Iunia Fadilla watched Iotapianus say the words. The little Syrian was the last to reaffirm the sacred military oath. Under his tall, pointed helm, he looked half frozen. A few flakes of snow blew across the parade ground. The officers had taken the oath for their men. Only a detachment of soldiers represented each unit, but the wide square was packed. Wherever you looked, steel and leather gleamed and standards snapped in the wan light of an early January morning. The field army billeted in Sirmium was incomprehensively large. After three years of relentless campaigning, Iunia Fadilla could not understand how there were any northern barbarians left. But apparently there were: lots of them, many still hostile. When it stopped snowing altogether and the real cold set in, when the river froze, Maximinus would lead the army north on to the white steppe to catch the Sarmatian Iazyges in their winter encampments.
She was one of the few women present. Given the weather, most of the senior commanders and local dignitaries had let their wives and daughters remain indoors. No such indulgence was extended to a member of the imperial family. Many of the men were looking at her, the Emperor among them. She caught his eye. Awkwardly, Maximinus jerked his gaze away. Since her wedding, she had often found him staring at her. It was horribly easy to imagine the sorts of things that might be running through the huge barbarian’s mind.
A gust of wind tugged at her scarf, nearly lifting it and her veil. When Iunia Fadilla and her husband had appeared, Maximinus had asked his son why she was wearing a veil; they were not Greeks. Maximus had laughed, and invoked some old Roman who had divorced his wife for going unveiled in public. The law should allow her to display her beauty to his eyes alone. If she displayed herself elsewhere, she was provoking men for nothing. Inevitably, she would become the subject of suspicion and accusation. Immorality should be smothered in the cradle. Maximinus had given his son a strange look, but said nothing.
Iunia Fadilla fixed the pins in the net with the emeralds that held her scarf and veil in place. It was time for the civilian vows. Faltonius Nicomachus, the governor of Pannonia Inferior, walked forward with a delegation of the leading men of Sirmium. Attendants led out an ox.
‘Emperor,’ Nicomachus said, ‘we offer prayers to the immortal gods to keep you and the Caesar Maximus in health and prosperity on behalf of the whole human race, whose security and happiness depend on your safety.’
The attendants readied themselves around the animal.
‘For the welfare of our lord Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus Augustus, and for the welfare of our lord Gaius Iulius Verus Maximus Caesar, and for the eternity of the Roman people, to Jupiter Optimus Maximus an ox.’
The axe flashed in the pale sunlight, and the beast collapsed.
Maximus, resplendent in silvered cuirass, with gilded and jewel-studded helmet in the crook of his arm, drew himself up. The breeze ruffled his dark curls. There was something feminine in the beauty of the Princeps Iuventutis. Certainly, Iunia Fadilla thought, no vain girl could have found more pleasure in moments like this than the Prince of Youth.
The ox was the first of several victims. A cow was led out to be offered to Juno. Beasts of the appropriate sex would follow for Minerva, Jupiter Victor, Juno Sospes, Mars Pater, Mars Victor and Victoria. Each time, the prayers would be said again.
Behind her veil, Iunia Fadilla looked at Maximus with loathing. She would not have children by him. All too often, a page announced her husband would visit her bedchamber. Maximus bothered himself with no niceties and, when he had finished, he left. Thank the gods, he was never there in the mornings. No matter how often he took his conjugal rights, there would be no children. Old Eunomia was experienced in these things. Nummius had not wanted children. The nurse had honed her skills. Eunomia mixed the old olive oil, honey and cedar resin with white lead. With her fingers, Iunia Fadilla pushed the sticky mess inside herself. Perhaps Maximus thought she was excited. If he did, he did not seem to care. When he came, she was always careful to hold her breath. When he was gone, Eunomia holding her shoulders, she would squat, try to sneeze, and wash herself. If everything should fail – and there were those nights he burst in unannounced – there were ways to get rid of unwanted children.
The cattle were lowing, alarmed by the smell of blood.
