Habit made one or two shout: Ready! Ready! It was lost in the din of battle.
‘On three, lift the bar. One, two, three!’
The next blow of the ram spread the leaves of the gate wide. Those bearing it stumbled forward, tripping, falling. The ram thumped to the earth.
‘Charge!’
Timesitheus drove his blade down between the shoulder blades of a man on his hands and knees. Withdrawing the sword, he jumped up onto the fallen ram. Soldiers poured past on either side.
Broken by the shock, the rioters fought each other as they scrambled to get away.
The soldiers fanned out after them, arms rising and falling.
Timesitheus checked the trumpeter was still with him, and walked out to where the bodies littered the parade ground. Calmly he put one or two of the wounded out of their agony, as he would an animal.
Gallicanus really was a fool. Gladiators were all very well in the arena, but they could never face troops in the field, and the frenzy of a mob was cooled when it came close to the steel.
The soldiers were about a hundred paces from the gate. Timesitheus turned to the trumpeter.
‘Sound the recall.’
The mob would be back, but not for some hours. Timesitheus would put that time to good use.
CHAPTER 20
Rome
The Palatine, Four Days after the Ides of April, AD238
The Emperor Balbinus clapped his hands with delight to see the monkeys.
He had enjoyed a light lunch – turbot and lamprey and pheasant, washed down with some excellent Falernian and Caecuban. Now for some entertainment. The Sicilia was one of his favourite places in the Palace. He loved both the sound of the fountain playing over the representation of the island which gave the courtyard its name, and the way the sunlight shone off the polished stone cladding of the walls. Long ago Domitian had ordered the reflective stone brought from distant Cappadocia. It was odd to think how an Emperor’s paranoia – Domitian had wanted to see what was happening behind his back – inadvertently had created such beauty.
Balbinus ruffled the hair of the boy that sat at his feet.
‘Let the games begin.’
The two monkeys wore miniature helmets, and each clutched a small spear. At a command from their trainers, they scrambled up on the backs of the shaggy she-goats.
Balbinus laughed out loud. Life in the Palace was infinitely more agreeable now Pupienus was in Ravenna. There was something about his co-Emperor’s gloomy features, and long philosophic beard, that sucked joy from the air as a weasel sucked eggs. A well-ordered life was a balance of public service and civilized ease. Pupienus was all dour negotium; the man had no concept of otium at all. But then he was very ill-bred.
As a weasel sucked eggs … Balbinus turned the image in his mind. Perhaps later there would be time to compose some verse. All his life Balbinus had been a devotee of the poetic muses: Erato, Terpsichore, and Thalia. He had a facility for most modes, lyric, choral, and comedy, although he had less affinity with epic or tragedy.
The trainers cracked their whips, and the she-goats jumped forward. The first monkey made its throw. Nimbly, its opponent dodged. Gibbering with rage, bearing its long, yellow teeth, the second hurled its spear. The throw was good. The sharp steel took the first beast in the chest. It fell backwards off its mount, writhed on the ground, its almost human hands clutching at the shaft.
The courtiers applauded, but the Emperor’s catamite had covered his eyes.
Balbinus pushed the boy’s hands away, tipped up his chin.
‘Look at the blood.’
The boy snivelled.
‘You Greeks taught monkeys to dance, play musical instruments, drive little chariots. But we Romans are made of sterner stuff. We are Ausonian beasts, suckled by the wolf. Blood is our heritage.’
Rufinianus burst into the courtyard, trailed by half a dozen armed men of his Urban Cohorts.
The Praetorians behind Balbinus stiffened. It was their duty to protect the Emperor, and there was no love lost between the two bodies of troops. Rufinianus was an old friend, but this lack of respect was insolent.
The Prefect of the City did not glance at the monkeys, but hurried across to Balbinus. He made a sketchy salute, and did not wait to be asked to speak.
‘Augustus, the mob is out on the streets.’
‘What?’ Balbinus felt his lunch congealing in his stomach.
