“That is—that is the business of the Magister Equitum per Gallias.”
“I am not concerned about the paper army of a paper general.”
“Oh! How many then?”
“As many as we can get. I want troops
“We cannot force them to take up arms,” Artorius said. “The conscription is done annually by different districts each year. It is not the city’s turn this year.”
“This is an emergency and, if necessary, I will conscript, if I have to. But with your help it may not be necessary.”
“Conscription cannot be imposed without the sanction of the Praefectus Praetorio,” he said doggedly.
“When I rode through the forum this morning there were great queues of the poor, lining up to receive their free distribution of bread and bacon that the city gives them each day.” I glanced sideways as the door opened and Mauritius, Bishop of Treverorum, entered the room. “That is charitable work indeed. But not all of those poor were either young children or old men. They could earn that food, and, by earning it, be more useful than they are. They are free men.”
The Bishop said, “It is sinful for christians to take up arms against each other.”
“You,” I said. “You live in a world where you make sins. You would not be happy without them. Would you?”
“I shall forbid it from the pulpit.”
I said, “Just what do you want from our Empire?”
He said, “Rome is the house of christianity and by our works shall you know us. I pray as do we all that, for the miracle vouchsafed to the blessed Constantine, we shall see eternal Rome ascend to heaven in a ball of fire!”
“If you are not careful you will see Augusta Treverorum ascend in the same manner. But sooner than you think.” I paused. I said, “Who has influence in this city beside our Bishop here? Who is interested in life rather than death?”
Artorius said, nervously, “Julianus Septimus.”
“Who is he?”
“He used to hold my office in the days of Valentinian. He is an old man now but he is rich, and he lives across the river, six miles up the road. He has two sons and a fine house.”
“Would he help me?”
“He is a pagan,” said the Bishop.
“Then he probably will.”
I left Quintus to read my proclamation in the forum while I set out along the twisting, hill road to visit the man who had once known Valentinian. It was a hot day, the wooded hills soaked up the heat and I could feel the sweat from my horse through the saddle cloth against my thighs. I rode through a gorge shadowed by the sun, turned right to ford a pebbled stream of bubbling water and entered a track that led between vineyards on the left and furrowed land on the right to a large, low rectangular villa whose yellow tiled roof seemed to shimmer in the heat. I dismounted, my horse was taken by servants and, as in a dream, I followed a barefoot slave through a courtyard where a fountain played and two girls laughed as they threw a ball to each other in the leaf-mottled sunlight. My host was in the large reception room in the north wing and I stood there admiring the elaborately patterned mosaic on the floor and the plastered walls against which, on pedestals, stood the busts of long dead ancestors. He did not seem surprised to see me and, while we drank wine and talked politely of nothing and everything, I thought of my bleak quarters in Moguntiacum and of how I, too, had once thought to own such a house.
I said, politely, “I seem to have made a bad beginning with the Council. They don’t like soldiers.”
A faint smile creased his face. “So I have heard. Taxes and soldiers go together,” he added cryptically.
“What of this young man who is now Curator? I find it hard to talk to him. Do you know him well?”
“Artorius. Hardly. He is young and ambitious and keen. His grandfather was a freedman, I believe.”
“Then he has done well for himself.”
“I suppose so. His father certainly managed to establish himself in the curial class. But that might well happen in a city like Mediolanum.” He spoke with a tinge of contempt.
“Is that where he comes from? I thought—”
“Oh yes. I would have thought the accent was obvious. He trained as an advocate, I believe; held one or two minor civic posts and then secured an office in the imperial service—something to do with finance. Then he came here. His appointment was unusual to say the least of it—even irregular. For, as you know, the Curator is normally appointed from out of the local council.” He paused to drink his wine delicately. “But then, you know how it is. Influence was brought to bear. I was against the appointment myself.” He shrugged. “One cannot argue with a Praefectus Praetorio.” He added grudgingly, “Still, he is efficient, so my old friends tell me.”
“I don’t understand why he wished to come here,” I said, puzzled.
“Oh, that is easy to explain.” The thin lips curled a little. “He wished to escape his own past. This is still an important city and under the eye of the Praefectus he may yet go far. He will do well for himself by his own modest standards.”
I smiled. “He takes a keen interest in trade.”
“Oh yes, and in land too. He has made money, that young man. And invested it wisely, too. A modest villa for his family, so I understand. Not that I have seen it, of course.”
“Of course not.”
“Everyone wants land. They think it means security. Perhaps it did once.” He paused and took another sip of his wine. “Of course, things are very different now—difficult too. My peasants, as is customary, pay a tenth of their crop but they are lazy and I find it difficult in getting my rents from them. They don’t work as hard as they used to. They run away when they cannot pay and it is hard to find others to work the land in their place. Food is scarce too.” He nibbled a grape. “We used to get grain from Britannia, but the deliveries are now so uncertain. In season, of course, we get roast swan and wild duck. That is something.”
“You had harder times when you held office in the city.”
His pale eyes brightened. “The central government was strong then. We had a Valentinian and not a Honorius. It was dreadful for a time, but we drove them back and prosperity slowly returned.”
“It could again.”
“These Franks aren’t bad fellows. It was the best thing that foreigner, Stilicho, ever did, to settle them on this side of the river. With all the slaves running away we need young men to work on the farms.”
“Do they?”
He did not answer me. He said, “And is that what you want? Men for your army?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if they won’t join, you can only conscript them.”
“Yes, I may have to do that. But I would like volunteers also. I was hoping that you might persuade—use your influence—you are much respected—the situation is dangerous.”
“Oh, they always say that. But nothing happens. A few raids, perhaps, but little harm done.”
“What happens when they raid you?”
“Oh, I give them some silver and they go away. Curious that. They have no use for gold. Just as well. I should be ruined if they had.”
I said, “We are all in very great danger. You remember that other time. Then an army, armed war bands, plundered the country. This time it will be worse. They won’t merely steal and murder and then go away. They will steal and murder—yes—and they will stay.”
“We can go to Italia,” he said. “If it is really as bad as you say. I have estates there in the south. I have cousins in Africa too. A rich land that. They tell me many people are going there now. The climate is so much better.”
“The rich,” I said.
“But naturally. The artisans and the peasants could not afford the journey.”
“I need men, desperately. I hoped that your sons—”
“My sons are middle-aged.” He smiled. “I am an old man. I have grandsons, of course.”
