by Ross Laidlaw
‘All you have to do is deny them, sir. Then I’d be more than happy to withdraw my request.’
‘How very generous. There’s just one little fact that appears to have escaped your notice, Rufinus. You were under orders to stay in Ravenna and prepare a report. I don’t recall releasing you from your duties. Technically, that makes you guilty of desertion — assuming there’s a status belli between myself and the imperial government. I can assure you Placidia thinks there is. I could have you arrested. To quote Marcus Aurelius, “It never pays to break faith.” He should have added, “with someone more powerful than yourself.”’
‘But given my suspicions, sir,’ Titus protested, ‘don’t you think I am justified-’
‘Oh, spare me the rest,’ Aetius snapped. ‘Honour. . betrayal. . the cause of Rome. . et cetera, et cetera. Brutus would have been proud of you.’
‘Such things are hardly unimportant, sir, Titus cried, nettled. ‘Look what you’ve achieved yourself in Gaul: containing the Franks in Lower Germany, and persuading them to become Rome’s loyal allies; forcing the Visigoths to keep within their bounds; cementing peace with the Burgundians. Why treat Boniface as an enemy, sir? Together, you could have made Rome strong again, like Claudius “Gothicus” and Aurelian, or Diocletian and Constantine.’
‘You’ve missed your vocation, Rufinus,’ said Aetius drily. ‘You should have been an orator. I’ll tell you what is important. Survival. You don’t honestly think that what I’m doing in Gaul is for the glory of Rome, do you? If so, you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined. It’s a dog-eat-dog world at the top, and only the strong last the pace. Like Julius Caesar before me, I’m building up a power-base in Gaul, as a safeguard against my political enemies — no need to spell out who they are.’ Aetius scribbled something on a scrap of parchment, and handed it to Titus. ‘Here’s your discharge. I haven’t forgotten that you saved my life once; I reckon this evens the score.’ He studied Titus appraisingly. ‘You should have stuck with me, you know. You’re still young — twenty-six, twenty-seven, is it? I could have made something of you, but on your own you’ll never amount to anything. I see you dying — for Rome, of course — in a squalid little skirmish against the barbarians, in some God-forgotten corner of the empire. Well, as you can see’ — he waved at the clutter on his desk, then bent over a document — ‘I’ve a peace to negotiate. Close the curtain on your way out.’
Seething with resentment at the manner of his dismissal, Titus yanked the curtain to, with a jerk that almost tore it from its rings. For just a moment, when Aetius had given him his diploma, Titus had thought he glimpsed a crack in the persona of weary cynicism, a shadow of regret behind the general’s eyes. Obviously, he had been wrong.
As he marched to the tent’s entrance-flap, his eye was caught by a codex lying amid a jumble of papyri on a table. It was beautiful, its visible cover, of ivory, exquisitely carved to represent a mythological scene. On a sudden impulse, Titus picked it up and opened it. The waxed boards were blank save for a brief and enigmatic inscription on the first. It read: ‘His Philippi — the fifth milestone from A.’
1 5 October 431.
2 Basle and Strasbourg.
THIRTEEN
Set up in the reign of the Emperor Flavius Valerius Constantinus; five miles from Ariminum
Inscription (conjectural) on the fifth milestone from Rimini, on the Aemilian Way
Titus rode across Ariminum’s five-spanned bridge of white marble, past the triumphal arch erected by Augustus to mark the junction of the Via Flaminia and the Via Aemilia, and headed north-west up the latter.
Southwards, the Via Flaminia hugged the coast for twenty miles, before turning inland bound for Rome. This was Italia proper: parcelled neatly into farms and villas, studded with little towns, overshadowed by the Apennini Mountains. Northwards, bounded on the south by the Aemilian Way, stretched the vast alluvial wetlands of the Po basin, the old province of Cisalpine Gaul, which still in some ways felt unlike Italia, almost foreign.
