Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (30 page)

‘Leave him!’ Paulina shouted.

An Osrhoene grinned, perfect white teeth in his dark face. ‘As my Lady wishes.’

The soldier thrust. Tynchanius blocked. Another soldier drove his blade into Tynchanius’ back. The old man’s weapon clattered to the floor. His hands groped behind, vainly reaching for the wound. He collapsed.

The Osrhoenes moved forward. Fortunata and Pythias shrank back against Paulina’s knees.

Tynchanius was not dead. Through his own blood, the old man was trying to crawl to his sword.

‘Where is your commander?’ Paulina was surprised by the control in her voice.

The soldiers stopped.

‘Take me to Titus Quartinus.’

One of the soldiers said something in their incomprehensible tongue. The others laughed.

‘Stand aside!’

The ranks of the archers parted at the command from behind them.

Macedo Macedonius was in parade armour, his sword in its scabbard. The Greek took in the scene.

Tynchanius, trembling, slipping in the gore, was using his blade to lever himself up.

‘Kill him,’ Macedo said.

An Osrhoene brought his blade down into the back of the old man’s head, like a man chopping wood.

‘Take the girls, and leave. Amuse yourselves with them.’

Fortunata and Pythias wailed as they were dragged from Paulina’s knees. Their clothes were nearly all torn off before they were manhandled out.

Paulina remained seated. The arms of the chair were digging into her palms. Her breathing was harsh, like something ripped from her.

Macedo went and closed the door. He turned back and walked around the corpse. The pool of blood had spread across the marble floor, had reached a carpet and was darkening its silk.

‘What of your military oath?’

Macedo stopped. ‘None of this was my doing, my Lady. If I had not gone along with them, I would be dead by now.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘I will escort you to your husband. Trust me.’

Paulina hesitated. Hope can defy reason.

The door was pushed open. A tall middle-aged man with a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders and a wreath on his head came in. He was followed by six Osrhoene officers.

‘
Imperator
, your presence is not necessary here,’ Macedo said.

Quartinus ignored him, spoke to Paulina. ‘My Lady, you have my assurance you will not be harmed.’

Macedo turned to one of the officers. ‘Mokimos, escort the Augustus to the Campus Martius. It is time he made a speech to the men, promised them their donative.’

Quartinus opened his mouth but said nothing. He did not resist as two officers took him by the elbows and walked him out of the room.

‘Shut the door. Let no one else in.’

The last man out did as he was told.

‘While I have some authority over them, I can get you away.’

Paulina stood now. Although her legs threatened to betray her, she backed past the loom to the window.

‘We must be quick, before they shut the gates, set a watch on the bridge.’

‘Liar,’ Paulina said.

Macedo looked hurt.

‘Curse you, and your life.’

Macedo smiled, almost sadly. ‘Well, in that case …’

CHAPTER 23

The Northern Frontier
Pincus, a Fort on the Danube,
Three Days before the Nones of July, AD236

Maximinus sat on the ivory throne. The imperial travelling companions were ranked behind him, but he was alone.

The news had reached him at Apulum, three days’ march north of Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa. It had been in this tent. He had been sitting on a chest off to one side, mending a strap on his armour. Things on which your life depended should not be left to slaves.

The bearer had been a young equestrian military tribune with 2nd Legion Parthica. Returning from leave, he had witnessed the events at Viminacium. He had got away while the men were looting, before they had thought to close the bridge. Riding night and day, two horses had foundered under him.

The story was quickly told. The Osrhoene archers had risen. They had torn the portraits of Maximinus and his son from their standards. The man they had proclaimed was a Senator called Titus Quartinus. He had been governor of Moesia Superior, until dismissed by Maximinus the previous year. The tribune was sorry, but he did not know what had happened to the Empress, and – a look of surprise on his face at the question – he knew nothing about a
cubicularius
named Tynchanius.

Maximinus had burst into action. There was time to save her. By nightfall, he had a flying column ready. Five units, all mounted – the Equites Singulares, the Parthians and Persians, the Moors, and the cataphracts under Sabinus Modestus – four thousand men, more than enough to deal with two thousand rebels. The Osrhoenes were bowmen. They would not stand against the heavy cavalry hand to hand. The next day, they had covered the sixty or more miles back to Ulpia Traiana. Two days later, they had reached the Danube, opposite Pontes. They crossed unopposed. Maximinus knew they had been fortunate. Six days, and the traitors had not yet moved east to block this bridge.

They had caught the man in the camp that night. He had been talking sedition to some of the officers of the cataphracts. Sabinus Modestus had handed him over to the
frumentarii
of Volo. The man had not stood up well to the pincers and claws. Maximinus had watched every probe, every twist and scraping. Leaning close, inhaling the reek of blood, he had listened to every sob, every shuddering word. Yes, the man confessed, he was a centurion of the Osrhoenes. He had been sent to watch the bridge. Quartinus wanted to bring Maximinus’ troops over without fighting.
Gods, just ease the pain, just for a moment
. The Empress was dead. Yes, he was certain. He had seen her corpse lying in the street. Quartinus had ordered her cremated.
Please, for pity’s sake, just stop the pain
. It had been hours before Maximinus had granted his wish. His mutilated body was thrown out for the dogs.

Maximinus’ residual momentum had carried them west for a day. That night, he had drunk himself insensible. The next morning, he had not left his bedchamber. Catius Clemens had come to ask for orders, the watchword of the day. Maximinus had knocked him down, thrown him bodily from the tent. He had called for more wine. He had drunk for three days. Afterwards, he had a blurred memory of having his son by the throat, threatening to tear out Maximus’ eyes because they did not weep for his mother.

