Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  ‘Conscript Fathers, give us your advice.’

  At the Consul’s words, two men got to their feet.

  ‘I humbly request permission to address the House.’ There was no humility in Gallicanus’ harsh voice, and none whatsoever in his ostentatiously homespun toga, with its conscious air of antique virtue and moral superiority.

  ‘Publius Licinius Valerian will address the house,’ the Consul said.

  Gallicanus raised his voice. ‘In the name of libertas, I demand to speak to prevent tyranny.’

  ‘Valerian has the floor.’

  Gallicanus sat down. He wore a look of grim satisfaction on his face, as if yet again given evidence of the moral deliquescence of his fellow Senators.

  ‘I am well aware, Conscript Fathers, that when events press, we should refrain from lengthy words and opinions.’ The innocent, guileless face of Valerian shone with sincerity. ‘Let each of us look to his own neck, let him think of his wife and children, of his father’s and his father’s father’s goods. All these Maximinus threatens, by nature irrational, savage and bloodthirsty.’

  Valerian had a natural dignity. Pupienus wondered if he was too credulous to sit on the throne.

  ‘There is no need for a long speech. We must make an Emperor, to confront the dangers of war, to manage the affairs of state. We must choose a man of experience, an intelligent and shrewd man of sober habits. I recommend to the house the Prefect of the City, Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus.’

  It is right, it is just. The shouts rang up to the roof. Pupienus Augustus, save the Res Publica. Aequum est, iustum est.

  Pupienus composed his expression, and – weighty dignitas personified – rose to his feet.

  It is right, it is just.

  Pupienus noted that Balbinus could not bring himself to join in the acclamations. How Pupienus loathed and despised that bloated wine-sack that passed for a man.

  ‘Conscript Fathers,’ Pupienus tried to put Balbinus from his thoughts, ‘to wear the purple is to wear the yoke of slavery; a noble slavery, but servitude all the same. The Emperor is a slave to the common good, to the Res Publica. Duty lies hard on an Emperor. The task is daunting, and, as Jupiter is my witness, not one to which I aspire. Yet when Maximinus, whom you and I declared a public enemy, is upon us, and the two Gordiani, in whom was our defence, are slain, it is my duty to accept.’

  Pupienus Augustus, may the gods keep you!

  Again Balbinus remained silent. Even the patricians around him chanted, but Balbinus did not so much as mouth the words. Centuries of privilege, countless generations of office, had created that monster of self-satisfied complacency and arrogance. A lifetime of indulgence and ease had nurtured perversity and depravity. The pig-like eyes regarded Pupienus with malevolence.

  Pupienus looked from Balbinus to Valerian; the latter honest and decent, the other a sack of faeces.

  ‘In a time of revolution, the duties of an Emperor are too heavy for one man. Conscript Fathers, you must clothe two men in the purple; one to rule the city, one to go out and meet the tyrant with an army. When I take the field against Maximinus, Rome must be left in safe hands.’

  There was silence now, all eyes fixed upon Pupienus.

  ‘Conscript Fathers, I recommend to you a man of illustrious birth, a man dear to the state by reason both of his gentle character and of his blameless life, which from the earliest years he has passed in study and in letters.’

  The bitter medicine must be swallowed; the unpalatable words said.

  ‘You have my opinion, Decimus Caelius Calvinus Balbinus must be raised to share the throne, in all its powers and duties.’

  Balbinus Augustus, may the gods keep you.

  Balbinus’ porcine features shone with undisguised triumph.

  It is right, it is just. Balbinus and Pupienus Augusti, what the Senate has given you, take gladly.

  Amid the uproar, few noticed the unbolting of the doors. Pupienus watched Gallicanus, his intimate friend Maecenas, and two other Senators slip out. Withdrawal could form the basis of a charge of treason. But let them go, let them play Thrasea or some other philosophic sage, who had courted martyrdom by their refusal to attend their Emperors in the Senate. Their resistance was puerile. They could achieve nothing.

  ‘We present to you, Conscript Fathers, a proposal that imperial powers be voted …’ The Consul began the formula that would free two men from all temporal restraint.

