Fire and Sword. Harry Sidebottom

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ however, could not spare him. He was needed for the campaign in Italy. Anyway, Flavius Vopiscus was the final member of the triumvirate that had overthrown Alexander. There were many high-ranking men in the imperial entourage. Maximinus’ eye fell on Marius Perpetuus, a Consul of the previous year. But what was to say any of them would prove more trustworthy? And might not an order dismissing Clemens or Honoratus provoke the very uprising it was designed to prevent?

      Paulina had been right; an Emperor could trust no one. At least no one of wealth and status. Maximinus trusted his soldiers. Some spark of antique virtue still lived in simple men; the sons of peasants and soldiers, born on the farm, or in the camp, uncorrupted by city life. Although rations were limited, and remounts in short supply, the army was rested, ordered, and ready to march. Cross the Alps, join with Vopiscus at Aquileia, take that city, then march on Rome. A speedy campaign, reward the troops, and punish the guilty with exemplary severity. That was the way to stamp out any sparks of rebellion before they flared.

      A fable of Aesop came into his mind; one of those his mother had told him. A lion and a bear fought over the carcass of a fawn. When they were bloodied and exhausted, a fox stole the prize from under their noses. Maximinus dismissed the idea. This would not be a long campaign. The army only had to set foot across the Alps for almost everyone to come, holding out olive branches, pushing forward their children, begging for mercy and falling at their feet. The rest would run away because they were cowards.

      The victimarii had rolled the corpse of the heifer onto its back, had slit open its belly. Arms red to the elbows, to the armpits, they cut and sawed at the innards. Soon they offered the slimy, steaming products of their labours to their Emperor. Maximinus might be impatient, but if any of the organs were deformed he would order another sacrifice. The gods were to be treated with all reverence. Without their approval, nothing could prosper. Turning them in his hands, one by one, he inspected the liver, lungs, peritoneum, and gall bladder. There was a shadow on the heart, but nothing to cause concern. He announced the sacrifice propitious.

      As Maximinus washed and dried his hands, he noticed spots of blood on the white of his toga. Such things happened, it signified little.

      He had never desired the throne. Duty demanded that he crush this revolt, then make one last campaign into the forests of Germania. Then, the empire secure, he could set aside the purple. He would return to Ovile, the village of his birth, there to be reunited with Paulina, his dead wife. A sharp sword, an end to troubles. He would go as willingly as this sacrificial animal.

      Yet what of the succession? Unlike Sulla the Dictator, or Solon the Athenian lawgiver, Maximinus could not walk away, leave it to chance. The Res Publica needed a strong hand at the helm.

      Maximinus gazed across at his son. Verus Maximus stood, sulky and bored, not bothering to feign interest in the sacrifice. The breeze played with the boy’s artful curls. His son was beautiful, but weak and vicious. How had he and Paulina bred such a creature? At the moment of conception had she looked at something ill-omened? Or had there been witchcraft, a malignant daemon, or some terrible conjunction of the stars? Verus Maximus could not be allowed to inherit.

      The soothsayers had predicted a dynasty of three generations from Maximinus’ house. His only male relative was a second cousin. Rutilus was serving as a junior officer with Honoratus on the Danube. The youth had promise, but lacked experience. Maximinus would not wish on him the lonely, awful eminence. The soothsayers may well be mistaken. The will of the gods was hard to discern.

      More and more Maximinus’ consideration turned to Flavius Vopiscus. In a long series of commands, the Senator had shown courage in war, ruthless efficiency in peace. He was capable and ambitious – too ambitious, even? Could he rein it in, govern for the benefit of his subjects? Or would he be a slave to his own desires, treat the Res Publica as his private possession and become a tyrant? The question was unanswerable. No man’s soul was completely revealed until he was above the law, beyond all restraint. At least his amulets and collections of oracles demonstrated that Flavius Vopiscus feared the gods.

      Maximinus realized that he was still staring at his son. Verus Maximus would not meet his eyes. A coward as well as cruel. It was no wonder that his wife had run away. The imperial spies had reported the beatings. When Iunia Fadilla was found – how could a lone woman evade detection? – he would send her somewhere safe, away from Verus Maximus. Of course, when he retired, she would be safe. Before abdication, there would be one last, stern duty. Like a Roman of old, Maximinus would execute his son.

      A hubbub broke into Maximinus’ thoughts. In the deepening gloom, men were shouting. The soldiers were clashing their weapons on their shields, the trumpets were sounding.

       The sun! The sun!

      As Maximinus looked, the sun vanished.

      In the darkness soldiers lit torches, beseeched the gods, lamented their fate.

       If the sun falls, it warns of desolation for men, the death of rulers.

      Maximinus’ heart shrank, his courage deserting him. The treasures from the temples. It had not been sacrilege. He had not seized them for himself. Every last one of them had gone to pay for the war, to protect the temples themselves, to protect the homes of the gods. The secretary Apsines, all of the council, had said the gods offered him the treasures. There was no sacrilege. The gods should not turn against him.

       The desolation of men, the death of rulers.

      Apsines stepped forward. The Syrian had his hands raised like a herald at the spectacles calling for silence.

      ‘Soldiers of Rome.’

      Those nearest quietened.

      ‘This is a terrible portent – terrible not for us, but for our enemies!’

      The troops shifted in the dimness, as unconvinced as Maximinus.

      ‘Soldiers of Rome.’ Apsines had the voice of a trained Sophist, skilled in dominating an audience. ‘Soldiers of Rome, remember your heritage. On the day Romulus founded the eternal city the sun failed. You march to Rome. When your Emperor Maximinus has scoured the Senate, cleansed the seven hills of traitors, exiled vice and restored virtue, it will be as if Rome was refounded.’

      A sliver of light in the sky. Maximinus’ spirit lifted. Perhaps the Syrian was right; he was an educated man.

      ‘Follow Maximinus Augustus, the new Romulus, to found Rome anew. Thank the gods for this sign. Rejoice! You are the instrument of their will.’

      In the gathering daylight, the troops gave a ragged cheer.

       To Rome! To Rome!

PART II:

       CHAPTER 5

       Etruria

       The Hills outside the Town of Volaterrae, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238

      Nothing separated humanity from the beasts except self-control. No one had greater need of that quality than a man who had hidden his own history. More than half a century СКАЧАТЬ