The Philosopher Prince

by Paul Waters

  He looked, and nodded.

  We had asked Alypius, before we left London, if he had heard any word of Marcellus’s family and their estates. But Alypius had not been governor in Britain for long, and could tell us nothing. In the chaos that the notary Paulus and the bishop had caused, even the provincial records had been ransacked: ownership and land-title were left unclear, and too many men had been robbed and killed, under the guise of tyrannous law.

  Now, as we paused gazing at the untended fields, I thought of the ruins of my father’s house and imagined every sort of evil. But there was no need to burden Marcellus with it. We should see with our own eyes, soon enough.

  We rode on. At the next ridge we halted and dismounted, and surveyed the green valley below. I came up beside him, shielding my eyes against the flaring sunset, half-expecting to see a blackened shell where the great house had been. But it stood just as I remembered, golden-yellow and ochre behind its screen of elms and poplars. I could see, within the enclosure wall, the blossom showing on the fruit trees in the orchard; and, beside the house, the flowering pale-pink almonds.

  ‘See there!’ said Marcellus pointing. Inside the wall two tiny figures were moving between the outhouses, distant silhouettes against the brilliant sunset.

  We spurred our horses on, descending into the valley, pausing only at the tomb with its pilastered doorway, where the remains of Marcellus’s grandfather lay. The tomb was neglected – all long grass and dense, overgrowing ivy. But the ancient structure stood intact. I had feared we should find it desecrated, and Aquinus’s bones scattered.

  The heavy oak doors in the enclosure wall stood unbarred and open. Within, the figures we had spied earlier were gone. We advanced along the path, leading our horses. The ordered, formal gardens I remembered had gone. The earth had been hoed over. Among the fine ornamental hedgerows, onions, beans and parsnips had been sown, like the kitchen garden of some smallholding.

  Marcellus frowned at these signs of contraction and decline. He turned and called out. There was no answer. We began to walk on; but then he stopped again and said, ‘Listen, Drusus – what is that noise?’

  I halted and listened. Beyond the wall the breeze stirred the high branches of the poplars. And then I heard it, the sound of muffled scrambling from within the stable-house. I gripped my sword-hilt, and scanned the length of the whitewashed building with its shadowy open arches. Then, at my side, so suddenly that I started, Marcellus let out a shout and sprang forward. ‘Ufa!’ he cried, as his grey wolfhound came bounding through the vegetable frames to meet him.

  I caught him back by the arm. I had seen dark figures move within the shade of the stable.

  ‘Who are these?’ I said, as a group of men dressed in brown homespun tunics came filing out into the slanting light.

  But then, among them, I recognized old Tyronius the bailiff, and others I had known before.

  ‘Marcellus?’ called the old man, squinting against the sun, ‘Is that you? We took you for imperial soldiers.’ Then everyone crowded round – men who had known him since the day he was born – pressing our shoulders, smiling and laughing with joy.

  Presently Marcellus glanced up, and I saw his face grow serious. I turned to look.

  Across the ruined gardens, waiting at the top of the wide sweep of stone steps that led to the house, a female figure stood waiting in the deep shade beneath the high pillared portico. It was his mother.

  Marcellus turned to one of the young hands. ‘Tertius, keep Ufa here.’ And then, to me, ‘I should have thought. She has been waiting.’

  I said, ‘Go to her. I will wait here.’

  But he answered, ‘No, Drusus; come. You belong with me.’

  And so, silently drawing in my breath, I went with him, walking at his side.

  The fountain in front of the house, with its bronze leaping dolphins, had ceased to flow. The circular pool, on whose wide marbled rim Marcellus and I had once lain side by side considering the night sky, and the deeper mystery of one another, was half-empty, and strewn with old brown leaves. His mother waited motionless until we had mounted the flight of steps. Only then did she turn.

  Her long robe was pinned at the shoulder with a single brooch of antique gold; it caught the rays of the sunset. She had not aged, as a myrrhine jar does not age; but her fine-boned face, which had never been weak, seemed to hold a new power, and I sensed a change in her.

