Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (12 page)

In the East, the Euphrates and the Tigris helped. The great rivers ran away from Roman territory into that of the Persians. They made it harder to get lost. Supplies could accompany your forces downriver on boats. Movement of bulk goods was always infinitely easier and cheaper by water. The rivers of the North were not so amenable. Somewhere beyond the Rhine was the Ems, beyond that the Weser, and beyond them the Elbe. Timesitheus was diligent and had learnt of the yet more distant Oder and Vistula. All these rivers ran across the line of advance. If anything, they were likely to prove barriers.

And in the East there were roads and cities; proper roads which had been used for millennia, some of them paved, and Hellenic cities founded by Alexander and his successors. Both were lacking in the North. Nothing to march down, and no tempting target at which to aim. Nothing but tracks and woods, wilderness and marsh.

The absence of roads exercised Timesitheus. Almost all Roman units moved at least a part of their equipment by wagon and cart. These would all have to be replaced by pack animals. It would be expensive and resented. But it had to be done. What Timesitheus needed were accurate figures for existing transport animals and the numbers of men serving with the standards. The latter would prove particularly hard to get at, given the prevailing corruption of the previous regime. Under-strength units still drew the pay due their numbers on papyrus; the differences found their way into various private coffers.

‘Come,’ Sanctus said.

Timesitheus had not noticed the approach, but now followed the
ab
Admissionibus
.

They passed through the heavy hangings into the purple-tinted labyrinth. At least it was good to be out of the wind. Sanctus led them left and right, this way and that, along silent corridors and through empty halls where unseen voices whispered. They went through shade and deeper darkness, seemingly turning back on themselves. At last, like initiates at Eleusis or some other mystery cult, they emerged into the throne room.

A shaft of light was arranged to fall from directly above on to the seated Emperor. The ivory of the throne gleamed. Maximinus sat robed and immobile, like a gigantic statue of porphyry and white marble.

On the right hand of the Emperor stood Anullinus. No surprise there, Timesitheus thought. Everyone knew there had been three of them, but Anullinus was the only one whose identity was certain. It was the Prefect of the Armenians who had beheaded the young Emperor and his mother. Camp gossip held he had stripped the old woman naked, outraged her headless corpse. Anullinus was wearing armour and a sword on his hip. Was it the one with which he had killed them? Had it been in this room? Motionless in the half-light, Anullinus’ eyes exuded brutality and menace.

Two togate figures on Maximinus’ left. Nearest to Maximinus was Flavius Vopiscus. It was common knowledge that the Senator from Syracuse, together with Honoratus, had orchestrated the change of regime. The latter was not yet returned from Rome. So Flavius Vopiscus stood closest to the Emperor they had created. The consummation of his designs did not seem to have lightened the demeanour of the Sicilian. As ever, he looked haunted. Pious to a fault or just riddled with superstition, it was said he dared not embark on the simplest endeavour – getting dressed or going to the baths – until he had consulted the
sortes
Virgilianae
. How many times had he had to unroll the
Aeneid
and stab his finger on a random line before he considered the gods had guided him to one that read propitiously for the breaking of sacred oaths, for treason and murder?

The other toga-clad figure was less expected. Caius Catius Clemens – the middle of the three brothers – commander of the 8th Augustan legion and legate to his eldest sibling, the governor of Germania Superior. So Priscillianus had been more cold than apprehensive when they were waiting. A terrible thought caught Timesitheus. He could feel the teeth of the rat gnawing, hear the scrabble of its paws. His brother would have told Priscillianus everything that was about to happen. Perhaps, outside the pavilion, in front of dozens of witnesses, Priscillianus had not wished to be too closely associated with a man bound to the wheel on its downward turn. Again, Timesitheus hurriedly forced his fear down deep.

As was proper, the ex-Consul Priscillianus approached the Emperor first. Priscillianus came close and waited for a hand to be extended so that he could kiss the ring bearing the imperial seal. Instead Maximinus raised one of his great hands palm out.

‘While I reign, no man will bow his head to me.’ Maximinus’ voice was deep, grating like a mill wheel.

