Inside there was just a single, smoky room, the kitchen occupying one end. The landlord, in the high-belted leather apron of his profession, showed them to the middle of the communal table. His demeanour evinced no surprise at the arrival of four soldiers escorting a chained prisoner in this remoteness. He and the guide spoke in some unintelligible dialect.
Interrupting in loud army Latin, the heavily bearded legionary demanded wine and food: the best on offer, or the old man would regret it. Let him have no thoughts of holding anything back, or cheating them. With a strange look on his face – it might have been avarice – the landlord moved to do their bidding, grunting instructions at two slatternly slave girls by the fire.
The four soldiers eyed the girls. As the slaves moved to prepare the food, it was obvious they wore nothing under their stained tunics. The drink would provoke the lechery of the soldiers, and later, all bedded down together like animals, sleep would be hard to find.
Tired and disgusted, Timesitheus looked away. Six shepherds sat at the far end of the table from the fire. When the newcomers had arrived, they had stopped talking. Now they resumed, a low murmur in the uncouth tongue employed by the innkeeper. Like all of their wandering kind, they were armed, and exhibited an air of suspicious watchfulness. By the one door, a lone traveller, a bulky man wrapped in a cloak, and with a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over his face, was asleep on a mattress of straw. The room was bare of all ornaments, with the odd exception of a single large red boot placed on the ledge over the fire.
Lacking any distraction, Timesitheus found his gaze resting on one of the slave girls. As she stirred the pot, her buttocks shifted under the thin stuff of her tunic. An image of Tranquillina came into Timesitheus’ mind. She was naked, laughing, in the private baths at Ephesus. Her hair and eyes so very black; her skin marble white. The lamps were all lit. After her wedding night, no respectable Roman wife would allow such a thing. Tranquillina was ever bold, untroubled by convention, in the intimacies of the bedroom, as in the round of public life. It was something Timesitheus loved, yet almost feared, about her.
How would she hear of his arrest? Who would break the news to her? Would she learn nothing until after his execution? She would take the news bravely. The thought brought him no comfort. He had never deceived himself that she had married him for love. The daughter of a decayed senatorial house, she had wed a rising equestrian officer for advantage, plain and simple. Yet they had enjoyed each other’s company. He hoped that over the years he had inspired more than an iota of affection.
Timesitheus thought of their daughter. Sabinia would be eleven in the autumn. A beautiful, trusting girl, she showed no signs yet of her mother’s wilful independence. What would she do without a father? But, of course, Tranquillina would marry again. She was still young, still in her twenties. Her aspirations would not die with him. The prescribed months of mourning, and another man would enjoy the pleasures of her company, of her bed, be driven by the spur of her ambition. Timesitheus hoped – he would have prayed, had there been gods to hear – that Sabinia’s stepfather would treat her with kindness.
The girls brought over the food and drink. Sure enough, as they served, the soldiers pawed them, made crude comments. The girls exhibited a resignation, and a contempt for externals, that would have been envied by a Stoic sage.
Timesitheus tried to cut some mutton. It was difficult with one hand. He had no appetite anyway. His hand throbbed. It was strange that he could still feel the severed finger. It hurt terribly. He felt light-headed and sick.
The boot over the fire caught his eye. It stirred some deep memory, but, exhausted and in pain, he could not bring it into focus.
How long before they reached Maximinus? The Thracian had condemned him to death even before he killed Domitius. What would Maximinus do to him now? There were awful rumours of the Palace cellars. The rack, the pincers, the claws, wielded by men with ghastly expertise, men lacking any compassion. As there was no likelihood of escape, Timesitheus should seek to take his own life before they arrived. It would not be easy, but what was it the philosophers said? The road to freedom could be found in any vein in your body.
The door opened, and a well-built man in a hooded cloak entered. The garment was expensive, pinned by a gold brooch in the shape of a raven. Garnets were set in the gold. The man’s face was obscured by the hood.
The soldiers regarded the newcomer with hostility. He ignored them, walked to the fire, said something in dialect to the room at large.
