Blood and Steel

by Harry Sidebottom

  Priscus had done everything that he could to prevent the news of his new ballistae being spread abroad. He prayed he had done enough. The next few moments would tell.

  The wind was rising in the east. It whipped the dust raised by the hooves of their horses in front of the Persians.

  The cavalcade passed the first whitewashed stones; four hundred paces, extreme range.

  ‘Come on, you goat-eyed cocksuckers.’

  No one took any notice of the obscenities mouthed by Abgar the Prince-in-waiting. No one, not even Abgar, took their eyes off the horsemen.

  Three hundred and fifty paces.

  ‘Arses like cisterns …’

  Three hundred.

  ‘Fuck your mothers …’

  Two hundred and fifty.

  ‘Silence in the ranks,’ Priscus said.

  Two hundred.

  ‘Decus et Tutamen!’

  Priscus and his concilium ducked or scrambled to the sides as the ballistarii hauled the covers off the catapults. The well-oiled bearings made hardly a sound. The senior artillerymen aimed.

  Click-slide-thump. Two bolts accelerated away with superhuman force.

  The Sassanids saw the missiles. They sawed on their reins. There was no time. One bolt transfixed the mount of the Prince of Abrenak. The horse collapsed, and young Ardashir pitched over its neck. The other sliced a hand’s breadth past the head of the King of Kings. It punched through the chest of Geliman of Demavend, knocked him from his horse, impaled him in the ground.

  Clack, clack went the metallic ring of the ratchets as the machines were rearmed. Faster and faster; clack, clack, clack.

  Chaos down on the road. Horses milling. Riders shouting.

  The sliders locked back, ready to shoot.

  Ardashir had wheeled his horse, was spurring back the way he had come. A cloud of dust puffed up from the riders surrounding him.

  The ballistarii placed new bolts in the grooves.

  Garshasp the Lion was pulling the unhorsed Prince up behind him.

  ‘Decus et Tutamen!’

  A lone horseman was galloping flat out towards the gate – Shapur.

  Click-slide-thump. Again, two iron-tipped shadows sped away. They vanished into the haze of the retreating King’s retinue.

  Shapur spun his horse around, drew his bow, and put an arrow in the wind.

  Clack, clack. The noise of the ratchets was oddly inconsequential. Priscus followed the flight of the arrow. It arced high, then seemed to be coming down straight at him.

  Shapur was riding hard back down towards the camp.

  The arrow appeared to gain speed as it got nearer.

  Priscus forced himself not to flinch.

  The arrow shrieked by, and vanished behind into the town.

  The road outside was empty, except for Geliman, the Lord of Demavend, pinned to the ground like an insect.

  Chapter 32

  Rome

  The Pantheon,

  Three Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  To be led into the midst of the brethren, in sackcloth and ashes, a compound of disgrace and horror, and before everyone, the elders, the widows, and all the virtuous, to grovel for their tears, clasping their knees, licking their footprints. The die-cutter was not sure he could bear the hu-miliation.

  Twice he had been demoted to the status of a Hearer, denied instruction, made to stand by the door and plead for the prayers of the brothers and sisters as they went in and out of the building. That had been shame enough. Those punishments had been for the sin of fornication. Again he had to confess to the weakness of the flesh, but now he had broken one of the commandments. In the Street of the Sandal-makers he had tried to take a man’s life. It was four years since they had made the sign over him and put the salt in his mouth and he had become an Apprentice. Four years of fasting and prayer, of being watched and judged, and he was no nearer being admitted to the Gathering. Was anything worth such trials?

  Yet, if the Elders were right, the alternative was an eternity of suffering. Long ago, Hippolytus had told him what lay in store, and the words had stayed with him over the years. To those who had done well, everlasting enjoyment should be given; while to the lovers of evil should be given never ending punishment. The unquenchable and unending fire awaited the latter, and a terrible fiery worm that did not die and that did not destroy the body but continually burst forth from the body with unceasing pain. No sleep will give them rest, no night will soothe them, no death will deliver them from punishment.