Iunia Fadilla shivered. She missed her old life: the elegant house on the Carinae, trips to the Bay of Naples, the recitals, her friends. She wondered how Perpetua was doing. Maximus had taken pleasure in telling her that her friend’s husband had been arrested. A traitor could expect no mercy. Maximus had no way of knowing that Perpetua had prayed that Serenianus would not return from Cappadocia. Perhaps Gordian had been wrong: perhaps the gods were not far away, perhaps they did listen. So far, they had not answered her prayers. Maximus was alive and in good health.
Divorce was too easy, moralists always complained. A simple sentence spoken in front of seven witnesses – take your things and go – and the contract was ended. A letter carrying their seals was just as effective. All easy, if you were not married to Caesar. Who would witness such a fatal letter? Where could you go to escape the outraged pride of the deserted husband?
The final sacrifice had been made; to Victoria, a cow. A procession was formed to escort the imperial family back to the houses requisitioned to make a palace. Maximus took her arm. It amused him to pinch her flesh until he heard her intake of breath, all the while smiling like Adonis.
The snow and ice had been swept from the streets, but icicles dripped from the eaves of temples and houses. The sooner it froze hard, the better. When it was cold as the grave, the army would depart, and Maximus with it. Perhaps the gods would be kind and guide a Sarmatian arrow to his heart.
Her marriage to Nummius had been unconventional. A well-brought-up girl should have been horrified. Iunia Fadilla had not been shocked. In a perverse way, it had approached the ideals set out by the philosophers. Nummius had never forced her to anything she found repugnant. There had been companionship and concern for each other. They had held everything in common, nothing private, not their thoughts or their bodies. Such ideals were rarely met. The reality of most marriages was more brutal. To show how truly he had become wife to a charioteer, the Emperor Elagabalus had appeared in public bruised with black eyes.
At last they reached the palace, and Iunia Fadilla could retire to her own rooms. Eunomia was waiting, gave her a hot drink, unpinned the heavy gold brooch and then removed her outer clothes and the net with its emeralds, the bracelet with its sapphires and the other detested betrothal gifts. Tenderly, her old nurse rubbed lotion into the bruises. Usually, Maximus hit her buttocks, her thighs and her breasts. Usually, he took care not to mark her face. This time he had claimed he could smell wine on her breath; when a woman drinks without her husband, she closes the door on all virtues and opens her legs for all-comers. He had not stopped beating her when he took her. Bitch! What man could kiss a mouth which had sucked so many pricks. Bitch!
Sipping the drink, Iunia Fadilla would not let herself cry. Her eyes rested on the brooch with its garnets. Should you come this way again … my name is Marcus Julius Corvinus, and these wild mountains are mine. It was a pleasant fantasy, no more. There were no mountains in the imperium wild enough to offer her sanctuary. Flight was unrealistic. Unless the Sarmatians intervened, it would have to be something else. Eunomia knew her herbs.
CHAPTER 35
The Northern Frontier
Sirmium,
the Ides of January, AD238
In the biting cold, Maximinus checked with numb fingers the girths of his warhorse. If it was important, something on which your life might depend, it was best to do it yourself. Javolenus grunted as he gave him a leg up. Maximinus waited until his bodyguard was also mounted, then gave the order to move out. The town gates squealed as they began to open in front of the column. Especially in this weather, they should have been oiled. No one could be relied on to do their duty these days.
In summer, it would be two years since she had died. Time had not cau
terized the wound. Most of the time it was a dull pain, and he could bear it. But every so often the loss hit him with such force that he could neither act nor speak; in mid-speech or with food halfway to his mouth. He saw no need to try to hide those moments.
The gates opened on to an ice-bound world. The road ran straight to the north, bordered as far as the eye could see with tombs. The road and the tombs and the trees were very black against the fields of ice on either side. The wind had knocked the snow from the branches. Now it was very still, and the trees were a motionless black tracery linking earth and sky.
They had not gone two hundred yards, when Maximinus felt Borysthenes go lame. Leaning out, Maximinus saw he had shed the horse-sandal on his near fore. Officers quickly offered the Emperor their own horses – they would bring his mount on after. No, Maximinus said, he would ride Borysthenes at the head of the army. That was how he had seen it in his mind; that was what he had told Paulina. The army halted. Maximinus swung down. The imperial entourage did the same. As they waited for a farrier, Maximinus held the reins of his horse. Some fools would take all this for an omen.
