The Amber Road wor-6

by Harry Sidebottom

  The calm of mind necessary for literary composition had been shattered when Zeno had returned to the village. He had found all the expedition drunk; some sleeping, some still gorging themselves with food. All discipline abandoned, they had made swine of themselves with no need for the sorcery of a Circe. When Zeno had remonstrated, Ballista had said the men needed to recover after their exertions. There had been no civility at all in his words. Of course, the barbarian himself had been half drunk, his eyes drooping. Worse yet, Ballista had announced they would not be leaving for three days. He had tried to cloak the innate indolence of his kind with some words about the demanding nature of the river ahead.

  When the expedition belatedly pulled out, the first day of travel had not struck Zeno as too daunting. Admittedly, the Borysthenes had narrowed again. There was a ford no wider than the Circus Maximus. But the difficulties of those paddling had more to do with their hangovers than the flow of water against them. Any lingering frowziness was dispelled when they had come to the first rapids. There the majority of the crews had been compelled to strip and get in the chill water to manhandle the boats through. Having been advised they were now in the territory of the Grethungi, a tribe of Goths well disposed to Rome, at least temporarily, Zeno had risked — all alone, with just one of his slaves — taking a bracing walk along the cliff path. It had been amusing to look down from the heights at those below. The men still in the vessels had wielded poles like inexpert acrobats; of those in the water, no more than their heads and shoulders could be seen. Their cries had floated up to him like the calling of sea-birds. That evening they had made camp on a small islet. The lapping of water had lulled Zeno to sleep.

  The second day there were two more sets of rapids which had to be negotiated in the same fashion. These had been less pleasant. There were no convenient footpaths. To avoid a lengthy detour, with its concomitant risks of going astray or having unwelcome encounters with wild animals and supposedly friendly barbarians, Zeno had been compelled to remain in the boat. As it was hauled forward, the boat had lurched and pitched. He had clung tightly to the thwarts, almost like Odysseus tied to the mast. Twice at the second cataract the clumsiness of those in the water had let the vessel yaw sideways, nearly overturning Zeno into the turbulent river. Needless to say, his cloak and tunic had been sodden. When they pitched camp, it was discovered water had got into his baggage and his changes of clothing were almost equally damp. Zeno had beaten both his slaves, although, mindful of the dangers of loss of self-control, he had first called for his stick and not in any sense given way to anger.

  Yet all that had been as nothing compared with the degradation of today. They had come to another run of bad water. The noise was appalling; a constant deep roaring which drowned out all else. The river was nothing but white water and spray seething over jagged rocks. The local Ballista had got to accompany them from the village on the island had called it the Pelican, although Zeno could not imagine why. The shifty-looking fellow had said there was nothing for it but they must unload the boats and carry first them and then the cargo overland.

  The portage was no less than three miles. Naturally, Zeno was prepared to make the march. Had his ancestors not tramped the dusty road from Arcadia to Boeotia in full armour to face the Persians and secure the freedom of Hellas at Plataea? Had he ever spared himself as governor of Cilicia? In all weathers he had ventured deep into the mountains to bring justice and the majesty of Rome to boorish and ungrateful villages of goat herders. But this thing today was beyond all reckoning.

  The boats had been emptied and a number of small pines felled and trimmed. Ballista, flanked by his two vicious-looking familiars — it was hard to conceive of barbarians uglier than the Hibernian and Suanian — had walked up to where Zeno was sitting pondering the precise metrical requirements of Homeric verse. The barbarian had announced that all hands were needed. If they were to make the portage in one day no one could be exempt — not Zeno’s slaves, not even the imperial envoy himself. So unexpected and outrageous was the demand, Zeno had been unable to reply.

