And he knew in his heart, he deserved much worse. He had been there in the street when the soldiers came for Pontianus. As the mob surged around him, three times he had denied knowing Pontianus. When they howled for blood, rather than attract their anger, he had joined in their chants. Throw him to the beasts! To the lions! Should he confess, no amount of remorse would serve. In sackcloth and ashes, he would be led into the midst of the brethren and prostrated, an object of disgrace and horror. Before the elders and the widows, before them all, he would have to grovel, begging for their forgiveness, clasping their knees, licking their very footprints.
Chapter 13
Rome
The Forum of Augustus,
Six Days before the Ides of March, AD238
Be a man. Without moving his lips, Menophilus repeated the words – Be a man. He was sure that Sabinus, the Prefect of the City, should have arrived by now. The outcome of this clandestine meeting depended on timing. He could go outside, and check the sun, but that might be seen as irresolute. He continued his solitary wait for Maximinus’ supporter, pacing, back and forth, back and forth.
The room oppressed him. It was the height, not the floor space. Panels and bands of marble – Numidian yellow, Phrygian purple, white from Greece, the smoky red and black they called Lucullan – revetted all the way up to the coffered slabs of the ceiling, fifty foot or more. A gigantic statue of Augustus, five or six times larger than life, crowded the space. The whole effect was like being at the bottom of a quarry or mine shaft under the gaze of a singularly impassive deity.
Menophilus stopped in front of one of the two paintings by Apelles. From a triumphal chariot, Augustus looked down on a bound prisoner, a personification. The Emperor had vanquished war itself. The transience of human endeavour weighed heavily on Menophilus. Augustus should have known better. War could not be conquered. The folly and ignorance of mankind ensured war was eternal.
If there was war now in the city of Rome, the Gordiani would lose. Sabinus had quartered three thousand of the Urban Cohorts in the Porticus Vipsania on the Campus Martius, commanding the west of the city. The other three thousand remained in their usual barracks in the Praetorian camp at the north of Rome. The thousand Praetorians left in their camp also followed his orders. The majority of the seven thousand men of the Watch were still at their stations throughout the city, although their Prefect Potens, said to be nervous by nature, had gathered some two thousand across the Tiber, dominating the bridge. The proximity of their camp on the other side of the river, had ensured the detachment of a thousand men from the Ravenna fleet had remained loyal to Maximinus.
To put against those forces, Menophilus had won the oaths of the men stationed in the east of the city; a thousand from the fleet at Misenum in their camp near the Baths of Trajan, the two hundred cavalrymen and the less-than-a-hundred frumentarii left in their bases on the Caelian, and the couple of hundred Praetorians who had been on duty on the Palatine when he killed Vitalianus. He had sent Serapamum, an equestrian client of the house of the Gordiani, to try to secure the adherence of the Second Parthian Legion at their base in the Alban Hills. Yet, even if the mission was successful, only a thousand swords had remained when the legion had marched off to the wars in the North, and the camp was twelve miles distant from the city. If it came to a fight now – odds of ten to one against – the Gordiani would be massacred. Other approaches were necessary. Distasteful as it was, this meeting with Sabinus was inevitable.
Still, one thing had played into Menophilus’ hands. The messenger from Maximinus had sought the office of the Praetorian Prefect on the Palatine. He had found not Vitalianus, but an officer called Felicio. The day before, Menophilus had appointed this Felicio, another equestrian indebted to the patronage of the Gordiani, to command their vestigial Guard. Among the imperial despatches from beyond the northern frontier – detailed stages of march, dispositions of troops, intelligence regarding the Sarmatians – had been the order for the arrest of Timesitheus.
Menophilus had admired the self-control of Timesitheus, as he read his own purple-sealed death warrant. Unsurprisingly, the Graeculus had been quick to pledge his allegiance to the new imperial dynasty. There was much to recommend the little Greek. He was intelligent and personable, good-looking in a restrained way. He had governed provinces in the North and East with distinction. His handling of the logistics of the northern campaign had been exemplary. As Praefectus Annonae he controlled the grain supply of Rome. One of his closest friends had charge of the Ludus Magnus and the largest troop of gladiators in the capitol. His links with those in the Subura who could get the plebs out on the streets might prove invaluable.
