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Chapter 36

A nobleman named Valentinian, who was related to one of the emperors in Rome, also called Valentinian—the first I think; or maybe the second, for I was never certain—had taken power. Or, perhaps, he was given power somehow. Again, I was never sure, because the empire was in such a churn of turmoil in those days that by the time you heard we a new emperor had taken the throne in Rome, the poor fellow had already been killed in some battle, or murdered by one of his servants, or generals, or rivals. As day follows night, a new emperor would have taken the throne still warm from that last occupant. Perilous times for the ruling elite, to be sure; no less perilous for us all.

I might be forgiven my ignorance. I came by it honestly, after all. My father was not among the aristocrats and their kind. Tullius was of an older order: that of the simple civil servant, a man who administered his post and position with due diligence—the fellow with the rag mop and bucket of goose fat who greased the skids, so to speak—in order to ensure the smooth function of government for the benefit of Venta’s citizens. True, in his last days he aspired to a little higher rank, but that aspiration in no way defined him.

Those men whose desires and whims swayed nations, whose ambitions tugged whole armies in their wake, were of a different and, some considered, a far higher order. Deva, as I came to know it, seemed to have more than its share of such men—and scheming women, too.

I do not mean to impugn Aridius or Helena in saying this. God knows they were not given to such prideful striving. Even so, their elevated status within what I came to view as the governing hierarchy meant that they were swept along in the surging currents surrounding the mighty men that made the waves. And such waves!

So it was that this Valentinian was emperor, as I say, but his base of power lay in the eastern half of the empire, which had effectively been split in two—the East ruled from Constantinople, wherever that was, and West ruled from Rome, from which we drew our aid and support. However, this Valentinian’s authority was never wholly recognized in the western half of the empire. It seems the legions much favored men of their own rank: battle-hardened leaders who knew how to fight barbarians of which there was an endless supply. Thus, the western empire still looked to Rome and followed the dictates of the Western Emperor and his officials. Naturally, this fueled factions, and caused plots and conspiracies and to spring up like weeds as men vied for power.

And another such quake, I came to understand, was shaking the marbled porticos of Rome now, and the tremors were being felt as far away as Britannia. This I learned later, of course. At the time, I had been some weeks in the legate’s house and busily helping run the household and looking after Helena, whose pregnancy proceeded its slow, steady course. The poor woman was growing heavily pregnant and finding the days increasingly difficult. Winter was upon us now, the nights long and winter cold with frost most mornings. Though Deva did not suffer the worst of the persistent storms, the weather was not often as mild as what I was used to in the southlands. I took to going about wrapped in my heaviest mantle with a cloak around me both day and night.

The eventide of the Christ Mass was approaching and a fellow of some elevated rank appeared. A general of the Western legions, his name was Ruitimus or Riothamus—if I heard at all correctly, which is ever uncertain—and by all accounts he was an intimate of the Western court. Why he should have chosen Deva for his festal observances was a mystery to me, but no doubt due to the large garrison.

The first I heard of the general’s arrival was also the first I learned of the general; at the time, I merely took him for what he appeared to be: a soldier of high rank and considerable prominence. He arrived with a cohort of legionaries and mounted ala—bursting into town like a storm of thunder from an already worried sky.

His arrival set tongues wagging and I noticed the way people talked about him: in hushed, almost reverent, tones and with rare deference—such as one might use when speaking of a long-awaited deliverer, a savior even. I expect that such a man is what folk everywhere throughout the empire craved: one who could save not only Britannia from the ravages of barbarian invasion but the rest of the empire as well. Such tenacious foes, it was thought, could not be cowed by anything save a demonstration of overwhelming lethal force. A forceful argument, to be sure. Who could disagree?

Well, Emperor Valentinian for one. Though I knew nothing of the man, I expect that in his better moments he probably cared about the protection of his people. Yet, like most of those whose grip on the reins of power are tenuous at best, his chief concern lay in preserving his own fortunes above all. And, lamentably, even a weak, self-serving leader can still inspire the devotion of many—those jealous of their own advantage and advancement—and these faithful begrudge the ascendency of anyone who thought to challenge their chosen leader. To preserve his throne, Emperor Valentinian had been bleeding troops and resources from the West to defend his interest in the East—a situation which could not be allowed to continue.