  ‘And that it be lawful for them to issue orders to all governors of provinces, by right of their overriding military authority, and that it be lawful for them to declare war and peace, and that it be lawful for them to make a treaty with whomsoever they should wish, just as it was lawful for the divine Augustus.’

  Pupienus closed his eyes, let the sonorous words flow over him, and considered the tasks that lay ahead. He would go to Ravenna, raise troops there. With its lagoons and marshes, it was a good defensive site. If Aquileia fell, Maximinus would not be able to march on Rome leaving Ravenna behind unconquered. The Adriatic fleet could bring supplies and reinforcements into the town, and, in dire necessity, provide a means of escape.

  Balbinus would remain in Rome, empowered to maintain order in the city. Most likely, he would relapse into torpor and vice. Should the patrician venture anything particularly ill-advised or detrimental to the public good, reliable men would be at hand to restrain him, or, at least, give Pupienus timely warning.

  Defence alone would not win the war, or eliminate Maximinus. Nothing had been heard from the North. No word from Castricius, the knife-boy discovered by Timesitheus and sent by Menophilus to assassinate the Thracian. Either Castricius had been caught, or he had not made the attempt. If captured, the youth would have died in agony. If he had lost his nerve, the same fate would befall him if he were ever seen in Rome again. Likewise, the Procurator Axius had not yet seized control of the province of Dacia. Another initiative was necessary. Someone must be despatched to attempt to win over the governors along the Danube. Behind enemy lines, in the heartlands of Maximinus’ support, the odds against success were long. There was a Senator called Celsinus. An ex-Praetor, his estates were mortgaged far beyond their value. Celsinus was desperate enough to put everything on one roll of the dice to restore his fortunes.

  The East was more promising. Catius Clemens, the governor of Cappadocia, was the key. Clemens had been one of the triumvirate that had put Maximinus on the throne. Pupienus had spent long hours cloistered with Clemens’ younger brother, Celer. The provisional arrangement reached might satisfy the family of the Catii. Young Celer would go from Rome to govern Thrace. While there he would be Consul in absentia. The eldest brother, Priscillianus, would retain Germania Superior for two years, with the province of his choice to follow. Clemens himself would leave Cappadocia. Returning to Rome, he would be enrolled in the Board of Twenty, and be entrusted with the defence of the eternal city.

  Pupienus’ close friend Cuspidius had agreed to travel to the East. It was a terrible risk. There was no guarantee that Clemens would not remain loyal to Maximinus, or even aim for the throne himself. In either event, Cuspidius would suffer an awful fate. Pupienus had no desire to be responsible for the torture and death of his friend. But with the throne came terrible decisions.

  ‘And that whatever is undertaken, carried out, decreed or ordered by the Emperors Pupienus Augustus and Balbinus Augustus, or by anyone according to their command or mandate, they shall be lawful and binding, as if they had been undertaken according to the order of Senate and people of Rome.’

  The thing was done. Now, according to tradition, the new Emperors should make offerings to the gods at the altar in front of the temple, then process down to the Forum, and speak to the people of Rome from the Rostra.

  As the doors were opened, and the Senators arranged themselves in order of precedence, Balbinus waddled up to Pupienus. They shook hands. It was like grasping a fish.

  ‘You had better keep your word.’ Balbinus’ breath reeked of wine. ‘I
will not be inferior to someone like you in anything. We must both be Pontifex Maximus.’

  ‘I gave my word.’

  The drink had not dulled Balbinus’ covetous nature. The compromises and unworthy innovations required to gain power sickened Pupienus. Never had two men held the office of Pontifex Maximus, never had there been a less fitting intermediary between Rome and the gods than Balbinus. If it should prove possible to remove him, without doubt the gods would applaud. The joint reign should not be long enduring. Kingship was indivisible.

  Outside the light was bright. They paused for a moment at the top of the steps.

  The plebs – hundreds, if not thousands of them – stood in a wide semi-circle. Nearer at hand, the young equestrians cheered. Few of the plebs joined the acclamation.

