Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (17 page)

The Northern Frontier
The Town of Mogontiacum,
Four Days before the Kalends of May, AD235

About the tenth hour of the night, a raft of black cloud came up from the west. As the first drops pattered down, Maximinus wondered what it would be like to be a fish looking up at the hull of a great ship, at something huge, alien and inexplicable. The rain increased, falling hard on the roofs of Mogontiacum. It sluiced through gutters, and gushed out from spouts down into the street, where it shifted then floated away the rubbish lying in the central drain. Although sheltered under a porch, Maximinus pulled the hood of his canvas cloak further over his face. He was tired. His mind wandered to the fable of the frogs who asked Zeus for a new king. When he sent them a water snake, they regretted their disloyalty to the log that had previously ruled them.

More suddenly than it had started, the rain stopped. Maximinus peered out from his place of concealment. No light or sound escaped from the blank wall of the house across the street. But he knew the conspirators were in there.

Maximinus stepped back into the darkness where the four of them sheltered. His bodyguard, Micca, and Volo, the head of the
frumentarii
, flanked him. The fourth man stood at the rear. Water dripped down in front of them from the eaves. They did not speak.

The treachery galled him. Long ago, the senators of Rome had been men of virtue. They had lived simple lives, summoned from the plough to fight great wars. But once the terrible enemy Carthage had been burnt, centuries of peace had unmanned them. Their riches and luxury, their fishponds and libraries, their painted whores and simpering catamites – all the revolting eastern practices they had rushed to embrace – had combined to corrupt them. Now, a new enemy threatened. The tribes of the North were marching south, bringing with them fire and sword, untold misery and slaughter, and the senators were found wanting. Worse, they conspired against those men who saw the danger and had the courage to fight. Most high equestrians were little better. Praetorian Prefect after Prefect had proved false. The plot of Plautianus against the divine Severus had failed, but Macrinus the Moor had betrayed that Emperor’s son, the brave and doomed Caracalla. There was no faith to be found in the rich of the empire. New blood was needed. Only men untainted by wealth or supposed sophistication could save Rome. Only rough men from the countryside – men who honoured the gods and kept their word – could lead Rome out of the mire of its imported filth and back to the old-fashioned ways of decency and honour.

Maximinus moved forward again. He looked up and down the dark street. Under every portico and in every doorway slumped figures huddled in cloaks against the night and the rain. If their numbers were not noted, a casual observer would take them for beggars. The house was surrounded. Macedo and his men watched every exit. As a tribune and three centurions of the Praetorians were implicated, Maximinus had summoned the Osrhoene auxiliaries. It had come to a sad pass when an Emperor of Rome could put more trust in a Greek officer and a unit of archers hired from Mesopotamia than in his own household guard. Still, a man must use what is to hand. All was well, if it worked. How he prayed the three ringleaders were together in there.

The storm cloud had passed and the stars were beginning to pale. Over the way, a bedraggled wreath, relic of some forgotten debauch, could be made out in the mud by the closed doors of the house. Maximinus thought of all the times he had waited outside the houses of Senators in Rome. A junior officer, recently promoted to the equestrian order, he had sought patronage and advancement. He had seldom been admitted. On occasions beyond number some oiled and perfumed servant who most likely had come to Rome in a slave chain from Cappadocia or some such part of the East had sent him away with contempt. At least, now he wore the purple, his son would never know such humiliation.

The thought of Verus Maximus brought its own worries. Maximinus and Paulina had always employed the best tutors they could afford and, since his elevation, the best that money could buy. Certainly, the boy could recite reams of Homer and Virgil. He could translate them from one language to the other with ease and fluency. Those whose fees suggested that they should know, said the love poetry that he composed in the style of Catullus showed sensitivity. He had a fine singing voice. But the more manly accomplishments were lacking. Despite the very best instruction, Verus Maximus remained awkward and reluctant at arms drill. When persuaded to go hunting, he was often found sitting under a tree reading yet more books, often filthy stuff, Milesian tales and the like. And there was his lack of self-control: the frequent outbursts of puerile temper, the drinking, the endless affairs with married women. The very day after he had come to the throne Maximinus had had to pay off a centurion whose wife had been outraged. The woman was old enough to be the boy’s mother. Maximinus was sure the corruption was caused by the affluence of his upbringing. The fawning of leading Senators and equestrians would only make things worse. What Paulina thought, he was less certain.

