Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 16

Rome

The Forum Romanum,

Three Days before the Kalends of October, AD235

It was an auspicious day. Pupienus followed the newly inaugurated Consul out of the Senate house. To avert envy, he touched the toe of the statue of Libertas. He could not have been prouder, more happy. Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus, his elder son, was Consul of Rome. His small grandson would grow up the son of a Consul, the grandson of a Consul and, from next year — if the gods allowed — the nephew of a Consul. The child’s place among the nobility was secure. It no longer rested only on the personal favour of Septimius Severus, and that long-dead Emperor’s grant of patrician status to an ambitious young officer who had served him well against the barbarians, and even better in two vicious civil wars. It was the hard-earned culmination of a lifetime of endeavour. His grandson would never have to resort to the evasions and subterfuge that had marked his own life.

They processed down the steps and out into the Forum. It was true that his son was only a Suffect Consul, and that his term as one of the replacement chief magistrates had come later in the year than Honoratus had implied it would. But there had been many leading families that the regime had needed to conciliate. That Maximus’ colleague had had to enter into his Consulship in absentia concentrated all the honour in the eternal city on his son. As soon as it was framed, Pupienus regretted the selfish thought. He was delighted that his son had Crispinus as his colleague. He had written his friend a fulsome letter of congratulation. Crispinus was Consul and governor of Achaea. He may no longer command armies, as he had in Syria Phoenice, but a true Roman possessed the virtues of peace as well as war. Crispinus must not forget that he ruled over the birthplace of civilization, over the descendants of Pericles and Demosthenes. The Greeks may have fallen from the lofty heights of the past, but they deserved respect for the character and achievements of their ancestors.

Under the stern gaze of an equestrian statue of Septimius Severus, they made their stately way past the black stone where Romulus had ascended to the heavens. The plebs, out in reasonable numbers despite the chill autumn winds, cheered and moved back to open a passage.

The paintings were set up on enormous panels which stretched from the sanctuary of the Lake of Curtius to the Rostra. The figures on them were brightly coloured, larger than life. The action moved from left to right, drawing the eye straight to Maximinus. The Emperor rode a magnificent charger into a marsh. Barbarians floundered in the water around him: some fell mortally wounded or cowered in despair; others still resisted wildly. None of it did them any good. Roman soldiers followed their Imperator, hacking and stabbing, staining the mere with enemy blood. Above the chaos, Maximinus, clean-cut and handsome, seemed oddly indifferent to the slaughter.

In a break from tradition, Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus was to give the speech of thanks for his Consulship not in the Curia but here, before the freshly unveiled depiction of the triumph of his benefactor. As he started to speak, no one could doubt the panegyric nature of the ensuing words.

‘Our ancestors, in their wisdom, Conscript Fathers, laid down the excellent rule that a speech no less than course of action should commence with prayers.’

Pupienus had helped his son with the oration, and knew it off by heart. Half listening to the elegant phrases, he looked off to his left. On the pediment of the sanctuary another armoured horseman galloped into a watery place. The erection of the paintings of Maximinus had been in the charge of the ex-Consul Sabinus. The Consular was an intimate friend of Vopiscus, and so closely bound to the new regime. Sabinus was a man of culture. He would have given thought to their location, to their juxtaposition with the ancient monuments here in the sacred heart of Rome.

Pupienus looked from one rider to the other. In the statue, the horse of Curtius was head down, sinking. That of Maximinus was rearing, as if about to leap clear of the mud and reeds, to break free of the painting altogether and land on the Rostra. Some thought Curtius had been a Sabine warrior who had escaped death in battle at the hands of Romulus by putting his horse through the marsh that had once been in the Forum. Thoughts of defeat and enmity to Rome were unpromising. However, the Sabines had long become Roman, had formed the backbone of ancient legions. Perhaps the message was that Rome should embrace the Thracian Maximinus, who would bring his native courage to the battlefield.

Others considered Curtius a Roman equestrian who had sacrificed himself to the infernal gods for the good of Rome. Perhaps they might read Maximinus as another who had offered his life for Roman victory but, such were his virtues, the gods had spared him.

By coincidence, the Consul had moved to a passage mellifluously praising the Emperor as a new Aeneas, a Trojan saved by the provident deities to refound Rome.

