by Roger Booth
“Tell ‘em,” he grunted.
Slim and tall, his sister’s son took a half pace forward and planted his feet wide. In near perfect Latin, far better he knew than his own, the Goth voice rang to the rafters within that holy Roman cavern.
“I am Herfrig. At my side stands Wallia, reiks of our clan. We come in the name of Athaulf, King of the Visigoths. And in the name of Honorius,” his nephew thought to add. “The true Emperor of Rome.”
At mention of Honorius, the priest’s eyes narrowed and sweat broke out on Jovinus’ face. So different from the last time he had come to seize a Roman, Wallia thought. Then he had marched in full battle gear through Rome’s Imperial Palace; only to find the Princess Galla Placidia sat calmly on her throne, dressed in travel cloak and surrounded by her slaves and coffers.
He smiled to himself, while the priest prated meaningless words. He’d nearly apologised for keeping Her Imperial Highness waiting.
Meanwhile: “Jovinus must come with us,” Herfrig was saying in reply. “You cannot deny your own Emperor and his law.”
“And what assurance do we have?” asked the priest, face puckered in scorn. “That you barbarians ever obey Rome’s laws?”
Wallia stirred impatiently while his nephew answered calm as the evening air. “Were it otherwise, my Lord Bishop, Jovinus would already be dead.”
“You… you would defile this place of God?”
“My Lord Bishop, God’s house we honour everywhere. But the forum of Valentia; it is wide enough for many deaths.”
The Roman pulled up short, clasped tight the cord about his waist; the full meaning not lost on him. Taking Jovinus by the shoulder, he led him to behind the altar.
Herfrig stood tall, waiting, Wallia quietly proud. Firm, reproachful; his nephew carried himself well. A sister’s son was a holy bond, holier to his mind than weasel words from a flaccid priest. The sister herself gone, coughing up blood beside the stone highway, wife taken by the fever, a daughter married far away; and then Herfrig – all the years had left him.
Though the Romans had turned their backs, scraps of words carried back off the echoing walls.
“My son;” and the priest was speaking to Jovinus with regret but no doubts. “Honorius commands… our people…”
He coughed time on the little conference and the Romans rounded the altar to face them again.
“The church of Valentia obeys the call of its Emperor,” said the priest grandly. Perhaps he still thought he had a choice.
Then to Jovinus: “Go with these men, my son,” the priest intoned. “And go with my blessing; under the protection of the Lord.”
The chest sagged. Jovinus opened his mouth as if there was something important he must say. Then, meekly, he followed as Herfrig took him by the arm, led him outside. Squinting against the evening sunlight, Wallia saw: the crowd of onlookers had doubled in size but kept its distance, still as cattle.
Taking back his horn, he nodded towards the Roman. “Tie his hands and put a sack over his head. Then get him on a horse. Maybe the horse’ll smell better.”
Half way across the forum, silent shadows eating at the flagstones, something, the slightest shiver, made him glance back. At a distance and against the backdrop of his Basilica, the priest was following them, hands folded in prayer; mumbling lips and staring eyes. Wallia looked at the riding sack that was the captive Jovinus, again at the priest. Then, in rhythm to the deliberate swaying of his charger, he began to chant into the stone stillness; the verse he had lived by ever since he could first remember.
Sudden the iron strife, steadfast the warrior,
Loud cries his heart, life’s secret knowing;
Grim the dawn break, whose day without glory.
The escort and his sister’s son joined in, the last words still known to the youngest of the people.
Red heaven’s shining, his hoard twisted gold,
When blooded in battle, the bravest of men.
II
One week later in the same month of May: beside the main highway leading south from Valentia to Arausio.
In the eastern sky the first smudges of light; and Flavius Constantius was enjoying himself. Not many the mornings he could honestly say that. These last years more often he woke to the cold-marbled whisper of palaces.
He still considered himself a soldier. Regular lines of tents, the shuffle amongst tethered horses, the otherwise quiet of darkness on the brink of day – such were the things he had always enjoyed about the life.
