Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  She had to say something to convince him to take her to Timesitheus. ‘I know where Gallicanus is hiding.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘And get no reward? No, I will tell the Prefect.’

  A rock hit a soldier in the face. He doubled up, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

  ‘A trap! There are hundreds of them up on the roofs.’

  More rocks shattered on the road, on helmets, shields and armour. Jagged splinters were flying everywhere, slicing through exposed flesh.

  ‘Get to the sides, under the balconies.’

  The Centurion hauled Caenis with him as he ran. A sting of pain in her leg. The Centurion shoved her against the wall, covered them both with his shield.

  The hail of missiles slackened, but did not cease. The wounded soldier, dragged to comparative shelter, was sobbing. My eyes, my eyes. I cannot see.

  Caenis’ thigh was bleeding. She peered out from behind the Centurion.

  On the other side of the street a soldier was trying to kick open a door.

  ‘Marcus,’ the Centurion roared, ‘do not get drawn into the houses. Hold your position.’

  ‘Fucking cunts, arseholes.’ A soldier somewhere was swearing mechanically, without thought.

  ‘Silence! Listen for the words of command.’

  The Centurion was admirably calm. He spoke to two soldiers. ‘Aulus, Gnaeus, break down this door. Kill anyone on the ground floor, then bring me a lamp, some oil, and plenty of cloth.’

  Another volley of roof tiles smashed on the pavement.

  The soldiers returned, and handed the things over.

  The Centurion poured some of the oil on the rags. He reached up – high on tiptoes – and stuffed the cloth under the joists of the balcony. Then he lit the inflammable material. It caught with a whoosh.

  ‘Smoke the bastards out.’ He handed the lamp to a soldier. ‘Set it on fire in a couple more places.’

  The soldier laughed. ‘See how brave the fuckers are then.’

  As the smoke rose, there were shouts of consternation from the rooftops.

  ‘Right, boys, get ready. On the count of three, form testudo out in the street.’

  ‘Ready,’ they shouted.

  ‘One, two, three.’

  Caenis was propelled from the protection of the balcony. Again the air was full of the explosion of rocks, of hissing sharp splinters. Then she was in the gloom under a roof of shields. Missiles hit on the carapace like hammer blows.

  ‘Steady, boys. Leave the fuckers to fry. Let us get out of here. By the left, slow march.’

  The Centurion looked down at Caenis. ‘Seems you will get your wish. It is a lot safer back where the Prefect is stationed.’

  The smoke was catching in her throat, and she could not reply.

  ‘So you know where Gallicanus is holed up?’

  ‘No.’

  A Centurion pushed past her. ‘Prefect, can I order the men to pull back into the camp?’

  Timesitheus looked out across the parade ground at the smoke-shrouded city.

  He was good-looking, Caenis thought; dark hair, white skin, now smudged with soot, nice, strong arms.

  ‘Tell them to hold their positions. They are safe enough. The fire cannot jump the open space of the Campus Praetoria. Some of the roads are still open. I will not shut the gates while some of our men are still out there.’

  He turned back to Caenis. ‘Did you just say no?’

  Before she could reply, another man in the uniform of a senior officer bustled up.

  ‘It is a tragedy. The city is burning.’ He was wringing his hands, looked distraught.

  A flash of irritation crossed Timesitheus’ face, before he arranged it into a more amiable expression. ‘A tragedy indeed. Now, Pinarius, it would be good if you could have the men bring what water there is in the camp to the battlements.’

  When the officer called Pinarius had left, Timesitheus laughed.

  ‘Do you know how to play a musical instrument?’ he asked Caenis. ‘No, never mind.’

  Baffled, she starred at him.

  ‘Now, if you do not know where my philosophic friend is lurking, I take it that you have not braved the streets solely for the pleasure of my company?’

  This was her chance. She might never get another. Desperately she tried to choose her words.

  ‘Charming though you are’ – Timesitheus touched her cheek – ‘I am rather occupied.’

  ‘I know something about Gallicanus, something you can use to destroy him. Send soldiers to his house. There is a slave called Davus. You will need him as a witness.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Rome

  The Praetorian Camp, Eight Days after the Ides of April, AD238

  On the battlements above the gate Timesitheus watched and waited.

