The Philosopher Prince

by Paul Waters

  We hid the body in a nearby midden, then made our way back. For a long time neither of us spoke. But when we reached the street with its few glimmering lights Marcellus touched my arm and said, ‘There was no other way. You know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know.’

  I walked on. Then, after a moment, ‘It is pretending to be his friend I hate most of all. I feel it still, like a pollution in my soul.’

  ‘I too; yet it had to be done. We had to stop him. Many thousands will die if Lupicinus marches against Julian. It was in our hands, ours alone.’

  At the street-corner I paused under a wall-cresset and by its spluttering light inspected my clothes and hands for blood. In the wet grass beside the midden I had cleaned myself as best I could, but I felt it clung to me still.

  ‘You are right, Marcellus,’ I said, when I was done with this, ‘and I’d do the same again. But I’d rather the battle-field any day.’

  He agreed, and let out his breath in a sigh. I knew that he too had felt the touch of evil.

  And there was still the letter.

  We had searched the body but found nothing. In the end, supposing he must have left it in his room, we returned to the inn; but we could hardly rouse the innkeeper and ask which room was his. So we crept about outside like thieves, peering in as best we could at half-shuttered windows, trying doors, and, if we disturbed anyone sleeping, feigning stupidity and drunkenness.

  At last we found the room we wanted. Inside there was a brown leather satchel, packed with a few possessions. Marcellus emptied them onto the bed and sifted through them – a Mithras-charm; a small rough painting on a folded piece of old wood of a middle-aged woman; a keepsake lock of golden hair in a little carved box. But there was no letter.

  We pulled up the bedding, and felt about beneath the mattress; we tapped the boards, and searched for hidden niches in the wall; but there was nothing. By now the birds were stirring, and the first grey light of a miserable dawn showed through the window.

  I blew out the lamp. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘it’s not here.’

  Back in our room we stirred up the bed-sheets to make it seem we had slept. Then we sat down and considered what to do.

  We had hidden the body quickly, and in darkness. For all we knew, the alley could be a busy thoroughfare by day, and any passing labourer on his way to the fields might discover it. We could not afford to wait for that, with all the attention and questions it would bring. Already, outside, the servants of the inn were moving about under the covered walkway, speaking to one another in hushed voices as they went about their early tasks. And so, in the end, we made our way down to the stables, and took our horses, and rode onwards into the west.

  Lupicinus glowered at the document in his hands. It was the letter we had brought him from Julian, recalling him to Paris. I knew from his eyes that he had finished reading; but he did not look up at us, nor did he speak.

  In the silence I could hear his breath passing noisily through his nostrils, in and out, like an impatient man on the edge of an angry outburst. Why did he not speak? What was wrong? I waited. I dared not turn my head to Marcellus.

  We had finally reached him at the city of Chester, where he was pausing on his leisurely return south. Now, as I stood before him, I reflected yet again on the many ways Florentius or the emperor could have got word to him: by the sea route to the north of Britain, or across country from the west. I wondered what he already knew that would expose the true nature of our mission.

  I realized I was clenching my hands at my sides. I forced myself to relax them. At any moment I expected him to call for our arrest.

  In the corner a nervous adjutant was sitting at a desk, shifting his papers pointlessly to and fro while he strained to listen. Through the side of my eye I could see Marcellus standing straight, like a soldier on parade. I decided I must say something; it seemed less painful than the silence. But then, just as I drew my breath, Lupicinus slapped the letter down on the trestle camp-table and looked directly at me, his face as immobile as a statue.

  ‘Why is it,’ he asked coldly, ‘that the Caesar sent you?’

  My mind raced. I said, ‘I had private business in Britain; it was once my home. And so I accompanied Marcellus, who is my friend.’

  He kept his eyes on my face as I answered.

  ‘Is the prefect Florentius in Paris?’ he said.

  This was a test, I sensed it. I could smell my sweat; I had not had chance to bathe. I said, ‘He is at Vienne, sir.’

