Menophilus looked past the steps to the exedra on the other side of the temple. Romulus stood there, armoured, carrying spoils stripped from an enemy chieftain. For the good of Rome, he had cut down his brother, and he had become a god. Rome was founded in blood. They were the children of the wolf. Ausonian beasts, as the Greeks called them.
A movement at the southern end of the portico in which he sat. Sabinus had come. The Prefect of the City was not wearing a helmet, but otherwise was equipped for the battlefield; breastplate, military cloak, sword-belt, and boots. He was backed by ten men of the Urban Cohorts. Their swords were sheathed, but the covers were off their shields, showing their emblem, Roma enthroned.
The agreement was two soldiers each, Menophilus said.
Sabinus dismissed this with an odd motion of his hand, as if dusting an invisible object. The streets are unsafe. The homes of two Senators were looted yesterday, their occupants attacked, several servants were killed. I have more soldiers at the front of the Forum and at both the rear doors.
Yet life goes on, Menophilus said. The streets are quiet in most parts of the city.
With a patrician wave, Sabinus indicated the room should be searched. Two soldiers went behind the curtain. The others remained tight around him until they re-emerged.
Shall we?
Menophilus followed him. The curtain fell to after them. They were alone.
Sabinus paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He looked around, as if his men might have overlooked a lurking assassin; nothing but marble panels and the huge statue, nowhere to hide. He went over and studied the painting of captive war.
The fool Claudius ruined Apelles masterpiece. He had the features of Augustus painted over those of Alexander the Great. Sabinus spoke as if instructing a child. All too few really appreciate art. When Mummius was bringing his loot back from Corinth, he had a clause inserted into the contract with the shippers, if they lost or damaged any of the old masters they were to provide him with new ones.
I am sorry your pictures outside the Senate house were destroyed, Menophilus said.
Sabinus replied without taking his eyes off the painting. They were of little merit, although the artists were proficient, and I had given the composition some thought. They reso-nated well with their surroundings, the Rostra and the Lake of Curtius.
Turning, Sabinus ran his gaze over the great gilded statue, and shuddered slightly. I had hoped Valerian would be with you. I have always liked him.
And I would have welcomed Potens, Menophilus said.
Sabinus smiled. A jumped-up man of little virtus, but loyal. He continued without pause. You wish to negotiate your safety. Maximinus is not renowned for the quality of mercy. Old-fashioned severity is more his style. Renouncing Gordian and his father will not be enough. However, if you name everyone connected to the revolt, and you aid me in restoring order to the city, then perhaps I will be able to persuade our Emperor to allow you to return to your pastures and cattle droves in the South, live out your life in obscurity.
Menophilus counted from alpha to omega before replying. Maximinus is a tyrant. He will turn on you.
Again Sabinus made the strange dusting motion, fluttering his fingers. Maximinus is on the other side of the Alps with an army. The Gordiani are on the far side of the sea with no legions. If they sailed into the storm, they may well already be dead.
If you join us, Menophilus said, Potens will follow you.
If I countenanced such treason Sabinus looked at the gilt statue as if struck by the idea that it might be hollow, and contain some witness and, before the gods, I would never entertain such thoughts, the troops who garrison Rome would still never defeat the field army on the battlefield.
No set battle, Menophilus said. We block the Alpine passes. If the tyrant gets through, we hold Aquileia. As a final barrier, we fortify the routes across the Apennines. We delay Maximinus until the British and eastern armies rise against him.
The flutter of Sabinus fingers. I am far from convinced that will happen. Maximinus appointed many of the governors. Certainly Decius and his legion in Spain will remain true to Maximinus.
A soldier stuck his head through the curtain.
No longer the languid connoisseur, Sabinus was very alert.
Apologies, Prefect, a mob is gathering in front of the Forum. Several hundred of them, they are throwing stones. The men will not be able to keep them out for long.
Sabinus pointed a finger at Menophilus.
No, not my doing, said Menophilus. The plebs hate all Senators. I will leave by the back doors with you.
Indeed you will. Sabinus laughed. Guards!
The curtain was pulled back. Soldiers muscled in, ringed Menophilus.
What of your oath? You gave me safe conduct.
Oaths are very overrated, Sabinus said. Our ancestors knew the safety of the Res Publica must come before such technicalities.
Menophilus was clad in just a tunic and cloak. When they searched him they found no hidden weapons, just the knife on his belt.
A pity Valerian is not with you. I would have sent you both to Maximinus. Bind him.
There is no need.
Actually, Sabinus gestured at the painting, I think there is.
They tied Menophilus hands behind him, the rope rough, cutting into his wrists.
Shall we? Sabinus said.
