by Ross Laidlaw
As for Aetius, whom I accompanied on his last campaigns in Gaul and by whose side I fought on the Plains of Catalauni, this I can truly say: he was the best man I ever knew. Bold, frank, open-handed, never asking of another what he would not do himself, he was a leader such as Germans love to serve. Gladly would I have laid down my life for him when he met the Emperor in Rome. But that was not to be, for he entered the palace alone.
Truly is this Rome a mighty Stadt. Riding down the Flaminian Way, we (that is, Aetius with his bodyguard and a small train of officers and attendants) came to the city from the north, with the Tiber flowing to our right. Standing in the middle of a dreary plain, Rome is guarded by a high brick wall full twenty miles round,3 made by order of Emperor Aurelian against inroads by my own tribe, the Alamanni. Passing beneath the portcullis of the Flaminian Gate, a great arch through the battlemented curtain with strong towers clad in white marble on either side, we kept on down the same road (now a street) past the huge drum of Augustus’ tomb with two tall columns from Egypt standing before it, then through the Arch of Marcus Aurelius and under the mighty aqueduct called Aqua Virgo. (Understand, this being my first visit to the city, I did not then know the names of these buildings or anything about them, but found out later.)
And so, passing beneath the Mount of the Capitol crowned with stately buildings, we entered the famous Forum Romanum, surrounded by more temples, basilicas, and statues than I could number. Our path then led along the Sacred Way beneath the Palatine Hill, and through the Arch of Titus to the Colosseum, the biggest thing made by man that I have yet seen. How, I asked myself, to find words to tell of such a marvel? Then beside me, lost in wonder, Gibvult breathed, ‘It’s a cheese — a great cheese!’ I cuffed him playfully and made to mock him for an ignorant barbarian, when it struck me of a sudden he was right. A monstrous cheese is truly what the Colosseum looks like — well, from a distance, anyway. But such a cheese as might have graced the board of Odin.
From the Amphitheatre of the Flavians it was but two hundred paces to where we were to stay, the Palace of Commodus, Aetius having sent ahead to make sure the place was ready against our arrival. (You, Titus, were the messenger on that occasion I believe.) What Valentinian thought of this ‘borrowing’ of imperial property (which was like to add to the tally of his grievances against the Patrician), I can only guess.
For Gibvult and myself, who thus far had known only the rough life of the backwoods village or the camp, it was strange indeed to eat in marble halls and sleep on beds of down. Aetius, who was a hard taskmaster when need arose, but an easy one when things were quiet, while making preparation for his meeting with the Emperor (of whose purpose we of course knew nothing) gave his bodyguard leave to see the sights of Rome, taking turns to do duty at the palace. I could fill a book (if I could write) telling of the wonders of the city. But that would weary you, Titus, my friend, so I shall speak only of those things that struck me most: the Colosseum (which I have already touched on); the Baths of Caracalla and of Diocletian, the size of towns in Gaul; the Circus Maximus near half a mile in length; the Forum of Trajan flanked by a wondrous mall with covered markets, shops, and galleries; the Pantheon’s stupendous dome; the Basilica of St Peter below Mount Vaticanus outside the Walls, the empire’s greatest church they say; the Insula of Felicula, a gigantic tower block out-topping Trajan’s column and accounted one of the wonders of the Roman world; above all, the mighty aqueducts snaking through the city like Orms4 above the rooftops.
Such works, it almost seemed to me, mere men could not have wrought, but only Gods or giants. They made me wonder: how was it that the people who had made such marvels could let their city, which even Hannibal had not dared assault, be taken by the Goths? (Though, saving a few great villas on the Caelian which — too badly damaged to be restored to their former state — have been patched up and made to serve as hospices, there’s little sign today of the Great Sack, which many Romans still recall.) The pagans say that Rome’s luck went out with the closing of the temples, which made the Gods withdraw their favour. However that may be, one thing is sure: the folk of Rome today show little of the hardy spirit of their forebears, who conquered Carthage, then the world.
