Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 13

Africa

The Town of Theveste,

Two Days before the Ides of May, AD235

Thank the gods for the baths at Theveste. Gordian had spent most of the morning in the laconicum. Lying in the dry heat, the sweat and alcohol had poured out of him. Now, although weak as a lamb, he felt somewhat better. Standing with the others on the top step of the temple, clad in his best parade armour, only a little queasy, he now thought he could get through the rest of the day.

It had been a good night, Bacchic in its frenzy. Alexander and his Companions had never drunk deeper. Menophilus had been less congenial than sometimes. Reverting to Stoic type, he had claimed duty called him and had left early. A shame: if you cannot rely on a man at a symposium, can you trust him on a battlefield? Of the others Valerian had been preoccupied throughout, but Mauricius good company and Sabinianus on sparkling form. Gordian looked along the line of waiting dignitaries and caught Sabinianus’ eye. The latter smiled back. Perhaps he had gone too far. After the others had departed, when his head was reeling from the wine, he had told Parthenope and Chione to disrobe. After they had pleasured each other, he had shared them with Sabinianus. Doubtless, many would disapprove, but he had no intention of being bound by provincial morality. Only what you share with your friends is yours for ever.

‘I do not see why we should pander to these barbarians,’ Valerian was saying. ‘Rather than negotiate with them, we should burn them out of their lairs.’

No one answered. Menophilus had his nose deep in some gilded official document.

‘If they are too remote, then we should extend the frontier defences, keep them out.’

Gordian thought the view of Valerian had much in its favour.

‘You know we cannot do that. We have to admit them.’ Mauricius spoke patiently.

Valerian grunted, not seeming mollified. At times, he had quite a capacity to be a bore. Last night, amid the food and wine and levity, he had inveighed at some length against the appointment of some new imperial Procurator. The man was a savage, a new Verres. He would not shear the provincials but flay them. They did not call him ‘the Chain’ for nothing. As the gods were Valerian’s witnesses, there would be trouble. The Africans were not the Sicilians Verres had tyrannized in the days of Cicero. Mark his words, there would be blood.

When Valerian had exhausted that topic, he had complained at length that, although his name had been put forward in the Emperor’s consilium, he had not replaced Julius Licinianus as governor of Dacia. After that, he had explored the causes and negative implications of the removal of one of his kinsmen by marriage from the governorship of Achaea. Egnatius Proculus had been appointed curator of roads and overseer of poor relief in a district of Italy: not quite an insult — but it had to be considered a step down. At best, Egnatius had lost his province only so that Rutilius Crispinus could take his place. But, even in that case, it indicated that the Egnatii were not high in imperial favour. And the reasons could be far worse.

Gordian studied Valerian’s disgruntled face. Valerian should count his kinsman lucky. That morning, news had arrived that Memmia Sulpicia, the mousey ex-wife of Alexander Severus whom Gordian had visited on his way back from Ad Palmam, had been executed. Neither her sex nor living quietly on her estate outside the backwater settlement of Vicus Augusti had spared her. The given reason was that she had been in correspondence with the traitor Magnus on the northern frontier. The killing had been the first action of this new Procurator. Perhaps Valerian had a point about Paul the Chain after all.

A trumpet call hurt Gordian’s head. He arranged his military cloak over his left arm, squared his shoulders, put on his stern Roman face. Someone had once said he looked like Pompey the Great. Alongside, the others straightened up too. The soldiers around the Forum came to attention. It had been Gordian’s idea to bring the deputation this far into the province, and to have a sizeable contingent of 15th Cohort Emesenes on hand. The speculatores had guided Nuffuzi past Ad Palmam, the scene of his defeat. Hopefully, the chief of the Cinithii might reflect on the extent and power of the imperium.

The arch at Theveste was typical of a small provincial town. Only two men could ride side by side through its gates. Aemilius Severinus escorted Nuffuzi into the Forum. Two nomads followed, then, in column of twos, the detachment of the scouts.

As the cavalcade crossed the open space, the auxiliaries shouted the password: ‘Fides!’ Ideally, at this point, the barbarians would be surprised, give evidence of their fear, perhaps cower or weep. That was what they did in stories. Nuffuzi did none of those things. Calmly, he rode up to a couple of lengths from the steps of the temple, and dismounted. A groom ran out to hold his horse. The two tribesmen jumped down and fell in behind their leader. Aemilius Severinus and his Frontier Wolves remained on horseback.

As Quaestor of the province, Menophilus descended to meet the embassy. He stopped two steps from the bottom. Gordian wondered if the nomads would find it strange that the youngest of those meeting them should take the lead. Presumably, they had nothing like magistracies in their ever-shifting encampments.

