Blood and Steel

Chapter 22

Africa

Carthage,

The Ides of March, AD238

Gordian had not felt up to attending court early that morning. Sabinianus and Mauricius had sat as his father’s advisors. Despite still feeling jaded, at the fifth hour Gordian had walked through the Palace to the library, where he knew his father would be working on his biography of Marcus Aurelius.

The room was scented with cedar, from the wood of the bookcases and the oil rubbed into the papyrus rolls. Progress was slow. The air was warm and heavy, sunshine streamed in from the east-facing windows. Gordian was soporific. As a younger man, his father had been a prolific poet: an epic Antoniniad in thirty books, a translation of Aratus from the Greek, other works on various subjects, a Marius, Alcyonae, Uxorius, and Nilus. The life of Marcus was unfinished after six years. His father cited the rigour of his research, and the demands of exact prose. Gordian knew it was advancing age.

His father missed Serenus Sammonicus, that was obvious. They had grown old together. Morning after morning closeted over their books. A lifetime of quiet, studious companionship. Now Serenus had crossed the Styx before him. It was a pity neither Philostratus nor one of the other famous Sophists with whom his father was close was present in Carthage. Gordian suspected that he was a less than wholly adequate replacement. What literary talents he had possessed mainly had been squandered in his youth. Still, one or two slave secretaries aside, it gave them a chance to be alone.

‘Last night, Father, I did not mean to offend you when I spoke of the prodigy.’

‘You know I do not share your Epicurean views, but nothing you could say could ever offend me.’ His father ran a hand over his eyes, and looked very careworn.

‘Father, the gods are far away. They have no interest in us. They are perfect in their happiness. If they cared for the vices and follies of humanity, it would disturb their equanimity, mar their perfection. The soothsayers and astrologers that have troubled you are charlatans.’

‘Many are frauds,’ his father agreed. ‘But I have never understood how a god, or any sentient being, could be happy, if it had never experienced misery. The gods are different from us only in their power and immortality.’

‘Now we are Emperors,’ Gordian said, ‘many will worship us as gods.’

‘At least for a time.’

It was clear his father wanted to say something else. Gordian unrolled a manuscript and waited.

‘It may be that such warnings only come true to those who believe. Perhaps those who do not are unaffected.’

Gordian put down the papyrus and remained silent.

‘Although I do not want us to be apart, you should travel ahead alone.’

Gordian leant across, took his father’s hand. ‘There is no reason to hurry. Now we have the 3rd Legion, Africa is secure. Let Menophilus settle Rome, and we will travel there together.’

‘I did not mean to Rome,’ his father said. ‘You should go to the East.’

Gordian felt the hand, thin and dry in his. ‘Our ancestral estates stretch across Cappadocia. You were governor in Syria, Father. The natives love you. The East will come over.’

His father took back his hand, sat up straight, spoke with an almost youthful vigour. ‘Now Rome has declared for us, Maximinus must march into Italy. Unless he abandons the frontiers, and that would mean undoing all his own labours, he will have to leave the majority of the northern armies on the Rhine and Danube. When he has gone, they may declare for us, or they may remain loyal to him. In a sense, it might matter little. Whoever wins this civil war in Italy — Maximinus or us — the army in the East could overthrow the victor. The eastern forces have been drained for Maximinus’ northern wars, but, if united, they remain strong. Governors like Priscus of Mesopotamia may decide who sits on the throne.’

Gordian considered the unwelcome argument for a time.

‘I would not go without you. We should not be parted.’

‘No. I am too old.’

‘And an astrologer predicted you would die by drowning.’

‘And the stars held the same fate for my son. You could travel overland by Cyrene and Egypt.’

Gordian picked up another papyrus roll, turned it in his hands, put it down again. ‘Egnatius Lollianus in Bithynia is a loyal friend. When he declares for us, Priscus and the others will follow.’

His father was not finished. ‘Maximinus is wrong. What matters is not the North, but the East. When all this is over, whoever remains to wear the purple will have to face the Persians.’

‘Nothing could suit me more,’ Gordian said. ‘To march in the footsteps of Alexander the Great. You know I am more myself on campaign than in the Senate House.’

His father looked if anything yet more concerned. ‘When Alexander went East, he left no heir in Macedonia. Before you leave, you must marry, father a son.’

Gordian felt a surge of impatience — the pusillanimous nature of the old — but smiled. ‘There are more than enough home-bred slaves in the Villa Praenestina with my features. There is all the time in the world.’

As he watched the resolution drain from his father, his irritation was replaced with guilt. ‘You are right. When we reach Rome, I will marry. As long as my sister is not involved in choosing my wife.’

Now his father reached over and took his hand.

They sat in silence for some moments.

‘Shall we return to the virtues of the Divine Marcus?’

‘I am tired,’ his father said. ‘Perhaps tomorrow. Now I think I will have a rest before lunch.’