Pupienus had done what he could. His adoptive father Pinarius had been made co-Prefect of Praetorians. The old man had demurred. A retired imperial head gardener from Tibur, he had no experience in politics or the military. An appeal to familial loyalty had won him round. Pupienus’ other move had been more imaginative. He had gone to the camp of the frumentarii on the Caelian, and interviewed the Centurions stationed there. One of them, a veteran called Macrianus, had been wounded in Alexander Severus’ Persian war. Now crippled in one leg, Macrianus was intelligent, unscrupulous, and deeply embittered; ideal qualities to be the new head of the Emperor’s spies in Rome. Pupienus had instructed him to pry into everything, intercept the mail, place informants in the homes of all the leading men, and keep him informed of every rumour.
Weak foundations, but they might hold until Pupienus returned.
Away from Rome there had been news both good and bad.
Aedinius Julianus, the governor of Narbonnensis, the most southerly of the Gallic provinces, had offered his support to the new regime, if he were recalled to Rome, and made Praetorian Prefect. Pupienus had replied on the instant. Aedinius should have his wish, if he brought over both his province, and neighbouring Gallia Lugdunensis. It could kill two birds with one stone. The return of Aedinius would provide an ideal opportunity to remove Felicio from the Praetorians.
The other report was so alarming as to be incredible. As one of his first responsibilities, the lame Macrianus had inspected the diplomatic hostages held in the city. Two of them – Cniva the Goth, and Abanchus the Sarmatian – were gone. They had been set free at least a month earlier. The move had been clandestine. It was thought Menophilus had sent them to raise their tribes against the forces of Maximinus in the North. What desperation could have induced Menophilus to take such a disastrous and short-sighted decision? Whatever Emperor they acknowledged, the legions along the Danube were Romans, and it was not the soldiery, but civilians who would suffer most if the frontiers were breached by hordes of savages. Once across the river, it could take years to drive the barbarians out. Tax revenues could not be raised from massacred peasants and burned farms. For all his Stoic principles, there was something irrational, even wild, about Menophilus. After all, in Rome he had murdered two opponents with his own hands. If he survived the defence of Aquileia, something must be done about Menophilus.
‘If it pleases you, Augustus.’
The die-cutter hobbled across to Balbinus.
Gods below, was Pupienus to be surrounded by the deformed? He made a mental note to have the dwarves and other buffoons in the Palace sold.
‘Hmm … handsome, sleek, well fed; a fine icon of an era of abundance.’ Balbinus passed his portrait to Pupienus.
A heavy-jowled, fleshy face, with a look both complacent and disgruntled: the die-cutter had talent. Not the face of a man who should be allowed to debauch the imperial dignity for long. No longer than a weak child.
‘The reverses of the coins should express the stability of the reign,’ Pupienus said.
‘If it pleases you, Augusti,’ the die-cutter said, ‘may I suggest clasped hands with the legend FIDES, and perhaps AMOR MUTUUS AUGUSTORUM.’
‘Just so,’ Pupienus said. The good faith, and mutual love of the Emperors. Just so indeed.
CHAPTER 14
Northern Italy
Aquileia, The Ides of April, AD238
The condition of a man, if he could see it aright, was always that of a soldier in the breach: every moment might bring the bite of a barbed arrow.
The northern camp of Vopiscus was some five hundred paces from the town. The gate was open, and the first of the enemy were coming out.
Despite himself, Menophilus’ breathing was shallow, his heart beating fast. There was no reason to be afraid. What was the worst that could happen? Death held no fear. The Demiurge placed a spark of the divine in each man, with death he took it back, and there was no more pain, no sentience at all. With no afterlife, there could be no punishment, and the pounding guilt must cease. Menophilus could imagine nothing else that would free him from the waves of remorse that haunted his nights, and threatened to undermine his every waking moment. Death was to be embraced.
