Pupienus was seldom flabbergasted, and he had not been so angry for a long time. What sort of fool was Gallicanus? He had come into Pupienus’ home and endangered everyone in it with his talk of treason. And he had done so not to offer Pupienus the throne, not even to offer him a leading role in a new regime. Instead the ape had wanted Pupienus to seize the city for his insane cause, and then, rather than reap the rewards, simply give up his legitimate authority and step down to the level of a private citizen.
‘This must stop.’ Pupienus had recovered quickly.
Gallicanus had rounded on him, suspicion and anger in his eyes.
Pupienus had smiled. He had hoped it looked reassuring. ‘All we Senators wish we had lived in the free Republic. But you know as well as me that the principate is a harsh necessity. The imperium was tearing itself apart in civil wars until Augustus took the throne.’
Gallicanus had shaken his head. ‘We can learn from history.’
‘No—’ Pupienus had been adamant ‘—the same would happen again. The leading men would fight for power until one of them won or the empire fell. You have read your Tacitus. Now we must pray for good Emperors, but serve the ones we get.’
‘Tacitus served under the tyrant Domitian. He was nothing but a quietist, a time-server. He was a man of no courage, a coward.’ Gallicanus had shouted the last words.
‘You and I, we both held office under Caracalla.’ Pupienus had pitched his voice at its most reasonable. ‘Give up this scheme before you bring disaster on your family and your friends.’
Gallicanus stood wringing his hands and pressing them together as if he could physically crush this opposition. ‘I thought you were a man of honour.’
You ape, Pupienus thought, you stupid, arrogant Stoic ape. ‘I hope you will think so again, because I will never mention this conversation to anyone.’
Gallicanus had left.
The mellifluous tones of the Consul brought Pupienus back to the Senate House:
‘… And that whatsoever he shall deem to be according to the custom of the Res Publica and the greatness of divine and human, public and private matters, there be right and power for him to undertake and to do, just as there was for the divine Augustus …’
The Consul had reached clauses that were surely otiose. As Maximinus had already had been vested with the tribunician power, which brought the ability to make and unmake all laws, of course he could do whatsoever he should deem according to the custom of the Res Publica, and any other thing as well. Pupienus was only half listening. He was still watching Gallicanus posturing in his near-rags on the floor of the Senate House. The previous evening he had forgotten that Gallicanus had moved from following the doctrines of the Stoa to those of Diogenes. Not a Stoic ape then. A Cynic dog instead. It made little difference. The ragged Senator was still a dangerous fool, made all the more dangerous by a conviction that profoundest philosophy underpinned all his beliefs and actions.
Gallicanus had not been the only visitor to the house on the Caelian that night. Pupienus and his wife were starting their belated dinner when Fortunatianus had announced another caller. This time the secretary had suggested no ingenious espionage. He was plainly terrified. Honoratus was outside. The street was full of soldiers.
Pupienus had dreaded such a moment since first he acquired wealth and position. The knock on the door in the night. The imperial official standing in the torchlight, the armed men at his back. The muted terror sliding through the corridors of the house. In the reign of Caracalla, it had happened to several men close to Pupienus. Neither those vicarious experiences nor the years of expectation had made the sudden reality any easier.
Surely there had been no time for Gallicanus to have approached someone else. Even that hairy fool must have realized that he could never seize Rome without the Urban Cohorts. Pupienus had felt a hollow deep in his stomach. Could he have so misread Gallicanus? Was all that conspicuous virtue no more than a mask? Was all his talk of the Res Publica no more than a trap?
The new arrival could be unconnected. But still lethal. A new regime often began with a purge. But it could be nothing. With all the courage and dignitas he could muster, Pupienus had told Fortunatianus to bring Honoratus to him. While waiting, he had managed not to touch the ring on his right middle finger which contained the poison. Instead, he had put his hand on that of his wife, squeezed, and forced himself to smile into her eyes.
Honoratus was still wearing the same clothes muddied from the road in which he had addressed the Senate. He entered alone. Pupienus fought down a surge of hope. If it was premature, it would be all the more devastating.
