Perhaps the strangest thing of all at this strange time was the regaining of some of its ancient power by the Senate. The Senate, that toothless tiger, whose only function these four hundred years had been to legitimize who came to power! But with Valentinian (now the most hated man in the empire) cowering in his palace, someone had to make decisions, and that someone could only be, collectively, the Senate. Chief spokesman of this august assembly was one Petronius Maximus, about whom, because he was about to play such a large part in my life, I shall now tell you something.
Petronius Maximus: wealthy senator, twice consul, thrice Praetorian prefect of Italy, member of the ancient and famous Anician family, cultured man of letters, liberal patron, generous host, popular with all — could this cornucopia of distinctions be held by just one man? The answer, if that man happened to be Petronius Maximus, was that it could.
My first meeting with him came about in this way. The bodyguard was having its midday prandium of bread and cold meat, when a biarchus appeared and summoned Gibvult and myself. We followed him out of the palace to where a Nubian slave was waiting. ‘You’re to go with this fellow,’ said the biarchus. ‘Seems some senator wants to see you; don’t ask me why.’
Mystified and not a little curious, we followed the slave through narrow streets, up the slopes of the Caelian, beneath the arches of the Claudian Aqueduct, and through the old Servian Wall into the Fifth District, one of the most salubrious in the City. Soon after, we entered a private square adorned with statues, which fronted an imposing mansion. We were led through a number of halls opening one into another, in the fifth of which, the tablinum, we halted. It was a spacious room, with pigeon-holes and open cupboards filled with scrolls and codices. Scant furniture, but what there was was beautifully crafted in metal or rare woods. Wall-niches held one or two fine bronzes.
In the midst of this austere elegance, a middle-aged man in a plain but expensive dalmatic was seated writing at a table. He waved us to a bench and kept on writing for a little longer, then, consulting a water-clock beside him, laid down his stylus and looked up. A strong Roman face beneath a full head of well-groomed silver hair. ‘Four hours for study, four for writing, four for friends and relaxation, four for business,’ he said with a smile. ‘These make up my day, aside from sleep. Each must get its due — no more, no less. I am Petronius Maximus. You’ve heard of me perchance?’
If anyone had not, he must be either deaf or witless. Everyone, even we uncouth Germans, knew of the great senator. ‘Who in Rome has not, Your Gloriousness?’ I replied, using the correct if absurd-sounding form of address.
‘Fronto, bring wine for our guests,’ he told the slave, then, turning to ourselves, ‘You must be wondering why I sent for you.’ He eyed us appraisingly. ‘I require a certain task to be carried out, for which I require two suitable young men. They must be brave, know how to handle themselves, and above all be trustworthy. I made enquiries of your centenarius; he recommended you two above all others in your unit. Also, it came to my ears that you clipped the wings of a certain young blood — my nephew, actually — driving at reckless speed through the Subura. I applaud; the young puppy needed taking down a peg. More importantly, it tells me you’re the sort of men I’m looking for. It takes courage to halt a galloping pair. Forgive me if I ask a personal question: what is your present rate of pay?’
‘Thirty solidi per annum,’ I replied, intrigued. ‘Plus rations, uniform, and fodder for our mounts.’
‘Would you be interested in trebling that?’
Gibvult and I exchanged the briefest of glances. ‘We’d be interested,’ we said in chorus. ‘Provisionally,’ I added. Where was the catch? I wondered. For that sort of money, there had to be one.
At that moment, Fronto returned bearing a tray on which were a silver flagon and two glass drinking-vessels decorated with hunting scenes in relief. Placing the tray on a table, Fronto filled the glasses, handed one to me, and was in the act of passing the other to Gibvult, when it slipped from his hand to smash on the mosaic floor. He began to tremble, and his skin turned from black to dusky grey.
‘Oh, Fronto,’ murmured Maximus, shaking his head, the angry glitter in his eyes belying the mildness of his tone. ‘My Rhenish beakers — irreplaceable.’
The mess was quickly cleared up and Gibvult supplied with a fresh tumblerful, but the trivial incident had taught me several things about our host. I realized as I sipped my wine — vinegary stuff from the Vatican vineries — that he thought Gibvult and myself unsophisticated barbarians who would neither notice that they were being fobbed off with an inferior vintage, nor expect it to be diluted with water in the Roman fashion. The reactions of Maximus and his slave to the breaking of the beaker showed that Fronto could expect to be severely punished. Maximus clearly had an arrogant, mean, and cruel streak, which gave the lie to his reputation for benevolent urbanity.
‘What would this task involve, Your Gloriousness?’ I enquired.
‘For a start, a transfer from your present unit to the scholae, the imperial bodyguard. An enviable advancement, most would think.’
‘What, serve Valentinian?’ I exclaimed in outrage. I stood up, as did Gibvult, his face suddenly gone red. ‘I’m afraid, Senator, you’ve chosen the wrong men.’
To my amazement, Maximus beamed delightedly. ‘Splendid,’ he declared. ‘Just the reaction I hoped for; you’ve proved beyond doubt your loyalty to your murdered master, Aetius. Please hear me out. I will explain.’
Whatever strings Maximus pulled to secure entry for Gibvult and myself to the scholae (mainly sprigs of noble families), we were not to know; for a man of his influence it would not be difficult, I think. Suffice to say that a week from our meeting with the great man, we were reporting for duty with the scholae at Domitian’s Palace. We were issued with splendid parade armour: muscled cuirass and crested helmet, fashioned by the barbaricarii, smiths who normally made armour only for officers. Our duties were light: mainly standing outside the main entrance to the palace looking impressive, or escorting the emperor on the rare occasions when he left it. At first, some of our new comrades tried to make mock of us, resenting us as low-born upstarts, I suppose. However, in a fight arranged on waste ground in the Fourteenth District, Transtiberina, Gibvult and I demolished their two champions. After that, we were accepted.
As for the task for which we had been chosen, our only instructions at this time were that we note the Emperor’s behaviour towards his wife, the Augusta Eudoxia, a kind and gentle lady, daughter of Theodosius, the late Eastern Emperor. Maximus had assured us that the purpose of our posting to the scholae was not to serve the Emperor but to help see justice done for the memory of Aetius; details would be disclosed to us later. On no account were we to communicate with the senator; he would make contact and give further instructions in due course. Although Maximus, accompanied by his beautiful wife, was a frequent guest at the palace, neither by word nor look did he ever acknowledge our presence.
Then, early in the year following that of Aetius’ murder, the summons came. Gibvult and I were off duty in our barracks when a slave arrived from Maximus, requesting that we accompany him to his master’s villa.