Blood and Steel

‘We have to get him away, before the Watch arrive.’

Caenis had to live in the same block with them. Tugging her clothes into some decency, she went to help the die-cutter.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_34c15b4d-551d-5ff6-b6b7-491e2b371cff)

Rome

The Senate House,

The Nones of March, AD238

Today I shall meet with interference, ingratitude, insolence, disloyalty, ill-will, and selfishness. Menophilus turned over the words of the Meditations. Was Marcus Aurelius correct that man naturally inclines to virtue, and so all vice was due to the offenders’ ignorance of what is good or evil, all some sort of near-blameless mistake? Regarding his fellow Senators, he judged that the divine Emperor’s view could be true only in the very strictest sense of Stoic philosophy.

Menophilus had answered Gallicanus’ question with honesty. He could give no realistic estimate how long it would be before the Gordiani arrived from Africa. The tone of the query had been offensive, somehow implying both that any tardiness was his fault, and that previously he had failed to give proper consideration to the issue. The hirsute Cynic appeared quick to impute blame, like most of his kind.

Since he had despatched the summons, Menophilus repeatedly had deliberated on the capabilities of ship and crew, the vagaries of the weather and potential routes, and the parameters of previous voyages. The Liburnian was said to be a fast galley, well manned, and its captain recommended as a seafarer of experience. Yesterday, after it had pulled out of Ostia, obligingly the wind had picked up and shifted to the north. It was just possible that it would make Carthage today. But if it had been overtaken by the full force of the storm, it might have been forced to run for shelter in Sicily or Malta, or might have been blown wildly off course, perhaps even to the dreadful shoals of the Syrtes. At worst, it could have foundered. When the storm abated, he would send another ship. Perhaps Gallicanus was right; he should have sent two vessels initially. There was all too much to think about in the midst of a revolt, even if he did not have the killing of Vitalianus on his conscience.

Like countless generations of Senators before, Menophilus gazed out of the window set high in the wall opposite the bench where he sat. Low, black clouds, dragging curtains of rain, scudded across. Open the doors! The angry chants were muffled, but audible. Only conspirators debate behind closed doors! Someone behind the scenes was whipping up the plebs, Menophilus had no doubt. Normally the first drops of rain dispersed any mob, no matter how riotous. Continued urban unrest best served whose interest?

Gallicanus had the floor. There had still been no sighting of the Prefects of either the City or the Watch, and, in the continuing absence of Sabinus and Potens, with no soldiers on the streets still loyal to Maximinus, many more Senators had found the courage to venture out of their close guarded homes, despite the mob. The Curia was packed. Gallicanus was speaking. Menophilus dragged his mind back.

‘Outside the storm rages. The people of Rome grow impatient. They need leadership. There is no telling when the Gordiani will come. Conscript Fathers, it is our duty to bring order to the streets of the city.’

Yes, Menophilus thought, your bluff democratic posturing appeals to the plebs.

‘The Gordiani are far away over the seas. Maximinus and his army are close at hand. At any moment the tyrant will cross the Alps.’

An exaggeration, but a real fear. What Maximinus would do to the man who had killed his Praetorian Prefect did not bear thinking. Still, the human condition was that of a soldier assaulting a town; at every moment you should expect the barbed arrow.

‘The barbarian and his vicious son will bring fire and sword, murder and rape. In their savage and perverse fury none will be spared. I see the Tiber foaming with much blood. I see shrines and temples consumed with fire; northern tribesmen ruling amid the ruins and on the ashes of a burnt-out empire. Conscript Fathers, it is our duty to protect Italy.’

Followers of Diogenes were encouraged to eschew bookish learning, instead to rely on a god-given education, a bolt of instruction from the blue, something open to all, something far less time consuming and requiring no foreign languages. Replete with reminiscences of Cicero and Virgil, Gallicanus’ speech might not fit the ideal of Cynicism, but it was having an effect on its cultured audience. The Senators were receptive. Now all that remained, Menophilus thought, was to discover where it was all leading, and what Gallicanus actually wanted.

‘We must elect from among ourselves a new college of magistrates. We must elect twenty men from the Senate to oppose Maximinus, to defend Rome and Italy, to defend the Res Publica.’

Amid a general roar of approval, the presiding Consul, possibly not without intention, failed to notice the Father of the House waving his walking stick in an attempt to get his attention. As old Cuspidius Celerinus relapsed into muttered imprecations against modern ways – it never would have happened in the time of Marcus Aurelius, not even under Severus – Balbinus was granted the right to speak.

