Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

And there was the river. The sun was out when they finally saw the Aesontius. With the vanguard, Maximinus had watched the German horsemen spurring down through the trees. Laughing, boasting their ability to cross in full armour, they had put their mounts into the water below the piers of the dismantled bridge. The Aesontius was not like their slow northern streams. Swollen by the rain and the snows melting in the mountains, it was a rushing torrent. They were not halfway across before they were in trouble. Maximinus had heard their screams of terror as the current took them. They floundered and turned as it swept them downstream. One by one, they went under. Of the twenty men and horses that went into the water, none had come back. Today the Aesontius would be placated with a sacrifice.

  The cavalcade halted at the replacement pontoon bridge. A page held his horse’s head, and waited for Maximinus to dismount.

  The improvised bridge looked solid enough. It had been the notion of Volcatius, a Senator previously overlooked by Maximinus. Apparently he had seen similar in his native Gaul. Although the countryside had been stripped of everything portable, there were a lot of empty, rounded wine barrels in the deserted fields. They were enormous, the size of a house. Watertight and hollow, they floated like ungainly boats. Laboriously, they had been manhandled into the water, firmly anchored, and lashed together. With brushwood laid on top of them, and soil piled evenly on top of that, a roadway crossed the Aesontius.

  Maximinus inspected the troops drawn up along the bank. They looked tired, dirty, and hungry. But the soldiers, unlike their effete officers, were resilient. Although some had fallen by the wayside, there were still some thirty thousand with the standards. It was the most potent field army in the world. If Aquileia had not already fallen to Vopiscus, the town could not hope to resist such a force. Ravenna would not be saved by its marshes and lagoons. Then on to Rome. A steady, ordered progress, crushing all in its path. Vengeance meted out.

  The gods willing, of course. Maximinus spat on his breastplate to avert bad luck. He knew the high-born officers at his back would be looking askance at such superstition. To Hades with them, and their condescension.

  Maximinus swung down from the saddle.

  Would Paulina have approved of the ritual he was about to perform? He had doubts. She had been the most gentle of women, kind-hearted. War was the work of men. And this he was about to do was time-hallowed, a venerable part of the mos maiorum.

  It was not two years since she had died, but already he found it hard to remember her exactly. The harder he tried to recall her pale eyes, her delicate features, the more they slipped away. He carried with him several coins bearing her portrait. At times, on the march, or when meetings of the consilium dragged, he studied them. They bore only a passing resemblance to his memories. Whoever made them perhaps had no idea what she looked like. The long nose, the jutting chin; they reminded him of a feminine version of himself. The two images merging into one. It was fitting; they had been as one.

  Maximinus looked over at his son. There was nothing of himself in Verus Maximus. You heard of daemons fathering children on women in the guise of their husbands. But there was nothing of Paulina either in the weak, cruel youth. When Maximinus was very young, old women in the village talked of witches stealing infants, leaving some changeling in their cot.

  Back in Emona, Maximinus had been saddened by the news that Iunia Fadilla’s carriage had been found looted and abandoned. He imagined the misery inflicted by his son that had driven her to that desperate, doomed flight. It had taken courage. He did not like to think of her raped and murdered by bandits in some dark wood or dismal lair.

  Verus Maximus, of course, had refused to believe she was dead. He had vowed to find her, to take a terrible revenge. In his ravings, it was unclear if his petulant, vicious retribution would fall on his errant wife or the brigands. It made no odds. Verus Maximus was too ineffectual to achieve anything by himself, and Maximinus had immediately called off the search. In a civil war, soldiers could not be spared to scour the hills of the backcountry for a corpse in a ditch.

  ‘Imperator.’ The voice of Anullinus brought him back.

  Maximinus waved the Praetorian Prefect away. There was something feral about Anullinus, something wrong with his eyes.

  Setting his massive shoulders, Maximinus stepped onto the bridge. He gestured for Apsines and Javolenus, his bodyguard, to accompany him. With those two on either shoulder, he felt reassured. Verus Maximus crowded his back. The rest of the entourage – Senators, equestrian officers and heads of chanceries – trailed after.