  ‘So you have come,’ she said coolly, when Marcellus stood before her. She was not a woman given to displays of emotion.

  ‘Yes, Mother. I told you I should return.’ Marcellus, I knew, had written to her from Paris. I knew too that he had received no reply. He had not spoken of it after.

  She acknowledged my presence with an inclination of her head. Marcellus said, ‘What happened here?’

  Turning, she took a step forward, and placed one fine hand on the stone balustrade, and looked out beyond the fountain.

  ‘After you were taken,’ she said, ‘men came and drove away our people. We have managed with what remained – Tyronius; these boys; the womenfolk. The estate is much reduced; but we have survived.’

  ‘What men?’ asked Marcellus, his voice hardening. She gave a slight shrug, as if it did not matter.

  ‘Faceless people, a parcel of hired ruffians, cowards, every one of them; you know how these things are done. The bishop thought he could help himself, with you gone and my father dead. He sent that creature of his, the deacon Faustus. But he forgot whose daughter I am.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ordered them away,’ she said simply. ‘I told them this land has been ours time out of mind, that we have nurtured it across the generations, and I am not going to hand our patrimony to the son of some Belgian bath-attendant who thinks he possesses authority simply because he holds office. The estate will continue, or they must murder me on the threshold of my own house; but either way I stay.’

  For a moment Marcellus’s eye caught mine. I glanced away and looked solemn. It would not do to smile. ‘Yes,’ I thought, ‘she is indeed her father’s daughter.’ I could see how the bishop would have misjudged her. A slight, delicate woman; but her character was adamantine.

  ‘We saw the new governor Alypius in London,’ said Marcellus. ‘He says the bishop is much diminished.’

  ‘He is a broken man. He is nothing without his claque of vulgar followers, and they have abandoned him. It is rumoured he wishes to leave Britain altogether and go to Alexandria in Egypt, where his friends are caught up in one of their perpetual squabbles over their doctrine. They slaughter each other over it, can you believe? Well let him go; we do not need him here.’

  She turned back to the great house with its high double-doors like a temple’s. Inside a servant-girl was kindling the lamp.

  ‘And the farm-hands?’ asked Marcellus.

  ‘Slowly they return – those that can find their way back. This is their home, and their fathers’ before them. Soon we shall be able to till the outer fields once more.’

  ‘I never knew,’ said Marcellus, ‘that you understood so much of farming.’ And for the first time he smiled at her.

  ‘There is a great deal, Marcellus, that you do not know. Now come inside, both of you.’ And turning to the servant-girl she said, ‘When you have finished with that, Livia, you may open up the dining-room. We shall be three, tonight. Tell the cook.’

  We ate a simple country meal of bean stew and kid, off plates of old silver. The rooms had never been heavily furnished: Aquinus had always preferred fine, well-made simplicity. The small bronzes were gone, carried off by the Christian mob when they had looted. But the marquetry tables remained, and the old polished couches with their faded covers.

  ‘We are reduced,’ said his mother, glancing up and seeing me look.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be; there is no need. We are not the slaves of our possessions, and we will recover.’

  Later, Marcellus asked if she had received his letter from
Paris. ‘Yes,’ she replied, and said no more. But when we had finished she told him to bring the lamp, and led us through the inner garden court, now an overgrown tangle of untended shrubs, to Aquinus’s old library.

  The door stood ajar, rusted on its hinges so it would not move. The old shelves smelled of mildew and decay. A pool of water had collected under the broken window, in the place where Aquinus’s table had once been.

  ‘This,’ she said, as Marcellus held up the lamp beside her, ‘I have had to leave as it was. I always hated this room, because it took your grandfather from me. But now he is gone, and what he built is all there is. When I return here, I remember.’

  Marcellus set down the lamp, and stepped ahead into the long shadows. From the corner beside a shelf he took up a discarded volume. It was torn and broken, just as the mob had left it. At his touch the pages cracked and fell at his feet. He paused for a moment; then turning to his mother said, ‘I cannot leave you like this.’

  But immediately she replied, ‘Yes you can. I have spent too long hiding from the world, and see what it has brought me. No, Marcellus; go back to Gaul and Julian, and do some good. That is what your grandfather would have done, and he was right. The house I can manage on my own.’

