Your bridge is most impressive. Marcus Claudius Venacus was of middle height, corpulent. If he was intelligent, his face did him a disservice. However, Maximinus abolition of the standing committee, among whose sixteen Senators Venacus had served, appeared to have done nothing to diminish his self-regard.
Your energy puts all of us to shame. Although somewhat protruding, Caius Petronius Magnus eyes promised rather more intelligence than those of Venacus. Yet that did not pledge much, and Magnus had been unable to conceal how badly he had taken the end of their official position. I do not know how you have found time to add the many duties of Prefect of Works to those involved in collecting all the supplies for the expedition. You seem overburdened, while others remain in enforced inactivity.
Timesitheus smiled. The labour is long and hard, but that makes intervals of leisure like this, snatched moments with such pleasant company, all the more enjoyable.
Both Senators murmured politely.
Timesitheus gave Venacus his most winning smile. But you are over-appreciative of my efforts. Timesitheus pointed off upriver, where a line of unconnected piles of masonry crossed the stream. If we had been making something to last, something worthy of Rome, we should have rebuilt the superstructure of the old bridge of Trajan. Or, at least, we could have copied Julius Caesar and made a proper, well-fixed wooden bridge. But Maximinus Augustus said time and money were against such plans. My bridge is not built to last.
And Maximinus had called him Graeculus. And, once again, it had been in public. How dare the big Thracian barbarian call him little Greek. Timesitheus felt the tightness in his chest. No point shying away now. If he did, Tranquillina would hold him in contempt.
Yet perhaps its ephemeral nature might prove its greatest virtue. Should circumstances demand, I could dismantle it in a matter of hours. It reminds me of the bridge of Darius in Herodotus. The one the Scythians tried to persuade the Ionian guards to demolish, leaving Darius and his army trapped on the other side. How did their argument go? Men of Ionia, the gift we have to bring you is freedom from slavery, if you follow our advice. Something on those lines.
No one spoke. The eyes of both Senators were fixed on him. In those of Venacus was a look which might be growing comprehension. Magnus were bulging out like those of a lobster.
Men, you are always the same, Tranquillina said. You never think of the things done by women. If Agrippina had not stood on the bridge over this very river and stopped the soldiers from dismantling it, her husband Germanicus would have been left at the mercy of the barbarians.
Timesitheus looked at his wife. Approaching twenty-four, she was short, but slender. Her skin as white as marble, her eyes and hair so very black. He knew she had not married him because she loved him or found him attractive in any way. But he loved her, and he hoped he would have prayed, had there been gods to hear that over the eight years of their marriage he had inspired more than an iota of affection. Certainly, this daughter of a decayed senatorial family had invested much in the career of her equestrian husband. Nothing was going to stop her raising him to the heights, perhaps to the Palatine, or to Olympus itself.
You think it could come to that? Magnus put the question to Timesitheus, but his eyes flicked back to Tranquillina.
Timesitheus paused, and arranged his face. Gravity, serious consideration and a certain reluctance, perhaps even sadness, were the intended evocations.
The expedition proposes to go further than any for centuries, into the far North, to the ocean. Varus did not come back from there. If the bridge had been cut, nor would have Germanicus. There is nothing but forest and marsh up there. It is the worst terrain for our armies. The German warriors are at their most dangerous in that environment. There are many of them. With their backs to the ocean they will have nothing to lose. They will fight to the death.
Timesitheus could feel his fear rising, could feel the wet breath of the rodent in his ears.
It is my duty to Rome to be ready to sever the bridge. If that means stranding some Romans north of the river
The scrabbling of the rats claws were loud in his head. He wanted to scream. He spoke slowly, with normality.
The scrabbling of the rats claws were loud in his head. He wanted to scream. He spoke slowly, with normality.
That is my duty as an equestrian. Those of a higher rank should be ready for a more onerous duty. Rome cannot abide without an Emperor.
Ready? Magnus said.
The regalia must be ready, Tranquillina said. Remember, under Alexander, how those pretenders in the East made fools of themselves, undermined their already slim chances, by having to steal purple cloaks off the backs of the statues of the gods, cobble together sceptres and scrabble around to find things that looked like a throne. What were their names?
One was Taurinus, I am sure of it, Venacus said.
Coins, Timesitheus said. A smooth transmission of power demands a plentiful supply of coins.
Or was it Raurinus? There was a sheen of sweat on Venacus upper lip. The others continued to ignore him.
The man in charge of the finances of three provinces and of the supplies to the field army has access to vast sums of money, Magnus said.
Timesitheus nodded in agreement. The coins must bear the head of the new Emperor.
