Yet even in this moment of triumph, concerns crowded his mind. What to do about Capelianus in Africa, and Decius in Spain? Both had been closely bound to Maximinus. And what of Honoratus and the Goths on the Danube, or Catius Clemens and the Persians in the East?
As rose petals were scattered before the hooves of his horse, Pupienus ordered his thoughts. Capelianus was an opportunist, a man of no great account. Most likely he would make submission. As he had killed the elder two Gordiani, further office was out of the question, but he could be allowed to retire into obscurity on his estates. Decius called for more careful handling. Something tangible must be offered to compensate his removal from his army in Spain. Crispinus could be sent to negotiate his integration into the new regime. As for the Danube, now it appeared Menophilus would live, and when he had recovered from his wounds, it would be fitting to send him to fight the war that he had created. No further news had come from the East. The gods willing, Clemens would accept the deal which Pupienus had hammered out with his youngest brother.
Pupienus Augustus, may the gods keep you!
More acclamations, more flowers. He waved, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Across the empire other tidings were more certain and reassuring. Having secured the oath of three of the Gallic provinces – Narbonnensis, Lugdunensis, and Aquitania – Aedinius Julianus had returned to Rome. Pupienus had sent orders that Aedinius replace Felicio as Praetorian Prefect. Now the Praetorians would be jointly commanded by his foster father, old Pinarius, and another man who owed the position to Pupienus. On his return to Rome, Pupienus would remove Maecius Gordianus from the vigiles and Serapamum from the 2nd Legion. That would be an end to the officers of the Roman garrison appointed by the Gordiani.
The cavalcade clattered out into the wide space of the Forum. Pupienus rode to the far end and dismounted before the Basilica. At the top of the steps Crispinus was waiting. Slowly, mindful of the imperial majesty, Pupienus walked up, and let his friend bow and kiss the seal ring on his finger.
Menophilus struggled to rise from his chair. He was pale, obviously weak and in pain. He hobbled forward, and performed adoration. Pupienus did not give him permission to resume his seat. Subjects should remain on their feet in the presence of their Emperor.
Pupienus settled himself on the white ivory throne.
Apsines the Sophist, elaborately coiffured and elegant, was to make the speech of welcome. The Syrian was lucky to be alive. It was said he had been close to Maximinus. If Apsines hoped for further imperial patronage, the oration had to be good.
‘The two greatest things in human life are piety towards the divine and honour to Emperors. Yet as it is impossible to take the measure of the sea with our eyes, so it is difficult to take in the fame of the Emperor in words.’
A measured and unremarkable start.
After the speech Pupienus would hand out rewards for loyalty and timely betrayal.
This was straightforward for the defenders of the city. Patrician rank would be bestowed on Crispinus and Menophilus, and senatorial status on Barbius and Statius, the two Aquileian councillors.
With the conspirators things were more delicate. The Centurions simply could be granted the gold ring of the equestrians, and the tribunes adlected into the Senate, with Julius Capitolinus honoured as if an ex-Consul. The young barbarian hostage – was he called something like Ballista? – would receive the rewards promised, including Roman citizenship. Henceforth he would carry the imperial praenomen and nomen: Marcus Clodius Ballista.
Flavius Vopiscus and Volo were trickier. Ennoblement as a patrician, and the promise of a further great office – Africa or Asia? – might recompense Vopiscus for the loss of Pannonia Superior, which was promised to Egnatius Lollianus. The main problem was Volo, Princeps Peregrinorum under Maximinus. Pupienus had been more than pleased with the work of his replacement Macrianus as the acting head of the imperial spies in Rome. Two men could not handle the secrets of empire. By definition neither was trustworthy. Volo, however, had now been instrumental in the deaths of two Emperors. It was time that he was promoted to a post where he posed less threat. He could be made Prefect of Egypt, and later quietly removed.
‘I should have spoken of his family, but since the Emperor’s own achievements prevail over everything, let us make haste to speak of him. Our Emperor is by repute of human origin, but in reality he has his begetting from the heavens.’