Paulina had had every virtue a woman should possess. Loyalty, reasonableness, affability, religion without superstition, sobriety of dress, modesty of appearance – the list had no end. She had always dismissed her looks, but they had delighted him: her pale eyes, her delicate, small mouth and chin. Why had she died before him? He was older. He should have proceeded her to the grave. She should have buried him. Had they even placed a coin in her mouth for the ferryman? He would not let her life be lost, not let her go as if she had never existed. From his memories of her words and her actions, somehow he would draw the strength to resist fortune. But, when he thought of her, sorrow wrenched away his self-control. How could he hold steadfast to such a promise? How could such a thing have happened? Were the gods so uncaring?

On the fourth morning, it was Aspines who had coaxed him out from where he lay. Talking all the time of how a man had to endure, quoting lines from Homer, the
a Studiis
had washed him, with inexperienced fingers helped him arm:

There is not

any advantage to be won from grim lamentation.

Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals.

When they resumed the march, Maximinus had Aspines ride at his side. He had listened intently as the sophist drew on all his learning to offer consolation. Aspines did not know if the soul survived death; no one did. If it did not, there was just sleep. If it did, then there was a deity and, by definition, a god was good, so the souls of the good would not flit like bats through the dark but find a haven, safe and happy with the immortal gods for eternity. Maximinus was suffering, but others had suffered more. Jason witnessed his bride burn, and saw the broken bodies of his sons. Aeneas rescued his father and son, but lost his wife and had to endure the sight of Troy in flames. And then there was duty. Maximinus owed it to himself, to the memory of his wife, to crush the usurper, to drive the barbarians from Dacia, to restore the Pax Romana.

Words, Maximinus thought, just words. But sometimes words have their place. He shifted slightly as he waited. On a small portable altar, the sacred fire smoked. He had made his decisions, but had told no one.

A guard pulled back the hanging.

Macedo walked in. The
Graeculus
was wearing a gilded and chased corselet. In one hand he carried a sack, in the crook of his other arm he held an alabaster urn.

‘Emperor, I have done all I could.’

Maximinus neither spoke nor moved.

The Greek placed the sack on the floor. Bent over, one-handed, he fumbled to open it.

No one went to help him.

Macedo lifted the thing free by its hair. ‘The usurper is dead.’

The tent was silent, except for the ticking of the fire.

Macedo dropped the severed head of Quartinus. It landed heavily on the ground.

Everyone in the tent looked at the repulsive object, except Maximinus.

‘How?’ Maximinus said.

Macedo wiped his hand on his trousers. ‘Last night, avoiding his guards, all alone I crept into the usurper’s room. As he lay like Polyphemus in swinish drunkenness, I killed him. This morning, the sight of his head brought his rebellious soldiers to their senses. In the light of day, before gods and men, I administered the military oath to their rightful Emperor.’

‘The Empress?’ Maximinus said.

‘Her ashes, gathered in reverence.’ Macedo held out the white urn.

Maximinus got up from the throne. His guards tensed. He took the reliquary, held it tenderly in his great, scarred hands. He would not weep. A man has to endure. He turned, and placed the urn on the seat of his throne.

‘What happened?’

Macedo shook his head despondently. ‘The rebels were looting the house. She fell from a high window. Some think she jumped to her death to preserve her honour. Others say she was pushed.’

Maximinus felt the blood pounding in his temples.

‘She has been revenged, my Lord. This morning, I executed all who had invaded her home, all who had offered insult to her sacred person. Their corpses were thrown in the river, given to the fishes. Their souls will wander for ever in torment.’ Macedo looked at Maximinus with tears in his eyes.

‘All?’

‘Every man.’ The tears ran down Macedo’s cheeks.

‘Seize him.’

Macedo struggled, then stopped. Two soldiers pinioned his arms. Another removed his sword and dagger.

‘
Imperator
, if I had not pretended to join them, they would have killed me. I would have had no chance to rid you of the traitor.’

Maximinus took Macedo’s sword from the guard. ‘You did not kill all who went into the house.’

‘I swear by the gods below, I killed them all.’

‘Not all.’ Maximinus balanced the sword on his fingertips. ‘I killed the centurion Mokimos five days ago at Pontes. You Greeks overrate your cleverness.’

‘
Dominus
—’

Maximinus drove the blade through Macedo’s breastplate into his stomach. He released his grip. The hilt was hard against the gilded leather and the point had burst through the armour on Macedo’s back.

Going back to the throne, Maximinus picked up the urn, sat. His hands left smears of red on the alabaster. More blood stained the ivory throne.

The guards let Macedo slide to the floor of the tent. He was still breathing.

Maximinus’ head throbbed, but his thoughts were clear.

‘Send a messenger to the Osrhoenes that I will take their oath in person. Tell them to assemble, without arms, this afternoon outside Viminacium on the Campus Martius. Have the parade ground ringed by our cavalry.’

Maximinus pointed at Macedo. ‘Take his head. Send it to Rome, with that of Quartinus. Put them on pikes outside the Senate House. Honoratus, you will go to Rome, and announce that Caecilia Paulina will be worshipped as a goddess.’

‘
Imperator
, Flavius Honoratus is in Moesia Inferior, fighting the Goths,’ Catius Clemens said.

‘Then you will take my command. Caecilia Paulina will have a temple, priestesses, sacrifices. All our resources must go to the northern war. Tell the Prefect of the City, Pupienus, to reduce the expenditure on the cults of the other deities. If that is not enough, cut the corn dole and sell the surplus.’

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

Maximinus sat back, gazing at the bloodstained urn. Paulina was dead. It was unthinkable that the world might carry on unaffected. If the idle rich and the feckless plebs of Rome wanted spectacles, let them remember her. If they wanted bread, let them work for it.