held up his hand, palm out, as if in benediction. He forced himself to smile. ‘We are in your power. Hear us out.’
‘Hear him, hear him,’ some of the more respectable-looking muttered.
‘Then we nail him to a cross,’ yelled a soldier at the back.
At the foot of the steps, Gordian dismounted carefully. He was not so young anymore. The great climactic forty-ninth year was still some way off, but sometimes his limbs felt his age. He hung his helmet on a saddle horn – they would need to see his face – and handed his reins to one of the Scouts. As he ascended, all the Scouts except the horse holders went to follow, but a surge of legionaries blocked them.
Atop the podium of the temple, Gordian stopped and turned. Brennus was on his left shoulder, Arrian his right. Aemilius Severinus and just two of the Scouts were with them. Could they fall back, hold the door of the sanctuary? Gordian dismissed the idea. The speculatores were doughty fighters, but no one would wager on these odds. Their only salvation lay with words, not swords.
The front rank of the mutineers was a few steps below; a wall of hostile faces. Discipline cast off for but an hour or so, and already they looked slovenly and dirty. They were packed together without order, standards sloping randomly above. On one of the standards were hung boards with crude drawings: a brute of a man whose jutting chin almost touched his hooked nose, and a delicate youth with bee-stung lips. Lack of draughtsmanship, not lack of affection, had created these caricatures of Maximinus and his son. Words not swords, Gordian thought. Words soldiers wanted to hear. He wished he had had a drink before he left the Circus.
‘The gods know, life under the Eagles is not easy. Marching and drill, injuries and wounds are always with us. So are hard winters and hardworking summers, grim war and unprofitable peace.’
Heads nodded. One or two legionaries smiled.
‘I first served more than twenty-five years ago, before some of you were born, before your fathers spread your mothers’ legs.’
The rising laughter was stifled before it was established. A commotion from the rear, eddying through the ranks.
‘It is a trap!’ someone shouted. The mutineers were turning away, jostling to see out across the harbour to the mainland. On the wharf troops were moving, forming up facing the island, blocking the bridge. What did Sabinianus think he was doing?
‘Traitor!’ The mutineers were tugging the covers off their shields, unsheathing their swords. ‘Kill them!’
As the boldest took the first steps, Brennus went to draw his blade. Gordian caught his wrist.
‘Wait!’ Gordian shouted as much at the bodyguard as those climbing the steps, but everyone paused.
Words not swords. He had only a moment to master his fear, find the right words. Epicurus was wrong; fear was not just a product of faulty reasoning. It had an existence of its own. Gordian fought it down.
‘The troops surrounding you are loyal to me, to my father. If you kill me, you will not leave this island alive. Yes, it is a trap. Would you have a fool for a general? A fool for an Emperor? I have you in my power, and you have me. I came here alone. Would you have a coward for an Emperor?’
The legionaries were still motionless. Gordian had to keep going. Lies, half-truths, it did not matter. He had to win them over.
‘You think Maximinus is your friend, because he doubled your pay. He is not your friend. He was trying to buy your honour. You think Maximinus is one of you. He is not. Maximinus is a barbarian from Thrace. You are Romans from Africa.’
Gordian could not read the effect of his words.
‘You know me. Three years I have served here in Africa. Ask the Scouts how I fought at Ad Palmam. Ask how I held the gate, captured the chief’s son with my own hands. The speculatores will tell you how at Esuba I was first over the enemy wall. The Frontier Wolves here will tell you how your fellow-soldiers of the 3rd Augusta scaled the defences when I was cut off by the barbarians.’
A few had put down their weapons. A final effort, and he might have them.
‘You all know the rumour. The auxiliaries will be left to hold the African frontier alone, and Maximinus will transfer the 3rd Augusta to the north. It is true. Before I killed Paul the Chain, I forced him to admit the truth. Maximinus has issued the orders which will tear you from your homes and families. You will march and die in the frozen forests and Steppe beyond the Danube, while here in Africa your women and children are raped, enslaved, and massacred by the barbarians.’
A blatant untruth, but now the invention swept through the troops.
‘Return to your oath to me, to my father.’ Gordian had to shout above their outraged mutterings. ‘I swear you will never be posted away from home. There will be no punishments, I give you my word. Return to your sacramentum, and each man will receive a bonus of five years’ pay.’
A big legionary with a scar across his face spoke up. ‘What about the rest of the legion?’
Gordian looked him in the eye. ‘My friend Arrian is the best horseman in Africa. If he rides hard, takes just the tribunes Pedius and Geminius as companions, he can be in Lambaesis in three days. In my name, and that of my father, he will make the same assurances to those at the headquarters of the 3rd Augusta. The legionaries here can send men to those Cohorts on guard along the southern frontier.’
‘Fair enough, Imperator,’ the legionary said. Behind him, eager hands reached up to the standard to pull down the portraits of the brutal man and his effeminate son.
Rome
The Forum Romanum,
The Nones of March, AD238
Caenis left the Subura and went down to the Forum. It was early in the morning, and she was not working, not until the ninth hour. There had been stories of riots the day before, but she wanted to see them burning the paintings of the tyrant.
As she got near the Lake of Curtius, the crowd thickened. She had dressed respectably: no make-up, a long, plain gown, a figure-concealing cloak, sensible sandals, bands in her hair, and her only jewellery a bracelet any woman might have worn. The demure costume did little to shield her from obscene comments or wandering hands. It was best to ignore it when men pinched her bottom, more difficult with those who slyly felt her breasts. Men thought any girl alone in a crowd was fair game. Some were with their women, even had their children on their shoulders. Men were unembarrassed, they had no shame.
The paintings were already damaged. The day before the mob had hurled stones and rotten vegetables, daubed graffiti, and hacked out the face of each depiction of Maximinus. Her gaze ran along the enormous panels. A faceless Maximinus led his army over a bridge, another presided as his soldiers sacked a village, a final one, larger than the others, chased his enemies into a marsh. Her eyes were drawn back to the dishevelled women and children manhandled from their homes. Maximinus was a tyrant. He had treated his own subjects no better than those barbarians. He had cut the grain dole and limited the
