Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust (36 page)

Stifling in the heavy folds of his toga, Pupienus looked with longing at the Sweating Post. Water ran down the tall cone and splashed enticingly into the pool at its base. This had all come at a bad time. Pupienus had just returned from Volaterrae and was suffering the usual emotions of guilt and relief, the latter bringing additional levels of remorse.

‘The plebs are always restless in hot weather,’ Crispinus said.

‘This is not some minor unrest.’ Africanus spoke sharply. Since he had been
Consul Ordinarius
, with the Emperor as colleague, the previous year, Pupienus’ son had showed less respect than he should for his elders.

‘No blood has been shed,’ Crispinus said. ‘With proper handling, this can be ended without violence.’

Pupienus was glad his friend had returned from Achaea. Their friendship went back many years. Like himself, Crispinus was a
novus homo
. He had risen from the equestrian order through hard work and talent. The opinions of a Senator such as Crispinus carried weight.

‘The imperial commands are unambiguous,’ Africanus said.

‘The orders came from Vitalianus, not Maximinus,’ Crispinus replied

‘The deputy Prefect of Praetorians speaks for the Emperor.’

‘As Prefect of the City, your father is responsible for public order in Rome.’

Pupienus sighed. New duties piled up on the old before the old were finished and, as more links were added to the chain, he saw his work stretching out further and further every day.

‘If the Urban Cohorts do not disperse the mob, Vitalianus will send in the Praetorians,’ Africanus said. ‘There is nothing to be gained by misplaced clemency. There is no time to waste.’

‘There are Senators in the temple,’ Crispinus said.

‘By their own volition. Three or four troublemakers – let them suffer the consequences of their demagoguery.’ Africanus turned to his father. ‘You must send in the troops.’

‘Gods below, boy, this is Rome,’ Crispinus said, ‘not some barbarian village.’

As Africanus bridled, Pupienus knew he must step in before their discussion became more heated.

‘I will talk to them.’

‘Talk will achieve nothing,’ Africanus said.

‘Your father is Prefect of Rome, not you.’ At Crispinus’ words, Africanus lapsed into a bristling silence.

‘Send a herald,’ Crispinus said. ‘They may be in an ugly mood.’

They went and stood in the shade until the herald returned, then walked across the square.

The temple of Venus and Rome towered above them. At ground level, the doors to the storage rooms were locked and chained. A dense crowd looked down at them from the terrace. Gallicanus was easy to spot. He stood with Maecenas and two other men in togas with broad purple stripes.

‘We are doing no wrong,’ Gallicanus called. ‘We have come to worship the deities and to guard their treasures.’

‘It is beneath our
dignitas
to shout at each other in the street like slaves.’ Pupienus had commanded armies; he could make his voice carry. ‘Come down, and we will talk elsewhere.’

‘Duty forbids me to abandon the goddesses.’

Sanctimonious fool, Pupienus thought. ‘Give me safe conduct, and I will come up.’

Gallicanus spread his hands to encompass the crowd. ‘We are law-abiding citizens of Rome. You need no safe conduct. The temples are open to everyone with no evil in their hearts.’

Infernal gods, the man was insufferable. Pupienus turned to the others. ‘I will go alone.’

As one, Crispinus and Africanus said it was not safe, they would go with him. Pupienus was adamant. They were all bound by man’s mortality: only the memorial of right conduct could set one free; everything else was fleeting, like man himself.

Pupienus took the narrow steps to the right. There was a makeshift barricade halfway up, on the landing where they turned to the left. Suspicion, if not outright hostility, was evident on the faces of the plebs who part dismantled it to let him through. They had piled stones behind it, and a few, in defiance of the law, openly carried weapons. Pupienus let that pass, and continued to the top.

The toga Gallicanus wore looked as if he had weaved it himself. His thick brown hair was wild and his forearms uncovered. He reminded Pupienus more than ever of an ape.

