‘Hold the line. Silence in the ranks. Listen for the words of command.’
Now there was nothing for it, but to wait. Honoratus’ head throbbed. If only he had managed to eat more than a scrap of bacon. The lives of all these men in his hands. the safety of the whole province. The awful responsibility was crushing. Istria had fallen, and he had been healthy then. Know yourself. He was unworthy of command.
Honoratus gripped the horns of his saddle, forced himself to survey his chosen field. A broad, featureless plain with no cover except for the village of Palmatis, a mile or so to the rear. Egnatius Marinianus was an experienced commander, there was no sign of the thousand horsemen concealed among its huts and barns. The horses would be blown when they arrived. The gods willing, it should not matter. All depended on the timing, and that – oh, the cruelty of the joke – rested on no one but Honoratus himself.
‘Sir.’ The Centurion pointed ahead.
There was a stirring in the enemy ranks. New men were being pushed to the front. They were unarmed. Their hands were bound. They were not barbarians.
‘The bastards.’ Horrified, the legionaries yelled at the sight of the human shield. ‘Cowards!’
‘Silence!’
The Centurions were obeyed.
Honoratus hunted for something to say.
The Carpi were moving forward, shoving their prisoners in front.
‘Spare them, and we all die. Those civilians are dead men anyway. Ready your javelins. Wait until the command.’
Gods below, there were women among the hostages, even children. So this was the glory of war – to order the massacre of the defenceless.
The barbarians were almost within a hundred paces. No archers on either side. This would be at the point of the sword.
Honoratus half turned to the signallers. ‘Ready.’
Fifty paces. The terrified faces of the stumbling prisoners. Fierce, bearded faces over their shoulders, roaring defiance.
‘Make the signal.’
The trumpets rang out, and a huge red flag was hoisted.
No time to watch for a response.
Thirty paces.
Would the soldiers cut down fellow Romans?
‘Throw!’
Hundreds of steel-tipped missiles whistled away.
Thank the gods the soldiers were a caste apart, shared little with those who did not live under the standards.
Figures – Roman and barbarian – plunged to the ground.
‘Throw!’
The javelins of the rear ranks arced out. More fell.
The hostages were gone. The living and the dead trampled underfoot.
With the shock of an earthquake, the Carpi crashed into the legionaries. The line of shields buckled, in places shuddered back a few paces. Nowhere did it break. The legionaries, crouching, knees bent, thrust with shield boss and sword. The Carpi slashed and swung ungainly great blades. Some tore at the shields and the men behind with their bare hands.
An incoming javelin shot past Honoratus’ face. He jerked up his shield, freed from the trance of the violent drama.
A Roman general did not fight, not unless almost all was lost. He managed the battle, set an example, encouraged the men. Honoratus put down his shield, and, feigning unconcern, walked his horse behind the line.
‘Thrust to the face. Make them give ground.’
He called out above the din of battle.
‘See they are tiring. Give me a step forward, boys. Drive them back.’
A bellowing like a thousand bullocks, away to the right.
Under Honoratus’ horrified gaze, Celsinus toppled from his horse, a shaft embedded in his chest.
Their commander down, the Lusitanians began to give way. One or two at the back had already turned to run.
Without thought, Honoratus kicked his horse into a gallop.
By the time he reached the Cohort, the rout was near general.
Honoratus drove through the panic towards a retreating standard bearer.
Reining in hard, almost setting his mount back on its haunches, he jumped down.
‘Give me that.’ He snatched the standard, turned the pole horizontal, blocked those falling back.
‘Turn and stand.’
Some pushed past. A few halted.
‘Hold them here, and the day is ours.’
A barbarian burst through the melee. He chopped down at Honoratus’ head. Using the standard as a staff, Honoratus blocked. The impact jarred up through his arms. The barbarian pulled back to launch another attack, and a Centurion cut him down from behind.
‘With your general!’ the Centurion shouted.
