‘Fetch them.’
‘Emperor.’ It was that fat fool of a patrician, Valerius Priscillianus. ‘I should inform your co-Emperor, the noble Balbinus.’
‘Yes,’ Pupienus said. ‘Valerian, you might see that the Caesar Gordian is not alarmed.’
If the danger turned out to be more than some wild rumour, Pupienus would not have his sons caught up the tumult. ‘Africanus, your wife is near the time of her confinement. You should go and make sure she is not disturbed. And,’ he turned to his elder son, ‘Maximus, our family home on the Esquiline is quite near the camp, go and see that all is well there.’
‘I will go with him,’ Praetextatus said.
‘Please do.’
The consilium was much reduced. Pupienus knew he must set an example in unconcern. It was not difficult after a lifetime of self-control and subterfuge.
‘Now, we must turn to the question of money. I am informed that the new denomination, the Antoninianus, is unpopular. Licinius Rufinus, you once served as A Rationibus, you understand the imperial finances. Advise me what measures we should enact. No war was ever fought without money.’
CHAPTER 41
The Aula Regia at the West of the Palatine Hill, Three Days after the Ides of June, AD238
On a hot summer day the Sicilia courtyard lost some of its appeal. With no breeze, it was stifling under the porticos, and the sunlight, glinting off the pool and reflected by the marble cladding, was painful to the eyes. At the last moment Balbinus decided they really would have to go somewhere else.
Although clad for the festival in an informal Greek tunic, Balbinus led the entourage slowly and with due pomp. An Emperor should never hurry. As they passed the entrance to the network of tunnels and covered walkways that ultimately led to the Capitoline, he looked with longing at its dark shade. But Sophists could not perform before their Emperor in a passageway, and the main audience chamber should be as cool as anywhere.
Balbinus sat on the throne. From the apse behind him, larger than life and sculpted in marble, his own image, along with the statues of Pupienus and Gordian, gazed out over his head.
Culture and power were his birthright. One of his ancestors had been deified as Zeus Eleutherius Theophanes, as much for his literary compositions as for advising Pompey the Great on the organization of Rome’s eastern provinces. A more recent forebear, Herodes Atticus, had been acknowledged as the equal of the ten great orators of the Athenian past. Balbinus intended his would be a reign of culture, which in posterity would outshine that of his kinsman the divine Hadrian. Let dour, timeworn Pupienus labour over accounts and troop rosters. Balbinus Augustus would preside over a court of poets, artists and orators.
Balbinus had thought to reintroduce competitions in Greek and Latin oratory to the official programme of the Capitoline Games. His old friend Rufinianus had strongly argued against it. Apparently the contest had been removed from the festival after the fall of its originator, the Emperor Domitian of evil fame. It was not good to remind the populace of a tyrant, even one from generations before. Today would be a private event.
Balbinus sometimes wondered if he heeded the advice of others too readily. Perhaps in four years’ time, at the next staging of the Capitoline Games, orators might appear. He had half a mind to reintroduce races for girls. They would follow the Spartan custom. The thought was appealing. Their young bodies oiled and naked, their embarrassment as they were exposed to the crowd; their firm, rounded buttocks, budding breasts. The competitors would be chosen by imperial command. It would be good to order the daughters of his enemies stripped for public enjoyment. A pleasant fantasy, no more.
It was still too hot in the Aula Regia. The open doors and great window that led onto the balcony admitted not a breath of air. The tall columns of Phrygian marble and the high, shadowed ceiling gave a false impression of coolness. The purple tunic clung damply over the Emperor’s paunch.
The two Sophists and the select audience were in place. Balbinus had given the occasion some thought. The contest needed an edge of danger. Nothing crass like Caligula having the loser thrown in the river, or Heliogabalus making him lick the ink from the papyrus of his published speeches. It was Balbinus’ choice of orators that added an element of personal rivalry, even animosity. Apsines of Gadara was a friend of Philostratus, while Periges the Lydian was a pupil of Cassianus, the bitter enemy of Philostratus. And, of course, the victor would be handsomely rewarded, while the vanquished would forfeit his exemption from taxes.
