Blood and Steel

Chapter 17

The Northern Frontier

Sirmium,

Two Days before the Ides of March, AD238

Mark the day with a lucky white stone. Pour out an offering of pure wine to your Genius. Simple birthday rituals, time hallowed. They had always sufficed for Maximinus. But not for his son, not now he was Caesar.

Verus Maximus sat on his throne as if the theatre, the speaker and everyone else in it, as if the whole town of Sirmium and the imperium itself, all were arranged for his pleasure.

‘Since from you and your love of mankind we receive honour, dignity, glory and protection — in short, all the rewards of life — we would consider it a sin if we celebrated your birthday, the day that brought you into the light for the benefit and happiness of the entire world, more casually than our own.’

The orator spoke from the stage in front of the curtain. His tone was unctuous, the flattery immoderate.

‘All your young life, we have wondered what you would look like in the purple. Now, by the foresight of your noble father, we know. The people of Rome, the venerable Senators, the soldiers under their standards, all may be able to take an oath that there has never been a more handsome Caesar.’

A smile of complete and open self-satisfaction was spread across Maximus’ features. How had he become this creature?

Maximinus looked beyond his son to Iunia Fadilla. As usual, she sat very still, her face giving no indication of her thoughts. She was not veiled, and no bruises were visible. Yet the spies in their household reported that his son’s brutality towards his wife if anything had increased since the return from campaign. Maximinus would have liked to intervene, but there were limits to the powers of even the Emperor. He had never raised his hand to Paulina, but in the usual run of things a wife could expect physical chastisement. When the pervert Emperor Elagabalus had taken the part of a woman in a wedding ceremony, the next day he had appeared in public with black eyes to show it really was a marriage. It was all a question of degree.

At last the rhetor had stopped talking and vacated the stage. The curtain was lowered. The set of the mime was revealed as Mount Ida, a wild and deserted district. It was the story of Tillorobus the huge brigand who had terrorized Asia.

If you were going to celebrate your birthday with a theatrical show, why not something with gravity, something where the actors wore masks, one of the great tragedies? An Emperor was expected to attend such things. Now and then, in winter quarters, Maximinus had sat through some performances. Many of their subtleties might have escaped him, sometimes central parts of the plot as well, but he had understood enough to know that the hero or heroine of a tragedy exhibited fortitude in the face of disaster, even in the face of the gods. If the play had to be a mime, did it have to be a low farce about a cunning criminal? Why not something improving like the adaptation of the Eclogues of Virgil that Maximinus had felt obliged to attend the previous winter? It was not how he remembered life as a shepherd, but it had given an improving lesson in rustic resilience and simple virtue. At least this Tillorobus was not as filthy as something like The Adulterer Caught.

As the players, without masks or dignity, capered on the stage, Maximinus’ thoughts drifted. His old commander Septimius Severus had had the good sense not to let his sons arrange their own birthday celebrations. He had understood how such things should be organized. Nothing simpering and unmanly, instead military games: races on foot or horseback, archery, javelin throwing, sword fights with tipped blades, and wrestling. Severus had been touring the Danubian frontier, back from his second eastern campaign, when Maximinus had come into his presence. The games had been for Severus’ younger son, Geta, the one who became the traitor, who tried to kill first his father then his brother. Not that anyone had suspected such horrors then. At that point the imperial familia embodied concord, at least to those outside the Palace.

If Maximinus narrowed his eyes, the barren Asian hillsides of the stage props blurred and took on the more verdant hues of that day in the valley of the lower Danube. It was long ago, more than three decades. Yet to Maximinus, the memory of meeting Severus for the first time was as fresh as yesterday.

The stories people told about that encounter were wrong in large part. Volo’s spies brought reports, Apsines the secretary recounted conversations he had overheard. As Emperor, Maximinus barely recognized the tales told about him. It was like the blurred reflection of himself as a boy in the one tarnished mirror possessed by his home village. He had not been a goatherd straight from the hills. Severus had not set him to wrestle sixteen sutlers from the camp. Maximinus was unsure if the gossip was intended to boast his audacity and strength or reflect unfavourably on his lowly origins. Some said an Emperor was what an Emperor did. Maximinus thought it was more the case that an Emperor was whatever his subjects believed.

