Maximinus had to be dethroned, and if united the seven armies in Rome’s eastern territories could bring that about. The key was Catius Clemens, the governor of Cappadocia. Clemens was one of the triumvirate that had clothed Maximinus in the purple. The governors of Syria Phoenice and Egypt were closely bound to the regime, and could be expected to follow the lead of Clemens. On the other hand, Priscus himself had Mesopotamia, and his brother-in-law held Palestina. The allegiances of the governors of the two remaining armed provinces, Syria Coele and Arabia, were less certain. If Priscus could remove Clemens, by whatever means, and take over Cappadocia, he would control three of the seven. The support of one more would give him a majority, with which he could bring the rest into line.
During this interminable march, another possibility had occurred. What was needed was a military leader who could win a civil war against Maximinus, then lead a victorious war against the Persians. Priscus himself had no desire for the dangerous eminence of the throne. Catius Clemens, however, had already shown the nerve and ambition necessary to depose one Emperor and create another. By all accounts he had acquitted himself well on campaigns in the North. For such a man, hearing the crowd acclaim him Augustus, being elevated above the law, might seem commensurate with his virtues.
Priscus had sent a messenger asking Catius Clemens to meet him in Samosata. Another despatch had requested Aradius, the governor of Syria Coele, to attend. In the high citadel of Samosata, overlooking the Euphrates, a decision would be made. Either Catius Clemens must wear the purple, or he must be eliminated.
The baggage train was lumbering into the valley, the Persians close behind. Priscus put speculation aside. First he had to survive this encounter, emerge victorious. One task at a time. Pragmatism, always pragmatism.
The Sassanid horse archers swerved across the plain like low-flying swallows. They never seemed to go anywhere unless at a gallop, or, at the least, a fast canter. Behind them, inhaling the dust of some eight thousand inferiors, came the ironclad noble cavalry, two thousand of the feared cataphracts. At the head of their column flew a battle standard; yellow and green, with an abstract design like an inverted trident. Under it rode Hormizd of Adiabene. He was confident, this son of Ardashir; no flank guards were deployed.
Excited, ululating cries came up the hillside. The light horsemen had seen the disorganized rear of the Roman army. They booted their mounts. Priscus tried to keep his eyes on the heavy cavalry with Hormizd. It was they who would decide the day.
Like a god looking down on Troy, the drama of conflict distracted him. The mounted bowmen were doing as their nature dictated. Cantering forward, they put two or three arrows in the air, skidded around, and shot another over their mounts’ tail as they retreated. The same manoeuvre, repeated over and over, by thousands of men. The disguised legionaries, unshielded, cowered among the carts. Death and pain whistled all around them. There was nothing they could do, but help their fallen, and endure.
When Priscus looked back at the Persian heavy cavalry, he cursed his inattention. He was horrified to see that the cataphracts had halted. The big yellow and green standard, and the officers beneath it, advanced a few paces. Priscus could make out Hormizd. He was wearing a silver helmet, fashioned to resemble the head of a bird of prey. The Sassanid Prince looked up at the hillside, seemingly straight at Priscus, then turned his gaze to the far slope, the steeper one. Hormizd was not a young fool after all.
Behind the command group, chargers pawed the ground, sidled. Infected by the expectancy of their high-strung riders, they edged forward. Hormizd and the officers around him gestured for the cataphracts to keep back. They reined in their horses. But hereditary noblemen of any culture were hard to control. Put them together, and on horseback, the thing became near impossible. The great Nisean warhorses shifted forward. Like a landslide, they caught up Hormizd and those around him, bore them along. Hormizd was no fool, but his prudence had done him no good.
Heart soaring, Priscus watched the cataphracts ride into the valley. He waited until he saw them lower their lances, then, when he knew they were committed to the charge, he crawled back up the slope. Rolling over the crest, he got to his feet, and ran down into the hollow where his troopers were hidden; a thousand of them, drawn up in a line five deep.
‘They have taken the bait.’
Sporakes, his bodyguard, gave him a leg up.
‘Form a wedge on me. Advance at the walk, until I give the command. Keep your places, no trumpets, no calling out until just before contact.’
Priscus took his shield in one hand, gathered his reins in the other, and nudged his horse on with his thighs.
