Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (37 page)

Menophilus refilled their cups. ‘We cannot all be Marcus Aurelius.’

The trainer picked up the vanquished black. Tenderly, he stroked and fluffed it, his hands expressing the grief his face would not. The crowd looked on, respecting his self-control.

Gordian took another long swallow of wine. The news had arrived that morning. He had never been close to his sister. There was nothing of their father in her, none of his delight in the pleasures of life. Maecia Faustina had always been disapproving; more than disapproving, she had always been forbidding. She took after their maternal grandfather. Still, she would be upset. Tomorrow, when he was sober, he would write her a letter of condolence. He felt sorry for that son of hers. A sickly, weak-looking little boy; bad enough having Maecia Faustina for a mother, but to have no father.

Frowning, he tried to work out where Junius Balbus would be now. The ship had made a quick passage from Syria to Carthage. It had left two days after the arrest. They were taking Balbus to the North by carriage. Fuddled by the wine, Gordian counted on his fingers. Most likely, Balbus was somewhere in Thrace. Was it true the prisoners were given no food and no water? The fat fool would not care for that. It was unlikely that he had any experience of deprivation.

Two new birds were in the ring. The official was inspecting the binding of their spurs.

Of course, it could not be true. Unless they were brought no distance, the prisoners would be dead by the time they reached Maximinus. There would be nothing for the Thracian to insult or torture. Although they said he had gloated over the head of Alexander. They said he had fucked the corpse of Mamaea.

Gordian beckoned for more wine, waved away the water. The estate of Balbus would go to the treasury. Although Maecia Faustina had seen to the running of her husband’s house in Rome, she preferred to live in the
Domus Rostrata
of the Gordiani. She could remain there. The property of the Gordiani would not be confiscated. At least, not yet.

Balbus was blamed for the defeat outside Arete; the one where the Sassanids had killed Julius Terentius, the commander of the garrison. At the time, Balbus had been sitting on his fat arse in Antioch, miles away. Indolent, possibly negligent, but hardly deserving the death penalty. If the fault of Balbus was small, no dereliction of any sort had attached to Apellinus, arrested in his province of Britannia Inferior. There were rumours that the governor of Arabia, Sollemnius Pacatianus, had fallen as well. This was a reign of terror: Septimius Severus after the defeat of Albinus, Domitian in the dark last years of his reign. When an Emperor began imitating Polycrates, or whichever Greek tyrant it had been, and started lopping off the heads of the tallest flowers, it would not be long before he turned to the Gordiani, the sons and grandsons of Consuls, the owners of Pompey’s house in Rome, the most palatial villa in Praeneste, and another dozen properties besides. No time at all, now Gordian’s fool of a brother-in-law was a convicted traitor.

‘I will bet on the scrawny speckled bird, give you a chance to get some of your money back,’ Menophilus said.

Gordian fumbled for some coins and a couple fell on the ground. He left them. ‘My brown does not look as if it has much fight in it.’

These cocks were more circumspect. They circled, came together, reared up and struck with their spurs then backed away, circling again. Feathers fluttered across the sand on the downdraught of their wings.

Gordian looked away. The ring was low, constructed of packing cases. Except where he sat with Menophilus, isolated by their exalted status, the audience was jammed together. Men leant over the barrier, encouraging their bird with wordless gestures, shifting in sympathy with its movements, rapt in their attention. It was not unknown for spectators to lean too far, to lose a finger or an eye.

The birds were in the air. The speckled cock drove several inches of razor-sharp steel into its opponent’s breast. The brown was down, the victor strutting sideways in its triumph. Somehow the brown gathered itself into a final, doomed attack. The spurs of the speckled bird hurled it back to the sand, trampling it to ruin.

‘A day for Stoic duty, not Epicurean pleasure.’ Gordian gave Menophilus the coins in his hand.

The crowd parted and the solid figure of Valerian approached. Menophilus called for a chair for the legate, and Valerian sat down.

