Blood and Steel

Chapter 15

Africa

The Town of Lambaesis, Numidia,

Six Days before the Ides of March, AD238

They rode over the last rise, and Lambaesis was below them; the jumbled town on the lower slopes, the plain beyond, bright with spring grass, and in the middle of it the great, regular fortress of yellow stone, and beyond that the green hills, saw-toothed against the sky. Nothing in the scene lifted the dissatisfaction that was habitual with Capelianus.

He did not hate Africa, but he did not love it, and he had had no desire to return. For four years he had been governor of the province of Numidia. He had been meant for greater things. His grandfather had been Consul, governed Pannonia Inferior, and been friend of the Emperor Antoninus Pius. Admittedly his father had failed to attain the Consulship, and had squandered their money. Capelianus himself had mortgaged the ancestral estates at Cirta to pay the huge bribe to Alexander Severus’ mother for a belated Consulship. His patrimony had been almost exhausted by the next payment. He had hoped for one of the rich, major provinces, Asia or Africa Proconsularis, somewhere fitting to his dignitas, where he could recoup his losses. Instead that avaricious Syrian bitch Mamaea had sent him here. Numidia was a post for ex-Praetors, not those who had been Consul. It was held by much younger Senators, men not destined for the highest offices. Well into his sixties, and for four years he had been stuck in this backwater.

As he rode down through the streets of the town, the clop of hooves and the tread of the soldiers were drowned by the rumble and squeal of the big game cart.

Capelianus knew exactly when his career had stalled. It was when his whore of a first wife had cuckolded him with that old goat Gordian. No longer a man of promise, he had become a figure of ridicule. It was said the Emperor Caracalla had joked about it with his intimates. The court case had made it common knowledge. As Gordian had been found innocent, against all justice, Capelianus had not even kept her dowry when he threw her out. The threat of prosecution for the beating he had administered had come to nothing. He had not been fortunate with his wives. He had married twice more. Both had proved to be barren. Divorced, they had taken their wealth with them. In front of the required seven witnesses, he had said the words: Take your things and go.

They entered the base of the 3rd Augustan Legion by the rear gate and went up the Via Decumana towards the headquarters. The breeze was cut off by the barrack blocks, and the reek of big cat was strong in his nostrils.

At least the hunting had been good. They had been out twelve days in the mountains to the south. They had graded up through juniper and holm oak, up to where there were just cedars. Snow still lay in the hollows of the upper slopes. The steep-cut runoffs had been full of jade and white water tumbling and sliding over smooth stones. It had been cold at night, but the camp had been a pleasure. Big fires flaring bright in the wind. From outside his leather tent had come the ordered murmur of the men; not just soldiers and huntsmen, but bearers, skinners, cooks, grooms, and personal servants.

They had been too high for boar, yet the hunting had been good. Hyenas, two packs of wild dogs, three panthers, one with cubs, but the lion had been the prize. A big man-eater, heavy shouldered, with a fine, black mane. Capelianus savoured the memory of his first sight, as it padded through the trees. The beast had raided a mountain village. It had got into the sheepfolds. Escaping, it had killed a peasant, but taken a slight wound. Capelianus had planned with care. The camp and baggage animals had been protected by zeribas of thorn bushes. The bait, a gazelle and a mare, had been tethered behind the trapping box. Strong nets, secured to well hammered-in posts, had curved away on either side. Everything had been concealed by the fronds of cut branches.

The den was in a thick tangle of undergrowth and fallen boughs. Capelianus had sent in fifteen soldiers with big shields and burning torches. The lion had roared, an ascending thunder, ending in a guttural cough. It had reverberated in Capelianus’ chest, made his limbs clumsy with fear. The call revealed an older beast; old, wounded, and accustomed to killing men, dangerous beyond measure.

The lion broke cover. The soldiers came out after. The rough going had broken their ranks. The lion charged an isolated soldier, knocked him down with its great weight. Capelianus smiled, remembering the pinned man screaming. With teeth and claws, the beast tried to tear through the covering shield. Not until the brands singed its hide, did it turn and run into the waiting trap.

They had helped the soldier to his feet. He was not much injured, a few cuts to his arms and shoulders, but his breeches were soaked with urine. Everyone had laughed.

When they reached the rear of the Principia, Capelianus issued precise instructions about the care of the big cats. He would send the lion to Maximinus. The Emperor was an uncultured brute. He handled the Res Publica like a goatherd who had climbed into a racing chariot. The Thracian had shown no favours to Capelianus. Yet perhaps the peasant-Emperor would be pleased by the beast. Perhaps Capelianus might escape from Numidia.

The carts rumbled away, and Capelianus rode into the forecourt. A groom held the bridle, and he dismounted. A Centurion announced the men were drawn up waiting. Capelianus was back among the tedium of a governor’s duties: pointless inspections of troops, endless court cases, disputes over inheritances, complaints of soldiers’ greed and brutality, endless pleas for remission of taxes. Still, it was only five days until the Mamuralia. The local version of the festival had delighted Capelianus. In other places, they beat the empty hide of an animal. Here the skins were worn by an old man. Capelianus would tour the gaols, choose the prisoner carefully. He should not be too aged or infirm, not go down too easily under the blows. The scapegoat needed to be beaten all through the streets to the city gates. Capelianus wondered what happened to him out in the country. Most likely he died in a ditch.

Capelianus walked through the Basilica, and out into the peristyle courtyard. He went to ascend the tribunal, but a row of soldiers locked his way. An officer he did not recognize stepped forward.

‘Caius Iulius Geminius Capelianus, you are dismissed from your command.’

The officer who spoke had a short, stubby beard. His lined face and upturned nose seemed familiar. Capelianus did not recognize the two young tribunes who stood with him.

‘You are to be confined under house arrest,’ the older of the three officers continued.

Arrian, one of old Gordian’s legates. Capelianus knew him now. A friend of Gordian’s dissolute son. One of the pair they called the Cercopes, the lying, cheating twins of myth.

‘Fellow soldiers of the 3rd Augustan,’ Capelianus shouted.

‘Preserve your dignitas,’ Arrian said. ‘They have sworn their oath to our new Emperors, Marcus Antonius Gordianus Sempronianus Romanus Africanus Pius Felix Augustus, Father and Son.’