Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust

by Harry Sidebottom

  The quick clack clack of shoes announced the arrival of her friend. At a glance it was obvious that Perpetua had some news that she was bursting to tell. She fidgeted as two of the maids busily pulled out pins, untied laces and removed her clothes. For once, she paused only briefly, turning slightly, inviting admiration of her naked body; engrained habits were not easily held in abeyance.

  Another friend had once told Iunia Fadilla that all girls had a Sapphic side. She wondered about Perpetua. Now and then her own thoughts moved to such things. Not, of course, to the crude, grunting fantasies of men. There was nothing appealing about a mannish woman wielding a dildo. It was a sign of the arrogance of men that they could not imagine a woman finding pleasure except in a penis or its simulacrum.

  ‘You will never guess what has happened.’ Perpetua had not waited to settle on her couch.

  You have a new lover, Iunia Fadilla thought. Or a good-looking stranger paid you a compliment when you were shopping.

  ‘Theoclia has been arrested. The Praetorians came for her this afternoon.’

  ‘Who?’

  Perpetua tutted with exasperation. ‘Theoclia, the late Emperor’s sister. The one married to fat Valerius Messala. They took him too. The Praetorians kicked in their door, dragged them out into the street. They say she was half naked. They beat them in full view of everyone. The last that was seen of them, they were being thrown into a closed carriage. Apparently, they are being taken to the North, to Maximinus himself.’

  ‘Why?’

  Perpetua rolled her eyes. ‘Treason, of course. They were involved in the conspiracy of Magnus.’

  ‘Have any others fallen?’

  ‘My brother does not think so, but his friend Poplicola is terrified. Messala is his uncle.’

  Iunia Fadilla felt a shiver of vicarious fear. This was horribly near. Messala and his brother, Priscillianus, were the closest of friends with her neighbour Balbinus. The Valerii brothers were always in and out of his house.

  ‘What do you think will happen to them?’

  They will be tortured and executed, you foolish girl, Iunia Fadilla thought. Their estates will be confiscated. Before they die, in their agony, they might implicate others, guilty and innocent alike.

  ‘There is no telling,’ Iunia Fadilla said.

  Her heart went out to Theoclia. She remembered her now: a pretty girl, dark, and delicate-looking, in an eastern way. She had seen her several times when Alexander was on the throne. Whatever her husband might have said or done, she was unlikely to have been a part of it. Iunia Fadilla muttered a prayer. A few generations back, or a turn of the stars, and it could have been her. She was the great-granddaughter of the divine Marcus Aurelius. Thank the gods her father had been without political ambition and her husband had retired into private life after his Consulship.

  ‘They say—’ Perpetua lowered her voice, oblivious to the two slaves massaging them ‘—Maximinus is a monster. He went with the guards to arrest Magnus and the others, because he wanted to see the fear in their faces.’

  Iunia Fadilla said nothing.

  ‘And when Alexander was killed, he took his head, carried it about for hours, gloating, peering into its eyes, and talking to it. They even say—’ Perpetua shuddered ‘—he outraged the corpse of the old Empress.’

  Iunia Fadilla signed to her girl to stop the massage. ‘You said Maximinus had named your father as Consul Ordinarius for the year after next.’

  ‘Yes, it is wonderful,’ Perpetua said. ‘Maximinus will take up the Consulship on the kalends of January next year, with Pupienus Africanus, the son of the Prefect of the City, as his colleague. The following year my father will share that honour with Mummius Felix Cornelianus.’ She frowned, thinking hard. ‘Gaius said that Father has been dining with Catius Celer, the brother of the Catius Clemens who helped the gorgeous Honoratus and the other one put Maximinus on the throne. Father is to go north to serve on the imperial staff.’

  Iunia Fadilla turned over on to her back. The slave girl started to massage her thighs. ‘Holding office under a monster?’

  Perpetua raised herself on one elbow. ‘They are just rumours, probably all made up. Gaius said that Father said that, all things considered, the reign had not started too badly. Maximinus has taken an oath that he will not kill any Senator. Honoratus, Clemens and Vopiscus – that is the other one, Vopiscus – are all men of honour. A conspiracy has been uncovered, and there has been no persecution. Only the guilty have suffered.’

