by Paul Waters
‘Yes, and he is right. Jovinus knows what he’s about. He always talks sense. And he knows the men.’
We talked a little of Jovinus. He was a good soldier – not loud or thrusting, not at all the kind of man Nevitta would favour.
My eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Across from me, illuminated by the pale moonlight that filtered in through the shutters, I could see Marcellus staring up at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head.
‘What is it?’ I said softly. ‘Something is troubling you.’
For a moment he did not answer. Then he let out his breath in a deep sigh. ‘Oh, it’s nothing… Nevitta as usual, I suppose. Those parties of his – I hate all the shouting and drinking-contests, and the courtesans that maul you and bore you half to sleep. And if you don’t join in, he thinks you’re insulting his taste.’
I laughed. ‘His taste? Nevitta would make a barbarian wedding-feast seem like a vigil in the garden of the Vestals.’
In the dim light I saw his mouth move in a smile. ‘Anyway,’ he said, turning on his side and facing me, ‘the Petulantes are good solid fighting men; and a campaign will do me good. I’m sick of winter quarters and all the vaunting talk of what we are going to do to Constantius.’
‘Yes,’ I said; and after that I fell silent, thinking.
An uneasiness had come over me, like an icy flaw in the air. I had never given much thought to Libino: he was just another of Nevitta’s flash hangers-on, and as tedious as all the rest. But now, as I stared into the darkness, I saw him for the dangerous young fool that he was, disliked by the men and promoted beyond his ability. I pushed the thought away, sensing ill luck.
Presently I said, ‘You have your own unit to think of. That is enough. Let Libino look after himself… Marcellus?’
But he did not answer, and when I listened I heard his gentle, settled breathing.
I smiled. I had been considering whether to creep into his bed to talk awhile, and feel him warm beside me. Better though to let him sleep. Tomorrow he had an early start, and a long march.
But afterwards I lay for a long time awake, staring at the moonlight shapes that cast their twisted shadows across the wall.
It was while Marcellus was away that I next happened to speak to Rufus.
I had gone up to the military stables, and was standing with the quartermaster in the covered entrance to the grain-store where we had been inspecting the supplies, when I noticed him on the far side of the cobbled yard, leading his silver mare.
Marcellus, with his knowledge of horsemanship, could read the mood of a horse from afar. I had learnt enough from him to know at one glance that Rufus’s creature was in low spirits. She walked heavily, her ears were laid back, and she pulled and jibbed as she moved. Rufus had always possessed a loving sympathy with horses. I asked myself, as I finished off with the quartermaster, what had become of it.
He had halted, and seemed to be remonstrating with one of the stable-boys. He dismissed the boy with a shove, yanked the mare by her bridle, and when she protested with a high-pitched neigh he glanced round crossly, and with something of a start noticed me watching him.
‘Is she sickening for something?’ I asked.
‘She is heading for a beating, that’s what. She’s a lazy, awkward bitch, and needs to learn who is master here.’
I cast my eye over the melancholy, resentful horse and then looked at him. His face was blotched; his once-bright eyes were dim and drawn. He had assumed the sardonic, word-wise twist of the mouth that all of Nevitta’s entourage wore.
With Nevitta’s other friends this seemed to come naturally, as if, in their low pursuits, they had found their true selves. But Rufus wore the mask ill. He put me in mind of a trusting child who apes the manners of a vulgar adult. It grieved me to see his decline, and I thought with anger of Nevitta, who had caught Rufus like a butterfly drawn to a false light, luring him by degrees into gross pleasures when the boy’s private pain had made him weak and rudderless.
I returned my gaze to the silver mare. Clearly this once-fine creature had come to hate and fear him. I suppose the stable-boy had known it too. I wondered if that was what he and Rufus had been arguing about.
He had paused, though I had not tried to detain him, and was shuffling about, taking brief, uneasy glances at my face, then looking quickly away – down at the cobbles, or at the horse, or across to the stable buildings with their sand and ochre walls. Perhaps he had understood the thought written in my face, and it had caused him to remember.