  Smuts of soot drifted on the breeze, settled like thin, black snow across the parade ground.

  Would Gallicanus come?

  Yesterday, after the fires in this area had been contained or burned out, the mob had returned to their blockade of the camp. Timesitheus had sent Pinarius out with a herald. Given everyone knew that the soldiers had started the conflagration, the old man might have expected a hostile reception. Better Pinarius was torn limb from limb than Timesitheus himself. In the event there had been nothing but threats and vulgar abuse. The plebs perhaps were somewhat sobered by the scale of the disaster.

  Gallicanus had left Pinarius to wait for an hour before appearing. The Senator had been suspicious. Was this some trap? All Greeks were cunning. And why did Timesitheus wish to talk to him alone? Greeks were untrustworthy. What was there that could not be discussed openly, with the people of Rome as witness?

  Eventually, using words given to him by Timesitheus, the gardener-turned-Prefect had secured a grudging agreement to meet the next day. If it concerned the very safety of the Res Publica, Gallicanus had announced with all his customary pomposity, it was his duty to meet Timesitheus. He had taken an oath: just the two of them, no weapons and no violence, in the middle of the deserted Campus Praetoria. The health of the Res Publica must count above personal mistrust or animosity.

  Timesitheus trusted Gallicanus no more than the Senator trusted him. Wilful and vain, an overeducated man like Gallicanus was capable of using his much vaunted philosophy to underpin and justify the most appalling acts of treachery and cruelty. For men like him an appeal to the greater good always could negate mere trifles like temporal laws or a sworn vow. Brutus had struck down Caesar. Timesitheus would not forget that Gallicanus and his friend Maecenas had murdered two unsuspecting men in the Senate House itself.

  The fires were still burning in other parts of the city. No sooner were they extinguished in one place than they flared up somewhere else. It was as if they ran underground, or malcontents were kindling them afresh. Great swathes of the city were devastated. In some streets and alleys the vigiles had been stoned by looters when they turned out to fight the blaze. While many lost everything in such a disaster, there were those without principle or compassion who would turn it to their profit.

  Gallicanus had better appear. A note had got through from Maecius Gordianus saying that his vigiles were fully occupied with the conflagration. Much to his regret the vigiles were unable to come to the relief of the Praetorian camp. But Timesitheus was to have no fears for his wife. Maecius Gordianus had made the safety of Tranquillina his especial concern.

  Maecius Gordianus was an unwelcome presence in Timesitheus’ thoughts. What exactly had Tranquillina done to make him so well disposed? She was not wanton in the usual way of things, but Timesitheus knew that his wife would not let conventional morality stand in the way of ambition or advantage. If he survived this siege, there would be an uncomfortable conversation.

  If he survived this siege. There had been no message, but nothing was to be expected from the main body of the Urban Cohorts. Their commander, the sluggish patrician Rufinianus, lacked the courage to venture out from the security of the Palatine.


  The camp must stand or fall on its own. Those who had returned from talking to the district magistrates and the priests of the neighbourhood cults of the Emperors had brought no good news. The local worthies deplored the situation, prayed for the return of peace, but the influence of Gallicanus was too strong to allow them to prevail on the plebs. They were unable to get the mob off the streets.

  Gallicanus was the key. He had to be removed.

  ‘Something is happening.’

  Timesitheus looked across to where the crowd was stirring. The sunlight was weak through the pall of smoke that hung over the seven hills. Almost midday, and it was as dark as Hades.

  Gallicanus had come. For now he stood ringed by others like himself clad in the rough cloaks of philosophers. Did he imagine Plato’s Academy could be translated to the dung heap of Romulus? He would do well to think on the end of Socrates.