Each day you can see crowds of poor (and shamefully the not so poor) gathering on steps throughout the city to await a dole of bread, pork (in season), and oil. This any free head of family can claim by showing a little slip called a tessera. Fed by the state, these pampered leeches show little wish to work, but spend their days in the baths (to which a trifling coin gains entry), where they mingle freely with the great and wealthy. Or, if Games are being held in the Circus or arena at the Emperor’s expense (or of the quaestors, praetors, senators, and consuls), they live for nothing but betting on the outcome. Huge sums are spent on these shows, one given by Petronius Maximus (about whom more hereafter) costing, I’ve been told, four thousand pounds of gold.
But do not the patricians set the plebs (for such in olden times were called the higher and lower ranks of citizen now termed honestiores and humiliores) a good example of behaviour? Rather, the opposite is true. The nobles think only of pleasure and display, flaunting their wealth in rich apparel and carriages of gold or silver, which they drive at furious speed around the city, careless of harming passers-by.
Touching on which, Gibvult and I caused pride to have a fall. We were strolling in one of the narrow streets of the district called Subura, when towards us, whirling along at breakneck speed came one of these equipages driven by a youth in billowing silken robes. Scattering before this would-be Diocles,5 folk leapt for safety into alley-mouths and doorways. A glance between my friend and me decided us to teach this arrogant puppy a lesson.
Scorning to jump aside, we stood our ground — though on my part, I confess, with a thumping heart. The horse, though a noble animal, is not (save for endurance) a brave one. Confronted, his nature is to flee, as Gibvult and I had learnt when practising cavalry tactics against ranked infantry. Sure enough, the matched pair drawing the conveyance reared up before us, pawing the air and pitching the driver from his seat; his fall was broken by his landing in a pile of ordure. Grabbing the horses’ bridles, we pulled their heads down and calmed them. Then, laughing, we walked past the prostrate youth, who was dashing filth from his face and screaming threats. Little we cared; Rome’s vigiles, the urban cohorts, had been disbanded and replaced by vicomagistri, nightwatchmen. Anyway, who would dare arrest two bold young Germans in the service of the Master of Soldiers?
Came the day of Aetius’ meeting with the Emperor. We of his bodyguard escorted him to the Palace of Domitian, an awesome block of brick-faced concrete on the Palatine. Leaving us at the gates, Aetius removed the baldric holding his sword (no weapons being permitted in the presence of the Emperor) and gave it to our centenarius.
‘Stand easy, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at least two hours; so you can be free until the fifth. You two’ — he pretended to glare at Gibvult and myself, and shook his head in mock reproof — ‘try and stay out of trouble till then. Oh yes,’ he continued with a grin, ‘I heard about your little escapade in the Subura.’ Then, addressing the whole company, ‘Fifth hour, remember. Dismiss.’ And with a casual wave, he strode off through the palace gates, which the imperial guards, recognizing him, had already opened.
It was the last time I ever saw him.
As, about an hour later, Gibvult and I were wandering among the stalls of the Forum Boarium, I became aware of a distant murmur from the Palatine Hill above us. The murmur grew and spread, became a swelling roar: the sound of many voices raised in query and concern. Suddenly the crowds around us were caught up in the clamour; a chill struck my heart as I began to pick out phrases: ‘He’s dead. . Who’s dead?. . They say it’s the Patrician. . murdered by the Emperor himself. . I heard it was Boethius, the Prefect. . No, it was Aetius I tell you — slain by Valentinian’s own hand. .’
I stood in frozen disbelief while the rumours dinned in my ears and the world seemed to
swim around me. Then Gibvult and I were running towards the source of the noise, barging through the shouting throng. We found an angry mob gathering outside Domitian’s Palace. Behind the locked gates a triple row of white-faced guards stood with levelled spears. A group of Aetius’ bodyguard were dragging a beam from a nearby building-site, clearly meaning to use it as a ram to force the gates.
‘Drop it!’ Crackling with authority, the voice of our centenarius cut through the uproar, and he positioned himself in front of the gates. ‘You want to break through these? You’ll have to start with me. In an hour I’ll be taking a roll-call back at our quarters. Anyone not on it — ’ his eyes, charged with flinty menace, surveyed the bodyguard — ‘will be on a charge. Spread the word. Get moving — now.’
