Usurpers

by Q V Hunter

  ‘You stuck together?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We made for the docks. Some people got us that far, but even they were picked off one by one from the back by these . . . animals. We stole a boat and held a pugio to the boatman’s throat to work us upstream, when these . . . this . . . horde grabbed a faster boat and chased us down. They . . . they got hold of Anicetus by one of his arms and then . . . There wasn’t much I could do to save . . .’ Titianus broke down in sobs.

  ‘Any warning of this, agens? What good are all these reports you deliver if we aren’t warned of revolt?’

  ‘There was no notice, Imperator.’ I said, but thought at the same time, why had Apodemius detected no sniff of this?

  Gregorius said, ‘Because there was no plot, General, there was no movement. Julius Nepotianus is nothing more than his mother’s feeble-minded dupe.’

  ‘Eutropia. Is that old crow still alive?’ General Magnentius’ huge eyes bulged in surprise. ‘Oh, someone help that pathetic excuse for a man.’ Titianus staggered out of the Council, propped up by two praetorians.

  ‘I heard she survives on nothing but pride and anchovies,’ Gregorius said.

  ‘It has to be her, Your Excellency.’ Silvanus said. ‘She’s no soldier. This is not a well-planned coup but a desperate fling at power. Anyone else would know that an uprising on the backs of men who live in cages and dungeons can’t hold the hearts of decent Roman citizens.’

  Gregorius stepped in. ‘He’s right. Rely on the Senate, Magnentius. As soon as the streets are clear of this scum, the politicians won’t support his bid for long.’

  ‘On the contrary, Gregorius.’ Marcellinus countered. ‘The Senate is another bunch of old women you can’t trust. They can use Eutropia’s bid for Nepotianus to negate your claim to succession by Justina, Imperator.’

  ‘Nepotianus is nothing more than the runt of the litter. The Constantines should have left him on a hillside at birth,’ Magnentius growled.

  Marcellinus stepped forward, ‘Let me deal with him. I’ve been out of armor too long.’

  ‘I’ll go back, Imperator.’ Gregorius said.

  ‘No, Gregorius. You’re too close to those senators for my comfort. I want you and Gaiso to concentrate on pulling in all available forces,’ Magnentius barked. He stood up and shouted at Gaiso, ‘Pull down all moveable troops out of Britannia and along the Gallic frontier—’

  Silvanus protested, ‘Magnentius, you’ve moved the roving legions south, but you can’t empty the defensive garrisons and leave the northern border open.’

  ‘I will.’ Magnentius pounded his enormous fist on the desk. ‘I want every Frankish, Celtic and Saxon soldier standing in formation behind me—ready to move on Roma if necessary. Vetranio’s game is bad enough but at least he’s a man leading four legions. Do they think I’ll just stand aside for an inbred weakling hiding in his mama’s sedan chair?’

  ‘Ride with Marcellinus as escort,’ Gregorius whispered to me outside the council chamber.

  ‘But my posting is here, Commander.’

  ‘Do what I say, Marcus and let your schola blame me if there are any questions. Find any excuse but make sure you go. You saw the way Magnentius refused my offer to relieve the city. He thinks my ties to the Senate would stay my hand from doing what may be necessary. I fear our Magister Officiorum has more than Nepotianus in his sights.’

  ***

  Magnentius got hold of his temper and held back Marcellinus for a full two weeks. He clung to the possibility that the Senate would revoke their support for Nepotianus or that Constantius would signal disapproval of his cousin’s claim.

  Meanwhile, troops were moving southward, abandoning garrisons and border patrols to the absolute minimum number of squadrons.

  Then one morning Gaiso placed in Magnentius’ hand a freshly-minted coin. It had Nepotianus’ profile on one side and Constantius’ profile on the other with the words, ‘URBS ROMA.’ When he saw that, Magnentius tossed all hope out the window—along with the coin.

  That same day Marcellinus galloped with four cohorts out of Mediolanum onto the Via Aurelia. I kept my promise to the Commander and rode out with him. We barreled past other travelers, sending them spilling off the road and into the dust. Our riders’ spare horses thundered behind us, swapped for panting, sweating mounts twice a day.

