Iron and Rust. Harry Sidebottom

      The Northern Frontier A Camp outside Mogontiacum, Eight Days before the Ides of March, AD235

       Hold me safe in your hands.

      The sun would be risen, well up by now, but little evidence filtered through to the inner sanctum of the great pavilion.

      All you gods, hold me safe in your hands. The young Emperor prayed silently, his mouth moving. Jupiter, Apollonius, Christ, Abraham, Orpheus: see me safe through the coming day.

      In the lamplight the eclectic range of deities regarded him impassively.

       Alexander, Augustus, Magna Mater: watch over your elect, watch over the throne of the Caesars.

      Noises, like the squeaking of disturbed bats, from beyond the little sanctuary of the domestic gods, beyond the heavy silk hangings, disrupted his prayers. From somewhere in the further recesses of the labyrinth of purple-shaded corridors and enclosures came the crash of something breaking. All the imperial attendants were fools – clumsy fools and cowards. The soldiers had mutinied before. Like those disturbances, this one would be resolved, and when that happened the members of the household who had deserted their duty or taken advantage of the uproar would suffer. If any of the slaves or freedmen were stealing, he would have the tendons in their hands cut. They could not steal then. It would serve as a lesson. The familia Caesaris needed constant discipline.

      The Emperor Alexander Severus pulled a fold of his cloak over his bowed head, placed his right palm on his chest, composed himself again into the attitude of prayer. The omens had been bad for months. On his last birthday the sacrificial animal had escaped. Its blood had splashed on his toga. As they marched out from Rome an ancient laurel tree of huge size suddenly fell at full length. Here on the Rhine, there had been the Druid woman. Go. Neither hope for victory, nor trust your soldiers. The words of the prophecy ran in his memory. Vadas. Nec victoriam speres, nec te militi tuo credas. It was suspicious she had spoken in Latin. Yet torture had not revealed any malign worldly influences. Whatever her language, the gods needed propitiating.

       To Jupiter an ox. To Apollonius an ox. To Jesus Christ an ox. To Achilles, Virgil and Cicero, to all you heroes …

      As he made every vow, Alexander blew each statuette a kiss. It was not enough. He got down on his knees, then, somewhat encumbered by his elaborate armour, stretched full length in adoration before the lararium. Close to his face, he noticed the gold thread in the white carpet. The fabric smelt slightly musty.

      None of this was his fault. None of it. The year before last in the East he had been ill. Half the troops with him had been sick. If he had not ordered the retreat to Antioch, the Persians would have destroyed them all; not just the southern force which was left behind, but the main Roman field army as well. Here in the North the frontier had been breached in numerous places. Opening negotiations with some of the barbarians was not weakness. There was no profit in fighting them all at once. Judicious promises and gifts could induce some to stand aside, maybe even join in the destruction of their brethren. It did not mean their punishment was waived, merely deferred. Barbarians had no concept of good faith, so promises to barbarians could not be considered binding. Such things could not be stated in public, but why did the soldiers not see these obvious truths? Of course, the northern soldiery, recruited from the camps, were little better than barbarians themselves. Their comprehension was equally limited. That was why they could not understand about the money. Since Caracalla, the Emperor who may have been his father, had doubled the pay of the troops, the exchequer had been drained. Veturius, the treasurer appointed by his mother, had taken Alexander to the fiscus. There had been nothing to see except rank after rank of empty coffers. As Alexander had tried to explain more than once on various parade grounds, donatives to the army would have to be extracted by force from innocent civilians, from the soldiers’ own families.

      A rush of light as a hanging was pulled back. Felicianus, the senior of the two Praetorian Prefects, marched in. No one announced him and no one closed the curtain. Through the opening, past the Prefect, flew innumerable tiny birds. They darted everywhere around the chamber, flashing bright yellow, red and green as they passed through the band of light. How many times had Alexander told their keepers about the trouble and expense in collecting them? At every dinner when they were released to hop and flutter about entertainingly one or two were lost or died. How many would be left after this?

      Felicianus swiped with futile aggression at those that veered and banked near his head as he walked towards the pale gleam of the twin ivory thrones. The Emperor’s mother was seated there in the gloom. Granianus, an old tutor of Alexander’s, now promoted into the imperial chancery, stood by Mamaea, whispering. The secretary of studies was always to be found by the side of the Empress, always whispering.

      Alexander returned to his devotions. What you do not wish that a man should do to you, do not do to him. He had had the phrase inscribed over his lararium. He had heard it in the East from some old Jew or Christian. An unwelcome thought struck him. He raised himself on to his elbows. He looked for the court glutton. Alexander had seen him eat birds, feathers and all. It was all right. The omnivore was in a corner beyond Alexander’s musical instruments. He was huddled with one of the dwarves. Neither was paying any attention to the ornamental birds. They were staring blankly into space. The mutiny seemed to have drained all their vitality.

      ‘Alexander, get up, and come here.’ His mother’s voice was peremptory.

      Slowly, not to appear too craven, the Emperor got to his feet.

      The air was thick with incense, although the sacred fire burnt low on its portable altar. Alexander wondered if he should tell someone to get some fuel. It would be terrible if it went out.

      ‘Alexander.’

      The Emperor turned to his mother.

      ‘The situation is not irretrievable. The peasant that the recruits have clad in the purple has not arrived yet. His acclamation will attract few supporters among the senior officers.’

      Mamaea was always good in a crisis. Alexander thought of the night of his accession, the night his cousin-brother died, and shuddered.

      ‘Praetorian Prefect Cornelianus has gone to fetch the Cohort of Emesenes. They are our people. Their commander Iotapianus is a kinsman. They will be loyal. The other eastern archers also. He will bring the Armenians and Osrhoenes.’

      Alexander

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