Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (28 page)

He came out into the open space by the colossal statue of the Sun. Wreaths from some festival lay about its base, wind-bedraggled, their leaves dry and faded in the early-summer heat. The Flavian Amphitheatre beyond was a building site. It had been struck by lightning in the reign of Caracalla. Almost twenty years later, the repairs had not been finished. As was his habit, the die-cutter squinted up between the scaffolding at the arches on the top two levels. All were meant to contain statues. Most were empty. Like the Tower of Babel, this monument to mortal pride and cruelty would forever remain unfinished.

To his left, he passed the steps up to the Baths of Titus. He had a vague impression of greenery at their summit. That was what Rome should stand for: gardens, bathing, lectures in shaded porticos, cultured leisure after hard labour, peace after war, civilization. It was worth fighting for those things. The thought stayed with him as he went down the Via Labicana. On his right hand were the shops and their greed which fronted the brutality of the gladiatorial school behind; on his left – albeit little more than a haze to him – the elegant roofs of the Baths of Trajan. Two sides of a coin. It must be possible to have one without the other, to purge the sins of mankind. He had to be brave for the things that mattered.

After another block, he turned right into an alley. Halfway down were the doors of the mint. He crossed the courtyard and opened the shutters of his workroom. He carried his bench and stool to the open air. It was always better to work in natural light. For a moment, he stood irresolute, as the apprehension of what lay ahead that evening threatened to overwhelm him. Work, that was the answer. It would clear his mind.

Amid the clatter and bustle, he studied the new obverse die. It was very different from those he had made before. Maximinus’ chin was thrust out, rounded, solid like a battering ram. His nose hooked down as if to meet it. The Emperor now wore a short beard. An indentation on his cheek suggested muscles, powerful jaws that would not let go. The eyes, if not conveying quite the same intellectuality, remained wide and clear, fixed on an objective.

The huge pictures set up in front of the Senate House had been a revelation. The die-cutter did not know if they were close to reality or represented the conscious projection of the image of a rough soldier. Either way, Maximinus must have approved of them. The die-cutter’s portrait was very similar. The new issue of coins should please the Emperor. It was a good piece of work.

He set it down and picked up the four new reverse dies. After the German campaign the previous summer, and with Maximinus fighting the Sarmatians, another Victory had been an obvious choice. A tiny, naked captive sat at the feet of the goddess, hands bound behind his back. The conspiracy of Magnus had raised more difficulties. Not to allude to its suppression might be interpreted as disloyalty, but any direct reference was out of the question. For the other three reverses the Die-cutter had chosen the Safety of the Emperor, the Foresight of Augustus and the Fidelity of the Army. There was nothing original, but they seemed fitting.

Those who had fallen with Magnus had been only the beginning. It was the talk of the bars and tenements of the Subura, brought back by maids and cooks, that their betters were growing to loathe and fear Maximinus. The
frumentarii
were scouring the empire for those Senators who had been either acquitted of treason or merely relegated for that offence under Alexander. Holding office seemed to offer no protection. The governor of Thrace had joined Ostorius of Cilicia and Antigonus of Moesia. Bundled into a closed carriage, they had been driven night and day to the North. There were dark rumours of abuse, even tortures fit only for slaves. The sole certainties were that their estates had been confiscated, and they had not been seen or heard of again. No trials; they were just gone. In their fine houses the Senators were said to murmur among themselves of another Domitian, a new reign of terror.

In their blind arrogance, the magistrates in charge of the mint had talked in the hearing of the die-cutter. When his uncle Messala had been arrested, young Valerius Poplicola had burst into tears. He was sure he would be next. No one was safe. The other two agreed. Acilius Glabrio had whispered – as if the die-cutter were of no more account than a piece of furniture – that Maximinus was a monster.

The die-cutter did not see it in that light. The Emperor campaigned on behalf of Rome and, for that, he needed money. Far from fighting, these pampered youths and their senatorial families wallowed in indolence and depravity, and they had wealth beyond imagining. Not to contribute any of their riches to the defence of the
Res Publica
was close enough to treason. The Emperor took what should have been offered. He did not oppress the plebs. Nor, thankfully, did it appear that his agents pried into their lives. Every morning, in the dark, with his brothers and sisters, the die-cutter prayed for the success of the Emperor.

Taking a blank disc of hard bronze, the die-cutter fixed it tight in a vice. He unpacked the tools from his bag and spread them on his bench. The new Caesar presented a challenge. Maximus had not been depicted in the paintings. Taking a drill bit of soft bronze, the die-cutter dipped it oil then rubbed it in a bowl of powdered corundum. Having fitted it into a bow, he began to bore holes to mark the mouth, eyes, ears and nose. When satisfied, he used a steel graver to cut the flowing lines freehand. With long practice, the burr thrown up before the tool was lost in the cavity it created.

When, a long time later, he straightened to view his work, the face of a young man had begun to emerge. Maximus was short-haired, clean-shaven; his classical good looks contained just a hint of his father’s chin. With civilian dress peeking at his neck, he looked a model of familial propriety. This youth could have been a scion of the Severan dynasty, or any other. Of course, soon he would be married into that of Marcus Aurelius. The die-cutter had seen Iunia Fadilla once. Castricius had pointed her out as she walked down from the Carinae to the Forum. Blonde, good-looking, there was one member of a Senatorial family who had no reason to fear this new regime.

