Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (40 page)

How he had been landed with the currently unenviable post of
Praefectus Annonae
was uncertain. For all their well-turned orotundity, imperial orders contained no obligation to explain their motives. A hasty correspondence with his cousin Modestus, unsurprisingly, had shed little light. Modestus had written of the great honour bestowed on Timesitheus and their family. Maximinus himself had proposed his appointment. No one in the
consilium
had expressed any doubts about its wisdom.

Could even his cousin be so dull-witted as to envisage anyone would? How did he think the objector might phrase it?
Emperor, most sacred regent of the gods on earth, while your will is law, and you are a man of notorious savage temper and violence, a man who once tried to blind his son, may I say that with this ill-judged proposal you stand revealed as a half-barbarian simpleton.

Modestus had written that even Domitius had approved. In fact, the Prefect of the Camp now seemed amiably disposed. They often dined together, and Domitius had become something of a friend. Thank the gods, Timesitheus had never confided to his imbecilic cousin anything more sensitive than the cold of winter or the darkness of night. It was all too easy to imagine Modestus, well fuelled with wine at one of their intimate meals, turning his moon face to Domitius and laughing.
You know it is
absurd, but Timesitheus has often said his life will not be complete until he has had you thrown to the animals, or stripped naked and, to the jeers of the mob, slowly flogged to death. Many times he has expressed the hope that the earth would lie light on you. It will make it easier for the dogs to dig up your corpse.

The street to the port was long, and the crowds had thinned. They were passing the entrance to the harbour
gymnasium
. Somewhere in there, Apollonius of Tyana had once given a lecture. Its subject was not recorded; most likely a diatribe on virtue or vegetarianism. Halfway through, words had failed him. Far from being overcome by the platitudinous nature of his thinking, Apollonius had been granted a vision. At that moment, hundreds of miles away, the tyrant Domitian was being struck down. Timesitheus could not see Maximinus lasting much longer. Samosata might not have brought it about, but someone would soon encompass his fall. The old Pythagorean Apollonius had not been such a fool. When an Emperor was killed, it was better to be walking shaded paths a long way away than in the streets of Rome.

CHAPTER 34

The Northern Frontier
Sirmium,
Three Days before the Nones of January, AD238

‘By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, I swear to carry out the commands of the Emperor and the Caesar, never desert the standards or shirk death, and to value the safety of the Emperor and the Caesar above everything.’

Iunia Fadilla watched Iotapianus say the words. The little Syrian was the last to reaffirm the sacred military oath. Under his tall, pointed helm, he looked half frozen. A few flakes of snow blew across the parade ground. The officers had taken the oath for their men. Only a detachment of soldiers represented each unit, but the wide square was packed. Wherever you looked, steel and leather gleamed and standards snapped in the wan light of an early January morning. The field army billeted in Sirmium was incomprehensively large. After three years of relentless campaigning, Iunia Fadilla could not understand how there were any northern barbarians left. But apparently there were: lots of them, many still hostile. When it stopped snowing altogether and the real cold set in, when the river froze, Maximinus would lead the army north on to the white steppe to catch the Sarmatian Iazyges in their winter encampments.

She was one of the few women present. Given the weather, most of the senior commanders and local dignitaries had let their wives and daughters remain indoors. No such indulgence was extended to a member of the imperial family. Many of the men were looking at her, the Emperor among them. She caught his eye. Awkwardly, Maximinus jerked his gaze away. Since her wedding, she had often found him staring at her. It was horribly easy to imagine the sorts of things that might be running through the huge barbarian’s mind.

A gust of wind tugged at her scarf, nearly lifting it and her veil. When Iunia Fadilla and her husband had appeared, Maximinus had asked his son why she was wearing a veil; they were not Greeks. Maximus had laughed, and invoked some old Roman who had divorced his wife for going unveiled in public. The law should allow her to display her beauty to his eyes alone. If she displayed herself elsewhere, she was provoking men for nothing. Inevitably, she would become the subject of suspicion and accusation. Immorality should be smothered in the cradle. Maximinus had given his son a strange look, but said nothing.

Iunia Fadilla fixed the pins in the net with the emeralds that held her scarf and veil in place. It was time for the civilian vows. Faltonius Nicomachus, the governor of Pannonia Inferior, walked forward with a delegation of the leading men of Sirmium. Attendants led out an ox.

‘Emperor,’ Nicomachus said, ‘we offer prayers to the immortal gods to keep you and the Caesar Maximus in health and prosperity on behalf of the whole human race, whose security and happiness depend on your safety.’

The attendants readied themselves around the animal.

‘For the welfare of our lord Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus Augustus, and for the welfare of our lord Gaius Iulius Verus Maximus Caesar, and for the eternity of the Roman people, to Jupiter Optimus Maximus an ox.’

The axe flashed in the pale sunlight, and the beast collapsed.

Maximus, resplendent in silvered cuirass, with gilded and jewel-studded helmet in the crook of his arm, drew himself up. The breeze ruffled his dark curls. There was something feminine in the beauty of the
Princeps Iuventutis
. Certainly, Iunia Fadilla thought, no vain girl could have found more pleasure in moments like this than the Prince of Youth.

The ox was the first of several victims. A cow was led out to be offered to Juno. Beasts of the appropriate sex would follow for Minerva, Jupiter Victor, Juno Sospes, Mars Pater, Mars Victor and Victoria. Each time, the prayers would be said again.

