Blood and Steel

Chapter 18

Africa

Carthage,

The Day before the Ides of March, AD238

‘A scholar gets up one night and jumps into bed with his own grandmother. His father finds him at it, and starts giving him a beating. “Hey,” shouts the scholar. “All this time you have been screwing my mother without a word from me, and now you get angry when you catch me just once on top of yours?”’

The buffoon bowed as the dinner guests laughed. Gordian joined in, gingerly. He had had worse hangovers, but seldom. Yesterday afternoon at the gladiatorial games, he and Sabinianus and Vocula, the new Praetorian Prefect, were already drinking when the messenger arrived in the imperial box. When the news was announced, the crowd had cheered wildly, and Gordian had spared all those out on the sand. After that he had called for unwatered wine. The rest of the day was a blur. Isolated incidents came back to him with absolute clarity — a retarius tangled in his own net, an ostrich running a complete circuit after an arrow had taken off its head, being supported back to the Palace, more drinking with just Sabinianus, the girls sliding out of their clothes, Chione and Parthenope busy together on a couch, then servicing both men at once, improbable arrangements of limbs and bodies. There was no narrative to it, only disconnected moments, like scattered scraps of papyri saved from a fire. Still, any man could be forgiven a bacchanalian celebration when he had been told that Sabinus was dead, and all the troops in Rome had declared him Emperor. He hoped he had rewarded the messenger. The man had braved the terrible storm to reach Carthage.

‘A scholar’s father orders him to put out the child he is having by a slave girl to die of exposure. The scholar says, “Bury your own child, before you tell me to get rid of mine.”’

Gordian was sweating. This morning the household had been purified with fire and water, ready for this ninth-day feast. On the way out to the villa of Sextus, they had poured libations at the grave of Serenus. Neither the rituals nor the walk had done much good. He felt hollow, light-headed, his thoughts incoherent.

‘The son of a rich scholar dies. Seeing so many people turn up at the funeral, the father laments that he has only one small boy to bury in front of such a large crowd.’

Gordian did not have a son. He had never married. Epicurus had said a man should take a wife, and sire children, only if the circumstances were right. They never had been. Epicurus had accepted some men would always be diverted. Gordian had provided for all the offspring he had got on servant girls and concubines. Girls as well as boys, none had been exposed. The villa of the Gordiani on the Via Praenestina outside Rome was thronged with slaves with his features.

He had always been compassionate to a fault. As a child, when other boys were beaten by their pedagogue, he had been unable to restrain his tears. Only today he had rejected a petition from the Carthaginians to restore the rites of the Mamuralia to their original form. If the gods existed, and noticed mankind at all, he could not imagine what pleasure they would derive from the spectacle of an elderly derelict or criminal dressed in skins being beaten savagely through the whole city. Let the superstitious citizenry thrash the empty hide of an animal.

‘A scholar heard that only the judgements in Hades are just. Since his hearing was in court, he hanged himself.’

The buffoon was more suited to a barbershop. He was losing his audience. Gordian looked around at his fellow diners: his father and Sabinianus, the locals appointed to high command, Mauricius, Phillyrio and Vocula, the commanders of the two regular units, Suillius and Alfenus, and Thascius Cyprianus. The latter had been invited out of politeness, as he had conducted the sacrifice at Serenus’ funeral. None appeared over impressed by the entertainment.

Sabinianus lobbed a snail at the buffoon as he left. The jokes had been old, but at least they had diverted Thascius and his father from an earnest Stoic discussion of the moral dangers of the theatre. The former had been expounding how people learn to commit adultery, incest and murder by watching it, and other nonsense.

The food had been good so far. Snails cooked in a wine and parsley sauce, eggs stuffed with minced crayfish, a salad of rocket, chervil and lettuce. Often in this state he was ravenously hungry. After his exertions last night, Gordian had concentrated on the snails and picked the lettuce out of the salad. That and quite a few of the hairs of the dog that had bitten him. He required all the help he could get, if he was to perform again later. Parthenope and Chione would expect no less. The next course was to be a wrasse. No fish was keener on copulation. More arse-chasing than a wrasse, as the saying went.

The hangings were pulled back. Instead of a pomp of servants bearing salvers of rainbow fish, an officer entered. It was Pedius, looking tired and travel-stained from hard riding. He was one of the two tribunes who had gone to Lambaesis with Arrian. All the gods, let Arrian be safe, let his friend be alive.

Pedius leant over, and spoke quietly in the ear of the elder Emperor. Everyone waited.

His face impassive, Gordian’s father stood, poured a libation. The red wine splashed on the marble floor.

‘Capelianus is under house arrest. The 3rd Augustan Legion is ours, and with it the Province of Numidia.’

They were all on their feet, clasping hands, slapping each other on the back, tipping wine for the gods. Sabinianus dropped his goblet, staining his toga.

‘Father,’ Gordian shouted above the noise, ‘so much for the soothsayers and their so-called prodigy. Now nothing can stop us reaching Rome.’

The commotion died away. In the embarrassed silence, some of the guests averted the ill-omened words, thumb between fingers.

‘Even a follower of Epicurus should not mock the gods.’ His father’s face was grave. ‘And there are the words of the astrologer. The stars predict we will not see Rome again, but meet our deaths by drowning.’