Yet Balbinus could not be blamed for what was possibly the worst aspect of the arrangement, the holding of the front line at the eastern Alpine Passes. The two descendants of the Divine Marcus Aurelius, Claudius Aurelius and Claudius Severus, had demanded the honour of being the first to meet the barbarian tyrant on the battlefield. It had been impossible to deny their prestige and high birth, even though it had been precisely these qualities that previously had ensured no reigning Emperor had entrusted them with any military high command. Maximinus and his veteran army might be expected to make short work of two elderly aristocrats and whatever makeshift forces had been scrapped together. Menophilus had got the Twenty to agree to Timesitheus going with them. Officially the equestrian would merely provide technical advice, while levying troops and gathering supplies in the foothills and across the plain of the river Po.
The selection of ambassadors from the remainder of the Twenty to venture abroad and win over the provinces had not been easy. The luxuries of the eternal city, and its place as the ultimate residence of legitimate power, in the minds of most, seemed to outweigh the dubious honour and the discomforts of travel. To be fair, there was also the evident danger. It was near certain that any governor who did not join the revolt would have the envoys loaded with chains, bundled into a closed carriage, and conveyed post-haste to Maximinus. What the Thracian would do to them when they arrived did not bear thinking about. After some prevarication, two of the faction of the Gordiani agreed. The aged Appius Claudius Julianus would go to Gallia Narbonensis, and, if the gods were kind, the northern provinces beyond. Egnatius Marinianus – a waste of one of the rare military talents – would cross first the Adriatic to Dalmatia and the Balkan provinces, then the Hellespont to Bithynia-Pontus and Asia Minor. The independent Senator Latronianus volunteered to sail for Syria and the East. He was one of the few in the Twenty who had emerged with an enhanced reputation from the endless discussions.
Everything was concluded, but Menophilus was very aware that of those fully committed to the Gordiani only Valerian would remain in Rome. He finished the bacon and cabbage, took some more, and asked a servant to bring him some eggs. He was feeling a bit less bad, actually hungry. If you could get some food inside you, and keep it there, it helped. As did focusing your mind on something other than your physical suffering. The two barbarians were talking in some language Menophilus did not know. Despite the wine fumes in his head, he continued to reconstruct the events of the previous day.
The afternoon and evening had been the idea of Timesitheus. They had taken the northern hostages to the Equirria. The festival’s two-horse chariot races in the Stadium of Domitian on the Campus Martius always made a fine show. Cniva the Goth was from the Tervingi, Abanchus the Sarmatian an Iazyges. They had seemed to appreciate watching from the imperial box. Usually men of their tribes should consider themselves fortunate to be granted a place in the Senatorial seating. There had been drinks throughout the spectacle. Both had wagered large sums of money, and laughed without restraint, slapped their thighs, at every crash, as a barbarian would.
After sunset, when they escorted them back to their nearby lodgings in the Villa Publica, they had found Timesitheus had provided a splendid feast; huge amounts of roast meat and wine, attractive serving girls, things guaranteed to please any barbarian nobleman.
At first Menophilus and Timesitheus had talked together in Greek, confident the barbarians could not understand. Timesitheus had argued at some length that he should be sent to the East. Their conversation came back to Menophilus with a strange clarity.
‘Who better than the Praefectus Annonae to ensure the supply of Egyptian grain?’ Timesitheus had said. ‘I know the East from Alexander’s campaign, and since then have governed provinces there. The envoy Latronianus was the earliest patron of my career; we would work in harness like a well-schooled chariot team.’
Menophilus had been forced to interrupt. ‘You had better know what is really expected of you in the North.’
‘I love secrets,’ Timesitheus had said.
‘The Julian Alps around Mount Ocra are dominated by a landowner called Marcus Julius Corvinus. Rumour has it he is more highland chief than respectable equestrian. It is said the bandits who infest the Passes either are his men or pay him a part of their loot.’
Timesitheus had appeared interested.
‘You are to go to his principal residence, a mountain fastness called Arcia. If he can be persuaded to raid the baggage trains of Maximinus’ army, assure him that such a service would not be forgotten by the Gordiani.’