They had kicked their heels in Arelate, waiting on news from the barbarians. Now the waiting was nearly over. Later today the usurper Jovinus would be delivered to the just vengeance of Honorius – who gladly played at Emperor behind his marshes in Ravenna but, anywhere else, would shake like grass in the wind.
As Supreme Commander, and after the Emperor, he was the most powerful man in the Western Empire. Except if he failed. His predecessor, Stilicho, he had seen callously deposed and just as casually slaughtered. On that day of deceitful death he had resolved; such would never be his fate – which, for all his love of the simple joys of soldiering, was the real reason he had joined the IVth Palatine on its gallop north.
He breathed in deep draughts of the cool air, a bouquet of dew-damp canvas and sweet musk of horse. Dangerous such thoughts. Clasping his hands firmly behind his back, he strode on.
Well he understood the conceit; how every man considers unique his own short time on earth. But Rome’s situation really was worse than it had been in centuries, more precarious than he would admit to anyone; even to the Emperor Honorius – especially to the Emperor Honorius.
The barbarian invasion on that accursed New Year’s Eve seven years ago had cost many of their best men. Britannia and Hispania were both already good as gone. Now, Roman fighting Roman, the few troops left in Gallia had been frittered away. His fists clenched and the blood surged. The Ancient Greeks, pagans though they were, had made no mistake: those whom the Gods wish to destroy, first they make mad.
“Sir?”
The voice came from nowhere.
He stiffened; willed himself back under control.
“Oh, Lucellus, didn’t hear you coming.”
“Just wanted to check you were alright, Sir.”
“Kind of you, Lucellus. No, I just like the early morning in a camp,” he said. “Always have; boosts the spirits, I find.”
While Aemilius Lucellus fell into determined step alongside, he did his level best to pretend that he was still alone. From out of the rows of tents a steady stream of dawn wraiths made for the latrines. Engrossed, he observed the centuries old ritual of a regiment’s wakening; the clattering of pots, the snarls, grunts and yawns.
“Sir?”
A silent sigh: “Yes, Tribune?”
“Sir, forgive me,” said Lucellus and sounded ill at ease. “But the men, Sir, they’re troubled. Barbarians laying siege to a Roman town, capturing our traitors, while we simply stand by and watch. It doesn’t feel right. Like washing our dirty linen in public, Sir.”
The family he knew well enough to suspect that Lucellus had never washed a piece of linen in his life. “For your ears only, Tribune, for your ears only; there is just the one army in the West that stands between Rome and its enemies and that is?”
“The Army of Italia, Sir.”
“Excellent. So, until we can rebuild the army here in Gallia, how would you advise your Supreme Commander? Thinking strategically, Tribune.”
“Yes, Sir.” Lucellus spoke as if on the parade ground. “Preserve the Army of Italia. By any means available. Sir.”
So the man had a brain after all. And, just then, a shard of light broke the horizon, stabbing the darkness. For a precious moment, he lost himself in that finger of yellow-red flame. Then the voice again.
“Sir? There are armies in the East. We are all Romans af
ter all. Surely they will… surely they would…?”
The question stuttered to its end and another man he would have damned to hell for so disturbing his morning. But of Lucellus he still had hopes; more to the tribune, he thought, than just blue eyes and a well-connected father. Besides, the army had not enough young officers for him to dim those young eyes with the sober truth; that to the men who mattered in Constantinople, Gallia was just a name on a faded map.
“Tribune,” he spoke gently, “yes, of course, we are all Romans. But of a Roman is it not expected that first he stand his ground; before running to his neighbour for help?”
Lucellus seemed to understand. “So we really do need the Goths, Sir?”
“For now, Lucellus, for now.”
They walked on towards the stake-lined earth wall that was the camp’s perimeter. A Roman regiment dug in behind earth walls a stone’s throw north of Arelate, by the standards of the Empire itself just a stone’s throw north of Ravenna; he understood Lucellus and his men far better than they could imagine.