  Marcellinus may have become a wealthy treasury secretary, but he had kept in good physical condition over the years. The ordinary rigor of military service returned to him quickly enough and as if to prove he had lost none of his physical power, he gave no quarter to the cavalrymen under his command.

  He was also a driven man, desperate for this operation to make up for long years of counting expenses for Constans and mollifying Gallo-Roman businessmen with bribes and favors.

  I rode one hour’s distance ahead of their procession, clearing off anyone using the road illegally and checking for obstructions. It was like my old days ranked among the equites, galloping along the soft verge of the paved road to save my horse’s hooves from wear. When I wasn’t regulating the road, I had a lot of time to think.

  For one thing, I suspected cold politics, not any affection for Roma, fuelled the Magister Officiorum’s fury to save the city. Marcellinus hadn’t yet lost the crumbling abandoned capital from the Usurper’s control—at least not until this battle was decided—but he was furious that Magnentius had slipped out of his control.

  Since those heady days in Augustodunum of planning the coup, matters had slipped gradually away from Marcellinus’ autonomy. Every day he had to defend his policies to real warriors—powerful and confident field veterans like Silvanus, Gaiso and Gregorius and the others—who filled out the consistorium.

  It got worse for Marcellinus with each passing week. More legions marching down from the north meant the inclusion of yet more outspoken military leaders into the strategic circle. They offered their expertise and often dissension. Some even questioned why Marcellinus had any claim to the final word.

  And yet Marcellinus had been the engineer of the whole rebellion. He had financed it, planned it, politicked for it for months and years behind Constans’ back. Marcellinus didn’t welcome these new senior soldiers for one reason—the former treasury chief didn’t like working with men he couldn’t buy.

  I think he believed that the coming battle for Roma could swing his bid to regain the upper hand—even make him one of the next consuls.

  There were other developments I considered as I galloped ahead of his cohorts. I had noticed that in choosing the fighters to ride against Nepotianus, Marcellinus had favored units remarkable for their barbarian blood. So it was coming to that, I thought, as I kept ahead of them, hearing their faint trumpet signals marking their progress behind me throughout the long day. It was coming down to that uncomfortable fact. The original conspirators did not trust true Romans to attack a Constantine—even a puny one. They thought their advantage lay with men who’d never seen Roma before in their lives. Marcellinus intended to show us all what a Gallo-Roman could do without any help from Gregorius or his aristocratic kind.

  But how could Marcellinus retake Roma alley by alley from scum who knew every ally, fountain and sewer hole?

  By the time I reached the naval port of Pisae, I saw that Roma had caught wind of our approach. A river of refugees blocked my race southwards to the old capital and by the time I’d cleared the road, the rest of Marcellinus’ forces had caught up with me.

  As we cantered down the Via Flaminia towards the familiar domes and roofs, I saw that Nepotianus’ ragtag rebel camp had swelled up with every creature of Roma’s underbelly. Released from the jails and scoured up from the sewers, these filthy, brawling drunkards swarmed the slopes east of the Tiberis in front of the Aurelian Walls.

  Even from a distance, they looked like a human inflammation or infestation, not an army.

  I wasn’t ranked as part of the fighting force and I felt grateful for it. I left Marcellinus on the excuse of reporting to my schola at the
Castra Peregrina for further orders and headed around the city walls.

  But first, I knew without asking what the Commander had wanted me to do. Marcellinus had personally guarantee the safety of the Manlius household, but now that I had seen the rough and hardened foreign troops who were about to wage a crackdown, I knew that nothing and no one could be guaranteed security in the chaos to come.

  My identification papers unlocked the guarded gates of the Porta Aurelia. I registered and then rode into a silent Roma—eerier than anything I remembered. Where had half a million souls hidden themselves? All I saw were shuttered windows and refuse-strewn streets. Wagons and carts rolled driverless in the streets. Gates swung back and forth on their hinges. A socialite’s gilded litter sat in the middle of a main junction where its bearers had dropped it on a dash for their lives. The food and repair stalls stood empty. The barbershops and bathhouses were locked up.

  The great cradle of the Empire had become a playground for rats scurrying to the music of fountains gushing in the sun.

