Ashes Under Uricon
Chapter 28. Justice (406-7)
By Mihangel
Iustitia est constans et perpetua voluntas ius suum cuique tribuens.
Justice is the constant and perpetual desire to render everyone his due.
Justinian, Institutes
Then, on the very last day of the year, hordes of Suebi and Vandals and Alans swarmed into the empire across the frozen Rhine. Cities fell to them left and right. The whole of Gaul, according to a refugee I met in Abonae, smoked in a single funeral pyre. A pardonable exaggeration, no doubt, but the barbarians did sweep south towards Spain and left destruction in their wake. Stilicho was tardy in responding. The central government urged the western provinces to take up arms in their own defence and offered freedom to slaves who joined them. The Combrogi, afraid that the invaders would cross the sea to Britain, swiftly disposed of the inert Marcus and replaced him with a new so-called emperor, another Gratian, a councillor from Verulamium.
With Britain in revolt, the writ of officials appointed by the central government no longer ran. But no instructions came from London or Treveri and, at least in our province, they stayed put and kept their heads down. But most of those who still had personal ties with the continent decided to send their families home to safety; not those who hailed from Gaul, which would have been out of the frying pan into the fire, but those from further east. Opilio was one. He would evacuate his wife and children back to his estate in Italy. The difficulty was that the normal route, the short sea crossing to Gaul and then across country, was out of the question. What was needed was a ship to carry them all the way to Italy. But there was little direct trade between Abonae and the Mediterranean. What was more, the long-distance Atlantic shipping lanes were closed by winter gales until April. It was now January.
Titus and Eriugenus had all this time been on tenterhooks, no further forward in their quandary. The threat of separation made matters worse. There was no question now, if ever there had been, of telling Opilio of their love, for Titus would undoubtedly be packed off out of temptation's way. He therefore played for time, pleading with his father to be allowed to stay. He had lived in Britain all his life, his friends were in Viroconium, and his heart was here. He was old enough, should it come to it, to fight for Britain. Opilio, all unsuspecting, listened, and to his huge credit gave way. Titus need not go.
Meanwhile, I still needed to sell my piled-up lead and copper. I set to work to kill two birds with one stone and managed to charter a ship to carry not only a cargo of ingots to the port of Rome -- a novel and highly risky experiment -- but Opilio's family as well. The ship had no passenger accommodation and they would have to camp out in the hold, for which I did not envy them in the least. They would sail, weather permitting, on the Ides of April. I would travel down with Opilio and Titus to see them off and we would return by way of Corinium to confer with the governor and the Count. When other officials in Corinium heard, they asked if their families too could sail on my ship.
Soon afterwards Dumnorix came home on leave and learned for the first time of Eriugenus' quandary. Being Dumnorix, his brain went into instant action. Never have I seen dark eyes so light up a face as he formed a plan and spelled it out.
"There's no guarantee it'll work," he warned when he had finished. "Everything hangs on him being there. Eriugenus obviously has to go with you, and it would be good if Bran and Cunorix go too. And sorry" -- this to Eriugenus -- "but if Titus is a Christian it would be safest, wouldn't it, to leave him in the dark until you get there?"
"I suppose so."
"Right then. Maglocunus and I will talk to Amminus. He'll play ball. Compassionate leave, he'll call it. And we'll see you there on the Ides of April."
"It may be later," I said. "It depends on the wind being right at Abonae."
"Never mind. We'll wait."
Nature was still against us. The same evil weather which allowed the barbarians to cross the Rhine dry-foot breathed its freezing blast on Viroconium too. First came a month of bitterly hard frost. Ice floes drifted down the Sabrina. The gates had to be shut to keep wolves out of the town. The aqueduct froze solid. Then followed a month when the snow lay thick. When at last the thaw arrived, it was found that many water pipes had burst, which once again kept Bran busy for weeks. In the fields, drifts slowly melted to reveal their victims -- hundreds of sheep dead and a few, barely alive, sustained only by gnawing their own fleeces. And on the heels of the thaw came floods. Troopers of the Cohort, returning home to recover from frostbite, reported that the vast expanses of watermeadow below Brigodunum, which normally served as a giant sponge to absorb the Sabrina's excesses, were already awash while the river was still in full spate. There was just warning enough to remove surviving livestock from the most threatened land around the town and to empty the warehouses behind the wharf.
Half the population seemed to be out to watch the water inexorably creeping up the banks and over them. Huge areas of low-lying pasture became an inland sea. Most of the town lay too high to be affected, but a few houses went under and, to worsen Bran's woes, the river backed up the sewers and added to the stink. There was nothing to be done but wait for the floods to subside. Meanwhile they had wreaked mischief with our communications. A little north of the town were two timber bridges, a mile apart, which carried the main road linking us to Levobrinta and the Cohort. The nearer, across the Trena whose catchment was relatively small and low, survived unharmed. But the further, across the Sabrina which was draining all the snow-melt from a vast area of mountains, was battered by floating debris and swept away. To the west, until the ford should become passable again, Viroconium was cut off.
