by Paul Waters
Now it was ours, and here we took up residence in glori ous luxury among the silken hangings, cascading fountains and echoing marbled halls, and awaited Nevitta and the rest of our army.
In early November, when the first cold winds had begun blowing off the eastern mountains, bending the avenues of cypresses and stirring the fallen leaves in the courtyards, he arrived, riding at the head of the column on his silver-white horse, clad in dyed furs and heavy gold, looking pleased with himself.
‘He puts me in mind of a conquering barbarian,’ I said dryly to Marcellus.
He gazed solemnly at the advancing column. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a silence. ‘Still, it was we who took Illyricum from under Constantius’s nose. That will not please him at all.’
I laughed; but Marcellus continued frowning, drawing down his brows against the bright morning sun. Though he had not spoken of it, I knew what he was thinking: that he would be back under Nevitta’s command now.
But whatever we thought of Nevitta, he was bringing Eutherius and Oribasius with him, and we were glad of that.
And with the army came Rufus.
Marcellus saw him first, on the morning after the army’s arrival. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he said. He had expected to find him loud and boasting like the rest of Nevitta’s entourage; but instead he was sullen and ill-looking and remote.
‘Was he drunk?’ I asked.
‘It was just after dawn.’ But then, seeing my look, he added, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He drinks too much.’
‘I know. But so do all those friends of Nevitta’s.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s something else; it goes far deeper than drink. He seems to shun all human friendship. He hasn’t been the same since we were taken by the Germans. Before that, the world was full of promise for him.’
He turned, and stood frowning out of the window. Outside, in the vast, bright courtyard of Constantine’s lavish palace, a line of gardeners dressed in red and white livery were sweeping up the fallen leaves from between the columns.
I looked at him. He cared about Rufus. I knew he felt in some way responsible; for Rufus had been in his troop when he was captured. He had seen what was fine in the boy, as a man spies gold in ore. It grieved him to see him so diminished.
I drew a breath, ready to tell him what the barbarians had done. But then I stopped myself. I had made a promise, for Rufus’s sake. Even now I recalled the boy’s broken, imploring face, staring up at me. Something had died in him that day, something in his soul; and in this one thing I was determined to keep faith. I still hoped time would mend him, and for that reason too I kept silent about what I knew, lest I scare off some healing god.
So instead I said, ‘I think he has lost trust in himself. That is why he is led by the last person he speaks to.’
‘And that person is Nevitta, or one of his worthless cronies. We both have seen the true Rufus, and this is not it. Why don’t you speak to him, Drusus? He might listen to you.’
I did not say I doubted it; and agreed to seek him out. But to myself I thought, ‘If Marcellus cannot reach him, then surely nor can I.’
And so, next morning, I went to find him. At his quarters they said he had gone off to the stables. But at the stables, the grooms told me they had not seen him.
I was half minded to leave the matter. But then one of the young cavalrymen came up to me and said, meeting my eye, ‘Sorry, Drusus, if I am speaking out of turn. But I expect you’ll find him in the town. Try the taverns behind the market, the ones that open early.’
I nodded, and thanked him, and went off. After some wandering about, I eventually discovered him in one of the drinking-houses favoured by the meat-sellers, between the market and the abattoir. He was sitting at a rough-wood table, alone, with a pitcher of wine in front of him, staring at it.
Near the serving counter a half-naked flute-girl was playing some drawling, languid piece on a wooden pipe. Most of the market-men had left, so that the tavern was almost empty. Four or five whores remained. They sat at a table near the counter, talking and laughing.
He had not noticed me. I paused inside the door. As I waited, one of the girls got up from her stool, and with the heavy motions of one performing an unwilling errand went over to him. She said something. Without looking up he dismissed her with an angry sweep of his arm. She pursed her lips, gave an indifferent shrug, and returned to her friends.
He was dressed in his smart cavalry clothing – a cream-coloured tunic hemmed with red, and a brown leather belt. The muscles in his legs and arms, once lean and hard, had softened; his young face, which had been so full of light, was sullen and red. Yet, I thought, even now he was handsome, beneath the effects of too much wine.