‘I am sorry about Balbus.’

Gordian smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He handed him a cup.

‘Have you heard about Mauricius?’ Valerian went on. ‘Paul the Chain has summoned him to appear in court at Thysdrus.’

‘Why?’

‘Mauricius’ steward went to pay the tax grain there, and the Chain told him to deliver it to Thabraca, or pay a huge transportation cost. When Mauricius heard, he rode over in a rage. He cursed Paul, told him that he had worked his way from poverty to wealth without ever submitting to extortion, and he was not going to start now. Apparently, Paul would have arrested him there and then, but he had only a couple of guards with him, and Mauricius had a dozen or more armed friends and clients.’

‘This cannot go on.’ Gordian spoke precisely, as he did when well on his way to being drunk. ‘We need a new Chaerea or Stephanus or …’ He could not think of any other killers of tyrannical Emperors.

‘Keep your voice down,’ Menophilus said.

Their servants were out of earshot, and the crowd were shouting the odds for the next fight, but he spoke more softly. ‘If we do not kill Maximinus, he will kill us – all of us.’

It was a measure of their friendship that the other two did not suspect entrapment.

‘We have no legions,’ Valerian said.

‘Africa controls the grain supply to Rome,’ Gordian said. ‘No grain shipments, and the plebs will take to the streets.’

‘And Vitalianus’ Praetorians and the new Prefect of the City’s Urban Cohorts will massacre them.’ Valerian shook his head.

‘Other provinces would join us.’

‘Soldiers pull Emperors from the throne, not the plebs or the provincials.’ Menophilus leant forward. ‘Only three armies are big enough to win a civil war, those on the Rhine, the Danube and the Euphrates. It is unlikely the eastern army could win against the two in the North. Maximinus can only be brought down by those with him.’

‘We must save Mauricius,’ Valerian said.

‘The Chain has the trust of Maximinus.’ Menophilus spoke sadly. ‘The thing is impossible.’

Gordian relapsed into silence with the others. His eyes followed the cockfight, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Mauricius had fought with them at Ad Palmam. He was a friend. Real friendship must take pains for its friends, run risks for their safety. A man should avoid pain, but even painful actions for a friend bring pleasure. Without friendship, there could be no confidence in the future, no trust, no ease of mind. Such a painful life was not worth living. Epicurus had said a wise man will not engage in politics unless something intervenes. When a tyrant threatens your friends, your tranquillity, the security of the
Res Publica
itself, a man cannot continue to live quietly out of the public eye.

CHAPTER 32

The Far North
The Hierasos River,
Three Days before the Nones of September, AD237

The plain was hard and flat and brown. The autumn rains had not yet come, and the grass was dusty. A line of trees marked the next river, a long way off. The camp on the near bank, all those dozens, hundreds of wagons and tents, looked tiny in the flat immensity. The vast herds stretched away on the other side. In the far distance the horses and sheep were indistinguishable, like worms crawling on the ground. You could see for miles out here, and that was good.

They would not have expected him to come again so late in the campaigning season, not so far out on to the steppe. All summer, Maximinus had hunted the Sarmatian Roxolani and their Gothic allies across the grasslands between the Carpathian mountains and the marshes of the Danube delta; march and counter-march, flying columns and cavalry sweeps. There had been skirmishes. The Sarmatians had raided the baggage train, swept down on detached units. The Romans had caught some stragglers, a few flocks. Nothing of any importance, no decisive battle. The barbarians had driven their herds up into the foothills or into the wetlands; confused terrain where the Romans would not follow. But Maximinus had learnt their ways. He had known they must come out on to the steppe for the winter grazing along the river valleys.

Late in August, a few days before the
kalends
of September, the army had crossed the Danube again at Durostorum. Maximinus had led them north. Heavy baggage and most non-combatants left behind, they had moved fast. They had found nothing at the Naparis, nor at the next nameless river. But here at the distant Hierasos they had found their quarry; banded together for protection, or delivered into the hands of their enemies, whichever the gods willed. Why, Maximinus wondered, did they not spare themselves? Why did they not submit?

