by Paul Waters
‘Then I shall remain, if you advise it, Eutherius. We must not risk all that we have achieved. We will keep back enough men to protect our flank against the Germans.’
He considered for a moment, rubbing his chin. Then turning to Lupicinus he said, ‘Take the Herulians and Batavians. They are good, keen fighting men; and it will leave us enough in reserve to guard the Rhine.’
So in the end, Lupicinus set out for Britain.
He embarked at Boulogne, and, soon after, word came that he was in London. Then the weather closed in and we waited, cheering ourselves with the story that was doing the rounds, of how Lupicinus, after he had offered prayers at the Christian church, had discreetly sent for an old priest and asked him to offer incense on the altar of Neptune for a safe crossing.
It was shortly after, late in January, that an imperial notary arrived. A captain of the palace guard announced him.
‘A notary?’ said Julian. ‘Has he come from Florentius?’ For we had heard nothing from Florentius since his hurried departure for Vienne.
‘No, sir. He says he has come from the emperor himself. His name is Decentius. He asked first for the prefect Florentius; but when I said the prefect was away in Vienne, he asked to see Lupicinus.’
‘… And Lupicinus is in Britain.’
‘That’s what I told him, sir. And then he ordered me to… ah… summon you.’
‘Summon?’ said Julian, raising his brows in amusement. ‘He told you to summon me?’
The captain, a young Gaul, newly promoted, looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, sir. That was the word.’
‘In that case,’ said Julian, ‘we had better not keep him waiting.’
The captain was too nervous to acknowledge the sarcasm. But on his way out he paused at the door and turned.
‘What is it?’ said Julian.
‘One thing, sir. He told me, after I had seen you, to find Sintula and bring him too.’
‘I wonder,’ said Julian, when he had gone, ‘what he wants with Sintula.’
I knew Sintula. He was an ambitious officer of the palace guard, whose main concern was furthering his own career. It was well known that he was part of Florentius’s clique. Clearly the guard captain too had found it odd that he should be summoned to the same meeting, for political matters were none of Sintula’s concern.
Sintula, however, had wasted no time. He was already waiting in the great audience chamber by the time we arrived, looking pleased with himself, like a child with a secret. Beside him was a man with a black bob of hair and a small, mean mouth, dressed in the dark garb of an imperial notary.
As Julian strode in the notary declared in a curt, loud voice, ‘I had hoped to find the honourable Lupicinus here; but it appears you have sent him away.’
‘Lupicinus is in Britain—’ began Julian.
‘So I am informed,’ said the man, cutting him off.
Julian’s expression hardened. He did not care for ceremony; but he could tell the difference between familiarity and insolence. The corps of notaries – Constantius’s private agents – were hated across the empire, and for good reason. They were above the law, or supposed they were; they were haughty and dangerous; they abused their power, which anyway was never quite defined; and to the emperor they could do no wrong.
Now, ignoring Julian’s expression, he continued in the same tone, ‘The orders I bring were intended for the Master of Cavalry, Lupicinus. In his absence I was to speak to the prefect Florentius. And now I find that he too is away.’
‘He is in Vienne.’
‘Yes. It is unfortunate.’
Coldly Julian said, ‘You asked to see me. Well, I am here. What do you want?’
The notary sighed, then snapped his fingers and made a little beckoning motion with his hand.
A clerk stepped forward with a scroll. Upon it, in the flickering light of the wall-cresset, I could see the great imperial seal.
‘You know its contents?’ Julian asked.
‘Indeed I do,’ responded the notary. ‘And I am here to ensure the instructions are carried out.’
Julian narrowed his eyes. ‘Well?’ he said slowly, ‘What does he want?’
‘You are required to send troops from the Gallic army, which the emperor has need of in his war with the Persians. You shall send the following legions: the Herulians; the Batavians; and from the auxiliaries the Keltic regiment and the Petulantes; in addition three hundred men from each of the remaining units, and a detachment from the palace guard of Paris.’
