Blood and Steel

Chapter 21

Africa

The Town of Lambaesis, Numidia,

The Day before the Ides of March, AD238

It was late. The early watches of the long night had come and gone, kindle-light and first-sleep. Now it was intempesta, the untimely hour, deep night, the time when it was unlucky to do anything. The streets should be empty.

Capelianus stretched and yawned. The initial tension of waiting had died out of him. Now he was tired. He could not afford to be drowsy. The bunch of herbs tied to the foot of the bed to deter scorpions caught his eye. That was Africa for you: scorpions and snakes, blistering heat in the summer, cold rain and clinging mud in the winter, the endless tedium of empty duties, then this bitter draught of betrayal.

Aching with weariness, he got up, and took a small wooden box from his medicine chest. He put a pinch of the powder on the back of his hand. Blocking first one nostril then the other, he snorted the compound of natron and chalcanthite. Iulius Africanus, the imperial librarian, had said it held fatigue at bay. Impotence, baldness, blindness, nocturnal emissions — Africanus had a cure for every ailment.

Capelianus sat down on the bed again. Not long now. By cock-crow it would be decided, one way or the other. A few hours, a brief moment in time. The past lacked a beginning, the future lacked an end, and the present was between them, so thin and ungraspable, no more than a meeting point of what has been and what will be.

Arrian was a fool, a weak, trusting fool, like his masters the Gordiani, the pretend Emperors acclaimed by a mob of untrustworthy Africans. Arrian had said the Gordiani were merciful. In a short while, Capelianus would be allowed to retire to his estates around Cirta. For now, he was under house arrest, placed in the charge of Ballatius, the Prefect of the Syrian archers. Arrian had no foresight, had not troubled himself to investigate how things really were. The lands around Cirta were mortgaged. With no other income, they would have to be sold. Capelianus would be reduced to poverty. Simple economics combined with the noble duty of revenge to make the life of a quiet landowner impossible. Ballatius had served under Capelianus for years. The first step had been easy.

A tap at the window. Capelianus got up, his heart hammering despite himself. He blew out the lamp. The darkness was complete.

The bolts on the outside were drawn, and the shutters opened. Pale moonlight flooded the bedroom. An arm reached in, beckoning. Awkwardly, Capelianus climbed out onto the roof.

There were two of them, soldiers in undress uniform, scarves tied around their faces. Without a word, they led him up the sloping tiles. Capelianus paused for a moment, precarious astride the ridgeline. The far side was in shadow, dark and precipitous. He was too old to be clambering about on a roof in the dead hours of the night.

There was nothing else for it. Slowly, slowly he inched down the incline. Every moment he expected a tile to skitter out beneath hand or foot, feel himself begin a painful and noisy slide, and then out and down onto the hard cobbles.

At the bottom, they steadied him, pointed where the barrels had been stacked in the ally at the side of the house. They helped him scramble to the ground, dropped down after him. Still without speaking, they trotted off into the dark, leaving him alone in the night.

This way, should everything go wrong, no one else would suffer. Neither Ballatius nor the guards on the door could be proved accountable. Capelianus had escaped with the aid of persons unknown. Even under torture, he could not describe the soldiers. Ballatius would have to claim the pain had induced Capelianus to implicate him falsely.

Thoughts of the rack and the horse, the pincers and claws, threatened to unman Capelianus. He stood in the shade of the barrels, his heart again pounding. They said the heart shrinks once you were past fifty, contracted until it became no bigger than that of a child.

He could not go back. It was all on one throw of the dice. Revenge was the birthright of every Roman. Capelianus forced himself to start walking.

Cutting down the alley, he came out at the front of the house. The guards on the door looked the other way. He turned right onto the Via Principalis. Clouds scudded across the moon. It was strange, unnerving to be out at this time, all alone, no slaves, not even a linkman. He carried no weapons.

The tall outbuilding in front of the headquarters loomed ahead, blocking the street. The guards on duty under the gloomy arches of the Groma studiously ignored him. He turned right again, went up the alleyway by the side of the Principia.