  ‘All Emperors take that oath,’ Iunia Fadilla said. ‘Elagabalus took that oath, and he killed them if he did not like the look of them.’

  ‘Father always says we should pray for good Emperors, but serve what we get.’

  Iunia Fadilla actually snorted. ‘Every Senator has said that, especially when they were serving a tyrant they hated. Nummius was convinced that all reigns get worse. He was so old he remembered when Commodus came to the purple; a young man of incredible promise, before the conspiracies made him afraid and his profligacy made him avaricious. Nummius said fear and poverty were the true secrets of the empire. After a time, all Emperors kill men for their money. Accusations are no longer investigated, but believed.’

  Perpetua lay face down again. ‘Perhaps someone will inform against Serenianus,’ she said quietly, ‘and then there will be no danger of my husband coming home.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Africa

  The Town of Theveste,

  Two Days before the Ides of May, AD235

  Thank the gods for the baths at Theveste. Gordian had spent most of the morning in the laconicum. Lying in the dry heat, the sweat and alcohol had poured out of him. Now, although weak as a lamb, he felt somewhat better. Standing with the others on the top step of the temple, clad in his best parade armour, only a little queasy, he now thought he could get through the rest of the day.

  It had been a good night, Bacchic in its frenzy. Alexander and his Companions had never drunk deeper. Menophilus had been less congenial than sometimes. Reverting to Stoic type, he had claimed duty called him and had left early. A shame: if you cannot rely on a man at a symposium, can you trust him on a battlefield? Of the others Valerian had been preoccupied throughout, but Mauricius good company and Sabinianus on sparkling form. Gordian looked along the line of waiting dignitaries and caught Sabinianus’ eye. The latter smiled back. Perhaps he had gone too far. After the others had departed, when his head was reeling from the wine, he had told Parthenope and Chione to disrobe. After they had pleasured each other, he had shared them with Sabinianus. Doubtless, many would disapprove, but he had no intention of being bound by provincial morality. Only what you share with your friends is yours for ever.

  ‘I do not see why we should pander to these barbarians,’ Valerian was saying. ‘Rather than negotiate with them, we should burn them out of their lairs.’

  No one answered. Menophilus had his nose deep in some gilded official document.

  ‘If they are too remote, then we should extend the frontier defences, keep them out.’

  Gordian thought the view of Valerian had much in its favour.

  ‘You know we cannot do that. We have to admit them.’ Mauricius spoke patiently.

  Valerian grunted, not seeming mollified. At times, he had quite a capacity to be a bore. Last night, amid the food and wine and levity, he had inveighed at some length against the appointment of some new imperial Procurator. The man was a savage, a new Verres. He would not shear the provincials but flay them. They did not call him ‘the Chain’ for nothing. As the gods were Valerian’s witnesses, there would be trouble. The Africans were not the Sicilians Verres had tyrannized in the days of Cicero. Mark his words, there would be blood.

  When Valerian had exhausted that topic, he had complained at length that, although his name had been put forward in the Emperor’s consilium, he had not replaced Julius Licinianus as governor of Dacia. After that, he had explored the causes and negative implications of the removal of one of his kinsmen by m
arriage from the governorship of Achaea. Egnatius Proculus had been appointed curator of roads and overseer of poor relief in a district of Italy: not quite an insult – but it had to be considered a step down. At best, Egnatius had lost his province only so that Rutilius Crispinus could take his place. But, even in that case, it indicated that the Egnatii were not high in imperial favour. And the reasons could be far worse.

  Gordian studied Valerian’s disgruntled face. Valerian should count his kinsman lucky. That morning, news had arrived that Memmia Sulpicia, the mousey ex-wife of Alexander Severus whom Gordian had visited on his way back from Ad Palmam, had been executed. Neither her sex nor living quietly on her estate outside the backwater settlement of Vicus Augusti had spared her. The given reason was that she had been in correspondence with the traitor Magnus on the northern frontier. The killing had been the first action of this new Procurator. Perhaps Valerian had a point about Paul the Chain after all.