‘Forgive the intrusion, Prefect.’ Honoratus had spread his arms wide, showing his empty palms. ‘I should have sent a messenger ahead. I have been somewhat occupied.’
‘Think nothing of it, Senator.’
Honoratus had bowed to Sextia. ‘My Lady, I need the advice of your husband.’
Like a true Roman matron, she had spoken some graceful words and withdrawn. Only the slightest catch in her voice betrayed the relief that her husband would be neither hauled off to the torturers in the palace cellars nor butchered in front of her.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘No.’
‘Please, do.’
Honoratus stopped his host calling for a slave to remove his boots. ‘I will do it myself. Discretion might be best.’ He pronounced it ‘dishcretion’.
Pupienus had watched the younger man wash his hands, tip a libation and start to eat. He sprinkled some salt on a hard-boiled egg, dipped it in some fish sauce. He ate it delicately. He reached for another. The speed of his feeding increased. He was hungry. Pupienus had forced himself to keep quiet. Behind the dirt and fatigue, Honoratus was still ridiculously good-looking: dark hair, dark eyes, the cheekbones of a statue. Pupienus had thought it would be almost unseemly to be killed by someone so beautiful.
Honoratus drained his glass.
‘Shall I call for more?’
Honoratus smiled. ‘You were never one for much wine, Pupienus. No, leave it until they bring in the next course.’
Pupienus had passed him more bread.
‘Alexander had to go,’ Honoratus had said. ‘He was trying to pay off the Germans. He was too scared to fight. The soldiers despised him. It would have been a disaster, much worse than the East. His mother’s greed was getting worse. The troops’ pay was late. If we had not acted, someone else would have.’
Pupienus had made an understanding noise.
‘Maximinus is a good soldier, a good administrator. He has courage. He will fight the German tribes, and he will win.’
Pupienus had repeated the noise, with just a hint of a question.
‘As an equestrian, Maximinus has no experience of the Senate. Although he has governed provinces, his whole attention must be on the northern war. Often he will be beyond the frontier, deep in barbaricum. In civil matters he will delegate and listen to advice.’
‘Whose advice?’
‘I rather hope mine, among others.’ Honoratus had laughed. He had very straight white teeth. ‘The new Emperor also puts particular faith in the governor of Pannonia Superior, Flavius Vopiscus, and the commander of 8th Legion, Catius Clemens.’
Pupienus considered his words. ‘I have known Flavius Vopiscus for many years. Catius Clemens I do not know so well, but if he is like his brother Celer, who is one of the Praetors this year in Rome, then the new Emperor has chosen his confidants well. All three are men of judgement.’
Honoratus had raised his empty glass to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Loyal friends are always the pillars of the throne. Maximinus would embrace you in his friendship. Your excellence as Prefect of Rome argues for its continuation.’
Now Pupienus toasted the kind words.
‘You have two sons. When the two Consuls who have given their name to this year step down in a couple of months, Maximinus is minded to appoint your elder son, Pupienus Maximus, as one of the Suffect Consuls. I will be th
e other. A still greater honour is being considered for your family. Next year the Emperor will take office on the kalends of January. Maximinus is thinking of taking your younger son, Africanus, as his colleague as Consul Ordinarius. For eternity, it would be the year of the Emperor Gaius Iulius Maximinus and Marcus Pupienus Africanus. So that the Emperor can get to know your son, form a true estimate of his virtues, Africanus will accompany me back to the field army.’
It was neatly done, Pupienus had thought, the blend of high honours binding the family to a potentially unpopular regime and the taking of a hostage. He spoke. ‘It will be difficult to live up to the benefactions shown, but we will try.’
‘Excellent,’ Honoratus had said. ‘Who was it who said, “Scratch the surface of any government and you find an oligarchy”?’
‘I cannot remember.’
‘No, nor me. Of course, you must keep Rome quiet: no rioting from the plebs, no conspiracies among the nobility.’
‘Of course.’
‘Excellent,’ Honoratus had said, again. ‘Now perhaps your servants could stop listening at the doors and bring in the main course. I am shtarving.’