The girls had noticed me, and so I stepped forward across the sawdust floor and went to him.
He was scowling down into his wine-cup. He did not glance up till I paused at the table. Seeing who it was he gave a start, but tried to hide it. ‘Go away, Drusus. Leave me alone.’ He was drunk. The sun had not been up more than an hour.
I said, ‘Come away, Rufus. You’ve had enough.’
‘What is it to you?’ Defiantly he took a long draught of wine, banged his cup down, then cursed and repeated more loudly, ‘I told you to go away.’
For a moment I stood looking down at him in the dim grey light. Across the tavern the whores broke into laughter. One of them, mimicking his voice, squealed out, ‘Go away, go away.’
He threw them an angry glare and took up his cup. But before it reached his lips I seized it from him and cast it hard into the corner, where it shattered on the stone flags. Then, taking him by the neck of his tunic, I hauled him up and marched him towards the door, past the table of women, who had stopped chattering and were staring with their painted mouths open. In the street outside was a stone horse-trough. I plunged his head into it, twice, then pulled him up coughing and spluttering.
‘What did you do that for?’ he cried.
‘It’s enough, Rufus! Do you hear me? Look at you! How can you so abandon yourself, drunk as a camel in some whorehouse when you’re meant to be on duty? You ought to be ashamed.’
‘Ashamed?’ he cried. ‘What do you think? You know, don’t you, what they did, all of them, out there in the German forest. Would you not be ashamed?’ He sniffed, and wiped his face with his hand. ‘I hate myself, Drusus, if you want to know; I hate myself and I hate my life. I have made all the wrong choices.’
I released him. He stood looking at me, dripping and forlorn and broken. ‘How old are you now?’ I demanded. ‘Twenty.’
‘Then it is time you stopped behaving like a child. Do you think you are the only one who has known pain? What now, are you going to dwell on it forever? Look to what is best in you.’
‘There is nothing.’
‘Must I duck you again? Of course there is. Everyone has seen it. I have. Marcellus has.’
At this he looked up. His eyes were moist. I thought at first it was the water from the trough.
‘Really?’
‘How not? You were once the finest in the horse-troop. And you will be again.’
He hung his head. ‘You don’t know – you don’t understand. There is nothing fine about me.’
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘I’m taking you to the baths. You can sweat out some of that wine.’
The city baths of Naissus were close by, a fine building, restored and extended by Constantine, with arcaded galleries, and mosaics of green papyrus and water-flowers.
I took Rufus to the hot-room. He sat silent on the ledge – ashamed, it seemed, even of his naked body. Was that, too, I wondered, something the barbarians had brought him? And suddenly my heart filled with anger – not with Rufus, for all his foolishness – but with all those who had used him for their own base purposes: not only the barbarians, but Nevitta too, and all his hollow noisy friends, who thought themselves so world-wise. Between them they had broken the boy’s trust in the world, which had been genuine and true. He h
as possessed a surefootedness, not yet knowledge, which had been crushed just when it was at its most fragile, trampled like some rare flower, thoughtlessly, unheeded and uncaringly.
I would have put my arm around him then. But even that would be no good. Nowadays he recoiled from any human touch.
I wiped my brow. It was early for the baths, and we were alone.
Presently I said, ‘Nature made her creatures stoop down to walk and feed; yet man she made erect, so he might gaze at the heavens, and his soul might know its home.’
At this his young face twisted. ‘Fine talk, Drusus; easy for you to say. Look at what you have. Everyone likes you and looks up to you. You’re like a rich man who cannot see why a beggar complains of hardship.’
I said, ‘My life is not like that. It never was.’
But he merely shrugged. Angrily he said, ‘You want to talk of truth? – Then I’ll tell you what is true. We are nothing but beasts – low, miserable animals. That is the truth of man, and all the rest is no more than a surfeited dream. Look around you, Drusus! What else do you see, but cruelty and self-seeking?’
