Cast Not The Day Read online

  It was all very civilized – or it would have been, if he had given any sign of awareness or concern for the barbarism on his doorstep.

  It was only during dessert – stuffed figs and almond-cakes sweetened with honey – that Aquinus raised the question of the bishop and the notary. At this, Martinus’s face took on the pained expression of a connoisseur of music who hears a false note at a concert, and with a sigh he set his glass bowl down on the table beside him.

  ‘Of course the whole business with Gennadius was unfortunate. I have asked the notary Paulus to investigate, and indeed, since you have raised the matter, let me tell you that only this morning he assured me that the whole affair was a misunderstanding. You were right, my dear Aquinus, it was the fault of some underling, and I believe he will be reprimanded. I cannot understand how such a thing can happen; but . . . well, there it is, you know the wheels of government seldom turn as smoothly as one would wish.’

  He held out his bowl to the slave, who had offered him a second helping. ‘Still, let us not taint this pleasant evening with the matter. I need hardly tell you that the quality of officials nowadays is not what it was. One must accustom oneself to the realities, and we are not in Italy, alas.’

  I was sitting diagonally opposite Aquinus. For a moment, while Martinus was talking, our eyes met, and I saw a flash of humour – or anger – there. I turned my attention to my food. It would not have done to smile.

  When Martinus had finished, Aquinus said in a level voice, ‘I am glad you have managed to resolve the whole unfortunate affair to your satisfaction. I must say, I regret it ever happened at all. Gennadius’s house was turned over and ruined, quite needlessly.’

  ‘Indeed, it is a sorry business. I am sure nothing like this will happen again. The notary assured me that only the guilty have anything to fear.’ And then, raising his eyes from his food, which he had been prodding and exploring with a spoon, ‘Even so, let us not forget that the notary Paulus enjoys the full confidence of Con-stantius.’

  ‘No doubt he does.’

  There was a slight pause. Then Martinus went on, ‘We must bend with the wind, as my father used to tell me. It would have been better for all of us if the civil strife in Gaul had never taken place. I am sure you understand.’

  After this he returned to the subject of his Italian estate, a seemingly limitless topic.

  When we had seen him off with his armed guard, and had returned inside, Marcellus said, ‘Do you think he actually believes any of that?’

  ‘The man is a fount of platitude,’ said Aquinus in response. ‘He has spent too long with bureaucrats and politicians.’

  He returned to his seat and sat down heavily. Now, among friends, his tiredness showed. He was slower on his feet of late, and I knew it irked him. He was not a man to let the demands of his body hinder the swiftness of his mind.

  ‘I suspect,’ he said, after a considering moment, ‘that beneath all the bland urbanity Martinus is afraid.’

  ‘Of the notary?’

  ‘Yes, that too. But his fear encompasses more than that. He inhabits a world of abundant and fragile luxury. All he cares about is adorning his garden, and entertaining his friends. He has let his pleasures beguile him, and cannot do without them. He has allowed himself to forget proportion.’

  A look of quiet, ancient sadness settled on his face, and for a moment he stared absently into the middle distance, at the burning lamp-standard, and the image of ivy-garlanded Winter beyond. Then, collecting himself with a sigh, he said, ‘You know, when he was young he had great promise. Well, so it is. There is something tragic in seeing a good man wasted.’

  But the arrests continued, slow at first, directed against those too weak to resist, unnoticed unless one looked, like a scrub-fire in woodland, which, unable to seize the tall trees, smoulders instead on the forest floor.

  The bishop was everywhere about the city, often in the company of the notary. Base men, who lurk in the shadows of life, emerged full of confidence and found like minds. Disgruntled slaves were persuaded to betray their masters, and in the city the bishop’s thugs set upon innocent men with impunity. Every rogue and villain who had ever held a grudge now sought vengeance, knowing that mere accusation was enough to condemn.