  She walked on past the high empty shelves, and paused at the frameless window. Then she turned.

  In the same firm tone she said, ‘This will always be your home… It is the home of both of you.’

  The lamp flickered and caught her face; and I realized with a start that she was looking directly at me. For a moment she held my gaze. Then, when she saw I had understood, she gave a slight nod and turned away.

  I swallowed. I had thought she held no more surprises for me. But now I felt as if my heart would burst within me, and suddenly there was water in my eyes. This was her peace offering, and I knew what it had cost her. At last, after so many years, and by whatever process of painful change, I was accepted.

  There remained one other task.

  His mother had said, before we left, that the family’s London townhouse had been let, she having had no need of it; but the rents had long since ceased to come, and the agents did not respond to her enquiries.

  ‘I will attend to it,’ said Marcellus.

  We found more than we expected there.

  Back in London, we took the familiar street west from the forum, to the suburb by the Walbrook, which I had walked so often as a youth when I went to visit Marcellus or his grandfather. We came at length to the fine old townhouse, with its heavy oak door, set in high, rose-washed walls.

  Marcellus knocked and waited. There was a long pause. At last pattering footsteps sounded in the passage; the bolts slid, and the door edged open.

  ‘Yes?’ enquired a suspicious black-haired servant. ‘I wish to speak to your master,’ said Marcellus. ‘He has not yet risen. Come later.’

  He made to slam the door; but Marcellus had already interposed his foot.

  The outraged face of the servant reappeared.

  ‘Then go,’ said Marcellus slowly, ‘and wake him.’ And with the flat of his hand he shoved the door open, adding, ‘In the meantime, we will wait inside.’

  Even before we reached the inner courtyard with its herb-pots and fluted columns I could hear from the upper storey a man’s voice shouting out, ‘Lollius! Lollius! – Who was calling? Where are you, curse your eyes?’

  The servant, deciding where the greater danger lay, caught his breath and scuttled off; and we stood waiting, hearing from above a hurried exchange of whispered words, followed by impatient grunts and the sound of bare feet on the stair.

  Then a bony, harassed-looking man stepped out, clutching a cloak about his body. He was bug-eyed with sleep; his hair was greasy and dishevelled. He began to speak, a loud tirade of self-important protest. But then, looking up, he caught his breath and broke off.

  I too was staring; for I knew the man. It was Faustus, the bishop’s deacon.

  His gaunt face turned pale. He drew himself up. But in his shock he had forgotten to keep a grip at his cloak. It fell open, revealing his white, emaciated body. Quickly he snatched it shut; but his attempt at gravity was ruined.

  He knew who we were sure enough. ‘This house is mine now,’ he cried. ‘It is church property.’

  Marcellus merely looked at him with firm, aristocratic contempt.

  But the deacon had no shame. He talked on, brazen to the last. ‘You did not know? Well that can be forgiven; after all, you have been away.’ He turned his head and cried up the stairs, ‘Lollius! Go and fetch the deed from my study.’

  By the time he turned back, Marcellus was upon him, gripping him by his cloak and matted hair, and marching him down the passage to the street.

  I heard a yelp, the slap of flesh on stone, and the slam of the door. Then Marcellus returned alone, wiping his hands.

  ‘Lollius,’ he said, turning to the gaping house-slave, ‘take your master’s things and cast them into the gutter. You will find him there.’

  Then he took the deed from the cringing servant’s hand, and tore it in two.

  NINE

  WE RETURNED TO PARIS to find Eutherius back from his mission to the emperor. At each city on his journey east he had found himself thwarted by sullen officials. Rooms in quiet inns were found to be full; vigorous horses fell inexplicably lame; carriages which the day before had been serviceable were suddenly discovered to have broken axles, or to have been called away on urgent business.

  When at last he had reached Constantinople, he discovered that the prefect Florentius had preceded him, and had journeyed on to Caesarea in Asian Cappadocia, where at that time the court was residing.

