Julia’s lashes could send more kingdoms crashing than the Huns.
In my second year in Rome news reached the city that another of my father’s prophecies had been fulfilled. In Gaul, Arbogast had rebelled against his young master, murdering the boy and setting up one Eugenius, a misplaced Professor of Rhetoric for whom the illiterate Magister Militum seemed to have profound respect, as Emperor of the West. The development caused more gratification than anything else in official circles, for most of the great Senatorial families had remained obstinately pagan, and there seemed a real possibility that if the new Augustus succeeded in imposing his will on the West the ancient Gods of the Empire would once more be restored. Rumour had it that Symmachus, wealthiest and most vociferous of the opponents of the Church, was already planning games in honour of Jupiter Optimus Maximus; sacrifices were once more offered on the Capitol; Christians, and by this time there were many in high places, looked anxiously to the Emperor for reassurance. It wasn’t long in coming. In a lashing rescript, Theodosius forbade all forms of paganism. Offerings to images, even the lighting of lamps, could lead to fines and banishment; the hanging of garlands would be punishable by confiscation of property, while divination from entrails was declared treason and became a capital offence. Thus rebuked, the city subsided sullenly; the warning finger could not, after all, have been more plain. Damasus, Bishop of Rome, declared a day of thanksgiving, while a hastily assembled Senate passed a resolution of loyalty to the Emperor and his ideals. Not, as Uncle Lucullus remarked with a flash of my father’s sarcasm, that it greatly mattered any more what was tattled round the village pump; loyal or disloyal, neither Theodosius nor his family seemed to have the slightest interest in restoring the city to its rightful position as head of the State.
Theodosius was slow to move into Gaul. Rumour had it that he was a sick man, perhaps a dying one; certainly two seasons passed before the field army mobilised for the long trek to the West. For a fortnight Rome echoed to the marching tramp of levies; patriotic slogans appeared on the walls while orators declaimed from every other street corner, some urging the citizenry to remember past glories and honour the State with their arms, others insisting that now was the time to strike off the fetters with which Constantine had bound the Empire. Many Pannonians of doubtful origin had, of course, acquired estate under Valentinian; now they grasped at the opportunity to rid themselves of the fear in which they had walked ever since. Even the old spectre of Republicanism was raised. Rome’s walls were strong, they whispered, her gates impregnable. Let her but resist the Christian tyrant and she would see the West rally to her side; she would be again what she had been before, the mistress of the world. The propaganda was not without effect. Angry mobs of partisans roamed the streets; fighting broke out in Subura and some twenty shops on the Aventine were pillaged and burned. The reaction of the City Praefect was sharp. Troops and police were drafted into Rome and proclamations appeared on all principal buildings promising the death penalty to disturbers of the peace; there was talk of a curfew being imposed, and threats were made to restrict the public supply of grain and wine. What the end of the affair might have been is difficult to say; in the event, the trouble was terminated by the arrival of an Imperial messenger escorted by a troop of hand-picked comitatenses. The Emperor was victorious; Arbogast and his puppet had been destroyed, and Gaul once more secured.
Relief in the city was nicely compounded with bewilderment. Nobody knew quite what would happen next. Theodosius’ reign had for the most part been characterised by tolerance and humanity, but lately his attitude to his opponents had been hardening and he had shown in the past that he was capable of taking appalling revenge. The Senate, thanks partly to Valentinian’s careful spadework, had always solidly disapproved his policies; now the old fear of a purge was strongly revived. Also the victory was said to have been largely due to a sudden storm of wind, which had scattered and confused the forces under Eusebius; Bishop Damasus lost no time in proclaiming the miraculous nature of the intervention, and many waverers, convinced by such a striking demonstration of Divine wrath, moved hastily into the Christian camp. The opponents of the Faith rejected the notion with renewed bitterness, and uproar seemed about to break out once again. Meanwhile the City Fathers, convened once more by the overworked Praefectus, passed a motion according to Theodosius the gratitude of the Empire and requesting that the Augustus honour the capital with his presence at the Triumph voted to him as saviour of the State. The answer came swiftly. The field army was on the move; the Emperor was already marching on Rome.