  I skirted the Caelian district with the Castra looming high above me, and instead urged my horse up the steep Esquiline streets towards the Manlius townhouse.

  ‘Verus! Open up!’ I pounded on the gate under the fig tree. ‘It’s me, Marcus Numidianus!’

  A slave girl I didn’t recognize peered at me through an opening high in the wall. Her face dropped away without a word.

  ‘Open up! Verus! OPEN THE GATE!’

  I waited many long minutes before I heard footsteps and the bolts lifted with difficulty, one by one.

  ‘Marcus Numidianus! What in Hades are you doing here?’’

  Clodius was drunk. I pushed past him and ran through the fauces and into the atrium. In the summer’s heat, the gardens beyond had gone to seed. Wildflowers and weeds smothered the stone bench where Lady Laetitia had once gathered elegant friends for snacks and gossip.

  ‘Where’s the family?’ I shouted back at him.

  ‘I’m head of the family as long as Gregorius is away.’

  ‘The Emperor’s Magister Officiorum is riding through the city gate with troops to remove Nepotianus,’ I said. ‘I’m here to warn you. But tell me quickly—how did the Senator vote?’

  Clodius rolled his bloodshot eyes. ‘The Senator’s too feeble to vote. You should know that. I sent his vote for him in absentia. The Manlii support Nepotianus’ claim, of course. He’s a Constantine, after all.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Cook’s getting lunch. My slave is preparing my—’

  I shook him by the shoulders. ‘Where’s the Senator? Where’s Leo?’

  ‘Stop that. You’re rattling my brains. The brat’s in the nursery, I suppose, with that nurse. The Senator’s in his study, probably having a nap—or dead. How should I know?’

  ‘Get them out of the city, Clodius, NOW.’

  He screwed his bloodshot eyes up at my forehead. ‘You’re wearing Gregorius’ Pannonian hat. Did you steal it?’

  ‘Clodius, if the Senator’s vote for Nepotianus is public, you’re all in danger. Lock up the whole house. Take the baby, all the servants and the old man out of the city right away. Verus, where are you? Get them all to the apartment in Ostia by side roads. Wait for news. If it gets bad, and Magnentius takes revenge, you sail with them to the southern estates.’

  Clodius’ eyes widened and he leaned away from me. ‘And leave my friends? Abandon my sponsors?’

  ‘Verus!’ I shouted again in all directions at the doors facing the atrium. ‘Verus, where are you? Verus, it’s me, Marcus Numidianus!’

  At last the old servant came limping out of the kitchens, his arms wide in greeting. ‘Thank the gods you’re here, Marcus. The city’s going to Hades in a pisspot.’

  ‘I know. Verus, there isn’t time to talk. There are four cohorts poised to attack Nepotianus’ supporters this minute. They won’t give up until they regain control of the city. One of their targets is the Senate. Fighting will have reached the Forum within the hour. Collect Lavinia and the baby. I’ll go get the Senator. You’re going to take them to Ostia. Try the Porta Ostiensis first.’

  ‘Yes, Marcus.’ Verus ran off towards the nursery.

  ‘I’m telling you, Clodius, if the Senator’s vote is held against him, no one can save any of you.’

  ‘Tell him yourself.’

  I ran up the short flight of steps to the old man’s study door.

  ‘Senator Manlius! You must prepare to leave for Ostia. Verus and Clodius will take you there now.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, turning a vague white gaze in my direction. ‘I can’t possibly leave my books.’

  ‘You must leave now, Senator. Verus will come for you in a few minutes. What do you need? I’ll tell the maids.’

  ‘I never leave my books unguarded,’ he said in the steady voice that had once moved Roma’s rulers to vote yay or nay. ‘Someone is trying to take them.’

  ‘You must leave, Senator.’

  ‘I will not leave.’

  I couldn’t persuade him, and the clock was running on me now. Trusting him to Verus’ speedy care, I left the Senator standing there, in the middle of his piles of books, one hand on his reading couch for steadiness. He gazed up at his wooden ceiling, carved with gods and nymphs, looking dazed but unmovable. Verus would have to carry him out.

