Blood and Steel

by Harry Sidebottom

  Behind the counter, Ascyltos came up behind her, put his hands on her hips, and drew her back against his crotch.

  ‘When Musaria has dealt with him, she can watch the bar for a while. It is time you reminded me of the pleasures my customers enjoy.’

  Caenis said nothing, not even when he ran his hands up under her tunic. There were worse innkeepers, and, as one of her customers said, no one misses one olive from a jar.

  A couple of cronies of Ascyltos came in, and he joined them at a table. Having served them wine and water, she went back behind the counter, and cleaned some cups.

  She would like to get married. Of course the law said a prostitute could not wed a freeborn citizen. But it was often ignored, and there was nothing to stop her marrying a freedman. If she had a husband, and no longer had to sell her body, the infamia would be gone. She would be able to make a will, receive inheritances, would have the rights of any other woman. But, unlike Musaria, she was not stupid enough to think customers came to the bar of Ascyltos looking for a wife.

  She had savings. There was always the fear of theft. The bags of coins and cheap jewels were hidden in different places in her room in the tenement, two lots under floorboards, one behind a loose brick. Yet everyone in the neighbourhood knew she was in the bar almost every evening, and a determined thief would find them. She had asked the die-cutter across the corridor to keep an ear for anyone breaking in. Occasionally she let him into her bed for free to keep him well disposed. Although how he would stop any thieves was another question. He had been of little use when she was attacked in the street.

  Anyway, the money she had was not near enough. When she had more, she would leave Rome. It would be easier than it had been uprooting herself from Ephesus. If she could get hands on more, she would go to one of those magical islands the ship had called at on the voyage here; Zacynthos or Corcyra. She would say that her parents were dead, she had no family, and now her husband had died. Many men would marry an attractive young widow, one with money. If she was married, she could become Rhodope again.

  A man she half-recognized came into the bar. Asked if he wanted a drink, he said maybe afterwards.

  Back in the cubicle, she lit the lamps, and bolted the door. Thankfully, he was not one of those who wanted to talk. She pulled off her tunic and breast-band, and took his penis in her mouth. Was it true a respectable wife would never do such a thing? When he was ready, she got on all fours on the narrow bunk, and let him take her from behind. Was that another thing a good wife would not allow?

  Face down on the mattress, as the man thrust into her, she wondered how she might get the money she needed.

  She knew something about the Senator Gallicanus, a shameful secret that would make a mockery of his claims to philosophy and old-style virtue, that would disgrace him in the eyes of the world. That should be worth a great deal to his political enemies. But, even if she discovered who they were, how could she gain access to them? A prostitute could not walk up to the mansions of the great and demand admittance. If they listened, why would they believe her?

  Yet now fate had given her two other ways to acquire the necessary coins.

  Unexpectedly, Castricius had arrived at her door that afternoon. The young knife-boy had been very full of himself, claimed he had been released from gaol by the Senator Menophilus himself, and sent on some very important secret mission to the North. But he was no fool. He had given the soldier escorting him the slip somewhere in the Apennines, and returned to Rome. He had taken new lodgings, but the Subura was teaming, and the authorities would be too busy with the war to come looking for him.

  Caenis had not believed a word of the story, but she knew he was an escaped prisoner, and there would be a price on his head. It would be all the higher if she bore witness against him for the murder in the Street of the Sandal-makers.

  And then there was the die-cutter. Unable to sleep, one morning before dawn she had followed him. He was so short-sighted, it had been child’s play. And now she knew where he went. Later, watching them leave, she had realized what they were. Who else met in secret in the dark? And one of them had been careless enough to make one of their signs. The authorities would reward anyone who pointed them to a cell of atheist Christians.

  With what was stashed away, perhaps she need only inform against one of them.

  The man finished and left. The cubicle smelt of cheap perfume and goat.

