Each day you can see crowds of poor (and shamefully the not so poor) gathering on steps throughout the city to await a dole of bread, pork (in season), and oil. This any free head of family can claim by showing a little slip called a tessera. Fed by the state, these pampered leeches show little wish to work, but spend their days in the baths (to which a trifling coin gains entry), where they mingle freely with the great and wealthy. Or, if Games are being held in the Circus or arena at the Emperor’s expense (or of the quaestors, praetors, senators, and consuls), they live for nothing but betting on the outcome. Huge sums are spent on these shows, one given by Petronius Maximus (about whom more hereafter) costing, I’ve been told, four thousand pounds of gold.
But do not the patricians set the plebs (for such in olden times were called the higher and lower ranks of citizen now termed honestiores and humiliores) a good example of behaviour? Rather, the opposite is true. The nobles think only of pleasure and display, flaunting their wealth in rich apparel and carriages of gold or silver, which they drive at furious speed around the city, careless of harming passers-by.
Touching on which, Gibvult and I caused pride to have a fall. We were strolling in one of the narrow streets of the district called Subura, when towards us, whirling along at breakneck speed came one of these equipages driven by a youth in billowing silken robes. Scattering before this would-be Diocles,5 folk leapt for safety into alley-mouths and doorways. A glance between my friend and me decided us to teach this arrogant puppy a lesson.
Scorning to jump aside, we stood our ground — though on my part, I confess, with a thumping heart. The horse, though a noble animal, is not (save for endurance) a brave one. Confronted, his nature is to flee, as Gibvult and I had learnt when practising cavalry tactics against ranked infantry. Sure enough, the matched pair drawing the conveyance reared up before us, pawing the air and pitching the driver from his seat; his fall was broken by his landing in a pile of ordure. Grabbing the horses’ bridles, we pulled their heads down and calmed them. Then, laughing, we walked past the prostrate youth, who was dashing filth from his face and screaming threats. Little we cared; Rome’s vigiles, the urban cohorts, had been disbanded and replaced by vicomagistri, nightwatchmen. Anyway, who would dare arrest two bold young Germans in the service of the Master of Soldiers?
Came the day of Aetius’ meeting with the Emperor. We of his bodyguard escorted him to the Palace of Domitian, an awesome block of brick-faced concrete on the Palatine. Leaving us at the gates, Aetius removed the baldric holding his sword (no weapons being permitted in the presence of the Emperor) and gave it to our centenarius.
‘Stand easy, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at least two hours; so you can be free until the fifth. You two’ — he pretended to glare at Gibvult and myself, and shook his head in mock reproof — ‘try and stay out of trouble till then. Oh yes,’ he continued with a grin, ‘I heard about your little escapade in the Subura.’ Then, addressing the whole company, ‘Fifth hour, remember. Dismiss.’ And with a casual wave, he strode off through the palace gates, which the imperial guards, recognizing him, had already opened.
It was the last time I ever saw him.
As, about an hour later, Gibvult and I were wandering among the stalls of the Forum Boarium, I became aware of a distant murmur from the Palatine Hill above us. The murmur grew and spread, became a swelling roar: the sound of many voices raised in query and concern. Suddenly the crowds around us were caught up in the clamour; a chill struck my heart as I began to pick out phrases: ‘He’s dead. . Who’s dead?. . They say it’s the Patrician. . murdered by the Emperor himself. . I heard it was Boethius, the Prefect. . No, it was Aetius I tell you — slain by Valentinian’s own hand. .’
I stood in frozen disbelief while the rumours dinned in my ears and the world seemed to swim around me. Then Gibvult and I were running towards the source of the noise, barging through the shouting throng. We found an angry mob gathering outside Domitian’s Palace. Behind the locked gates a triple row of white-faced guards stood with levelled spears. A group of Aetius’ bodyguard were dragging a beam from a nearby building-site, clearly meaning to use it as a ram to force the gates.
‘Drop it!’ Crackling with authority, the voice of our centenarius cut through the uproar, and he positioned himself in front of the gates. ‘You want to break through these? You’ll have to start with me. In an hour I’ll be taking a roll-call back at our quarters. Anyone not on it — ’ his eyes, charged with flinty menace, surveyed the bodyguard — ‘will be on a charge. Spread the word. Get moving — now.’
No one missed the roll-call. Afterwards, the centenarius, struggling to master strong emotions, addressed us confidentially. ‘The rumours are true, lads: the Patrician’s dead. And yes, before you ask, it was indeed the Emperor who killed him. And no, there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it, because the Emperor’s above the law.’
Angry shouts broke out: ‘He shouldn’t get away with it. . Aetius was worth ten of him. . Bad emperors have been dealt with before — think of Attalus and Iohannes.’
The centenarius let the fury and resentment burn themselves out, then raised his hand for silence. ‘I feel the same about this as you do, lads,’ he said. ‘Removing the dog-tag on its thong from around his neck, he held it up. ‘You were all given one of these when you joined the army. And you also had to swear an oath, to be — well, come on; let’s hear it.’
‘Loyal to the Emperor,’ came the mumbled response.
‘Good. Remember it.’ After a pause, he went on musingly, ‘Of course, if anything — God forbid — were to happen to Valentinian, I suppose you’d just have to swear loyalty to whoever took the purple.’ He winked, then added, ‘You didn’t hear that last bit, by the way. Dismiss.’
During the weeks and months that followed, a tense calm seemed to grip the city. While continuing to occupy our quarters in Commodus’ Palace, we heard that, beside Aetius, Boethius, the Praetorian Prefect, had been murdered; also the Patrician’s closest friends and associates. Recalling the dark days of Sulla, proscription lists of ‘traitors’ were posted, and at the same time public announcements (which nobody believed) proclaimed the Emperor’s deliverance from a dastardly plot to overthrow him, and praised his courage in turning the tables on a would-be assassin. As to why the Emperor had really murdered the unarmed Patrician we could only guess, but jealousy and spite were thought to play a large part. As common soldiers, we of the bodyguard were safe enough, we thought — so long as we kept our heads down, as our centenarius never tired of reminding us.
With Placidia and now Aetius dead, who was running the empire? Now that Valentinian was spending more time in Rome than in Ravenna, would the whole machinery of government be transferred? Who would be the new Master of Soldiers? (Avitus was heavily tipped.) And, whoever it turned out to be, would he still require our services, or would he choose his own escort? No one seemed to know the answers to these questions. Yet the wheels of the administration kept turning — creakily, it must be said, but they turned. Our pay was often in arrears but we always got it eventually. I believe that this was due, in part at least, to the persistence of one of Aetius’ agentes in rebus, in reminding the paymaster of our existence. (Now who, Titus, could that agent have been, I wonder?)