  I’d been absent without permission too long. I descended the north-facing slope of District V down into the Subura slums, my horse wending its way between looted furniture and refuse piled into stinking barricades. Clusters of ragged plebeians stood cheering a gang of gladiators breaking into a weapons warehouse. The vigiles who should have been guarding against fire were nowhere to be seen.

  I heard screams coming towards me. The street battle between Nepotianus’ ruffians and Marcellinus’ cavalrymen was moving closer.

  I now saw the fighting straight ahead and rode smack into Marcellinus’ men slashing their way through a mob of Nepotianus’ fighters on the Campus Agrippa. They were driving those who weren’t cut down dead straightaway to stagger backwards as they were herded into the horseracing arena.

  Someone grabbed my leather toe loop, and then got hold of my trouser leg. I looked left, down into the face of a man giving me a vile leer. His clean-shaven head reached almost to my shoulder. His hand was pulling my spatha up and out of its scabbard by its hilt. I drew my pugio and made to stab his upper arm, but he dodged me. I turned the horse towards him, shifting my sword out of his reach, but he grabbed my reins, dodged my thrusts and now yanked hard on my sword belt to dislodge me from the saddle.

  ‘Get off me, bastard!’ I shouted. With an upward thrust, my pugio caught him under his bristled jaw and cut his chin open to the jawbone. With a powerful blow to my wrist, he knocked the short blade from my hand, sending clanging into a gutter across the street. If he tried to retrieve it, my spatha would enjoy the rippling muscles of his naked back as a target.

  But even he wasn’t that stupid. He left the pugio where it fell and kept hold of my belt, hanging off my horse as I twisted the animal one way and another. I couldn’t shake the creep.

  Finally, he reared up at me, roaring something unintelligible. With beefy arms, he pinned me in a deadly embrace and dragged hard on my whole torso, using my horse’s barrel as resistance with his massive knees to get me to the ground. I kicked hard, my arms pinned underneath his massive weight. I fumbled at my boot cuff to get at my hidden swivel dagger. I could feel the wooden handle, but my horse was bucking too hard to me to work the blade open. I kneed the man with all my might. He grunted in pain, bending over and loosening his grip of me.

  My arm free again, I pulled my spatha out of its scabbard, took hold with both hands, and swung it wide at his thick neck.

  My blade cleaved deep. His head and shoulders were thrown back as he slammed against a wall, spattering brains and blood all over graffiti reading, ‘Ball players! Vote Lucius for aedile.’

  If this was what Marcell
inus’ men were up against, they’d need all their experience of fighting the hardiest Germans to win the day. These men were more brutish than trained soldiers. Unlike enlisted men, they were criminals with nothing to lose.

  But Marcellinus had everything to win. I kept my grip on the saddle and plunged ahead, using my horse to scatter their gangs and using my sword to remove some of them permanently.

  As the hours dragged on, I had reason to hope that the tide in the citywide battle had turned against Nepotianus’ foul mob. I saw these sub-humans, rags flying, scuttling this way or that, one by one, down narrow alleys no horseman could negotiate.

  I followed the thunder of hooves and cries ahead. Reaching the open piazza around Flavian’s Arena, I saw the flanks of Marcellinus’ cohorts hounding the last of Nepotianus’ gangsters through its arches for roping together—or worse.

  I melted into the cohorts. Marcellinus himself now reared up from behind and galloped past us, raging at the top of his lungs with the ease of his victory. He carried a lance topped with a man’s severed head, shouting over and over. He dashed his horse around the perimeter of the amphitheater brandishing this gruesome trophy into the faces of the filthy, bleeding horde forced to their knees in the blood-soaked sand.

  The dead eyes of the bleeding head looked vaguely familiar, although I had never seen this man before. Then I realized, that I had seen many of his relatives up close. It was what was left of Nepotianus.

  ‘Who will hunt down the mother?’ Marcellinus crowed, dispatching a turma to hunt out Eutropia’s head for a lance of its own. It was a challenge Gaiso would have loved, but he was safely out of this hellish mayhem. ‘And the senators! Get me the heads of the Senate!’ Marcellinus cried.

  Another unit dashed out of the arena. I tried not to panic. By now Verus must have smuggled the family onto the southwestern road, possibly even to the gates and beyond.