Balbinus studied the two speakers. Both were sweating like gladiators about to go into the arena. Well they might. Extempore display oratory, where there was no forewarning of the subject, was the most difficult of all forms of rhetoric. Balbinus pondered a theme. Demosthenes, after breaking down before Philip, defends himself from the charge of cowardice. It would be fitting for an imperial audience. Should the islanders revolt from Persia when their children have been murdered? No, he had thought of something better.
‘Should the Athenians revolt from Alexander while he is in India? Apsines will speak first.’
The chamber was silent with an air of expectation.
Apsines stood very still, looking down at his feet.
The tension gathered. Apsines had charmed audiences as diverse as the educated men of Athens and the barbarian Maximinus. The Phoenician had to produce an outstanding performance to make the transition to favour in the new regime.
Very suddenly Apsines stood straight, tossed his artfully curled locks, thrust out an arm, and began to declaim.
‘The same sun shines down on India …’
Some of the audience murmured applause. A true Sophist was master of delivery and appearance as well as words.
‘More distant than Hercules, further than Dionysus, the Macedonian has crossed the Indus …’
Balbinus was disturbed by a man pushing through the crowd, approaching the throne.
‘Emperor.’ It was Valerius Priscillianus.
‘Not now.’
‘Emperor, I must speak to you.’ Valerius’ face was far too close, heavy jowls dripping with sweat.
Balbinus waved a hand to stem the flow of Apsines’ words.
‘What?’ Valerius had been a companion since childhood, but this was unforgivable presumption. An Emperor can choose new friends. Everyone wanted to be amicus to the Augustus.
‘Praetextatus has just told the consilium that the Praetorians are tearing the imperial portraits from the standards in their camp.’
After the first stab of alarm, Balbinus calmed himself. Praetextatus had always been a credulous fool, and one with a nervous disposition. Most likely it was nothing but a wild rumour.
Valerius leant yet closer. His breath hot and offensive in Balbinus’ ear. ‘Pupienus has sent Menophilus to fetch the German Guard.’
Now Balbinus’ innards shifted with fear. A lifetime in Roman politics had attuned him to suspicion. Praetextatus’ hideous daughter was married to one of Pupienus’ sons. Menophilus and Pupienus had conspired together to kill Maximinus’ Prefect of the City. Menophilus had beaten Sabinus to death with his own hands. Pupienus had brought the German Guard to Rome. The barbarians were said to be devoted to him, to have sworn outlandish oaths.
‘Emperor—’
‘Silence. Let me think.’
The Praetorian Prefect Aedinius Julianus had been appointed by Pupienus. If it had any reality, the Praetorian riot was nothing but a pretext to bring the Germans to the Palatine. Once in the Palace, they would obey any command issued by Pupienus. The barbarians would have no compunction in killing an Emperor.
Balbinus seized the front of Valerius’ tunic. ‘Intercept the Germans. Countermand the order. Lead them back to their quarters. Make sure they remain outside the city.’
‘But—’
‘That is an imperial command.’
Panic-stricken, Valerius blundered away.
Balbinus composed his face. With a gesture, he summoned Acilius Aviola to his side.
‘Go and see what is happening in the Praetorian camp. If there is trouble, offer them a donative in my name and that of Gordian. Just our names, no mention of Pupienus.’
Acilius had more about him than Valerius. He left without demur.
So Pupienus had shown his hand. All his pressing talk of campaigns in Germany and the East, of both being harnessed together in duty, had been subterfuge. Balbinus had put a stop to this scheme, but now he must put his mind to ridding himself and young Gordian of their treacherous partner in the purple.
Balbinus did not know how much of the whispered conversations the others in the chamber had heard. An Emperor must not show weakness. He smiled gracefully.
‘We regret the interruption. All is resolved. Apsines, when you are ready, please continue.’
