Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  The three penthouses on wheels which covered the rams groaned into motion. The engineers of the legions had assembled them the day before. The frames were locally cut green wood, bolted together with metal clamps from the siege train, the roofs and walls hides of freshly slaughtered cattle, plastered with wet mud from the river. One device advanced down the road towards the gate. The other two lumbered very slowly across the plain to the left of the aqueduct, aiming at two sections where the wall had been hastily repaired, and might be weaker. Each sheltered a crew of fifty. They would earn their pay today hauling the heavy, ungainly structures to the walls. And then earn it again with the backbreaking labour of swinging the metal-sheathed ram.

  Alongside the rams, mobile screens, also of wood and hides, protected the hook-men, who would prise out sections of timber and stone dislodged by the siege engines. Behind the first line went yet more mantlets; these sheltering the archers who would clear the wallwalks. For now the massed columns of the assault troops waited out of range.

  The troops were in good spirits. Last night they had feasted on the beasts killed for their hides. The soldiers who had arrived with Maximinus were anxious to prove that they could succeed where the Pannonians of Vopiscus had failed, and the latter eager to make amends.

  There was one cloud in Maximinus’ mind. All the cattle remaining with the army had been slaughtered. There were none to be found in the surrounding countryside. It should not matter. They would take all the provisions needed when the town fell. Aquileia was a prosperous emporium.

  Maximinus went to the first of the ladders, Vopiscus followed, and they began the long climb down.

  The imperial staff were waiting below: Anullinus, the Praetorian Prefect, with his unsmiling, cruel eyes, Julius Capitolinus, commander of the 2nd Legion Parthica, that Gallic Senator Volcatius, who had thought of using the wine barrels as pontoons. All were men driven by ambition; untrustworthy, strangers to duty and virtue. At the edge of the group was that young barbarian hostage, the son of Isangrim, ruler of the Angles. Maximinus wondered what the long-haired youth had made of the execution of Abanchus the Sarmatian. Severity was essential. Only fear made barbarians keep their word.

  ‘Father?’

  Maximinus ignored his own son.

  The rams were making good, if slow progress. Maximinus called for the imperial entourage’s horses.

  ‘Father, is this necessary?’

  ‘It is necessary,’ Maximinus said. ‘At the start of a siege the Emperor must show himself before the walls, demonstrate his contempt for their missiles. It instils fear into the hearts of the enemy, and puts an edge on the courage of his own men.’

  ‘But all the high command, the horse guards; we make a large target. What if we were both hit?’ Verus Maximus could not hide the apprehension in his voice.

  ‘Javolenus will ride on my right, you on my left. No soldier fights well for a coward.’ Maximinus did not try to hide his contempt. It would undermine his son in the eyes of the senior officers, but that was of no consequence. Verus Maximus would not sit on the throne.

  Maximinus mounted Borysthenes, his favourite charger.

  With evident reluctance, his son also got into the saddle.

  ‘Here we are again, old friend.’ Maximinus stroked Borysthenes’ soft ears, inhaled the good sweet smell of warm horse. He touched the silver ring on his thumb, the gold torque around his neck; gifts from Paulina and Severus, reminders of trust and good faith, things worth fighting for.

  ‘Unfurl the standards. Let them know who comes against them.’

  The road looked long and bare and bright in the sun. Half a hundred fights, a lifetime of combat, and still that odd hollow feeling as it began. His bodyguard on one knee, his son the other, Maximinus nudged Borysthenes forward.

  They picked up speed, and with a thunder of hooves, and a rattle of harness, cantered towards the town.

  Maximinus! Maximinus! The chant went up as they passed the infantry. Maximinus! Never a shout for his son, the noble Caesar. Soldiers were not fools. They would never follow Verus Maximus.

  The walls loomed ahead, tall and grey, silent and forbidding. Three hundred paces, two hundred. The horsemen veered off the road, passed the ram, clattered back onto the paved surface.

  The breeze snapped the banners, whistled through the jaws of the dragon standards.

  At a hundred paces, the battlements suddenly were empty no longer. As if conjured out of thin air, armed men thronged the walls.

