Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (13 page)

‘The governors of Moesia Superior and Pannonia Inferior, Titus Quartinus and Autronius Justus, have served dutifully. It is time they had a certain relaxation from their arduous labours. They have been summoned here to join the imperial court.’

Timesitheus forced himself to breathe normally. Quartinus was tall, scholarly, ineffectual. The cultured Senator might have escaped lightly.

‘Their former provinces will be governed by Tacitus and Faltonius Nicomachus.’

So that was where the two had gone. Advancement, not condemnation; the wheel was turning up for them. Tacitus, of course, was another northerner.

‘Quintus Valerius will be the acting governor of Raetia, and Ammonius of Noricum.’

Two equestrians, one the commander of the Cataphract heavy cavalry, the other of an irregular unit of Britons. Both promoted above all expectation or likelihood. That answered the question of who the other two armed men in Alexander’s tent had been. Gods below, what would come next? Timesitheus had to keep a brave face, keep his wits about him.

‘Our Emperor is minded to make no other changes for now among the governors of the North.’

Hollow with relief – Zeus Protector, he still had his offices – Timesitheus was not going to let it show.

‘Commanders will be assigned to vacant units at the next meeting of the council.’

The Armenian and Parthian mounted bowmen, the British infantry and the Cataphract horsemen; cousin Modestus might not make too bad a mess as Prefect of one of them. Timesitheus began wondering how he might bring it about. He had always recovered fast.

Vopiscus waved for a Senator with his hand up to speak.

‘While we fight on the Rhine, the province of Dacia holds the key to the Danube.’

The intervention came from one of the standing council, but was unexpected. Smooth and oiled, Vulcatius Terentianus had made a career out of quietism. He had never been known to strike out against the current, never to utter his real opinions, certainly never to stake anything on the truth. Who had put him up to this?

‘With the armies of the provinces of the Pannonias and the Moesias stripped to provide detachments to the field army, Dacia becomes the bulwark which must hold the barbarians north of the river. The Sarmatians and the Goths will press hard. Other tribes will join them. It will demand much of the man who opposes them. Julius Licinianus is a man of proven ability and loyalty. But he was Consul many years ago. Dacia needs a younger man at the helm.’

Vulcatius’ eyes flicked to Domitius. The Prefect of the Camp already had his hand up for permission to speak. It was given.

‘The wisdom of years of debating imperial counsel and of profound learning from the records of history inform the words of the noble Consular Vulcatius Terentianus. If I may endorse his proposal from my much lower but practical perspective.’

Gods below, Domitius was an oily, repulsive little reptile. As if anyone could mistake the precious verbosity of this jumped-up member of the vile hoi polloi for the words of a man of culture.

‘And if you allow me the further temerity to proffer the names of two men: Licinius Valerian and Saturninus Fidus. Both combine long military experience with civil governance, the decisiveness of youth with the prudence of maturity.’

And both are close with the Gordiani, father and son, who are governing Africa. Timesitheus wondered where the initiative lay; with the senatorial family, or this equestrian’s desire to ingratiate? This had to be stopped before it gathered momentum. Hand up, Timesitheus was stepping forward before he knew what he was going to say.

Vopiscus was pointing at him. They were all looking at him. The great, white face and great, grey eyes of the Emperor Maximinus were turned on him.

‘The defence of Dacia demands experience. Neither Valerian nor Fidus has commanded an army in the field. Licinianus has fought the Carpi, the Sarmatian Iazyges, and the free Dacians. He is too modest to boast it himself, but the noble Consular Licinianus has yet to be defeated.’

‘And the Peukini.’ Everyone looked at Maximinus when he spoke. ‘The Greek is right. Licinianus is a good leader of men.’

Timesitheus dipped his head, not enough to be a bow. ‘Yet your Prefect of the Camp is not altogether mistaken, my Lord. Combining the duties of peaceful administration with leading an army taxes any one man.’ Domitius had not said anything of the sort, but that did not matter.

Maximinus grunted assent. ‘Civilians always get in the way when you need to fight.’

‘To free Licinianus to concentrate on the defence of the frontier, you might appoint a deputy to whom he could delegate the more time-consuming civil affairs, finances especially.’ Timesitheus pressed his advantage. ‘Quintus Axius Aelianus has served as Procurator of the imperial treasury in Africa, in Spain and here in the North. He has shown his worth governing Germania Inferior in my absence.’

