A line of moored fishing boats formed a contrast to the relentless activity around the merchantman. They would have been out the previous night, but now, with their weathered paint, rough tarpaulins and piles of sand-coloured nets, they looked abandoned. Beyond them, at the end of one of the moles, a group of young boys sprawled on the rocks of the breakwater. When the mood took them, they would stand and dive into the water. Laughing, they would climb out, shake themselves and lie down again to let the sun dry their brown, naked bodies. They were poor, but they were free. Gordian wished he was back in Ad Palmam.
His plan had worked. The nomads guarding the camp had been so engrossed in the assault on the oasis that they had failed to notice the approach of Menophilus with the 15th Cohort. They had broken at the first contact. Their panic had spread to the animal holders, and from them had infected those fighting in the trees and at the gate of the citadel. Pell-mell, they had fled south. Most had got away. Apart from Nuffuzi’s son, there had been only about twenty captured, almost all of them wounded. No more than thirty bodies were found. There had been no pursuit. The 15th Cohort was on foot, and the horsemen with Gordian in the settlement had been handled too hard to be sent out. It would have made little difference. Nuffuzi had managed to keep a grip on many of those around him, and had screened the rout.
Gordian had remained at the oasis for five days. To win back self-respect for himself and his men, Aemilius Severinus had sent his Wolves patrolling south. They had ridden far beyond Thusuros and Castellum Nepitana, far out into the desert, but had encountered nothing except the carcasses of horses and camels. The other troops had buried the dead and tended the wounded. Despite the intensity of the fighting, there were not many of either, no more than forty all told, the majority speculatores, and at least twenty would return to the ranks. A caravan had been organized to take the freed captives back north to their homes. The plunder had been divided among the men. The complications of restoring it to its original owners were prohibitive, and soldiers need an incentive to fight. On the fourth day, those nomad prisoners able to march had set off under the guard of the 15th Cohort to its base at Ammaedara. Along with Nuffuzi’s son, who Gordian had kept in his entourage, they should make useful bargaining counters in the diplomacy which inevitably would follow. The remainder – seven of them – were killed.
With the governor’s horse guards and the African irregulars, Gordian had returned via Capsa, Thelepte and Cillium. He had halted for two days at Vicus Augusti, just short of Hadrumetum. Men and horses had needed a rest. He had paid a courtesy visit to the villa of Sulpicia Memmia just outside the little town. The Emperor Alexander had divorced her, but it was not unknown for the fortunes of such eminent exiles to revive. The short sojourn had given time for news of the victors’ arrival to proceed them to Hadrumetum, and for a suitable reception to be arranged. While he set little store on such things, the men appreciated them. As it transpired, the attention was not disagreeable.
‘Name? Race? Free or slave?’
The principals in the next case had been ushered in. The court had heard one already; a tedious dispute between two smallholders about an inheritance. The younger Gordian judged the position of the sun. Only mid-morning – at least three hours until the recess for lunch – and after that they would be confined in legal wrangling again until dusk. Thank the gods it was April. They had reached Hadrumetum in the middle of the Cerialia. There were just eight days between it ending and the beginning of the Ludi Florales, and three of those were given over to briefer festivals. This was the first of only five days when the governor could give justice until well into May.
The plaintiffs were a bunch of tenants from an estate owned by the Emperor. Gordian watched them make their offerings of a pinch of incense to the Emperor and the traditional gods. Their tunics were patched, but they were clean, and their hands and faces scrubbed.
The man they were accusing was an unctuous-looking Procurator who ran the estate. Clad in a toga with the narrow purple stripe of an equestrian, he was doing his best to appear unconcerned, as if their accusations were beneath him, barely worth answering.
The tenants seemed overawed, their spokesman as much as any. Nevertheless, when the water-clock was turned, he managed to get underway.
‘We are simple men, workers in the fields. We were born and raised on the Emperor’s estate, and we ask, in the name of the most sacred Emperor, that you succour us.’
