Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘A drawn-out death sentence,’ Fadillus muttered. ‘No one comes back from the mines.’

  With the day, traffic had appeared on the road. Most went to the camp. Wagons brought timber, strings of pack animals delivered food and fodder. Twice a line of chained slaves was driven along and secured in the big barracks. Only one convoy had left the camp: four wagons with military drivers, and eight mounted outriders. By the second hour there were others, not necessarily connected to the mines about. Peasants had plodded past in both directions; those with laden donkeys and mules on their way to sell their produce at market, the unburdened presumably returning home having spent the night in some village or hamlet.

  ‘Follow me,’ Fadillus had said. ‘We will join that peasant couple coming from the West.’

  ‘The watchtowers?’ Iunia Fadilla had felt an extraordinary reluctance to risk leaving their inadequate shelter.

  ‘I have been watching them. The guards are looking to keep the miners from escaping. They take little interest in the road. With luck, they will not even notice us.’

  ‘What if the cavalry arrive from town?’

  ‘We cannot stay here.’

  They had clambered down, joints complaining after their night of hard lying. Iunia Fadilla could not take her eyes off the watchtowers. There was no outcry. As far as she could tell, none of the guards gave them so much as a glance.

  They had stood waiting, dishevelled and dirty, bundles at their feet, like vagabonds habituated to the road.

  ‘Health and great joy.’ Fadillus had blocked the way.

  The peasants halted. Neither spoke. They exhibited less curiosity than the donkeys they led.

  ‘They say there are bandits in the hills. For safety we would travel with you.’

  The man spat at his feet. ‘And how do I know you are not intent on robbery? You wear a sword under that cloak, and the well-spoken are often the worst thieves.’

  Fadillus took a coin from his purse. ‘We mean no harm.’

  The peasant accepted the coin. ‘What would a couple with money be doing all alone; no horses or carriage, no servants?’

  Fadillus fished out another coin. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘Our families did not wish us to wed. We ran away, but they nearly caught us in Bistua Nova. We had to abandon our carriage and servants.’

  Fadillus handed over yet another coin.

  ‘We need somewhere to hide. Not for long. A few days and we will be on our way to the coast.’

  The peasant grunted. ‘For sure you are on the run from something.’

  His wife whispered in his ear.

  ‘Silence, old woman.’ He raised his hand, and she stepped back.

  ‘Another coin for our food every day we stay,’ Fadillus said.

  ‘Most likely there is a reward on your heads. A coin every day, another six at the end, and you leave when I say.’

  The peasant spat on the palm of his hand, held it out.

  Fadillus took it, relief overcoming any reluctance.

  Neither the Eclogues of Virgil and other bucolic poetry, nor her journey so far, had prepared Iunia Fadilla for the realities of peasant life. No rustic swains sighed or tossed apples at virginal milkmaids. Antique virtue was notably absent, and it seemed unlikely that one would find a rustic god strolling in the cool of the evening.

  The hut was half sunk into one of the remote heights. One end was occupied by a heterogeneous herd of animals. In the other dwelt the peasant couple, and his brother and wife. The filth was indescribable, and the stench choking. The smoke from an ill-drawing fire made eyes stream. Far from rustic feasts of suckling pig, the food consisted of a thin gruel of dried beans and barley, and the flour of the bread was eked out with ground acorns.

  Worse still was the enforced intimacy of the living arrangements. Of course Iunia Fadilla was accustomed to the presence of servants. But they were trained to avert their eyes, and tactfully remain in the background. Here she and Fadillus had to bed down next to the peasants and their wives. She could not shut her ears to their snoring, thunderous farting, and the bestial grunts of their occasional rutting.

  Although they accepted the money readily enough, none of the peasants was prepared to put any warmth into their hospitality. Most nights they held earnest discussions in incomprehensible dialect. These conclaves were punctuated by meaningful, and calculating looks at the interlopers. Did they intend to inform against them, hoping for some reward? If they murdered them, and took their possessions, who would know?