The city that a few weeks before had been industriously preparing to celebrate the final victory of paganism threw itself with fresh fervour into the new project. Under the circumstances it would not do for anybody to be found wanting in protests of affection. Senators, including Symmachus and his noble cronies, vied with each other in preparing costly entertainments; streets were swept and scoured, the Royal apartments once more hastily prepared. Folk began to flock in for the spectacle; after them poured quacks and mountebanks, prostitutes, cut-throats and thieves, all the riff-raff of Latium. Every lodging house was crammed to capacity, food and wineshops did a non-stop trade. The Praefect let it be known that the event would be celebrated by games, and by public banqueting on a hitherto unheard-of scale. When the van of the approaching army was reported within a day’s march of the city, expectation rose to fever-pitch; but the intelligence, exciting as it was, scarcely left an impression on me at the time. My own private drama had at long last reached its climax.
When news of the Emperor’s victory reached Rome, my uncle, who till that time had shown no interest at all in the doings of either Theodosius or his House, chose the occasion for a spectacular display of grief. Things were far from right with the world, he proclaimed; nor would they improve till the Altar of Victory, so impiously removed from the Senate House by these same upstart Christians who now paraded their triumph in the streets, be restored to its rightful dignity. His despondency, typically, took an original and ingenious form. He retired to his bed, where he informed us he intended to stay till Rome returned to her senses and the proper worship of her ancestors. In the meantime he kept the chamber scrupulously darkened, and gorged himself on pease-pudding. Till the fit passed there was nothing to be done; I took over the daily affairs of the office, and it was a fortnight before I could cross the river again to Julia’s home.
I had decided, perhaps unreasonably, that I could stand the situation no longer. For two years she had seldom been out of my waking or sleeping mind. Meanwhile my situation had considerably improved; parsimonious though my uncle might be, it seemed certain I would one day inherit some at least of his business interests. I could in fact already have setup in some capacity of my own, had not an innate honesty prevented me; now Julia must answer the question that had come to mean so much to me. The gulf between us was wide, perhaps unbridgeable, but no one could have given greater earnest of his love. I must know, finally, if I had any cause to hope.
I accordingly sent a message, by a slave, that I must see her without delay. I chose the very day Theodosius was due to make his triumphal entry, for I had learned that though Petronius, as a prominent citizen, dare not absent himself from the Curia, he had expressly forbidden his family and household to attend the celebrations. Rome was already in tumult as I crossed the Tiber. Churches and public buildings were gaudily decked with banners, many bearing patriotic slogans; drink and sweetmeat sellers circulated in droves; every inch of the processional route was lined by a noisy and jubilant throng. Police and soldiers bawled themselves hoarse trying to keep some sort of order. Grandstands had been improvised in many places, while every window and parapet overlooking the Sacred Way was crammed with spectators; both householders and public officials had been charging exorbitant sums to admit sightseers to their premises. The sun beat down strongly, I shoved and barged my way through the mob, and was already sweating profusely before I reached the river.
The silence of the Janiculum was almost startling by contrast. Most of the houses were closed up for the day, their owners and staff down in the city. I dropped my pace to a walk, dawdling uncertainly. Once I nearly turned back, but Julia would be waiting. I had gone too far to withdraw.
My heart was thundering against my ribs by the time I reached the villa wall. I leaned my palms against the sun-warmed stone, trying to calm myself. The hubbub from the city reached me faintly, drifting across the roof-tops; above me a yellow lizard flicked his tail and was gone into a crevice in the twinkling of an eye. I sighed, and walked heavily to the tree.
That a prospective suitor must still gain entry by such means struck me for the first time as bizarre.
I peered over the wall, half hoping the summerhouse would be empty. It was not. Julia sat with her arms folded and lips compressed, tapping impatiently with one slim foot. As I watched she rose, took a turn across the little arbour, plumped herself back down bad-temperedly on the sill. I called softly, dropped down inside the wall. She looked round scowling as I approached.