‘These Persians were all born when the moon stood together with Mars in Cancer,’ Ma’na the Hatrene said.
As the line paced up the reverse slope, Priscus gave Ma’na a puzzled look.
‘Men with that conjunction of stars are doomed to be eaten by dogs.’
On Priscus’ other side, Abgar of Edessa laughed. ‘Then they will be happy. When Persians die, when they have finished fucking their sisters and mothers, murdering their fathers, their religion tells them it will be best if their corpses are devoured by wild beasts.’
‘Birds,’ Ma’na said. ‘The sister-fuckers prefer birds.’
‘Dogs, birds, it is all the same. We are the instrument of their deity. We will give the reptiles the righteous end they desire,’ Abgar said.
They were so young, and brave, and beautiful; nothing like easterners at all. With these Princes on either shoulder, and Sporakes at his back, Priscus could ride through the walls of Babylon itself.
They came over the skyline. Without stopping, they took in the scene down in the valley below. The legionaries had grabbed their weapons, formed the wagons into a rough defensive line. Some of the Sassanid nobles were in among them. Legionaries thrust and hacked at them from the carts. The majority of the cataphracts had pulled up short. They were at a halt. The impetuosity of their charge had left them wedged together, hopelessly intermingled with the horse archers.
‘Charge!’
Priscus dropped his reins – guided his mount with his posture and weight – and drew his sword.
It was not above two hundred paces down to the floor of the valley, the incline gentle, very few rocks. They picked up speed. The ground trembled under them.
A babble of voices rose up. The faces of the Persian nobles were hidden by facemasks, aventails of mail, but there was no mistaking the fear in their sounds and gestures.
Ultio! Ultio! The shout went up from the Roman ranks. Revenge! Revenge!
Horsemen were spurring away from the Persian mass. Those at the rear fled back the way they had come. It was harder going for those on the far side, as they put their mounts to scramble up that steeper slope.
Priscus angled the charge towards the front of the enemy, aiming at the warriors under the yellow and green banner.
The charge went home with a din that stunned the senses. All was noise, movement, stinging dust. The scent of hot horse and reek of rank sweat.
Panic had gripped the Persians. Next to no troops would stand if surprised by a determined charge to the flank or rear. Nobles and horse archers alike, they jostled and fought each other to win free of the tangle.
Priscus could see the trident standard drawing back up the far slope.
‘With me!’
Ma’na and Abgar still flanked him, Sporakes had his back. They forced their way through the throng, only giving blows to clear the way.
When they were at the foot of the incline, the Persians saw them coming. The duty of the nobility rallied them. Each knew he could not return to the court of the King of Kings if he had left Ardashir’s son to be cut down or captured. About fifty cataphracts turned and formed a line.
‘Through them! Do not let him get away!’ Priscus was half-aware that he was shouting.
The slope was against them, but the shaken Persians received them at a standstill.
A long lance jabbed at Pri
scus’ face. He jerked his head aside. Kohl-lined eyes wide between helmet and hanging mail. Priscus was inside the head of the lance. He thrust at the Persian’s chest. The tip of the blade skidded off the scale armour. The cataphract dropped the lance, dragged out his sword. Their horses circled. Priscus cut at the head. The Persian blocked. Hooves stamping, they went around. Perceptions narrowed to nothing but each other. The Sassanid’s blade had the longer reach. He wielded it in a curious fashion, with his forefinger curled over the front of the crosshilt. He jabbed. Priscus took the blow on his shield. He jabbed again, Priscus turned it with the edge of his blade. They resumed their watchful equine measure.
‘Ahuramazda!’ With a yell, the Persian thrust to the body. Again, Priscus took the blow on the side of his weapon. This time, he did not draw away. Steel rang on steel. Priscus forced his blade up that of his opponent. The Persian screamed as the sharp steel reached his forefinger. He dropped the weapon, clutched the wounded hand with his sound one. Dispassionately, Priscus chopped him from the saddle.
The green and yellow standard was nowhere to be seen. Hormizd of Adiabene had gone. Sassanids were still being butchered, but the fight was over. Priscus tried to collect his wits. He needed prisoners. He looked at Ma’na. No, he would not do. The Prince of Hatra hated the Sassanids, as did Abgar of Edessa. They would leave none alive.