The councillor supposedly in charge of roads and bridges did not give a damn. All his own property lay on our side of the river. Opilio, when he ventured politely to urge the welfare of the civitas, was told in no uncertain terms that he no longer had authority to interfere; which was sadly true. Councillors who did have land on the far side laid on private ferries for their own tenants and workforces. None of them considered the public good, and ordinary people who needed to use the road were in despair. Sickened by this selfishness, I took the law into my own hands and dug into my own pocket, or rather into my hoard.
Bridge-building was not one of my skills, and in the past such major works as this had been done under the technical direction of legionary engineers lent to us from Deva. They no longer existed. But I ferreted out an ancient carpenter who had helped repair the bridge after the Irish troubles of forty years before and who thought he remembered how to drive piles. The operative word, it turned out, was 'thought.' He did remember the principles, but the detail was a matter of trial and error. Once the floods had departed I hired a gang of men and Lurio's barge, on which we contrapted a tall wooden frame to guide a massive stone hammer in its descent. We collected long and thick timbers for the main verticals. Each had to be shaped and sharpened and shod with an iron shoe before being positioned by the pile-driver which, securely moored, served at this stage as a crane.
Bran, being preoccupied with his pipes and drains, was not available but, thinking to take their minds off their troubles, I enlisted Eriugenus and Titus to help. They enjoyed themselves. So, for that matter, did I. Once we had worked out a plan of campaign, things went surprisingly smoothly. Nobody was brained by the hammer, or even fell in. It was exhilarating to join the gang heaving on the multi-tailed rope which lifted the hammer, to let go in unison, and at each thud to see the timber sink a few inches. When all the piles had been driven until they would sink no more, men working from the barge sawed their tops off to a standard level and drilled holes for pins. Then the diagonal braces and the transverse and longitudinal timbers were fitted. By this stage, two weeks into the work, we had a large audience.
"Just like the dead waiting to cross the Styx," observed Titus, eying the crowd. He had been infected by our habit of quoting Vergil.
"Stabant orantes primi transmittere cursum
Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore.
They stood begging to be the first to make the crossing, and stretched out their hands in longing for the further shore."
As it happened, once the decking was in place, the first to make the crossing were the boys and I. We were hoisted on to a cart and trundled across to a chorus of cheers, and when the railings had been added the bridge was complete. Legionary engineers would doubtless blanch at the sight of so amateur a job, but it worked, and it has not yet fallen down.
I paid off the labourers, that last evening, and when they had gone the three of us stayed behind in the gloaming to admire our handiwork. The Sabrina rolled quietly beneath the spans, dull and grey, pretending to be incapable of mischief. We knew better. Our hands might be tucked into our armpits against the cold, but we glowed with achievement and togetherness.
"Well, there's a good job well done," I remarked. "Thank you, boys, for all your help. Though it wasn't so difficult after all, was it?"
"True," replied Titus. He was a serious and thoughtful lad, tall and thin; like father, like son. "But I only wish," he added wistfully, "we could say the same of our own problem."
"Hey," said Eriugenus, putting an encouraging arm round him. Stocky and cheerful, he also took after his father. "That mayn't be so difficult either, so long as we're patient. There's always hope. Unexpected things are always happening, like Docco turning into a bridge-builder. There's always a silver lining somewhere."
He nodded towards the west, where the lowering clouds were indeed edged with light, at least on their underside. But Titus, unaware of the reason behind his lover's optimism, sighed unconvinced. I too put an arm round him, and side by side we plodded back to the town between the still-sodden fields. The last daylight faded, and with it my own spirits. There were all too many things that could go awry. There was all too little chance that justice, and good, and the right would prevail. They seemed, over recent years, to have deserted us. By the time we reached home even Eriugenus' cheerfulness had evaporated and all of us were deep in gloomy thoughts. Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram, darkling they went under the shadow of the lonely night.
Our pseudo-emperor Gratian lasted only a few months before being bumped off in his turn. He was succeeded by another Constantine, a common soldier chosen only, it seemed, for his supposedly lucky name, and he at last took action. Whereas Maximus had the support of the governors before he took power, the new emperor replaced the current ones with his own minions but confirmed the rest of the civil service in post. Opilio was thus reinstated. Constantine stripped Britain virtually clean of troops. He summoned the Cornovian Cohort too, but it flatly refused to go, and he had no way of compelling it. The shore facing the Saxons was left naked. To guard the Wall against the Picts there remained nothing but a handful of soldier-farmers, more farmers now than soldiers, wedded to their patch of soil, who would not be uprooted.
Constantine crossed to Gaul to prevent the barbarians from seizing Bononia and cutting Britain off. He patched up the Rhine frontier and tried vainly to prevent the invaders from entering Spain. His actions were not to the taste of the loyalists, who wanted a strong military presence at home and strong links with Rome. Nor were they to the taste of the Combrogi, who wanted to sever links and be done with Europe. But still both factions waited, metaphorically glaring at each other in mutual suspicion, preparing to move when the time was ripe.
