Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  The moon was hidden by thick banks of cloud. Menophilus could not reckon how much time had elapsed. It made no odds; there was nothing to do but wait.

  A bird was singing nearby in the covert: a long drawn-out note, modulated into short, fast phrases, soaring high and low. Another nightingale answered from further upstream. Was it true that they competed with each other, and the defeated bird died, her breath failing with her song?

  Paccius lay next to him. Menophilus wondered if he was listening to the birdsong. He had not wanted to bring the young officer. The Optio had done well at the Aesontius. It had seemed a shame to curtail such a promising career. But if Menophilus himself was struck down at the start, someone reliable must take command.

  Menophilus did not think he was afraid to face his own death. A release from the twitching of appetite, from service to the flesh, a release from guilt and fatigue. In death you feel nothing at all, and therefore nothing evil.

  Unearthly music – flutes and pipes – floated on the air. The nightingales fell silent. The distant sound of a choir singing a hymn. A flare of light on the north-east corner of the walls of Aquileia. For the fifth night running the god Belenus, the shining one, would patrol the battlements of his beleaguered city.

  Even at this distance the cult statue of the god was awe-inspiring, twice the size of a man. The gold and silver of its robes glittered in the light of the many torches in the procession. The money Menophilus had given to the temple when he arrived in the city had proved its worth. The priests and the deity had pledged their support to the Gordiani, then seamlessly transferred their allegiance to Pupienus and Balbinus. The devotees believed that the nocturnal peregrination of Belenus raised the morale of the townsfolk. Menophilus was satisfied that it drew the eyes of the besiegers, and might mask other noises in the darkness.

  ‘It is time,’ Menophilus whispered to Paccius.

  They slid back down the bank, made their way along the line of dark shapes.

  ‘Get ready, boys. Light the lanterns.’

  The chink and flash of steel on stone. Brief flares of light, before the lanterns were shuttered.

  ‘To your places.’

  They crawled up to the lip of the bank.

  Menophilus had the right of the line, Paccius the left. Each man with a lantern was paired with one with an amphora. The soldier with Menophilus was called Massa.

  ‘Let us go.’

  There was something theatrical, vaguely unreal about the men getting to their feet in the darkness.

  ‘Run.’

  The ground was flat, except for the occasional shadowed dip or hollow where buildings had been demolished, trees grubbed out.

  The pulled muscle in his left calf gave Menophilus no trouble.

  It was as if their feet had wings. They were at the first siege tower in no time. There were no guards stationed out to the rear. What was to fear from the direction of their own camp?

  Paccius led seven men to the tower.

  Menophilus and the other three did not deviate.

  Running past, Menophilus glimpsed four or five soldiers sitting on the axles inside the construction. They were throwing dice, their faces lit from below by a tiny lamp. They looked up at the sound of running feet.

  A moment of stupefaction. What were these black figures emerging from the night? Then cries of alarm. The guards scrambling to their feet, grabbing for their weapons. Menophilus saw two cut down by Paccius before they were all lost to sight.

  Dark figures moved around the base of the second tower. Menophilus saw the shape of an officer standing on the top outlined against the sky. He was shouting orders.

  Fidus!

  The challenge came from the darkness. It went unanswered. Menophilus’ party ran straight past. When the first City Taker was burning, it was Paccius’ task to attempt to fire the second.

  Uproar behind. Torches flaring off to the right along the rampart of the camp. The arches of the aqueduct ahead.

  Sleepless nights and the weight of his mailcoat dragged at Menophilus. His chest was tight, each breath searing. Petty breaths supporting a corpse. The body was of no account. Suffering could not touch the inner man.

  Sword in one hand, lantern the other, he ran through the darker shadows under the aqueduct, and out again onto the blue plain. The tall bulk of the last tower, not far now. Movement to the right, the gates of the camp were thrown open, men on horseback issuing out.

  ‘Fidus!’ Menophilus yelled at the guards.

  The nearest hesitated. Menophilus knocked his blade aside, buried his own in his guts.

  A wild, slashing blow from the right. Menophilus turned it with the edge of his sword. Another from the left, Menophilus swayed back, the steel sang past his face. Massa was beside him. They were surrounded, the other two lost in the night. There were too many to fight.

