The Boat of Fate (15 page)

Two days passed before I was strong enough to demand of Marcus how the miracle had come about. He was gruff and evasive; he told me, bluntly, not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I persisted until he admitted, I suppose in self-defence, what I wanted to know. I reached for the commission then, and would have crumpled it had he not gripped my wrist. ‘Do that,’ he said calmly, ‘and I’m through with you. For good.’ I lay a while, holding the thing against my chest, and it seemed the pain eased fractionally. I watched the square of sunlight move across the old board floor; and already a breeze seemed to blow, fresher than any that troubled the streets of Rome.

It was a fortnight before Marcus pronounced me fit enough to take the road. I had a long journey ahead of me. My posting was to Burdigala, in south-west Gaul; I could find out little about my unit except that they were a mixed Burgundian cohort first raised by Theodosius, seconded by Stilicho for garrison duty as the bodyguard of one Vidimer, Duke of Aquitania. Petronius had done his work well; he had succeeded in interposing the bulk of the Empire between myself and his erring daughter. Nothing could have suited me better; for during my illness I had undergone a curious and total change of heart. The place Julia had held in my thoughts for so long was empty; try as I might, I could recapture nothing of the feelings that had obsessed me. As I saw her now, in my mind, I realised she was not even pretty. I saw a skull too shallow-backed, eyes too arrogant and cold, a nose too full for beauty; a pouting mouth that with time would grow sag-lines of discontent, hands that would turn to mere painted claws. I was free of her, and free, too, of Rome. From Hispania the city had seemed a shimmering vision, all that was white and fair. Now, when I think of Rome, I hear the yelling of the Circus, the endless echoing thunder of waggon wheels. I see the slaughter pens, offal heaps mantled with flies, the vomit drying on the wineshop walls. It’s many years now since I left the Mistress of the World and I know beyond any doubt that I shall never return.

It was a bright, clear morning when we set out. My uncle came with us to the city wall. Evidently he deemed my departure a great occasion, for he had put himself to the un-heard-of expense of hiring a chair. Its curtains were drawn wide; within, Lucullus sat bolt upright with a face of frozen resignation, for all the world like some general or Emperor suffering an unwanted Triumph. Horses were waiting at the gates; I mounted, still self-conscious in my new, stiff uniform, expecting him to dismiss me with a lordly wave. Instead he called me to him; and I saw instantly by the exaggerated bobbing and rolling of his head that he had something of more than usual moment to impart. He stammered and blushed, turning as furiously crimson as a girl; finally he reached jerkily to grab my hand. ‘Boy,’ he said, ‘you’ve worked well for me, I’ll grant you that; and I won’t have it said that a Paullus ever showed ingratitude. Here ...’ He dragged a heavy bag from behind him, thrust it up to me. I started to protest, but he cut me short with such a furious outburst of swearing that the standers-by at the gate jerked round in alarm. Another bellow, and the litter, its bearers equally startled, swung round, headed at a fast trot back towards the city. The last I saw of my uncle was his suffused face, ginger wig awry, thrust between the curtains. He was shouting something incomprehensible while tears--of sorrow at our parting, or grief at his own generosity--welled from his eyes, coursed down his improbable cheeks. Then he and his equipage were gone, lost in the bustle and grinding confusion of Rome.

Four years had passed since I last trod the Via Aurelia. It seemed like half a lifetime. We rode swiftly; the journey, that before had taken so long, was over too soon. We crossed the Cottian Hills, descended to the broad plains beyond; and there came a day when we once more saw, marching on the horizon, the mountains that fringe Hispania. There the ways parted, the Old Road branching off to the left; and there we rested for the night, at an Imperial posting station. In the morning we divided up our gear; for Marcus, who had travelled with me so faithfully, would follow me no longer. He was old, he said, and tired, and if my father would take him back he proposed to spend his remaining years in the place he had grown to think of as his home. I made him promise to visit my mother’s tomb, and gave him a purse of golden solidi from my uncle’s gift; the price of the horses we had loaned, with interest. I would have written to my father, but when it came to the point I could find no words. Instead I sent a message: that one day I hoped to return, but had not as yet justified myself either in my own eyes or the eyes of the world. Marcus, who had never been one for ceremony, nodded curtly, then reached across to grip my hand. ‘Vale, Sergius,’ he said. ‘Remember what you’ve been taught and you’ll come to no real harm. Be honest to your superiors, and straightforward with your men; and may the Gods protect you. I hope I shall see you again before I die.’ He turned his horse then, rode off without a backward glance; the last I saw of him was his straight back above the cloud of dust raised by the animal’s hooves.

