Libertas, libertas: sections of the audience began to chant.
Timesitheus scanned the crowd, saw the pattern emerge. There was a theatre claque and its leader, nearby a Collegium of bargemen headed by its elected officials, over there another guild, the fullers stinking of urine, beyond them toughs from the Circus faction of the Greens. Gallicanus had summoned the lowest of the low. The respectable representatives of the plebs – the magistrates of the districts of the city, the neighbourhood priests of the Emperors – were nowhere to be seen.
‘People of Rome, rise up, and save the Res Publica. Hunt down the enemies of the state. Burn them. Drag them with the hook. Throw them in the Tiber.’
To the Tiber! To the Tiber!
Behind Timesitheus Senators emerged from the Curia. They slid along the portico, then, gathering up the skirts of their togas, vanished down the Argiletum which ran by the side of the House or under the arches which fronted the Basilica Aemilia. Timesitheus did not think that he was in any imminent danger. His mutilated left hand was proof of his commitment to the cause against Maximinus, the grain he had distributed should act as a safe conduct. He became aware that the two young equestrians were still with him.
‘Hunt down the Praetorians!’ Gallicanus was in his element, a demagogue inciting his audience. ‘Hunt down the friends of Maximinus!’
Over by the Lake of Curtius a space opened around one man. His dress proclaimed him an off-duty soldier. He turned this way and that, searching for an avenue of escape. He stretched out in supplication. The crowd closed on him. They beat and kicked him. A flash of steel in the sunshine, and he was lost to sight, trampled underfoot.
‘Hunt down the traitors in our midst. Those who are not with you are against you. Do not spare the enemies of the state. Retribution is at hand. To the Praetorian camp.’
The crowd seethed; some moved one way, others another. Cries and oaths and terrible threats echoed off marble façades. To the camp. To the camp. Before Timesitheus’ eyes men cast off all conscience and pity, subsumed their individuality into the mob. The people of Rome were transformed into a single beast baying for blood.
It was time to leave.
Timesitheus took off the ring that bore his seal. ‘Aelius, get down to Ostia. Tell Masculus who commands the Watch there to set armed guards around the granaries. Give him this ring as proof of my authority. Gnaeus, go to my house. Arm the slaves, get them to barricade the doors and windows. Have water ready on the roof in case they try to burn us out.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Aelius asked.
‘Fetch my wife.’
Tranquillina was in the Temple of Peace. When the two equestrians had gone, Timesitheus considered the safest route to her. Already elements of the mob were entering the portico in front of the Basilica Aemilia. It would have to be down the Argiletum, through the Forum Transitorm, and along the Street of the Sandal-makers to the northern gates. He left the shelter of the column and ran.
Behind him the beast was in full voice. To the camp! To the camp!
Winged rumour travelled faster than a man. By the time that Timesitheus – chest burning – reached the Street of the Sandal-makers a group of innkeepers and other brutes had cornered a Praetorian. The soldier cowered at the foot of the statue of Apollo Sandaliarius. ‘Balbinus Augustus,’ he shouted. ‘Gordian Caes—’ The first stone struck him full in the face. Timesitheus did not wait to see where the others landed.
Tranquillina was just inside the gate. The two gladiators and her custos were grim-faced, blades in hand. Her maid was sobbing.
‘Quiet.’ Tranquillina slapped the girl hard.
‘We must go,’ Timesitheus said.
‘What is happening?’
‘Gallicanus has got the mob out. They are lynching the soldiers, anyone they think is a friend of Maximinus. They are going to storm the Praetorian camp. We must get home.’ He put his good hand on Tranquillina’s arm.
She put her hand on his. ‘Wait.’ Her dark eyes were alive with calculation. ‘Where are the Prefects of the Praetorians?’
‘Felicio is in the Domus Rostrata with Gordian, Pinarius is in the camp. We must go now. There is no time.’
Tranquillina smiled. ‘You have never been a cat that was afraid to get its paws wet. Pinarius is a civilian. He cannot defend the camp. This is your opportunity to be the saviour of Rome.’
‘Leave you?’
‘The gladiators will see me to our house. Go and save the camp. With the Praetorians at your back, you can command Rome.’