  ‘Vienne,’ he repeated, with a slow incline of his head. I had no idea if Lupicinus had heard that the prefect had already fled from Vienne. If he knew that, then he would know the rest too.

  He remained still for a moment. Then he took up the letter again, and it seemed to me there was an expression of distaste in his pinched features.

  ‘Do you know,’ he asked, in a slow, suspicious voice, ‘what is written here?’

  ‘Only,’ I said, ‘that the Caesar asks you to return to Paris.’

  ‘Yes; this letter surprises me.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘There is no mention of my victories. Why does it not mention my victories?’ He looked again, vain fool that he was. I could almost have laughed.

  ‘Oh,’ I cried, ‘but we had not heard; no news has reached us for some time. But soon, I hope, you will be able to inform Julian in person; it will be a great triumph for you.’ And I thought to myself: so he has beaten back the rabble of Picts and Scots; one might have supposed, from his tone, that he had single-handedly crushed the mighty assembled armies of the King of Kings, and that his name would be written in the stars.

  But Lupicinus, as everyone knew, was not a man to understate his achievements.

  He eyed me carefully. No doubt he had heard a good deal of insincere flattery in his life. But after a moment he said, ‘Yes… Well… To tell you the truth, I was expecting to hear from Florentius. But you say you bring nothing from him?’

  I told him no. He sniffed; then strode to the window with his straight-backed, affected military step, and peered out at the yard.

  ‘Half a month ago, I received a letter from the prefect. He said little; but he hinted that he feared trouble. Do you know what he might have meant? – No? – Well, nor do I. He gave me no detail; he only said he intended to write more fully soon. Since then I have heard nothing from him.’

  He had kept his back to us as he spoke; but now he turned suddenly, as if he hoped to catch in my face some concealed meaning. I looked at him blandly.

  ‘And yet,’ he said, frowning, ‘you say all is well in Gaul?’ ‘Well enough, sir. There are rumours the Rhine Germans are stirring again for war.’

  ‘Oh, the Germans are always a problem. It must be some other more weighty matter that demands my presence.’

  I agreed, adding, since I knew the sort of man he was, ‘I expect the Caesar did not wish to share the details with me.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay.’

  Marcellus, in a helpful tone, asked, ‘Should we take a message back for the prefect?’

  ‘What? Oh, no; there is no need. Let the prefect contact me himself, if he wishes. No doubt Julian will tell me what all this is about.’

  I allowed myself to breathe again.

  Marcellus, who had the measure of the man, began asking about the campaign, saying he had heard it much praised, even in the short time we had been in the camp. At this, for the first time, Lupicinus’s face brightened. ‘Did you expect otherwise? I have never been defeated, and this was little more than child’s play after what I have done elsewhere. Why only last year in Syria …’

  And off he went.

  As he talked on I smiled inwardly, and joined Marcellus in laying on the flattery, and for the next half-hour stood dog-tired on my feet, while he crowed to us about his successes against the Scots and Picts. But to be bored by Lupicinus was a relief, for I knew now that we had succeeded.

  When later Marcellus and I were crossing the open ground bac
k to our quarters, I whistled through my teeth and said, ‘Two days more, and Firmus would have reached him with his letter.’

  Marcellus began to speak, then started like a shying horse as from across the square an officer yelled out a reprimand to a trooper.

  He glanced at me and shook his head. ‘I think I need to sleep,’ he said. And then, ‘I wonder what Florentius knew. It must all have been in that second letter.’

  I nodded, and thought of the messenger dying under my hand. But I did not want to speak of that; so after a pause I said, ‘I sense Lupicinus doesn’t much care for the prefect. If he did, he might have paid more heed of him.’

  ‘He doesn’t care for him at all. And have you heard why?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘He thinks he is arrogant.’

  We laughed a good deal at that. It was our first laughter for many days.

  ‘Even so,’ I said presently, ‘the sooner we are gone from here, the happier I’ll be.’

  *

  But we were not yet free of Lupicinus.