The landlord picked up a poker. He took a couple of steps to the middle of the table, and brought it down on the nearest soldier’s head.
Schooled in violence, the remaining three soldiers reacted fast, scrambling to their feet, drawing their weapons.
The stranger was by the innkeeper, a blade in his hand. At the far end of the table, the shepherds were up, swords out. The big man who had been sleeping was blocking the doorway, dropped into a crouch learnt in the arena.
‘Put down your weapons.’ The stranger’s tone was calm, educated.
‘Fuck you!’ Obdurate to the end, the bearded legionary glared around, searching for any improbable line of escape.
‘Death comes to us all,’ the stranger said.
The legionary spun around towards Timesitheus. ‘One step, and the Graeculus dies.’
Timesitheus threw himself backwards off the bench. He rolled, landed on his feet. The legionary surged at him. Timesitheus swung the chain that held his wrists. A rasp of steel and the thrust was deflected. The stranger stepped forward, and drove his blade into the soldier’s back. The legionary looked uncomprehending at the tip of the sword emerging from his chest. He crumpled, and fell.
The last two soldiers were on the floor, the shepherds finishing them off.
The room was splattered in blood. It reeked like a slaughterhouse.
The stranger pushed back his hood.
Timesitheus recognized Corvinus.
‘You look surprised.’ Corvinus smiled. ‘I thought Maximinus’ boot would have given you warning.’
Timesitheus could think of nothing to say.
‘I am sorry you lost your finger,’ Corvinus said.
‘It is of little consequence. It was not my wife’s favourite.’ Timesitheus had always recovered fast. ‘How?’
‘No one travels the mountains without me knowing. Your gladiator found me.’
The hat discarded in the doorway, Narcissus approached, grinning, like a big, dangerous dog expecting a reward.
Timesitheus told the gladiator to find something to remove his manacles, then addressed Corvinus.
‘You kept your word. Your loyalty to the Gordiani will be rewarded.’
‘They are both dead.’
Now Timesitheus was adrift. If the Gordiani were dead, everything was changed. ‘Then why?’
Corvinus was cleaning his blade. ‘You promised me a wife from the imperial house. I intend to marry Iunia Fadilla.’
‘Maximus’ wife? The daughter-in-law of Maximinus? All for love?’ Timesitheus’ laughter sounded high and unhinged to his own ears.
‘Living in a wilderness does not rob a man of all finer feelings.’
Blood was seeping through the bandages wrapped around Timesitheus’ hand. The pain returning. He was shaking.
‘Although there are more prosaic reasons.’ Corvinus was composed, as if on the hunting field, or at a symposium. ‘The Senate is to elect a new Emperor from among the members of the Board of Twenty. In the name of the Gordiani, as well as an imperial bride, you offered me Consular status, a million sesterces, tax exemption for me and my descendants in perpetuity, and houses in Rome, on the Bay of Naples, and an estate in Sicily. The wealth of Croesus is not to be thrown aside. I need you to go to Rome, and ensure that the promises are kept by whoever next wears the purple.’
CHAPTER 4
Northern Italy, Beyond the Alps
The Town of Emona, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238
Th
e heifer, garlanded and with gilded horns, was led into the Forum, past the serried ranks of the soldiers, and up to the altar of Fortuna Redux. The Emperor Maximinus took a pinch of incense, and let it fall into the fire. The flames crackled; blue and green. Enveloped in the smell of frankincense and myrrh, he made a libation of wine. The ceremony had begun, and it would run its stately course.
Maximinus was impatient. The gods must be honoured. It would have been wrong for an Emperor returning to Italy not to make offerings to the divine fortune that had brought about his safe return. Yet the endless ceremonies and delays that had to be endured frustrated him beyond measure. He wanted his enemies in front of him, within reach of his strong hands. He had been at his arms drill when the news arrived of the deaths of the Gordiani. The jolt of pleasure had been brief. He recalled the whey-faced messenger stammering out that the Senate intended to elect one of their own as another pretender. Maximinus had not harmed the messenger. Paulina, his wife, dead nearly two years, would have been proud of his self-control.