  Maximinus watched the snub nose of a ballista on the gate turning in his direction, sniffing for his blood. He rode on, back straight. Death comes to a coward as certainly as to a brave man.

  Arrows rained around them. Slingshots pinged and skittered up off the track. Maximinus paid them no attention. He would not go down to Hades until the gods willed.

  He saw the recoil of the ballista, but did not catch sight of the bolt. Two seconds later it tore past, just over his head. Behind him a scream, human or animal, impossible to tell.

  ‘Imperator, this is close enough,’ Javolenus shouted.

  Maximinus ignored his bodyguard.

  ‘Father, this is madness!’ Verus Maximus screeched.

  Perhaps thirty paces from the gate, no further than a peasant could throw a stick, Maximinus reined Borysthenes to the right, gave the warhorse its head, and raced along the wall.

  The defenders thronging the battlements yelled insults – Tyrant! Murderer! They called out the names of villains from myth and history – Sciron! Spartacus! Some of the abuse was aimed at his son – Catamite! Cocksucker! They jumped up and down in their hatred, and shot and hurled everything to hand.

  The missiles hailed all around. Behind, men and horses were going down. Maximinus was unmoved. The hollowness was gone. Now he was calm. He felt the presence of the Rider God, the deity of his native hills, and knew that nothing would touch him.

  With contempt Maximinus noticed that Verus Maximus had pulled his horse round to put his father and Javolenus between him and the wall. The youth’s face was very pale. He was mouthing high-pitched obscenities.

  Anullinus had closed up on Maximinus’ left, partly shielding the Emperor.

  A man stood on the machicolations, hauled down his breeches, bared his arse.

  Turning his mount away, Maximinus laughed. He could not remember laughing since Paulina died.

  As he galloped back to the waiting legionaries, Maximinus could not have been happier. The defenders were like children. They had dug no pits, planted no stakes, spread no caltrops. Smoke from no fires to heat oil hung over the battlements. They had not even lowered anything to pad the walls to absorb the impact of the rams. What could be expected from a rabble of civilians led by two effete Senators. Aquileia would fall like a ripe fruit.

  When he reined in, he saw the rams had reached the walls. The one on the far left struck first. A fine dust filtered down from the wall.

  ‘Soldiers of Rome.’ Maximinus raised himself on the horns of his saddle to address the ranks. ‘Fellow-soldiers, the traitors who defy you are old men, women, and children. They know nothing of war. They have made no preparations. They have no discipline. When the walls are breached, they will not stand.’

  The brutal but honest faces of the veterans gazed up at him.

  ‘When the rams have done their work, I give you this town, and everything and everyone in it. Take all by the right of conquest. The rams have touched the walls, they can expect no mercy. Aquileia will be demolished, the whole region turned into grazing land.’

  Maximinus Imperator! The prospect of plunder and rape put them in good voice. They cheered him to the echo. Maximinus Imperator!

  Maximinus swung down to take the weight from Borysthenes’ back. Those around him also dismounted.

  ‘Emperor.’ It was Vopiscus. ‘Two tribunes, and six troopers did not return.’

  Maximinus gripped the Senator’s shoulders with his great hands, pulled him close to his great, white face. ‘Vopiscus,’ he sp
oke gently, as if to a child, ‘this is war.’

  Vopiscus looked past Maximinus towards the town. His eyes went very wide.

  ‘Men die in war.’ Maximinus touched the thong of the amulet Vopiscus wore around his neck, hooked a finger under it. ‘You should know that. Did none of your oracles, your soothsayers, your random lines of Virgil warn you?’

  ‘Emperor …’ Vopiscus pointed.

  Maximinus turned.

  A tracery of beams had risen above the walls where the three siege engines pounded. As Maximinus watched, the arm of the crane behind the gate swung out. It stopped over the ram. Men were scrambling out of the rear of the penthouse. The crane released its load. The massive piece of masonry smashed through the hides and wood below. Dust billowed up. A moment’s pause, and the penthouse imploded.

  Maximinus looked along the wall. One of the other penthouses was still intact, but abandoned by its crew. The crane above it was swinging back for another rock. In moments this third structure too would be destroyed.

