The soothsayers had predicted a dynasty of three generations from Maximinus’ house. His only male relative was a second cousin. Rutilus was serving as a junior officer with Honoratus on the Danube. The youth had promise, but lacked experience. Maximinus would not wish on him the lonely, awful eminence. The soothsayers may well be mistaken. The will of the gods was hard to discern.
More and more Maximinus’ consideration turned to Flavius Vopiscus. In a long series of commands, the Senator had shown courage in war, ruthless efficiency in peace. He was capable and ambitious – too ambitious, even? Could he rein it in, govern for the benefit of his subjects? Or would he be a slave to his own desires, treat the Res Publica as his private possession and become a tyrant? The question was unanswerable. No man’s soul was completely revealed until he was above the law, beyond all restraint. At least his amulets and collections of oracles demonstrated that Flavius Vopiscus feared the gods.
Maximinus realized that he was still staring at his son. Verus Maximus would not meet his eyes. A coward as well as cruel. It was no wonder that his wife had run away. The imperial spies had reported the beatings. When Iunia Fadilla was found – how could a lone woman evade detection? – he would send her somewhere safe, away from Verus Maximus. Of course, when he retired, she would be safe. Before abdication, there would be one last, stern duty. Like a Roman of old, Maximinus would execute his son.
A hubbub broke into Maximinus’ thoughts. In the deepening gloom, men were shouting. The soldiers were clashing their weapons on their shields, the trumpets were sounding.
The sun! The sun!
As Maximinus looked, the sun vanished.
In the darkness soldiers lit torches, beseeched the gods, lamented their fate.
If the sun falls, it warns of desolation for men, the death of rulers.
Maximinus’ heart shrank, his courage deserting him. The treasures from the temples. It had not been sacrilege. He had not seized them for himself. Every last one of them had gone to pay for the war, to protect the temples themselves, to protect the homes of the gods. The secretary Apsines, all of the council, had said the gods offered him the treasures. There was no sacrilege. The gods should not turn against him.
The desolation of men, the death of rulers.
Apsines stepped forward. The Syrian had his hands raised like a herald at the spectacles calling for silence.
‘Soldiers of Rome.’
Those nearest quietened.
‘This is a terrible portent – terrible not for us, but for our enemies!’
The troops shifted in the dimness, as unconvinced as Maximinus.
‘Soldiers of Rome.’ Apsines had the voice of a trained Sophist, skilled in dominating an audience. ‘Soldiers of Rome, remember your heritage. On the day Romulus founded the eternal city the sun failed. You march to Rome. When your Emperor Maximinus has scoured the Senate, cleansed the seven hills of traitors, exiled vice and restored virtue, it will be as if Rome was refounded.’
A sliver of light in the sky. Maximinus’ spirit lifted. Perhaps the Syrian was right; he was an educated man.
‘Follow Maximinus Augustus, the new Romulus, to found Rome anew. Thank the gods for this sign. Rejoice! You are the instrument of their will.’
In the gathering daylight, the troops gave a ragged cheer.
To Rome! To Rome!
PART II:
ITALY
CHAPTER 5
Etruria
The Hills outside the Town of Volaterrae, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238
Nothing separated humanity from the beasts except self-control. No one had greater need of that quality than a man who had hidden his own history. More than half a century of lies and evasions, of subterfuges and half-truths had left their mark. Pupienus knew that he had been shaped by the long decades of iron discipline, the ceaseless guard against an unconsidered word. Today he would cut the last link to the past. The severance would demand every ounce of his self-control.
The plebs thought him gloomy and aloof, even forbidding. Pupienus had nothing but contempt for their views. During the eclipse earlier, as they passed through Telamon, he had watched the plebs running here and there, howling and wailing. Surely even the meanest intelligence could grasp that it was nothing more than the moon passing between the earth and the sun. The plebs had no self-control.
