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The Far North

The Sarmatian Steppe, Territory of the Iazyges,

The Day before the Nones of March, AD238

The plain was white and flat and without end. To the east a thin stand of trees, in every other direction the plain stretched untrammelled as far as could be seen. The trees, willow and lime, marked a shallow, marshy stream, now iced over and treacherous. Beyond their bare, frozen and delicate-looking branches the Steppe continued its remorseless slide to infinity.

Enemy in sight!

A rider – his horse labouring through the snow – was coming up from the south. He held the corner of his cloak in one hand above his head in the customary signal: Enemy in sight!

Like everyone else in the army with a point of vantage, Maximinus gazed past the lone horseman. The snow was flecked with black where the taller grasses and the occasional shrub showed through. In the extreme distance, it merged with the dirty pale grey of the sky. There was nothing else in sight. The scout had outrun the enemy.

Maximinus dropped his reins and blew on his hands. His breath plumed. It was very cold. A movement to his left drew his eyes to the stream. Where reed beds or the trunks of trees provided shelter from the north wind there was no snow. The ice was black, shining. A flight of ducks clattered up, wheeled, and flew away.

‘There,’ Javolenus said.

Maximinus looked south once more, to where his bodyguard pointed. A thin smudge of black on the horizon. The Iayzges were a long way off. It would take them an hour or more to reach the stationary Roman forces. They had no reason to hurry.

His fingers were numb. Maximinus flexed them, rubbed his hands together, before taking up his reins. It was time to inspect the troops again. Indicating that his staff should follow, he turned his hack, dug his heels in its flanks, and set off at a slow canter to the right of the infantry front line. Even though the snow had been trampled, the going was both heavy and uncertain.

When he was first promoted to high command, a fellow officer had asked why he still worked so hard, now he had attained a rank where a certain leisure was permissible. The greater I become, the harder I shall labour, he had replied. Back then – the reign of the glorious Caracalla – he had joined his men at their wrestling. He had thrown them to the ground, one after another, six or seven at a sweat. Once a tribune of another legion, an insolent young man from a Senatorial house, but big and strong, had mocked him, claiming his soldiers had to let him win. Challenged to a match, Maximinus had knocked him senseless with one blow to the chest, a blow delivered with an open palm. Back then, even Senators had called him Hercules. Now they whispered he was a new Spartacus, or another Antaeus or Sciron. The only imperial secretary he trusted – despite Apsines of Gadara being a Syrian – had told him the stories about the last two.

As he pulled up by the standards of the 2nd Legion, the Parthian, its commander stepped forward from the other officers and saluted. Clean, well-cared-for armour showed under the Prefect’s fur-lined cloak.

‘Are your men ready?’ Maximinus asked.

‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’

From an equestrian family with a long record of military service, Julius Capitolinus was a fine officer. In Germania, at the battle in the marsh and the one at the pass, he had led his men well, fought like a lion. Maximinus knew he should smile, say something affable. Nothing came to mind. His spies told him Capitolinus passed his time off duty writing biographies. That hardly seemed suitable. Maximinus nodded, knowing he was scowling. His adorable half-barbarian scowl, Paulina had called it. Most likely Capitolinus judged it differently.

With his thighs Maximinus guided his mount a few paces away from the officers. He regarded the legionaries. Where their helmets, scarves and beards revealed anything of their faces, they were pinched with the cold. The front ranks stood to attention, those further back quietly stamped their feet and beat their arms against their sides.

‘A long way from the Alban Hills.’ Maximinus pitched his voice to carry.

Those who could hear grinned. A murmur ran through the formation, like a wave retreating over a shingle beach, as the Emperor’s words were repeated from man to man all the way to both flanks and the rear.

‘These barbarians’ – he waved towards the south – ‘stand between us and warmth, between us and hot food, mulled wine, the baths, women and all the other pleasures of the camp. Defeat them today, and we will have broken the Iazyges, as we broke their cousins the Roxolani in the autumn. Defeat them, and the Danube frontier is safe from the Alps to the Black Sea. Defeat them, and we can cross the river, back into the empire, never to return to this empty wilderness.’

There was a muted noise of approval. Those in the rear had stopped moving, were straining to hear.

‘Duty is hard. Those of us raised in the army know that truth. I am no Sophist, no clever speaker from the Forum. I will not lie to you, pretend things are other than they are. This summer we must make one final campaign into Germania. When they too have submitted, when the Rhine also is safe, then, at last, after these long and weary four years, I can lead you home to Italy, to your camp on the Alban Hills, where your wives and children wait for you. Duty is hard, but the end of our labours is in sight.’