Pupienus’ gaze tracked back over the paintings: Maximinus and the army crossed a bridge; under the eye of the commander the soldiers burnt a village, butchering the men, manhandling women and children; the surviving barbarians lurked in woods, before Maximinus led the charge into the marsh. The story had no ending. Victory looked inevitable, but the fighting was not done. At the time the messenger had arrived with the laurelled dispatch and the instructions for Sabinus, the war had continued. A second messenger had brought news of another great victory in a remote pass. Maximinus and his army were nearly back at the frontier. The Alamanni, Cherusci and countless other tribes had offered their surrender. But, given their perfidy, the Emperor was not minded to accept. He would winter at Castra Regina, repair the nearby forts, rest and refit the army, raise new levies, and in the spring he would again march into the North. There could be no peace with the Germans until their eradication. The lands as far as the ocean would be turned into a province. All who resisted would be killed.

Nothing good would come of this, Pupienus thought. As a young officer, he had seen action on the Rhine; as a senior commander, he had led men in Caledonia; and he had governed provinces on the Danube. There was nothing but hard marching and savage fighting with the northern barbarians. You could win battles, but none would prove decisive. The divine Augustus had attempted to conquer Germania. He had failed. The young prince Germanicus and the divine Emperor Marcus Aurelius had conceived the same bold intention and they had failed as well. Always the cry went up: Just one more campaign! Just another year! The elderly Emperor Tiberius may have been a tyrant, steeped in vice, but he had known how to deal with the tribes of the North. Send favoured chiefs sacks of coins, crates of fine tableware, amphorae of wine for them to pass on to their followers. When they failed to heed the commands of Rome, cut off the gifts and watch their men desert them. If one became over-mighty, set the surrounding tribes to pull him down. Should all else fail, send in the legions to burn a swathe through the forest, install a new chieftain and then return to the boundaries of the imperium. The Greeks were right: the Romans held all the world that was worth holding.

No province would result from this war of Maximinus’. It would consume men and materials. It would devour money. Maximinus had got his hands on the wealth hoarded by Alexander’s grasping mother. Now that he had doubled the pay of the troops, it would soon run out. Refitting the army would be expensive; conducting new levies even more so. Perhaps the treasury was empty already. Pupienus had loathed Valerius Messala, but was unconvinced that he had conspired with Magnus. The sybaritic patrician had been too indolent. More likely, his crime was marriage to Alexander’s sister Theoclia. Of course, she had died too. The accusation of treason against the dead Emperor’s ex-wife, inoffensive Memmia Sulpicia, strained all credulity. The victims had been chosen because of their links to Alexander, but they had been killed for their estates. They would not be the last. When an Emperor runs short of money, informers thrive and the rich live in fear.

It was good that one of his sons was Consul now, and better that the younger was with the army and would take up office with Maximinus in January. Pupienus remained Prefect of the City. All of this proclaimed the loyalty of the family to the regime. Yet, in a climate of suspicion, more active proofs might be required.

Pupienus ran his eyes over the assembled Senators, like a stockman surveying his pens. He had given Gallicanus his word, but the Cynic was a traitor. Besides, Gallicanus posed a threat. If his posturing led him to the cellars of the Palatine, how long would his much-vaunted philosophy sustain him when his body was racked on the horse and men skilled in their task got to work with the claws? What account might he give of the conversation in Pupienus’ house? Of course, the accusations he mouthed in his agony would win no credence if Pupienus himself had denounced him.

And there, standing by Balbinus, was Valerius Priscillianus, brother of the freshly condemned traitor Messala. He was rich as Croesus. There was a family history of treachery. His grandfather had been sent to the block in the reign of Caracalla. Priscillianus’ father, Apollinaris, was governing Asia, a wealthy province far out of sight of the court; an old man embittered by the execution of both father and one son; the remaining child whispering vengeance … the accusation almost framed itself.

And what of Balbinus himself? Venal, porcine, debauched — who could consider the world would not be a better place without his heavy, shambling tread?

Pupienus reined in his thoughts. Senators should not denounce Senators. Since Actium, they had had two and a half centuries living under one Emperor after another Emperor. Tacitus showed how it was to be done with integrity and dignity. Walk the middle path between, on the one side, outspoken independence, with its dangers and futility, and, on the other, grovelling servility, which debases and corrupts. Pray for good Emperors, but serve who you get. It should be possible to live under the principate and not be too deeply tainted.