As he realized that he would be given a hearing, he gained in confidence.
‘In accordance with the laws of the divine Hadrian, we owe the home farm not more than six days of work each year, two ploughing, two cultivating and two harvesting. This we have always done, with joy in our hearts, as our fathers did before us, and their fathers before them.’
The Procurator gave up inspecting his nails and, delicately, with one finger, adjusted his hair.
‘In the past more has been demanded of us by false reckoning. But last year the Procurator dragged us off so often that our own fields went untended. Our crops went unharvested and rotted ungathered. When I complained, he had soldiers seize me. On his command, they stripped and beat me, as if I were a slave and not a Roman citizen. Marcus and Titus here suffered the same shameful treatment.’
The others in the deputation murmured their agreement.
The Procurator shot them a look of contempt, tinged with menace.
The speaker, his blood up now, ignored him and moved on to detail many more instances of ill treatment and brutality.
Gordian’s thoughts drifted off to the festivals. The Cerialia, with its meagre offerings of spelt and salt, its priggish emphasis on purity and its fasting until a sparse meal at star rise, had never held much appeal. And the strange ritual on the final day was thoroughly uncongenial. He was always saddened watching the fox run and twist in its doomed attempt to escape the burning torch tied to its tail. On the other hand, he was looking forward to the Ludi Florales. Six days and nights of fine clothes and lights, drinking and love. The prostitutes slowly, teasingly, revealing their charms for all to see in the theatre. He remembered how Parthenope and Chione had welcomed him back from the victory at the oasis; their dark hair and dark eyes, their olive skin sliding against him, against each other, their fingers and tongues pleasuring each other, stroking and opening, pulling him into them.
Epicurus had said that if you take away the chance to see and talk and spend time with the object of your passion, the desire for sex is dissolved. But he also held that no pleasure is a bad thing in itself. Some desires are natural and necessary. Gordian could not imagine anything more natural and necessary than the pleasures of the bed, especially if you owned two girls like Parthenope and Chione.
The Procurator took the floor.
Gordian had no desire to listen to the string of denials that would follow. No doubt, respectable-seeming witnesses would be produced to appear in support. The side with better connections and greater money always produced more of them. Gordian was already reasonably sure the Procurator was guilty.
What was he doing here? Live out of the public eye, the sage had said. An Epicurean should not engage in public business, unless something intervened. All his life, something had intervened. Gordian looked at his father. The elder Gordian’s ambitions for his son, his love for his father: both had been constants. Now his father was old and was governing a major province. If Gordian did not take some of the burden, he would be tormented with guilt. To help his father was also to help himself. It was the right thing to do. Gordian bent his mind to the proceedings.
The Procurator opened his defence with a flourish. All men of education were brought up knowing bucolic poetry.
That was a conceit, Gordian thought, which neatly excluded the rustic plaintiffs and was intended to forge some link between the defendant and those on the tribunal. He looked at his father and the other assessors. Their faces gave away no more than did his own.
The Eclogues and Georgics of Virgil showed a world of innocence and honesty,
the Procurator said. Old men of antique virtue were bent and gnarled by their life-long labours. Young shepherds played the pipes as they chastely wooed virginal shepherdesses. The visitor found homespun hospitality and wisdom on offer at every humble hearth.
So far, so good – the Procurator appeared to be enjoying his own performance – but men who combined an active life with that of culture, men who accepted their duties towards their estates and towards the Res Publica, men who actually ventured into the countryside, knew different. There they found rough, uncouth accents and manners. Worse, they found squalid indolence and base superstition. Unguided by philosophy or any higher culture, the hairy locals learnt to lie as they took their mother’s milk. Untrammelled by compassion, they regarded violence and force as the ultimate argument. Who had not heard the saying Make your will before you venture down a country lane?
After the Procurator’s litany of rustic iniquity ended, three witnesses swore to his innocence. Finally, the elder Gordian ordered the principals to withdraw and asked the advice of his assessors.