‘Let him be appointed,’ Maximinus said.

Behind the Emperor’s back, Vopiscus and Catius Clemens exchanged a glance. The latter shrugged almost imperceptibly.

Furious, Domitius did not wait for permission to speak. ‘With you and your deputy absent, who will govern your province – your wife?’

Timesitheus counted to five before replying. ‘She might not do badly.’ He made a little gesture towards Domitius. ‘Probably better than some.’

Maximinus looked over his shoulder. A slow grin spread across his face. And everyone laughed, even Vulcatius Terentianus. No one could ever fail to share imperial mirth. After a few seconds, Domitius forced his expression into something like a smile.

Resuming his survey of the empire, Vopiscus turned to the West. The governors of Aquitania in western Gaul and Baetica in southern Spain needed to be replaced. One was ill, and had asked to retire; the other had died. There was nothing suspicious in either case. The provinces were unarmed – just a few auxiliaries – both militarily overlooked by the 7th Legion in Decius’ Hispania Tarraconensis, so the new regime could allow debate on the appointments.

One councillor after another urged the merits of a friend or relative. Timesitheus was quiet. He had no one in particular to advance. Anything was possible, but you had to pick your battles. Demurely, he kept his gaze lowered, just glancing up to register each new speaker. Below the modulated voices of the council of imperial friends, from somewhere beyond the hangings, he heard rougher men calling orders. The
silentarii
had been more in control in Alexander’s reign. But perhaps their numbers or morale had suffered when their last imperial master was cut down. Insignificance had not saved all the household. Even the glutton had been killed.

Domitius was not talking either. Timesitheus became very aware of the Prefect of the Camp staring at him. His hands hidden in his toga, Timesitheus averted the evil eye; thumb between first and middle finger. He was not superstitious. If they existed, the gods were far away and had no interest in mankind. He did not believe in daemons, ghosts, werewolves or bloodsucking
lamia
. But it was as well to take precautions. Back on Corcyra, his old nurse had told him of certain evil men and women who could focus their envy and malice through their eyes and send out a stream of invisible dust which surrounded and slipped into their victims. Illness, madness – even death – might result. Out beyond the frontiers there were tribes who could kill with a glance. Since then, in his reading and at
symposia
across the empire, he had found grown men of high culture who largely shared the views of the peasant woman who had nursed him.

‘Africa, nothing much new out of there.’ Vopiscus was into his flow. He no longer needed the amulet, but was making sweeping oratorical gestures. ‘Gordian and Capelianus will keep a close eye on each other.’ Vopiscus winked, like an actor in a mime.

Timesitheus was already laughing, joining in with everyone else, before his memory supplied the reason for the mirth. Back in the reign of Caracalla – half a lifetime age, long before he entered public life – there had been a scandal. The elder Gordian had been charged with adultery with the wife of Capelianus. Gordian had been guilty, yet he had been acquitted. Gordian’s career had been retarded, and Capelianus had divorced his wife. As she had been declared innocent, Capelianus had been cheated of his hopes of hanging on to her dowry and other property. The men had blamed each other for their misfortunes. Now they had ended up as the governors of the neighbouring provinces of Africa Proconsularis and Numidia, and still they detested each other.

Lechery must run in the blood, Timesitheus thought. All the Gordiani were like sparrows, avid for intercourse, and always with women. The son had been servicing the young wife of old Nummius – what was her name? – until he went to be his father’s legate in Africa. Old Nummius had been complacent. It was said he had liked to watch, then join them. It was also said her demands had brought about his demise. There were worse ways to go. She was blonde, attractive. What
was
her name?

‘Mauretania Caesariensis is another matter.’ All humour was gone from the manner of Vopiscus. He had his serious, tragic-actor mask on. ‘Orders have been sent for the arrest of the governor. He will be brought here to face charges of treason.’

Simple chronology ruled out sedition. Alexander had been killed eight days before the
ides
of March. Today was the
kalends
of April. Twenty-five days, counting inclusively, as almost everyone did. Not enough time for news of Maximinus’ accession to reach Africa, the governor to say or do something seditious, a report to travel to the Rhine and
frumentarii
to be sent to arrest him. Timesitheus knew little about the fallen governor of Mauretania Caesareniensis, but now he knew the man had an enemy among the inner circle around the new Emperor. But who? And why? It could be one of the Senators Flavius Vopiscus or Honoratus, the new Praetorian Prefect Anullinus, one of the other equestrian assassins Quintus Valerius or Ammonius. And, Timesitheus thought, he should not overlook Catius Clemens; being the brother of his friend did not preclude a murderous vindictiveness. There again, it could be another who had not yet shown his hand. It could be Maximinus himself.

