Ashes Under Uricon
Chapter 4. History (360-2)
By Mihangel
Planis absolutisque decretis aperire templa arisque hostia admovere, et restituere deorum statuit cultum. Utque dispositorum roboraret effectum, dissidentes Christianorum antistites cum plebe discissa in palatium intromissos, monebat civilius ut, discordiis consopitis, quisque nullo vetante religioni suae serviret intrepidus . . . nullas infestas hominibus bestias ut sunt sibi ferales plerique Christianorum expertus.
With simple and unambiguous decrees Julian ordered that temples be opened, sacrifices brought to the altars, and the worship of the gods restored. To increase the effect, he summoned to the palace the squabbling Christian bishops and their bickering flocks and politely warned them to lay aside their differences and allow everyone to practise their own belief boldly and without opposition . . . He knew from experience that no wild beasts are as dangerous to man as Christians are to one another.
Ammianus Marcellinus, Histories
The summer wound towards its close, and I turned twelve. I was spending most of my time, these days, with Bran. I had more in common with him now than with my other friends. They had no problem with a slave, especially so congenial a slave, as their fellow-pupil. But where we were deeply bewitched by Vergil's magic, they were not, and they saw us as swots and teacher's pets. Which was no doubt true. We had finished reading the Aeneid by ourselves -- having spent weeks in after-school hours laboriously copying Books XI and XII from Nonius' great tome -- and were well into the Eclogues. Already we had large chunks of both by heart. Why were a typical British youngster and a not-so-typical Irish youngster so enslaved by a Roman poet? I can give no good answer, but the fact remained. And, as time went by, it put us in touch with unexpected people.
One afternoon that September, for example, Roveta sent Bran to the market to buy mushrooms. As so often nowadays I went with him, and as we walked we were comparing Vergil to our own native tales.
"The Aeneid's more, um, well, sort of elaborate, isn't it?" I remarked, struggling for words.
"More literary, you mean? With more craft in the language? Yes. The Irish tales . . . about ConCulainn and Fergus and Brid and suchlike . . . they're much simpler. Great stories, but not so much skill behind them. I suppose it's partly because Vergil's in verse, not prose. And partly because all Latin literature's written down from the word go. It's meant to be read. The Irish tales aren't written down. They can only be memorised and spoken. I think that's the difference."
"Yes, and the same with the British tales . . . about Lugus, and Rigantona, and Vedicondus, and Maponus son of Matrona. Though some of them are in verse. But they've never been written down either. Wouldn't it be strange to see British in writing? Or Irish."
"I wouldn't know how to set about writing British, or Irish. How to spell it."
We both laughed. It was unthinkable. Latin was the only language that was written. Oh, and Greek -- in the cemetery we had puzzled over the incomprehensible gravestone of some immigrant Greek.
We were now abreast of the tavern next to the Town Hall. It was mild and sunny, and several customers were sitting outside, drinking and talking. Among them were two ancient army veterans, well-known local characters who suffered, it was said, from verbal diarrhoea and would, if given the chance, bore you to tears. I had never spoken to them, or they to me. To my young eyes, if truth be told, they were scary: wrinkled, deeply sunburned, bald as eggs but with stubbly white beards, and of incalculable age. While Pacatus had at least one tooth, Titianus apparently had none.
As we passed by, we overheard a snippet of their talk.
"One of them," Titianus was saying, "says R.S.R. I can do that. It stands for Redeunt Saturnia Regna. The golden age returns, or something like."
That stopped us in our tracks.
"And the other one," he went on, "has the next line, doesn't it? But I'm blowed if I can remember how it goes."
"No more can I," said Pacatus, scratching his stubble. "Except that it's Vergil. You'll have to dig it out and look."
Bran and I exchanged a glance, and he nudged me. Emboldened, I piped up.
"Excuse me. It goes Redeunt Saturnia regna, iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto. It's from the fourth Eclogue. The golden age returns, a new generation is sent down from heaven above."
They gaped at me.
"Yes!" said Titianus after a moment. "You've got it, lad! Iam nova progenies . . . what did you say?"
I repeated it.
"Yes! I.N.P.C.D.A.! That's it, isn't it, Pacatus?"
"That's right. Eclogue, eh? I knew it was Vergil! Thank you, lads. What are your names?"
"This is Bran, and I'm Docco, son of Senicianus."
