and his face formed into a sneer. He stepped up until he was directly in front of Marcellus, then paused and stared at him. He had to pull himself up, I noticed, for though they were the same height, only Marcellus held himself straight. Then, insolently, taking the hem of Marcellus’s cloak between his fingers he rubbed it, in the way my uncle did when he was buying cloth.
‘So this,’ he said, ‘is the famous grandson of Quintus Aquinus, whom my little cousin thinks so much of.’
I have learned in life that there are different types of bravery. Mine comes hot, born of anger and fear. It has seen me through, up to now; but it is a kind of blindness. Marcellus’s, however, like his grandfather’s, came from some other place, cool and hard and full of self-knowledge, like a sword forged in a furnace and honed to a fine edge. In a slow but powerful movement he brought his hand up and locked his fingers around Albinus’s thin wrist, paused, then prised his hand away.
‘And who,’ he said, with a voice of contempt, ‘are you?’
Albinus glowered, rubbing his wrist. ‘Hasn’t the soldierboy told you about his cousin Albinus, then?’
‘He has,’ said Marcellus. ‘What of it? You are not he. His cousin is a merchant’s son, not a common street-brawler.’
Albinus caught his breath. He pulled himself to his full height. He looked like some pi-dog who has strayed around a corner and encountered a lion in its path. But I was in no doubt of the danger. My eyes took in his every movement, waiting for what I was sure would come, when his hand would snatch within his cloak for the dagger. I stood ready to leap, even if it was the last thing I did.
Perhaps he sensed my thoughts. Something made him look at me. I locked my eyes on his and in a low voice said, ‘Leave it, Albinus, do you hear me? If you harm him I shall kill you. I swear it.’
He stared at me, and I glared back at him, my heart full of anger and the knowledge of the truth of my words. I saw his weak chin begin to quiver, and then he flinched and looked away.
In the loud mocking voice I had heard so often he cried, ‘Do you suppose I do not remember, brave soldierboy, when you first came to our house, trailing around like a whelp, crying yourself to sleep. Ha! Did you think I did not know? I listened at the door to hear your snivelling.’ He gave a braying laugh and jabbed his finger at my face. ‘Do you think I did not see the need in your eyes? You would have done anything to be loved. Now you have a smart uniform and important friends, but beneath it all you are still the same snot-nosed orphan, crying for his mother.’
I heard Marcellus stir. ‘No,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t matter.’
And then, to Albinus, ‘We fashion ourselves by the image of what we want to be. Is this where your philosophy has led you, Cousin?’ And as I spoke I felt strange and detached, and there was a creeping in my hair, as I sometimes feel before a storm, or in the presence of a god. His words had cut deep, as he had intended; but it was not that which had left my mind taut and clear. It was as though I were looking down upon my life from some great height, seeing myself and all the world in true perspective, as a soaring eagle looks down on the land beneath, all as a whole, each part in its place.
The moment passed even before I had known it. Yet I felt changed. Around me the youths were staring, and Albinus was looking at me with a face that was ravaged and broken.
Then, with a lunge, he jerked his head and spat in my face.
‘This time I spare you,’ he cried, ‘because it is in my power and I choose it. But you will not be so lucky again, little soldier.’
He broke into his harsh laugh, and went striding off, followed by the others.
But as he passed under the archway with its flickering torches he glanced back, darting a look at me; and once more, for a brief moment, I saw below the mask, to the wilderness that lay beneath.
Meanwhile, all around us, the madness surged and spread, destroying the natural bonds of man with man.
The bishop denounced his enemies, and one by one they were arrested. At first they had been taken in the dead of night. Now, in broad day, men who had crossed him, or who possessed something he or his supporters wanted, were dragged off on some pretext, while the mob stood in the street like carrion-birds, waiting to loot whatever was of value from their homes.
And yet Aquinus, whom the bishop hated most of all, remained untouched. I asked Marcellus about it, saying, ‘Is it his knowing Martinus that keeps them away?’
He shrugged. ‘I know no more than you; he will not speak of it. Do you imagine the bishop and the notary fear Martinus? Somehow I doubt it.’
‘No,’ I conceded, remembering the man and his vain chat
ter.
And when I thought about it, it seemed to me these men of the bishop’s were like the crowds who desecrated the temples, afraid to bring down what was best and highest, beginning instead with what was easy, as hunting dogs will snap at the heels of a noble stag, and yet hold back from the kill, until the creature has been felled by another and lies defenceless.
Almost daily, during those dark shortening days of late November, we called at Heliodora’s school, fearing for her safety. One morning we arrived to find a group of her students gathered in the yard, speaking with the old silversmith who owned the shop outside. They turned in alarm when we entered, and relief showed on their faces when they saw who it was.
‘What has happened?’ said Marcellus.
One of the group – an intent, firm-featured girl from a poor family who was one of Heliodora’s prize students – said, ‘The bishop has just left. He came with the deacon and some others.’
‘They have taken her.’
‘Oh no, Marcellus,’ she replied. ‘She is inside; she went to sit down for a moment . . . but here she is now.’
We turned, and there she was, in the doorway beside the column, looking as bright and boyish as ever.
‘What did they want?’ cried Marcellus, striding across the courtyard to her.
‘The bishop had certain questions he wished to ask, and would I please accompany him.’
‘But you are here!’
‘I told him no. I told him I had a class to teach, and he was interrupting. I told him if he had anything serious to ask me – which I doubted – he could ask me here and now and be done with it, and I could get on with my work. But why are you staring? You look as though you had seen a ghost.’
‘I almost think I have. What then?’
‘Then he left. He is a coward at heart. He had no questions, of course – but I had one or two for him. I asked him whether he thought he was furthering the cause of truth by murdering everyone who disagreed with him.’
