Blood and Steel

by Harry Sidebottom

  Aching with weariness, he got up, and took a small wooden box from his medicine chest. He put a pinch of the powder on the back of his hand. Blocking first one nostril then the other, he snorted the compound of natron and chalcanthite. Iulius Africanus, the imperial librarian, had said it held fatigue at bay. Impotence, baldness, blindness, nocturnal emissions – Africanus had a cure for every ailment.

  Capelianus sat down on the bed again. Not long now. By cock-crow it would be decided, one way or the other. A few hours, a brief moment in time. The past lacked a beginning, the future lacked an end, and the present was between them, so thin and ungraspable, no more than a meeting point of what has been and what will be.

  Arrian was a fool, a weak, trusting fool, like his masters the Gordiani, the pretend Emperors acclaimed by a mob of untrustworthy Africans. Arrian had said the Gordiani were merciful. In a short while, Capelianus would be allowed to retire to his estates around Cirta. For now, he was under house arrest, placed in the charge of Ballatius, the Prefect of the Syrian archers. Arrian had no foresight, had not troubled himself to investigate how things really were. The lands around Cirta were mortgaged. With no other income, they would have to be sold. Capelianus would be reduced to poverty. Simple economics combined with the noble duty of revenge to make the life of a quiet landowner impossible. Ballatius had served under Capelianus for years. The first step had been easy.

  A tap at the window. Capelianus got up, his heart hammering despite himself. He blew out the lamp. The darkness was complete.

  The bolts on the outside were drawn, and the shutters opened. Pale moonlight flooded the bedroom. An arm reached in, beckoning. Awkwardly, Capelianus climbed out onto the roof.

  There were two of them, soldiers in undress uniform, scarves tied around their faces. Without a word, they led him up the sloping tiles. Capelianus paused for a moment, precarious astride the ridgeline. The far side was in shadow, dark and precipitous. He was too old to be clambering about on a roof in the dead hours of the night.

  There was nothing else for it. Slowly, slowly he inched down the incline. Every moment he expected a tile to skitter out beneath hand or foot, feel himself begin a painful and noisy slide, and then out and down onto the hard cobbles.

  At the bottom, they steadied him, pointed where the barrels had been stacked in the ally at the side of the house. They helped him scramble to the ground, dropped down after him. Still without speaking, they trotted off into the dark, leaving him alone in the night.

  This way, should everything go wrong, no one else would suffer. Neither Ballatius nor the guards on the door could be proved accountable. Capelianus had escaped with the aid of persons unknown. Even under torture, he could not describe the soldiers. Ballatius would have to claim the pain had induced Capelianus to implicate him falsely.

  Thoughts of the rack and the horse, the pincers and claws, threatened to unman Capelianus. He stood in the shade of the barrels, his heart again pounding. They said the heart shrinks once you were past fifty, contracted until it became no bigger than that of a child.

  He could not go back. It was all on one throw of the dice. Revenge was the birthright of every Roman. Capelianus forced himself to start walking.

  Cutting down the alley, he came out at the front of the house. The guards on the door looked the other way. He turned right onto the Via Principalis. Clouds scudded across the moon. It was strange, unnerving to be out at this time, all alone, no slaves, not even a linkman. He carried no weapons.

  The tall outbuilding in front of the headquarters loomed ahead, blocking the street. The guards on duty under the gloomy arches of the Groma studiously ignored him. He turned right again, went up the alleyway by the side of the Principia.

  Ballatius had said that the commanders of the other aux-iliary units would back him; Fabatus of the 7th Lusitanians, Securus of the 2nd Spaniards. But Capelianus knew that it was only the Legion that counted. Tonight all depended on the senior officers of the 3rd Augusta. Should they decide against him, Arrian would not be so weakly merciful a second time. Even the clementia of the feeble Gordiani had its limits.

  Capelianus turned left through the side gate of the Principia, went across the rear courtyard, and through the hangings that screened the shrine of the standards.

  It was bright inside, lamplight gleaming off the great eagle, off the other standards, many bearing the portraits of the Gordiani. The latter was to be expected, but a poor omen, one on which he must not dwell.

