Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (29 page)

After the signing, Vitalianus had placed the circle of iron set in gold on the third finger of her left hand. The one connected to the heart, he had said unctuously. With some incongruity, his Praetorians had brought in the betrothal gifts. A necklace of nine pearls, a net-work cap with eleven emeralds, a bracelet with a row of four sapphires, gowns with gold thread – one after another the costly but unwanted items had accrued. The party that evening had been a strained affair. Perpetua had snivelled throughout, and Ticida had recited bad poetry and looked as if he wanted to kill himself. All sorts of other people had thronged to the Carinae to invade her house. The pompous Prefect of the City, Pupienus, both Consuls and her repellent neighbour Balbinus were among those offering congratulations. Another neighbour, Gordian’s sanctimonious old bitch of a sister, Maecia Faustina, had the temerity to give her a lecture on how she should behave now she was betrothed to Maximus Caesar.

She was going to marry the heir to the throne. One day, she would be Empress. She did not want to be Empress. Mamaea had wanted to be Empress, and Mamaea had been hacked to pieces. Sulpicia Memmia had been Empress, and divorce had not saved her. Iunia Fadilla did not want to become a living icon, weighed down with brocade and gems, in endless court ceremonials. She did not want to become an imperial broodmare, the timing of her menses the subject of speculation: Was she pregnant? Would it be a boy, an heir born in the purple? Above all, she did not want men with swords coming for her in some revolt against her father-in-law or husband.

The carriage lurched. It jarred her back and neck. Europa, carried off on the broad back of a bull, had travelled in greater comfort, and her abductor had been a god, not a mortal. Iunia Fadilla wanted to be in her house in the Carinae. Would she ever see her new house on the Bay of Naples again?

She controlled herself. There was no point in railing against fortune. What was it Gordian used to say? The sole aim of life is pleasure, and the first step on the road is the avoidance of pain. Right actions and right thoughts bring pleasure.

Maximus was young. He was said to be good-looking and cultured. The famous sophist Aspines of Gadara constantly attended him. Maximus wrote verse. It could not be worse than that of Ticida. There were many rumours of affairs with women and girls; matrons and virgins from respectable families. At least her husband would not desert her for the beds of his pages, as Hadrian had Sabina. There was something disgusting about the young boys kept by men of that sort, men like Balbinus. Running about the house naked except for some jewels, when they had to venture outside they went veiled, not for modesty like Greek women, but to protect their delicate complexions.

She did not want to marry anyone – not now. When Nummius had died, if he had asked, she would have married young Gordian. If he had asked, she would have been spared this journey, this marriage, a life of restrictions at court. She checked herself. It was neither her beauty nor her wit that had caused this betrothal. She was the great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius. It was a dynastic arrangement. An Emperor could do as he pleased. Nero had wanted to marry Poppaea, so he had told Otho to divorce her. She was the great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius. She would never be safe.

The carriage was wrenched to a sudden halt. Those troopers still mounted clattered up alongside. Iunia Fadilla opened the curtain.

There was a hairpin bend a few paces ahead at the bottom of the slope. A dozen or more horsemen sat waiting there. They wore hooded cloaks and carried weapons.

The soldiers closed up around her carriage.

‘Clear the road in the name of the Emperor.’ The voice of the tribune betrayed his anxiety. The mountains were full of men denied fire and water.

Iunia Fadilla thought of Perpetua’s fantasies of bandits and rape. These men might be worse. All Emperors have enemies.

One of the horsemen rode forward. From under his hood, he took in the soldiers.

‘Stand aside!’

Ignoring the tribune, the horseman pushed his cloak off his head. He looked straight at her.

The rider was neither old nor young. His face was weather-beaten, but groomed. He leant forward, put his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss.

‘We were hunting.’ His tone was educated. There was a gold ring on his left hand. ‘But it seems my heart has become the prey.’ He unpinned a brooch, let his cloak fall on his horse’s crupper. ‘My Lady, accept this as an offering.’