  The sound of horses.

  ‘Throw the amphora.’

  The enemy were pressing Massa too close. Menophilus had to buy him time.

  With an inarticulate yell, Menophilus attacked. Thrust to the face – always the face – make them flinch – thrust after thrust. Keep moving, keep your balance, boots together. Drive them back like cattle. Agony in his right arm – ignore it. The body was nothing. The sword an extension of the body. The memory in the muscle from a lifetime of training.

  In the corner of his eye, the amphora, bone white, cartwheeling through the darkness, smashing against the side of the tower.

  Thrust and thrust again. Now, it had to be now. Menophilus jumped backwards, dropped his sword, wrenched open the lantern. No time to transfer his grip. A left-handed throw, underarm and weak. The light spinning feebly through the night. Just, just reaching, hitting the side, dropping to the ground.

  A moment of stillness in the eye of the storm. Everyone turning to watch. Nothing, then as if summoned by a god, shining Belenus himself, the first lick of flame. Then the fire was rushing up the covering of hides; vinegar and water no match for the naptha.

  ‘Run!’

  Menophilus ducked and weaved. Men cut at him as he fled. Belenus was with him. Nothing tore his flesh.

  Massa was beside him. They were clear. Together they pounded south.

  The walls of Aquileia were in near darkness. The extravagant torches of the procession had vanished, replaced by just three pinpricks of light. Menophilus ran towards the nearest.

  The rattle of hooves closing from behind.

  Not slackening his stride, Menophilus glanced over his shoulder.

  Two horsemen – one a huge figure – bearing down on them.

  A spider was proud to catch a fly, one man a hare or a boar, another a Sarmatian: robbers one and all. Like hunted beasts they ran through the night. The thunder of the horsemen almost on top of them.

  At the last moment, Menophilus turned, leapt in the air, shrieking like a Bacchant. The horse swerved, its rider losing his seat, half up its neck. Menophilus caught a boot, momentum did the rest. They crashed to the ground close together. Menophilus rolled to his feet. The rider was winded, on all fours. Menophilus jerked the dagger from his hip, plunged it into the back of the man’s neck; once, twice, three times. Blood hot on his arms, stinging his eyes.

  Massa was still running. As Menophilus watched, the big rider’s blade arced down. Massa tumbled to the dirt. The horseman slowed to a canter, started to rein his mount around.

  Menophilus was off like a hare. A wide dark depression at no great distance. Menophilus hurled himself down into the ruined foundations. He lay very still among the broken bricks and tiles, the shattered remains of a hypocaust.

  The remaining horseman was coming back.

  ‘Javolenus?’

  A huge black figure on a huge black horse. A great white face turning this way and that, scanning the ground.

  ‘Javolenus!’ The cry turned to despair.

  Menophilus peered out as the rider spurred to where the humped shape lay in the moonlight.

  Of all times for a break in the c
louds.

  The rider dismounted in a flurry, knelt, and cradled the dead man. The horse, scenting the blood, backed a pace or two, reins hanging down.

  ‘Borysthenes.’

  At his master’s command, the charger stood.

  ‘Javolenus.’ The big man was sobbing. ‘Javolenus, not you too. Micca, Tynchanius, Paulina – everyone, everyone – oh Paulina!’

  The walls were not far. The solitary torch on the battlements, not more than a hundred paces.

  The empty plain blue-white in the moonlight. No point in stealth.

  Menophilus launched himself to his feet, scrabbled out of the ruins, and ran.

  ‘Borysthenes.’

  Legs and arms pumping, Menophilus ran as never before.

  The jingle of harness and stamp of hooves as the man mounted.

  Sixty, fifty paces to the wall.

  The thud of hooves, picking up speed.

  A stone turned under Menophilus’ boot, he fought for balance, kept running.

  The horse pounding up behind.

  The torch on the battlements, the black spider web of lines on the wall underneath. Too far, he would be run down.

  The hiss of arrows shot from the walls, a terrifying black rain.

  ‘Stop. It is me. Stop shooting.’ Menophilus wanted to shout, but he had no breath.

