Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 22

The Northern Frontier

The Town of Viminacium,

Seven Days before the Kalends of July, AD236

The light was excellent by the big window at the top of the house. Flanked by her women, Caecilia Paulina sat and bent to her work. The tapestry was nearly finished. Cincinnatus was summoned from his ploughing, defeated the Aequi, rode in triumph through Rome and returned to his tiny farm by the Tiber, where his oxen still waited in their harness. Maximinus approved of Cincinnatus, took him as an exemplum. The tapestry was not large. It could travel in his baggage.

Paulina always worried when her husband was on campaign. It was Maximinus’ firm conviction that a general should lead from the front. There had been skirmishes, but so far the barbarians had retreated before the imperial army. The town of Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa had been relieved. In his last letter, Maximinus had said that he was marching north. He believed the Sarmatians and their confederates intended to make a stand somewhere in the further recesses of the province of Dacia.

In many ways, Maximinus was better off in the field. He was in his element surrounded by his soldiers, like a tyrant in his citadel. The image was ill-omened. Paulina paused in her weaving and put her thumb between her fingers to ward off harm. Maximinus was no tyrant. Her husband was many things — a fine general, a loyal husband, a man of antique honour — but he was no politician. He was well away from the intricacies of civilian government. Hordes of embassies and petitioners from all over the empire thronged the town of Viminacium. Macedo, and his Osrhoene archers who held the bridge, had detained them here. Apart from the military, the only travellers allowed to cross the Danube were those arrested for treason and their guards in shuttered carriages. Paulina was uncertain of the wisdom of re-examining those who had been acquitted or given a light sentence under Alexander. It could only increase the hostility of the Senators to the regime. But it was not Maximinus’ fault. The idea had come from Vopiscus. The rest of the consilium had supported the proposal. Certainly, the war demanded money. When the Gauls sacked Rome the rich, women as well as men, volunteered the ransom. When Hannibal was at the gates, the wealthy volunteered their precious things, even handed over their slaves, for the safety of the Res Publica. Such patriotism belonged to a different age. A time of iron and rust called for harsher measures.

Paulina resumed her task, leaning into the loom, beating down the weft with a wooden comb. She prayed for the health of her son. Maximus was too delicate for an army camp — although, it had to be said, it would remove him from temptation. His last outburst had pained her more than any before. The girl had been one of her attendants, from an equestrian family. Paulina had sent her away, veiled, in a closed carriage, to the farm of one of her own freedmen in the backwoods of Apulia. The girl could stay there until she was fit to be seen again in public.

Perhaps Maximinus was right. She had mollycoddled Maximus. He was her only son. The birth had been terrible. Afterwards, the doctors had told her that she would bear no more children. She had offered Maximinus a divorce. She owed him the chance of further heirs. He had dismissed the idea out of hand.

There were Consuls in her ancestry, but her family had been short of money. Maximinus had been a favourite of the Emperor Caracalla, and of his father before him. Her mother had been unwilling for Paulina to marry him and, although her father had proposed the match, his doubts were evident. They had left the decision to her. She had never regretted her choice. Now and then she wondered how different her life would have been if she had been blessed with beauty. She might have married into one of the great families of Rome. Her husband might have worn the elaborate boots of a patrician, might have possessed conventional good looks. They might have passed their days in echoing marble halls, the busts of his stern antecedents glowering down. Yet she doubted she would have been happier with her husband. Maximinus was a good man. He had a quick temper but, with her help, he could bring it under control. Above all, he had a noble simplicity and a greatness of soul. Their son could learn from his father.

There was much Maximus had to learn. Marriage often calmed the hot passions of a high-spirited youth. Paulina knew that would not be the case with Iunia Fadilla. The letter from her friend Maecia Faustina had told Paulina all she needed to know about this great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius. If Iunia Fadilla had inherited any of the goodness of her imperial ancestor, it had been irredeemably tainted by her first husband. Priapic despite his senility, Nummius had initiated her into vices which would have been abhorrent to a Corinthian whore. He had prostituted her, in his ancestral home, not for money but for his own perverse pleasure. Dribbling, the old goat had watched her debauched by other men before joining them in foul threesomes, spintriae such as even Tiberius had hidden away on Capri. Nummius had left her without any shame in her wanton immorality. Meeting her, respectable men and women recoiled from her kiss, from the impurity of her mouth. What Maecia Faustina could never forgive was the corruption of her brother. If a grown man like the Younger Gordian had succumbed, Paulina thought, what hope was there for a youth like Maximus? If only Maecia Faustina had written sooner, Paulina was sure she could have dissuaded Maximinus from consenting to this appalling betrothal.

The door was thrown open. A dishevelled girl rushed in like a maenad.

‘The soldiers … they have acclaimed Quartinus. The Senator struggled, begged them, but they put the purple on him.’

Poor fool, Paulina thought. Resisting will do him no good. Maximinus will have to kill him.

‘My Lady, they have torn the images of the Emperor from their standards. Those of the Caesar too. The Osrhoenes are coming here.’

