Fire and Sword. Harry Sidebottom
Roman wife would allow such a thing. Tranquillina was ever bold, untroubled by convention, in the intimacies of the bedroom, as in the round of public life. It was something Timesitheus loved, yet almost feared, about her.
How would she hear of his arrest? Who would break the news to her? Would she learn nothing until after his execution? She would take the news bravely. The thought brought him no comfort. He had never deceived himself that she had married him for love. The daughter of a decayed senatorial house, she had wed a rising equestrian officer for advantage, plain and simple. Yet they had enjoyed each other’s company. He hoped that over the years he had inspired more than an iota of affection.
Timesitheus thought of their daughter. Sabinia would be eleven in the autumn. A beautiful, trusting girl, she showed no signs yet of her mother’s wilful independence. What would she do without a father? But, of course, Tranquillina would marry again. She was still young, still in her twenties. Her aspirations would not die with him. The prescribed months of mourning, and another man would enjoy the pleasures of her company, of her bed, be driven by the spur of her ambition. Timesitheus hoped – he would have prayed, had there been gods to hear – that Sabinia’s stepfather would treat her with kindness.
The girls brought over the food and drink. Sure enough, as they served, the soldiers pawed them, made crude comments. The girls exhibited a resignation, and a contempt for externals, that would have been envied by a Stoic sage.
Timesitheus tried to cut some mutton. It was difficult with one hand. He had no appetite anyway. His hand throbbed. It was strange that he could still feel the severed finger. It hurt terribly. He felt light-headed and sick.
The boot over the fire caught his eye. It stirred some deep memory, but, exhausted and in pain, he could not bring it into focus.
How long before they reached Maximinus? The Thracian had condemned him to death even before he killed Domitius. What would Maximinus do to him now? There were awful rumours of the Palace cellars. The rack, the pincers, the claws, wielded by men with ghastly expertise, men lacking any compassion. As there was no likelihood of escape, Timesitheus should seek to take his own life before they arrived. It would not be easy, but what was it the philosophers said? The road to freedom could be found in any vein in your body.
The door opened, and a well-built man in a hooded cloak entered. The garment was expensive, pinned by a gold brooch in the shape of a raven. Garnets were set in the gold. The man’s face was obscured by the hood.
The soldiers regarded the newcomer with hostility. He ignored them, walked to the fire, said something in dialect to the room at large.
The landlord picked up a poker. He took a couple of steps to the middle of the table, and brought it down on the nearest soldier’s head.
Schooled in violence, the remaining three soldiers reacted fast, scrambling to their feet, drawing their weapons.
The stranger was by the innkeeper, a blade in his hand. At the far end of the table, the shepherds were up, swords out. The big man who had been sleeping was blocking the doorway, dropped into a crouch learnt in the arena.
‘Put down your weapons.’ The stranger’s tone was calm, educated.
‘Fuck you!’ Obdurate to the end, the bearded legionary glared around, searching for any improbable line of escape.
‘Death comes to us all,’ the stranger said.
The legionary spun around towards Timesitheus. ‘One step, and the Graeculus dies.’
Timesitheus threw himself backwards off the bench. He rolled, landed on his feet. The legionary surged at him. Timesitheus swung the chain that held his wrists. A rasp of steel and the thrust was deflected. The stranger stepped forward, and drove his blade into the soldier’s back. The legionary looked uncomprehending at the tip of the sword emerging from his chest. He crumpled, and fell.
The last two soldiers were on the floor, the shepherds finishing them off.
The room was splattered in blood. It reeked like a slaughterhouse.
The stranger pushed back his hood.
Timesitheus recognized Corvinus.
‘You look surprised.’ Corvinus smiled. ‘I thought Maximinus’ boot would have given you warning.’
Timesitheus could think of nothing to say.
‘I am sorry you lost your finger,’ Corvinus said.
‘It is of little consequence. It was not my wife’s favourite.’ Timesitheus had always recovered fast. ‘How?’
‘No one travels the mountains without me knowing. Your gladiator found me.’
The hat discarded in the doorway, Narcissus approached, grinning, like a big, dangerous dog expecting a reward.
Timesitheus told the gladiator to find something to remove his manacles, then addressed Corvinus.
‘You kept your word. Your loyalty to the Gordiani will be rewarded.’
‘They are both dead.’
Now Timesitheus was adrift. If the Gordiani were dead, everything was changed. ‘Then why?’
Corvinus was cleaning his blade. ‘You promised me a wife from the imperial house. I intend to marry Iunia Fadilla.’
‘Maximus’ wife? The daughter-in-law of Maximinus? All for love?’ Timesitheus’ laughter sounded high and unhinged to his own ears.
‘Living in a wilderness does not rob a man of all finer feelings.’
Blood was seeping through the bandages wrapped around Timesitheus’ hand. The pain returning. He was shaking.
‘Although there are more prosaic reasons.’ Corvinus was composed, as if on the hunting field, or at a symposium. ‘The Senate is to elect a new Emperor from among the members of the Board of Twenty. In the name of the Gordiani, as well as an imperial bride, you offered me Consular status, a million sesterces, tax exemption for me and my descendants in perpetuity, and houses in Rome, on the Bay of Naples, and an estate in Sicily. The wealth of Croesus is not to be thrown aside. I need you to go to Rome, and ensure that the promises are kept by whoever next wears the purple.’
Northern Italy, Beyond the Alps
The Town of Emona, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238
The heifer, garlanded and with gilded horns, was led into the Forum, past the serried ranks of the soldiers, and up to the altar of Fortuna Redux. The Emperor Maximinus took a pinch of incense, and let it fall into the fire. The flames crackled; blue and green. Enveloped in the smell of frankincense and myrrh, he made a libation of wine. The ceremony had begun, and it would run its stately course.
Maximinus was impatient. The gods must be honoured. It would have been wrong for an Emperor returning to Italy not to make offerings to the divine fortune that had brought about his safe return. Yet the endless ceremonies and delays that had to be endured frustrated him beyond measure. He wanted his enemies in front of him, within reach of his strong hands. He had been at his arms drill when the news arrived of the deaths of the Gordiani. The jolt of pleasure had been brief. He recalled the whey-faced messenger stammering out that the Senate intended to elect one of their own as another pretender. Maximinus had not harmed the messenger. Paulina, his wife, dead nearly two years, would have been proud of his self-control.
The heifer lowed, unsettled by the crowds.
Once, the Senators of Rome had understood duty, had been men of virtue. They had remained on the Capitol, composed in the face of the inevitable, as the Gauls swarmed up the hill. The Decii, father and son, had dedicated themselves