  Chapter 41

  The East

  Carrhae,

  Six Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  Priscus kept a lamp lit in the bed chamber. Just the one, a soft light to enhance beauty, not betray its flaws. It was a hot night. The slave slept with the covers thrown back. Raised on one elbow, Priscus traced the graceful hollow of the back, the swell of a hip, firm line of a young thigh. He preferred the grapes when they were green.

  The slave was fast asleep. The sleep of the innocent, of those without guilt or worries. Priscus lay back. He had not slept like that for years, if ever.

  The Sassanids were still camped outside the city. Two days had passed since they had been thrown back from the walls. They had not made another assault. Priscus doubted if Ardashir could persuade them to try again. So why did the King of Kings linger? The forage must be near all eaten. The horses would soon lose condition, get thin. Perhaps Ardashir was reluctant to accept the finality of the verdict. Once he broke camp, and retreated, the defeat was acknowledged. Rumour would fly ahead of him – through Media, Persis and Sistan, to distant Sogdia and Bactria, through all those eastern territories so ancient and exotic sounding to a Roman ear – and the great noble families would begin to whisper, and then the revolts would flare.

  When Ardashir had left, the messenger chained in the cellar would remain, and Priscus would have no reason for further procrastination. He closed his eyes, and numbered the allegiances of Rome’s governors in the East, as if a recount would alter the simple arithmetic or reveal some previously overlooked figures.

  Priscus himself held Mesopotamia. One to him. His brother-in-law governed Syria Palestina. A weak man, but Severinus was closely bound to the family. When Priscus’ sister had been ill, and likely to die, Philip had wed the sister of Severianus. The new union had produced a son. Philip always was dutiful. Two links by marriage and one by blood should ensure the adherence of the legions stationed in the old homeland of the Jews. Two provinces in the amicitia of Priscus.

  The Prefect of Egypt, an equestrian called Lucretius Annianus, was accounted loyal to Maximinus. Certainly, his initial act on taking up office had been to kill his predecessor, who had been appointed by Alexander. That was one to the hostile factio. Pomponius Julianus, the governor of Syria Phoenice, was a close friend of Flavius Vopiscus, and the latter had been one of the three Senators who had put Maximinus on the throne. Two to the enemy. Worse still, Cappadocia now was under the rule of Catius Celer, and he himself was one of the Triumvirate behind the elevation of the Thracian. Three in the wrong camp.

  Aradius of Syria Coele and Domitius Valerianus of Arabia had been given their posts recently by Maximinus, but were not seen as his adherents. Rather, most had interpreted their appointments as the regime attempting to conciliate moderate senatorial feeling. Both men had pursued successful careers of unusual probity for the times, and were uncontaminated by partisanship or denunciations. They were two in the laager of the uncommitted.

  If Priscus could win over Aradius and Domitius Valerianus the count would stand at four to three in his favour. If only one came over, but he somehow eliminated one of the followers of Maximinus, three to two. He thought about factors of time and distance, the merits of poison and steel. He pushed aside the fatal appeal of inaction. A choice had to be made. Blood and steel, it was the only path.

  The boy turned in his sleep and muttered. Priscus opened his eyes, and regarded him. With the near perfect symmetry and harmony of his features, the curve of his shoulder, the clean limbs, he could model Ganymede for a sculptor. The bea
uty of a boy was natural, unadorned. Women needed artifice; cosmetics, tongs and curlers, gauzy gowns, legions of maids and hairdressers.

  Reason would always choose true beauty, necessity settle for less. Not that Priscus had any time for the nonsense spouted by philosophers. The modest youth learning from the restrained older man, the combination of pleasure with virtue; such a path was nothing but condemning yourself to the punishment of Tantalus: parched, but unable to drink. And if restraint failed, there would be the fresh tortures of guilt. Far better to imitate the Emperor Trajan; take those you desire to bed, but do not hurt them.

  Priscus looked at the first, golden down on the boy’s face. When it became stubble, cast a shadow on his cheeks, then he would send him away. Priscus had bought estates outside Antioch and in Italy. The stewards and overseers of his properties were all good-looking young men.