The trooper on guard duty struck an ostentatiously vigilant pose; legs sprung and face towards the fields like a dog at hunt. It restored his morning’s good humour.
“Lucellus, did I ever tell you why the Goths are so eager to help?” he asked, raising his voice just enough that the sentry could follow. “No? Well, oddly enough, at first they supported Jovinus. But Jovinus then made a big mistake – he befriended some Goth princeling or other by the name of Sarus,” he said in a stage whisper, as if sharing a precious secret. “This Sarus and Athaulf, the King of the Goths; they happened to be sworn enemies. Believe it or not; once Jovinus accepted Sarus as an ally, Athaulf switched sides.”
“I see, Sir,” Lucellus nodded. “A case of the friend of my enemy is my enemy. And Sarus, Sir?”
A dry chuckle: “Sarus is dead, Tribune. He and his retainers rode out to meet Athaulf and the whole Goth army; then fought to the death, eighteen or so men against thousands. Hard to credit, I know, but I have it on the very best authority.” He peered through the faint glimmer of morning into the square-jawed face. “You see, barbarians are different from us, Lucellus, in so many ways. One of those differences is that they do not think like professional soldiers. Often their warriors just seem to want to fight and die.”
“Do you think they’ll want to fight and die later today, Sir?”
“Don’t think so, Tribune,” he said. “But I’ve never been one to take chances. That’s why your regiment’s here.”
He nodded towards the sentry; as if, just then, he had noticed him for the first time. “You keep a good watch, Soldier.”
“Yes, General,” said the man, coming smartly to attention. “Thank you, General.”
*
His clerk pushed the scroll towards him.
“This one is from the Prefect.”
“Which Prefect?” He could feel the warmth of the sun through the canvas, the smell of crushed grass incongruous amongst the chaos of scrolls spread everywhere he looked. Even by the highroad they knew where to find him. Since the snatched breakfast of olives and cheese he had been sat in the tent; poring over the piles of papers that the messengers brought in a steady stream from Ravenna and Arelate. And he was decidedly not in the mood.
“The Prefect of Gallia, General,” the clerk explained with exaggerated patience.
Postumus Dardanus; a first-class paper-pusher, he had decided during their meetings earlier in the month. “Yes?”
“He asks, General,” and the clerk was beginning to wilt in the face of his determined lack of enthusiasm. “I read the dispatch only briefly… but I think he asks, now the rebellion is quashed, what line to take with Jovinus’ supporters. He says Jovinus is well regarded… by the local families of note.”
“Does he now?”
Flattery and indecision, all the papers had brought him the morning long; that and wishful thinking whenever he asked how it stood with the treasury and the army lists. He stood up, headed for the tent flap.
“Tell Dardanus,” and he spoke softly enough for the clerk to twitch in apprehension. “Tell him he must do as he sees fit. He is the Prefect not I. But,” he barked, “since he is kind enough to ask; better by far the Empire keeps its hold on Gallia than a few foolish nobles keep their heads.”
He threw open the tent flap.
“Tell him that,” and stalked outside.
The guards stood rigid to attention. Attracted by the regiment’s horses, the flies were out in force; between their droning squadrons the waft of cooking fires. On impulse, he strode past the salutes and joined the troopers standing in line before the steaming pot.
Awkwardly, they made way for him.
“So, what’s on then?” he asked.
The pot bubbled like an infernal cauldron, the menacing crust of generations glued to its lip.
“You’ll get what there is.” The cook ladled the greasy mess into a bowl only to look up in evident horror. “Chicken and beans, Sir…General, Sir.” And by now the cook was trying to salute and pass the bowl at the same time.
To uneasy laughter from the men behind Constantius studied the bowl. A sickly sliver of something unspeakable peaked out from between a crush of what, on a good day, might indeed be beans. Gingerly, he tried a spoonful. “It’s…,” and he gasped, as the beans burned their way down like lava. He tried again: “Best stew I’ve had all day.”
More laughter; forced, he heard. He looked about for rescue; saw Lucellus making haste in his direction, at the same time a trail of dust leading to the camp gates.