  At least he had been spared the hauling of the boats; even Ballista had not dared suggest that. It was backbreaking labour, fit only for a slave. They had to make two journeys, moving two vessels each time. Ropes had been tied to the prows and were then turned around trees uphill to act as pulleys. Some men had heaved on these; others lined the gunnels, leaning into the slope, while two unfortunates put their shoulders under the stern of each boat. The fate of the latter, should the weight prove too much, was almost too horrible to contemplate. Zeno had tried to disassociate himself from the whole wretched business by returning to the technical challenges of composition in the Homeric style. Yet even his trained mind had not succeeded. Both times, the squealing of the keels on the pine rollers and the gasps of the men as they dragged each boat a few feet forward, paused and then did it again had proved impossible to ignore until they were almost out of earshot.

  It had taken the better part of the day before men made their way back and said that the last boat had been slid into the water upstream of the obstruction. The contents remained to be portaged. Zeno stood by the pack one of his slaves had made. How had his life come to this?

  ‘Time to go,’ Ballista announced.

  Zeno slipped his arms into the straps and stood up. The pack was very heavy, but he would not be bowed down by it; not in front of his inferiors. He eased the weight on his back, trying to look unconcerned. Inwardly, he was furious with those slow getting to their feet — their laggardliness meant he must bear this burden a fraction longer than otherwise.

  ‘Forward!’ Zeno called. He walked around those still struggling to master their loads. The sacred autocrator Gallienus had appointed him the leader of this march upcountry. Piece by piece, Ballista had usurped his position. Zeno had to reassert his authority as head of this anabasis.

  Zeno set off. Obviously, he had not accompanied the two trips hauling the boats, but it was impossible to go wrong. The portage way was marked by scoured earth, trampled vegetation and broken runners.

  The slope was not steep but he was encumbered. The wrapped diplomatic gifts and his books bumped awkwardly against his back. Soon the straps were tearing into his shoulders. Zeno suspected the slave had deliberately distributed the weight badly. Tonight, if he had the energy, he would wield his stick until the whipling confessed.

  The incline was never-ending. Sweating and panting, Zeno laboured on, leaning his weight on his walking stick. His world had narrowed to the beaten earth just in front of his shambling feet. He was dimly aware of others passing him. He did not care. It was not a race. If he survived this journey, on his return to Rome he would sacrifice an ox to Achilles, and to all the gods. He would feast his friends, and some of his neighbours, clients and freedmen. Garlanded, the blanched skull would be hung in the atrium opposite the doorway, a visible sign for gods and men of his courage and piety. He missed his home. Not his wife. It had been a good match — she had come with a sizable dowry, and her brother had been adlected among the ranks of the quaestors by the late emperor Valerian in person — but she was a shrew. It was best when she stayed in the women’s quarters or went to visit her prattling friends. He missed his son. The boy had come of age two years before. Zeno had taken him to Delphi to dedicate his lock of hair. Zeno had bought him a pet jackdaw there. The little bird looked so brave hopping about, the miniature shield attached to his leg, the tiny helmet strapped to his head. What Zeno would not give to be at home, to be at ease in his comfortable dining room, the one with the tapestry embroidered with Alexander defeating the Persians. It would be so good to be there, discussing Homer with a few men of culture, possibly playing dice. He felt a great longing for the smooth feel of his dice, the ones made from gazelle horn.

  Zeno had to stop. He was finding it hard to breathe. The portage was three miles long. He had to keep moving, like an ass turning a mill wheel. How had it come to this? He was a eupatrid. None in Arcadia would dispute his birth.
He had done nothing wrong. He was not one of those Hellenes who sneered at Rome, let alone one of those madmen who tried to stir up the ignorant hoi polloi with wild talk of past freedoms and apocalyptic revolution. Some Romans were boorish. Their often-parroted Virgil was a tedious parody of the divine Homer. But the best of the Romans had other virtues. Not culture but the governance of empire was their province. They knew how to humble the proud and spare the vanquished.