I made to leave. I had no wish to force my presence on him. But now, in a sudden rush of words, he said, ‘I saw Marcellus you know – he was at Nevitta’s banquet – Nevitta invited some girls from the town, enough for everyone.’ He made a crude, schoolboy gesture, to make sure I had understood. ‘But Marcellus wasn’t interested in his girl. When she sat on his couch he only talked to her, that’s all. Nevitta likes people to join in.’
I think in truth he was doing no more than attempting to be pleasant, to engage me in whatever came into his head. But he had spent too long trying to be clever and sharp, and his words – which I suspect were innocent enough – came out all wrong, like one of Nevitta’s ugly jibes. Perhaps he realized, and felt ashamed, for he looked down, and I saw his blotched cheeks redden.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I heard about it.’ I could not find it in me to be angry with him; but I did not intend to discuss Marcellus, or Nevitta’s banquet either. Anything I said would only get back to Nevitta.
So I only said, ‘Take care of your horse, Rufus, your life may depend on her one day.’
Then I left him. I felt a deep, world-encompassing sadness. I wished I could change the world for him; but there are limits, I thought, to what one man can impose on another, unless first he wills it. Even so, I resolved to look out for the boy, in case the time should come when he tired of Nevitta’s empty charms.
He watched me go, with a face full of unacknowledged grief. And the poor fine creature beside him swung her head and regarded me sadly, with wretched long-lashed horse-eyes.
Meanwhile, at about this time, a merchantman put in at Vienne port with a cargo of Carthaginian oil. The captain came straight to the palace with his news. Gaudentius, the notary who had nearly caused a mutiny when we were fighting the Franks, had been sent by Constantius to Africa with orders to cut the corn supply to Gaul.
‘I have family in Marseilles,’ the captain explained, ‘I told them I was bound for Ostia in Italy, or they would not have let me sail.’
‘We are grateful,’ said Eutherius, who had received him. He made a note. ‘Take this to the treasurer of the household; he will see you are compensated for your trouble.’
As soon as the captain had gone Julian said, ‘What do you think? Does he mean to seize Sicily?’
Eutherius shook his head. ‘Gaudentius is not the man to do it. He is no more than a bureaucrat and a mischief-maker. Besides, it would take him a year to gather an invasion force, even if he had the ships to carry it. But he can hold Africa against you, and control the grain supply to Rome.’
Then, as the weather warmed and the shepherds began herding their flocks to the upper pastures, traders crossing the newly open Alpine passes told of supply dumps inexpertly concealed in the wooded foothills, and of troop movements in the plains of northern Italy.
‘There can be no more doubt,’ said Julian. ‘The question is whether we continue to wait, and hope for peace, and defend Gaul if we are attacked; or whether we strike first, into Illyricum.’
‘As soon as Libino returns we must attack!’ declared Nevitta, his close-set eyes gleaming. ‘Further delay is madness.’
This time the other officers – Dagalaif, Arintheus, Valentinian – agreed. Already there had been rumours that the Persian king was pulling back from the far eastern frontier. The rumours were still vague. But if they were true, it meant that Constantius had reached an agreement with the Persians. With his eastern flank secure, he could turn the full force of his
armies westwards – against us.
‘Why else,’ asked Nevitta, ‘has Constantius returned from the Euphrates to Antioch? He is preparing to strike – it can mean nothing else. Illyricum is rich in men; it is Constantius’s recruiting ground. I say take it from him now.’
‘And you, Drusus?’ said Julian, turning to me. ‘What do you think?’
For once I agreed with Nevitta, and said so. ‘Constantius means to keep us pinned here, like birds in a snare, until he is ready. That is why he roused Vadomar against us; that is why he sent Gaudentius to Africa.’
Julian rubbed his chin and looked across the room. ‘Eutherius? You have not spoken.’
Nevitta’s head turned. I saw his jaw tighten. After a pause Eutherius said, ‘There are gold and silver mines in Illyricum; and we are short of funds.’
‘Then it is decided!’ cried Nevitta, bringing the flat of his hand down on the map-table like a gambler who has won at dice.
