Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

‘Save yourselves,’ Paulina said.

‘We will not leave you alone.’ Fortunata bravely nodded at Pythias’s words.

‘Then rearrange my stola into respectability.’

Now the room was quiet, they could hear the gathering uproar through the open window.

A man barrelled through the half-shut door.

Paulina could not stop her sharp intake of breath, a slight start.

‘My Lady.’ It was Maximinus’ old body servant, Tynchanius. He had been with her husband all his life. Although promoted to Groom of the Bedchamber, Maximinus had said he was too old now for the rigours of campaigning. It was a kindness that looked to be about to cost Tynchanius his life.

The door swung almost shut.

Down in the street, men were shouting, all the more frightening for being in some eastern language. Then, from inside the house, came the sounds of things breaking, heavy boots on the stairs.

Tynchanius faced the doorway. He had a sword. His shoulders were shaking. Fortunata and Pythias stood in front of Paulina.

Two archers pushed the door wide. They had drawn blades. Tynchanius lunged. They avoided him easily, slipped past. Two more archers crowded in. The Osrhoenes ringed the old man. He slashed this way and that. The easterners stepped back, laughing. As his back was turned, one jumped forward, sliced the old man’s thigh. Tynchanius wheeled. Another cut him from behind. The old man staggered, flailing like a bear baited in the arena.

‘Leave him!’ Paulina shouted.

An Osrhoene grinned, perfect white teeth in his dark face. ‘As my Lady wishes.’

The soldier thrust. Tynchanius blocked. Another soldier drove his blade into Tynchanius’ back. The old man’s weapon clattered to the floor. His hands groped behind, vainly reaching for the wound. He collapsed.

The Osrhoenes moved forward. Fortunata and Pythias shrank back against Paulina’s knees.

Tynchanius was not dead. Through his own blood, the old man was trying to crawl to his sword.

‘Where is your commander?’ Paulina was surprised by the control in her voice.

The soldiers stopped.

‘Take me to Titus Quartinus.’

One of the soldiers said something in their incomprehensible tongue. The others laughed.

‘Stand aside!’

The ranks of the archers parted at the command from behind them.

Macedo Macedonius was in parade armour, his sword in its scabbard. The Greek took in the scene.

Tynchanius, trembling, slipping in the gore, was using his blade to lever himself up.

‘Kill him,’ Macedo said.

An Osrhoene brought his blade down into the back of the old man’s head, like a man chopping wood.

‘Take the girls, and leave. Amuse yourselves with them.’

Fortunata and Pythias wailed as they were dragged from Paulina’s knees. Their clothes were nearly all torn off before they were manhandled out.

Paulina remained seated. The arms of the chair were digging into her palms. Her breathing was harsh, like something ripped from her.

Macedo went and closed the door. He turned back and walked around the corpse. The pool of blood had spread across the marble floor, had reached a carpet and was darkening its silk.

‘What of your military oath?’

Macedo stopped. ‘None of this was my doing, my Lady. If I had not gone along with them, I would be dead by now.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘I will escort you to your husband. Trust me.’

Paulina hesitated. Hope can defy reason.

The door was pushed open. A tall middle-aged man with a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders and a wreath on his head came in. He was followed by six Osrhoene officers.

‘ Imperator , your presence is not necessary here,’ Macedo said.

Quartinus ignored him, spoke to Paulina. ‘My Lady, you have my assurance you will not be harmed.’

Macedo turned to one of the officers. ‘Mokimos, escort the Augustus to the Campus Martius. It is time he made a speech to the men, promised them their donative.’

Quartinus opened his mouth but said nothing. He did not resist as two officers took him by the elbows and walked him out of the room.

‘Shut the door. Let no one else in.’

The last man out did as he was told.

‘While I have some authority over them, I can get you away.’

Paulina stood now. Although her legs threatened to betray her, she backed past the loom to the window.

‘We must be quick, before they shut the gates, set a watch on the bridge.’

‘Liar,’ Paulina said.

Macedo looked hurt.

‘Curse you, and your life.’

Macedo smiled, almost sadly. ‘Well, in that case …’

The Northern Frontier

Pincus, a Fort on the Danube,

Three Days before the Nones of July, AD236

Maximinus sat on the ivory throne. The imperial travelling companions were ranked behind him, but he was alone.

The news had reached him at Apulum, three days’ march north of Ulpia Traiana Sarmizegetusa. It had been in this tent. He had been sitting on a chest off to one side, mending a strap on his armour. Things on which your life depended should not be left to slaves.

The bearer had been a young equestrian military tribune with 2nd Legion Parthica. Returning from leave, he had witnessed the events at Viminacium. He had got away while the men were looting, before they had thought to close the bridge. Riding night and day, two horses had foundered under him.

The story was quickly told. The Osrhoene archers had risen. They had torn the portraits of Maximinus and his son from their standards. The man they had proclaimed was a Senator called Titus Quartinus. He had been governor of Moesia Superior, until dismissed by Maximinus the previous year. The tribune was sorry, but he did not know what had happened to the Empress, and — a look of surprise on his face at the question — he knew nothing about a cubicularius named Tynchanius.

Maximinus had burst into action. There was time to save her. By nightfall, he had a flying column ready. Five units, all mounted — the Equites Singulares, the Parthians and Persians, the Moors, and the cataphracts under Sabinus Modestus — four thousand men, more than enough to deal with two thousand rebels. The Osrhoenes were bowmen. They would not stand against the heavy cavalry hand to hand. The next day, they had covered the sixty or more miles back to Ulpia Traiana. Two days later, they had reached the Danube, opposite Pontes. They crossed unopposed. Maximinus knew they had been fortunate. Six days, and the traitors had not yet moved east to block this bridge.

They had caught the man in the camp that night. He had been talking sedition to some of the officers of the cataphracts. Sabinus Modestus had handed him over to the frumentarii of Volo. The man had not stood up well to the pincers and claws. Maximinus had watched every probe, every twist and scraping. Leaning close, inhaling the reek of blood, he had listened to every sob, every shuddering word. Yes, the man confessed, he was a centurion of the Osrhoenes. He had been sent to watch the bridge. Quartinus wanted to bring Maximinus’ troops over without fighting. Gods, just ease the pain, just for a moment . The Empress was dead. Yes, he was certain. He had seen her corpse lying in the street. Quartinus had ordered her cremated. Please, for pity’s sake, just stop the pain . It had been hours before Maximinus had granted his wish. His mutilated body was thrown out for the dogs.

Maximinus’ residual momentum had carried them west for a day. That night, he had drunk himself insensible. The next morning, he had not left his bedchamber. Catius Clemens had come to ask for orders, the watchword of the day. Maximinus had knocked him down, thrown him bodily from the tent. He had called for more wine. He had drunk for three days. Afterwards, he had a blurred memory of having his son by the throat, threatening to tear out Maximus’ eyes because they did not weep for his mother.