No one missed the roll-call. Afterwards, the centenarius, struggling to master strong emotions, addressed us confidentially. ‘The rumours are true, lads: the Patrician’s dead. And yes, before you ask, it was indeed the Emperor who killed him. And no, there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it, because the Emperor’s above the law.’
Angry shouts broke out: ‘He shouldn’t get away with it. . Aetius was worth ten of him. . Bad emperors have been dealt with before — think of Attalus and Iohannes.’
The centenarius let the fury and resentment burn themselves out, then raised his hand for silence. ‘I feel the same about this as you do, lads,’ he said. ‘Removing the dog-tag on its thong from around his neck, he held it up. ‘You were all given one of these when you joined the army. And you also had to swear an oath, to be — well, come on; let’s hear it.’
‘Loyal to the Emperor,’ came the mumbled response.
‘Good. Remember it.’ After a pause, he went on musingly, ‘Of course, if anything — God forbid — were to happen to Valentinian, I suppose you’d just have to swear loyalty to whoever took the purple.’ He winked, then added, ‘You didn’t hear that last bit, by the way. Dismiss.’
During the weeks and months that followed, a tense calm seemed to grip the city. While continuing to occupy our quarters in Commodus’ Palace, we heard that, beside Aetius, Boethius, the Praetorian Prefect, had been murdered; also the Patrician’s closest friends and associates. Recalling the dark days of Sulla, proscription lists of ‘traitors’ were posted, and at the same time public announcements (which nobody believed) proclaimed the Emperor’s deliverance from a dastardly plot to overthrow him, and praised his courage in turning the tables on a would-be assassin. As to why the Emperor had really murdered the unarmed Patrician we could only guess, but jealousy and spite were thought to play a large part. As common soldiers, we of the bodyguard were safe enough, we thought — so long as we kept our heads down, as our centenarius never tired of reminding us.
With Placidia and now Aetius dead, who was running the empire? Now that Valentinian was spending more time in Rome than in Ravenna, would the whole machinery of government be transferred? Who would be the new Master of Soldiers? (Avitus was heavily tipped.) And, whoever it turned out to be, would he still require our services, or would he choose his own escort? No one seemed to know the answers to these questions. Yet the wheels of the administration kept turning — creakily, it must be said, but they turned. Our pay was often in arrears but we always got it eventually. I believe that this was due, in part at least, to the persistence of one of Aetius’ agentes in rebus, in reminding the paymaster of our existence. (Now who, Titus, could that agent have been, I wonder?)
Perhaps the strangest thing of all at this strange time was the regaining of some of its ancient power by the Senate. The Senate, that toothless tiger, whose only function these four hundred years had been to legitimize who came to power! But with Valentinian (now the most hated man in the empire) cowering in his palace, someone had to make decisions, and that someone could only be, collectively, the Senate. Chief spokesman of this august assembly was one Petronius Maximus, about whom, because he was about to play such a large part in my life, I shall now tell you something.
Petronius Maximus: wealthy senator, twice consul, thrice Praetorian prefect of Italy, member of the ancient and famous Anician family, cultured man of letters, liberal patron, generous host, popular with all — could this cornucopia of distinctions be held by just one man? The answer, if that man happened to be Petronius Maximus, was that it could.
My first meeting with him came about in this way. The bodyguard was having its midday prandium of bread and cold meat, when a biarchus appeared and summoned Gibvult and myself. We followed him out of the palace to where a Nubian slave was waiting. ‘You’re to go with this fellow,’ said the biarchus. ‘Seems some senator wants to see you; don’t ask me why.’
Mystified and not a little curious, we followed the slave through narrow streets, up the slopes of the Caelian, beneath the arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, and through the old Servian Wall into the Fifth District, one of the most salubrious in the City. Soon after, we entered a private square adorned with statues, which fronted an imposing mansion. We were led through a number of halls opening one into another, in the fifth of which, the tablinum, we halted. It was a spacious room, with pigeon-holes and open cupboards filled with scrolls and codices. Scant furniture, but what there was was beautifully crafted in metal or rare woods. Wall-niches held one or two fine bronzes.
