Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 6

The Northern Frontier

A Camp outside Mogontiacum,

The Kalends of April, AD235

Outside the imperial pavilions, Timesitheus stood with the governor of Germania Superior, Catius Priscillianus. Behind them, the others were growing restive. They were all waiting for admittance into the presence of the Emperor, and they had all been there some time. The morning was wearing on. The chill wind from across the river was plucking at the folds of carefully arranged togas, teasing neatly arranged hair into disorder. It was getting cold. Men were beginning to talk at more than a respectful murmur, and to shift about. Sanctus, the Master of Admissions of the court, darted here and there. The ab Admissionibus was relentless in his attempts at chivvying men back into the correct precedence and demeanour.

Timesitheus nodded in the direction of the busy imperial functionary. ‘If he had been this diligent in controlling who was let in during the last reign, Alexander would still be alive today.’

Catius Priscillianus laughed, not very loud, and not very long. That was perfunctory, Timesitheus thought. Far too perfunctory for a joke made by the acting governor of the neighbouring province of Germania Inferior, the man who was overseeing the finances in both their provinces and that of Belgica as well. Nowhere near enough for a joke by the man charged with the logistics of the whole northern campaign. And, questions of the elevation and propinquity of offices aside, Timesitheus was acknowledged to be one of the closest intimates of Priscillianus’ brother Catius Celer. Some greater show of hilarity would have been appropriate.

Still, it might have been just the weather. Priscillianus had not been back up on the frontier all that long. No time to get used to its ghastliness all over again. Timesitheus’ thoughts ran to his own initial venture into this gods-forsaken region years before. Nothing in his previous travels had prepared him. Leaving Greece for the very first time, he had passed through Italy on his way to his inaugural military command in Spain. A year later, he had retraced his route and beyond to Arabia. Another year — his career had flourished from the beginning — and he was sent to the North. Now it was more than a decade ago, but he remembered his arrival clearly. It had been autumn, the sky grey, the air sharp like a knife. He had not thought it could get colder. He had been wrong. That winter the Rhine had frozen, not only the shallow, winding side-channels but the main stream itself. You could walk across, drive a carriage over. The locals and soldiers, muffled and indistinguishable, had cut holes in the ice to fish. It was said that the frozen waters had trapped terrible man-murdering monsters so huge that teams of oxen had to be used to pull them out. Apparently, they looked like enormous catfish, only blacker and stronger, although Timesitheus had not seen them himself.

Priscillianus produced a handkerchief. A fine, purple one, maybe from Sarepta in Phoenicia by the look of it. Very expensive, Timesitheus thought. Priscillianus dabbed his nose. Hypochondria also might have curtailed his appreciation of humour. All three of the Catii brothers spent a great deal of time judging their health, and usually they found it wanting. Twenty-four-hour-fevers and two-day chills, black humours and common colds, each brought on by exposure to the elements or being cooped up inside, their lives were measured by many, much deliberated ailments. Even writing from Rome, exulting at his appointment as one of the Praetors for this year, Timesitheus’ dearest Catius Celer — the youngest of the brood — had complained of a headache, a sprained wrist and finding a snake in his bed.

Trepidation might have to be included in a consideration of Priscillianus’ state of mind. A level of apprehension came with any invitation to the council of an Emperor. This could only be heightened when it was the first consilium of the reign. Rewards would be handed out: magistracies, commands, proximity to the throne and influence. But, to clear the way for supporters and other favoured recipients, existing men must fall. They were all bound to chance, like Ixion to the wheel.

So far, only the permanent board of sixteen Senators had been allowed beyond the purple hangings. Some time ago, the Master of Admissions had said the provincial governors would enter next. There were five governors with the field army. Yet just Timesitheus and Priscillianus stood waiting in the wind. Given the turn of events, Flavius Vopiscus of Panonnia Superior would no longer need to mark time with the rest of the gubernatorial herd. But what had happened to Faltonius Nicomachus of Noricum and Tacitus of Raetia? One possibility was promotion. They might be inside already, ushered in by a secret door. Now snug and close to the Emperor, they were whispering into his ear with Flavius Vopiscus. Or perhaps they were riding hard to some new and prestigious post, to Rome or one of the great and wealthy provinces of Africa or the East, their anticipation and exertions warming their blood. None of the other possibilities was so good. Forced retirement was the best; a life of dissembling, pretending to be grateful for an existence free of the heat and dust of politics. Beyond that lay only some terrible combination of arrest, torture, condemnation and confiscation, exile and execution.

