Fire and Sword. Harry Sidebottom

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       Northern Italy

       The Julian Alps, The Day before the Kalends of April, AD238

      Timesitheus stumbled on the uneven surface of the track. The long loop of chain dragged the heavy manacles down on his grazed, bloodied wrists, but that was as nothing to the pain in his damaged hand. It was eleven days since he had been captured and for the last three of them he had been herded along this mountain path towards Maximinus, like a beast or a runaway slave being returned to a vengeful master.

      The mission should not have ended in this way. The Board of Twenty had instructed Timesitheus to report on the defensibility of the Alpine Passes, and attempt to win the locals over to the cause of the Gordiani. There had been no intention that he should expose himself to danger. The presence of an old enemy in these mountains had changed everything. It was an ancient enmity, its causes almost lost in time, but still strong, very strong. Timesitheus had let personal hatred override his rational mind. He prided himself on his rationality. His life should not have ended that way.

      At first, after he had killed Domitius, the tyrant’s Prefect of Camp, he had thought he would get away. In the inn, he had not been dismayed; not when he had found the gladiator, his one follower, had disappeared into the night, deserting him, not even when he had been disarmed and shackled by the soldiers. He was a Hellene, trained in rhetoric. Next to no one could resist the powers of persuasion wielded by such a man, certainly not a handful of simple, leaderless soldiers. He had money and influence, and greed and vanity were strong passions among the ill-educated. For days, in the remote mansio, he had talked, low and earnest, to Maximinus’ four legionaries. He had mustered every conceivable argument and inducement. They should not be deceived by appearances. Of course, he was not alone. The roads through the mountains were held by troops loyal to the Gordiani. The soldiers were cut off. If, against all odds, they succeeded in reaching Maximinus, the cause of the Thracian was doomed anyway. Better to go south by easy stages. The Gordiani would welcome those who came over, reward handsomely the men who brought to safety a high-ranking official such as himself. The saviours of the Prefect of the Grain Supply would experience the full range of imperial benefaction; not just wealth, but rapid promotion and social advancement. They would all wear the gold rings of the equestrian order before a month had passed. And they should think of their families. The 2nd Legion’s base in the Alban Hills was but twelve miles from Rome. If they chose the wrong side in the civil war, what would happen to their wives and children? Who would protect them?

      It would have worked – Timesitheus was convinced – but for one thick-set, bearded brute. The legionary had been intransigent and aggressive from the beginning. It was he who had chained Timesitheus. Swearing at his companions, he had urged them to ignore the poisonous treason of ‘the little Greek’. He had prated about the military oath, dwelling on the binding and sacred nature of the sacramentum. Loyalty was everything in the army. Maximinus had doubled their pay. The big Thracian was one of them, a soldier, nothing like this yapping, shifty Graeculus. Finally the legionary had won the argument by recourse to violence. Each time he heard Timesitheus trying to corrupt his tent-mates, the legionary would cut off one of the Greek’s fingers. Timesitheus had seen no option but to persevere, and the hirsute soldier had carried out his threat.

      Taking a grip on his courage and every emotion, Timesitheus had battened them down. Somehow he had managed to place his left hand on the block. If he struggled, if they held him down, the damage might be worse. He had looked away, shut his eyes. He had heard the blade slicing through the air, the sickening sound as it chopped through bone and cartilage and flesh. The agony had come a moment later. To cauterize the wound, they had had to seize him, grapple him to the floor, pinion him tight. Stupid with pain, Timesitheus had watched the white-hot steel press into the severed stump of his little finger. Even as he screamed, he knew the dreadful smell would never leave him.

      The mutilation had ended all hope of persuasion. It had bound the other soldiers to the bearded ogre. Even the stupidest of them now realized that if they went over, rather than hand out rewards, Timesitheus was honour-bound to have them all killed.

      All his honeyed words and subtle threats, all his Odysseus-like cunning, had won Timesitheus nothing but a brief delay. The hairy savage – now the acknowledged leader of the soldiers – had believed the lies about the forces of the Gordiani holding the main passes. Stupid, but resourceful, he had found a local guide who, for the promise of a substantial sum of money, had agreed to lead them over the Alps to Maximinus. They would take a seldom-frequented shepherds’ path, one traversable only on foot.

      For two days, they had trudged north, through the foothills, passing between oak, beech and juniper. This morning, they had turned east, climbing a switchback route into the mountains. Staggering along, cradling his left hand against the tug of the chains, Timesitheus had seen the deciduous trees give way to pines. The resinous smell mingled with the stench of his own charred flesh.

      These wild mountains were the haunt of a rich landowner turned brigand called Corvinus. Promising him the earth, only days before, Timesitheus had induced him to pledge his support to the Gordiani. It counted for nothing. Before he died, Domitius would have extracted from Corvinus the same promises to the other side. Safe in his fastness, the bandit chief would sit out the conflict, then emerge to claim his undeserved recompenses from the victors. To hope for rescue by Corvinus was to set to sea on a mat.

      Weak with pain and fatigue, his left hand useless, unarmed and his wrists chained, Timesitheus could see no way to effect his own escape. He should summon a Stoic fatalism. No point in railing against things which could not be changed. What did not affect the inner man was irrelevant. The torment of his hand undermined such attempts. Philosophy was not his way. Better to stare into the black eyes of fear, to force that rodent to scuttle back into the darkness. Meet his death like a man, take comfort from the things he had achieved. From relatively humble origins, he had risen high; governed provinces, advised Emperors. ‘The little Greek’ had become a potent man, feared by his enemies. He regretted being caught, but he did not regret killing Domitius. Theirs had been a considered and mature hatred, nurtured over time. Often the Prefect had expressed the desire to eat Timesitheus’ liver raw.

      ‘We will spend the night here.’ The guide pointed ahead.

      By the track was a rustic, dilapidated inn. СКАЧАТЬ