A small knot of men clustered around Honoratus; twenty or thirty, no more. The Carpi lapped around them, pressed in from all sides. Shifting the standard to his left hand, Honoratus drew his sword. If ever a Roman general fought, it was now. Use the blade on the enemy or yourself. Do not be taken alive.
A huge barbarian chief chopped down an auxiliary in front of Honoratus, then another. Bright with gold, larger than a man, this was some great war-leader of the Carpi. He aimed a mighty overhead blow. Honoratus caught it on his own blade, was nearly forced to his knees, dropped the standard.
Wild eyed, spittle-flecked beard, the warrior screamed, lost in some battle madness. He lifted his reddened arms to finish this. Digging his heels into the dirt, Honoratus thrust. The blade was turned by the ribcage, slid along bone.
He was face to face with the chief. As they grappled, Honoratus twined his left leg behind the barbarian’s right, shifted his weight in a wrestling move, let the bulk of the other man overbalance them both. Landing half on top of his opponent, Honoratus jerked out his dagger, plunged it into the man’s groin.
The chieftain curled, clutching at his genitals. Honoratus grabbed his long hair, hauled back his head, and sawed at his neck. The knife scraped against cartilage and bone. No skill or science, Honoratus hacked away until the barbarian did not move.
Hands slippery with gore, Honoratus snatched his sword, used it to lever himself upright.
Ten men left. The Carpi closing to overrun them. A doomed last stand. The barbarians howling. The very earth vibrating.
And then, as if released from a spell, the Carpi turned and ran.
Swaying, the survivors clung to each other, trying to make sense of their reprieve.
The cavalry thundered through the chaos. Whooping, leaning from the saddle, as if after deer, they hunted down the barbarians.
Egnatius Marinianus pulled up by Honoratus.
‘Revenge and victory. Pupienus and Balbinus and Gordian Imperatores. Victory!’
‘Hail the Augusti and the Caesar,’ Honoratus said.
CHAPTER 37
Dalmatia
The Town of Salona, The Day before the Ides of June, AD238
The villa outside Salona had a terrace with a view of the harbour. Iunia Fadilla watched a big merchantman reach the breakwater at the mouth of the river, and prepare to set out to sea.
Bored waiting, she had finished The Ephesian Tale by Xenophon. Why had her cousin given her the novel? Had Fadillus thought it might distract her, or had he seen some parallel between the adventures of the heroine and her own? In the book, apart from twice being buried alive, Anthia had been forced into two marriages, repeatedly enslaved – by both pirates and brigands – and sold into a brothel. Despite all of which, she had somehow managed to persuade her various husbands, owners, and prospective clients to respect her chastity. Iunia Fadilla doubted the simpering Greek girl would have been as successful with her own husband Verus Maximus. All those tears would have just excited his lust. Why was Anthia always crying? And her husband, Habrocomes, was no better.
Men had no idea what women thought. Fadillus would have done better giving her a book of good poetry, or, if it had to be prose, something useful, something which would help her prepare to pick up the threads of her normal life in Rome and Italy. She had purchased a new property on the Bay of Naples before her marriage. When she returne
d it would need taking in hand. Varro or Columella’s On Agriculture would have been helpful. Or perhaps How to Manage your Slaves by Marcus Sidonius Falx.
When she returned. She looked at the merchantman heading out into the Adriatic, and wished she was standing on its deck. She was comfortable enough. The villa provided by Claudius Julianus indeed was luxurious. But still the governor of Dalmatia would not give her permission to leave. One reason after another: the weather was threatening, the times unsettled, she was not yet recovered from her ordeal. It was as if she were a child.
At first she had been happy to be treated as a child. Her cousin and the soldiers had taken her hands and led her down from the cliff. They had made her wait for a carriage to take her back to the little town of Bariduum. There she had been agreeably lodged, and reunited with her maid. Restuta had bathed and fed her, put salve on her cuts and bruises. A local seamstress had run up new clothes. All the while Fadillus had fussed around her. No one was allowed to say anything which might upset her; no mention of the civil war, or her husband. Eventually – when she was strong enough – they had brought her down to Salona.
