by Paul Waters
Soon a richly dressed servant arrived, and we were taken to a stone-built dwelling nearby, with a marble pillared porch.
It looked, I thought, like a provincial merchant’s house, which was no doubt what it was, until the court had requisitioned it. Long crimson banners bearing the imperial insignia had been hung between the columns; the atrium within had been hastily furnished with rich tapestries, and ornaments too big and grand for the place.
In one corner, beside a heavy, gilded lampstand, a group of portly eunuchs stood gathered, locked in urgent, whispered conversation. Their eyes slewed curiously round as we entered, and for a moment they broke off, staring with grave faces.
‘Something is wrong,’ I whispered to Marcellus.
He turned his head and eyed the eunuchs in their golden earrings and embroidered robes. They snapped their heads away, put out at his impertinence, and resumed their talk.
‘Whatever it is,’ he said, ‘it is not us they are concerned with.’
I was going to go on and say to him, ‘Then why are we here?’ But there was no more time to speak.
We were passed into the custody of two discreetly armed military stewards dressed in short formal coats of blue damask. They checked the bonds on our wrists, then led us to a high-roofed antechamber with Persian woven carpets and a goldfinch in a gilded cage. Here we waited, with the two armed stewards standing silently beside us. After a short time, footsteps sounded outside, a door opened, and the chamberlain swept in, attended by a train of robed officials, who fanned out and stood about him, like timid maids around a portly bride.
The chamberlain paused, pretending to look at the songbird on its little tree-bough of worked silver. His face wore the same pleased, pompous look I had seen earlier. Up close, I saw his cheeks had been touched with carmine, and his black, carefully dressed hair was crimped and shone with oil.
The officials of his retinue waited, their eyes respectfully averted from him. But I had had enough of being toyed with. In a hard voice that set the songbird fluttering I cried, ‘Why are we here? What do you want with us?’
He turned then, with an indrawing of his breath. One might have taken him for yet another gossiping eunuch, but for his eyes. They were deep-set, full of shrewd, calculating intelligence. After the painted face and fussy, jewelled clothes, there was something about them that winded one, like an unexpected blow.
I set my mouth firm, and looked back at him. If the rumours were true, this haughty official commanded even the emperor. I could believe it now. Beneath the softness was a core of iron, like a blade concealed in velvet.
And I had another surprise to come, for then he spoke, demanding in his flute-like eunuch’s voice, ‘I wish to know why the emperor has summoned you.’
At first I stared back at him, not understanding. Then I said, ‘You are his chamberlain. If you do not know, then how must I?’
His smooth jaw tightened. He was not a man who was used to being questioned. And it came to me that even though he stood at the very centre of power, he had no idea what Constantius wanted.
‘His eternity the emperor shares his every thought with me,’ he declared, as much to his retinue as to me. ‘You are both accomplices of the traitor Julian. He will wish to question you.’
He gave me a long, penetrating look, as if these words would prompt some answer from me. But I said nothing, and just looked back at him; and after a moment he repeated, ‘He will wish to question you… You must know, however, that he is temporarily indisposed; he is suffering from a slight fever – nothing serious, for the emperor never ails. But you must say nothing to tire or vex him.’
And then he tried to discover again, using different words as if somehow this would trick me, what it was that the emperor wanted with me. But of course I could not tell him, for I did not know myself.
In the midst of this, a servant stepped in and whispered in his ear. Beside me Marcellus murmured, ‘When the beast is sick, it is at its most dangerous. Be careful, Drusus.’ And then the chamberlain turned.
‘The emperor,’ he said, ‘is ready now.’ And to the military stewards, ‘Release their bonds. Bring them.’
The chamber beyond was some kind of makeshift roomof-state. There were more heavy plush carpets; and, against the far wall, a carved, high-backed chair, with a purple canopy over it, supported on gilded posts.
