Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (33 page)

‘
Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia
.’ Iunia Fadilla spoke the traditional words. She had no more idea of their meaning than anyone present.

The bride and groom sat on chairs covered with the fleece of a freshly slaughtered sheep and nibbled a morsel of spelt cake. In solemn silence, ten witnesses signed the wedding document. Lucius was the only representative of her family to do so.

The thing was done.

‘Feliciter!’
The assembled party shouted their blessings. ‘Good fortune!’

In view of the lateness of the season – in Rome, the October horse would have been slaughtered two days before – and the northerly latitude, the couches of the wedding feast had been spread in the rooms opening on to the atrium. Braziers had been lit to keep the chill at bay.

In the chamber of honour, in the presence of the Emperor, the celebrations were muted. Maximinus ate vast quantities of roast meat, drank unfeasible amounts of wine. It did nothing to lighten his mood. Under his baleful gaze, even the self-assurance of his son seemed to wither. Several times Iunia Fadilla found that the Emperor was staring at Maximus and herself. There was an intensity in his look she found frightening. In his savage grief, did he resent their felicity? Her stirring of compassion gave way to anxiety. An Emperor was above the law. Nummius had told her of a wedding he had attended in the reign of Elagabalus. The bride had been attractive. Elagabalus had led her from the room. Half an hour later, he had brought her back, dishevelled, crying. The Emperor had assured her husband that he would enjoy her.

Abruptly, Maximinus announced that he needed to relieve himself. As soon as he was gone, conversation became more animated. As Catius Clemens regaled the others with an anecdote from the Dacian campaign, Maximus leant close to Iunia Fadilla. He smelt of cinnamon and roses, and he was very attractive.

‘I had imagined,’ he said, ‘my wife would be a virgin, not soiled. They say you have sucked off half the men in Rome. At least you should be good at it.’

CHAPTER 27

The Northern Frontier
The Town of Sirmium,
Two Days after the Ides of October, AD236

‘
Talassio!
’ the crowd shouted. ‘
Talassio!
’ They did not know what it meant. It was what you shouted at a wedding procession.

‘
Talassio! Talassio!
’

Maximinus followed the bridal couple. A page walked on either side of Iunia Fadilla, holding her hands. For a woman who had been married before, she looked oddly apprehensive. Rather than stay by her side, Maximus went ahead with the page who carried the nuptial torch. The young Caesar threw nuts to the crowd, answering their ribald comments, revelling in their admiration.

How could the boy be so happy, just months after the death of his mother? Maximinus stopped himself from grinding his teeth. He could not imagine smiling. Everyone had been taken from him. He thought of the forest in Germany, of the spear thrusting into Micca’s back. For forty years, Micca had guarded him. After the massacre at Ovile, he had been one of the first to join his band. Together, they had hunted the high hills of Thrace, and along the banks of the Danube, bringing wild justice and retribution to brigands and barbarian raiders. When Septimius Severus had enrolled Maximinus in the army, Micca had accompanied him as a servant. Micca had been at his side in Dacia, Caledonia and Africa – wherever he was posted across the
imperium
. Tynchanius had been with him even longer. He had been an older neighbour; his family had died in the hut next to the one in which Maximinus had found his father, mother, brother and sisters. Tynchanius had shared his hatred for the northern tribes. Maximinus could not remember a time before Tynchanius. And now, like Micca, he was gone.

Yet the loss of them paled beside that of Paulina. It was twenty-two years since they had walked, in a far smaller procession, to his rented apartment in Rome. Returned from Caracalla’s campaign against the Alamanni, newly raised to the equestrian order, he had been favoured by the Emperor. Yet he had sensed the doubts of Paulina’s parents. They had been wrong. The marriage had been happy. Even in the reign of the perverted Elagabalus, when Maximinus had retired to the estate he had bought outside Ovile, Paulina had stood by him.

Now she was dead, and it was his fault. If he had not become Emperor, she would not have died. He had not wanted the purple. It had been forced upon him. She had been brave, but she had seen it would end in tragedy. If he had found a way to avoid the fatal throne, she would be alive. Paulina, Tynchanius, Micca: they were all dead, and it was his fault.

‘
Talassio!
’ The shouts gave way to a song of the joys of the wedding bed; the groom would conquer his bride in the heated wrestling, the god Hymen would preside.

Maximinus did not pretend to join the merriment. In the guttering torchlight, he considered the throng: the flute players, the couple and their pages, the guests and Iunia’s maids. Two of the latter carried a spindle and distaff. They were about all Iunia Fadilla had brought to the wedding.

Maximinus had never wanted to be Emperor, but when you have a wolf by the ears you can never let go. Honoratus and the others in his
consilium
had assured him that this marriage would reconcile the descendants of Marcus Aurelius and the nobility to his rule. It seemed they were wrong. The only relatives of the bride in attendance were one Lucius Iunius Fadillus, an equestrian cousin, and a more distant kinsman, Clodius Pompeianus, an ex-Quaestor of dubious reputation. Apart from them, a second cousin of her first husband had dared to appear, letting ambition triumph over propriety. This Marcus Nummius Tuscus might think himself fortunate merely to have been sent away. The reprieve might not be permanent.