The small cart rattled up the narrow track into the hills. Pupienus turned the ring on the middle finger of his right hand, the ring containing the poison. His wife and sons, all his household, thought he was visiting the estate on the coast south of Pisae. It had been bought for that purpose. He would go there afterwards; talk to the bailiff, inspect the fields, act as if nothing had happened. Looking out at the wooded slopes, Pupienus found it hard to believe that he would never make this detour again. As ever, he travelled with just his secretary Fortunatianus. The latter drove the cart. There would be no other witnesses.
It was a bad time to be away from Rome. The next meeting of the Senate would be held in five days. In politics there was always more that could be done, but Pupienus’ preparations had been thorough, indeed meticulous. He thought he could count on enough votes. The inducements he had offered should be enough to sway both the faction of the Gordiani as well as the avaricious patricians clustered around Balbinus. For the former, Valerian was promised a senior post with the imperial field army, and his brother-in-law Egnatius Lollianus the province of Pannonia Superior. Before the latter had been dangled the prospects of Rufinianus becoming Prefect of the City, and Valerius Priscillianus a travelling companion of the Emperor. Although the stroke of genius had been the mouth-watering delicacy Pupienus had set before the greed of Balbinus.
The cart lurched around a bend. Not far now. Since setting out, Pupienus had tried to fortify himself with examples of men who had put the Res Publica before their families. Nothing useful had come to mind, nothing Roman, or edifying. Instead the old story of Harpagus had haunted his thoughts. Harpagus had offended the King of Persia. Invited to a royal banquet, Harpagus had eaten his fill. At the end of the dinner, the King ordered a salver uncovered to reveal what Harpagus had consumed. Under the cover was the head of the courtier’s beloved only son. Asked how he had liked his meal, Harpagus had managed to reply, ‘At a King’s table, every meal is pleasant.’ That was how one ate and drank at the court of a King. One must smile at the slaughter of one’s kin.
One last rise, and they were there. Pupienus told Fortunatianus to stop. He got out, and looked down on the little homestead tucked away in a fold of the hills. The simple dwelling, the yard with the cistern and the small forge. The drystone walls of pebbles from the river bound with clay. The smoke drifting over the red tile roofs. The ringing of the hammer on the anvil. It seemed impossible that he would never come here again. What he had to do was unfeasible. It was against nature. But in the pursuit of an empire there was nothing between the summit and the abyss.
Pupienus walked down the slope, and went through the gate. The aged dog lying on the dung heap recognized him, and did not bark. Getting to its feet, it came unsteadily over. Wagging its tail, it licked his hand.
The forge was as Pupienus remembered. The slave boy was standing, pumping the tall bellows, forcing air into the furnace. The aged blacksmith was perched on a stool by the small anvil. He had the head of a hunting spear in the pincers, was working it with a hammer. Pupienus noticed the hammer was lighter than his last visit.
Seeing him, a look of delight appeared on the face of the smith; quickly suppressed. Telling the boy to go and prepare food, the blacksmith quenched the spearhead, then got up, agile despite his more than eighty years. Fortunatianus had remained outside. They were alone.
Pupienus embraced the old man, inhaling the familiar scorched smell, feeling the strength that remained in the muscles of arms and shoulders.
‘Health and great joy, Father.’
Not letting go, the smith leant back, regarded him.
‘What is wrong?’
<
br /> Pupienus took a deep breath – charcoal, hot metal, dust – and tried to find the words. ‘The Gordiani are dead.’
‘Even in this remote backwater, we heard.’
‘The Senate intends to elect a new Emperor from the Board of Twenty.’
His father smiled, sadly. ‘And you are a candidate.’
‘Yes.’
They stood without speaking, holding each other like men on the edge of some disaster.
Pupienus’ father broke the silence. ‘You know that I never wished to be parted from you. Your brothers and sisters were dead. I had buried your mother. You would have died too. I had nothing. The man I sold you to was not unkind.’
‘No, my master did not mistreat me,’ Pupienus said. ‘And our kinsman Pinarius soon saved the money to buy my freedom, took me to Tibur, brought me up as if I were an orphan. I have never blamed you.’
His father disengaged himself. ‘But an ex-slave cannot hold a magistracy, let alone aspire to the throne. Give me the ring.’