  The soldiers had the prisoner waiting at the centre of the bridge. The animals and the sack were ready. It had been Maximinus’ idea, although Apsines had advised him on the technicalities. Maximinus had rejected a hood for the prisoner. If a man had to die, even a traitor should have one last look at the light he was leaving.

  Apsines had shown his worth. True or not, his words had calmed the soldiers during the eclipse. Since Paulina died, Maximinus often talked to the Sophist. There was no one else. Paulina was dead, the companions of his youth, Tynchanius and Micca, were dead. Maximinus was alone.

  Apsines deserved the status and ornaments of a Consul which Maximinus had awarded. The Senators with the army complained that giving such honours to an equestrian subverted the mos maiorum. As if the ways of the ancestors could be reduced to formal ranks and privileges, rather than duty and virtue. And the Senators betrayed their arrogance and stupidity by not realizing that what they said in their tents in the presence of their slaves would be reported to the Emperor. The frumentarii of Volo were in every elite household. At court there was no privacy. There were informants everywhere.

  Abanchus the Sarmatian was bound hand and foot. Stripped to the waist, his back was a bloodied mess from the scourge. There was dried blood in his long hair.

  Maximinus remembered walking into the hut. He had been no more than a child. His family all dead. His mother and his sisters naked. It was not Abanchus’ tribe of Iazyges that had done the killing, but all northern barbarians were the same; savage, irrational, less than human.

  Verus Maximus pushed Apsines out of the way, stood by his father. The youth’s eyes were alive with anticipation.

  ‘This is wrong,’ Abanchus said.

  ‘You are a traitor, and you deserve to die.’ Maximinus still found it hard to believe that Menophilus, or even the little Greek Timesitheus, would stoop so low as to invite barbarians into the empire. How could the most depraved citizens put their own interests above the good of the Res Publica? Thank the gods Abanchus had been caught trying to sneak through Pannonia. Honoratus would have to deal with Cniva the Goth on the Danube.

  ‘Give me a sword.’

  Verus Maximus laughed.

  ‘Let me fight in the arena. Give me the death of a warrior.’

  ‘An Emperor is the father of his people.’ Maximinus had listened to what Apsines called political philosophy. ‘An attempt on the life of an Emperor is …’ – the word escaped Maximinus – ‘is to try and kill your father. Punishment should fit the crime. Let the sentence be carried out.’

  The cockerel was easy enough to get into the leather sack. Although its legs were tied, the dog was more difficult. The soldier carrying the viper wore gauntlets, and handled it with great caution. It had been impossible to get a monkey.

  Abanchus was lifted off his feet, stuffed head first into the sack. When the neck was secured, it muffled the terrible sounds: the dog snarling, the man screaming.

  Verus Maximus clapped his hands with pleasure.

  The sack thrashed and bulged as it was dragged to the edge. A heave, and it splashed heavily into the river.

  In moments it was gone.

  Parricide – that was the word Maximinus had been hunting for – parricide.

  CHAPTER 16

  Northern Italy

  Aquileia, Two Days after the Ides of April, AD238

  Menophilus walked out from the River Gate. With him were Crispinus, his fellow commander, a
nd the two leading magistrates, Barbius and Statius. The entire town council followed. Menophilus could sense their indecision; the way their fear gnawed at their dignity and resolve. It was important the civilians were there. This was their town, and a show of unity was vital.

  In the distance a small party of horsemen was leaving the enlarged eastern camp. They would be Maximinus’ envoys.

  The Thracian’s army had arrived the day before. The great columns of infantry and cavalry had snaked across the plain, standards flying, purposeful and imposing. Their sheer numbers had terrified the townsfolk watching from the battlements.

  The imperial field army had divided, and funnelled towards the two camps constructed by Vopiscus. All afternoon soldiers had laboured, digging ditches, building palisades, and erecting tents. It seemed impossible there could be shelter for all that multitude. At sunset a herald had approached the town walls, proposed a truce, and arranged this parley.