‘Will you be safe?’
‘I will get Maecius Gordianus to send a detachment of his vigiles to the house.’
‘Maecius Gordianus?’
‘There is no time for your petty jealousy. We all do what we have to do.’ Tranquillina kissed him. ‘Go now.’
CHAPTER 19
Rome
The Praetorian Camp, Four Days after the Ides of April, AD238
‘Thank the gods you are here.’
Praetorians running for their lives had brought the news, outstripping the mob. Pinarius, the aged Prefect, had told the troops to stand to, some on the walls, most drawn up outside on the parade ground. The gates of the camp were still open. Pinarius was no soldier, and had been more than happy to hand effective command to Timesitheus. Yet in regard to official rank, he had expressed a certain reluctance.
‘Only an Emperor can appoint another Praetorian Prefect. They say Balbinus is trapped in the Palace and Pupienus is in Ravenna.’
‘Your adoptive son is my friend,’ Timesitheus had said. ‘He will give retrospective approval.’
‘I do not know.’ Pinarius had shaken his head in rustic doubt. ‘He did not speak highly of you, last time we talked.’
Timesitheus had arranged his expression into something dutiful and serious. ‘Pupienus chose me to go to the North. On my return our disagreement over making young Gordian Caesar was a passing squall. Friends can differ, but friendship remains.’
‘I suppose you are right.’ Pinarius had looked far from convinced.
‘Excellent, let us call me an acting Prefect.’
‘If you are sure it is necessary.’
‘It is essential.’
‘Then let it be so.’ Pinarius had adopted a thoughtful demeanour. ‘A true friendship endures. It is similar to the way plants with the deepest roots survive a drought.’
‘Quite so.’ Timesitheus had had no desire to endure another ponderous analogy drawn from botanical endeavour. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we got to work.’
As acting Prefect, Timesitheus had taken stock. Of the thousand or so Praetorians in Rome, a detachment was with Balbinus on the Palatine, another guarding Gordian in the Domus Rostrata, yet others were on leave or unaccounted for, quite possibly already dead. Only four hundred remained in the camp. Fortunately it was the usual arrangement for a proportion of the Urban Cohorts to share their barracks. They were accustomed to following the orders of the Praetorian Prefects in the camp, and added no less than three thousand swords to the defence.
The camp had high, battlemented walls and heavy gates. Timesitheus had marched everyone inside, and broken out the weapons from the armoury. All those of the garrison who claimed any proficiency as archers – a couple of hundred – had been issued with bows and stationed on the wallwalks. They had been joined by two thousand equipped with long pikes to stab down at any attackers. It had left a reserve of twelve hundred.
The gates had been shut and barred, heavy beams propped against them inside, and secured in place by wedges. Just the wicket gates were still open to admit any stragglers. The camp had a plentiful supply of water from the Tepula aqueduct, and there was food for seven or eight days, more if the men were put on reduced rations. All in all, given the lack of warning, they were well prepared for a siege. Wider issues addressed, Timesitheus borrowed a helmet, armour, and sword, then called for a trumpeter, and told him not to leave his side.
Timesitheus had taken charge of the
battlements, and given Pinarius the reserve. He had suggested that Pinarius employ the latter in breaking up some of the numerous statues and inscriptions, memorials to deceased Praetorians and the like, that crowded the camp. The fragments would be used as missiles. The task was within the competence of the old gardener, and would allow him to feel that he was making a contribution. Sensitivity has always been one of my failings, Timesitheus had thought.
Leaning on the parapet, he gazed out across the parade ground at the city and the deserted streets. Why was the mob taking so long to get here – the afternoon was wearing on – and what would happen when it arrived?
Of course he would try to negotiate. He would wave his mutilated hand at them, remind them that he was no friend of Maximinus, but had suffered for the resistance. He doubted it would be enough. They might hold a certain regard for him as the Praefectus Annonae. But those on the official lists regarded free grain as their due, and those who were not would be resentful. It was as well this riot had not erupted later in the year. With the extra distributions ordered by that fat fool Balbinus, the public granaries were likely to be empty by late May or June when the Alexandrian grain fleet was to be expected. If it arrived at all. The Prefect of Egypt had been appointed by Maximinus; quite likely he would remain loyal to the Thracian. And, since Capelianus had killed the elder Gordiani, nothing would come from Africa.