‘Gallicanus and Maecenas killed two Praetorians in the Senate House. They have broken into the Ludus Magnus, freed the gladiators from their cells, armed the people. The plebs are lynching every soldier they can find.’
‘Are we safe here in the Palace? Are the doors bolted, guards set?’
‘It has been done, Augustus. Gallicanus and Maecenas have led the mob against the Praetorian camp.’
‘What do they want?’
‘No one knows, but we must take action.’
‘Yes, of course. Action, we must take action.’
Everyone was silent, gazing at Balbinus. His thoughts were in turmoil. From far away, he heard the chattering of a monkey, the rill of the water. Action, an Emperor must take decisive action.
‘We will issue an edict, commanding them to cease and desist. If they do not comply, Rufinianus, you will use the troops to clear them from the streets.’ There, that was decisive, the firm measures of a stern Emperor.
‘That may not be possible, Augustus. The majority of the Urban Cohorts are over the river, or in the Praetorian camp itself. There are no more than two hundred swords here in the Palace, about the same number of Praetorians.’
Damn the man to Hades. Balbinus felt a wave of nausea; the lamprey might have been a mistake. Concentrate, he had to concentrate. If force was impossible, he must employ cunning.
‘Rufinianus, you will go to them, and discover their grievances. Promise them, if they are justified, their Emperor will address them. If they disperse, and return to their homes, without further violence, my magnanimity will ensure that there are no reprisals.’
The Prefect of the City looked unimpressed.
Rufinianus was a dear friend, but friendship had its limits.
An imperial secretary appeared, writing materials in hand.
Balbinus kicked the boy out from under his feet. This was no time to be distracted.
‘Imperator Caesar Decimus Caelius Calvinus Balbinus Pius Felix Augustus to his loyal subjects …’
After a lifetime of high office, words came easily. The act of dictation itself was calming. As he spoke, Balbinus scouted possibilities. Not everything brought about by this uprising might prove deleterious. Indeed, haste in its suppression might be ill-advised. Pinarius had been appointed by Pupienus. It would not be a bad thing should the Prefect be struck down heroically defending the camp. The other Praetorian Prefect was with the Caesar Gordian. Felicio had few men in the Domus Rostrata. Inexplicably the plebs seemed to favour the youth, but a mob was unpredictable, savage by its nature. Whatever sympathy the plebs felt towards young Gordian was unlikely to extend to Felicio. In any event, accidents happened – or could be arranged.
‘And so return to the peace and security which is fitting to our reign.’
The secretary finished writing.
‘Have it painted in red on a whitened board.’
Another patrician, Acilius Aviola, came out into the courtyard. What of imperial dignity, Balbinus thought, will anyone just wander in as if this was some public tavern?
‘Augustus.’
What, by all the gods below, did Rufinianus want now?
‘Excellent as your edict is, Augustus, it may not be quite enough.’
Balbinus’ stomach was unsettled. ‘Give me your advice.’
Rufinianus nodded. Only generations of high birth could endow a man with such weighty dignity. ‘You should appear before your people.’
Balbinus had an urgent need to ease his bowels. ‘Very well. Have the heralds go out into the city and proclaim that the Emperor will
address the people from the balcony of the Palace in, let us say, one hour.’
‘The imperial edict must be posted in the Forum. It would be best if the Emperor was present when it was set up.’
Balbinus’ stomach gurgled unhappily. ‘As you tell me that the mob are attacking the Praetorians, might that not be seen as something of a provocation?’
‘Given the circumstances, Augustus, possibly you should dispense with a military escort.’
An icy sliver of suspicion lodged in Balbinus’ mind. Not Rufinianus, not his childhood friend? Each Emperor lived with a sword over his head suspended by a thread.
‘You have twenty-four Lictors.’ Rufinianus was still talking, his tone bland and helpful. ‘Apart from your attendants, we could arm some of the Palace staff. You could wear a breastplate under your toga.’