"Senicianus the Procurator? A good man." He probably took Bran as my older brother.
"But . . . please, we don't understand. What's it all about?"
"Ah . . . Well . . . It's all about old coins, you see. Ancient history, and quite a tale. Titianus and me, we're old comrades, you know. And long ago when we were youngsters -- under-age, but never mind -- we joined the army to serve old Carausius. You've heard of him, haven't you?"
"Yes, but that was only two or three years ago. You can't have served him."
"No, not that one. That was young Carausius. We're talking about old Carausius who was emperor, oh, seventy years ago, give or take. Look, you'd better sit down, both of you."
They made room for us on their bench, delighted to have fresh ears to reminisce into. And reminisce they did. It will save a great deal of time if I compress their ramblings.
Seventy-four years before, they agreed after much counting on fingers, this Carausius had set himself up as emperor in Gaul and Britain. He was a naval commander who hailed from the Low Countries, and he was backed by a loyal army -- Pacatus and Titianus among them -- and by massive civilian support. For seven years he had cocked a snook at the legitimate emperors. He repelled a determined attempt at reconquest.
"And that was when he gave these coins to everyone in his army. We've still got ours. Look, Titianus, why don't you nip home and fetch yours to show the boys?"
Titianus, though hardly up to nipping, tottered off and after some delay came back with two huge gold coins, an inch and a half across and by far the largest I had ever seen. Each of them had, on one side, a portrait of Carausius, a hulk of a man with a stubbly beard just like his two ex-soldiers, and a bull neck.
"He was a thug," Pacatus commented fondly, "but a lovely thug."
On the other side, one coin had the emperor being crowned by Victory, and at the foot the letters R.S.R.
"Just what I said, Redeunt Saturnia Regna."
The other had Victory in a chariot and the letters I.N.P.C.D.A.
"Yes, you're right, Iam Nova Progenies Caelo Demittitur Alto."
"But why did he put Vergil on his coins?" asked Bran.
"Propaganda. For years the empire had been in a hell of a mess -- corruption, inflation, revolts, civil wars, endless inroads by the Germans into Gaul -- and Carausius had this thing about creating a new and better Rome in Britain. Restoring the good old days. He put himself forward as a saviour. One of his silver coins said Expectate veni, didn't it, Pacatus? Come, long-awaited one."
"That's Vergil too!" I cried in delight. "Or almost. Aeneid Book II. But how many people would, um, get the message?"
"Well, everyone who mattered. Everyone who matters knows Vergil, don't they? Or knows some Vergil. Everyone with a bit of education. Like you do, though you're only slips of lads."
Suddenly our enthusiasm seemed a trifle less exclusive and special than it had done.
"What happened next?" we asked.
The legitimate emperors, they told us, had appointed a certain Constantius as junior emperor in the west. Not the present Constantius, but his grandfather. And this first Constantius had managed to drive Carausius out of Gaul. As a result, Carausius had been bumped off by his finance minister Allectus ("a slimy toad, that one") who set himself up as emperor in Britain. But his support faded away, and three years later Constantius invaded and was welcomed as a liberator.
"He was a good man, was Constantius. We simply swapped sides and joined his army."
For the next ten years Pacatus and Titianus served under him. Constantius was promoted to be one of the senior emperors and, with the help of his son Constantine, he won a great victory over the Picts up in the north of Britain. But when he got back south to Eboracum he died, and his troops proclaimed his son as emperor in his place. Constantine, technically, was a usurper. He was not supposed to be emperor, and the other emperors disapproved. Immediately, therefore, he left for Europe with half the army of Britain to consolidate his position; which, before long, he very effectively did. Titianus and Pacatus did not go with him. They had now served their time, and took their discharge.
"Eh, but that's a picture that sticks in the mind," mused Titianus. "That young man standing proud in the headquarters at Eboracum, the laurel wreath on his head and the purple round his shoulders. Even at the time I reckon we knew how important that day was. And from it has followed everything that's happened since."
At that point their housekeeper arrived to summon them to their meal, and we promised to come back another day for more reminiscences. They had far from bored us to tears, but it had taken time, and we found that all the vegetable stalls in the market had packed up for the day. When we finally returned home empty-handed Roveta was in a tizzy, furious with Bran and threatening dire punishment.
"Don't blame Bran, Roveta," I said soothingly. She could hardly punish me. "It was my fault. We got talking to some old men. Don't worry, I'll explain to Mamma and Tad."
