The small party crested the final range of stony hills, and there to the south-east were Samosata and the Euphrates. Timesitheus reined in to look. His service in Alexander Severus’ Persian campaign had not brought him this far north. The town was large and sprawling, its outer walls following the lines of natural declivities. Inside, the streets appeared to follow no plan, but he could make out the usual open spaces and temples. The whole was dominated by a citadel cited on a tall, flat-topped hill. The great river ran close beneath the far walls and the wide level plains of Mesopotamia spread out beyond.
Timesitheus pushed down the thought of what might happen in the town and signalled the column to advance. The wheel of fortune never halts; you either rise or fall. He had travelled a long way for this meeting. To Sinope, at the eastern extremity of his province, across high Cappadocia through Comana, Sebasteia and Melitene; too far for a faint heart now. A large part of him wished the summons had never arrived, or that he had set it aside as if unread. Yet Tranquillina had been right. It might have been as dangerous to ignore as to attend.
The gate was open, but a queue of rustic wagons and peasants on foot were waiting to be admitted. Timesitheus sent a rider ahead to clear them out of the way. Even so, there was a delay. The walls of Samosata were faced in a diamond pattern of bricks, unusual for fortifications. There were buttresses every few paces. They would hinder the enfilading shooting of the defenders. In any event, the town walls were too long to be held except by an enormous body of men. The citadel looked more defensible. The legionary base somewhere within the town might make another strongpoint. The town itself, however, would fall to any attacker with reasonable numbers and enough determination.
A young tribune from the 16th Legion riding a glossy chestnut led them inside, and along a street which ran straight to the foot of the citadel. There, Timesitheus took leave of his escort, dismounted and made the ascent on foot. He was puffing by the time they reached the top. He stopped and got his breath before letting the officer conduct him past a basilica and into a south-facing garden. The others were already here, sprawling on couches under the stern marble gaze of a rank of famous philosophers.
As Samosata was in Syria Coele, its governor, Junius Balbus, was playing host. He introduced the others: Licinius Serenianus of Cappadocia, Otacilius Severianus of Syria Palestina, Priscus of Mesopotamia. Timesitheus knew these other three governors. He had not met the young princes Chosroes of Armenia and Ma’na of Hatra, nor Manu, the heir to the abolished kingdom of Edessa. The latter was a surprise. The last Timesitheus had heard, Manu had been a prisoner of the Persians.
Servants spread a table with food and drink, then withdrew out of earshot. For a time, conversation was general and trivial. Timesitheus arranged his face and let it flow over him. The wall of the basilica was finished in the same diamond pattern as the town walls. Once, it must have been the palace of the vanished Kingdom of Commagene. Perhaps it was thoughts of the transience of power that made Timesitheus suddenly feel very afraid.
No governor was allowed to leave his province without imperial authority. No sanction had been given, yet here he was with four other governors, who between them controlled eight of the eleven legions in Rome’s eastern territories. Priscus was related to Otacilius Severianus by marriage, Licinius Serenianus was his close friend, and the same was true of Timesitheus himself. Lucretius of Egypt and Pomponius Julianus of Syria Phoenice had been appointed by the regime of Maximinus, and they had not been invited. Then there was the presence of the sons of two client Kings, and a man whose birthright had been taken from him. Priscus had called this conference to discuss a coherent strategy against the Sassanid attack. But an observer from the Emperor’s court – a perspicacious man such as Flavius Vopiscus or Catius Clemens, let alone a hostile witness like Domitius – might well doubt that motive. Indeed, they might well reach the same conclusion as Timesitheus had himself.
‘Thank you for coming.’ Priscus’ face was heavily lined, serious. Everyone listened.
‘Persian cavalry are less than sixty miles from where we sit. Bypassing Hatra and Singara, a Sassanid army – infantry and cavalry, said to be twenty thousand-strong – is besieging Nisibis. A mounted column is camped before Resaina. Its outriders have been seen as far west as Carrhae. Depleted by drafts for the northern war, the forces at my disposal in Mesopotamia cannot meet this threat in the field. You command six legions and a greater number of auxiliaries between you. Unless we take drastic action, the cities of Mesopotamia will fall one by one.’
