The Philosopher Prince

by Paul Waters

  Also by Paul Waters

  The Republic of Vengeance

  Cast Not the Day

  Copyright

  This edition first published in the United States in 2012 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  www.overlookpress.com

  For bulk and special sales, please contact sales@overlookny.com

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Macmillan, a division of Pan Macmillan Ltd.

  Copyright © 2010 Paul Waters

  Map designed by Raymond Turvey

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN 978-1-46830-324-7

  For K. W.

  Contents

  Also by Paul Waters

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Author’s Note

  Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

  Or what’s a heaven for?

  Robert Browning, from Andrea del Sarto

  There will always be men who will revolt against a state which is destructive of humanity or in which there is no longer a possibility of noble action and of great deeds.

  Leo Strauss, from Restatement on Xenophon’s Hiero

  ONE

  THE PYRE HAD BURNED down at last. Marcellus, who had watched unflinching, turned now and wiped his brow with his hand. He took a breath, and drawing himself up he stepped from his mother’s side, away from the solemn gathering of slaves and farm-hands, from Tyronius the steward, and from faithful old-man Clemens who had, in the end, outlived his master. At the altar of solid stone he paused, and taking a last fist of incense he cast it into the bronze fire-basket. The incense hissed and spluttered, and a strand of blue smoke wound up into the chill British air, curling over the old shrine with its pillared door and sloping roof, then drifting and dispersing between the surrounding poplars.

  The youngest of the slave-girls wiped her eyes with her hand. Marcellus glanced up and gave her a brief smile, and for a moment, as he turned, his grey eyes met mine. I had scarcely dared look at him while the fire raged and his grandfather was consumed. The heat had reddened his square features; the undertow of pain, which showed in the fine lines about his mouth, had made him beautiful.

  My heart filled. I knew he was holding his grief in check, for the sake of the others, and for his own pride.

  He had told me, when we were alone, that this was no time for weeping. Aquinus had lived a noble life crowned with glory. He had shown there is a dwelling place for goodness in the world; he would not have wanted tears and wailing. He had stood against tyranny, and had preserved the province of Britain, and had died in peace, in his old age, in his own home. Count no man happy, he had once said, till he is dead, and the mocking hand of fate can touch him no more.

  I took a step forward and gave Marcellus a nod. He met it with a private frown, as if to say, ‘Well, Marcus, it is done, and we are on our own, you and I, to find our way as best we can.’ Then, returning his mind to the business of the ceremony, he crossed back to the place of the fire, knelt down on one knee, and gathered the wine-cooled ashes into the alabaster jar, ready to join those of his ancestors in the ochre-painted tomb behind.

  As he finished, his mother, who till now had remained silent, said in a tone as sharp as the frozen air, ‘And thus the line is ended.’

  Marcellus hesitated. I felt a tightening of the muscles in my back. This was the old fight between them; and I was the cause.

  For the smallest instant he stared down at the ashes in his cupped hands. I saw the contours of his face harden, like a man in battle. ‘No, Mother,’ he said in a level voice, ‘there is me.’

  He waited, not looking up. But she said no more; and after a moment he completed his task and set the cover on the jar. Then he stood, took the cloth from Tyronius, and cleaned the dust from his fingers. And she, whose features during the whole of the ceremony had remained still and cool as the embossed wreaths on the alabaster jar, continued to look out beyond the shrine to the middle distance, as if her words had not drawn blood.

  I frowned, and considered her across the burnt-out clearing, feeling the beginnings of anger for his sake. He had wanted this day to be right, a final offering to his grandfather; but she would not let go her quarrel, even here. I was the enemy; but it was Marcellus, her son, and the man I loved, who had denied her what her heart longed for, when he failed to bring home a wife of her choosing, and produce a child to preserve the bloodline. Even Aquinus had chided her in the end, in his gentle, amused way, telling her she lacked proportion, that she should trust to the gods and the passage of time. But she had no trust in gods, and time had robbed her of her husband, Marcellus’s father, long ago. So in place of trust she had tried to order the world in accordance with her wishes; and the world had not obeyed.

  I looked away, down to where a half-burned fragment of juniper-wood still smouldered near my foot. Who was I, I asked myself, to blame her? I had what I wanted, after all, while pain had made her brittle and remote. Some kindly god had brought Marcellus to me. He filled my life, he kindled my heart. Whom, I reflected, did she have, to set against the circuit of the seasons and the years? I knew she resented me, and I wished it were not so; yet I could not hate her. I had known too much of loss and solitude for that.

  I let out my breath and watched it diffuse in the cold air. Already the frost was descending. Beyond the circle of poplars, the pale disc of the sun was drawing down over the canopy of forest, and above the tree line the evening star shone out, white and glimmering.

  I returned my eyes to Marcellus. He was dousing the altar flame with wine from a silver pitcher. Across the remains of the pyre, silhouetted against the light, his mother was watching him from under her veil. Suddenly her head went up. I thought, at first, her gaze was directed at me, that she had divined my thoughts. But she was looking past me, out over the land. Then, in her precise, crystal voice, she said, ‘Who are those people?’ and everyone turned to stare.