Ballatius had said that the commanders of the other aux-iliary units would back him; Fabatus of the 7th Lusitanians, Securus of the 2nd Spaniards. But Capelianus knew that it was only the Legion that counted. Tonight all depended on the senior officers of the 3rd Augusta. Should they decide against him, Arrian would not be so weakly merciful a second time. Even the clementia of the feeble Gordiani had its limits.

Capelianus turned left through the side gate of the Principia, went across the rear courtyard, and through the hangings that screened the shrine of the standards.

It was bright inside, lamplight gleaming off the great eagle, off the other standards, many bearing the portraits of the Gordiani. The latter was to be expected, but a poor omen, one on which he must not dwell.

Capelianus looked around at those waiting. He saw five of the legionary tribunes. The sixth, the one from a Senatorial family was not present. That mattered little; he was young, had scant influence. It was a relief to see the Prefect of the Camp; a soldier of more than thirty years’ service, his opinion carried weight. He counted eight of the ten senior Centurions. His spirit sank when he realized that old Firmanus the Primus Pilus was one of those missing.

‘Tell us what you have to say,’ the Prefect of the Camp said.

Capelianus nodded heavily, gathering himself. Everything hinged on the next few moments, the fleeting, unstable meeting place of what had been and what would be. His grandfather, friend of Emperors, governor of great provinces, would have known what to say. Somehow the thought re-assured him.

‘By now you all know Arrian was lying. Maximinus has no intention of transferring the 3rd Augusta to the North. It is the Gordiani themselves who will lead the Legion out of Africa. They will make you desert your homes and families to fight and die in support of their doomed, selfish bid for power.’

The faces of the officers were inscrutable. Capelianus pressed on. He would not die for want of trying.

‘Maximinus is a soldier, risen from the ranks. Like many of you, he served under Severus, under Caracalla. When he came to the throne, he doubled your pay. He is your brother. The Gordiani are nobiles, born into luxury, brought up in marble halls. They are more at home at a symposium than in an army camp. To them you are nothing.’

Men who have had a hard life, had little sympathy for those who had never toiled. Resentment might bring them round, that and greed.

‘The Gordiani promised you a donative of five years’ pay. Have you seen a single coin? Return to your loyalty to Maximinus, and I will see you get every sestertius. Return to your loyalty, and I will give you Carthage to plunder. The property of traitors is forfeit, in Carthage, Hadrumetum, and Thysdrus, in every community that has broken its oath.’

The lamps hissed. The officers were silent, but Capelianus thought perhaps he nearly had them. One more step, one more inducement.

‘If we act with speed, we may yet catch the Gordiani before they sail for Rome. Imagine how Maximinus will reward us if we crush this revolt singlehanded. 3rd Legion Augusta Pia Fidelis, live up to your titles. Let Piety and Fidelity be the watchwords!’

As if waiting for the end of his speech, the curtain was pulled back, and Arrian marched into the shrine. He was backed by the Primus Pilus, and the other two missing officers from the 3rd. A squad of legionaries in full armour blocked the entrance.

A good oration wasted, Capelianus thought. Now for the pincers and the rack. Inconsequentially, he noted the absence of either of the young tribunes who had come from Carthage with Arrian.

‘Gaius Iulius Geminius Capelianus, you are arrested, for the second time.’ A look almost of sadness passed over Arrian’s grooved, weathered face. ‘As you have spurned their clemency, you will be confined in chains, and sent to our noble Emperors, to await their judgement.’

Be a man, Capelianus thought. Do not disgrace yourself or your ancestors.

‘Chain him,’ Arrian said.

‘The order can not be obeyed.’ The Primus Pilus spoke clearly.

Arrian whirled around. ‘What?’

‘The 3rd Augusta will reaffirm its oath to Imperator Maximinus Augustus.’

‘But you have taken the sacramentum to the Gordiani.’

‘We were misled. Our oath to Maximinus came first.’

Arrian stood, tugging at his beard, as he tried to conjure up something to retrieve the situation.

‘Seize him,’ Capelianus said.

Accepting its impossibility, Arrian attempted no resistance.

Capelianus stepped towards him. ‘It seems, after all, that it is me doing the arresting. And, I am sure you will agree, tonight has shown that house arrest is a misplaced clemency. I have many questions about the plans of the Gordiani, and you have an appointment in the cellars with men who are skilled at extracting answers.’