Solving the cryptic inscription in Aetius’ codex hadn’t been difficult. ‘His Philippi’ could surely only refer to a decisive contest between Aetius and his arch-rival Boniface; that historic field had witnessed Mark Antony and Octavian smash the forces of Brutus and Cassius. ‘The fifth milestone from A’? ‘A’, while theoretically applicable to any of a thousand places, probably referred, Titus decided, to somewhere not far from Boniface’s headquarters in Ravenna. Titus reasoned that Boniface, having taken a mauling mentally as well as militarily in Africa, would instinctively want to remain close to his base, like a hurt animal. Aetius would realize that, and intend to bring the battle to his rival, in such a way as to secure an advantage for himself.
Working on this theory, ‘A’ could mean (moving north to south in an arc round the head of the Adriatic) any one of the following: Aquileia, Altinum, Ateste, Ariminum, Ancona. Titus conjectured that Ariminum,1 being nearest to Ravenna, was the most likely. He had already examined the terrain around the fifth milestone from Ariminum on both the Popilian Way — the coast road from Ariminum to Aquileia — and the Flaminian Way. On the former, he had found himself in a bleak wilderness of salt-marshes, dunes, and lagoons — a most unsuitable venue for a battlefield. On the latter these features were replaced by terraced cultivation — again, hardly ideal for the deployment of forces. ‘The fifth milestone’, on whichever road it was, must be in an area which guaranteed Aetius tactical superiority, and to which Boniface must be persuaded to bring his men. The only other road out of Ariminum was the Aemilian Way, so that must be the best option. Autumn was now well advanced. Winter rains and freezing Alpine winds meant that Aetius would not be engineering a confrontation before spring at the earliest, which gave both sides a breathing-space in which to make preparations. Though Boniface didn’t know it yet, his preparations could well be shaped by information stemming from Titus’ investigations.
Walking his horse along the soft verge of the arrow-straight Aemilian Way, Titus reached the fifth milestone in a little over an hour. A cylindrical column of limestone on a square base, it bore the inscription ‘IMP. CAES. FLAV. VAL. CONSTANTINO: AB ARIMINO M. P. V.’
He consulted his road-table, a chart showing sections of the Way in ‘ribbon’ style, and noted the salient features of the surrounding landscape. A small stream, the Uso, flowed through a culvert beneath the road. (The next crossing — of the famous Rubicon, — lay a mile or so ahead.) To the north of the road stretched a vast expanse of reedbeds. Beside the corresponding area on his chart appeared the word ‘cuniculi’: drainage channels. To the south, the terrain was unreclaimed marshland. The road was virtually a causeway over a swamp.
Depression swept over the young man. Despite its proximity to the Rubicon (whose weight of historical association might be calculated to attract Boniface), of the three possibilities this looked the least promising. In fact, from a tactical point of view, none of the sites made any sense at all — prompting the suspicion that ‘A’ must represent somewhere other than Ariminum. Rain began to fall, adding to Titus’ gloom. Within seconds it was sheeting down, soaking through the thick wool of his cloak, bouncing off the road, gushing into the side-ditches. As he turned his horse’s head for the return journey, Titus became aware of a loud gurgling: rainwater rushing through those drainage channels. Realization burst upon him. His hunch had played off: this was indeed the spot selected by Aetius for Boniface to meet his Philippi.
1 Rimini
FOURTEEN
The everlasting hills do not change like the faces of men
Tacitus, Annals, c. 110
When Titus appeared at the west gate of Ravenna’s imperial palace and requested an interview with Boniface, he was met with a polite but firm refusal. ‘Sorry sir,’ replied one of the guards. ‘We’re under orders not to admit you.’
‘But it’s of vital importance I see the Count,’ insisted Titus. ‘The only reason I’m debarred is because I used to work for Flavius Aetius. I’ve now left his se
rvice.’ He produced the parchment Aetius had given him. ‘Look, here’s my certificate of discharge, signed by him. Just show it to someone in authority, and repeat what I’ve told you. I don’t mind waiting.’ With feigned absent-mindedness, he began playing with a tremissis, a small gold coin worth a third of a solidus, part of the diminishing funds he had saved from his pay while serving Aetius.
‘See what I can do, sir,’ said the guard, palming the coin with a conspiratorial wink. He summoned a temporary replacement from the guardroom, and set off through the gardens for the main buildings. Half an hour later he re-appeared, accompanied by an official. ‘You’re to go with him, sir.’