This, as Aridius explained a night or two after the arrival of the general, was the very reason Riothamus had chosen this moment to visit Deva. “He has vowed to return the garrisons of Britannia to full manpower and strengthen the provinces of the West.”

“How does he mean to do that?” I wondered, hardly knowing what I asked.

“Riothamus is here raising support for a most-distinguished commander named Aetius who has lately been promoted to Magister Millitum.” At my blank expression he added, “It is a very high rank if not the highest.” He went on to say that this commander, owing to his many victories in Gaul and elsewhere, he had gained much favor with the legions throughout the provinces.

I still did not see what this had to do with Deva, and I said so.

“Ah,” said Aridius, leaning forward as if to offer a confidence, “Riothamus and Aetius have pledged loyalty to a rival claimant to the purple robe. Majorian is his name.”

Striving to keep all this straight in my mind, I repeated the name. “Majorian.” Aridius nodded. “And this man is the right man to deliver us from the barbarians?”

The legate nodded and leaned back. “This was what their supporters believe.”

Of course, this is what believers always say. Even I knew that. The doubters, of course, would have their doubts as doubters always do. Thus, for every soul in one camp, there was a soul in the camp of another—and there seemed to be no end of either camps or rivals. Be that as it may, whichever camp you belonged to—whether a reverent believer or a sincere doubter—all true Britons wanted the same thing: to be free of the barbaric destruction and mindless bloodshed that was draining the life from us all.

This is why Riothamus and Aetius and their fellow allies were making a circuit of the various legions: to rally support for his would-be emperor and friend, Majorian. Everywhere they went, they declared the same message: we must unite behind a single ruler under whose command the legions could be increased and strengthened to defeat the barbarian menace. This alone was paramount, they said. This alone would make the struggle and sacrifice worthwhile. Anything less would be . . .

“Catastrophe!” declared Aridius on returning home the evening following our discussion. He had spent a long day attending a sort of council of local worthies summoned by Riothamus to make the case for Majorian.

Helena had heard her husband arrive and we went to the courtyard to meet him; and there we found him slumped on a bench with his head in his hands. At our approach, he raised tired eyes and said, “We were in council, trying to have a meaningful discussion with the general and suddenly thugs charged in and lay rout to the whole thing.” He raised his head, “Valentinian’s men are responsible.”

Helena regarded him sympathetically and handed him a cup of spiced wine. “I can’t believe the emperor would send men just to break up your private discussion.”

Aridius took a long draught of his wine. “Maybe not,” he allowed. “But there are more than a few Valentinian zealots about. Upon my life, I do not trust any of them. Not anymore.” He took another drink. “See here, Majorian has achieved great victories over the Saecsen and Goths, strengthened the borders, and renewed trade. People like him—the legions love him. We should at least listen to what Riothamus has to say.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Helena suggested mildly, trying to sooth her husband’s sour mood. She settled on the bench beside him and put a hand to his cheek.

“Ha! You weren’t there,” he snapped, jerking away. “Anything we said, they shouted us down. We couldn’t make a single word heard. We were forced to vacate the basilica and went to the Civitas Square and those howling dogs followed us! There was a fight. It was chaos! Catastrophe!”

Aridius looked up and saw me standing there with the jar in my hands. “Oh, hello, Aurelia,” he said, thrusting out his cup to me to be refilled. “Please—”

“I understand completely,” I told him, pouring the wine.

“You do?” Aridius looked hopeful.

“Well, maybe not completely. My father was only a magistrate, but Tullius had his share of chaos and calamity, I can assure you.”

“I’m sure he did,” Aridius agreed. “Believe me, there are times I wish I was a magistrate again. Things were much simpler then.”

“This Riutimus—or whatever he’s called,” said Helena, “who is he? I know nothing of him. I’m sure I’ve never heard the name before he arrived.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Aridius sipped his wine and settled back, somewhat less bothered now. “You won’t have heard much of him unless you lived in Armorica. He is the Dux Bellorum and leads the legions there and in the north of Gaul. A fine soldier, he has had many triumphs over the barbarians and stands ready to take command in Britain, too, if enough support can be secured to make him Dux Britanniarum. We were about discussing this when Valentinian’s men destroyed the proceedings.”