The heifer lowed, unsettled by the crowds.
Once, the Senators of Rome had understood duty, had been men of virtue. They had remained on the Capitol, composed in the face of the inevitable, as the Gauls swarmed up the hill. The Decii, father and son, had dedicated themselves to the gods below to ensure the victory of their armies. Self-sacrifice and courage, long marches and hard duty had comprised the life of the Senators. But that had been long ago. Centuries of peace, of wealth and luxurious living, had corrupted them beyond redemption. In marble halls, under the gaze of the portrait busts of their stern forebears, they disported themselves with painted courtesans and depilated catamites. They were dead to shame, to the way of their ancestors. To them the mos maiorum was no more than an archaic expression.
Paulina had been right. The Senators would always hate and despise him as a low-born usurper. They were too far from virtue to understand. Maximinus had never wanted to be Emperor. Since he had ascended the throne, nothing he had done had been for himself. Everything had been for the safety of Rome. From their palatial residences on the Esquiline, and their villas on the Bay of Naples, they could not see the terrible threat of the northern tribes. Everything – private estates and fortunes, even the treasures stored in the temples of the gods – must be sacrificed for the war. If it was lost, the barbarians would stable their horses in the temples, and tear down the empire.
Maximinus tipped wine over the heifer’s brow. As the liquid splashed down, the beast dipped its head, as if agreeing to its own sacrifice. Maximinus took a handful of flour and salt, and sprinkled it over the heifer. Then, with the iron knife only to be wielded by the Pontifex Maximus, he made a pass over the victim’s back, intoning a prayer of thanks for the blessings already received, and asking for the deity’s favour in the trials to come.
Stepping back, Maximinus nodded to an attendant. An axe swung in the sunshine, thumping down into the nape of the heifer’s neck. The heifer collapsed, stunned, its soft, gentle eyes unfocused. Two assistants pulled back its head, and one, with the assurance of long practice, cut its throat. Another of the victimarii moved to catch the blood. Some went into the jar, more gushed onto the ground, spattering up the man’s bare legs. Bright red blood ran in the cracks between the paving stones.
The trials to come. What had given the Senators the unexpected courage to continue the war? With the deaths of the Gordiani, they had lost the resources of Africa. Italy was virtually unarmed. Perhaps a thousand Praetorians remained in their barracks in Rome, and roughly the same number of legionaries of the 2nd Parthica in their base on the Alban Hills. As the majority of their fellow-soldiers were with Maximinus, the loyalty to the senatorial cause of those left in Italy must be suspect. Of course there were six thousand men with the Urban Cohorts, another seven thousand in the vigiles. But the former were better at controlling the crowds at the spectacles than standing in the line of battle, and the latter were no more than armed firemen. The fleets at Misenum and Ravenna had turned traitor, but their marines were of little account on land. Against these inadequate, motley forces, Maximinus was bringing the might of the imperial field army. With Maximinus here at Emona were over thirty thousand veterans. Already Flavius Vopiscus, with an elite detachment of another four thousand men from the Pannonian Legions, was over the Alps, and across the Aesontius river.
How could the Senate hope to resist such a force; an overwhelming force which could draw reinforcements from all the armies stationed throughout the provinces? The thought brought Maximinus a stab of doubt. Was there something else? Was the Senate gambling on some further treachery, as yet unknown? Capelianus had proven his commitment by crushing the rebellion in Africa. From Spain, Decius dominated the West. No one was more loyal than Decius, an early patron of Maximinus’ career. Nothing untoward had been heard from Britain, and nothing was to be expected from that dismal, damp backwater. The only credible challenge could come from the great armies stationed on the Rhine, the Danube, and in the East.
As the victimarii went about their business, Maximinus considered the problem.