Better if his origins had been avoided altogether. Pupienus’ thoughts slid dangerously towards Volaterrae. He had sent Fortunatianus to make sure the old man was decently buried, his one slave sold abroad. This was no time to let his self-control slacken. Only Fortunatianus and Pinarius knew. They could be trusted. The secret would never be disclosed. His father had had a long life. Pupienus had not forced his hand. This was how one ate and drank at the court of a King. One must smile at the slaughter of one’s kin.
‘Through your wisdom, you discovered their traps and ambushes.’
Apsines had moved on to Pupienus’ time as governor in Germania; safer ground for amplification.
‘If the Rhine had been poetical, like the Scamander, it might have said, I fancy:
Away from me! Do deeds of horror on the plain.
My lovely streams are full of corpses,
And nowhere can I roll my waters down … ’
This was poor stuff, reeking of the lamp and textbook.
The years in Germania would serve Pupienus well here in Aquileia in the aftermath of civil war. He knew the ways of the northern tribes, and would recruit all the Germans from the army of Maximinus into an imperial guard. Once they had taken their barbaric oaths, they would follow him to Rome with loyalty. Their existence would allow him to discharge the thousand veterans that in Ravenna he had formed into a makeshift unit of the Praetorian Guard. Two thousand German warriors sworn to his service, that could be more than useful in Rome.
Pupienus gazed up at the sun. The deeds of a commoner could be hidden, buried out of sight. But those of an Emperor, like the sun, were exposed to everyone. And just as only Helios could control the fiery chariot, so only one man could rule the empire. The reins could not be left long in the hands of a snivelling child like Gordian, let alone those of a perverse dotard such as Balbinus.
‘Thus not only is the Emperor to be admired for his deeds in war, but even more so for his acts in peace.’
At last the interminable panegyric was nearing its conclusion.
‘Just as fugitives obtain security in the inviolate precincts of divine power – for we make no attempt to drag anyone away – so also he who comes into the sight of the Emperor is freed from his perils.’
CHAPTER 34
Rome, Four Days before the Nones of June, AD238
The Palatine
The heads of Maximinus and his son were exhibited on pikes in the Forum. Later they would be burnt and cast into the Tiber. The ghost of a man denied burial could not cross the Styx. Balbinus hoped that he never met the unquiet shade of Maximinus. By all accounts the Thracian had been frightening enough in life.
The day before, Balbinus had been with young Gordian when the heads were brought into the theatre. The performance abandoned, the Emperor and Caesar had gone to make sacrifice in the Forum, then attend a hastily summoned Senate. With the sycophancy customary to men of no ancestry, the friends of Pupienus had decreed that twenty Senators should travel to meet him bearing crowns and the offer of a statue of him on horseback to be made of gold. Balbinus had suppressed his irritation, merely remarking that throughout the war Pupienus had sat in tranquillity safe in Ravenna, while Balbinus himself had risked his life here on the streets of Rome.
Balbinus really had thought that he would die in the riot by the Arch of Titus. It had been much worse than the earlier disturbance on the Capitol. The plebs had been out for blood. They had torn six of his Lictors limb from limb. Once back in the Palace, Balbinus had acted with restraint. The plebs were by nature unstable, and he had known that they w
ould soon change their course. It was just a question of waiting. When peace had returned, and the plebs were off the streets, the little Greek Timesitheus had appeared claiming the credit for the cessation of violence. Balbinus had dealt summarily with that affront. He had dismissed Timesitheus from his self-appointed office of deputy Praetorian Prefect. It would have been satisfying to strip him of the post of Praefectus Annonae as well, but someone had to ensure that the urban mob were fed, and the Graeculus handled the tiresome details of the grain supply with efficiency.
The close brush with death had made Balbinus reflect on his own mortality. Now, under the portico in the Sicilia courtyard of the Palace, he studied the sarcophagus. He had commissioned two groups of sculptors, and the work would soon be finished. There were three main scenes. On the lid Balbinus reclined with his late wife. They gazed at each other with fondness. In a gesture he remembered, her chin rested on her hand. On the right of the main panel, was their marriage. Hymen in attendance, she was veiled, and he looked serious in a toga. On the left they offered sacrifice. Mars stood behind, while Victory crowned him. She was backed by Virtue and Concordia. He was armoured, and her head was uncovered. She was very beautiful.