  Astrologers and soothsayers were chased out of town; doctors dared not treat their patients lest their cures be condemned as sorcery; books were suspected by the illiterate of harbouring hidden spells, and priceless libraries were cast into the flames by their frightened owners. Old men who should have been sipping warm milk in their beds were dragged off and thrown into the cells, and when their sons or wives or servants came with food or blankets they were robbed and sent away, or were themselves arrested.

  Against this growing madness Aquinus stood out, resisting, protesting, intervening with the governor. But he was only one man; and the madness was everywhere. It seemed to me that some dark force beyond reason had been unleashed.

  It was Aquinus who showed me there was purpose in the madness. He said one day, after I had been complaining to him, ‘You grew up on a farm, did you not? You must have seen the farm-hands burn the fields, to clear the old growth?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ I broke off, and looked at him amazed as understanding dawned.

  He nodded, and gave me a thin smile. ‘They are destroying the class of ruling men. They think they can start afresh, with beings fashioned in a mould of their choosing.’

  I thought of the notary, and of the bishop’s gauntfaced, violent acolytes. ‘A city is not a field,’ I said bitterly, ‘and free citizens are not merely chaff to be set alight in some holocaust.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘though I doubt the bishop or the notary sees it that way. Each has his own purpose. Each thinks he is using the other to achieve his ends. They are both blind.’

  But then two events occurred that gave them pause.

  First the harvest failed – or so it was said. The truth was that Christian mobs rampaging over the countryside had so terrorized the farm-hands that they had fled, leaving the crops to rot in the fields.

  The city poor were the first to suffer. They gathered outside the scaffold-clad shell of the bishop’s half-built cathedral, and cried out for food.

  ‘You see,’ said Aquinus when I reported this to him. ‘The beast has returned to its master, and the beast is hungry.’

  The bishop reassured them, promising food for all. Then he hurried to the notary to ask how he was to deliver. No one heard what the notary said to him; but, shortly after, it began to be put about – no one could quite tell from what source – that the Council was to blame for the shortage.

  The rumour was allowed to circulate unchallenged. Then the order went out from the governor’s palace for the Council to assemble: the decurions themselves would be made to answer for the crisis.

  It was hard to tell how much of all this was believed. By then men had grown close-lipped even among friends. Dinner invitations were declined, after a supper-party had been denounced as a conspiracy and the guests arrested. People ceased to visit the tombs of relatives, after one old woman had been found weeping over the grave of her husband and had been condemned for necromancy. No one wore a seal-ring, or a necklet, lest they be accused of carrying magic charms.

  Those who could fled to their country estates, though even these were not safe from the itinerant mobs of acolytes and monks and priests, who went round smashing ancient shrines, burning sacred groves, and killing or arresting those who dared to resist. But through it all Aquinus stayed in the city, where, he said, he could do most good.

  The poet says that those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad. And so it was. I was with Trebius in his quarters at the fort when the messenger came from the palace with news that the Pictish tribes had breached the Northern Wall.

  ‘I have heard nothing of this, nothing from our people in the north,’ said Trebius.

  The messenger, one of the band of officials who had arrived with the notary, gave a sh
rug. ‘That is not my concern,’ he answered haughtily. ‘You are to report to the governor’s palace at noon, where you will be given your instructions.’

  Later, when Trebius returned, he summoned the tribunes of the garrison to his quarters. There was a flush of anger on his lean, serious face. I did not realize, then, that it was on my account.

  ‘We have been ordered north,’ he announced.

  There was an exchange of surprised glances.

  The man beside me said, ‘But I cannot understand it, sir. There has been no report of trouble. A coaster put in from York less than a week ago. He brought a report from the captain there. You saw the man yourself.’

  Trebius had bent over the map on the table, though I had the sense that his mind was not on it. Without looking up he said, ‘The governor must have other information.’

  ‘Did he say where he got it?’

  ‘No.’

  Someone else said, ‘Who will protect the city?’