The Greek had still not looked totally reconciled.
‘Nor will your scheme for the barbarian hostages,’ Menophilus had added.
That had won over the Graeculus.
The next part of the evening – the business with the barbarian envoys – was more fragmentary in Menophilus’ memory.
While detained in Rome, both Cniva and Abanchus had learnt enough Latin to make conversation. Late that night, well warmed by the wine, they had agreed readily to win their freedom by swearing to get their tribes to act in the interests of the Gordiani.
Menophilus worried about the morality of the arrangement. Posterity might judge it harshly. Fighting for the throne, Vespasian had rejected offers of foreign aid. Any good Emperor would. But Vespasian had the armies of the Danube and the East at his back. The Gordiani had no such array. The Iazyges of Abanchus would draw troops from Maximinus’ field army. The Tervingi of Cniva would prevent reinforcements reaching him from Honoratus on the lower Danube. Yet unleashing Sarmatian horsemen into the Pannonias, and Gothic warriors into Moesia Inferior would cause untold suffering to innocent Roman provincials. And a taste of plunder only incited barbarians to want more. Once you have released such animals, it was hard to call them off. In politics the things you hope for are the ones you must fear.
Menophilus had finished eating. He wondered if the hostages would ever do the same. He toyed with a piece of bread and honey.
Gordian had given him strict instructions. He had left them far behind. No one in Rome was to die, except Vitalianus. Menophilus had gone on to kill Sabinus as well, smashed his skull like a pottery vessel. Neither Gordian nor his father would have countenanced the massacre of Roman citizens by barbarians. But they were in Africa, and he was here, fighting for the empire on their behalf. Someone had to make the hard decisions. When Vespasian had taken the throne, he had cast aside the generals that had won him the civil war. Probably the Gordiani would turn from him in revulsion. He already missed their companionship. But friends were like figs, they did not keep. Better sacrifice his good reputation, take the odium, and ensure their safety. His Stoicism enjoined that a good man will take part in politics, unless something intervened. It was an irony that he had been put in this dreadful position by a man he loved whose Epicureanism urged the opposite.
The barbarians had finished. They sat back, wiping greasy fingers, belching.
‘Now you show us real drinking.’
It was the Ides of March. The day the plebs urbana made merry in the open parkland at the north of the Campus Martius. They erected tents, makeshift shelters of reeds. Every cup of wine a man or woman drank ensured another year of life. No one wanted to die young.
Menophilus could imagine little worse. He was leaving for Aquileia the next day. There was much to be done. But he had promised the hostages. Once you have undertaken something, it had to be seen through.
Chapter 24
The Northern Frontier
Sirmium,
The Ides of March, AD238
I took the victims, over the trench I cut their throats
And the dark blood flowed in – and up out of Hades they came,
Flocking toward me now, the ghosts of the dead and gone …
Maximinus liked to go down where the dead went. He sat on the ivory throne in the Basilica. The alabaster vase in his hands, his court around him. He listened to the Sophist recite Homer.
Brides a
nd unwed youths and old men who had suffered much
And girls with their tender hearts freshly scarred by sorrow
And great armies of battle dead, stabbed by bronze spears
Men of war still wrapped in bloody armour – thousands
Swarming around the trench from every side …
Maximinus liked to have Apsines around him, have him recite, or talk quietly with him in the dead of night. When the world was younger – so the Sophist told him – many portals stood open to the underworld; many caves and passages, at Taenarus in Laconia, Aornum in Thesprotis, the Acherusian peninsula on the Black Sea, many places, many magical names. Now the world was older, more wicked, the gods further away. A cave was just a cave. No man could cross the Styx unless he was dead. No living man could emulate Orpheus and his doomed attempt to bring his wife back from the gloomy halls of Hades.
