by Paul Waters
Presently I heard the girl stir, and glancing round I saw her shadow against the moonlight. Silently she lifted the coverlet of my bed, and silently I let her in. She smelt of lavender and cedar oil, and of Marcellus.
Every camp has its courtesans. They follow the army from place to place, along with the wine-sellers, sooth-sayers, farriers, cobblers and all the other trades that supply the needs of men. There were ladies of some style, painted and urbane, who travelled in closed wagons hung with brightly coloured silks; there were rough dishevelled trulls, coarse and gap-toothed, and there were many in between. I felt a deep-seated distaste for what they had to sell, which I could not account for; and they, with their sharp-witted business-sense, had quickly learned to leave me be.
But this barbarian girl, whose name I did not know, took me by surprise. She had given me no time to consider; and in the midst of my grief her touch was like the warmth of fire in winter. What she gave, she gave willingly, with true delight. I felt her pride like something physical, pride for pride, a meeting of equals.
Later she lay close and silent, her hand tracing the hard contours of my chest. I drifted into sleep, and dreamed sunlit images of my childhood, and of the Virgin Huntress with her hounds, and of my mother I had never known.
Next day, returning from the bath-house, I found Marcellus propped up against his pillow, while she spooned him chicken broth. I cried out from the door.
‘Hello!’ he said brightly, as if he had just woken from a long night’s sleep. The girl turned and smiled, and then I went running through the camp to find the doctor.
SIX
WE RETURNED TO PARIS for the winter with the Rhine frontier secure. In the spring that followed, the emperor sent out a new Master of Cavalry to replace Severus. His name was Lupicinus.
Julian, in his quiet way, had mourned blunt-speaking Severus, who had sworn and argued with him, but was never false. Like it or not, with Severus one always knew what one was getting, and if he disagreed he said so.
Not so with Lupicinus. He had made his name in the army of the East and had moved his household from Illyricum to fashionable Constantinople, where he would be noticed. He had a hard, self-assured face, yet spoke with a veiled, affected air, so that one was always left with the impression of never quite knowing what he had intended to say – which, I believe, was his aim, for it allowed him to disavow responsibility for anything that went wrong.
Marcellus, being in the cavalry, was forced to spend more time with Lupicinus than I, and disliked him from the first day, when he had gone with the other cavalry officers to pay his respects. An elderly steward had been there, quietly unpacking in the corner. Nervous of his new master, the steward had let slip a glass platter from his hand, breaking it. Lupicinus, in the midst of speaking to his new officers, and without any sign of emotion, had broken off, calmly walked to his table, and had taken up the baton that lay there. Then, crossing to the cowering servant, he had beaten him with such ferocity that he drew blood; after which he resumed his conversation as if he had done no more than swat a troublesome fly.
‘Grandfather always told me,’ said Marcellus, relating this to me later, ‘that one gets the mark of a man from how he treats those he has power over. Such brutality would be shameful even on the field of battle.’
With Julian, Lupicinus was correct and distant and noncommittal. It was a great loss, after the open frankness of Severus. Even Julian, who was slow to pick up on intrigue, was politician enough to see he could not afford to quarrel with his Master of Cavalry as well as the prefect; and just then he and Florentius were at loggerheads, in a conflict that was to be final.
Everyone knew that Florentius was corrupt. But that year the citizens of Gaul, who trusted Julian, began to bring him their complaints. They told him how the prefect abused his power in order to acquire property and land, how he promoted his friends and extorted money for favours; how he enriched himself from the general distress.
At first Julian tried to intervene discreetly. He dropped hints; he sent word through others that it would be better for the abuses to stop, whoever was responsible, and hoped the prefect would find time to look into it. But the whole matter depressed him, and while we were campaigning against the Germans he pushed it from his mind.
Then, during the winter, a deputation of provincials laid a formal charge, backed by firm evidence. Florentius had overreached himself. He had outraged too many people, and in spite of his bullying, the plaintiffs pressed their case.