Previous generations respected age, valued experience. The querulous complaints of Cuspidius went unheeded.

Fat, jowly, with a face like a pig, and the manner of an Oriental potentate, Balbinus got up. Paying no more attention to the Father of the House than anyone else, he strode to the centre of the Curia, his habitual lethargy cast aside.

‘Roman virtue, true old-fashioned virtus, is near extinct. True Roman blood runs thin in this august house. For centuries the Emperors have admitted men whose fathers could teach them nothing of the weighty responsibilities of a Senator. They have scoured the provinces to let in trousered Gauls, yapping little Greeks, and Africans with loose clothing and looser morals.’

Himself a new man, Menophilus thought Balbinus a fool. Great houses died out, new ones took their place. The majority of those present had no Senatorial ancestors; over half came from the provinces. It had always been the way. Unlike Athens, let alone exclusive Sparta, Rome had grown great by admitting outsiders. Romulus had given refuge to runaway slaves who wished to join his new community.

‘Once in a while, however, one of these novi homines reminds us of our duty. Despite coming from some unheard of village near Carthage, Gallicanus has shone a light on the path of duty. Yet he has not surveyed the path to its end. To command respect, the twenty men elected must have seniority and distinction. I support his motion, but propose an amendment. The election should be limited to those who have held the Consulship.’

Balbinus sat down. He was patted on the back by Rufinianus, Acilius Aviola, Valerius Priscillianus, and other patricians. None of them attempted to conceal their mood of triumphal cunning. Perhaps dissimulation was beneath them.

Menophilus tasted disgust, like vomit in the back of his throat. Men were despicable; politicians worst of all, no better than animals. Some were wolves, faithless and treacherous and noxious, others lions, savage and wild and untamed, but most foxes, ill-natured and wretched and mean. Menophilus wished he did not have to be among them. The tenets of their philosophy demanded participation, yet several Stoic wise men had never entered politics. Appealing as it was, Menophilus could not follow their example. In retirement they had framed laws for the greater state of all mankind. Menophilus knew he lacked their intelligence. He was bound to serve the temporal Res Publica, or abandon any claims to live according to his nature, and thus all hopes of happiness.

The sometime Prefect of the City Pupienus was on his feet. Not exactly pompous, although his luxuriant beard would support such an interpretation, there was something stiff and slightly off-putting about his evident self-control.

‘Conscript Fathers, we have heard good advice, both from the scion of a patrician house, and from a man whose virtus is its own nobility. Balbinus should be thanked and honoured, perhaps with a statue listing his qualities. Certainly his name must be the first put forward for election to the Twenty. Now, it would be a travesty if the man who conceived this excellent board of magistrates to save the Res Publica were debarred from serving in its ranks. Therefore, I recommend that, for the good of Rome, we elect Gallicanus as a Suffect Consul.’

Menophilus calculated rapidly how these measures would affect the following of the new Emperors. Egnatius Proculus was an ex-Praetor, as was Celsus Aelianus, and he was an ineffectual reprobate to boot. Menophilus himself and his friend Virius Lupus mere Quaestors. The latter’s father was a good man, and had held the Consulship. So had Valerian and Egnatius Marinianus, although each had his limitations. Appius Julianus was another ex-Consul, but he was old and infirm. As things stood, the Gordiani only had four men here in the Senate House who had held the highest office, and only one of them could be relied on to advance their interests on this new committee.

The presiding Consul was preparing to call a vote.

If only Arrian and Sabinianus were not in Africa, if Caudius Julianus not governing Dalmatia, and Egnatius Lollianus likewise in Bithynia-Pontus; all of them were of Consular status, devoted to the Gordiani, and men who could get things done. No point in crying over spilt wine. Menophilus had to think of something quickly.

‘Let good auspices and joyful fortune attend the people of Rome.’ On the tribunal, Fulvius Pius had begun the injunction which proceeded a proposal.

Menophilus stepped forward. Romulus and his slaves would provide the answer. With only a hint of irritation at this late intervention, he was granted permission to address the House.