  More men were passing Zeno. Gripping his staff, he stumbled forward. He did not deserve this cruel exile from all he loved. He had never impugned the maiestas of Rome. He was proud to be an equestrian, a Vir Perfectissimus. He had served Rome all his life, served her to the best of his ability. He had never let a word be said against the emperor, not even in the homes of his senatorial friends. If he had spoken out too strongly in the imperial consilium, it was for the best of motives. He was proud to be friends with men like the great consulars Nummius Faustinianus and Nummius Ceionius Albinus, or the young Patrician Gaius Acilius Glabrio. They were right: the high military commands should not go to ignorant peasants and barbarians risen from the ranks. Rome had grown great when her armies were led by men of virtus from the Senatorial ordo. Certainly, they should never be under the orders of a hulking barbarian like Ballista. Even his name was uncouth.

  ‘Form on me!’ Ballista was bellowing like a bull.

  Dazed with his exertions, Zeno leant on his stick, bemused by the sudden commotion. Everywhere, men threw off their loads. They snatched up their weapons and ran unsteadily, stumbling over each other, as if maddened by poisonous honey.

  ‘Get in line!’ The pinch-faced midget Castricius was shouting. How could that urchin from the Subura have ever become an equestrian? Now Castricius and the other officers were physically pushing men into place.

  Zeno lowered his pack to the ground. He eased the cloth of his tunic away from his raw shoulders and looked about. When he saw the cause of the frenzy, he cursed himself for a fool. He had tempted fate when he imagined things could not get worse.

  In the slanting evening light, a solid phalanx of barbarians was drawn up about a discus throw ahead. A huge banner depicting an animal devouring itself floated over the centre of their line. They were fully armed, bright painted shields, metal helmets, sharp spearheads. Big men, blond-bearded — there were hundreds of them. They stood on the flat ground at the crest of the portage, between the expedition and its boats.

  As quickly as his stiff limbs and his dignitas allowed, Zeno walked up to where Ballista was standing. ‘You assured me the Tervingi would not venture as far as the rapids.’ He did not try to hide his anger.

  ‘They are Grethungi.’

  ‘But they are meant to be friendly to Rome.’

  ‘Yes, they are meant to be.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘That really depends on them.’

  Infuriated by the laconic insolence of the barbarian, Zeno choked on the recriminations he wanted to voice.

  ‘Fucking here come fuckers,’ said Ballista’s Suanian cut-throat in a barbaric almost-Greek.

  Unarmed though he was, Zeno was not going to let himself down, not here, surrounded by barbarians. He stood very still and grasped his stout Spartan cane. The twisted wood was slick in his hands. ‘Let us be men,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Let us be men.’

  Three warriors walked across towards the expedition. They wore shiny mailcoats and seemed to be wearing the property qualification of an equestrian in gold. Like all barbarians, they were arrogant when fortune favoured them.

  Ballista stepped out to meet them. Zeno forced himself to follow.

  The foremost Goth said something in their incomprehensible language. He sounded angry.

  Ballista said something in reply.

  ‘What did he say?’ Zeno spoke in Greek. He was determined to take charge here.

  ‘He said he was Tuluin, son of King Tulga of the Grethungi, and who the fuck was wandering across his father’s lands?’

  ‘Tell him I am Aulus Voconius Zeno, envoy to the far north of the noble autocrator Gallienus.’

  ‘He knows that.’

  The big Goth said something else.

  ‘He says there is a toll for using the portage.’

  Zeno felt his anger rising. ‘The greed of these barbarians is outrageous. Money was sent to them from Byzantium. Our passage has been paid.’

  ‘They might consider it impolite not to give a gift, and they are in a rather better position than us.’ Ballista seemed unconcerned. ‘The silver dinner service with the hunting scenes might be well received.’

  ‘That is intended for the king of the Angles.’

  ‘My father has many plates and bowls. He will not miss a few more.’

  Zeno looked round to tell one of his slaves to bring the precious things. They were already dragging them out of his baggage. Yet more annoyingly, as they did so they were tossing his treasured papyrus rolls anyhow on the ground. Zeno would let them feel his displeasure later.

  The tall Goth called Tuluin examined the embossed huntsmen, hounds and beasts cursorily, passed them to the others. He said something else.

