Blood and Steel

by Harry Sidebottom

  With luck, the professionals were not considering how the levies might guard their flanks.

  ‘What brings victory? Is it years of lolling in barracks, swaggering in bars, requisitioning animals, using threats and violence to oppress fellow citizens? No, it is innate courage, overwhelming numbers, good generalship, and a just cause, one which brings the certain favour of the gods. Look into your hearts, recall your native courage. Look about you. Who would stand against such overwhelming numbers? Consider my leadership. Have men under my command ever tasted defeat? Think of the justice of our cause. We fight to free the empire from bloody tyranny. The gods will fight at our sides.

  ‘Finally, remember you fight for your homes and families, for your ancestral gods, for all you love. Let no one think he can stand aside. There is no safety in flight. The Moorish tribesmen that Capelianus brings against Carthage could not be restrained from pillage and sacrilege, rape and slaughter, even if that bloodthirsty general, that servant of a murderous tyrant, so wished.’

  Now the throng called out their willingness.

  ‘As one take the oath, say the binding words of the sacramentum. Every man who stands with us for freedom will be accounted a hero. Every man will receive the pay of a Praetorian for the rest of his life.’

  Prompted by the soldiers, they said the time hallowed, powerful words.

  By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the Emperors’ commands, never desert the standards or shirk death, to value the safety of the Emperors above everything.

  The oath administered, Gordian kissed his father, and Brennus and Valens helped the old Emperor down the steps and onto his horse. Gordian remained on the tribunal with Sabinianus. They would stay to watch the first steps in the training of the levies.

  Senior officers shouted orders, and Centurions pushed clumsy recruits into some sort of formation.

  Gordian again had tried to persuade his father to leave for Rome. The old man was adamant he would not go. At least Gordian had sent Parthenope away. She would bear his child in the villa on the Via Praenestina. It would grow up safe amid the marble luxuries of that beautiful and peaceful place. Chione he had kept with him. A man had needs, as much as anything companionship in these troubled nights. Before Parthenope had left, he had had a ridiculous desire to emancipate and marry her. Should the worst happen, he would leave a legitimate heir. Sabinianus had pointed out that no Senator, let alone an Emperor can wed a freedwoman. Anyway, such thoughts of death were premature. If the battle was lost, there was a fast ship crewed and waiting in the harbour.

  It was ill-omened to think of defeat. The forces at his disposal were not good, but the battle would be fought on this field of his choosing. There was nothing Capelianus could do but come to him. They would make their stand here, astride the Mappalian Way. The aqueduct and burial ground and walls of Carthage would be at their backs, the villa of Sextus to their left, the fishponds further off on the right. The plain was flat and featureless, but there was time to prepare, and Gordian had to squeeze what advantage he could from the terrain.

  Chapter 37

  Northern Italy

  The Territory of the City of Aquileia,

  Five Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  The noise of the wagons strung out along the Via Gemina stunned the senses: the rumble and jolt of iron wheel rims on stone, the shriek of wood tortured against wood. One or two rustic carts would have been in keeping, but this armed convoy violated the peace of the countryside on a fine spring morning. In the sunshine the territory of Aquileia was beautiful, flat and fertile and well tended. Regimented lines of vine props, very black and tough with age, stretched away with geometric precision from fruit trees heavy with blossom. Violet flowers pricked the grass in between the rows. The land did not deserve this intrusion. With destruction its intention, this convoy was a violent harbinger of civil war.

  Menophilus was tired, dog tired. He had reached Aquileia two nights before. After three days in the carriage from Rome, that first night he had been unable to sleep in an unsettlingly solid and unmoving bed. One night’s sleep had not been near enough to recover. His Stoicism made him despise the weakness of his body. He hated making decisions when fatigue clouded his judgement. But decisions had had to be reached.

