A woman stood in the gateway. Tall and withered, dishevelled in her attire, Ababa the Druidess did not stand aside from the Emperor.
‘Maximinus.’ Her face was deathly pale, like some wild revenant. Twice more she cried out his name. She said no more, but fell suddenly, as if a sacrificial beast stunned by the axe.
Maximinus knelt in the mud. He bent over. She tried to speak. He put his ear to her lips. ‘Succurrite,’ she murmured. ‘Help me.’
There was nothing to be done. Maximinus was alone in the roadway. The breath of life had left her.
Chapter 30
Africa
Carthage,
Three Days after the Ides of March, AD238
Gordian thanked the gods his hangover was mild. Even so, without the training of philosophy, it was doubtful that he could have had the discipline to withstand the wild swings of fortune the messengers had brought in one morning.
He had been having a late breakfast with Parthenope and Chione. Parthenope thought she was pregnant. It seemed to have made her more than usually lustful. The jealousy of Chione had prompted her to outrageous inventiveness in the night. Gordian had had no need of powdered lizards or oysters. When the messenger came up from the harbour, his happiness had been complete.
Had there ever been such a friend as Menophilus? He was Laelius to Gordian’s Scipio, Hephaestion to his Alexander. Under the guidance of Menophilus, the Senate had elected a Board of Twenty to Defend the Res Publica and the rule of the Gordiani. Among them were Menophilus himself, Gordian’s reliable friend Valerian, and his father’s close amicus old Appius Claudius Julianus. All the Twenty were men of status or talent. It could not be more gratifying that Senators of every shade of opinion, from the patrician Balbinus to the novus homo Pupienus and the Cynic idealist Gallicanus, had come together. All the factions in the Senate were united in loyalty to Gordian and his father. The dispositions for the prosecution of the war could not be in better hands. The urgings of Menophilus that the new Emperors hurry to Rome were unnecessary. Gordian had called for a drink. Parthenope and Chione were not going anywhere, and he always felt vigorous and keen in the morning, never more than when he was a touch hungover. The exact details of the military commands, which of the Twenty were going where, could be studied later.
No man appreciated being interrupted in the worship of Venus. Outside the curtain, Valens, his father’s chamberlain, was most insistent. There was someone who had to talk to him. Gordian had pulled on a tunic. The girls had not bothered to cover themselves. The young officer who entered had barely glanced at the pulchritude on display. It was Geminius, one of the tribunes who had gone to Lambaesis with Arrian. He was drawn and tired, filthy from the road. Seeing him, Gordian had known the news was bad. His supposition was quickly confirmed. Four days ago Capelianus had escaped from house arrest. Numidia and the 3rd Legion were back under his command. Arrian was a prisoner, in chains. With his forces in light marching order, Capelianus could be outside Carthage in the next five or six days.
Gordian had sent runners to summon the most trusted of the consilium to attend, not in the main Basilica, but the small audience chamber. Valens was despatched to request the presence of his father. Sending the girls away, Gordian had asked for a barber. This would be the hardest thing he had ever told his father. He would do so clean shaven and sober.
As the razor slid across his throat, he thought of his friend in chains. This was all his fault. A wise man will not engage in politics. He had known the risks, to himself, to those he loved. But he had had to intervene. Paul the Chain would have killed Mauricius. His own death and that of his father would have followed. Even if Maximinus had not condemned them at once, living in fear was insupportable. His actions were justified. The aim of life was pleasure, and fear made that impossible. Now he must face the consequences with courage.
Clad in the formal but modest white toga of a Senator, no purple robes or radiate crown or any such symbol of autocracy, he walked with Geminius to the Basilica.
They were all assembled. His father sat on the throne next to his own. He was backed by Valens and Brennus the bodyguard, and a line of secretaries. The councillors were seated in a semi-circle; Sabinianus, Mauricius, Phillyrio, Vocula the Praetorian Prefect, Suillius of the 3rd Legion, Alfenus of the Urban Cohort, the young tribune Pedius. A small group to fight for an empire. But in war courage and unity counted for more than numbers.
