controlled by warrant. I was allowed only five warrants a year, which was absurd considering the waggon loads of goods I needed. To obtain more warrants I had to write to the Praefectus Praetorio and it took time for the messengers to get to Arelate and back. Even a messenger needed a warrant. Without it he could not change horses at the posting stations. The first time I wrote the Praefectus replied that I had had my quota for the year. It took another messenger and another warrant to persuade him that I needed special consideration. After that he would always send me a batch of five warrants at a time, but never more. I complained about this on numerous occasions but without effect. He was the Emperor’s representative and he knew his power. I had met him once, a small, insignificant, short-sighted man, now badly running to fat. He had a dry, pedantic way of speaking, rarely smiled and was quite without a sense of humour. His only interest outside his work, besides his plain, dull wife, was his curious passion for Greek sculpture about which he wrote endless dry, dull and worthless monographs which nobody ever read. He was, and I believed it, honest, incorruptible and painstaking at his work; but he had no imagination and this flawed what intelligence he possessed. This was the man with whom I had to work to achieve my purpose and, thinking of him sometimes, I could have wept with frustration. He was so typical of the senior administrators who now controlled the destinies of the imperial provinces. Small wonder then that Rome grew downwards like a cow’s tail.
My principal worry, however, was the shortage of recruits to the auxiliaries. Though I had enough, if need be, to man the signal towers, provide skeleton garrisons for the forts, and to take on those duties that would release my men for the more important task of fighting, I still had hopes that I might raise a field force of reserves from the teeming population in and around Treverorum. I had sent out officers and centurions, in batches, on recruiting drives, but with little success. Between them they had not raised enough men to man a war galley.
“There must be some way of getting them to join,” I said in despair.
“We have taken on all the convicts for the fleet,” said Quintus. “Now, whenever the magistrates sentence a man they offer him the choice of hard labour in the mines with lashes or hard labour in the legion of General Maximus, with pay.”
“What about the slaves?”
“They have all run away or long ago accepted Honorius’ offer and gone to Italia.”
“If I had time to spare I would go to Arelate and make them help me.”
“What help do they give who do not wish to give it,” he said in a sombre voice. “The Praefectus Praetorio would only smile that thin smile of his, and say that the matter must be referred to another meeting of his wretched council.”
“Yes,” I said. “I never met a man so terrified of taking responsibility. The only decisions he ever takes are those that affect his own desires. He is quite selfish and quite useless.”
At that moment Aquila came in. “A message from Flavius at Treverorum, sir.”
I read the letter.
“More trouble,” said Quintus, raising his eyebrow.
“Yes. One of his men has deserted him.”
“Well, we’re best without him then.”
I said grimly, “He’s taken refuge in one of the churches. Flavius tried to get him out and there was trouble with the priests. They have seen it as an opportunity to denounce us. We tax them to the hilt, steal their goods, demand their food, and then even the men who are meant to defend them desert.”
Aquila said, “It could be very awkward, sir.”
“It is.”
“What will you do?”
“I shall have to go and straighten things out.”
“The fuss will die down,” said Quintus calmly.
“Will it? Who will take up arms now, when even Roman soldiers are deserting to seek sanctuary in the middle of the city? Flavius is an idiot. He should have let the man get out of the city and then arrested him.”
“Well, how was he to know the man would run into a church.”
I said irritably, “He just should have known.”
I rode to Treverorum, alone but for my escort. I came to Romulus at sundown, just as they were about to close the gates. While the men picketed their horses in the courtyard I sent a message to Flavius. He arrived very late, having come straight from the house of a friend where he had been dining.
He stared at me like a bewildered bear. He was very drunk.
“Sorry, sir. Didn’t expect you—sir.”
“No,” I said. “I can see that. Which church is this man in? What is his name? What is his record? I am going to see him in the morning. I want to know everything about him now.”
He stared at me helplessly, swaying on his feet. “Tired,” he said.
I rose from my stool, picked up a pitcher and flung the water over him. The shock overbalanced him and he sprawled on the floor, dripping, bruised and winded.
“Talk,” I said. “I’m twice your age and I have just ridden seventy miles in two days. You’ve made a mess of things and I’ve got to clear them up. The sooner you start the sooner we shall both get to bed. Wake up.”
I had hoped my arrival at sundown might have kept my coming a secret but when I went into the street the next morning there was already a crowd waiting. I did not ride; I walked.
“There may be trouble,” said Flavius. “Ride on horseback, sir, and with an escort.”
“Then there will be trouble,” I said.
“Your sword, sir. You’ve forgotten to put it on.”
I said, “I never forget my sword. I want you and one man to come with me. Leave your weapons in the armoury. And keep five paces behind me all the way.”
“I—” He broke off and stared in front of him.
“You are a christian, are you not? I thought you people had a passion to martyr yourselves.”
He gulped.
I said unkindly, “I shall be in good company if anything goes wrong. Besides, I don’t know the way.”
We walked. The crowd pressed about us, fell back to make way for us and then followed curiously. Men and women, boys and girls, little children even; all had that look I had seen on the faces of the crowd at a circus on the arena; the pale excitement of those who wish to see blood spilt without hurt to themselves. At first they smiled, then they stared, and then, as we approached the church, an ugly muttering broke out. A woman laughed, and a voice cried contemptuously, “What else do you expect of a man who believes in a cattle-thieving god?” There were jeers and insults. Someone threw a stone. It hit me on the mouth and I could feel the blood trickling down my chin. A second struck me above the right eye and the bleeding nearly blinded me. I felt sick with pain but I took no notice. They were scum, like all crowds in all cities. It was my soldier who mattered to me, not them.
The crowd was thickest by the square, on the north side of which stood the church. On the steps were a number of priests, and in the midst of them, the Bishop. Artorius was there, too, standing in the shadow of a pillar, his freedmen about him. Of him I took no notice. It was not him I had come to see. As I approached the Bishop a snarl came from the crowd. The spring sunshine shone upon white vestments and red pillars, upon brown and yellow tunics and upon a scarlet cloak and helmets of bronze and gold. I mounted the steps and came face to face with Mauritius, Bishop of Treverorum.
“Good morning,” I said. “It is a fine day. The christians amongst my men send their greetings and pray that you may do them the honour of visiting Moguntiacum so that they may be blessed at your hands.”
“What do you want?” he said.
“I wish to enter the church.”
“I do not allow unbelievers to enter.”
“Can you be sure that I am one? And if I am, is it fitting that another should stay inside it and make it his home?”
“He is a christian.”
“If he is, then you should know that he is a follower of Pelagius, of whom you do not, I believe, approve.” I frowned and closed my eye to avoid the blood. “Perhaps abominate is the right word.”
He looked startled. “It is not true,” he said.
“Oh yes, it is. I know my men even if you do not know yours.”
There was a small silence between us but it was not friendly. The crowd was silent now.