But the room was empty of people, and we passed through to a columned walkway with an open, high-walled garden on one side. Among the forgotten pots and shrubs, great bronze-bound travelling chests and other baggage had been stacked. The building, though large, was clearly too small for the vast imperial entourage. Near the wall, where a lopsided citrus tree grew out of a white marble urn, a small group of officials and slaves stood gathered. They were talking to one another, with grave faces and nervous eyes.
Whatever court business was troubling them, we had troubles enough of our own. I remembered the tales of Constantius’s appalling rage, and doubted we should survive the day. We had escaped the notary, it seemed, only to face something worse. I could not imagine what it could be; nor did I want to conjure such an image to life. With an effort of will I pushed the thought from my mind.
We reached a painted door guarded by soldiers with spears. At a gesture from the chamberlain, one of the soldiers stooped and tapped. The door swung open from within, and we were admitted into what seemed at first to be complete darkness.
I paused, blinking. The room was stuffy and hot; the heavy air reeked of scented oil and pungent, healing herbs. I realized that the windows had all been shuttered; the only light came from fretted lamps which stood on tables by the wall, beside hangings of crimson and reflecting gold.
I cast my eyes about, and perceived with a start that everywhere, among the clutter of furniture, people were standing in silence, their dark shapes emerging from the gloom – servants of the household, lower-ranking chamberlains, a bishop with a massive jewelled cross, military men in their finest uniforms, dark-clad notaries; and, in the midst of them all, a young woman with large eyes and a pale, bland face, dressed in a shimmering green robe woven with bullion, with two female attendants at her side.
For a moment our eyes met and paused. Her small, white hand was resting on her distended belly, and I saw that she was with child. Her eyes turned away, as though offended by my gaze, and settled instead on the low, cushioned couch before her.
And there, at last, I saw him.
He was lying amid piled coverlets of purple and shot silk. His head rested on a high, embroidered bolster; his face was pallid, round and clean-shaven, with curled dark hair matted on his brow.
At first I thought he was sleeping. But then he stirred and coughed, and shifted to look at me. And with a mixture of horror and awe I looked back at him. Here, I thought, was the man who liked to style himself Master of the World. In his sickness he looked no more than a morose child, encased in bonds of amaranth and gold.
He wheezed, and began spluttering again. A surgeon stepped from behind; but with a weak motion of his hand the emperor swatted him away. As I beheld him, all the whispered conversations and nervous, clustering officials now made sense: I saw at once that here was no passing sickness. The vast machine of imperial rule had paused, waiting on this one man.
He pulled himself up.
‘It seems,’ he said, in a hoarse voice, ‘that we are unlucky with our family. Our cousin Julian has brought us much trouble. Are we really so bad a judge of men?’
As he spoke, his eyes, shadowed and exhausted, did not look at me. His gaze was fixed on a place above my head, as if he were addressing some distant crowd. It was disconcerting; but I guessed this was his usual habit.
‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘you are not. With Julian you judged rightly. You should have listened to him instead of his enemies who surround you. It is they, not Julian, who have brought you so much trouble.’
At these words of mine, there arose a general stirring and muttering among the gathered crowd. Constan
tius made a weak, impatient gesture, and raising his voice cried, ‘Julian is presumptuous. He has won a few trivial victories over half-armed barbarians and supposes he is invincible. We have restored him from his exile; we have granted him high office; we have loaded him with favours and honours, yet he turns against us—’
He broke off in a bout of coughing. The surgeon approached once more, but he waved him away.
‘It is reported to us,’ he continued, ‘that he affects the philosopher’s beard, like a pagan Greek. Does he imagine, then, that he is learned? And lately it is said that he presumes publicly to worship the old gods, against our express command, and contrary to the Divine Law.’
At this, the bishop with the jewelled cross hissed from the shadows, ‘Apostate! His name will be damned forever.’
‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Constantius, his voice falling away. His heart was not in his anger; it sounded contrived and formal. Now he sighed, laying it aside, and for a few moments remained silent, wheezing as he breathed.