Domitius was speaking. ‘Vitalianus has served the traditional equestrian career with distinction. He commanded an auxiliary cohort in Britain, was a legionary tribune with the 3rd Augustan in Africa, the Prefect of a cavalry unit here on the Rhine, and a Procurator of imperial finances in Cyrenaica. For the last four years he has commanded the Moorish cavalry, leading them through the difficult fighting of the Persian campaign. Twice in Africa, a proven military man, accustomed to the ways of the Moors; there could be no better candidate for the governorship of Mauretania Caesariensis.’

Several hands went up. Maximinus nodded towards Timesitheus.

‘There is no doubt Vitalianus is a fine soldier, and there are always brigands to catch and a few barbarian raiders to chase. But Mauretania Caesariensis is not the scene of a war. The wider protection of the African frontier is in the hands of Capelianus and his 3rd Legion in Numidia. Peaceful provinces, like Mauretania Caesariensis, call for different expertise and experience.’

The eyes of Maximinus were as blank and as watchful as those of a big cat. Timesitheus ploughed on.

‘Gaius Attius Alcimus Felicianus has commanded troops, but most of his life has been devoted to serving the
Res Publica
in civil capacities. He has been an advocate of the imperial treasury, run the Transpadane poor-relief and been a Procurator in all the four Gallic provinces. For the last two years he has been in charge of the inheritance tax. As you know, he cleaned out an Augean stable of corruption, and again monies flow unimpeded into the military treasury. Without his work, this field army would be an impossibility. Loyal and industrious, the next step for him must be a province.’

As he stopped, Timesitheus felt a coolness emanating from the throne. Certainly, a bureaucrat like Alcimus Felicianus was not obviously going to appeal to an Emperor risen from the barracks.

‘You have never been in either of the provinces of Mauretania?’ Maximinus did not pause for an answer. ‘Before I was Prefect of Egypt, I governed Mauretania Tingitana. The high country runs for hundreds of miles through Caesariensis; good for sheep and bandits, and beyond are the Atlas Mountains and the nomads. Endless tribes of nomads: the Baquates, the Macenites, the Melanogaitouloi, the Quinquegentiani – long, uncouth names; violent, uncouth men. Their chiefs come to the negotiating table at the point of a sword. Peace comes after the stench and horror of massacre.’

Maximinus’ voice had thickened. He stopped talking, his gaze far away, as if on old, unhappy sights. No one spoke. On its low altar, the sacred fire ticked.

A metallic crash. Somewhere beyond the hangings someone had dropped something. Maximinus came back from wherever he had been. He rallied, spoke almost conversationally. ‘So you are wrong, little Greek, there is much marching and fighting and talking to barbarians to be done in the Mauretanias. Legal advocacy, knowledge of the laws concerning wills or poor children; they are less use there than a good seat on a horse and a strong right arm. Let the soldier, Vitalianus, be appointed.’

Timesitheus nodded; it could be taken for nothing but a bow. Fuck! How had he forgotten? Of course Maximinus had campaigned in Mauretania; the stupid, bloodthirsty barbarian would have started a war in the Elysian Fields. Fuck.

Domitius was smirking at him. A space seemed to have opened around him, around the object of imperial rebuke. Even his brainless cousin was giving him a strange look. Probably, Modestus was trying to remember where he had heard the phrase ‘Augean stable’.

Vopiscus had now moved on to the East. The Prefect of Egypt was a creature of the late tyrant’s mother. No one should profit from vice. Another equestrian officer was en route to arrest him, and take control of Egypt.

Timesitheus was so angry, he could scarcely listen.
Little Greek
. It was bad enough when Romans called a Hellene a
Greek
, let alone a
Graeculus
. And here was this hulking, ugly Thracian barbarian calling him
little Greek
; calling him
Graeculus
, in front of the entire imperial counsel.
Graeculus
– one step up from
Boy
. And a Thracian saying it! Maximinus probably had ancestral tattoos hidden under that toga. It was a wonder he did not file his teeth into points.