There was pandemonium. The women wailed as if at a funeral. One fainted clean away.

Paulina forced herself to sit very still. If only Maximinus were not a hundred miles away.

Two of her attendants were pawing at her. ‘Come with us, my Lady, we will get you away, hide you.’

Paulina felt an urge to laugh at their stupidity. There was no place of safety except with her husband, and he was beyond reach.

They were tugging at her clothes.

‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘Hide yourselves. All of you, leave. It is the Empress they want.’

One or two scuttled through the door. Most remained, keening, rooted to the spot.

‘Go! All of you!’ If she had to die, she would do so with dignity, not surrounded by this display of womanish weakness.

A stampede of terrified women threatened to block the door. The one who had fainted revived enough to rush after them. Then they were gone. All but two: Pythias and Fortunata. Her high-born women had fled, but these two slaves remained.

‘Save yourselves,’ Paulina said.

‘We will not leave you alone.’ Fortunata bravely nodded at Pythias’s words.

‘Then rearrange my stola into respectability.’

Now the room was quiet, they could hear the gathering uproar through the open window.

A man barrelled through the half-shut door.

Paulina could not stop her sharp intake of breath, a slight start.

‘My Lady.’ It was Maximinus’ old body servant, Tynchanius. He had been with her husband all his life. Although promoted to Groom of the Bedchamber, Maximinus had said he was too old now for the rigours of campaigning. It was a kindness that looked to be about to cost Tynchanius his life.

The door swung almost shut.

Down in the street, men were shouting, all the more frightening for being in some eastern language. Then, from inside the house, came the sounds of things breaking, heavy boots on the stairs.

Tynchanius faced the doorway. He had a sword. His shoulders were shaking. Fortunata and Pythias stood in front of Paulina.

Two archers pushed the door wide. They had drawn blades. Tynchanius lunged. They avoided him easily, slipped past. Two more archers crowded in. The Osrhoenes ringed the old man. He slashed this way and that. The easterners stepped back, laughing. As his back was turned, one jumped forward, sliced the old man’s thigh. Tynchanius wheeled. Another cut him from behind. The old man staggered, flailing like a bear baited in the arena.

‘Leave him!’ Paulina shouted.

An Osrhoene grinned, perfect white teeth in his dark face. ‘As my Lady wishes.’

The soldier thrust. Tynchanius blocked. Another soldier drove his blade into Tynchanius’ back. The old man’s weapon clattered to the floor. His hands groped behind, vainly reaching for the wound. He collapsed.

The Osrhoenes moved forward. Fortunata and Pythias shrank back against Paulina’s knees.

Tynchanius was not dead. Through his own blood, the old man was trying to crawl to his sword.

‘Where is your commander?’ Paulina was surprised by the control in her voice.

The soldiers stopped.

‘Take me to Titus Quartinus.’

One of the soldiers said something in their incomprehensible tongue. The others laughed.

‘Stand aside!’

The ranks of the archers parted at the command from behind them.

Macedo Macedonius was in parade armour, his sword in its scabbard. The Greek took in the scene.

Tynchanius, trembling, slipping in the gore, was using his blade to lever himself up.

‘Kill him,’ Macedo said.

An Osrhoene brought his blade down into the back of the old man’s head, like a man chopping wood.

‘Take the girls, and leave. Amuse yourselves with them.’

Fortunata and Pythias wailed as they were dragged from Paulina’s knees. Their clothes were nearly all torn off before they were manhandled out.

Paulina remained seated. The arms of the chair were digging into her palms. Her breathing was harsh, like something ripped from her.

Macedo went and closed the door. He turned back and walked around the corpse. The pool of blood had spread across the marble floor, had reached a carpet and was darkening its silk.

‘What of your military oath?’

Macedo stopped. ‘None of this was my doing, my Lady. If I had not gone along with them, I would be dead by now.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘I will escort you to your husband. Trust me.’

Paulina hesitated. Hope can defy reason.

The door was pushed open. A tall middle-aged man with a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders and a wreath on his head came in. He was followed by six Osrhoene officers.

‘Imperator, your presence is not necessary here,’ Macedo said.

Quartinus ignored him, spoke to Paulina. ‘My Lady, you have my assurance you will not be harmed.’

Macedo turned to one of the officers. ‘Mokimos, escort the Augustus to the Campus Martius. It is time he made a speech to the men, promised them their donative.’

Quartinus opened his mouth but said nothing. He did not resist as two officers took him by the elbows and walked him out of the room.

‘Shut the door. Let no one else in.’

The last man out did as he was told.

‘While I have some authority over them, I can get you away.’

Paulina stood now. Although her legs threatened to betray her, she backed past the loom to the window.

‘We must be quick, before they shut the gates, set a watch on the bridge.’

‘Liar,’ Paulina said.

Macedo looked hurt.

‘Curse you, and your life.’

Macedo smiled, almost sadly. ‘Well, in that case …’