In truth she had behaved like a child. She had refused to believe that either Gordian or his father were dead. Claudius Julianus was kindly, but insistent. She would not accept it. What proof did he have? Finally he had shown her. The honey had not completely preserved the head. It was blackened, a little decomposed. The sweetness of the honey mingled with the stench of decay. Yet there was no doubt it was Gordian the Elder. A messenger had been intercepted taking the grisly trophy from Africa to Maximinus. Put to the question, he admitted that, although the body later could not be identified, he had seen Gordian the Younger cut down on the field of battle.
She had collapsed then – wailing, floods of tears, incoherent, no more resolve than the heroine of a Greek novel – but that was many days ago. Now she was recovered. She was herself, and she wanted to leave. She had requested this meeting with Claudius Julianus so she could demand to leave. She was not a prisoner, and she would not be treated as such.
Restuta came out onto the terrace. Keeping her promise, Iunia Fadilla had manumitted her. Now a freedwoman, Restuta deserved a greeting. As a slave she could have been ignored. Sometimes Iunia Fadilla found it hard to remember her maid’s change of status.
‘The litter is ready.’
They crossed one of the five bridges, and went up through the town towards the Forum.
Iunia Fadilla left the hangings open. The passers-by gawped, but all her life she had been used to people staring.
Claudius Julianus was waiting in a broad, airy room in the Basilica off the Forum. Her cousin was with him. Somehow they both made her uncomfortable, and she knew that they always would. Every time she saw Fadillus, she would be reminded of her flight, of the mountains, and her fear. Claudius Julianus may have been a lifelong friend of Gordian, but now he would remain the man who had shown her the severed head of her lover’s father.
‘Wine?’
‘Thank you, yes. You know why I asked to see you.’
Claudius Julianus looked embarrassed. Fadillus would not meet her eye.
She would go no matter what objections they raised.
‘There is news from Aquileia.’ Claudius Julianus spoke carefully.
Iunia Fadilla forced herself to be calm.
‘Your husband is dead. Verus Maximus was killed with his father in a mutiny.’
Her heart leapt.
‘Then there is nothing to stop me returning to Rome.’ Some of her wine had spilled on the floor; a libation to freedom.
Neither of the men would look at her.
‘You can return to Rome, but …’ Claudius Julianus’ words trailed off.
‘But?’
‘Our Emperors, the noble Augusti Pupienus and Balbinus, have promised your hand in marriage to Marcus Julius Corvinus.’
It took a moment for her to understand who was meant. My name is Marcus Julius Corvinus, and these wild mountains are mine. She had the brooch he had given her. She had wanted to run to him. But now …
‘I have no wish for another husband.’
‘It will not be like Verus Maximus,’ Fadillus said. ‘The Emperors have promised Corvinus a house in Rome, and villas on the Bay of Naples and Sicily. You will have some independence.’
She already possessed that quality, and had her own houses in Rome and on the coast.
‘You cannot coerce a woman into marriage. It is against the law.’ She sounded weak and pedantic to herself.
‘The Emperors must keep their promises,’ Claudius Julianus said, his words weighty and considered, fitting the dignity of the governor of a province. ‘The will of the Emperors is law.’
Damn them to Hades. No man would be forced into such an arrangement. Claudius Julianus would continue to serve in safe posts across the empire, accruing the profits, untroubled by a wife left on his estates. Fadillus would return to Rome, to his indulgences and ridiculous novels, to life as a bachelor. The world was unfair. Damn all men to Hades.
PART X:
ROME
CHAPTER 38
The Temple of Concordia Augusta, The Ides of June, AD238
Pupienus Augustus eased himself onto the ivory throne, Balbinus Augustus to his right, the Caesar Gordian his left. He looked down at the hundreds of Senators massed in the great chamber, and they gazed up at their rulers on the dais. The setting could not have been more fitting: the Temple of Augustan Harmony. Togate and grave, whatever tensions or animosities flickered behind their serious faces, for this act of theatre the two Emperors and their Caesar embodied imperial unity and the majesty of Rome.