I drew the hot air into my lungs. Frowning I said, ‘Yes, Rufus, all you say is to be found. One need not look far for it. Do you think I do not know? But there is nobility and love and beauty too, and there is the good, which our souls know for what it is. Beast and god dwell in every man, and every man can choose which he will follow.’
He gave a hard laugh. ‘Pious words! But I was there, and you were not.’ He paused, and glanced at me, and looked away. In an accusing tone he said, ‘You told Marcellus, didn’t you?’
‘I told no one. What happened that day is between us alone.’
I saw him frown to himself. He seemed about to say something; but instead, after a short pause, he turned his head and spat. Then he pulled himself off the ledge, and for a moment stood motionless, looking ahead.
When he spoke again, all the force was gone from his voice. There was only weary bitterness, and the undertow of pain.
‘I’m going now,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to talk any more. Don’t come after me, Drusus. You have seen what I am, and that is bad enough. You should have left me to my wine.’
And he stalked off, a naked, forlorn figure, through the curling steam and slanting rays of sunlight.
That night, when I saw Marcellus, he asked me what had happened.
I told him some of it. But not all. Words have power, to summon and dispel. There seemed no purpose in giving strength to such a bleak vision by repeating it.
The morning had left me sombre and reflective, and I had been doing some thinking. Now I said, ‘It seems to me, Marcellus, that one man cannot fashion another’s life for him, as if he were clay to turn and mould. Such things must come from within, because one wants it; or by the intervention of some god. I do not think he listened to what I said. But, perhaps, one day, he will remember.’
Soon, however, these questions were forced from our minds. Lucillian’s legions, which we had sent west to Gaul, had mutinied.
I was with Julian, in one of the vast, grandiose chambers of Constantine’s summer palace, when the messenger was announced. The legions had seized the fortress city of Aquileia, and had declared for Constantius.
Aquileia is no insignificant city. It sits on the main east– west highway, and commands the northern reaches of Italy. The danger was great; the Italian cities, which up to now had wavered, would close their gates against us if they saw us falter. And Gaudentius was still in Africa. If Italy turned against us, he could cross to Sicily unopposed and attack our flank.
Julian summoned his officers in council. ‘How close is Jovinus?’ he asked.
‘This side of the Alps,’ said Nevitta, ‘on the road to Sirmium. He will be with us before month end.’ He indicated the place on the map.
Julian stared down for a moment, then began pacing the room. ‘Jovinus must turn back and lay siege to Aquileia,’ he declared.
At this, everyone began speaking at once. But it was Nevitta’s voice that was the loudest of all. ‘What are you thinking?’ he cried. ‘Aquileia has never been taken! It is impregnable – everyone knows it. Jovinus’s army could sit there for a year or more.’
There was sudden silence. Nevitta’s sharp eyes darted round, looking for support, like a man who has unwittingly exposed himself. His face, always so carefully managed when he was in Julian’s company, had doubt and fury written all over it.
And I, who had my own reasons for reading Nevitta’s moods, saw something else there too. Not fear, as first I thought. It was calculation. I believe it was at this moment that it first dawned on him that we might lose, and what it might mean for him.
‘We have the winter,’ said Julian. ‘We shall give Jovinus whatever he needs. Men once said that Troy was impregnable, yet it was taken. We must believe in ourselves, and trust in the gods where knowledge fails us.’
Nevitta frowned. He knew what he knew, and had no time for philosophy and gods. But he said no more; he sensed he had said too much already. There followed some talk of details – the requirements for a siege, what could be sent to aid Jovinus, and such things. No one said what was uppermost in their minds – that we were dangerously exposed. There was no point: we had to take the situ ation as we found it.
Later, when we were outside in the great courtyard, away from the others, I said to Marcellus, ‘Did you see Nevitta’s face? Last time I heard him, he was laughing at our caution, and crowing that victory had dropped into our hands like an over-ripe fruit.’
Marcellus shrugged. ‘He sees he spoke too soon. He doesn’t know what to do; so he strikes out. He’s all noise. Perhaps, now, he’ll shut up for a while.’