  Just a few more days, Fadillus kept saying. Let the search die down, and we can be on our way to the coast. It is not far now.

  One afternoon, to escape the prurient attention of the peasants, Iunia Fadilla followed the stream which ran by the hut. Far up in the mountains, where it tumbled over an outcrop, it formed a clear pool. Nothing moved on the wooded slopes as far as the eye could see. She pulled off her tunic, and – gasping with the cold – stepped into the water.

  Some sense warned her that she was not alone.

  The peasant was standing watching, openly fondling his prick through his clothes.

  She scrambled out of the pool, and, still wet, tugged her tunic over her head.

  The peasant was in front of her, the water behind. His stale breath in her face.

  ‘You are no newlyweds,’ he said. ‘Days you been here, and he has not fucked you once. Seems a shame to let that trim little delta go unploughed.’

  ‘Touch me, and Fadillus will kill you.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not both me and my brother.’

  He reached out to put his hand up between her thighs.

  She slapped his hand away. She had not come this far to be raped by some peasant. ‘If he does not, I swear I will kill you. Wait until you are sleeping, cut your prick off, and ram it down your throat.’

  Her vehemence made him pause.

  She pushed past him.

  Recovering, he called after her. ‘If that man of yours had any balls, he would put his belt across your arse, teach you how to behave.’

  They trudged down the road.

  Gathering their things, before the peasant had got back, Fadillus had told the brother that if they denounced them, he would return with armed men, and kill everyone. The threat had seemed improbable.

  ‘Not far to Salona now.’ Fadillus repeated it every so often, like the refrain of some obscure ritual.

  They had been walking through the mountains for four days. They had passed through an upland market town called Bariduum with no alarms. They had stayed at an inn, visited the baths, bought new clothes, all without seemingly attracting undue attention. Saving money to buy passage on a ship, they had not hired a carriage. Anyway, now they were nearer the coast, there were more travellers on the road. There seemed less likelihood of a couple on foot being noticed.

  At midday, they stopped by a wayside shrine. They had some bread, olives and cheese. Eating it in the sunshine, Iunia Fadilla felt some of the apprehension she had carried so long begin to lift.

  ‘Not far to Salona now.’

  She wished Fadillus would stop saying that. It tempted fate.

  ‘We have enough left for a passage to Africa?’

  ‘Most likely we will need to take a boat sailing to Corcyra, then pick up a ship bound to Africa there, but, yes, we should have enough.’

  ‘Gods below …’

  The stamp of hooves, the jingle of harness – the unmistakable sounds of a troop of cavalry – they would be around the corner in moments.

  Without words, they scooped up their bundles, and ran up the slope.

  They reached the treeline, but a shout from below told them they had been seen.

  They hurled themselves up the incline, deeper into the timber.

  Iunia Fadilla glanced back. At least twenty troopers, dismounted now. Some were holding the horses, the majority setting themselves at the slope.

  The hillside was steeper, and Iunia Fadilla and h
er cousin had to grab branches to haul themselves up.

  ‘Stop,’ Fadillus said. ‘We are out of sight. You carry on up. I will lead them off.’

  ‘No.’ She was panting like a dog.

  ‘Here.’ He thrust the purse at her. ‘Go.’

  ‘No.’

  He managed to grin. ‘The peasant was right; you need a belt across your arse. Do not argue, just go.’

  Before she could gather herself to argue, he had turned, and was crashing away through the trees.

  Drawing as deep a breath as she could, she climbed on.

  ‘Over there!’ The soldiers had seen Fadillus. She heard the noise of their pursuit.

  Doggedly, she went on.

  Just when safety had been almost within grasp. Gordian was right; there were no gods, and if they existed, they did not care.

  Sandals slipping, branches whipping at her, head swimming, she went higher and higher. The wood cut off any sound from below.

  Suddenly she was out of the trees. Ahead a sheer cliff fell away.

