Harry Sidebottom - Iron and Rust

With his victory won, great Caesar would return to Rome. In the metropolis the antique virtues bred in his rustic home — piety, frugality, self-control — would cleanse away the stains of recent luxury and wickedness. A second Romulus, he would scour away the filth of corruption to bring forth another golden age. Justice would return to earth. All would salute him: the lands, the stretching leagues of the sea, the unplumbed sky. Let us salute him. Let Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus become Emperor!

A roar of approval went up to the high ceiling, startling a pair of sparrows and sending them racing out over the heads of the spectators at the open doors. Old Celerinus sat down. His neighbours congratulated him. Pupienus walked over to join them. It had been a good speech, with echoes of Livy and Virgil, the patriotism of both suitable to the occasion.

In order of precedence, the Consuls asked the opinion of the assembled Senators: I agree. I agree. One after another, the four hundred or more assented. The Consuls put it to the vote.

With much shuffling and even a little barging, the vast majority of the Conscript Fathers rushed to arraign themselves on the indicated side of the Curia. They packed themselves together like herd animals threatened by a predator. Some were slower, through age or infirmity, or overtly paraded independence. Gallicanus and Maecenas moved tardily and but a little. Gallicanus barely crossed the middle of the floor.

Perhaps, Pupienus thought, I should have given you to Honoratus. The handsome friend of the new Emperor knew Gallicanus had visited, and must surmise that he talked treason, although possibly not the fanatic scope of it. The free Republic had been dead nearly three centuries. To revive it was a fool’s dream. But Gallicanus was a fool. A yapping Cynic dog of a fool. Like an undermined bastion, his arrogance could bring ruin on those around him at any moment. Perhaps indeed he should yet be handed over to Honoratus. But no, an oath was an oath. The gods were not to be mocked. Yet, if a way could be found, it might not stand to the discredit of Maximinus and those around him if an example were to be made of Gallicanus.

‘This side seems to be in the majority.’ The formal words of the Consul were an understatement. No one, not even Gallicanus, was fool enough to vote openly against the accession.

The Senators began to chant their thanks to the gods for their new Emperor: ‘ Iupiter optime, tibi gratias. Apollo venerabilis, tibigratias .’ It echoed around the marbled walls of the Curia like plainsong.

‘ Iupiter optime, tibi gratias. Apollo venerabilis, tibi gratias .’

Singing with the rest, Pupienus wondered how long the gratitude to Jupiter the best, to venerable Apollo, to the other gods not yet thanked, would last. Could Honoratus, Flavius Vopiscus and Catius Clemens control the creature they had elevated? Could they mould Maximinus into something acceptable to more than the soldiery? Perhaps they could. They were men of ability as well as ambition. And there was Paulina, the wife of Maximinus. She was from the nobility. The Thracian was said to love her. She was reckoned a good influence.

Yet, no matter how he behaved, would the Senators ever truly accept Maximinus? They had fixed views on the person and role of an Emperor. He should be chosen from the Senators. He should respect the Senate and share the lifestyle of its members. Above all, he must be a first among equals, a civilis princeps . A shepherd boy from the North risen to equestrian rank via the army could not be such a primus inter pares .

Pupienus debated the wisdom of his actions the previous night. There was nothing else he could have done, nothing reasonable. But it might not pay to be too close to this new regime. Circumspection was the order of the day. Information should be gathered, a keen ear kept open for hints and whispers. He should be prepared, but nothing precipitous should be ventured. Ignorance breeds confidence, reflection leads to hesitation , as the saying went.

Iupiter optime, tibi gratias. Apollo venerabilis, tibi gratias.

Rome

The Carinae,

Five Days after the Ides of March, AD235

Iunia Fadilla knew herself blessed. A descendant of the divine Marcus Aurelius, she was made aware on many occasions and by all sorts of men that she possessed both beauty and an intellect that they claimed was rare in her sex. Before his untimely death, her father had found her an agreeable and generous husband. Now, two years or so after the marriage, her elderly spouse more predictably had gone the way of her parent. As was proper, the eighteen-year-old-widow wore no jewels and her stola was of the plainest grey. Yet, as she left the recital, her demeanour was more than a little at odds with her costume of bereavement.

Her friend, Perpetua, evidently was happy as well. They walked, arm in arm, across the great courtyard of the Baths of Trajan. The rain of the day before had gone, and the sky was a clear, washed-out blue. Gaggles of schoolchildren darted here and there, shrieking, sandals slapping on paving slabs, unconfined by their teachers. Also freed from their labours, doctors, artisans and worse drifted in and out of the colonnaded doorways. A group of fullers and dyers laughed as they went to wash away the foulness of their trades. It was five days after the ides of March, the Quinquatrus , the day of the birth of Minerva. Tomorrow, the festival demanded they spread the sand, and men would die, but today all fighting was unlawful.

They left via the north-western gates which gave on to the Oppian hill and turned left. Perpetua’s black hair, her bright gown and gems, formed an attractive counterpoint to Iunia’s head of tumbling blonde curls and sombre attire. They affected not to notice the many looks of frank admiration. Each woman was trailed by her custos and a maid. Almost alone, these followers did not obviously share in the general contentment. The day had nothing of the holiday for them, and the two guards at least had taken little pleasure in the modern poetry.

Perpetua was talking politics. ‘My brother Gaius says this new Emperor may be good for our family.’

Iunia thought Gaius immature and ugly. She had no interest in his views on politics, or on anything else. Politics bored her. But she let her friend talk. She was very fond of Perpetua.

‘Now he is one of the Tresviri Capitales he was allowed to listen to the debate from one of the doors of the Senate House yesterday.’

‘Given their own addictions to self-advancement and sycophancy,’ Iunia said, ‘it is touching that the Senators think the junior magistrates will benefit from their example in the Curia .’

‘That,’ said Perpetua, ‘is your late husband talking.’

‘He had a point.’

‘Quite a big one, you always said.’

‘Well, average at least.’

They had walked down the alley between the Baths of Titus and the Temple of Tellus, and now took the quiet path to the right across the front of the latter and along the brow of the hill.

‘Anyway, Gaius says that, ages ago, this Maximinus served under Grandfather on the northern frontier, somewhere like Dacia or Moesia. Father was a tribune there and met him. Apparently, although a complete peasant, Maximinus is known for his loyalty. Gaius thinks it might mean that father will get to be Consul at last, maybe even as an Ordinarius . Imagine a year named after Father.’

‘Did he mention the prospects of your husband? Or of Toxotius?’ Iunia could never resist teasing her.

Perpetua laughed. ‘I am not going to rise to it.’

They went along the front of the Carinae. No one knew why this district of noble houses was so named. Nothing in sight even vaguely resembled the keel of a ship. Off to the left, at the foot of the incline was the Street of the Sandal-makers. Ahead, running around the hill and out of sight to the north, was the valley of the Subura. Down there all was bustle and crowds. On the Carinae a stately spaciousness held sway.