Blood and Steel

Chapter 24

The Northern Frontier

Sirmium,

The Ides of March, AD238

Maximinus liked to go down where the dead went. He sat on the ivory throne in the Basilica. The alabaster vase in his hands, his court around him. He listened to the Sophist recite Homer.

Maximinus liked to have Apsines around him, have him recite, or talk quietly with him in the dead of night. When the world was younger — so the Sophist told him — many portals stood open to the underworld; many caves and passages, at Taenarus in Laconia, Aornum in Thesprotis, the Acherusian peninsula on the Black Sea, many places, many magical names. Now the world was older, more wicked, the gods further away. A cave was just a cave. No man could cross the Styx unless he was dead. No living man could emulate Orpheus and his doomed attempt to bring his wife back from the gloomy halls of Hades.

But I, the sharp sword drawn from beside my hip,

Sat down on alert there and never let the ghosts

Of the shambling, shiftless dead come near that blood …

There were so many dead. Since Maximinus was a man, Micca had always been at his side. Together they had haunted the Thracian hills, bringing violent retribution to barbarian raiders and bandits alike. In the army, they had quartered the empire. Under the African sun they had faced the Garamantes. In the perpetual drizzle of Caledonia they had waited for the savages to come screaming down from the heather. Rome, the Danube, the East; all those years had come to an end on a wooded ridge in Germania. Maximinus fighting his way through to the chieftains. A flash of movement in the corner of his eye. The spear between Micca’s shoulder blades. No time then to mourn, far too long afterwards.

Maximinus had no memories before Tynchanius. He had been a friend even before Micca. The son of a neighbour, a few years older, Tynchanius had been the brother every boy would want. He had known how to hunt, how to make a bow, fletch arrows. Later, he had known which girls would pull up their skirts if you talked to them sweetly, gave them a gift. They were returning from hunting — Maximinus had been no more than sixteen — when Tynchanius sensed something was wrong. Although they had passed bodies sprawled in the mud of the village street, Maximinus retained a boy’s foolish hope. Rather than go to his own home first, loyally Tynchanius had gone with Maximinus. They were all dead. Maximinus’ father and mother, his brother and his sisters. The females were naked. In Tynchanius’ hut, it was the same.

Tynchanius had been loyal to the end. From what Maximinus had extracted, the mutineers had cut down the old man as he vainly tried to protect Paulina.

To begin with, in a part of his mind, Maximinus had believed Apsines. Time would heal. Soon he would not think of her all the time. In a sense the Sophist was right. It would be two years in June. But, if his thoughts were elsewhere, it was all the worse when the grief came flooding back. It seized his limbs, numbed his mind. Now he did not like to part from her. He held the vase with her ashes, turning it in his great, scarred hands, as he listened to endless speeches. One long-bearded Greek after another; interminable complaints of embezzlement, extortion and theft, larded with fawning flattery. It was a continued affront that the world carried on with its petty, pointless concerns.

Maximinus had made his plan. He had questioned Apsines, but had tried not to reveal what he intended. This summer, one final campaign in Germania, and he could put up his sharp sword. His duty would be done, and he could leave the ranks. No Emperor had retired. Vitellius did not count. He had been a weakling, defeated and deserted, destined for death. But Sulla the Dictator at the height of his powers had renounced them all. Julius Caesar had been wrong. Sulla had known what he was about. Like Solon, the ancient Athenian, the Dictator had done all he could, then stepped aside. No man was Atlas, to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders forever.

Of course, Maximinus would not let his son succeed. He looked over to where Maximus sat; handsome, bejewelled, arrogant, vicious. He looked at Iunia Fadilla. You could only pity his son’s wife. Volo’s spies reported the cruelty was unabated, the beatings getting worse. Maximinus found it hard to imagine that Paulina had given birth to this horrible, beautiful monster. Something must have intervened; a terrible conjunction of the stars, witchcraft, some malignant daemon.

If not Maximus, then another, one capable of ruling. The succession had to be clear, arranged beyond any dispute. Civil war would encourage the barbarians, undo Maximinus’ long years of struggle. He ran through those who might be capax imperii. Anullinus, the Praetorian Prefect, had something cold and harmful about him. Domitius, the Prefect of the Camp, was avaricious, corrupt. Sabinus Modestus, the cavalry commander, was amiable, brave and lucky, but far too stupid. Volo would reject the offer. He would continue to command the frumentarii, continue to gather information, make arrests, quietly guard the throne, as he had for Maximinus, as he had for Alexander before. Julius Capitollinus, the Prefect of the 2nd Legion Parthica, had the necessary qualities. But, like the others, he was but an equestrian. The Senate would only truly accept one of their own as Augustus.

Most Senators were weak, unmanned by wealth and privilege. To them the mos maiorum was no more than an expression. It would have to be one of the Triumvirate, one of the three who had engineered Maximinus’ own elevation. Catius Clemens always complained of ill health. Honoratus’ demeanour, coupled with his good looks, suggested a decadent indolence. Probably both were no more than strategies to survive under an autocracy. Apparent incapacities might deflect the suspicions of a ruler. They could be cast off if either sat on the throne. Or perhaps long dissimulation had made their appearances reality, perhaps they, and other vices, would flower once the will of their owner became law. Nothing revealed the flaws in a character like being the vicegerent of the gods, being worshipped yourself throughout the provinces. Nothing escaped such scrutiny. The superstitions of Flavius Vopiscus were genuine. Yet despite all the prayers and amulets, the fasts and incubations, the childish search for foreknowledge in random lines of Virgil, Maximinus had no doubt that Flavius Vopiscus was capax imperii.