The creative work accomplished, as he cleaned up the image, the die-cutter’s thoughts returned to the coming evening. A man called Fabianus was coming in from the country. The die-cutter had been told to meet him at the Porta Querquetulana and take him to meet Pontianus. This Fabianus was a rustic. He would gawp and stare. What if he drew attention to them? What if he betrayed them by gesture or word? The die-cutter imagined the cellars on the Palatine. He could not help it. He was no hero. Shackled in the dark, in the fetid air, how long could he stand the rack, the terrible claws? Once they knew who you were, they hung you from beams, unequal weights tied to your legs. When their arms tired from whipping you, they threw you in cells whose floors were covered deep with thousands of pot shards, their edges razor sharp. Their cruelty knew no end. Once they knew who you were, they treated you worse than a murderer.

CHAPTER 21

Italy
The Julian Alps,
the Ides of June, AD236

The mountains were more desolate than any Iunia Fadilla had ever seen. On the climb up, she had caught occasional glimpses of the great empty ridges and valleys of Mons Ocra off to the right. Most of the time the pine-clad slopes through which the road ran cut off the view. They had left the small fortified resthouse of Ad Pirium that morning to follow the road as it twisted and turned down to a place called Longaticum. After an hour or so they had passed an unmanned blockhouse. Apart from that, there had been no sign of human habitation. The close, gloomy forest oppressed her spirits. Even the air seemed dark.

At least she travelled in relative comfort. The big four-wheeled carriage jolted and bumped over every stone and rut, but it was furnished with a surfeit of cushions. The hangings could be drawn to take in the passing scenery or, as often since they had entered the mountains, to block it out. It was reasonably quiet. She was not bothered by conversation. All her attendants, apart from one maid and her old nurse, Eunomia, had been sent ahead with the baggage. The maid would not speak unless addressed, and Eunomia had never been one to chatter. The axles and brakes of the carriage were well greased with olive oil. There was just the rumble of its iron wheel-rims, the creak of wood and harness and the clop of the draft horses and the mounts of the eight-man escort.

Outside Rome, Iunia Fadilla had been amazed by the size of the baggage train. Innumerable large wagons were loaded with tents, bedding, clothes, food, wine, cooking utensils, tableware, toiletries, commodes. There was fodder for the animals, spare wheels, ropes, timber and nails to effect repairs, even a portable forge. Dozens of slaves carried the more fragile and precious household goods on their backs. Those handling the animals were joined by droves of maids, valets, chefs, scullions and stable boys. There were ten Numidians in colourful embroidered livery to run ahead and clear the traffic from the road. The vast assemblage was shepherded by a detachment of thirty troopers from the Equites Singulares Augusti under the command of a tribune.

Their route had taken them up the Via Flaminia to Narnia, over the Apennines – their bright, open slopes now so friendly in hindsight – and along the shores of the Adriatic. The Via Popilia had led to the plains of northern Italy and the way to Aquileia. From that civilized city they had set out for the mountains.

Every morning the baggage had left several hours before Iunia Fadilla had risen. It spared her the noise and dust, and ensured that her lodgings – a sumptuous pavilion where no imperial post house was convenient – were suitably prepared for the night. Her own progress had been slow. As well as the driver, a man walked in front leading the horses. Although not garrulous, Eunomia adhered to one traditional trait of her calling. At every wayside shrine, the old woman insisted on being helped down. Between Rome and the Alps, there was not a humble altar at which she had not offered a libation and mumbled a prayer, not one of Mercury’s cairns to which she had not added a stone.

Late one afternoon, somewhere in the damp marshlands at the head of the Adriatic, the carriage had broken a wheel. A trooper had been sent galloping off to bring aid. It had not arrived by nightfall. There was a small inn about a mile back up the road. The Hind was not reserved for those on official business, and did not have to adhere to the standards of the
cursus publicus
. The tribune and his men had summarily evicted its guests. Suitably roused, the patron, his wife, two slatternly-looking girls and a potboy busied themselves with brushes and dusters. They had prepared a meal of mutton, bread and olives. It was disgusting. The meat was tough, and there was grit in the bread. The wine was sour. Iunia Fadilla exhibited all the graciousness of good breeding. She insisted the other wayfarers have her leftovers and be allowed to sleep in the stables. She had studied them as they were ushered in to thank her: a family on the edge of destitution, a soldier on his way back from leave, two rough-looking travellers in riding clothes. All the men were hard-eyed, the mother and her young daughter wary, if not frightened. Iunia Fadilla had thought how hard it must be to travel alone, near impossible for a woman.

The carriage ground to a near-standstill. Pulling back the curtain, she looked out. Another sharp corner, more trees, another dismal slope. The sun was out. It barely penetrated the timber. It was the
ides
of June, the festival of Minerva. If she had still been in Rome, she would have been watching the flute players wandering through the whole city in their masks and long gowns. Men with rods would rush after them, playfully threatening them if they did not fill the streets with music.

Four of the cavalrymen dismounted to help brake the carriage as it descended a steep incline. Iunia Fadilla let the hangings fall shut.

The third day after the
ides
of June, the Virgins would sweep out the temple of Vesta and throw the dirt in the Tiber. For the first time in the year, the wife of the
Flamen Dialis
would comb her hair, cut her nails and let her husband touch her. And as the river carried the filth to the sea, and the high priest of Jupiter enjoyed his conjugal rights, men and women might marry without fear of ill luck.

She had feared something worse when Vitalianus, the new deputy Praetorian Prefect, had come to her door. She had thought of the poor Syrian girl Theoclia. When she had not expressed joy at the news, he had smiled patronizingly, and said it was no wonder: any girl would be overwhelmed by the magnitude of her good fortune.

The next day, she had signed the agreement before witnesses. As custom required, her guardian was there. Poor Lucius had appeared as uncertain as she had felt. Her cousin had looked a great deal worse a few days later when he had to set off before her to the North. Like her father, and in later life her first husband, he had no taste for politics.