I pushed on swiftly, oppressed by the desolation that had fallen on me at finding myself for the first time truly alone, but impelled also by a deeper unease. Beside me, mocking the sunlight, rode a shadow that had followed me from Rome. I had thought myself free of Julia, but it was not so. The wound in my palm had healed, leaving a smooth deep scar like a mark of crucifixion; while it lasted I would remember that the uniform I wore, the horse I rode, the orders and commission in my belt, were no more than crumbs flung from Gratianus’ table at the whim of a whining girl. The gold in my panniers I had maybe earned, but none of the rest. I had hidden the thought from my uncle, and from Marcus; but at the bottom of my heart smouldered a black and Celtic rage.

As I neared my destination I tried to put the business from me. The past, I told myself, was the past; over and done with, and best forgotten. I made myself take an interest in the country through which I rode. I was struck by the remarkable recovery that Gaul had made. There was little sign of the disorder that had appalled me; everywhere now seemed to be neat crops and fields, clean and prosperous-looking red-roofed villages. The way stations for the most part had been rebuilt and restaffed; in the whole of my journey I had no trouble with remounts. It seemed that Eusebius had by no means acquitted himself badly in his brief time of glory. Only where his armies had passed did I come on signs of devastation: empty settlements and farms, gangs of ragged-looking refugees. I steered well clear of them, reaching Aquitania without incident. More days of hard riding brought me to the coast, and Burdigala. I arrived in the town towards evening, made enquiries for the headquarters of the Loyal Arcadians. Shortly afterwards I presented myself at the Praetorium of my commanding officer, Vidimerius.

It was obvious at once that the Duke, in the manner of conquerors the world over, lived in considerable style. He had annexed a town house for the use of himself and his staff; I was conducted to it by a towering, heavily armed Burgundian. Orders were barked; I was given into the charge of two equally vast guards, who scanned my papers with a great show of efficiency. Perhaps they understood them; I doubt it, unless they had the ability to read Latin upside down. After more shouting and clashing of heels I was finally admitted to the great man’s presence. My first impressions were scarcely encouraging. Vidimerius was by no means as tall as his guards, but what he lacked in height he made up in girth. He was shaped like a barrel, immensely broad in the chest and with thick, muscular legs and arms. A black beard, peppered with grey, covered most of his face; above it small, bleary eyes studied me with no particular affection. The table at which he sat was laden with food; I saw a vast dish of oysters, platters of crab and what looked like mullet, an imposing array of wine. He studied the papers set beside him, painfully deciphering the sentences, before scowling up at me again. He pushed his chair back and favoured me with a long, rich belch. ‘Just what the Hell,’ he growled, in thickly accented Latin, ‘am I supposed to do with you?’

I was considerably taken aback. I answered, sharply, that as far as I was aware I had been posted to command a cohort. He cut me short with a bull-like roar. ‘You can forget that bosh,’ he said. He slammed the table. The wine-cups jarred and shook. ‘Down here,’ he said, ‘you command nothing. My men don’t go much on Romans; they don’t speak your language and they don’t like your ways. I’m their officer. Me. Not you. As far as they’re concerned, and me as well, you’re just a bloody ornament. Ever been in action?’

I admitted, stiffly, that I had not. He eyed me, then bellowed again. A man came scurrying from an inner room. ‘This,’ said the Duke, wagging a thick forefinger in my general direction, ‘is the latest asset foisted on us by a grateful State. Find him some quarters.’ Then to me, ‘Report back here in an hour. Minus that week’s growth of beard, and minus the filth on your boots. You look as if you’d been reared in a pig-run.’ He finished at a shout, and readdressed himself instantly to his meal.

I was shown to a cubicle at the far end of the villa. The little room was already piled with gear. I turned to the aide, but he merely shrugged. ‘Didn’t know when to expect you,’ he said. ‘Haven’t got your quarters cleared out. You’ll have to share for a night or two.’ He indicated an unused bunk, morosely, and left me.