  Another said, ‘The governor is a civilian. Does he realize how weak our forces are? I have lost half my men to desertion already. I doubt my company is fit to fight anyone.’

  Others spoke up in agreement. I saw Trebius’s body tense. Though he was always disciplined, he was never harsh. But now he looked up sharply and shouted over the din, ‘What is this, a gathering of washerwomen? It is not for you – or me – to question orders. We are all below complement; we must manage with what we have.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said ten voices, ceasing in mid-flow. Eyes slewed to the faces of comrades, but no one else commented, not daring to say openly what was in each mind: that whatever the wild Picts might do, the real enemy lay close at hand, at the palace.

  A dissatisfied silence fell; Trebius went on to talk of arrangements for decampment. He did not speak for long. In due course, when he had finished and we were filing out, he caught my sleeve and gave a sign for me to wait.

  ‘Drusus, I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I did not want to say this in front of the others. The notary has ordered that you are to remain here in London.’

  Our eyes met.

  I said, ‘Did he give a reason?’

  Instead of answering he tossed his head and gave me a look which at first I did not comprehend. Then, in a loud voice that carried to the wardroom behind, he said, ‘So there! Those are our orders. Now come and walk with me across the parade-ground; I could do with some fresh air.’

  He nodded, and took me by the elbow. Only when we were outside in the wide open of the marching-square did he speak again.

  ‘I was instructed not to tell you this – the notary’s direct order – and I am beginning to suspect he has spies even here among our comrades. Just now, in my quarters, when—’ But he broke off, and with an angry sweep of his hand said, ‘No, I will not play his game; there is enough of a stench in the air already. He says you are under investigation, for complicity in treason. That is why you must remain.’

  I drew my breath and stared out at the line of the fort wall. A birch sapling had taken root in a wide gaping crack. In the midst of my own concerns I reflected, with a part of my mind, that yet again the city defences had been forgotten. Two sparrows were perched in the wavering branches, looking down at me, and it seemed to me that they looked with pity. I felt a sickness in my entrails: but it was not fear that seized me; it was disgust.

  I shrugged. ‘Well it was only a matter of time,’ I said. ‘I am a friend of Aquinus, after all.’

  Trebius’s pain was written on his face, like a man on the rack.

  ‘I tell you, Drusus,’ he said, dropping his voice even in the open, ‘the governor counts for nothing here, whatever your friends at the Council think. It is the notary who plays the melody; the governor merely dances. Take my advice and get out while you still can. Tell Aquinus too.’

  In the days that followed, the fortress was loud with the scrape of whetstones, and on the benches outside the long barrack-houses men sat burnishing their armour, oiling the leather straps, and preparing their knapsacks.

  On the night before they left, I went out with my old company. We got drunk together. The wine dispelled the sadness, for a while. Then, next day at first light, I stood at the edge of the parade-ground as the centurions barked out the orders and the men moved into line. It was clear, seeing them all assembled, quite how depleted our forces were.

  I watched, standing apart. But before the order to march Trebius beckoned me forward, and in front of all the men gave me a formal embrace. ‘This,’ he said in my ear, ‘is for the spies and informers. Let them go and tell it to the notary. Farewell, Drusus; may the gods protect you.’

  He stood back, and as he turned I saw his eyes were glistening. He mounted his horse, and with a drop of his hand gave the signal to advance. The trumpets blared, the drums resounded, and with the rhythmic beat of military boots on stone the men began to file out beneath the gate on their long journey north.

  Three days later, Trebius was discovered in his tent, still in his bed. The sheets were soaked with blood. His throat had been cut.

  As soon as I heard, I ran to his quarters. The door stood ajar. There was a half-eaten loaf on the table, and milk in the pitcher. I raced through the rooms, calling out the names of his wife and child. But no one answered.