Outside, they descended the three steps to the floor of the Forum. Menophilus took care, should he stumble, he could not put out his hands. He could see his two soldiers, disarmed and trussed up some paces away. The confused roar of the mob echoed down the porticos, through the statues, as if the great men of the past cried out against such treachery.
A guard on either side, Menophilus followed Sabinus under the Arch of Drusus, up the steep flights of stairs, through the rear gate, and out into the street.
On the Vicus Sandaliarius some forty troops were drawn up in a crescent facing the door, on their shields Roma on her throne, or Neptune rising from the ocean.
Fall in, Sabinus ordered.
Fall in, Sabinus ordered.
The waiting troops did not move, neither those bearing the symbol of the Urban Cohorts or the Misenene fleet. The soldiers of the former around Sabinus and Menophilus shifted uneasily, looked back over their shoulders. The door through which they had come was now blocked by the marines Menophilus had hidden inside the temple in the Forum.
A tall officer, old and forbidding in appearance, heavy-bearded, stepped forward from the surrounding troops. Sabinus, you are relieved of your office, Pupienus said. You men with him, join your fellow-soldiers in swearing allegiance to our noble Emperors Gordian the Elder and Younger. By the authority of our sacred Augusti, I am once again Prefect of the City.
Sabinus rounded on Menophilus, drawing his sword. Menophilus hurled himself sideways, knocking the soldier on his right off balance with his shoulder. As the man staggered, Menophilus was off. The ranks of the encircling troops opened. He was spun around. Someone sawed through the ropes that bound him. The blade nicked his forearm. The sounds of a scuffle behind him.
Turning back, he saw those who had guarded Sabinus putting down their weapons. Sabinus himself was running to the open door of a storeroom a few paces down the street. Marines from the Misenene fleet bundled in after him.
Do not kill him! Menophilus shouted, and raced after them.
The dark room was full of lumber, discarded offerings and damaged furniture from the Forum. Sabinus was cornered, his sword gone.
Leave him, he is my responsibility. Walking towards the trapped man, Menophilus picked up the leg of a broken chair.
The marines fell back.
Menophilus faced Sabinus.
I take it there is no point in pleading for my life.
No, Menophilus said.
For a Stoic, you have a talent for deception and murder.
You should have joined us.
And been killed by Maximinus a little later. You will lose.
All men have to die.
Sabinus covered his head with his cloak. What an artist dies here.
As Menophilus hefted the improvised cudgel, Sabinus lunged forward, the concealed blade now in his hand. Menophilus brought the chair leg down on the other mans fist. The knife clattered to the floor. Sabinus doubled up in pain.
Maximinus will kill you, Sabinus gasped.
If it is fated.
Carefully judging the distance, like an attendant at a sacrifice, Menophilus brought the chair leg down onto the back of Sabinus head. A sickening sound, like smashing an amphora full of something wet and solid. Sabinus went to his hands and knees, blood oozing from his scalp. Menophilus hit him again, three or four more times when he was prone.
Pupienus caught his arms. Enough.
Menophilus stood, panting, beyond words, beyond thought.
Pupienus released him. We need his head to be recognisable.
Chapter 14
Rome
The Subura,
Six Days before the Ides of March, AD238
Caenis woke softly. Rain pattered on the roof of the attic in the tenement. She yawned and stretched. It was a luxury to be able to sleep in the early afternoon, in her own room, her own bed, alone. She had been dreaming of the voyage from Ephesus. A long time ago now, but it was still fresh in her memory; the strange smells and motion of the ship, the flying spray as it shouldered the waves, the towns and islands shining in the sun, Samos, the Cyclades, Zakynthos, Corcyra, names like poetry. It had been a good time. She had raised enough money to pay for her passage and food. The sailors and the other passengers had left her alone. Superstitious to a man, they held it was unlucky enough to have a woman on board, let alone bother her for sex.
Five years since she had left Ephesus; what would have happened to Rhodope? She would be married, Caenis was certain. Her husband would be the son of a member of the Boule. They would live in a grand house with servants. No, that was wrong. Rhodope had never wanted wealth. She would have married a potter, a neighbour from the quarter by the Magnesian Gate. The house would smell of wet clay. It would be under his nails, engrained in the pores of his skin. Perhaps she would have caught the eye of a farmer come to market. In his unsophisticated way, he might have thrown an apple at her. When it came time to talk to her father, he would have brought a cheese, a kid. The wedding would have been on his smallholding on the slopes of Mount Prion, with rustic dancing, roast suckling pig. Or he might have been a blacksmith, like her father. Their home would be warm, ringing with the clangour of his trade. She would worry about the little ones getting too near to the forge. In the evenings she would rub salve into the burns on her mans strong arms.