He ceased. Quietly Julian said, ‘Do you realize you are demanding more than half my army?’
The notary gave a thin smile. ‘I am not a military man, Caesar. I am here to carry out the emperor’s orders. I am instructed also to tell you not to interfere. These orders are for the emperor’s agents in Gaul: the Master of Cavalry Lupicinus, and the prefect Florentius. I communicate them to you only in their absence, as a courtesy. The tribune here’ – with a knowing nod at Sintula – ‘is charged with selecting the three hundred from each unit, ensuring the best are taken. He is then required to lead the men of the palace guard east.’
Julian’s eyes moved to Sintula, who knew, even if this notary Decentius did not, that to take so much of his army would render him helpless. Sintula shifted on his feet, and studied the floor.
Oribasius and Eutherius had remained upstairs in the study, but I was with Julian, and Marcellus was beside me. For a moment he glanced at us, and I saw the tension in his face. I knew what he was thinking: that his enemies at court had finally defeated him. For an instant he looked hopeless. But then he drew himself up; he would not let this arrogant notary see his pain.
Turning to him, he said, ‘As the emperor wishes.’
The notary raised his brow. ‘How not?’ He motioned to the clerk. But Julian had not finished.
‘Yet the legions you demand, the Herulians and Batavians, are away in Britain with the Master of Cavalry; and the prefect Florentius, who must arrange supplies and transports, has taken himself off to Vienne. So I fear you will have to wait. In the meantime, Sintula will do his best to make your stay in Paris comfortable.’
He turned to Marcellus and me. ‘But come,’ he said, in a taut, formal voice, ‘these men have much to do, to strip the province of its defences, which we have done so much to build. We had better leave them to their work.’
Then, before anyone could speak further, he strode away, across the echoing flagstones of the audience chamber, leaving the notary with a conceited look of unconcern on his face, and Sintula doing his best to look important, but forgetting to keep his mouth closed.
*
‘A fool could see what he is about!’ cried Julian, back in his study. ‘He intends to take away my troops; and then he will send a warrant for my arrest. And what is my crime? That I have done what I was asked and freed Gaul?’
He had been speaking to Eutherius, pacing to and fro as he spoke, motioning angrily with his arms. But now he turned to Marcellus and me.
‘Thus it turns, the Wheel of Fortune,’ he said bitterly, ‘yet still men envy high office, and waste their lives in its pursuit. You have been loyal friends, but I cannot bind you to this, now I see clearly where it must lead. You must leave before I am arrested, or you too will be caught up in the net.’
‘We stay!’ said Marcellus, without a moment of hesitation.
In his usual self-possessed voice Eutherius said, ‘Let us be calm… My dear Julian, do keep still. Why don’t you sit down?’
Julian threw himself into the high-backed ebony chair that stood against the wall. He rubbed his face with his hand, then looked at Eutherius.
‘What now?’ he said.
‘These are old tactics. The hunted hare runs always into the net; but men possess the gift of reason. Your enemies at court are trying to push you into a trap. See it for what it is, and do not give them the cause they seek. For now, do all that is proper.’
Eutherius gave his advice; and Julian listened. And afterward
s he sent an urgent dispatch by imperial relay to Vienne, telling Florentius he was required in Paris, that he needed to consult with him on state business. Meanwhile, the notary Decentius sent Sintula among the household troops, to pick out the men he would take.
On the day this work began, Marcellus, returning from the barracks, said wryly, ‘He is having a harder time of it than he expected. The men don’t want to go. They say they have received no orders from Julian. They don’t like Sintula. They think he’s arrogant.’
Soon Sintula came complaining to Julian, bringing Decentius with him, and also his new ally Pentadius, who was one of Florentius’s creatures and a man Julian disliked.
‘The men do not want to go,’ he protested. ‘They claim you promised they should not have to serve beyond the Alps.’
‘So I did. You were there, Sintula; or have you forgotten? I told them they would never be forced to leave Gaul. I told them they were fighting for their homes and families. How else would they have followed us, when the emperor could not find funds to pay them? I recall you agreed with me at the time.’
