I admitted I had not.
‘You will,’ he said. ‘At the moment he’s gathering warriors north of the Danube. Greuthungi. At the last count he had twenty thousand men under arms. Soon, either next season or the season after, he’ll cross in force. As and when he does he must be destroyed, if it takes every able-bodied man in the Empire to do it. Another horde is mustering beyond the Rhine; while Alaric of the Thervingi has been appointed a Magister Militum. This was the news that brought me east.’
For the first time his face showed signs of animation. ‘Twice already,’ he said, ‘I’ve had that bloody old cattle thief pinned. Twice I could have had his head. Twice I’ve been ordered to release the Eastern comitatus, and watched him slip through the net. At the moment he’s arming from Roman arsenals. When he’s ready he’ll move again. Into Italia. The throats he slits will be slit with Hispanian steel.’
‘But why, sir?’ I asked him. ‘Why?’
He laughed, tossed the wine back at a gulp and poured more. ‘Because,’ he said. ‘Arcadius Augustus would sooner see the West ground piecemeal than me in Illyricum, and his brother grown too strong. Since Frigidus he’s been administering Dacia and Macedonia, which properly belong to the West, as part of his own territory. Now his brother’s claiming them, and he refuses to give them up.’ He drank again, deeply; then he spoke more quietly. ‘The noble Arcadius,’ he said, ‘would certainly have strangled the equally noble Honorius in his cot, had his nurses ever allowed him to reach him. As babies they both destroyed the toys they found displeasing. Now they have a new toy. The Empire.’
I said quietly, ‘Can you not stop Alaric, sir? By any means?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I cannot. To destroy him, now, would be to destroy his master; and I am bound by the oath I gave Theodosius on his death-bed, to guard the Empire and protect his sons. My word is neither given nor broken lightly; I leave that to my betters. Unless and until Arcadius comes to his senses, my hands are tied. I’m concentrating all available forces in Italia. From there I can watch both Alaric and the Danube. I shall intervene only as and when it becomes imperative.’
He rose quietly. ‘I’m making the rounds of the camp,’ he said, ‘as is usually my custom. I’d advise you to get some sleep. You’ll be making an early start tomorrow, and riding hard.’ I stood in my turn. I said impulsively, ‘May I attend you, sir?’
He considered for a moment, and shrugged. He said, ‘If you wish.’ A slave came forward, bowing, with a cloak; he drew it round him and preceded me from the tent.
Fires were burning on the perimeter, and sentries had been posted at intervals. The Magister Militum had a word for each man; it seemed he spoke all their tongues as effortlessly as Latin. I followed a few paces behind him. The night was mild and fine, stars hanging low and lustrous in the clear sky. In the west a faint afterglow still lingered; southward were the humped outlines of the hills that guarded Massilia and the sea. He paused finally, stood muffled in the cloak, a darker shape against the night. ‘Rome,’ he said, ‘conquered all things. Except the most important. One victory eluded her; she could never conquer herself.’
I waited.
‘These were her terms to the world,’ he said ‘ “Live like us, and we’ll build you towns. Learn our tongue and we’ll give you schools. Obey our laws and we’ll make you rich.
Go your own way, and we’ll crucify you
. . . .” ’ He half-turned to me. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘the world is deciding on its answer. While our little toy Emperors play with their soldiers, and bicker over their boundaries,’ He was silent again, brooding. ‘I warned Honorius,’ he said, ‘on the day of his accession. But he had his answer ready. “While the Rhine flows, Stilicho,” he said, “we are safe.” While the Rhine flows . . .’
I hesitated before putting the question that was in my mind. ‘Why,’ I said finally, ‘does the Magister Militum devote his life to Rome’s service? He speaks as if he hates her, and the things she stands for.’
He didn’t answer for a moment, just stood staring into the dark. ‘My father hated her,’ he said. ‘And his father before him. Her soldiers oppressed us with walls we couldn’t scale; they dragged our young men off to slavery, scalped our girl-children to sell their hair for wigs. I learned her speech and her ways, made myself the master of her soldiers. So for a while I humbled her. Stilicho the barbarian owns the world.’
Round us the shrilling of insects was insistent and loud.
‘I still support her,’ he said, ‘I stand guarantor for her pride, and her stupidity, and her sins. Because in our time, and our sons’ time, maybe the sons of their sons, nothing better than her rule will come; and because my word is pledged. You are not a Roman; so I speak more freely of honour.’
A single trumpet sounded behind us in the camp and I thought for a moment I saw him shudder.