He had asked Aspines. He often talked to the sophist, now that Paulina was dead. Aspines had said it was ignorance. The barbarians could not conceive of the advantages of being ruled by Rome. But it was the duty of Maximinus to conquer them. It was for their own good. Aspines had told Maximinus a story about a bull. When the bull met another, the leader of another herd, they would fight. The winner was the stronger. He took the followers of the vanquished. He could protect them better. It was the same with the rulers of men. When a King defeated another, it showed he had greater virtue, and he would give greater benefits to his subjects. Maximinus had understood. Stripped of all the fine phrases, to be a King was to give benefits, and the greatest benefit was security. A tyrant ruled for himself, a King for his subjects. Maximinus had not wanted to take the throne. He did not want to be Emperor. Maximinus was fighting for the good of Rome. He was no tyrant.

The barbarian camp, a semicircle of wagons, was not more than a mile away now. It was time. Maximinus reined in and told the standard bearers and trumpeters at his back to make the signal.

The infantry trudged past. A coin for a shave, they shouted. Maximinus had a bag tied to a saddle horn. He threw the coins from it with an open hand. Men ran to gather them, then jostled back to their places. Even the centurions seemed almost good-natured, as they cursed them for their avarice.

As the army moved from the column of march, fanning out across the plain, it raised great billows of dust. Through the murk patterns emerged. It reminded Maximinus of watching the clouds; the way they shifted and merged, forming now the image of a hound, now a horse, now the breasts and thighs of a naked woman. He had not had a woman since Paulina had died. He had not had another woman while she was alive. It had not seemed right. But now she was dead, and man was not meant for celibacy. Perhaps, if the day went well, he would have one amid the chaos of the sacked camp, one of those blonde Sarmatian bitches.

The army was stationary, the south wind blowing the dust away towards the barbarians. It was autumn, but the sun was hot. In his armour, Maximinus was sweating profusely. He wiped his brow. Squinting, he took one last look at his dispositions before he committed them all to the lap of the gods.

The centre of the first line was a phalanx of eleven thousand drawn from all the legions along the Rhine and the Danube. Five deep, it stretched for a third of a mile. Flavius Vopiscus would be reading line after line of the
Aeneid
, searching for encouragement, but Maximinus would not have had anyone else leading. If Vopiscus fell, Catius Clemens would assume command. The latter was always dabbing his nose, complaining of this or that ailment, but it was all affectation. Despite his hypochondria, Catius Clemens was a hard man.

Similarly arrayed, on each flank of the legionaries were a thousand regular auxiliary infantry and a thousand warriors brought by treaties from the tribes of Germania. This would be the last battle under Roman standards for the tribesmen on the left. As Maximinus had agreed with their prince, Froda, this winter the Angles and their leader Eadwine would return home to the distant North.

Anullinus’ eight thousand Praetorians and Julius Capitolinus’ four thousand 2nd Legion Parthica formed the second line. Shields grounded, they would be praying that the first assault succeeded and they would not have to fight.

The attacks would be supported by Iotapianus’ archers. Tucked between the lines of heavy infantry were a thousand Emesenes, five hundred Armenians, and a thousand Osrhoenes. Maximinus had ordered the latter decimated in the aftermath of the revolt of Quartinus and Macedo, but otherwise had not treated them harshly. After one in ten had been beaten to death by his mess companions, there had been no further punishments. Of course, their numbers were much depleted, but any unit which had supported a failed pretender had to expect the most difficult and dangerous assignments.

The cavalry on the right wing consisted of four
alae
of regulars and the Persians and Parthians; three thousand in all. They waited dismounted, to spare their horses. Honoratus might look more suited to a symposium than a battle, but in the last three years he had given proof after proof of his martial abilities.