  He was a man who, having finally made up his mind to a thing, sets about it at once, in a frenzy of activity. The next morning, in the first grey of dawn, his flustered manservant came tapping at our door. The Master of Cavalry would be travelling south with us; we must make haste, for he wished to make an early start.

  Marcellus, half-dressed, smothered a groan. I said, ‘Yes; of course.’

  We set out soon after, accompanied by Lupicinus and his military escort. His legions – the Herulians and Batavians – would return at their own pace. He had even left his expensive collection of silver plate, which would be sent on after.

  At Letocetum he took himself off to the baths – now functioning once more, and surrounded by low-lying wood-smoke that clung in the damp air. Then he retired to his room, saying he wished to dine alone. He left Marcellus to deal with arrangements – and it was just as well: for recognizing us the innkeeper exclaimed how, the day after we had departed, the traveller we had been asking about was found murdered. We expressed proper horror and quickly moved the conversation on. And the inn-keeper, seeing our badges of rank, which before we had kept hidden, did not pursue the subject further.

  The journey southwards was a constant torment. Every time I spied a horseman approaching on the long straight road my nerves jangled until I could be sure it was not another imperial messenger bringing word from Florentius. Already Marcellus and I had resolved, if the worst happened, that we should strike Lupicinus down with our daggers before he had chance to act. We could do it, for we rode at his side with the escort some paces behind. But it would have cost us our lives. We were two against his entourage of ten; they would have cut us down after.

  All through these private fears, with the prospect of death beyond every hill-brow, I had to listen, nodding and smiling, while Lupicinus talked about himself, a subject he never tired of.

  I had ordered the cutter that had brought us from Gaul to sail up the Thames to London. It lay waiting at the city quay. We had told Lupicinus that we intended to remain behind in Britain to see to private business. We stood at the waterfront, to see him off; and when, at last, the sleek black vessel cast off into the ebb tide, with Lupicinus standing grandly at the stern, I hardly dared meet Marcellus’s eye, in case the relief showed in my face.

  Only after the pilot had called out the order for oars, and the cutter surged away towards the bridge, did I let out a long breath and turn to him.

  ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘would he have marched against Julian?’

  Marcellus returned his gaze to the receding ship. The oar-blades, red and white against the black hull, rose and fell with military precision. Passers-by, who had chanced to be crossing the city bridge, paused at the balustrade to watch, as they will at any fine sight.

  ‘I think so,’ he said frowning. ‘He has no loyalty to the West. He is Constantius’s creature through and through. But I do not believe the men would have followed him.’

  Out in the river the cutter was making sail, its great scarlet sheet bulging as it caught the breeze. Lupicinus was standing at the rail, his eyes ahead, his hands clasped behind him in the rigid military posture he affected. I was glad he had not waved or called a farewell. There had been too much deception; and in Boulogne, I knew, the arrest detail would be waiting.

  That evening, we dined with Alypius at the governor’s palace. We ate our first good meal for many days, drank deep of his fine Bordeaux wine, and told him how we planned to ride out to Marcellus’s land.

  When the tables had been cleared and the servants had been dismissed, he leaned forward on his couch and said, ‘Now that we are alone, tell me, how did Julian bring about his acclamation?’

  ‘He did not,’ I answered. ‘He was as surprised as the rest of us.’ And Marcellus and I recounted the events that had led to the night in Paris when the army stormed the palace.

  When we had finished, Alypius said, ‘Then it is the same Julian as I remember – I thought perhaps time had changed him. He was never interested in power. All he wanted was to stay in Athens, among his philosopher friends.’

  ‘I believe, sir, he yearns for Athens still. He values it enough to fight for, if he must. But that is not his choice.’ And I told him about Eutherius’s embassy to Constantius, and how Julian hoped for a settlement.

  But Alypius shook his head. ‘I doubt Constantius will listen.’

  ‘No,’ I said, remembering Eutherius’s words to Julian, ‘perhaps not, unless he is forced to. It is said he trusts no one.’