Titus followed the man through the gardens, along a wide passage between the four central blocks, then down a long peristyle and through a portico into the imperial apartments — they were familiar from that long-ago encounter with the Empress and her son. The official opened a door and ushered Titus into a hallway, empty save for two burly Nubians wearing slaves’ short, sleeveless tunics. The click of a key turning in the lock behind him, told Titus he had walked into a trap.
He knew instinctively that resistance was futile, that these men were trained athletes whose skills would outmatch his own, but nevertheless he put up a fight. As the Nubians closed on him, he gave the leader a kick in the solar plexus which would have felled a normal opponent. It was like kicking a tree trunk; the man merely grunted and came on. Titus’ second blow — a neck-breaking jab with the heel of his hand against the other’s chin — produced a similar reaction. Then his arms were seized and wrenched behind his back. The pain was excruciating. Realizing that just a little more pressure would break them, Titus surrendered and allowed himself to be led from the hall. He was marched down a corridor into a large pillared chamber, in which were seated the Empress Galla Placidia and her son, Valentinian. A sulky-looking lad of twelve or thirteen, Valentinian was tall and strong for his age. He had inherited the long nose and fine grey eyes of his grandfather, the great Theodosius, but the weak chin and petulant mouth were those of his imperial uncle, the feeble Honorius.
‘Is it arrogance or merely stupidity that causes you to persist?’ asked Placidia in a glacial voice. ‘You become tiresome. Not content with once assaulting the Emperor, you have attacked a bishop in his palace, so the Pope informs us, and then have the temerity to demand an audience. Somehow, you have survived the measures we took to have you silenced, and have cheated the Ferryman. That wasn’t warning enough, it seems. Do you really think that this will make a difference?’ And she held up Aetius’ document discharging Titus.
‘Mother, I have a suggestion,’ Valentinian lisped, his tone eager.
Placidia’s expression softened. ‘We have a suggestion,’ she corrected mildly. ‘Yes, Flavius?’
‘An attack on our person was foiled by these two loyal servants, who intercepted and killed the would-be assassin before he could reach us. Clever, don’t you think?’
The Empress smiled indulgently. ‘Well, it would save a lot of bother, I suppose. Very well.’ She nodded to the Nubians.
One wrapped his arms round Titus in a vice-like grip. The other took Titus’ head between his hands, and began to twist. Terror flooded Titus as he tried to fight the pressure. It was no good; his head turned inexorably — in a few seconds, barring a miracle, his neck must break.
In a pain-filled haze, he was dimly aware of Valentinian staring into his face, murmuring, ‘Blink for me.’
A miracle happened. The door opened and in walked a huge and familiar figure: Boniface. ‘My apologies, Your Serenities, I didn’t mean to-’ He broke off as he took in the scene.
‘Help me!’ Titus managed to croak.
Looking both astonished and concerned, Boniface raised his hand in a commanding gesture. Relief swept through Titus as the pressure on his neck eased.
‘Would someone please explain?’ said Boniface in puzzled tones.
‘This man was trying to kill me,’ said Valentinian sullenly.
‘It’s not true!’ cried Titus desperately. ‘You remember me from Africa, sir? I brought you a letter from Count Aetius.’
‘That’s right, so you did,’ said Boniface. He gestured to the slaves, who released Titus and stood aside. Turning to the Empress, he said placatingly, ‘Aelia, my dear, there must be some misunderstanding. I know this young man. He may have served the traitor Aetius, but. . a murderer? Surely not. In my youth I fought under his father against Radogast the Goth. A finer soldier than General Rufinus would be hard to find.’
‘It was you I came here to see, sir,’ declared Titus, gingerly feeling his neck. ‘I no longer serve Aetius. Look: the Empress holds in her hand my official discharge.’
‘Aelia?’ queried Boniface, his tone friendly yet holding a hint of reproof.
The Empress shrugged, conceding defeat. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said. ‘It’s probably best we let you deal with him. You’ll be doing us a service by taking him off our hands — we were beginning to find him a trifle tedious.’
‘So you’ve left Aetius,’ said Boniface, when he and Titus were ensconced in the Count’s own suite of rooms within the palace. He shot Titus a keen glance. ‘You may be interested to know that I received a letter from Aetius the other day, suggesting we hold a parley next year, at-’
‘-the fifth milestone from Ariminum,’ broke in Titus excitedly, ‘on the Aemilian Way.’