From the wall, the land to the north stretched away. It was utterly flat. The first four hundred paces were ravaged: stumps of trees where groves had been felled, insubstantial scatters of debris where suburban villas had stood, and where family tombs had flanked the Via Julia Augusta. The earth was gouged where the spoil had been dragged into the city. It had all been done for a purpose. The destruction ordered by Menophilus denied cover to the attacking forces, and, as a by-product, created an almost limitless store of jagged, heavy missiles to drop on their heads, and crush the life from their bodies.
The camp from which the Pannonian legionaries were marching was sited beyond the swath of devastation. Out there Menophilus’ men had done no more than drive out the occupants, requisition everything edible, and tear the doors from all the buildings. Now columns of smoke rose across the plain. Finding the gates of the city closed against them, the summons to surrender rejected, the besieging troops of Vopiscus had turned their frustration against everything inanimate in their power. For the last few days, the defenders had watched them chopping down vineyards, torching farms. The embers of divine reason burned low in the common soldiery.
Oblivious to the human drama preparing below, a stork flew over the wall. Menophilus turned, and watched the great bird as it went to its nest high on the Temple of Belenus. Rebuilding sections of the wall, some nests had been destroyed. Menophilus was glad others remained. A local superstition linked the safety of the town to the presence of the birds.
The enemy standards were in plain sight, and from them numbers and affiliations could be estimated. Three thousand swords drawn from three of the four Pannonian Legions. After the destruction of the pontoon over the Aesontius, the advance guard of the army had proceeded with exaggerated caution. Until Maximinus should arrive, Vopiscus lacked the troops to encircle Aquileia. He had entrenched his first camp well to the east, the Natiso river between it and the city. The imperial siege train remained there, protected by a thousand legionaries. The other three thousand had been led on a wide flanking march, crossed the stream miles to the north, and then warily edged down to construct this second set of field fortifications, from which they were now emerging.
Menophilus and his fellow commander Crispinus had made their dispositions. Menophilus had the north wall, with the five hundred auxiliaries of the 1st Cohort Ulpia Galatarum under their Prefect Flavius Adiutor. They were backed by two thousand of the civic militia led by their magistrate Barbius. About half of these levies were armed with bows or slings.
Down at the port, Crispinus guarded against any intervention from the enemy across the Natiso. The Senator had the majority of the crews of two Liburnian warships which Laco, the Prefect of the Ravenna fleet, had brought up the river. Although only eighty of them were marines, all the hundred and sixty rowers and sailors were armed and accustomed to military discipline. Another two thousand locals provided additional numbers.
Along the walls to the west and south, where there was no immediate threat, were distributed four thousand more levies. They were in the charge of the military Prefect Servilianus, and Statius, the other Aquileian magistrate.
In the Forum was a reserve of the final two thousand conscripted citizens. If there was some dire emergency, the utility of these bakers, porters, and other tradesmen was doubtful. If the fierce, veteran Centurion with them could get them to the walls at all, it was hard to imagine that anyone could induce them to stand up hand-to-hand to an onslaught by veteran legionaries.
Aquileia boasted twenty-four pieces of torsion artillery. Eight apiece of these light, bolt-throwing ballistae were on the northern and western walls, just four each to the east and south, where the Natiso curled around the town. They were manned by auxiliaries seconded from the 1st Cohort, aided by able-bodied labourers.
It was a ragtag force that defended the city. But Flavius Vopiscus had far too few fighting men to take the walls by storm. Maximinus’ general was making a demonstration. His men were equipped only with scaling ladders, not the full paraphernalia of poliorcetic endeavour. He was gambling that the levies did not have the stomach to fight, would turn tail, and abandon their posts. Menophilus thought he might well be right; that the odds favoured the attackers.
What was life, but a brief sojourn in an alien land.
