Blood and Steel

Chapter 42

Northern Italy

Aquileia,

Seven Days after the Ides of March, AD238

The wall came down with the roar of a man-made avalanche. A great cloud of dust rolled out across the plain, obscuring the town. It was a paradox that builders always had to make things so much worse before they could begin their repairs. From this destruction, the defences of Aquileia would rise stronger. But at what cost?

Menophilus looked around the ravaged landscape. Every building within four hundred paces of the walls had been razed. From the huts and sheds of market gardeners and smallholders to the sumptuous villas of the rich, all that remained were pitiful mounds of debris. Having finished with the ancestral homes of families great and small, the gangs of workmen under Barbius were tearing down the tombs that lined the roads approaching the gates. All the useable materials were being dragged to piles of spoil heaped close to the sections of the wall that needed strengthening or rebuilding. Dislocated fragments of statues and relief sculpture could be seen in each jagged knoll; the works of patient hours of skill reduced to unwieldy blocks.

Menophilus let his eyes stray to a shady orchard. Men with axes, stripped to the waist against the sweat of their labour, were chopping down the trees. They went at it with a will. Whatever spark of the divine and beneficent cosmos was within them, most men had an appetite for destruction.

Turning his gaze to the bright water of the Natiso that flowed past the town, Menophilus marshalled his thoughts. That morning, Claudius Severus and Claudius Aurelius, the two most prominent living descendants of Marcus Aurelius, had reached Aquileia. Both had appeared put out to hear that the bridge over the Aesontius had been rendered impassable, as if they did not understand that their arrival from Rome was too late to begin organizing any realistic defence of the Alpine Passes against Maximinus. After lengthy negotiation, it had been decided that they would go west to look to the security of two strategic towns on the North Italian Plain: Severus to Verona and Aurelius to Mutina. Their breeding had ensured they agreed with moderately good grace. Of course, they announced, their entourages would require a rest of several days before they set out.

It would be better when they were gone. Menophilus and Crispinus had reached a modus vivendi, despite the latter’s stiffness and irritating beard. Nothing would be gained by the presence in Aquileia of two more members of the Board of Twenty. And the two scions of the Antonine dynasty might actually be of some use in the overall strategy of the war.

Although largely symbolic, the two Claudii should assist Annianus at Mediolanum in keeping the Po Valley loyal to the new regime. If not too hampered by Valerius Priscillianus, and certainly that corpulent and indolent patrician would contribute little, Cethegillus might succeed in barring the western Alps to any reinforcements marching to Maximinus from the Provinces of Germania. If that was the case, and the Ravenna fleet under Laco controlled the Adriatic, the entire focus of the war must be centred here on Aquileia.

Maximinus would come. There could be no doubt. It was merely a question of how soon. Aquileia would be invested. A siege — its drawn out privations and constant fear — pushed those inside and outside the walls to the extreme limits of physical and mental endurance. Tempers frayed, and loyalties unravelled. After a time all standards of civilized behaviour gave way. Every advantage that ingenuity could devise must be employed.

Menophilus wondered about Timesitheus. He had heard nothing. It would help if the little Greek had managed to win over the brigand chief Corvinus. Unaided, they could not block the passes behind Maximinus’ army, but they might disrupt his communications and supplies, kill or capture important messengers, loot baggage trains, create a feeling of unease and isolation.

Of course, the knife-boy Castricius might already have struck down the tyrant. It was possible, but unlikely. More probably, Castricius would be apprehended. His fate would not be pleasant. But he was of little consequence. Even if he succeeded, it was no guarantee the war would be stillborn. The northern army might replace Maximinus with another candidate for the throne, and the war would still come to Aquileia.

The worst of the dust had settled. Teams of draught animals were being driven to haul the rubble clear of the breach.

Menophilus’ thoughts roamed unbidden. He was still very tired, could not imagine feeling any other way. An image of the empire unrolled in his mind like a long strip of papyrus. Lights burnt bright in Carthage and Rome, their light diffused out across the Province of Africa and the Italian peninsular. But in the gloom of the rest of the imperium menacing, often indistinct shapes shifted and moved. Menophilus stared into the darkness. News had come that Decius in Hispania had arrested the courier from the Gordiani and reaffirmed his allegiance to Maximinus. How many other governors would follow his example? With the possible exception of Dacia, the provinces bordering the Danube would remain loyal to Maximinus until his death. Honoratus in Moesia Inferior would see to that. There was no specific reason to believe that the armies along the Rhine or in Britain would come over. Catius Priscillianus in Germania Superior was brother to one of the men who had put the Thracian on the throne, and Tuccianus in Britannia Inferior was close friend to another. Only in the East was there a certain light, some slight chance of salvation. Timesitheus had revealed that Priscus of Mesopotamia already had flirted with revolt. Severianus in Palestina, his brother-in-law, had attended the treasonous meeting in Samosata, and neither Aradius in Syria Coele or Domitius Valerianus in Arabia were thought particularly attached to Maximinus. But there again, one of the Emperor-makers, Catius Clemens, held Cappadocia, and the governors of Syria Phoenice and Egypt were considered strong adherents of the tyrant. Menophilus was becoming ever more certain that the war would be decided here at Aquileia, and that the town would stand alone.

A stork flew across the Natiso to the south. The workmen had been reluctant to pull down the crumbling battlements of a tower on which was a nest. If the storks left Aquileia, it was an omen of the fall of the town. Menophilus had had to intervene. The best omen was to fight for your country. And there were many other nests.

Menophilus turned his horse. The animal picked its way across the gauged and scarred earth. At the corner of the wall by the Circus, the road from the north came into view. It was crammed with thousands of refugees; pathetic huddles of men, women and children, innocent victims of a war not of their making.

If there was a benevolent creator ordering a peaceful cosmos, why did he allow the evils of war? Was the strife of war caused by the foolishness and ignorance of men? Or was the disturbance superficial, just skin deep as it were, or even merely apparent, unreal, some kind of illusion? In ways too profound to be grasped by men, did the Demiurge permit some to suffer to build a more secure future for all? Either interpretation was better than the only other alternative, that there was no God, and everything was down to chance. Menophilus believed there was a divine intelligence immanent in the world. To do otherwise would be to cast himself adrift without sails or oars on the widest of seas. He preferred not to blame the Creator. That reeked of cowardice. Mankind should bear the burden of war, and he himself must take the weight of his terrible actions this past month.