Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

  Attilius was silent for a little while. He heard nothing but the clop-clop of the horses’ hooves upon the pavement, and they talked to him in a new and enthralling language.

  “Do you say, Lucius Hermex, that roads are Rome’s great work in the world?”

  It was a boyish question put with all a boy’s shyness. Attilius blushed as he put it. Lucius Hermex frowned.

  “I can’t say, Sir, as I’ve given much thought to it,” he said at length. “If you ask me, I should say Rome doesn’t know what work is.”

  Lucius Hermex was very literal. Attilius was left to play with the idea of a great Trunk road, beginning in the desert of Assouan, sweeping round the shores of the Mediterranean, halting for a moment at the Golden Mile-post in the Forum at Rome, and then rushing forward, quick and straight, over mountain and river and plain. What had old Daemonides said? “It leaps the seas. It runs to the Wall where the world freezes.” Attilius saw it in pictures, first a white riband amongst golden wastes under burning suns, then climbing and falling like a ship amidst the blossoms of Italy, at the last blocked amongst snows against a huge black wall topped by castles. It was a thing of magic and romance.

  Attilius was now supple and lean and brown, hard of flesh and clear of vision. The softness and languors of the Roman days had been burnt out of his body. He was only aware of the weight of his accoutrements when he took them off. And this morning, as the day broadened and the road filled, he became the spectator of an enchanting play. Now they must make way as some great procurator dashed by in his travelling carriage to take possession of his province. Twenty waggons followed him, piled high with his silver and his fine crockery, his linen and his blankets. They would in their turn catch up rich merchants dictating their letters to their secretaries in their coaches as they rolled along; pedlars with their wares packed upon mules; a company of actors with their scenery and a portable stage in a van; a cohort of cavalry; a circus. They rode through small towns, each one with a little Forum in the middle and grave Senators mimicking Rome.

  There were times, of course, when the real Rome took its revenge of him. Recollections of afternoons upon the chariot course behind the Palatine when the Green beat the Purple or the Blue the Red; nights spent alone in some squalid inn of Gaul, when the lights of Rome clustered in front of him and he wondered at what gay folly his friends were set upon, and imagined himself in their company. Was he already forgotten? Very likely. Or, still worse, did some youngster, sitting in his place, mention his name and turn his goblet down, as to one who had joined the dead? Attilius could have wept over his misfortunes. But he did not. He did indeed discover in them the most pathetic opportunities for rhetoric. He made up wonderful speeches on the Fate of the Outcast Tribune which would have drawn the easy tears from a hundred pairs of sympathetic eyes. He was, indeed, in the middle of such a poignant oration when the cavalcade halted on the seashore at Calais and he beheld, far away, white cliffs flashing like silver in the sunlight.

  Here they waited for two days and then crossed with a fair wind to the busy port of Richborough. Still the great road ran on, but the posting stations had come to an end. They marched on their feet, the Centurion and the relief of twelve men. They marched through a pleasant, prosperous country of wheat reddening to the harvest, of placid cattle in wide pastures, of houses of brick and stone with corridors open to the sun and lordly pheasants mincing upon lawns. On the fifth day London took them in by its southward gate. On the sixth it pushed them out from its northward one. They felt the chill of clay in the dark forests of the Midlands and rose out of them with shouts of relief to the clean uplands of the north.

  An afternoon came when Lucius Hermex, the unmoved — to Attilius’ thinking, the unmovable — turned ahead. The party was climbing a slope, its face to the hillside. Lucius Hermex strode forward, like an impatient man setting a good example. But when he was twenty yards ahead he threw dignity and discipline to the winds. He ran, he skipped, a boy home for his holidays. Attilius saw him standing on the crest of the hill, his arms extended, as though he covered all that was below with protecting wings. When Attilius reached his side his first glance was at the Centurion’s face. It was transfigured. Those iron features smiled. It seemed that a light shone out from him and in a stentorian voice he called aloud: “Ave Eboracum!”

  Then Attilius looked down and had his first view of York.

  V. AT YORK

  A gentleman of Rome

  Comes from my lord with letters.

