Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

Pupienus was sweating, not just from the heat of the day. He had to choose his words with care. The future was always uncertain. He had not risen so high by being careless in the enemies he made. ‘I do not wish you or Gallicanus any harm, but you know that any Senators caught inside the temple will have to be arrested for treason. There will be no choice.’ It sounded weak to his own ears.

Maecenas released his arm, and turned and went back up the steps.

Having issued the necessary orders, Pupienus walked up the Sacred Way along the south side of the temple. Crispinus was silent, wrapped in his own considerations. Pupienus asked his son to be quiet. He needed to think. The street was like a furnace, and his head ached.

Massive and built of stone, the temple made a natural fortress. Apart from the two constricted staircases at the east, there was one easily blocked entrance on each of the northern and southern sides. The only practicable place to force a contested access was from the west, and that was up a steep flight of eleven marble steps.

Emerging from the Arch of Titus, Pupienus found his men already drawn up in the Forum. A squad doubled past to prevent anyone escaping from the southern door. An officer informed him that others were on their way to seal the other exits.

Pupienus knew there was truth in the things Maecenas had said. But the man was a fool if he gave any credence to Gallicanus’ insane ideas of restoring the free Republic. This was all the fault of the yapping Cynic dog. Of course the plebs were restive — they had reason to be, who did not? — but it would not have led to this if Gallicanus had not whipped them into a frenzy. Pupienus should have handed him over to Honoratus on the evening of Maximinus’ accession. He should have ignored the oath he had given the hairy, posturing philosophic ape. The gods knew, he had thought about it on the day his first son took the Consulship. Now it was too late. He would have to unleash soldiers on to the civilian population, or his own head would be displayed in front of the Senate House.

A tribune saluted, and said all was ready.

Pupienus gave him new instructions.

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

As they waited, Africanus remonstrated with his father — it was not enough, too lenient — but Crispinus said it was a good political compromise, a Tacitean middle way. When all was ready, they moved back next to the House of the Vestals to be out of range.

A trumpet sounded and the soldiers of the Urban Cohorts hefted their shields. The front rank crouched behind theirs; those in the rear held them above their heads. The trumpet called again and the phalanx edged forward. The men beat on the insides of their shields in time with their slow, measured tread.

Up on the podium, the boldest plebs ran to the top of the steps. They moved sideways, as if dancing. Their arms whipped forward, and the first missiles flew. Pupienus saw an eddy in the formation, where a soldier must have been hit. Most of the bricks and bits of masonry bounced off the shields.

The phalanx reached the foot of the steps and began to ascend, like some ponderous amphibian beast going up a beach. More projectiles rattled down. There was no order among the rioters, and no sign of Gallicanus.

The trumpet rang out a third time. With unexpected suddenness, the carapace of the phalanx broke apart. The leading ranks bounded up the remaining steps. Surprised, the mob turned to run. Some slipped on the marble paving, scrabbled desperately to get away. With the bosses and edges of their shields, the soldiers knocked the laggards to the floor. The clubs in their right hands cracked down on skulls, shoulders and arms.

In a moment, the crowd had vanished into the echoing gloom of the temple. The soldiers chased after them, all except the rear two ranks, who drew up at the top of the steps as a reserve. One or two rioters lay prostrate at their feet.

The sound of running feet, hobnails on stone. Pupienus and his companions swung around.

‘What in Hades do you think you are doing?’ Vitalianus shouted.

Pupienus met the furious gaze of the deputy Praetorian Prefect, but said nothing.

‘Your men are watching the traitors escape from the other doors.’

‘My orders were to clear the temple, not instigate a massacre.’ Pupienus spoke clearly, wanting everyone to hear.

‘We will never find the ringleaders. This is your fault.’

‘My orders were to clear the temple. We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

‘Do not bandy words with me.’ Vitalianus jabbed a finger at Pupienus. ‘Maximinus will hear of this. You have done yourself no favours with the Emperor, no favours at all.’

Africa

Carthage,

the Kalends of September, AD237

The ring was set under a big tree. Sunlight dappled the sand. Gordian took another drink, and offered a wager on the black. Menophilus accepted, and backed the russet. Gordian was still surprised that Menophilus had come with him; it was not his type of thing. But Sabinianus and Arrian were away, and Menophilus was a good friend.

The trainers held the fighting cocks in both hands, passing them in front of each other, lingering a moment when they were almost close enough to strike. At a sign from the official, the men stepped back with exaggerated theatre and, bending, gently dropped them to the ground. Released, the cocks flew at one another in a wing-beating, head-thrusting, leg-kicking eruption of animal fury so pure, so absolute and in its way so beautiful as to be almost abstract. They collided and merged into a tight, thrashing ball; a single animate thing of spurs and claws and hatred. Only when they both left the ground could they be told apart. The crowd sighed, and the black lay, alive but bloodied and not moving.

Gordian passed over the stake. ‘That is the third bout running. My genius is afraid of yours. It fawns on you, as Antony’s did Octavian.’

Menophilus put it in his wallet. ‘Then be thankful we are contending for a handful of coins, not mastery over the inhabited world.’

Gordian finished his drink. ‘I should have avoided your company today. Stoics are not meant to approve of cockfighting.’

Menophilus refilled their cups. ‘We cannot all be Marcus Aurelius.’

The trainer picked up the vanquished black. Tenderly, he stroked and fluffed it, his hands expressing the grief his face would not. The crowd looked on, respecting his self-control.

Gordian took another long swallow of wine. The news had arrived that morning. He had never been close to his sister. There was nothing of their father in her, none of his delight in the pleasures of life. Maecia Faustina had always been disapproving; more than disapproving, she had always been forbidding. She took after their maternal grandfather. Still, she would be upset. Tomorrow, when he was sober, he would write her a letter of condolence. He felt sorry for that son of hers. A sickly, weak-looking little boy; bad enough having Maecia Faustina for a mother, but to have no father.

Frowning, he tried to work out where Junius Balbus would be now. The ship had made a quick passage from Syria to Carthage. It had left two days after the arrest. They were taking Balbus to the North by carriage. Fuddled by the wine, Gordian counted on his fingers. Most likely, Balbus was somewhere in Thrace. Was it true the prisoners were given no food and no water? The fat fool would not care for that. It was unlikely that he had any experience of deprivation.

Two new birds were in the ring. The official was inspecting the binding of their spurs.

Of course, it could not be true. Unless they were brought no distance, the prisoners would be dead by the time they reached Maximinus. There would be nothing for the Thracian to insult or torture. Although they said he had gloated over the head of Alexander. They said he had fucked the corpse of Mamaea.