Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust

by Harry Sidebottom

  Yet the loss of them paled beside that of Paulina. It was twenty-two years since they had walked, in a far smaller procession, to his rented apartment in Rome. Returned from Caracalla’s campaign against the Alamanni, newly raised to the equestrian order, he had been favoured by the Emperor. Yet he had sensed the doubts of Paulina’s parents. They had been wrong. The marriage had been happy. Even in the reign of the perverted Elagabalus, when Maximinus had retired to the estate he had bought outside Ovile, Paulina had stood by him.

  Now she was dead, and it was his fault. If he had not become Emperor, she would not have died. He had not wanted the purple. It had been forced upon him. She had been brave, but she had seen it would end in tragedy. If he had found a way to avoid the fatal throne, she would be alive. Paulina, Tynchanius, Micca: they were all dead, and it was his fault.

  ‘Talassio!’ The shouts gave way to a song of the joys of the wedding bed; the groom would conquer his bride in the heated wrestling, the god Hymen would preside.

  Maximinus did not pretend to join the merriment. In the guttering torchlight, he considered the throng: the flute players, the couple and their pages, the guests and Iunia’s maids. Two of the latter carried a spindle and distaff. They were about all Iunia Fadilla had brought to the wedding.

  Maximinus had never wanted to be Emperor, but when you have a wolf by the ears you can never let go. Honoratus and the others in his consilium had assured him that this marriage would reconcile the descendants of Marcus Aurelius and the nobility to his rule. It seemed they were wrong. The only relatives of the bride in attendance were one Lucius Iunius Fadillus, an equestrian cousin, and a more distant kinsman, Clodius Pompeianus, an ex-Quaestor of dubious reputation. Apart from them, a second cousin of her first husband had dared to appear, letting ambition triumph over propriety. This Marcus Nummius Tuscus might think himself fortunate merely to have been sent away. The reprieve might not be permanent.

  Paulina had been right. The good and the great of Rome would never accept him as their Emperor. No Emperor had ever stepped down from the throne. Maximinus had asked Aspines. The nearest parallel the sophist could find was the Dictator Sulla renouncing his powers. But that was long ago, and the divine Julius Caesar had said it proved Sulla had no understanding of politics. If disease had not carried off Sulla soon afterwards, would the safety of his retirement have been certain?

  Self-preservation was joined to duty. Unlike the Senate, Maximinus understood duty. He had served Rome all his life. While he sat the throne, he would continue to serve. The safety of Rome depended on defeating the northern tribes. Everything must give way to the war. Dacia was restored, and Honoratus had held the Goths on the lower Danube. Over the winter, Maximinus would raise more troops, more money. Early in the new year, he would pursue the nomad Sarmatians out on to the great plains. Once he had defeated them, driven off their herds, he could turn again to Germania, and the advance to the Ocean.

  They had reached the requisitioned house, which, with its wreaths and guards, served as a palace. The lead page threw the torch. Among the onlookers, men and women scrambled to catch it, risking the flames for its promise of long life.

  There was an old wives’ tale. If a bride forced into marriage caught and extinguished the torch and put it under the bed, her unwanted husband would soon depart this earth. You could only wonder how she might achieve her aim undetected.

  Iunia Fadilla went forward to anoint the door posts with oil and wolf fat. The archaic combination was intended to bring divine favour on the marriage. Maximinus knew it would not succeed. Paulina had done the same. If the gods cared, they would not have let her be killed. Was she pushed, or had she jumped? The centurion had not known and, giving way to rage, Maximinus had killed Macedo too soon to find out. Maximinus had failed to save her, and even after death he had failed her again. What were her last thoughts in the few moments as the pavement rushed up? It was too horrible to contemplate.