‘If the lands between the two rivers are lost, the whole ast is in danger,’ Licinius Serenianus said. ‘I can send four thousand legionaries and the same number of auxiliaries from Cappadocia.’
Otacilius Severianus spoke next, with evident reluctance. ‘My men would have much further to march. Palestina is much further away.’
‘And so less exposed.’ Licinius Serenianus spoke sharply.
‘That is true.’ Otacilius Severianus looked at his brother-in-law. Priscus nodded almost imperceptibly.
Timesitheus wondered if the nervous Otacilius Severianus had the courage to say whatever it was he had obviously been told to say.
‘They would be longer on the road, but I can pledge the same from Palestina.’ Otacilius Severianus looked unhappy at the idea.
All eyes turned to Junius Balbus. ‘Before assembling a field army, we should seek imperial permission,’ the corpulent Senator said.
‘There is no time,’ Priscus said. ‘Mesopotamia will be gone before a messenger returns from the North.’
Balbus squirmed with indecision.
‘If we hesitate, it will be too late,’ Licinius Serenianus said.
‘Yes, I suppose so. I suppose you are right.’ Balbus took a deep breath. ‘Very well. Although my own province could be invaded at any time, I think I could spare perhaps two thousand legionaries and a matching number of other troops.’
‘Ardashir and the bastard line of Sasan can never be secure on their stolen throne until they have murdered the last of the Arsacid house,’ Chosroes said. ‘My father, Tiridates of Armenia, the rightful King of Kings, promises ten thousand horsemen to fight the pretender.’
The vehemence of the statement, and the scale of the commitment, drew a murmur of appreciation.
‘My father Sanatruq lost his first born to the Sassanid,’ Ma’na said. ‘Although surrounded by the enemy, Hatra will send two thousand riders.’
‘Rome will not forget such loyalty,’ Priscus said. ‘An army of over thirty thousand experienced soldiers and warriors, it would be hard for any foe to resist.’ He stopped.
As if on cue, Licinius Serenianus spoke. ‘Imagine what it might achieve, if the Persian menace were to recede.’
There it was, almost out in the open.
‘When I was a captive of the Persians, I was taken into the presence of Ardashir.’ The disinherited Prince of Edessa narrowed his kohl-lined eyes. ‘The Sassanid released me to carry a message. Ardashir said he would withdraw his men, if the cities of Singara and Nisibis were handed over to his rule.’
Timesitheus made himself sit very still. So that was how it was to be done. Priscus, ever the pragmatist, would sacrifice two of the cities of his province. But who would put on the purple? Not Priscus himself; not another equestrian. Otacilius Severianus, his senatorial brother-in-law, was weak enough to make a pliable tool. No, it would have to be the capable Licinius Serenianus. It would not be ambition in the mind of the earnest governor of Cappadocia. No doubt he had convinced himself he had been summoned to shoulder a heavy responsibility for the good of the Res Publica.
‘The Persian reptile is a liar,’ Chosroes said. ‘He will not be satisfied with two towns.’
‘He has said he will take all the lands as far as the Aegean.’ Junius Balbus sounded thoroughly alarmed.
Surely, Timesitheus thought, the fat fool had seen this coming when the meeting was proposed. Everything hung in the balance.
‘Should th
e other forces be called away,’ Chosroes said, ‘the warriors of Armenia will continue the fight against the Sassanids.’
‘Hatra is too hard-pressed for her men to leave Mesopotamia,’ Ma’na said.
Priscus and Licinius Serenianus should have made sure of them beforehand, Timesitheus thought. The thing was slipping away.
‘Perhaps we should discuss where and when our forces should muster against the Persians,’ Junius Balbus said.
‘The Euphrates crossing at Zeugma would be the obvious place.’ Otacilius Severianus joined in eagerly. ‘But supplying such a force will pose many difficulties, especially when it leaves the river.’
There was a pause before Priscus spoke. ‘Materials can be taken by boat to Zeugma. Beyond that, we will need to establish stockpiles in Edessa and Batnae.’
It was over. Priscus and Licinius Serenianus, with the connivance of the Edessan Manu, had brought them to the brink, but had failed to lead either the irresolute Roman governors or the scions of local dynasties to make the dangerous leap. Now they would all have to hope the approach would not be seen as treason in itself. If anyone present turned informer, he would implicate himself.
