then there was Balbinus. A porcine face on a corpulent body, both bloated by a lifetime of indulgence and perversity. A soul where stupidity vied with low cunning, and profound indolence with vast ambition. It was impossible to measure how much Pupienus despised the man. Yet Balbinus was a kinsman of the divine Emperors Trajan and Hadrian, a member of the Coelli, a clan that went back to the foundation of the free Republic, and, by their own account, beyond history itself, all the long way to Aeneas and the gods. Irrespective of his character, centuries of familial wealth and public honours, an atrium filled with smoke-blackened portrait busts, endowed Balbinus with a status that could command the votes of many Senators.
In politics often emotion must be set aside. Pupienus would have to stomach the patrician’s sneers and jibes. Rome is less your lodging house than your stepmother. Beguile us with your ancestry; tell us the great deeds of your father. But what bait could Pupienus dangle before those slobbering jaws, what prize so glittering that it could pierce Balbinus’ lethargy, and induce him to prevail on his relatives, friends and clients in the Curia to vote imperial honours to a man he regarded as an upstart, little better than a slave?
The honours of an Emperor. Pupienus reviewed the purple, the ivory throne, the sacred fire. In a private enterprise one could press on or draw back, commit oneself more deeply or less. But in the pursuit of an empire there was no mean between the summit and the abyss. To be Emperor was to live on the stage of a public theatre, every movement and word visible. There was no mask. One’s inner being and past were stripped bare. Certainly too close a scrutiny for a man with a secret lodged less than two hundred miles from Rome. If he were to proceed, Pupienus would have to go one last time to Volaterrae, and bury his past. It was a task he had prayed never to have to undertake. Everything decent cried out against it. But to bid for the throne all emotion must be set aside.
Northern Italy
The Aesontius River, Two Days before the Kalends of April, AD238
If they went on, any scout or spy concealed in the farm would see them. Menophilus had halted his small column well back from the treeline. They would wait and watch. There were about three hours of daylight left. This close to the enemy, unnecessary risks were to be avoided. Quietly, he told his men to dismount, take the weight from the backs of their horses.
The farm was still in the spring sunshine; red tiles and whitewashed walls, black holes where the doors and shutters had been removed. Big, round wine barrels, all empty. No animals, not even a chicken pecking in the dirt. No smoke from the chimneys. No sign of life. Menophilus thought of his home, and hoped war never came to distant Apulia.
A small unpaved road ran to the farm from the south, then turned north-east and disappeared into the timber. Menophilus had avoided it, instead leading his ten men laboriously up through the woods that bordered the river. The going had been soft, progress slow, and the horses were tired. The rest would do them good.
A movement in the yard. A figure walked from the barn and went into the house. Although the distance was too great to make out the individual with certainty, he had the bearing of a soldier. It could not be otherwise. All civilians had been forcibly evacuated on Menophilus’ orders. Despite the destruction of the bridge, at least a part of the army of Maximinus had got across the Aesontius.
The hostile piquet was not an insurmountable complication. They could not be much more than half a mile from the site of the demolished bridge. Menophilus gave the Optio the watchwords – Decus et Tutamen – and his instructions. Two of the most reliable men were to lie up and observe the farm. The junior officer and the rest of the troopers were to lead all the horses back to a clearing; the one with a tree that had been hit by lightning. Let the horses graze, but they were to remain saddled, their riders with them, ready to move out. Menophilus and the guide would continue the reconnaissance on foot. If they had not returned by dawn tomorrow, the Optio was to withdraw the way they had come. When he got back to Aquileia, he was to inform Crispinus that the Senator had sole command of the defence of the town.
Menophilus thought about Crispinus. In Rome his initial impression of his fellow member of the Board of Twenty had not been completely positive. It had been difficult to see beyond the long beard, with its philosophical pretentions, and the ponderous, over-dignified ways of moving and talking. Although Crispinus had much experience of command, political necessity rather than military expertise had saddled Menophilus with him as joint commander of Aquileia. Yet as the two men had prepared to defend the city against Maximinus in the name of the Gordiani, a certain respect had grown between them. If Menophilus fell, Aquileia would remain in safe hands.
The thud of hooves was deadened by the leafmould under the trees, but no body of cavalry moved silently. The breeze was from the north, and Menophilus doubted that the creak of leather and the clink of metal fittings, the occasional whicker of a horse, would carry.
When there was just the sound of the gentle wind in the trees, he gave his attention to the way ahead. The farm stretched towards the Aesontius: the house, then the yard with the massive wine barrels, the barn and some sheds, a tiny meadow, and a steep track cut down through the trees to the river. There was no cover to cross the track, but the incline and the outbuildings might obscure the view from the dwelling to the riverbank.
Menophilus checked that his guide was ready. Marcus Barbius smiled, tight-lipped. The youth had every right to be nervous. It would have been better to have a soldier. But none of the men of the 1st Cohort Ulpia Galatarum, the only troops in Aquileia, knew the country. The young equestrian’s family owned these lands. In more peaceful times, the farm was occupied by one of their tenants.
The two of them graded down through beech trees and elms until they were among the willows by the stream. The Aesontius was running high and fast, its green waters foaming white where they surged over submerged banks of shingle.
When they reached the path, Menophilus crouched and peered around the trunk of a tree. From down here, only the red roof of the farmhouse was visible over the barn. Of course, if men were stationed in the outbuildings, they would have an uninterrupted view down to the river. The nearest shed was no more than fifty paces distant.
Menophilus stood. ‘We will walk across. They may assume we are two of them.’
Barbius did not speak, but looked dubious.
‘If we run, it will arouse suspicion.’
Barbius still said nothing. He appeared little reassured. Perhaps fear had robbed the youth of speech.
Both of them were wearing tunic, trousers, and boots, and had sword and dagger, one on each hip. They looked like off-duty soldiers. To move quietly, before leaving, Menophilus had removed the memento mori – a silver skeleton – and the other ornaments from his equipment. Now he took the long strap of his belt, and twirled the metal end, as was the habit of soldiers at their ease.
With his left hand, he took Barbius by the elbow, and propelled him out across the path.
Let us be men.
One step, two, three. The strap-end thrumming. Let us be men. Not looking up at the farm. At every step, the fear of an outcry, or the terrible whistle of an arrow. Five steps, six.
Eight paces, and they were back in cover.
Menophilus