The sculptural programme conveyed the messages he intended. He would be remembered as a man possessing the virtues of both war and peace, a man blessed with a happy marriage. With a pang of regret, he examined where the folds of drapery, as if wet, clung to her breasts. It had been a good marriage in every way. They had been close in body and soul. Their pleasures might have been curtailed if they had had children.
The two short sides of the sarcophagus were carved with the Three Graces and a group of dancers. It was all very fitting. The Graces were goddesses of beauty, grace and mirth, and his wife had loved to dance.
Standing on the banks of the Styx changed a man. Balbinus had no heirs, and he was damned if the arrogant sons of a jumped-up nonentity like Pupienus would inherit the throne. At least young Gordian came of decent stock; through the Sophist Herodes Atticus the Gordiani were distant kin of Balbinus himself. The uncle and grandfather of Gordian had been congenial enough. When the riots had died down, Balbinus had invested Gordian with the toga virilis. As a man, it was right that Gordian should move to the Palace. It was a pity that his ghastly mother had insisted on accompanying him. But the Palace was enormous. It was not too difficult to avoid Maecia Faustina and her coterie of sanctimonious matrons and freedmen. Felicio, the commander of the Praetorians on the Palatine, was a client of the Gordiani, but he was a man of tact, and did his best to keep the old woman out of sight.
‘Imperator.’ It was Rufinianus reminding him of yet another wearisome official engagement. Thank the gods Pupienus would soon be back in Rome. Life should be a balance of otium and negotium. Sour-faced Pupienus needed watching, but he thrived on the latter. Let him deal with the tedium of public duties, while Balbinus concentrated on the pleasures that constituted the better half of a civilized existence.
The Subura
The fastings, bendings of the knee, prayers and night-long vigils were at an end.
‘Do you renounce the Devil, his retinue, and his works?’
‘I renounce you, Satan, and all your service, and all your works,’ the die-cutter said.
‘Do you renounce the world and its pleasures?’
‘I renounce the world and all its pleasures.’
Was he free from sin? Often enough he had been told if someone who was still sinning came to the water, he did not receive the forgiveness of his sins. He was free of the sins of the flesh. That had been easier after Caenis had disappeared. But other things troubled him.
Should he have given Castricius the money? The youth was a thief, knife-boy and murderer. Yet he had saved the die-cutter’s life. Without Castricius’ intervention, the die-cutter would have bled to death after the fight in the Street of the Sandal-makers. It could be true that high-placed men were hunting Castricius, and he needed the money to escape from Rome. Christian charity should extend beyond the faithful. And in the last resort, who was the die-cutter to judge others? Let he who was without sin cast the first stone.
His instructor Africanus led the way to the bath, where the new Bishop of Rome was waiting. The die-cutter limped after.
Steps led down into the bath. The water was not warm. The die-cutter stood with just his head and shoulders above the surface, his sodden tunic plastered to his body.
‘Do you believe in God the Father omnipotent?’ Bishop Antheros’ voice was frail. He did not look well.
‘I believe.’
Antheros placed his hand on the die-cutter’s head, and gently pushed him under.
Having held his breath, the die-cutter came up with nothing worse than streaming eyes.
‘Do you believe in Christ Jesus, the Son of God?’
‘I believe.’
Again the die-cutter went under.
‘Do you believe in the Holy Spirit and the Holy Church and the resurrection of the flesh?’
‘I believe.’
After baptism for the third time, he climbed out.
Water poured down his legs, sluiced across the floor. He was shivering violently.
Antheros made the sign of the cross over him, laid his hands on his head.
‘Let the soul be illuminated by the Spirit.’
Antheros tipped the oil on his forehead.
‘The flesh is anointed that the soul may be consecrated.’