Destroyed the proceedings,” chided Helena. “How you talk, Ari! Did anyone get killed? Hurt? Anything damaged? No? Your discussion got interrupted by a group of disagreeable men—so have another discussion. Go to the church this time. These zealots—thugs as you call them—will mind themselves in church, or Bishop Gosselyn will deal with them.”

“Perhaps,” grumped Aridius, pushing himself upright on the bench. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. Valentinian is ever jealous of his emperor’s robes. I do believe he will stop at nothing to keep the power he has been hoarding.”

“Is this Aetius a good man?” I wondered.

“By all accounts,” Aridius said. “And I like Riothamus, too. More than canny commanders, they are true men of the empire. But Riothamus won’t put up with being harried and scorned by his own people. If he cannot win enough support here, he will return to Armorica and any hope we have of defeating the Saecsens in Britannia will go with him.”

Helena regarded her husband thoughtfully. “You are certain of this?”

“That he will return to Gaul?”

“That he is the one to become the high commander, the Dux Britanniarum,” she replied. “That he can lead Britain to victory.”

“He has a better chance than most. Certainly better than anyone else I can think of—and far better than any in Valentinian’s camp, for that matter.” He paused, became thoughtful. “Here is the nut of it: Riothamus has been tested in battle many times over. He knows how to fight the barbarians and, more importantly, he knows how to win. People like him. He is most capable war leader, and if such a man has pledged support to Aetius, that should tell you all you need to know.” He shook his head, contemplating the day’s disaster. “Hear me,” he intoned, “if we do not support Aetius and Riothamus, and men like them, then we will be battling the barbarians for the next fifty years . . . a hundred!”

Helena nodded to me to refill her husband’s cup and levered herself slowly to her feet. “We will leave you to think and determine what you intend to do about all this. When you come to the table, I want to see a light in those handsome dark eyes of yours.” She bent down and gave him a kiss on the forehead. We withdrew to allow him to finish his drink and soak up the peace of the courtyard.

“I worry about him,” she confided as soon as we entered the dining room. “It hurts to see him distraught like this.” She gazed back towards the courtyard. “He cares so much—too much, I sometimes think.”

We then went to oversee the table for the evening meal. I pondered what I had just heard, convinced more than ever that the threat to Britain was genuine and growing—worse, at any rate, than my somewhat sheltered life in Venta had lulled me into believing. Well, the attack on Tullius and all the tumult and travail of my recent journey through the land had given amble evidence that the world I had known was fast disappearing—what was to come remained to be seen.

The next day, Helena and I went to the central marketplace to find something nice for the evening meal—something Aridius would particularly enjoy. We were standing near a vegetable stall when we heard shouting—angry, loud, and growing louder and more heated. Across the square, I saw a group of soldiers and they were being harassed by a gang of men.

They two forces had drawn up, the soldiers in a tight knot, the men standing before them, belligerent, taunting, shouting abuse and trying to provoke a confrontation. The legionaries had not drawn weapons, but some of the men carried sticks and club. Other townsfolk were gathering around—most to watch, some to participate. Tempers were running high and mounting higher.

“Troublemakers,” Helena observed. Taking my arm, she pulled me away. “Come, Aurelia. We can’t stay.”

“What is it? Who are they?”

“Those thugs Ari was talking about—probably hired by the Valentinian zealots,” she said. “We shouldn’t be seen here. We can’t be involved.”

We made a hasty retreat back to the villa.

It was near sunset when Aridius returned home to report that there had been a near riot in the town square when some of the emperor’s devotees clashed with Deva’s soldiers. Clubs were used and weapons drawn but, thankfully, no one was killed—although several bystanders had been injured in the uproar. I noticed that Helena did not tell him that we had been there when the ruckus began. I suspect she did not wish to add to his worries—God knows he was anxious enough—but I did wonder at her silence.

No more was said that night. But, the next morning, a messenger appeared as the legate was preparing to go out; the two exchanged a hurried word and then Aridius announced that Bishop Gosselyn was convening a council of officials and noblemen to discuss the recent unrest and determine what measures might be taken to alleviate the problem.

“I can tell him how to alleviate the problem,” Aridius declared as he prepared to leave. Helena and I were watching from the door and had seen the messenger and guessed that some sort of confrontation was looming. “Give Valentinian’s thugs the sharp end of a spear.”