Mauricius launched into an extempore oration of his own. His family was as old as any in Africa, descended both from local landowners and Roman colonists. For generations they had bred too many children. Equal inheritance had reduced them to poverty. He himself had been left just one small field by his father. At first he had worked it with his own hands. He had rented other fields, hired men. Gradually, by backbreaking labour, and the favour of the gods, he had rebuilt his family fortunes. Now he owned wide estates and sat on the city councils at Thysdrus and here at Hadrumetum. He offered his own life as evidence that poverty did not have to drive out honesty and virtue.
More relevant to the case in hand, Menophilus pointed out that the tenants had much to lose by bringing the case. If they lost, they had laid themselves open to the reprisals of the Procurator and his friends. All they were asking for was what the law should already give them.
One by one, Gordian included, the assessors agreed this was true.
Those involved were brought back into the court.
‘In the name of our sacred Emperor Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus, and by the powers vested in me as Proconsul of Africa, I find the complaint upheld. Let the plaintiffs erect an inscription on stone setting out this judgement and the laws of the divine Hadrian. Let no one in future demand more of them than the laws allow, and let no one offer them violence or oppression.’
The Procurator bridled. ‘These rustics are liars. Avoiding the duties they owe to the Emperor is tantamount to treason. Supporting them runs the risk of the same charge. As part of my duties, I am in regular correspondence with the sacred court.’
There was a silence in the courtroom.
‘You think the Emperor would value your word above mine?’ There was no tremor in the elder Gordian’s voice.
On an instant, the Procurator capitulated. No, no, nothing of the sort. Indeed he was sure the noble Proconsul was right. Some of his own agents may have been over-zealous in the interests of the sacred Maximinus. He would see it never happened again.
In the interests of the sacred Maximinus. The irony of the phrase struck Gordian. They had fought the battle of Ad Palmam in the name of Alexander, not knowing that the Emperor was already dead and mutilated. One Emperor died; another took the throne. The governance of the empire continued. It was unlikely this Maximinus would affect them much out here in Africa.
CHAPTER 9
The Northern Frontier
A Camp outside Mogontiacum,
Eleven Days before the Kalends of May, AD235
When they had spread the food and blankets, Timesitheus sent the servants away. No one’s loyalty was infinite.
They reclined in the shade of an apple tree: Timesitheus, his wife, Tranquillina, and the two disaffected Senators. Eleven days before the kalends of May, and even here, at long last, spring had arrived. The sun shone, and the first blossom was on the boughs above their heads. They ate and talked, ostensibly at their ease. Of course, there was no ignoring the activity down at the river. And, Timesitheus thought, the Senators must have been wondering why they had been invited to this outdoor midday meal. His own wheel was very much in the ascendant; theirs on a downward turn.
The noise rolled up the slope: shouts of encouragement, jeers and catcalls, the squeal of wood on wood, the rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil, the deeper thump of a pile-driver and, intermittently over it all, stentorian voices of authority. Down there, all was movement and bustle. Teams of horses dragged big baulks of timber down to the riverbank. Mobile sawmills cut and trimmed them. Gangs of men unloaded huge cables from wagons. Smoke curled up from the forges. Out on the water, the sixth boat was being manoeuvred towards the pontoon bridge. It was guided from a rowing skiff upstream; the men let it drift down. When it reached the right place, a big pyramid-shaped bag of stones was heaved over its prow to act as an anchor. At the same instant ropes snaked out, and in moments the new addition was lashed in place at just the correct interval. Timbers already connected the next one into the rest of the bridge. On those closer to the land, these beams had been decked over, and screens erected on either side.
About twenty yards upstream from the bridge the first breakwater showed above the surface. It consisted of three stout stakes. Iron clamps held it together, making an arrowhead facing into the flow of the water. The raft bearing the pile-driver was moored where the second breakwater would stand. Timesitheus let his gaze linger on the men working the pulleys. Inch by inch, the massive plug of iron was pulled up its curved wooden runner. The order to halt carried clearly to his ears. Another command, a lever thrown, and – oddly noiseless at that distance – the weight fell. The sound of the impact lagged behind its viewing. As the men bent to their task and the lump of shaped metal began another ascent, the great stake it had hit could be seen to have been driven at least three feet further down into the muddy bed of the Rhine.