Eutherius frowned at the sudden noise. He met Nevitta’s eye, wholly undaunted by his vaunting loudness.
‘Nevitta, the commander of Illyricum is a man by the name of Lucillian. Do you know of him? He is an experienced general – not another of your incompetent bar barian chieftains. Nevertheless,’ he went on, raising the flat of his hand when Nevitta tried to speak, ‘it is clear now that Constantius is turning his forces westwards, in spite of his attempts to hide it. Such vast changes cannot remain concealed. It will take some time to reorder such a mighty army, and it will be worse for us when it is done. If we are to strike at all, it had best be done before he is fully ready.’
‘But we have twenty thousand men!’
‘An insignificant number, and the less we shout about it, the better. Constantius can muster ten Nevitta sniffed and fell silent. Julian turned to the map. ‘Even so, it will take him time to assemble them. Lucillian is here at Sirmium. He could hold the city for a year or more in a siege: we must not allow that… we must surprise him.’
He indicated the Alpine passes into Italy, and, further north, the road that led through Raetia to the western provinces of Illyricum. ‘He will be expecting us from here, or here. But,’ he said, planting his finger on the wild mountain region that lay between the two routes, and turning to us with bright eyes, ‘he will not expect us here!’
We all stared down at the coloured dots and lines and small ink symbols marking rivers and towns, forests, mountains, passes and frontier lines. Even Eutherius left his chair and came to look. But it was Nevitta who spoke first. In a changed voice he said, ‘But Julian, no army could pass that way!’
‘You are right. No army could pass… But as for a company of light-armed men, with me leading …’ He paused with shining eyes, knowing what was coming; and a moment later everyone cried out in protest. The route was untested! It was probably impassable; the forests and hills had not been pacified and were full of barbarians!
‘It can be done,’ Julian insisted. ‘No one will expect us by that route. We can join the Danube here’ – prodding the map – ‘where the river becomes wide enough for boats; we will be in Sirmium even before Lucillian discovers that we have left Gaul. Jovinus, you will lead half of the army through the passes into northern Italy, making as much noise and show as possible, to ensure Lucillian hears of it. At the same time, you, Nevitta, can go by the northern route through Raetia. Do you see?’
The army, he said, thus divided, would seem more numerous, and Lucillian would be unsure of the main thrust of our attack. Meanwhile, Julian himself would be leading a force of men over the mountains – wholly unsuspected and unlooked-for.
Now it was Nevitta who warned of the risks. What was Julian thinking? If he fell, they would be without a leader, defeated before they had begun. Someone else should lead the men. He himself would go. Or Libino when he returned. Drusus or Jovinus even.
‘And you?’ he said, turning to Eutherius for support, ‘what do you say?’
Eutherius pressed his lips together and looked amused. After a considering pause he answered, ‘I have heard you are a gambler, Nevitta. The stakes are high, and now is the time to play or leave the table. We are few, dangerously few; if we are to act at all, then it must be with intelligence, and with speed.’
His eyes moved beyond Nevitta’s suspicious, disdainful face. ‘But why do I talk on? For Julian has already made up his mind.’
Julian laughed. ‘Fortune favours the bold,’ he said. And with a happy look he turned back to the map on the table.
TEN
BUT FORTUNE HAD OTHER plans that spring. While the oaks on the high slopes above Vienne were still clothed in their first pale-green buds, Nevitta’s favourite Libino returned, not to celebrate victory, as he had expected, but in a clay death-urn, escorted by Marcellus.
I rode out to the walled barracks outside the town to meet him. He looked pale and tired, and spattered with mud from the road. Returning, riding side by side along the avenue of cypress trees beside the grave monuments, he told me what had happened.
Vadomar and his tribesmen had already struck into Roman territory when they arrived. As soon as they heard that our force was approaching they scattered like mice in a barn, out among the many small valleys that make up that region. At that point Libino, if he had been less of a fool, would have halted until the scouts brought in their reports. But he was set on a swift and easy victory. He attacked even before he knew the dispositions of his enemy. Ranging over the densely wooded hills with an advance party, he was ambushed on a hillside by a band of Vadomar’s men. He was one of the first to fall.