Standing by the sacred fire, Gordian dismissed the secretaries. When they had left, he told the news, unadorned, all of it, the good and the bad. Only then did he sit down next to his father.
‘I am sorry, Father.’
‘There is nothing to apologize for.’
The aged Emperor betrayed no emotion. He asked the consilium to give them advice, freely spoken in accordance with the mos maiorum.
‘The Emperors must go to Rome,’ Sabinianus said. ‘Menophilus requested as much from the start. He does so again in this despatch, knowing nothing of events in Numidia. As your governor of Africa Proconsularis, I will stay, delay Capelianus as long as possible. We have few troops. Some auxiliaries and a couple of detachments of legionaries and men from the Urban Cohorts do not amount to an army. Capelianus has both more auxiliaries and the main body of the 3rd Legion. It is immaterial. The fate of the empire has never been decided in Africa. I can defend the walls of Carthage for a time, but I will have a fast ship ready in the harbour.’ Sabinianus grinned. ‘Horatius held the bridge, but he survived. We will all meet again in the eternal city.’
‘No.’ Gordian was decisive. ‘The war will be won if we contain Maximinus in northern Italy, and the provinces come over. If they hear we have lost Africa, no governor will join us. I will remain in Carthage, and my father will sail to Rome.’
Lean and tanned, Phillyrio got to his feet. ‘Let Gordian the Younger hold Carthage. I am an African. All my life, I have served here on the frontier. I will gather the troops along the borders, raise allies from the tribes beyond. Nuffuzi, chief of the Cinithii, is bound to us by oath. His son Mirzi is our hostage. We can trap Capelianus before the walls of Carthage.’
Overawed by the company, and knowing his contribution would be unwelcome, Alfenus, commander of the 13th Urban Cohort asked permission to speak. ‘The city is not prepared for a siege. There are no supplies laid in, no artillery. The walls are in bad repair, and they are too long to defend with the soldiers available. Unaccustomed to privation, the citizens could not be relied upon.’
The consilium was silent. Gordian’s eyes followed the tendrils of smoke curling up from the sacred fire. What is terrible is easy to endure. Philosophy existed to offer consolation.
‘We can not withstand a siege, and we are unable to abandon Africa, so it must be open battle,’ Gordian said. ‘Things may not be as bad as they first seem. Between the 13th Urban Cohort and the detachment of the Legion we have a thousand veterans in Carthage. Suillius, will your men stand against their fellow legionaries?’
‘They are soldiers,’ Suillius said, ‘they will obey orders.’
Gordian nodded. ‘The 1st Flavian Cohort from Utica and the 15th Emesene from Ammaedara can be here long before Capelianus; another thousand auxiliaries. There are five hundred in our Praetorian Guard. They are newly raised, but as Iuvenes, they have had military training. Combined, the Equites Singulares Augusti and the Scouts here with Phillyrio number several hundred. The core of our army will consist of nearly three thousand disciplined troops. Thousands of levies can be raised from the city. Hunting spears can kill men as well as animals. Weapons can be taken from the temples, blacksmiths can make more, carpenters provide shields.’
Not everyone looked convinced. Sabinianus and Suillius seemed particularly dubious. Gordian pressed on.
‘Lambaesis is the headquarters of the legion, but many of its men are scattered, one Cohort is here, several more spread along the frontier. Those in southern Numidia are far away, the ones in Africa Proconsularis summoned by Phillyrio will join our c
ause. When battle is joined, Capelianus will be lucky to have two thousand legionaries. Numbers will be on our side.’
Gordian had omitted all mention of the auxiliaries with Capelianus in Numidia, but his intention was to persuade.
‘If Phillyrio marches hard, and Capelianus does not, things may turn out better still; our army bolstered by thousands of hard fighting men from the frontier.’
He could think of nothing else to put heart into them.
‘So, let us first outfit a ship to take my father to Rome, then turn our minds to putting an army in the field.’
Gordian the Elder broke the ensuing silence. ‘I have never been more proud of my son. Never has an Emperor had more loyal friends. It shall be as my son says, but I will not leave for Rome.’