  His colleague Crispinus had arrived in the city the day before him. Crispinus had been with a Senatorial travelling companion, an ex-Praetor called Annianus. Also at the meeting was Flavius Adiutor, the Prefect of the 1st Cohort Ulpia Galatarum. The five hundred auxiliary infantrymen temporarily stationed in Aquileia were the only regular troops available in the vicinity. Two other equestrian officers had been present, Servilianus and Laco, as well as two locals of the same social status. The latter were the heads of the Barbii and Statii families. They owned many of the estates through which the convoy was passing. Both had senatorial connections. The Barbii had provided the late Emperor Alexander with a wife for one of his brief and less than happy marriages.

  Crispinus was an Italian novus homo like himself, and Menophilus had tried not to be prejudiced against him merely because he wore a long beard of philosophical pretentions. Although standing somewhat on his dignitas, Crispinus clearly was competent and energetic. It could not be easy for the older man sharing this command, especially as he might well see Menophilus as an imperial favourite promoted too fast and above his merits.

  Menophilus wondered if he had acted out of personal pettiness when insisting that Crispinus’ friend Annianus be sent to Mediolanum to raise recruits and see to the making of arms and armour. With the ex-Praetor gone, neither Crispinus nor he had any adherents among those in Aquileia. But the tasks were pressing, and the posting made sense, as did the other appointments. Laco was to go to secure the adherence of the fleet at Ravenna to the cause of the Gordiani. Servilianus would train the militia within Aquileia. Artillery, sulphur and other war materiel would be assembled by the troops under Flavius Adiutor. Of the civilians, Barbius had been assigned the repair of the town walls, and Statius the gathering of stockpiles of food. As nothing much could be expected of the defence of the Alpine Passes, Aquileia was likely be the front line. The city had to be ready to stand siege.

  When the meeting was done, weary as he had been, Menophilus had gone to the Temple of Belenus in the centre of the town. He was not much given to the forms of tradi-tional religion. But if, as he devoutly believed, the cosmos was guided by an omniscient intelligence, then the plethora of individual gods worshipped by the masses could be seen as imperfectly understood reflections of that one Demiurge. Menophilus could not see why God should need the reminders of prayer or the bribery of sacrifice. Nor was it likely that the deity would make His will known via the flight of birds or the entrails of beasts. The Demiurge could find simpler and more elegant methods.

  Yet Belenus was strongly revered in the area, and the loyalty of the townspeople was not above suspicion. True, Maximinus had earned some unpopularity by conscripting unwilling recruits from Aquileia for his northern wars, and by ordering the rich young men of the youth organizations to the undignified and hard labour of repairing the roads. But, on the other hand, he had given gifts to the city, and already in his brief stay Menophilus had seen several inscriptions praising and thanking a Saviour Emperor whose recently chiselled out appellation was of the right length to contain the names Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus.

  The priests of the sanctuary had received a lavish monetary offering from Menophilus, as if granted by the Augusti Gordian Father and Son. Belenus gave oracles, and his priests conveyed them to humanity. In what lay ahead, suitably bracing divine encouragement might be invaluable, and it was not the moment to begrudge money.

  The convoy shrieked and rumbled along. On either side of the road, the cut-back vines were low at this time of year. Enormous barrels stood in the vineyards, empty, waiting for the vintage. They were as big as a peasant hut, big enough to house not just a lone Cynic philosopher like Diogenes, but a number of his pupils as
well.

  Weariness caused images to slide without control through Menophilus’ mind. A philosopher sitting in a barrel, crawling out to tell the King to move out of the sunlight. Sabinus slumped in a dark storeroom, his head smashed like an amphora. The dazzling light from the polished walls of the courtyard on the Palatine they called Sicilia. His own reflection, disjointed and bloody, reflected back. Vitalianus pleading for the lives of his daughters.

  A farm at the side of the road broke the train of unwanted thoughts. Soldiers were loading produce onto one of the wagons, strapping sacks onto pack animals, herding the occupiers away, tearing the doors from their hinges. The work of Mars had begun. War was a harsh master.