  Across the plain, his soldiers were being shot down as they ran.

  Maximinus stood, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  ‘Augustus—’

  Maximinus punched Vopiscus to the ground.

  No one else moved.

  In the unnatural stillness, Maximinus gazed back at the rout.

  ‘Sound the retreat,’ Maximinus said.

  Vopiscus was trying to get to his feet. There was blood on his face. No one went to help him.

  Maximinus thought of Paulina. She had been the only one who could make him control his temper. He felt guilty, but an Emperor did not apologize. He reached down, and pulled Vopiscus up, patted him on the shoulder. That would have to do by way of apology.

  ‘Capitolinus, form the 2nd Legion into line, cover the retreat in case the defenders come out.’ Maximinus put Vopiscus out of his mind.

  This was a setback, not a disaster. Not that many men had been lost. The three penthouses were ruined, but they might yet salvage the rams. He would send men out to drag them back under cover of darkness. If he brought up all the siege train the town would fall in a few days. It needed to, supplies were very low. An unwanted memory insinuated itself into his thoughts: the army of Severus had sat before Byzantium for months. Worse yet, it had twice failed before the desert city of Hatra. Aquileia was different, Maximinus told himself, it would be his in days.

  PART V:

  ROME

  CHAPTER 18

  Rome

  The Senate House, Four Days after the Ides of April, AD238

  Timesitheus stood by the statue of Libertas, and watched through the open door as the Senators took their seats. As an equestrian he was forbidden to enter the Curia, but as Prefect of the Grain Supply it was degrading to have to wait on the threshold, jostled by the elbows of the masses; by off-duty soldiers, scum who followed the Circus factions, dyers, tavern-keepers, and worse.

  There was a dangerous edge to this crowd. There were many more of them than would be expected. They were all around the building, wedged tight in all the doorways, the one here at the front and the two at the rear. There was an unusual air of anticipation. Timesitheus had thought it best to send his two retained gladiators to attend his wife. Even a small entourage of hired killers in the Forum made a bad impression. But he was glad that he was flanked by a couple of tough young members of the equestrian order. They had knives hidden under their tunics, as he did himself. Almost everyone carried a concealed weapon these days.

  Timesitheus arranged his face, ignored his surroundings. It was a measure of his political isolation that he was reduced to waiting on the doorstep for news. He was excluded from the private deliberations of any of the senatorial factions. Menophilus was off defending Aquileia. Latronianus, the last surviving patron of his early career, was in the East as an envoy. Anyway, before leaving, Latronianus had married his daughter off to Armenius Peregrinus, Timesitheus’ avowed enemy. Catius Celer, the sole remaining confidant Timesitheus had among the Conscript Fathers in Rome, was tainted by his brother’s closeness to Maximinus. It was best to keep clear of Celer in the present climate.

  Access to the imperial households also was exiguous at best. Balbinus, who seldom left the Palatine, only admitted Timesitheus with the general herd at his morning salutations. On the one occasion he had received an individual summons, Balbinus curtly told him to increase the amount of free grain distributed to the populace; it would add to the hilaritas of his reign. When Timesitheus had pointed out that the granaries would be severely depleted, Balbinus dismissed him without another word, and turned back to petting some painted catamite. The Domus Rostrata, of course, was barred to Timesitheus. Maecia Faustina had issued strict instructions that ‘the treacherous little Greek’ was not to be allowed anywhere near the young Caesar Gordian, as her son was now styled. As for Pupienus, it was probably as well that he had left to organize the defence of Ravenna. He had interpreted the elevation of Gordian as a bid for power on the part of Timesitheus. Of course Pupienus was right. And Timesitheus had to admit, by sending the boy back to his mother, and having him guarded by Praetorians officered by Felicio, a loyal client of the Gordiani, old Pupienus had outmanoeuvred him brilliantly. For all his ponderous dignitas, there was an astuteness behind Pupienus’ long beard.

  Every politician was bound like Ixion to the wheel of fortune. Timesitheus knew he was no exception. Sometimes, on the downward turn, there was nothing to do but endure.

