Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

Paulina was far from sure the devout would see it in quite those terms.

Maximinus leant forward, hands on his knees. ‘To a soldier, that sounds the typical fiction of a jurist. I am reluctant to risk offending the traditional gods. We are not desperate yet. Crown gold is still coming in from cities after the German victories. They will have to send more when we have beaten the Sarmatians. We will keep the temple treasures in mind. Should it become necessary, who will take on this duty?’

‘My Lord, I would be happy to carry out your wishes,’ Anullinus said. Even without the rumours about his actions in the coup — surely not, not after Mamaea was dead — there was a sinister, even frightening air about the Praetorian Prefect. Perhaps, Paulina thought, it was his eyes. At first they seemed dull, but when you looked more closely they appeared to burn with an energy that had no moral purpose or restraint.

‘Make it so.’ Maximinus sat back, resting his forearms on the arms of the curule throne. There was something Paulina found attractive about a man’s forearms; that smooth curve of muscle a woman’s lacked. One thought began to lead to another.

‘Is there anything else that we need to discuss before we turn again to the question of remounts?’

Paulina’s spirit sank at her husband’s evident enthusiasm.

‘Emperor.’ With his high cheekbones and dark eyes, Honoratus was far too handsome. Paulina had never trusted men with such good looks. ‘May I talk about the future?’

Maximinus grunted an assent that sounded as if he hoped the discussion of military horseflesh would not be delayed for any great length of time.

‘My Lord, you and the Empress are blessed with a son.’ Honoratus gave Paulina a dazzling smile. He was beautiful and suave: Paulina would not be the only one to distrust him on sight. ‘Maximus took the toga of manhood some years ago; he is now eighteen. Last summer, he served with distinction under the standards.’

‘Well,’ Maximinus said, ‘he travelled with us.’ Paulina shot him a look which stopped him saying any more.

‘There is nothing your subjects desire more than security, and nothing gives them more security than living under an established dynasty. No matter how they love their Emperor, if he lacks an heir, the future worries them. Imperator , your courage and your virtue impel you to risk your life on behalf of Rome. Should anything happen to you, there is the terrible fear of civil war. Nothing harms the Res Publica more than when ambitious men lead her soldiers in fratricidal strife. My Lord, I speak for all your loyal friends when I urge you to name your son Caesar.’

Paulina had known it would happen, but not now, not like this, with her present in the consilium . People would talk. They would say she had connived to get into the council, that she had exerted her influence to have her son elevated. Was Maximus ready to be Caesar, let alone Emperor? His father was right: the boy was immature. There had been that terrible incident with the serving girl. Thank the gods, Paulina had managed to cover it all up. What Maximinus would have done had he found out did not bear thinking about.

Wrapped in her concerns, Paulina missed what Honoratus had said next.

‘… no imperial dynasty has ever been more loved than that of Marcus Aurelius. To join the two families would bring their many influential connections renewed influence. It would conciliate the nobility and link your regime to the age of silver. The girl is beautiful and amiable. As a widow, she is trained in the duties of a wife. Again, I speak for all when I urge you to betroth your son Maximus Caesar to the great-granddaughter of the divine Marcus, Iunia Fadilla.’

Africa Proconsularis

Beyond the Frontier,

Two Days before the Ides of January, AD236

As the last outpost of civilization, Tisavar was unimpressive. Sited on a low rise, the irregular stones of its walls were the same colour as the surrounding sand dunes. It was more a blockhouse than a fortress. As Gordian rode up, he judged it not bigger than forty paces by thirty. Nevertheless, the column would find the rest welcome.

Gordian had ridden down from Carthage with the Quaestor Menophilus and the legates Sabinianus and Arrian. Each had brought just the one servant. The hostage prince Mirzi was accompanied by six of his father’s warriors. At Tacape on the coast, Aemilius Severinus had been waiting with two hundred troopers of the speculatores . A day’s march south, they had rendezvoused with a hundred men of 3rd Legion Augusta under a centurion called Verittus at the small town of Martae. From there, for three days, they had followed a white track winding through the ochre mountains to the west. Descending, they had turned south-east across a flat, stony plain. Two days later, at Cententarium Tibubuci, a small outpost in the middle of nowhere, they had met two hundred auxiliaries from 2nd Cohort Flavia Afrorum. As instructed, their Prefect, Lydus, had brought provisions, grappling hooks and ropes, materials to make scaling ladders and light baggage carts to carry them. Two more days, bearing south then west, had brought them to Tisavar.

It had been a hard march over unmade roads, but possibly nothing compared with what lay ahead. There were no roads where they were going. Gordian liaised with the centurion in charge of Tisavar. He wanted to make the men as comfortable as possible. There were twenty-eight small rooms backing on to the walls of the fort. These were crammed with soldiers, as was the diminutive headquarters building in the courtyard. The officers would bed down together in the shrine. The stables that stood outside the defences were emptied of animals, mucked out, and more men billeted there. Even so, more than half the expedition would have to camp in the open.

They brought out food, wine and firewood. Gordian made sure the troops had a hot meal and ordered a double ration of wine. Of course, the men would drink more than the official allowance — they always had their own supplies — but they would sweat out any ill-effects the following day.

To get some privacy, Gordian and his officers walked out into the desert night. It was very cold, the stars very bright.

‘The men of 2nd Cohort are grumbling.’ Menophilus’ breath plumed in the frigid air. ‘They do not like turning out of their winter quarters, not to march nine days in a huge circle. They say the village is only two days, three at most, from their base at Tillibari.’

‘I explained it would have alerted the enemy,’ Lydus said. ‘The brigands would never expect an attack from out of the desert from the west. And winter is when we will catch all of them in their lair with their plunder.’

‘Soldiers grumble,’ Gordian said. ‘It means nothing. It is their way.’

They were silent for a time. A fox barked somewhere in the desert.

‘A Persian army once went into the desert,’ Menophilus said. ‘The sands covered them while they slept. Not one of them was seen again.’

Gordian smiled. ‘Words of ill omen, if ever I heard them.’

‘An Epicurean such as yourself should not care,’ Sabinianus said.

‘We make allowances for those still mired in superstition, especially gloomy Stoics like Menophilus.’

They laughed, passing a flask of wine around.

‘Mind you-’ Sabinianus spoke to Gordian, ‘-we have more than drifting sand to worry about. We are going into the desert led by a young tribesman you maimed. If it were me, I would bear a grudge. This youth’s father recently murdered his way across the province. You are far too trusting. It is asking to be betrayed. A small force, lost in the unknown, surrounded by barbarians … when the water runs out, we will have to do each other the final kindness.’