I paused at the threshhold, involuntarily. Never had she seemed more desirable. Her hair, freshly brushed, was garlanded with flowers; she wore it loose, in a dark cascade that fell nearly to her waist. She was wearing the gauzy dress I had bought for her so long ago. A girdle, tied at her waist, accentuated her slenderness; her breasts showed clearly, their red buds pricking the thin cloth. She was breathing heavily and her cheeks and forehead were flushed with rage.
‘About time too,’ she snapped before I had had a chance to speak. ‘Oh, my stupid, stupid father.... Just listen!’
A distant wave of cheering swept up from the road. ‘Everybody will be there,’ said Julia. ‘Just
everybody
.... But I’ve got to sit here, because of that ridiculous Symmachus and the rest and what they said to father. Their families will be going, I know they are ....’
The time seemed hardly propitious for what I had to say, but once having nerved myself I had to go through with it or never speak at all. ‘Julia,’ I said, ‘please don’t be upset. I must speak to you; I have something very important to ask.’
‘Have you indeed?’ she said. ‘Well, I’ve got something to say to you. So just sit down, and listen to me first.’
I sat unwillingly, full of my own plans and wondering how best to broach them. She gathered the gown modestly round her feet, sighed; then told me, quite blandly, the news that broke my world apart. Her father, she said, was tiring of city life, and with the growing uncertainty of the times had decided to remove to Neapolis, near which he owned an estate. The household, including Julia, were to travel within a few days; the Senator would follow when he had concluded his affairs in Rome. So, sad though it undoubtedly was, she had come to say goodbye; we would certainly never see each other again. At first the magnitude of the tragedy left me at a loss for words. I could only sit staring at her, repeating stupidly, ‘But you can’t, you can’t. . . .’
She came to me then, knelt to take my hands. ‘Sergius,’ she said, ‘please try and understand. I’m sorry I was rude just now, truly. It’s been lovely all this time, knowing I could come here and meet you and that you would be a friend. I love you truly, as a friend, and will certainly never forget you. But can’t you see it’s over now? I couldn’t possibly influence my father, once he’s made his mind up about anything it’s hopeless. And in any case I very much want to go south, I’m sick and tired of Rome. If you get angry you’ll make me most unhappy.’
For me that was the last straw. For years now I had thought of nothing but her slightest whim; everything she could possibly need I had toiled to buy for her, but in return she had given nothing. I saw in a flash what I had known all along but refused to admit: that I had never mattered to her, that she had been playing nothing more than an amusing game. I pointed to the wall, nearly choking with rage, told her how easily she could climb it and be free. As I had climbed it, time after time, till the very branches of the tree beyond had been worn smooth by my feet. Now I was to leave her, slip quietly away, taking particular care to cause her no pain. My family, I told her, had never been noted for philosophy; to follow such a course needed more will than I owned. ‘Julia,’ I said, ‘I love you more than any man ever loved a woman before. Please, please don’t do this to me; don’t try to make me go away. Please say one day you’ll be my wife.’
Her reaction was startling. She snatched her hands away, jumped to her feet and began to stamp with temper. This, she said, was what came of all her efforts at friendship. From the first she had been sorry for me, sorry and that was all. She had offered me companionship and love; now I couldn’t even respect her breeding. It was impossible that a member of her family, the richest clan in Rome, could ever mix blood with a commoner; for she had only my word that I was even an Equestrian, and certainly my current behaviour was doing nothing to support the claim. She had even put on her prettiest dress to say goodbye to me, the dress I had bought and that she treasured, so that I could see her in it and take away a lovely memory; and look what the result had been. I had insulted her; now I could leave, at once. Or she would call the housepeople, and have me slung into the road.
Appalled though I was, her outburst precipitated a worse rage than ever. ‘You wore that dress,’ I shouted at her, ‘for one reason and one reason only. To drive me wild. As you’ve been driving me wild for two whole years, leading me on with promises of this and that that had nothing on earth to do with friendship; and that you know perfectly well, as well as I. You’re a liar, and a cheat, and if you had more courage you’d be a whore; and to see me floating down the Tiber, that you’d class as a victory.’