  Even with his limp, it was not a long walk from the Subura to the Pantheon. The die-cutter was not sure he was ready. Nevertheless, he went around to the back of the temple, but, at the last moment, hesitated outside the Basilica of Neptune.

  Since the fight, he had not attended any meetings, and had put off seeing his Instructor. Still, Africanus was a mild man. Far gentler than his previous instructor Hippolytus. Although the details eluded him, the die-cutter had been unsurprised when the latter had been cast out from the Gathering. Not that it had spared Hippolytus arrest by the authorities. It was a wonder that Africanus had not been taken. Membership of the Gathering aside, Africanus was a man of prominence, wealthy and cultured, head of an im-perial library, and his association with Mamaea, mother of the last Emperor, might have been enough to bring him to the attention of the regime of Maximinus.

  The die-cutter summoned his resolve, and went into the Basilica.

  The great hall of the library was crowded; groups of rich men deep in obscure discussion, serious scholars surrounded by papyri, slave copyists hard at work. Dressed in clean but plain clothes, the die-cutter might pass for one of the latter, but he worried that he looked out of place. He asked an attendant if Africanus could see him, and loitered, trying to look inconspicuous.

  Africanus was a tall man, with the dark complexion of his Syrian origin. He arrived trailing an entourage of secretaries, but did not appear put out to see the humble petitioner. They greeted each other formally, but without intimacy, employing all the three names of a citizen. Dismissing his slaves, Africanus led the die-cutter to a private study, all the while loudly talking about the possibility that one Serenus might bequest his books – sixty-two thousand volumes! – to the library.

  When the door was shut, and they were alone, Africanus’ manner changed.

  ‘News has come from the mines of Sardinia,’ Africanus said. ‘Unable to perform his duties in his confinement, Pontianus has stepped down.’

  In his excitement, the librarian failed to notice how the die-cutter flinched at the name of Pontianus.

  ‘He has done it for the good of the Gathering, so a new man can be elected Bishop of Rome. In his wisdom and holiness, he has been reconciled with his fellow prisoner Hippolytus, brought him back to the true teaching. Praise be to God.’

  They prayed together, arms outstretched as if they were crucified. Africanus’ eyes gazed up, through the ceiling to the heavens. As an Apprentice, the die-cutter kept his down to the ground.

  ‘You have been missed,’ Africanus said.

  ‘I have sinned.’

  ‘To be an Apprentice is a trial of faith, more precious than gold which is tried by fire.’

  ‘Father, will you hear my confession? To the Lord I will accuse myself of iniquity.’

  And the die-cutter told him almost everything, the minor failings, the nights with Caenis, the attempt on a man’s life; everything except his treacherous words when Pontianus was arrested.

  When it was done, Africanus considered.

  ‘We are taught to observe all things which God has commanded, and undertake to live accordingly. The flesh is weak, but a prostitute is neither a virgin nor a married woman, there is no adultery. You did not kill a man, but it was your intention. That is a grave sin. Yet in mitigation, you intervened to protect the weak. You are contrite.’

  The die-cutter waited.

  ‘You will not be brought into the Gathering in sackcloth to make public confession, nor will you be
reduced to standing by the doors as a Hearer. Your instruction will continue. But you must pray and fast for twenty days. No meat, eggs, cheese or milk, no wine, nothing until sunset. And you must undergo another exorcism.’

  The die-cutter was weak with relief.

  Africanus waved his thanks away. ‘You are a lustful man.’ The Instructor’s tone became less stern, more avuncular. ‘There is help for that. Rue, cress and lettuce calm physical desires. Chew the roasted seeds of the Chaste-tree after your meal. After your penance, nothing is more efficacious than drinking wine in which a red mullet has been drowned. All were created by the Lord for our service.’

  Walking back to the tenement in which he lived, the die-cutter pondered the cost of red mullet. All men were equal before God, but not all could afford expensive seafood. Lettuce and cress were more affordable. Christ had worked with the fishermen, but there was nothing in the Gospels of him drowning red mullet in wine.