Again, the shouts betrayed less than complete enthusiasm.

‘Today, remember my orders, keep quiet in the ranks, listen to your officers. Remember you are Romans, they are barbarians. You have discipline, they do not. Give me victory, and I will reward you well. A year’s pay to every man who fights. A year’s pay to the dependents of any who fall.’

This time even the reminder of their own mortality did not dampen their spirits. As one, the men cheered.

Enrich the soldiers, ignore everyone else, Septimius Severus had said. There was much sense in the words of Maximinus’ old commander.

‘The 2nd Legion, the Parthian, Eternally Loyal, Faithful and Fortunate. You hold the right of the line, the position of honour. These barbarians’ – this time his gesture was one of contempt – ‘in their ignorance and blind stupidity, believe they have us at a disadvantage. But we know that the gods are delivering them to us. Kill them! Kill them all! Do not spare yourselves!’

Full-throated, the roar went up. Wheeling his horse, Maximinus rode towards the next body of men. The dark stain on the horizon had widened, filled out. He could not delay, but there was time for a few words to each formation in the infantry front line.

From the Ides of January, for a month he had quartered the Steppe, from the Danube to the foothills of the Carpathians. There had been several sharp engagements as he pursued and caught three tribal herds. Then, one night, when the army was far out, the main barbarian force had struck. The Iazyges had taken back their herds, had driven off much of the Roman baggage train. For another month the army had marched south, harassed, short of food. At first a thaw had set in, and they had waded through mud. Then a cold north wind had begun to blow again, bringing blizzards. The temperature dropped, as if the gods had reversed the seasons and midwinter had returned. In the mornings some sentries were found dead from the cold, others disembowelled. Finally, just two days’ march north of the Danube, the entire horde of the Iazyges were waiting, drawn up across their path, many thousand horsemen arrayed for battle.

Maximinus had ordered a camp entrenched. The following morning the Iazyges again spread out across the Steppe ready to fight. Although the soldiers had thronged around him demanding he lead them against the barbarians, and the army had trembled on the edge of mutiny, Maximinus had not been swayed. For six days, as the fresh snow fell, the Iazyges paraded across the plain, and the legionaries and auxiliaries near rioted, he ignored all entreaties and threats, and held the army back behind its ditch and rampart. Food, forage and fuel were almost exhausted. Maximinus had the imperial supplies given to the troops, and had commanded all officers to likewise surrender their personal provisions. Apsines had made some flattering comparison to Alexander the Great, but most officers, unaccustomed to privation of any sort, let alone hunger, had not taken it well.

On the evening of the sixth day, when the Iazyges had departed to their distant encampment, Maximinus had distributed his orders, quietly without trumpets or commotion. That night, leaving torches burning along the fortifications, he had led the army out. In the strange glare of the snow, with no lights showing, they went east until they came across this unnamed watercourse, then followed it south. In the gloaming of the false dawn, he had selected his position, and drawn up his men.

The 2nd Legion formed the extreme right of twenty-four thousand heavy infantry stretching back to the frozen stream on the east. Eight thousand were Praetorians and one thousand, at the opposite end, among the trees, German tribesmen. The rest were legionaries, drawn from across the northern frontiers. Flavius Vopiscus had them all waiting in separate blocks, sixteen ranks deep, with carefully measured intervals between, like pieces on the board of a game of latrunculi. Close behind them clustered some two-and-a-half thousand archers, easterners from Emesa, Osrhoene and Armenia, under Iotapianus. Scattered among these shivering Orientals were fifty small carts, their loads still covered with tarpaulins.

A little way further back, lined up with the gaps in the fighting line, were two thousand light horsemen; Moors, Parthians and Persians. Their mounts steaming in the frigid air, these men from Africa and beyond the Euphrates would be a little less cold than the archers on foot. Maximinus had entrusted them to Volo, the Princeps Peregrinorum. Although the task was unusual for the head of the imperial spies, Volo had come up through the ranks of the regular army, and Maximinus trusted his judgement. The rest of the cavalry, three thousand regular auxiliaries, a thousand of them cataphracts, were some way out on the snowy plain to the right of the infantry. Sabinus Modestus, their commander, might not be over burdened with intelligence, but he knew how to fight, and that was all that was required of him on this morning.

The reserve, such as it was, would consist of the thousand horse guards under Maximinus himself and three thousand auxiliary infantry led by Florianus and Domitius. The latter also had charge of the mules and donkeys of the pack train. Neither animal being native to the Steppe, it was said local horses were wary of them. If it came down to that, things would be desperate indeed.