‘Your bridge is most impressive.’ Marcus Claudius Venacus was of middle height, corpulent. If he was intelligent, his face did him a disservice. However, Maximinus’ abolition of the standing committee, among whose sixteen Senators Venacus had served, appeared to have done nothing to diminish his self-regard.
‘Your energy puts all of us to shame.’ Although somewhat protruding, Caius Petronius Magnus’ eyes promised rather more intelligence than those of Venacus. Yet that did not pledge much, and Magnus had been unable to conceal how badly he had taken the end of their official position. ‘I do not know how you have found time to add the many duties of Prefect of Works to those involved in collecting all the supplies for the expedition. You seem overburdened, while others remain in enforced inactivity.’
Timesitheus smiled. ‘The labour is long and hard, but that makes intervals of leisure like this, snatched moments with such pleasant company, all the more enjoyable.’
Both Senators murmured politely.
Timesitheus gave Venacus his most winning smile. ‘But you are over-appreciative of my efforts.’ Timesitheus pointed off upriver, where a line of unconnected piles of masonry crossed the stream. ‘If we had been making something to last, something worthy of Rome, we should have rebuilt the superstructure of the old bridge of Trajan. Or, at least, we could have copied Julius Caesar and made a proper, well-fixed wooden bridge. But Maximinus Augustus said time and money were against such plans. My bridge is not built to last.’
And Maximinus had called him Graeculus. And, once again, it had been in public. How dare the big Thracian barbarian call him little Greek. Timesitheus felt the tightness in his chest. No point shying away now. If he did, Tranquillina would hold him in contempt.
‘Yet perhaps its ephemeral nature might prove its greatest virtue. Should circumstances demand, I could dismantle it in a matter of hours. It reminds me of the bridge of Darius in Herodotus. The one the Scythians tried to persuade the Ionian guards to demolish, leaving Darius and his army trapped on the other side. How did their argument go? Men of Ionia, the gift we have to
bring you is freedom from slavery, if you follow our advice. Something on those lines.’
No one spoke. The eyes of both Senators were fixed on him. In those of Venacus was a look which might be growing comprehension. Magnus’ were bulging out like those of a lobster.
‘Men, you are always the same,’ Tranquillina said. ‘You never think of the things done by women. If Agrippina had not stood on the bridge over this very river and stopped the soldiers from dismantling it, her husband Germanicus would have been left at the mercy of the barbarians.’
Timesitheus looked at his wife. Approaching twenty-four, she was short, but slender. Her skin as white as marble, her eyes and hair so very black. He knew she had not married him because she loved him or found him attractive in any way. But he loved her, and he hoped – he would have prayed, had there been gods to hear – that over the eight years of their marriage he had inspired more than an iota of affection. Certainly, this daughter of a decayed senatorial family had invested much in the career of her equestrian husband. Nothing was going to stop her raising him to the heights, perhaps to the Palatine, or to Olympus itself.
‘You think it could come to that?’ Magnus put the question to Timesitheus, but his eyes flicked back to Tranquillina.
Timesitheus paused, and arranged his face. Gravity, serious consideration and a certain reluctance, perhaps even sadness, were the intended evocations.
‘The expedition proposes to go further than any for centuries, into the far North, to the ocean. Varus did not come back from there. If the bridge had been cut, nor would have Germanicus. There is nothing but forest and marsh up there. It is the worst terrain for our armies. The German warriors are at their most dangerous in that environment. There are many of them. With their backs to the ocean they will have nothing to lose. They will fight to the death.’
Timesitheus could feel his fear rising, could feel the wet breath of the rodent in his ears.
Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust Page 11