The talk turned to the intricacies of logistics. As a man with experience in the field, Timesitheus made several contributions. After a time, he looked away, and found himself staring into the marble eyes of Bion of Borysthenes. Next to that philosopher was Aristotle. The old Kings of Commagene had liked their Hellenic culture organized alphabetically.
Timesitheus was relieved. Tranquillina would be disappointed. But he knew that, without her by his side, he lacked the stomach for open rebellion. His talents lay in other areas, in more indirect paths. One door shuts, and another opens. This coming winter he would travel to the neighbouring province of Asia to discuss city finances with its governor, Valerius Apollinaris. One of the sons of Apollinaris had been married to Alexander’s sister. No doubt the old man was still mourning his execution. Over dinner, with plenty of drink, and sympathetic company, it would be surprising if he did not express a certain rancour, say things which, if reported to the throne, he might regret. It was evident that the man was not to be trusted. There was a history of treason in his family.
CHAPTER 26
The Northern Frontier
The Town of Sirmium,
Two Days after the Ides of October, AD236
One of the advantages of a second marriage was the removal of some of the rituals. It would have been farcical for Iunia Fadilla to have feigned the terror of a Sabine girl about to be raped as she was pulled from the arms of her mother, let alone for her to dedicate her toys and child’s dress to her household gods. Anyway, her mother was dead, and this house in Sirmium was not her home.
It had struck her as high-handed that the owners of this house, solid citizens of this remote, cold northern town, had been summarily turned out. Not that they had seemed to mind. The opposite, in fact. They had said that they were honoured and hoped the Emperor’s daughter-in-law would remember them fondly. Actually, Iunia Fadilla had already forgotten their names.
A maid passed her a mirror. Iunia Fadilla disliked what she saw. A second marriage did not get rid of all the ancient customs. That morning her women had parted her hair with a bent spearhead, rusty with the blood of a slain gladiator. Then they had pulled and scraped her curls into six tight locks. They had bound these with woollen fillets into a tall cone and placed a wreath of marjoram around their creation. She looked like a sacrificial animal, an offering to some outlandish deity.
The rest of her costume was more pleasing: a plain white tunic with a flame-coloured veil and matching shoes. A girdle cinched her waist tight, emphasizing her hips and breasts. The metal collar around her neck almost hinted of servitude. The bridal outfit was meant only to be worn once. Old Nummius had found the combined suggestions of innocence and bondage irresistible. Although she had demurred at the ritual coiffure, and some of his stranger suggestions, her first husband had persuaded her to wear the rest on many less public occasions.
Iunia Fadilla stood in the atrium with her bridesmaids. The girls were the daughters of the inner circle of the imperial court. Chief among them was Flavia Latroniana. Her father was an ex-Consul the regime wished to conciliate. Iunia Fadilla knew her no better than the others. Only two members of her own family were present. Her cousin Lucius was off to one side. Looking awkward, he stood with a distant kinsman called Clodius Pompeianus, another descendent of Marcus Aurelius. Eunomia lurked at the back. As ever, her old nurse had a hand pressed to her chest, mumbling prayers.
Three pages led Maximus into the house. They were followed by his father. The Emperor would fulfil the role of auspex. Behind came a horde of men of high standing. Flavius Vopiscus, Catius Clemens, the Praetorian Prefect Anullinus, many others; most were accompanied by their wives. The latter, along with the bridesmaids, had been rushed to the North inauspiciously, in the closed carriages more usually employed conveying prisoners to the same destination.
Since the army had returned from its interrupted campaign in Dacia, Iunia Fadilla had seen Maximus on several occasions. He was young, no older than her, and he was tall, well proportioned. There was no denying his beauty, and he spoke both Latin and Greek in the tones of an educated man. Beyond that, she could say little about him. Of course, they had never been alone, and her betrothed had given no indication that such a state of affairs irked him.
A pig was brought in, and sacrificed. The attendants slit its belly and drew out its innards. As auspex, the Emperor lifted the slippery things and inspected them. He announced them propitious and said a brief prayer.