Yet, on the reverse of the coin, Timesitheus was not to be trusted. He had informed against Magnus, and his fellow would-be tyrannicides in Germania, and against harmless, old Valerius Apollinaris in Asia. He had enemies here in Rome – men the Gordiani would need. None were more fervent than Apollinaris’ son Valerius Priscillianus, but the Greek also was embroiled in a protracted and vitriolic dispute over an inheritance with Armenius Peregrinus.
And then there were the schemes Timesitheus had proposed to further the cause he had so recently joined. Unethical was far too mild a word. A courtier around the throne of an Oriental despot would have found them disgraceful. The hypocrisy of his own thinking turned Menophilus on his heel, drove him out of the room into the Forum. He ignored the two soldiers he had posted outside the curtains; the others were out of sight. He sat on the plinth of a statue, trying to rein in his thoughts, master himself.
A fountain played at the foot of the steps of the temple. He heard the sound of another fountain, the sound of approaching footsteps. Sicilia on the Palatine. His boot on Vitalianus’ chest, his sword at his throat. The doomed man looking up at him. The last request. Spare my daughters. At least Menophilus had sent his ashes back to his widow in Etruria. He doubted his letter assuring the family they were free from any further reprisals had afforded much comfort.
In politics the things you most desire were the things you should most fear. In the last few days frequently Menophilus had wished he had never left his native Apulia. Now there was no going back to the quiet life of an equestrian in the country. The Stoicism he aspired to held that retirement was justifiable if the state was irremediably corrupt. The empire was a monarchy. If the ruler was a tyrant, mad or bad beyond cure or redemption, he could be killed and replaced. Maximinus was both, that much seemed clear. Yet what of the others who stood in the way of pulling the tyrant from his throne? Gordian had sanctioned the killing of Vitalianus, but had the Prefect deserved to die? What of his other supporters?
Menophilus looked past the steps to the exedra on the other side of the temple. Romulus stood there, armoured, carrying spoils stripped from an enemy chieftain. For the good of Rome, he had cut down his brother, and he had become a god. Rome was founded in blood. They were the children of the wolf. Ausonian beasts, as the Greeks called them.
A movement at the southern end of the portico in which he sat. Sabinus had come. The Prefect of the City was not wearing a helmet, but otherwise was equipped for the battlefield; breastplate, military cloak, sword-belt, and boots. He was backed by ten men of the Urban Cohorts. Their swords were sheathed, but the covers were off their shields, showing their emblem, Roma enthroned.
‘The agreement was two soldiers each,’ Menophilus said.
Sabinus dismissed this with an odd motion of his hand, as if dusting an invisible object. ‘The streets are unsafe. The homes of two Senators were looted yesterday, their occupants attacked, several servants were killed. I have more soldiers at the front of the Forum and at both the rear doors.’
‘Yet life goes on,’ Menophilus said. ‘The streets are quiet in most parts of the city.’
With a patrician wave, Sabinus indicated the room should be searched. Two soldiers went behind the curtain. The others remained tight around him until they re-emerged.
‘Shall we?’
Menophilus
followed him. The curtain fell to after them. They were alone.
Sabinus paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He looked around, as if his men might have overlooked a lurking assassin; nothing but marble panels and the huge statue, nowhere to hide. He went over and studied the painting of captive war.
‘The fool Claudius ruined Apelles’ masterpiece. He had the features of Augustus painted over those of Alexander the Great.’ Sabinus spoke as if instructing a child. ‘All too few really appreciate art. When Mummius was bringing his loot back from Corinth, he had a clause inserted into the contract with the shippers, if they lost or damaged any of the old masters they were to provide him with new ones.’
‘I am sorry your pictures outside the Senate house were destroyed,’ Menophilus said.
Sabinus replied without taking his eyes off the painting. ‘They were of little merit, although the artists were proficient, and I had given the composition some thought. They reso-nated well with their surroundings, the Rostra and the Lake of Curtius.’
