Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  As the hanging was pulled back, Dernhelm was overwhelmed by the wonderful smell of food; roast meat, fresh baked bread. Allfather, he was hungry. The meal was set on a table off to one side. Evidently Maximinus’ latest command that officers hand over all that remained of their private supplies to the army commissariat had been ignored.

  Dernhelm forced himself to take in the men who stood in the centre of the big tent. There were eleven of them: Flavius Vopiscus the King-maker, Julius Capitolinus the leader of the 2nd Legion, a tribune called Aelius Lampridius, and three more tribunes and five Centurions of the legion, whose names he did not know. Then he noticed there was another man, sitting apart, behind the table. It was Volo, the head of the Emperor’s assassins.

  Every royal court had its factions and secrets. That of Rome was no exception. Dernhelm did not yet know his way through its shadowed corridors.

  ‘You are Dernhelm, son of Isangrim, the one they call Ballista?’ Flavius Vopiscus spoke.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You speak Latin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Eat.’

  Dernhelm thanked him. There was a joint of beef. Dernhelm drew his knife, carved a slice, wrapped it in some bread. Volo was watching him. He tried not to eat like a wolf. He took another slice. He ignored the pitcher of wine. He needed his wits about him.

  Volo was still watching him. A quiet, composed man, Volo struck Dernhelm as the most dangerous in the tent.

  ‘He is big, but little more than a child,’ Julius Capitolinus said. ‘We should use one of the Sarmatian chiefs instead.’

  ‘We have been through this,’ Flavius Vopiscus said. ‘His youth will allay any suspicions.’

  This was typical of Roman arrogance. They had established that he knew Latin, yet they spoke in front of him as if he was not there, was of no more account than a slave.

  ‘This is a terrible undertaking. We would risk everything.’ The tribune Aelius Lampridius was young, no more than twenty winters. He looked very frightened.

  Volo spoke, very quietly. ‘We already risk everything, just by being here.’

  Dernhelm was unsurprised. Impressive as Roman discipline was, no body of fighting men would put up with the condition of this siege for long.

  ‘Volo is right.’ It was Vopiscus. ‘We cannot draw back. There is nothing now between the summit and the abyss.’

  ‘Will the soldiers follow you?’ Dernhelm said.

  All the officers except Volo looked surprised when he spoke.

  ‘The wives and children of the men of the 2nd Legion are at their camp on the Alban Hills. The families of the Praetorians are in Rome. They are at the mercy of the Senate.’ Volo spoke dispassionately.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Volo said. ‘After midday, when the army is resting.’

  ‘And what would you have me do?’

  ‘You will go to the imperial pavilion, and tell the guards that you have been approached to join a conspiracy. That will gain you admittance. Maximinus takes his rest alone. While you distract him, the men of Capitolinus’ legion will deal with the Praetorians; at that time there will not be many on duty. We will kill Maximinus.’

  Dernhelm turned this over in his mind. The ways of Rome might still be strange, but it was clear that if he did not accept, he would not leave this tent alive.

  ‘Maximinus will not believe me without written proof.’

  ‘That is putting our heads on the block.’ Aelius Lampridius was losing his nerve.

  ‘Our heads are already on the block,’ Volo said. ‘Dernhelm is right. Vopiscus, get some papyrus. We will all sign and seal documents offering rewards for Dernhelm joining the conspiracy.’

  ‘What rewards?’

  Capitolinus snorted. ‘Barbarian avarice.’

  Volo ignored him. ‘Roman citizenship, four hundred thousand sesterces, enrolment in the imperial school on the Palatine. What is offered has to match the risk.’

  ‘Make this hairy, dirty barbarian a man of standing in Rome?’ The danger of the undertaking, playing for the highest stakes, had done nothing to ameliorate the prejudices of Capitolinus.

  Volo permitted himself a smile. ‘If he was not already a figure of importance, he would hardly be a diplomatic hostage. His father rules many peoples around the Suebian Sea. The divine Marcus Aurelius extended friendship to his ancestor Hjar. The Himling dynasty have long been loyal to Rome.’

