Menophilus warned himself against taking pride in his foresight. Do not tempt the gods. Worldly success was worthless.
Slipping back through the wood, Menophilus waited for the auxiliaries around the bend in the road, out of sight from the bridge. They came into view. Five Centuries, steel helmets, mailcoats, weather-beaten faces above oval shields; these were hard men, veterans transferred from the East by Maximinus for his northern wars. Now they would fight against the Thracian. All men were bound to fate, like a dog to a cart.
They halted, and Menophilus went through the plan once again with Adiutor and the Centurions. One Century was to remain here, as a reserve. The others were to go down to the river. Around the corner, it was less than a hundred paces to the Aesontius. They should charge at a jog, maintain silence, keep their order, shout their war cry just before contact, chase the guards away. Two Centuries were to stay on this western bank, no unnecessary killing, accept the surrender and disarm any legionaries who had not fled. The leading two Centuries were to follow those who escaped across the bridge, drive off the troops at the far end, then return. They should leave behind just two Contubernia on the eastern side. Twenty men should suffice – the walkway of the pontoon was no more than eight paces wide. Menophilus would send in the men who would cut the bridge. When it was about to give, the two Contubernia would be recalled.
The volunteers with axes fell in behind Menophilus, at the side of the road. The officers returned to their stations. No trumpet calls or bellowed orders – these troops knew their business – just a nod from Adiutor, and they set off.
Menophilus moved through the trees parallel to the column to find a point of vantage. The forlorn hope hefted their axes, and followed him. It was best not to think about them.
The leading auxiliaries were around the bend, clattering twenty or more paces down the incline, before the alarm was raised.
Enemy in sight! Many voices were shouting at once.
The ten legionaries in the piquet raised their shields, shuffled together, all the time yelling for support, and glancing over their shoulders. Their companions ran here and there to snatch up their weapons. They were getting in each other’s way, cursing and shouting, stumbling and tripping over cooking pots and all the other impedimenta of a camp in uproar.
Watching from above, Menophilus did not let himself smile. Never tempt fate.
Ulpia Galatarum! Menophilus’ men shouted as one.
When the war cry of the auxiliary Cohort rang out, the legionaries broke. Taken unawares, in complete disorder, faced by an avalanche of steel, they could not be blamed. Some ran into the woods on either side. More dropped their arms, held out their hands in supplication. Yet the majority turned and rushed to the bridge. There they jostled and fought to get onto the pontoon, and then, casting shields into the water, they ran pell-mell across.
The two designated Centuries of auxiliaries were hard on their heels.
With more warning, the legionaries at the far end of the bridge had time to form up, shoulder to shoulder, shields overlapping, blocking the walkway. But it was their own tent-mates who crashed into them, hauling their shields aside, desperate to get away. Like a badly made dam, the shieldwall held for a moment, then collapsed under the pressure. On the eastern side of the Aesontius, figures vanished up the bank, into the woodland. Resistance was at an end.
Going down to the bridge, Menophilus and the volunteers waited for the troops to stream back across. Adiutor was everywhere, roaring commands, rounding up prisoners, restoring order. The operation could not have gone better: a bloodless battle, a victory without tears.
Walking out onto the now empty bridge, Menophilus’ boots sounded hollow on the planks. A few feet below those thin boards, he could sense the rush of the river. The pontoon seemed a fragile, impertinent thing in the face of such power. Reaching the centre, he took stock. The post of twenty auxiliaries at the eastern end, Adiutor getting the remainder, and the thirty or so prisoners, under control on the western bank. All was in hand, but there was no reason to delay.
As Menophilus turned to the waiting men a cloud darkened the sun.
‘Cut the cable holding the anchor of this barge.’
The men did not move. They were staring at the sky.
‘There is no time to waste.’
The nearest soldier dropped his axe, raised his arms to the heavens. Another sank to his knees. They all began to shout; incoherent, terrified prayers.
It was getting darker; more like night than day.
Menophilus looked up. The sun was vanishing. Not a cloud, but an eclipse.
If the sun falls, it brings desolation to men! The soldiers were wailing and sobbing like women. Desolation and death!
