Blood and Steel

Ahead a dragon, red tongue lolling from gaping silver jaws, its scaled, green body twisting in the wind. Below it a chieftain, tattooed forearms protruding from gilded and chased armour. A well-equipped warrior holding the standard, others banded in front.

Roaring an invocation to the fierce deity of his native hills, Maximinus drove forward. The Rider God was with him. A flurry of blows, too fast to be accounted, and he was in their midst. Now other horses impeding his progress. Borysthenes was brought to a standstill. Maximinus’ shield was wrenched from his grasp. A clanging impact hit the back of his helmet. Vision blurred, he twisted this way and that, fending off the sharp, questing steel that would take his life. As if through a glass, he saw Javolenus and Julius Capitolinus trying to cut their way through to him. Too late, he was surrounded.

Death held no fear for him. Reunited with Paulina, he would ride the highland for eternity. But not yet. First the chieftain must die. Blocking a blow from his left, one from his right, Maximinus kicked Borysthenes on. The great-hearted beast shouldered through the tumult.

The chieftain swung at his head. Catching the sword on his own, the impact shuddered up Maximinus’ arm. With his left hand, he seized the Sarmatian’s wrist, dragged him off balance, then smashed the pommel of his own sword into the snarling face. Something struck from behind, hard enough to drive jagged, broken fragments of armour into his shoulder blade. Ignoring the pain, he brought the pommel down on the chieftain’s temple. The barbarian went down, his armour clattering.

Turning, seeking the next threat, Maximinus saw Javolenus hack down the standard bearer. The snarling dragon dipped, and toppled into the fouled, blood-stained slush.

‘They are running!’

Julius Capitolenus’ words held no meaning.

‘Augustus, they are beaten.’

Painfully fighting air into his chest, Maximinus took in the stricken field. The Iazyges were streaming away to the south. Those unhorsed and not too wounded to get to their feet were struggling to catch the bridle of a mount and follow. The rest – the living and the dead – were being butchered, mutilated and chopped into sides of meat.

‘Sabinus Modestus and the right?’ Maximinus was hoarse, his words a grating whisper.

‘Dead or chased off the field. But the auxiliary cohorts on the flank did not break. Maybe Sarmatian horses are scared of donkeys after all. The barbarians are fleeing there too.’

Maximinus felt no elation, instead nothing but pain and a weary relief. His plans had worked. His delaying had made the barbarians over confident. Exulting, they had thought to ride down a demoralized rabble. Their long approach, and the fresh snow had tired their horses. The battle was won, but now the advantage had to be pressed.

‘Open the ranks.’ Maximinus found it an effort to talk. His left shoulder was burning. ‘Have Volo’s light horse pursue them. They must be harried, not allowed to reform.’

As shouts and trumpet calls relayed his orders, Maximinus’ son rode up.

‘I give you joy of our victory.’ Verus Maximus was immaculate, his beautiful face radiant. It could not have been more evident that the Caesar had not fought.

Exhausted, blood-stained and wounded, Maximinus regarded him with disdain.

My sons will inherit, or no one, Vespasian had said. It was the attitude of all Emperors. Even Septimius Severus had let the treacherous Geta accede with his brother Caracalla. The Romans of old had been made of sterner stuff. When Brutus discovered his sons were trying to reintroduce monarchy, he had them dragged to the Forum, flogged, tied to a stake, and beheaded.

Maximinus looked away. High over the Steppe a pair of buzzards were circling, soaring on motionless wings. A man could disinherit his son. Those Emperors who had no son had adopted their heirs. Everyone told him, the will of the Emperor is law.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_73dc9f9e-3801-5a5f-a71a-02058bfee0a8)

Rome

The Senate House,

The Day before the Nones of March, AD238

Pupienus looked up and out of the window high on the opposite wall of the Curia. All the windows were open. The noise of the mob bore in like a spring tide. It buffeted among the gilded beams of the ceiling and broke on the heads of the hundred or so Senators brave or ambitious enough to attend. Kill them! Kill theenemies of the Roman people! Let them be dragged with the hook! To the Tiber withthem! Pupienus knew too much about the plebs not to despise them. He was glad the doors were bolted.

It was the first thing the Consul had done. After the clerks, scribes and other public servants had left, he had ordered the doors closed and barred. The Lictors stood guard outside. The ceremonial attendants of the few magistrates present would have little chance if the mob determined to force an entrance, none at all if the soldiers intervened. But it was better than nothing.

The religious observances hurriedly completed, the Consul had declared the Senate in closed session, and required the Quaestor Menophilus read the letter from Africa.