  ‘Prefect.’ Sporakes was in the room, his voice calm, but urgent.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The Persians are inside the walls.’

  Priscus got out of bed, reached for his tunic. ‘How many?’

  ‘Too many.’ The bodyguard helped him on with his boots, passed him his sword-belt.

  ‘The consilium?’

  ‘Have been summoned to the roof-garden. I will bring your armour up.’

  As he left, Priscus took a last look at the boy, who was sitting up in bed, naked, with no false modesty.

  The governor’s palace was set high on the acropolis. From its roof, the scene was set out like a spectacle in the amphitheatre. Flaring torches and dark groups of men pushing through the Moon Gate and into the streets. One phalanx was moving inexorably towards the Gate of Sin in the north, another heading to the Euphrates Gate in the west. Outside many more waited for those gates to be opened. Either surprise or treachery had unbarred the Moon Gate. It made no difference now, the thing was irreversible.

  Priscus stood still as Sporakes fitted his breastplate, checking buckles, tightening laces. One by one the consilium clattered onto the roof. Some were still getting armed, but there was no panic, no wasted words. Philip, the Prefects Julianus and Porcius, the Hatrenes Ma’na and Wa’el, the men from Edessa Manu, Abgar and Syrmus, they were all dependable. These were men too valuable to throw away in futile gestures.

  ‘The bucellarii are saddling the horses in the courtyard,’ Philip said.

  ‘Good.’ Priscus took his helmet from Sporakes. ‘No Sassanids to the south yet. We will take the Mirage Postern.’

  ‘We must be quick,’ Philip said.

  His brother was right. The Persians were nearly at the Euphrates Gate.

  Down in the courtyard the horses were infected by the nerves of the men. They stamped and barged each other, calling out in their anxiety.

  A bucellarius held the head of Priscus’ warhorse, another gave him a leg up.

  As he settled himself into his saddle, the boy appeared by Priscus.

  ‘Take me with you.’ He had slung on a tunic, his hair was tousled, eyes very frightened in the torchlight.

  ‘No.’

  The boy gripped his boot. ‘I love you, master.’

  Priscus put his hand on the boy’s head. ‘You are a slave now. Tomorrow you will have a new master.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Your looks will save you from much harm.’

  ‘Master …’

  Priscus gestured to the troopers, and two of them pulled the boy away. Not looking at the boy again, he checked the men were ready, gave the order to leave.

  The streets down from the citadel were narrow and winding. They went at a canter. As they cornered, the metal hipposandals of their mounts slipped on the cobbles, struck sparks. They held hard to the horns of their saddles.

  As they crossed a square, Priscus saw dark words daubed across a light wall. Such things accursed war brings in its train. Much graffiti had appeared in the last couple of days, all of it highly literate. Priscus recognized the line as Euripides, although the context escaped him. Perhaps he had underestimated Hieronymous and the Boule of Carrhae. Now it seemed they had betrayed their city for some promise of personal safety. Priscus very much hoped the Sassanids would play them false.

  They had not gone far when they heard the sounds of pursuit. High eastern shouts screeched above the thunder of their own passing. At each twist and turn, the ululating war cries grew louder. They echoed off the close walls, burst from every alleyway. Priscus crouched forward over the neck of his mount, urging it on, oblivious to everything but keeping it balanced, retaining his seat.

  The open space inside the postern was empty. The gate was shut. Its guards nowhere to be seen. The column skidded to a halt. The Persians were close behind. Sporakes and two bucellarii jumped down, lifted the bar, opened the door. Priscus and the others waited, the flanks of their horses heaving. The three on foot led their mounts out. No assailants fell on them, no arrows took them. Outside all was still quiet. Behind the streets rang with the approach of the Sassanids.

  ‘Prefect.’ It was Wa’el. ‘The reptiles will run us down. With two men, I can hold the postern.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Wa’el grinned, his face shining with conviction. ‘For my Prince Ma’na. If you live, tell King Sanatruq I kept my word. Honour is not dead in Hatra.’

