Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 17

The Northern Frontier

The Town of Castra Regina,

Eight Days after the Ides of December, AD235

It was lucky for the messenger that Caecilia Paulina had been there. Her husband had had him by the throat. Maximinus had been about to smash the soldier’s head against the wall. She had not had to raise her voice. She had always been able to ameliorate his outbursts. Maximinus attributed his ferocity to the tragedy in his youth. Paulina thought its origins lay more in a lifetime among the brutal soldiery. But she had never voiced her opinion. Maximinus would never hear a word against the army.

The summons to join the imperial court in winter quarters at Castra Regina in Raetia was expected and delightful to Paulina. The journey from Mogontiacum was neither difficult nor long, and the autumn weather had been kind. While the legionary fortress might lack some of the amenities of the provincial capital, Augusta Vindelicorum, it was comfortable enough. Of course, imperial responsibilities would demand the attention of Maximinus. The succession of petitioners would bore him, but he would be conscientiousness itself in inspecting the repairs to the frontier forts and drilling the army in preparation for the following year’s expedition. Yet, despite his diligence to duty, she had fondly hoped he would have time to spend with his family. She had missed him, and she had not seen her son for months. Rumour claimed that Maximus was not getting on well with his father. When winter closed in and they were closeted together, she had been convinced she could effect a reconciliation. The news brought by the messenger had dashed her tender imaginings.

The Sarmatians had descended on Dacia. They had been joined by the free Dacian tribes from the mountains and Goths from the shores of the Black Sea. The barbarians were there in numbers. Julius Licinianus, the governor, was blockaded in Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa. It had taken all Paulina’s influence to calm Maximinus. For a time it had looked as if he were going to break several pieces of elaborate furniture as he roared. His campaign into the North would have to be deferred. After his victories, one more season and Germania would have been transformed into a province. The glory that had eluded Augustus and Marcus Aurelius had been within his grasp. Now, when the spring came, instead, he would have to march east.

As the snow had fallen and the Danube froze, the headquarters became a hive of activity. There was seldom time for intimate dinners, and the mood was not right for furthering familial harmony. Day after day, the Emperor summoned his consilium. Worse still, Paulina had to attend. Maximinus said she reminded him of his duty. Certainly, her presence helped him keep his temper. But she knew no one else wanted her there. Mamaea had sat in all the previous Emperor’s councils, and Alexander had been derided for his weakness. It had been the same with Elagabalus and his mother. It had always been the same. Before Actium, men of otherwise unimpeachable loyalty had deserted Mark Antony when he insisted Cleopatra accompany them on campaign. No Roman expected a general to include a woman in his deliberations. The place of a woman was in the home. Paulina prided herself on the virtues appropriate to a matron: modesty, thrift, chastity, a sensible and agreeable disposition. She was good at running a household. She had no knowledge of warfare, and did not want any. She sat very still, and said nothing.

At least, she consoled herself, there was one thing with which she had helped her husband. The night after her first meeting, in the intimacy of their bed, she had done everything she could — perhaps more than a matron should — until finally she had convinced Maximinus of the dreadful impropriety of continuing to summon the druid woman Ababa to his council. Men might object to his wife, but a barbarian woman …

Flavius Vopiscus was holding forth. ‘More funds are needed. Much equipment was lost or damaged in Germany. Supplies have to be stockpiled for the new campaign. The levies are costing a great deal.’

Paulina had listened to them go over this many times. Solutions had to be found.

‘Raise taxes,’ Maximinus said. ‘Demand a one-off contribution from the provinces, from the rich. They live in luxury, sleep safely, because we march and fight on the frontiers.’

Vopiscus fingered the amulet he thought no one knew he wore under his clothes. ‘I have suggested before that such measures would cause widespread unrest, my Lord.’

Maximinus shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘What can a few civilians achieve?’

‘In the long run, nothing,’ Vopiscus agreed. ‘But, Imperator, a revolt — even the most doomed and ephemeral — has to be crushed. As you have wisely stressed, we must clear the barbarians out of Dacia this summer, and return to Germania the next campaigning season. A revolt might demand your presence.’

Maximinus frowned. He looked fearsome, but Paulina knew he was merely thinking deeply. ‘All the cities throughout the empire raise their own local taxes. What the town councillors do not steal, they fritter away building new baths or giving oil to the undeserving. We take the proceeds of these existing taxes for the military treasury.’

This was new. The idea was so radical, it made Vopiscus pause. Paulina wanted to smile. Her husband might lack a formal education and polish, but only a fool would deny his intelligence.

‘Again, my Lord, it would cause untold trouble. There would be endless riots. All the cities in the empire would follow any pretender who promised to rescind that ruling.’

‘What, then?’ Now Maximinus looked genuinely angry. He did not care for what he saw as obstruction, any more than he did for civilians or the rich. Paulina moved slightly, enough to catch her husband’s attention. His face relaxed a little; not as far as a smile, but into his — utterly adorable — half-barbarian scowl.