‘I was following orders.’
‘And now you are following orders again. No doubt you can explain that to the men.’
Decentius said, ‘You are not cooperating.’
‘I gave my word to those men.’
‘You should not have made such a promise. You had no authority.’
‘The emperor,’ said Julian, ‘required me to safeguard the province. That was my authority. If Constantius now wishes to replace me he may do so. I am ready to leave.’
‘At least,’ cried Florentius’s lackey Pentadius, ‘let us say to the men that you have no objection.’
Julian turned to him and regarded him with distaste. Pentadius was one of those men who have learned so little of philosophy that they would be better off having learned none at all. He had picked up, somewhere, that the middle way is always best, without understanding why or how. Now he saw himself as a conciliator, blinded to the truth that he was merely furthering his career in the imperial bureaucracy, as he had always done.
‘You may tell them I have no objection, if you wish,’ replied Julian. He paced to the shelf of books beside his work-table, gazed at the untidy pile of scrolls with their labels and wooden spindles, and then turned. ‘But do not be surprised, next time you seek to recruit men in Gaul, if there are no volunteers.’
Days passed. From Florentius in Vienne there came no reply. Julian sent a second dispatch. The province was about to be stripped of troops; he needed Florentius in Paris. It was the prefect’s duty to manage the supplies and transport for the departing troops.
‘He will not come,’ said Julian later.
‘He knows you suspect him,’ said Oribasius.
Julian looked out of the window. It was raining. ‘Well, I have good cause; his absence is too convenient.’ He shook his head. ‘Even so, he has his work to do. What is it, does he fear for his life? He knows me better than that.’
During those grey, lightless days of winter we all tried, in different ways, to intervene with the notary Decentius, urging him to delay and send for fresh instructions.
Returning from one such unpleasant meeting – for the man was impervious to reason and aggressively stubborn – I ran into Eutherius as he was passing through the garden colonnade.
He took me by the arm and invited me to drink a cup of wine with him; and when we were seated in his warm, sweet-scented quarters with their coloured silk hangings, and Agatho had brought us our wine, I said, ‘It is no good; he will not listen. One might as well discuss the matter with a stone.’
‘Yes, Drusus, but we can hardly be surprised. Now here, take one of these charming cinnamon-cakes and don’t look so glum.’
I took a cake from the little tapered dish of red glass. He always had an assortment of such snacks waiting in his room.
‘It is clear that Decentius has no intention of heeding anything we tell him. He has not come here to listen, but to instruct. And yet,’ he said, chewing thoughtfully, ‘have you noticed, beneath his pompous act, he is not as sure of himself as he likes to pretend?’
‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘he expected to give his orders to Lupicinus and be done with it.’
‘I daresay. And now he is forced to take charge himself. Though he will not admit it, it is beyond him.’
‘A bureaucrat,’ I said bitterly, ‘doing a soldier’s work.’ Eutherius nodded.
‘And,’ he said, ‘he will make a mistake. We need only wait.’
SEVEN
SOME DAYS LATER, SINTULA made ready to depart from Paris, leading the troops he had picked from the palace guard. Decentius had instructed Julian to keep to his quarters, out of view; but the men were not so easily deceived. Word had got out that Julian was unhappy. The men were ill-tempered and suspicious, and an atmosphere of resentment hung over the city.
On the morning of their departure, Marcellus and I went down to the Paris forum to watch. It was a day of low grey cloud, and with the dawn a fine drizzle had begun to fall. We walked with our hoods up, not wishing to be recognized; and when we reached the forum we went to a tavern we knew, a discreet, small place tucked into a corner of the colonnade, on one side of a baker’s shop. The serving-boy brought watered wine, and bread, and a dish of smoked meat and cheese; and with these set on the table before us we waited for the troops to pass.
It was early still. Now and then a house-slave called at the baker’s, collecting loaves for the morning. We sipped our wine in silence, and ate, and watched the few rain-bedraggled figures as they passed across the paved square in front of us.