  Out below the ridge, caught in its long shadow, a line of horsemen were picking their way single-file down the track. ‘Is this some business of yours, Marcellus, today of all days, when you have your family to attend to?’

  ‘No, Mother,’ he said, ‘of course not.’ He handed the pitcher to the steward and stepped out beyond the light of the torches. I moved up beside him. Unconsciously, with the habit of my training, I felt at my side, where my dagger should have been. But I had dressed for Aquinus’s funeral, not for war. My dagger was at the house, lying on the table beside my bed where I had left it, in its latticed sheath of leather.

  In a low voice intended only for me, Marcellus said, ‘See, they sit like soldiers, all but that squalid-looking one – you see him there? – the one second from the front, in the brown cloak.’

  ‘They are no soldiers I know. Where are their uniforms? And why do they come from the west, over the fields, and not from the road?’

  He narrowed his eyes at them. ‘They did not want to be seen. They did
not expect to find us out here in the open.’

  ‘We have no weapons,’ I said.

  He nodded, then said, ‘I know.’

  He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, towards the high-walled enclosure of the great house, judging the distance. It was built to resist a small army, in this time of barbarians, and there we should be safe. But already the horsemen were spreading into the low valley, closing the gap between.

  He met my eye, and made a small angry gesture with his arm. ‘I am not going to run like some peasant before bandits, least of all today.’ Then he turned back to the others, the servants from the house and the landsmen. They were stirring now, and gaping in alarm. Raising his voice, Marcellus said, ‘Be still. These men have the look of soldiers. We will wait here, and see what they want.’

  So we waited. We had little choice. I could see about thirty riders; I wondered how many more there were behind the ridge.

  In the valley they spread out and paused, looking at us warily and conferring. One of them pointed towards the oak gates in the enclosure wall, and the man beside him nodded. The gates stood open still, from when we had made our progress from the house, bearing Aquinus’s body on its last journey. For a moment they glanced about confused; and I knew, if I had been armed, and with a troop of my men, that this would have been the time to strike. But it did not take long for them to realize we were defenceless, exposed in the open and at their mercy.

  They divided. Some wheeled round and made for the house and high fortified walls of the enclosure; the rest, about twenty of them, led by the squalid-looking rider who sat so poorly on his horse, climbed the path to where we stood by the shrine and altar and burning torches. I frowned out at them, trying to make out the intention in their faces, preparing myself for violence. Recognition stirred. In the deepening gloom I shielded my eyes against the torchlight and looked again.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘That one, the squalid one who rides like a slave. I know him.’

  He had his hood up; but as he turned on the path the torchlight had caught him. He was older than I remembered; but childhood pain stays in the mind. His mean, self-satisfied face was one I could not forget.

  ‘It’s the bishop’s creature,’ I said. ‘Faustus, the deacon. I am sure of it.’

  Marcellus glared, but there was no more time to speak. The other riders circled us and dismounted, showing their swords. Then, when he was sure he was safe, the deacon clambered down from his horse.

  ‘What do you want, Faustus?’ I cried.

  He peered at me, narrowing his eyes, and his sly face took on an expression of mock surprise. ‘Why Drusus, son of Appius, you are here too! But how not? Two doves with one trap, as the hunters say.’ To the armed men he nodded and said, ‘The traitor’s son; the father was executed.’ Then he turned and made a show of taking in his surroundings – looking with raised brows at the altar and implements, and the open doors of the mausoleum with the torches burning in their sconces on either side.

  ‘What is all this,’ he said, jabbing his finger. ‘Necromancy? Are you conjuring the dead? The penalty for necromancy is death.’

  ‘It is a funeral, you fool,’ said Marcellus. And his mother said sharply, ‘Who is this vulgar man?’

  ‘He is the bishop’s underling,’ I told her. ‘His name is Faustus.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he is intruding on family business. Tell him to leave, and take these men with him.’

  ‘That will not be possible, madam,’ answered Faustus smoothly. He reached into his cloak, and with an attempt at a flourish withdrew a crumpled document. ‘I have a warrant, you see, for the arrest of your son and his friend here. Now please, step away. These are not women’s matters.’

  ‘What warrant?’ cried Marcellus, stepping up. One of the soldiers warned him back with his sword. ‘The bishop has no authority. Is that why you come here, like thieves in the night?’

  Faustus gave him a brief, false smile; then he sniffed, rubbed his damp nose with his fingers, and wiped them on his cloak.

  ‘But who is speaking of the bishop?’ he asked with a pleased air. ‘This is an imperial warrant; it comes from the notary Paulus himself.’

  ‘I do not believe you. The emperor stripped him of his office.’

  ‘Yet the need calls forth the man. But have you not heard? Then I shall be the first to tell you. His eternity the emperor Constantius has reappointed Paulus to attend to the rebels and traitors in Gaul. The emperor knows his friends in adverse times, and there is none more loyal than Paulus. And the bishop, of course. And,’ he added, with a gesture at himself, ‘and me… So I am afraid your hopes have run away with you. The notary is waiting at Trier – see for yourself, see here, this is his seal.’

