Blood and Steel. Harry Sidebottom
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.
‘Conscript Fathers: the young men, to whom was entrusted Africa to guard, have called on me against my will to rule. But having regard to you, I am glad to endure this necessity. It is yours to decide what you wish. For myself, I shall waver to and fro in uncertainty until the Senate has decided.’
The elder Gordian had expressed the right sentiments in it. The throne had been thrust upon him. He had accepted not from ambition, but love of Rome. He had raised his son to share the purple from the same motive. He acknowledged the right of the Senate to give an Emperor his powers, to confer legitimacy. But, Pupienus reflected, was it all too weak? Should an Emperor waver to and fro, admit to indecision? Was not a certain measure of ambition laudable? And was there any chance the Gordiani, father and son, could prevail? Menophilus’ clever lie that Maximinus was already dead had bought them some time. It had summoned the plebs onto the streets, and sown indecision among the supporters of the Thracian. But now it was clear that Maximinus was alive, and what could stand against him and the might of the northern armies?
Before the Consul could proceed, the other envoy from Africa joined Menophilus on the floor of the house, and asked permission to speak. Up on the Consular tribunal, Fulvius Pius looked relieved the initiative had been taken from him, and he granted the request.
Valerian was a big man, in middle age. Clean shaven, short hair receding above a broad forehead, both his looks and his reputation proclaimed an open, trusting nature, not overburdened with insight. From a traditional Italian family of senatorial status, he had held the Consulship years before, and it had been considered to add prestige to Gordian the Elder’s term of office when Valerian had agreed to be one of the governor’s legates in Africa. Even so, Pupienus might have been reluctant to accompany him to this meeting – to put himself and those he loved at such risk – if Valerian had not arrived at his house with the Consul Fulvius Pius. In politics, as in everything else, one thing leads to another, like links in a chain.
‘Conscript Fathers, the two Gordiani, both ex-Consuls, the one your Pro-Consul, the other your legate, have been declared Emperors by a great assembly in Africa. Let us give thanks, then, to the young men of Thysdrus, and thanks also to the ever loyal people of Carthage. They have freed us from subservience to Maximinus, from that savage monster, from that wild beast, from that barbarian. The family of the Gordiani descend from the noblest Romans, from the house of the Gracchi and that of the divine Trajan.’
So that was how it was to be, Pupienus thought. Valerian would launch ponderous invective against Maximinus and laud the Gordiani with obvious praise. But would it be enough to sway the frightened yet calculating Senators huddled in the close, dark chamber?
Drag them, drag them with the hook! The shouts of the mob rolled around the Senate House, filled the pauses in the speech. Most Senators hated Maximinus and his son, for the confiscations, for the executions of their families and friends, for his casual lack of respect, ultimately for not being one of them. They hated him as keenly as the plebs outside, but, unlike the latter, they lacked the comparative safety of anonymity.
Pupienus ran his gaze over where those openly committed to the Gordiani sat together. Valerian was supported by his brother-in-law Egnatius Marinianus, and a more distant relative by marriage, Egnatius Proculus, the Curator of the Roads and Prefect of the Poor Relief. With Menophilus were young Virius Lupus, a fellow Quaestor, and the latter’s elderly father Lucius Virius. One coeval each of the Elder and Younger Gordiani was seated with them, respectively Appius Claudius Julianus and Celsus Aelianus. That was the heart of the problem. Gordian the father was so old that all his closest allies were in retirement or dead. Gordian the son had spent so many years in the provinces – most recently in Syria, Achaea and now Africa – the only associates who remained in Rome were relics of his disreputable youth. Like him, the handful of his friends who had grown into some responsibility were serving the Res Publica abroad; Claudius Julianus governing Dalmatia, and Fidus had charge of Thrace. Pupienus had a good memory, and prided himself on knowing such things.
As a faction those backing the Gordiani in the Curia were lacking in numbers and authority – a few greybeards, a couple of Quaestors and, the gods help them, the Curator of the Roads and Prefect of the Poor Relief. Yet they must be brave men, or perhaps merely foolhardy. Even the slowest or most senile of them must know that should the decision go against them today, the only way they would leave the Senate House alive would be while they were dragged the few paces to the Tullianum. Many enemies of Rome and innumerable victims of an Emperor’s animosity had been strangled by the executioners in that dank, repugnant subterranean gaol. Those prisoners who emerged blinking into the painful light only did so to be hurled to their deaths from the Tarpeian Rock.
‘Your choice is simple, Conscript Fathers, barbarian tyranny or Roman freedom. Continue to live in a besieged city, always in fear, or recall liberty to Rome.’
Only the other seven diehard Gordiani shook back the folds of their togas and applauded Valerian’s conclusion. Everyone else sat very still.
His face as impassive as that of the gilded statue of Victory that loomed over the tribunal, Pupienus surreptitiously surveyed the House. There were next to no Senators here closely tied to the regime of Maximinus. His eye fell on Catius Celer. His elder brothers had helped put the Thracian on the throne, but Celer’s expression was as unreadable as Pupienus’ own.
Much depended on the absent Prefect of the City. Sabinus had not been summoned. Yet soon, if not already, someone would inform him that the Senate was meeting, and by now he might know that Maximinus still lived. What would he do? With the Praetorian Prefect Vitalianus dead, Sabinus stood alone as Maximinus’ chief adherent in Rome. Potens, the commander of the Watch was of far less import.
No one knew better than Pupienus the latent power of a Prefect of the City. The previous year he had been unceremoniously removed from that office – insufficient zeal in his duties, the imperial letter of dismissal had read – and Sabinus appointed in his place. At the time Pupienus had been grateful to be allowed to retire into private life, glad to be left alive, his estates unconfiscated, his family unharmed. Subsequently it had come to rankle. Insufficient zeal had amounted to not turning the swords of the soldiers under his command loose on his fellow citizens, of avoiding a massacre. It remained to be seen if Sabinus would exercise the same restraint now he led the six thousand men of the Urban Cohorts.
In the lengthening hush – even the mob in the Forum had quietened – all eyes turned to Fulvius Pius. The Consul licked his lips, cleared his throat. ‘Following senatorial pro-cedure, I would call on the Consuls designate. But in their absence …’ He looked around the assembly, as if searching for some improbable salvation. Most of the Conscript Fathers looked away, studying the patterned marble of walls or floor. ‘I call on the Father of the House to give us his advice.’
An audible sigh of relief came from the benches – let old