He ignored the babble of objections. ‘I am old, past my eightieth year. I will not be parted from my son. Should he fall, why would I wish to live? The world holds nothing else for me. If the gods prove unkind, we will travel to Hades together. But come, let us turn to practicalities. We won’t go down to the House of Death, not yet, not until our day arrives.’
Like the Romans of old, men of stern virtue, they talked of conscription, munitions and the movement of troops.
Gordian looked at his father with love and admiration. No irresolution, no talk of portents or soothsayers, instead calm courage. Old or not, such a man was born to be Emperor.
It struck him that his father had made no mention of Maecia Faustina or his young grandson. It was for the best. They were well out of it. Should things go wrong, they might survive in Rome, live on in obscurity.
He shrugged off the ill-omened thoughts of disaster. We won’t go down to the House of Death, not yet, not until our day arrives.
Chapter 31
The East
Carrhae,
Three Days after the Ides of March, AD238
Even in the dark before dawn the black shape of the eastern hills could be seen between the purple of the sky and the purple of the plain. All night Priscus and his consilium had watched from the battlements of the Nisibis Gate. At first a ring of white lights had marked where campfires and torches burnt. They clustered thickly where the pavilion of the King of Kings had been pitched, about five hundred paces down the road. The men on the gate had waited for the outcry, for the shadows flitting across the lights, the shouts of horror. Nothing. Through the long hours, as the fires burnt low, and the stars shone brighter, there was no alarm. Hope all gone, they remained at their post as the stars wheeled and dimmed.
‘The Mazda-worshipping Ardashir will come,’ Manu said.
It was best to talk of what might happen, not to speak of the failure of their first plan, the bitter disappointment of either loss or betrayal. It was best not to wonder what had happened to Shalamallath and his men.
‘Divine Ardashir, King of Aryans and non-Aryans, of the race of the gods, son of King Papak, of the house of Sasan; the very pretentions of his titles impel him to come.’
‘Race of the gods, my arse,’ Abgar snorted, interrupting his father. ‘Illegitimate by-blow of a wandering mercenary, raised by a shoemaker, he murdered his own brother, killed his rightful overlord, threw the infant son of his King from the arch at Ctesiphon.’
‘Traitor and murderer he may be, but his own hubris will deliver him to us,’ Priscus said, then quickly adding, ‘Of course, only if the gods are willing.’
Sporakes and some of the other guards brought baskets of food up onto the fighting top. In silence, the members of the council sat, leaning against the parapet, drinking watered wine, eating warm flat bread and hard-boiled eggs.
Rather than dwell on what had gone wrong, Priscus reviewed the defences of Carrhae. There were many things that he had not had time to have his men do: dig pits with concealed stakes or flammable oil on the approaches, forge caltrops to strew under the feet of the enemy, construct cranes to swing boulders over the walls and release onto their heads. Circumstances forbade other measures, such as poisoning the wells and burning the surrounding villages and farms. The inhabitants would still have to live here afterwards, those who were not dead or enslaved.
Yet, over the winter, since the fall of Nisibis, much had been achieved. Stockpiled along the wall-walks were containers of oil and sand; close by the fires were laid ready to heat them. Leaning against the battlements were pitchforks to push away siege ladders, axes to cut the ropes of grapnels, stones and pieces of broken statuary to drop. And there were more men to wield them. Two thousand locals had been conscripted, equipped, and, as far as possible, trained throughout the short daylight hours of winter. Above all, there were the new ballistae. Sixteen of them, two atop each gate, with crews seconded from the legions. Range markers of white painted stones stretched away down each road, at intervals of fifty paces.
The same had been done at the other strategic towns that secured control of Mesopotamia, at Singara, Resaina, and Edessa. All this while creating the nucleus of a mobile army. Just four-and-a-half thousand so far, but it was a start. The fledgling force was posted at Batnae in the west of the province. To guard the crossings of the Euphrates, Priscus had announced. Or, as anyone with any intelligence must realize, to withdraw over the river, when the rest of the province fell.
Everything had cost a great deal. Nothing had been forthcoming from the imperial treasury. All was earmarked for Maximinus’ northern wars. Priscus had borrowed large sums from Manu. When the Bear-blinder would ask for a favour, and what form it would take, remained to be seen. It would be nothing trivial, Manu had been raised as the heir to a throne.
