Blood and Steel

Chapter 12

Rome

The Mint, near the Flavian Amphitheatre,

Seven Days before the Ides of March, AD238

The die-cutter turned off the Via Labicana and limped into the alley. A man came the other way, and both turned sideways, their backs brushing against the bricks. The door to the Mint was about halfway along, on the left. He went down the steps and out into the open courtyard. Blue sky showed between the grey clouds. It did not lift his mood. The die-cutter had much on his mind. Work would help, it always helped.

Unshuttering his cubicle, he dragged his bench and stool to the front. His leg hurt. The wound had been long, but not too deep. Castricius and Caenis had washed the cut, stitched it, and bandaged it with clean linen. God willing, it would heal well. Man was born to suffer; life a vale of tears.

Sighing, he sat, and picked up the two obverses he had made the day before. He held them close to his face. His myopia was an advantage for his work. Unlike many of his colleagues, he had no need of polished lenses or other optical devices. Near-to, things had a jewel-like precision. He did not think his long range vision had got worse recently, but it was best whenever possible to work in natural light.

The Gordiani, father and son, gazed off to his right. They had a strong family resemblance; the long nose, the unbroken curve of the jaw from earlobe to chin. The cheeks of the older man were slightly sunken, the hair of the younger more receding. They were good pieces; no sign of hurried or careless workmanship.

The young magistrates in charge of the Mint had been amazed when Menophilus had appeared the day before. All three of the Tresviri Capitales had fawned on the Quaestor, even though he was little older than them. Toxotius was not too bad, but Acilius Glabrio and Valerius Poplicola as ever were contemptible. Menophilus had addressed them with a weary politeness, but mainly talked to the die-cutter. The Quaestor had said what was wanted and produced portraits that he had brought from Africa.

It was very different from the accession of the last Emperor. Initially no one had had the faintest idea what Maximinus looked like. The die-cutter turned that reign over in his mind. He did not hate the Thracian as did most of the plebs. He had had no objection when Maximinus had curtailed the games and spectacles or taken treasures from the temples, no objection at all. Making reasonable money, he had not suffered when the grain dole was cut back. Most likely the condemnations of leading men had been justified. The Emperor fought the northern tribes for the safety of Rome. The obscenely rich Senators and equestrians should have volunteered their wealth. Certainly the die-cutter had felt keen pleasure at the news of the execution of Serenianus, the governor who had persecuted his brothers in Cappadocia. But that had been before Pontianus and Hippolytus had been taken and sent to the mines of Sardinia. Their arrest had left the Gathering leaderless. He had been afraid before, but in the last year the terrible cellars of the imperial palace had haunted his thoughts and dreams; the ghastly pincers and claws wielded with refined cruelty by men without compassion. Once they knew who you were, they treated you worse than a murderer.

He replaced the obverses and studied the reverse dies he had cut. For practical reasons, as well as the greater variety of messages they carried, there always had to be more of them. Taking a greater strain in the minting process, they wore out quicker. Menophilus had issued general, but clear guidelines: traditional values, the mos maiorum, the centrality of Rome, nothing foreign or outlandish, the political experience and the unity of the Emperors. So far the die-cutter had produced Romae Aeternae, Providentia, and Concordia. He wondered how things would be under the Gordiani. They had been appointed by Alexander, and that Emperor and his mother had been gracious to some of the brethren. Better still, three of the freedmen in the Domus Rostrata, the great house of the Gordiani on the Esquiline, belonged to the Gathering. If Gaudianus, Reverendus and Montanus had influence, all should be well.

But the war was still to be won. The die-cutter shuffled through the papyri on his desk until he found his sketches: personifications of Victoria, Securitas, and Virtus Exercituum, the latter an innovation of his own, suitable for the circumstances. He took from his bag and unwrapped the three different drills, the burin and graver, the tongs and pincers, the cutters and files, the compass and pouch of powdered corundum. Taking a disc of bronze, he fixed it in a vice. He would start with the Virtue of the Armies.

Virtue meant different things to different men. Whatever the definition, the die-cutter knew he was far from it. For four years he had been an apprentice, not a full member of the Gathering. The usual time was two years, three at most. Four years of being watched, his behaviour scrutinized. And for all of them — the watched and the watchers — there was the constant fear of betrayal. As he had heard Pontianus put it, they must consider their closest friends, their own relatives as worse than their enemies, in fear that they would denounce them. The informer could be anyone. It could be Castricius or Caenis.

The die-cutter tried to put away his doubts. This life was good, but the life he longed for better. His own sins had prolonged his apprenticeship. Twice he had been demoted to the status of a Hearer, reduced to standing by the doors of the Gathering. The offence both times had been fornication. Soon he would have to go to his instructor Africanus and admit to the fight in the street. If he expressed true contrition, his punishment might be light.

And he knew in his heart, he deserved much worse. He had been there in the street when the soldiers came for Pontianus. As the mob surged around him, three times he had denied knowing Pontianus. When they howled for blood, rather than attract their anger, he had joined in their chants. Throw him to the beasts! To the lions! Should he confess, no amount of remorse would serve. In sackcloth and ashes, he would be led into the midst of the brethren and prostrated, an object of disgrace and horror. Before the elders and the widows, before them all, he would have to grovel, begging for their forgiveness, clasping their knees, licking their very footprints.