In the shadows, Pupienus sat with his friends and relatives listening. He had forgotten how dark it was inside the Senate House with the doors shut. The gloom smelt of incense and spilt wine, of unwashed men and fear. Pupienus drew strength from those around him: from his two sons and his brother-in-law, and from his two particular amici, Rutilius Crispinus and Cuspidius Severus. One could never overestimate the importance of family and friends in Roman politics. All those close to him were ex-Consuls, the last two, like himself, new men, the first of their families to enter the Senate. A solid cohort of men, devoted to duty and the ResPublica, they radiated dignitas, that untranslatable mixture of propriety, achieved rank and nobility of soul. The Greeks had no such word. That was why they were subjects, and the Romans ruled the world.

Menophilus had been reading the letter from the elder Gordian aloud, and now was coming to the end of it.

‘Conscript Fathers: the young men, to whom was entrusted Africa to guard, have called on me against my will to rule. But having regard to you, I am glad to endure this necessity. It is yours to decide what you wish. For myself, I shall waver to and fro in uncertainty until the Senate has decided.’

The elder Gordian had expressed the right sentiments in it. The throne had been thrust upon him. He had accepted not from ambition, but love of Rome. He had raised his son to share the purple from the same motive. He acknowledged the right of the Senate to give an Emperor his powers, to confer legitimacy. But, Pupienus reflected, was it all too weak? Should an Emperor waver to and fro, admit to indecision? Was not a certain measure of ambition laudable? And was there any chance the Gordiani, father and son, could prevail? Menophilus’ clever lie that Maximinus was already dead had bought them some time. It had summoned the plebs onto the streets, and sown indecision among the supporters of the Thracian. But now it was clear that Maximinus was alive, and what could stand against him and the might of the northern armies?

Before the Consul could proceed, the other envoy from Africa joined Menophilus on the floor of the house, and asked permission to speak. Up on the Consular tribunal, Fulvius Pius looked relieved the initiative had been taken from him, and he granted the request.

Valerian was a big man, in middle age. Clean shaven, short hair receding above a broad forehead, both his looks and his reputation proclaimed an open, trusting nature, not overburdened with insight. From a traditional Italian family of senatorial status, he had held the Consulship years before, and it had been considered to add prestige to Gordian the Elder’s term of office when Valerian had agreed to be one of the governor’s legates in Africa. Even so, Pupienus might have been reluctant to accompany him to this meeting – to put himself and those he loved at such risk – if Valerian had not arrived at his house with the Consul Fulvius Pius. In politics, as in everything else, one thing leads to another, like links in a chain.

‘Conscript Fathers, the two Gordiani, both ex-Consuls, the one your Pro-Consul, the other your legate, have been declared Emperors by a great assembly in Africa. Let us give thanks, then, to the young men of Thysdrus, and thanks also to the ever loyal people of Carthage. They have freed us from subservience to Maximinus, from that savage monster, from that wild beast, from that barbarian. The family of the Gordiani descend from the noblest Romans, from the house of the Gracchi and that of the divine Trajan.’

So that was how it was to be, Pupienus thought. Valerian would launch ponderous invective against Maximinus and laud the Gordiani with obvious praise. But would it be enough to sway the frightened yet calculating Senators huddled in the close, dark chamber?

Drag them, drag them with the hook! The shouts of the mob rolled around the Senate House, filled the pauses in the speech. Most Senators hated Maximinus and his son, for the confiscations, for the executions of their families and friends, for his casual lack of respect, ultimately for not being one of them. They hated him as keenly as the plebs outside, but, unlike the latter, they lacked the comparative safety of anonymity.

Pupienus ran his gaze over where those openly committed to the Gordiani sat together. Valerian was supported by his brother-in-law Egnatius Marinianus, and a more distant relative by marriage, Egnatius Proculus, the Curator of the Roads and Prefect of the Poor Relief. With Menophilus were young Virius Lupus, a fellow Quaestor, and the latter’s elderly father Lucius Virius. One coeval each of the Elder and Younger Gordiani was seated with them, respectively Appius Claudius Julianus and Celsus Aelianus. That was the heart of the problem. Gordian the father was so old that all his closest allies were in retirement or dead. Gordian the son had spent so many years in the provinces – most recently in Syria, Achaea and now Africa – the only associates who remained in Rome were relics of his disreputable youth. Like him, the handful of his friends who had grown into some responsibility were serving the Res Publica abroad; Claudius Julianus governing Dalmatia, and Fidus had charge of Thrace. Pupienus had a good memory, and prided himself on knowing such things.