  Menophilus stepped onto the bridge. The Natiso was fifty paces wide. Menophilus stopped where the central twenty paces of the span had been demolished. The water at his feet was very green, slow moving.

  The envoys cantered down the road in the sunshine. Beyond them, beyond the camp, the plain stretched, green and flat, until it dissolved into a blue haze. All that could be seen of the mountains was a faint dark line of the foothills. White clouds piled up above the invisible heights.

  Maximinus would not come himself. It was beneath the imperial dignity to bandy words with rebels. He would send some junior officers.

  Menophilus looked downstream. When he had first arrived in Aquileia, the port had been bustling. Ships and barges moved in the roadstead, more made fast to the wharves. Stevedores, bent under their burdens, unloaded wine, olive oil, and luxuries brought from the south. The snap of whips as cattle and slaves were driven up the gangplanks, the creak as cranes swayed bales of hides down into holds.

  Now the waterfront was silent and empty. All the ships had sailed, except for a few rivercraft which had been hauled up into the warehouses. The cranes had been dismantled, moved to other places, ready for some more bellicose use. The slipways were blocked, and the passages into the town bricked up. The walls and rectangular towers were a patchwork where they had been hastily repaired with anything that came to hand: broken statues and tombs, the drums of fallen columns. Above them, from between the crenulations, the townsfolk – women and children, as well as men – peered out anxiously. Even the soldiers, standing up there by the four ballistae, appeared nervous.

  The riders were approaching the bridge.

  Menophilus, affecting unconcern, let his gaze slide upriver, off to the north. There were three bridges over the Natiso, close together, all broken now. For the first couple of hundred paces the trees along the bank had been cut down. The water there flashed like a mirror in the sun. Further out dark poplars and lighter willows stood along the banks. The branches of the latter hung down over the stream, making a shaded, secret passage. The river ran not far from the other camp of Maximinus’ army. Menophilus viewed the scene through a fog of fatigue and guilt; the climate of his life.

  The envoys had arrived. There were six of them – a tribune, three Centurions, and two troopers. They dismounted. The troopers held the horses, and the others came onto the bridge.

  ‘It is my son,’ Barbius said.

  Menophilus had feared this, and, now his fear was realized, found he had nothing to say. Words failed him around Barbius.

  ‘Courage,’ Crispinus said, and put his hand on the shoulder of the magistrate. ‘We must all have courage.’

  They stood on the far side of the gap. The tribune, Barbius’ son, took off his helmet, the better to be heard.

  ‘Maximinus Augustus, the Emperor to whom you have given your oaths, orders you to lay down your weapons.’

  He was a fine young man, tall and composed. His gaze took in them all, only briefly resting on his father. Military command had given him a voice that carried well.

  ‘You should receive him as a friend rather than an enemy. You should be occupied in making libations and sacrifices rather than preparing for bloodshed.’

  His words were greeted with silence.

  ‘Do not forget that your city is on the point of annihilation. It is in your power to save yourselves, your homes, your wives and children. Accept the offer of an amnesty and a pardon for your errors from our noble and merciful Emperor.’

  Behind Menophilus the town councillors shifted and whispered.

  ‘It is not the people of Aquileia who are guilty, but those who have led them astray.’ Barbius’ son chose his words carefully. ‘Hand over the instigators of this treason. Only Menophilus and Crispinus will be punished.’

  The muttering behind Menophilus was louder.

  The tribune looked at his father. ‘My wife and children are in our family home. Father, spare them. You have lost one son, left to die by Menophilus, the man you protect. Spare the rest of your loved ones.’

  Menophilus had to say something. Nothing suitable came to mind. What use was his Stoic philosophy? Death is nothing. We are dying every day. Family and friends, life itself, all are like figs, they do not last. Menophilus knew himself a bad actor, with the wrong lines.

  ‘Stay firm.’ Crispinus turned his back on the envoys, addressed the townsfolk. ‘Do not betray the Senate and the people of Rome. Earn yourselves the title of saviours and defenders of all Italy.’