Yes, Priscillianus might be feeling a certain trepidation. Yet he was a nobilis, an aristocrat with two influential brothers and many ancestral connections. Timesitheus lacked those possible sureties. He had risen high — some would say too high. He was an equestrian from a Greek backwater. His main patron was elderly, and his sole relative was his own dependant. Timesitheus had no protection except his intelligence and an acquired fortune, and both attracted envy. He was more than anxious.

It would not have been so bad if his wife has been with him. On his decision, Tranquillina had remained behind in Colonia Agrippinensis. She was to keep an eye on Axius, the Procurator he had placed in charge of the province. It had been a mistake. Axius really did not need watching, and Timesitheus needed his wife by his side. She had ways of calming him, of putting things in a better perspective. And she had foresight; better than his own, he now had to admit. If she had been here, the coup would not have caught him by surprise and left him unprepared. He hated being unprepared. He was frightened.

Fear feeds on inactivity, like a sleek rat in an unfrequented feed shed. Timesitheus knew all about fear, although so far, somehow, he had never given way. The trick was to occupy your thoughts with something else. Now, he summoned up the outlines of the great commission laid upon him. But would it still be his task by the end of the day? He stowed the doubt deep down in the hold of his mind, battened the hatches. The image came naturally to a Greek from his island. Over the years it had served him well.

The logistics of a full-scale imperial campaign into free Germania were daunting. Vast numbers of soldiers and animals, huge amounts of food and fodder, mountains of ancillary items — tents, replacement weapons, boots and uniforms, prefabricated defences, dismantled siege weapons and bridging equipment, miscellaneous ropes and straps, ink and papyrus, sutlers, servants and whores — had to be assembled here at Mogontiacum and then moved into what remained largely terra incognita. Despite nearly three centuries of intermittent campaigning, the Romans were still remarkably ignorant about the geography of northern barbaricum. Before setting out from Rome he and some of the other advisers of the previous Emperor had used detailed itineraries to plan the stages of each day’s march to the frontier. All had been published in advance: which roads which units would use, where the supplies were to be gathered, when the Emperor would arrive in each town. Beyond the Rhine there were no maps, and all was vague.

In the East, the Euphrates and the Tigris helped. The great rivers ran away from Roman territory into that of the Persians. They made it harder to get lost. Supplies could accompany your forces downriver on boats. Movement of bulk goods was always infinitely easier and cheaper by water. The rivers of the North were not so amenable. Somewhere beyond the Rhine was the Ems, beyond that the Weser, and beyond them the Elbe. Timesitheus was diligent and had learnt of the yet more distant Oder and Vistula. All these rivers ran across the line of advance. If anything, they were likely to prove barriers.

And in the East there were roads and cities; proper roads which had been used for millennia, some of them paved, and Hellenic cities founded by Alexander and his successors. Both were lacking in the North. Nothing to march down, and no tempting target at which to aim. Nothing but tracks and woods, wilderness and marsh.

The absence of roads exercised Timesitheus. Almost all Roman units moved at least a part of their equipment by wagon and cart. These would all have to be replaced by pack animals. It would be expensive and resented. But it had to be done. What Timesitheus needed were accurate figures for existing transport animals and the numbers of men serving with the standards. The latter would prove particularly hard to get at, given the prevailing corruption of the previous regime. Under-strength units still drew the pay due their numbers on papyrus; the differences found their way into various private coffers.

‘Come,’ Sanctus said.

Timesitheus had not noticed the approach, but now followed the abAdmissionibus.

They passed through the heavy hangings into the purple-tinted labyrinth. At least it was good to be out of the wind. Sanctus led them left and right, this way and that, along silent corridors and through empty halls where unseen voices whispered. They went through shade and deeper darkness, seemingly turning back on themselves. At last, like initiates at Eleusis or some other mystery cult, they emerged into the throne room.

A shaft of light was arranged to fall from directly above on to the seated Emperor. The ivory of the throne gleamed. Maximinus sat robed and immobile, like a gigantic statue of porphyry and white marble.