  Inside, the presiding magistrate, Licinius Rufinus the Consul, had concluded the religious observances. As usual, the Emperor Balbinus had not roused himself to attend. Licinius called for one of the Quaestors to read the despatch from Aquileia.

  ‘Rutilius Pudens Crispinus, and Tullius Menophilus, Members of the Board of Twenty, to the Consuls and Senate. If you are well, it is well. We and the army are well.’

  The tight-packed throng around Timesitheus eddied forward. At the far end of the hall, some of the onlookers, soldiers by the look of them, were actually inside the doors, level with the statue of Victory.

  The letter started well. Four days previously the detachments of the Pannonian Legions, under the command of Flavius Vopiscus, had assaulted the walls of Aquileia, and been thrown back in disarray.

  In the chamber the Senators shook back the folds of their togas, expressed their delight, waved spotless handkerchiefs.

  Outside, around Timesitheus, the response was muted, as if the news was somehow incidental. Some of the crowd appeared to be waiting for something else.

  The communication took a more sombre turn. At the time of writing, the outriders of Maximinus’ main army had been sighted. Further attempts on the town were expected. The despatch ended with sonorous defiance: Aquileia was ready to stand siege, every man would do his duty, libertas would be defended, the gods would confound the tyrant.

  The Senators sat in silent dignity. The crowd shifted with excitement, as if waiting for the start of a horse race or gladiatorial combat. Timesitheus felt a growing unease. There was something unnatural about the plebs today. Were they aware of something that was hidden both from him and the body of Senators?

  Gallicanus, shaggy in his rough toga, took the floor. His inseparable companion Maecenas was at his elbow.

  ‘Conscript Fathers, you are distracted with petty things.’

  Gallicanus paced up and down, working himself up. Even the more urbane Maecenas was agitated.

  ‘While the world blazes, here in the Senate House you are busied with an old woman’s cares.’

  At the far end, two of the soldiers had advanced beyond the statue of Victory into the chamber itself, the better to hear. They stood modestly enough, arms in their cloaks, by the altar. They laughed at the disrespect Gallicanus showed the Senate.

  ‘Day after day you discuss the embellishment of a basilica and the Baths of Titus, or the repairs to the amphitheatre. While Crispinus and Menophilus fight for their lives, for all your lives, for the freedom of Rome, y
ou debate roads and sewers and drains. Make no mistake, open your eyes, Maximinus is on his way. In battle-order, with camps pitched everywhere, he is coming with fire and sword. He is at Aquileia already. His hired killers are in this very chamber. They are intent on massacre.’

  With a flourish, Gallicanus pointed at the two soldiers by the altar.

  They were not young, probably Praetorian veterans awaiting their discharge. One looked around, smiling uncertainly. There was alarm on the face of the other.

  The toga was a voluminous garment, deliberately ill-fitted to violent action, but anything could be hidden in its folds. The knives appeared in the hands of Gallicanus and Maecenas as if by magic. Arms tangled in their cloaks, the soldiers were defenceless. They went down under a flurry of blows.

  It was done in seconds. The two corpses lay on the floor, blood pooling out across the inlaid marble.

  Gallicanus and Maecenas were incarnadine, arms red to the shoulder, gore spattered across the snowy fronts of their togas.

  White-faced, the Senators sat immobile, making no sound, barely breathing.

  Those soldiers by the doors turned to flee. Some of the crowd punched and pulled at them as they pushed through.

  Gallicanus lifted his bloody dagger high. ‘Death to the enemies of the Senate and people! Death to the agents of the tyrant!’

  He and Maecenas walked the length of the Curia. At the door, the throng parted for them. Timesitheus was shoved aside.

  The assassins processed down the steps and across to the Rostra. The crowd surged after them.

  Now there was room to move, Timesitheus scuttled to one end of the portico, and peeped out from behind a pillar.

  Gallicanus mounted the Rostra. As ever, Maecenas was behind him.

  ‘Quirites.’ The crowd was quiet, tensed like a greyhound in the slips. ‘Citizens of Rome.’ All hung on Gallicanus’ words. ‘The time for talking is past. It is time for action. War has come to the eternal city. Today we have struck the first blow for freedom.’