  Marcellus took the warrant from his outstretched hand and studied it in the torchlight, then handed it to me. The deacon continued, ‘So I advise you to obey. We do not want the lady here to suffer any inconvenience, above all in these troubled times, with no one to protect her. And if you are innocent, well, then you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘No one is ever innocent to the notary. Everyone knows that. The man is a murderer.’

  Faustus merely shrugged.

  ‘I suppose your master is behind this,’ I said to him.

  ‘Bishop Pulcher is a man who helps his friends. It would have been better for you if you had remembered it… Oh, but I almost forgot. Where is Aquinus? He too is summoned; indeed it is he the notary wants most of all.’ ‘Then,’ said Marcellus, ‘you are too late.’

  ‘Too late? Must I remind you…?’ But then a vacant look settled on the deacon’s face as realization dawned. He craned his head and squinted with new interest at the bed of white ash. ‘Oh,’ he said. He shifted uneasily, then glanced round, like a man who finds he has been the victim of a trick. Pulling himself up, he went on, ‘The notary will not be pleased. Still, I suppose nothing can be done.’ He paused, and scratched his ear. Then, his confidence returning, he swept his arm in front of him and declared in a mocking voice, ‘I do not know why you trouble over the corpse of a pagan. You should have tossed him on the midden, like a dog.’

  The guards were ashamed. I questioned one of them as he was tying me, but he only mumbled that he was doing his job, and would not meet my eye.

  They were all uneasy; I sensed it like a smell. They would not wait for the dawn; and as soon as the others returned from the house we set out, travelling by starlight and the quarter-moon, following seldom-used tracks.

  Only Faustus spoke. He chattered on, mocking and crowing in his toneless voice. But at length, finding himself ignored, even he fell silent, and concentrated instead on his horse, which had grown sullen and resentful from his constant shifting and snatching at the reins.

  We travelled south. Whenever the guards saw the glimmering lights of a settlement, we left the track to avoid it. We saw no one. Eventually, in the first grey of dawn, we came to an abandoned hamlet beside a muddy tidal creek. There was an old jetty, half-collapsed from age and neglect, and moored on one side of it a seagoing cutter.

  Here we dismounted. Faustus’s humour, such as it was, had ebbed away during the long cold night. Now, with no more attempt at pretence, he merely said, ‘At last we are rid of you.’ He paused after this, then added in a loud, intoning voice, ‘If the eye offends, then pluck it out.’ It sounded like something he had picked up from the bishop, or from one of his sacred books. For a moment he looked pleased with himself; then he snapped his fingers at the guards and we were dragged off to the ship.

  The deacon knew well enough the particular hatred that the notary held for us; the shipmaster, a slovenly man with a dirty vessel, did not care, so long as he was paid. He inspected the purse of coin the deacon gave him, then he ordered us down into the hold. Here we were carefully chained, because those had been the deacon’s instructions. But thereafter we were ignored – not fed, nor given water. But at least not cast overboard in our heavy manacles, as I had partly feared –
for these, I knew, were the notary’s methods. It was little comfort. I knew too that if we were spared drowning, it would only be because the notary had something worse in store. He was known across the empire as a master of torture and slow death. It was his pride.

  It is seldom one can say of the barbarians that they have brought one something good. But chaos, which is the enemy of civilized life, is sometimes the enemy of tyrants too. When we made landfall in Gaul the first sound that met our ears was an angry disagreement on the quay-side. ‘What now?’ muttered Marcellus with a grim look at the rusted grille above our heads. ‘Is even murder too difficult?’

  We listened to the muffled disputing voices. At one point I heard the shipmaster’s voice shout, ‘But these are the orders, see for yourself, look at the seal!’ and another voice responding in a flat, uninterested tone, ‘Orders or no orders, I can’t conjure men from nowhere. It should have been arranged.’

  They argued on. Eventually heavy feet sounded on the deck, the grille flew open and the shipmaster’s heavy face appeared in the opening, flushed and angry.

  ‘Out!’ he ordered.

  The boat was moored at a long stone quay lined with warehouses. The warehouses looked abandoned, with open doors and empty space within. At one end of the quay, a line of drab fishing skiffs lay tied one to the other, like craft laid up for winter and then forgotten. There was a town on the rising ground farther off. Its walls shone russet-red in the glow of the late sun.

  ‘Where is this place?’ I asked, rubbing my chafed wrists.

  ‘Boulogne,’ said the shipmaster, ‘not that it matters to you.’ And then, with an angry sweep of his arm at the official who was staring up at us from the wharf, ‘Go on! What are you gaping at? Go and fetch them!’

  The man sniffed and strutted off.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘It’s not my concern. Your deacon friend said a detail from the notary would be here; but that fool’ – stubbing his thumb in the direction of the official – ‘doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “It was not arranged.”’ He mimicked the official’s voice.