When he spoke again it was in a dull, withdrawn voice, like a man bored by all that surrounded him.
‘They say you are his friend.’
‘It is true.’
‘Do you stand by him, even now?’
‘Yes,’ I said; and at this, for the first time, his eyes looked directly at me, searching my face in surprise. He looked like an irritated matron, wondering whether to be insulted. But there was something else too: a wistfulness, or envy, as if I had called to his mind the memory of another, better self that had long lain buried.
After a slight pause he said, ‘We have attempted to rule with moderation and with justice, yet we are despised. Why do you turn against us?’
He ceased, and waited. And so I said, ‘I was not born, sir, when you took up being emperor. But when I was a boy, my father was taken and put to death unjustly; and when I was a youth, you sent your notary to torture and to crush us. There are limits to what one man may command, whatever power he possesses. No one is born with the title to rule: he acquires it, by what he chooses to make of himself. Perhaps, sir, you had that title once. But you have allowed yourself to be misled by sycophants and flatterers, and you have become not a prince but a tyrant. It is time, sir, that you set your rule aside.’
All about me there were shouts of indignation. Over the noise I heard Constantius cry out in a strained, high voice, ‘You dare to address us thus!’
‘My life,’ I answered back at him, ‘is already forfeit, so hear it from me, for it is clear these others will not say it. As for you, sir, you are dying; I do not believe either of us will see the next morning, so let us speak truly. Julian had no wish to rule, but you forced it on him. His enemies here intended him to fail; but when he did not fail they whispered in your ear that he was plotting against you. He was not. Julian never cared for power; but he cares for what is just. And so, it seems to me, he is a better prince than you.’
From somewhere I heard the chamberlain cry, ‘Take him out and behead him!’ And I heard this calmly, for I was ready, and had said what I wished to say. In front of me the young woman in the jewelled robes was weeping, great tears of grief rolling unheeded down her face, glistening in the lamplight. Someone – one of the guards – grabbed my arm; I shook him off and remained still, staring at Constantius on his couch. And he, with an odd, amazed look, was staring back at me.
He made a motion with his hand and the noise fell away. The guard took my arm once more; but Constantius said, ‘Leave him.’ Then he raised his arm from beneath the silken sheets, and took the grieving woman’s hand in his own.
‘We have been alone,’ he said quietly. ‘Even our wives do not survive. We have been having bad dreams.’
Tenderly he touched her swollen belly. Then he said, ‘I shall not see my child.’
‘No, my lord! You will soon recover!’ It was the chamberlain who spoke, and a chorus of voices called out in agreement.
‘You see,’ he said, fixing my eye, ‘even now they lie to me. You are right: Julian never cared for high office. I should have left him with his books, where he was content. Perhaps, after all, as the philosophers say, it is such men who should rule, who care nothing for power.’
The chamberlain said, ‘Julian is a traitor, my lord.’
‘Is he? So you keep telling me. And what, grand chamberlain, are you?’
The chamberlain stepped back, looking appalled. Constantius’s head moved on the pillow, and he gazed up at his wife’s stricken face.
‘She is innocent of crime,’ he said.
It took me a moment to take his meaning. But then I recalled how he had begun his reign with a general slaughter – of Julian’s family, and anyone else he thought could oppose him.
I said, ‘I believe even now you know your cousin for what he is.’
For a moment he did not answer, and in the silence the only sound was the empress’s gentle weeping.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually, looking at me with red-rimmed, fevered eyes. ‘Yes, I believe I do.’
He paused again. Then he said, ‘In the end, the great choices are simple. Tell Julian this. Tell him I entrust my wife and unborn child to him. He was wronged, and no act of mine can restore it. Let him rule, unwilling though he is. To him I pass the imperium.’
The chamberlain cried, ‘No! That cannot be!’