‘Conscript Fathers, everything that has been proposed will gladden the hearts of our noble Augusti. Another fast ship will take the news to Carthage.’ No point in not reminding them where real power would soon reside, and his proximity to it. ‘Although I am but a Quaestor, my respect for the traditions and procedure of this House could not be more profound. As such, I hope my elders will forgive my temerity in reminding them of the date. There is only one mark against the Nones of March, and that is the letter N. On this day Romulus consecrated the Temple of Veiovis. Whoever you are, he said, take refuge here, and you will be safe. From that small beginning Rome took its rise. Our ancestors believed that no meeting of the Senate or people should be held on a day that is marked Nefastus. While fully supporting the proposal of Domitius Gallicanus, the amendment of Caelius Balbinus, and the call from Clodius Pupienus for the election of new Suffect Consuls, I move for a postponement to a more auspicious day.’

As he resumed his seat, every Senator present fell over himself to support his motion. Again, Menophilus tasted the bile of contempt. Nothing could be more urgent than restoring order to the city, and guarding Italy against Maximinus. Yet all the Conscript Fathers rushed to embrace the opportunity of a few days’ clandestine manoeuvring. Not one put the safety of the Res Publica before factional interest. Of course, much of Menophilus’ contempt was reserved for himself.

‘Conscript Fathers, we detain you no longer.’ The Consul spoke, the doors were opened, and the Senators began to depart.

Outside the rain fell, and the mob jeered.

Menophilus sat very still. The safety of the Res Publica must come above everything. He did not like to think about the previous morning, about Vitalianus. All that mattered was the safety of the Res Publica. Stern measures were necessary to secure the city. Sabinus had left Rome to the mob. Sabinus commanded six thousand soldiers, and was a friend of Maximinus. Something must be done about the Prefect of the City.

Chapter 9 (#ulink_51775703-0a2f-5f4e-beb1-43a96e11f764)

The Northern Frontier

The Town of Sirmium,

Eight Days before the Ides of March, AD238

Iunia Fadilla kissed her nurse for the last time. She closed the eyes of the dear old woman, and said her name. ‘Eunomia.’

Rain spattered on the window. Through the glass the world was dark and distorted. The rain had come down across the Danube the day before, melting the ice on the eaves and turning the snow in the streets to slush. It had come too late for Eunomia. The cold of the North had killed her. It gave Iunia Fadilla another reason to hate her husband.

Eunomia’s decline had been sudden, but there had been time to summon those who prepared the dead from their quarters outside the town. Now, the Pollinctores stepped forward in their colourful and sinister caps. They lifted Eunomia from the bed and placed her on the bare floor. They said the ritual words.

The end is to the beginning as the beginning is to the end.

Eunomia had been with Iunia Fadilla since the beginning. A happy childhood, peripatetic yet peaceful; the big house on the Caelian in Rome, the villa in Sicily overlooking the Bay of Naxos, the retreat in the hills of Apulia. Iunia Fadilla’s mother had been the granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius. Her father also was rich, and had had the good sense to keep out of politics. Eunomia had gone with her when she married old Nummius. If her nurse had been shocked by the couple’s life in their luxurious home on the Esquiline, she had voiced no disapproval. Eumonia had liked Iunia Fadilla’s lover Gordian. Sometimes, when she had taken a drink, she had said what woman would not be happy taking an agreeable husband and a vigorous younger man to her bed, separately or together.

If Gordian had proposed when Nummius died, things might have been different. Iunia Fadilla had thought he would, but he had claimed it was against his Epicurean principles, and by then he was more often abroad, in Syria then Achaea. As far as she knew he had not returned to Rome once in the three years since he went to Africa.

Widowed at eighteen, she had enjoyed her independence. Nummius had left her well provided for. She had the house on the Esquiline, and her tutor, her cousin Fadillus, was not the type of man to go against her wishes. In the round of parties and recitals, of visits to the baths and harmless flirtations, of quiet nights reading, she had grown close to Eunomia again.

Everything, except Eunomia, had changed when Vitalianus had come to the house. The deputy Praetorian Prefect had announced that she was to marry Maximus the son of Maximinus. Refusal was not an option when the man seeking your hand was the son of the Emperor. On the long journey north, Eunomia had consoled her with reports of her betrothed. The Caesar was tall, good looking. He was cultured, wrote poetry that rivalled Catullus. Rumour had it he was an attentive lover of women and girls; no danger he would be one of those husbands who preferred page boys, or was held back by stern Stoic principles. When he saw her beauty, he would not desert her bed for concubines or the wives of other men.