The Pannonian legionaries were drawn up in good order. Menophilus could see Vopiscus riding along the line, evidently making a speech. He would be praising their martial virtues, disparaging the civilians who opposed them, offering prizes to the first soldiers over the walls, plunder to all who survived. The faint sound of cheering came across the empty plain.
The sound, and the sight of the serried ranks were enough to put fear in the hearts of the armed townsfolk on the walls.
‘There are an awful lot of legionaries,’ Barbius said.
‘Nowhere near enough.’ Menophilus spoke more brusquely than he intended. He found it hard to talk to the town councillor. On the return from the reconnaissance of the Pons Sonti, the conversation had been difficult. Your son died bravely. Surrounded, he cut down three, four of the enemy before he was overwhelmed. He died sword in hand. He will be remembered as a hero; a man who gave his life for liberty. Menophilus had felt like a bad actor, stripped of mask and buskins, and forced on stage to mouth words of his own devising, lines he did not believe.
Barbius had not broken down. Instead, with infinite sadness, he had said he had another son.
Philosophy was no comfort to Menophilus; not even the sage words of Epictetus. If you take on a role that is beyond your powers, you not only disgrace yourself in that role, but you neglect the role that you were capable of fulfilling. What role was he fit to play?
Barbius’ surviving son was a military tribune with the 4th Legion Flavia Felix, serving with the field army of Maximinus. It could only raise questions about the loyalty of the father. Menophilus needed to watch Barbius, watch the bereaved as if he were a traitor. War was a hard teacher. Civil war was degradation.
Trumpets rang out from the ranks of the enemy, their standards inclined forward, and they began their advance.
Five hundred paces, still out of range of the ballistae; there was all too much time to wait. Menophilus turned to a messenger. ‘Go and tell Laco it is time for him to go. Although his two galleys have only a skeleton crew left aboard, the enemy are committed, and there is no one to hinder them.’
The soldier saluted.
‘And tell him that if the naptha arrives in Ravenna, he is to try to run it upriver under cover of darkness.’
The Pannonians were nearing the band of devastated land.
On the battlements, while the auxiliaries waited stolidly, the levies fidgeted and chattered.
‘Silence on the wall.’ Menophilus had addressed his men earlier. He was unsure that it had done much to stiffen their resolve.
The enemy marched into the scoured land. There was no advantage in delay.
‘Ballistae load.’
The clack-clack-clack of the ratchets, the high whine of sinew and wood under extreme tension.
‘Loose.’
The click-slide-thump of the release, repeated from tower to tower, all along the wall.
Menophilus followed the bolt from the nearest ballista. A dark streak, travelling almost too fast to follow. It fell short, embedding itself harmlessly in the earth.
Clack-clack-clack. The artillerymen wound the machines back.
‘Shoot at will.’
The second, ragged volley sped away. Off to the left the small figure of a legionary was plucked backwards, as if by the hand of a deity. Along the walls, the levies cheered immoderately, clutching at any shred of encouragement.
Disturbed by the noise, a stork flapped up from the top of one of the towers. It flew unhurriedly towards the north-east, to the upper reaches of the Natiso.
Unable to contain themselves, one or two of the militia shot arrows or slingshots. The range was far too great. The shower of missiles became a hail.
‘Stop shooting,’ Flavius Adiutor shouted.
Only a few obeyed.
‘Loose at will.’ Menophilus countermanded the order. He put his hand on Adiutor’s shoulder, spoke so he alone could hear. ‘It will keep up their courage. A busy man has less time to dwell on his fear.’
Out of habit, Menophilus scanned the entire field. There was nothing new, no other threat than the advancing line of legionaries. In solitary splendour, the stork circled over the distant, peaceful river.
The first of the enemy went down, struck by arrows and stones. They were within a couple of hundred paces.
The Pannonians closed ranks around their fallen, trudged inexorably onwards. They had no archers or slingers, no way of hitting back. The shields of the front rank bristled with shafts. Yet they endured, and still they came; a silent and terrible phalanx.
