Fire and Sword. Harry SidebottomЧитать онлайн книгу.
be allowed to inherit.
The soothsayers had predicted a dynasty of three generations from Maximinus’ house. His only male relative was a second cousin. Rutilus was serving as a junior officer with Honoratus on the Danube. The youth had promise, but lacked experience. Maximinus would not wish on him the lonely, awful eminence. The soothsayers may well be mistaken. The will of the gods was hard to discern.
More and more Maximinus’ consideration turned to Flavius Vopiscus. In a long series of commands, the Senator had shown courage in war, ruthless efficiency in peace. He was capable and ambitious – too ambitious, even? Could he rein it in, govern for the benefit of his subjects? Or would he be a slave to his own desires, treat the Res Publica as his private possession and become a tyrant? The question was unanswerable. No man’s soul was completely revealed until he was above the law, beyond all restraint. At least his amulets and collections of oracles demonstrated that Flavius Vopiscus feared the gods.
Maximinus realized that he was still staring at his son. Verus Maximus would not meet his eyes. A coward as well as cruel. It was no wonder that his wife had run away. The imperial spies had reported the beatings. When Iunia Fadilla was found – how could a lone woman evade detection? – he would send her somewhere safe, away from Verus Maximus. Of course, when he retired, she would be safe. Before abdication, there would be one last, stern duty. Like a Roman of old, Maximinus would execute his son.
A hubbub broke into Maximinus’ thoughts. In the deepening gloom, men were shouting. The soldiers were clashing their weapons on their shields, the trumpets were sounding.
The sun! The sun!
As Maximinus looked, the sun vanished.
In the darkness soldiers lit torches, beseeched the gods, lamented their fate.
If the sun falls, it warns of desolation for men, the death of rulers.
Maximinus’ heart shrank, his courage deserting him. The treasures from the temples. It had not been sacrilege. He had not seized them for himself. Every last one of them had gone to pay for the war, to protect the temples themselves, to protect the homes of the gods. The secretary Apsines, all of the council, had said the gods offered him the treasures. There was no sacrilege. The gods should not turn against him.
The desolation of men, the death of rulers.
Apsines stepped forward. The Syrian had his hands raised like a herald at the spectacles calling for silence.
‘Soldiers of Rome.’
Those nearest quietened.
‘This is a terrible portent – terrible not for us, but for our enemies!’
The troops shifted in the dimness, as unconvinced as Maximinus.
‘Soldiers of Rome.’ Apsines had the voice of a trained Sophist, skilled in dominating an audience. ‘Soldiers of Rome, remember your heritage. On the day Romulus founded the eternal city the sun failed. You march to Rome. When your Emperor Maximinus has scoured the Senate, cleansed the seven hills of traitors, exiled vice and restored virtue, it will be as if Rome was refounded.’
A sliver of light in the sky. Maximinus’ spirit lifted. Perhaps the Syrian was right; he was an educated man.
‘Follow Maximinus Augustus, the new Romulus, to found Rome anew. Thank the gods for this sign. Rejoice! You are the instrument of their will.’
In the gathering daylight, the troops gave a ragged cheer.
To Rome! To Rome!
Etruria
The Hills outside the Town of Volaterrae, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238
Nothing separated humanity from the beasts except self-control. No one had greater need of that quality than a man who had hidden his own history. More than half a century of lies and evasions, of subterfuges and half-truths had left their mark. Pupienus knew that he had been shaped by the long decades of iron discipline, the ceaseless guard against an unconsidered word. Today he would cut the last link to the past. The severance would demand every ounce of his self-control.
The plebs thought him gloomy and aloof, even forbidding. Pupienus had nothing but contempt for their views. During the eclipse earlier, as they passed through Telamon, he had watched the plebs running here and there, howling and wailing. Surely even the meanest intelligence could grasp that it was nothing more than the moon passing between the earth and the sun. The plebs had no self-control.
The small cart rattled up the narrow track into the hills. Pupienus turned the ring on the middle finger of his right hand, the ring containing the poison. His wife and sons, all his household, thought he was visiting the estate on the coast south of Pisae. It had been bought for that purpose. He would go there afterwards; talk to the bailiff, inspect the fields, act as if nothing had happened. Looking out at the wooded slopes, Pupienus found it hard to believe that he would never make this detour again. As ever, he travelled with just his secretary Fortunatianus. The latter drove the cart. There would be no other witnesses.
It was a bad time to be away from Rome. The next meeting of the Senate would be held in five days. In politics there was always more that could be done, but Pupienus’ preparations had been thorough, indeed meticulous. He thought he could count on enough votes. The inducements he had offered should be enough to sway both the faction of the Gordiani as well as the avaricious patricians clustered around Balbinus. For the former, Valerian was promised a senior post with the imperial field army, and his brother-in-law Egnatius Lollianus the province of Pannonia Superior. Before the latter had been dangled the prospects of Rufinianus becoming Prefect of the City, and Valerius Priscillianus a travelling companion of the Emperor. Although the stroke of genius had been the mouth-watering delicacy Pupienus had set before the greed of Balbinus.
The cart lurched around a bend. Not far now. Since setting out, Pupienus had tried to fortify himself with examples of men who had put the Res Publica before their families. Nothing useful had come to mind, nothing Roman, or edifying. Instead the old story of Harpagus had haunted his thoughts. Harpagus had offended the King of Persia. Invited to a royal banquet, Harpagus had eaten his fill. At the end of the dinner, the King ordered a salver uncovered to reveal what Harpagus had consumed. Under the cover was the head of the courtier’s beloved only son. Asked how he had liked his meal, Harpagus had managed to reply, ‘At a King’s table, every meal is pleasant.’ That was how one ate and drank at the court of a King. One must smile at the slaughter of one’s kin.
One last rise, and they were there. Pupienus told Fortunatianus to stop. He got out, and looked down on the little homestead tucked away in a fold of the hills. The simple dwelling, the yard with the cistern and the small forge. The drystone walls of pebbles from the river bound with clay. The smoke drifting over the red tile roofs. The ringing of the hammer on the anvil. It seemed impossible that he would never come here again. What he had to do was unfeasible. It was against nature. But in the pursuit of an empire there was nothing between the summit and the abyss.
Pupienus walked down the slope, and went through the gate. The aged dog lying on the dung heap recognized him, and did not bark. Getting to its feet, it came unsteadily over. Wagging its tail, it licked his hand.
The forge was as Pupienus remembered. The slave boy was standing, pumping the tall bellows, forcing air into the furnace. The aged blacksmith was perched on a stool by the small anvil. He had the head of a hunting spear in the pincers, was working it with a hammer. Pupienus noticed the hammer was lighter than his last visit.
Seeing him, a look of delight appeared