  If the gods existed, they would not have allowed her to fall. There would have been intervention. Flavius Vopiscus could talk for hours about the intentions of the gods being inscrutable to man. With his amulets, and his finger jabbing at lines of Virgil, he was a superstitious old fool. Yet Vopiscus was the one who had suggested they confiscate the unclaimed treasures deposited in the temples. To Hades with bona vacantia, and other legal niceties. They would take everything. The dedications to the gods themselves would be seized. They would take whatever they needed. If the northern tribes won, they would sack the temples. If the gods were real, and they had any understanding, any care for Rome, they would surrender their gold and silver willingly. The civilians would whine, wring their hands, cry sacrilege. Let them. His troops would suppress any trouble. Doubtless, the learning of Aspines could produce suitable precedents.

  Inside, the groom offered his new wife fire and water. The wedding song was sung, and the women led the bride away for the bedding. Maximinus felt sorry for the girl. She was still young, pretty. Life had not been kind to her. Apparently, her family had married her off to an aged Senator of vile habits. Freed from him, now she was joined to Maximus. Paulina had thought Maximinus did not know what their son did with the women and girls unfortunate enough to catch his eye. But an Emperor had spies everywhere, especially in his own household.

  As far as Maximinus knew, no Emperor had disinherited his son. For all his virtues, the divine Marcus Aurelius had let the weakling Commodus succeed to the throne and bring ruin on the imperium. Even his stern patron, the divine Septimius Severus, had given in to parental affection and allowed the traitorous Geta to share the purple and try to murder his brother the glorious Caracalla. Things had been better in earlier days. When the Brutus who had founded the Res Publica discovered his sons were plotting its overthrow, he had them flogged in the Forum, bound to a stake and beheaded. The modern age was debased. But it could be reformed. The will of the Emperor was law. An Emperor should put the safety of Rome before the claims of his own blood.

  CHAPTER 28

  Rome

  The Mint, off the Via Labicana,

  Five Days before the Kalends of December, AD236

  The die-cutter was so accustomed to the striking-room in the mint, he forgot the effect it could have on others. Fabianus stood transfixed by the noise, the relentless movement, the stifling heat. Most likely, he saw it as an image of hell. Since the arrest of Pontianus, the idea might well be in his mind. The die-cutter had chosen the place precisely because it was hard to be overheard. He waited while Fabianus tried to make sense of it all.

  By each small furnace, the slaves laboured in four-man teams. With long iron tongs, the first man took a heated blank disc of metal from the furnace. He placed it on the reverse die, which was secured by a tang to the anvil. Holding its iron collar, the second positioned the obverse die just above. The third swung the hammer. While the noise still rang, the fourth removed the struck coin and put it in a tray. The first took another blank from the furnace. They worked without ceasing, their movements instinctive from endless repetition.

  ‘More bad news?’ The die-cutter spoke close to Fabianus’ ear.

  ‘Hippolytus has been arrested. The frumentarii came for him this morning.’

  The die-cutter considered this. ‘Then he was not the informer.’

  ‘It seems not.’

  They watched the slaves.

  ‘Antheros thinks they are just the first,’ Fabianus said.

  In the die-cutter’s thoughts were the claws and the scrapers in the cellars of the palace, hard-eyed men wielding them with refined cruelty.

  ‘Antheros advised me to leave the city. He said to warn you. He thinks they will try to take us all.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  Fabianus took his arm. ‘The flesh is weak. Pontianus is an old man. And Hippolytus is an outcast. He has no reason to protect us.’

  ‘Africanus?’ The die-cutter asked.

  ‘I came via the library. He is brave, but his links to Mamaea make him a marked
man for the creatures of Maximinus.’

  A sudden shout, and the rhythm of the nearest team of slaves faltered and broke down. A struck coin had adhered to the upper die. The speed at which they worked meant it had been hammered down on to the next blank. Cursing, the second slave poked the upper die from its sleeve and used a fine chisel to try to pry it and the ruined coin apart. The other three put down their tools and drank from the water butt by their station. The one with the hammer tipped water over his head. It ran down his bare chest.

  An overseer walked across and with a look told the slaves to resume.

  The die-cutter waited until the noise of the hammer covered his words. ‘The authorities might have more pressing concerns. The plebs have been restless since the money for the shows was cut back. There have been several incidents over the reduced grain dole. Now Maximinus has ordered the temple treasures seized there is talk in the Subura of keeping a vigil at the temples, stopping the soldiers. They say Gallicanus and the other philosopher Senators will lead them.’

