Blood and Steel

Chapter 26

The Northern Frontier

Sirmium,

The Day after the Ides of March, AD238

As her husband drunkenly rolled off Iunia Fadilla, he gave one of her nipples a last, painful pinch.

‘Barren bitch, all the men that have fucked you, and no child.’

He was on his back, his chest slick with the sweat of his rutting. ‘Whore. Treacherous whore.’ His eyes closed.

Iunia lay very still, hoping Maximus would fall asleep. Her breasts hurt where he had bitten them, her thighs and buttocks from his slaps and punches.

‘What sort of punishment is fitting for the whore of a traitor? I should feed you to the hounds, let the kennel boys fuck you first.’

Before this hateful marriage, she remembered enjoying sex; with old Nummius, with Gordian, men who cared for her, wanted to give her pleasure, not hurt and humiliate. If she cried, Maximus would notice. Her tears aroused his lust.

Maximus’ breathing became more even.

With the news of Gordian’s rebellion, she had known things would be worse for her. But she had thought she would be spared a visit from her husband for a time. Surely his father would need him: there would be much to be done; plans to be made, letters written, envoys despatched, forces gathered. But the Emperor remained in his quarters, drinking. It was said only Apsines the Syrian Sophist was with him, declaiming Homer, telling stories, as if to a child.

The consilium had convened without the Emperor. Maximus had been summoned by Flavius Vopiscus. When he had arrived there, late, already half-drunk, Maximus had told them it was treason to meet without the Emperor, dismissed them. Another couple of hours drinking, and he had come to get the bitch in whelp. He had hit one of her maids, and they had fled. The first time he had taken her from behind. A doctor had told him that breasts down, genitals raised, the seed can reach where it needed to go. Afterwards, sprawling on the bed, he had told her to serve him wine and food, naked, the lamps lit, like any whore in a cheap lupanar, like you did for Gordian. When he was ready, she had to kneel between his legs, take him in her mouth until he was hard again.

Outside the hunting dogs howled.

Iunia prayed it would not wake him.

He stirred, but his eyes remained shut.

When he was with the army on the Steppe, she had prayed to all the gods to let a barbarian arrow find him. Not in the heart or head, death was too quick. Let the barbed steel tear into his guts, let the poison seep into his blood, locking his jaws, leaving him to linger for days in wordless agony. Or let him be captured. The Sarmatian women were said to stake their victims out, castrate them, prise their mouths open, and force their genitals down their throats. Then they flayed the skin from their living bodies, sliver by sliver.

The gods had not heeded her prayers. Gordian was right, they were far away, and had no care for humanity. They were right to keep their distance. Anything in contact with Maximus was tainted.

He was snoring.

Now. Gods, give her the courage. Now.

Even if Eunomia had gathered the necessary potions before she died, it would have done no good. Every morning now, Maximus took a draught of Mithridatium, the compound of every noxious thing known to man. It made him feel sick, but gave immunity to all poisons.

Now. There would never be a better opportunity. Give her the heart of a man.

Slowly, she slid off the bed, went to the chest. The well oiled hinges did not squeak. She took out the knife.

Of course she would be caught. In the morning they would find her drenched in his blood, like an actor in a tragedy. Hers would be a terrible death, as bad as any Christian. In the arena, torn apart by wild beasts, or strapped to a metal frame, roasted and burnt. Maximinus had become inventive in his executions. She had passed one at the city gates a few days before. The condemned man had been sewn alive into the carcass of a slaughtered animal. Maximus had said the maggots fed on the living flesh and the dead. The man had been conscious, but, thank the gods, beyond speech.

She could commit suicide, use the blade on herself after Maximus. She put the thought aside. Killing Maximus, that was all that mattered. Nothing else mattered. He had to die.

With terrified caution, she climbed onto the bed. As the mattress gave, Maximus shifted slightly. He still lay naked on his back, his penis on one side, like a small, sleeping rat. If she were Sarmatian, she would hack it off, stuff it down his throat.