"But Bran shouldn't have stayed with you. He's forfeited his evening off. He can wait on you tonight instead of his father. And right now he can peel the carrots and make the gravy."
To speed things up I helped peel the carrots and make the gravy, glad that Bran would be with us for the meal, for I had plans. Boys of twelve rarely bother their heads with current affairs and recent (or even ancient) history, but my curiosity was whetted; and so too, I thought, was Bran's.
When we were at table I apologised for the absence of mushrooms, and explained why. Mamma might have been cross but, luckily perhaps, she was not with us. Tad knew all about the old soldiers, and understood.
"Yes," he chuckled. "Once you're caught by them there's no getting away."
"Tad, Titianus was talking about Constantine being made emperor in Eboracum. He said everything that's happened since has followed on from that. What did he mean?"
"Hmmm. That's a big question. But I think he's right, and there are two sides to it. No, three. One's of them's political. You see, Constantine soon got control of the whole empire. He ran it for thirty years and, all credit to him, he put it into very fair order. The trouble started . . ."
He paused, frowning.
"Look, Docco. I think you're old enough to hear this, and Bran too. But what I'm going to say is not to be repeated in public. Only with people you can trust. It's verging on treason, and you never know when or where the secret service's ears may be flapping. Understand? And promise?"
"Promise, Tad." I felt very responsible at being let in on such things.
"Bran?"
"I understand, sir. And promise."
"Well . . . Look, you're in for a history lesson. When the first Constantine died, his three sons took over -- young Constantine, Constans and our august Constantius. They squabbled from the start. First Constans bumped off young Constantine. In his turn, about ten years ago, Constans was bumped off by a Briton called Magnentius who led an army revolt and for three years controlled Gaul and therefore Britain. So once Magnentius had been squashed, it left Constantius in sole charge. Meanwhile, he'd eliminated almost all his male relatives, maybe ten of them all told. But what with the Persian trouble in the east and the German trouble in the west, he couldn't handle the whole empire single-handed. So he decided to take care of the Persians himself, and to take care of the Germans he appointed a junior emperor, to be based at Treveri. You know about him -- his cousin Julian, his only relative who was left. He was only young at the time, was Julian. A university student and a philosopher." Tad chuckled. "And therefore with a beard . . . the first bearded emperor we've had since I don't know when. He's the last man you'd visualise as a general, but already he's worked wonders."
He sighed.
"I suppose all that in-fighting's not unexpected. And it's all very well if you like the idea of wiping out your own family, which I don't. But our Constantius is still a suspicious man. He has to be, I suppose. Once he'd got Britain back, he sent a minion here, a creep called Paul -- Paul the Chain, we called him -- to purge all the officials who he thought had supported Magnentius. Innocent or guilty, he carted them off for torture and worse. But our Deputy Prefect Martinus, who was the most decent man alive, dared to protest. And what did Paul do? He hounded him to suicide. And he put the secret service on to listening for more rumblings. They were originally here to spy on our neighbours -- the Picts and the Irish -- but now they spy on us too, and woe betide anyone they think is out of line. But there are still rumblings. Only two or three years ago someone tried to lead a general rebellion here -- you may remember him -- he called himself Carausius, after the old one. He never had a chance. Nor will anyone else, under Constantius. It isn't a happy set-up. It may not be old Constantine's fault. But yes, Titianus is right. It's all followed on from him becoming emperor. Hold on while I catch up."
Tad applied himself to his meal, which must have been cold by now. I exchanged glances with Bran and saw that he was as engrossed as me.
"Well," said Tad at last, wiping his mouth as Bran removed the debris to the sideboard. "Oh, Bran, since you're an accessory to my treasonable talk -- at least, I hope you're not going to turn me in -- why don't you put the fruit on the table and join us with a cup of wine?"
This time Bran obeyed without hesitation, and lay down at Mamma's place.
"Well," said Tad again. "the second side to the story is the military one. Here, the trouble started back around the time of old Carausius, when the Saxons began raiding the east coast, and the Picts got uppish in the north, and -- what matters most to us -- the Irish came marauding in the west. That was when they broke in to Viroconium and burned the old Town Hall, the one in the forum. Well, Carausius dealt effectively with the Saxons, so I'm told, though it was before my time. And he built the naval base at Tamium against the Irish. And the first Constantius hammered the Picts, and they and the Saxons have been fairly quiet since. But the main problem's the Irish."