Balbinus shifted in his seat. He badly needed to move his bowels. Yet he could not leave now, not without accepting Rufinianus’ advice. Word of the cowardice of the Emperor would spread through the corridors of the Palace, be all over the city by nightfall.
‘Very well. We will go to the Forum in an hour.’
‘Time is of the essence.’
‘Half an hour then. Make everything ready.’ Balbinus got up, and, gathering his robes around him, scurried towards the nearest latrine.
‘Whatever pleases you, Emperor.’
Apart from the guards, the entrance hall to the Palace was deserted. No throng of petitioners and clients waited between the tall columns. Balbinus heard his footfalls echo in the desolate space. Had it been like this when Didius Julianus, abandoned by all, roamed the empty Palace? That Emperor had been found cowering in the kennels. They had dragged him out, and butchered him.
The soldiers opened the doors, and Balbinus walked outside. The forecourt was empty as well.
Balbinus waited. The heavy armour concealed by his toga weighed uncomfortably on his bruised shoulder. Rufinianus and Acilius Aviola came to stand on either side, as the Lictors carrying the fasces formed up around them, and the imperial slaves fell in behind. Ceremonial axes bound with rods might symbolize the authority to beat and to execute, but Balbinus would have felt safer surrounded by the swords of soldiers.
They went down the path towards the Forum.
As they emerged from under the arch, they saw the first of the plebs. Knots of ill-kempt men lined the path. They made no sound as the procession passed.
A solid, silent mass of humanity blocked the Sacred Way by the Arch of Titus.
‘Make way for the Emperor.’
The plebeians did not move.
‘Make way for the noble Augustus Balbinus.’
Wielding the fasces in both hands, the Lictors began to push men aside.
‘Cancel all debts,’ someone shouted.
Here and there plebeians shoved back at the Lictors.
‘An end to oppression. Restore libertas.’
Scuffles were breaking out.
Balbinus’ bowels turned liquid. He needed to relieve himself again.
‘Libertas. Libertas.’
This was no time for physical weakness. Balbinus spread his hands, reached out towards his subjects.
‘Citizens of Rome, your Emperor hears you. He feels your distress.’
The crowd quietened. The pushing and shoving died down.
‘Your Emperor cares for you as a father cares for his children.’
The crowd was silent, unnaturally still.
‘The registers of debts owed to the fiscus will be burned in the Forum.’
No one cheered.
‘Those who have oppressed you will be brought to justice.’
‘Then hand yourself over,’ a voice cried from the back of the crowd. ‘Hand yourself over, you fat sack of lard.’
‘Citizens,’ Balbinus spread his hands wide, ‘listen to your Emperor.’
Jupiter is our only ruler! Quickly the chant spread through the multitude.
‘Citizens—’
Jupiter is our only ruler!
The first stone flew.
Gathering up the skirts of his toga, Balbinus turned to run. The imperial slaves closed around him, swords in hand. Those citizens who tried to block the way were cut down. Panting and lathered in sweat, Balbinus fled with shambling steps back up towards the Palace.
Looking back from beyond the arch – almost to safety – he saw the mob overwhelm the Lictors, beat them to the ground, trample and kick them. Rough, uncouth hands seized the sacred fasces, and broke them to kindling.
Drag Balbinus with the hook! To the Tiber! Drag him with the hook!
CHAPTER 21
Rome
The Subura, Six Days after the Ides of April, AD238
‘There was nothing I could do.’
Caenis ignored the die-cutter, pushed past him, and ran up the stairs of the tenement. All the way from Ascyltos’ bar, she had feared the worst.
‘How could I have stopped them?’ The die-cutter was limping up after her.
The door of her room was open. The bowl and jug were smashed, the lid off the chest, its contents strewn about. In two places the floorboards had been ripped up. She went over to the corner where the brick was loose. With a sinking heart, she worked it free. The space behind was empty.
The die-cutter was in the doorway, breathing hard.
All gone. They had taken everything. The bags of coins, the trinkets and cheap jewellery, all her carefully hoarded savings. They had left nothing, nothing at all.
‘Who did this?’