  Another image came unbidden into Menophilus’ mind. An itinerary of the empire, straight black lines for the roads, the mileage between halts in neat numerals, and each place illustrated with a drawing of a building, as if done by a careful child. Along the roads tiny carriages rolled, raising diminutive clouds of dust. A messenger sped with a deadly despatch towards Dacia. The knife boy Castricius crossed the Alps, rattling ever closer to Maximinus. Worst of all, two barbarians lolled drinking as their conveyances took them towards the edge of the map, where the roads ended, where began the great blankness of barbarity, and where there was nothing but large letters spelling Sarmatia and Gothia. Sleepless the other night, Menophilus had remembered that when desperate even Marcus Aurelius had stooped to putting a price on an enemy chieftain’s head. The exemplum of assassination did not make Menophilus feel any better.

  ‘We are there, Sir.’

  The Aesontius river was lined with willows. Its waters were wide and fast with spring melt from the mountains, white mist spraying up where it ran over rocks and met promontories. The bridge was built of light-grey stone. Its graceful piers and arches, above the roiling water, epitomized everything that was secure and good about the rule of Rome.

  The convoy halted, men climbed out of the wagons, and Menophilus gave the orders to begin the hard toil of breaking the fine spans of the bridge.

  In the dark days of the Marcomannic War, Marcus Aurelius had done worse than countenance political murder. The noble Emperor had succumbed to superstition and magic. The Emperor had been persuaded victory would be his if he allowed some outlandish charlatan priest to sacrifice two lions on the banks of the Danube. The beasts had escaped, and swum across to the barbarians, never to be seen again. If the wisest of Emperors, a man fortified by a lifetime’s study of the philosophy of the Stoics, could be brought so low, what chance was there for a lesser man? Menophilus knew he would never be the same again. The actions he was taking, which might secure power for his friends, would destroy that very friendship. Menophilus knew he no longer deserved the friendship of the Gordians, or of any men with claims to decency and virtue. In politics, the things you wish for, were the things you must fear. He was dying every day.

  Chapter 38

  The Northern Frontier

  Sirmium,

  Five Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  In the gloom of a room shuttered for the siesta Iunia Fadilla was dressed for travel; a long tunic, sensible shoes, a veil, and a cheap and plain but deep-hooded cloak. It was the third day since Maximus had departed. The absence of his brutality had threatened to undermine her resolve. Was it so bad? Perhaps she could endure, if she did everything he demanded, tried to avoid provoking him. But tomorrow she was due to leave for Italy, packed up with the rest of the imperial baggage. In a few days she would be delivered to his insults and beatings. The revolt would fail, and she would be trapped forever. No, she had to act, and the day and time were as propitious as could be found. Her husband and father-in-law had gone ahead, and Julius Capitolinus and everyone left were preoccupied with organizing the march. With the siesta it would be some hours before she was missed, and then uncertainty and indecision might well delay pursuit.

  Restuta came in quietly. Iunia Fadilla had collected the minimum necessary for the journey; a spare tunic and pair of shoes, several changes of underclothes, a warmer cloak, oil and nard for washing, cosmetics and perfumes, a flask of wine and some biscuits. Restuta packed them into two bundles.

  Iunia Fadilla had coins, a lot of coins. She had sent Restuta to the market to sell the necklace with the nine pearls, the sapphire bracelet, and the emeralds torn from her headdress. Iunia Fadilla had wondered about the golden brooch set with garnets, but it was very distinctive, and she both did not want to part with it, and thought it might yet be useful. Most likely the merchant had cheated Restuta, assumed the items had been stolen by the maid. If it was ever discovered that the jewels he had bought were betrothal gifts given by Maximus, the merchant would more than pay for his avarice.

  Some of the coins were in a belt Iunia Fadilla wore between her shift and tunic. The remainder Restuta had sown into the lining of the two cloaks. Everything was ready. Iunia Fadilla peeped out through the shutters, checking the sun. It was time. There were no excuses not to leave.

  Restuta picked up both the packages, and led the way.

  There was a Praetorian at the end of the corridor, near the head of the stairs to the servants’ quarters. He smiled at Restuta and ignored what he had been told was another maid.