  Chapter 33

  The Northern Frontier

  The Small Town of Saldis in the Savus Valley,

  Four Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  Maximinus eventually had fallen asleep, despite the howling of his son’s pack of hounds. They should have been silent, exhausted after the long day’s run. He should never have let Maximus bring them.

  Sometimes when he was very tired, after some effort of endurance, when finally he could lie down and rest, his body found it hard to accept. It ticked like a cooling stove. His heart thumped, and his muscles twitched and jumped. And then, when his resentment against those who were sound asleep had passed, he could think with a feverish clarity.

  Succurrite, the Druid woman had whispered. He could no more help Ababa than anyone else. He had not been able to help Micca or Tynchanius. He had not been able to help Paulina. He was Emperor, vice-regent of the gods on earth, his will was law, and he had been unable to save those he loved, or even some barbarian priestess.

  Maximinus, three times Ababa had said his name before she died. Flavius Vopiscus had been unable to hide his anxiety. The Senator had clutched at the hidden amulet he thought no one knew that he wore around his neck. What would the superstitions of Vopiscus have made of the portent? Maximinus had been on the throne for three years. Were they all the gods had allotted? Or might it mean three generations would wear the purple? Or some other triad as yet unimagined?

  When he woke, it was silent. The room smelt of the waxed canvas of his travelling cloak. It was very dark, but somehow he knew it would soon be dawn. His thighs and back ached. He stretched, his huge frame overlapping the bed, and reviewed the previous day.

  They had taken the more direct, although ultimately harder route. They had crossed the meandering rivers, the Savus, the Dreinos, and the Savus again, passing through riverside settlements of no fame. At times the road was built up above floodplains, where flights of duck and geese arrowed away.

  Maximinus had all the cavalry with him; the cataphracts in their mail and scale, the loose-robed Moors, the Parthians and Persians with their headbands and voluminous trousers, the uniformed Roman auxiliaries, and the barbarians furnished by the recent treaties, both Sarmatians and Germans. Back in Sirmium, Vopiscus had objected to the inclusion of the latter. The Emperor Vespasian had rejected barbarian aid during civil war. Maximinus had pointed out that Vespasian had reigned before the age of iron and rust.

  Among the Germans rode the young hostage that Maximinus had seen when setting out to fight the Iazyges. He had taken the son of King Isangrim as an omen that his armies would reach the northern ocean. That had not happened yet, but the purposes of the gods were slow. Maximinus liked the look of the tall youth. There was something about him that reminded Maximinus of himself.

  They had left Sirmium before dawn, and halted at this undistinguished place in the Metubarbis marsh well after dark. Dozens of riders had fallen behind. Some had straggled in during the night, but many more would be left in their wake before they reached their destination. It was vital to take Emona, the first town in Italy, then cross the Alps to hold the Passes on the far side, before they could be closed by the rebels.

  Somehow, with Vitalianus dead, Maximinus had little faith in the abilities of Sabinus and Potens to restore the position in Rome. If the gods willed they did, so much the better. But it was not to be relied upon.

  After this headlong rush, when they descended the Alps, any number of the horses would be broken down, most never fit for service again. The north Italian plain was broad and fertile, remounts could be gathered while they waited for the infantry. Having dealt with Corvinus, the brigand whose estates dominated the mountains, Domitius should already be requisitioning horseflesh as well as provisions.

  Vopiscus had ordered the Prefect of the Camp ahead without consulting Maximinus. Admittedly Maximinus had been drinking, but the assumption of power was a concern. No one knew better than Maximinus that he had only acceded to the throne because Vopiscus had put him there. Sometimes Maximinus wondered if his acclamation by the recruits had been as spontaneous as it had seemed. Certainly the response of the Triumvirate had been more than prompt. Vopiscus, Honoratus and Catius Clemens were capable men, and needed watching. Once you have made one Emperor, you might be tempted to create another.

