The Philosopher Prince Read online

  I stared at him, taken aback. But his burly friend laughed and said, ‘You see, we too are friends of Eutherius… But the prefect said you had gone away.’

  ‘So we did. The prefect turned us out. He said there was no room at the citadel.’

  ‘Did he now?’ He frowned, and once again they exchanged a glance. ‘What will you do now?’ he asked. I shrugged. I had heard, I said, that the Caesar was looking for good men. Perhaps, when Eutherius returned, I should try my luck there.

  ‘Well, whoever told you that was right. But Eutherius will be away some time.’

  ‘Then I suppose I must wait.’

  He considered, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. ‘Yet perhaps,’ he said, ‘there is no need for that. I think I can help you… Will you come and see me at the citadel tomorrow – you and your friend?’

  I allowed myself a private smile. No doubt this man was some junior infantry officer who thought he had his commander’s ear, and wanted to make himself seem like someone. Still, he had an honest look; it seemed churlish to decline. So I said I would see him next day, as he asked. I did not have the heart to tell him that with Florentius the prefect as my enemy, I doubted I should even be admitted at the gates.

  He nodded and gave a small, grave smile. He was not, I could see, a smiler by nature.

  ‘Then good,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow then?’ He made to go.

  ‘But wait,’ I cried. ‘Whom shall I ask for?’

  He looked surprised at my question, as if it had not occurred to him. He glanced quickly at his slim, dark friend, and seemed almost at a loss.

  ‘Say you have come to see Oribasius,’ he said. ‘I shall be with him.’

  It was night by the time I returned. No lamp was burning in our outhouse, and at first I thought that Marcellus was not there. But when I went striding in I found him sitting in the dark, on the rough-wood three-legged stool in front of the stove. He was resting his chin upon the heel of his hand, frowning into the red charcoal.

  ‘Marcellus!’ I cried, and began to tell him what had happened.

  He looked up startled. His cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire. His brow looked creased and troubled. But it was something else that gave me pause. I turned, knowing already what I should find. Beyond the circle of light, beneath the shuttered window, the farmer’s daughter was reclining on the couch, propped up on one elbow, regarding me with eyes that shone in the reflected glow. She pulled herself upright with an angry flick of her hair. Her dress was loose on the shoulder, showing her pale neck, and the breast she was so proud of. But at least she was clothed; for already it was dawning on me what I had stumbled upon.

  In a cold voice she said, ‘You are interrupting. Have you forgotten how to knock?’

  I felt my colour rise, and my anger with it. ‘Then I am sorry, Clodia,’ I said, ‘but I did not know, and it is dark. But now I am leaving.’

  I had picked up the stool beside Marcellus’s. I was still holding it in my hand. As I set it down, Marcellus caught me by the wrist. ‘No, Drusus, stay. It is freezing outside.’

  For a moment I hesitated, caught by something in his voice – not frustrated lust, which is what I had expected; but a note of melancholy. I looked at him again; but in the dim light he did not see the enquiry in my eyes. Then, behind me, I heard Clodia draw her breath in an impatient sigh. My gut tightened, and I thought: What am I to her? Am I a rival? What, by all the gods, Marcellus, have you told her that she should think so? I was about to speak out, but I stayed my tongue. I had rather die than let her see my naked heart.

  I pulled myself free from Marcellus, more roughly than I meant, knowing I needed to be alone, away from them. I heard him call; but already I was at the door, and ignoring him I fled into the night.

  Only when I was among the dark trunks of the apple orchard did I pause, and as I stood kicking at the long grass, collecting my wits, one of the farmer’s she-dogs came loping up. I crouched and ruffled her ears. Then I moved on, bounded over the low wall, and followed the cart-track off between the fields.

  Marcellus was right: the night was freezing, and in my haste I had not picked up my cloak. Well, I thought wryly, it was too late now to return for it. I rubbed my arms and walked on. Above me, long strands of silver cloud were stretched across the sky, illuminated by a hidden moon; the breeze of earlier had dropped, and a hard frost was descending. Presently, with no clear sense of where I was heading, I came to the low-lying ground near the marshes. A carpet of mist had settled on the land, and as I walked it swirled and parted at my ankles.