  — Cymbeline

  “Tomorrow I sacrifice a white cow to Cocidius and the Three Mothers,” said the Centurion, and lo! the tears were running down his weathered cheeks. Attilius could have wept too for a very different reason. But he managed to smile.

  “Surely a soldier nursed you in a helmet for a cradle,” he said. He was looking down into the vast rectangle of the camp, and it seemed to him a grim kind of place for a man to set his affections on. Its grass embankments faced with stone; the four gates, each one exactly in the middle of its embankment; the four stone paths from the gates to the centre of the camp; the big house of the Legate where the four paths met; the huge oak barns; the officers’ quarters; the barracks; the stables; the very tidiness of it all was unhomely. To Attilius’ surprise Lucius Hermex waved the camp aside.

  “It’s not that which moves me. Look! Outside the camp, the baths. Then the river. Then, on the other side of the river, a little town in the making, but already a little town. Do you see a street to the left of the Temple there?” Attilius looked, but he had never seen so many temples in his life crowded into so small a space.

  Which temple?

  “The fine one with the gilded roof. The Temple of Isis, the great Mother,” and the Centurion’s voice deepened in reverence.

  “I see it.”

  “The little street to the left of it, the street with the gardens. The fourth house” — his brown arm shot out, his brown forefinger pointed triumphantly down to it. “Mine!”

  Never was landed proprietor so proud of his possessions.

  “Mine! I have a wife there — she is of Lindum — and two boys — wonderful little fellows. But by Thincsus, if I begin to tell you tales of them the night will find me still talking in the darkness,” and he laughed, jeering at himself delightedly.

  Attilius led him on. He was still the spectator at the play, and these new revelations of character in people were the very heart of its enchantment.

  “Then you didn’t hurry to Rome on leave!”

  “Not I! I went with dispatches for the Emperor. What should I do in Rome? Live in a couple of attics on the sixth floor with my family, be jostled in the streets by rich foreigners in their litters, live unknown, unhonoured? Not I! This is my Rome. In a month I finish my service. There I shall live. There, please Maponus, I shall die.”

  “With a brand-new set of Gods to protect you, apparently,” said Attilius derisively.

  “With the old Gods of Britain who are the old Gods of Rome,” Lucius Hermex answered devoutly. “Who is Maponus but Apollo? Who is Cocidius but Mars?”

  He stood looking across the valleys to the wolds on the far side, a man wrapped in a beatific vision. Attilius could not share his ecstasy. To him, as to any other Rome-bred gentleman, the natural beauty of landscape and colour meant less than nothing. Fantastic gardens, manufactured waterfalls, game parks and distorted trees — yes, to be sure! As many as possible and as cunningly contrived. But the sunset reddening over billows of golden moor! Could anything be more tedious?

  Lucius Hermex awoke. The tiny company was assembled now behind him and Attilius. In the hollow at their feet the mist was rising from the river, and in the houses and the camp the lights began to glow.

  “Let us go down,” said Lucius Hermex. He directed a last glance towards the little street by the Temple of Isis as though he hoped to see a lamp shine in a window of his house. His eyes met the eyes of Attilius with the friendliness which comes from a pleasant secret shared. Then he was onc
e more the grave Centurion and gave the order to advance.

  The Centurion carried letters on his baggage mule, and amongst them that one from Aemilius Scaurus to Sempronius Proculeius, Legate of the Sixth Legion. It was brought to the Legate whilst he was lying in the cooling-room of his bath, and he found the exordium distinctly humorous, so that he read it again chuckling.

  “‘To my old friend and glorious General!’ The sheepshead! Am I a girl that he should go about me with flatteries? Glorious General! Me!”

  Sempronius Proculeius was an able soldier and a shrewd administrator. But if there was one thing he was determined not to be it was a Glorious General. Glorious Generals were possible Emperors and therefore liable to polite invitations to open their arteries lest a more unpleasant death should befall them. Sempronius Proculeius enjoyed living and proposed to prolong his enjoyment. He was careful, accordingly, to win his battles with as little advertisement as was possible. He read Aemilius’ arraignment of his nephew and the stern course of discipline proposed for his atonement; and he chuckled over that, too.

