Warrior of Rome III

by Harry Sidebottom

  The man nodded, pulled back the door. ‘The Lord be with you, brother. How can we help?’

  ‘And with your spirit,’ said Calgacus, pulling off his hat. ‘Nothing too much, just a chance to pray in peace.’

  ‘Come in the love of God. Please take a place at the rear. Our pious bishop Theotecnus is at the altar counselling one of our brothers in the time of his trial.’

  Calgacus did as he was told. He had seen and heard Christians pray. They used different styles. But some knelt and kept their heads down. That seemed to fit the bill. From under his brows, he had a good view.

  The man he now knew was the Christians’ archpriest was standing in front of the altar facing the soldier. The priest leant across and drew aside Marinus’s military cloak. He pointed to the sword. Turning, he picked up a book – not a papyrus roll, but a new-style codex. He placed it on the altar in front of Marinus.

  ‘Choose,’ said Theotecnus.

  With no hesitation, Marinus stretched out his hand and grasped the book.

  ‘Hold fast then,’ said Theotecnus. ‘Hold fast to God. May you obtain what you have chosen, inspired by him. Go in peace.’

  The Christians embraced, and Marinus left.

  Possibly a little too quickly afterwards, Calgacus followed. The man on the door gave him an odd look but did not try to stop him. Maybe he put it down to the visitor’s prurient desire to see what happened to the martyr-to-be.

  Calgacus caught sight of Marinus reentering the town at the Caporcotani Gate. The optio, looking neither left nor right, went to a house in the north of Caesarea, near where the aqueducts enter. He stayed inside for some time. Calgacus assumed it was Marinus’s lodgings. He waited outside. It was no hardship. It was a nice day.

  Eventually Marinus came out and set off south-west. He walked purposefully. His mind on his fate, the love of God or some such, he was easy for Calgacus to shadow. As they got near the agora, people began to point, whisper to each other and openly follow. Indeed, quite a throng trailed Marinus as he reached the steps to the temple of Roma and Augustus.

  Marinus stopped. The crowd milled, taking care not to get too close to the prodigy who was both a soldier and a confessed Christian.

  ‘Marcus Aurelius Marinus,’ a herald roared. ‘Your time of grace is over. Present yourself to the tribunal.’

  With no outward fear, Marinus stepped forward.

  You had to hand it to these Christian bastards, thought Calgacus. It was impressive. It could turn the heads of some of the plebs.

  On his curule chair, the governor was not smiling now. Behind him, Astyrius and the other members of his consilium were equally stony-faced.

  Calgacus would not have been alone in noting that, this time, Marinus did not salute. The Caledonian knew why. Back in the church, Marinus had made his choice: Christian, not soldier.

  ‘Marcus Aurelius Marinus, our magnanimity has given you time to come to your senses.’ Achaeus’s voice was cold. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I am a Christian.’

  ‘So be it,’ snapped Achaeus. He waved some guards forward. They seized Marinus. They stripped him of his sword belt, his cloak, his boots, anything which denoted him as a soldier.

  ‘You will be taken to the south necropolis. You will be beheaded. No one is to give you burial. Your corpse will lie by the road for the dogs to eat.’

  Marinus betrayed no emotion.

  ‘There is no reason for delay,’ Achaeus announced. ‘Take him away.’

  Calgacus did not need to exercise any caution in following this time. A centurion and ten legionaries, the condemned man’s commilitiones, escorted Marinus. Behind them came about thirty civilians – those who especially disliked Christians or particularly enjoyed a public execution, or maybe just had nothing better to do.

  Calgacus did not go all the way. He turned off to the right and entered the empty theatre by the city walls. Once he had climbed to the top of the seating, he had a good view over the rear wall.

  Sure enough, the centurion halted his men just beyond the town walls, as soon as they reached the first tombs of the necropolis. With a minimum of fuss, a blindfold was put on Marinus.

  By the side of the road, the Christian knelt down. He leant forward to expose the back of his neck. The blade of a sword glittered in the spring sunshine. The spatha descended. It was not a good strike. Blood everywhere, but the neck was not severed. Marinus was pitched full length. He was writhing. The executioner had to steady him with a boot on his back and a firm grip on his hair. Four, five times, the spatha chopped down until the head came away.