I sat on the edge of it, and rubbed my face. I was oppressively conscious of the strangeness of my surroundings. Round me were unfamiliar sounds, unfamiliar smells. From somewhere close at hand came a burst of laughter, followed by voices raised in Vidimerius’ guttural tongue. I stared round; and suddenly the absurdity of the whole situation hit me. Here was I, totally inexperienced in any aspect of war, placed in nominal charge of five hundred men, whose language I couldn’t even speak. I didn’t feel like a commanding officer, I certainly didn’t look like one; it was small wonder I hadn’t been treated as one. I put my face in my hands and swore. I’d already lost the first round; but that, I suppose, was likewise scarcely to be wondered at. After all I’d just spent the last two years proving conclusively I wasn’t fit to be left in charge of myself.

I was roused by somebody gripping my shoulder. I looked up, startled. Leaning over me was a thin-faced, seamed-skinned man of forty or more. He was casually dressed in tunic and sandals; his eyes, bright brown and half lost in networks of wrinkles, twinkled down at me. ‘Flavius Ruricius,’ he said. ‘Comicularis, Loyal Arcadians. Welcome to the madhouse, sir; I hear you actually have a civilised tongue in your head.’

The relief of hearing decent Latin again was considerable; I’d virtually decided I would have to go through my military career as a deaf-mute. It was more than offset, though, by annoyance that he had caught me so off my guard. I rose, setting my mouth. ‘Sergius Paullus,’ I said. ‘Tribune ... I understand my quarters are not prepared.’

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that. Fix it myself, in the morning. Can I give you a hand with your gear?’

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I can manage.’

He squatted on the bunk, undeterred. ‘Seen old Rumbleguts yet?’ he asked. ‘Don’t let him put you off. He’s been throwing his weight about in all directions for a fortnight now. He didn’t want any more Latin-speaking staff people; he’s been trying to make this an all-German unit for years. He’d whittled us down to two; now as far as he’s concerned the Praefecture’s lumbered him again. Had a good journey, sir?’

He was altogether too friendly for my taste, but I couldn’t very well throw him out. After all, it was his billet. I changed, hurriedly, and made an attempt at shaving. While I scraped away, with lukewarm water and a blunt razor, he expanded his views on our commanding officer. ‘He’s a damned good soldier,’ he said, ‘despite appearances. Not too bad to get on with, as Burgundians go. They’re a funny-tempered mob at the best of times, sir....’ He also told me a little of the Arcadians’ history. As a nearly new unit they had taken no part in the warfare that had attended the elevation of Eusebius. When the usurper’s army marched east to its final encounter the cohort had stood and jeered at their less fortunate comrades-in-arms. It would have gone badly for them if the decision of the Frigidus had been reversed; as it was they had received a commendation from Theodosius himself, and the Provincial Praefecture had made up their not inconsiderable arrears of pay. ‘Which suited everybody nicely,’ said Ruricius sardonically. ‘They’re a lazy lot of sods when it comes down to it. They’d sooner sit round all day on their arses, milking the countryside round about and steadily increasing the proportion of Gallo-German bastards ....’

By the time his exposition was over I was ready to present myself to Vidimerius once more. ‘He won’t keep you long,’ said Ruricius optimistically. ‘I’ll wait on for you, if you like. Show you a bit of the town.’

Dinner seemed to have put the Duke into a more expansive frame of mind. He sprawled comfortably on a couch, girdle loosened round his ample belly. When I appeared he waved me to a place beside him. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘help yourself to wine. Good stuff. Have it sent down from Germania.’ He snorted at my look of surprise. ‘We’ve been growing vines since long before your time,’ he said. ‘The sooner you people get rid of the idea that civilisation stops at the Rhine, the better....’ He heaved himself up, grunting, and poured another libation to his homeland. ‘You’re serving with a German unit now,’ he went on. ‘It isn’t a question of us coming up to your standards; it’s for you to meet ours. Just get that through your head, right from the start.’ He drank, noisily. I said nothing; it was obviously best to let him get his introductory lecture off his chest. He rambled on in similar vein for some time before condescending to enlighten me as to the military state of his fragment of Gaul. ‘You’ll find it pretty quiet in the main,’ he said. ‘And with that bloody fool Arbogast out of the way let’s hope it stays like it. What trouble we’ve had’s mostly been from Bacaudae; but even that’s dying off now things are settling down again.’