Jack Whyte - The Skystone

"Umnax, " he said. "Tribune in the Forty-second. Seneca's factotum. Known as 'The Smiler' because he never does."

"Hmmm, " I grunted. "He's an ugly son of a whore, isn't he? I remember him now. I'm surprised it took me so long." I glanced at Britannicus before returning my eyes to Umnax. "Did you know they were going to be here tonight, General? Seneca and his people?"

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"Oh, no reason in particular." I cleared my throat. "Have your paths crossed recently?"

He smiled. "Frequently. I have been able to do several things to cross him in his planning. The man is a spider, Varrus. A malevolent, scheming spider, constantly spinning webs."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"I think it's about time you stopped calling me sir. My name is Caius, and we have been friends long enough for you to use it." I felt a wave of discomfort sweep over me, but he kept on talking. "Seneca and his family seem to have no other purpose in life but to extend their wealth, which, as I am sure you know, is already fabulous. They are totally unscrupulous about doing it, too. Last month I was able to use my influence to thwart his latest plan to grow fat from the armies. His cousin, Quinctilius Nesca, tried to take over as Quartermaster of the armies — do you know him?"

"No." I shook my head, hoping he would not notice I was unable to call him by his name.

"A toad. Fat, greasy, greedy and non-human. A disgusting creature." He broke off to smile at a beautiful young woman who had approached us, declining to sample the array of sweets in the tray she offered. They looked wonderful, and I helped myself to a tiny pear made of the paste of almonds. As the girl moved away, he continued. "Primus almost managed to have Nesca win the contract, too. Can you imagine? Quartermaster General! That would have meant that everything supplied to the armies would have passed through his sweaty hands, and suffered thereby, while he and his family grew richer. Luckily I found out in time and was able to avert it. Our dear Seneca has been most unhappy ever since."

I grinned and glanced at Seneca himself, to find his baleful glare full on me. He knew we were talking about him. From that point onwards, whenever I encountered Primus Seneca's gaze, his cold eyes were fixed on either me or Britannicus, and each time he saw me look at him he directed his eyes elsewhere. There was no doubt in my mind that Primus Seneca had broadened his detestation of Caius Britannicus to embrace Publius Varrus.

The evening progressed, however, and I forgot about Seneca as the proceedings grew noisier and more abandoned. There were wrestlers and gladiators and dancing girls from all over the Empire. The wine was plentiful and the food was impressive, and as both of these made their mark on the diners, everyone relaxed and a mood of conviviality quickly developed. I enjoyed myself hugely.

Several of the junior officers became involved in trials of strength with the wrestlers, and one brash young man even challenged a gladiator to combat. Wooden training swords were produced and the two of them went at it in a space that had been quickly cleared in the middle of the room. The young officer did remarkably well. He was no fool with a sword and there were times when he seemed to have the professional gladiator working hard to protect himself. The betting grew fast and urgent as the odds swayed to favour first one and then the other of the contestants in this ritual Roman combat.

Eventually, however, the professionalism and experience of the gladiator began to tell, and the young officer grew visibly tired. It was clearly costing him more and more of an effort to keep his sword arm extended. Those who had bet against him were already counting their winnings when suddenly, and quite brilliantly I thought, he released his shield and threw himself forward in a rolling dive to the floor, catching the gladiator by surprise and whipping his feet from under him with a sweeping kick. The man went down and the officer's sword was at his throat in the blink of an eye. The place went wild as winners and losers screamed praise and abuse at the young victor. Arguments on orthodoxy sprang into life instantly; there was haggling everywhere as some tried to get out of their wagers because of the way the fight had ended. The gladiator, in the meantime, was watching closely as his conqueror showed him how he had got the better of him. It was clear that he was impressed with the move and intended to keep it in mind for future reference.

There was a trumpet blast from the head table and silence fell instantly throughout the room. Theodosius stood, arms outstretched.

"My friends! Let us bear in mind that we are here this evening to comport ourselves in dignity and fellowship. I myself have lost a wager in this event, and I like to lose as little as anyone. But the objective of armed conflict, any armed conflict, is victory—personal survival and the overthrow of one's opponent. That is what we have seen here. I declare Tribune Drusus the winner and declare all wagers in his favour valid."

There was a renewed chorus of cheers and jeers, but it was short-lived. For my part, I was pleasantly surprised that Theodosius had taken the decisive step he did, and I had to admire him for it, considering that he could have won his own wager by declaring Drusus's move a foul. Later in the evening, Britannicus introduced me to three men, two of whose names have long since gone the way of the majority of casual introductions. The name of the third man, however, I do remember. He became one of my closest, lifelong friends. His name was Alaric and he was — and still is — a Christian bishop.

I had never heard the name Alaric before that night, but nowadays, as I write this forty years later, it ranks among the foremost names in the world. Another Alaric, a warrior and leader of the people called the Visigoths, threatens today to ring the final knell of Rome and write satis to the legend of the Empire invincible.

Bishop Alaric's two companions that night were also bishops, and it was their triple presence more than anything else that was keeping the whole evening from degenerating into an absolute saturnalia.

I liked Bishop Alaric immediately. He was dressed simply, in a white, toga-like robe, and he carried himself like a soldier. He spoke with a total simplicity and clarity that seemed to me like a different language — no rhetoric, no exaggeration, no flowery phrases. The man considered what he wanted to say, and then he said it in an absolute minimum of words. The strange thing about this was that it made you listen very carefully. I know, because we talked together for a long time. Britannicus had been commandeered by someone else as soon as he had introduced us, and we were left alone together.

At first, knowing that this man was a churchman, I thought it was going to be difficult to make conversation, but nothing could have been further from the truth. I found him fascinating. He talked about the problems he and his people were having in carrying the Word of Christ to the barbarians, and to the ordinary people of Britain, who were still predominantly pagan. From there, he went into an analysis of the reasons underlying the recent surge in pagan and idolatrous worship in Britain during the past thirty to forty years, and of the disastrous effect this was having on the faith of the Christians who still had to live with it. He told me honestly that there simply were not enough priests available to fight this renaissance of paganism effectively. The peasants were the ones who seemed most taken up with reversion to the old ways, he said. Their counterparts in the towns and cities, seemingly more sophisticated or at least more enlightened, were far less impressionable and far more orthodox in their adherence to Christianity.