On the right hand of the Emperor stood Anullinus. No surprise there, Timesitheus thought. Everyone knew there had been three of them, but Anullinus was the only one whose identity was certain. It was the Prefect of the Armenians who had beheaded the young Emperor and his mother. Camp gossip held he had stripped the old woman naked, outraged her headless corpse. Anullinus was wearing armour and a sword on his hip. Was it the one with which he had killed them? Had it been in this room? Motionless in the half-light, Anullinus’ eyes exuded brutality and menace.

Two togate figures on Maximinus’ left. Nearest to Maximinus was Flavius Vopiscus. It was common knowledge that the Senator from Syracuse, together with Honoratus, had orchestrated the change of regime. The latter was not yet returned from Rome. So Flavius Vopiscus stood closest to the Emperor they had created. The consummation of his designs did not seem to have lightened the demeanour of the Sicilian. As ever, he looked haunted. Pious to a fault or just riddled with superstition, it was said he dared not embark on the simplest endeavour — getting dressed or going to the baths — until he had consulted the sortesVirgilianae. How many times had he had to unroll the Aeneid and stab his finger on a random line before he considered the gods had guided him to one that read propitiously for the breaking of sacred oaths, for treason and murder?

The other toga-clad figure was less expected. Caius Catius Clemens — the middle of the three brothers — commander of the 8th Augustan legion and legate to his eldest sibling, the governor of Germania Superior. So Priscillianus had been more cold than apprehensive when they were waiting. A terrible thought caught Timesitheus. He could feel the teeth of the rat gnawing, hear the scrabble of its paws. His brother would have told Priscillianus everything that was about to happen. Perhaps, outside the pavilion, in front of dozens of witnesses, Priscillianus had not wished to be too closely associated with a man bound to the wheel on its downward turn. Again, Timesitheus hurriedly forced his fear down deep.

As was proper, the ex-Consul Priscillianus approached the Emperor first. Priscillianus came close and waited for a hand to be extended so that he could kiss the ring bearing the imperial seal. Instead Maximinus raised one of his great hands palm out.

‘While I reign, no man will bow his head to me.’ Maximinus’ voice was deep, grating like a mill wheel.

Timesitheus gave a manly, Roman salute; nothing of the Hellene about it at all. He could have been an officer of the old, free Republic before Cannae. That was an ill-omened thought. He altered the image to before the gates of Carthage or Corinth, or some other wealthy city through whose streets the Romans had killed and raped in their heyday.

Behind Anullinus there were two men: Domitius, the Prefect of the Camp, and Volo, the head of the frumentarii. The latter commanded the imperial spies and assassins and was feared throughout the empire. The former dealt with latrines, horse lines and bundles of hay. Yet it was the presence of Domitius that worried Timesitheus more. He had heard that Domitius had survived the coup, but he had not known that he had remained in his post. Timesitheus very much hoped Domitius had not been a part of the plot.

It had started some years earlier in the East. Three men — all equestrians — had been charged with securing the supplies for the Persian war of Alexander Severus. One had been Timesitheus, another Domitius. Timesitheus had taken no more than was customary; if anything, rather less: just the usual presents, certainly no more than one part in ten. His wife had chided him with his restraint; but then Tranquillina was ever boldness itself. The spouse of Domitius would have had no grounds for complaint. His peculation had been egregious. Units had marched hungry and with no boots, the money having vanished into the ledgers of Domitius. Each man had threatened to denounce the other. No charge had been lodged, but by the time the campaign limped to an inglorious close, the enmity was deeply rooted.

The third man who had dealt with the logistics now sat on the throne of the Caesars. In the East, Timesitheus had met Maximinus only once, and they had exchanged no words in a crowded council. But what he had learnt of the Thracian’s actions spoke of reasonable efficiency and complete, even priggish probity. Yet when, back in Rome, this campaign against the Germans became an inevitability, Alexander’s mother and senatorial councillors had decided that Timesitheus alone would handle all issues of supply. The role of Domitius had been cut back to digging ditches and mucking out stables. Maximinus had been assigned the role of training recruits. Timesitheus had interpreted that as a demotion. Now, he hoped the big Thracian had not seen it the same way.

The Senators of the standing inner council were grouped to the left of the throne. Seeing them in a group was never pleasing. They appeared to have been selected on grounds of advanced age and evident venality. Also, Timesitheus thought, they shared ill-favoured looks as a common possession. Petronius Magnus had the bulging eyes of some crustacean adapted to dim light. With his long, artful hair, Catilius Severus resembled an eastern priest, one of the scum who dance along the roads begging for coppers, clashing their cymbals and shaking their arses. The enormously fat Claudius Venacus seemed to have been dipped in something viscous. The other thirteen were hardly more aesthetic.