Pupienus had rung a little bell.
‘One thing,’ Honoratus said. ‘I brought a new equestrian down to take command of the vigiles. I think you will like the new Prefect of the Watch. He is called Potens.’
‘Herennius Modestinus?’
‘Oh no – gods, no! Nothing like that.’
Inwardly, Pupienus had cursed. His voice must have betrayed him.
‘What do you take our new Emperor for? A barbarian?’ Honoratus had showed his teeth as he laughed. They really were perfect.
Pupienus had kept a very straight face.
‘Not half an hour ago, I thanked Modestinus for his noble efforts patrolling the streets night after night for fires and malefactors. I told him how much the Emperor appreciated his labours, but Maximinus had decided that a skilled jurist might be more sensibly employed handling all the legal entreaties addressed to the throne. When your son and I set off to the frontier, Modestinus will accompany us. At the imperial court the position of Secretary for Petitions awaits the man of law. Modestinus will make a fine a Libellis. He has always been dutiful, but somehow it was not right he remain in Rome while the Emperor was elsewhere. It was just that some said he was a little too fond of the old free Republic.’ And Honoratus had gazed hard at Pupienus.
The rest of the meal had passed without anything of significance, the conversation harmless.
Up on the tribunal, the Consul finally reached the end of the lengthy list of overlapping powers, privileges and honours proposed for the new Emperor. ‘And we recommend that these things be approved by you, Conscript Fathers.’ Claudius Aurelius sat down with the air of a task well done.
Laboriously, the Father of the House, Cuspidius Celerinus, used his walking stick to pull himself to his feet. An octogenarian, Celerinus was frail, but his reason remained acute. He knew what was wanted: something of moderate length, traditional in tone and panegyric in nature. His reedy old man’s voice still carried all through the Curia.
Like Cincinnatus summoned from the plough, Maximinus had answered the call of the Res Publica. The time for vacillation was past. Mars had come down from the heights. Grim-visaged, the god stalked the fields and villas, howled around the walls of towns. The dangers had never been greater. In the time of Cincinnatus, the lone tribe of the Italian Aequi besieged one legion on Mount Algidus. Now, all the barbaric tribes of the frozen North raged against the Romans, held the entire empire under siege, threatened humanitas itself. Come the hour, come the man. Hardened by war on every continent, only Maximinus, spurring the flanks of his foaming warhorse, could bring defeat to the savage Germans. As far as the Ocean, they would bow their heads to the majesty of Rome.
With his victory won, great Caesar would return to Rome. In the metropolis the antique virtues bred in his rustic home – piety, frugality, self-control – would cleanse away the stains of recent luxury and wickedness. A second Romulus, he would scour away the filth of corruption to bring forth another golden age. Justice would return to earth. All would salute him: the lands, the stretching leagues of the sea, the unplumbed sky. Let us salute him. Let Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus become Emperor!
A roar of approval went up to the high ceiling, startling a pair of sparrows and sending them racing out over the heads of the spectators at the open doors. Old Celerinus sat down. His neighbours congratulated him. Pupienus walked over to join them. It had been a good speech, with echoes of Livy and Virgil, the patriotism of both suitable to the occasion.
In order of precedence, the Consuls asked the opinion of the assembled Senators: I agree. I agree. One after another, the four hundred or more assented. The Consuls put it to the vote.
With much shuffling and even a little barging, the vast majority of the Conscript Fathers rushed to arraign themselves on the indicated side of the Curia. They packed themselves together like herd animals threatened by a predator. Some were slower, through age or infirmity, or overtly paraded independence. Gallicanus and Maecenas moved tardily and but a little. Gallicanus barely crossed the middle of the floor.
Perhaps, Pupienus thought, I should have given you to Honoratus. The handsome friend of the new Emperor knew Gallicanus had visited, and must surmise that he talked treason, although possibly not the fanatic scope of it. The free Republic had been dead nearly three centuries. To revive it was a fool’s dream. But Gallicanus was a fool. A yapping Cynic dog of a fool. Like an undermined bastion, his arrogance could bring ruin on those around him at any moment. Perhaps indeed he should yet be handed over to Honoratus. But no, an oath was an oath. The gods were not to be mocked. Yet, if a way could be found, it might not stand to the discredit of Maximinus and those around him if an example were to be made of Gallicanus.