Gods, give her the heart of a man, the heart of Clytemnestra. She put the tip of the blade to his throat. If he woke now, she would have to go through with it. As the razor-sharp steel pricked his flesh, he grunted, moved slightly. Let him wake. She wanted to see his terror and pain, wanted her hand forced.

A bright red bead of blood. The skin so white, so delicate. Now, push home the knife, become Clytemnestra. Make a sacrifice of him.

She did not want to die. She wanted him dead, but not to die herself. She wanted to live. She was no Sarmatian barbarian, no Clytemnestra.

Defeated, more frightened than before — if he woke now! — she crept off the bed, moused across the floor, and returned the knife to the chest. Silently, she slipped out through the door.

Restuta, her favourite maid, was waiting in the next room with towels, unguents, a bowl of warm water. Restuta said nothing, knowing from experience that words of sympathy can break the strongest self-control. She held her shoulders as Iunia squatted over the bowl, washed herself. Iunia looked at a lamp, tried to sneeze. Restuta patted her dry.

‘Sleep in my room,’ Restuta said.

‘It will be the worse for me if I am not there when he wakes.’

‘Let me put ointments on the marks.’

‘No, he likes to see his handiwork.’

Restuta passed her the jar with the white lead, cedar resin and honey in old oil. Iunia pushed the mixture inside herself. No child would be born in the purple. The imperial household was full of spies. But she had to trust Restuta. The wife of Caesar could not buy such things in the market.

Back in the bedroom, Iunia lay beside her husband. She had failed. She could not kill him. Patient endurance would gain her nothing. The revolt of Gordian would fail. That gentle, kind man would die. Nothing could stand against Maximinus and the northern armies. She must escape. But where would she find refuge? A sanctuary might offer asylum to any criminal, no matter how awful his crime, to the lowest runaway slave, but not to the wife of Caesar.

She thought of her journey to the North, of the high Alps, of the horseman who had given her the brooch. People said Corvinus was nothing but a brigand, a law unto himself. But would a bandit chief dare to defy an Emperor? She remembered his words. My Lady, accept my hospitality, these wild mountains are mine.

There was Dalmatia, not far to the south. It was governed by Claudius Julianus. He was Gordian’s friend. Would compassion and friendship outweigh advantage? He commanded no legions to stand against Maximinus. Yet he was a man of honour.

Her mind drifted. Cleopatra had fled Caesar. She had ridden east. Alone among men, the King of Kings might shelter the enemy of Caesar. But the Egyptian Queen had been overtaken. Destined for a Roman Triumph, she had put the asp to her breast. Persia was beyond reach, as distant as the Isles of the Blessed.

How could she escape? Rich women often travelled; to visit relatives, attend festivals, inspect their estates. But they were accompanied by many guards, attendants and slaves. Iunia had no one but Restuta. Could she entrust her life to Restuta?

Poor women walked to market, to the next village. Only entertainers — actresses, flute girls, whores — or beggars journeyed further. They went slowly. Iunia would have to move like the wind.

Those with access to the cursus publicus moved fast. Requisitioning carriages and fresh horses at every Post House, they flew free as migrating birds, a hundred and fifty or more miles a day. Diplomata were issued to women. She was the wife of Caesar. Unless her husband was with her, nowhere in the imperial court was debarred to her. Go to the chancery, surreptitiously get her hands on an official pass, write in whatever name she would use, take to the road.

Coming up from Rome, somewhere in the marshes of the Adriatic coast, her carriage had shed a wheel. They had spent the night in a cheap inn. Those evicted to make room for her party had been ushered in to thank her for the leftovers of her meal and for being allowed to sleep in the stables. Among the hard-eyed, rough men was a family. The mother and daughter were frightened. Iunia had thought how hard it must be for a woman to travel alone.

If she had a man with her, things would be easier. Through no choice of his own, her cousin was constrained in the entourage of the Emperor. A sweet youth, Fadillus was no man of action. Most likely his nerve would fail. His presence become a hindrance. Better to go alone.

But, when her flight was discovered, what would become of him? She could not leave him to the cellars, the rack and claws.

Maximus grunted, levered himself up. His loathsome sword was half-erect.

‘Let your husband harrow that barren field so many men have ploughed. Time to perform again, bitch.’