‘It is nothing,’ Menophilus called, ‘an eclipse, a shadow.’
Lost in dread, the men ignored him.
‘It is not a portent. It is just the moon passing between the earth and the sun.’
Pray to the gods, pray for the return of the sun!
Menophilus took off his cloak, held it in front of the eyes of the nearest soldier. ‘Is this alarming? Is this a terrible omen?’
He whisked the cloak away. The man stared at him, open-mouthed, not speaking.
‘What is the difference, except the eclipse is caused by something bigger than my cloak?’
In the murk, the soldiers stopped weeping. They stood, trembling like frightened animals.
‘You are soldiers of Rome, not irrational barbarians, or effete easterners. Master yourselves, remember you are men, recover your discipline.’
His words were greeted by an uncertain silence. Not all men were amenable to reason.
‘The gods control the cosmos.’ Which was true in a sense. ‘When we return safe to Aquileia, we will sacrifice an ox to Helios, the sun god, another to the god of the river. See, the moon is passing from the face of the sun, the light returning.’
With the daylight, the men’s courage returned. Some looked shamefaced, but others were still evidently shaken. Hard labour and the very real dangers of the river in spate would take their minds off the eclipse.
The downpour in the night had combined with the spring melt from the mountains to make the Aesontius rise dangerously. The barges were riding higher than allowed for by the engineers who had built the bridge. The anchor of the central one on which Menophilus stood had dragged. Its cable was now at an angle of no more than forty degrees; not enough to hold against the stream were the barge not lashed to those on either side. The others were much the same. The anchor of one, however, had caught. It was now dragging the prow of its barge down towards the surface. The pontoon was under intense stress, yet it would stand, unless something intervened. Menophilus gave the order to cut the anchor rope.
As two of the men clambered onto the prow, and prepared to wield their axes, a messenger ran back from the advance post on the enemy side of the river. There were troops moving in the woods to the east. Menophilus kept the runner with him. He could not see the enemy yet. Anyway, there was nothing to be done. The handful of men on the far bank would have to hold.
The axes bit down into the cable. It was thick, waterlogged, taut as if woven of steel. The impact of every stroke vibrated through the barge. Suddenly, like a clap of thunder, it parted. One end shot away into the river like a water snake. The other narrowly missed the legs of one of the axemen. The decking shifted under Menophilus’ feet, the barge wallowed, lurched backwards. The screech of tortured ropes and wood was loud over the roar of the river. The additional strain pulled at the cables that ran laterally from barge to barge, and up the risers to the banks.
Originally Menophilus’ plan had been to sever the bindings from the Aquileian bank. It would have been infinitely safer for those doing the cutting. Yet, Patricius had told him there was the possibility that the pontoon would swing like a hinge, and many of the barges might come to rest against the far bank. If undamaged, they would allow Maximinus’ men to quickly repair the bridge. Menophilus had take
n the engineer’s advice, and made the hard decision to break the centre of the structure.
The runner was sent to recall the outpost from the far end of the bridge.
Menophilus spotted a flash of movement in the treeline on the opposite shore. The enemy had rallied fast, much faster than he had expected. There was not a moment to lose. The bridge must be destroyed before it could be retaken.
The men of the piquet ran past, boots drumming on the woodwork. Menophilus told the axemen to turn their attentions to the ropes securing the barge to its neighbour. They hefted their blades. He hesitated, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to him. He turned, and ran after the others, towards safety.
Looking back from the bank, the scene was set out like some grand spectacle in the Flavian Amphitheatre: the dark green hills beyond, the pale line of the pontoon crossing the roiling waters of the river. There were two ropes at the prow of the barge, two at the stern. The men worked in pairs, legs braced, blades flashing in the sun.
Now there was a new audience: a Century of enemy legionaries on the far bank. Their Centurion, marked out by his bronze helmet with its jaunty transverse crest, was belabouring them with the vine stick of his office. Again and again he brought it down on their backs, trying to force them to move out onto the bridge. Enduring his blows and imprecations, they would not budge.