  “Put him under the tooth, eh? Treat him rough!” he reflected dryly. “But if the old wether is so wrong about me, why should he be right about Attilius? And after all, I command this Legion. I’ll just see about it for myself.”

  So he sent the next morning for Lucius Hermex, the Centurion, when the hours of drill were over, and made discreet enquiries.

  “No,” replied Lucius Hermex. “There was no delay upon the road. We travelled fast,” and he gave the date of their setting out from Ostia.

  “Yes, you have travelled fast!” Sempronius agreed. “You have brought a new officer for me, Attilius Scaurus,” and he saw the Centurion’s grave face melt into a smile, the smile of comradeship. The Legate knew his Centurion. Many words would have told him less than this smile. Something in Attilius had called forth that outburst of the Centurion on the hill overlooking York, something assuredly which Lucius Hermex could not have put into words. But Lucius Hermex added some on his own account.

  “He said many things to me which I did not understand. I think they were jokes.”

  “But he made them only in the later stages of the journey?” Sempronius suggested shrewdly.

  “No, Sir. There was one about the sea. He made it at Marseilles when he was most unhappy.”

  The Legate nodded his head.

  You give me good news, he said.

  He was a shrewd, fair, dispassionate man. He could imagine what the first weeks of that arduous journey must have meant to a boy, soft with all the luxuries of Rome. He pressed the Centurion no further.

  “It is well,” he said. “Your service expires in a month, Lucius Hermex. I need a new Prefect of the camp. The post is permanent and well-paid.”

  Lucius Hermex was grateful but firm. He had planned his life with the method of a soldier. At such a date he would join the army. At such a date he would be a Centurion. At such a date he would marry, and, at the end of his service, he would retire.

  “I have some money saved, my largesse, for instance, upon the Emperor’s accession. With my bonus upon retirement I shall be well enough off. I shall farm a little, hunt a little, and sleep a great deal.”

  Sempronius Proculeius smiled.

  “Who shall know better than I how well that sleep was earned? Fare you well, Lucius Hermex!”

  When the Centurion had gone, Sempronius took out from a cupboard the letter which Aemilius Scaurus had written to him, read it for a second time, and sat over it for a while in thought. Then he wrote an order upon his tablet and handed it to his orderly.

  “The two Tribunes, Aulus Calpurnius Scapula and Attilius Scaurus, will lunch with me tomorrow at midday. But I wish Attilius Scaurus to present himself ten minutes before the hour.”

  Having given his order, the Legate shrugged his shoulders. He had an idea in his mind. It might be useful and again it might not. It was worth a trial.

  VI. LUNCHEON ON THE NORTHWEST FRONTIER

  I can’t help thinking Juvenal was wrong

  Although no doubt his real intent was good.

  — Don Juan

  Sempronius Proculeius was seated in the open corridor of his house, facing the south. He was protected from the June sunlight by the overhanging roof. Attilius mounted the steps and saluted rather awkwardly, for he was not yet used to recognizing authority.

  “Come and sit with me here in the shade, Attilius,” said the Legate pleasantly. “We have a few minutes, enough for two sensible people to come to an understanding.”

  Sempronius’ intention had been to put the boy at his ease, but the boy shied like a horse from a sheet of paper. Just with such words Aemilius had cozened his nephew a couple of months ago in Rome. “Two sensible men” — one might be taken in once by so disarming an overture but one must be a zany if it happened a second time. He sat down gingerly by the Legate’s side upon the bench and waited, on the defence.

  “There are three sorts of Tribunes,” Sempronius Proculeius continued easily. “Those who go on the Staff and keep the books. Those who become Field Officers. And the Remittance Men.”

  He saw the blood mount into the face of Attilius and stain it with shame.

  “You must, Sir, have placed me in your third class. The Remittance Men.”

  The Legate leaned forward and patted the boy on the shoulder.

  “I am glad you said that. It shortens our discussion. No, I don’t class you with the Remittance Men. You wouldn’t be taking your midday meal with me if I did. But there are still the other two classes. Which will you join? Take your time!”

  But Attilius did not need time to answer that question.