She took the gift. It was heavy, with garnets set in gold.

‘Show respect.’ The tribune moved close. ‘The Lady Iunia Fadilla is on her way to marry the Caesar Maximus.’

The rider did not take her eyes off her. ‘The Caesar is blessed.’ He backed his horse to the side of the road, motioned his companions to do the same. ‘Should you come this way again, my Lady, accept my hospitality. My name is Marcus Julius Corvinus, and these wild mountains are mine.’

CHAPTER 22

The Northern Frontier
The Town of Viminacium,
Seven Days before the Kalends of July, AD236

The light was excellent by the big window at the top of the house. Flanked by her women, Caecilia Paulina sat and bent to her work. The tapestry was nearly finished. Cincinnatus was summoned from his ploughing, defeated the Aequi, rode in triumph through Rome and returned to his tiny farm by the Tiber, where his oxen still waited in their harness. Maximinus approved of Cincinnatus, took him as an
exemplum
. The tapestry was not large. It could travel in his baggage.

Paulina always worried when her husband was on campaign. It was Maximinus’ firm conviction that a general should lead from the front. There had been skirmishes, but so far the barbarians had retreated before the imperial army. The town of Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa had been relieved. In his last letter, Maximinus had said that he was marching north. He believed the Sarmatians and their confederates intended to make a stand somewhere in the further recesses of the province of Dacia.

In many ways, Maximinus was better off in the field. He was in his element surrounded by his soldiers, like a tyrant in his citadel. The image was ill-omened. Paulina paused in her weaving and put her thumb between her fingers to ward off harm. Maximinus was no tyrant. Her husband was many things – a fine general, a loyal husband, a man of antique honour – but he was no politician. He was well away from the intricacies of civilian government. Hordes of embassies and petitioners from all over the empire thronged the town of Viminacium. Macedo, and his Osrhoene archers who held the bridge, had detained them here. Apart from the military, the only travellers allowed to cross the Danube were those arrested for treason and their guards in shuttered carriages. Paulina was uncertain of the wisdom of re-examining those who had been acquitted or given a light sentence under Alexander. It could only increase the hostility of the Senators to the regime. But it was not Maximinus’ fault. The idea had come from Vopiscus. The rest of the
consilium
had supported the proposal. Certainly, the war demanded money. When the Gauls sacked Rome the rich, women as well as men, volunteered the ransom. When Hannibal was at the gates, the wealthy volunteered their precious things, even handed over their slaves, for the safety of the
Res Publica
. Such patriotism belonged to a different age. A time of iron and rust called for harsher measures.

Paulina resumed her task, leaning into the loom, beating down the weft with a wooden comb. She prayed for the health of her son. Maximus was too delicate for an army camp – although, it had to be said, it would remove him from temptation. His last outburst had pained her more than any before. The girl had been one of her attendants, from an equestrian family. Paulina had sent her away, veiled, in a closed carriage, to the farm of one of her own freedmen in the backwoods of Apulia. The girl could stay there until she was fit to be seen again in public.

Perhaps Maximinus was right. She had mollycoddled Maximus. He was her only son. The birth had been terrible. Afterwards, the doctors had told her that she would bear no more children. She had offered Maximinus a divorce. She owed him the chance of further heirs. He had dismissed the idea out of hand.

There were Consuls in her ancestry, but her family had been short of money. Maximinus had been a favourite of the Emperor Caracalla, and of his father before him. Her mother had been unwilling for Paulina to marry him and, although her father had proposed the match, his doubts were evident. They had left the decision to her. She had never regretted her choice. Now and then she wondered how different her life would have been if she had been blessed with beauty. She might have married into one of the great families of Rome. Her husband might have worn the elaborate boots of a patrician, might have possessed conventional good looks. They might have passed their days in echoing marble halls, the busts of his stern antecedents glowering down. Yet she doubted she would have been happier with her husband. Maximinus was a good man. He had a quick temper but, with her help, he could bring it under control. Above all, he had a noble simplicity and a greatness of soul. Their son could learn from his father.