The plan of Carrhae itself was a rough circle bounded by a dry ditch backed by a rampart with a mud-brick wall on top. The wall, crenellated, with square towers at intervals, was pierced by six gates and two posterns. The circuit, measuring more than four thousand paces, was too long to defend easily. The irregularity of its layout meant not all lines of potential attack could be enfiladed. The citadel in the centre of the southern half of the city, and the legionary camp in the extreme south-east offered defensive strongpoints, but there were not enough troops to man them as well as the outer wall.
The light was gathering. Soon the sun would be up. The Sassanid camp was stirring. The smell of the dried dung from their fires drifted across. There were a great many of them.
Priscus had not been greatly cheered by considering the defences of Carrhae. The thought of the messenger chained beneath the governor’s palace worried him further. He had still told no one. There was no point, not when they were about to fight for their lives. Let everyone concentrate on that. But what, in the names of all the gods, had possessed the Gordiani? Both father and son were voluptuaries, but neither was stupid. Yes, Maximinus was a tyrant, his rule a disaster. Either or both the Gordiani would make a better Emperor than a blood-thirsty, half-barbarian Thracian with an obsession for fighting unwinnable wars in the North. But to start a revolt in Africa of all places?
And yet? Maximinus was hated. Rich and poor alike, Romans and provincials, everyone hated him. Everyone except the soldiers of his northern army: they were said to still love him. It was because he had doubled the troops’ pay, and because he was with them, not some other army. They alone could not keep him on the throne. The reign could not last long. Priscus had flirted with revolt before, back in Samosata, when his friend Serenianus was alive and commanded the two legions in Cappadocia. New men on the throne could end the futile campaigns beyond Rhine and Danube, could turn their attentions to Ardashir and the East. Prompt adherence to a new regime would bring rewards. But declaration for failed pretenders brought nothing but death.
A hard choice had to be made, and with little delay. But one thing at a time. Defend this town. Live through this siege. Time enough afterwards. Priscus prided himself on a cold, hard pragmatism.
Maz-da! Maz-da!
The sun crested the distant hills, and the Sassanids, bellies to the ground like snakes, hailed the daily epiphany.
‘Here comes Ardashir.
’
The King of Kings was mounted on the same black stallion. He was wearing the same gilded helmet fashioned like an eagle. Long streamers of purple cloth fluttered from his armour. His son Shapur rode on his right hand, another son, Ardeshir of Abrenak, was on his left. Behind them flew the battle standard of the house of Sasan. It was carried by five Mobads. The Sassanids claimed it had been embroidered by some deity before the dawn of time. After the Drafsh-i-Kavyan came a dozen noblemen, among them Dehin Varaz, Garshasp the Lion, Zik Zabrigan, and Geliman of Demavend.
After the shooting of the Lord of Andegan, Priscus had doubted that the Persian monarch would come. But Manu had assured him Ardashir had no choice. At the start of any siege, the King of Kings had to ride close to the walls. It showed his contempt for the weapons of the besieged, and encouraged his warriors. Not to do so, would reveal the King a coward, and the Sassanids would not follow such a man into battle, would not bow down and grovel in the dirt before his boots.
‘It is best if his charger paws the ground, and calls out.’
Priscus went over to the ballistarii, who waited by their two shrouded charges. Under the covers, the slides were already wound back, the torsion springs tight. Priscus gave the men the watchwords: Decus et Tutamen.
Honour and Shield, they replied.
‘On my words, remove the tarpaulins. May the gods guide your aim.’
‘A coin for a shave, Prefect?’
Priscus smiled. ‘Kill the reptile, and I will shower you with gold.’
Ardashir, or one with him, would shoot a ceremonial arrow over the walls. Some archers could send an arrow great distances with incredible accuracy. Both Syrmus the Scythian and Manu could in their youth. The latter had saved the late King Abgar on the hunting field; two arrows, one into each eye of the charging beast. Since then he had been known as Bear-blinder. Men like that could do amazing feats, but for most bowmen to be sure of clearing the walls, they needed to be within a hundred and fifty paces.
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