  Timesitheus checked everyone was in their place on the walls: Pinarius, the prostitute and the slave, the guards. He caught the eye of Caenis, and smiled. He had enjoyed her in his quarters these past two nights. With the aqueduct still cut, and water rationed, there had been no chance for them to bathe, but sometimes sex was better dirty and rough. She was a scheming, mercenary little bitch. Not content with the generous reward he had already promised her, she had angled to get more by denouncing two other men. One was some die-cutter who turned out to be a Christian. Of course he deserved death or the mines, but the gods knew there were enough of the atheists in Rome. At first her other tale held little more interest – a backstreet murder of someone of no account – until she named the killer: Castricius. Menophilus had sent him as an assassin against Maximinus. Obviously the knife-boy had thought better of the suicidal task. Like a dog to its own vomit, he had returned to Rome. When normality was restored, Timesitheus would hunt Castricius down. He had employed the youth before, and could do so again. These revelations put the knife-boy’s life in his hands.

  ‘Here he comes.’

  Timesitheus walked down the steps, under the arch of the gate, and out onto the bare field.

  Leaning on a staff and limping, ashes blowing about his bare feet, Gallicanus resembled the prophet of some apocalypse.

  ‘You are looking very pale,’ Timesitheus said. ‘Is your leg troubling you?’

  ‘I did not come here to exchange small talk.’

  Timesitheus arranged his face. ‘The Res Publica is lucky to have men like you in this debased age. No artful pleasantries, straight to duty and the public good. No tunic, just a cloak whatever the weather. The shaggy beard and the bristling hair of our ancestors. You might be taken for the embodiment of the mos maiorum.’

  Gallicanus scowled. ‘Do not imagine that you can flatter or charm me.’

  ‘Oh, I would never imagine anything of the sort.’ Timesitheus looked Gallicanus up and down. ‘Gait and costume, gestures and expression; they form a kind of language, do you not think?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Yet sometimes language can be so deceiving.’ Timesitheus was enjoying this. ‘A eunuch priest of the Mother Goddess; now at least he is open. The ribbons and robes and necklaces, all proclaim his twisted nature. He is sick, a freak of fate, not to be blamed. Indeed, his wretched self-exposure, the very strength of his passion, beg pity and forgiveness.’

  ‘I did not come here for a lecture on eastern religions,’ Gallicanus snapped. ‘Piss on the mark, or be silent.’

  ‘Stern old Gallicanus, friend of the people, earthy and direct.’ Timesitheus turned, and pointed up to the gatehouse. ‘You recognize that slave up there?’

  Gallicanus could not help but stare.

  ‘Of course you do. Until I had him abducted yesterday, he served in your bed chamber.’

  Gallicanus said nothing.

  ‘It took only a gentle persuasion to make him talk; turns out he never cared for you much as a master. Is it true that when your friend Maecenas climbs on board you squawk like a hen when the cock gets at her?’

  Gallicanus hefted his staff.

  ‘Now, now,’ Timesitheus said. ‘No weapons, no violence.’

  ‘No one will believe a slave you have tortured.’

  ‘Actually, I think they will. If you remember in law slaves have to be tortured to make them tell the truth.’

  ‘You piece of shit.’

  ‘Please, no Cynic diatribe. I do not judge you.’

  Gallicanus’ knuckles were white around the staff.

  ‘You know they say that in distant Bactria women mount their husbands, and in the dank forests of Germania warriors take young boys to wife. Everywhere custom is King. It is odd that here in Rome a man can stick it into anyone he wants, and no one thinks any the worse of him. But let there be so much as a whisper that he plays the woman’s part, and he is tainted, unclean for the rest of his days, a laughing stock.’

  ‘No one will believe it.’ The defiance was draining out of Gallicanus.

  ‘It should be a consolation to you that the reputation of Maecenas will not be much harmed; although, of course, you are not exactly an attractive youth. But yours …’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Timesitheus smiled. ‘To be friends. My attitude to what people do in their bedrooms is broadminded.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Call off the mob.’

  ‘How? What reason could I give?’

  ‘Love of Rome. In the face of civil war and catastrophe – Maximinus marching against us, a conflagration destroying our homes and temples – the good of the Res Publica demands concord. In fact, I think, the gods demand Concordia.’

  Gallicanus muttered. ‘It will be the end of everything for me.’

  ‘Not at all. Far from betraying your principles, you can announce to your motley followers that you will be putting your philosophy into practice by schooling the young Caesar Gordian in the ways of righteousness.’

