Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (20 page)

Gordian studied Valerian’s disgruntled face. Valerian should count his kinsman lucky. That morning, news had arrived that Memmia Sulpicia, the mousey ex-wife of Alexander Severus whom Gordian had visited on his way back from Ad Palmam, had been executed. Neither her sex nor living quietly on her estate outside the backwater settlement of Vicus Augusti had spared her. The given reason was that she had been in correspondence with the traitor Magnus on the northern frontier. The killing had been the first action of this new Procurator. Perhaps Valerian had a point about Paul the Chain after all.

A trumpet call hurt Gordian’s head. He arranged his military cloak over his left arm, squared his shoulders, put on his stern Roman face. Someone had once said he looked like Pompey the Great. Alongside, the others straightened up too. The soldiers around the Forum came to attention. It had been Gordian’s idea to bring the deputation this far into the province, and to have a sizeable contingent of 15th Cohort Emesenes on hand. The
speculatores
had guided Nuffuzi past Ad Palmam, the scene of his defeat. Hopefully, the chief of the Cinithii might reflect on the extent and power of the
imperium
.

The arch at Theveste was typical of a small provincial town. Only two men could ride side by side through its gates. Aemilius Severinus escorted Nuffuzi into the Forum. Two nomads followed, then, in column of twos, the detachment of the scouts.

As the cavalcade crossed the open space, the auxiliaries shouted the password: ‘
Fides!
’ Ideally, at this point, the barbarians would be surprised, give evidence of their fear, perhaps cower or weep. That was what they did in stories. Nuffuzi did none of those things. Calmly, he rode up to a couple of lengths from the steps of the temple, and dismounted. A groom ran out to hold his horse. The two tribesmen jumped down and fell in behind their leader. Aemilius Severinus and his Frontier Wolves remained on horseback.

As Quaestor of the province, Menophilus descended to meet the embassy. He stopped two steps from the bottom. Gordian wondered if the nomads would find it strange that the youngest of those meeting them should take the lead. Presumably, they had nothing like magistracies in their ever-shifting encampments.

‘May the gods give you many greetings.’ Nuffuzi looked unchanged; the greying, long braids strung with colourful beads, the small beard on his chin, the air of unhurried assurance.

‘May you and yours be safe,’ Menophilus said.

‘No evil, thank the gods.’ Nuffuzi nodded. ‘On you only light burdens.’

‘No evil, thank the gods. May only good happen to you.’ Menophilus had gone to the trouble of learning the rituals of the desert. Apparently, it was bad form ever to ask who anyone was. That accounted for the reaction to Gordian’s words outside Ad Palmam.

The final ‘
no evil
’ having been said, Nuffuzi turned to business. ‘Your soldiers have turned back our people at the frontier. Since the time of the first men the tribes have crossed from the desert to the sown in the early summer.’

‘You crossed not long ago,’ Menophilus said. ‘You brought fire and sword.’

‘Those evils lie in the past.’ Nuffuzi might have learnt the language in army camps, but there was still an archaic stateliness to the chief’s Latin diction. ‘You need us. Your rich need our young men to help gather their harvest. Later, when the children and the women bring the herds, the animals will manure your fields. Your rich hire our warriors to oversee their workers in the fields. Unlike their own slaves and tenants, we do not steal.’

‘And you need us,’ Menophilus said. ‘Your animals would die without our grazing. Without our markets, your tents would contain no fine things. We will need assurances.’

Nuffuzi nodded. ‘My eldest son, Mirzi, is the joy of my heart. Although his absence pains me, let him remain among you as a hostage.’

Gordian had forgotten the youth, who stood off to one side of the temple podium, flanked by two auxiliaries chosen for their physique and fierce demeanour.

‘That is a noble gesture.’ Menophilus paused, evidently weighing his words. ‘The governor, the noble Gordian Senior, desires amity with the Cinithii. Sometimes the majesty of Rome grants honours to the leader of a friendly people from beyond the frontier. The citizenship of Rome, the title of friend and ally of the Roman people, these are things of consequence. Those especially trusted, once in a lifetime, might be granted Roman office over those peoples among which he lives. To be
Praefectus Nationes
brings a man honour, within the empire and outside.’

Nuffuzi remained impassive, but the two tribesmen murmured. So, Gordian thought, they know Latin as well. But had his father really decided to give office to this barbarian? His memory of the governor’s council back in Hadrumetum was clouded.

Menophilus produced the gold- and ivory-bound document he had been reading earlier. So that was the duty that had summoned him away from the revels of last night.

‘Friendship is sealed not just by words, but by actions,’ Nuffuzi said. ‘The eastern marches of your province have been plagued by bandits. Their village is in the hills south-east of Tisavar. It is not easy to find. My son will lead you there. The village is well fortified. There will be hard fighting. Mirzi is a warrior. He will fight in the front rank.’

Gordian glanced over at the Cinithian youth, at the bandaged right wrist where he had near severed Mirzi’s sword arm. How well would the boy fare now close to the steel? The thigh wound Gordian had taken in return still troubled him.

‘The leader of the robbers is a brigand called Canartha. He has plundered many caravans, many villages and villas. There is much wealth there. It would be a fine thing to take it from him. Should any be offered to Mirzi or his father, it would be well received.’

Gordian could not help but smile. Old Nuffuzi wanted to use the Romans to rid himself of a rival, and to get rich from their efforts. Still, Gordian felt the lure of action. He was better at leading men in the field than listening to lawsuits. That sort of drudgery was best left to dutiful young Stoics like Menophilus. Like Mark Antony, Gordian could revel in peacetime, then shrug off his pleasures and rise to the stern demands of war. If only his father would give him the command.

‘Friendship is sealed with oaths as well,’ Menophilus said. ‘Bring forth the standards.’