‘May the gods give you many greetings.’ Nuffuzi looked unchanged; the greying, long braids strung with colourful beads, the small beard on his chin, the air of unhurried assurance.

‘May you and yours be safe,’ Menophilus said.

‘No evil, thank the gods.’ Nuffuzi nodded. ‘On you only light burdens.’

‘No evil, thank the gods. May only good happen to you.’ Menophilus had gone to the trouble of learning the rituals of the desert. Apparently, it was bad form ever to ask who anyone was. That accounted for the reaction to Gordian’s words outside Ad Palmam.

The final ‘no evil’ having been said, Nuffuzi turned to business. ‘Your soldiers have turned back our people at the frontier. Since the time of the first men the tribes have crossed from the desert to the sown in the early summer.’

‘You crossed not long ago,’ Menophilus said. ‘You brought fire and sword.’

‘Those evils lie in the past.’ Nuffuzi might have learnt the language in army camps, but there was still an archaic stateliness to the chief’s Latin diction. ‘You need us. Your rich need our young men to help gather their harvest. Later, when the children and the women bring the herds, the animals will manure your fields. Your rich hire our warriors to oversee their workers in the fields. Unlike their own slaves and tenants, we do not steal.’

‘And you need us,’ Menophilus said. ‘Your animals would die without our grazing. Without our markets, your tents would contain no fine things. We will need assurances.’

Nuffuzi nodded. ‘My eldest son, Mirzi, is the joy of my heart. Although his absence pains me, let him remain among you as a hostage.’

Gordian had forgotten the youth, who stood off to one side of the temple podium, flanked by two auxiliaries chosen for their physique and fierce demeanour.

‘That is a noble gesture.’ Menophilus paused, evidently weighing his words. ‘The governor, the noble Gordian Senior, desires amity with the Cinithii. Sometimes the majesty of Rome grants honours to the leader of a friendly people from beyond the frontier. The citizenship of Rome, the title of friend and ally of the Roman people, these are things of consequence. Those especially trusted, once in a lifetime, might be granted Roman office over those peoples among which he lives. To be Praefectus Nationes brings a man honour, within the empire and outside.’

Nuffuzi remained impassive, but the two tribesmen murmured. So, Gordian thought, they know Latin as well. But had his father really decided to give office to this barbarian? His memory of the governor’s council back in Hadrumetum was clouded.

Menophilus produced the gold- and ivory-bound document he had been reading earlier. So that was the duty that had summoned him away from the revels of last night.

‘Friendship is sealed not just by words, but by actions,’ Nuffuzi said. ‘The eastern marches of your province have been plagued by bandits. Their village is in the hills south-east of Tisavar. It is not easy to find. My son will lead you there. The village is well fortified. There will be hard fighting. Mirzi is a warrior. He will fight in the front rank.’

Gordian glanced over at the Cinithian youth, at the bandaged right wrist where he had near severed Mirzi’s sword arm. How well would the boy fare now close to the steel? The thigh wound Gordian had taken in return still troubled him.

‘The leader of the robbers is a brigand called Canartha. He has plundered many caravans, many villages and villas. There is much wealth there. It would be a fine thing to take it from him. Should any be offered to Mirzi or his father, it would be well received.’

Gordian could not help but smile. Old Nuffuzi wanted to use the Romans to rid himself of a rival, and to get rich from their efforts. Still, Gordian felt the lure of action. He was better at leading men in the field than listening to lawsuits. That sort of drudgery was best left to dutiful young Stoics like Menophilus. Like Mark Antony, Gordian could revel in peacetime, then shrug off his pleasures and rise to the stern demands of war. If only his father would give him the command.

‘Friendship is sealed with oaths as well,’ Menophilus said. ‘Bring forth the standards.’

The silver images of Maximinus Augustus gazed down from on high. Handsome, his strong jaw clean-shaven, there was a look of the divine Julius Caesar about him.

The desert chieftain kissed the tips of his fingers, touched the palm of his hand to his forehead. ‘By the immortal Macurtam, Macurgum, Vihinam, Bonchor, Varissima, Matilam, and Iunam, the august, the holy, the saviours, I, Nufuzzi of the Cinthii, swear to be true to the Romans.’

As the uncouth names were recited, the pointlessness of it all struck Gordian. Why should these outlandish deities — or any other — care? The gods were immortal, perfect in their happiness, contained in themselves. If they could be pleased by offerings, or angered by inadequate rituals, they would not be content in themselves, and thus they would not be divine. The gods had no interest in the doings of men. But now, perhaps, Nuffuzi would think twice before he broke his word.