Timesitheus gave a manly, Roman salute; nothing of the Hellene about it at all. He could have been an officer of the old, free Republic before Cannae. That was an ill-omened thought. He altered the image to before the gates of Carthage or Corinth, or some other wealthy city through whose streets the Romans had killed and raped in their heyday.

Behind Anullinus there were two men: Domitius, the Prefect of the Camp, and Volo, the head of the
frumentarii
. The latter commanded the imperial spies and assassins and was feared throughout the empire. The former dealt with latrines, horse lines and bundles of hay. Yet it was the presence of Domitius that worried Timesitheus more. He had heard that Domitius had survived the coup, but he had not known that he had remained in his post. Timesitheus very much hoped Domitius had not been a part of the plot.

It had started some years earlier in the East. Three men – all equestrians – had been charged with securing the supplies for the Persian war of Alexander Severus. One had been Timesitheus, another Domitius. Timesitheus had taken no more than was customary; if anything, rather less: just the usual presents, certainly no more than one part in ten. His wife had chided him with his restraint; but then Tranquillina was ever boldness itself. The spouse of Domitius would have had no grounds for complaint. His peculation had been egregious. Units had marched hungry and with no boots, the money having vanished into the ledgers of Domitius. Each man had threatened to denounce the other. No charge had been lodged, but by the time the campaign limped to an inglorious close, the enmity was deeply rooted.

The third man who had dealt with the logistics now sat on the throne of the Caesars. In the East, Timesitheus had met Maximinus only once, and they had exchanged no words in a crowded council. But what he had learnt of the Thracian’s actions spoke of reasonable efficiency and complete, even priggish probity. Yet when, back in Rome, this campaign against the Germans became an inevitability, Alexander’s mother and senatorial councillors had decided that Timesitheus alone would handle all issues of supply. The role of Domitius had been cut back to digging ditches and mucking out stables. Maximinus had been assigned the role of training recruits. Timesitheus had interpreted that as a demotion. Now, he hoped the big Thracian had not seen it the same way.

The Senators of the standing inner council were grouped to the left of the throne. Seeing them in a group was never pleasing. They appeared to have been selected on grounds of advanced age and evident venality. Also, Timesitheus thought, they shared ill-favoured looks as a common possession. Petronius Magnus had the bulging eyes of some crustacean adapted to dim light. With his long, artful hair, Catilius Severus resembled an eastern priest, one of the scum who dance along the roads begging for coppers, clashing their cymbals and shaking their arses. The enormously fat Claudius Venacus seemed to have been dipped in something viscous. The other thirteen were hardly more aesthetic.

‘Let in the rest,’ Maximinus said.

Timesitheus followed Priscillianus to the opposite side from the sixteen Senators. This was too near Domitius for his liking. Timesitheus could feel the eyes of the Prefect of the Camp on him.

The others entered. Most, especially the Senators, tried not to push and shove, tried to preserve their
dignitas
. It was not easy. Too many men were trying to get in at once. Senators and equestrians, those holding commands and magistracies and those without, jumbled together. All wanted to get to the front, catch the eye of the new Emperor.

It had to be deliberate. Sanctus had been
ab Admissionibus
for years. Not a bad ploy, Timesitheus thought. Let them in at once, and have them demonstrate their own inferiority by scrabbling to get near you. Much more likely the hand of Flavius Vopiscus was at work than that of his putative ruler.

Sabinus Modestus struggled through the throng, grinning in a slack-jawed way. Timesitheus thought that, while his cousin might not be over-intelligent, at least he was good with his elbows and commendably loyal. Although, on second thoughts, it might be that Modestus had failed to realize the precarious nature of Timesitheus’ position.

Maximinus had sat serene apart from the scrum. Now, he got to his feet. His vast, powerful bulk dominated the space. There was a scabbard in his hand. With a practised, fluid motion, he drew his blade. While one or two of the other eminent Senators flinched a little, the bovine Claudius Venacus almost stumbled backwards.

Reversing the weapon, Maximinus held the hilt to Anullinus. ‘As my Praetorian Prefect, take this sword. If I reign well, use it on my behalf. If I reign badly, turn it against me.’

Anullinus took it, and the council applauded.

