After the Fall(23)
Honorius had spared no expense for this auspicious meeting, rendering the location as opulent and impressive as he could. Even the royal standard had been gilded anew, its top crowned by the requisite golden eagle and the acronym SPQR. Magnus snorted to himself. As if “the Senate and the People of Rome” actually mattered to that vainglorious ass of an emperor! The standard bore a large, purple flag with an image of Honorius holding the imperial regalia, underscored by the Christian cross. Yet, in the still air, as if bespeaking his impotence before the Visigoths, the flag hung still above the tent, limp, lifeless.
Magnus hid his smile, eyeing the two long rows of axe-wielding guards, who stood at attention outside the entryway. The emperor was no doubt waiting inside the tent, but his refusal to greet them spoke volumes, for Magnus guessed Honorius was probably soiling his gilded throne. Despite the show of wealth and power, Honorius must be aware Rome’s preeminence was fading, its future uncertain before the coming barbarian hordes.
A breeze swept in from the north. Magnus closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of coolness on his brow. When he looked out, he saw the flag unfurl and lift. To his surprise, he noticed something different, something that made his heart race in anger, for another image had been added: Victoria crowning the emperor with a wreath of laurel leaves.
He shook his head and glanced at King Alaric, who looked amused. Aside from the last bit of audacity, all this grandeur was a foolhardy waste of time and expense, for Alaric hated ostentation. With the exception of greedy Sergeric, it was probably lost on the rest of the Visigoths as well.
The king gave a signal and everyone dismounted. Aside from Athaulf, Sergeric, and Magnus, several of Alaric’s other top advisors and military commanders were also part of the delegation. They made a formidable group, rough perhaps, but noble. Magnus stood tall, proud to be counted among them, and prouder yet to serve as their spokesman at the coming reception.
The tent flap opened and the wiry Praetorian Prefect, Jovius, stepped out, flanked by the tall figure of Sergeric’s brother, General Sarus, and General Constantius, who stared straight ahead and didn’t make eye contact. Magnus frowned. Even from this distance, the ill-disguised sneer on Sarus’s face was plain to see.
Magnus stepped forward and said pointedly, “Jovius, Constantius, well met.”
“Quintus Pontius Flavus,” Sarus responded, tilting his head and smiling scornfully, “we had thought you dead.”
Unflinching, Magnus didn’t even glance at him. The man’s effort at a slight, by dropping the use of his honorific name and senatorial rank, was not worthy of his time.
“Jovius, King Alaric of the Visigoths stands prepared to receive the titles and lands as requested and which are due him,” Magnus said with a strong, clear voice. “Magister utriusque militiae, the title once carried by another honorable man, General Stilicho; as well as the regions of Dalmatia, Venetia, and Noricum for the settling of his people. In return, and as agreed, King Alaric and his armies will continue, as they have ever done, to defend the Empire from her enemies, whether they be Huns or Gauls or any other. I ask you, Jovius, is the emperor ready to receive our embassy?”
Jovius’s smile was lopsided, and he shifted from foot to foot, not meeting Magnus’s gaze. “Well now, as to that, I have a proclamation here,” he pulled out a scroll and cleared his throat, “which deals precisely with those matters you mention, and our Great Emperor Honorius would have me read it before you all, prior to your entry into his magnificent presence.”
Magnus frowned and glanced at Alaric, whose expression had grown hard. Jovius’s demeanor was not one of confidence, and his insecurity was not lost on either of them.
“Flavius Honorius Augustus,” Jovius said, “Emperor of Rome, categorically refuses to give any such lofty titles of the Empire, or lands therein, to a motley, craven, unclean race of barbarians such as yourselves, as it would be a blot, a stain upon Rome’s prestige, her great nobility and long history.”
Shouts of outrage erupted from the Visigoth delegation, and Athaulf had to be restrained against attacking Jovius on the spot. The Palatini guards threateningly raised their axes, and Magnus shouted for quiet, but his voice was drowned out.
When an angry calm was finally restored, Magnus stepped toward Jovius, seething. “What is the meaning of this? We reached an agreement weeks ago — you said yourself you thought the demands were well within reason. How can he turn us away with the Gauls marauding on his northern flanks? Who will hold them at bay better than the Visigoths? This is insanity, Jovius.” He repeated the word deliberately, “Insanity.”