The worst of the dust had settled. Teams of draught animals were being driven to haul the rubble clear of the breach.
Menophilus’ thoughts roamed unbidden. He was still very tired, could not imagine feeling any other way. An image of the empire unrolled in his mind like a long strip of papyrus. Lights burnt bright in Carthage and Rome, their light diffused out across the Province of Africa and the Italian peninsular. But in the gloom of the rest of the imperium menacing, often indistinct shapes shifted and moved. Menophilus stared into the darkness. News had come that Decius in Hispania had arrested the courier from the Gordiani and reaffirmed his allegiance to Maximinus. How many other governors would follow his example? With the possible exception of Dacia, the provinces bordering the Danube would remain loyal to Maximinus until his death. Honoratus in Moesia Inferior would see to that. There was no specific reason to believe that the armies along the Rhine or in Britain would come over. Catius Priscillianus in Germania Superior was brother to one of the men who had put the Thracian on the throne, and Tuccianus in Britannia Inferior was close friend to another. Only in the East was there a certain light, some slight chance of salvation. Timesitheus had revealed that Priscus of Mesopotamia already had flirted with revolt. Severianus in Palestina, his brother-in-law, had attended the treasonous meeting in Samosata, and neither Aradius in Syria Coele or Domitius Valerianus in Arabia were thought particularly attached to Maximinus. But there again, one of the Emperor-makers, Catius Clemens, held Cappadocia, and the governors of Syria Phoenice and Egypt were considered strong adherents of the tyrant. Menophilus was becoming ever more certain that the war would be decided here at Aquileia, and that the town would stand alone.
A stork flew across the Natiso to the south. The workmen had been reluctant to pull down the crumbling battlements of a tower on which was a nest. If the storks left Aquileia, it was an omen of the fall of the town. Menophilus had had to intervene. The best omen was to fight for your country. And there were many other nests.
Menophilus turned his horse. The animal picked its way across the gauged and scarred earth. At the corner of the wall by the Circus, the road from the north came into view. It was crammed with thousands of refugees; pathetic huddles of men, women and children, innocent victims of a war not of their making.
If there was a benevolent creator ordering a peaceful cosmos, why did he allow the evils of war? Was the strife of war caused by the foolishness and ignorance of men? Or was the disturbance superficial, just skin deep as it were, or even merely apparent, unreal, some kind of illusion? In ways too profound to be grasped by men, did the Demiurge permit some to suffer to build a more secure future for all? Either interpretation was better than the only other alternative, that there was no God, and everything was down to chance. Menophilus believed there was a divine intelligence immanent in the world. To do otherwise would be to cast himself adrift without sails or oars on the widest of seas. He preferred not to blame the Creator. That reeked of cowardice. Mankind should bear the burden of war, and he himself must take the weight of his terrible actions this past month.
Chapter 43
Northern Italy, Beyond the Alps
The Town of Emona,
Eight Days after the Ides of March, AD238
An Emperor should lead from the front. It encouraged the men, and he did not have to inhale their dust. Maximinus headed a weary column of cavalry. The forced march had taken its toll. Nine thousand strong when they left Sirmium, their number had been diminished at every halt. The regulars – the Horse Guards and auxiliaries – had suffered no more than was to be expected, and the light horse – Moors, Persians and Parthians – had stood up to the pace better than could have been hoped. But the heavy armoured troops – both the cataphracts and the Sarmatians – as well as the German allies had left a meteor trail of lame horses and stragglers the length of the Savus valley. The mounts of the former had been worn down by the weight of armour, and the latter by the sheer size of their riders. Three hacks had broken down under the Emperor himself.
Despite everything, at a bend in the road, when he could see back down the line, Maximinus was not displeased. The riders were still in good spirits, the order of march carefully observed. A few days’ rest, and if it came to battle, with the remaining men, he could ride through almost any force in the world on an open field.