  Soon I came to a grassy hillock, a place I knew. In the luminous night it rose up like a low island in a sea of mist. I trudged to the top and sat, ignoring the bitter cold, staring out to the far-off lights of Paris, and the citadel beyond.

  I told myself the girl was not important; and yet my heart spoke differently. In this one thing, which should not matter, I saw I was not master of myself, and it made me wretched. I shook my head, and cried out at the night, and tried to think. I wanted to fill my mind with easier things. Yet I saw, like a climber lost in the wooded foothills who glimpses through the trees the sunlit peak, that here, somehow, lay a truth which must be faced.

  I sat for a long time troubled, torn between my reason and desire. I spoke out loud, and called reproach to the waxing moon; and it seemed she answered me, saying, ‘But why complain? I have shown you the way, Drusus; but it is for you to follow. Be master of your desires, or they will master you. Only then will you know yourself. That is the freedom God has given you. If you will not, no other can.’

  And I remembered what I knew in my bones and in my deepest heart: that no man may possess another, or what he yearns for dies in his very grasp. Love must be free, or it is not love, but something baser. And desire, if not ruled by reason, is no more than a fire that consumes the very thing that gives it life.

  And so I sat, alone beneath the glittering dome of heaven, and scorched my soul. The time passed, and I did not notice it. When next I stirred, the moon was gone, and the frost lay settled on the grass and on my clothes. I stood, and shook myself, and made my way back across the fields. A stillness had come upon me.

  The house was dark; the fire in the stove had died. Silently I closed the door and tiptoed to my bed. I pulled off my clothes and shivering buried myself beneath the pile of blankets. I had thought Marcellus was asleep, but now, from the other bed, I heard him whisper, ‘I looked for you.’ ‘I am here now,’ I said.

  There was a shifting, and I felt a tug at the blanket. ‘You are cold,’ he said softly. ‘Move over; there is room in here for two.’

  In the morning I told him about my strange encounter at Jupiter’s temple, and the invitation to the citadel.

  ‘Then we should go,’ he said. ‘Maybe this soldier can do as he says, if he is a friend of Eutherius.’

  I thought of the scruffy, self-conscious, slightly odd young man I had met in the temple. ‘It may be so,’ I said, ‘but don’t count on it. I doubt he goes so high – except in his dreams.’

  We were sitting on the edge of my bed, the blankets pulled around us. His body was warm beside me, but the room was bitter cold and our breath showed in the air.

  I saw him give me a quick, sidelong glance. ‘And then,’ he said slowly, ‘there is Clodia.’

  I took a deep breath, and frowned out at a red-breasted robin I had been watching on the window ledge outside. Until now, we had not spoken of the night before. Marcellus turned to face me, pulling his legs up under our shared blanket. His knees touched mine and rested there.

  ‘Drusus,’ he said, ‘I need your advice. You were with the army in London; I expect you know more of these matters than I.’ He paused, and rubbed his face with his hand, and then pushed his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair. Lines of worry and concern showed about his mouth. I saw he had gone a little red. ‘The truth is,’ he went on, ‘I do not know what to do about her.’

  His eyes studied my face, full of trust.
It brought a lump to my throat, and made me feel cruel and base.

  I said, ‘She does not matter. It is not important.’

  His brow creased in a frown. ‘She is very persistent.’

  I swallowed, and wondered how the god was mocking me. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose that is her way.’

  There was a pause after that. I started to speak, to tell him he could take a girl whenever he chose, that it would not come between our friendship. But he silenced me, saying, ‘I know that, Drusus; but it is something else.’ He stared at the opaque glass of the window and gave a sigh. ‘She was fighting with me last night when you came. She said many things. She accused me of wanting you more than her.’

  I laughed. ‘And do you?’