But I, the sharp sword drawn from beside my hip,
Sat down on alert there and never let the ghosts
Of the shambling, shiftless dead come near that blood …
There were so many dead. Since Maximinus was a man, Micca had always been at his side. Together they had haunted the Thracian hills, bringing violent retribution to barbarian raiders and bandits alike. In the army, they had quartered the empire. Under the African sun they had faced the Garamantes. In the perpetual drizzle of Caledonia they had waited for the savages to come screaming down from the heather. Rome, the Danube, the East; all those years had come to an end on a wooded ridge in Germania. Maximinus fighting his way through to the chieftains. A flash of movement in the corner of his eye. The spear between Micca’s shoulder blades. No time then to mourn, far too long afterwards.
Maximinus had no memories before Tynchanius. He had been a friend even before Micca. The son of a neighbour, a few years older, Tynchanius had been the brother every boy would want. He had known how to hunt, how to make a bow, fletch arrows. Later, he had known which girls would pull up their skirts if you talked to them sweetly, gave them a gift. They were returning from hunting – Maximinus had been no more than sixteen – when Tynchanius sensed something was wrong. Although they had passed bodies sprawled in the mud of the village street, Maximinus retained a boy’s foolish hope. Rather than go to his own home first, loyally Tynchanius had gone with Maximinus. They were all dead. Maximinus’ father and mother, his brother and his sisters. The females were naked. In Tynchanius’ hut, it was the same.
Tynchanius had been loyal to the end. From what Maximinus had extracted, the mutineers had cut down the old man as he vainly tried to protect Paulina.
To begin with, in a part of his mind, Maximinus had believed Apsines. Time would heal. Soon he would not think of her all the time. In a sense the Sophist was right. It would be two years in June. But, if his thoughts were elsewhere, it was all the worse when the grief came flooding back. It seized his limbs, numbed his mind. Now he did not like to part from her. He held the vase with her ashes, turning it in his great, scarred hands, as he listened to endless speeches. One long-bearded Greek after another; interminable complaints of embezzlement, extortion and theft, larded with fawning flattery. It was a continued affront that the world carried on with its petty, pointless concerns.
Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, master of exploits,
Man of pain, what now, what brings you here,
Forsaking the light of day
To see this joyless kingdom of the dead?
Maximinus had made his plan. He had questioned Apsines, but had tried not to reveal what he intended. This summer, one final campaign in Germania, and he could put up his sharp sword. His duty would be done, and he could leave the ranks. No Emperor had retired. Vitellius did not count. He had been a weakling, defeated and deserted, destined for death. But Sulla the Dictator at the height of his powers had renounced them all. Julius Caesar had been wrong. Sulla had known what he was about. Like Solon, the ancient Athenian, the Dictator had done all he could, then stepped aside. No man was Atlas, to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders forever.
Of course, Maximinus would not let his son succeed. He looked over to where Maximus sat; handsome, bejewelled, arrogant, vicious. He looked at Iunia Fadilla. You could only pity his son’s wife. Volo’s spies reported the cruelty was unabated, the beatings getting worse. Maximinus found it hard to imagine that Paulina had given birth to this horrible, beautiful monster. Something must have intervened; a terrible conjunction of the stars, witchcraft, some malignant daemon.
If not Maximus, then another, one capable of ruling. The succession had to be clear, arranged beyond any dispute. Civil war would encourage the barbarians, undo Maximinus’ long years of struggle. He ran through those who might be capax imperii. Anullinus, the Praetorian Prefect, had something cold and harmful about him. Domitius, the Prefect of the Camp, was avaricious, corrupt. Sabinus Modestus, the cavalry commander, was amiable, brave and lucky, but far too stupid. Volo would reject the offer. He would continue to command the frumentarii, continue to gather information, make arrests, quietly guard the throne, as he had for Maximinus, as he had for Alexander before. Julius Capitollinus, the Prefect of the 2nd Legion Parthica, had the necessary qualities. But, like the others, he was but an equestrian. The Senate would only truly accept one of their own as Augustus.