‘Roma hasn’t forgotten how to reward her servants,’ he said. ‘My time’s short now, my very bones know it. The Sisters have spun the thread. But I tell you this. If I die, the Empire of the West dies with me. . . .’
He turned abruptly to grip my shoulder. ‘The watch is changing,’ he said. ‘Get to your rest, I’ll speak with you again in the morning. Good night to you, Praefect.’
I stepped back a pace. I said, ‘Good night, my Lord.’ I left him standing alone, head bowed on his chest, chin sunk forward in thought.
Quarters had been prepared for me. I lay sleepless a while, heard the watch change again before falling into a doze. I dreamed then I was Stilicho the Vandal, caught in a net and flung into a roaring sea.
He sent for me an hour before dawn. He had already broken his fast; he sat at a table littered with maps and papers, dictating to a pair of secretaries. His dismissed them when I arrived and spent some time going over the situation in Britannia in detail. The sky had brightened by the time he finished, and the camp was echoing with activity. Tents were being struck and stowed, baggage loaded, teams harnessed to their carts. I followed him from the Praetorium, was almost bowled over by a rush of Palatine lancers. Horses were saddled and waiting; I mounted, trotting behind him. My little command was already lined up; forty hulking men, splendidly mounted and armed. Riconus, their leader, a burly, blond-bearded villain, acknowledged me indifferently. ‘They’re Belgic Celts,’ said the Magister Militum as we passed out of earshot. ‘They’re good fighters, but they’re an awkward bunch to handle. However, they’re all I can spare.’ He reined his horse and sat waiting, watching the units of the comitatus form into their line of march.
It didn’t take long. Standards were raised above the vexillations; and he called me to him again.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, ‘and good luck. Make the best speed you can; and for your own sake don’t betray the trust I’ve placed in you.’ He wheeled his horse. ‘Power is like poppy-juice,’ he said enigmatically. ‘A drug that blinds and dazes, and finally kills. Avoid it, Praefect . . .’
I saluted; the war horns blared; minutes later the noise and colour were dwindling down the road. He rode stiffly, not looking back; the last I saw of him was the shimmer of his silken cloak. Then the baggage waggons had rumbled into the distance, and we were alone. I swallowed, and wheeled to stare at the men under my charge. ‘Tighten your ranks,’ I said curtly, ‘and let’s get moving. You look like a gaggle of Hispanian muleteers . ..’
We made better time crossing Gaul than I had dared hope. Every day, as we hurried west, we met units and detachments moving east; comitatenses from Armorica and Tarraconensis, mounted German auxiliaries, shaggy, undisciplined foederati under their petty chiefs. It seemed the whole of Gaul was on the march, streaming towards the threatened heart of the Empire. The tramp of feet, the rumbling of waggon wheels and clop of hooves, filled every road in the Province. Mixed with the soldiery were flocks of camp-followers, quacks and mountebanks, jugglers and whores, women and children from uprooted families. Town after town was filled with them, the taverns overflowing; moving west was like swimming against some vast, relentless tide. A single traveller at that time could easily have found himself in trouble; but one and all steered clear of the grim, compact file of Palatini.
In Aquitania we came on a sight I had never seen before, and maybe now will never see again; a full Legion on the march. We sighted her Standards not long after dawn; she was VII Gemina, from Hispania. The noise that came from her was audible for miles, the dustcloud she trailed visible long after she had gone from sight. At her head, behind the Standards and the tossing banner of the Christos, rode German and Hispanian auxiliaries. Then came the main body of her infantry, ranged by century and cohort; I saw seamed, bearded faces of Cantabrians and Galicians, mouths that split in white grins as jests and insults were exchanged with Riconus and his Celts. Next came the vast baggage train, cart after cart piled with gear and provisions, crammed with women and dusty, wailing children. Dogs yelped and skirmished in and out among the wheels; muleteers shouted, swinging their whips above the long, lumbering teams of animals. I saw catapults and onagri, some still mounted on massive swivels, obviously torn bodily from some city wall; behind were more carts, and a mile-long tail of auxiliaries. These were all Germans, Alamanni and Burgundians. I reined to watch them, searching vainly for the Standards of the Arcadians. If they were present, they passed unseen in the confusion.
Bringing up the rear, behind the hospital waggons and a final detachment of legionaries, was a handful of foederati, Saxons by the look of them, their symbol a prancing white horse. Riconus spat ostentatiously as they passed. The column receded, its hum and rumble fading into distance while the dust settled slowly on the fields to either side, the sounds of birds reasserted themselves. Riconus swore, banged his shoulders, spat again and moved away; a few nights later we rode into Gesoriacum.