The die-cutter shrugged. ‘Some of the rioters. Five or six men, I did not recognize any of them.’
Caenis stood, her eyes roaming over the room, taking in none of it.
‘We should go,’ the die-cutter said. ‘The Praetorians are coming. We may be safe if we take sanctuary in a temple.’ He pronounced the word with bitterness.
All her hard-earned savings were gone. They had not been enough, but they had been a start. Every coin, every ring and bracelet, had been a small down payment on a new life, a life on an island far from here, a life of respectability.
‘You go,’ she said.
‘The Praetorians …’
She knew that he had been about to say that the Praetorians will rape you, before he remembered she was a whore. Men thought that sort of thing did no great harm to those of her profession.
‘Just go.’
The die-cutter left.
She listened to his lame footsteps on the rickety stairs, heard the noise of rioting outside on the streets.
Now she had nothing, she might as well gamble everything. She had nothing to lose but her life, and she hated her life. If it did not pay off, she was better off dead.
She picked up her cloak from where it had been trampled on the floor, wrapped it around herself. Out of habit, she went to lock the door as she left. The latch was broken. She pulled the door shut anyway, and went down.
She peered out into the street. Gangs of men and youths roamed about, drinking and shouting. All had makeshift weapons, some carried sacks. She wished she was a man, had a sharp sword, knew how to fight like the knife-boy Castricius. Rioters, Praetorians, she would like to kill them, every one of them – kill them slowly, carve them into pieces, hear them howl.
The city was in chaos, and it was all the fault of Gallicanus. The Senator must have thought he was so clever yesterday when he cut the aqueduct carrying water to the Praetorian camp. Had it not occurred to Gallicanus or his dear friend Maecenas that the soldiers might not meekly wait until thirst forced them to surrender? No matter their numbers, Gallicanus’ gladiators and street toughs would not face soldiers in open combat. Timesitheus the Prefect had led the sally from the camp. One charge had broken any organized resistance. Now the troops had slipped their leash, and were killing and raping at their pleasure. Where there were no soldiers, the scum of the Subura were plundering those who could not fight back.
For a moment her resolution deserted her. If she went back to the bar no
thing too bad would happen. Ascyltos was a good talker. He would give the soldiers drink, let them have the girls for nothing. The place would not be ransacked, there would be no bloodshed. If a gang of rioters appeared, Ascyltos would do the same. An innkeeper in the Subura had to be adaptable.
No, if she took that course, she would never escape, never get another life. The gods had given her this one opportunity. All she prayed was that Gallicanus would not be hunted down before she got to Timesitheus.
She waited until the street was near empty. Pulling her hood over her head, she hurried out.
The Praetorians were advancing down the Via Tiburtina, and she went to meet them.
‘Not that way. The soldiers are coming.’ A man caught her arm.
She shook it off.
‘Stupid bitch.’
Not all the mob had turned to looting. As she got nearer to the troops, gangs of plebeians lurked in alleyways, ran into tenements carrying stones. The leaders of theatre claques and Collegia shouted orders. She slunk past, close to the walls, hood up.
The soldiers moved down the road in loose formation. Shields up, swords ready, their eyes darted from building to building. Discipline had not been completely abandoned. In their midst a Centurion, distinctive with the traverse crest on his bronze helmet, called out commands.
Caenis pulled back her hood, and walked steadily towards them.
There was no one else in sight.
‘We are in luck, boys. A volunteer, this one must be desperate for it.’
A soldier grabbed her arm.
‘I must talk to your officer.’ Years of dealing with rough men helped Caenis keep her nerve.
‘Never mind him, my little she-wolf. On the whole he prefers boys.’ He ran a hand over her buttocks.
‘Centurion!’ she shouted.
‘Bring her over here.’
The soldier obeyed.
‘Well?’
‘I have information your Prefect Timesitheus needs to hear.’
The Centurion stopped scanning the surrounding balconies and rooftops, looked down at her with disbelief. ‘What might someone like you possibly know that the Prefect needs to hear?’
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