  At the altar, Balbinus took it on himself to address his new subjects.

  ‘The Senators, with Jupiter as fellow councillor and guardian of their acts, have vested in me the powers of an Emperor. One man alone cannot rule Rome and crush the bandits who march against us over the Alps. In my care for your safety, I have elevated Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus as my colleague. Rejoice, your troubles are at an end!’

  The equestrians set up a chant.

  Blessed is the judgement of the Senate, happy is Rome in your rule!

  The massed ranks of the plebs greeted this with an ominous silence.

  What the Senate has given, take gladly!

  Obscured by the crush, men pushed through the midst of the crowd. To his left, Pupienus caught the white gleam of a toga, in another place got a glimpse of a slight, hooded figure that he half recognized. Near the latter, a man stepped forward.

  ‘Only the people have the right to pass law. Only the people can elect an Emperor.’

  The man shouting wore a leather apron, high-belted. An innkeeper, one of the lowest of the low.

  ‘We do not want your cruel old Emperors. Let the people choose!’

  Balbinus rounded on some of the equestrians. ‘Arrest that criminal.’

  ‘Jupiter is our only ruler!’ Others took up the innkeeper’s shout.

  Three equestrians grabbed the innkeeper. He struggled.

  Jupiter is our only ruler!

  The first stone flew, then another.

  Jupiter our only ruler!

  The third missile hit Balbinus on the shoulder. He bellowed with pain, then screamed at the equestrians: ‘Use your swords, kill them all!’

  The mob surged forward, engulfed the innkeeper. The three equestrians were down, being kicked and beaten.

  Behind Pupienus the good and the great stampeded back up to the comparative safety of the temple.

  ‘Kill all the scum!’ Balbinus howled.

  Timesitheus was at Pupienus’ elbow. ‘Augustus, retire into the temple.’

  With what dignitas he could maintain – stones rattling off the marble – Pupienus went back up the steps. Disappointingly, Balbinus blundered past. For a moment, Pupienus had hoped outraged stupidity might have left Balbinus to be torn apart by the mob.

  Pupienus paused at the doors, looked back. Timesitheus and the equestrians, blades in hand, were backing up the steps. The hail of stones had ceased.

  In the cella, all the Senators were talking at once, like a flock of frightened birds.

  Balbinus came up to Pupienus, grabbed the folds of his toga. ‘This is all your fault. There is no way out. We are trapped.’

  Pupienus disengaged the grasping hands. The doors were not shut, but blocked by the armed young men. Pupienus went over to Timesitheus. ‘Do you think you can get through them?’

  ‘I am not a Senator. They should not harm me.’

  ‘Go and summon the troops.’

  A strange light danced in Timesitheus’ eyes, like a candle behind glass. ‘Trust me, Augustus, and see what will happen. I will save you all.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Rome

  The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Eight Days before the Ides of April, AD238

  Caenis wanted to see them elect a new Emperor. She had gone to watch the eunuchs dancing in front of the Temple of Cybele the day before, but had not got tickets for the theatre, and it was days until the next festival.

  She had packed a simple meal – bread, cheese, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, some lettuce, and a flask of wine – and invited the old die-cutter to go with her. Although sometimes she let him into her bed for free, she had no great affection for her neighbour. Yet long experience had taught her that she would be bothered less if she were accompanied by a man. To the same end, she had dressed like a respectable woman: a long, plain gown, bands in her hair, sensible sandals, no jewellery or make-up. Many girls would be working the streets during the Festival of Magna Mater, but Caenis had not applied for a permit. It was not that she did not need the money, rather that she thought she had found other ways to raise what was necessary to escape her life, leave Rome, and reinvent herself.

  They walked through the Forum, under the arch to some dead Emperor, and started up towards the Capitol. Although it was early, there were many others going up the hill. The die-cutter was still limping from the wound he had taken in the knife fight in the Street of the Sandal-makers. She let him carry the blanket and the basket.

  ‘Clear the path!’

  A solid phalanx of well-dressed men was coming up behind them.

  ‘Make way for the Prefect of the City!’