Paulina had been right. The good and the great of Rome would never accept him as their Emperor. No Emperor had ever stepped down from the throne. Maximinus had asked Aspines. The nearest parallel the sophist could find was the Dictator Sulla renouncing his powers. But that was long ago, and the divine Julius Caesar had said it proved Sulla had no understanding of politics. If disease had not carried off Sulla soon afterwards, would the safety of his retirement have been certain?

Self-preservation was joined to duty. Unlike the Senate, Maximinus understood duty. He had served Rome all his life. While he sat the throne, he would continue to serve. The safety of Rome depended on defeating the northern tribes. Everything must give way to the war. Dacia was restored, and Honoratus had held the Goths on the lower Danube. Over the winter, Maximinus would raise more troops, more money. Early in the new year, he would pursue the nomad Sarmatians out on to the great plains. Once he had defeated them, driven off their herds, he could turn again to Germania, and the advance to the Ocean.

They had reached the requisitioned house, which, with its wreaths and guards, served as a palace. The lead page threw the torch. Among the onlookers, men and women scrambled to catch it, risking the flames for its promise of long life.

There was an old wives’ tale. If a bride forced into marriage caught and extinguished the torch and put it under the bed, her unwanted husband would soon depart this earth. You could only wonder how she might achieve her aim undetected.

Iunia Fadilla went forward to anoint the door posts with oil and wolf fat. The archaic combination was intended to bring divine favour on the marriage. Maximinus knew it would not succeed. Paulina had done the same. If the gods cared, they would not have let her be killed. Was she pushed, or had she jumped? The centurion had not known and, giving way to rage, Maximinus had killed Macedo too soon to find out. Maximinus had failed to save her, and even after death he had failed her again. What were her last thoughts in the few moments as the pavement rushed up? It was too horrible to contemplate.

If the gods existed, they would not have allowed her to fall. There would have been intervention. Flavius Vopiscus could talk for hours about the intentions of the gods being inscrutable to man. With his amulets, and his finger jabbing at lines of Virgil, he was a superstitious old fool. Yet Vopiscus was the one who had suggested they confiscate the unclaimed treasures deposited in the temples. To Hades with
bona
vacantia
, and other legal niceties. They would take everything. The dedications to the gods themselves would be seized. They would take whatever they needed. If the northern tribes won, they would sack the temples. If the gods were real, and they had any understanding, any care for Rome, they would surrender their gold and silver willingly. The civilians would whine, wring their hands, cry sacrilege. Let them. His troops would suppress any trouble. Doubtless, the learning of Aspines could produce suitable precedents.

Inside, the groom offered his new wife fire and water. The wedding song was sung, and the women led the bride away for the bedding. Maximinus felt sorry for the girl. She was still young, pretty. Life had not been kind to her. Apparently, her family had married her off to an aged Senator of vile habits. Freed from him, now she was joined to Maximus. Paulina had thought Maximinus did not know what their son did with the women and girls unfortunate enough to catch his eye. But an Emperor had spies everywhere, especially in his own household.

As far as Maximinus knew, no Emperor had disinherited his son. For all his virtues, the divine Marcus Aurelius had let the weakling Commodus succeed to the throne and bring ruin on the
imperium
. Even his stern patron, the divine Septimius Severus, had given in to parental affection and allowed the traitorous Geta to share the purple and try to murder his brother the glorious Caracalla. Things had been better in earlier days. When the Brutus who had founded the
Res Publica
discovered his sons were plotting its overthrow, he had them flogged in the Forum, bound to a stake and beheaded. The modern age was debased. But it could be reformed. The will of the Emperor was law. An Emperor should put the safety of Rome before the claims of his own blood.

CHAPTER 28

Rome
The Mint, off the Via Labicana,
Five Days before the Kalends of December, AD236

The die-cutter was so accustomed to the striking-room in the mint, he forgot the effect it could have on others. Fabianus stood transfixed by the noise, the relentless movement, the stifling heat. Most likely, he saw it as an image of hell. Since the arrest of Pontianus, the idea might well be in his mind. The die-cutter had chosen the place precisely because it was hard to be overheard. He waited while Fabianus tried to make sense of it all.

By each small furnace, the slaves laboured in four-man teams. With long iron tongs, the first man took a heated blank disc of metal from the furnace. He placed it on the reverse die, which was secured by a tang to the anvil. Holding its iron collar, the second positioned the obverse die just above. The third swung the hammer. While the noise still rang, the fourth removed the struck coin and put it in a tray. The first took another blank from the furnace. They worked without ceasing, their movements instinctive from endless repetition.

‘More bad news?’ The die-cutter spoke close to Fabianus’ ear.

‘Hippolytus has been arrested. The
frumentarii
came for him this morning.’

The die-cutter considered this. ‘Then he was not the informer.’

‘It seems not.’

They watched the slaves.

‘Antheros thinks they are just the first,’ Fabianus said.

In the die-cutter’s thoughts were the claws and the scrapers in the cellars of the palace, hard-eyed men wielding them with refined cruelty.

‘Antheros advised me to leave the city. He said to warn you. He thinks they will try to take us all.’

‘Perhaps not.’

Fabianus took his arm. ‘The flesh is weak. Pontianus is an old man. And Hippolytus is an outcast. He has no reason to protect us.’

‘Africanus?’ The die-cutter asked.