Eagle in the Snow (22 page)

I blinked. “I know to whom you are responsible—the Emperor; but, as for what, remains something of a mystery.”

He was trembling with anger now. He said, “The economic life of the city is my concern, amongst other things. I must advise you that I have written to the Praefectus to protest against your closing the frontier, and to complain about the manner in which you have burdened this city with the responsibility of feeding and paying for your troops.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course I am serious, general. There have been gross irregularities, particularly in regard to the returns made by your commissariat for supplies for troops who do not exist except on rolls.”

I stood up. I said, “Do not judge my legion by the standards of the field army of Gaul.”

“You insult the Magister Equitum. Nevertheless it is true.”

“It is a lie. Discuss it with my quartermaster and you will soon find out that you have been misinformed. Better still, come to the Rhenus and count my men for yourself.”

“This is no laughing matter, general. There is also the question of the corn tribute. I have had cases reported to me of corn being sold back to civilians at a profit out of your warehouses.” He coughed. “Your chief quartermaster, an excellent man, may not be involved, but others are.”

“Can you prove this?”

He said stiffly, “Yes, general, I can.”

“Then I am sorry. It seems we are both at fault. I will have my military police look into the matter.” I looked at him hard but he did not flinch. Suddenly I began to laugh at the absurdity of it all. What did our petty differences matter now? They say that Nero recited the
Fall of Ilium
while Rome burned. I do not know if it is true. Suetonius may have made it up, for he had a nose for scurrilous gossip. Yet he may have been right; he was a good judge of human folly. The frontiers of the empire crumbled: we quarrelled.

He said again, “It is nothing to laugh about.”

I walked to the window and looked out at the road to Moguntiacum down which a waggon was creaking slowly, drawn by two teams of oxen. Some children were playing in the dust and a woman was walking arm in arm with a soldier off duty.

“No,” I said. “It is no laughing matter.” I swung round. “Do you know there are six tribes camped across the river? I have talked to their chiefs. They want a third of the soil of Gaul, and if we do not give it to them they will take it by force, if need be.”

He said, “But—it’s not true—you are jesting—you must be.”

“I rode through their camp. I saw them: warriors with their wives and children, old men and women with all their possessions. They are on a migration. They want this land. A quarter of a million people are sitting on that bank, waiting for the right moment to cross.”

He swallowed hard.

I said, “I can only hold them if I have more troops and the supplies I ask for. I have written to the Praefectus Praetorio. I need authority to conscript every able man I can lay hands on.”

He said, “If this is true—”

“If!” I walked up to him and he backed away nervously. “They have tried to cross already. I have seen their weapons— good Roman swords, Artorius, sold to them through the greed of good Roman merchants and the corruption of good Roman tribunes. Shall I report that to the Emperor, do you think?”

He licked his lips. I think he thought that I was accusing him. I said, “I am not concerned with the state of the civil administration of which you are so proud to be a member. I want only the things I need, that I may do what I have to do while there is still time. Every day matters, do you understand?”

He said, “The Praefectus is not at Arelate, if you have written to him there.”

“Where is he?”

“On his way to see the Emperor at Ravenna.”

“When will he be back?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. In two months, perhaps.”

“That is too long to wait.” I took him by the shoulders and I tried to smile. I said, “You are an imperial official.”

“I have no authority in Gaul.”

“But you have here. It would do for a start. The governor of Belgica could raise men, too. The Praefectus would confirm the instructions later. That’s the answer. Don’t you see?”

His hands began to tremble and he stared at me wide-eyed. He said, “But if I exceed my authority the Praefectus may dismiss me.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, it is not.” He stopped and then said bitterly, “The civic council are already displeased with me over the other matters. One or two even want to get rid of me.”

“Ignore them.”

“I cannot.”

I said brutally, “Have some courage, man. You have come a long way. Are you not now Curator of a great city? You are more important than you think. The Emperor will not be displeased at any man who uses his initiative to protect the foremost city of Gaul.”

He hesitated.

It was then that I made my mistake. I said, “Come, it is not as bad as all that. I am not setting up a private army.”