  She stood for a moment, trying to think. Gods, just think clearly, make a plan.

  A rest, she had to rest.

  She slumped down, back against the nearest tree.

  They would have caught Fadillus by now. She could not rest long. She must track along the top of the wood – north or south? – then work back down.

  Fadillus – what would Maximus do to her cousin? The cruelty of her husband was infinite. Poor, poor, gentle Fadillus.

  ‘Iunia Fadilla, my lady, Iunia Fadilla.’ The calls were muffled by the trees, no way of telling how near.

  She staggered to her feet. There were scratches on her legs, her arms. She felt blood trickling down her forehead.

  ‘My lady, Iunia Fadilla.’ They were closer now.

  She had done all she could. Slowly she went to the edge of the precipice. The drop was forty, fifty paces; more than enough. She would not be dragged back to Maximus.

  ‘Iunia Fadilla.’

  Philosophers always said the road to freedom could be found at any cliff.

  ‘My lady.’

  The wind was singing in her ears. If she looked down again, she might lose her nerve. She had done so before; the dagger at Maximus’ sleeping throat. She would not do so again.

  ‘Cousin!’

  She turned, looked at Fadillus with the soldiers.

  ‘Step back from the cliff. We are safe.’

  She swayed, unable to comprehend his meaning. A stone skittered from under her foot out into the abyss.

  ‘Iunia, they are not Maximinus’ men. Claudius Julianus has pledged Dalmatia to the revolt. We are saved.’

  Dumbly, she walked towards him.

  ‘He thought the first messenger was a trap set by Maximinus, but when Egnatius Marinianus told him the Senate had declared Maximinus an enemy of Rome …’ Fadillus tailed off.

  ‘Then we can go to Gordian,’ Iunia Fadilla said.

  ‘Gordian and his father are dead.’

  ‘What?’

  A look of awful sadness appeared on her cousin’s face. ‘I am so sorry. I had forgotten – Gordian and you.’

  She started to cry. There were no gods, and if there were, they did not care.

  CHAPTER 24

  Moesia Inferior

  The Town of Istria, South of the Mouths of the Danube, The Day before the Kalends of May, AD238

  Even here in the North, the winter was over, and the crops sown. It was the second day of the festival of Flora, with all the licence and feasting that entailed. They had reached the apples and nuts, and Honoratus was glad that this meal with the local dignitaries would soon be over. Conversation had been dominated by the alarming news from north of the river.

  ‘But how dangerous is this development?’ The town councillor certainly looked concerned.

  ‘It is unwelcome,’ Honoratus conceded. ‘But we should not give way to undue alarm. We must remember that we are dealing with barbarians. They are inconstant by nature. The next report we receive may be that they are set on an entirely different path. Among them rulers come and go. They are incapable of political stability, or long-term planning. If they do make an attempt on the frontier, we will have good warning. Their warbands move slowly. In any event, the fleet patrols the river, and the army is stationed along the banks.’

  The councillor did not seem reassured. ‘But our forces have been depleted by drafts to the field army of the Emperor – May the gods preserve Maximinus Augustus – and those that remain cannot cover the entire length of the frontier. The river is so long, and the marshes of the delta are a wilderness. Apart from the fleet, there are no troops at all here in Istria.’

  Honoratus deployed his most charming smile. ‘Barbarians lack the vessels and the organization to ferry a horde across without our knowing. Even should they somehow sneak across, they would not attempt to take a walled city like Istria. They say that they have no quarrel with walls. Indeed they claim that we are like birds that have abandoned the nourishing earth, and rely for our defence on stones not our own strength. Anyway, it is our duty as members of the higher orders to set an example of calm resolution to the populace.’

  That stopped the man’s whining, but in truth Honoratus was deeply troubled. Five days after the meeting with Tharuaro, the Gothic King had been led into an ambush somewhere out on the trackless Steppe. Tharuaro was dead, and the Goths now acknowledged Cniva as their ruler. Tharuaro had been betrayed by his son Gunteric. There was no doubting the grim tidings brought by the Gothic priest who had been Tharuaro’s companion. The Gudja had assured Honoratus, with much shaking of amulets, and rattling of the bones braided in his hair, that Cniva intended to descend on the province.