The sun moved behind the clouds. I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold. Already there was a scattering of autumn leaves across the expanse of inlaid coloured marble. It would soon be time for cloaks and long tunics. Across the courtyard, emerging from Julian’s quarters, Eutherius appeared, passing along the colonnade, his bright mantle billowing in the breeze. We strode across to him.
‘How is Julian?’ I asked.
‘Troubled,’ he said, ‘but resolute. He has gone with Oribasius to offer something to Hermes. But I am going to honour the god of breakfast, who has always served me well. Will you join me?’
So we walked with him to his new rooms – a pleasant suite set in its own sheltered garden, with a tall drooping-leaved fig growing up against the wall. We ate seated on latticed chairs on the patio, warmed by the intermittent sun, and talked of the news from Aquileia.
I asked what Constantius would do now.
‘Already,’ said Eutherius, ‘he is hurrying to Constantinople, where the rest of his armies are gathering. He will be delighted, no doubt, at the change in our fortunes. The flatterers and intriguers will be feeding his vanity, like sweets to a glutton, reminding him that he is master of the world, and invincible.’
His manner was light; he did not seem to share the grim mood of Nevitta and the others.
‘But Eutherius,’ I cried, ‘you talk as though it were of no importance. Yet how can we hope to defeat him now, being so few? Our only hope was speed.’
He set down his cup on the white-painted garden table.
‘Drusus, my dear, we must not let the brave Nevitta’s sudden anxiety disquiet us. We began this enterprise with open eyes; we chose to follow Julian, and Julian had no choice. He says the gods willed it, and who are we to say they did not? So let us trust in the gods, since our reason offers us no guide.’
He spoke with irony and humour, as always when he referred to the gods. Yet he did not speak with impiety. Rather, it was as if to say that the gods too smile, and we should smile with them. He paused, and watched as a brightly coloured bird, a female goldfinch, came fluttering down and settled on the bough of the fig. It looked about, gaily singing.
‘We have had nothing to endure but success,’ he went on, ‘which any man can bear. Now, when circumstance is against us and we are put to
the test, we must bear that too, for it is in adversity that a man truly learns what he is about, don’t you think? But look at you, you have lost weight, and since Agatho has been to so much effort to prepare this spread for us, the least you can do is take another honey-cake, or perhaps one of these charming eggs… As for Constantius, though he is strong, he is timid. Fear is a greater enemy to him than Julian, and one he has no weapons against. King Sapor is waiting for him on the Persian border, and we are approaching from the west. We hold Illyricum, his main recruiting ground, to say nothing of the gold and silver mines, which he will surely miss. So let us not allow Italy’s petulant cities to concern us, nor Aquileia… No, Drusus; this contest will be determined elsewhere.’
He took a shelled egg from the little wicker basket, where they sat garnished with green herbs in a neat pile, and pressed it into my hand.
‘There!’ he said, ‘now eat, and trust to what you know.’ Then he called for a pitcher of wine and spring water, and another loaf of new-baked bread, and proceeded to ask Marcellus about his horse.
That autumn we seized the Succi pass, which divides Latin-speaking Illyricum from Greek Thrace in the east.
The narrow defile is guarded by a strong fortress, which overlooks the pass and controls the road through. Our forward scouts had returned with the news that the fortress was empty.
Julian summoned the scouts and questioned them himself. He could hardly believe it. A hundred men garrisoned there could hold back a whole legion; it seemed madness that Constantius had abandoned it.
We set out along the river valley to see for ourselves, travelling east towards the soaring snow-topped peaks of Haemus and Rhodope, climbing the road between fruit-tree terraces and goat pastures. Just as the scouts had reported, the fort over the pass had been abandoned.
While our men were busy securing it, restoring the gates and awaiting the mule-train, we rode on with Julian, up the goat-tracks to the summit. We left the horses when the path became too steep, and continued on foot, coming at last to a high outcrop of black rock, dotted with lichen and tiny white mountain flowers. I clambered up the ridge, crouching against the buffeting wind. Marcellus, who was ahead, took my hand and pulled me beside him, onto a flat overhanging ledge at the top.
