With this initial issue of coins, it had quickly become apparent that Acilius Glabrio, Valerius Poplicola and Toxotius had no more idea than the die-cutter himself what might be the virtues, aims, interests or religious sympathies of this new Emperor. He was an equestrian army officer from Thrace. From the way they spoke, neither of these things recommended him in the eyes of the young noblemen. Beyond that, Maximinus Augustus was a complete mystery. None of them could remember meeting him, and not one of them had the faintest clue what he looked like.
Given all of which, the die-cutter considered that he had made a fine portrait. Maximinus in profile gazed off to the viewers right. Neither too old, nor too young, the Emperor was in vigorous maturity. His hair was short, and he wore a wreath. The latter was a safer choice than the radiate crown, which some saw as the Emperor placing himself too close to God, possibly demanding worship, and thus was indicative of hubris. The jaw line was strong and clean-shaven. A beard could be good, hinting at the manly virtues of the old Republic, but if too elaborate it might evoke thoughts of soft, ineffectual Greeks, and if too short of brutish soldiers. The die-cutter had given Maximinus an aquiline nose and had tried to get something of the keen intelligence of Julius Caesar about the eyes. Surely no ruler could object to any of that.
He had made just the one obverse for the other die-cutters to follow. Given the greater stresses put on them in the minting process, already he had created no fewer than five different reverse dies. The guidance of the Tresviri Monetales had been less than useless here. The usual sorts of things, Acilius Glabrio had said, as if the subject bored him. The die-cutter had given it some thought. The first one he did had the Emperor between two military standards; after all, he had come from the army. After that, two imperial virtues, Victoria and Pax Augusti; in the Roman view the latter was always dependent on the former. Then Liberalitas; a safe bet, as a hand-out followed an accession as night follows day. Finally, Votis Decennalibus; everyone, including the die-cutter himself, had already taken vows for the safety of the new Emperor over the next ten years.
These initial reverse types were well chosen. There was nothing innovative. They played to traditional tastes. Yet the die-cutter knew they would win no praise from those set over him. Either the Monetales would appropriate them as their own, or they would quibble and claim others would have been better. The day of reckoning could not come too fast.
The die-cutter jumped as a hand descended on his shoulder.
Guilty conscience? Castricius sat down next to him.
You young fool, I nearly shat myself.
Incontinent as well as blind and deaf things are almost all over for you. When Castricius smiled, odd, angular lines ran across his thin, pointed face.
The die-cutter could not stop himself smiling back.
Castricius called for unwatered wine.
There was no doubt that Castricius was a bad person. He claimed to be from a good family in Gaul and to have had sound reasons to run away from the tutor who had brought him to Rome. His accent and manners seemed to support the story but, true or not, he had settled with alarming ease into the life of a cut-purse in the Subura. Yet, despite it all, the die-cutter could not help but like his young neighbour.
You are up early.
No, up late. Castricius took a drink. This will help me sleep. Not that it should be a problem. Yesterday I went up to the Carinae to look at the women. Gods, what I would do to one of those rich bitches. Anyway, having made myself horribly priapic, I went down to visit Caenis. She wore me out; said it was good to have a young man between her legs instead of your old, shrivelled carcass.
The die-cutter felt his affection for the young Gaul turn to anger. It was irrational. Castricius was not to blame. It was his own weakness. Caenis was a whore who lived in the same tenement block as them. The die-cutter had been her client for years. He had changed much in his life, but he had been unable to change that. Even now he felt his prick stir as he thought of her body. He lacked self-control. Now she was in his mind, he knew he would be unable to stop himself going to her tonight. He was a weak man.
The die-cutter got up. He gripped his bag of tools, like a man seeking certainty.
Sleep well. I am going to the mint.
His fears had receded, but, as the die-cutter stepped out into the sunshine, he could not help glancing up and down the street, checking every man loitering in a doorway. You could trust no one. Certainly not Castricius.
CHAPTER 8
Africa
The City of Hadrumetum,
Eight Days after the Ides of April, AD235
The curtains were drawn back to catch the breeze in the room designated for the court. Gordian looked at the others on the tribunal. His father, presiding as judge, was beginning to look his age. He still had a full head of hair, unlike Gordian himself. It had been silver for years, but now the face below was drawn, the cheeks sunken, the eyes rheumy yet somehow staring. There was a tremor in the elders voice and hand. It saddened Gordian, both for itself and for what it implied about his own mortality. He regarded the other assessors. Serenus Sammonicus, his old tutor, was elderly like his father. Valerian, Sabinianus, Arrian and the local Mauricius were of an age with himself; men in their forties, either in the prime of life or halfway towards death, depending on your viewpoint. Only Menophilus, the Quaestor, was younger, still in his late twenties. Not one of them, not even the two patrician Cercopes, looked as bored as Gordian felt.
