I said, politely, “I seem to have made a bad beginning with the Council. They don’t like soldiers.”
A faint smile creased his face. “So I have heard. Taxes and soldiers go together,” he added cryptically.
“What of this young man who is now Curator? I find it hard to talk to him. Do you know him well?”
“Artorius. Hardly. He is young and ambitious and keen. His grandfather was a freedman, I believe.”
“Then he has done well for himself.”
“I suppose so. His father certainly managed to establish himself in the curial class. But that might well happen in a city like Mediolanum.” He spoke with a tinge of contempt.
“Is that where he comes from? I thought—”
“Oh yes. I would have thought the accent was obvious. He trained as an advocate, I believe; held one or two minor civic posts and then secured an office in the imperial service—something to do with finance. Then he came here. His appointment was unusual to say the least of it—even irregular. For, as you know, the Curator is normally appointed from out of the local council.” He paused to drink his wine delicately. “But then, you know how it is. Influence was brought to bear. I was against the appointment myself.” He shrugged. “One cannot argue with a Praefectus Praetorio.” He added grudgingly, “Still, he is efficient, so my old friends tell me.”
“I don’t understand why he wished to come here,” I said, puzzled.
“Oh, that is easy to explain.” The thin lips curled a little. “He wished to escape his own past. This is still an important city and under the eye of the Praefectus he may yet go far. He will do well for himself by his own modest standards.”
I smiled. “He takes a keen interest in trade.”
“Oh yes, and in land too. He has made money, that young man. And invested it wisely, too. A modest villa for his family, so I understand. Not that I have seen it, of course.”
“Of course not.”
“Everyone wants land. They think it means security. Perhaps it did once.” He paused and took another sip of his wine. “Of course, things are very different now—difficult too. My peasants, as is customary, pay a tenth of their crop but they are lazy and I find it difficult in getting my rents from them. They don’t work as hard as they used to. They run away when they cannot pay and it is hard to find others to work the land in their place. Food is scarce too.” He nibbled a grape. “We used to get grain from Britannia, but the deliveries are now so uncertain. In season, of course, we get roast swan and wild duck. That is something.”
“You had harder times when you held office in the city.”
His pale eyes brightened. “The central government was strong then. We had a Valentinian and not a Honorius. It was dreadful for a time, but we drove them back and prosperity slowly returned.”
“It could again.”
“These Franks aren’t bad fellows. It was the best thing that foreigner, Stilicho, ever did, to settle them on this side of the river. With all the slaves running away we need young men to work on the farms.”
“Do they?”
He did not answer me. He said, “And is that what you want? Men for your army?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if they won’t join, you can only conscript them.”
“Yes, I may have to do that. But I would like volunteers also. I was hoping that you might persuade—use your influence—you are much respected—the situation is dangerous.”
“Oh, they always say that. But nothing happens. A few raids, perhaps, but little harm done.”
“What happens when they raid you?”
“Oh, I give them some silver and they go away. Curious that. They have no use for gold. Just as well. I should be ruined if they had.”
I said, “We are all in very great danger. You remember that other time. Then an army, armed war bands, plundered the country. This time it will be worse. They won’t merely steal and murder and then go away. They will steal and murder—yes—and they will stay.”
“We can go to Italia,” he said. “If it is really as bad as you say. I have estates there in the south. I have cousins in Africa too. A rich land that. They tell me many people are going there now. The climate is so much better.”
“The rich,” I said.
“But naturally. The artisans and the peasants could not afford the journey.”
“I need men, desperately. I hoped that your sons—”
“My sons are middle-aged.” He smiled. “I am an old man. I have grandsons, of course.”
“They would do. They would do well. I need an example set. I want auxiliary alae with young men like your grandsons to lead them.”
“I am not sure—”
“Would you ask them?” I insisted. “Military service is honourable. Young men like adventure.”
“But not death,” he said drily.
“It is better than dishonour,” I said lightly.
He seemed to shrink inside his chair.
I said, “Would you ask them.”
He hesitated.
“Let me ask them then? I must.”
He said, “Your determination—you remind me of Theodosius—the emperor, of course.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes. He was my friend.” He spoke with a flash of pride.
“I am glad,” I said. “You see, I knew his father.”
His hands began to tremble. He said, “I think you had better go. I am very tired.”
“You said I could see your grandsons.”
“They are not here. I remember—they are out riding. I had forgotten.”
“I can wait.”
“They may not come back for—” He broke off as voices sounded on the terrace outside and his hands dropped helplessly to his lap. There was the sound of laughter and scuffling and a dark young man entered, to be followed by a boy in his third year of the toga. They were fine boys all right. I would have been proud if they had been my sons.
They fell silent as they saw me and stood awkwardly in the doorway. They looked at my riding dress and at my helmet in the crook of my arm, and their faces wore a curious expression, compounded—I could have sworn it—of fear and hatred. I waited stiffly for Julianus Septimus to introduce me. He said nothing but I heard a gasp and the wine cup fell to the floor with a crash.
The dark boy moved forward, crying, “Grandfather.”
Instinctively he stretched out his right hand, the fingers splayed outwards, as though he would have caught the falling cup had he been in time. It was then that I noticed that his right thumb was missing. The puckered skin was pink and newly healed. It was a great shame. It was a horrible accident to have suffered. He was such a good looking boy.
He saw my look and dropped his hand sharply.
The grandfather said faintly, “It is all right. No harm has been done. Metellus can clear up the mess in a minute. I have a guest. Run along and come back when I am free.”
The boys bowed to me stiffly and turned to go. As they did so I saw the hands of the fair one quite clearly. He, too, had suffered an accident, just like his brother. I remembered the day that I had entered Treverorum and the young men I had noticed in the crowds with injured hands.
It was then that I understood.
I swung round sharply and put my hand to my mouth. I felt physically sick and the swallowed wine was sour in my throat. The skin on the backs of my hands prickled with sweat and my forehead felt cold. I knew then the shame, the horror and the degradation of it all.
I said in a whisper, “Who put them up to it? Was it you? You, the friend of my Theodosius’ son, the friend of Valentinian who laboured to rebuild this province after its years of disaster and misery.”
He did not answer. He turned his head away, but I saw from the angle of his jaw that his face trembled.
“Do you want to lie skewered in the sun like a condemned criminal while your villa roasts your servants behind your back? See your sons killed for your gold, your grandsons as slaves, serving their barbarian masters on bended knee? See your grand-daughters tremble as they are stripped naked for the pleasure of their stinking conquerors? Will you die content in the knowledge that you have brought such things about?”