Turning, Sabinus ran his gaze over the great gilded statue, and shuddered slightly. ‘I had hoped Valerian would be with you. I have always liked him.’
‘And I would have welcomed Potens,’ Menophilus said.
Sabinus smiled. ‘A jumped-up man of little virtus, but loyal.’ He continued without pause. ‘You wish to negotiate your safety. Maximinus is not renowned for the quality of mercy. Old-fashioned severity is more his style. Renouncing Gordian and his father will not be enough. However, if you name everyone connected to the revolt, and you aid me in restoring order to the city, then perhaps I will be able to persuade our Emperor to allow you to return to your pastures and cattle droves in the South, live out your life in obscurity.’
Menophilus counted from alpha to omega before replying. ‘Maximinus is a tyrant. He will turn on you.’
Again Sabinus made the strange dusting motion, fluttering his fingers. ‘Maximinus is on the other side of the Alps with an army. The Gordiani are on the far side of the sea with no legions. If they sailed into the storm, they may well already be dead.’
‘If you join us,’ Menophilus said, ‘Potens will follow you.’
‘If I countenanced such treason’ – Sabinus looked at the gilt statue as if struck by the idea that it might be hollow, and contain some witness – ‘and, before the gods, I would never entertain such thoughts, the troops who garrison Rome would still never defeat the field army on the battlefield.’
‘No set battle,’ Menophilus said. ‘We block the Alpine passes. If the tyrant gets through, we hold Aquileia. As a final barrier, we fortify the routes across the Apennines. We delay Maximinus until the British and eastern armies rise against him.’
The flutter of Sabinus’ fingers. ‘I am far from convinced that will happen. Maximinus appointed many of the governors. Certainly Decius and his legion in Spain will remain true to Maximinus.’
A soldier stuck his head through the curtain.
No longer the languid connoisseur, Sabinus was very alert.
‘Apologies, Prefect, a mob is gathering in front of the Forum. Several hundred of them, they are throwing stones. The men will not be able to keep them out for long.’
Sabinus pointed a finger at Menophilus.
‘No, not my doing,’ said Menophilus. ‘The plebs hate all Senators. I will leave by the back doors with you.’
‘Indeed you will.’ Sabinus laughed. ‘Guards!’
The curtain was pulled back. Soldiers muscled in, ringed Menophilus.
‘What of your oath? You gave me safe conduct.’
‘Oaths are very overrated,’ Sabinus said. ‘Our ancestors knew the safety of the Res Publica must come before such technicalities.’
Menophilus was clad in just a tunic and cloak. When they searched him they found no hidden weapons, just the knife on his belt.
‘A pity Valerian is not with you. I would have sent you both to Maximinus. Bind him.’
‘There is no need.’
‘Actually,’ Sabinus gestured at the painting, ‘I think there is.’
They tied Menophilus’ hands behind him, the rope rough, cutting into his wrists.
‘Shall we?’ Sabinus said.
Outside, they descended the three steps to the floor of the Forum. Menophilus took care, should he stumble, he could not put out his hands. He could see his two soldiers, disarmed and trussed up some paces away. The confused roar of the mob echoed down the porticos, through the statues, as if the great men of the past cried out against such treachery.
A guard on either side, Menophilus followed Sabinus under the Arch of Drusus, up the steep flights of stairs, through the rear gate, and out into the street.
On the Vicus Sandaliarius some forty troops were drawn up in a crescent facing the door, on their shields Roma on her throne, or Neptune rising from the ocean.
‘Fall in,’ Sabinus ordered.
The waiting troops did not move, neither those bearing the symbol of the Urban Cohorts or the Misenene fleet. The soldiers of the former around Sabinus and Menophilus shifted uneasily, looked back over their shoulders. The door through which they had come was now blocked by the marines Menophilus had hidden inside the temple in the Forum.
A tall officer, old and forbidding in appearance, heavy-bearded, stepped forward from the surrounding troops. ‘Sabinus, you are relieved of your office,’ Pupienus said. ‘You men with him, join your fellow-soldiers in swearing allegiance to our noble Emperors Gordian the Elder and Younger. By the authority of our sacred Augusti, I am once again Prefect of the City.’