While seldom sure of his wife’s views – women were largely unaccountable, worse than civilians – Maximinus had been left in no doubt of her horror at his elevation to the throne of the Caesars. The highest eminence was too lofty for an equestrian, even more so one of his background. The senators would despise and hate him. He had entered a world where nothing was as it seemed, where words said one thing but meant another. The open language of the barracks and parade ground would no longer serve. He must practise reticence, weigh out his words like a miser his gold, reveal his true thoughts to no one. Maximinus thanked the gods for Paulina. At least with her he could be unguarded, speak what was on his mind – although he knew this did not stretch to the behaviour or character of their son.

Yet something had to be done. Perhaps the new imperial
a Studiis
summoned by Vopiscus might be the answer. Aspines of Gadara did not seem a bad man, for a Syrian. Everyone spoke highly of his culture and his probity. Among all those tomes in the imperial libraries there must be some that might instil martial virtues in the young. Maximinus smiled. Always turn the weapons of your enemies against themselves. Anyway, talking to his son would give Aspines something to do. The sophist’s titular duties of guiding the cultural studies of the Emperor were unlikely to occupy much of his time.

The distant rumbling of a wagon brought Maximinus back to his surroundings. The gates must have been opened, the first supplies brought into the town. In the east, the sky was marbled with purple. It was nearly dawn, the best time to attack.

‘Good faith.’ Maximinus gave the watchword and set off, knowing the other three would follow.

In the street, dim figures emerged and fell in behind. By the time he reached the door there were thirty men at his back.

‘My Lord.’ It was Macedo. ‘Let my men go in first.’

Maximinus pushed back his hood. ‘I will never order men to do what I will not.’

Two of the Osrhoenes carried axes. Maximinus waved them aside. He shrugged off his cloak. It fell in the mud before anyone could catch it.

‘Leave it. We have work to do.’

He steadied his breathing, touched the gold torque around his neck, then the silver ring on his left thumb. The first was a gift from his Emperor Septimius Severus, the second from his wife. It was not so much for luck – the gods would see to that – but to remind himself of what mattered: trust and good faith. They had moulded him, and he would never let them down.

He measured the door, then gave it a mighty kick. The wood splintered; the boards reverberated, bounced on their hinges, but did not give way. His strength was legendary. His soldiers talked of how he could punch the teeth from the jaw of a horse, drive a finger through an apple or the skull of a child. Men talked much nonsense.

A deep breath, and he lashed out again. His enormous boot landed by the lock. The leaves of the door crashed open. He drew his sword and hurled himself into the house.

A dark corridor opening on to a colonnaded atrium. A face popped out of the porter’s lodge and ducked back. Shouts from deeper in the house. Maximinus ran down the passage. Behind him, rather too late, someone shouted to open in the name of the Emperor.

It was lighter in the atrium. There was a pool with a fountain in the middle, lamps burning in a room off the far side. Two men – soldiers by their belts and the swords in their hands – ran towards him from the right. Another was coming around the pool from the left. Micca and Volo brushed past to take the first two, Macedo and an Osrhoene went for the other. More archers jostled in the confined space behind Maximinus.

The clash of steel echoed back from the walls. A misjudged blow sparked against the stone. Both narrow colonnades were blocked. Shapes flickered against the lamps in the room beyond.

The traitors must not escape.

A foot on the rim, and Maximinus jumped down into the blackness of the pool. He skidded as he landed, regained his balance. The water was very cold. But, thank the gods, not deeper than his knees. It sloshed into his boots as he waded past the fountain.

A young man with a sword appeared at the edge. The elaborately curled hair and finely worked sword-belt proclaimed him the treacherous Praetorian tribune.

‘Tyrant!’

