‘A mistake,’ Valerian’s complaints continued their ponderous course. ‘When the Liberators cut down Caesar, they spared Mark Antony, and everyone knows how that turned out. Why kill Vitalianus, when there are less than a thousand Praetorians in Rome, and leave alive two men just as close to the regime of Maximinus, who between them …’
‘Enough!’ They had been through all this. There was no time now for Menophilus to go from alpha to omega again. ‘We have our orders, and we will obey them.’
Valerian scowled. Evidently he did not relish being interrupted by the younger man.
‘We all know our roles.’ Menophilus nevertheless felt it was his duty to repeat them. Gordian had entrusted this to him. There could be no mistakes. ‘Valerian, there is little time, but it is not far to the Caelian. Fulvius Pius will not have left his house yet. With the other Consul away, tell him the Res Publica depends on him. When you are certain Fulvius Pius will summon the Senate, collect his neighbour Pupienus as well, and escort them both to the Curia. Everything now depends on how quickly we act.’
Valerian nodded.
Menophilus turned to the one other present who was not a soldier. ‘Maecius, when you reach the Carinae, go straight to the home of Balbinus. The patrician is notoriously indolent. He may be reluctant. Flatter him, bribe him, do whatever. Use threats if necessary. Balbinus has many connections among the Senators. We have to have him at the meeting. Only when you are sure he will attend, go to the house of the Gordiani, and warn Maecia Faustina. Lock and bar the windows and doors of the Domus Rostrata. Arm the slaves. Stay with your kinswoman. Remember the safety of Gordian’s sister rests on you.’
The gold ring on Maecius’ hand flashed as he waved to acknowledge his orders. Then both the young equestrian and Valerian turned to go.
Trying to hide any misgivings, Menophilus watched the two men depart. Each was trailed by his utterly inadequate escort of just two soldiers. The next few hours might see them all dead. Duty demanded that he send Maecius to the house of Balbinus before securing the Domus Rostrata. Yet it was not an easy decision. Gordian was not close to his sister, but he might find it hard to forgive Menophilus if something happened to her or his ancestral home.
Regarding Valerian’s broad back as it receded under the Arch and off up the Sacred Way brought a certain comfort. The older man provided a wordless lesson in duty. Valerian’s young son was a hostage in the imperial school on the Palatine. The day held the sure promise of violence; at the least riot, and perhaps savage repression and revenge. And Valerian was going to summon the Consul of Rome from the Caelian, instead of rushing to protect his son.
It was time to go. Menophilus regarded his two fellow assassins. Filthy, reeking with blood, eyes popping and wild; his own aspect would be no better. He motioned them to follow, and marched out into the Forum.
‘Libertas!’ he roared, and raised his fatal blade to the skies.
‘Libertas!’ the soldiers echoed.
A row of astrologers, dream diviners and others of similar callings sat or stood in front of the House of the Vestals.
‘Libertas!’ Menophilus cried to them. ‘Citizens, your freedom is restored. Here in Rome we have cut down your oppressor. The Prefect Vitalianus is dead.’
They regarded him with misgiving, these down-at-heel peddlers of divine foresight. Nothing in their self-proclaimed expertise had given them any warning. They exchanged anxious looks. A couple began to gather up the tools of their trades.
‘The tyrant is dead!’ Menophilus brandished his sword. ‘The news has come from the North. Maximinus has been slain. Beyond the Danube, his corpse lies mutilated and unburied.’
As one, galvanized by his pronouncement, the charlatans scooped and scrabbled up their meagre accoutrements. Wordless, they fled in all directions.
‘Maximinus the Thracian is dead!’ Menophilus shouted at their scurrying figures.
Chapter 3
Africa
Carthage,
The Day before the Nones of March, AD238
Live out of the public eye, the sage had said.
It was nine days since Gordian had plunged a dagger into the neck of the Procurator who had been called Paul the Chain, nine days since he had proclaimed his father and in return been made Emperor himself. In the nondescript bedroom, in the second-rate provincial town of Thysdrus in Africa, the crowd had acclaimed him Augustus, all bloodied as he was, his toga like a butcher’s apron.
A wise man will not engage in politics, Epicurus had cautioned. Gordian had made his decision. There could be no return to the shadows. Paul the Chain had threatened his friend Mauricius with ruin, and worse. It would have not stopped there. Gordian had been compelled to act.
The crowds had been waiting several miles outside the walls of Carthage. They were all civilians and were ranked along the roadside; first the magistrates, priests, and the rest of the councillors, then the young men of good families, and finally all the other inhabitants in their various lower degrees. They had been there for hours, in good order, not a soldier in sight. At long last, in an outpouring of joy and perhaps some relief, the population had had their opportunity to pour libations, blow kisses, and call out words of good omen. To the music of flutes, they had accompanied the cavalcade to the city, spreading the petals of different flowers under the hooves of the horses. Melodious and good-natured in the spring sunshine, the procession had snaked under the aqueduct, between the tombs, through the Hadrumetum Gate and finally to the Circus.
With his father, Gordian stepped onto the purple carpet. They walked with slow and measured tread, befitting their combined dignity and the parent’s age. Following the fasces and the sacred fire, they proceeded up the many steps, through the dark interior of the building, up to the imperial box.
The light was blinding as they came out into the Circus. It surrounded them, its marble dazzling under the African sun. The noise and heat rolled up from the tiers, and buffeted the two men. Forty thousand or more voices were raised in welcome. Hail, the Augusti, our saviours. Hail Gordian the Elder. Hail Gordian the Younger. May the gods preserve father and son. Nicknames were chanted, respectful for the senior — Hail, the new Scipio. Hail, Cato reborn — less so for his progeny — Hail, Priapus; the princeps of pleasure. With no soldiers on hand to keep them within bounds, it was their nature to call out what they pleased. The Carthaginians were second only to the Alexandrians in their irreverence.
Gordian solicitously took his father’s elbow, and supported him to their thrones. As they settled themselves on the unforgiving ivory, their entourage filed in behind them.
The crowd quietened. Down on the sand, a city elder stood forth. The white of his toga shimmered in the sun, the narrow purple stripe on his tunic an incision as black as blood.
‘With fortunate omens you have come, our Emperors, each as brilliant as a ray of the sun that appears to us on high.’
The space was vast, but the orator had a strong voice, and the acoustics were good. The words carried up to the Emperors and to those in the seats of honour. The rest would have to be content with reports and saying they had been there.
‘When night and darkness covered the world, the gods raised you up to their fellowship, and together your light has dissolved our fears. All men can breathe again, as you dispel all dangers.’
The enumeration of past miseries would take some time; the iniquities of the deceased Procurator here in Africa, the savageries and stupidities of the tyrant Maximinus Thrax across the breadth of the empire. Amplification was ever the watchword for a rhetor on safe ground.