It would be unwise to hope for outside military intervention. There were another three thousand men of the Urban Cohorts, mainly stationed across the river. But Rufinianus, the Prefect of the City, would be barricaded in the Palatine with Balbinus. Anyway, Rufinianus was nearly as corpulent and lethargic as his friend the Emperor. The vigiles were seven thousand strong. Maecius Gordianus might send help. What had Tranquillina done to secure his support? Yet the men of the Watch were scattered at their posts across the city, and were no more than armed firemen.
The soldiers in the camp would have to secure their own victory. A sudden sally, cut down a few hundred, make sure Gallicanus was among them, scatter the mob, at least for a time. Use that respite to send men to persuade the more respectable leaders of the plebeians to use their influence to get the rioters off the streets. The magistrates of the districts of the city and the priests of the local imperial cult mostly were freedmen. Ex-slaves who had come up in the world, they were now property owners, and would have no sympathy for revolution. They had too much to lose, too deep an investment in the status quo.
‘They are coming.’ A noise like surf on a distant shore. Then across the parade ground dark figures flitted from cover to cover, peered around doorjambs and street corners.
The main body of the mob would not be far behind.
What madness was this of Gallicanus? No one, not even the most rabid and ignorant Cynic preaching on a street corner, could believe that the free Republic might live again. If not bent on creating utopia, what was his intent? Gallicanus was keen enough for his own advancement; avidly grasping at the Consulship and membership of the Board of Twenty. Did he imagine the mob might sweep him into power as some philosopher–Emperor, a latter-day Marcus Aurelius? It took more than a ragged cloak and a scowl to make a wise man.
Now the noise sounded like the crowd at a distant amphitheatre. It rolled up to the camp.
Timesitheus remembered a line from his schooling. What is born must also die, it makes no difference whether a fever shall bring that about, or a roof tile, or a soldier.
‘They are here.’
A black phalanx of men filling the old Via Tiburtina, debouching into the parade ground. There was something wrong about this mob; it moved too steadily, those at the front wore outlandish armour. Gladiators. That explained the delay. Gallicanus had recruited the fighters from the Ludus Magnus. Alcimus Felicianus had charge of the gladiatorial school. Timesitheus hoped his friend was unhurt, hoped even more fervently Alcimus had not joined Gallicanus. He had no desire to have to kill his friend.
‘No one is to shoot, until the word of command.’
The phalanx stopped just beyond the cast of a javelin.
In the unnerving silence, little dust devils spun across the no man’s land between the mob and the walls.
Gallicanus – ragged and barefoot, carrying a wooden staff – stepped forth. Maecenas was a pace behind.
‘Praetorians, we have come to accept your oath of allegiance to the Senate and people of Rome. Open the gates, lay down your arms, give us the weapons in the armoury, and you will not be harmed.’
Timesitheus leant out between two of the merlons. ‘Kiss my arse.’
Gallicanus ignored the abuse. ‘Where is Pinarius?’
‘Preparing your cross.’
Gallicanus laughed. ‘You of all people.’ He turned to those who followed him. ‘Timesitheus, the little Greek, blown into our city with the figs and damsons and eunuch priests, and all the other decadent luxuries of the East. What do you take this fellow’s profession to be? He has a whole bundle of personalities – rhetorician, diviner, masseur, tightrope-walker, magician – your versatile Graeculus is all by turns. Tell him to fly, and he is airborne. Now he wants to play the role of Praetorian Prefect.’
Timesitheus raised his damaged hand. ‘Unlike you, Gallicanus, I have commanded troops in the field. While you posture and make speeches in safety, I have fought Maximinus.’ He raised his voice. ‘All of you, disperse now. If you return to your homes, before further blood is shed, our Emperors will be merciful.’
Gallicanus spat. ‘Citizens of Rome, this little Greek offers you clemency. This Graeculus has the audacity to tell you what to do – you who drew your first breath on these Roman hills, you who were raised on Sabine olives.’