‘Sporakes, get the men to spare those who try to surrender. Have the Persians dismounted, their hands bound.’
The bodyguard looked vaguely defiant.
‘I will be safe enough with Ma’na and Abgar.’
Sporakes saluted, but there was still an odd look on his face, as if he was put out, not by the specific instructions, but the fact of being given an order at all. Priscus put it out of his mind. There was so much that needed doing.
‘Ma’na, ride and tell Porcius Aelianus to pitch camp.’
The young Prince of Hatra saluted, and spurred off.
Superstitiously – having said he would be safe with the two Princes – Priscus did not want to despatch Abgar. Looking around, he spotted a young tribune. What was his name?
‘Tribune, take a hundred troopers, and set out a defensive line at the opening of the valley, in case any of the prisoners escape, or some of the Persians rally.’
The youth saluted.
‘And, Caerellius’ – it was important to remember the men’s names – ‘post piquets on the hills.’
Abgar handed him a flask, and Priscus drank the unmixed wine.
Hormizd had escaped, but the day was won. It would take time for Hormizd to regather his forces. Priscus could leave his army unmolested in the north of his province, while he crossed the Euphrates, to do whatever seemed best to him in Samosata.
PART IV:
ITALY
CHAPTER 13
Rome
The Palatine, The Ides of April, AD238
‘Must you stand so close?’
Pupienus had never cared for too great a physical intimacy in public. It was beneath the dignitas of a Senator, let alone an Emperor. He could feel the pleb’s hot, unseemly breath as he peered into his face.
‘My apologies, Augustus.’ The die-cutter stepped back. ‘My eyesight is not good at a distance.’
The die-cutter limped back to his stool, and took up his drawing materials.
Balbinus belched. ‘I told you this was ridiculous. The Tresviri Monetales should be left to run the Mint. It is a task for junior magistrates. No one, apart from a soldier or one of the unwashed, ever looks at the image on a coin.’ Balbinus ruffled the hair of his bejewelled young slave boy. ‘Do you study the coins I give you, my pretty one?’
They were in the Aula Regia, the great audience chamber of the Palace. Pupienus and Balbinus were enthroned, the near naked catamite at the feet of the latter, the old die-cutter on his low perch. The inescapable imperial entourage – courtiers, Lictors, Praetorians, freedmen and slaves of the familia Caesaris – stood at a decorous distance.
The stylus of the die-cutter scratched over the papyrus, as he captured the features of Pupienus.
Columns of purple Phrygian marble stretched up a hundred feet to where they supported the great beams of cedar of Lebanon which spanned the ceiling. From niches along the walls, the gods, huge and carved in a green stone from the deserts of Egypt, regarded the transitory ceremonies of humanity. Behind the thrones was a gigantic statue without a head. Maximinus had been decapitated, and instructions had been given to demolish the remainder of his image. It would be replaced by three smaller figures: Pupienus and Balbinus Augusti, and their Caesar Gordian III.
There was a doorway in the far right corner. Behind it were stairs which led to the unfrequented small rooms under the roof. Pupienus thought how good it would be to go up there on his own. From that point of vantage, he could look down on the Forum, take in the hills – the Capitoline, the Esquiline, and the Caelian – and survey the city which he ruled. But an Emperor was never alone, and Pupienus had only a share of power.
‘If it pleases you, Augustus?’
The die-cutter stood further away, and proffered the drawing tentatively, like a man offering a bun to an elephant.
Pupienus regarded his portrait. The high forehead, straight nose, unsmiling mouth, and long beard – laureate, draped, and cuirassed – there was nothing frivolous or decadent. It was the bust of a mature Emperor who would order the affairs of state, military and civilian, with a calm, serious consideration. The forked beard evoked both the sternness of Septimius Severus and the philosophical deliberation of Marcus Aurelius.
Those divine Emperors had dealt with unworthy men who had claimed a share of the imperial authority. Severus put the severed head of Niger on public display, and trampled the corpse of Albinus under the hooves of his horse. After the event, Marcus said that he would have spared Avidius Cassius, but rumour claimed that he had quietly poisoned Lucius Verus.
