Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

The owner brought him bread and cheese, and warm watered wine. The die-cutter thanked him and began to eat.

It was not just technical virtuosity. Pride might be a sin, but he knew he was blessed with talent. For years he had interpreted the vaguest of instructions. Often, they were so vague he suspected they were meaningless to the aspiring young politicians who issued them. All those ignorant youths wanted was to offer up to the Emperor an image of his own majesty which might appeal should the man on the throne ever chance to view it. In their dreams such exalted approval translated into their own rapid elevation: a Quaestorship as one of Caesar’s candidates: then a Praetorship before the minimum age; a rich province to follow; at the summit a Consulship and its spurious immortality, all gold and purple, the tawdry glories of this world. From such pedestrian and self-serving concepts, and with recalcitrant physical materials, the die-cutter created art.

With this initial issue of coins, it had quickly become apparent that Acilius Glabrio, Valerius Poplicola and Toxotius had no more idea than the die-cutter himself what might be the virtues, aims, interests or religious sympathies of this new Emperor. He was an equestrian army officer from Thrace. From the way they spoke, neither of these things recommended him in the eyes of the young noblemen. Beyond that, Maximinus Augustus was a complete mystery. None of them could remember meeting him, and not one of them had the faintest clue what he looked like.

Given all of which, the die-cutter considered that he had made a fine portrait. Maximinus in profile gazed off to the viewer’s right. Neither too old, nor too young, the Emperor was in vigorous maturity. His hair was short, and he wore a wreath. The latter was a safer choice than the radiate crown, which some saw as the Emperor placing himself too close to God, possibly demanding worship, and thus was indicative of hubris . The jaw line was strong and clean-shaven. A beard could be good, hinting at the manly virtues of the old Republic, but if too elaborate it might evoke thoughts of soft, ineffectual Greeks, and if too short of brutish soldiers. The die-cutter had given Maximinus an aquiline nose and had tried to get something of the keen intelligence of Julius Caesar about the eyes. Surely no ruler could object to any of that.

He had made just the one obverse for the other die-cutters to follow. Given the greater stresses put on them in the minting process, already he had created no fewer than five different reverse dies. The guidance of the Tresviri Monetales had been less than useless here. ‘The usual sorts of things,’ Acilius Glabrio had said, as if the subject bored him. The die-cutter had given it some thought. The first one he did had the Emperor between two military standards; after all, he had come from the army. After that, two imperial virtues, Victoria and Pax Augusti ; in the Roman view the latter was always dependent on the former. Then Liberalitas ; a safe bet, as a hand-out followed an accession as night follows day. Finally, Votis Decennalibus ; everyone, including the die-cutter himself, had already taken vows for the safety of the new Emperor over the next ten years.

These initial reverse types were well chosen. There was nothing innovative. They played to traditional tastes. Yet the die-cutter knew they would win no praise from those set over him. Either the Monetales would appropriate them as their own, or they would quibble and claim others would have been better. The day of reckoning could not come too fast.

The die-cutter jumped as a hand descended on his shoulder.

‘Guilty conscience?’ Castricius sat down next to him.

‘You young fool, I nearly shat myself.’

‘Incontinent as well as blind and deaf — things are almost all over for you.’ When Castricius smiled, odd, angular lines ran across his thin, pointed face.

The die-cutter could not stop himself smiling back.

Castricius called for unwatered wine.

There was no doubt that Castricius was a bad person. He claimed to be from a good family in Gaul and to have had sound reasons to run away from the tutor who had brought him to Rome. His accent and manners seemed to support the story but, true or not, he had settled with alarming ease into the life of a cut-purse in the Subura. Yet, despite it all, the die-cutter could not help but like his young neighbour.

‘You are up early.’

‘No, up late.’ Castricius took a drink. ‘This will help me sleep. Not that it should be a problem. Yesterday I went up to the Carinae to look at the women. Gods, what I would do to one of those rich bitches. Anyway, having made myself horribly priapic, I went down to visit Caenis. She wore me out; said it was good to have a young man between her legs instead of your old, shrivelled carcass.’

The die-cutter felt his affection for the young Gaul turn to anger. It was irrational. Castricius was not to blame. It was his own weakness. Caenis was a whore who lived in the same tenement block as them. The die-cutter had been her client for years. He had changed much in his life, but he had been unable to change that. Even now he felt his prick stir as he thought of her body. He lacked self-control. Now she was in his mind, he knew he would be unable to stop himself going to her tonight. He was a weak man.

The die-cutter got up. He gripped his bag of tools, like a man seeking certainty.

‘Sleep well. I am going to the mint.’

His fears had receded, but, as the die-cutter stepped out into the sunshine, he could not help glancing up and down the street, checking every man loitering in a doorway. You could trust no one. Certainly not Castricius.

Africa

The City of Hadrumetum,

Eight Days after the Ides of April, AD235

The curtains were drawn back to catch the breeze in the room designated for the court. Gordian looked at the others on the tribunal. His father, presiding as judge, was beginning to look his age. He still had a full head of hair, unlike Gordian himself. It had been silver for years, but now the face below was drawn, the cheeks sunken, the eyes rheumy yet somehow staring. There was a tremor in the elder’s voice and hand. It saddened Gordian, both for itself and for what it implied about his own mortality. He regarded the other assessors. Serenus Sammonicus, his old tutor, was elderly like his father. Valerian, Sabinianus, Arrian and the local Mauricius were of an age with himself; men in their forties, either in the prime of life or halfway towards death, depending on your viewpoint. Only Menophilus, the Quaestor, was younger, still in his late twenties. Not one of them, not even the two patrician Cercopes, looked as bored as Gordian felt.

The villa commanded a fine view of the harbour of Hadrumetum. Inside the jetties the water rippled gently, flashing in the sun. A gang of men were loading amphorae on to a big cargo vessel. They wore loincloths and their bodies glistened with sweat. An overseer dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. The olive oil was destined for the tables, lamps and perfume bottles of Rome. It had been centuries since the eternal city had been able to feed herself from her Italian hinterlands. All the staples — grain and wine as well as oil — had to be imported. Every year, vast quantities were shipped from Egypt, but the majority was sent from Africa. Long ago, in the reign of Claudius, a governor of Africa had cut off the supply when he made his bid for the throne. In those days, the Proconsul had still commanded the 3rd Legion, and he had raised another legion. None of it had done him any good.

A line of moored fishing boats formed a contrast to the relentless activity around the merchantman. They would have been out the previous night, but now, with their weathered paint, rough tarpaulins and piles of sand-coloured nets, they looked abandoned. Beyond them, at the end of one of the moles, a group of young boys sprawled on the rocks of the breakwater. When the mood took them, they would stand and dive into the water. Laughing, they would climb out, shake themselves and lie down again to let the sun dry their brown, naked bodies. They were poor, but they were free. Gordian wished he was back in Ad Palmam.