They marched left into the Vicus Longus and began the long ascent towards the Palatine. At one point they passed the scarecrow preacher again, and the boy glanced at him with consternation and almost with fear.
‘Nutter,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Are you a Christian?’ asked the boy.
The lieutenant grinned. ‘We’re all Christians now, son. Much good may it do us.’
At last the drunken mob were beginning to thin out for the night. They made way when they saw a squadron of Frontier Troops approaching, looking on curiously from the doorways and the alleys at the strange, small, spiky, half-naked captive bound with rope.
‘I’d untie you if I thought you wouldn’t try to escape again,’ said the lieutenant, a little more gently.
‘But I would.’
‘I know you would.’
‘And I’d succeed, too.’
‘It’s possible.’
The boy looked up at the lieutenant, and for a moment something like a fleeting smile passed between them.
‘So… you were trying to get home?’
The boy didn’t answer. Instead, surprisingly, he asked a question. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘my dad was a soldier before me, from Gaul originally. But I served in the Legio II “Augusta”, in Britain, at Caerleon. You won’t have heard of it.’
‘I’ve heard of it,’ said the boy. ‘It’s in the west of the province, a frontier fortress to keep down the Silurian tribes.’
The lieutenant laughed with astonishment. ‘How in the Name of Light do you know that?’
The boy ignored the question. ‘What were you doing in Britain?’
The lieutenant began to wonder if he should be talking quite so much. There was something about the lad that was… unusual.
‘Well, my mother was a Celt. My father married her over there. So I guess I’m half and half. But we’re all Celts under our Roman skins, or so we like to think. We – me and the lads here – served over there until just recently. Then-’
‘Then the emperor called the British legions home? Because Rome was in such trouble?’
‘Hold your horses,’ said the lieutenant easily. ‘Rome’s no home of mine. My home’s Britain. And anyway Rome’s not done yet. We’ve dealt with worse than Goths before. Remember Brennus and his Gauls? They sacked Rome itself. And Hannibal? And the Cimbri?’
‘But what’s wrong with the Palatine Guard defending Rome? There’s thirty thousand of them out at the camp.’
‘Jove’s balls, you really do know it all, don’t you? Well, you know what we Frontier Troops think of the Palatine Guard back in Rome. A little… soft, shall we say. Too many hot baths and too little real fighting.’
‘Is there still fighting in Britain?’
‘More and more these days,’ said the lieutenant sombrely. ‘The Picts are always raiding in the north, and now we have the Saxon pirates to contend with, all along the eastern and southern coasts. And our Count of the Saxon Shore is about as much use as a paper bucket. So yes, Britain has its problems, too. But from now on’ – he spoke with uncharacteristic hesitancy – ‘they’ll… they’ll just have to fend for themselves.’
The boy pondered for a while. Then, ‘What else is Britain like? Your country?’
‘My country?’ The lieutenant’s voice softened again. ‘My country is beautiful.’
‘Mine too,’ said the boy.
‘Tell me about it.’
So they passed the time on the return march describing to each other in loving detail their respective countries.
The boy liked the sound of Britain: plenty of space, good hunting, and no fancy cooking.
‘Well,’ said the lieutenant as he watched his men untie the boy and hand him over to the Palace Guard. ‘Just remember, next time: keep your pride and your anger to yourself. Patience is a great military virtue.’
The boy gave a wan smile.
‘Shake,’ said the lieutenant.
They shook hands. Then the lieutenant barked an order, and his men fell into line. ‘Well, lads, our nightwatch is just about over. In two days’ time we march to Pavia, under the command of General Stilicho. So make the most of Rome’s glorious whores while you can.’
At that glorious news, all the men raised their fists in the air and roared their hurrahs. Then they wheeled and marched away into the night. The boy looked down the street after them for a long time.
He was taken and bathed, and escorted to his cell, and a guard was posted permanently outside his room. He drifted into a light, twitching sleep.
6
In the hot morning he lay in an uneasy doze when he was woken by low voices by his bedside. He opened his eyes.
Beside his bed stood Serena and, behind her, General Stilicho himself.
‘Well, my young wolf-cub,’ said the general, smiling. ‘And what headaches have you been causing the empire this time?’
Attila said nothing. He didn’t smile.
Serena reached down and laid a cool hand across Attila’s forehead. ‘Foolish boy,’ she said.
He wanted to glare at her but couldn’t. Her eyes were so gentle.
‘Here,’ said Stilicho, tossing something onto the bed. ‘This is for you. But only if you promise me never to try to escape again.’ Now he was stern, soldierly. ‘Do you promise, lad?’
Attila stared down at the package by his side, and looked up again and met the general’s eye. He nodded.
Stilicho believed him. ‘Open it when we’ve gone.’
Serena bent and kissed him, nodded to her husband, and departed.
Stilicho hesitated for a moment, then sat down on a small wooden stool, a little awkwardly for a man of his soldierly frame. He rested his elbows on his knees, rested his chin on his clenched fists, and scrutinised the boy long and hard. The boy waited expectantly.
‘I’m riding north for Pavia tomorrow,’ said Stilicho. ‘Serena will remain here in the palace.’ He fell silent a while, then said, ‘The Gothic armies are regrouping under Alaric. You have heard of him?’
Attila nodded. ‘He’s a Christian, too, though.’
‘He is. If he sacks Rome, he has promised to touch not a stone or a tile of any Christian building.’ Stilicho smiled. ‘Some chance. The Gothic armies won’t be sacking anywhere soon, least of all Rome. But. .. ’ The great general sighed. ‘We live in difficult times.’
Attila looked down. He felt obscurely guilty.
Stilicho was searching for the right words. He felt somehow that it mattered, deeply, what he said to the boy at this moment. Almost as if… almost as if he’d not be seeing him again. As those ancient Sybilline Books had said… He put all thought of those haunting Books from his mind, and said, speaking as slowly and carefully as he would to Galla at her most predatory, ‘Difficult times. Strange times.’ He looked hard at the boy, and said simply, ‘Do what is right, Attila.’
The boy started. The words surprised him.
Stilicho went on, holding the boy’s eye. ‘I have always served Rome, though I am of barbarian blood. But then, we were all barbarians once. What was great Rome herself, in the days before Numa and Romulus and the Ancient Kings? A village on a hillside.’