  ‘It’s not the same. You know how it is. In the end, when she went on and on, I told her to believe what she liked. That was when you walked in.’

  I recalled her face upon me, accusing and resentful. ‘She does not matter,’ I said again. ‘It was my own demons I had to wrestle with.’

  And then he said, ‘She claims she wants me to marry her.’

  ‘What?’ I cried, looking at him with amazement. ‘But why? Is she with child?’

  He shook his head. ‘No; nothing like that. She has thought it all through; she talks of business, of uniting my land with hers; she thinks Britain would suit her very well.’

  I stared at him, and thought of what his mother would make of Clodia. I could almost have laughed, except he looked so grave.

  ‘Does she, indeed?’ I said eventually.

  ‘Well, yes; but I do not want it. Not now. I do not know where all this came from, Drusus, if you want to know the truth of it. It’s not as though… well, never mind. I fear I do not understand women at all.’

  I thought to myself, ‘I understand this woman well enough.’ But I said, ‘Women are a mystery. And we are young still.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘And she should not have spoken to you like that; I told her so… I love you, Drusus; we belong together, and she can make of it what she likes.’

  ‘I will always be here. You know that.’ And then, with a grin, for there had been too much seriousness, ‘Still, you must not forget the bloodline, or I shall be blamed for it.’

  This was an old joke between us. He smiled, then laughed, and gave my shoulder a shove, sending me back into the pile of blankets.

  And then, as if I had brought to him some unexpected gift, he kissed me.

  Later that day we crossed the bridge to the citadel.

  At the gate I gave Oribasius’s name, and waited to be turned away. But instead the sentry pulled himself straight and called me ‘Sir’ and summoned his superior. A liveried steward conducted us inside, through the inner court with its pleasant columned cloister, box hedges and plum trees, along a wide bright gallery painted with landscaped gardens and hunting scenes. Beside me, Marcellus touched my arm and muttered, ‘I thought you said this friend of yours was nobody.’

  I pulled a face and shrugged. I had expected to be taken to some barrack-room.

  We came eventually to a bright room with high windows and a painted, coffered ceiling. No one was there. But the steward, before he went off, turned and said, ‘The honourable lord Caesar will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Wait!’ I cried, almost running at him. ‘What “lord Caesar”? There has been some mistake; I am not here to see the Caesar. He does not know me. I came for Oribasius.’

  The steward looked at me oddly, as if my words made no sense to him; but, before I could go on, there came the sound of approaching voices. I looked round, wondering how I was going to explain my presence to the cousin of the emperor. But, instead of some imperial prince, I saw advancing in the midst of the entourage the same man I had seen at the temple.

  ‘Drusus!’ he cried, striding towards me across the polished floor. ‘You see, Oribasius, I told you he would come. And you must be Marcellus. Well, greetings to both of you, I am glad you are here at last.’

  He turned and said something to the steward. It was only when the steward replied with, ‘Yes, Caesar’ that the truth finally came to me. He had smartened himself up, though not by much; he was dressed in a well-worn light-brown tunic bordered with a pattern of meandering scarlet, and someone had made an attempt with his hair. He was speaking to Marcellus, asking if we had been admitted without hindrance, and saying we must return at once to lodge in the citadel. Marcellus, poised as always, was answering with his usual well-bred civility – he was never awed by authority or title.

  Around us, meanwhile, the room was filling with courtiers and servants and officers in uniform. There was a stirring in the outer chamber, and then Florentius the prefect strode in.

  His auburn hair had been coiffured and sculpted into tight, artificial curls; he wore a fine cloak of dark-blue, clasped at the shoulder with a jewelled brooch of gilded filigree. People turned and looked, pausing in their conversation. One might have supposed, indeed, that it was he who was the Caesar. He was talking to his secretary, the man who had expelled us. But as he spoke he was glancing about, seeing who was present. For the smallest instant, as his eyes scanned my way, they paused; and though he tried to cover it, I knew he had seen me. He moved towards Julian, who was surrounded by a press of officials; but before he could reach him, Julian turned and called to me and Marcellus, ‘Come, let us go somewhere quiet where we can talk.’