‘Let in the rest,’ Maximinus said.

Timesitheus followed Priscillianus to the opposite side from the sixteen Senators. This was too near Domitius for his liking. Timesitheus could feel the eyes of the Prefect of the Camp on him.

The others entered. Most, especially the Senators, tried not to push and shove, tried to preserve their dignitas. It was not easy. Too many men were trying to get in at once. Senators and equestrians, those holding commands and magistracies and those without, jumbled together. All wanted to get to the front, catch the eye of the new Emperor.

It had to be deliberate. Sanctus had been ab Admissionibus for years. Not a bad ploy, Timesitheus thought. Let them in at once, and have them demonstrate their own inferiority by scrabbling to get near you. Much more likely the hand of Flavius Vopiscus was at work than that of his putative ruler.

Sabinus Modestus struggled through the throng, grinning in a slack-jawed way. Timesitheus thought that, while his cousin might not be over-intelligent, at least he was good with his elbows and commendably loyal. Although, on second thoughts, it might be that Modestus had failed to realize the precarious nature of Timesitheus’ position.

Maximinus had sat serene apart from the scrum. Now, he got to his feet. His vast, powerful bulk dominated the space. There was a scabbard in his hand. With a practised, fluid motion, he drew his blade. While one or two of the other eminent Senators flinched a little, the bovine Claudius Venacus almost stumbled backwards.

Reversing the weapon, Maximinus held the hilt to Anullinus. ‘As my Praetorian Prefect, take this sword. If I reign well, use it on my behalf. If I reign badly, turn it against me.’

Anullinus took it, and the council applauded.

That either was brave or very foolish, Timesitheus thought. Had Maximinus not considered the fate of Alexander? Timesitheus was certain he would be in no such hurry to entrust his own survival to a judgement of his virtues carried out without advice by an ignorant, treacherous murderer like Anullinus.

Maximinus sat down, and indicated for Flavius Vopiscus to speak.

Timesitheus arranged his face. No trace of amusement, as he watched Vopiscus’ hand come up without volition and, through the folds of his toga, finger the amulet hidden at his breast.

‘A dispatch has arrived from Rome.’ The voice of Vopiscus was melodious, trained. ‘The Conscript Fathers have passed a decree awarding Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus all the powers held by previous Emperors. Their joy was unconfined. Their acclamations lasted for three and a half hours.’

More applause.

Was it a bulla? Did Vopiscus still wear the little model of a phallus designed to keep him safe as a child? Or was it something else — an Egyptian scarab, a piece of amber, a sculpted vulva?

‘Rome is secure and quiet. The incumbent Consuls Ordinarius have been told that their tenure will not be shortened. Of course, the virtues of certain men demand reward. Space must be found among the Suffect Consuls for Caius Catius Clemens, Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus and Lucius Flavius Honoratus, most likely others. But Honoratus himself has assured those already designated that their time in office will be little curtailed, and future preferment will be shown them.’

Vopiscus’ hand still toyed with the hidden object. The Emperor Augustus had worn a seal-skin amulet. This could be something altogether different: a fingernail or some small, desiccated body part of a drowned man.

‘Our most gentle and unassuming Emperor Maximinus has no desire to deprive other men of their honours. In his magnanimity and modesty, he has decided not to hold a Consulship until next year. Then he will enter into office on the kalends of January with Marcus Pupienus Africanus as his colleague.’

Maximinus himself interrupted. ‘I do not want to forget the sons of the commanders of my youth here in the North. The following year, Lucius Marius Perpetuus will be one of the Consuls Ordinarius. And Pontius Proculus Pontianus the year after that.’

Now that was ill-advised, Timesitheus thought. Although, these days, the role was almost entirely ceremonial, to be Consul, especially to be one of the two after which the year was named, was still the life ambition of many Senators. The nobiles regarded the office as a birthright, and others wanted to join them. To begin to allocate the position years in advance was sure to alienate a large number in the Curia.

‘Your piety does you credit, Caesar.’

Was there something else in Vopiscus’ tone, something implying that the words of Maximinus said less commendable things about other aspects of the new Emperor’s character? Vopiscus was not to be under-rated. There was an asperity beneath the daemon-ridden exterior of the Senator.