‘No!’ Pupienus was shocked despite himself. ‘There is no need. Apart from the two of us, only Pinarius and Fortunatianus know. My old master has been dead for more than three decades. Your slave thinks that I am an old patron of yours.’
‘Give me the ring.’ His father’s voice was gentle. ‘I am old, my strength failing. Would you deny me a peaceful release?’
Pupienus could not speak.
‘My mind begins to wander. I talk to myself. Words escape my mouth unintended.’
The slave boy knocked on the door. The food was ready.
They walked across the yard to the house with its bare earth floor, sat on rustic benches. The boy sent away, they ate alone: bread, cheese, cold mutton.
‘I know you cannot come here again,’ his father said.
Self-control, Pupienus told himself. He could not let his discipline desert him now. He took the ring from his finger, and handed it to his father.
That was how one ate and drank at the court of a King.
CHAPTER 6
Northern Italy
The Aesontius River, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238
Menophilus was back at the bridge over the Aesontius, gazing down at the Pons Sonti from almost the same place. But the circumstances were different. Last time it had been night, now it was day. Then he had ten men, now four hundred. Then he had been hunted, now he was the hunter. The gods had looked graciously on his endeavours.
It did not do to tempt fate. If the day went well, if he survived, he would make an offering. Nothing extravagant, not an empty show of ostentatious wealth, but give the gods something he valued. The small, silver memento mori of a skeleton would serve. He had worn it on his belt for years, thought it brought him luck. He would dedicate it in the Temple of Belenus in Aquileia. Menophilus smiled. Once he had thought he was on the path to Stoic wisdom, now he accepted that he had not advanced a step. Far from a sage, he was still a fool mired in superstition.
If the gods had not had a hand, a strange combination of efficiency and negligence on the part of his enemy had given Menophilus this opportunity. With the competence of years in the field, Flavius Vopiscus had built the pontoon bridge, got the siege train across the river, and marched off towards his objective. All had been accomplished with alacrity, yet, displaying a carelessness that could only have come from an utter contempt for those ranged against him, Maximinus’ general had not thought it necessary to bring any cavalry. It had made the task of Menophilus’ scouts simple. Operating in pairs – one from the 1st Cohort, and a local volunteer – they had kept their distance. Menophilus had no wish to disturb the complacency of Vopiscus. All he needed to know was the whereabouts of Vopiscus’ main force.
The four thousand or so Pannonian legionaries that comprised the advance guard of the imperial army were camped, along with the wagons carrying the disassembled siege engines, ten miles to the west on the Via Gemina, about six miles north-east of Aquileia. Informed of that, Menophilus’ strategy had been obvious. A night march from the city, east along the Via Flavia to reach the river, and then follow the stream north. Get behind Vopiscus, approach the bridge without his knowledge. The farm had been a worry. Half a mile from the site of the Pons Sonti, when Menophilus had been here before, it had contained an enemy piquet. They could warn the garrison of the bridge. Extraordinarily – yet more evidence of lax overconfidence – the guard had been withdrawn from the farm. The house, barn, sheds, and huge wine barrels were all empty. Now Menophilus’ auxiliaries were resting in the farmstead, eating cold rations as an early midday meal, waiting for his signal.
Menophilus himself was back in the woods, lying, wrapped in a dark cloak, among the beech trees and elms, under whose boughs young Barbius had been hacked to death. He pushed the thought away. Guilt served no purpose. What could not be changed was an irrelevance. The youth’s father would not see it, but death was nothing. It was a release.
The river was even higher than before. Its waters surging through the roots of the willows on its banks, breaking white over the remains of the piers of the demolished stone bridge, tugging with immeasurable force at the pontoons of its replacement. The little rowing boat had gone; perhaps, if carelessly moored, it might have been swept downstream by the force of the current.