That there would be fighting was now certain. The messenger from Potens had met them the previous day on the road. The news from Rome was all bad. Sabinus was murdered. The capital was lost. Potens was fleeing to Decius in Spain. The Senate had decreed a Board of Twenty to defend Italy from their rightful Emperor, although, by the time Potens had left, its members had not been elected.
Nothing in war was certain or easy. There were difficulties ahead. If the town of Emona closed its gates, accompanied only by cavalry, Maximinus would have to wait for the Panonnian Legions under Flavius Vopiscus before attempting an assault. Beyond Emona were the Alps. The mountains were covered with dense forests, and the narrow passes hemmed in by overhanging cliffs that ended in precipitous drops; easy to block, and ideal for ambush. Exhausted men would have to be pushed ahead to seize the heights and most constricted places. On the far side of the Alps stood Aquileia. The last time Maximinus had passed through, the walls had been in bad condition. He understood that the townsmen had squandered his largess on the circus and theatre rather than prudently looking to their defences. The Romans of old had clearer priorities. Even if the walls had been repaired, Maximinus would not be unduly disheartened. The siege train was with the main body of the army under Julius Capitolinus. Civilians, long used to peace, could not hope to defy well-equipped soldiers for any considerable length of time. Replenished by the resources of the city and with remounts drawn from across the North Italian Plain, the army would march on Rome. There would be hard fighting, times of danger, but Maximinus was confident. When the three bodies of the field army were reunited, even allowing for those who had fallen by the way, he should have more than thirty thousand veteran soldiers and experienced barbarian warriors at his back.
What madness had induced the Senators to acclaim the Gordiani? Could those soft, southern, treacherous aristocrats not see everything he had done had been for the good of Rome, ultimately for their own wellbeing? If only Paulina were alive, she could have explained it all. Maximinus had met the Gordiani once years before in the East, when the father was governing Syria Coele, and the son acting as his Legate. The elder had looked old even then, the younger dissolute. How could anyone imagine they could sit on the throne of the Caesars?
Maximinus stretched. His thighs were sore, and his spine ached. He was no longer young, but his stamina was still good. He looked over his shoulder at his son. Maximus was slumped in the saddle, his pretty, girlish face a picture of misery. Perhaps a hard and protracted campaign would either make a man of him or kill him. If the former did not come about, the latter would spare Maximinus a hideous duty. Certainly, as he was now – weak, vicious and depraved – his son could not be allowed to inherit the throne. It occurred to Maximinus that he should recall his second cousin to the imperial entourage. Young Rutilus was serving with Honoratus on the lower Danube. Tough, intelligent and restrained, with an uncommon sense of duty, the youth had the qualities necessary in a Caesar. On reflection, military service on the frontier was a better education than the consilium of an Emperor, and there was plenty of time.
They would soon be at Emona. The scouts were out in front and on both sides of the line of march. Maximinus relaxed. No point in facing problems until they were in front of you. There would be more than enough crises in the next months.
A fable of Aesop came into his mind; one his mother had told. A lion and a bear fought over the carcass of a fawn. They mauled each other so badly, they lay half-dead, unable to move. A passing fox noted their condition, and ran off with the meal. If the rebels put up a strong resistance, the same could happen here. Maximinus was convinced that he would prevail against the Senate in
Italy, and the Gordiani in Africa. But at what cost? A depleted, war weary army might encourage a predator.
Who might play the fox? Honoratus held the Danube. For all his indolent good looks, he was an ambitious man. Having helped create one Emperor, it was not beyond possibility that he might bid for the throne himself. Catius Clemens was yet more of a danger. Another of those who had clothed Maximinus in the purple, Clemens might cast off his hypochondria and raise the eastern army. Worse still, his brother Priscillianus commanded in Germania Superior. If the Euphrates and the Rhine were stripped of troops, they might crush Maximinus’ forces between them in a pincer. Paulina had been right; an Emperor could trust no one.
They rounded the shoulder of the last hill, and Emona came into sight. There were still two rivers to cross, but both bridges were intact and it was not far. Maximinus’ spirits lifted. The gates were not shut. Yet there was something strange. The town was unnaturally still, and above it hung a pall of smoke.