  Volo was better informed than most Romans. Dernhelm’s first impression was confirmed: the head of the frumentarii was very dangerous.

  Papyrus and ink, wax and lamps, all the paraphernalia of writing was produced. As the styluses scratched, Dernhelm suspected he was entertaining the same suspicion as some of the others. Was this a trap constructed by Volo to hand them over to the non-existent mercy of Maximinus?

  CHAPTER 32

  Aquileia, The Kalends of June, AD238

  Maximinus walked down the village street. He tried to walk faster, but the thick, clay mud sucked at his feet. Although he knew what he would find, perhaps it would be different if he could get to the hut now. It was not far – only a few paces. He tried to run, it was impossible in this mud.

  The door of the hut was open. He went inside. It was the same. They were all dead. Maximinus’ father and mother, his brother and his sisters. All dead, the females naked.

  ‘That is what you get with northern barbarians,’ Paulina said.

  He looked at her pale eyes, her strong mouth and jutting chin.

  ‘You must lead the final assault yourself,’ she said.

  The Druidess Ababa stood where his wife had been.

  He would not let Paulina go as if she had never existed.

  ‘Succurrite,’ she murmured, ‘help me.’

  Maximinus knelt by her in the mud.

  She said his name.

  ‘Imperator.’

  The breath of life was leaving her.

  ‘Imperator.’

  Maximinus saw a fox jumping, chasing a beetle. It shrugged off the trappings of royalty, revealing its true nature.

  As he woke, the image was gone beyond recall.

  A Praetorian was standing over him.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There is a barbarian outside, one of the hostages. He says he has evidence of a conspiracy.’

  ‘Take his weapons. Search him. Bring him in.’

  A slight movement in the far corner of the cavernous pavilion, a mere disturbance in the air. Maximinus reached for his sword.

  ‘Father.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You were sleeping.’ Verus Maximus was wearing an elaborately ornamented breastplate, a silver-chased sword on his hip, its handle shaped like the head of an eagle.

  The stories of Apsines were full of Princes who could not wait for nature to run its course. His son was selfish and vicious enough. Maximinus remembered some lines from a mime. The lion is brave, and he is slain. He who cannot be slain by one, is slain by many. He remembered his son applauding, a sly expression on the face. Verus Maximus had commissioned the mime.

  Maximinus put down the sword, lay back on the couch. His son was alone. Even with numbers, Verus Maximus would lack the courage for parricide.

  ‘Father, I need to speak to you.’

  ‘After the barbarian.’

  ‘Father, it is important.’

  Another outraged husband, another beaten woman, perhaps a dead hunting dog. ‘After I have seen the barbarian.’

  The sacred fire on the small, portable altar burned low, but the air was close.

  ‘Father—’

  ‘I have spoken.’ He should have not have heeded a woman, not even Paulina. He should have beaten Verus Maximus more when he was a child, whipped some virtue into him.

  A flood of light as the Praetorian brought in the barbarian.

  Maximinus propped himself on one elbow. His dreams had left a vague feeling of
disquiet. The white tunic in which he had slept was damp with sweat.

  ‘Perform proskynesis.’ As ever, Verus Maximus sounded petulant.

  The Praetorian pushed the young barbarian to his knees.

  It was the son of Isangrim of the Angles.

  Maximinus sat up, swung his legs off the couch, sat on its edge.

  The youth prostrated himself on the carpet, his reluctance to perform adoration evident.

  Maximinus held out his hand. The youth kissed the heavy gold ring set with a gemstone cut with the image of the imperial eagle. Maximinus did not give him permission to get off his knees.

  ‘Gods, he stinks.’ Verus Maximus put a perfumed cloth to his nose.

  Maximinus waved a hand to silence him.

  ‘You know of a plot on my life. Who are the traitors?’

  ‘The officers of the 2nd Legion Parthica, dominus.’ The barbarian spoke up promptly. His Latin was good. ‘Most of the tribunes and a few of the Centurions. And there are others.’

  ‘Name them.’

  Now the boy looked reluctant.

  ‘Do not keep my father waiting. Name them.’