Helena bit her lip. “I hope you do not plan on speaking like that in the council,” she said. “From what you say, the emperor has some very powerful men on his side, and they seem to be a foul tempered lot.”

Aridius frowned. “He may not be the emperor for long if I can do anything about it.”

“Just be careful,” she advised. “That’s all I’m going to say.”

Aridius went to her, embraced her, and gave her stomach an affectionate pat, pausing briefly at the door. “When have I ever been less than careful, dear wife?”

However careful the legate had been in the past, that proved to be of small value to him now. Word of the good bishop’s unofficial council meeting reached Valentinian’s faction with consequences for one and all. Not only had the previous council been prevented from completing its deliberations, but the names of those attending the bishop’s summons had been noted and marked for certain retribution. Such was the fervor of Valentinian’s fanatics that any who opposed them were branded traitor. Reason and rational thought vanished, sanity disappeared—replaced by the kind of willful ignorance and blind obedience of a benighted cult of idol worshippers and boot-lickers.

All this was told to us when the legate returned to the villa that night, much dispirited over the exchange that had taken place within the sacred precinct of the church.

“They will not listen,” he lamented. “Their minds are made up and they will not hear a word anyone says to the contrary. They mean to placate Valentinian and keep his fat rump on the emperor’s throne. They will allow nothing to prevent them from acceding to his every whim lest they incite his wrath.” He collapsed into his chair at the bare table. “I fear the worst.”

It was early yet, and the table had yet to be laid for our supper. Helena had heard him enter the villa and hurried to him to find out what had taken place. I followed. Although I could not make out all that was said, I followed most of what passed between them; and the lines of his face told me the rest.

“But you’re the legate,” Helena pointed out. “There must be something you can do.”

Aridius rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head. “Legate? Ha! That counts for nothing. These men—some I used to call friends—are no respecters of rank, or even the rule of law. Caracalla himself has declared for Valentinian and many fear going against the procurator.” Aridius shook his head in dismay. “They want what they want and they will have it! No one has ever denied them anything in this life and they are not to let that happen now.”

“Is it possible that Emperor Valentinian can achieve what they believe?” I asked.

“Might he rise to the challenge before him? Might Valentinian show himself to be capable and competent?” said Aridius. “Is it possible? Anything is possible, but is it likely?”

“Well? Is it?” demanded Helena.

He shook his head again—sadly this time. “No. I fear not.”

Our meal that night was taken in a gloom-laden silence—a mood that persisted the next morning when the legate departed for the Civitas House. After I had risen, washed, and dressed, I found Helena sitting alone on the bench in the courtyard. She gave me a wan smile when she saw me, and said, “I’m glad at least someone slept well last night.”

Uncertain if I had heard her correctly, I regarded her expression and the bitter edge to her tone. “Slept well?” I asked. “Did you not?”

“Between the child I’m carrying and the one I’m married to—one kicking and the other thrashing about all night—I did not enjoy a moment’s peace the whole night through.” She yawned suddenly, holding the back of her hand to her open mouth. She shut her eyes and put her head back as if asleep—but only for an instant before struggling upright again. “I can’t sit here. There is so much to do!”

“I can do it,” I told her, and I meant it.

Helena hesitated, then gave in and said, “Then I will let you.” Sighing, she closed her eyes for a moment as she gathered her strength and stood. Pressing a hand to her bulging belly and another to her back, she steadied herself and then waddled to her room. “You can be mistress of the house.” She yawned again. “I’ll be mistress of the pillow.”

It was in this way that I became the third member of the family—in the servant’s eyes, at least—taking on some of Helena’s authority and command of the daily functions of the legate’s household. As the days passed and time for Helena’s delivery drew ever nearer, the servants—and sometimes even the legate himself—looked to me for advice or consent. Do believe me when I say it was never my intention to usurp Helena’s place as domina. Her troubled pregnancy demanded all of her strength and attention, so increasingly it fell to me to make the small day-to-day decisions. Rather than disturb Helena, who had largely taken to her bed as the time of her delivery approached, I suppose it was easier just to ask me all the little things they were accustomed to asking her.

Nor did I mind the steady accretion of duties and care. My previous life as helpmate to my father in the magistrate’s house—and even the modest skills I’d acquired in healing and cooking—stood me in good stead and my competence and assurance grew. For the first time in a very long time, I was content.



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