A scout was spurring back down the road. Maximinus studied the horseman. He did not hold his cloak above his head. They had not encountered the enemy. But there was something urgent about the way he pushed his mount.
The rider reined in, sketched a salute. The flanks of his horse were flecked with foam.
‘Imperator, Emona is not defended. We guard the gate. But the town is deserted. There is no one in the streets, no one anywhere. They have torn down the doors of all the houses and temples, the gates themselves. They have burnt them. There are fires in the Forum and open spaces. They have burnt all the provisions.’
An officer behind Maximinus spoke unbidden. ‘The men will go hungry. It is a bad omen at the beginning of a campaign.’
The speaker was Sabinus Modestus, a brave soldier, but a fool.
Maximinus gathered his thoughts. ‘The enemy flee from us. Our approach fills them with terror. It is the best of omens. We will send out parties to forage. A keen appetite is the best relish for food.’
Despite his brave words, riding up through the town filled Maximinus with apprehension. The dark, empty doorways were like openings onto the underworld. There was a reek of burning. In the distance dogs howled. Something slunk across an alley, too low and fast to be made out.
An Emperor can not show weakness.
In the Forum, Maximinus remained in the saddle as he gave the necessary orders. The imperial standard was to be set up outside the Curia. The town hall would serve as army headquarters. Pickets were to be set in all directions, the furthest at least a mile from the walls. Lookouts were to be posted on the towers, guards on the walls and gates. Barricades were to be made ready to close the latter for the night. The men were to be assigned billets, their horses stabled or tethered nearby. The pack animals were to be brought up, corralled here in the centre, what comestibles they still carried distributed. A search was to be made for any food or forage remaining in the town. Whatever was found was to be given out with equity to all. Every unit was to designate a squad of foragers. They were to go out to the surrounding farms and villas. If any came to blows over what was discovered, they were to be executed. If any tried to keep anything back for themselves, they were to be executed. No one else was to leave Emona on pain of death.
Justice tempered with severity.
Dismounted, Maximinus went into the Curia. His footsteps echoed in the empty building. It had been stripped bare. There was no furniture, no ornaments or paintings. Motes of dust turned in the air. He told an orderly to place the folding ivory throne under the apse at one end of the council chamber, and have his camp bed set up in one of the smaller rooms, along with his few possessions.
A soldier burst in, so fast his bodyguard drew his sword.
‘Report,’ Maximinus said.
Javolenus sheathed his blade.
The soldier was wide-eyed, frightened.
‘Speak.’
‘Imperator …’ The man mastered himself. ‘Imperator, the town is full of wolves. They are everywhere, dozens of packs.’
‘Kill them,’ Maximinus said. It explained the howling.
Sabinus Modestus spoke. ‘They are sacred to Mars.’
The man was becoming a nuisance, and his cousin Timesitheus was a traitor. Maximinus controlled his anger. ‘Kill them.’
The soldier did not leave, but shifted on his feet.
‘What?’
‘Imperator, the men will not go near them.’ The soldier hesitated, then got the words out very quickly. ‘Imperator, the men say they are not natural wolves. They believe it is sorcery. The inhabitants have been changed into wolves.’
‘Gods below,’ Maximinus said. He never underestimated the superstitions of the troops. He was one with them. ‘Take me to the nearest pack.’
Three wolves were trapped in the garden of a small temple opening off the Forum. They were loping back and forth along the back wall, searching for a non-existent way of escape.
‘Give me a javelin,’ Maximinus said, ‘and one for my bodyguard. And bring me a jug.’
The wolves had stopped. Together, they lifted their pale muzzles, and howled.
‘I want one left alive.’
Javolenus nodded.
Together, they advanced cautiously. The wolves watched them without moving.
Maximinus balanced the javelin, calculated the weight and the distance, and threw. Javolenus threw a moment later. Both casts were good. The beasts leapt too late. One was skewered to the ground. The other was down, snapping at the shaft that protruded from its chest.