  Maximinus suppressed a flash of irritation. Everything Verus Maximus touched was spoilt.

  ‘They are powerful men.’ The barbarian continued to address Maximinus, as if his son was not there. ‘They have many friends, much influence. If they hear that I have denounced them, they will do me harm.’

  Maximinus laughed. ‘If what you say is true, they will be in no position to harm you or anyone else. If what you say is not true, what they might want to do to you will be the least of your concerns.’

  Slowly the youth said the names – ‘Flavius Vopiscus, Julius Capitolinus, Aelius Lampridius …’ – twelve in all. Only that of Volo was a surprise.

  ‘How do you know these men want to kill me? What proof do you have?’

  ‘They asked me to join them.’ The boy spoke loudly. Outside there was some sort of commotion. ‘I asked them for written instructions. I have them here.’

  ‘What is that row? Praetorian, tell them to be quiet.’ Maximinus held out his hand for the documents.

  ‘As you can see—’

  ‘Silence.’

  Rather than abating, the noise outside the pavilion grew. It was disgraceful so near the imperial presence. Maximinus turned to his son. ‘Get out there and tell them to shut the fuck up.’ In his anger, he reverted to expressions from the barracks.

  The hangings closed behind Verus Maximus, and Maximinus continued reading, lips silently mouthing the words. The treacherous bastards! Honour and good faith were things of the past. The Senators and equestrians of Rome were corrupt beyond redemption, and now these Centurions as well.

  A surge of noise made him lift his head. That sounded like a riot.

  The youth leapt to his feet, grabbed the portable altar, swung the sacred fire at Maximinus’ head.

  Too slow. Maximinus caught the boy’s wrist. With his free hand he punched him in the face, then the stomach. The boy dropped the altar, collapsed. Maximinus yanked him back to his feet.

  ‘You will die slowly, you little fucker.’

  Maximinus threw him across the chamber. He crashed through some chairs and overturned a camp table.

  Whatever was happening outside – a sally from the town, some mutiny – Maximinus would quell it. He took up his sword, and strode through the curtain.

  Looking into the bright sunshine was like surfacing from deep water. Maximinus stood in the entrance to the antechamber, letting his eyes adjust. Some Praetorians were running, others had joined soldiers from the 2nd Legion and were tearing the imperial portraits from the standards. Closer was a thrashing tumult of bodies.

  Sword in hand, Maximinus turned from side to side, deciding where to intervene. This was the doing of Vopiscus. The Senator would discover that Maximinus was harder to kill than that weakling Alexander.

  The tumult ceased. Something was hoist on a spear above the crowd. The severed head of Verus Maximus, muddy and bloodied. They had killed his son.

  A weight landed on his shoulders. A sharp pain stabbed into his neck.

  Maximinus roared, an inhuman sound.

  With a sweep of his arm, Maximinus smashed the barbarian youth across the antechamber. He pulled the stylus from his neck, hurled it at the boy.

  Blood was running hot down his neck. Sword raised, he advanced on the youth.

  ‘You treacherous little fucker, you gave me your oath – you took the military oath.’

  Desperately, the boy tried to fend him off with a chair.

  With two strokes, Maximinus smashed it to pieces.

  The youth twisted from Maximinus’ thrust. The blade scraped across his ribs.

  The barbarian was on the floor, on his arse, shuffling backwards.

  Maximinus followed, shrugging off the pain, readying himself to deliver the killing blow.

  A spear punched into Maximinus’ back. He staggered a step forward. Another spear slammed into his back. He took another step, and toppled forward.

  He landed on top of the boy. Maximinus brought up his hand to gouge out his eyes.

  Somehow the stylus was back in the youth’s hand. A flash in the sunlight, and Maximinus felt it drive deep into his throat. His fingers jerked back. He was choking on his own blood.

  The light was dying. His fingers, now weak and clumsy, could not pry the stylus out.

  He tried to speak. Hard to force the words out.

  ‘I will see you again.’

  The light was gone.

  PART VIII:

  AQUILEIA AND ROME

  CHAPTER 33

  Aquileia, The Nones of June, AD238

  Hail, Imperator Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus Augustus.