‘Since the death of Ulpian, no one can claim greater eminence in the field of law than his pupil Herennius Modestinus. The greatest jurist of his generation must stand by the Emperor advising him as his a Libellis. The new Secretary for Petitions is on his way north. His previous post as Prefect of the Watch has been granted to Quintus Potens.’

Like the tumblers and levers of a well-made lock, the pieces shifted together in Timesitheus’ mind. It had been neatly done. A Consulship for each of his sons, the younger as colleague of the new Emperor next year, had bought Pupienus, the Prefect of the City, and with him had come the six thousand men of the Urban Cohorts. The offer of the most important legal post in the empire had eased Herennius Modestinus out of Rome. His command of the seven thousand vigiles had been given to a man well linked to the new regime. Potens had been Prefect of the Parthian cavalry here with the field army. His brother-in-law was Decius, the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis. Decius was from a family which, time out of mind, had held wide estates across the Danubian lands. These stretched into Maximinus’ native Thrace, and Decius himself had been an early patron of the Thracian trooper’s career. With the vast majority of the Praetorians here on the Rhine, all the soldiers that mattered in the eternal city were in the hands of Maximinus’ men. Vopiscus might be riddled with superstition, but he and the urbane Honoratus had seized control of Rome with admirable skill.

‘Here in the North, we face a terrible war,’ Vopiscus continued. ‘Everything must be done to ensure victory.’

This was the moment. Timesitheus smelt the fetid breath of the rodent, felt its wet muzzle seeking his throat.

‘The governors of Moesia Superior and Pannonia Inferior, Titus Quartinus and Autronius Justus, have served dutifully. It is time they had a certain relaxation from their arduous labours. They have been summoned here to join the imperial court.’

Timesitheus forced himself to breathe normally. Quartinus was tall, scholarly, ineffectual. The cultured Senator might have escaped lightly.

‘Their former provinces will be governed by Tacitus and Faltonius Nicomachus.’

So that was where the two had gone. Advancement, not condemnation; the wheel was turning up for them. Tacitus, of course, was another northerner.

‘Quintus Valerius will be the acting governor of Raetia, and Ammonius of Noricum.’

Two equestrians, one the commander of the Cataphract heavy cavalry, the other of an irregular unit of Britons. Both promoted above all expectation or likelihood. That answered the question of who the other two armed men in Alexander’s tent had been. Gods below, what would come next? Timesitheus had to keep a brave face, keep his wits about him.

‘Our Emperor is minded to make no other changes for now among the governors of the North.’

Hollow with relief — Zeus Protector, he still had his offices — Timesitheus was not going to let it show.

‘Commanders will be assigned to vacant units at the next meeting of the council.’

The Armenian and Parthian mounted bowmen, the British infantry and the Cataphract horsemen; cousin Modestus might not make too bad a mess as Prefect of one of them. Timesitheus began wondering how he might bring it about. He had always recovered fast.

Vopiscus waved for a Senator with his hand up to speak.

‘While we fight on the Rhine, the province of Dacia holds the key to the Danube.’

The intervention came from one of the standing council, but was unexpected. Smooth and oiled, Vulcatius Terentianus had made a career out of quietism. He had never been known to strike out against the current, never to utter his real opinions, certainly never to stake anything on the truth. Who had put him up to this?

‘With the armies of the provinces of the Pannonias and the Moesias stripped to provide detachments to the field army, Dacia becomes the bulwark which must hold the barbarians north of the river. The Sarmatians and the Goths will press hard. Other tribes will join them. It will demand much of the man who opposes them. Julius Licinianus is a man of proven ability and loyalty. But he was Consul many years ago. Dacia needs a younger man at the helm.’

Vulcatius’ eyes flicked to Domitius. The Prefect of the Camp already had his hand up for permission to speak. It was given.

‘The wisdom of years of debating imperial counsel and of profound learning from the records of history inform the words of the noble Consular Vulcatius Terentianus. If I may endorse his proposal from my much lower but practical perspective.’

Gods below, Domitius was an oily, repulsive little reptile. As if anyone could mistake the precious verbosity of this jumped-up member of the vile hoi polloi for the words of a man of culture.

‘And if you allow me the further temerity to proffer the names of two men: Licinius Valerian and Saturninus Fidus. Both combine long military experience with civil governance, the decisiveness of youth with the prudence of maturity.’