CHAPTER 42
The Quarters of the German Guard in the Gardens of Dolabella, Three Days after the Ides of June, AD238
‘So you are back then?’
‘I am back,’ Ballista said.
‘Enjoy the baths?’ Calgacus pronounced it as if the word itself was reprehensible.
‘The Baths of Caracalla are very big, very impressive.’
‘Proper little Roman now you have stopped being Dernhelm and become Marcus Clodius Ballista.’ The old Caledonian affected the belief that a change of tone, as if he were thinking out loud, made his asides inaudible. ‘Probably got yourself buggered senseless, like a Roman would.’
Ballista had not enjoyed the baths. He loathed drawing attention, at least when he was out of his element. Although he spoke Latin well enough, his height, pale skin, and long fair hair had made him stand out from the crowd in the baths. He was still young enough to find it hard to hide his acute embarrassment when stared at by strangers. And, Calgacus had a point, some of his fellow bathers had shown too much interest in his physique.
‘I am going to rest,’ Ballista said. ‘You might as well go and do whatever it is you do for amusement; perhaps inflict yourself on some poor whore under the arches of the Circus.’
‘And when would I find time to get my leg over, working my fingers to the bone morning, noon, and fucking night looking after you?’ Calgacus continued his shrewish complaints as he left the room. ‘Ungrateful little fucker.’
Ballista lay down. It was very hot, far hotter than he had ever known at home. The sounds of the camp came through the open window. There would never be quiet where two thousand Germanic warriors were quartered. Shouts, boasts, snatches of songs, men practising with their weapons; Ballista found the sounds soothing. It was good to be among his own people. The Guard was drawn, by treaty or money, from many northern tribes. Yet they shared both language and a way of looking at the world. Ballista tried to enjoy it while he could. In a few days he and Calgacus were ordered to go and live in the imperial school on the Palatine.
Ballista closed his eyes, and thought of Kadlin and the brothers he had loved. Froda was dead, Eadwulf in exile, and Kadlin lost to him. And his father had cast him out. Lines of poetry came into his mind.
I had to bind my feelings in fetters,
Often sad at heart, cut off from my country,
Far from my kinsmen, after, long ago,
Dark clods of earth covered my gold-friend;
I left that place in wretchedness.
The usual wheezing and coughing, and very audible muttering, announced that Calgacus was returning.
So this world dwindles day by day,
And passes away; for a man will not be wise
Before he has weathered his share of winters
In the world.
‘Get up. The Praetorians are going to kill the Emperors in the Palace. Not that I for one give a fuck.’
Ballista swung off the bed, went to get his mailcoat.
‘No time. We need to go now.’
Calgacus handed him his sword-belt, buckled on his own.
‘You have taken no oath to the Romans,’ Ballista said.
‘I took one to your father. Isangrim scares me more than these soft southerners.’
Ballista recognized the Senator standing in the middle of the gardens. Menophilus still looked ill from the arrow he had taken at Aquileia.
‘I saw you at the siege,’ Menophilus said. ‘You were leading the assault.’
‘I was too busy running to see you.’ There were no more than two or three hundred warriors assembled. The rest would be scattered through the city; drinking, whoring and gambling. Some would be insensible through drink. One or two who had appeared were reeling.
‘We cannot wait any longer,’ Menophilus said.
‘Over here, Emperor-killer.’ The tone of the Alamann was mocking, but not unkind. ‘Today, Angle, you will learn how a real man fights – with a sword not a stylus.’
The nearby warriors laughed.
‘Glad you brought that ugly Caledonian. His face alone should scare the Praetorians.’
‘Fuck you,’ Calgacus said.
‘Remind me to show you how to beat your slave later.’ The Alamann was in high spirits. They all were. Fighting was their reason for existence. For many the storm of spears held no fear. If they fell, the shield-maidens of the Allfather would take them to Valhalla. There they would fight and feast with the gods until Ragnarok, and the end of time.