  ‘What?’ How could Zeno be expected to conduct diplomacy with people so savage they spoke neither Greek nor Latin?

  ‘He has invited us to a feast. He says our boats make excellent fuel.’

  ‘The boats!’ Zeno exclaimed.

  ‘I think he is joking.’

  Tuluin smiled. ‘Health and great joy,’ he said in good Greek.

  XVI

  Gallia Narbonensis

  A gust of wind took the purple hangings, and, before an attendant gathered them, it gave a glimpse outside. Beyond the forum, the emperor Postumus saw the theatre built into the side of one of the hills at the eastern end of Colonia Vienna. It was a fine morning. Briefly, he heard the sounds of the port, and could smell the water.

  It would be good to be out on the river. He had always found fishing soothing, ever since his childhood on the Rhine. After the ordeal of the day before he needed to be soothed.

  The heavy curtains back in place, a reverent silence and gloom was restored. There was nothing to smell but the incense burning on the sacred fire.

  A morning of leisure — fishing, hunting or just staying at home — was out of the question. Postumus was emperor, and an emperor had little leisure and no home. There were always demands on him; he was always in motion. Postumus had arrived only three days ago. Colonia Vienna was one of the leading cities of the province of Gallia Narbonensis, and thus one of the most important communities in his imperium. When an emperor arrived, everyone clamoured for justice.

  The will of the emperor was law. He could make new laws, ignore, alter or abolish old ones. No jurist would demur. Yet no one was more constrained by the processes of law. This was the first of four days Postumus had set aside to sit in judgement. The curia of the town council had been transformed into an imperial courtroom. Postumus sat as judge, the senate as his assessors. They had already heard two cases: a boundary dispute and the unpaid inheritance of an orphan. At least the one before them now was more amusing. It was the sort of thing that pleased Postumus’s son. The boy sat forward on his bench, jotting notes.

  The son of a local worthy had put on the rough cloak and staff of the Cynic philosophers and taken to their ascetic lifestyle in public. The father had disowned him. The son had brought a case for wrongful disinheritance. The father was speaking in his own defence, upbraiding his son.

  ‘Why are you embarrassing me by begging food from other people when you have a home and a father? Are you training yourself against fortune? What worse can happen? Do you suffer cold and hunger for fear they may happen some day? You and your kind have a new type of ambition — you seek veneration for misery.’

  Having ended on a note of righteous indignation, the father glowered across the curia, the very embodiment of outraged provincial decorum. Hairy, straggle-bearded and rather dirty, the son stood on the other side, as
if virtue itself arraigned. In order of precedence, the assessors murmured their advice. Postumus listened with all signs of attentiveness before delivering his verdict.

  ‘Not all philosophy is hostile to the mores of Rome. True lovers of wisdom, those who honestly seek virtue, are at one with the spirit of our age.’

  Actually, Postumus had no time for any of them, but an emperor was expected to be a man of culture. It was the sort of thing he should say.

  ‘Philosophy concerns itself with the highest good, the soul of man. Material things it rejects as irrelevant and unworthy of consideration. Therefore, by bringing this case the son has shown he is not a philosopher at all. In which case his father’s argument that he has adopted these ways as a form of ambition has validity. The Cynics are the most debased of false philosophers, always yapping against their betters and the established order, outraging public decency. The son should either welcome the removal of the distraction of worldly goods and become a philosopher in reality, or take himself to the baths, put on respectable attire, comport himself according to the station of his birth and seek reconciliation with his father. Having consulted my consilium, I dismiss the case.’

  As the plaintiff and the defendant were removed, the assessors voiced decorous approval. Postumus regarded the senators benignly. He had never had any intention to invade Italy and attempt to seize Rome. Civil war was to be abhorred. Having been forced to take the purple, he was content to rule over those the gods had allotted to his care. But to have legal authority, an emperor must have his powers voted to him by the senate; without a Lex de Imperio, there was no legitimacy. There had been enough senators serving as magistrates or living on their estates in the west for Postumus to constitute his own senate.