A huge step. After four years of waiting, the die-cutter was one of the Gathering, a full member of the Church. From now on his fate was bound to that of his brothers and sisters in Christ. Under Maximinus many of the brethren had died in Cappadocia, and Pontianus, the Bishop of Rome before Antheros, had won the crown of martyrdom in the mines in Sardinia. Now Maximinus was dead, but the future was uncertain. The new rulers might encourage persecution. The severity of old Pupienus did not bode well. Perhaps the indolence of Balbinus might ameliorate his perversity. The only hope was young Gordian. The boy appeared mild. His mother was virtuous in pagan terms. Better, three of his attendants – the freedmen Montanus, Reverendus, and Gaudianus – belonged to the Church.
A terrible risk. The die-cutter knew he was weak. He had played Judas when Pontianus was arrested; denied he knew him, chanted for his death. The claws and pincers of the imperial cellars haunted the die-cutter’s dreams. Yet it was a risk worth running when you dwelt on Hell: the unquenchable and unending fire that awaited those who were not saved. No sleep would give them rest, no night soothe them, no death deliver them from punishment, no appeal of interceding friends profit them. Weeping would be useless.
They helped strip the clinging tunic from him, towelled him dry, clad him in white garments. They made him welcome, gave him milk and honey to eat and drink.
The Esquiline
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Be a man.’
Many wives would suffer a beating for such words, even if they were spoken, as now, in the privacy of the bedroom. No one would condemn the husband. Perhaps, when her bruises had faded, the wife herself might accept its justice. Timesitheus had never raised his hand to Tranquillina.
‘You saved the city, and, far from reward you, that fat degenerate Balbinus would not recognize you as Praetorian Prefect. Pupienus will never forgive you for the acclamation of Gordian as Caesar. When he returns, he will strip you of the office of Praefectus Annonae.’
‘That might be no bad thing,’ Timesitheus said. ‘The Alexandrian grain fleet has not arrived. The granaries are nearly empty.’
Tranquillina frowned. For all her delicate looks, at times there was something mannish about her. ‘Pupienus is no fool, unlike Balbinus. He will leave you in charge until the distributions begin to fail. You will be dismissed, and you will take the blame.’
Tranquillina prowled the room. She was short, but slender. Her neck looked like it had been sculpted from marble. She wore just a thin tunic, nothing underneath. It accentuated every mo
vement of her body.
Timesitheus could not stop staring at his wife. He had thought the servants had been sent away for another reason.
Her eyes were very dark, and her hair very black, as it framed her white face, curled over her white shoulders.
‘The boy Gordian likes you,’ Tranquillina said. ‘He would obey you like a father.’
‘His mother does not care for me, let alone you.’
‘Maecia Faustina is a dried-up old bitch. She can be dealt with when the other obstacles are removed.’
Timesitheus felt the stirring of fear, like a rat moving through his thoughts. It must have showed on his face.
‘If you want to be someone today, you must nerve yourself for deeds that could earn you an island exile, or the executioner’s block.’
Tranquillina had always been able to see through his carefully arranged face.
‘Duty is praised, but dutiful men get nothing. Wealth springs from crime, power from daring.’
Only Tranquillina could be so honest.
‘The Praetorians have no loyalty to Balbinus and Pupienus. They do not know this new Prefect Aedinius Julianus, and they have no respect for old Pinarius. How could an aged gardener hope to be accepted as a Prefect? You defended their camp, saved their families. They would follow you.’
The servants had been sent out of earshot. Timesitheus mastered the urge to check, make sure that no one was listening behind the door.
‘Felicio did not take well to being replaced by Aedinius. He could be won over.’
Timesitheus smelt the fetid breath of fear, felt its sharp teeth seeking his throat.
‘As Prefect of the Watch, Maecius Gordianus would ensure the vigiles were on our side.’
The scrabble of claws as fear was driven out by jealousy and anger.
‘Why?’ Timesitheus said.
‘Valerius Valens, the Prefect of the Fleet at Misenum, is your friend.’ Tranquillina ignored the question.
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