  Walking back round the building I almost stumbled into the quartermaster. He was, I knew, a Christian, and though we had always got on well enough, I was not minded to question him. But seeing where I had come from, and, I daresay, seeing my face as well, he took me aside and told me he had personally seen to it that Trebius’s wife and child were safe. He had sent them off to the far west, out of harm’s way, where her father’s homestead was.

  I thanked him and turned away, and returned across the empty silent parade-ground.

  I thought, as I walked, of his young son with his brown mop of hair, who now would grow up never knowing his father. My throat tightened. And when I reached the flight of stone steps that led up to my room, I sat down in the silence on the bottom step, and buried my head in my hands, and wept.

  In the days afterwards, black desolation seized me, and rage at the injustice of the world. I dared not go to Marcellus, which is what I yearned to do, out of fear that I should draw down on him the same evil that lay in wait for me.

  Days and nights merged into one. I sat about and waited in the silent wilderness of the barracks for the telltale scrape of footsteps on the stair, and the violent rap at the door. I was like a man who sickens, each day a little worse. But what ebbed in me was something in my spirit, a quenching of hope.

  In the end, to hold myself together, I took to practising my old fighting moves, driving myself hard in the deserted sand-court behind the barrack-houses, rehearsing the motions and movements of old skills.

  But I knew they would not save me from the rack, or the dagger in the night.

  Then, in the midst of this, like the mote that breaks the axle, came news of Gennadius’s death.

  For a long time he had remained, out of loyalty to Aquinus, who had stood by him when others in the Council had turned their backs. But in the end he said he could bear the city no more. He could not sleep at night; his wife, who had never recovered from the shock of his arrest and the looting of their house, had become ill. He said he would return to his farm.

  A few days later a hunting-party came across his burnt-out carriage, half hidden in woodland not far from the road. His servants, who had accompanied him, lay in the long grass, hacked to death. Inside the carriage, charred almost beyond recognition, were the bodies of Gennadius and his wife.

  It was this news that made me break my self-imposed exile and go to Aquinus’s house. It was a chill bright morning in November, early still, and I found Marcellus alone in the courtyard, swinging and thrusting with an antique bronze-handled sword, which had hung on the wall in the passageway.

  Seeing me he laid it shyly aside, saying he had just thought to practise a little, to see how it felt.

  ‘It seems to
suit you,’ I said, picking up the ancient blade and turning it in front of me. And indeed his swordwork had been fine, easily as good as mine, even though I had never seen him train at it.

  I set the old weapon down on the garden table and gave him a careful look. ‘Has it come to this?’ I asked.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I shall not let them take Grandfather. Better to die fighting than rot in the notary’s dungeons.’

  I sat down beside him and gazed at the pots of herbs on the terrace. Our breath showed in the cold air, mingling in front of us.

  ‘We must get him away,’ I said.

  Marcellus shook his head. He was looking down, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped in the palms of his hands. In a bleak, quiet voice he said, ‘He will not listen. He told me last night he intends to speak at the Council.’

  ‘What?’ I said, staring. ‘Has the madness touched him too?’ The Council meeting, long delayed because no decurion could be found to attend, was due in a few days’ time.

  ‘By God, I’ve tried to tell him, Drusus. He will not listen. He says it is time somebody had the courage to speak out.’

  ‘But we must stop him. In truth, I wonder he has not been taken away already. Does he really think he can stand up to them?’

  He made a small, helpless gesture, as if he had been through all these arguments many times before. I realized he was near to tears.

  ‘He thinks he can shame Martinus. He says silence is complicity, and words are the only weapon he has left.’

  I got up from the bench and stood, frowning at him. I took up the sword from where it lay on the cast-iron table and turned it, holding it up to the light, inspecting the oldstyle craftsmanship. The hilt had been fashioned into a twisting double-headed snake. I touched my finger to the polished blade. It was sharp still. I wondered if it had ever killed a man, or seen battle. I thought then of Gennadius. He had not spoken out; he had avoided trouble, or so he thought. Yet still they had murdered him.