  The soldiers left him lying by the side of the road. Without a backwards glance, they marched off into town. Some of the civilians remained standing there for a while, but soon Marinus’s remains were unattended.

  High up in the theatre, Calgacus made himself as comfortable as he could and settled down to wait. The night after Ballista had killed Appian in Ephesus, someone, presumably Christians, had come and stolen the body – well, seemingly, torn it apart and taken bits of it. Calgacus thought it was worth keeping an eye on what was left of Marinus.

  Travellers came and went on the Ascalon road. In wagons, on donkeys, mules, horses, on foot, they passed, usually in groups, occasionally on their own. Some stopped to look at the fresh corpse, the blood already draining into the dirt, but most did not.

  The waiting did not bother Calgacus – he could happily do nothing for hours on end – but he was getting very hungry. Tonight, despite the cost, he would treat himself to a really good meal before a girl – maybe that new Greek girl Chloe: she had a look in her eye, made him laugh.

  The sun began to sink towards the sea. The western sky was a blaze of purples, blues and reds. The travellers had gone from the road. If nothing happened before dark, Calgacus would have to go down and creep closer.

  All that was to be heard was the sound of the surf. It might have lulled Calgacus had his hunger not been so sharp. He was getting ready to move when the file of men appeared from the town.

  At their head was a tall figure. From within the folds of his cloak could be seen a flash of shimmering white toga and, amazingly, a broad purple stripe. The man was a senator. It was Astyrius, and he was trailed by four servants.

  They reached the dead man. At Astyrius’s gesture, the servants spread a magnificent, costly robe on the ground by the remains. Astyrius reverently picked up Marinus’s gory head and placed it on the robe. The servants lifted the body to join it.

  The robe was carefully folded. Astyrius himself helped shoulder the burden. The illegal cortege moved off, cross-country to the east.

  Well, well, thought Calgacus, who would have thought it? As he walked stiffly down the steps, he wondered if his were the only eyes that had been watching. ‘Christians to the lion,’ he thought.

  Macrianus the Elder, Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae, holder of maius imperium, father of the Augusti, washed the blood off his hands. A servant took away the golden bowl; another handed him a towel. They may well be on campaign, somewhere in the wilds between Thrace and Illyricum, but standards had to be maintained.

  The sacrifices had told Macrianus nothing. The entrails had been hard to read, ambiguous. Surely the gods would not abandon him now? He had never yet done anything without consulting them, checking they approved. All his life had been devoted to doing their work. Not even the most malevolent could deny he had been zealous in persecuting the atheist Christians. And had he not sworn to all the natural gods – in his heart, not just with his lips – that when he had done with the followers of the crucified Jew he would turn on and eradicate the Jews themselves? Let the godless emigrate beyond the frontiers, for if they remained they would die.

  Yes, Macrianus had laboured long on behalf of the Pax Deorum, the relationship between man and gods that had always sustained the imperium of the Romans. Dangerous choices had been faced, difficult decisions made. But he had been well rewarded, as his piety deserved. His rise from obscur
ity to riches and power, the elevation of his sons to the throne – both clearly made manifest the favour of the gods.

  Macrianus knew he had done nothing but good, had done nothing wrong. True, his conscience initially had been troubled by the idea of removing Valerian. But the old emperor had been too hesitant. He had stood in the way of the work of the gods. Even so, it had been a relief to Macrianus when he received the explicit approval of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in a dream.

  The opaque entrails meant nothing. The gods would not abandon Macrianus now, not in the middle of a campaign against the godless tyrant Gallienus. As soon as news of Valerian’s capture had reached Gallienus, even while his aged father was being dragged around Cilicia, Gallienus had rescinded the edict against the Christians. It was said he had gone so far as to give them back their unholy meeting places and burial grounds. There was no chance the gods could favour such a man over Macrianus and his sons.