‘I am delighted you have come to join us,’ Gallicanus said.

Pupienus paid no heed to what he took to be a heavy-handed attempt at humour. He greeted Maecenas and the other two Senators, who he now recognised as ex-Quaestors called Hostilianus and Valens Licinianus.

‘Your honour, position and reputation are all at stake,’ Gallicanus continued.

‘Can we talk in private?’

Gallicanus swung around, arms wide, as if he intended physically to embrace the closest unwashed plebeians. ‘An honest man has nothing to hide, not from the people of Rome, not from the gods.’

With an effort, Pupienus controlled his rising anger. ‘This has to stop now. I have an order from the Emperor to clear the temple.’

‘So his creatures can steal the temple treasures, melt them down to give to his pampered soldiery,’ Gallicanus said.

‘Wars have to be fought,’ Pupienus said. ‘Maximinus has announced that the gods have offered him their possessions for the defence of Rome.’

Gallicanus drew himself up, and bellowed, ‘Sacrilege! The plebs of Rome will not stand by and see the gods despoiled.’

The crowd murmured its approval. Pupienus looked coldly at the nearest men. They fell silent. He turned back to Gallicanus. ‘You know as well as I do it is the cutting of the grain dole which has brought the plebs out, that and fewer shows. They have no concerns beyond bread and circuses.’

The noise of the throng swelled, angrier than before. Individuals towards the back called out insults and threats. Pupienus thought his words might have been ill judged.

‘
Quirites
, you hear yourselves denigrated—’

‘Enough.’ Maecenas interrupted Gallicanus. Surprisingly, the latter stopped.

The crowd still shouted, its indignation rising.

‘Come,’ Maecenas said to Pupienus. ‘I will escort you back.’

As he walked down, Pupienus could hear Gallicanus again haranguing the mob.

‘You will send in the Urban Cohorts?’ Maecenas asked.

‘If I do not, it will be Vitalianus and the Praetorians.’

‘You must do as your conscience dictates, but it will be a bloodbath.’ Maecenas stopped, took Pupienus by the arm, leant close. ‘Maximinus cannot last. The plebs will follow any alternative.’

‘Even Gallicanus and his restored Republic?’

Maecenas did not respond to the sarcasm or answer the question. ‘Maximinus may have married his son to a great-granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius, but the Emperor’s other descendants will no longer serve under him. Claudius Severus and Claudius Aurelius have left Rome and withdrawn to their estates. The nobility are abandoning Maximinus. Too many have been condemned. The soldiers alone cannot keep him on the throne for ever.’

Pupienus was sweating, not just from the heat of the day. He had to choose his words with care. The future was always uncertain. He had not risen so high by being careless in the enemies he made. ‘I do not wish you or Gallicanus any harm, but you know that any Senators caught inside the temple will have to be arrested for treason. There will be no choice.’ It sounded weak to his own ears.

Maecenas released his arm, and turned and went back up the steps.

Having issued the necessary orders, Pupienus walked up the Sacred Way along the south side of the temple. Crispinus was silent, wrapped in his own considerations. Pupienus asked his son to be quiet. He needed to think. The street was like a furnace, and his head ached.

Massive and built of stone, the temple made a natural fortress. Apart from the two constricted staircases at the east, there was one easily blocked entrance on each of the northern and southern sides. The only practicable place to force a contested access was from the west, and that was up a steep flight of eleven marble steps.

Emerging from the Arch of Titus, Pupienus found his men already drawn up in the Forum. A squad doubled past to prevent anyone escaping from the southern door. An officer informed him that others were on their way to seal the other exits.

