‘Your duties at the palace are congenial, I trust?’ asked the senator, when we were ensconced once more in his tablinum.
‘I’ve no complaints, Your Gloriousness,’ I said. ‘They’re hardly taxing, after all.’
‘Ja, sehr gut,’ confirmed Gibvult, whose command of Latin was rather less than mine, causing him to lapse at times into German.
‘And the Empress?’
‘He neglects her, although clearly she loves him; why, I can’t imagine. I’ve hardly once heard him address a civil word to her.’
‘He treat her shameful — worse than a Hund,’ declared Gibvult hotly. ‘In Germany, such a man would be Ausgestossene, outcast. And she such a kind lady, always with smile or Trinkgeld for us Soldaten.’
‘I see,’ mused Maximus. ‘Your opinion, then, would be that the marriage is a sham — at least on the Emperor’s side; that Valentinian no longer has any interest in his wife?’
‘That is correct,’ I said. I sensed that, bizarrely, the senator was pleased by this intelligence.
‘So presumably he looks elsewhere to gratify his desires?’
‘I’ve no means of knowing,’ I said. Where was all this leading? ‘The scholae are never with the Emperor on any occasion that could be termed intimate. You’d have to ask the palace eunuchs — especially Heraclius, who has the emperor’s ear. But I’d be surprised if you weren’t right, Your Gloriousness. After all, Valentinian’s fit, healthy, and still young.’
Maximus rose and began to pace the room, then halted and stood with furrowed brow, lost in thought. Eventually, ‘You have proved yourselves both discreet and reliable,’ he said in a low voice, almost as if he were speaking to himself. He turned to face us. ‘The time has come to take you into my confidence. I’m sure you need no reminding that anything I say must go no further than these walls.’
Gibvult and I assured him that our lips were sealed.
‘Then I must tell you this: the Emperor has begun to cast lustful eyes on my wife. She is the soul of honour and fidelity, and would never willingly betray the marriage bed. But that would not deter Valentinian, for whom to desire something is but the prelude to possessing it. He has no honour and would not scruple to force himself upon my wife, if he could find the opportunity. Despite my high position, how could I prevent him? After all, he is the Emperor.’
Gibvult and I exchanged concerned glances. To be party to this knowledge was horribly dangerous.
Maximus must have noticed, for he continued, ‘Why am I telling you all this? I will keep nothing from you. Should Valentinian succeed in ravishing my wife, I would be compelled to uphold the honour of my gens, the Anicii.’
‘By disposing of the Emperor?’ I suggested bluntly.
Maximus gave a wry half-smile, then shrugged. ‘As a Roman, and Anician to boot, I would have no choice.’
‘And we would do the “disposing”,’ I observed sourly, as realization dawned. Maximus was planning nothing less then seizing the purple for himself — a move which might well succeed, given Valentinian’s huge unpopularity. Avenging his wife’s honour would give Maximus a convincing motive for killing Valentinian, as well as being guaranteed to enlist public sympathy. I could see it all clearly. The information we had given the senator, slight though it was, had convinced him that the time was ripe to use his wife as bait for Valentinian’s lust. Gibvult and myself, chosen because of our proven loyalty to Aetius and, I suppose, our boldness, were simply to be convenient tools to implement the deed. Well, no matter. If falling in with the senator’s plans, however base, would enable us to avenge our beloved leader, we could ask for no greater privilege. I looked at Gibvult, and we both nodded.
I turned to Maximus. ‘Whenever you are ready,’ I declared heavily.
‘Excellent; we understand each other, then,’ he returned briskly. ‘Instructions will be given you in due course. Meanwhile, you will carry on as normal with your duties at the palace.’ He shot us a calculating glance. ‘Never fear — you’ll both be well rewarded.’
Something snapped inside me. ‘You Romans think that everything must have its price!’ I heard myself shout. ‘Can’t you realize that some things are done for honour’s sake alone? Come, Gibvult.’ And turning on our heels we marched from the tablinum.
Soon after that second meeting with Maximus, Rome was rocked by a scandal, the details of which the senator did nothing to conceal; in fact, short of putting up posters, he did everything he could to publicize them. What happened was this. In a gaming session with the Emperor, Maximus lost heavily — more than he could afford to settle on the spot. Valentinian insisted that the senator surrender his signet ring as a pledge that he would repay the debt. Following the incident, Valentinian had a message sent to Maximus’ wife purporting to come from her husband (together with the ring as proof of identity). She should come at once to the palace to attend the Empress Eudoxia on some urgent business. Unsuspecting, Maximus’ wife complied. On arrival at the palace, she was taken to a remote bedchamber where she was raped by Valentinian. Predictably, when word got out (as Maximus made sure it would), the Emperor’s stock plumbed even lower depths.
Despite the scandal, in a gesture of defiance in the face of public opinion, the Emperor announced that he intended shortly to open, in person, a display of military Games to be held in the Campus Martius — a great plain in the west of Rome, between the Tiber and the city’s hills. The day before the event, I was approached by one of Maximus’ slaves, who handed me a note. It contained five words: ‘When he drops the mappa.’
My pulses quickening, I sought out Gibvult. ‘Tomorrow the Emperor will start the Games by dropping a white cloth,’ I told him. ‘That’s when we strike.’
He took the news calmly. ‘Better make sure we’re picked for duty, then,’ he grunted, without looking up from the task he was engaged in — buffing up his cuirass with a paste of fine sand and vinegar. ‘And check our swords are keen.’
Because of the extra spit-and-polish involved, attendance at ceremonial occasions was not exactly welcomed by members of the scholae; so it was easy enough to ensure our names were on the duty roster.
It was a cool, bright, mid-March morning when the procession set out from the Palatine, the Imperial couple accompanied by the guard and followed by a train of courtiers and attendants. Along the Sacred Way we passed through the Forum Romanum, where we were joined by the Senate (headed by Maximus), resplendent in their archaic togas, then below the Capitol, and on up the Flaminian Way. Turning left off the great street at the Arch of Diocletian, we headed into the Campus Martius past the Pantheon and the Stadium of Domitian, to a roped-off open area where the contestants were assembled. The first event was to be a display of mounted archery by units of the vexillationes palatinae, the cream of the cavalry. The participants began lining up a hundred paces from a row of targets, which they would gallop towards, then shoot at as they passed.
Accompanied by Heraclius, and flanked by select members of the scholae (which I had made sure included Gibvult and myself), Valentinian mounted the steps of the podium. He took the white cloth that Heraclius handed him, and raised it aloft. I have to admit that, vile degenerate though he may have been, he was certainly imposing. With the purple robe and glittering diadem setting off his tall, athletic figure, he looked every inch a Roman emperor.
‘Let’s take Heraclius as well,’ Gibvult whispered. I nodded, my heart beginning to thump violently. Everyone knew that Heraclius had poisoned Valentinian’s mind against the Patrician. But for the eunuch, Aetius would still be living.