The silver images of Maximinus Augustus gazed down from on high. Handsome, his strong jaw clean-shaven, there was a look of the divine Julius Caesar about him.

The desert chieftain kissed the tips of his fingers, touched the palm of his hand to his forehead. ‘By the immortal Macurtam, Macurgum, Vihinam, Bonchor, Varissima, Matilam, and Iunam, the august, the holy, the saviours, I, Nufuzzi of the Cinthii, swear to be true to the Romans.’

As the uncouth names were recited, the pointlessness of it all struck Gordian. Why should these outlandish deities – or any other – care? The gods were immortal, perfect in their happiness, contained in themselves. If they could be pleased by offerings, or angered by inadequate rituals, they would not be content in themselves, and thus they would not be divine. The gods had no interest in the doings of men. But now, perhaps, Nuffuzi would think twice before he broke his word.

CHAPTER 14

The Far North
The Harzhorn Mountains,
Four Days before the Ides of July, AD235

Caius Petronius Magnus rose from the swamp, blood-bedraggled. His eyes bulged, his hands beckoned. Timesitheus went to move back. The mud sucked at his boots. He put up his hands to push back the dead Senator.

Another bad dream. Timesitheus opened his eyes. By the light of the single lamp, he saw the low ridge pole, his travelling chest and his armour on a stand, a folding stool. Outside the tent he heard a horse whicker, men talking and moving: the sounds of the camp stirring.

Just a bad dream. No daemon: they did not exist. Not a message from the gods: they did not exist either. And not guilt, definitely not guilt. He had tested Magnus and the others. If they had been loyal, they would not have been so ready to conspire, would not have had the forger make coin-dies with a portrait of Magnus as Emperor. If they had been loyal, they would have denounced him, and they would have been rewarded. Tranquillina was right. If he had not exposed their latent treachery, another would have done. They had possessed ambition without intelligence. They deserved their fate.

Timesitheus yawned. His eyes were watering. He rubbed them with the back of his hand. At least neither that fat fool Venacus nor the mincing Catilius Severus had yet taken to haunting his sleep. No wonder he had bad dreams. He was exhausted in mind and body, and now everyone in the army had good reason to be afraid.

The campaign had started well enough. They had crossed the Rhine, paraded under the ancient Arch of Germanicus on the far bank and trudged off into the vast forests of the North. The Germans had melted away before them. The native settlements were deserted. Maximinus had let the soldiers loot what little they contained and then ordered them burnt. From time to time, they captured untended herds. These too the Emperor handed to the soldiers. The few barbarians they took – the slow and unlucky – were also given to the soldiery.

After some days things began to change. The campfires they came across were still warm, some smouldering. Strange figures were half glimpsed through the trees. First stragglers, then scouts began to disappear. The initial attacks fell on parties out foraging. They were beaten off easily enough, but each left a few men dead or wounded. Together, they added to the rising apprehension.

Finally, they emerged from the mountains on to a broad plain. Several days further march and the hostile tribes – the Alamanni, Cherusci and Angrivarii – offered battle. They were drawn up in front of a marsh. No sooner had the legions closed than the Germans fled into the swamp. Disregarding all caution, Maximinus had pursued them, spurring his mount into the morass. The water had risen above its belly. The Emperor was mired. Tribesmen swarmed all around him. Only the courage and prompt action of the men of 2nd Legion Parthica had saved him.

It had been a victory of a sort. Laurelled dispatches had been sent back to Rome. Great paintings of the success were to be set up in front of the Senate House. The gods alone knew if the messengers had reached the frontier. After the battle, embassies from the barbarians had come to the camp. Those from the friendly tribes of the far North had been led by Froda the Angle, the son of King Isangrim, who ruled the shores of the Suebian Sea. When the barbarian prince departed, weighed down with gold, he had left one thousand warriors to serve with the army for the next two years. Deputations had also come from the Alamanni and their allies. They asked for peace. Timesitheus had not been alone in doubting their sincerity. Maximinus had demanded hostages. They had been promised, but never arrived.

The dead were buried, a victory monument erected, and the army turned south for home. They had not gone five miles before the attacks began again The Germans had driven in the pickets. For some desperate moments it had seemed they would cut the long column in two. Again, Maximinus had fought hand to hand. This time it could not be denied that his prowess and his example had turned the tide. The next day they had resumed the march in a square, the baggage in the middle. It had slowed their progress and brought only a certain amount of security. Continuously, bands of warriors rushed from thickets, hurled javelins and retreated. Those ill-disciplined enough to give chase were surrounded. Few made it back to the army. Obstacles – felled trees and diverted streams – further hindered the army. Timesitheus had thought of the story in Thucydides of the Athenians harassed in the wilds of Aetolia. It had not ended well for them. All order lost, they had been chased into dried-up watercourses and trackless woods and hunted down. The talk around the campfires was of Varus and his lost legions.

Fighting almost every step of the way, the expedition had crawled south. The ambushes increased in intensity. The warriors made the horses and mules their particular targets. The army left a trail of abandoned material, rich pickings for their tormentors. Any who had thought the mountains would bring relief had been sadly disillusioned.

The pass was about three hundred paces wide. A ditch and rampart had been dug across. Behind, waited innumerable Germans. On either side were steep slopes. More barbarians were stationed at the crests. There was no way around. The army had encamped. Now supplies were running short. If the military council this morning did not produce an answer, they may as well all resign themselves to death.

Timesitheus called for his slave, swung his legs off the camp bed. He did not want to die. He thought of Tranquillina, and he thought of their daughter. She would be eight in the autumn. What would life hold for the child without him? What would Tranquillina do? The thought brought him no comfort. Tranquillina would marry again. Some other man would enjoy the pleasures of her bed, would be inspired by the goad of her ambition.