The whole ugly business took some weeks to unravel. But eventually, when Florentius had exhausted all his usual bureaucratic ploys in an attempt to cause the case to be withdrawn, or cause the papers inexplicably to be lost, he came to Julian with the outraged air of an innocent man wronged, and demanded that Julian use his authority to dismiss the matter before it came to court.
‘But, Prefect,’ said Julian smoothly, ‘I thought you told me none of it was true.’
‘Quite so,’ responded Florentius, ‘it is not.’
‘In that case you have nothing to fear. It is surely better for a public figure of your honour and standing to be shown to be innocent, and for these lies to be exposed for all to see. Or do you not think so?’
‘You will only provoke him,’ said Oribasius later, when we were all together and Julian retold this tale to his friends.
‘I expect you are right. But God knows I have kept silent long enough in the face of his abuses. Now he wants me to connive in them. That is asking too much.’
Oribasius was right. Before long, Florentius attacked.
The first Julian heard of it was when his friend the quaestor Salutius, with whom he was close, was suddenly ordered back to court. It was a cruel blow, designed to hurt. All through his life, from the time he had been permitted to have them, Julian’s friends mattered greatly to him. Salutius had been one of the few he had been allowed to bring to Paris; and he felt the loss keenly. At the same time, a letter arrived from Constantius instructing him in cold terms not to undermine the prefect’s authority. Florentius was showing he could strike at Julian whenever he chose.
Then, one day soon after, I too was singled out.
I was with Julian in his study, helping him unpack a consignment of books newly arrived from the empress Eusebia. The empress, although she was Constantius’s wife, had been a friend to Julian at court. She possessed a fine library and was, he told me, an intelligent, cultured woman, who shared his love of learning.
While we were busy with this, talking easily with each other, pausing now and then as Julian discovered some new delight among the books, a steward scratched at the door and announced that the bishop of Paris was waiting.
Julian cast a wistful look at the new bound volumes and honey-coloured scrolls. With a sigh he said, ‘Very well; send him in.’ And to me, when the steward had gone, ‘Now what does he want, I wonder.’
The bishop of Paris was not a man I had spent any time with; though, in fairness, he was not the base, scheming creature the bishop of London was. He was shy and thin and sickly-looking, and spent his time – as I was told – ministering to the city poor.
This Julian admired, even if he distrusted the motive. By now, Julian’s reverence for the old gods had become something of an open secret among those that cared to know. For such things show, to the curious, or the suspicious. Even so, he watched his words, and was always careful to keep the Christian festivals – which otherwise would have been reported to Constantius. The bishop, in his turn, did not to enquire too deeply into the Caesar’s faith, or comment on the rumours he had heard; and thus they got along, being civil to one another, and keeping out of each other’s way.
The steward returned, escorting the bishop. As soon as he entered, his eyes darted to where I was standing, and a stricken look flashed across his gaunt features. I wondered why; he hardly knew me, and I had never given him cause for dislike.
Meanwhile Julian, who had not noticed, greeted him, and reminded him who I was, and s
aid something about the books which lay scattered about. To this the bishop made some civil answer, eyeing the books as if they were demons. Then there was a pause.
‘But you wished to see me?’ asked Julian.
The bishop shifted on his feet, and bit his lip. He had not realized, he said, that the Caesar had company. His business could wait. Another time would be more suitable.
‘Oh no, you may speak,’ said Julian, smiling to put the man at his ease. ‘Is it a matter of the corn dole again?’
But the bishop coughed and hesitated, and kept glancing my way. Eventually Julian perceived this. His face darkened. ‘What is it, Bishop?’ he said, more sharply.
‘It can wait. I shall return another time.’
By now it was clear enough that my presence was embarrassing him, and so I said, ‘I was just leaving,’ and mentioned some matter I had to attend to.
‘Yes, very well, Drusus,’ said Julian. He let me go, and turned frowning to the bishop, sensing intrigue. Later he came to find me.