  Capelianus looked around at those waiting. He saw five of the legionary tribunes. The sixth, the one from a Senatorial family was not present. That mattered little; he was young, had scant influence. It was a relief to see the Prefect of the Camp; a soldier of more than thirty years’ service, his opinion carried weight. He counted eight of the ten senior Centurions. His spirit sank when he realized that old Firmanus the Primus Pilus was one of those missing.

  ‘Tell us what you have to say,’ the Prefect of the Camp said.

  Capelianus nodded heavily, gathering himself. Everything hinged on the next few moments, the fleeting, unstable meeting place of what had been and what would be. His grandfather, friend of Emperors, governor of great provinces, would have known what to say. Somehow the thought re-assured him.

  ‘By now you all know Arrian was lying. Maximinus has no intention of transferring the 3rd Augusta to the North. It is the Gordiani themselves who will lead the Legion out of Africa. They will make you desert your homes and families to fight and die in support of their doomed, selfish bid for power.’

  The faces of the officers were inscrutable. Capelianus pressed on. He would not die for want of trying.

  ‘Maximinus is a soldier, risen from the ranks. Like many of you, he served under Severus, under Caracalla. When he came to the throne, he doubled your pay. He is your brother. The Gordiani are nobiles, born into luxury, brought up in marble halls. They are more at home at a symposium than in an army camp. To them you are nothing.’

  Men who have had a hard life, had little sympathy for those who had never toiled. Resentment might bring them round, that and greed.

  ‘The Gordiani promised you a donative of five years’ pay. Have you seen a single coin? Return to your loyalty to Maximinus, and I will see you get every sestertius. Return to your loyalty, and I will give you Carthage to plunder. The property of traitors is forfeit, in Carthage, Hadrumetum, and Thysdrus, in every community that has broken its oath.’

  The lamps hissed. The officers were silent, but Capelianus thought perhaps he nearly had them. One more step, one more inducement.

  ‘If we act with speed, we may yet catch the Gordiani before they sail for Rome. Imagine how Maximinus will reward us if we crush this revolt singlehanded. 3rd Legion Augusta Pia Fidelis, live up to your titles. Let Piety and Fidelity be the watchwords!’

  As if waiting for the end of his speech, the curtain was pulled back, and Arrian marched into the shrine. He was backed by the Primus Pilus, and the other two missing officers from the 3rd. A squad of legionaries in full armour blocked the entrance.

  A good oration wasted, Capelianus thought. Now for the pincers and the rack. Inconsequentially, he noted the absence of either of the young tribunes who had come from Carthage with Arrian.

  ‘Gaius Iulius Geminius Capelianus, you are arrested, for the second time.’ A look almost of sadness passed over Arrian’s grooved, weathered face. ‘As you have spurned their clemency, you will be confined in chains, and sent to our noble Emperors, to await their judgement.’

  Be a man, Capelianus thought. Do not disgrace yourself or your ancestors.

  ‘Chain him,’ Arrian said.

  ‘The order can not be obeyed.’ The Primus Pilus spoke clearly.

  Arrian whirled around. ‘What?’

  ‘The 3rd Augusta will reaffirm its oath to Imperator Maximinus Augustus.’

  ‘But you have taken the sacramentum to the Gordiani.’

  ‘We were misled. Our oath to Maximinus came first.’

 
Arrian stood, tugging at his beard, as he tried to conjure up something to retrieve the situation.

  ‘Seize him,’ Capelianus said.

  Accepting its impossibility, Arrian attempted no resistance.

  Capelianus stepped towards him. ‘It seems, after all, that it is me doing the arresting. And, I am sure you will agree, tonight has shown that house arrest is a misplaced clemency. I have many questions about the plans of the Gordiani, and you have an appointment in the cellars with men who are skilled at extracting answers.’

  Chapter 22

  Africa

  Carthage,

  The Ides of March, AD238

  Gordian had not felt up to attending court early that morning. Sabinianus and Mauricius had sat as his father’s advisors. Despite still feeling jaded, at the fifth hour Gordian had walked through the Palace to the library, where he knew his father would be working on his biography of Marcus Aurelius.