It was a large party that finally set off for Abonae: Bran, Cunorix, Eriugenus and myself, Opilio and his wife and four children, and three of their servants. On the way we were overtaken at a gallop by two soldiers who kept their heads down, and those of us who were in the plot smiled at each other. At the port we installed ourselves in a hotel and I saw to the loading of the ingots and the installation of such creature comforts as we could devise for the passengers. One servant was sent back to Viroconium with such horses as were now spare. On the Ides of April the wind was favourable, and amid tearful farewells the ship sailed on the morning tide.
Opilio was easily persuaded to take the route we wanted to Corinium. He and Titus, who still had no inkling of what was afoot, were understandably silent and withdrawn. Eriugenus was manfully suppressing his excitement. An hour after noon, just short of our undeclared objective, Cunorix, who had lagged behind, caught us up.
"Dumnorix was lurking beside the road," he told me quietly but with his trademark grin. "Everything's all right."
And so, as twice before, we paused on the crest of the hill and looked down at Fanum Maponi. It is astonishing how fast nature reclaims its own. It took a second glance to see evidence of man's handiwork. Walls had been robbed low and, in this sheltered valley, grass and weeds and ivy had smothered much of what was left. Even the priest's house was in ruins. Whether he had simply left, or died, or even been killed, we never knew; only that there would be no more tattoos.
"This was once a temple," Bran explained to Opilio. "One that was very special to us. Now that it's been destroyed -- and by the Christians at that -- it won't be breaking the law, will it, if we go in to remember happier times?"
"One good turn deserves another," Opilio replied, grateful for our help at Abonae. "And I admit that, if it was so special to you, I'll be interested to see it myself."
Our cloaks billowing in the rain-specked wind, we rode down. Eriugenus was now talking urgently to Titus, whose face was incredulous. Inside what had been the gateway we tethered our horses to a tree and, as we waded through the coarse grass, a sudden qualm hit me. Maponus' shrine had been wrecked by Christians. Would he look kindly on Titus and his father? Yes, surely he would. Love transcends beliefs. Instead of the air of chill desolation which I had expected, there was still the old sense of warmth and peace.
Bran and I led the way, with Opilio between us. Eriugenus and Titus, doubtless hand in hand by now, followed with Cunorix. The naked statues, of course, had gone, but from this level there was more of the temple visible. While the portico roof had collapsed, its pillars toppled or stolen, the central shrine still stood to more than man's height, the stucco fallen away, ferns growing prolifically from the joints of the masonry. Inside, through the gaping doorway, we could see a deep jumble of debris. We went in, stumbling on the uneven rubble. It was carpeted thick with dead leaves and the brown stalks of last year's nettles and thistles, and with this year's growth bursting green. Charred and rotting timbers stuck out among them. But on one side it had all been dug away. Against the wall leant two shovels and a mattock.
And there at the back, its broken neck nestled into the soil, sat the head of Maponus.
Maglocunus had been right. It was the head that mattered, the home of the soul, the seat of justice, of love, of the divine. It still emitted the same aura of understanding. It still returned our gaze with the same compassion. It spoke the same wordless message. Titus and Eriugenus' love was righteous and blessed; as was Bran and Docco's, still; as was Dumnorix and Maglocunus', still. Opilio stood dazed, shaking his head, seemingly lost for words. He looked at the boys, hand in hand and radiant beside us. He saw no trace there of the provocative, the lascivious or the triumphant; only the naked, tender face of love. At last he found his voice.
"That was my road to Damascus," he said wonderingly. "No drama . . . no great light shining from heaven . . . no voice accusing me . . . but none the less a revelation from God. As far as I'm concerned there's only one God, and it can only have been he who was talking to me, through the mouth . . . through the head . . . of this . . . idol. I can't understand how. But I can't question it, either. I was wrong. The apostle Paul was wrong, if that's what he meant. The church is wrong. The law is wrong. The scales have fallen from my eyes. Love is love, regardless. Titus, if you're in love with Eriugenus, you have my blessing."
He embraced them, one after the other.
"But there are still plenty of things, Docco," he added, "which I'm sure you can explain. And Dumnorix I've met, but is this Maglocunus?"
I had not heard them come in, but there they were behind us, hand in hand as well.
"Yes," I said. "This is Maglocunus. But explanations as we ride. It's time to move on. We want to be in Corinium before dark."
Tonight the boys would at last consummate their love. Even before that, Titus announced, he was going to a church to give thanks. For the rest of us, there were no temples left in Corinium. But it did not matter. We did not need one there. Our god was here. To him, in his ruined shrine, in the dwindling day, four pagans poured out their boundless gratitude for his goodness. Justice had not, after all, deserted us.
Then Dumnorix turned to Bran and me. "Mag and I found this in the rubble," he said. "Near the head."
He held out a bronze plaque, small and tarnished and bent, punched with the words MAPONO BRANVS ET DOCCO V.S.L.M.
We smiled reminiscently. "Put it back. He deserves it more than ever."
Maglocunus picked up his shovel. "Before you go, boys, watch as we bury Maponus. Then you'll remember exactly where he is. You never know. Future generations may have need of him. He'll wait for them."
Yes, the patience of love is infinite.
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