Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [172]
And so the island had organised its own defence, paid no more taxes, and waited on events.
But nothing happened. For the moment the empire had neither time nor resources to concern itself with the island province that had revolted. There was no protest, no returning army, nothing: there was only silence.
And then, in the midst of these troubles, came news of something that for centuries had been unthinkable.
In 410, three months before Petrus was born, Alaric and his Visigoths sacked the imperial city of Rome.
The imperial city, the eternal city, the sacred symbol of Roman rule, had been humiliated by a force of landless barbarians because the city’s proud senators had refused to pay them protection money. Rome had fallen. The shock waves spread instantly to the most distant frontiers of the mighty empire, and it seemed to all men when they heard it, that an age, a world – indeed, civilisation itself – had come to an end.
The empire recovered. In Ravenna, a year later, the boy emperor, Honorius, was glad to hear that his agents had murdered his usurping British co-emperor. The Visigoths meanwhile had been paid and departed. It was time to mend what was left of the western empire again.
But his plans did not include the return of the legions to Britannia. In fact, they did not include the island province at all.
“Let them fend for themselves,” his harassed officials advised. “They stopped their taxes; they threw out the imperial servants. We have enough to do: let the British live beyond the sea.”
The empire’s resources were overstretched. The northern island was too far away. For the first time in four centuries, Rome had to turn her back on the province of Britannia.
Twenty years had passed since then: twenty years of waiting.
At first it had seemed that little had changed. There were occasional raids from Saxon or Irish pirates. A party of bacaudae – landless peasants – had appeared in Sarum one day and burned down one of the barns; but Numincus the steward and some of the men had driven them off. It was more what had not happened that gave Constantius concern.
There had been no new coins struck in the province. The trade with Gaul had grown slack. The ports with their warships were short of funds and so the island was poorly defended. The few remaining legionaries had not been paid and so they had turned to other occupations or left; Constantius had even heard of one selling himself into slavery. Finding that money was tight, he himself had been obliged to close the town house in Venta Belgarum which the family had maintained for generations. Others were doing the same and the town was falling into a poor state. It was as though a great wave of lassitude had covered the place, and each year matters grew worse.
Then the rumours had reached him. A large Saxon raiding party, a fleet, was preparing to attack the defenceless island. At first he did not believe it.
But the rumours grew. A merchant from London claimed that he had seen the preparations on a visit to the east; and suddenly the area was in a state of panic. The city of Calleva strengthened its walls and so did Venta Belgarum. More important, Calleva negotiated through the port of Londinium to obtain a contingent of German mercenaries to supplement their own half-trained militia. Venta tried to do the same.
And that was where the quarrel with Petrus had begun.
“Let me go to Venta and hire half a dozen of these mercenaries,” he had demanded. “We can quarter them at Sorviodunum. This place must be defended.”
Constantius had refused. The boy had screamed at him. And now . . .
It was time to pray. God would guide them. After he had prayed, he would be reconciled with his son.
He did not know that it was already too late.
His horse’s flanks were wet with lather. He had been riding hard, but now his destination was within sight.