  Crispinus pointed back at the camp on the plain. ‘Do not believe the promises of a tyrant who breaks his word and deceives people. How many defenceless men has he tortured and killed? Do not be enticed into surrendering yourselves to certain destruction.’

  He walked without alarm among the councillors. Long-bearded, the broad purple stripe on his toga; Crispinus embodied senatorial dignitas. ‘Do not be disconcerted by the size of their army. Those who serve a tyrant fight with no enthusiasm. You who fight for your own homes, for libertas, can expect the favour of the gods. You have stout walls, weapons in your hands, courage in your hearts. Defy the tyrant!’

  The townsmen were silent. They looked at Crispinus, and sidelong at each other. Everyone was waiting for a lead to follow.

  Barbius stepped to the very lip of the broken span. There were tears running down his face.

  ‘May the gods hold their hands over you, my son. But this thing you ask, it cannot be done. If we surrender, your brother died for nothing.’

  ‘But, Father—’

  ‘Enough,’ Menophilus said. ‘You have your answer.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Northern Italy

  Aquileia, Four Days after the Ides of April, AD238

  From a point of vantage high on the aqueduct Maximinus could see the town and hinterland of Aquileia laid out like an intricate drawing by a land surveyor. He almost expected to see carefully inserted labels and numerals. The Via Julia Augusta and the aqueduct ran parallel and arrow-straight down to the walls near on half a mile away. From this distance the aqueduct looked undamaged. Only the last twenty or thirty paces of the arches had been demolished. Obviously the defenders had been worried by the possibility of soldiers using the watercourse to reach the walls. They had diverted the water far to the north. Where the line of the road and aqueduct could be seen again beyond the defences, they continued to the open space of the Forum. To the right was the Circus, its western wall forming part of the perimeter, and further on was the amphitheatre, set back in urban parkland. In the far left corner of the town stood the great Temple of Belenus. The Natiso bounded Aquileia to the east; having been hidden by the town, the river reappeared running south to where, some five or six miles distant, the waters of the Gulf of Tergeste flashed in the deceptively peaceful sunshine.

  Once, many years before, when on guard duty in the Palace, Maximinus had heard Septimius Severus tell of a dream which had revealed that one day Severus would hold the imperial power. A god had taken Severus to a high place commanding a wide view, and, as he gazed down from
there on all the land and all the sea, he laid his fingers on them as one might on an instrument capable of playing wonderful music. The whole world had sung at his command.

  Maximinus’ own accession had been more mundane. No deity had given forewarning. All the supposed omens had been invented after the event. It had been on the Rhine. The recruits that he had been training had mutinied. Taken by surprise, Maximinus had been unable to stop them acclaiming him Emperor. The purple would have proved fatal within the day if Vopiscus, Honoratus, and Catius Clemens had not pledged the support of the legionaries they commanded. In hindsight, Maximinus suspected the uprising might not have been quite as spontaneous as it had first appeared. It gave him grim satisfaction to think that if the senatorial triumvirate had wanted a malleable ruler, their hopes had not been realized. Maximinus knew that the northern barbarians posed a mortal threat to Rome; everything else paled into insignificance. Desperate times demanded hard measures. To survive, savage wars had to be fought along the Rhine and Danube, the empire had to be run like an armed camp. This uprising was a distraction that must be speedily crushed. There was no time for delay.

  ‘A pity the city did not fall to my first assault,’ Vopiscus said, as if he could tell what his Emperor was thinking.

  ‘Once the rebels had killed your legionaries, they knew we must take revenge. The embassy of young Barbius was bound to fail,’ Maximinus said.

  ‘But it was worth me making the attempt.’ There was the sound of a question to Vopiscus’ self-justification.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Maximinus said. ‘Aquileia will fall today.’

  High on his eyrie, the wind buffeting his ears, Maximinus gave the order to advance.

  The trumpet note was picked up and repeated along the line below. The arms of the ballistae snapped forward, and thirty iron-tipped bolts shot away towards the battlements. There was no reply. The scouts had reported that the defenders had only eight pieces of artillery along this northern wall. Doubtless they would conserve ammunition, and keep those who served the machines below the crenulations until the attackers were closer.