He threw an apologetic look at Bran.
"It was Constans who tried to sort them out, nearly twenty years ago. He came over with Count Gratian and hired a whole tribe of them, the Attacotti we call them, and gave them land in Demetia to settle on, in return for them keeping their friends out of the province. If you ask me, it's setting a thief to catch a thief -- I'm sorry, Bran, I can't pretend otherwise. One of these days they're going to welcome their friends in to Britain, and we'll have double trouble around the Sabrina Sea. Just as we already have trouble up here with the Irish coming in from the Deva Sea."
Tad held out his cup for a refill.
"You see, we need more troops to keep these people out, but in hard fact we've got fewer and fewer. That's the basic problem. Old Constantine took a lot with him when he left, and none of them came back. Magnentius took more. The legion's gone from Isca. Most of the legion's gone from Deva. It used to be five and a half thousand strong, but I doubt it's five hundred now, and an undisciplined bunch they are. To the west of us here, the only garrisons left are at Tamium in the south and Segontium and Canovium in the north. Oh, and another three inland, but they're not to keep the Irish out. They're to discourage the Pagenses in the mountains, who're getting better and better at rustling our cattle, even though they're our own cousins. There just aren't enough troops. We've got our own Cohort. Did you know the Cornovii are the only civitas that has? And until the so-and-sos moved it up to Pons Aelius on the Wall it protected its own people, which is what it was meant to do. For years the council's been pressing to get it back home. But the damned military planners . . . they won't listen. I see big trouble ahead. And that's partly due to old Constantine nicking our troops."
Tad took a gulp of wine. "Sorry if I'm offending you, Bran."
"Not at all, sir. You're being honest."
"I hope so. Well, now we come to the third side of what Constantine started. This won't offend you, anyway, because it's about the Christians. Lots of his predecessors had persecuted them. He stopped that. He won control of the empire under the banner of Christ, they say, and he gave Christians freedom to worship. Anyone could now practise whatever religion they wanted. But he positively favoured the Christians, and built splendid churches for them. Fine by me, because he hardly interfered with the old religions. That's how it should be -- live and let live. All right, he stripped a lot of our temples of their treasures, but that was basically because he needed the gold and silver, not because he had a down on us."
Roveta looked in, wondering no doubt why we were taking so long. At the sight of Bran at table with the masters rather than on punishment duty as waiter, she blinked and went out again.
"But things have changed," Tad continued. "These days, with the emperors Christian, being Christian helps your prospects, and lots of people have converted. Or say they have. We've got neighbours here in Viroconium -- I'd better name no names -- who keep a little figure of their Christ among their household gods. They reckon that's good enough. They're just trimming their sails to the wind. Hedging their bets. You'll find Christians thickest on the ground in the big cities, of course -- Rome, Mediolanum, Treveri, even London and Corinium. There aren't so many in Viroconium. Not yet. We're not so fancy here, or so well off. Our population's five thousand odd, and I doubt if two hundred of them are Christians. Out in the countryside there are even fewer. You know what the Christians are calling us nowadays? Those of us who stick to our old gods? Pagans. Pagans! Country folk. Implying that we're yokels. I bumped into Viventius the other day, and that's what he called me."
Viventius was Bishop of Viroconium, and there was little love lost between him and Tad. A short while before, he had claimed exemption from taxes because of his position, and Tad as one of the magistrates for the year had decided against him.
He took another big swig. "They're making progress, the Christians. They'd be making still more if they weren't always bickering with each other. They're riddled with dissent -- heresies, they call them -- and they split hairs over the most outlandish things. Their big dissent nowadays is called Arianism. You know they claim that Christ was the son of their God? Their official line is that he was of the same substance as his father, but this chap Arius said no, he was of different substance. Don't ask me to explain -- it's way above my head, and even if I were a Christian I doubt I'd care a hoot. But our dear emperor sits on the fence, trying to placate both sides and pleasing neither. And the argument's still running, even though Arius himself died, oh, twenty-five years ago. And you know where he died?" Tad rumbled with laughter. "In a public convenience in Constantinople, while crapping. His opponents crowed over that, I can tell you."
I had rarely heard Tad so outspoken. It was partly the wine, no doubt; but underneath lay genuine anxiety.