And both are close with the Gordiani, father and son, who are governing Africa. Timesitheus wondered where the initiative lay; with the senatorial family, or this equestrian’s desire to ingratiate? This had to be stopped before it gathered momentum. Hand up, Timesitheus was stepping forward before he knew what he was going to say.

Vopiscus was pointing at him. They were all looking at him. The great, white face and great, grey eyes of the Emperor Maximinus were turned on him.

‘The defence of Dacia demands experience. Neither Valerian nor Fidus has commanded an army in the field. Licinianus has fought the Carpi, the Sarmatian Iazyges, and the free Dacians. He is too modest to boast it himself, but the noble Consular Licinianus has yet to be defeated.’

‘And the Peukini.’ Everyone looked at Maximinus when he spoke. ‘The Greek is right. Licinianus is a good leader of men.’

Timesitheus dipped his head, not enough to be a bow. ‘Yet your Prefect of the Camp is not altogether mistaken, my Lord. Combining the duties of peaceful administration with leading an army taxes any one man.’ Domitius had not said anything of the sort, but that did not matter.

Maximinus grunted assent. ‘Civilians always get in the way when you need to fight.’

‘To free Licinianus to concentrate on the defence of the frontier, you might appoint a deputy to whom he could delegate the more time-consuming civil affairs, finances especially.’ Timesitheus pressed his advantage. ‘Quintus Axius Aelianus has served as Procurator of the imperial treasury in Africa, in Spain and here in the North. He has shown his worth governing Germania Inferior in my absence.’

‘Let him be appointed,’ Maximinus said.

Behind the Emperor’s back, Vopiscus and Catius Clemens exchanged a glance. The latter shrugged almost imperceptibly.

Furious, Domitius did not wait for permission to speak. ‘With you and your deputy absent, who will govern your province — your wife?’

Timesitheus counted to five before replying. ‘She might not do badly.’ He made a little gesture towards Domitius. ‘Probably better than some.’

Maximinus looked over his shoulder. A slow grin spread across his face. And everyone laughed, even Vulcatius Terentianus. No one could ever fail to share imperial mirth. After a few seconds, Domitius forced his expression into something like a smile.

Resuming his survey of the empire, Vopiscus turned to the West. The governors of Aquitania in western Gaul and Baetica in southern Spain needed to be replaced. One was ill, and had asked to retire; the other had died. There was nothing suspicious in either case. The provinces were unarmed — just a few auxiliaries — both militarily overlooked by the 7th Legion in Decius’ Hispania Tarraconensis, so the new regime could allow debate on the appointments.

One councillor after another urged the merits of a friend or relative. Timesitheus was quiet. He had no one in particular to advance. Anything was possible, but you had to pick your battles. Demurely, he kept his gaze lowered, just glancing up to register each new speaker. Below the modulated voices of the council of imperial friends, from somewhere beyond the hangings, he heard rougher men calling orders. The silentarii had been more in control in Alexander’s reign. But perhaps their numbers or morale had suffered when their last imperial master was cut down. Insignificance had not saved all the household. Even the glutton had been killed.

Domitius was not talking either. Timesitheus became very aware of the Prefect of the Camp staring at him. His hands hidden in his toga, Timesitheus averted the evil eye; thumb between first and middle finger. He was not superstitious. If they existed, the gods were far away and had no interest in mankind. He did not believe in daemons, ghosts, werewolves or bloodsucking lamia. But it was as well to take precautions. Back on Corcyra, his old nurse had told him of certain evil men and women who could focus their envy and malice through their eyes and send out a stream of invisible dust which surrounded and slipped into their victims. Illness, madness — even death — might result. Out beyond the frontiers there were tribes who could kill with a glance. Since then, in his reading and at symposia across the empire, he had found grown men of high culture who largely shared the views of the peasant woman who had nursed him.

‘Africa, nothing much new out of there.’ Vopiscus was into his flow. He no longer needed the amulet, but was making sweeping oratorical gestures. ‘Gordian and Capelianus will keep a close eye on each other.’ Vopiscus winked, like an actor in a mime.

Timesitheus was already laughing, joining in with everyone else, before his memory supplied the reason for the mirth. Back in the reign of Caracalla — half a lifetime age, long before he entered public life — there had been a scandal. The elder Gordian had been charged with adultery with the wife of Capelianus. Gordian had been guilty, yet he had been acquitted. Gordian’s career had been retarded, and Capelianus had divorced his wife. As she had been declared innocent, Capelianus had been cheated of his hopes of hanging on to her dowry and other property. The men had blamed each other for their misfortunes. Now they had ended up as the governors of the neighbouring provinces of Africa Proconsularis and Numidia, and still they detested each other.