That either was brave or very foolish, Timesitheus thought. Had Maximinus not considered the fate of Alexander? Timesitheus was certain he would be in no such hurry to entrust his own survival to a judgement of his virtues carried out without advice by an ignorant, treacherous murderer like Anullinus.

Maximinus sat down, and indicated for Flavius Vopiscus to speak.

Timesitheus arranged his face. No trace of amusement, as he watched Vopiscus’ hand come up without volition and, through the folds of his toga, finger the amulet hidden at his breast.

‘A dispatch has arrived from Rome.’ The voice of Vopiscus was melodious, trained. ‘The Conscript Fathers have passed a decree awarding Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus all the powers held by previous Emperors. Their joy was unconfined. Their acclamations lasted for three and a half hours.’

More applause.

Was it a
bulla
? Did Vopiscus still wear the little model of a phallus designed to keep him safe as a child? Or was it something else – an Egyptian scarab, a piece of amber, a sculpted vulva?

‘Rome is secure and quiet. The incumbent Consuls Ordinarius have been told that their tenure will not be shortened. Of course, the virtues of certain men demand reward. Space must be found among the Suffect Consuls for Caius Catius Clemens, Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus and Lucius Flavius Honoratus, most likely others. But Honoratus himself has assured those already designated that their time in office will be little curtailed, and future preferment will be shown them.’

Vopiscus’ hand still toyed with the hidden object. The Emperor Augustus had worn a seal-skin amulet. This could be something altogether different: a fingernail or some small, desiccated body part of a drowned man.

‘Our most gentle and unassuming Emperor Maximinus has no desire to deprive other men of their honours. In his magnanimity and modesty, he has decided not to hold a Consulship until next year. Then he will enter into office on the
kalends
of January with Marcus Pupienus Africanus as his colleague.’

Maximinus himself interrupted. ‘I do not want to forget the sons of the commanders of my youth here in the North. The following year, Lucius Marius Perpetuus will be one of the Consuls Ordinarius. And Pontius Proculus Pontianus the year after that.’

Now that was ill-advised, Timesitheus thought. Although, these days, the role was almost entirely ceremonial, to be Consul, especially to be one of the two after which the year was named, was still the life ambition of many Senators. The
nobiles
regarded the office as a birthright, and others wanted to join them. To begin to allocate the position years in advance was sure to alienate a large number in the Curia.

‘Your piety does you credit, Caesar.’

Was there something else in Vopiscus’ tone, something implying that the words of Maximinus said less commendable things about other aspects of the new Emperor’s character? Vopiscus was not to be under-rated. There was an asperity beneath the daemon-ridden exterior of the Senator.

‘Since the death of Ulpian, no one can claim greater eminence in the field of law than his pupil Herennius Modestinus. The greatest jurist of his generation must stand by the Emperor advising him as his
a Libellis
. The new Secretary for Petitions is on his way north. His previous post as Prefect of the Watch has been granted to Quintus Potens.’

Like the tumblers and levers of a well-made lock, the pieces shifted together in Timesitheus’ mind. It had been neatly done. A Consulship for each of his sons, the younger as colleague of the new Emperor next year, had bought Pupienus, the Prefect of the City, and with him had come the six thousand men of the Urban Cohorts. The offer of the most important legal post in the empire had eased Herennius Modestinus out of Rome. His command of the seven thousand
vigiles
had been given to a man well linked to the new regime. Potens had been Prefect of the Parthian cavalry here with the field army. His brother-in-law was Decius, the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis. Decius was from a family which, time out of mind, had held wide estates across the Danubian lands. These stretched into Maximinus’ native Thrace, and Decius himself had been an early patron of the Thracian trooper’s career. With the vast majority of the Praetorians here on the Rhine, all the soldiers that mattered in the eternal city were in the hands of Maximinus’ men. Vopiscus might be riddled with superstition, but he and the urbane Honoratus had seized control of Rome with admirable skill.

‘Here in the North, we face a terrible war,’ Vopiscus continued. ‘Everything must be done to ensure victory.’

This was the moment. Timesitheus smelt the fetid breath of the rodent, felt its wet muzzle seeking his throat.