Behind her veil, Iunia Fadilla looked at Maximus with loathing. She would not have children by him. All too often, a page announced her husband would visit her bedchamber. Maximus bothered himself with no niceties and, when he had finished, he left. Thank the gods, he was never there in the mornings. No matter how often he took his conjugal rights, there would be no children. Old Eunomia was experienced in these things. Nummius had not wanted children. The nurse had honed her skills. Eunomia mixed the old olive oil, honey and cedar resin with white lead. With her fingers, Iunia Fadilla pushed the sticky mess inside herself. Perhaps Maximus thought she was excited. If he did, he did not seem to care. When he came, she was always careful to hold her breath. When he was gone, Eunomia holding her shoulders, she would squat, try to sneeze, and wash herself. If everything should fail – and there were those nights he burst in unannounced – there were ways to get rid of unwanted children.

The cattle were lowing, alarmed by the smell of blood.

Iunia Fadilla shivered. She missed her old life: the elegant house on the Carinae, trips to the Bay of Naples, the recitals, her friends. She wondered how Perpetua was doing. Maximus had taken pleasure in telling her that her friend’s husband had been arrested. A traitor could expect no mercy. Maximus had no way of knowing that Perpetua had prayed that Serenianus would not return from Cappadocia. Perhaps Gordian had been wrong: perhaps the gods were not far away, perhaps they did listen. So far, they had not answered
her
prayers. Maximus was alive and in good health.

Divorce was too easy, moralists always complained. A simple sentence spoken in front of seven witnesses –
take your things and go
– and the contract was ended. A letter carrying their seals was just as effective. All easy, if you were not married to Caesar. Who would witness such a fatal letter? Where could you go to escape the outraged pride of the deserted husband?

The final sacrifice had been made; to Victoria, a cow. A procession was formed to escort the imperial family back to the houses requisitioned to make a palace. Maximus took her arm. It amused him to pinch her flesh until he heard her intake of breath, all the while smiling like Adonis.

The snow and ice had been swept from the streets, but icicles dripped from the eaves of temples and houses. The sooner it froze hard, the better. When it was cold as the grave, the army would depart, and Maximus with it. Perhaps the gods would be kind and guide a Sarmatian arrow to his heart.

Her marriage to Nummius had been unconventional. A well-brought-up girl should have been horrified. Iunia Fadilla had not been shocked. In a perverse way, it had approached the ideals set out by the philosophers. Nummius had never forced her to anything she found repugnant. There had been companionship and concern for each other. They had held everything in common, nothing private, not their thoughts or their bodies. Such ideals were rarely met. The reality of most marriages was more brutal. To show how truly he had become wife to a charioteer, the Emperor Elagabalus had appeared in public bruised with black eyes.

At last they reached the palace, and Iunia Fadilla could retire to her own rooms. Eunomia was waiting, gave her a hot drink, unpinned the heavy gold brooch and then removed her outer clothes and the net with its emeralds, the bracelet with its sapphires and the other detested betrothal gifts. Tenderly, her old nurse rubbed lotion into the bruises. Usually, Maximus hit her buttocks, her thighs and her breasts. Usually, he took care not to mark her face. This time he had claimed he could smell wine on her breath; when a woman drinks without her husband, she closes the door on all virtues and opens her legs for all-comers. He had not stopped beating her when he took her.
Bitch! What man could kiss a mouth which had sucked so many pricks.
Bitch!

Sipping the drink, Iunia Fadilla would not let herself cry. Her eyes rested on the brooch with its garnets.
Should you come this way again … my name is Marcus Julius Corvinus, and these wild mountains are mine
. It was a pleasant fantasy, no more. There were no mountains in the
imperium
wild enough to offer her sanctuary. Flight was unrealistic. Unless the Sarmatians intervened, it would have to be something else. Eunomia knew her herbs.

CHAPTER 35

The Northern Frontier
Sirmium,
the Ides of January, AD238

In the biting cold, Maximinus checked with numb fingers the girths of his warhorse. If it was important, something on which your life might depend, it was best to do it yourself. Javolenus grunted as he gave him a leg up. Maximinus waited until his bodyguard was also mounted, then gave the order to move out. The town gates squealed as they began to open in front of the column. Especially in this weather, they should have been oiled. No one could be relied on to do their duty these days.

In summer, it would be two years since she had died. Time had not cauterized the wound. Most of the time it was a dull pain, and he could bear it. But every so often the loss hit him with such force that he could neither act nor speak; in mid-speech or with food halfway to his mouth. He saw no need to try to hide those moments.

The gates opened on to an ice-bound world. The road ran straight to the north, bordered as far as the eye could see with tombs. The road and the tombs and the trees were very black against the fields of ice on either side. The wind had knocked the snow from the branches. Now it was very still, and the trees were a motionless black tracery linking earth and sky.

They had not gone two hundred yards, when Maximinus felt Borysthenes go lame. Leaning out, Maximinus saw he had shed the horse-sandal on his near fore. Officers quickly offered the Emperor their own horses – they would bring his mount on after. No, Maximinus said, he would ride Borysthenes at the head of the army. That was how he had seen it in his mind; that was what he had told Paulina. The army halted. Maximinus swung down. The imperial entourage did the same. As they waited for a farrier, Maximinus held the reins of his horse. Some fools would take all this for an omen.