  Iunia Fadilla followed Restuta down the narrow stairway. She had never been this way before. The boards were bare, and the walls unpainted. As they descended, there was a smell like stale cabbage or unwashed humanity.

  Slipping out of a door by the kitchens, they crossed a muddy courtyard. There was another Praetorian by the wicket gate. He too grinned, and ostentatiously looked the other way. Iunia Fadilla had not asked how Restuta had bribed them, with money or other favours, perhaps both. Restuta was a good girl. If this ended well, she would have her liberty.

  The alleyway was empty. Iunia Fadilla felt a rush of relief. She could return to her rooms, take off her disguise. Restuta could pack away the bundles, and it would be as if none of this had happened. Iunia Fadilla suppressed the cowardly thoughts. She might have lacked the courage to kill Maximus, but she would not go back and submit. In her eagerness, they were early.

  A beggar, old and filthy, walked down the alley. He stopped, and looked speculatively at the two women. Restuta told him if he was bothering them when their men arrived he would get a beating. He called them both whores as he left.

  They waited. More nervous than she could ever remember, Iunia Fadilla tried to ignore an urge to relieve herself. It was no good. She was desperate. She whispered to Restuta. The alley was empty. Restuta told her to be quick. Iunia Fadilla hauled up her clothes, and squatted. A great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius, an imperial princess, wife of Caesar, bare arsed, pissing in the mud. Doubtless she would suffer worse.

  No sooner had she rearranged herself, than a covered litter carried by four slaves turned into the alley. Another servant walked at its head, carrying a valise. It stopped by them. Her cousin pulled back the curtains, helped her in beside him. They moved off.

  Iunia Fadilla was not so foolish as to look out of the hangings, but she could hear that the streets were near empty. Almost everyone would be resting in the early afternoon. Thank the gods that the Romans had imported their Mediterranean customs to this bleak northern outpost of their imperium.

  She reached over and squeezed her cousin’s hand. Fadillus smiled, and silently returned her affection. He had been a revelation. When she told him, Iunia Fadilla had thought he would be scared, quite possibly so terrified that he would refuse to help. She had been prepared to offer him anything, money, her body, promises of vast rewards if they reached Gordian. None of it had been necessary. Fadillus had known Maximus mistreated her. At court it was common knowledge. People said Maximinus had rebuked his son, not that it had done any good. Fadillus wanted to kill Maximus. He would do anything to help Iunia, anything she asked. Of course they should flee, anything was better than leaving her to such cruelty. They had not been born to live as chattel.

  Fadillus had been as good as his
word. He had hired the litter, sworn his own body servant to secrecy, promised him both manumission and wealth when they reached safety. She wondered if any of them would live to see that day.

  The litter swayed to a stop. Fadillus looked out. They were at the gate. There was a queue. Nothing to worry about, just the customs officers. They were interested in export duties, never bothered those about imperial business. They both knew the real test would come outside the gate, when they went to requisition a carriage and horses at the post of the cursus publicus.

  Obtaining the official passes had been surprisingly easy. On a pretext, Iunia Fadilla had gone to the imperial chancery. The under secretaries who had not gone with the Emperor were not about to start questioning his daughter-in-law. Restuta had distracted them – she was an attractive and resourceful girl – and Iunia had swept two diplomata under her cloak. One she had filled out in the name of Fadillus, the other in that of a wife – Sextia – he did not have. Fadillus was not prominent at court, let alone with the army, and no soldier or minor official was likely to know anything about his marital state. Maximus was negligent about such duties as he was given, often leaving more or less important documents lying about. Copying his signature had not been difficult.

  The litter moved forward. Despite all Fadillus’ reassurances, despite everything she had told herself, her heart was pounding. She chest was hollow. She needed to relieve herself again.

  The curtain was drawn back by Fadillus’ servant.

  The customs officer was clean-shaven, and respectful. He bowed to Fadillus, did not look around the litter, barely glanced at the diplomata. Waving them on, he apologized for having delayed them.

  After the hanging was back in place, Iunia Fadilla hugged her cousin. Just possibly this might work.

  ‘Halt!’

  Again the litter stopped.