Waiting was the hardest part of battle. Menophilus did not fear death. What was life but standing in the breech, awaiting the barbed arrow? Nothing was certain in war – one should never take the favour of the gods for granted – but he had few doubts about the outcome of the day. Below him less than a hundred men of the 10th Legion Gemina still guarded the nearer, western end of the bridge. There were more enemy troops at the far end; among the trees, their numbers could not be gauged, but there was no reason to think them any greater. Menophilus outnumbered the foe, by two to one, or more. Surprise was on his side. Wait for the right moment, when the legionaries were at their most unready, a sudden charge, seize the bridge, and sever the cables securing the pontoons. The river would do the rest. Vopiscus, the advance guard and the siege train, would be isolated on the Aquileian side of the Aesontius. Maximinus and the main army left stranded on the other. It would not win the war, but it would delay and frustrate the enemy.
The eight men who would wield the axes and cut the bridge were volunteers. Menophilus had consulted an engineer, a sardonic individual called Patricius. Part the cables holding together the two central pontoons, and the river in spate would tear the rest of the structure apart in moments. The volunteers had been promised great rewards, comparable to those first over the walls in the storming of a city. Their names were all listed, as were those of their dependants. In the myth Horatius, the bridge demolished behind him, had swum the Tiber in full armour. Today, Patricius assured him, many, perhaps all of the men with axes would be claimed by the Aesontius.
Menophilus watched the grey-green water rushing past, inexorable and carrying all manner of flotsam. His eyes rested on a branch, a drowned cat, another branch; always changing, always the same. When he had been here before, his duty had seemed clear. The Gordiani were dead. His post was at Aquileia. Who the Senate placed upon the throne was none of his concern. He would remain at Aquileia, defend it to the best of his ability, defend it to the last. Now he was not so sure. Had grief warped his judgement? Maecia Faustina and the boy Junius Balbus remained in Rome. Young Gordian had never been close to his sister or nephew, but they were his blood. With a new regime, the relatives of the old rulers were at risk. The house of the Gordiani was wealthy, its stored-up treasures might provoke the cupidity of any new Emperor. Should Menophilus have left the defence of Aquileia to his colleague Crispinus? Should he have gone to Rome to safeguard the Domus Rostrata and its inhabitants, to protect a widow and her child?
What of the pitiful remnants of the familia that had escaped from the disaster in Africa? With old Valens the Chamberlain had come Gordian’s concubine, Parthenope. She was pregnant. If Parthenope had not been a slave, and if the child she car
ried was a boy, he would have been heir to the throne. For a Stoic, freedom and slavery were not defined by the laws. Inside every individual was a spark of the divine Logos. If his soul was servile, the King of Persia was a slave, while, if such was his nature, the lowest slave in chains could be a King. Outside Rome, in the Villa Praenestina, there were already many slaves fathered by the younger Gordian. Somehow this unborn child was different. Menophilus had dined and laughed with Parthenope. It did not seem right that his friend’s posthumous child should live in servitude.
Down by the river, smoke was curling up from the cook fires. The legionaries were beginning to mill about, starting to prepare food. Only ten of them still stood to arms, a few yards out in the road. It was time.
Menophilus turned to Flavius Adiutor, the Prefect of the 1st Cohort.
‘Bring up your men. The show should begin.’
With heightened senses, Menophilus tracked the departure of Adiutor; the chink of his armour, the snap of each twig, the suck of mud at his boots. It had rained very hard in the night, but the blustery wind from the south-west had blown away the clouds. The sun shone from a ceramic blue sky, dappling the road where the trees overhung. Yet if the wind remained set, it would bring more storms.
No body of troops ever moved in silence. You could order them to muffle their arms, wrap their boots in rags, but it was almost impossible to convince them of the necessity of removing the good luck charms from their belts. What was the point of silence, if it might occasion your death? Menophilus was in no position to judge them. He heard the jingle of ornaments of Adiutor’s men before the tramp of their feet. Eyes never leaving the legionaries down by the bridge, he could not help grinning at his own prescience. The customary levity of meal times – the shouts and songs, the clatter of utensils – would mask the sound of the approaching auxiliaries. The timing was perfect, and his men were fed, the enemy hungry. An empty belly sapped a man’s courage.
Fire and Sword Page 6