Blood and Steel

Chapter 30

Africa

Carthage,

Three Days after the Ides of March, AD238

Gordian thanked the gods his hangover was mild. Even so, without the training of philosophy, it was doubtful that he could have had the discipline to withstand the wild swings of fortune the messengers had brought in one morning.

He had been having a late breakfast with Parthenope and Chione. Parthenope thought she was pregnant. It seemed to have made her more than usually lustful. The jealousy of Chione had prompted her to outrageous inventiveness in the night. Gordian had had no need of powdered lizards or oysters. When the messenger came up from the harbour, his happiness had been complete.

Had there ever been such a friend as Menophilus? He was Laelius to Gordian’s Scipio, Hephaestion to his Alexander. Under the guidance of Menophilus, the Senate had elected a Board of Twenty to Defend the Res Publica and the rule of the Gordiani. Among them were Menophilus himself, Gordian’s reliable friend Valerian, and his father’s close amicus old Appius Claudius Julianus. All the Twenty were men of status or talent. It could not be more gratifying that Senators of every shade of opinion, from the patrician Balbinus to the novus homo Pupienus and the Cynic idealist Gallicanus, had come together. All the factions in the Senate were united in loyalty to Gordian and his father. The dispositions for the prosecution of the war could not be in better hands. The urgings of Menophilus that the new Emperors hurry to Rome were unnecessary. Gordian had called for a drink. Parthenope and Chione were not going anywhere, and he always felt vigorous and keen in the morning, never more than when he was a touch hungover. The exact details of the military commands, which of the Twenty were going where, could be studied later.

No man appreciated being interrupted in the worship of Venus. Outside the curtain, Valens, his father’s chamberlain, was most insistent. There was someone who had to talk to him. Gordian had pulled on a tunic. The girls had not bothered to cover themselves. The young officer who entered had barely glanced at the pulchritude on display. It was Geminius, one of the tribunes who had gone to Lambaesis with Arrian. He was drawn and tired, filthy from the road. Seeing him, Gordian had known the news was bad. His supposition was quickly confirmed. Four days ago Capelianus had escaped from house arrest. Numidia and the 3rd Legion were back under his command. Arrian was a prisoner, in chains. With his forces in light marching order, Capelianus could be outside Carthage in the next five or six days.

Gordian had sent runners to summon the most trusted of the consilium to attend, not in the main Basilica, but the small audience chamber. Valens was despatched to request the presence of his father. Sending the girls away, Gordian had asked for a barber. This would be the hardest thing he had ever told his father. He would do so clean shaven and sober.

As the razor slid across his throat, he thought of his friend in chains. This was all his fault. A wise man will not engage in politics. He had known the risks, to himself, to those he loved. But he had had to intervene. Paul the Chain would have killed Mauricius. His own death and that of his father would have followed. Even if Maximinus had not condemned them at once, living in fear was insupportable. His actions were justified. The aim of life was pleasure, and fear made that impossible. Now he must face the consequences with courage.

Clad in the formal but modest white toga of a Senator, no purple robes or radiate crown or any such symbol of autocracy, he walked with Geminius to the Basilica.

They were all assembled. His father sat on the throne next to his own. He was backed by Valens and Brennus the bodyguard, and a line of secretaries. The councillors were seated in a semi-circle; Sabinianus, Mauricius, Phillyrio, Vocula the Praetorian Prefect, Suillius of the 3rd Legion, Alfenus of the Urban Cohort, the young tribune Pedius. A small group to fight for an empire. But in war courage and unity counted for more than numbers.

Standing by the sacred fire, Gordian dismissed the secretaries. When they had left, he told the news, unadorned, all of it, the good and the bad. Only then did he sit down next to his father.

‘I am sorry, Father.’

‘There is nothing to apologize for.’

The aged Emperor betrayed no emotion. He asked the consilium to give them advice, freely spoken in accordance with the mos maiorum.