Timesitheus leant back, and spoke to the soldier at his side. ‘Shoot him.’
The archer drew, aimed, and loosed. The arrow missed its target.
‘Loose!’
The trumpeter sounded the order.
Gallicanus turned to run. Shafts whistled around him. He had made three or four steps before one took him in the thigh. Gallicanus fell. Gladiators ran forward, covered the prone figure. Arrowheads pinged off their shields and armour as they dragged him back into the safety of the crowd.
‘That could have gone better,’ Timesitheus said to no one in particular.
The bowmen continued to shoot. Rioters were being hit, and there was plenty of ammunition. Timesitheus saw no reason to order the archers to desist. Killing men who have no way of hitting back gets the blood up.
The mob eddied and shifted: men at the front trying to shove their way backwards, those to the rear pushing forward. All was balanced until an aisle opened in the sea of humanity, and a group burdened with a massive beam started towards the gate. Maecenas, they were urged on by Maecenas. With a roar the whole mob surged against the camp.
‘Shoot the men with the ram.’
The archers bent their bows with a will. As soon as one man dropped, another took his place. The ram lumbered onward. The rest of the mob, like a beast with too many legs, raced past the ram. Shovels and pitchforks, scythes and flails, bobbed above the heads of the onrushing mass.
‘The men with the ram, keep shooting the men with the ram.’
Stones rattled like gigantic hailstones against the battlements, too many to dodge. The first soldiers reeled back, clutching their scalps and faces, blood running through their fingers.
The crowd broke against the foot of the wall. Ladders reared skywards. Grunting with effort, soldiers hefted chunks of broken masonry, and hurled them down. Shouts and screams from below; warnings yelled too late. Men crushed like insects, rungs snapped like kindling.
Some ladders rattled home against the brickwork. Soldiers with long pikes jabbed down at the heads and shoulders who dared to try and mount. Others dragged the ladders off balance, hurled more masonry.
Timesitheus walked behind the fighting line, the trumpeter at his heel. A word of encouragement here, a pat on the shoulder there. He heard the first strike of the ram again
st the gate.
A commotion further along the wallwalk. A gladiator – a Myrmillo by his helmet, but all encased in armour – heaved over the merlons. He stood, like some brazen warrior of myth, impervious to blows. Timesitheus ran, pushed the soldiers aside, and confronted him.
‘Those about to die,’ Timesitheus said.
‘You not me,’ grunted the gladiator.
Wild, savage eyes peering through the narrow grille. A moment of stillness at the heart of the chaos. Then the Myrmillo lunged. Timesitheus parried, stepped back. The gladiator pressed forward, cutting and thrusting. Timesitheus gave ground, until he felt the edge of the wallwalk under his rear boot. He was oddly calm, aware what he had to do. The Myrmillo was near invulnerable in steel and bronze; this was the only way.
The gladiator lunged, his weight behind the blow. Deflecting the tip of the sword from his stomach, Timesitheus sidestepped. The momentum of the Myrmillo took him past. Vision restricted by his helmet, he could not have seen the drop. His fingers clutched at Timesitheus, failed to get a grip, and he was gone. Timesitheus heard the clangour of his fall.
Only a couple of ladders remained against the battlements, but the ram still pounded at the gate.
Shouting for his trumpeter to follow, Timesitheus took the nearest steps two at a time.
Pinarius stood, wringing his hands. The reserves, shields grounded, leant against their legs, all looked at Timesitheus.
The boards of the gate leapt under the next strike of the ram. A impact dislodged one of the long iron bolts of a hinge. The gate would not stand much more.
‘Reserve, form column.’
Eager to do anything rather than wait, the soldiers jostled into formation.
‘Knock out the wedges, remove the beams. Unbolt the gate. Prepare to lift the bar.’
Soldiers wielded mallets, hauled away the heavy timbers.
Timesitheus took his place at the head of the column, the trumpeter tucked in behind him. ‘No shouting. Take them by surprise. Kill everyone you can reach. No mercy. Listen for the recall.’
Fire and Sword Page 16