Pupienus knew there was truth in the things Maecenas had said. But the man was a fool if he gave any credence to Gallicanus’ insane ideas of restoring the free Republic. This was all the fault of the yapping Cynic dog. Of course the plebs were restive – they had reason to be, who did not? – but it would not have led to this if Gallicanus had not whipped them into a frenzy. Pupienus should have handed him over to Honoratus on the evening of Maximinus’ accession. He should have ignored the oath he had given the hairy, posturing philosophic ape. The gods knew, he had thought about it on the day his first son took the Consulship. Now it was too late. He would have to unleash soldiers on to the civilian population, or his own head would be displayed in front of the Senate House.

A tribune saluted, and said all was ready.

Pupienus gave him new instructions.

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

As they waited, Africanus remonstrated with his father – it was not enough, too lenient – but Crispinus said it was a good political compromise, a Tacitean middle way. When all was ready, they moved back next to the House of the Vestals to be out of range.

A trumpet sounded and the soldiers of the Urban Cohorts hefted their shields. The front rank crouched behind theirs; those in the rear held them above their heads. The trumpet called again and the phalanx edged forward. The men beat on the insides of their shields in time with their slow, measured tread.

Up on the podium, the boldest plebs ran to the top of the steps. They moved sideways, as if dancing. Their arms whipped forward, and the first missiles flew. Pupienus saw an eddy in the formation, where a soldier must have been hit. Most of the bricks and bits of masonry bounced off the shields.

The phalanx reached the foot of the steps and began to ascend, like some ponderous amphibian beast going up a beach. More projectiles rattled down. There was no order among the rioters, and no sign of Gallicanus.

The trumpet rang out a third time. With unexpected suddenness, the carapace of the phalanx broke apart. The leading ranks bounded up the remaining steps. Surprised, the mob turned to run. Some slipped on the marble paving, scrabbled desperately to get away. With the bosses and edges of their shields, the soldiers knocked the laggards to the floor. The clubs in their right hands cracked down on skulls, shoulders and arms.

In a moment, the crowd had vanished into the echoing gloom of the temple. The soldiers chased after them, all except the rear two ranks, who drew up at the top of the steps as a reserve. One or two rioters lay prostrate at their feet.

The sound of running feet, hobnails on stone. Pupienus and his companions swung around.

‘What in Hades do you think you are doing?’ Vitalianus shouted.

Pupienus met the furious gaze of the deputy Praetorian Prefect, but said nothing.

‘Your men are watching the traitors escape from the other doors.’

‘My orders were to clear the temple, not instigate a massacre.’ Pupienus spoke clearly, wanting everyone to hear.

‘We will never find the ringleaders. This is your fault.’

‘My orders were to clear the temple. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

‘Do not bandy words with me.’ Vitalianus jabbed a finger at Pupienus. ‘Maximinus will hear of this. You have done yourself no favours with the Emperor, no favours at all.’

CHAPTER 31

Africa
Carthage,
the Kalends of September, AD237

The ring was set under a big tree. Sunlight dappled the sand. Gordian took another drink, and offered a wager on the black. Menophilus accepted, and backed the russet. Gordian was still surprised that Menophilus had come with him; it was not his type of thing. But Sabinianus and Arrian were away, and Menophilus was a good friend.

The trainers held the fighting cocks in both hands, passing them in front of each other, lingering a moment when they were almost close enough to strike. At a sign from the official, the men stepped back with exaggerated theatre and, bending, gently dropped them to the ground. Released, the cocks flew at one another in a wing-beating, head-thrusting, leg-kicking eruption of animal fury so pure, so absolute and in its way so beautiful as to be almost abstract. They collided and merged into a tight, thrashing ball; a single animate thing of spurs and claws and hatred. Only when they both left the ground could they be told apart. The crowd sighed, and the black lay, alive but bloodied and not moving.

Gordian passed over the stake. ‘That is the third bout running. My
genius
is afraid of yours. It fawns on you, as Antony’s did Octavian.’

Menophilus put it in his wallet. ‘Then be thankful we are contending for a handful of coins, not mastery over the inhabited world.’

Gordian finished his drink. ‘I should have avoided your company today. Stoics are not meant to approve of cockfighting.’