In the midst of this austere elegance, a middle-aged man in a plain but expensive dalmatic was seated writing at a table. He waved us to a bench and kept on writing for a little longer, then, consulting a water-clock beside him, laid down his stylus and looked up. A strong Roman face beneath a full head of well-groomed silver hair. ‘Four hours for study, four for writing, four for friends and relaxation, four for business,’ he said with a smile. ‘These make up my day, aside from sleep. Each must get its due — no more, no less. I am Petronius Maximus. You’ve heard of me perchance?’
If anyone had not, he must be either deaf or witless. Everyone, even we uncouth Germans, knew of the great senator. ‘Who in Rome has not, Your Gloriousness?’ I replied, using the correct if absurd-sounding form of address.
‘Fronto, bring wine for our guests,’ he told the slave, then, turning to ourselves, ‘You must be wondering why I sent for you.’ He eyed us appraisingly. ‘I require a certain task to be carried out, for which I require two suitable young men. They must be brave, know how to handle themselves, and above all be trustworthy. I made enquiries of your centenarius; he recommended you two above all others in your unit. Also, it came to my ears that you clipped the wings of a certain young blood — my nephew, actually — driving at reckless speed through the Subura. I applaud; the young puppy needed taking down a peg. More importantly, it tells me you’re the sort of men I’m looking for. It takes courage to halt a galloping pair. Forgive me if I ask a personal question: what is your present rate of pay?’
‘Thirty solidi per annum,’ I replied, intrigued. ‘Plus rations, uniform, and fodder for our mounts.’
‘Would you be interested in trebling that?’
Gibvult and I exchanged the briefest of glances. ‘We’d be interested,’ we said in chorus. ‘Provisionally,’ I added. Where was the catch? I wondered. For that sort of money, there had to be one.
At that moment, Fronto returned bearing a tray on which were a silver flagon and two glass drinking-vessels decorated with hunting scenes in relief. Placing the tray on a table, Fronto filled the glasses, handed one to me, and was in the act of passing the other to Gibvult, when it slipped from his hand to smash on the mosaic floor. He began to tremble, and his skin turned from black to dusky grey.
‘Oh, Fronto,’ murmured Maximus, shaking his head, the angry glitter in his eyes belying the mildness of his tone. ‘My Rhenish beakers — irreplaceable.’
The mess was quickly cleared up and Gibvult supplied with a fresh tumblerful, but the trivial incident had taught me several things about our host. I realized as I sipped my wine — vinegary stuff from the Vatican vineries — that he thought Gibvult and myself unsophisticated barbarians who would neit
her notice that they were being fobbed off with an inferior vintage, nor expect it to be diluted with water in the Roman fashion. The reactions of Maximus and his slave to the breaking of the beaker showed that Fronto could expect to be severely punished. Maximus clearly had an arrogant, mean, and cruel streak, which gave the lie to his reputation for benevolent urbanity.
‘What would this task involve, Your Gloriousness?’ I enquired.
‘For a start, a transfer from your present unit to the scholae, the imperial bodyguard. An enviable advancement, most would think.’
‘What, serve Valentinian?’ I exclaimed in outrage. I stood up, as did Gibvult, his face suddenly gone red. ‘I’m afraid, Senator, you’ve chosen the wrong men.’
To my amazement, Maximus beamed delightedly. ‘Splendid,’ he declared. ‘Just the reaction I hoped for; you’ve proved beyond doubt your loyalty to your murdered master, Aetius. Please hear me out. I will explain.’
Whatever strings Maximus pulled to secure entry for Gibvult and myself to the scholae (mainly sprigs of noble families), we were not to know; for a man of his influence it would not be difficult, I think. Suffice to say that a week from our meeting with the great man, we were reporting for duty with the scholae at Domitian’s Palace. We were issued with splendid parade armour: muscled cuirass and crested helmet, fashioned by the barbaricarii, smiths who normally made armour only for officers. Our duties were light: mainly standing outside the main entrance to the palace looking impressive, or escorting the emperor on the rare occasions when he left it. At first, some of our new comrades tried to make mock of us, resenting us as low-born upstarts, I suppose. However, in a fight arranged on waste ground in the Fourteenth District, Transtiberina, Gibvult and I demolished their two champions. After that, we were accepted.