  Fabianus looked unconvinced. ‘Pontianus would want us to take precautions. He is not a fanatic like Hippolytus. You can come to the country with me.’

  The die-cutter managed to smile. ‘I have never left the city in my life.’

  ‘Antheros told me to take you. I do not command you as though I were someone of authority. I know my limitations. Those who question are doomed. Do not seek notoriety. Come with me.’

  ‘I was there when they took Pontianus,’ the die-cutter said.

  Fabianus released his arm, looked sharply at him.

  ‘I watched from the other side of the street. The crowd was jeering, baying for blood. Further than my hand, my vision is not good, but my hearing is sharp. Even above the mob, I heard what was said. Pontianus asked the soldiers why they were arresting him. They said they had orders to take all our leaders, all those who were spreading unrest and corrupting the innocent.’

  There was suspicion in the face of Fabianus. ‘You did nothing?’

  ‘I did nothing.’

  ‘You might not be so fortunate next time.’

  ‘I will stay here.’

  Fabianus nodded. He went to make a gesture. The die-cutter caught his hand. ‘Do not be a fool.’

  Fabianus disengaged himself, and turned to go.

  Afterwards, the die-cutter returned to his workroom in the courtyard. He sat at his bench in the open air. He picked up his latest design. Work always calmed his mind.

  Rome’s latest goddess, Caecilia Paulina, stared back at him. As with Maximinus at the beginning, he had no idea what she really looked like. A hideous old crone, Acilius Glabrio had said unhelpfully. The other two magistrates had been less offensive, but no more informative. It was a sign of the regime’s lack of concern for anything apart from the northern wars that the arrogant young fools had not been replaced when their normal term of office had come to an end.

  He had given the late Empress a hairstyle favoured by women of the previous dynasty: clear waves drawn into a bun at the back. On top he had added a modest veil. For her features he had relied on an obviously spurious resemblance to her husband. Throughout the empire, Caecilia Paulina would be remembered for the prominence of her nose and chin.

  It was a good piece of work. The peacock, the empty symbol which tradition demanded for the reverse could not occupy his mind. He had stood and watched as Pontianus was arrested. He had lied to Fabianus. He had not done nothing. In his weakness and his fear, he had denied knowing Pontianus. When the mob chanted, the die-cutter had mouthed the words. In the past, other men had done the same. There were names for them. There were names for him.

  CHAPTER 29

  The East

  Northern Mesopotamia,

  the Ides of May, AD237

  ‘Chaboras River ahead.’

  Gaius Julius Priscus raised himself on the horns of his saddle and peered over the heads of the legionaries and archers.

  Julius Julianus, the Prefect of 1st Legion Parthica, pointed.

  Through the dust raised by the cantering Persian cavalry, Priscus could make out a line of dark trees across the low horizon, a mile or more ahead. He caught flashes of colour against the foliage. Below what he knew must be Sassanid standards he saw a glint of sunlight on steel. It would be another contested river crossing.

  ‘Here they come again.’

  The big shields of the legionaries clattered up and together. Sporakes moved his mount up alongside that of Priscus. The bodyguard covered them both with his shield. With their greater range, the Roman archers on foot and the handful of slingers shot first. Priscus kept his head down. There was no point in watching the effect of the volley. No matter how many easterners went down, there were always more.

  With a horrible tearing sound, the Persian arrows rained down. They thumped into wood, dinged off steel. The feathers of one quivered in the shoulder of a horseman near Priscus. He rocked in the saddle. His horse shied, and he crashed to the ground.

  ‘Help him,’ Priscus shouted. He pointed to another of his Horse Guards. ‘You, get him to the baggage, then rejoin the standard.’

  The trooper swung down by his fallen comrade. Another caught the reins of both horses. There had been thirty Equites Singulares when they set out. There were twenty left. Nineteen now.

  ‘Not far to go, boys.’ Priscus called over the din. ‘One more river, and we will be safe in Resaina. Kill a few more reptiles, then a cool bath, a good meal, a young girl or boy; whatever you want.’

