Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

Paulina had had every virtue a woman should possess. Loyalty, reasonableness, affability, religion without superstition, sobriety of dress, modesty of appearance — the list had no end. She had always dismissed her looks, but they had delighted him: her pale eyes, her delicate, small mouth and chin. Why had she died before him? He was older. He should have proceeded her to the grave. She should have buried him. Had they even placed a coin in her mouth for the ferryman? He would not let her life be lost, not let her go as if she had never existed. From his memories of her words and her actions, somehow he would draw the strength to resist fortune. But, when he thought of her, sorrow wrenched away his self-control. How could he hold steadfast to such a promise? How could such a thing have happened? Were the gods so uncaring?

On the fourth morning, it was Aspines who had coaxed him out from where he lay. Talking all the time of how a man had to endure, quoting lines from Homer, the a Studiis had washed him, with inexperienced fingers helped him arm:

There is not

any advantage to be won from grim lamentation.

Such is the way the gods spun life for unfortunate mortals.

When they resumed the march, Maximinus had Aspines ride at his side. He had listened intently as the sophist drew on all his learning to offer consolation. Aspines did not know if the soul survived death; no one did. If it did not, there was just sleep. If it did, then there was a deity and, by definition, a god was good, so the souls of the good would not flit like bats through the dark but find a haven, safe and happy with the immortal gods for eternity. Maximinus was suffering, but others had suffered more. Jason witnessed his bride burn, and saw the broken bodies of his sons. Aeneas rescued his father and son, but lost his wife and had to endure the sight of Troy in flames. And then there was duty. Maximinus owed it to himself, to the memory of his wife, to crush the usurper, to drive the barbarians from Dacia, to restore the Pax Romana.

Words, Maximinus thought, just words. But sometimes words have their place. He shifted slightly as he waited. On a small portable altar, the sacred fire smoked. He had made his decisions, but had told no one.

A guard pulled back the hanging.

Macedo walked in. The Graeculus was wearing a gilded and chased corselet. In one hand he carried a sack, in the crook of his other arm he held an alabaster urn.

‘Emperor, I have done all I could.’

Maximinus neither spoke nor moved.

The Greek placed the sack on the floor. Bent over, one-handed, he fumbled to open it.

No one went to help him.

Macedo lifted the thing free by its hair. ‘The usurper is dead.’

The tent was silent, except for the ticking of the fire.

Macedo dropped the severed head of Quartinus. It landed heavily on the ground.

Everyone in the tent looked at the repulsive object, except Maximinus.

‘How?’ Maximinus said.

Macedo wiped his hand on his trousers. ‘Last night, avoiding his guards, all alone I crept into the usurper’s room. As he lay like Polyphemus in swinish drunkenness, I killed him. This morning, the sight of his head brought his rebellious soldiers to their senses. In the light of day, before gods and men, I administered the military oath to their rightful Emperor.’

‘The Empress?’ Maximinus said.

‘Her ashes, gathered in reverence.’ Macedo held out the white urn.

Maximinus got up from the throne. His guards tensed. He took the reliquary, held it tenderly in his great, scarred hands. He would not weep. A man has to endure. He turned, and placed the urn on the seat of his throne.

‘What happened?’

Macedo shook his head despondently. ‘The rebels were looting the house. She fell from a high window. Some think she jumped to her death to preserve her honour. Others say she was pushed.’

Maximinus felt the blood pounding in his temples.

‘She has been revenged, my Lord. This morning, I executed all who had invaded her home, all who had offered insult to her sacred person. Their corpses were thrown in the river, given to the fishes. Their souls will wander for ever in torment.’ Macedo looked at Maximinus with tears in his eyes.

‘All?’

‘Every man.’ The tears ran down Macedo’s cheeks.

‘Seize him.’

Macedo struggled, then stopped. Two soldiers pinioned his arms. Another removed his sword and dagger.

‘ Imperator , if I had not pretended to join them, they would have killed me. I would have had no chance to rid you of the traitor.’

Maximinus took Macedo’s sword from the guard. ‘You did not kill all who went into the house.’

‘I swear by the gods below, I killed them all.’

‘Not all.’ Maximinus balanced the sword on his fingertips. ‘I killed the centurion Mokimos five days ago at Pontes. You Greeks overrate your cleverness.’

‘ Dominus -’

Maximinus drove the blade through Macedo’s breastplate into his stomach. He released his grip. The hilt was hard against the gilded leather and the point had burst through the armour on Macedo’s back.

Going back to the throne, Maximinus picked up the urn, sat. His hands left smears of red on the alabaster. More blood stained the ivory throne.

The guards let Macedo slide to the floor of the tent. He was still breathing.

Maximinus’ head throbbed, but his thoughts were clear.

‘Send a messenger to the Osrhoenes that I will take their oath in person. Tell them to assemble, without arms, this afternoon outside Viminacium on the Campus Martius. Have the parade ground ringed by our cavalry.’

Maximinus pointed at Macedo. ‘Take his head. Send it to Rome, with that of Quartinus. Put them on pikes outside the Senate House. Honoratus, you will go to Rome, and announce that Caecilia Paulina will be worshipped as a goddess.’

‘ Imperator , Flavius Honoratus is in Moesia Inferior, fighting the Goths,’ Catius Clemens said.

‘Then you will take my command. Caecilia Paulina will have a temple, priestesses, sacrifices. All our resources must go to the northern war. Tell the Prefect of the City, Pupienus, to reduce the expenditure on the cults of the other deities. If that is not enough, cut the corn dole and sell the surplus.’

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

Maximinus sat back, gazing at the bloodstained urn. Paulina was dead. It was unthinkable that the world might carry on unaffected. If the idle rich and the feckless plebs of Rome wanted spectacles, let them remember her. If they wanted bread, let them work for it.

His grief threatened to unman him. Aspines had done his best, but he had been wrong. Neither Aeneas nor Jason had suffered as much. No one had. Maximinus had been fifteen. He had been out in the Thracian high country, hunting with Tychanius. He had known something was wrong long before they reached Ovile. The village was too quiet. He had seen the first dead bodies in the mud, but he had still hoped. He had walked into the hut, and his entire family had been there: father, mother, his little brother and his two sisters. They were all dead; his mother and sisters naked.

The northern barbarians had killed his family, and now these easterners had murdered his wife.

Africa

The Outskirts of Carthage,

Four Days before the Kalends of August, AD236

Zeus Philios, the King of the Gods, was looking old and a little weary. He had laid down his thunderbolt next to his wine cup, but he was nodding happily. Even at his age completely in character, he was admiring the scarcely concealed charms of Aphrodite. Across the room, Hephaistos, a wreath of roses slipping over his eyes, was limping back to the table.