He had been a trooper in the auxiliary cavalry. The Emperor had noticed his great size. Severus had wondered if his stamina matched his physique. Maximinus had run at the Emperor’s stirrup until Severus himself had tired of riding. Matched against seven soldiers, Maximinus had laid them in the dirt, one after another. As well as the normal prizes of silver arm rings and belt ornaments, Severus had appointed him to his bodyguard, and handed him the golden collar Maximinus wore around his throat to this day.

An actor had minced to the front of the stage, and gazed up at Maximus as he recited.

Like to the star of the morning when he, new-bathed in Ocean,

Raises his holy face and scatters the darkness from heaven,

So did the young man seem.

Maximinus watched his son almost squirm with pleasure. When an embassy from Sirmium had greeted them on their return from campaign, Maximinus had stood, showing due respect for their age and dignity. Maximus had remained seated. The frumentarii reported that at audiences when his father was not present, Maximus stretched out his hand, and suffered his knees to be kissed, sometimes even his feet.

How had he become such a weak and vain and vicious young man? Maximus had been wilful and petulant as a child, but open and affectionate. Too easy and luxurious an upbringing, that was the cause. The expensive tutors that Paulina had insisted they hire had pampered and spoilt the boy. A relative of his mother had given him the works of Homer, all written in letters of gold on purple vellum. All too often Paulina had intervened when Maximinus had tried to instill some discipline. Maximinus should have beaten him more, beaten the insolence and self-regard out of him before it became ingrained, before he became a man.

The play was coming to an end. For all his tricks and disguises and evasions, Tillorobus had been captured. The big actor playing him stood weighted down with chains.

‘Emperor, may I have a word?’

Maximinus inclined his head. Flavius Vopiscus seemed to be getting no more enjoyment from the mime than his Emperor.

‘May I urge again that you grant Catius Clemens military command over all the eastern provinces?’

Maximinus pondered his answer. It was never his habit to answer questions of state lightly. ‘I do not consider it necessary. As governor of Cappadocia, he has two legions as well as auxiliary infantry and cavalry. Catius Clemens is well placed to watch over the loyalty of the other governors. We receive regular reports from Mesopotamia. Volo assured me the man he has suborned in the household of Priscus is reliable, and will inform us of any attempts at sedition.’

Vopiscus fingered the amulet he wore concealed in his breast. ‘Revolt is not our only concern in the East.’

Maximinus scowled. Even a man as experienced as Vopiscus failed to see things in their true light. He placed a massive hand on the thigh of the Senator, a gesture intended to reassure. ‘You forget, I served in the East. The Persians are no more of a threat than the Parthians were before them. Had Alexander not been such a weakling, the Persians would have been conquered. The true danger to Rome lies not with painted, effeminate orientals, but here in the North. If we do not crush the hordes of the northern barbarians, they will destroy everything we love.’

Vopiscus was not ready to let the subject drop. ‘The Persians claim all our territories as far as Greece and the Aegean. Our eastern armies have been drained by detachments for the northern wars.’

Maximinus mastered his irritation. Apsines often advised him that a good ruler did not speak or act in exasperation. ‘The true danger to Rome lies here in the North.’

There was a stir in the theatre. Many of the audience were regarding Maximinus, sly, knowing looks on their faces. An actor was holding forth.

And he who can not be slain by one, is slain by many.

The elephant is huge, and he is slain;

The lion is brave, and he is slain;

The tiger is brave, and he is slain;

Beware of many together, if you fear not one alone.

Maximinus tightened his grip on Vopiscus’ leg. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ The surprise and alarm in the Senator’s voice belied his words. ‘Some old verses written against violent men.’

Maximinus looked across at his son. The youth had shaken back his toga, the better to applaud. There was an arch expression on his girlish face. Unlike Vopiscus, the lines had not taken him unaware. Did he have it in mind to play Geta? Surely Maximus did not have it in him to bid for the throne over the body of his father?