Paulina resumed her look of benign distance from the proceedings. Maximinus was too straightforward to be Emperor, too honourable to be surrounded by imperial councillors. Since the German campaign, the senatorial triumvirate, Vopiscus, Honoratus and Catius Clemens, and the equestrians Anullinus, Volo and Domitius had been joined by two more aspiring members of the latter order. As commander of 2nd Legion Parthica, Julius Capitolinus had done well in the final battle, and the Greek Timesitheus had made sure that the men had boots and no one starved. Despite his performance, the duties of Timesitheus had been handed to Domitius. Timesitheus would soon depart for the East to govern Bithynia-Pontus. Paulina was unsure if it was an advancement or a demotion. Whatever the opaque intricacies of court politics, however, there was no disguising the ambitions of the men in the room.

‘The regime of Alexander was weak and corrupt,’ Vopiscus said.

You did well enough out of it, Paulina thought. So did every other man in this room.

‘Mamaea was insatiable for money. On payment of a bribe, many who deserved death or at least confinement on an island of exile were merely relegated from Italy and their home province. Some escaped any penalty. Either way, the guilty retained their estates. Justice demands their cases be reopened.’

The whole consilium voiced its approval.

Maximinus nodded. ‘Volo, have your frumentarii round them up.’

Vopiscus hesitated. He massaged the concealed charm. ‘There are vast treasures gathering dust in the temples.’

‘No,’ Maximinus said. ‘If we take from the gods, they will turn against us, bring defeat on Rome.’

‘Not the gods.’ In his alacrity to deny any impiety, Vopiscus interrupted the Emperor. ‘Nothing of the sort, my Lord. There are many treasures which have not been dedicated to the deities but have been deposited in their temples for safekeeping. Many of these have remained unclaimed for generations. The families of those who placed them there have died out. The Taker of Petitions, Herennius Modestinus, confirmed to me that the estates of those who die intestate belong to the Emperor. The legal term is bona vacantia. You will be reclaiming what is your own.’

Paulina was far from sure the devout would see it in quite those terms.

Maximinus leant forward, hands on his knees. ‘To a soldier, that sounds the typical fiction of a jurist. I am reluctant to risk offending the traditional gods. We are not desperate yet. Crown gold is still coming in from cities after the German victories. They will have to send more when we have beaten the Sarmatians. We will keep the temple treasures in mind. Should it become necessary, who will take on this duty?’

‘My Lord, I would be happy to carry out your wishes,’ Anullinus said. Even without the rumours about his actions in the coup — surely not, not after Mamaea was dead — there was a sinister, even frightening air about the Praetorian Prefect. Perhaps, Paulina thought, it was his eyes. At first they seemed dull, but when you looked more closely they appeared to burn with an energy that had no moral purpose or restraint.

‘Make it so.’ Maximinus sat back, resting his forearms on the arms of the curule throne. There was something Paulina found attractive about a man’s forearms; that smooth curve of muscle a woman’s lacked. One thought began to lead to another.

‘Is there anything else that we need to discuss before we turn again to the question of remounts?’

Paulina’s spirit sank at her husband’s evident enthusiasm.

‘Emperor.’ With his high cheekbones and dark eyes, Honoratus was far too handsome. Paulina had never trusted men with such good looks. ‘May I talk about the future?’

Maximinus grunted an assent that sounded as if he hoped the discussion of military horseflesh would not be delayed for any great length of time.

‘My Lord, you and the Empress are blessed with a son.’ Honoratus gave Paulina a dazzling smile. He was beautiful and suave: Paulina would not be the only one to distrust him on sight. ‘Maximus took the toga of manhood some years ago; he is now eighteen. Last summer, he served with distinction under the standards.’

‘Well,’ Maximinus said, ‘he travelled with us.’ Paulina shot him a look which stopped him saying any more.

‘There is nothing your subjects desire more than security, and nothing gives them more security than living under an established dynasty. No matter how they love their Emperor, if he lacks an heir, the future worries them. Imperator, your courage and your virtue impel you to risk your life on behalf of Rome. Should anything happen to you, there is the terrible fear of civil war. Nothing harms the Res Publica more than when ambitious men lead her soldiers in fratricidal strife. My Lord, I speak for all your loyal friends when I urge you to name your son Caesar.’

Paulina had known it would happen, but not now, not like this, with her present in the consilium. People would talk. They would say she had connived to get into the council, that she had exerted her influence to have her son elevated. Was Maximus ready to be Caesar, let alone Emperor? His father was right: the boy was immature. There had been that terrible incident with the serving girl. Thank the gods, Paulina had managed to cover it all up. What Maximinus would have done had he found out did not bear thinking about.

Wrapped in her concerns, Paulina missed what Honoratus had said next.

‘… no imperial dynasty has ever been more loved than that of Marcus Aurelius. To join the two families would bring their many influential connections renewed influence. It would conciliate the nobility and link your regime to the age of silver. The girl is beautiful and amiable. As a widow, she is trained in the duties of a wife. Again, I speak for all when I urge you to betroth your son Maximus Caesar to the great-granddaughter of the divine Marcus, Iunia Fadilla.’