Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘There are Senators in the temple,’ Crispinus said.

  ‘By their own volition. Three or four troublemakers – let them suffer the consequences of their demagoguery.’ Africanus turned to his father. ‘You must send in the troops.’

  ‘Gods below, boy, this is Rome,’ Crispinus said, ‘not some barbarian village.’

  As Africanus bridled, Pupienus knew he must step in before their discussion became more heated.

  ‘I will talk to them.’

  ‘Talk will achieve nothing,’ Africanus said.

  ‘Your father is Prefect of Rome, not you.’ At Crispinus’ words, Africanus lapsed into a bristling silence.

  ‘Send a herald,’ Crispinus said. ‘They may be in an ugly mood.’

  They went and stood in the shade until the herald returned, then walked across the square.

  The temple of Venus and Rome towered above them. At ground level, the doors to the storage rooms were locked and chained. A dense crowd looked down at them from the terrace. Gallicanus was easy to spot. He stood with Maecenas and two other men in togas with broad purple stripes.

  ‘We are doing no wrong,’ Gallicanus called. ‘We have come to worship the deities and to guard their treasures.’

  ‘It is beneath our dignitas to shout at each other in the street like slaves.’ Pupienus had commanded armies; he could make his voice carry. ‘Come down, and we will talk elsewhere.’

  ‘Duty forbids me to abandon the goddesses.’

  Sanctimonious fool, Pupienus thought. ‘Give me safe conduct, and I will come up.’

  Gallicanus spread his hands to encompass the crowd. ‘We are law-abiding citizens of Rome. You need no safe conduct. The temples are open to everyone with no evil in their hearts.’

  Infernal gods, the man was insufferable. Pupienus turned to the others. ‘I will go alone.’

  As one, Crispinus and Africanus said it was not safe, they would go with him. Pupienus was adamant. They were all bound by man’s mortality: only the memorial of right conduct could set one free; everything else was fleeting, like man himself.

  Pupienus took the narrow steps to the right. There was a makeshift barricade halfway up, on the landing where they turned to the left. Suspicion, if not outright hostility, was evident on the faces of the plebs who part dismantled it to let him through. They had piled stones behind it, and a few, in defiance of the law, openly carried weapons. Pupienus let that pass, and continued to the top.

  The toga Gallicanus wore looked as if he had weaved it himself. His thick brown hair was wild and his forearms uncovered. He reminded Pupienus more than ever of an ape.

  ‘I am delighted you have come to join us,’ Gallicanus said.

  Pupienus paid no heed to what he took to be a heavy-handed attempt at humour. He greeted Maecenas and the other two Senators, who he now recognised as ex-Quaestors called Hostilianus and Valens Licinianus.

  ‘Your honour, position and reputation are all at stake,’ Gallicanus continued.

  ‘Can we talk in private?’

  Gallicanus swung around, arms wide, as if he intended physically to embrace the closest unwashed plebeians. ‘An honest man has nothing to hide, not from the people of Rome, not from the gods.’

  With an effort, Pupienus controlled his rising anger. ‘This has to stop now. I have an order from the Emperor to clear the temple.’

  ‘So his creatures can steal the temple treasures, melt them down to give to his pampered soldiery,’ Gallicanus said.

  ‘Wars have to be fought,’ Pupienus said. ‘Maximinus has announced that the gods have offered him their possessions for the defence of Rome.’

  Gallicanus drew himself up, and bellowed, ‘Sacrilege! The plebs of Rome will not stand by and see the gods despoiled.’

  The crowd murmured its approval. Pupienus looked coldly at the nearest men. They fell silent. He turned back to Gallicanus. ‘You know as well as I do it is the cutting of the grain dole which has brought the plebs out, that and fewer shows. They have no concerns beyond bread and circuses.’

  The noise of the throng swelled, angrier than before. Individuals towards the back called out insults and threats. Pupienus thought his words might have been ill judged.

  ‘Quirites, you hear yourselves denigrated—’

  ‘Enough.’ Maecenas interrupted Gallicanus. Surprisingly, the latter stopped.

  The crowd still shouted, its indignation rising.

  ‘Come,’ Maecenas said to Pupienus. ‘I will escort you back.’