‘I call on the gods, the guardians and defenders of our empire, speaking as Consul on behalf of all humanity, to look to the safety of our Emperor. As he rules the Res Publica well and in the interests of all, preserve him for our grandsons and great-grandsons.’

Noble sentiments and fine phrases on which to end. There was scattered applause. For many of the plebs the inclement weather had overcome their curiosity or interest in elite rhetoric. Most of the Senators accompanied the new Consul back to his home on the Esquiline. Pupienus found himself walking next to Balbinus. His thoughts held in like a horse on a cruel snaffle bit, he made polite conversation with the corpulent patrician. A Senator should strive to avoid public rivalry and bickering with his colleagues. It was undignified to win such battles and ignominious to be beaten. When they reached the Carinae, Balbinus turned aside to his own house. Although his departure showed less than perfect respect for the new Consul and his family, nevertheless, it was not disagreeable to Pupienus.

Pupienus Maximus’ house was crowded. It was not a large property. This was an expensive area. The dowry that had come with Tineia had been large, but not ostentatious. Pescennia Marcellina was prominent among those waiting in the atrium. Pupienus had known she would be there. She looked frail, but Pupienus was nearing sixty himself. He had been very young, just arrived in Rome, when he had caught her eye. She had taken him in, clothed and fed him, taught him the ways of the world. She had launched him into public life, paid all his expenses until his Praetorship. It was not until the profits of his governorship of Bithynia-Pontus that he had acquired any money of his own.

Pupienus watched his son greet Pescennia with unfeigned pleasure. The scandalous reasons that rumour supplied for an unmarried woman having showered her wealth on a younger man merely served to make both Pescennia and Pupienus more dashing in the eyes of his son. Youthful indiscretions gain glamour when they are safely in the past. Pupienus knew his wife did not share such a view.

Sextia Cethegilla was seated at the far side of the atrium. After a few words with Pescennia, affectionate but formal, Pupienus made his way to the side of his wife. Sextia was talking to two younger women. One was a neighbour, Iunia Fadilla. There was no denying the beauty of this great-granddaughter of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, but her life was thought to be disreputable. Old Nummius had left her wealthy, and scandal attached to her widowhood. Even before the death of her husband, she was said to have been the mistress of the younger Gordian, and recently there had been stories concerning her and a worthless young poet called Ticida. The other young woman — dark where Iunia Fadilla was blonde — was Perpetua, wife to his friend Serenianus. Greeting them affably, Pupienus considered that if he were overseas governing Cappadocia, he might wish his young wife left in Rome had some companion other than Iunia Fadilla.

The women talked and Pupienus took in the crowd. He had expected to see another from his youth, from before the days of Pescennia, from the years at Tibur. Among this affluence, Pinarius would have stood out, but there was no sign of him.

Over by the shrine of the household gods, his brother-in-law Sextius Cethegillus was cloistered with Cuspidius Flaminius. With them was Flavius Latronianus. It was an honour that the eminent ex-Consul had attended. Making polite excuses, Pupienus moved to join them.

‘Let me through.’ There was no mistaking the arrival of Pinarius. Large, clad in rustic homespun, the old man barged towards Maximus. The new Consul looked less than delighted.

‘Come here, boy.’ Pinarius enfolded Maximus in a bear hug. The latter stood very rigid. It was one thing to be presented with a reminder of his father’s raffish past as a young politician in Rome, quite another to be confronted with living evidence that your progenitor was raised in the apartment of the head gardener of the Emperor’s villa at Tibur. If only you knew what came before that, Pupienus thought.

‘What is it?’ Pinarius had released Maximus. The latter had stepped back. ‘The smell of onions?’ The old man laughed. ‘My cart shed a wheel, near the fourth milestone. I had to get a ride in a farm wagon.’

Pupienus felt a surge of affection so strong it almost brought tears to his eyes. In an uncertain world where friendship so often was tempered by advantage, it was good to have one man you could trust without reserve. Pinarius had brought him up without complaint, with rough fondness, as if an old-fashioned father. In almost half a century Pinarius had not spoken of Voleterrae, of the things that had gone before and what Pupienus had done there since.