I found the port in considerable confusion. There had been heavy raiding a little farther up the coast; many galleys of the British Fleet were in harbour, but they were on standby alert and couldn’t be detached. I had authority to claim passage, but not to commandeer. I got what I wanted eventually, by dint of a lot of shouting and by waving Stilicho’s letter under the noses of all and sundry. A merchant vessel was leaving with a consignment of wine; I was informed we could travel as deck cargo or not at all. Riconus pulled a long face when I told him. I didn’t feel much happier myself, having been brought up with a healthy Roman distrust of all things nautical, but there was no help for it. The horses were hauled and cajoled aboard; no sooner had we embarked than we were told that due to gales and contrary winds we wouldn’t, after all, be sailing that day, and the whole process had to be gone through again in reverse. I fumed and fretted, but there was nothing to be done. Finally the weather cleared. We re-embarked at night, by the uncertain glare of torches; it was a miracle none of the horses ended up in the harbour. We slipped from our berth sometime in the early morning, groped through the blackened port and felt the sway and heave of the open sea.
It was an unnerving experience. I could see nothing, hear nothing save the creak of spars and ropes, the unfamiliar cries of the seamen. Dawn brought a violent squall from the south. Rain drove in dull-grey curtains, obscuring all but our immediate surroundings; spray mixed with hail lashed across the decks with much of the violence of slingshots; the bulky vessel heaved and rolled abominably while we clung to whatever handholds we could find, striving to keep our footing on the slippery planks. I ended by being violently sick, but the Celts and their horses suffered worse. The animals screamed and plunged, frantic with terror. One lay down and died; another fell, smashing its foreleg. Riconus cut its throat and had it tumbled over the side; the sight and smell of blood sent the others wilder than before. At one time it seemed we might put about; Riconus promptly swore he’d send the vessel’s master the way of the horse rather than endure the whole nightmare again at some future date.
The violence of the wind increased. Now there was no question of turning back; we ran before it, expecting any moment the mast and straining sail to be wrenched bodily out of the ship. Water poured in streams across the deck; the noise of it sloshing among the stacked wine-jars in the hold added a new dimension of terror to our discomfort. I know I personally commended myself to my mother’s blue-eyed Gods; then, as quickly as it had arisen, the storm passed, hissing over the sea to the north. The sky cleared, and I caught my breath.
On our left, stretching as far as I could see, marched a line of colossal white cliffs. Headland after headland jutted proudly, seamed and cracked and bulging, receding each behind the next into a haze of distance. At their feet was the boil and spume of the sea; crowning them, grey and high and clear, were downs of wind-smoothed grass. No sight could have been more unexpected, or more typical of Britannia; for she above all others is a Goddess who loves to hide her face. She will veil herself for weeks and months with cloud and weeping mist, till you’re sick and tired and wish yourself in Gaul or Hispania or blazing Africa, anywhere for a mere sight of the sun; then suddenly she smiles, and her spangled fields are green, and she is fair beyond the telling.
We had not been alone in the storm. A few lengths from our beam, dipping and rising in the heavy swell, lay a low, sleek galley, a scout ship of the British Fleet. Her sails, even the cordage that supported them, were dyed a soft, deep blue, the better I suppose to blend with the ocean; her crew wore uniforms of the same pleasing hue. She inspected us for some time before coming about smartly to cross beneath our stem. It seemed she was reassured as to our harmlessness. Orders rang, clear across the water; her long sweeps rose in unison, sparkled and dipped. She turned on her heel, trailing a wake of white-green foam; a very few minutes and I had lost her in the bright southern haze.
An hour saw us close in to the land; another hour and the cliffs themselves grew lower. We had intended to dock at Dubris, where there is a strong fort and a garrison, but the storm had driven us some miles from our course; I learned we would now put in to the smaller port of Rutupiae. It lay in a sheltered position at the head of an estuary flanked by shelving mudflats. As we neared the harbour entrance a heavy galley came threshing up astern; we stood well clear to give her sea-room. She had evidently been in battle. In her bow, above the wicked ram, was a gaping hole; farther aft were long streaks of what looked like dried blood. But her drum was beating, giving time to her crew, the banks of oars lifting and falling smoothly. She passed close enough for me to make out a bunch of prisoners on deck; big, powerful-looking men, loaded with chains and with pale hair and beards. I wondered to what part of the Empire they would be consigned, and what their end would be.