  The room was scented with cedar, from the wood of the bookcases and the oil rubbed into the papyrus rolls. Progress was slow. The air was warm and heavy, sunshine streamed in from the east-facing windows. Gordian was soporific. As a younger man, his father had been a prolific poet: an epic Antoniniad in thirty books, a translation of Aratus from the Greek, other works on various subjects, a Marius, Alcyonae, Uxorius, and Nilus. The life of Marcus was unfinished after six years. His father cited the rigour of his research, and the demands of exact prose. Gordian knew it was advancing age.

  His father missed Serenus Sammonicus, that was obvious. They had grown old together. Morning after morning closeted over their books. A lifetime of quiet, studious companionship. Now Serenus had crossed the Styx before him. It was a pity neither Philostratus nor one of the other famous Sophists with whom his father was close was present in Carthage. Gordian suspected that he was a less than wholly adequate replacement. What literary talents he had possessed mainly had been squandered in his youth. Still, one or two slave secretaries aside, it gave them a chance to be alone.

  ‘Last night, Father, I did not mean to offend you when I spoke of the prodigy.’

  ‘You know I do not share your Epicurean views, but nothing you could say could ever offend me.’ His father ran a hand over his eyes, and looked very careworn.

  ‘Father, the gods are far away. They have no interest in us. They are perfect in their happiness. If they cared for the vices and follies of humanity, it would disturb their equanimity, mar their perfection. The soothsayers and astrologers that have troubled you are charlatans.’

  ‘Many are frauds,’ his father agreed. ‘But I have never understood how a god, or any sentient being, could be happy, if it had never experienced misery. The gods are different from us only in their power and immortality.’

  ‘Now we are Emperors,’ Gordian said, ‘many will worship us as gods.’

  ‘At least for a time.’

  It was clear his father wanted to say something else. Gordian unrolled a manuscript and waited.

  ‘It may be that such warnings only come true to those who believe. Perhaps those who do not are unaffected.’

  Gordian put down the papyrus and remained silent.

  ‘Although I do not want us to be apart, you should travel ahead alone.’

  Gordian leant across, took his father’s hand. ‘There is no reason to hurry. Now we have the 3rd Legion, Africa is secure. Let Menophilus settle Rome, and we will travel there together.’

  ‘I did not mean to Rome,’ his father said. ‘You should go to the East.’

  Gordian felt the hand, thin and dry in his. ‘Our ancestral estates stretch across Cappadocia. You were governor in Syria, Father. The natives love you. The East will come over.’

  His father took back his hand, sat up straight, spoke with an almost youthful vigour. ‘Now Rome has declared for us, Maximinus must march into Italy. Unless he abandons the frontiers, and that would mean undoing all his own labours, he will have to leave the majority of the northern armies on the Rhine and Danube. When he has gone, they may declare for us, or they may remain loyal to him. In a sense, it might matter little. Whoever wins this civil war in Italy – Maximinus or us – the army in the East could overthrow the victor. The eastern forces have been drained for Maximinus’ northern wars, but, if united, they remain strong. Governors like Priscus of Mesopotamia may decide who sits on the throne.’

  Gordian considered the unwelcome argument for a time.

  ‘I would not go without you. We should not be parted.’

  ‘No. I am too old.’

  ‘And an astrologer predicted you would die by drowning.’

  ‘And the stars held the same fate for my son. You could travel overland by Cyrene and Egypt.’

  Gordian picked up another papyrus roll, turned it in his hands, put it down again. ‘Egnatius Lollianus in Bithynia is a loyal friend. When he declares for us, Priscus and the others will follow.’

  His father was not finished. ‘Maximinus is wrong. What matters is not the North, but the East. When all this is over, whoever remains to wear the purple will have to face the Persians.’

  ‘Nothing could suit me more,’ Gordian said. ‘To march in the footsteps of Alexander the Great. You know I am more myself on campaign than in the Senate House.’