  The arrows were whistling above his head.

  A terrible cry of frustration ringing through the night. The sound of hooves retreating.

  Menophilus grabbed the fishing net hanging down from the wall, hauled himself up hand over hand. Arms reached down, and pulled him over the crenulations.

  ‘Welcome home.’ Crispinus was smiling down at him.

  ‘How many got back?’

  A look of embarrassment crossed Crispinus’ face. ‘They did their duty. You all did your duty.’

  The Senator pointed out into the night.

  Three tall pillars of flame that human endeavour could not extinguish, no more than raise the dead.

  CHAPTER 29

  Aquileia, Sixteen Days after the Ides of May, AD238

  Maximinus could not remember Paulina wearing her hair in that style: the tight waves, the bun at the neck. He studied her strong jaw and chin. Without the anchor of the image on the coin in his hand would her face slip away from him altogether?

  ‘Imperator.’

  What new problem would be raised now? Maximinus glanced across the pavilion, and gave Flavius Vopiscus permission to address the consilium.

  Maximinus was careful not to turn the coin over. He did not want to see the peacock that had carried his wife to the heavens.

  ‘Imperator, many do not think Barbius should be executed.’

  Maximinus got nothing but wilful obstruction from his council. He kept his temper. ‘Barbius commanded the guard on the siege towers, and the towers were burnt. He was negligent.’

  ‘An accident of war, Imperator.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Maximinus was weary of these continual objections. Punishment was already too long delayed. ‘There are reports that the enemy allowed Barbius to escape from the docks. It is said that Menophilus himself ordered him not to be slain.’

  ‘No one can be certain in the chaos of a failed assault.’

  ‘Sometimes exemplary severity is necessary to maintain discipline.’

  Maximinus glowered at his son. Any intervention by Verus Maximus was unwelcome.

  ‘The execution will proceed,’ Maximinus said.

  ‘Quantum libet, Imperator.’

  ‘The sword, tomorrow at dawn.’

  ‘Whatever pleases you, Emperor,’ Vopiscus repeated.

  ‘Imperator.’ Now it was Anullinus. These meetings were an endless litany of complaints and importuning requests.

  ‘The rumours of fighting in Rome are troubling my Praetorians. Their wives and children are there.’

  ‘And we are not.’ Maximinus laughed; a rare, grating sound. ‘The divine Septimius Severus made a mistake letting the troops take wives. A soldier should be married to the army.’

  ‘Imperator, it might be best if you addressed the Praetorians; allayed their fears, or promised them vengeance.’

  Maximinus had always found something unsettling about Anullinus’ eyes. ‘An education under the standards did not equip me for oratory. You talk to them.’

  ‘Quantum libet, Imperator.’

  The Consular Marius Perpetuus asked permission to speak.

  ‘More men are leaving the standards, slipping away into the countryside. The regular cavalry patrols cannot intercept them all.’

  ‘There are a few cowards in every army,’ Maximinus said. ‘Double the patrols. Send out the Persian and Parthian horse archers, order them to kill the deserters on sight.’

  Maximinus had had enough of these footling issues. The siege dragged on.

  ‘How are our supplies?’

  ‘Dwindling fast,’ Julius Capitolinus said. ‘There is no more olive oil, and the ration of bacon has been reduced to half a pound a day. Even so, the meat and hard tack will run out in eight or nine days.’

  Maximinus was sure none of this would have happened if Domitius had not disappeared. Where was the Prefect of the Camp? There were no reports that Domitius had deserted. But there again, there were no reliable reports of anything beyond a mile or two from the army. It was almost as if they were under siege, not Aquileia.

  ‘Is there still sour wine?’

  ‘Enough for ten days at the current ration.’

  ‘Vegetables and cheese?’

  ‘All gone.’

  ‘Two pounds of hard tack, half a pound of bacon, and a pint of wine will keep body and soul together. Issue bacon fat instead of oil.’

  ‘Imperator, the men are hungry. They are eating roots, strange foods. Already there is sickness in the southern camp.’