"But the big Christian bishops have the emperor's ear. There's been an imperial decree forbidding sacrifices -- no great hardship there, because I can't see much point in sacrifices. And another ordering all temples to be closed, on pain of death. But neither of them's had any effect. Nobody's tried to enforce them, because there are still plenty of non-Christians in high places, and in lower ones too. But the Christians are here to stay, like it or not. Things aren't going to get any better. Not now. They can only get worse. Again it's not really Constantine's fault. But he did set the ball rolling."
He asked for more wine. It was very soberly that Bran and I said our good-nights.
That winter, two ominous events took place. In December, when least expected, the barbarians launched concerted raids on Britain. We heard little of what the Picts got up to in the north, because we were fully occupied with the Irish. We manned our puny defences and a platoon of soldiers came hell for leather from Deva to help. Even twelve-year-olds like me had bows thrust into our inexpert hands, and for the first time in my life I experienced real fear. In the event, the Irish took one look at us and veered off, but for weeks bands of them roamed the countryside far and wide. At that time of year there was little by way of crops to damage, though they burned the hay and hacked the vines in the vineyard. But they stole what they could, robbing many a farmstead of its store of grain, and raped or killed the occupants, or took them off as slaves, or at best sent them flying into the town as refugees.
It was unprecedented that the Picts and Irish should operate in concert. Some fingers were pointed at the Attacotti in Demetia, who might have acted as spies in our camp and coordinated the raids. Other fingers were pointed at the secret service which spied not only on us but on the barbarians; some of them might have turned traitor. But nobody knew. We hoped our Emperor Julian would come himself to drive the intruders out, but instead he sent Lupicinus his commander-in-chief who, in the end, restored order. Our own farm, thank the gods, was not easy to see from a distance, and it had escaped. But provisions were scarce that winter and the following year, and the Pagenses took advantage of our weakness to swoop down from the hills and snap up cattle and horses.
Then in February came shocking news from Paris, where Julian was wintering. Constantius had ordered him to send his crack troops to the east to help in the Persian campaign, and the troops had flatly refused to go. Instead they proclaimed Julian as senior emperor, and he reluctantly agreed. Constantius would be furious, and civil war seemed imminent.
Armies, and news, travel slowly. It was not until well after my thirteenth birthday and the next winter was upon us that we heard the outcome. Constantius had been furious. He had marched west with his army, and Julian had marched east, but mercifully Constantius died before they met. Civil war was averted and Julian, the sole survivor of the house of Constantine, was now sole emperor. He at once threw off the disguise which, to stay alive, he had worn for all his life. He was not, as had seemed, a Christian after all, but a devotee of the old religion. And the old religion he now restored.
"That," said Tad, "is the best news I've heard for years."
Julian replaced in the Senate House in Rome that ultimate symbol of the pagan state, the altar of Victory which Constantius had removed. He did not actively persecute the Christians, but he diverted to the temples all the state subsidies which for decades had gone to the churches, and the Christians squealed in pain. In the larger and richer cities there was outrage; in our provincial Viroconium there was general relief. Here, the Christians had been becoming more assertive of late, which the great majority of us resented.
Soon afterwards, in January, Titianus and Pacatus died, of sheer age. They were ninety. Bran and I had spent many more afternoons with them and had grown fond of the old emperor-makers. Pacatus had briefly, we gathered, been married, though Titianus had not. They had lived almost all their long lives together, and they died together, within a few weeks. They had pretty clearly been lovers; indeed they remained lovers, in a sense, to the end, for their affection was obvious.
Cloaks over heads, we followed their funeral processions to pay our last respects. To us it had seemed, in our blinkered youth, that these kindly old men would go on for ever, and we were sad for them; yet happily sad, for they had been weary after so long a journey, and they deserved their peace. We were in the habit now of quoting tags of Vergil to each other and, as we left the snow-decked cemetery, Bran offered his quiet epitaph for them:
Tempus erat quo prima quies mortalibus aegris
Incipit et dono divum gratissima serpit.
It was the time for exhausted mortals when rest descends and, by the gods' gift, creeps welcomely over them.
We were flabbergasted, a few days after the second burial, when Pacatus' grandson sought us out and presented each of us with a pair of old Carausius' great gold coins. The veterans, he said, had stipulated that their mementoes from the past should come to us as mementoes for the future, because the future, he reported them as saying, lay in the hands of the likes of us.
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