  “The Field Officers,” he said.

  “Good!” Sempronius Proculeius laughed. “If you’re going to go soldiering, soldier! The open field instead of the counting house. Your fellow guest will agree with you. Yes, I have asked Calpurnius Scapula to meet you; and, since he becomes extremely truculent and unpleasant when he’s asked to talk about himself, I had better tell you something about him before he appears.”

  “He is a Tribune too?” Attilius asked.

  “He is the Tribune. He is Tribune of the Double Cohort. He was my youngest officer when the Legion came with Hadrian ten years ago. He’s my right-hand man now.” The Legate sat in a muse for a few moments. “Some spark of fire burns in Calpurnius Scapula we others want. A long time since, when we were building the Wall, his section was always finished first. Later, four years ago, I lost an Eagle in a battle at Caerleon. Calpurnius, single-handed, got it back for me. I owe him thanks for that and still more thanks. They make such a to-do if an Eagle’s captured, you’d think Rome had fallen. I’ll tell you something, Attilius.” The Legate leaned forward. “Calpurnius Scapula is in real danger. If he doesn’t watch it he’ll become a Glorious General.”

  What exquisite humour was discoverable in that phrase Attilius never understood. But, since the Legate laughed till his sides shook, wisdom suggested to the Tribune that he should laugh too; as indeed he did and so successfully that the Legate stopped first.

  “Welcome, Calpurnius,” he cried, and behold! Calpurnius Scapula was already there in all his panoply, from crested helmet to marching boots. Yet not a sound had heralded him. Not a joint of his armour had rattled nor had the heel of his boot scraped on the tiled floor. Attilius was startled out of his seat.

  “Calpurnius learned that trick when he was building the Wall,” said the Legate. “It was useful then on a scouting expedition, when a strange sound in the heather meant death. Now it merely frightens us out of our wits. But great men must be allowed their vanities.”

  Sempronius Proculeius had already praised his Tribune. He must now temper the praise with a little derision. Calpurnius Scapula was accustomed to his Commandant’s ways and took them with a smile. He was a man a year under thirty with an aquiline face and a jutting chin.

  “This is my new Tribune, Calpurnius,” the Legate continued. “Young Attilius Scaurus, fresh
from Rome.”

  At that moment a horn within the house announced the middle of the day. Sempronius Proculeius led the way under the central arch to the inner court. Slaves took from the Tribunes their helmets and their armour. A butler threw open the doors of the dining room.

  “I give to my new guest the place of honour,” said the Legate, and he pointed to the lowest of the three places on the middle couch at the head of the table. He himself reclined upon the highest place of the last couch so that he had Attilius upon his immediate left. “You, Calpurnius, next above Attilius. So!”

  The slaves removed their boots, and the hors d’oeuvres were brought in — little sausages from Gaul, eggs chopped up with parsley, oysters, and beer to wash them down.

  “The oysters, Attilius!” the Legate advised. “No doubt you paid a fortune for British oysters in Rome. Pithacus, more oysters for my guests, unless you want a whipping.”

  Pithacus, a dark-eyed slave from Scythia, showed all his teeth in an adoring grin. The threat of a whipping was evidently a standing joke at every meal. He served more oysters and, after that dish, trout caught that morning in the Ouse.

  “And while we eat, you shall give to our parched ears the news of Rome,” said the Legate.

  “Yes,” Calpurnius agreed. “I was never in Rome but once, for a month. And then I was a schoolboy and my tutor never let me out of his sight. We lived on the Lake of Como.”

  “It is beautiful, I believe,” said Attilius.

  “But not Rome. Let us hear of Rome!” said Calpurnius Scapula. He leaned up on his elbow, his face alight with anticipation, his eyes fixed eagerly upon Attilius. Attilius smiled and held them in suspense. In spite of the Legate’s affability and Scapula’s simple acceptance of him as a comrade, he had imagined a compassion in their friendliness which hurt. He was really very young, and in the presence of these two veterans he had felt — Oh, humiliatingly! — a child. But now his turn had come. He was the veteran. He could not but put on a few quite intolerable airs and assume the boredom of one who has drained the lees of pleasure.