  Maximinus pondered. ‘We have gone hungry before; last winter, out on the Steppe, before we defeated the Sarmatians. We will do as we did then. All officers will surrender two thirds of their private provisions to the commissariat.’

  ‘Father, that would reduce us in the eyes of the men. It is bad for discipline.’

  Maximinus turned on his son. ‘You think to lecture me on the troops? We must set an example in endurance. The imperial household will give up all its supplies.’

  ‘Imperator.’ Vopiscus was nervous, fiddling with some lucky charm.

  ‘Let the words escape the cage of your teeth.’

  ‘Imperator, there are a few hundred officers, thirty thousand men – it will make little difference. In eight days the army will begin to starve.’

  Maximinus nodded heavily. Vopiscus spoke the truth. Yet, thank the gods, only two more days were needed.

  It was odd that, surrounded by experienced officers, it had been the unmilitary Syrian Apsines that had shown Maximinus the way. Of course, with Javolenus dead, there was no one else to whom Maximinus talked in his tent, no one else to whom he could open his heart.

  Like someone attacking a towering city with siegeworks,

  Someone with troops under arms who surrounds a mountaintop fortress,

  Tests this approach, that approach, and explores every inch of the defences,

  Cannily varies his tactics in mounting assaults …

  The lines of Virgil were more true than the Sophist who had recited them could know. A siege was like a wrestling match. Maximinus was a wrestler. In his youth he had overthrown seven men at one sweat. He had not employed cunning moves and subterfuge. One hard blow to the chest had stretched them out in the dust.

  Since the burning of the towers, the siege had languished. There had been probes and feints, letters thrown over the walls promising rewards to anyone who opened a gate. Nothing had been accomplished. What was needed was one hard blow to the chest.

  ‘The day after tomorrow, at dawn, we will take Aquileia. To distract the besieged, demonstrations will be made against the other defences, but we will storm the northern wall.’

  The membe
rs of the consilium looked sidelong at each other. The silence expressed their dismay.

  Anullinus broke the silence. ‘Imperator, the troops may be reluctant. Volunteers for the forlorn hope may not be forthcoming.’

  ‘We will not call for volunteers. There is no need to risk the lives of Roman soldiers. There are four thousand northern barbarians with the army; two thousand Sarmatians and two thousand German tribesmen. They will lead the assault.’

  ‘Imperator, they will not succeed. The Sarmatians are unused to fighting on foot, and most of the Germans have no armour. They will die in droves.’ Failure obviously concerned Anullinus more than the fate of the barbarians.

  ‘So much the better,’ Maximinus said. ‘Let the defenders expend their missiles, exhaust themselves slaughtering the barbarians, then the men of Capitolinus’ 2nd Legion will have the honour of taking the wall.’

  ‘Will the Germans fight?’ Capitolinus looked dubious.

  ‘They will follow the son of Isangrim, ruler of the Angles.’

  Vopiscus spoke. ‘Imperator, Dernhelm is a hostage for the good behaviour of his father. To throw away his life defeats the object.’

  ‘I do not think the boy will die. There is something about him.’

  It was past midday, time for food, then a siesta.

  ‘Friends, I will detain you no longer.’

  The good and the great filed out. Only Anullinus and Apsines remained.

  ‘Imperator, may I speak to you alone?’

  ‘I have no secrets from Apsines.’

  Anullinus’ face betrayed nothing. ‘Imperator, some of the senior officers have been meeting, in twos and threes, in their tents at the dead of night.’

  ‘The frumentarii of Volo have reported nothing.’

  ‘Your trust might be misplaced.’

  Anullinus’ eyes were like blank pebbles underwater. Was it true he had outraged the corpse of Alexander’s mother? The corpses of the Emperor and his mother had been naked.

  ‘Imperator?’

  ‘Your concern is noted. Now return to your duties. Both of you.’

  Maximinus sat alone in the cavernous room. Very gently, he picked up the alabaster vase from where it stood next to the throne, and turned it in his big, scarred hands. A precious thing that contained her ashes. Not long now. Take Aquileia and seize Rome. Crush this revolt, then one more campaign in Germania. Decide the succession and leave the empire safe. Just one more year. Not long at all. Soon he would be reunited with Paulina.