Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

The barbarian camp, a semicircle of wagons, was not more than a mile away now. It was time. Maximinus reined in and told the standard bearers and trumpeters at his back to make the signal.

The infantry trudged past. A coin for a shave, they shouted. Maximinus had a bag tied to a saddle horn. He threw the coins from it with an open hand. Men ran to gather them, then jostled back to their places. Even the centurions seemed almost good-natured, as they cursed them for their avarice.

As the army moved from the column of march, fanning out across the plain, it raised great billows of dust. Through the murk patterns emerged. It reminded Maximinus of watching the clouds; the way they shifted and merged, forming now the image of a hound, now a horse, now the breasts and thighs of a naked woman. He had not had a woman since Paulina had died. He had not had another woman while she was alive. It had not seemed right. But now she was dead, and man was not meant for celibacy. Perhaps, if the day went well, he would have one amid the chaos of the sacked camp, one of those blonde Sarmatian bitches.

The army was stationary, the south wind blowing the dust away towards the barbarians. It was autumn, but the sun was hot. In his armour, Maximinus was sweating profusely. He wiped his brow. Squinting, he took one last look at his dispositions before he committed them all to the lap of the gods.

The centre of the first line was a phalanx of eleven thousand drawn from all the legions along the Rhine and the Danube. Five deep, it stretched for a third of a mile. Flavius Vopiscus would be reading line after line of the Aeneid , searching for encouragement, but Maximinus would not have had anyone else leading. If Vopiscus fell, Catius Clemens would assume command. The latter was always dabbing his nose, complaining of this or that ailment, but it was all affectation. Despite his hypochondria, Catius Clemens was a hard man.

Similarly arrayed, on each flank of the legionaries were a thousand regular auxiliary infantry and a thousand warriors brought by treaties from the tribes of Germania. This would be the last battle under Roman standards for the tribesmen on the left. As Maximinus had agreed with their prince, Froda, this winter the Angles and their leader Eadwine would return home to the distant North.

Anullinus’ eight thousand Praetorians and Julius Capitolinus’ four thousand 2nd Legion Parthica formed the second line. Shields grounded, they would be praying that the first assault succeeded and they would not have to fight.

The attacks would be supported by Iotapianus’ archers. Tucked between the lines of heavy infantry were a thousand Emesenes, five hundred Armenians, and a thousand Osrhoenes. Maximinus had ordered the latter decimated in the aftermath of the revolt of Quartinus and Macedo, but otherwise had not treated them harshly. After one in ten had been beaten to death by his mess companions, there had been no further punishments. Of course, their numbers were much depleted, but any unit which had supported a failed pretender had to expect the most difficult and dangerous assignments.

The cavalry on the right wing consisted of four alae of regulars and the Persians and Parthians; three thousand in all. They waited dismounted, to spare their horses. Honoratus might look more suited to a symposium than a battle, but in the last three years he had given proof after proof of his martial abilities.

On the left, Sabinus Modestus commanded his thousand cataphracts and the thousand Moorish light cavalry. Maximinus had grown fond of Modestus. He was not the cleverest, but he did what he was ordered, was good in a fight. Intellect was not a prerequisite in an army officer.

As a reserve, Maximinus had kept around himself just the thousand troopers of the imperial Horse Guards. To move more quickly in the final approach, the bolt-shooters and their carts had been left at the marching camp, more than five miles behind. They would guard it with one cohort of auxiliary infantry and the Ostensionales. It amused Maximinus to have reduced his predecessor’s favourite unit to a baggage guard.

The baggage caught Maximinus’ thoughts, not in a good way. The provision of supplies had never been the same since Timesitheus had gone east. Maximinus had had Volo investigate Domitius. The Prefect of the Camp was embezzling large sums. Previously, Domitius would have been arrested straight away, his illegal gains confiscated, his head on a pike. Now, Maximinus was waiting until he found a suitable replacement. He had considered recalling Timesitheus from Asia, but he was needed in Rome. The Graeculus had a gift for organization. The grain dole was in disarray. When Timesitheus had put it to rights, the plebs would have no reason to demonstrate. Any that did could be cleared from the temples and streets by the Urban Cohorts of Sabinus, the new Prefect of the City, and the Praetorians under Vitalianus. Perhaps when Rome was quiet again, he would order Timesitheus back to the army. In the meantime, Domitius still commanded the camp. All the graft that stuck to his fingers would return to the treasury when he fell.

Maximinus gazed all around. There was nothing. No cover, no dust; nothing but the brown grass and the hot sun. He gave the order. The trumpets rang and the standards inclined forward. The army began its long walk.

‘Enemy riders coming.’

There were two of them, cantering across from their wagons. From the leisure of their progress, most likely they were envoys.

‘Have them brought to me,’ Maximinus said.

Beyond the riders, the enemy were coming out of their camp. Lacking regular units, barbarian numbers were hard to judge. These were infantry. They formed a line roughly equal in length to that of Flavius Vopiscus’ men. Perhaps their depth was not as great; certainly it was no more.

Maximinus was looking over his shoulder at the open grassland to his west when the envoys arrived. By his dress — a padded, embroidered jacket, trousers, a horseman’s long sword and a long knife strapped to his thigh — one was a Sarmatian. The other had bones in his long hair. He was a Gothic priest.

‘ Zirin ,’ the Sarmatian said. It was the word that secured the safety of any on the steppe that wanted a parley.

Maximinus said nothing.

‘We have come to arrange a truce.’ The Sarmatian spoke in Greek.

Still Maximinus did not speak.

‘If you halt your men, we will discuss terms.’

‘Why?’ Maximinus said.

The Goth spoke in more heavily accented Greek. ‘The gods have shown us their will.’ The bones in his matted braids clacked in the wind.

Maximinus knew he was scowling. ‘All summer I pursued you, and you did not come to me. Why now?’

The Sarmatian smiled. ‘We find ourselves in a worse position.’

‘Seize them.’ Maximinus said.

‘ Zirin! ’ They shouted, outraged, as the soldiers took their weapons, bound their hands behind their backs. ‘ Zirin! ’

‘Take them to the rear.’

They were brave, but a man should not involve the gods in his duplicity. For once, the Romans had the advantage. Three days before, two brave and resourceful scouts had reported seeing the Sarmatian cavalry leaving their camp for the west. Yesterday, when the Roman approach was seen, they would have been recalled. They had not arrived by first light this morning. The attack had to go in before they returned.

‘You acted justly, my Lord. The divine Julius Caesar once did the same when some Germans tried to temporize.’

Maximinus looked at the Consul, Marius Perpetuus. He was elegant, polished. Maximinus knew he was scowling again. The educated always found justifications, examples from the distant past. He was far from certain what he had done was just.