‘The gods know, life under the Eagles is not easy. Marching and drill, injuries and wounds are always with us. So are hard winters and hardworking summers, grim war and unprofitable peace.’
Heads nodded. One or two legionaries smiled.
‘I first served more than twenty-five years ago, before some of you were born, before your fathers spread your mothers’ legs.’
The rising laughter was stifled before it was established. A commotion from the rear, eddying through the ranks.
‘It is a trap!’ someone shouted. The mutineers were turning away, jostling to see out across the harbour to the mainland. On the wharf troops were moving, forming up facing the island, blocking the bridge. What did Sabinianus think he was doing?
‘Traitor!’ The mutineers were tugging the covers off their shields, unsheathing their swords. ‘Kill them!’
As the boldest took the first steps, Brennus went to draw his blade. Gordian caught his wrist.
‘Wait!’ Gordian shouted as much at the bodyguard as those climbing the steps, but everyone paused.
Words not swords. He had only a moment to master his fear, find the right words. Epicurus was wrong; fear was not just a product of faulty reasoning. It had an existence of its own. Gordian fought it down.
‘The troops surrounding you are loyal to me, to my father. If you kill me, you will not leave this island alive. Yes, it is a trap. Would you have a fool for a general? A fool for an Emperor? I have you in my power, and you have me. I came here alone. Would you have a coward for an Emperor?’
The legionaries were still motionless. Gordian had to keep going. Lies, half-truths, it did not matter. He had to win them over.
‘You think Maximinus is your friend, because he doubled your pay. He is not your friend. He was trying to buy your honour. You think Maximinus is one of you. He is not. Maximinus is a barbarian from Thrace. You are Romans from Africa.’
Gordian could not read the effect of his words.
‘You know me. Three years I have served here in Africa. Ask the Scouts how I fought at Ad Palmam. Ask how I held the gate, captured the chief’s son with my own hands. The speculatores will tell you how at Esuba I was first over the enemy wall. The Frontier Wolves here will tell you how your fellow-soldiers of the 3rd Augusta scaled the defences when I was cut off by the barbarians.’
A few had put down their weapons. A final effort, and he might have them.
‘You all know the rumour. The auxiliaries will be left to hold the African frontier alone, and Maximinus will transfer the 3rd Augusta to the north. It is true. Before I killed Paul the Chain, I forced him to admit the truth. Maximinus has issued the orders which will tear you from your homes and families. You will march and die in the frozen forests and Steppe beyond the Danube, while here in Africa your women and children are raped, enslaved, and massacred by the barbarians.’
A blatant untruth, but now the invention swept through the troops.
‘Return to your oath to me, to my father.’ Gordian had to shout above their outraged mutterings. ‘I swear you will never be posted away from home. There will be no punishments, I give you my word. Return to your sacramentum, and each man will receive a bonus of five years’ pay.’
A big legionary with a scar across his face spoke up. ‘What about the rest of the legion?’
Gordian looked him in the eye. ‘My friend Arrian is the best horseman in Africa. If he rides hard, takes just the tribunes Pedius and Geminius as companions, he can be in Lambaesis in three days. In my name, and that of my father, he will make the same assurances to those at the headquarters of the 3rd Augusta. The legionaries here can send men to those Cohorts on guard along the southern frontier.’
‘Fair enough, Imperator,’ the legionary said. Behind him, eager hands reached up to the standard to pull down the portraits of the brutal man and his effeminate son.
Chapter 7
Rome
The Forum Romanum,
The Nones of March, AD238
Caenis left the Subura and went down to the Forum. It was early in the morning, and she was not working, not until the ninth hour. There had been stories of riots the day before, but she wanted to see them burning the paintings of the tyrant.
As she got near the Lake of Curtius, the crowd thickened. She had dressed respectably: no make-up, a long, plain gown, a figure-concealing cloak, sensible sandals, bands in her hair, and her only jewellery a bracelet any woman might have worn. The demure costume did little to shield her from obscene comments or wandering hands. It was best to ignore it when men pinched her bottom, more difficult with those who slyly felt her breasts. Men thought any girl alone in a crowd was fair game. Some were with their women, even had their children on their shoulders. Men were unembarrassed, they had no shame.
The paintings were already damaged. The day before the mob had hurled stones and rotten vegetables, daubed graffiti, and hacked out the face of each depiction of Maximinus. Her gaze ran along the enormous panels. A faceless Maximinus led his army over a bridge, another presided as his soldiers sacked a village, a final one, larger than the others, chased his enemies into a marsh. Her eyes were drawn back to the dishevelled women and children manhandled from their homes. Maximinus was a tyrant. He had treated his own subjects no better than those barbarians. He had cut the grain dole and limited the spectacles. His soldiers had stolen the treasures of the gods from their temples. Those who had protested had been beaten, clubbed to death. All the wealth he had taken had vanished into his northern campaigns, or been lavished on the ridiculous ceremonies proclaiming his ugly, dead wife a new goddess.
Up on the Rostra, the young Senator Menophilus was making a speech. The Gordiani were coming from Africa. Old-fashioned morality would return to Rome. Maximinus would be defeated. The Senate would guard Italy until the new Emperors arrived. The plebs and soldiers would heed their commands. Justice and liberty, free speech and dignity, the ways of their ancestors, all would return to the Seven Hills.
Menophilus was good looking, fresh faced, with short, curling dark hair, but her attention wandered from the meaningless concepts he expounded. Near her in the press was a young woman of about her age, blonde like her, of similar height and build. A man stood with his arm solicitously about her waist. No one would grab her arse, fondle her tits, without answering to him. She looked a bit like Rhodope. What would have become of Rhodope, Caenis wondered, if that terrible thing had not happened in Ephesus? Would she be standing somewhere with a husband to protect her? Would she have a home in which she could sleep undisturbed at night? Would she have children? Ephesus seemed a lifetime ago, but it was only five years.
The crowd cheered. Thick ropes of black smoke were curling up. Flames licked up to devour Maximinus, his soldiers, and the women and children in an indiscriminate holocaust.
Caenis stumbled as the throng shifted back. The Lictors were pushing people out of the way. Once their attendants had opened a path, the magistrates and other Senators processed to the Curia. Much-obscured by the heads of those in front, Caenis could only see a few of them. She glimpsed the attractive Menophilus. After him went the long-bearded figure of old Pupienus; a harsh man; as Prefect of the City, he had used the Urban Cohorts to drive the people from the Temple of Venus and Rome. Men had died, and the plebs had not forgotten. He ignored the insults that dogged his progress.
Among the very last, she saw Gallicanus in his homespun toga. He turned left and right, exchanging rough, manly banter with the crowd. Surely it could not be true about Gallicanus? The slave had been drunk, but he was in the household of the Senator, and he had sworn he told no lie. Public morality, and private vice; it was the oldest story. Caenis smiled. It felt good that she knew a secret that could bring down a high and mighty Senator like Gallicanus.