  I was not present when Eutherius reported back the details of his mission to Julian. But shortly after, when I was at the palace baths, making my way from the hot-room to the pool, I caught sight of Eutherius spread face-down on a slab, while the masseur worked at his broad bear-like back.

  I walked on, not wishing to disturb him; for by now the news was all around the palace that his mission had failed. But as I passed I heard his sing-song voice behind me say, ‘Though I am lying down, Drusus, I am not sleeping.’

  I turned and laughed. ‘I thought you were busy with Sophron.’

  ‘Sophron is busy with me,’ he said tartly, raising his head enough to throw a grim look at the masseur. ‘But I am at leisure. Come and sit up here where I can see you.’

  So I padded into the side-chamber and pulled myself onto the ledge opposite. After the fierce heat of the hot-room, the damp cool stone was pleasant against my naked skin. From the latticed windows under the domed roof, sunlight shafted down through the humid air. In one corner, water trickled from a lion-head spout into a marble trough. I said, ‘I was talking to Oribasius. He told me your journey was difficult.’

  He groaned into the slab. ‘Difficult? It was vile.’

  I smiled and for a few moments watched the slave’s busy hands move over his back. I had not seen Eutherius undressed before. He was large and hairless, but not fat. He wore a cloth about his loins even at the baths – a common thing with eunuchs; who tire, I imagine, of men’s vulgar curiosity.

  ‘Oribasius,’ I went on, ‘says Constantius flew into a rage.’

  ‘So he did, and it was a passion unusual even for him. I was lucky to get out alive.’

  Then, as I had hoped, he told me what happened.

  He and Pentadius had been admitted into the audience chamber. Upon the dais, seated on his gilded and bejewelled throne with his entourage all about him, Constantius sat stony-faced, glaring at them with pinprick eyes.

  ‘As soon as I saw Florentius smiling beside the throne, looking like a cat at the butter, I knew what was coming. But lose heart, lose all. I pressed on and read out Julian’s letter.’

  Julian had urged Constantius not to heed the gossips and mischief-makers, saying there were men at court whose aim was to stir dissension between them. They must act wisely, and not let enemies drive them towards disaster.
He reminded the emperor that he had carried out his obligations faithfully, and explained that when Constantius’s notary Decentius had demanded troops he had warned him of the dangers. If Decentius had listened there would be no crisis now. He had not sought to be acclaimed; but, now that it had happened, there would be mutiny if he tried to renounce the title of Augustus, which the troops had pressed on him. And, if he were to try, like as not another less sympathetic to the emperor would be acclaimed in his place, for such was the men’s mood.

  He asked Constantius therefore to recognize what had been done, and believe him when he said he did not want war between them. His concern remained the security of Gaul, which was still uncertain. To dispatch the best of his army now – even if they agreed to go – would give the signal to the German tribes that Rome was not serious in defending Gaul, and would bring renewed invasion. Nevertheless, to show his goodwill, he would send cavalry from Spain, and reinforcements from the mercenary units, which could be spared without great danger. He invited the emperor to appoint a new prefect to replace Florentius. But as for his other officials, he would appoint men he could best work with.

  ‘During all this,’ said Eutherius, ‘Constantius sat like a statue, with Florentius inclining his head and whispering into his ear, while the courtiers smirked and raised their eyes to the roof-beams.’

  ‘And Pentadius? What did he say?’

  ‘He spoke after me, confirming it all – and all credit to him, for by then the danger signs were clear for all to see: the purpling cheeks under the face powder; the iron grip of the imperial fingers on the chair-arm; the sequined slipper tapping on the dais.’

  ‘And then?’ I asked.

  Eutherius sighed. ‘Then he seemed to lose all reason. He screamed. He threatened. He jabbed his finger and spat. It was hard to make out the words – traitor, filth, ingrate – but finally that subtle snake the grand chamberlain managed to calm him a little; and when words were once more possible we were dismissed from the Presence.’

  He let out a groan as the bath-slave began kneading his shoulders. I sat in silence, considering, dabbing idly at an old white knife-scar on my thigh. Presently I told him what Alypius had said: that Constantius would never trust Julian’s promises.