On a country estate, a debilitating and disgusting disease had dragged Sulla to a slow and painful death. The imperium would not allow the like for Maximinius. The courtiers around his successor could see him as nothing but a threat, the figurehead of a potential rebellion. Sooner or later, Flavius Vopiscus, or whoever wore the purple, would instruct Volo to send frumentarii to make an end to the menace. In any event, Maximinus had no intention to linger. He would take Paulina home to Ovile, inter her in the tumulus, then unsheathe his sharp sword one last time, and fall on it.

Late one night, somewhere out on the Steppe, talking in general terms about Roman suicide, Apsines had enumerated its difficulty, the pain and squalor suffered by even the bravest of men. Mark Antony hauled by ropes as his life blood flowed out. Cato tearing at the unwanted stitches with which his friends had closed his wound, pulling out his own intestines. Maximinus was not deterred. He trusted his resolve and dexterity with a blade. For certainty, he would take Javolenus with him, reward him well. After the final service, his bodyguard could vanish into comfortable obscurity.

Maximinus’ mind was made up. The gods approved. He had consulted Ababa, the Druid woman summoned to the imperial court by his predecessor. Her strange rites had not raised the shade of Paulina, but she had predicted the death of Alexander Severus. The deities spoke through her. The Rider God would lead Maximinus by the hand, and reunite him with Paulina and Tynchanius and Micca. Together they would ride the wild hills of his youth, drink at upland springs, sleep safe in mountain caves. Not for them the dark meadows of the realm of Hades. The Rider God would conquer death itself.

And even if you escape, you will come home late

And come a broken man …

The baying of Maximus’ hounds in their kennels near drowned the Sophist’s voice. Maximinus looked at his son, silk shimmering, jewels glittering, lolling on his throne. He was Caesar. His vanity and ambition would never let him give up the title. He was incapable, would lose any contest for the throne. But if left alive, even his failure would cause untold suffering. Long ago to save the Res Publica Brutus had condemned his own sons to a traitor’s death; stripped, flogged, beheaded under the gaze of all in the Forum. The mos maiorum was more than words in those days. But it had been cruel. When Maximinus renounced the throne, his son would have to die. But not in public, not at the hands of an executioner.

The hound music swelled. The pack was expensive and ostentatious — Maximus never hunted — but no one could approach the royal chambers undetected.

Sure enough, a messenger entered.

Maximinus signalled the end of the recital, and waved the soldier to approach.

As he came before the throne, the messenger bowed, and went to get to his knees.

‘Stop,’ Maximinus said. ‘While I am Emperor, no man will print a kiss on my boots.’

The soldier stood, saluted, and held out a despatch. It carried the seal of Sabinus, Prefect of Rome.

With great care, Maximinus placed the vase in its cunningly made travelling case. He took the letter, broke the seal, and handed it to Apsines.

As the Sophist read, the colour drained from his face.

‘Well?’ Maximinus said. Nothing good had come from Rome.

Apsines mastered himself; the resolve instilled by a lifetime of public speaking did not desert him.

‘To Imperator Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus Augustus …’

‘Tell us the bad news,’ Maximinus said.

‘Quantum libet, Imperator.’

‘Speak.’

‘Whatever pleases you, Emperor,’ Apsines repeated. ‘Sabinus writes that the people of Africa have risen in revolt. They have proclaimed Gordian the governor and his son Emperors. Vitalianus has been murdered in Rome. The Senate …’

‘Go on.’

‘The Senate have declared you and your son enemies of the Roman people. As hostes you are denied fire and water …’

Maximinus bounded from the throne. He grabbed the despatch. Too angry to read, he hurled it at the messenger. The man ducked. It hit him on the arm. The hinges broke, and the two wooden blocks skittered away across the floor.

‘You little fucker!’ Maximinus had the soldier by the throat. ‘Guards!’

Praetorians came running from behind the curtain.

‘Arrest this traitor. Take him to the cellars. Get the inquisi-tors. Find out everything he knows.’

The Praetorians dragged the messenger away.

Maximinus stood, fists clenching and unclenching in his fury. Three years’ fighting. Three years’ hard marching and killing. All for nothing. No chance now of quiet retirement. No reunion with those he loved. Three years of fighting for Rome, and this was how the Senate repaid him. No loyalty, no honour. The fuckers, he would kill them all. Every one of them, leave no one alive to mourn them.

‘Father …’

Maximinus seized his son’s head. Pressed his thumbs into his eyes. ‘If you were a man, you could have governed Rome. This would never have happened. You might have made your mother proud. I should pluck out the eyes that never wept for her.’

‘Imperator, no …’ Domitius had him by one arm, Modestus by the other. Anullinus gripped him around the throat.

Maximinus released his son, shook the others off like a great bear did yapping dogs.

‘Get out! All of you, out!’

Maximinus stood still, panting, as the courtiers fled.

‘Apsines, you stay.’

The Sophist stopped, stood irresolute.

‘Bring me wine. Tell me stories of ancient treachery. Tell me how it was punished. But first get me wine.’