Fire and Sword. Harry Sidebottom

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       Northern Italy, Beyond the Alps

       The Town of Emona, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238

      The heifer, garlanded and with gilded horns, was led into the Forum, past the serried ranks of the soldiers, and up to the altar of Fortuna Redux. The Emperor Maximinus took a pinch of incense, and let it fall into the fire. The flames crackled; blue and green. Enveloped in the smell of frankincense and myrrh, he made a libation of wine. The ceremony had begun, and it would run its stately course.

      Maximinus was impatient. The gods must be honoured. It would have been wrong for an Emperor returning to Italy not to make offerings to the divine fortune that had brought about his safe return. Yet the endless ceremonies and delays that had to be endured frustrated him beyond measure. He wanted his enemies in front of him, within reach of his strong hands. He had been at his arms drill when the news arrived of the deaths of the Gordiani. The jolt of pleasure had been brief. He recalled the whey-faced messenger stammering out that the Senate intended to elect one of their own as another pretender. Maximinus had not harmed the messenger. Paulina, his wife, dead nearly two years, would have been proud of his self-control.

      The heifer lowed, unsettled by the crowds.

      Once, the Senators of Rome had understood duty, had been men of virtue. They had remained on the Capitol, composed in the face of the inevitable, as the Gauls swarmed up the hill. The Decii, father and son, had dedicated themselves to the gods below to ensure the victory of their armies. Self-sacrifice and courage, long marches and hard duty had comprised the life of the Senators. But that had been long ago. Centuries of peace, of wealth and luxurious living, had corrupted them beyond redemption. In marble halls, under the gaze of the portrait busts of their stern forebears, they disported themselves with painted courtesans and depilated catamites. They were dead to shame, to the way of their ancestors. To them the mos maiorum was no more than an archaic expression.

      Paulina had been right. The Senators would always hate and despise him as a low-born usurper. They were too far from virtue to understand. Maximinus had never wanted to be Emperor. Since he had ascended the throne, nothing he had done had been for himself. Everything had been for the safety of Rome. From their palatial residences on the Esquiline, and their villas on the Bay of Naples, they could not see the terrible threat of the northern tribes. Everything – private estates and fortunes, even the treasures stored in the temples of the gods – must be sacrificed for the war. If it was lost, the barbarians would stable their horses in the temples, and tear down the empire.

      Maximinus tipped wine over the heifer’s brow. As the liquid splashed down, the beast dipped its head, as if agreeing to its own sacrifice. Maximinus took a handful of flour and salt, and sprinkled it over the heifer. Then, with the iron knife only to be wielded by the Pontifex Maximus, he made a pass over the victim’s back, intoning a prayer of thanks for the blessings already received, and asking for the deity’s favour in the trials to come.

      Stepping back, Maximinus nodded to an attendant. An axe swung in the sunshine, thumping down into the nape of the heifer’s neck. The heifer collapsed, stunned, its soft, gentle eyes unfocused. Two assistants pulled back its head, and one, with the assurance of long practice, cut its throat. Another of the victimarii moved to catch the blood. Some went into the jar, more gushed onto the ground, spattering up the man’s bare legs. Bright red blood ran in the cracks between the paving stones.

      The trials to come. What had given the Senators the unexpected courage to continue the war? With the deaths of the Gordiani, they had lost the resources of Africa. Italy was virtually unarmed. Perhaps a thousand Praetorians remained in their barracks in Rome, and roughly the same number of legionaries of the 2nd Parthica in their base on the Alban Hills. As the majority of their fellow-soldiers were with Maximinus, the loyalty to the senatorial cause of those left in Italy must be suspect. Of course there were six thousand men with the Urban Cohorts, another seven thousand in the vigiles. But the former were better at controlling the crowds at the spectacles than standing in the line of battle, and the latter were no more than armed firemen. The fleets at Misenum and Ravenna had turned traitor, but their marines were of little account on land. Against these inadequate, motley forces, Maximinus was bringing the might of the imperial field army. With Maximinus here at Emona were over thirty thousand veterans. Already Flavius Vopiscus, with an elite detachment of another four thousand men from the Pannonian Legions, was over the Alps, and across the Aesontius river.

      How could the Senate hope to resist such a force; an overwhelming force which could draw reinforcements from all the armies stationed throughout the provinces? The thought brought Maximinus a stab of doubt. Was there something else? Was the Senate gambling on some further treachery, as yet unknown? Capelianus had proven his commitment by crushing the rebellion in Africa. From Spain, Decius dominated the West. No one was more loyal than Decius, an early patron of Maximinus’ career. Nothing untoward had been heard from Britain, and nothing was to be expected from that dismal, damp backwater. The only credible challenge could come from the great armies stationed on the Rhine, the Danube, and in the East.

      As the victimarii went about their business, Maximinus considered the problem.

      From Cappadocia, Catius Clemens oversaw the other governors in the East. Clemens was a hypochondriac, forever dabbing his nose, complaining of this and that fever. Yet at the battle of the Harzhorn, he had fought like a Senator of the free Republic. After the death of Paulina, mad with grief and drink, Maximinus had punched Clemens in the face, knocked him to the ground. No Roman with any spirit would forget such an insult to his dignitas. Clemens had been one of the instigators of the plot which had killed Alexander and put Maximinus on the throne. Having overthrown one Emperor, Clemens had the nerve to strike down another. And Clemens need not act alone. His younger brother was in Rome, while his elder brother was governor of Germania Superior. Combined with the authority of the Senate, the armies of the Rhine and the East could shake the world.

      Then there was the Danube, watched by Honoratus from Moesia Inferior. Absurdly beautiful, Honoratus looked as if the noise of a symposium would frighten him. Yet he also had proved himself on the battlefield in Germania, and, of course, he was the second of the three complicit in the death of Alexander. Honoratus had been reluctant to leave the imperial court, and take up a post in the distant North. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might attempt to return to the centre of power by force.

      Perhaps, Maximinus thought, it might be best to remove them from office. But that begged the question who should replace them. Flavius Vopiscus was wracked by superstition; always clutching amulets, or trying to foretell the future from random lines of Virgil. СКАЧАТЬ