Diis Manibus. ‘To the gods below.’ The tombs varied. Some were elaborate, like houses. They had sculptures, long inscriptions. Others were almost plain sarcophagi with only a few words; a name and ‘Diis Manibus’. Sometimes they bore just the two letters: ‘D. M.’ She should be buried. Everyone said so. Aspines, Vopiscus, Catius Clemens, Volo, Anullinus – all had joined the chorus. She had been an Empress, and she was a goddess. The correct rituals should be observed. She should be buried in Rome. A new mausoleum could be built for a new dynasty. Maximinus had dismissed the latter idea. All revenues had to go to the northern wars. Then, they had replied, let her join the illustrious occupants of the tombs of Augustus or Hadrian. The Emperor had not answered.
She should be buried at Ovile. He had bought most of his native village and the surrounding land, including that on which stood the communal tumulus. No man should bow to him, neither in life, nor in death. He still allowed the dead of the village to be interred there. That was where she should go. When his duty was done – and it would not be long now – he could join her. Together, their shades would ride the high hills, drink at the mountain springs, sleep in sheltered caves. Together, they would hunt at the side of the Rider God.
Yet, for now, he could not send her away. Her ashes, in an alabaster vase packed in straw, travelled in his baggage. At night he held the precious thing in his huge, man-killing hands, and talked to her. He had summoned the druid woman Ababa. She had performed strange rites and claimed to have spoken with Paulina’s shade. The words Ababa reported had not rung true. No one could be relied upon.
In a way, he was already with the Rider God. Perhaps he always had been. The Thracian god had fought and vanquished the serpent which had tried to crush the tree of life. Likewise, Maximinus had stamped underfoot those who had attempted to strangle the Res Publica. In the North, and far, far the worst of all, there had been Quartinus and Macedo. But before them had been Magnus and his fellow conspirators, and then so many others, from all over the empire: Antigonus in Moesia Inferior, Ostorius in Cilicia, Apellinus in Britain, Sollemnius in Arabia. They had all had been killed. Maximinus had entertained doubts about the guilt of some of the latter. The rich accused each other all the time from hope of gain or preferment, or out of malice. They were not to be trusted. Yet, although it may not have been treason, all the condemned had been guilty of something. Everyone was guilty of something: guilty of leading a shameful life, of not being open with their Emperor, of withholding funds from the war effort.
So many had been executed, and their estates gone into the war chest, and Maximinus knew that the empire was more secure for such severity. Decius, the ancestral patron of his family, still held the West from his base in Spain. He may have executed one of their relatives by marriage, but Africa would be quiet enough under the Gordiani. No revolt would come from an eighty-year-old or his wastrel drunk of a son. Anyway, Paul the Chain would watch them, and Capelianus held Numidia. The East was more of a concern. In the cellars, before he died, Junius Balbus had denounced Serenianus of Cappadocia. Under the claws, the latter had admitted plotting against the throne, but claimed he had acted alone. No amount of ingenuity or persistence had changed his story. But the fat Senator Balbus had implicated others, among them the governor of Mesopotamia. For now, Priscus was necessary to hold the Persians, but it was good that Volo had suborned one very close to him. In Rome itself the plebs might riot, but now Sabinus had replaced Pupienus as Prefect of the City, the Urban Cohorts would amicably join with the Praetorians of Vitalianus in sweeping them from the streets. Of course, there were always those who were suspect in the eternal city. It was a shame that Balbus had named Timesitheus. An Emperor had to learn patience and duplicity. Although Maximinus liked him, once the little Greek had the grain supply running smoothly, Timesitheus would have to be sacrificed.
The farrier arrived, and Maximinus talked to Borysthenes, calming the stallion as the man worked. Not long now, he said to the horse. Ten miles to the hills, twenty to the Danube, across the frozen river, then out on to the frozen plains to hunt down the Sarmatian Iazyges in their winter grazing. We will catch them as we caught their cousins the Roxolani in the autumn. After that, in the summer, one more campaign and Germania will be conquered. And then, when his duty was done, he could lay down his armour and return to Paulina.