‘This side seems to be in the majority.’ The formal words of the Consul were an understatement. No one, not even Gallicanus, was fool enough to vote openly against the accession.
The Senators began to chant their thanks to the gods for their new Emperor: ‘Iupiter optime, tibi gratias. Apollo venerabilis, tibi gratias.’ It echoed around the marbled walls of the Curia like plainsong.
‘Iupiter optime, tibi gratias. Apollo venerabilis, tibi gratias.’
Singing with the rest, Pupienus wondered how long the gratitude to Jupiter the best, to venerable Apollo, to the other gods not yet thanked, would last. Could Honoratus, Flavius Vopiscus and Catius Clemens control the creature they had elevated? Could they mould Maximinus into something acceptable to more than the soldiery? Perhaps they could. They were men of ability as well as ambition. And there was Paulina, the wife of Maximinus. She was from the nobility. The Thracian was said to love her. She was reckoned a good influence.
Yet, no matter how he behaved, would the Senators ever truly accept Maximinus? They had fixed views on the person and role of an Emperor. He should be chosen from the Senators. He should respect the Senate and share the lifestyle of its members. Above all, he must be a first among equals, a civilis princeps. A shepherd boy from the North risen to equestrian rank via the army could not be such a primus inter pares.
Pupienus debated the wisdom of his actions the previous night. There was nothing else he could have done, nothing reasonable. But it might not pay to be too close to this new regime. Circumspection was the order of the day. Information should be gathered, a keen ear kept open for hints and whispers. He should be prepared, but nothing precipitous should be ventured. Ignorance breeds confidence, reflection leads to hesitation, as the saying went.
Iupiter optime, tibi gratias. Apollo venerabilis, tibi gratias.
CHAPTER 4
Rome
The Carinae,
Five Days after the Ides of March, AD235
Iunia Fadilla knew herself blessed. A descendant of the divine Marcus Aurelius, she was made aware on many occasions and by all sorts of men that she possessed both beauty and an intellect that th
ey claimed was rare in her sex. Before his untimely death, her father had found her an agreeable and generous husband. Now, two years or so after the marriage, her elderly spouse more predictably had gone the way of her parent. As was proper, the eighteen-year-old-widow wore no jewels and her stola was of the plainest grey. Yet, as she left the recital, her demeanour was more than a little at odds with her costume of bereavement.
Her friend, Perpetua, evidently was happy as well. They walked, arm in arm, across the great courtyard of the Baths of Trajan. The rain of the day before had gone, and the sky was a clear, washed-out blue. Gaggles of schoolchildren darted here and there, shrieking, sandals slapping on paving slabs, unconfined by their teachers. Also freed from their labours, doctors, artisans and worse drifted in and out of the colonnaded doorways. A group of fullers and dyers laughed as they went to wash away the foulness of their trades. It was five days after the ides of March, the Quinquatrus, the day of the birth of Minerva. Tomorrow, the festival demanded they spread the sand, and men would die, but today all fighting was unlawful.
They left via the north-western gates which gave on to the Oppian hill and turned left. Perpetua’s black hair, her bright gown and gems, formed an attractive counterpoint to Iunia’s head of tumbling blonde curls and sombre attire. They affected not to notice the many looks of frank admiration. Each woman was trailed by her custos and a maid. Almost alone, these followers did not obviously share in the general contentment. The day had nothing of the holiday for them, and the two guards at least had taken little pleasure in the modern poetry.
Perpetua was talking politics. ‘My brother Gaius says this new Emperor may be good for our family.’
Iunia thought Gaius immature and ugly. She had no interest in his views on politics, or on anything else. Politics bored her. But she let her friend talk. She was very fond of Perpetua.
‘Now he is one of the Tresviri Capitales he was allowed to listen to the debate from one of the doors of the Senate House yesterday.’
Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust Page 4