  His father looked if anything yet more concerned. ‘When Alexander went East, he left no heir in Macedonia. Before you leave, you must marry, father a son.’

  Gordian felt a surge of impatience – the pusillanimous nature of the old – but smiled. ‘There are more than enough home-bred slaves in the Villa Praenestina with my features. There is all the time in the world.’

  As he watched the resolution drain from his father, his irritation was replaced with guilt. ‘You are right. When we reach Rome, I will marry. As long as my sister is not involved in choosing my wife.’

  Now his father reached over and took his hand.

  They sat in silence for some moments.

  ‘Shall we return to the virtues of the Divine Marcus?’

  ‘I am tired,’ his father said. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. Now I think I will have a rest before lunch.’

  Chapter 23

  Rome

  The Villa Publica,

  The Ides of March, AD238

  Hangover cures were all nonsense. Garlanding yourself with violets, being rubbed with aromatic oils, wearing an amethyst next to your skin, eating owls’ eggs – what sort of dedicated voluptuary had such foresight or went to such lengths? – none did any good. Only time would heal. Despite his scepticism, Menophilus had ordered fried cabbage to go with the mountain of eggs and bacon the two barbarian hostages were consuming.

  Zeno had counselled that the good man will not get drunk. The Stoic master had considered that an inebriated man will reveal secrets. As far as he could remember, Menophilus had let slip nothing of any importance last night. Of course he could not be sure; by the end, unable to walk straight, the whole room had been spinning as if in a cyclone.

  Drunkenness inflamed and laid bare every vice, removing the reserve that acts as a check on impulses to wrong behaviour, as Seneca had written. The girl had still been there this morning. Menophilus knew he had a weakness for sex and drink. The vices were not habitual, but they were recurrent. She had been a slave girl, waiting on table, so no harm had been done. Better her than a free virgin or a respectable matron. Adultery was nothing but theft. Not that it had felt like that in Carthage with Lycaenion. At least he had been discrete, not flaunted it in the face of her husband. He wondered if he would ever see her again.

  Unable to face the eggs, Menophilus tried to chew a small piece of bacon. His head throbbed, and he felt slightly sick. He was sweating, and it was difficult to swallow. Cniva the Goth and Abanchus the Sarmatian showed few ill effects of the debauch. The barbarians were shovelling in the food. Bits kept getting stuck in the Sarmatian’s luxuriant moustache. It made Menophilus feel worse.

  Menophilus forced himself to eat some cabbage. It would give him energy. Even without the drinking, he
would have been tired. Yesterday had been a long day. But both tasks had been accomplished.

  In the morning, in yet another fractious meeting, at long, long last the Twenty had apportioned out the posts among their number for the coming campaign against Maximinus. Days of wrangling had produced, at best, an imperfect strategy. Only six or seven of them could be considered military men. Factional interests had precluded their straightforward appointment to the necessary stations. In the name of Republican collegiality, amid many invocations of the mos maiorum, all commands were to be shared by two men. How this was to function had not been explored. The ancestral way, where two Consuls alternated days of command, had been rejected, thus laying bare the unspoken imperative that each was there as much to watch his colleague, prevent him gaining too much glory, as to fight the enemy.

  At least Menophilus himself would be accompanied by Crispinus in the defence of Aquileia. He knew something of Pupienus’ friend. A novus homo, Crispinus had entered the Senate after a long succession of equestrian military commands. As governor of Syria Phoenice, he had led troops with distinction in Alexander’s Persian campaign. Things elsewhere were less satisfactory. In the Apennines, Lucius Virius was saddled with the indolent patrician Caesonius Rufinianus. Organizing the defence of Rome, Pupienus would have to contend with the philosophical ineptitude of Maecenas. The task of preventing reinforcements reaching Maximinus across the western Alps, given to Cethegillus, would not be aided by the presence of the unmilitary nobilis Valerius Priscillianus.

  The hand of that fat fool Balbinus was in everything. His vexation at the betrothal of the plain daughter of Praetextatus – his former ally – to one of Pupienus’ sons would have been comical, if it had not led to still further contention, when unity was a necessity.