Gordian! Gordian! The memory of the shouts of the mob surging up to the Capitol rankled. That fat fool Balbinus, quivering with fear, had jumped at the safety offered in investing old Gordian’s grandson as Caesar, offering him a junior part of the imperial power. Under the circumstances, besieged in the Temple of Jupiter, with no troops to scatter the plebs, Pupienus himself had been able to see no course but acquiescence.
The snivelling boy himself – apparently he was thirteen, although he looked about ten – was nothing. The untrustworthy little Greek Timesitheus had thought to rule via the youth. But Pupienus had quashed that ambition. Oh, how cleverly he had brought that scheme to nothing. After the three rulers had appeared before their people, made a sacrifice at the altar in front of the temple, clasped hands as evidence of their concord, and promised both a large donative and lavish games, the plebs had dispersed. Once the Capitol was near deserted, Pupienus had proposed that an honour guard of Senators accompany the new Caesar back to the Domus Rostrata, his family home. Until Gordian reached a man’s estate, he should be spared the chill formalities of the Palace, and the heavy duties of state. Even Balbinus’ limited comprehension had grasped the sense. There had been nothing the treacherous Graeculus Timesitheus could do. Many of his armed equestrians were youths from senatorial families; threatening the plebs was one thing, but none of them was prepared to turn their swords on the Senate. Pupienus and Balbinus had walked the covered passageways and tunnels to the Palatine, and young Gordian had been returned to the Esquiline.
The best of it had emerged only later. Gordian was restored to the care of his mother, the formidable Maecia Faustina. Apparently, when Timesitheus had abducted the boy from his house, the little Greek’s wife, that wanton-looking bitch Tranquillina, had punched Maecia Faustina in the face. The latter now had banned Timesitheus from the Domus Rostrata. Pupienus graciously had stationed some men from the Praetorian Cohorts there to ensure that the house of the Gordiani was protected. Pupienus hoped the Graeculus and his whore had enjoyed their brief moment of triumph; retribution was coming, and he would ensure that it b
rought them no pleasure.
The die-cutter was scrutinizing Balbinus now.
‘Make me look young and virile.’ Balbinus stroked his slave boy. ‘And I am virile, am I not?’ The child simpered.
‘Gordian is young,’ Pupienus said.
Balbinus turned to his co-Emperor.
‘A certain maturity is apposite for an Augustus,’ Pupienus continued. ‘It brings experience and wisdom. And a fuller physique is fitting.’
There was suspicion in Balbinus’ porcine eyes.
‘The body of the Emperor is the symbol of his reign. In his own person, he can proclaim a time of plenty.’
Balbinus took a drink, and told the die-cutter to get on with it. ‘I have pressing duties,’ he said, leering at his catamite.
Pressing duties. The old satyr had never acknowledged any obligations, except to his cock and his belly.
Meeting real duties involved awful decisions and sacrifice. No one had experienced that more intimately than Pupienus himself, no one except his own father. He pushed the thought aside, and steadied himself by marshalling his plans.
Pupienus had kept his promises to the patricians around Balbinus. Once secure on the throne, Pupienus had stepped down from the Prefecture of the City, and awarded the office to Rufinianus. A letter, sealed in purple, had gone to the western Alps summoning Valerius Priscillianus to become a travelling companion of Pupienus as Emperor. He had done what he could to fulfil his obligations to the faction of the old Gordiani. Valerian was named as another imperial tent-companion, and Egnatius Lollianus had been given the title of governor of Pannonia Superior. How the latter might be made a reality was uncertain, given that the province was behind Maximinus’ lines, and held by the Thracian’s chief supporter Flavius Vopiscus. In politics sometimes appointments could only be speculative. It was easy to give away things that belonged to someone else.
When Pupienus marched for Ravenna, the security of Rome would be a concern. Gallicanus’ philosophical friend Maecenas was the member of the Board of Twenty with nominal charge of the defence of the capital. Maecenas was both unreliable and without capacity. That the Urban Cohorts were now commanded by Rufinianus was no reassurance. All the other troops in and around the city were led by clients of the Gordiani: Felicio had the Praetorians, Maecius Gordianus the Watch, and Serapamum the 2nd Legion out in the Alban Hills. None of them could be summarily dismissed without good reason.
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