  A trumpet call hurt Gordian’s head. He arranged his military cloak over his left arm, squared his shoulders, put on his stern Roman face. Someone had once said he looked like Pompey the Great. Alongside, the others straightened up too. The soldiers around the Forum came to attention. It had been Gordian’s idea to bring the deputation this far into the province, and to have a sizeable contingent of 15th Cohort Emesenes on hand. The speculatores had guided Nuffuzi past Ad Palmam, the scene of his defeat. Hopefully, the chief of the Cinithii might reflect on the extent and power of the imperium.

  The arch at Theveste was typical of a small provincial town. Only two men could ride side by side through its gates. Aemilius Severinus escorted Nuffuzi into the Forum. Two nomads followed, then, in column of twos, the detachment of the scouts.

  As the cavalcade crossed the open space, the auxiliaries shouted the password: ‘Fides!’ Ideally, at this point, the barbarians would be surprised, give evidence of their fear, perhaps cower or weep. That was what they did in stories. Nuffuzi did none of those things. Calmly, he rode up to a couple of lengths from the steps of the temple, and dismounted. A groom ran out to hold his horse. The two tribesmen jumped down and fell in behind their leader. Aemilius Severinus and his Frontier Wolves remained on horseback.

  As Quaestor of the province, Menophilus descended to meet the embassy. He stopped two steps from the bottom. Gordian wondered if the nomads would find it strange that the youngest of those meeting them should take the lead. Presumably, they had nothing like magistracies in their ever-shifting encampments.

  ‘May the gods give you many greetings.’ Nuffuzi looked unchanged; the greying, long braids strung with colourful beads, the small beard on his chin, the air of unhurried assurance.

  ‘May you and yours be safe,’ Menophilus said.

  ‘No evil, thank the gods.’ Nuffuzi nodded. ‘On you only light burdens.’

  ‘No evil, thank the gods. May only good happen to you.’ Menophilus had gone to the trouble of learning the rituals of the desert. Apparently, it was bad form ever to ask who anyone was. That accounted for the reaction to Gordian’s words outside Ad Palmam.

  The final ‘no evil’ having been said, Nuffuzi turned to business. ‘Your soldiers have turned back our people at the frontier. Since the time of the first men the tribes have crossed from the desert to the sown in the early summer.’

  ‘You crossed not long ago,’ Menophilus said. ‘You brought fire and sword.’

  ‘Those evils lie in the past.’ Nuffuzi might have learnt the language in army camps, but there was still an archaic stateliness to the chief’s Latin diction. ‘You need us. Your rich need our young men to help gather their harvest. Later, when the children and the women bring the herds, the animals will manure your fields. Your rich hire our warriors to oversee their workers in the fields. Unlike their own slaves and tenants, we do not steal.’

  ‘And you need us,’ Menophilus said. ‘Your animals would die without our grazing. Without our markets, your tents would contain no fine things. We will need assurances.’

  Nuffuzi nodded. ‘My eldest son, Mirzi, is the joy of my heart. Although his absence pains me, let him remain among you as a hostage.’

  Gordian had forgotten the youth, who stood off to one side of the temple podium, flanked by two auxiliaries chosen for their physique and fierce demeanour.

  ‘That is a noble gesture.’ Menophilus paused, evidently weighing his words. ‘The governor, the noble Gordian Senior, desires amity with the Cinithii. Sometimes the majesty of Rome grants honours to the leader of a friendly people from beyond the frontier. The citizenship of Rome, the title of friend and ally of the Roman people, these are things of consequence. Those especially trusted, once in a lifetime, might be granted Roman office over those peoples among which he lives. To be Praefectus Nationes brings a man honour, within the empire and outside.’

  Nuffuzi remained impassive, but the two tribesmen murmured. So, Gordian thought, they know Latin as well. But had his father really decided to give office to this barbarian? His memory of the governor’s council back in Hadrumetum was clouded.

  Menophilus produced the gold- and ivory-bound document he had been reading earlier. So that was the duty that had summoned him away from the revels of last night.

  ‘Friendship is sealed not just by words, but by actions,’ Nuffuzi said. ‘The eastern marches of your province have been plagued by bandits. Their village is in the hills south-east of Tisavar. It is not easy to find. My son will lead you there. The village is well fortified. There will be hard fighting. Mirzi is a warrior. He will fight in the front rank.’