Maximinus stood, his hands dripping blood, as he waited for a bowl and towels. He was enormous; very ugly. His expression was closed, brutal. Perhaps it was to be expected. His wife had been murdered. By all accounts, Caecilia Paulina had been a gentle woman, kind-hearted. Maximinus would feel her loss, and he lacked the education which might have offered some consolations. Self-control could not be expected from a half-barbarian herdsman.
Iunia Fadilla thanked the gods for the slowness of her journey. If her carriage had not shed a wheel, if Eunomia had not prayed at every wayside shrine, she might have been in Viminacium when the revolt broke out. Her corpse might have joined that of Caecilia Paulina in the street. Perhaps Gordian had been wrong. The gods might not be far away and uncaring. Perhaps piety occasionally was rewarded.
Flavia Latroniana took Iunia Fadilla’s hand and placed it in that of Maximus.
‘Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.’ Iunia Fadilla spoke the traditional words. She had no more idea of their meaning than anyone present.
The bride and groom sat on chairs covered with the fleece of a freshly slaughtered sheep and nibbled a morsel of spelt cake. In solemn silence, ten witnesses signed the wedding document. Lucius was the only representative of her family to do so.
The thing was done.
‘Feliciter!’ The assembled party shouted their blessings. ‘Good fortune!’
In view of the lateness of the season – in Rome, the October horse would have been slaughtered two days before – and the northerly latitude, the couches of the wedding feast had been spread in the rooms opening on to the atrium. Braziers had been lit to keep the chill at bay.
In the chamber of honour, in the presence of the Emperor, the celebrations were muted. Maximinus ate vast quantities of roast meat, drank unfeasible amounts of wine. It did nothing to lighten his mood. Under his baleful gaze, even the self-assurance of his son seemed to wither. Several times Iunia Fadilla found that the Emperor was staring at Maximus and herself. There was an intensity in his look she found frightening. In his savage grief, did he resent their felicity? Her stirring of compassion gave way to anxiety. An Emperor was above the law. Nummius had told her of a wedding he had attended in the reign of Elagabalus. The bride had been attractive. Elagabalus had led her from the room. Half an hour later, he had brought her back, dishevelled, crying. The Emperor had assured her husband that he
would enjoy her.
Abruptly, Maximinus announced that he needed to relieve himself. As soon as he was gone, conversation became more animated. As Catius Clemens regaled the others with an anecdote from the Dacian campaign, Maximus leant close to Iunia Fadilla. He smelt of cinnamon and roses, and he was very attractive.
‘I had imagined,’ he said, ‘my wife would be a virgin, not soiled. They say you have sucked off half the men in Rome. At least you should be good at it.’
CHAPTER 27
The Northern Frontier
The Town of Sirmium,
Two Days after the Ides of October, AD236
‘Talassio!’ the crowd shouted. ‘Talassio!’ They did not know what it meant. It was what you shouted at a wedding procession.
‘Talassio! Talassio!’
Maximinus followed the bridal couple. A page walked on either side of Iunia Fadilla, holding her hands. For a woman who had been married before, she looked oddly apprehensive. Rather than stay by her side, Maximus went ahead with the page who carried the nuptial torch. The young Caesar threw nuts to the crowd, answering their ribald comments, revelling in their admiration.
How could the boy be so happy, just months after the death of his mother? Maximinus stopped himself from grinding his teeth. He could not imagine smiling. Everyone had been taken from him. He thought of the forest in Germany, of the spear thrusting into Micca’s back. For forty years, Micca had guarded him. After the massacre at Ovile, he had been one of the first to join his band. Together, they had hunted the high hills of Thrace, and along the banks of the Danube, bringing wild justice and retribution to brigands and barbarian raiders. When Septimius Severus had enrolled Maximinus in the army, Micca had accompanied him as a servant. Micca had been at his side in Dacia, Caledonia and Africa – wherever he was posted across the imperium. Tynchanius had been with him even longer. He had been an older neighbour; his family had died in the hut next to the one in which Maximinus had found his father, mother, brother and sisters. Tynchanius had shared his hatred for the northern tribes. Maximinus could not remember a time before Tynchanius. And now, like Micca, he was gone.
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