There was much Maximus had to learn. Marriage often calmed the hot passions of a high-spirited youth. Paulina knew that would not be the case with Iunia Fadilla. The letter from her friend Maecia Faustina had told Paulina all she needed to know about this great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius. If Iunia Fadilla had inherited any of the goodness of her imperial ancestor, it had been irredeemably tainted by her first husband. Priapic despite his senility, Nummius had initiated her into vices which would have been abhorrent to a Corinthian whore. He had prostituted her, in his ancestral home, not for money but for his own perverse pleasure. Dribbling, the old goat had watched her debauched by other men before joining them in foul threesomes,
spintriae
such as even Tiberius had hidden away on Capri. Nummius had left her without any shame in her wanton immorality. Meeting her, respectable men and women recoiled from her kiss, from the impurity of her mouth. What Maecia Faustina could never forgive was the corruption of her brother. If a grown man like the Younger Gordian had succumbed, Paulina thought, what hope was there for a youth like Maximus? If only Maecia Faustina had written sooner, Paulina was sure she could have dissuaded Maximinus from consenting to this appalling betrothal.

The door was thrown open. A dishevelled girl rushed in like a maenad.

‘The soldiers … they have acclaimed Quartinus. The Senator struggled, begged them, but they put the purple on him.’

Poor fool, Paulina thought. Resisting will do him no good. Maximinus will have to kill him.

‘My Lady, they have torn the images of the Emperor from their standards. Those of the Caesar too. The Osrhoenes are coming here.’

There was pandemonium. The women wailed as if at a funeral. One fainted clean away.

Paulina forced herself to sit very still. If only Maximinus were not a hundred miles away.

Two of her attendants were pawing at her. ‘Come with us, my Lady, we will get you away, hide you.’

Paulina felt an urge to laugh at their stupidity. There was no place of safety except with her husband, and he was beyond reach.

They were tugging at her clothes.

‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘Hide yourselves. All of you, leave. It is the Empress they want.’

One or two scuttled through the door. Most remained, keening, rooted to the spot.

‘Go! All of you!’ If she had to die, she would do so with dignity, not surrounded by this display of womanish weakness.

A stampede of terrified women threatened to block the door. The one who had fainted revived enough to rush after them. Then they were gone. All but two: Pythias and Fortunata. Her high-born women had fled, but these two slaves remained.

‘Save yourselves,’ Paulina said.

‘We will not leave you alone.’ Fortunata bravely nodded at Pythias’s words.

‘Then rearrange my
stola
into respectability.’

Now the room was quiet, they could hear the gathering uproar through the open window.

A man barrelled through the half-shut door.

Paulina could not stop her sharp intake of breath, a slight start.

‘My Lady.’ It was Maximinus’ old body servant, Tynchanius. He had been with her husband all his life. Although promoted to Groom of the Bedchamber, Maximinus had said he was too old now for the rigours of campaigning. It was a kindness that looked to be about to cost Tynchanius his life.

The door swung almost shut.

Down in the street, men were shouting, all the more frightening for being in some eastern language. Then, from inside the house, came the sounds of things breaking, heavy boots on the stairs.

Tynchanius faced the doorway. He had a sword. His shoulders were shaking. Fortunata and Pythias stood in front of Paulina.

Two archers pushed the door wide. They had drawn blades. Tynchanius lunged. They avoided him easily, slipped past. Two more archers crowded in. The Osrhoenes ringed the old man. He slashed this way and that. The easterners stepped back, laughing. As his back was turned, one jumped forward, sliced the old man’s thigh. Tynchanius wheeled. Another cut him from behind. The old man staggered, flailing like a bear baited in the arena.