The blade shimmered as the officer thrust. Maximinus’ left foot went from under him. Somehow, falling, he blocked. He landed hard on his arse, in a great spray of water. The impact jarred up his spine. His sword was knocked from his grip. Almost gracefully, the tribune stepped down into the pool. Feverishly, Maximinus ran his hands across the floor of the pool. The tribune came on carefully. Maximinus’ hand closed on the hilt. He floundered backwards to his feet. His opponent closed, feinted high and cut low to the left thigh. Maximinus caught it near the hilt of his weapon, gave ground.

They shifted, seeking an opening. The dark water sucked and pulled at their legs as they moved. Distant, irrelevant sounds of fighting. Of more pressing concern were the noises of men jumping into the pool, moving towards them. The tribune flicked a glance beyond Maximinus. It was enough. With brute strength, Maximinus forced his adversary’s sword wide. Stepping inside, he smashed the pommel of his weapon into the man’s face. Reeling, off balance, the young officer could do nothing to prevent Maximinus bringing the edge of sharp steel down into his sword arm. It was over. The tribune screamed. He dropped his sword. Clutching his wounded wrist with his good hand, he doubled up.

‘Do not kill him.’ Maximinus moved past, and clambered out.

There were two men in the dining room. Maximinus scanned all four corners. There was no other exit; nowhere to hide. Perhaps the fat Senator Claudius Venacus was not as stupid as he looked. Either that, or cowardice had kept him away. Whatever the motive behind his absence, it would do him no good. Volo’s
frumentarii
would catch him before midday.

‘Wh—what is happening?’

Maximinus looked at the Senator who spoke.

‘We have done nothing.’ Catilius Severus was very pale. His hands, soft and feminine, were spread in a mime show of incomprehension. ‘We were making offerings … offerings to the gods.’

Maximinus was aware of armed men filling the doorway behind him. ‘The traditional gods do not hide from the sun. Any deity that demands his worshippers meet in secret, lurk in the dark, is an enemy of Rome.’

The other Senator spoke. ‘It is time for the truth. We were talking treason.’

With his protruding eyes, Caius Petronius Magnus looked like some creature which scuttled along the seabed, but Maximinus felt a flicker of admiration.

‘We were approached to join a conspiracy.’ Magnus’ voice was steady. ‘We needed to know how wide it went, needed conclusive evidence, before we denounced it.’

‘Who approached you?’

Magnus looked straight into the face of Maximinus. ‘One you trusted, the governor of Germania Inferior.’

Maximinus gestured over his shoulder. A man walked forward. Maximinus put an arm around his shoulder. ‘What do you think of that, my little Greek?’

‘I told you they would say that,’ said Timesitheus.

CHAPTER 11

The East
Northern Mesopotamia,
Three Days before the Kalends of May, AD235

A new Emperor sat on the throne of the Caesars. As his horse plodded, head down under the hot sun, Gaius Julius Priscus turned the news over in his mind. The governor of Mesopotamia and Osrhoene had plenty of time to think. The messenger had reached him, at long last, as he rode north on the desert road back to his province from the client kingdom of Hatra. The mountains beyond the town were in sight, but the small column was still some hours from the outpost town of Singara.

What would the accession mean for the provincials between the upper reaches of the Euphrates and Tigris? Ceremonies would be enacted, with many sacrifices and a new name in the oaths. In time there would be a new portrait on the coins they handled; that same face would stare down from statues in the marketplaces and from portrait busts and paintings in official buildings and the homes of the conspicuously loyal. The most immediate impact would be the additional expense. Every community in the territory would have to
voluntarily
send their new Augustus a crown of gold. There would be a lather of activity. No town, no matter how insignificant, would want to risk imperial displeasure by being late or niggardly with its contribution. The Emperor might be as distant as a god but, like a deity, at any moment, completely unforeseen, he could reach down into their lives. The local elite would pledge ostentatiously large sums and then squeeze what they had promised out of their tenants and clients. And then the provincials would get on with their mundane existence: the poor herding goats and scratching a living from the soil; the rich borrowing money they never intended to repay, committing adultery with each other’s wives and launching malicious litigation aimed at their neighbour’s property; and everyone, high and low, would still worry that a Persian raid would end it all, would see them and their loved ones driven off into slavery or left dead among the ruins of everything they had known.