  Gordian glanced over at the Cinithian youth, at the bandaged right wrist where he had near severed Mirzi’s sword arm. How well would the boy fare now close to the steel? The thigh wound Gordian had taken in return still troubled him.

  ‘The leader of the robbers is a brigand called Canartha. He has plundered many caravans, many villages and villas. There is much wealth there. It would be a fine thing to take it from him. Should any be offered to Mirzi or his father, it would be well received.’

  Gordian could not help but smile. Old Nuffuzi wanted to use the Romans to rid himself of a rival, and to get rich from their efforts. Still, Gordian felt the lure of action. He was better at leading men in the field than listening to lawsuits. That sort of drudgery was best left to dutiful young Stoics like Menophilus. Like Mark Antony, Gordian could revel in peacetime, then shrug off his pleasures and rise to the stern demands of war. If only his father would give him the command.

  ‘Friendship is sealed with oaths as well,’ Menophilus said. ‘Bring forth the standards.’

  The silver images of Maximinus Augustus gazed down from on high. Handsome, his strong jaw clean-shaven, there was a look of the divine Julius Caesar about him.

  The desert chieftain kissed the tips of his fingers, touched the palm of his hand to his forehead. ‘By the immortal Macurtam, Macurgum, Vihinam, Bonchor, Varissima, Matilam, and Iunam, the august, the holy, the saviours, I, Nufuzzi of the Cinthii, swear to be true to the Romans.’

  As the uncouth names were recited, the pointlessness of it all struck Gordian. Why should these outlandish deities – or any other – care? The gods were immortal, perfect in their happiness, contained in themselves. If they could be pleased by offerings, or angered by inadequate rituals, they would not be content in themselves, and thus they would not be divine. The gods had no interest in the doings of men. But now, perhaps, Nuffuzi would think twice before he broke his word.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Far North

  The Harzhorn Mountains,

  Four Days before the Ides of July, AD235

  Caius Petronius Magnus rose from the swamp, blood-bedraggled. His eyes bulged, his hands beckoned. Timesitheus went to move back. The mud sucked at his boots. He put up his hands to push back the dead Senator.

  Another bad dream. Timesitheus opened his eyes. By the light of the single lamp, he saw the low ridge pole, his travelling chest and his armour on a stand, a folding stool. Outside the tent he
heard a horse whicker, men talking and moving: the sounds of the camp stirring.

  Just a bad dream. No daemon: they did not exist. Not a message from the gods: they did not exist either. And not guilt, definitely not guilt. He had tested Magnus and the others. If they had been loyal, they would not have been so ready to conspire, would not have had the forger make coin-dies with a portrait of Magnus as Emperor. If they had been loyal, they would have denounced him, and they would have been rewarded. Tranquillina was right. If he had not exposed their latent treachery, another would have done. They had possessed ambition without intelligence. They deserved their fate.

  Timesitheus yawned. His eyes were watering. He rubbed them with the back of his hand. At least neither that fat fool Venacus nor the mincing Catilius Severus had yet taken to haunting his sleep. No wonder he had bad dreams. He was exhausted in mind and body, and now everyone in the army had good reason to be afraid.

  The campaign had started well enough. They had crossed the Rhine, paraded under the ancient Arch of Germanicus on the far bank and trudged off into the vast forests of the North. The Germans had melted away before them. The native settlements were deserted. Maximinus had let the soldiers loot what little they contained and then ordered them burnt. From time to time, they captured untended herds. These too the Emperor handed to the soldiers. The few barbarians they took – the slow and unlucky – were also given to the soldiery.

  After some days things began to change. The campfires they came across were still warm, some smouldering. Strange figures were half glimpsed through the trees. First stragglers, then scouts began to disappear. The initial attacks fell on parties out foraging. They were beaten off easily enough, but each left a few men dead or wounded. Together, they added to the rising apprehension.

  Finally, they emerged from the mountains on to a broad plain. Several days further march and the hostile tribes – the Alamanni, Cherusci and Angrivarii – offered battle. They were drawn up in front of a marsh. No sooner had the legions closed than the Germans fled into the swamp. Disregarding all caution, Maximinus had pursued them, spurring his mount into the morass. The water had risen above its belly. The Emperor was mired. Tribesmen swarmed all around him. Only the courage and prompt action of the men of 2nd Legion Parthica had saved him.