The trooper rode full pelt into the camp: “Tribune, Sir,” he saluted from horseback. “Goths, Sir. Rest of the picket’s bringing ‘em in, Sir.”
Lucellus looked his apologies while, gratefully, Constantius set down his bowl. The waiting line of men, so nonplussed by his attempted humour a moment before, sprang at once into purposeful life. Poles were slipped through bolt holes on the cooking pot, the whole contraption lifted onto the back of a nearby wagon, wicked crusts and all. At the same time the fires they doused by shovels of sand piled ready for the purpose, while the cooking tents were brought down and stowed.
Within ten minutes camp was struck, save the staves still a-crown the earthen walls. The beaten grass become a parade ground, with brisk commands Lucellus had the entire regiment mounted in an open square, surrounding the officers and the regimental eagle.
An impressive display, though many times he’d seen its like – close to 600 men in ordered rank upon rank of fine horses, armour, helmets and shields, the gleaming spears held vertically in salute. The officers too sat on horseback and the only movement in the camp – apart from the flies – came from the cloaks. So many red flags, they fluttered proudly in the wind that blew down from white tipped mountains in the north.
His tent had been the last one to come down, the secretary scurrying to the wagon park with the box of this morning’s dispatches. A manservant brought his horse and he trotted over to join Lucellus in front of the other officers. There they waited until a small party of Goths ambled into the encampment followed by the rest of the regiment’s picket, properly alert in the saddle.
By comparison, the barbarians cut a sorry sight. Their clothes were trousers of worn leather and woollen tunics in faded shades of russet and green. Some riders sported helmets of one design or another. A few more wore mail or battered armour that would have earned any member of the regiment instant punishment duties. The overwhelming impression of the leader was hair: hair over his eyes, hair down his neck and hair flowing over and down from his chin. What little was left to see of the face was a weatherworn competition between pock marks and scars; next to him a man with hands tied behind his back and a sack over his head.
The leader’s eyes swept the ranks of the regiment. Then casually he spat into the dust before remarking loudly to his group in gruff but pas
sable Latin: “Well, lads, looks like they came a bit overdressed for one man in a hood. Mind, near thirty of us – you can see why they’d be worried.”
Smiles lit the Goth faces and a few raised their spears in mock salute.
Twisting back to face him, the Goth continued: “I am Wallia, leader of my clan, sent by Athaulf to honour a pledge.” And with that the man Wallia whipped off the sack.
Constantius watched with distaste as the renegade Roman engaged in a futile struggle with his bound wrists. “Hail Jovinus.” The contempt he did not try to mask before brightening: “And welcome, Wallia, to you and your men. I am Flavius Constantius and this,” he said, with a formal gesture to his right, “is Tribune Aemilius Lucellus, officer commanding the IVth Palatine.”
Surprise in the widening eyes; appalling as every barbarian, the Goth was evidently not as ignorant as he looked. The man seemed to straighten in the saddle. “Great honour you do us, General. Athaulf’s already left for Burdigala. Otherwise…”
Constantius nodded. “In any case we are headed back to Ravenna. Please, though, do thank your King.” He glanced again at the captive Jovinus. “We are grateful.” Then, as a casual afterthought: “By the way, Wallia; how is Valentia?”
“Much as it was,” came prompt the answer. “We’ll look for gold elsewhere, as we need it.” And Wallia returned a stony look with what, through the hair, might have been a smile.
At the same time Constantius was keeping a wary eye on Lucellus. The Goth, he noticed, had also not missed the Tribune’s wayward sword hand.
“Indeed, Wallia, we live in difficult times.” He cleared his throat. “I understand, for example, your people already have much gold; but perhaps,” he asked, “not all the food they might desire?”
“General, we’ll make do. Since we left the old lands, the Gutthiuda, we always have. But best remind him before your man reaches for his sword again. Not the first time we’ve helped you with your own traitors.”
Lucellus obeyed the silent order in his eyes, sword hand once more grasping the reins. “Sir?”