  At least there were no Senators with the cavalry. All the officers were from the equestrian order. Some of them, mainly those from obscure families, still had some ancestral virtue. To the best the mos maiorum was not just a figure of speech.

  The imperial secretaries were all equestrians. Maximinus smiled. The ride would be hard on those intellectuals from the chanceries. They had insisted on accompanying him. The work of government did not cease when the Emperor was on campaign. Although how they expected him to find time to receive petitions and hear court cases he could not imagine.

  It was still quiet. Far out in the marsh frogs croaked; brekekekex, brekekekex.

  Maximinus got out of his camp bed, and used the chamber pot. Hearing him, Javolenus came in with some food. Maximinus told him to bring his armour.

  Having washed his hands and face in cold water, Maximinus sat down stiffly on the bed. His constitution was strong, but he had lead a hard life, and was nearly sixty. He took the phial of Mithridatium out of its box, and swallowed some. The taste was unpleasant. Eating bread and cheese, he sent his thoughts scouting ahead.

  On the other side of the mountains, once the infantry had reached him, the combined force would advance to Aquileia. The city in north-eastern Italy was the key to the campaign. From there he could move down the shore of the Adriatic. It was the obvious move, and the rebels, if they had any wit, would make some attempt to defend the roads across the Apennines. Alternatively, he could cross the plains, and take the Via Aurelia along the west coast. Again, if circumstances permitted, he could remain in Aquileia until reinforcements arrived over the Alps from Germany and the north-west. Then he could launch armies down both routes at once. It troubled him that the only officer of sufficient stature to lead the other expedition was Flavius Vopiscus. If only his son were a real man. But to entrust anything of importance to Maximus was inconceivable.

  Javolenus reappeared, and Maximinus stood. As his bodyguard hung his cuirass on his shoulders, buckled the two halves tight together, Maximinus’ eyes rested on the white jar in its travelling case. Paulina had not been responsible for all the happiness in his life. He had been happy as a child. His father had been a big, silent man. He had not used his belt on them more than was necessary. His mother had been somewhat less stern. As she worked, she would tell them the fables of Aesop, although less for entertainment than the morals. Do not get above yourself, beware false friends, never be drawn into dispute with the powerful; all the eternal resignation that made peasant life bearable. Maximinus could remember his favourites almost perfectly. A fox elected King was being carried in a litter. Deciding to test him, Zeus sent a beetle. True to his nature, the fox leapt out, and in defiance of all propriety and regal conduct jumped about atte
mpting to catch it.

  ‘Stand aside!’

  Outside his son’s voice was more petulant than ever.

  ‘Enter.’

  Maximus was red in the face, crying. How had the gods given him such a child?

  ‘Father …’ Maximus could not get the words out for sobbing.

  ‘Control yourself. You are a grown man. You are Caesar.’

  ‘My hounds …’

  Maximinus waited.

  ‘My hounds are dead.’

  That explained the agreeable silence.

  ‘All of them. They must have been poisoned. One of your barbarians must have done it.’

  Chapter 34

  The North of Italy

  The Stronghold of Arcia in the Julian Alps,

  Four Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  Even in the sunshine, the home of Marcus Julius Corvinus was not a thing of beauty, nothing like the villa of a rich equestrian. A foursquare fortress, it stood on top of a steep slope, purposeful and forbidding. The walls were of rough, irregular blocks of grey stone, but they were well mortared, crenellated above, and the pines were cut back a bowshot all around. There was just one gate in the side at the top of the track. Arcia was defensible, and extremely inaccessible: the ideal lair of a bandit chief.

  Low-lying clouds had prevented Timesitheus seeing much of the first stages up into the wilds of the Alps. They had had to leave the carriage at dawn and continue on horseback from the Roman fort of Ad Pirum. A local guide had led him and the gladiator Narcissus. The path had been narrow and winding, occasionally precipitous. Sometimes it branched, and often seemed to turn back on itself. Timesitheus had wondered if they were being taken by a deliberately circuitous route.