  ‘He does not. It is the curse of supreme power, I suppose, and an indifferent mind, and having lived too long with deceivers and flatterers.’

  Marcellus asked him if he thought then it would come to war.

  Alypius considered for a few moments, the wine-cup poised in his hand.

  ‘I think this,’ he said, setting the cup down on the little circular three-legged table beside him. ‘Constantius will crush Julian if he believes he can; and his advisers will encourage him, especially that insufferable chamberlain of his. But if Julian can make himself strong, the ground may yet shift.’

  Later, over a dessert of fruit tart served with Mauritanian figs softened in sweet wine, Alypius told how he had first met Julian, one summer when he had been visiting philosopher friends in Nikomedia. Alypius had been sitting under the shade of a spreading plane, in the precinct of the shrine of Demeter, talking with his friends, when he had noticed a shy stolid-looking youth, loitering under the colonnade. He had thought no more of it, and turned back to the conversation. But, soon after, the boy had approached and sat on a ledge close by, so he could overhear their talk.

  ‘Seeing him I said, “Come, join us and listen, for there is nothing secret here.” And the boy came and sat, until his pedagogue, a Christian priest, came fussing and scolding and led him away.’

  He smiled at the memory and continued, ‘Years later we met again, and I reminded him of this meeting, and we became friends. In those days he was like a starveling who has chanced upon a rich man’s feast, so great was his hunger for knowledge… So much,’ he added, shaking his head, ‘had they kept from him.’

  I decided I liked Alypius. I asked him about his home at Antioch; and with longing wistful eyes he described the laurel-shaded avenues, the stepped vineyards rising up the mountain, the libraries and baths and constant pleasure of civilized company.

  ‘I should love to see it one day,’ I said.

  ‘Best hurry then, for soon the Christians will have swept away every delight the city offers – the university, the libraries, the theatre, they detest them all. And each year there are more of them, and fewer good men. They will not be content until Antioch is as dull as a desert mule-station.’

  And so the conversation turned to the Christians. Marcellus told him we had seen the bishop of London’s new cathedral on the hill, in its place on the site of the old temple of Diana, which he had demolished. ‘It is all unfaced brick and scaffolding; I
had thought it would be finished by now – he has been at it long enough.’

  ‘Ah, the bishop,’ said Alypius, and he gave a weary gesture. ‘He is fortunate his great ugly edifice is there at all. If I had not interposed my guards, the mob would have torn it down.’

  ‘He used to claim,’ I said dryly, ‘that the common people were his greatest ‘Such men always do. But the support of the mob is as fickle as a courtesan’s love – and as easily bought. He has discovered that for himself, now his funds have run out. They blamed him for their misery. He has done much damage to his cause.’

  ‘The mob should blame themselves,’ said Marcellus bitterly.

  ‘Quite. But it is not the way of the vulgar to admit their own folly. So they say instead that the bishop has tricked them. When he could not feed them they went to the same councillors they had once driven from the city, begging them to return. So now the bishop sulks in his great unfinished palace and waits for the end of the world, and meanwhile the people quietly worship the old gods, and the province prospers.’

  He ate the last fig from his dish, set it down, and rang the hand-bell for the servant. ‘But such are the ways of the ignorant; they will not change… Now Marcellus, your cup is empty.’

  The next morning, on a day of sharp, brilliant springtime light, we rode out west from London to Marcellus’s land, pleased at last to be alone with one another after so much ugly work. All about us the meadows were carpeted with white spring flowers; the wind in our faces was fresh and clean.

  By the time we reached the ancient boundary-stone, the sun was sinking on the western horizon into a bank of orange and purple cloud. For some time Marcellus had been silent, and I knew he had been wondering what he would find.

  At the stone he pulled up his horse, and frowned out at the overgrown fields.

  ‘No one is working the land,’ he said.

  I pointed at the ruts in the bramble-fringed track and said, ‘Yet men have passed this way.’