‘Walk with me in the garden,’ he said.
The plum trees were in flower, dense with speckled white blossom. It had rained. Sharp clean sunlight glanced off the wet marble paving. We sat down on a bench, under the enclosure wall, a place hidden from the palace windows by the row of trees. ‘He brought this,’ said Julian, pulling a letter from his cloak and passing it to me.
I unfolded the parchment and peered at it, then drew my breath. I suppose I was expecting something from the court, another cold instruction from Constantius. My mouth went dry. I looked quickly up again. It was from my enemy, the bishop of London, Bishop Pulcher, and it was addressed to the bishop of Paris.
‘No, read it,’ said Julian, with a nod.
And so I read.
The bishop sent greetings to his dear brother and colleague in Paris, and hoped, with God’s grace, that he was in good health.
I hurried on through the salutations and empty chatter, silently mouthing the words, and hearing in my head the smooth, unctuous tones of the bishop.
Soon, as I knew he would, he came to me. He had heard, he said, with fear and concern, that a certain Drusus, son of the executed traitor Appius Gallienus, having escaped from the custody of the notary Paulus, had by deception gained a position as an intimate of the most honourable Caesar Julian. The Caesar’s life was thus in great danger, and it was the bishop’s duty to warn him. There followed a list of crimes I was supposed to have committed – murder, apostasy, treason, immorality – with details of each. I forced myself to read them through to the end. Then, at last, I looked up.
I knew my colour had risen. ‘Do you believe it?’ I asked, and my own voice sounded tight and constrained. I had long ago told Julian the truth of what happened in Britain – but that was nothing against the bishop’s web of lies.
To my surprise he laughed.
‘Of course I don’t. I showed you so you can see what lengths they will go to.’
I looked at him frowning, failing to understand.
‘No wonder,’ he went on, ‘our friend the bishop of Paris was so nervous. He had come to tell tales about you. He could hardly do it with you standing there – or not this particular bishop anyway; he is a kindly man at heart, even if he is another’s cat’s-paw.’
I drew a breath and asked what he had said.
‘Oh, the usual mumblings about doing his duty, loyalty to the imperial family, that sort of thing. One always knows something is up when a person starts with that. I told him Pulcher had his facts wrong, and to think no more of it. The poor man is in too deep, if only he knew.’ He glanced round. ‘But good, here comes Eutherius. I asked him to join us.’
I turned on the bench to look. Eutherius had appeared from under the colonnade and was treading warily over the fallen plum blossom in his doe-skin slippers. ‘Dear friends,’ he said with a smile. He cast his eyes over the damp stone bench where we were sitting, pursed his lips, and decided to stand.
‘Look at this,’ said Julian, handing him the letter. Eutherius read, and when he had finished he cast it aside with a snort of amused contempt.
‘Amateurish! A crude, ugly piece. The sort of scurrilous nonsense Constantius thrives on, except this is so obvious it fools no one. Really, can they do no better? But I thought soup-kitchens was more the bishop of Paris’s line.’
‘It is. The old man was put up to it.’
I said, ‘By Bishop Pulcher.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Eutherius, with a kindly smile at my naivety. ‘Your London bishop is insignificant.’
I stared down at the letter as if it were some biting creature. It seemed to me that Bishop Pulcher had gone to a lot of work. He had taken flecks of truth and twisted them into base and monstrous lies. I felt I had looked into a mirror and seen something deformed and evil looking back at me.
‘You can be sure,’ continued Eutherius, divining perhaps my thoughts, ‘that somebody or other will have delved into your background long ago. There will be a file on you at court. Do not let it trouble you, Drusus. You are a friend of Julian’s, after all.’
A gust of wind stirred the plum trees, shaking water from the branches above us. A cold runnel crept down my back. I shivered, and thought of poisoned wine, and daggers in the night. And then I remembered that Julian had lived with such fears all his life.