  But if the signs from the heavens were mixed, they were not more so than those on earth. The advance expedition to the west led by Macrianus’s old friend Piso Frugi had been a disaster. First, in the backwater of Thessaly, of all places, had come Piso’s usurpation – what evil daemon could have prompted the fool to that? – then his death at the hands of Valens, Gallienus’s governor of Achaea. The situation had somewhat recovered. The troops under Valens, a bunch of auxiliaries as headstrong and unreliable as all soldiers were these days, had mutinied. They had proclaimed Valens emperor. The unwanted eminence had lasted only a short time. Frumentarii sent by Macrianus’s loyal Princeps Peregrinorum Censorinus had abruptly ended the ephemeral reign.

  Not everything had gone wrong in the aftermath of the Pisonian debacle. Byzantium had remained loyal to the regime and it afforded the Macriani father and son and their main army a safe crossing from Asia.

  As they advanced west into Europe, the mixed blessings had continued. It was a disappointment that Valentinus, the acting governor of both Moesia Superior and Inferior, had kept the provinces in the faction of Gallienus. But to balance that, the four legions stationed in the provinces of Pannonia Superior and Inferior had declared for Macrianus and Quietus. Macrianus the Elder was quite aware that this had not been prompted by love for his sons. The Pannonian legionaries were still smarting at the defeat and deaths of their candidates for the purple – Ingenuus and Regalianus – by the forces of Gallienus. They would have probably followed a trained monkey against Gallienus. Still, it gave an impression of momentum, and it was a useful addition to the expedition. When the Macriani reached Serdica, they found two large vexillationes from Legiones I and II Adiutrix had marched down to join them. There had been scenes of celebration as these newcomers mingled with smaller vexillationes from all four Pannonian legions who were already serving with the army. The four thousand newcomers roughly replaced those lost to sickness, straggling and desertion on the long march from Antioch.

  The events of the day before struck Macrianus as ambiguous at best. A couple of hours’ march west out of Serdica, and the enemy cavalry had appeared. It was light cavalry, and there were a lot of them; mainly Dalmatians, but also quite a few Moors, with their distinctive long, braided hair. They had surrounded the marching column, driven in the cavalry outriders. They had not killed all they could. They had ridden close, up and down the line, calling on their opponents to return to the oaths they had once sworn to the rightful emperor Gallienus. None of the marching men had gone over. Instead they had bellowed out a flow of obscenities, mainly directed at Gallienus’s relationships with the barbarian girl Pippa and the philosopher Plotinus. They shouted that he defiled his mouth playing the Phoenician to the former, and all his body acting as a wife to the latter.

  The military men, the Prefect of Cavalry Ragonius Clarus well to the fore, had put a positive interpretation on it all. A cavalry skirmish signified nothing. Macrianus’s riders had been caught unaware, but not one soldier had left the ranks. Morale remained as high as ever.

  Macrianus acknowledged he was not a military man. He always learnt what he could about any units under his command, but he was not at home in the field. Yet, even so, he was concerned at the ease with which the cavalry had given way. He half regretted leaving Ballista with Quietus – may the gods hold their hands over the boy; unlike so many, the barbarian spoke his mind. Ragonius Clarus and Censorinus had combined to allay Macrianus’s apprehensions. After dark yesterday, the Princeps Peregrinorum had announced that he would go through the camp and gauge the mood of the men before going beyond the palisade and sounding out the loyalty of the enemy pickets. If anyone was considering desertion, it was likely to be the enemy. He had promised to take care, as much care as Dolon had taken in the Iliad. Macrianus had wondered at the inappositeness of the reference. Censorinus had not been seen since.

  As the butchers dragged away the carcases of the sacrifices, Macrianus took up his walking stick and slowly made his way to where the imperial standards hung limp in the early morning air. His son Macrianus the Younger sat straight and true on a magnificent black charger. The boy had come on well since his elevation to the throne. He wore the purple and the radiate crown as if born to them. There was a nobility to his aquiline nose and high brow, a hint of hard service to the Res Publica in the slight bags under the eyes. If he chose occasionally to relax from the cares of empire by making small wooden toys, there had been many emperors with far more damaging pastimes.

  A quiet gelding was led out. Macrianus’s lame leg made riding a trial. Stoically, he let himself be helped into the saddle. Once there, he reached out and briefly gripped his son’s hand. Ragonius Clarus rode up, saluted and asked permission to signal the advance.