Lechery must run in the blood, Timesitheus thought. All the Gordiani were like sparrows, avid for intercourse, and always with women. The son had been servicing the young wife of old Nummius — what was her name? — until he went to be his father’s legate in Africa. Old Nummius had been complacent. It was said he had liked to watch, then join them. It was also said her demands had brought about his demise. There were worse ways to go. She was blonde, attractive. What was her name?

‘Mauretania Caesariensis is another matter.’ All humour was gone from the manner of Vopiscus. He had his serious, tragic-actor mask on. ‘Orders have been sent for the arrest of the governor. He will be brought here to face charges of treason.’

Simple chronology ruled out sedition. Alexander had been killed eight days before the ides of March. Today was the kalends of April. Twenty-five days, counting inclusively, as almost everyone did. Not enough time for news of Maximinus’ accession to reach Africa, the governor to say or do something seditious, a report to travel to the Rhine and frumentarii to be sent to arrest him. Timesitheus knew little about the fallen governor of Mauretania Caesareniensis, but now he knew the man had an enemy among the inner circle around the new Emperor. But who? And why? It could be one of the Senators Flavius Vopiscus or Honoratus, the new Praetorian Prefect Anullinus, one of the other equestrian assassins Quintus Valerius or Ammonius. And, Timesitheus thought, he should not overlook Catius Clemens; being the brother of his friend did not preclude a murderous vindictiveness. There again, it could be another who had not yet shown his hand. It could be Maximinus himself.

Domitius was speaking. ‘Vitalianus has served the traditional equestrian career with distinction. He commanded an auxiliary cohort in Britain, was a legionary tribune with the 3rd Augustan in Africa, the Prefect of a cavalry unit here on the Rhine, and a Procurator of imperial finances in Cyrenaica. For the last four years he has commanded the Moorish cavalry, leading them through the difficult fighting of the Persian campaign. Twice in Africa, a proven military man, accustomed to the ways of the Moors; there could be no better candidate for the governorship of Mauretania Caesariensis.’

Several hands went up. Maximinus nodded towards Timesitheus.

‘There is no doubt Vitalianus is a fine soldier, and there are always brigands to catch and a few barbarian raiders to chase. But Mauretania Caesariensis is not the scene of a war. The wider protection of the African frontier is in the hands of Capelianus and his 3rd Legion in Numidia. Peaceful provinces, like Mauretania Caesariensis, call for different expertise and experience.’

The eyes of Maximinus were as blank and as watchful as those of a big cat. Timesitheus ploughed on.

‘Gaius Attius Alcimus Felicianus has commanded troops, but most of his life has been devoted to serving the Res Publica in civil capacities. He has been an advocate of the imperial treasury, run the Transpadane poor-relief and been a Procurator in all the four Gallic provinces. For the last two years he has been in charge of the inheritance tax. As you know, he cleaned out an Augean stable of corruption, and again monies flow unimpeded into the military treasury. Without his work, this field army would be an impossibility. Loyal and industrious, the next step for him must be a province.’

As he stopped, Timesitheus felt a coolness emanating from the throne. Certainly, a bureaucrat like Alcimus Felicianus was not obviously going to appeal to an Emperor risen from the barracks.

‘You have never been in either of the provinces of Mauretania?’ Maximinus did not pause for an answer. ‘Before I was Prefect of Egypt, I governed Mauretania Tingitana. The high country runs for hundreds of miles through Caesariensis; good for sheep and bandits, and beyond are the Atlas Mountains and the nomads. Endless tribes of nomads: the Baquates, the Macenites, the Melanogaitouloi, the Quinquegentiani — long, uncouth names; violent, uncouth men. Their chiefs come to the negotiating table at the point of a sword. Peace comes after the stench and horror of massacre.’

Maximinus’ voice had thickened. He stopped talking, his gaze far away, as if on old, unhappy sights. No one spoke. On its low altar, the sacred fire ticked.