His eyes flickered. He said, in a squeaky voice, “I have no authority.”

“Authority was made to be exceeded.”

“I cannot.”

I smiled. That, too, was a mistake. “Surely?”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “Oh, it is easy for you. You are of the equestrian order. You are a soldier—the friend of Stilicho. But I—I am not.”

“You have ambitions.”

He flushed. “Yes, does that surprise you.” He paused, glanced at me doubtfully and then said, in a low voice, “The governor of Belgica is due to retire soon. I have some hopes. I cannot help having hopes.”

“Then help me,” I said. “I spent half a lifetime as praefectus of a cohort. Yes, I too. Help me and I will use what influence I possess to help you. But, if the frontier goes neither of us will have a future. It is as simple as that.”

He bit his lip. “You don’t understand,” he mumbled. “I will inform the governor. I will write to the Praefectus Praetorio. When I hear from them I will let you know. It is all I can do.” He nodded briefly and hurried from the room, his face, shiny with sweat, wearing its usual nervous, obstinate look. His sandals clattered on the stairs and then he was gone, and I was alone in the room again.

I did not learn until much later—and by then it was too late—what it was that frightened him so. And yet, in his own way he was right. I had been born with all the advantages he had spent a lifetime trying to attain. I had all the things he wanted so badly; and I could not really understand his restlessness, his ambition, his lack of assurance, his envy or his insecurity. He wanted—as we all did—what he had not got. He did not realise that when you reached the crest of the hill, the wind blew colder there than on the slopes.

I sat down on a stool by the window and poured myself some more wine. I felt very tired.

The Vandals tried again. They made a night attack on the islands, hoping to secure them as a bridgehead that would make the final assault on the west bank an easy matter. I had been careful to keep the fact that I held these islands in strength a secret. The centuries on duty there were always relieved at night, the defensive positions were concealed by undergrowth and the garrisons had strict instructions not to show themselves during the daylight hours. Goar sent me a warning, as did Marcomir who maintained, from the high ground he commanded, a careful watch on the barbarian camp. Our fleet drove through their boats in the darkness and sliced them in half as you would slice an apple. The liquid fire, projected in special containers (a happy invention of Gallus) destroyed those who remained huddled on the east bank, waiting to embark, while those who reached the islands died, wetly, at the sword’s point. It was a complete disaster for them and they lost two thousand of their men in twenty minutes. These were the Marcomanni, and I was glad to think that each king, in turn, was learning to know the bitterness of failure. We lost only a few men, but our most tragic casualty was my senior tribune, whom I had put in charge of the north island to steady the inexperienced centurions who were on duty there. Lucillius was found under a tree, a small hole in his left arm-pit. He would never marry Guntiarus’ daughter now.

After that nothing happened, for the Rhenus was in full flood and we were safe for two months at least. It was then that I sent my soldiers on leave to Treverorum, moved units round from one fort to the next, to give each a change of conditions, turned the cavalry horses out to pasture and told Julius Optatus to take an inventory of all our stores. His report was not encouraging so I visited Treverorum myself, briefly, and warned the Curator that a levy would have to be imposed in the autumn on corn, sheep and oxen, and that I should need meat, salted down in vast quantities. “What about the authority?” he said, weakly. “That is your concern,” I replied. “Men who fight need food. That is an odd fact to which you must get accustomed, Artorius.”

The auxiliaries numbered five thousand now, so that not only could I leave all signal towers to be manned by them, but I could also use them to garrison Treverorum, as well as those forts upon which I knew no real attack would fall. This cheered us all enormously. As I said to Quintus, with a few more volunteers we should be able to turn the whole of the Twentieth into a field army when the time came, which would be something the Vandals had not bargained on.

He said stiffly, “Is it not about time you told me what our plan is to be? What are you going to do when the time comes?”

I was silent.

He misunderstood my silence. He said, “Of course, if I am not in your confidence—”

I said, “You are still my Master of Horse.”

“But not your friend.”

I said, “While we have the Rhenus fleet they cannot cross.”