Presently Marcellus set down his cup, turned his head this way and that, and peered along the colonnade.
‘Have you noticed,’ he said, frowning, ‘none of the other shops has opened?’
I looked. Except for the baker’s shop, everything remained closed.
‘I expect,’ I said, ‘they’re waiting till the men have passed.’ But after that I began to keep my wits about me.
On the far side of the forum, under the pillared porch of an old abandoned temple, a group of town women in shawls were sheltering from the rain, waiting, I supposed, for the market-traders. Turning, I saw others too, gathering under the high doorway of the basilica. Perhaps it was their silence, or a look in their stolid faces; but something, some soldier’s instinct, made me look over my shoulder into the back of the tavern, checking for a second exit, in case we should need it.
Then, from somewhere out of sight, distant at first, came the regular drum-like beat of marching men, their boots sounding in unison on the cobbles and echoing down the street. We turned our heads towards the north-east side of the forum, where they would enter under the triumphal arch.
Sintula appeared first, straight-backed on a grey dappled horse, dressed in his best uniform, with a fine, plumed helmet that shone even in the grey light. Next, a few paces behind, came the first ranks of men, marching five abreast, stern-faced, with their packs strapped to their backs. They entered the wide, open square of the forum, heading for the gateway on the opposite side, where the road led off to the south.
At first the only sound was that of marching men, hard and powerful, yet familiar too. I reached for the wine jug, thinking my uneasiness had been overdone. But then, like some terrible effect in the theatre, there arose from nowhere and from everywhere a high-pitched keening animal cry that lifted the hair on my head and made me start from my seat. I looked about, astonished. And then I perceived the cause.
Bands of women had begun pouring like Furies from the side-alleys and doorways and sheltered porticoes, their shawls and cloaks streaming as they ran, carrying babies, or pulling young children with them. They were screaming out and crying, proffering swaddled bundles, calling to their menfolk, each by his name, imploring them to consider their sons and daughters whom they were abandoning to their fate.
Sintula’s horse shied and recoiled; Sintula, shaken from his wooden expression o
f authority, turned with a look of horror on his youthful face.
By now the women had reached the line, and were thrusting their infant children into the faces of their husbands. The pace of the march faltered; the men began calling out to their women and children, their hard soldier faces wet with tears.
Marcellus turned to me with a look of amazement; and indeed it was a strange thing to see an army set upon by a mob of women. Even then I think the men would have continued; but at that moment an uneasy murmur ran down the line from the front. At the far side of the forum, clustered about the opposite gate, another group had gathered, linking arms and blocking the way.
Sintula gaped at them, then looked back, his confusion clear. The line was beginning to bulge and break as the men in front, perceiving the human barrier of wives and children ahead of them, slowed their pace.
‘By God!’ cried Marcellus, starting up from his chair, ‘He’d better order them to stop!’
I said nothing. I was watching Sintula’s face as he weighed up the price of his dignity.
His mouth firmed into a hard, stubborn line. Ahead, the women stood fast – fierce, red-haired Gallic women, standing in determined silence.
‘Make way!’ cried Sintula.
They glared silently back at him. Already others were joining them, streaming in from behind, an unyielding barrier of human flesh.
Sintula’s horse jerked its head and strained at the bridle. Angrily he urged it on. The horse resisted, and whinnied in protest. He barked out a curse; the horse proceeded a few more steps, then shied again. And then Sintula grew suddenly still.
For a moment he stared ahead, his jaw tense with fury. Then, with a sudden violent movement of his arm, he gave the signal to halt; and all about him the women began clamouring and jeering, surging forward, surrounding his horse, pushing in between the now broken line of their weeping menfolk.
Rumour, swifter than the wind, had reached the citadel before us. When we arrived at the gate, the guard asked with glowing eyes if it was true that Sintula had been put to flight by a pack of women. Then, passing through the colonnade on our way to the inner court, we came upon Oribasius.