‘Now, how in the name of Jupiter did you know that?’ asked Boniface, visibly impressed.
‘Well, sir, it goes back to a meeting I had with one of your old soldiers, a disabled veteran called Proximo.’
He held back nothing, but told of his conversation with Proximo and the attempt on his life; the discussions with his father; the confrontation with Bishop Pertinax; the stormy meeting with Aetius; finally, his investigations from Ariminum. ‘It was those words, “His Philippi”,’ he finished, ‘that made me realize Aetius intends springing a trap.’
‘Well, thanks to you, I can start planning how to unspring it,’ said Boniface. ‘Proposing a parley near the Rubicon,’ he murmured reflectively. ‘Cunning. It shows he understands my fondness for historical conjunctions. A weakness, I admit — and one he was clever enough to exploit. I’m grateful to you, extremely grateful.’ He looked at Titus appraisingly. ‘So, young man, you wish to enter my service, you say. I’m flattered, of course. But after my — shall we say — less than distinguished record in Africa, I’m rather puzzled as to why you should wish to.’ And he gave a self-deprecating smile which Titus found oddly touching.
‘My father believes in you, sir. Let’s just say I trust his judgement.’
‘In that case, welcome aboard, Titus Valerius. Tomorrow we’ll swear you in as one of my agentes in rebus, then you can start being useful straight away. I have a little job that I think would suit your talents.’
The five horsemen trailing Titus spurred their mounts from a plod to a walk — the speediest gait possible on the steep, eastward-facing foothills of the Apennini mountains. Titus smiled as he did likewise, welcoming the chance of a little excitement in what had looked to be an uneventful assignment. His horse, a pure-bred Libyan, had been supplied by Boniface from the palace stables. It came from tough, fast, tireless stock, and he was confident it could out-distance his pursuers. As far as he could tell at a distance of several hundred paces, their horses were chunky Parthians, sturdy and reliable, but not to be compared in speed and endurance to North African breeds.
Who were these men? wondered Titus. Their horses looked like Roman cavalry mounts, suggesting their riders were soldiers. Perhaps from a faction opposed to Boniface, who had seen Titus leave the palace? Brigands on stolen army horses? Brigandage was a growing problem: many peasants and workmen, driven to desperation by excessive tax demands, were leaving the fields and cities for the outlaw life.
Meanwhile, nothing could dampen Titus’ euphoria on this glorious late-autumn day. All his troubles seemed to be evaporating. The rift with his father was heal
ed; Gaius was recovering his health and well-being in the bosom of his new German family; and the running of the Villa Fortunata was back on a sound footing. Titus was the father of a strong and healthy son. Lastly, thanks to Boniface, Placidia’s vendetta was over; and Titus had exchanged service with a self-seeking schemer, for honourable employment in the cause of Rome. Despite his elation however, he couldn’t stifle his sadness that Aetius, his lost leader, had proved to be an idol with feet of clay. But Titus had come to terms with changing that allegiance, and felt that his hard decision had been justified.
Boniface had entrusted him with the delivery of two messages, one each to the garrison commanders at Placentia and Luca.1 The first was to be given strict instructions (backed up by written orders from the Count) to allow Aetius free passage through Placentia on the way to his meeting with Boniface at the fifth milestone from Ariminum — whenever that should happen. The commander at Luca was to be handed a sealed letter from Boniface. The Count had emphasized to Titus that the contents were of vital importance, and must on no account be allowed to fall into the hands of a third party.
After completing the first part of his mission, Titus had stopped overnight at an inn in Placentia. The following morning he retraced his steps along the Aemilian Way for a dozen miles then, as instructed, turned to the right, off that broad and arrow-straight highway on to a side road leading to the village of Medesanum. He paused to consult a sketch-map which Boniface had had prepared for him. His route, north-south to Luca, struck obliquely across four rivers — the Tarus, the Parma, the Entia, the Secies2 — and the spurs dividing them, each spur higher than the last until the main crest of the Apennini was reached. On the far side of the watershed, in Etruria,3 the route then followed the valley (known as the Garfagnana) of the River Sercium, all the way to Luca.