humble suppliant at the bottom of the steps up to the dais, that Eumolpus had several stitches across his cheek, and an unusual kind of linen swaddling round his throat. In addition, both he and Olympian were wearing… make- up. Their eyes were rimmed with kohl like those of whores from the backstreets of the Suburra, or of Oriental despots, or Egyptian pharaohs of old, whose downtrodden people believed their ruler to be a god.
As we hold our emperors to be now, thought Stilicho.
When the men in power start wearing make-up, it’s time to start worrying. And Galla’s eunuchs were very much in power. He bowed and waited.
At last, Galla addressed him. ‘You have been to the temple building and destroyed the last of the Books?’
‘I have, Your Majesty.’
‘Pagan superstitions such as that can have no place in a Christian empire such as ours. Do you not agree?’
Stilicho gave a tilt of his head.
‘We will have an audience with the Bishop of Rome and all his principal deacons,’ Galla continued. ‘We will make it clear to them that they must preach an end to such pessimistic superstitions of the past. Rome is a Christian empire now, and under the protection of God. Those ancient scrolls are nothing but the raving of a harridan in a cave.’
There followed an awkward silence. Galla enjoyed awkward silences. They affirmed her power. In the Chamber of the Imperial Audience, no one could speak until they were addressed by the Imperial Throne.
What would Cicero have said? thought Stilicho sourly. That great orator. For all his pomposity and his self- regard, the last great voice of Free Rome. Who died for his oratorical pains, his severed head and hands delivered in a sack to Mark Antony, that sozzled lecher and braggard. His wife, Fulvia – now on her third marriage – had snatched Cicero’s head from the sack, spat on it, then yanked out its tongue and stabbed it with one of her hairpins. A fine example of Roman womanhood all round.
Stilicho waited, nursing his thoughts.
At last Galla said, ‘Remind me, Stilicho, what was the name of the barbarian chieftain who destroyed Publius Quintilius Varus’ three legions in the Teutoburg Forest, in the otherwise glorious reign of the Emperor Augustus?’
‘Glorious indeed,’ replied the general, ‘for in the reign of Augustus Christ was born.’
Galla closed her eyes slowly and then opened them again.
Stilicho regarded her warily. ‘He was called Arminius, Your Majesty, which is the Latin version of his real name, Herman, meaning “Man of War”. “Herman the German”, the troops called him.’
‘Arminius,’ Galla nodded. Of course, she knew it already. ‘As many as twenty thousand soldiers, along with their families and attendants, cut down in the dark forests of Germany, over the course of two or three days. It must have been terrible. The worst disaster ever to befall Roman arms.’
Stilicho hesitated, still trying to work out what she was up to. But it was impossible: you might as well try to guess the next strike of a snake. ‘The worst,’ he admitted, ‘at least since Hannibal and Cannae. When sixty thousand men were lost in a single-’
Galla was not interested in Stilicho’s military-historical musings. ‘And Arminius was raised – raised and educated – in Rome itself, was he not?’
‘He was, Your Majesty.’
‘As was that other great enemy of Rome, King Jugurtha of Numidia?’
‘I believe so, Your Majesty.’
‘And do you think it possible that, like Jugurtha, Arminius’ early years in Rome, watching the exercises of the troops on the Campus Martius, might have given him a keen sense of his future enemy, and how they operated? So that when he came to turn upon them in that dreadful, sunless forest in the dark heart of Germany, he was very well advantaged? Thanks to what he had learnt in the heart of his enemies’ capital as a boy?’
Now Stilicho understood her game, and he feared in his heart for the wolf-cub.
He spoke slowly. ‘I think that is unlikely, Your Majesty. After all-’
Galla held her hand up. Her point had been made. ‘You may go.’
Stilicho held Galla’s hard gaze without blinking, and for far longer than was polite. And then, contrary to all Palatine protocol, he turned his back on the Imperial presence and departed without a bow.
Galla’s hands clutched the arms of her throne, tense with fury, and as cold and white as purest Carrara marble.
7
That evening, General Stilicho sat brooding in his white canvas tent on the edge of the army encampment outside the town of Falerii, beside the River Tiber. A long day’s march from Rome, but he always drove his men hard.
He was listing the priorities that faced him. First and foremost, he must face Alaric’s army in the field and defeat it. As palace whisperers said he should have done more thoroughly to the armies of Rhadagastus.
Alaric would not be easy. The barbarians no longer fought like barbarians. They fought like Romans. In the good old days, barbarian tactics on the battlefield, whether Gothic, Vandal, Pictish, Frankish, or Marcomman, had been pretty much the same wherever you went. They were as follows: 1. Group together on the battlefield any old how. Put the wives and kids in the chariots behind you to watch the show. 2. Bang your weapons and shields together, and shout insults at the enemy. Especially insult the size of his genitals. 3. And then… Chaaaaarge!
The barbarian horde of twenty or thirty thousand vainglorious individuals would rush in on the tight-packed ranks of the bristling Roman legion, numbering six thousand at the most but working together as a single ruthless unit, and the horde would be cut to pieces. All males captured or wounded were beheaded on the battlefield. Wives and kids were sold into slavery. End of story.
But now… now they fought on command, in rank and file. They turned and wheeled and switched fronts with the ease of a drilled Roman legion. And they were bloody good horsemen, too. It would not be easy. But that was what must be done first, nevertheless. Alaric’s power must be destroyed. If Uldin and his Huns could be called upon again, all well and good. If not, the Romans would have to stand alone.
Then he must return to Rome, to that nest of vipers, and, and.. . And what? In his mind, he could hear the soft, pleading voices of his closest friends urging him to seize the throne for himself. ‘For Rome,’ they said, ‘and for the sake of good government. Raise your legions and come down to Rome. The people will acclaim you.’
And then there was the heavy burden of the slim scroll that he still carried in his pouch. The knowledge that if it fell into the wrong hands…
He glanced up. It was a lieutenant of the Palatine Guard who attended him now, a high-born palace soldier in his shiny black leather breastplates. The only blood on his blade the blood of those he’d executed down in the palace cells, after a good few hours of torture. Stilicho looked sourly at him.
‘Sir?’ said the lieutenant ingratiatingly.
‘You’re dismissed,’ said the general. ‘Send me a lieutenant from one of the Frontier detachments.’
The lieutenant blanched. ‘With respect, sir, I hardly think a Frontier soldier will have the necessary manners or the knowledge of court etiquette to satisf-’
The Palatine officer felt the general’s wrath blast him full in the chest like a blow from a ballista. He staggered backwards out of the tent and hurried off to fulfil his orders, the general’s parade-ground language ringing vividly in his ears.
A few minutes later there came a rapping at the bar over the door of the tent, and the general ordered him on in. He continued to read a while. Despatches from Gaul. They did not make good reading.
When he finally looked up, he saw a tall, grey-eyed lieutenant standing in front of him, with a ragged scar across his chin.
He gave him his fiercest glare. ‘How d’you get the scar, soldier?’