A metallic crash. Somewhere beyond the hangings someone had dropped something. Maximinus came back from wherever he had been. He rallied, spoke almost conversationally. ‘So you are wrong, little Greek, there is much marching and fighting and talking to barbarians to be done in the Mauretanias. Legal advocacy, knowledge of the laws concerning wills or poor children; they are less use there than a good seat on a horse and a strong right arm. Let the soldier, Vitalianus, be appointed.’

Timesitheus nodded; it could be taken for nothing but a bow. Fuck! How had he forgotten? Of course Maximinus had campaigned in Mauretania; the stupid, bloodthirsty barbarian would have started a war in the Elysian Fields. Fuck.

Domitius was smirking at him. A space seemed to have opened around him, around the object of imperial rebuke. Even his brainless cousin was giving him a strange look. Probably, Modestus was trying to remember where he had heard the phrase ‘Augean stable’.

Vopiscus had now moved on to the East. The Prefect of Egypt was a creature of the late tyrant’s mother. No one should profit from vice. Another equestrian officer was en route to arrest him, and take control of Egypt.

Timesitheus was so angry, he could scarcely listen. Little Greek. It was bad enough when Romans called a Hellene a Greek, let alone a Graeculus. And here was this hulking, ugly Thracian barbarian calling him little Greek; calling him Graeculus, in front of the entire imperial counsel. Graeculus — one step up from Boy. And a Thracian saying it! Maximinus probably had ancestral tattoos hidden under that toga. It was a wonder he did not file his teeth into points.

Like any upper-class Hellene, Timesitheus saw all Thracians through the smoke of the sack of Mycalessus in Thucydides. Once read at school, the passage could never be forgotten. It was just after dawn, the citizens of the small Boeotian town innocently stirring, when the Thracians burst in through the open gates. There was confusion on all sides, and death in every shape and form. They cut down everyone; the women and the old alike, the farm animals, every living thing. The children had taken refuge in a school building. The Thracians broke in and killed every one of them.

Domitius was still smirking at him. You little fucker, Timesitheus thought. One day I will lead you out for execution. Not the clean blow of a sword for you. I will have you nailed up on a cross like a slave, or killed the ancient way, stripped and hooded, bound to a barren tree and scourged until your backbone shows through the flesh, or thrown down on the floor of the arena, mauled by the beasts amid your own filth and fear.

The tramp of many feet could be heard behind the curtains, like a herd of clumsy servants. Vopiscus had stopped talking. Timesitheus had half heard him announce that Crispinus would move to Achaea, and Pomponius Julianus replace him in Syria Phoenice; all other eastern governors were to remain in place. It took him a moment to realize the import: his friend Priscus still held Mesopotamia.

Maximinus rose from the throne. Anullinus closed up beside him. Anullinus drew his sword. Everyone else looked at each other.

‘Now!’ Maximinus called.

On all sides hangings were pulled back. The heads of the counsellors swung in all directions. Everywhere the gleam of armour, the nod of plumes, as the Praetorians filed in and surrounded the consilium.

Annealed in the fires of imperial politics, none of the counsellors cracked. Timesitheus saw the hands of one or two go to the special rings many Senators wore; the rings which contained poison. Vopiscus was clutching his amulet. He and Catius Celer looked at each other, each probing the other for betrayal. Timesitheus arranged his face.

‘War is a hard master,’ Maximinus said. ‘We must advance to the Ocean, or the Germans will take Rome. It is a war to the death. On one side civilization, on the other darkness. Everything must be sacrificed to bring victory. There is no time for the luxuries of peace, no time for endless talk. Everything in the empire must be subject to military discipline.’

Maximinus turned to the standing board of sixteen. ‘The Res Publica is grateful to you. Conscript Fathers, we detain you no longer.’

Timesitheus watched the good and the great, the possessors of famous names and the designers of beautiful careers. Some could not hide their shock and anger; the eyes of Petronius Magnus bulged with fury, and the effeminate Claudius Severus was almost spitting. Others, like the unctuous Vulcatius Terentianus, appeared relieved still to be alive. The rotund Claudius Venacus blinked as if unsure what was happening.

With unconscious cruelty, the Praetorians gave the dismissed councillors time — one by one — to gabble their thanks, before driving them from the imperial presence.

Now, that was interesting. Timesitheus watched them leave. Sixteen rich, influential men, all thoroughly alienated and full of resentment; now, that could be useful to someone.

Flavius Vopiscus and Catius Celer were still staring at each other.

Well, well, Timesitheus thought, neither of you saw that coming. Your little Thracian is not as tame as you thought.