The villa commanded a fine view of the harbour of Hadrumetum. Inside the jetties the water rippled gently, flashing in the sun. A gang of men were loading amphorae on to a big cargo vessel. They wore loincloths and their bodies glistened with sweat. An overseer dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. The olive oil was destined for the tables, lamps and perfume bottles of Rome. It had been centuries since the eternal city had been able to feed herself from her Italian hinterlands. All the staples grain and wine as well as oil had to be imported. Every year, vast quantities were shipped from Egypt, but the majority was sent from Africa. Long ago, in the reign of Claudius, a governor of Africa had cut off the supply when he made his bid for the throne. In those days, the Proconsul had still commanded the 3rd Legion, and he had raised another legion. None of it had done him any good.
A line of moored fishing boats formed a contrast to the relentless activity around the merchantman. They would have been out the previous night, but now, with their weathered paint, rough tarpaulins and piles of sand-coloured nets, they looked abandoned. Beyond them, at the end of one of the moles, a group of young boys sprawled on the rocks of the breakwater. When the mood took them, they would stand and dive into the water. Laughing, they would climb out, shake themselves and lie down again to let the sun dry their brown, naked bodies. They were poor, but they were free. Gordian wished he was back in Ad Palmam.
His plan had worked. The nomads guarding the camp had been so engrossed in the assault on the oasis that they had failed to notice the approach of Menophilus with the 15th Cohort. They had broken at the first contact. Their panic had spread to the animal holders, and from them had infected those fighting in the trees and at the gate of the citadel. Pell-mell, they had fled south. Most had got away. Apart from Nuffuzis son, there had been only about twenty captured, almost all of them wounded. No more than thirty bodies were found. There had been no pursuit. The 15th Cohort was on foot, and the horsemen with Gordian in the settlement had been handled too hard to be sent out. It would have made little difference. Nuffuzi had managed to keep a grip on many of those around him, and had screened the rout.
Gordian had remained at the oasis for five days. To win back self-respect for himself and his men, Aemilius Severinus had sent his Wolves patrolling south. They had ridden far beyond Thusuros and Castellum Nepitana, far out into the desert, but had encountered nothing except the carcasses of horses and camels. The other troops had buried the dead and tended the wounded. Despite the intensity of the fighting, there were not many of either, no more than forty all told, the majority speculatores, and at least twenty would return to the ranks. A caravan had been organized to take the freed captives back north to their homes. The plunder had been divided among the men. The complications of restoring it to its original owners were prohibitive, and soldiers need an incentive to fight. On the fourth day, those nomad prisoners able to march had set off under the guard of the 15th Cohort to its base at Ammaedara. Along with Nuffuzis son, who Gordian had kept in his entourage, they should make useful bargaining counters in the diplomacy which inevitably would follow. The remainder seven of them were killed.
With the governors horse guards and the African irregulars, Gordian had returned via Capsa, Thelepte and Cillium. He had halted for two days at Vicus Augusti, just short of Hadrumetum. Men and horses had needed a rest. He had paid a courtesy visit to the villa of Sulpicia Memmia just outside the little town. The Emperor Alexander had divorced her, but it was not unknown for the fortunes of such eminent exiles to revive. The short sojourn had given time for news of the victors arrival to proceed them to Hadrumetum, and for a suitable reception to be arranged. While he set little store on such things, the men appreciated them. As it transpired, the attention was not disagreeable.
Name? Race? Free or slave?
The principals in the next case had been ushered in. The court had heard one already; a tedious dispute between two smallholders about an inheritance. The younger Gordian judged the position of the sun. Only mid-morning at least three hours until the recess for lunch and after that they would be confined in legal wrangling again until dusk. Thank the gods it was April. They had reached Hadrumetum in the middle of the Cerialia. There were just eight days between it ending and the beginning of the Ludi Florales, and three of those were given over to briefer festivals. This was the first of only five days when the governor could give justice until well into May.
The plaintiffs were a bunch of tenants from an estate owned by the Emperor. Gordian watched them make their offerings of a pinch of incense to the Emperor and the traditional gods. Their tunics were patched, but they were clean, and their hands and faces scrubbed.