  The young equestrians in the vanguard were shoving the plebs to the side of the path.

  The die-cutter took her arm, and drew her out of the way. He muttered something about turning the other cheek.

  Ringed by armed guards, Pupienus, the Praefectus Urbi, swept past. He was a stern-looking old man, with a long, forked beard. Some of the bystanders hissed him. Men had died when he had used the Urban Cohorts to clear demonstrators from the Temple of Venus and Rome. Just as they never forgot their heroes, the plebs of the city were very slow to forgive a man who had harmed them.

  Despite his past, and his grim demeanour, Caenis thought Pupienus had gone some way to redeem himself. He had taken a stand against Maximinus. That counted for something. Maximinus was nothing more than a barbarian tyrant. In the three years since he had taken the throne, not once had he come to Rome, let alone shown himself to his people. Worse still, Maximinus had limited the number of shows and spectacles, and used his soldiers to plunder the treasures stored in the temples of the gods. All the money he had stolen had been squandered either on his pointless northern wars, or on deifying his ugly dead wife; a woman that many said he had murdered with his own hands.

  It was right that Maximinus should be overthrown. Caenis hoped that Pupienus and the other Senators would choose a good Emperor; someone young and beautiful, amiable and generous. The plebs wanted an Emperor who would live among them in Rome, not with the army on some distant frontier. They wanted an Emperor who would restore the spectacles and, attending them in person, would listen to the demands of his subjects, and grant them with an open hand. Menophilus, the young Senator she had once seen make a speech in the Forum, would make a good Emperor. He was handsome, would look good in the purple.

  Coming out onto the square dominated by the great Temple of Jupiter, Caenis and the die-cutter went across to a small sanctuary on one side where the throng was less dense. Finding a space on the steps, Caenis busied herself spreading the blanket, opening the basket, unwrapping the food. She felt like a young matron with an older husband.

  ‘The sanctuary of Abundance, a good place to eat,’ the die-cutter said.

  Caenis said nothing.

  ‘The women gather here for the Saecular Games held every hundred years. Heralds go through the lands inviting people to something they have never seen, and will never see again.’

  ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘I read books. My eyesight is good close to, things further away are a problem.’

  Caenis did not reply. Other people’s knowledge always struck her as an accusation again
st herself. It was not her fault she was illiterate. She had not chosen her life. She had been twelve, and still called Rhodope, when her mother sent her to her first man. It was a hard world. You learnt that earlier, or you learnt it later. It made no difference. She did not blame her mother. When her father had died, her mother had sold his anvil and hammer, all the rest of his tools. After that money ran out, her mother had earned a pittance by weaving. They had survived in one room, in a tenement in a poor quarter of Ephesus. Her mother had waited for her one remaining asset to mature. A daughter’s good looks, like a dead husband’s possessions, were there to be sold.

  Caenis spread the food and drink before the die-cutter. He took only some bread and a little lettuce. He did not touch a drop of wine. His abstinence must be a religious thing, some form of fasting. The die-cutter was unaware that Caenis knew that he was a Christian. There was an illicit thrill in sitting with an atheist who stood outside the law. The knowledge that his life was in her hands was exciting. She could inform against him – he would be executed – and she would be rewarded. Perhaps, before that, he could be put to other uses. Musalia, the other girl who worked in the bar, would think such thoughts were wrong. But Musalia was a tender-hearted fool. Everyone in life made their own choices.

  Caenis had left Ephesus after her mother died, when a pimp had tried to control her. All the money in the world flowed into Rome. She had thought that she would get more for her body there. Booking her passage, she had ceased to be Rhodope, instead calling herself Caenis: Bitch. A hard name for a hard world.

  Since childhood, she had never been as happy as on the voyage. Sailors were superstitious. Sex brought bad luck on a ship. No one had pestered her. She remembered the sun and the spray, the odd pitching motion, the strange smells of salt and tar, mutton fat and bleached wood. She remembered the islands, the semi-circular harbours, the white houses on the hills beyond, tranquil in the sun. Their names were poetry: Zacynthos, Cephalonia, Corcyra.