Maximinus inspected the fit of the horse-sandal, its leather straps and their fittings. Satisfied, he told Maximus to give the man a coin. Scowling, his son threw it deliberately out of reach. The farrier picked it out of the snow piled by the nearest tomb.
Having been helped into the saddle by Javolenus, the Emperor looked around. Ice, snow, a bleak road flanked by houses of the dead. He regarded the pinched faces of his entourage. How many of them would be talking of an ill omen by tonight? His gaze fell on the new barbarian hostage. Maximinus could not remember the name of the youth, but his father, Isangrim, ruled in the far North by the Suebian Sea. Now he was a better omen. Favoured by the gods, the army of Maximinus Augustus would conquer as far as the distant northern Ocean.
CHAPTER 36
Africa
The Town of Thysdrus,
Four Days before the Kalends of March, AD238
The pursuit of pleasure was the cause of everything. The majority would not understand. Fine wines, choice foods, sex with desirable women; there was no denying they were all pleasing. So was reading a well-written book, or owning a good hunting dog, a fast horse, a brave fighting cock. But the pleasure they brought was nothing without friendship, without the knowledge that one had done the right thing. As he watched the dawn, Gordian knew his motives would be misunderstood. Men of principal were always misunderstood.
The sky was streaked with purple and the wind had got up in the night. Down in the walled garden the dark poplars nodded and the leaves of the junipers shifted. The air, even the ground and the terrace on which he stood shone an extraordinary pink, both beautiful and somehow threatening in its unlikeliness.
He could have commiserated with Mauricius, paid some of the fine himself, secured him a temporary safety and appeared to have acted as a friend. But appearance was not the same as reality. He would have known he had not done enough. He would never have been free of the worry of being unmasked as a false friend. There would have been no ease of mind. There would always have been the fear that the same would happen again, to another friend, to himself, to his father. Men would say that he had acted from ambition, but it was not true. The things he would do were not only for himself, they were for others. No one could find pleasure in a life of fear.
The purple was gone from the sky. As the world returned to its normal colour, the wind dropped and the first of the rain hissed down. Until he came here, he had never thought it rained so much in Africa; but it was still February.
The coming things oppressed him. He was acting in the name of friendship but
, apart from Mauricius, he had not told his friends. They would all be put in danger without their consent. Yet they would have tried to dissuade him. Valerian would have said it was foolhardy, and Arrian most likely pulled a face which implied the same. Sabinianus would have played the cautious Parmenion to his impulsive Alexander, and Menophilus cited Gordian’s own Epicurean precepts back to him: Live out of the public eye, live unnoticed.
There was no point in delay. Afterwards, they would all have to admit that a man should not stand aside when something intervenes to make life unlivable. If things went badly, perhaps they could disown him. If things went well, he was going to save them all: his friends and his father – especially his father. Gordian adjusted his toga and the bandage on his left arm, then turned, walked down the stairs and, all alone, without even a slave, went out of the house.
The streets were muddy. The olive season had ended, yet they were still busy for such an early hour, full of men from the country. The rustics wore big cloaks or bulky goatskins, which would be too hot when the sun came out.
Mauricius welcomed him into his house. After some hours of talk, a group of twenty upper-class young men arrived from the town. The Iuvenes wore heavy cloaks. The greetings were brief, unsurprisingly tense. Everything was ready. Mauricius told them that, once he had pleaded guilty, there had been no difficulty in getting the Procurator to agree to a postponement for the fine to be raised in full. The three days had sufficed to get all in place.
Thysdrus was not a big town. It took no time to walk past the foundations of the new amphitheatre Gordian Senior was building and reach the basilica where the court was sitting. There were many men outside. Eight guards at the door made Mauricius’ party wait at a distance with a crowd of countrymen. The Pegasus on the soldiers’ shields showed they were from 3rd Legion Augusta. When eventually they were admitted, they found another eight soldiers bearing the same insignia inside.
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