Sabinus rounded on Menophilus, drawing his sword. Menophilus hurled himself sideways, knocking the soldier on his right off balance with his shoulder. As the man staggered, Menophilus was off. The ranks of the encircling troops opened. He was spun around. Someone sawed through the ropes that bound him. The blade nicked his forearm. The sounds of a scuffle behind him.
Turning back, he saw those who had guarded Sabinus putting down their weapons. Sabinus himself was running to the open door of a storeroom a few paces down the street. Marines from the Misenene fleet bundled in after him.
‘Do not kill him!’ Menophilus shouted, and raced after them.
The dark room was full of lumber, discarded offerings and damaged furniture from the Forum. Sabinus was cornered, his sword gone.
‘Leave him, he is my responsibility.’ Walking towards the trapped man, Menophilus picked up the leg of a broken chair.
The marines fell back.
Menophilus faced Sabinus.
‘I take it there is no point in pleading for my life.’
‘No,’ Menophilus said.
‘For a Stoic, you have a talent for deception and murder.’
‘You should have joined us.’
‘And been killed by Maximinus a little later. You will lose.’
‘All men have to die.’
Sabinus covered his head with his cloak. ‘What an artist dies here.’
As Menophilus hefted the improvised cudgel, Sabinus lunged forward, the concealed blade now in his hand. Menophilus brought the chair leg down on the other man’s fist. The knife clattered to the floor. Sabinus doubled up in pain.
‘Maximinus will kill you,’ Sabinus gasped.
‘If it is fated.’
Carefully judging the distance, like an attendant at a sacrifice, Menophilus brought the chair leg down onto the back of Sabinus’ head. A sickening sound, like smashing an amphora full of something wet and solid. Sabinus went to his hands and knees, blood oozing from his scalp. Menophilus hit him again, three or four more times when he was prone.
Pupienus caught his arms. ‘Enough.’
Menophilus stood, panting, beyond words, beyond thought.
Pupienus released him. ‘We need his head to be recognisable.’
Chapter 14
Rome
The Subura,
Six Days before the Ides of March, AD238
Caenis woke softly. Rain pattered on the roof of the
attic in the tenement. She yawned and stretched. It was a luxury to be able to sleep in the early afternoon, in her own room, her own bed, alone. She had been dreaming of the voyage from Ephesus. A long time ago now, but it was still fresh in her memory; the strange smells and motion of the ship, the flying spray as it shouldered the waves, the towns and islands shining in the sun, Samos, the Cyclades, Zakynthos, Corcyra, names like poetry. It had been a good time. She had raised enough money to pay for her passage and food. The sailors and the other passengers had left her alone. Superstitious to a man, they held it was unlucky enough to have a woman on board, let alone bother her for sex.
Five years since she had left Ephesus; what would have happened to Rhodope? She would be married, Caenis was certain. Her husband would be the son of a member of the Boule. They would live in a grand house with servants. No, that was wrong. Rhodope had never wanted wealth. She would have married a potter, a neighbour from the quarter by the Magnesian Gate. The house would smell of wet clay. It would be under his nails, engrained in the pores of his skin. Perhaps she would have caught the eye of a farmer come to market. In his unsophisticated way, he might have thrown an apple at her. When it came time to talk to her father, he would have brought a cheese, a kid. The wedding would have been on his smallholding on the slopes of Mount Prion, with rustic dancing, roast suckling pig. Or he might have been a blacksmith, like her father. Their home would be warm, ringing with the clangour of his trade. She would worry about the little ones getting too near to the forge. In the evenings she would rub salve into the burns on her man’s strong arms.
A raised voice in the street brought her back to the Subura. She would not let it depress her. Things could be much worse. She could have a Leno, who would take her earnings, beat her, use her, pass her around among his friends. Girls confined in a Lupanar had a harder time; even those who were not slaves were hardly ever allowed out. The other day she had seen a poor slave girl in the street, a collar forged around her neck: This is a cheating whore! Seize her, she has escaped!
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