‘The Emperors must go to Rome,’ Sabinianus said. ‘Menophilus requested as much from the start. He does so again in this despatch, knowing nothing of events in Numidia. As your governor of Africa Proconsularis, I will stay, delay Capelianus as long as possible. We have few troops. Some auxiliaries and a couple of detachments of legionaries and men from the Urban Cohorts do not amount to an army. Capelianus has both more auxiliaries and the main body of the 3rd Legion. It is immaterial. The fate of the empire has never been decided in Africa. I can defend the walls of Carthage for a time, but I will have a fast ship ready in the harbour.’ Sabinianus grinned. ‘Horatius held the bridge, but he survived. We will all meet again in the eternal city.’

‘No.’ Gordian was decisive. ‘The war will be won if we contain Maximinus in northern Italy, and the provinces come over. If they hear we have lost Africa, no governor will join us. I will remain in Carthage, and my father will sail to Rome.’

Lean and tanned, Phillyrio got to his feet. ‘Let Gordian the Younger hold Carthage. I am an African. All my life, I have served here on the frontier. I will gather the troops along the borders, raise allies from the tribes beyond. Nuffuzi, chief of the Cinithii, is bound to us by oath. His son Mirzi is our hostage. We can trap Capelianus before the walls of Carthage.’

Overawed by the company, and knowing his contribution would be unwelcome, Alfenus, commander of the 13th Urban Cohort asked permission to speak. ‘The city is not prepared for a siege. There are no supplies laid in, no artillery. The walls are in bad repair, and they are too long to defend with the soldiers available. Unaccustomed to privation, the citizens could not be relied upon.’

The consilium was silent. Gordian’s eyes followed the tendrils of smoke curling up from the sacred fire. What is terrible is easy to endure. Philosophy existed to offer consolation.

‘We can not withstand a siege, and we are unable to abandon Africa, so it must be open battle,’ Gordian said. ‘Things may not be as bad as they first seem. Between the 13th Urban Cohort and the detachment of the Legion we have a thousand veterans in Carthage. Suillius, will your men stand against their fellow legionaries?’

‘They are soldiers,’ Suillius said, ‘they will obey orders.’

Gordian nodded. ‘The 1st Flavian Cohort from Utica and the 15th Emesene from Ammaedara can be here long before Capelianus; another thousand auxiliaries. There are five hundred in our Praetorian Guard. They are newly raised, but as Iuvenes, they have had military training. Combined, the Equites Singulares Augusti and the Scouts here with Phillyrio number several hundred. The core of our army will consist of nearly three thousand disciplined troops. Thousands of levies can be raised from the city. Hunting spears can kill men as well as animals. Weapons can be taken from the temples, blacksmiths can make more, carpenters provide shields.’

Not everyone looked convinced. Sabinianus and Suillius seemed particularly dubious. Gordian pressed on.

‘Lambaesis is the headquarters of the legion, but many of its men are scattered, one Cohort is here, several more spread along the frontier. Those in southern Numidia are far away, the ones in Africa Proconsularis summoned by Phillyrio will join our cause. When battle is joined, Capelianus will be lucky to have two thousand legionaries. Numbers will be on our side.’

Gordian had omitted all mention of the auxiliaries with Capelianus in Numidia, but his intention was to persuade.

‘If Phillyrio marches hard, and Capelianus does not, things may turn out better still; our army bolstered by thousands of hard fighting men from the frontier.’

He could think of nothing else to put heart into them.

‘So, let us first outfit a ship to take my father to Rome, then turn our minds to putting an army in the field.’

Gordian the Elder broke the ensuing silence. ‘I have never been more proud of my son. Never has an Emperor had more loyal friends. It shall be as my son says, but I will not leave for Rome.’

He ignored the babble of objections. ‘I am old, past my eightieth year. I will not be parted from my son. Should he fall, why would I wish to live? The world holds nothing else for me. If the gods prove unkind, we will travel to Hades together. But come, let us turn to practicalities. We won’t go down to the House of Death, not yet, not until our day arrives.’

Like the Romans of old, men of stern virtue, they talked of conscription, munitions and the movement of troops.

Gordian looked at his father with love and admiration. No irresolution, no talk of portents or soothsayers, instead calm courage. Old or not, such a man was born to be Emperor.

It struck him that his father had made no mention of Maecia Faustina or his young grandson. It was for the best. They were well out of it. Should things go wrong, they might survive in Rome, live on in obscurity.

He shrugged off the ill-omened thoughts of disaster. We won’t go down to the House of Death, not yet, not until our day arrives.