  As he walked down, Pupienus could hear Gallicanus again haranguing the mob.

  ‘You will send in the Urban Cohorts?’ Maecenas asked.

  ‘If I do not, it will be Vitalianus and the Praetorians.’

  ‘You must do as your conscience dictates, but it will be a bloodbath.’ Maecenas stopped, took Pupienus by the arm, leant close. ‘Maximinus cannot last. The plebs will follow any alternative.’

  ‘Even Gallicanus and his restored Republic?’

  Maecenas did not respond to the sarcasm or answer the question. ‘Maximinus may have married his son to a great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius, but the Emperor’s other descendants will no longer serve under him. Claudius Severus and Claudius Aurelius have left Rome and withdrawn to their estates. The nobility are abandoning Maximinus. Too many have been condemned. The soldiers alone cannot keep him on the throne for ever.’

  Pupienus was sweating, not just from the heat of the day. He had to choose his words with care. The future was always uncertain. He had not risen so high by being careless in the enemies he made. ‘I do not wish you or Gallicanus any harm, but you know that any Senators caught inside the temple will have to be arrested for treason. There will be no choice.’ It sounded weak to his own ears.

  Maecenas released his arm, and turned and went back up the steps.

  Having issued the necessary orders, Pupienus walked up the Sacred Way along the south side of the temple. Crispinus was silent, wrapped in his own considerations. Pupienus asked his son to be quiet. He needed to think. The street was like a furnace, and his head ached.

  Massive and built of stone, the temple made a natural fortress. Apart from the two constricted staircases at the east, there was one easily blocked entrance on each of the northern and southern sides. The only practicable place to force a contested access was from the west, and that was up a steep flight of eleven marble steps.

  Emerging from the Arch of Titus, Pupienus found his men already drawn up in the Forum. A squad doubled past to prevent anyone escaping from the southern door. An officer informed him that others were on their way to seal the other exits.

  Pupienus knew there was truth in the things Maecenas had said. But the man was a fool if he gave any credence to Gallicanus’ insane ideas of restoring the free Republic. This was all the fault of the yapping Cynic dog. Of course the plebs were restive – they had reason to be, who did not? – but it would not have led to this if Gallicanus had not whipped them into a frenzy. Pupienus should have handed him over to Honoratus on the evening of Maximinus’ accession. He should have ignored the oath he had given the hairy, posturing philosophic ape. The gods knew, he had thought about it on the day his first son took the Consulship. Now it was too late. He would have to unleash soldiers on to the civilian population, or his own head would be displayed in front of the Senate House.

  A tribune saluted, and said all was ready.

  Pupienus gave him new instructions.

  ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

  As they waited, Africanus remonstrated with his father – it was not enough, too lenient – but Crispinus said it was a good political compromise, a Tacitean middle way. When all was ready, they moved back next to the House of the Vestals to be out of range.

  A trumpet sounded and the soldiers of the Urban Cohorts hefted their shields. The front rank crouched behind theirs; those in the rear held them above their heads. The trumpet called again and the phalanx edged forward. The men beat on
the insides of their shields in time with their slow, measured tread.

  Up on the podium, the boldest plebs ran to the top of the steps. They moved sideways, as if dancing. Their arms whipped forward, and the first missiles flew. Pupienus saw an eddy in the formation, where a soldier must have been hit. Most of the bricks and bits of masonry bounced off the shields.

  The phalanx reached the foot of the steps and began to ascend, like some ponderous amphibian beast going up a beach. More projectiles rattled down. There was no order among the rioters, and no sign of Gallicanus.

  The trumpet rang out a third time. With unexpected suddenness, the carapace of the phalanx broke apart. The leading ranks bounded up the remaining steps. Surprised, the mob turned to run. Some slipped on the marble paving, scrabbled desperately to get away. With the bosses and edges of their shields, the soldiers knocked the laggards to the floor. The clubs in their right hands cracked down on skulls, shoulders and arms.

  In a moment, the crowd had vanished into the echoing gloom of the temple. The soldiers chased after them, all except the rear two ranks, who drew up at the top of the steps as a reserve. One or two rioters lay prostrate at their feet.

  The sound of running feet, hobnails on stone. Pupienus and his companions swung around.