The final wolf backed off into the corner of the wall.
Maximinus gestured for Javolenus to stay where he was. He unfastened his cloak, and wound it tightly around his right arm. He drew his dagger.
It was an old she-wolf. Her dugs hung down. Amber eyes regarded him with complete malevolence. She raised her hackles and snarled. Still dangerous, despite her years.
With care, and no sudden movements, Maximinus approached.
The wolf was coiled, ready to pounce.
Maximinus passed the blade across in front of her. The amber eyes followed. He feinted from the right, and she sprang. Her teeth clamped down, fastened on his right arm, biting through the cloak, into his flesh. He dropped the knife, and staggered back from the impact. Then, ignoring the pain, he got his left hand around her throat, hurled his weight on top of her, and knocked her to the ground.
Pinioned under his bulk, the wolf released her grip, tried and failed to sink her fangs into his other arm. Using all his great strength, Maximinus throttled her.
She was still alive, but limp, when Maximinus shifted, and took one of her forelegs in his right hand. He wrenched it back, until the bones snapped. Methodically, he broke her other three legs. She revived enough to scream. There was something human about the sound.
The pain coursed up Maximinus’ arm. The blood was soaking through the cloak, staining it from purple to black. He felt sick, but had to see this through.
‘Javolenus, the knife and the jug.’
With precision, he cut her throat, then caught the bright blood in the jug.
It was done.
When he got up, he was unsteady on his feet. His arm throbbed and bled. He passed the jug to Javolenus.
‘Sprinkle a few drops all around the walls, then bury her here where she died. No wolf, nothing in the shape of a wolf, ever again will come into Emona.’
It was what they had done in his youth in the hills of Thrace.
Back in the privacy of the room he had taken for himself, an army doctor cleaned and dressed his right arm.
When the man had gone, Maximinus sat motionless on the camp bed. Already the wolf was forgotten, and his thoughts had returned to Rome and to the duty of revenge.
After Paulina had been killed, as he drank, he had had Apsines tell him stories of vengeance. The sophist had recounted terrible things from the Greek past. Decapitated heads drowned in bowls of blood. Dismembered children served to their father in a meal. When he demanded Roman tales
, Maximinus had heard of enemies burnt alive in the Forum, of severed hands and tongues nailed to the Rostra. The Syrian had misjudged him. Such barbarities were unfitting for an Emperor of Rome. When the traitorous Senators and the Gordiani were in his power, his actions would be seemly and measured. No torture or gloating. The enemies of the Res Publica would be strangled in the dark of the Tullianum, their corpses exposed on the Gemomian Steps, their houses demolished, and everything else they owned confiscated to reward the soldiers. Nothing excessive. True Roman revenge.
Chapter 44
Africa
Carthage,
Nine Days after the Ides of March, AD238
‘Strike with the point, not the edge of the blade.’
Gordian had raised himself up on the horns of his saddle. He had already said the same words to the other main body of recruits, and different speeches to each of the units of regular troops.
‘A cut, no matter what its force, seldom kills. Often it is deflected from the vitals, if not by shield or helmet, then by a limb or by bone. A lame man or a man with one arm is still dangerous. But a thrust driven in just two inches is always fatal. Delivering a cut, your right arm and flank are exposed. When you stab, your body remains covered by your shield, and your enemy is wounded before he realizes. Thrust to the face, and the man standing against you will flinch, and then he is open to the killing blow.’
The recruits stood in a stolid mass. They had heard all this before. For the last four days, the junior officers and soldiers seconded from the regular units had been instructing them out here on the plain before the city. Of course there had been no time for marching, manoeuvres or entrenching, let alone the swimming and other advanced skills recommended by all the tactical manuals. But they had been issued with improvised equipment, and the basic arms drills had been relentless. They had complained on learning that they would work through the heat of the afternoons, like slaves or soldiers on punishment duty. The instructors had quelled that: Did they want to offer themselves up like sacrificial animals, or learn how to survive?
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