Marcellus coughed. He winced up at the afternoon sun as if the light troubled him. ‘It’s as well the Petulantes were with us,’ he went on after a silence, ‘they’re good, dependable men; they kept their heads and fought on.’
But as word spread that Libino had been killed, the barbarians found new confidence. They began to emerge from their hiding places, and the hilltop lookouts reported columns of Germanic tribesmen approaching through the passes of the valleys. Our troops, seeing they were about to be encircled, reluctantly disengaged, and retreated to hastily fortified positions further back.
‘We held the line – just. It was a close-run thing. Libino had not prepared for anything except victory.’
By now we had reached the imperial palace. As he dismounted in the great oval courtyard with its curving sweep of columns, Marcellus suddenly caught his breath. He winced again, and with an involuntary movement caught at his side. I looked at him sharply.
‘I took a tumble, that’s all. The camp doctor fixed it up. It’s nothing.’
Till then I had taken his pale look for tiredness. Now I saw the lines of pain around his eyes.
‘Don’t tell me it is nothing,’ I said crossly. ‘Look, there’s blood on your hand.’
‘I’ll attend to it later, after we’ve seen Julian.’
There was no time to say more, for already Julian was hurrying out from under the portico. He was never one to sit in remote majesty, like some eastern despot who waits for his lieutenants to bring him news. So we went inside, with Julian eagerly questioning Marcellus as we walked.
But as we mounted the steps Marcellus stumbled; and though he tried to cover it, I could tell he was glad of someone he could rest his weight on.
Immediately Julian summoned a legion out of winter quarters. He marched to put down Vadomar, before news spread of Libino’s death and the whole frontier from Raetia to Lower Germany erupted. I should have been present during this minor war; but Julian, out of kindness, thought up some army matter that would keep me in the city.
‘I can handle Vadomar,’ he said. ‘You take care of Marcellus. I need him fit and well.’
So I remained at Vienne, worrying the doctor, binding Marcellus’s wound, and bullying him to stay in bed. He hated being ill; and though he was always gentle towards frailty in others, he was impatient of his own. Friends came to visit him – the young men from his troop, full of concern; Eutherius, trailing easter
n scents, and bringing a box of sweets packed on a bed of ribbons by his servant-boy Agatho. Nebridius came, ceremoniously sending one of his clerks ahead to enquire if his visit were convenient. Even the groom from the stables turned up, dressed in his leather tunic and waiting shyly at the door, unsure of his welcome until Marcellus beckoned him in. He adored Marcellus as much as any lover.
None of these visits surprised me. But I had not expected, one afternoon when I returned from my work, to find Rufus sitting on the stool beside Marcellus’s bed, talking quietly, with his chin propped in the flat of his hand.
He had his back to the door and did not see me. With a private smile I left them and continued on my way to the baths.
‘I thought Rufus had gone off to Raetia with Julian,’ said Marcellus later.
‘He wanted to go. Nevitta wouldn’t let him. Besides, I think his horse is lame.’
‘He didn’t mention the horse.’
‘What did he talk about?’
‘Oh, army gossip mainly. I think he just wanted to speak to someone different. He was asking me about the war, and whether Constantius’s ironclad cavalrymen are truly as fearsome as people claim.’
‘I expect his friends have been trying to frighten him.’
‘That’s what I said. I told him fear was a bigger enemy than any mailed horseman. But, you know, Drusus, I think the death of Libino has been a shock to Nevitta’s set. They didn’t expect it; they thought war was just a game, and an easy one at that. I wonder if Rufus is starting to realize that the crowd he spends his time with are not all they seem.’
I said I hoped it was so, and told him to lie back so I could check his wound.
‘But why,’ he said presently, as he looked up at me, ‘wouldn’t Nevitta let him go to Raetia? Rufus is not happy – it’s written all over him. The change would have done him good.’
‘Nevitta says his people need to prepare for the march east. That’s what he says. But the truth is, he’s in a foul mood because of Libino, and he’s taking it out on everyone he can, even poor Rufus. He thinks Libino’s failure reflects badly on him.’