He looked at me for a moment and then stared at the bare wall of my office. “Let us suppose there is no fleet.”

“Very well. This is what I think. They must cross at Moguntiacum. Only here, is the country flat enough to bring everyone over. There are so many of them; there can be no secret of their intention when the time comes. They will, however, make small attacks on all the other forts. At any one of those places, if they land a small force they might, with luck, outflank the forts and either move directly on Treverorum—but they don’t know how many men we have there—or cut our lines of communication and make nuisance attacks on us from the rear. But when the time comes, however, I shall hold those forts only with auxiliaries and concentrate the legion here.”

“All of it?” he said, intently.

“Yes, all of it.”

“No reserves?”

“No reserves. That is where I shall fight.” I put my finger on the map that lay on the table between us. “My left wing will secure itself to the new camp on the road to Bingium, and my right wing will rest on the north wall of the town. If the fort below us at Moguntiacum is still holding out—and I expect it to—they will have to attack us up a slope, with the river to their backs and an enemy fort firing on them behind their left shoulder. It is a position of great strength. They will have enormous difficulty dislodging us and we shall have the advantage of fighting behind ditches and stakes.”

He said slowly, “Yes, I see. It will not be a cavalry action then?”

“Not as you would like it, Quintus. If I had enough men I would fortify the whole length of the bank and destroy them in the water. But I have not. So I shall use your cavalry to break them up when they have failed in their attacks. I must be economical.”

“I understand,” he said in a flat voice. “And if they succeed?”

“They will only be too strong if we get tired first or run out of missiles. But if that does happen, I shall withdraw the legion to Bingium, cross the Nava and hold the further bank, leaving the garrison to defend the fort. It is an easy place to defend.”

“And if we still have to retreat?”

I said, “You are very sanguine about this?”

“Yes. I have never contemplated fighting at these odds before. Besides, something always goes wrong.”

“Well then, we shall pull straight back, leaving delaying ambushes, and hold the junction where the road splits for Confluentes and Bingium, at the thirtieth milestone. I shall have defensive positions prepared there as well.”

“And after that?”

“Oh, after that, if we have any men left we shall try to hold Treverorum.” I was silent for a moment. I said, “But if it goes like that there won’t be any legion left to worry about.”

He stood up, fiddling with the strap of his sword belt, a look of uncertainty upon his face. He glanced at me as though he would say something more, hesitated, and then turned upon his heel. “Thank you,” he said politely. “I thought that might be the plan.” He went from the room slowly, like an old man, and I returned to my papers.

It was a hot summer and we all sweated as the ditches were dug by night on the slopes behind Moguntiacum, for I had no wish that the enemy should see what we were doing and so guess at the truth of our weak state. The soldiers continued to come and go on leave, and the smoke from the fires on the east bank seemed to multiply each day. But my six ships patrolled the river as before and we were safe.

Sometimes in the afternoons I would ride to the training ground to watch Quintus exercising his men. He had great enthusiasm, great patience and great understanding. He was tireless in his efforts to perfect the small shock force under his command. The horses’ coats glistened in the sunlight and the sweat dripped from the faces of their riders as they tried for the tenth time, perhaps, to carry out some complicated pattern of movement. The troops and squadrons wheeled, broke and formed shifting patterns of geometrical precision at the snap of a voice or the thin high sound of the trumpet. Finally, as the climax to the afternoon’s work, they practiced attacks upon prepared positions and afterwards, while the led horses were being circled to cool off slowly, the decurions, squadron commanders and officers gathered about the tall figure in the burnished armour to hear his comments. He looked hot and tired but he held himself rigidly under control.

I drew closer. I had heard him give this same talk half a hundred times before but I always enjoyed hearing it again.

On horseback, Quintus and the animal were one. I had never seen such a rider, not even among the men of Treverorum, and they had a reputation for their skill in these matters. An officer from the Eastern Empire, who had fought with Stilicho in Italia, had told me that he was a good deal better as a rider than any Hun, and a better horse soldier than any Goth. The officer had met both in his time and I could believe him.