No Taurinus; one was definitely called Taurinus. The moon face of Venacus turned from one to the other, as if willing them to talk about anything else.
Timesitheus smiled urbanely at the frightened Senator but paid no attention to his words. Coins of the previous regime can be over-struck with new images easily. A competent blacksmith could produce thousands in a day. What takes time is cutting the new dies although any competent forger could do the work. In the course of raising contributions for the war effort, one was denounced to me recently. His neighbour informed against him; people can be very heartless. I have not had the forger arrested yet. He lives here in Mogontiacum.
Tranquillina smiled. Perhaps that is enough for now. We do not want to arouse suspicion; have anyone inform against us. We should talk of other things. She waved for the servants.
Do you want to see me?
Yes, Timesitheus said.
Perhaps you deserve a reward.
She was wearing just a tunic. Slowly, Tranquillina pulled it off her shoulders, and down. She bared her breasts. Then, laughing, suddenly pulled the flimsy garment back up.
More.
That was enough for Helen to stop her cuckolded husband killing her.
Is that a novel way of breaking the news of some infidelity?
Tranquillina pulled a face. Her hands went to the hem of the tunic. Teasingly, like a whore at the Floralia, she lifted it, up over her white thighs, until it was above her waist.
Come here, he said.
Instead of moving, she let go of the hem and her hands went to the neck of the tunic. She shrugged and wriggled it off, until it lay puddled around her feet.
The lamp was lit in the bedchamber. She was naked. No respectable wife, no woman with any claim to virtue, let her husband see her naked. Not after the wedding night. He felt a surge of lust, tinged with what might have been fear, or even repulsion.
She came over to him, pressed herself against him.
What would I do without you? he said.
Probably herd goats. She reached down between them, feeling his stiff prick through his breeches.
My family have never been goatherds.
Then you would be an unheard-of equestrian officer commanding some obscure unit in the middle of nowhere.
She disengaged herself and climbed on the bed, leaning back on her elbows.
He went to join her. She stopped him, told him exactly what she wanted him to do.
Knowing he looked a fool, he hopped around the bedroom, tangled in his breeches in his hurry to get out of his clothes. Gods below, what if someone found out? What if a servant was spying? No doubt they would talk. The shame of it all self-respect, all dignity gone he would be ridiculed, a laughing stock for the rest of his life.
From between her thighs, his face near her cunt, he looked up. I might die without you.
I am sure of it, she said. Now, do what I told you.
CHAPTER 10
The Northern Frontier
The Town of Mogontiacum,
Four Days before the Kalends of May, AD235
About the tenth hour of the night, a raft of black cloud came up from the west. As the first drops pattered down, Maximinus wondered what it would be like to be a fish looking up at the hull of a great ship, at something huge, alien and inexplicable. The rain increased, falling hard on the roofs of Mogontiacum. It sluiced through gutters, and gushed out from spouts down into the street, where it shifted then floated away the rubbish lying in the central drain. Although sheltered under a porch, Maximinus pulled the hood of his canvas cloak further over his face. He was tired. His mind wandered to the fable of the frogs who asked Zeus for a new king. When he sent them a water snake, they regretted their disloyalty to the log that had previously ruled them.
More suddenly than it had started, the rain stopped. Maximinus peered out from his place of concealment. No light or sound escaped from the blank wall of the house across the street. But he knew the conspirators were in there.
Maximinus stepped back into the darkness where the four of them sheltered. His bodyguard, Micca, and Volo, the head of the frumentarii, flanked him. The fourth man stood at the rear. Water dripped down in front of them from the eaves. They did not speak.
The treachery galled him. Long ago, the senators of Rome had been men of virtue. They had lived simple lives, summoned from the plough to fight great wars. But once the terrible enemy Carthage had been burnt, centuries of peace had unmanned them. Their riches and luxury, their fishponds and libraries, their painted whores and simpering catamites all the revolting eastern practices they had rushed to embrace had combined to corrupt them. Now, a new enemy threatened. The tribes of the North were marching south, bringing with them fire and sword, untold misery and slaughter, and the senators were found wanting. Worse, they conspired against those men who saw the danger and had the courage to fight. Most high equestrians were little better. Praetorian Prefect after Prefect had proved false. The plot of Plautianus against the divine Severus had failed, but Macrinus the Moor had betrayed that Emperors son, the brave and doomed Caracalla. There was no faith to be found in the rich of the empire. New blood was needed. Only men untainted by wealth or supposed sophistication could save Rome. Only rough men from the countryside men who honoured the gods and kept their word could lead Rome out of the mire of its imported filth and back to the old-fashioned ways of decency and honour.