  ‘What in Hades do you think you are doing?’ Vitalianus shouted.

  Pupienus met the furious gaze of the deputy Praetorian Prefect, but said nothing.

  ‘Your men are watching the traitors escape from the other doors.’

  ‘My orders were to clear the temple, not instigate a massacre.’ Pupienus spoke clearly, wanting everyone to hear.

  ‘We will never find the ringleaders. This is your fault.’

  ‘My orders were to clear the temple. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

  ‘Do not bandy words with me.’ Vitalianus jabbed a finger at Pupienus. ‘Maximinus will hear of this. You have done yourself no favours with the Emperor, no favours at all.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Africa

  Carthage,

  the Kalends of September, AD237

  The ring was set under a big tree. Sunlight dappled the sand. Gordian took another drink, and offered a wager on the black. Menophilus accepted, and backed the russet. Gordian was still surprised that Menophilus had come with him; it was not his type of thing. But Sabinianus and Arrian were away, and Menophilus was a good friend.

  The trainers held the fighting cocks in both hands, passing them in front of each other, lingering a moment when they were almost close enough to strike. At a sign from the official, the men stepped back with exaggerated theatre and, bending, gently dropped them to the ground. Released, the cocks flew at one another in a wing-beating, head-thrusting, leg-kicking eruption of animal fury so pure, so absolute and in its way so beautiful as to be almost abstract. They collided and merged into a tight, thrashing ball; a single animate thing of spurs and claws and hatred. Only when they both left the ground could they be told apart. The crowd sighed, and the black lay, alive but bloodied and not moving.

  Gordian passed over the stake. ‘That is the third bout running. My genius is afraid of yours. It fawns on you, as Antony’s did Octavian.’

  Menophilus put it in his wallet. ‘Then be thankful we are contending for a handful of coins, not mastery over the inhabited world.’

  Gordian finished his drink. ‘I should have avoided your company today. Stoics are not meant to approve of cockfighting.’

  Menophilus refilled their cups. ‘We cannot all be Marcus Aurelius.’

  The trainer picked up the vanquished black. Tenderly, he stroked and fluffed it, his hands expressing the grief his face would not. The crowd looked on, respecting his self-control.

  Gordian took another long swallow of wine. The news had arrived that morning. He had never been close to his sister. There was nothing of their father in her, none of his delight in the pleasures of life. Maecia Faustina had always been disapproving; more than disapproving, she had always been forbidding. She took after their maternal grandfather. Still, she would be upset. Tomorrow, when he was sober, he would write her a letter of condolence. He felt sorry for that son of hers. A sickly, weak-looking little boy; bad enough having Maecia Faustina for a mother, but to have no father.

  Frowning, he tried to work out where Junius Balbus would be now. The ship had made a quick passage from Syria to Carthage. It had left two days after the arrest. They were taking Balbus to the North by carriage. Fuddled by the wine, Gordian counted on his fingers. Most likely, Balbus was somewhere in Thrace. Was it true the prisoners were given no food and no water? The fat fool would not care for that. It was unlikely that he had any experience of deprivation.

  Two new birds were in the ring. The official was inspecting the binding of their spurs.

  Of course, it could not be true. Unless they were brought no distance, the prisoners would be dead by the time they reached Maximinus. There would be nothing for the Thracian to insult or torture. Although they said he had gloated over the head of Alexander. They said he had fucked the corpse of Mamaea.

  Gordian beckoned for more wine, waved away the water. The estate of Balbus would go to the treasury. Although Maecia Faustina had seen to the running of her husband’s house in Rome, she preferred to live in the Domus Rostrata of the Gordiani. She could remain there. The property of the Gordiani would not be confiscated. At least, not yet.

  Balbus was blamed for the defeat outside Arete; the one where the Sassanids had killed Julius Terentius, the commander of the garrison. At the time, Balbus had been sitting on his fat arse in Antioch, miles away. Indolent, possibly negligent, but hardly deserving the death penalty. If the fault of Balbus was small, no dereliction of any sort had attached to Apellinus, arrested in his province of Britannia Inferior. There were rumours that the governor of Arabia, Sollemnius Pacatianus, had fallen as well. This was a reign of terror: Septimius Severus after the defeat of Albinus, Domitian in the dark last years of his reign. When an Emperor began imitating Polycrates, or whichever Greek tyrant it had been, and started lopping off the heads of the tallest flowers, it would not be long before he turned to the Gordiani, the sons and grandsons of Consuls, the owners of Pompey’s house in Rome, the most palatial villa in Praeneste, and another dozen properties besides. No time at all, now Gordian’s fool of a brother-in-law was a convicted traitor.