  ‘But I am not his tutor.’

  ‘Call off the mob, and I will see that you are appointed. Not many philosophers get the chance to mould an Emperor. Forget the idle dream of a restored Republic, and serve the Res Publica by embracing future offices.’

  Gallicanus stood defeated, like an ape in a cage.

  ‘Come,’ Timesitheus said, ‘let us shake hands, and show those watching that we are reconciled.’

  PART VI:

  THE PROVINCES

  CHAPTER 23

  Dalmatia

  The Mountains East of Bistua Nova, Eight Days after the Ides of April, AD238

  Iunia Fadilla had tried her hardest to keep running. A young matron had no more practice at the activity than a town councillor. They were not far clear of Bistua Nova before she had had to stop. Her cousin had dragged her up a dark slope into cover.

  As she had sat gasping, she remembered Gordian telling her of a philosopher who had praised the men of Rhodes for always walking with a seemly slowness. The Rhodians might regret that should they ever have to flee for their lives on foot in the dead of night.

  She had barely got her breath back, her heart was still racing, when Fadillus had said they must continue. The night wore on, and they had to put some distance between them and the pursuit. The cavalry would have caught Vertiscus and her maid soon enough. Horsemen would always overtake a cart. Even if the servants did not talk, the troopers would realize they had followed a wild goose chase. Returning to Bistua Nova, by morning they would be fanning out, searching the other routes from the town.

  Fadillus had shouldered her bundle of possessions along with his own, and led her back down to where the road was a pale ribbon in the darkness.

  They had walked the rest of the night, frequently stopping to listen. Once they had disturbed a mountain goat, which had clattered away with heart-stopping noise up the rocky hillside.

  When the eastern sky showed the merest hint of lightening, Fadillus again had led them off the path. After a short climb, he had found a fallen pine, which he had thought should shelter them from view from the road.r />
  Iunia Fadilla had lain awake. Was this worth it? She knew it was. Anything to escape from Maximus. Anything rather than return to her husband. Eventually, exhaustion had triumphed over fear, and Iunia Fadilla had fallen into a deep sleep.

  She had woken, chilled and stiff, enveloped in a cold mist. Her shoulder and hip ached from the unforgiving ground. Fadillus passed her a flask of watered wine. It was thin and sour in her stomach. She declined a piece of yesterday’s bread.

  Through the fronds of the fallen tree was a grey, shadowed landscape such as she had never seen before. The opposite slopes were bare, littered with mounds of shattered rocks, and pocked with the entrances to tunnels and shafts. Above many of the latter were elaborate structures of wooden beams supporting great wheels. Here and there stood conical chimneys of mud-masonry and field stones. Odd ceramic pipes emerged low down from them, and each had a circular stone trough at its foot. A stream ran down from the workings. As the mist lifted, she had seen that it was an unnatural yellow-brown, the rocks on its banks somehow stained and corroded.

  At the foot of the hillside was a settlement. Amid a jumble of stables, sheds and barns were two stone-built barracks. The larger had bars on the windows. At either end stood a wooden watchtower.

  Iunia Fadilla had gone to stand, so she could find a place to relieve herself in privacy. Her cousin had gestured for her to remain hidden. He had pointed to the guard towers. When she had looked closely, she had seen the lookouts huddled in their cloaks.

  She had retreated to the extremity of the cover, and Fadillus had turned his back as she hauled up her tunic and eased her bladder. She remembered pissing in an alley in Sirmium. From beginning to end this journey was a continuous humiliation. Anything not to be returned to Maximus.

  Before the sun had crested the hilltops, figures were moving through the settlement. Kitchen fires were lit, and the tang of wood smoke drifted across. Soldiers had emerged from the smaller barracks, and ambled to the cookhouse. They reappeared carrying bowls of steaming food. A few had sat outside to eat, most went back indoors. When the troops had fed, they unbolted the gate of the larger barracks, and led out the slaves. The latter ate more hurriedly, and soon were assembled in groups, handed picks and hammers, baskets and lamps, and led off to the mines. One by one the filthy, miserable men and women, and even children, had climbed down beneath the earth.