From Cappadocia, Catius Clemens oversaw the other governors in the East. Clemens was a hypochondriac, forever dabbing his nose, complaining of this and that fever. Yet at the battle of the Harzhorn, he had fought like a Senator of the free Republic. After the death of Paulina, mad with grief and drink, Maximinus had punched Clemens in the face, knocked him to the ground. No Roman with any spirit would forget such an insult to his dignitas. Clemens had been one of the instigators of the plot which had killed Alexander and put Maximinus on the throne. Having overthrown one Emperor, Clemens had the nerve to strike down another. And Clemens need not act alone. His younger brother was in Rome, while his elder brother was governor of Germania Superior. Combined with the authority of the Senate, the armies of the Rhine and the East could shake the world.
Then there was the Danube, watched by Honoratus from Moesia Inferior. Absurdly beautiful, Honoratus looked as if the noise of a symposium would frighten him. Yet he also had proved himself on the battlefield in Germania, and, of course, he was the second of the three complicit in the death of Alexander. Honoratus had been reluctant to leave the imperial court, and take up a post in the distant North. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might attempt to return to the centre of power by force.
Perhaps, Maximinus thought, it might be best to remove them from office. But that begged the question who should replace them. Flavius Vopiscus was wracked by superstition; always clutching amulets, or trying to foretell the future from random lines of Virgil. Yet he was resourceful and determined. Maximinus, however, could not spare him. He was needed for the campaign in Italy. Anyway, Flavius Vopiscus was the final member of the triumvirate that had overthrown Alexander. There were many high-ranking men in the imperial entourage. Maximinus’ eye fell on Marius Perpetuus, a Consul of the previous year. But what was to say any of them would prove more trustworthy? And might not an order dismissing Clemens or Honoratus provoke the very uprising it was designed to prevent?
Paulina had been right; an Emperor could trust no one. At least no one of wealth and status. Maximinus trusted his soldiers. Some spark of antique virtue still lived in simple men; the sons of peasants and soldiers, born on the farm, or in the camp, uncorrupted by city life. Although rations were limited, and remounts in short supply, the army was rested, ordered, and ready to march. Cross the Alps, join with Vopiscus at Aquileia, take that city, then march on Rome. A speedy campaign, reward the troops, and punish the guilty with exemplary severity. That was the way to stamp out any sparks of rebellion before they flared.
A fable of Aesop came into his mind; one of those his mother had told him. A lion and a bear fought over the carcass of a fawn. When they were bloodied and exhausted, a fox stole the prize from under their noses. Maximinus dismissed the idea. This would not be a long campaign. The army only had to set foot across the Alps for almost everyone to come, holding out olive branches, pushing
forward their children, begging for mercy and falling at their feet. The rest would run away because they were cowards.
The victimarii had rolled the corpse of the heifer onto its back, had slit open its belly. Arms red to the elbows, to the armpits, they cut and sawed at the innards. Soon they offered the slimy, steaming products of their labours to their Emperor. Maximinus might be impatient, but if any of the organs were deformed he would order another sacrifice. The gods were to be treated with all reverence. Without their approval, nothing could prosper. Turning them in his hands, one by one, he inspected the liver, lungs, peritoneum, and gall bladder. There was a shadow on the heart, but nothing to cause concern. He announced the sacrifice propitious.
As Maximinus washed and dried his hands, he noticed spots of blood on the white of his toga. Such things happened, it signified little.
He had never desired the throne. Duty demanded that he crush this revolt, then make one last campaign into the forests of Germania. Then, the empire secure, he could set aside the purple. He would return to Ovile, the village of his birth, there to be reunited with Paulina, his dead wife. A sharp sword, an end to troubles. He would go as willingly as this sacrificial animal.
Yet what of the succession? Unlike Sulla the Dictator, or Solon the Athenian lawgiver, Maximinus could not walk away, leave it to chance. The Res Publica needed a strong hand at the helm.
Maximinus gazed across at his son. Verus Maximus stood, sulky and bored, not bothering to feign interest in the sacrifice. The breeze played with the boy’s artful curls. His son was beautiful, but weak and vicious. How had he and Paulina bred such a creature? At the moment of conception had she looked at something ill-omened? Or had there been witchcraft, a malignant daemon, or some terrible conjunction of the stars? Verus Maximus could not be allowed to inherit.
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