Most Senators were weak, unmanned by wealth and privilege. To them the mos maiorum was no more than an expression. It would have to be one of the Triumvirate, one of the three who had engineered Maximinus’ own elevation. Catius Clemens always complained of ill health. Honoratus’ demeanour, coupled with his good looks, suggested a decadent indolence. Probably both were no more than strategies to survive under an autocracy. Apparent incapacities might deflect the suspicions of a ruler. They could be cast off if either sat on the throne. Or perhaps long dissimulation had made their appearances reality, perhaps they, and other vices, would flower once the will of their owner became law. Nothing revealed the flaws in a character like being the vicegerent of the gods, being worshipped yourself throughout the provinces. Nothing escaped such scrutiny. The superstitions of Flavius Vopiscus were genuine. Yet despite all the prayers and amulets, the fasts and incubations, the childish search for foreknowledge in random lines of Virgil, Maximinus had no doubt that Flavius Vopiscus was capax imperii.
On a country estate, a debilitating and disgusting disease had dragged Sulla to a slow and painful death. The imperium would not allow the like for Maximinius. The courtiers around his successor could see him as nothing but a threat, the figurehead of a potential rebellion. Sooner or later, Flavius Vopiscus, or whoever wore the purple, would instruct Volo to send frumentarii to make an end to the menace. In any event, Maximinus had no intention to linger. He would take Paulina home to Ovile, inter her in the tumulus, then unsheathe his sharp sword one last time, and fall on it.
Late one night, somewhere out on the Steppe, talking in general terms about Roman suicide, Apsines had enumerated its difficulty, the pain and squalor suffered by even the bravest of men. Mark Antony hauled by ropes as his life blood flowed out. Cato tearing at the unwanted stitches with which his friends had closed his wound, pulling out his own intestines. Maximinus was not deterred. He trusted his resolve and dexterity with a blade. For certainty, he would take Javolenus with him, reward him well. After the final service, his bodyguard could vanish into comfortable obscurity.
Maximinus’ mind was made up. The gods approved. He had consulted Ababa, the Druid woman summoned to the imperial court by his predecessor. Her strange rites had not raised the shade of Paulina, but she had predicted the death of Alexander Severus. The deities spoke through her. The Rider God would lead Maximinus by the hand, and reunite him with Paulina and Tynchanius and Micca. Together they would ride the wild hills of his youth, drink at upland springs, sleep safe in mountain caves. Not for them the dark meadows of the realm of Hades. The Rider God would conquer death itself.
And even if you escape, you will come home late
And come a broken man …
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The baying of Maximus’ hounds in their kennels near drowned the Sophist’s voice. Maximinus looked at his son, silk shimmering, jewels glittering, lolling on his throne. He was Caesar. His vanity and ambition would never let him give up the title. He was incapable, would lose any contest for the throne. But if left alive, even his failure would cause untold suffering. Long ago to save the Res Publica Brutus had condemned his own sons to a traitor’s death; stripped, flogged, beheaded under the gaze of all in the Forum. The mos maiorum was more than words in those days. But it had been cruel. When Maximinus renounced the throne, his son would have to die. But not in public, not at the hands of an executioner.
The hound music swelled. The pack was expensive and ostentatious – Maximus never hunted – but no one could approach the royal chambers undetected.
Sure enough, a messenger entered.
Maximinus signalled the end of the recital, and waved the soldier to approach.
As he came before the throne, the messenger bowed, and went to get to his knees.
‘Stop,’ Maximinus said. ‘While I am Emperor, no man will print a kiss on my boots.’
The soldier stood, saluted, and held out a despatch. It carried the seal of Sabinus, Prefect of Rome.
With great care, Maximinus placed the vase in its cunningly made travelling case. He took the letter, broke the seal, and handed it to Apsines.
As the Sophist read, the colour drained from his face.
‘Well?’ Maximinus said. Nothing good had come from Rome.
Apsines mastered himself; the resolve instilled by a lifetime of public speaking did not desert him.
‘To Imperator Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus Augustus …’
‘Tell us the bad news,’ Maximinus said.
‘Quantum libet, Imperator.’
‘Speak.’
‘Whatever pleases you, Emperor,’ Apsines repeated. ‘Sabinus writes that the people of Africa have risen in revolt. They have proclaimed Gordian the governor and his son Emperors. Vitalianus has been murdered in Rome. The Senate …’
Blood and Steel Page 16