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

“Yes,” he said. “It was good. Oh, Maximus, when I die I like to think that the goddess will grant my wish, especially if I die in battle in a good charge.”

“What is your wish?” I asked.

“There is another.” He looked at me steadily. “But this one is more simple: that I may be allowed to drive the golden horses of the sun.” And after that he was silent.

Back at Romulus we made our offering before the small altar that we had made to do honour to our god; we made the ritual sacrifice; we offered up the accustomed prayers; and I felt the burden of my fatherhood upon me. All the while a sentry kept watch outside to see that we were not disturbed. After it was over we sat, still in silence, and watched the sun dip behind the hills.

It was getting dark now and the shadows were running back into the room. I struck a flint and lit the tiny lamp that stood on the wine table. Over the yellow, flickering flame we looked at each other. I said, “There is still hope, you know.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know that.” But he had the look of a man who did not care any more.

I heard the sentry stamp his feet outside the door. There was a murmur of voices, and then the door opened and the Bishop came in.

“You leave tomorrow,” he said. “I came to say goodbye.” We talked for a while in a polite and stilted manner, and all the time he kept on looking at the brand on my forehead, which always showed when my hair had been cut.

He said, suddenly, “You have no priests.”

I raised my head. “No,” I said, “Not in your sense of the word. Yet some of us are granted the privilege of acting as guides upon the way. We mediate on behalf of our brothers.”

His intellectual curiosity overcame his natural repugnance to discuss a matter of which he disapproved. “Tell me,” he said, “why it is that your temples are made below the ground and why your beliefs are kept so secret?”

I looked at Quintus and then at the Bishop. I said, “We believe that power is lost through idle talk. We draw strength from our worship as a community, as you do, and yet—” I hesitated. I said, “The best prayers are made in silence.”

He nodded. “I understand,” he said. He put his cup down on the table and talked of other things then.

“It has been a hard year,” said Quintus, in reply to some remark.

“It will be harder yet,” said the Bishop calmly, his big hands folded across his lap, the cross upon his throat glinting in the light.

“What do you mean?”

“The berries on the bushes have been taken already, and each night at dusk you can see the geese flying inland from the north.” He smiled. “A colony of field mice live just outside the wall at the back of my house, on the north side. You can see their holes, a dozen of them quite clearly. Now they are blocked up and they have made fresh holes on the other side of the wall. They know, too. All the farmers say the same thing. It is going to be a hard and bitter winter.”

“How bitter?” I said sharply.

“I do not know, my son, but there will be snow and ice.” He looked from us to the altar in the niche in the wall. “Are you afraid of death?” he asked gently. “If you followed my faith there would be no need.”

“I am a soldier,” I said. “Death is something I have given and it is something that I must receive. I am only afraid of dying; not of being dead.”

He was silent for a while. Then he rose to his feet. At the door he paused. He said steadily, “It is easier to be blinded by the sun than by the darkness of the night.”

I said, “The sun has died but it will renew itself in the morning.”

“You are very sure.”

I smiled. “Yes. That is why we have something in common, all three of us.”

He did not take up the challenge. Instead he said, “Am I right in understanding that you intend to do battle with the Vandals?”

I nodded, surprised. “How do you know that? I have told no-one. Unless Quintus—” I turned to look at him but he shook his head.

The Bishop said, “It was in your face when you came to the Basilica yesterday morning. Before that you had the look of a man trying to make up his mind. Yesterday you looked peaceful. The decision had been made. There is only one thing that worries a general—the decision to engage the enemy; the when, the how and the where.”

I said, “You know a lot about soldiers.”

He smiled. “Why not? Did you know that one of my predecessors in office was once a centurion in a legion at Moguntiacum? We live in the world more than you think.”

I was silent. Quintus said roughly, “Yes, we are going to fight. We have waited long enough for help that has never come.”

I glanced at him sharply. The Bishop said, “It is a fine thing that you are such good friends.” He regarded us keenly. He said, “I am glad that this city has two such men as you to protect it. I did not always think so. This city and this province have great need of men like yourselves; men who have confidence and authority and right judgement; men who are sure; men who know themselves.”