‘Follow me!’ Unhooking his shield from the horn of his saddle, Maximinus brought his heels into Borysthenes’ ribs. The huge warhorse gathered itself, iron-studded hipposandals biting into the snow and ice, it bounded forward. Maximinus dragged his sword from its scabbard.
The first Sarmatians were through. A dozen or so, no more yet. Lances jabbed down at fleeing bowmen. Long, straight blades swung in deadly, shining arcs.
The leading warrior sawed his reins to meet Maximinus. He thrust his lance. Maximinus turned it with the flat of his sword, urged Borysthenes into the other horse. The Sarmatian’s mount was set back nearly on its quarters. Its rider, lance jolted out of his grip, was half-out of the saddle. Another barbarian cut at Maximinus from his left. Taking the blow on the rim of his shield, Maximinus thrust back. The tip of his steel slid off scale armour. The Iazyges on his right had regained his seat, was clawing for the hilt of his sword. Backhanded, Maximinus brought the edge of his blade down into his opponent’s shoulder, buckling armour, biting into bone.
The world contracted to the reach of a sword. Maximinus fought with controlled ferocity. Cut, parry, thrust: nothing else existed. Long training and the memory in his muscles guided his hand. Steel ringing on steel. Men and horses screaming in fury and pain and fear. The iron taste of blood in the mouth. The breath torn from his chest, burning. From nowhere a face, insane with terror, in his own. Gone in a moment, down under the stamping, trampling hooves.
Ahead a dragon, red tongue lolling from gaping silver jaws, its scaled, green body twisting in the wind. Below it a chieftain, tattooed forearms protruding from gilded and chased armour. A well-equipped warrior holding the standard, others banded in front.
Roaring an invocation to the fierce deity of his native hills, Maximinus drove forward. The Rider God was with him. A flurry of blows, too fast to be accounted, and he was in their midst. Now other horses impeding his progress. Borysthenes was brought to a standstill. Maximinus’ shield was wrenched from his grasp. A clanging impact hit the back of his helmet. Vision blurred, he twisted this way and that, fending off the sharp, questing steel that would take his life. As if through a glass, he saw Javolenus and Julius Capitolinus trying to cut their way through to him. Too late, he was surrounded.
Death held no fear for him. Reunited with Paulina, he would ride the highland for eternity. But not yet. First the chieftain must die. Blocking a blow from his left, one from his right, Maximinus kicked Borysthenes on. The great-hearted beast shouldered through the tumult.
The chieftain swung at his head. Catching the sword on his own, the impact shuddered up Maximinus’ arm. With his left hand, he seized the Sarmatian’s wrist, dragged him off balance, then smashed the pommel of his own sword into the snarling face. Something struck from behind, hard enough to drive jagged, broken fragments of armour into his shoulder blade. Ignoring the pain, he brought the pommel down on the chieftain’s temple. The barbarian went down, his armour clattering.
Turning, seeking the next threat, Maximinus saw Javolenus hack down the standard bearer. The snarling dragon dipped, and toppled into the fouled, blood-stained slush.
‘They are running!’
Julius Capitolenus’ words held no meaning.
‘Augustus, they are beaten.’
Painfully fighting air into his chest, Maximinus took in the stricken field. The Iazyges were streaming away to the south. Those unhorsed and not too wounded to get to their feet were struggling to catch the bridle of a mount and follow. The rest — the living and the dead — were being butchered, mutilated and chopped into sides of meat.
‘Sabinus Modestus and the right?’ Maximinus was hoarse, his words a grating whisper.
‘Dead or chased off the field. But the auxiliary cohorts on the flank did not break. Maybe Sarmatian horses are scared of donkeys after all. The barbarians are fleeing there too.’
Maximinus felt no elation, instead nothing but pain and a weary relief. His plans had worked. His delaying had made the barbarians over confident. Exulting, they had thought to ride down a demoralized rabble. Their long approach, and the fresh snow had tired their horses. The battle was won, but now the advantage had to be pressed.
‘Open the ranks.’ Maximinus found it an effort to talk. His left shoulder was burning. ‘Have Volo’s light horse pursue them. They must be harried, not allowed to reform.’
As shouts and trumpet calls relayed his orders, Maximinus’ son rode up.
‘I give you joy of our victory.’ Verus Maximus was immacu-late, his beautiful face radiant. It could not have been more evident that the Caesar had not fought.
Exhausted, blood-stained and wounded, Maximinus regarded him with disdain.
My sons will inherit, or no one, Vespasian had said. It was the attitude of all Emperors. Even Septimius Severus had let the treacherous Geta accede with his brother Caracalla. The Romans of old had been made of sterner stuff. When Brutus discovered his sons were trying to reintroduce monarchy, he had them dragged to the Forum, flogged, tied to a stake, and beheaded.
Maximinus looked away. High over the Steppe a pair of buzzards were circling, soaring on motionless wings. A man could disinherit his son. Those Emperors who had no son had adopted their heirs. Everyone told him, the will of the Emperor is law.
Chapter 5
Rome
The Senate House,
The Day before the Nones of March, AD238
Pupienus looked up and out of the window high on the opposite wall of the Curia. All the windows were open. The noise of the mob bore in like a spring tide. It buffeted among the gilded beams of the ceiling and broke on the heads of the hundred or so Senators brave or ambitious enough to attend. Kill them! Kill the enemies of the Roman people! Let them be dragged with the hook! To the Tiber with them! Pupienus knew too much about the plebs not to despise them. He was glad the doors were bolted.
It was the first thing the Consul had done. After the clerks, scribes and other public servants had left, he had ordered the doors closed and barred. The Lictors stood guard outside. The ceremonial attendants of the few magistrates present would have little chance if the mob determined to force an entrance, none at all if the soldiers intervened. But it was better than nothing.
The religious observances hurriedly completed, the Consul had declared the Senate in closed session, and required the Quaestor Menophilus read the letter from Africa.
In the shadows, Pupienus sat with his friends and relatives listening. He had forgotten how dark it was inside the Senate House with the doors shut. The gloom smelt of incense and spilt wine, of unwashed men and fear. Pupienus drew strength from those around him: from his two sons and his brother-in-law, and from his two particular amici, Rutilius Crispinus and Cuspidius Severus. One could never overestimate the importance of family and friends in Roman politics. All those close to him were ex-Consuls, the last two, like himself, new men, the first of their families to enter the Senate. A solid cohort of men, devoted to duty and the Res Publica, they radiated dignitas, that untranslatable mixture of propriety, achieved rank and nobility of soul. The Greeks had no such word. That was why they were subjects, and the Romans ruled the world.
Menophilus had been reading the letter from the elder Gordian aloud, and now was coming to the end of it.