A crack echoed above the noise of the river. A rope at the prow of the barge whipped back, dashed one of the axemen to the decking. The rope next to it parted. Another man went down. With an awful inevitability, the pontoon began to give, bowing downstream. The men on their feet dropped their axes, started to run back towards Menophilus and safety. Two loud reports, and the ropes at the stern snapped. The bridge parted, the force of the floodwater forcing its sides apart.
The decking heaved and swayed under the feet of the running men. They staggered, reeling side to side, as if drunk. One went sprawling. Green water spumed up between the planks. Fifty paces to go. Behind them, a barge ripped free, ropes hissing murderously through the air. Then a second, and a third. Thirty paces. The men lurched, fell to their knees, scrabbled forward. Then the walkway in front of them splintered and tipped, and the whole pontoon came apart, unstitched along its entire length.
The heavy barges spun, ramming into each other, crushing everything in between. All of Menophilus’ men were gone, except two. In the chaos of wreckage, they clung to an upright barge. Their shouts could be heard above the din. The barge swung out into midstream, turned side on to the torrent. Slowly, very slowly, it tilted, and overturned. And there was no more shouting.
‘The men are ready, the prisoners secured.’ Adiutor’s voice was flat, betraying no emotion or criticism.
‘Have the men form column of march.’
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Menophilus looked out at the Aesontius, at its waters as they swept the debris downstream, and he felt the relentless, remorseless pounding of guilt. It was like the river; it never stopped.
CHAPTER 7
Rome
The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Eight Days before the Ides of April, AD238
The eunuchs were dancing in the Forum. It was a bad omen. Wailing, clashing cymbals, they capered away from the armed guard. The eunuchs were everywhere, the streets full of their cacophony. It was the third day of the festival of Magna Mater. The courts were closed, and the Senate should not convene. Yet there were few days in April without one festival or another. Even an Asiatic deity, an immigrant like Cybele, accepted that in an emergency the Res Publica took precedence. And it was the anniversary of Caesar defeating the Numidians; that, at least, was auspicious.
Pupienus walked under the Arch of Septimius Severus. In the crowded reliefs above his head, the Emperor made a speech, his troops took cities, battering rams shook walls, barbarians surrendered, and gods looked on in approval. The scenes of overwhelming triumph were timeless, all the more powerful for being divorced from narrative. Severus had been a fine Emperor; certainly stern, and a terror to his enemies at home and abroad. Pupienus owed much to Severus, and would keep his example in mind.
As Pupienus and his entourage ascended, their progress was hindered by gangs of plebs drifting up to the Capitol. Unlike the eunuchs, the sordid plebs did not leap aside. Some stood, with dumb insolence, until the guards shoved them out of the way. As Pupienus passed, the plebs – men and women – regarded him with silent hostility. Pupienus knew they thought him harsh, blamed him for the deaths in the Temple of Venus and Rome the previous year. The plebs were fools. There had been only a few killed. As Prefect of the City, he had ordered the Urban Cohorts to use cudgels, not their swords. He had left the side gates clear for the rioters to escape. If it had not been for him, the Praetorians would have been sent in, and massacred everyone in the holy precinct. As it was, his clemency had cost him his office. Maximinus had dismissed him for insufficient zeal in his duties. Now he was Prefect of the City again, and, if the gods were kind, by dusk he would be something greater. He put the plebs out of his thoughts. They were not worth considering.
They came out onto the summit of the Capitol by the altar of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Behind it loomed the huge temple of Rome’s patron deity. The gilded doors and roof of the home of the Best and Greatest god glittered in the sun.
There were more of the plebs up here. Off to one side, they clustered around the statue of Tiberius Gracchus, the long-dead demagogue and would-be tyrant they regarded as their martyred champion. It had been erected on the spot where he had been beaten to death by patriotic Senators intent on saving the Res Publica. The plebs did not concern Pupienus. Let them wait outside the doors, while their betters decided the fate of the empire.