Ballista wished he shared their confidence. He fiddled with his weapons; half-drawing his sword, then snapping it back, doing the same with his dagger. Allfather, do not let me disgrace myself in the eyes of the fighting men.
Menophilus led them out onto the Via Appia.
A crowd milled in front of the Porta Capena. A wagon had shed a wheel. It was wedged under the arch, blocking the gate. At the sight of the barbarians the throng melted away.
‘Stand back, Emperor-killer.’
Ballista did as he was told. He was big for his years, but could not match the strength of the older warriors.
‘One, two, three.’
They lifted the wagon by brute force. First a yard, then another. Gradually they hauled it clear.
The bed of the wagon was stacked with amphorae. A warrior jumped up, and opened one. He drank. Soon every man had wine.
‘No time for drinking.’ Menophilus was near beside himself. ‘Follow me.’
Sword in one hand, amphora in the other, they surged after the Roman.
The tall façade of the Septizodium loomed ahead. Ballista could not understand this Roman habit of putting up buildings that were not buildings. What was the point of a frontage with no rooms behind, no hall in which a ruler could eat with his warriors, hand out gold?
As they turned into the Via Triumphalis, the first warriors, too full of wine, fell out to be sick.
At their approach, the civilians fled. Drunk barbarians, sword in hand, rampaging through the streets of Rome. It was the stuff of Roman nightmares. One day, thought Ballista, one day.
‘Halt!’
Just before the Claudian aqueduct, a fat man was stood in their way. Obviously unaccustomed to running, his chest was heaving.
‘Halt by order of the Emperor.’
The warriors stopped. One or two more spewed wine onto the street.
‘What is this, Valerius?’
Menophilus had to wait as the other fought for breath.
‘The order is countermanded. The Germans are to return to their camp.’
‘On whose authority?’
‘By order of the sacred Augustus Balbinus.’
The Alamann nudged Ballista. ‘You understand more Latin than me. What are they saying?’
‘They are arguing.’
‘What about?’
‘The fat one says Balbinus has ordered us back to the gardens. The other is saying he takes his orders from Pupienus.’
The Alamann took a drink. ‘These Romans are shit. Imagine a war-leader who has no trust in his own people and kin, has to recruit a hearth-troop of nothing but outlanders.’
‘There are warriors from many tribes in my father’s hall.’
‘We swore on our swords to defend them.’
The Alamann snorted. ‘Those oaths were not freely given. You are as much a hostage as me. What does it matter to us who rules these southerners?’
‘The Alamann is right,’ Calgacus said. ‘Fuck them all.’
‘No,’ Ballista said. ‘Even an enforced oath is still an oath. If we break our word, we are no better than them.’
‘Did not stop you finishing Maximinus, Emperor-killer.’
Ballista had no answer to that.
‘Follow me!’
When the fat Senator went to detain Menophilus, he was shoved aside.
‘Follow me!’
The warriors looked at each other.
Ballista stepped up next to Menophilus. He turned and addressed the men of the North in their own language. ‘We gave them our word. They give us gold. We must do what is right.’
The Alamann came and stood at the shoulder of Ballista. ‘The young Himling may be right. Anyway, it is too long since we killed any Romans.’
Hoom, hoom. The warriors liked the sound of that.
‘It is not far,’ Menophilus said. ‘Pray to the gods, we are not too late.’
CHAPTER 43
The Hippodrome at the East of the Palatine Hill, Three Days after the Ides of June, AD238
‘Wars cost money. Only a tyrant, like Maximinus, resorts to unjust confiscations and stealing the treasures from the temples. The adulteration of the coinage may be unpopular, but the Antoninianus must stay.’
The remaining six members of the consilium had managed not to look at the door while Pupienus was speaking.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Just one thing, Emperor.’ Fulvius Pius spoke hurriedly. Obviously he wanted to be gone as much as the others. ‘May I urge that the Board of Twenty continues?’
As a member of the XXviri Reipublicae Curandae, Pius had an interest in its continuance. Every mark of status was important to a Senator.
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