I looked up. Julian met my eye. ‘A few days ago,’ he said, ‘Oribasius told me someone had visited his rooms. Nothing was stolen. But they had been through his medical books, taking care not to hide it – a book left open, a chair out of place, an upset pen-pot; that kind of thing.’
‘But why? What were they looking for?’
‘Nothing,’ said Eutherius. ‘What use is a threat, if your enemy does not know of it?’
‘First Salutius,’ said Julian, ‘then Oribasius; and now you… Florentius is warning me not to cross him.’ He stood up, and began pacing the wet flagstones, with their scattering of white blossom. ‘He wants me to stop the prosecution, of course; tell me,’ he said, turning to Eutherius, ‘is it fitting for a man who loves philosophy to look on at injustice and do nothing?’
‘You do not need me to give you the answer, my dear Julian. But remember, all things have a price. Even virtue – perhaps virtue most of all.’
Julian frowned up at the high enclosing wall – old red brick, and the remains of some forgotten climbing plant, cut off at the root. After a long pause he said, ‘The people are robbed and cheated. I shall not ignore it. What good are all my books to me if now, when the time comes, I choose only what is expedient? Better for Constantius to recall me; better to suffer wrong than to do it.’
When later I told Marcellus, he banged the table with his fist and cried, ‘Pulcher! Has he no shame at all? We should have finished him off when we could.’
I shrugged. ‘I thought that too, when I read his letter. But my head is clearer now. What we decided at the time was right: that, living, he is his own testament. A quick death would have been too easy. His followers would have called him a martyr and a saint.’
‘As for Florentius,’ Marcellus went on, ‘everyone knows he’s guilty. If only Julian would dismiss him and have done with it.’
‘He cannot. Constantius stands behind him, and Florentius knows it. But Julian will not stop the prosecution.’
‘Then good,’ he said crossly, ‘let him be prosecuted, at least. This is what comes of leaving men to rule who cannot even rule themselves. That is what Grandfather would have said.’ He pushed his hand through his hair, then winced. His wound still caught him when he stretched. Though the flesh had healed cleanly, the scar would be with him always. Each time I saw him naked it reminded me of how nearly I had lost him.
The barbarian girl had left our hut on the day Marcellus had woken, departing as suddenly as she had arrived. At that time the army was preparing to leave the German frontier and disperse to winter quarters, and all the camp was like a town being hurriedly abandoned, as tents, wooden shacks, animal pens, and t
he surrounding palisade were dismantled.
With Marcellus safe, I had gone to find Durano. I had not told anyone of the night with the girl. At times, indeed, during my waking day, it almost seemed it had never happened.
Yet knowledge cannot be unlearned; nor did I wish it so. I found, as I walked, that she was in my thoughts, and as I drew near to Durano’s tent my heart quickened to see her there. She was sitting on the verge, dressed in her simple loose-fitting tunic, waxing the leather straps of his corselet, which lay spread out on the grass.
I crouched beside her on my haunches, feeling suddenly awkward. She glanced up, and seeing the blush in my face her stern features softened into a small smile. I thanked her then for tending to Marcellus, using a mix of words and hand-signs. And my thanks were heartfelt, for it seemed to me she was the only one who had done him any good.
I do not know how much she understood. But when I had finished she touched me gently on the arm, and for a moment let her hand rest there. Close by, over the smell of wax and leather, I caught from her body the sharp-sweet fragrance of cedar oil; and suddenly, disconcertingly, I felt my blood race, and desire surge in my loins.
Sensing this she looked amused; and through my awkwardness I laughed, and made some joke. Then I heard Durano’s voice, approaching from among the wagons and piled-up tent-hides.
Pallas and Gereon were with him; we greeted one another with the warmness of men who have faced death together. And when next I turned, the girl was gone, leaving the corselet laid out on the ground.
Durano, seeing me look, said, ‘People tell me she has a healing way. She knows how to summon the spirits that make men well.’
I agreed, and thanked him for sending her.
‘Oh, but I did not send her. She went of her own accord. How is Marcellus?’
