Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

The hare saw the hounds and angled diagonally away.

Timesitheus and Macedo put their mounts into a fast canter.

The hare ran straight until the brindle bitch in the lead was but a pace or two behind, then jinked to the right. The brindle turned fast, but overshot. The black cut inside. She turned the hare left, then right. The brindle was coming up again, clods flying from her claws. The black turned the hare again — two, three, four times. Her strike was clean. She pulled up in a flurry of mud, shaking her prey. If the snap of her jaws had not killed the hare, its neck was broken now.

Macedo jumped down and took two eggs from a straw-packed bag on his saddle. He handed one to Timesitheus and retrieved the hare. The bitches frisked around, panting, wagging their tails. Dismounting, Timesitheus caught the brindle bitch. He pulled her muzzle up, cracked the egg and tipped it into her mouth. Both men made much of the bitches, rubbing their ears, praising them.

No sooner had they returned, and another two hounds been led out, than another hare was running. The next huntsman made a mess of things. The hare was panic-stricken, almost under them, when he slipped the hounds. Less than ten paces, and the lead dog had killed. Macedo looked furious.

‘Fine hares have often perished ingloriously, having had no time to do anything worth remembering.’ Timesitheus spoke to avert his companion’s anger from the hapless huntsman.

‘You are right.’ Macedo mastered himself. ‘Let us have a drink and something to eat.’

The hunt servants led away horses and hounds and busied themselves spreading blankets in some nearby shade. Timesitheus and Macedo were left alone.

‘“Let me at least not die without a struggle, inglorious, but do some big thing first, that men to come shall know of it.”’ As he recited the lines, Macedo looked down, brushing some dirt off his trousers.

‘Hector’s words before he fought Achilles,’ Timesitheus said.

Macedo did not meet his gaze. ‘You may think you will be well out of it in Bithynia-Pontus.’

Timesitheus made a noise of assent, his senses suddenly very alert.

‘Vitalianus has been made deputy Praetorian Prefect. You spoke against his previous appointment in Mauretania. He will prove a dangerous enemy.’

‘Most likely,’ Timesitheus said.

‘The Prefect of the Camp hates you. Domitius would like to eat your liver raw.’

‘I would rather watch someone else consume his intestines,’ Timesitheus said.

Macedo did not smile, but looked at him now, a mature consideration in his eyes. ‘Unworthy men are being promoted. Quintus Valerius has been given Mauretania, Lorenius has replaced him in Raetia. My Osrhoenes and the heavy cavalry of your relative Sabinus Modestus gave Maximinus victory against the Germans. We have received nothing. You brought to light the conspiracy of Magnus, and you are put out of the way in Bithynia-Pontus.’

There was something about the way Macedo had said ‘brought to light’. Timesitheus arranged his face. ‘Not long ago, you envied me that province.’

Macedo shook his head. ‘You will not be safe there. The last few months have shown that a governor of a distant province cannot defend himself from informers at court. Perhaps Antigonus was plotting in Moesia Inferior, but more likely he died because Honoratus wanted his command against the Goths. But harmless old Ostorius of Cilicia was condemned for his money. Domitius made the profitable accusation. The Prefect of the Camp took a quarter of the estate, the imperial treasury the rest.’

Timesitheus murmured something non-committal. He heard the scuttle of fear in his mind.

‘The Senators will never truly accept an equestrian on the throne, and when he starts to kill members of their order …’ Macedo left that sentence hanging.

Timesitheus said nothing.

Macedo continued. ‘Volo reopening the cases of those acquitted of treason under Alexander, his frumentarii dragging back those who were merely relegated from Italy — these things have terrified them all. When innocence is no defence against wealth …’

The fetid, rodent breath was hot in Timesitheus’ ear. ‘My province is unarmed.’

‘I have always admired the alacrity of your mind,’ Macedo said.

‘Thank you.’

Now Macedo smiled. ‘The province of your friend Priscus is not lacking in troops. Nor is that of his friend Serenianus. Between them they have four legions, many auxiliaries. Together, Bithynia-Pontus, Mesopotamia and Cappadocia could sway the East.’

Timesitheus battened his fear deep down. He had to keep his head. ‘You just said the Senate will never accept an equestrian on the throne.’

Macedo actually laughed. ‘No goddess has dazzled me . Another.’

‘Who?’

Macedo shook his head. ‘Someone better qualified than me.’

Timesitheus said nothing.

‘We ask nothing from you. But, after the event, when a messenger reaches the East, an early declaration by several provinces would be both good for Rome and well rewarded.’ Macedo turned towards the trees. ‘No more now. Let us go and eat.’

Following, Timesitheus felt as if he were walking on the edge of a precipice. Who were the we who asked nothing of him? Was there a conspiracy? Was Macedo trying to do to him what he had done to Magnus? Was he already implicated? Would only decisive action save him? Or could he ride away tomorrow, leave it behind him as if the words had never been spoken? Tranquillina would know the answer.

Let me at least not die without a struggle. Hector had fought, but it had not saved him from Achilles.

Rome

The Valley between the Esquiline and Caelian Hills,

the Nones of June, AD236

The high, blank wall prevented the die-cutter having any view of the Temple of Venus and Rome until he passed its northern entrance. He peered in, as he did every morning on his walk to work. His long-distance vision was getting worse. All he could make out was a blur of grey columns and the glare of the gilt roof. Although out of his sight, he knew the seated statues of the two goddesses were so big that their heads nearly touched the ceiling. It said something about human stupidity that the deities had no room to stand. It said worse that anyone might believe such idols could become animate.

He came out into the open space by the colossal statue of the Sun. Wreaths from some festival lay about its base, wind-bedraggled, their leaves dry and faded in the early-summer heat. The Flavian Amphitheatre beyond was a building site. It had been struck by lightning in the reign of Caracalla. Almost twenty years later, the repairs had not been finished. As was his habit, the die-cutter squinted up between the scaffolding at the arches on the top two levels. All were meant to contain statues. Most were empty. Like the Tower of Babel, this monument to mortal pride and cruelty would forever remain unfinished.

To his left, he passed the steps up to the Baths of Titus. He had a vague impression of greenery at their summit. That was what Rome should stand for: gardens, bathing, lectures in shaded porticos, cultured leisure after hard labour, peace after war, civilization. It was worth fighting for those things. The thought stayed with him as he went down the Via Labicana. On his right hand were the shops and their greed which fronted the brutality of the gladiatorial school behind; on his left — albeit little more than a haze to him — the elegant roofs of the Baths of Trajan. Two sides of a coin. It must be possible to have one without the other, to purge the sins of mankind. He had to be brave for the things that mattered.

After another block, he turned right into an alley. Halfway down were the doors of the mint. He crossed the courtyard and opened the shutters of his workroom. He carried his bench and stool to the open air. It was always better to work in natural light. For a moment, he stood irresolute, as the apprehension of what lay ahead that evening threatened to overwhelm him. Work, that was the answer. It would clear his mind.