  Priscus saluted, and went through the gate.

  They rode west across the plain. They were well mounted, safe for the moment. Batnae and the Mesopotamian field army were not far. Under the star-pricked sky, Priscus regretted the boy. He was beautiful, but he might have delayed them. No call for misguided heroics. Priscus would buy another. There were always boys for sale.

  Chapter 42

  Northern Italy

  Aquileia,

  Seven Days after the Ides of March, AD238

  The wall came down with the roar of a man-made avalanche. A great cloud of dust rolled out across the plain, obscuring the town. It was a paradox that builders always had to make things so much worse before they could begin their repairs. From this destruction, the defences of Aquileia would rise stronger. But at what cost?

  Menophilus looked around the ravaged landscape. Every building within four hundred paces of the walls had been razed. From the huts and sheds of market gardeners and smallholders to the sumptuous villas of the rich, all that remained were pitiful mounds of debris. Having finished with the ancestral homes of families great and small, the gangs of workmen under Barbius were tearing down the tombs that lined the roads approaching the gates. All the useable materials were being dragged to piles of spoil heaped close to the sections of the wall that needed strengthening or rebuilding. Dislocated fragments of statues and relief sculpture could be seen in each jagged knoll; the works of patient hours of skill reduced to unwieldy blocks.

  Menophilus let his eyes stray to a shady orchard. Men with axes, stripped to the waist against the sweat of their labour, were chopping down the trees. They went at it with a will. Whatever spark of the divine and beneficent cosmos was within them, most men had an appetite for destruction.

  Turning his gaze to the bright water of the Natiso that flowed past the town, Menophilus marshalled his thoughts. That morning, Claudius Severus and Claudius Aurelius, the two most prominent living descendants of Marcus Aurelius, had reached Aquileia. Both had appeared put out to hear that the bridge over the Aesontius had been rendered impassable, as if they did not understand that their arrival from Rome was too late to begin organizing any realistic defence of the Alpine Passes against Maximinus. After lengthy negotiation, it had been decided that they would go west to look to the security of two strategic towns on the North Italian Plain: Severus to Verona and Aurelius to Mutina. Their breeding had ensured they agreed with moderately good grace. Of course, they announced, their entourages would require a rest of several days before they set out.

  It would be better when they were gone. Menophilus and Crispinus had reached a modus vivendi, despite the latter’s stiffness and irritating beard. Nothing would be gained by the presence in Aquileia of t
wo more members of the Board of Twenty. And the two scions of the Antonine dynasty might actually be of some use in the overall strategy of the war.

  Although largely symbolic, the two Claudii should assist Annianus at Mediolanum in keeping the Po Valley loyal to the new regime. If not too hampered by Valerius Priscillianus, and certainly that corpulent and indolent patrician would contribute little, Cethegillus might succeed in barring the western Alps to any reinforcements marching to Maximinus from the Provinces of Germania. If that was the case, and the Ravenna fleet under Laco controlled the Adriatic, the entire focus of the war must be centred here on Aquileia.

  Maximinus would come. There could be no doubt. It was merely a question of how soon. Aquileia would be invested. A siege – its drawn out privations and constant fear – pushed those inside and outside the walls to the extreme limits of physical and mental endurance. Tempers frayed, and loyalties unravelled. After a time all standards of civilized behaviour gave way. Every advantage that ingenuity could devise must be employed.

  Menophilus wondered about Timesitheus. He had heard nothing. It would help if the little Greek had managed to win over the brigand chief Corvinus. Unaided, they could not block the passes behind Maximinus’ army, but they might disrupt his communications and supplies, kill or capture important messengers, loot baggage trains, create a feeling of unease and isolation.

  Of course, the knife-boy Castricius might already have struck down the tyrant. It was possible, but unlikely. More probably, Castricius would be apprehended. His fate would not be pleasant. But he was of little consequence. Even if he succeeded, it was no guarantee the war would be stillborn. The northern army might replace Maximinus with another candidate for the throne, and the war would still come to Aquileia.