‘Enough! I have spoken, and you will obey this man. Let the scribes set it down, for this is my determined will.’ Then, meeting my eye once more he added in a gentler voice, ‘… And it is also my confession. Will you tell Julian that? He will understand.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘I will tell him.’
Constantius nodded.
Then he turned to his wife and said, ‘Fear not, Faustina. He is a friend of Julian’s. He will treat you with honour.’
I found the notary in his pavilion, attended by a grey-clad slave who was packing scrolls and documents into a travelling chest. He was seated at a soldier’s trestle table. In front of him lay an open casket, into which he was carefully placing little stoppered flasks like perfume bottles.
When I entered he turned in his chair without surprise. ‘You have come alone,’ he said. It was not a question. There was a tone of amusement in his voice.
His eyes moved briefly to the dagger at my belt, and he went on, ‘You are no longer a prisoner, I see. Constantius is dead, then.’
I said, ‘Constantius is dead.’
He gave a slight incline of his head.
The slave had paused. Without looking at him the notary said, ‘Leave us, Candidus, we have private business to attend to.’ And when the slave had hurried off he said, ‘I know you better than you know yourself. That is my strength. You will spare me, in the name of your foolish notion of what is just.’
‘Then you misjudge me.’
He smiled. ‘I think not. Besides, it seems I serve you now – you and your friend Julian. Once a traitor, now an emperor. There is so little in a name, and so much. You see, my young friend, the lesson that is thus revealed: the only truth is power – how to win it, and how to keep it.’
‘I have no need of you. Nor does Julian.’
‘You are wrong… It is only that you do not know it yet. You are like a poor man who comes into a great inheritance: you see the piles of gold; you sense its promise, like perfume in the air; but you do not know how to spend it. That is why you have come alone. Have you never hungered? – I am the man who can feed that hunger. Has desire never touched you? – I can satisfy desires such as you have never dreamed of. Only consider, for the world lies spread before you. Whatever you want, it is yours for the taking. Let me tempt you. Reach out with that young, hesitant hand of yours and feast yourself on power.’
He paused, sitting back in his chair, looking up at me.
I said, ‘What is in those bottles?’
‘These?’ He turned, looking pleased, like a goldsmith in his workshop, and with his long-fingered hand he gently lifted one of the flasks from the wooden bo
x. ‘This one,’ he said, holding up the pale-blue phial, ‘is aconite – it burns the entrails; it leaves no sign; a useful tool… And this’ – indicating a brown bottle with fluted sides – ‘is henbane; and this is extract of yew. Each has its uses, depending on the need.’
I said, ‘Poisons, all of them?’
‘Oh, yes. All poison. All deadly. Only the mode of dying is varied. One of them – this one perhaps – will serve for Faustina and the child. You need not trouble yourself with the matter; I shall see to it.’
Outside the day was spent. In the twilight the notary sat still, looking at me unblinking, like a lizard on a rock.
‘Thus,’ he said, when I did not speak, ‘we shall work together, you and I: you as the public face of power; I the hidden one. Both are necessary.’
‘No,’ I said.
His head moved. ‘No?’
‘Your poisons lie before you. I leave you to make your choice. Either that, or you will stand trial for your crimes. I think you know what the verdict will be.’
There was a short silence.
‘You cannot kill the Hydra,’ he said, in a harder tone. ‘I am a fact of nature. Others will follow me, to the very end of time.’
‘Perhaps you are right. But I too am a fact of nature, and till the end of time there will be men who will resist you.’
The notary sighed. Slowly he took up one of the phials, looked at it, removed the wax stopper, and emptied the liquid into a small glass vessel.
‘This would kill ten men,’ he said, and he raised the glass, as if to toast me. ‘But remember, I am your shadow… Your vengeance makes you just like me.’
I paused before I answered. But when I spoke it was in a clear, determined voice.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, it does not.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE STORY IS SET between the years AD 355 and 361, a century before the fall of the Roman empire in the West. It partly traces the rise of the young imperial prince Julian.