Pupienus walked up the steps, through the tall columns, and, leaving his bodyguards at the doors, into the inner sanctum. The cella was tall and dark. Already there were several hundred Senators murmuring on the ranks of benches set out along the sides. Looking neither left nor right, Pupienus walked the length of the chamber, and stopped before the statue of Jupiter. At a small, portable altar, he made a libation of wine, and offered a pinch of incense into the fire. Jupiter – seated, massive, and chryselephantine – gazed over Pupienus’ head at the smoke coiling up to the ceiling.
Piety satisfied, Pupienus acknowledged the presiding Consul, Licinius Rufinus. He took his place on the front bench in the midst of his supporters. On either side were Praetextatus and Tineius Sacerdos; both also ex-Consuls and fellow members of the Board of Twenty. Their combined friends and relatives were ranked about them.
The opposite benches contained Balbinus, and his repellent coterie of patricians. Prominent among them was Rufinianus. It was contemptible, and utterly predictable, that Rufinianus, also one of the Twenty, had abandoned his assigned post defending the passes over the Apennines, and scurried back to Rome to see what personal advantage he could secure.
Pupienus lifted his eyes, let them wander over the golden eagles, whose wings supported the roof. It was in the lap of the gods. He had done all that he could. Balbinus was bought and paid for. His cruel, sensuous mouth had slobbered at the offer. Undoubtedly it would not stop him reneging on his word, if his greed spotted something yet more tempting on the table. The avarice and vanity of the other patricians had been accommodated; not that they were any more to be relied upon.
Returning his gaze to the floor of the hall, Pupienus sought out Valerian. Broad and solid, with an open, trusting face, he sat modestly some way from the tribunal of the Consul. Of course inducements had been offered and accepted, but Valerian was a dutiful man, and would do what he had been persuaded was best for the Res Publica in this time of danger. By default leader of what remained of the faction of the Gordiani in Rome, Valerian brought with him the allegiance of the commanders of those troops in the city not already under the command of Pupienus himself. Yet Valerian had vetoed bringing soldiers onto the Capitol. Pupienus had conceded the point. T
he impression created would have been one of military tyranny. The guard of young men from the equestrian order was altogether more fitting. It evoked that of Cicero in his finest hour; when he saved the state, defending libertas from the conspiracy of Catiline.
The bodyguard had been the idea of Timesitheus. An equestrian himself, within hours, the Praefectus Annonae had raised a hundred stalwart youths from good families, equipped them with swords. The stock of Timesitheus stood high. The first in the field against Maximinus, he had slain the Thracian’s Prefect of the Camp. He had organized irregular forces to harass Maximinus’ communications and supply lines over the Alps, had risked his life and taken a wound escaping from the tyrant’s men, and ridden post-haste to bring the news to Rome. The bandages on his left hand were widely regarded as a badge of honour. Pupienus did not trust him. There was no denying his capacity, but a strange light burned in the dark eyes of the Greek; a light of ambition unrestrained by any morality or compassion. Now Timesitheus had armed men at his beck and call, and, as Praefectus Annonae, he controlled the grain supply of Rome. Timesitheus needed watching very closely. Any Emperor might feel the need to be rid of such a dangerous subject.
‘Let all who are not Conscript Fathers depart. Let no one remain except the Senators.’
The ritual words of the Consul were to be taken literally. This was to be a closed session. The clerks, scribes and other servants, public and private, filed out. Licinius ordered the doors shut and bolted.
‘Let good auspices and joyful fortune attend the people of Rome.’
There were no windows, and the only light came from torches in archaic sconces on the walls. Shadows massed in the recesses, flitted across the walls; insubstantial yet threatening, like the souls of the dead. The air was close, sickly with incense. Pupienus was sweating, his chest tight. From long habit, he went to turn the ring which was no longer on his finger. The throne was almost within his grasp, the reward for a lifetime of endeavour and self-control, the culmination of his rise from obscurity. When his patron Septimius Severus ascended the throne, he had himself adopted into the imperial dynasty. Some wit had congratulated Severus on finding a father. No one would find Pupienus’ father now. The familiar, terrible emotions of guilt and love gathered in the darkness at his back, and were now joined by an aching sense of loss.
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