As he cantered back to the horse guards, the thoughts of Maximinus were dark and resentful. The Senators called him Antaeus or Sciron. The first was a giant who compelled all comers to wrestle, and, when they were thrown and defenceless, slaughtered them. The second, a brigand, had enslaved innocent wayfarers, forced them to wait on him and wash his feet, and, when he tired of them, had hurled them down from the highest cliffs onto the rocks in the sea. Why could the Senators not see, he did nothing that was not necessary. If the northern tribes were not conquered, Rome would fall. Everything must be subservient to the war.
Once, the Senators would have understood. Horatius had held the bridge, Mucius thrust his hand in the fire, the Decii, father and son, dedicated themselves to the gods of the underworld for Roman victory. But that was long ago. Centuries of peace and luxury, of disgusting eastern habits and quibbling Greek philosophy, had undermined the ancient virtue of the Roman nobility. The rich equestrians were no better. Instead of offering Rome their wealth, let alone their lives, the elite did nothing but conspire. Magnus and Catilius Severus as soon as he ascended the throne, then Valerius Messala in Asia, Balbus in Syria, Serenianus in Cappadocia; the list blurred in his memory, one betrayal ran into another. He would not think of Quartinus and Macedo, would not think of the cruellest treachery, and the death of his beloved wife Paulina.
Nothing would shake his resolve. Every conspiracy had been suppressed with rigour, their estates taken to fuel the war. The traitors served Rome in death, if not in life.
In punishment, as in all else, Maximinus had followed the example of his great patron, the divine Septimius Severus. Perhaps some of the family and friends of those condemned had not been party to treason, but they had been guilty of something. Apsines had assured him that necessary severity was a virtue. Many had been executed, women and children as well as men, but it had brought the empire a measure of security. Maximinus had money to pay the army, and the contumacious should ponder the wisdom of further revolts.
Reining in by the Horse Guards, someone spoke to Maximinus. He waved him away. The mind of the Emperor surveyed his dominions. Rome was in safe hands. On the seven hills Vitalianus and Sabinus watched over disloyal Senators and turbulent plebeians alike. Of course, now he had solved the problems of the grain supply to the city, Timesitheus must die. A pity, for Maximinus had always liked the little Greek. But under torture Balbus had implicated the Graeculus, and the arrest warrant had been dispatched. It would be interesting to see how Timesitheus would endure when the closed carriage brought him to the army and he was put to the question. There were no other causes of concern in the West or North. As governor of Germania Superior, Catius Priscillianus oversaw the Rhine, Honoratus held the lower Danube, and no one was more trustworthy than Decius in Spain.
Balbus had been the brother-in-law of the governor of Africa, but there was little to fear from the octogenarian Gordian, his drunk and debauched son, or the other effete upper-class legates in the province. In any event, Capelianus in neighbouring Numidia would keep an eye on the Gordiani, his vigilance focused by an old animosity.
The East gave more pause for thought. Among the many names Balbus had gasped out as he was stretched on the rack, the claws and pincers tearing at his flesh, had been that of the governor of Mesopotamia. In the face of Sassanid Persian attacks, with war raging between the two rivers, it was not a good time to remove Priscus. Regular reports came to the imperial headquarters from the one very close to Priscus that Volo had suborned. So far nothing had supported the allegations. There was always the danger that a coward like Balbus might name anyone in the vain hope of easing his agony. It was unfortunate that Serenianus, himself ultimately a victim of Balbus’ confessions, had maintained his silence under the most diligent and inventive ministrations of the torturers. Had he not been a traitor, his resilience would have been admirable. The East was a worry, but Maximinus was somewhat reassured since he had sent Catius Clemens to replace Serenianus in Cappadocia. From there, with two legions at his back, the new governor could supervise the eastern territories. Having been one of Maximinus’ earliest supporters and closest advisors, Catius Clemens was intimately associated with the regime. He appeared loyal, as much as any Senator could be counted, and in his brothers, one the governor of Germania Superior, the other in Rome, he had left hostages in the West.
‘Father.’
Maximinus regarded his son with disfavour.
‘Father, the enemy are near. We should send out our horsemen.’ There was no mistaking the note of apprehension in the voice of his son.
Over the heads of the infantry, Maximinus now could see the Iazyges cavalry. Individuals could be just distinguished riding in the gaps between their columns, but he could not yet make out the round dots of their heads. It meant the Sarmatian tribesmen were between thirteen hundred and a thousand paces distant. They were coming on slowly, still moving at a walk. There was plenty of time, but no point in leaving things until the last moment. He gave the order for the cavalry to advance.
A trumpet rang out. Its call was repeated throughout the army. Volo’s men swung up into the saddle, and cantered away through the intervals in the line of heavy-armed foot. There was a short pause, and then the light horse out on the Steppe to the right also moved off. The cataphracts remained with Sabinus Modestus, level with the infantry front line.
Maximinus often wondered how he and Paulina had produced such a son as Verus Maximus. Perhaps at the moment of conception she had looked at something weak and perverse, some picture or statue. Certainly — and it was the one criticism he would make of her — she had spoilt the boy. Things might have been different if they had had other children. But the gods had not been kind. While she lived, their son had attempted to disguise his vices. Now she was dead, and he was Caesar, the only thing Verus Maximus tried to mask was his cruelty to his wife. Maximinus felt sorry for Iunia Fadilla. An attractive girl, she seemed amiable and easy going. Most young men would be delighted to have such a wife. Verus Maximus must be a fool to think his father did not know. Of course there were imperial spies in their household. His son was a fool, as well as a coward.
Ahead volleys of arrows arced up into the sky from both sides and fell like squalls of black rain. Squadrons of Persian and Parthian horse wheeled back towards the army, then turned and raced towards the enemy, before wheeling back again; all the time shooting, as fast as they could. Here and there the tiny shape of a man pitched from his mount, or rider and mount together crashed to the ground, as a nomad shaft found its target. Volo’s Moors would be closer to the Iazyges, using their javelins. Like all light-cavalry fights, to the inexperienced eye it would look like chaos.
Maximinus called for his warhorse. While Borysthenes was led up, his gaze fell on Marius Perpetuus. The Consular looked as frightened as the young Caesar next to him. Maximinus had given him the signal honour of being one of the two Consuls who had taken up office on the first day of the previous year because once, in his youth, he had served under Perpetuus’ father. The son was not the man his father had been. Few Senators matched their ancestors. Virtue was in decline. Was Perpetuus one of those who muttered against their Emperor? Closeted with his ilk, all servants banished, drink imparting a spurious boldness, did Perpetuus call him Spartacus; the Thracian slave, the Thracian gladiator?