  ‘I will bet on the scrawny speckled bird, give you a chance to get some of your money back,’ Menophilus said.

  Gordian fumbled for some coins and a couple fell on the ground. He left them. ‘My brown does not look as if it has much fight in it.’

  These cocks were more circumspect. They circled, came together, reared up and struck with their spurs then backed away, circling again. Feathers fluttered across the sand on the downdraught of their wings.

  Gordian looked away. The ring was low, constructed of packing cases. Except where he sat with Menophilus, isolated by their exalted status, the audience was jammed together. Men leant over the barrier, encouraging their bird with wordless gestures, shifting in sympathy with its movements, rapt in their attention. It was not unknown for spectators to lean too far, to lose a finger or an eye.

  The birds were in the air. The speckled cock drove several inches of razor-sharp steel into its opponent’s breast. The brown was down, the victor strutting sideways in its triumph. Somehow the brown gathered itself into a final, doomed attack. The spurs of the speckled bird hurled it back to the sand, trampling it to ruin.

  ‘A day for Stoic duty, not Epicurean pleasure.’ Gordian gave Menophilus the coins in his hand.

  The crowd parted and the solid figure of Valerian approached. Menophilus called for a chair for the legate, and Valerian sat down.

  ‘I am sorry about Balbus.’

  Gordian smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He handed him a cup.

  ‘Have you heard about Mauricius?’ Valerian went on. ‘Paul the Chain has summoned him to appear in court at Thysdrus.’

>   ‘Why?’

  ‘Mauricius’ steward went to pay the tax grain there, and the Chain told him to deliver it to Thabraca, or pay a huge transportation cost. When Mauricius heard, he rode over in a rage. He cursed Paul, told him that he had worked his way from poverty to wealth without ever submitting to extortion, and he was not going to start now. Apparently, Paul would have arrested him there and then, but he had only a couple of guards with him, and Mauricius had a dozen or more armed friends and clients.’

  ‘This cannot go on.’ Gordian spoke precisely, as he did when well on his way to being drunk. ‘We need a new Chaerea or Stephanus or …’ He could not think of any other killers of tyrannical Emperors.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Menophilus said.

  Their servants were out of earshot, and the crowd were shouting the odds for the next fight, but he spoke more softly. ‘If we do not kill Maximinus, he will kill us – all of us.’

  It was a measure of their friendship that the other two did not suspect entrapment.

  ‘We have no legions,’ Valerian said.

  ‘Africa controls the grain supply to Rome,’ Gordian said. ‘No grain shipments, and the plebs will take to the streets.’

  ‘And Vitalianus’ Praetorians and the new Prefect of the City’s Urban Cohorts will massacre them.’ Valerian shook his head.

  ‘Other provinces would join us.’

  ‘Soldiers pull Emperors from the throne, not the plebs or the provincials.’ Menophilus leant forward. ‘Only three armies are big enough to win a civil war, those on the Rhine, the Danube and the Euphrates. It is unlikely the eastern army could win against the two in the North. Maximinus can only be brought down by those with him.’

  ‘We must save Mauricius,’ Valerian said.

  ‘The Chain has the trust of Maximinus.’ Menophilus spoke sadly. ‘The thing is impossible.’

  Gordian relapsed into silence with the others. His eyes followed the cockfight, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Mauricius had fought with them at Ad Palmam. He was a friend. Real friendship must take pains for its friends, run risks for their safety. A man should avoid pain, but even painful actions for a friend bring pleasure. Without friendship, there could be no confidence in the future, no trust, no ease of mind. Such a painful life was not worth living. Epicurus had said a wise man will not engage in politics unless something intervenes. When a tyrant threatens your friends, your tranquillity, the security of the Res Publica itself, a man cannot continue to live quietly out of the public eye.