The painting of Marsyas – naked and hanging in agony – caught his eye. It was less than three months since he had studied it as the news was broken that the Gordiani were dead in Africa. Then it had seemed that all their hopes had come to nothing, that everyone in the temple might share the fate of Marsyas. So much had happened since. Then he had been a Senator – one among six hundred – now he was Emperor. All his deep-laid plans had come to fruition, even the one that had seemed unthinkable. He did not let himself think about his father. Power did not come without a price. The throne was not won without suffering.
A Quaestor – one of the favoured, a candidate of the Emperors – was to read the imperial oration. It followed precedent, and it had solved a problem. Pupienus and Balbinus shared power equally. Neither could have made the speech without seeming to assume precedence. Pupienus almost allowed himself to smile as he imagined the alternative: both Augusti chanting the words together, perhaps with young Gordian adding a contralto backing.
Balbinus had been delighted when Pupienus suggested the Quaestor should be one Valerius Poplicola. The young patrician symbolized the change of regime. Maximinus had executed his uncle and grandfather. Balbinus had close links to the family, and saw Poplicola as a protégé. Balbinus was a fool, who mistook the trappings for the reality of power.
‘Conscript Fathers, rejoice! By the will of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the immortal gods, and with the agreement of all mankind, the Senate invested us in the purple to save the Res Publica, and rule it in accordance with Roman law. We bring you good news. The provinces, once torn in pieces by the insatiable greed of the tyrant, are restored to safety. Only two governors in all the provinces in the North and the West have yet to acknowledge our beneficent rule. Crispinus, the hero of Aquileia, has been despatched to administer the oath of allegiance to Decius in Spain. The noble Rufinianus has been appointed governor of both Africa and Numidia. Here in Rome Sextius Cethegillus will replace Rufinianus as Prefect of the City. The oaths of loyalty have yet to arrive across the expanse of sea from the East, but we repose full confidence in our envoys Latronianus and Cuspidius.’
Jupiter Optimus Maximus, we give you thanks.
A deep, rhythmic acclamation rose from the assembled Senators.
‘Civil strife is at an end. The legions and the auxiliaries march back to their st
ations on the frontiers. The Praetorians are returned to their camp here in Rome, the 2nd Parthian Legion to the Alban Hills. To celebrate the felicity of our times, we have issued a new denomination of coin, twice the value of the denarius.’
Pupienus Augustus, we give you thanks.
This acclamation was more muted. Senators had little sympathy for gifts to the troops.
Balbinus Augustus, we give you thanks.
A crowd of off-duty Praetorians thronged the open doors of the temple. Their demeanour also was less than enthusiastic. The new coins had not been well received. Pupienus made a mental note to raise the issue again at the next consilium.
Gordian Caesar, we give you thanks.
‘The grain fleet from Alexandria has been sighted off Puteoli. Soon it will dock in Ostia, the public granaries will be full, and hunger a thing of the past.’
Pupienus, Balbinus, Gordian, may the gods keep you.
Timesitheus was standing among the Praetorians in the doorway. For now the little Greek remained Praefectus Annonae. Pupienus had new plans for him. In the hard duties of negotium, in politics and war, you had to use the instruments that were to hand, even if they were distasteful.
‘The joys of peace are founded on the travails of war. While the soldiers of Rome have turned on each other in fratricidal conflict, the savage arrogance of the barbarians has grown. A conspiracy of the tribes threatens the lower Danube. The Persians have overrun Mesopotamia. Emperors should not rest in tranquillity while other men fight for the safety of the Res Publica. In the East, Pupienus Augustus will humble the vaunting conceit of the Sassanids. The gods willing, he will sack Ctesiphon, and lead Ardashir in chains through the streets of Rome in triumph. In the North, Balbinus Augustus will bring ruin on Cniva and the horde of Goths and Sarmatians who follow in his train. For the good governance of Rome, Gordian Caesar will reside on the Palatine.’
No voice will ever be so strong, no speech will ever be so happy, no talent will ever be so fortunate, as ever adequately express the blessedness of your reign.
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