Iron and Rust

CHAPTER 20

Rome

The Valley between the Esquiline and Caelian Hills,

the Nones of June, AD236

The high, blank wall prevented the die-cutter having any view of the Temple of Venus and Rome until he passed its northern entrance. He peered in, as he did every morning on his walk to work. His long-distance vision was getting worse. All he could make out was a blur of grey columns and the glare of the gilt roof. Although out of his sight, he knew the seated statues of the two goddesses were so big that their heads nearly touched the ceiling. It said something about human stupidity that the deities had no room to stand. It said worse that anyone might believe such idols could become animate.

He came out into the open space by the colossal statue of the Sun. Wreaths from some festival lay about its base, wind-bedraggled, their leaves dry and faded in the early-summer heat. The Flavian Amphitheatre beyond was a building site. It had been struck by lightning in the reign of Caracalla. Almost twenty years later, the repairs had not been finished. As was his habit, the die-cutter squinted up between the scaffolding at the arches on the top two levels. All were meant to contain statues. Most were empty. Like the Tower of Babel, this monument to mortal pride and cruelty would forever remain unfinished.

To his left, he passed the steps up to the Baths of Titus. He had a vague impression of greenery at their summit. That was what Rome should stand for: gardens, bathing, lectures in shaded porticos, cultured leisure after hard labour, peace after war, civilization. It was worth fighting for those things. The thought stayed with him as he went down the Via Labicana. On his right hand were the shops and their greed which fronted the brutality of the gladiatorial school behind; on his left — albeit little more than a haze to him — the elegant roofs of the Baths of Trajan. Two sides of a coin. It must be possible to have one without the other, to purge the sins of mankind. He had to be brave for the things that mattered.

After another block, he turned right into an alley. Halfway down were the doors of the mint. He crossed the courtyard and opened the shutters of his workroom. He carried his bench and stool to the open air. It was always better to work in natural light. For a moment, he stood irresolute, as the apprehension of what lay ahead that evening threatened to overwhelm him. Work, that was the answer. It would clear his mind.

Amid the clatter and bustle, he studied the new obverse die. It was very different from those he had made before. Maximinus’ chin was thrust out, rounded, solid like a battering ram. His nose hooked down as if to meet it. The Emperor now wore a short beard. An indentation on his cheek suggested muscles, powerful jaws that would not let go. The eyes, if not conveying quite the same intellectuality, remained wide and clear, fixed on an objective.

The huge pictures set up in front of the Senate House had been a revelation. The die-cutter did not know if they were close to reality or represented the conscious projection of the image of a rough soldier. Either way, Maximinus must have approved of them. The die-cutter’s portrait was very similar. The new issue of coins should please the Emperor. It was a good piece of work.

He set it down and picked up the four new reverse dies. After the German campaign the previous summer, and with Maximinus fighting the Sarmatians, another Victory had been an obvious choice. A tiny, naked captive sat at the feet of the goddess, hands bound behind his back. The conspiracy of Magnus had raised more difficulties. Not to allude to its suppression might be interpreted as disloyalty, but any direct reference was out of the question. For the other three reverses the Die-cutter had chosen the Safety of the Emperor, the Foresight of Augustus and the Fidelity of the Army. There was nothing original, but they seemed fitting.

Those who had fallen with Magnus had been only the beginning. It was the talk of the bars and tenements of the Subura, brought back by maids and cooks, that their betters were growing to loathe and fear Maximinus. The frumentarii were scouring the empire for those Senators who had been either acquitted of treason or merely relegated for that offence under Alexander. Holding office seemed to offer no protection. The governor of Thrace had joined Ostorius of Cilicia and Antigonus of Moesia. Bundled into a closed carriage, they had been driven night and day to the North. There were dark rumours of abuse, even tortures fit only for slaves. The sole certainties were that their estates had been confiscated, and they had not been seen or heard of again. No trials; they were just gone. In their fine houses the Senators were said to murmur among themselves of another Domitian, a new reign of terror.

In their blind arrogance, the magistrates in charge of the mint had talked in the hearing of the die-cutter. When his uncle Messala had been arrested, young Valerius Poplicola had burst into tears. He was sure he would be next. No one was safe. The other two agreed. Acilius Glabrio had whispered — as if the die-cutter were of no more account than a piece of furniture — that Maximinus was a monster.

The die-cutter did not see it in that light. The Emperor campaigned on behalf of Rome and, for that, he needed money. Far from fighting, these pampered youths and their senatorial families wallowed in indolence and depravity, and they had wealth beyond imagining. Not to contribute any of their riches to the defence of the Res Publica was close enough to treason. The Emperor took what should have been offered. He did not oppress the plebs. Nor, thankfully, did it appear that his agents pried into their lives. Every morning, in the dark, with his brothers and sisters, the die-cutter prayed for the success of the Emperor.

Taking a blank disc of hard bronze, the die-cutter fixed it tight in a vice. He unpacked the tools from his bag and spread them on his bench. The new Caesar presented a challenge. Maximus had not been depicted in the paintings. Taking a drill bit of soft bronze, the die-cutter dipped it oil then rubbed it in a bowl of powdered corundum. Having fitted it into a bow, he began to bore holes to mark the mouth, eyes, ears and nose. When satisfied, he used a steel graver to cut the flowing lines freehand. With long practice, the burr thrown up before the tool was lost in the cavity it created.

When, a long time later, he straightened to view his work, the face of a young man had begun to emerge. Maximus was short-haired, clean-shaven; his classical good looks contained just a hint of his father’s chin. With civilian dress peeking at his neck, he looked a model of familial propriety. This youth could have been a scion of the Severan dynasty, or any other. Of course, soon he would be married into that of Marcus Aurelius. The die-cutter had seen Iunia Fadilla once. Castricius had pointed her out as she walked down from the Carinae to the Forum. Blonde, good-looking, there was one member of a Senatorial family who had no reason to fear this new regime.

The creative work accomplished, as he cleaned up the image, the die-cutter’s thoughts returned to the coming evening. A man called Fabianus was coming in from the country. The die-cutter had been told to meet him at the Porta Querquetulana and take him to meet Pontianus. This Fabianus was a rustic. He would gawp and stare. What if he drew attention to them? What if he betrayed them by gesture or word? The die-cutter imagined the cellars on the Palatine. He could not help it. He was no hero. Shackled in the dark, in the fetid air, how long could he stand the rack, the terrible claws? Once they knew who you were, they hung you from beams, unequal weights tied to your legs. When their arms tired from whipping you, they threw you in cells whose floors were covered deep with thousands of pot shards, their edges razor sharp. Their cruelty knew no end. Once they knew who you were, they treated you worse than a murderer.