  Despite it all, the men gave a shout of mock lust.

  ‘Hold your places. Silence in the ranks. Listen for your orders. We are almost home.’

  Nothing had gone right with this campaign. At the meeting in Samosata the previous autumn, knowing the reluctance of Persian armies to remain in the field over winter, the governors had decided the field army would gather in the new year. They had underestimated the determination of the Sassanid King. The outlying columns around Resaina and Carrhae had withdrawn, but the main force remained encamped under the walls of Nisibis.

  In March, when the contingents had straggled into Zeugma, several were under strength. Licinius Serenianus had not come himself. An earthquake had devastated several cities in Cappadocia, and the governor had been forced to remain to quell widespread unrest as the locals sought to lynch every suspected Christian in the province as being the cause of the disaster. He had, however, sent the eight thousand men he had promised. Likewise, Ma’na of Hatra had appeared with the two thousand riders he had pledged from his father’s city. The others had not fulfilled their obligations. Junius Balbus had sent two thousand, not four, from Syria Coele, and Otacilius Severianus just two thousand, not eight, from Syria Palestina. Priscus had never had much time for his brother-in-law Severianus. The family had thought the Senator a good match for his sister, but from the start Priscus could tell Otacilius Severianus had the heart of a deer. Unlike the pusillanimous Romans, the Armenian Prince Chosroes had a justifiable reason for riding up with only a thousand men at his back, not ten thousand. Another Persian army, led by the King of Kings himself, was marching up the Araxes river towards the city of Artaxata. Tiridates of Armenia was fighting for the survival of his kingdom.

  It had been April when Priscus had led the army over the Euphrates and to the East. They had gone via Batnae, Carrhae, Resaina and Amouda. They had collected small contingents of the army of Mesopotamia at each town. Manu of Edessa had brought down a levy of five hundred local bowmen. All told, the total number of combatants was less than eighteen thousand.

  From Resaina on, they had been shadowed by enemy scouts. But no attempt had been made to hinder their progress. The reason became clear when the vanguard breasted a low hill and Nisibis came into sight. Sassanid banners flew from the battlements. How long it had been since the town had fallen, no one in the Roman army could say. Across the plain before the walls a Persian army was drawn up for battle. It was at least thirty thousand strong: cavalry, infantry, even camels
and a few elephants. The Romans had walked and ridden hundreds of miles into a trap.

  Priscus had ordered a camp entrenched. The Persians had not interfered. The next day Priscus kept his men behind the palisades. The Sassanid horsemen had spread across the plain. They had come close, and shouted abuse, but had not attacked. Having cut the supply lines, they knew the Romans could not stay there for long. Time was on their side.

  The second evening, Priscus had watched the enemy streaming back into Nisibis for the night. The town gates shut behind them. Then, and only then, Priscus had summoned his high command, and some senior centurions, and gave his orders.

  They had left the wagons behind. A hundred volunteers from the auxiliary cavalry, including trumpeters, stayed to keep the campfires burning and to make the calls that marked the watches of the night. Before first light, they had galloped after the rest of the army, which had stolen away like a thief in the night.

  The third hour of the next day they had been a couple of miles short of Amouda when the Sassanid light cavalry caught up with them. Priscus had ordered the column to halt, the infantry to form testudo, the cavalry to dismount behind them. Exhilarated by their wild chase, the Persians must have thought that the Romans were dropping with fatigue, were completely at their mercy. They whooped, and charged. Through the Roman ranks the officers had repeated Priscus’ instruction: no one shoot until the signal. When the Sassanids were no more than forty paces away – already reining in, their charge faltering in the face of such unexpected immobility – a trumpet had rung out. It was picked up by others along the line. Too late, the easterners sawed on their reins. They had run into a deadly storm of thousands of javelins and arrows. Men and horses, both brightly liveried, went down, bloodied and fouled, rolling in the dirt. The survivors raced away. It had bought the army time to reach the gates and cram itself into the alleys, porticos and open spaces of the small town.