  I saw Florentius halt as if he had been struck. With an effort at smoothness he turned back to his secretary. Julian did not notice.

  We went to an adjoining chamber. Oribasius followed, and shut the door. The room was small and plain. There was a table under the window, a few simple oak chairs, and a lattice-doored cupboard filled with books. It might almost have been a room at an inn, except for the books.

  ‘I hope you will forgive me for last night,’ said Julian. ‘I think you scared us more than we did you. Even so, I did not like to hide in the shadows like that, when you thought you were alone. It was shameful really, but I had to be careful.’ He glanced at Oribasius, then added with a hint of a smile, ‘It would not do, you see, to have it known that the cousin of the great Constantius was poking about in a temple of Jupiter.’

  He crossed to the table and picked up a letter of rolled papyrus from under an onyx weight. ‘This came from Eutherius. He says he has been delayed at the court.’

  I said I was sorry to hear it. I had not yet recovered from finding out who he was, and had been going over in my mind my sharp words when we were in the temple. But he seemed not to care, and when I remembered to add, ‘Lord Caesar’ – which was what everyone else was calling him – he waved it away with a motion of his hand, saying, ‘Just call me Julian. It is enough, between friends.’

  He paused and looked at me, and gave an awkward, slightly embarrassed smile, like a shy but courteous child. Then, looking serious once more, he lifted the letter and indicated a small tear in the corner. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘It is where the court spies broke the seal; they did not even trouble to conceal it.’

  He followed my eyes, and nodded quickly when he saw I had understood.

  ‘I imagine you are shocked; but one grows used to such things. Eutherius will have expected it, and he will have written accordingly. Listen …’ He opened the page, scanned it for a moment, then read, ‘“And besides, I am pleased to report that the divine Constantius continues to be advised by the best minds in the empire.”’ He looked up with a short laugh. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is his way of telling me the grand chamberlain Eusebius is still dictating policy – so much the worse for me!’

  He took a breath to continue, but Oribasius, who up to now had stood silently near the door, gave a slight, discreet cough. Julian glanced at him, and seemed to think again. ‘Still,’ he said, after a short pause, ‘there is no need to trouble you with the chamberlain.’ He looked back at the letter in his hands. ‘But what I wanted to find was the part where he said you would be here in Paris, that you were friends a
nd I could trust you… Ah, here it is.’ And he read out the words happily, as one might pass on a compliment heard from another, and when he had finished he set the scroll aside, and placed the onyx weight on top of it.

  ‘You know,’ he said, turning back from the table, ‘I think some god had a hand in our meeting, don’t you? It was not just anywhere we met, and I doubt another soul has set foot in that temple for a year.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Now don’t tell me, Oribasius, that that does not mean something!’

  The sound of voices could be heard, carrying from the great reception room beyond. Julian frowned at the door.

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I suppose I had better go to them. But Drusus, Marcellus, will you come and dine with us tonight?… and do please forgive me for the little deception at the temple. It was necessary.’

  THREE

  WE RETURNED TO THE citadel, not to our old small room under the spreading cedar, but to a fine new suite which looked out over the inner court. It had a floor of chequered marble, and on the wall a fresco of a river scene, with boats plying the water, and men on the terraced bank, gathering the vintage.

  Marcellus was standing at the window, gazing out at the rising ground beyond the river Seine, where the horsemen of the cavalry were wheeling and breaking as they practised their manoeuvres. We had been talking of Julian.

  ‘Have you noticed,’ he said, ‘he’s shy, and hides it by talking? And – I don’t know – I get the feeling there’s something else.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I can’t tell. Something private, as if he and Oribasius share a secret.’

  ‘Well, they came from the East together. They have known each other for years, after all.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps that’s it.’ He fell silent and watched the horses for a while. Then he said, ‘Yet there’s something more, I sense it. As though there is something he wants to tell, but dare not.’