As a faction those backing the Gordiani in the Curia were lacking in numbers and authority – a few greybeards, a couple of Quaestors and, the gods help them, the Curator of the Roads andPrefect of the Poor Relief. Yet they must be brave men, or perhaps merely foolhardy. Even the slowest or most senile of them must know that should the decision go against them today, the only way they would leave the Senate House alive would be while they were dragged the few paces to the Tullianum. Many enemies of Rome and innumerable victims of an Emperor’s animosity had been strangled by the executioners in that dank, repugnant subterranean gaol. Those prisoners who emerged blinking into the painful light only did so to be hurled to their deaths from the Tarpeian Rock.

‘Your choice is simple, Conscript Fathers, barbarian tyranny or Roman freedom. Continue to live in a besieged city, always in fear, or recall liberty to Rome.’

Only the other seven diehard Gordiani shook back the folds of their togas and applauded Valerian’s conclusion. Everyone else sat very still.

His face as impassive as that of the gilded statue of Victory that loomed over the tribunal, Pupienus surreptitiously surveyed the House. There were next to no Senators here closely tied to the regime of Maximinus. His eye fell on Catius Celer. His elder brothers had helped put the Thracian on the throne, but Celer’s expression was as unreadable as Pupienus’ own.

Much depended on the absent Prefect of the City. Sabinus had not been summoned. Yet soon, if not already, someone would inform him that the Senate was meeting, and by now he might know that Maximinus still lived. What would he do? With the Praetorian Prefect Vitalianus dead, Sabinus stood alone as Maximinus’ chief adherent in Rome. Potens, the commander of the Watch was of far less import.

No one knew better than Pupienus the latent power of a Prefect of the City. The previous year he had been unceremoniously removed from that office – insufficient zeal in his duties, the imperial letter of dismissal had read – and Sabinus appointed in his place. At the time Pupienus had been grateful to be allowed to retire into private life, glad to be left alive, his estates unconfiscated, his family unharmed. Subsequently it had come to rankle. Insufficient zeal had amounted to not turning the swords of the soldiers under his command loose on his fellow citizens, of avoiding a massacre. It remained to be seen if Sabinus would exercise the same restraint now he led the six thousand men of the Urban Cohorts.

In the lengthening hush – even the mob in the Forum had quietened – all eyes turned to Fulvius Pius. The Consul licked his lips, cleared his throat. ‘Following senatorial pro-cedure, I would call on the Consuls designate. But in their absence …’ He looked around the assembly, as if searching for some improbable salvation. Most of the Conscript Fathers looked away, studying the patterned marble of walls or floor. ‘I call on the Father of the House to give us his advice.’

An audible sigh of relief came from the benches – let old Cuspidius Celerinus speak, not them. The octogenarian levered himself to his feet with a walking stick.

‘A momentous day, and a heavy responsibility.’ His thin, reedy voice struggled to reach the back benches. Those behind him craned forward, turning their heads, cupping hands to ears. The next part of the exordium was drowned as the plebs outside burst into impromptu song: Fuck the Thracian up the arse, up the arse, up the arse!

Four Senators, led by the hirsute figure of the Cynic Gallicanus, took it on themselves to unbar the main door, and slip out. If any Senator could quiet the masses, Pupienus thought, it was the demagogic follower of Diogenes, and his like-minded coterie. Sure enough, a short time later the obscene chorus died, and they returned. Pupienus noted with a measure of alarm that they failed to secure the door.

Now quiet had returned, the Father of the House, who had continued inaudibly throughout, also fell silent. His head twisted on his scrawny neck, a display hideously reminiscent of a tortoise. Before continuing, he smiled, as if the new state of affairs were a product of his own oratory.

‘Only twice has this august house deposed a reigning Emperor. The first occasion was that disgusting actor Nero. Even I was not alive then.’ Cuspidius Celerinus laughed, a gasping, senile sound. ‘But the other time I was here. Didius Julianus had bought the throne at auction. Gesturing with his fingers up at the Praetorians on the walls of their camp. A more disgraceful spectacle has never been seen in Rome. We stripped from him the purple he was unworthy to wear. Didius Julianus was a drunk and a fool, but he was not a barbarian.’

The stillness inside the Curia was so profound the silence itself seemed to be listening.

‘Maximinus was born a barbarian, and he should die like a barbarian. Bloodthirsty, irrational, beyond all redemption, he will kill us all, if we do not kill him first.’

His powers were failing, Pupienus thought. Three years before the Father of the House had made a far better oration, distinct and sensible, with apposite echoes of Virgil and Livy, when he had recommended the Senate grant Maximinus all the honours and powers of an Emperor. And now … Still, when you were as near the underworld as Cuspidius Celerinus, there was little to hold you back from advocating fatal courses.