The civilians were terrified, looking sideways at each other, eyeing the steps down into the town. A few stepped back from the machicolations.
Menophilus moved fast. Gesturing for the crew to cease shooting, he clambered up onto the nearest ballista.
‘Hold your positions! There is no safety in flight. Remain on the walls. Push the ladders away, and they cannot reach you.’
Frightened faces stared up at him from both directions.
‘Think of your wives and children. Be men. Hold the battlements, and you will be safe.’
The legionaries were at the foot of the wall; a solid line of shields and helmets, an armoured beast. As one they shouted: Maximinus Augustus!
A shadow passed over Menophilus.
Maximinus Augustus!
A civilian close to Menophilus dropped his bow, turned to run. Adiutor knocked the man to the ground. Two more bundled the Prefect aside.
The siege ladders reared up, swaying towards the wall.
‘God is with you! See!’ From atop the ballista, Menophilus pointed to the sky.
Those who had turned in flight paused, hesitated.
‘See – your god Belenus gives you victory! His sacred bird returns to the city.’
The stork did not alight on its nest, but flew south over the streets of Aquileia.
‘Belenus fights at your side!’
‘Belenus!’ Adiutor shouted. ‘Belenus!’
Others took up the chant; first the auxiliaries, then the levies.
Belenus! Belenus!
Like men possessed, the townsmen threw themselves at the ladders, hurled chunks of masonry down at the soldiers.
Javelins whipped up from the troops below. Some found their mark. Unheeding, the militia strained at the ladders, dragged them sideways, past the point of no return.
Menophilus saw a legionary almost at the level of the battlements dashed from the rungs. He fell, limbs flailing, clutching at imaginary purchase in thin air.
Above the uproar – the screams and shouts, the crash of falling stone, wood, and armour – Menophilus heard the trumpets below sound the recall.
‘Cease shooting.’
Again Adiutor’s command went disregarded.
‘Do not waste ammunition.’
The auxiliaries, like ploughmen at the end of a long day, put down their weapons, slumped down, backs to the battlements.
The armed citizens – full of the savage joy of killing, while in no danger – threw rocks, wielded their bows and slings as fast as they could, dealt death indiscriminately.
From his perch, Menophilus watched men die; pierced by cruel steel, brains dashed out by rocks. He pushed away his pity. It was nothing. Sparks of the divine returning whence they came. The defenders could retrieve the missiles in the night. Let the citizens of Aquileia get the taste of blood. They would need it in the days to come. And now they were committed. They could hope for no mercy.
CHAPTER 15
/> Northern Italy
The Aesontius River, The Ides of April, AD238
There was the river, hidden by the trees, but a brooding, malign presence.
It had rained again in the night, and the ground was poached by the passage of the army. Maximinus led the imperial entourage down from the camp slowly. The mud sucked at the hooves of the horses. A slip or a fall now would be a bad omen.
Since the eclipse, many in the army thought the campaign ill-starred. If the sun falls, it warns of desolation for men, the death of rulers. Not everyone had been convinced by the interpretation of Apsines that the desolation would fall upon the enemy. The Syrian was an orator, not a priest. A Sophist would argue black was white; anything for advantage. Maximinus was not sure that he was convinced himself.
Other things weighed on their spirits. Since Emona, the army had been short of supplies, of food and fodder. Their descent onto the plains of northern Italy had not been as Maximinus had foretold. The inhabitants had not appeared carrying olive branches, pushing forward their children, falling at the feet of the soldiers, and begging for mercy. Domitius had not been waiting with remounts; the Prefect of the Camp had disappeared without trace. The army marched through a sodden, empty land. The officers muttered it was as if the primordial flood of Deucalion had come again, and swept away humanity.
The isolation was complete. They had crossed the Alps without hindrance. But for days now they had heard nothing from the North. No messengers, stragglers, or supply trains had emerged from the mountains. All had vanished somewhere in the high passes.
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