  For all the talk of the Goths, there had been another spectre at the feast; something that could not be discussed. As soon as Maximinus had crossed the Alps, first Claudius Julianus of Dalmatia, then Fidus of Thrace had renounced their allegiance and declared for the rebels. It spoke of confidence or recklessness among the insurgents, for there were legions in neither province. Egnatius Marinianus, the man who had persuaded them, was variously said to have travelled on to Bithynia-Pontus, or south to Achaea. Another rumour put him on the Danube in neighbouring Moesia Superior. Wherever Egnatius had gone, Honoratus knew he could not long delay a decision. There were three realistic choices: throw in his lot with Pupienus and Balbinus, remain true to Maximinus, or make his own bid for the throne. Each was fraught with danger, and neutrality was not an option. Honoratus wished his wife was with him, not in Durostorum. There was no one else in the province to whom he could open his mind, not without the fear of betrayal to Maximinus. Unguarded words had led to the deaths of too many men in the last three years.

  Honoratus drank a toast with his guests: Long life. That was a nice irony for a man in his position, a man with just three choices; none of them safe, none of them good. Inherited status had conspired with ambition to elevate him to a dangerous eminence that he felt more and more was beyond his capacity. Know yourself, as Apollo commanded. All he wanted was to leave the dismal lands of the Danube, collect his wife, and the ashes of his son, and retire to his estates in Italy. Lines of Homer moved through the wine fumes in his thoughts.

  But Zeus drew Hector out from under the dust and missiles,

  Out of the place where men were killed, the blood and confusion.

  Perhaps he had owned more resolution before his son died.

  A final libation, clasped hands and kisses, and the meal was over.

  Honoratus retired to his study, and sat alone. Head light from the wine, he brought the lamp nearer, and scrolled through the Orations of Dio Chrysostom, looking for the one set in Olbia. Like all men of his class, Honoratus constructed his identity in large part via literature, viewing his life through its prism. Merely unrolling the papyrus, smelling the cedar oil with which it was preserved, served to bring him a certain tranquillity. He liked to read texts that were relevant to his situation. Although outside Moesia Inferi
or, the town of Olbia on the northern shore of the Black Sea was his military responsibility. The Providentia, the trireme that had brought him downriver from Durostorum, had been due to take him to the settlement in a few days. The tidings from the Steppe had forestalled the voyage. Olbia might well be threatened, but his primary duty was to his province. Before such thoughts could dispel his nascent calm, he settled to read.

  The Oration opened with Dio strolling outside the walls of Olbia. Although there had been a barbarian attack the day before, a great crowd of townsmen accompanied him, hanging on his words of wisdom. Honoratus smiled at the vanity of the philosopher; as if men under arms might not have more pressing things demanding their attention. Of course, it was an element in Dio’s depiction of the Olbians as men of antique virtue. Hairy, like the heroes of the Trojan War, they possessed old-style courage. They loved the poetry of Homer, and their isolation had ensured that they remained uncorrupted by the meretricious sophistries of more recent writers.

  It was an elegant piece of work, but, Honoratus thought, in some ways the reality of the North peeped through. In dress the Olbians were indistinguishable from the barbarians of the Steppe, and in speech they could hardly still be counted as Hellenes. Honoratus had greater sympathy with the more pessimistic outlook of Ovid on these shores and their inhabitants.

  Wherever you look, the same flat uncultivated landscape,

  Huge vistas of empty Steppe.

  Turn right, turn left, a dangerous enemy threatens,

  Encroaches: terror on either flank …

  Scarcely men in the meaning of the word,

  Show greater savagery than wolves, do not fear

  The constraints of law: here might is right, and justice

  Yields to the battling sword …

  How much longer could he survive in this place?