  When the horsemen had brought the heads of Maximinus and his son to Ravenna the celebrations had been unconfined: sacrifices on the altars, and everyone joining in singing hymns for a victory that had been won without any effort on their part. Doubtless it would be the same in all the communities in which the grisly trophies were displayed on their way to Rome.

  Hail, Imperator Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus Augustus.

  Pupienus noted that here on the windswept plain outside Aquileia the joy was more restrained. Not all the troops chanted wholeheartedly. In part it might be due to Pupienus’ reputation as a disciplinarian, yet the Praetorians seemed particularly reticent. It could be that they regretted that some of their number had joined with the men of the 2nd Legion in the killing of Maximinus.

  In sole command, after Menophilus had been struck down, Crispinus had acted with commendable resolve. The besieging army had put aside their weapons, dressed as in peacetime, and approached the walls. They had requested the garrison to admit them to the town as friends. Instead of opening the gates, Crispinus had brought out onto the battlements pictures of Pupienus and Balbinus, and the Caesar Gordian, wreathed in crowns of laurel. He had demanded that the field army acclaim the rulers elected by the Senate and people of Rome.

  Even when the soldiers had sworn the military oath, the gates had remained closed. Crispinus had established a market on the ramparts. The soldiers had been able to buy all the things a flourishing, prosperous city could offer. But all their purchases – food and drink, tents and clothes and shoes – had been lowered down to them by ropes. Only the chief conspirators had been admitted into the town, and only when they had produced the head of the Praetorian Prefect Anullinus.

  Pupienus had always had faith in the abilities of Crispinus, and his old friend had not let him down. Now it was time to address the troops.

  Pupienus stood at the front of the tribunal, Valerian at one shoulder, Valerius Priscillianus at the other. A fine display of unity among the factions in the Senate, although probably lost on the army.

  Rank after rank of soldiers, in good order, clean and neat. There were few signs of the siege: the charred skeletons of three siege towers, the broken spans of the aqueduct. Time would soon heal the physical
scars. Pupienus had the harder task of salving those in the minds of men.

  ‘Soldiers of Rome, you were hungry, now you are fed. You were cold and wet, now you have shelter. In place of war you are at peace with your fellow citizens and the gods. Keep your oath to the Senate and people of Rome and to us your Emperors, and you will enjoy these benefits throughout your service. Do your duty in a disciplined and orderly way, show respect and honour to your rulers, and you will find a pleasant life that lacks nothing.’

  Rank after rank of faces that betrayed neither enthusiasm or hostility, as if the rigours of the siege had drained them of all emotion.

  ‘The long years of campaigning are over. You will return to your camps. There you will live in comfort in your own homes, no longer in foreign lands suffering privations.’

  That struck a chord. A few of the soldiers grinned at each other. Of course Pupienus knew it was a lie. Even if the civil wars were over, Roman authority must be restored in the East; Nisibis and Carrhae recovered. Many soldiers would be needed to campaign against the Sassanids, many would suffer and die.

  ‘None of you should imagine that there is any recrimination on our part – you were obeying orders – nor on the part of the Romans or the rest of the provinces that rebelled when they were unjustly treated. Let there be no recrimination on your part. There must be a complete amnesty, a firm treaty of friendship, and a pledge of loyalty and discipline for ever.’

  This did not seem to go down so well. What had it come to when soldiers found even the mention of discipline a reproach?

  ‘When you return to your camps, to celebrate your homecoming and our accession, every man will receive a donative of a year’s pay. Eternal Rome! The fidelity of the army!’

  Fides Militum! Romae Aeternae! Fides Militum!

  They shouted warmly enough as the imperial entourage descended the tribunal, and mounted their horses.

  When Pupienus was fifty paces from the walls the gates swung open. As he rode under the gatehouse somewhere above a choir started to sing. The porticos of the long, straight street down to the Forum were thronged. The people of Aquileia called out words of good omen, threw flowers. This was appropriate. Pupienus relaxed his stern face into a dignified smile. He went as far as to wave, although he looked neither right nor left.