  Macrianus surveyed the scene. A broad upland valley, the road from Serdica to Naissus running through it, almost due west, a small, unnamed stream alongside the road on its left. There was a low mist over the water and, about a mile away, the enemy. A large force, but no bigger than the army with Macrianus – about thirty thousand men. It was drawn up conventionally: heavy infantry several ranks deep in the centre, bowmen behind, some light infantry with slings and javelins in front, cavalry out on the wings. The standards made a brave show all along its front. The imperial standard was not there. Gallienus had not come himself. He was further west, preoccupied with getting revenge on Postumus for the death of his son. The army was commanded by Aureolus. The red Pegasus on white banner of Gallienus’s Prefect of Cavalry flew on their right wing. It was said Aureolus was supported by several leading protectores: his near-namesake and fellow Danubian Aurelian, Manu ad Ferrum; Theodotus the Egyptian; Memor the African; the siege engineer Bonitus, and the Italian Domitianus, who implausibly claimed descent from the Flavian dynasty.

  The army of the Macriani was virtually a reflection of its enemy. Stationed with the thousand troopers of the Equites Singulares just behind the centre of the infantry line, Macrianus the Elder had a good view from the vantage point of his horse. Everything seemed in order. His son was looking at him. He nodded. Macrianus the Younger told Ragonius Clarus to carry on. The latter gave the command to advance.

  Centurions passed the order on, bucinatores sounded their instruments, standard bearers got ready to lift.

  Ragonius Clarus was shouting something over the din: ‘When the mist burns off, the sun will still be low, straight in the eyes of Aureolus’s men.’ Macrianus was finding it hard to listen: something was wrong with the unit directly in front. It was a vexillatio from Legio XI Claudia Pia Fidelis. The detachment, originally five hundred men, now considerably less, had been sent east from its base at Durostorum in Moesia Inferior for Valerian’s Persian campaign. The standard bearer in charge of the vexillum had pulled the standard from the ground with no problem, but as he began to walk forward, the shaft tangled his legs and he lost his balance. The vexillum tottered and fell to the ground. The men of Legio XI halted.

  Ragonius Clarus had seen what had happened. He stopped talking.

  A terrible omen, thought Macrianus.

&nbs
p; Ragonius Clarus spurred his horse forward. He was bellowing: ‘Vexillarius, pick the fucking thing up!’ It was too late. Along the line, those unable to see what had caused the standard to go down drew the same conclusion: surrender. One after another, standards were lowered. Units halted. Legionaries, auxiliaries, barbarian allies put down their weapons. They stretched out their arms to the other side.

  ‘Quick, this way.’ Ragonius Clarus was tugging at the bridle of Macrianus’s horse. ‘The Pannonians are not surrendering. Quick, to the left.’

  Macrianus looked around wildly to see that his son was safe. He was with them. They thundered across the ground.

  ‘All is not lost,’ Ragonius Clarus called over his shoulder. ‘We can fall back on the camp.’

  ‘All is not lost,’ said Ragonius Clarus.

  Outside, the setting sun was a huge orange ball. Long shadows stretched across the camp, played on the wall of the imperial tent. There was less than an hour to darkness.

  Macrianus the Elder indicated that the Prefect of Cavalry should continue to address the much reduced consilium.

  ‘We have nearly twelve thousand men: six thousand Pannonian legionaries, five thousand of Sampsigeramus’s bowmen from Emesa, about half mounted, and a thousand Equites Singulares. A sizable and useful force.’

  All true, thought Macrianus, but our opponents now have nearly fifty thousand men under arms. He did not let these calculations affect the attentive and quietly confident set of his face. The officers were shaken. Macrianus the Younger looked scared. Macrianus smiled reassuringly at his son.

  ‘We have plenty of supplies. The camp is well fortified. We could withstand a siege,’ continued Ragonius Clarus.

  Which would merely delay things for a time, thought Macrianus. There is no army that will come and raise the siege. We stripped the east bare to raise this force. We have no allies waiting in the wings. And it is not even as if Gallienus were leading the besieging army himself. In that case, almost anything might have happened – a stray arrow kills the emperor, or supplies fail, plague breaks out, the men get sick of hard labour and privations, from one motive or another Gallienus’s own troops strike him down … Sieges are dangerous times for emperors. But none of that could happen. Gallienus was safe in the west.