Eagle in the Snow: A Novel of General Maximus and Rome's Last Stand

As I went through the camp I saw the signal fires flare as the tar and pitch caught light, and a stray dog yelped suddenly as it cowered againt a wall and a troop of horse clattered by. Inside the Adjutant’s office the clerks were burning all unnecessary documents while the rolls that were to be kept were being loaded into a waggon under the direction of an auxiliary. Fatigue parties went from hut to hut with incendiaries, so that each building might be fired without difficulty when the time came; while others fixed prepared sections of palisading at strategic crossings in the camp, so that if the outer wall fell the barbarians would still have to fight their way through, building by building. Here, an archer was busy flighting his arrows; there, a legionary was fitting javelins into racks along the firing platform; and the north and south gates were being shored up with great balks of timber. They would withstand even a battering ram when the time came. I spent the morning inside my office, answering questions and giving orders, while messengers came and went with a stream of information. A little before midday Quintus lounged in, his face wet with sweat.

“The girl,” he said. “You never answered my question.”

I had a headache and I was deathly worried. I looked up at him. He too looked tired, and a muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. He was always like that before the fighting—overtensed, wrought up and inclined to be irritable.

“Why the interest?” I said. “Do you want her for yourself?”

He began to look angry, flushed a dull red, started to say something, checked, turned and went out, slamming the door behind him. I grinned and went on with my work. Another messenger came in with news from Goar. Guntiarus had learned that his son was in the Alan’s hands and had promptly discontinued his supply trains to the enemy camp. “I do not trust him, however,” wrote Goar. “For the moment he is frightened. It will not last. If he moves against us I shall send him his son in small pieces. I have men on watch constantly, and will let you know the moment the enemy begins to break camp. Can you . . .” I read on to the end and then ate a meal of pork and beans, washed down with some wine that not even the Quartermaster would have drunk.

In the afternoon I picked up my stick and went out into the camp. I knocked on the door of her hut and a faint voice answered. I went in. She was standing by the table, her hands resting on its edge, and she was very pale. She trembled violently when she saw me; she reminded me of a sick dog. The shutters in the walls were still closed and the room smelt oddly. I threw them open. I said harshly, “The river has frozen over.”

She nodded, raised her head and looked at me with dilated eyes. “I thought so when—when I heard the trumpets.”

I glanced round the room, saw the crumpled bed, the dried vomit on the floor and the empty water jug on the soiled table. Of food there was no sign. “Do you always live in such a mess?” I said.

She locked her hands together and did not answer me. She just stared. She was too frightened to speak.

I went towards her and she backed away with a whimper. “Have you been here alone since the blizzard started?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“In the dark?”

“I had a light at first. Then the oil ran out. The door was locked as usual. No-one came. It was—very cold.”

I turned to the door. “Sentry. Get me the duty centurion. Now.” She had moved behind the table as though she needed it for support. I went up to her. She shrank back. “Is it time?” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said. “Time for you to go.”

“I am ready,” she said in a voice that I could hardly hear. “I am not afraid. No—that’s a lie. I am. Will it hurt terribly? I tried not to think about it. I asked the farrier. I asked him after—we were caught. I thought it would be easier if I knew—exactly. He gave me some. These are what will be used, aren’t they?” She opened her hands and I saw three great triangular shaped nails lying across her palm.

They were indeed what we used.

“My poor child,” I said. I held her in my arms and she began to cry. Five days in the dark, in that hut, thinking about what I had threatened, trying to summon up the courage to face the horror, the pain, the unendurable.

“I am sending you to the Bishop of Treverorum. He will look after you. If you remained here you would not be safe, not even from your own people. I have seen how men behave after a battle. Afterwards, whatever happens, you may go back if you wish.”

“Fabianus,” she whispered.

I said, “You must be brave. There are young men of your own people. Perhaps you had one. I don’t know.”

She tried to smile. “You did not ask me.”

No, I had not asked her. I remembered what Julian had once said. I never had asked people. I never had cared.

“Fabianus must stay with me. He is a soldier.”

“I love him.” She began to cry. “I tried to hate him—he is the enemy—but I can’t. I love him.”