Riding down the front line of heavy infantry, Maximinus spoke briefly to each unit: discipline and order, trust and good faith, remember you are Roman, keep in mind the proud heritage of your unit, we have never been defeated, a year’s bonus to each man. Under the bare branches of the trees, he told the Germans to think of their forebears, these nomads were their ancestral enemies, a gilded arm ring for every warrior who distinguished himself. Their leaders would have to translate his words. To speak in their tongue would have been a betrayal of his long-dead family, of all those who had died in his native village when he was little more than a child. They may have been from a different tribe, but all northern barbarians were the same; savages incapable of reason, pity or humanity.

As he cantered back to the horse guards, the thoughts of Maximinus were dark and resentful. The Senators called him Antaeus or Sciron. The first was a giant who compelled all comers to wrestle, and, when they were thrown and defenceless, slaughtered them. The second, a brigand, had enslaved innocent wayfarers, forced them to wait on him and wash his feet, and, when he tired of them, had hurled them down from the highest cliffs onto the rocks in the sea. Why could the Senators not see, he did nothing that was not necessary. If the northern tribes were not conquered, Rome would fall. Everything must be subservient to the war.

Once, the Senators would have understood. Horatius had held the bridge, Mucius thrust his hand in the fire, the Decii, father and son, dedicated themselves to the gods of the underworld for Roman victory. But that was long ago. Centuries of peace and luxury, of disgusting eastern habits and quibbling Greek philosophy, had undermined the ancient virtue of the Roman nobility. The rich equestrians were no better. Instead of offering Rome their wealth, let alone their lives, the elite did nothing but conspire. Magnus and Catilius Severus as soon as he ascended the throne, then Valerius Messala in Asia, Balbus in Syria, Serenianus in Cappadocia; the list blurred in his memory, one betrayal ran into another. He would not think of Quartinus and Macedo, would not think of the cruellest treachery, and the death of his beloved wife Paulina.

Nothing would shake his resolve. Every conspiracy had been suppressed with rigour, their estates taken to fuel the war. The traitors served Rome in death, if not in life.

In punishment, as in all else, Maximinus had followed the example of his great patron, the divine Septimius Severus. Perhaps some of the family and friends of those condemned had not been party to treason, but they had been guilty of something. Apsines had assured him that necessary severity was a virtue. Many had been executed, women and children as well as men, but it had brought the empire a measure of security. Maximinus had money to pay the army, and the contumacious should ponder the wisdom of further revolts.

Reining in by the Horse Guards, someone spoke to Maximinus. He waved him away. The mind of the Emperor surveyed his dominions. Rome was in safe hands. On the seven hills Vitalianus and Sabinus watched over disloyal Senators and turbulent plebeians alike. Of course, now he had solved the problems of the grain supply to the city, Timesitheus must die. A pity, for Maximinus had always liked the little Greek. But under torture Balbus had implicated the Graeculus, and the arrest warrant had been dispatched. It would be interesting to see how Timesitheus would endure when the closed carriage brought him to the army and he was put to the question. There were no other causes of concern in the West or North. As governor of Germania Superior, Catius Priscillianus oversaw the Rhine, Honoratus held the lower Danube, and no one was more trustworthy than Decius in Spain.

Balbus had been the brother-in-law of the governor of Africa, but there was little to fear from the octogenarian Gordian, his drunk and debauched son, or the other effete upper-class legates in the province. In any event, Capelianus in neighbouring Numidia would keep an eye on the Gordiani, his vigilance focused by an old animosity.

The East gave more pause for thought. Among the many names Balbus had gasped out as he was stretched on the rack, the claws and pincers tearing at his flesh, had been that of the governor of Mesopotamia. In the face of Sassanid Persian attacks, with war raging between the two rivers, it was not a good time to remove Priscus. Regular reports came to the imperial headquarters from the one very close to Priscus that Volo had suborned. So far nothing had supported the allegations. There was always the danger that a coward like Balbus might name anyone in the vain hope of easing his agony. It was unfortunate that Serenianus, himself ultimately a victim of Balbus’ confessions, had maintained his silence under the most diligent and inventive ministrations of the torturers. Had he not been a traitor, his resilience would have been admirable. The East was a worry, but Maximinus was somewhat reassured since he had sent Catius Clemens to replace Serenianus in Cappadocia. From there, with two legions at his back, the new governor could supervise the eastern territories. Having been one of Maximinus’ earliest supporters and closest advisors, Catius Clemens was intimately associated with the regime. He appeared loyal, as much as any Senator could be counted, and in his brothers, one the governor of Germania Superior, the other in Rome, he had left hostages in the West.

‘Father.’

Maximinus regarded his son with disfavour.

‘Father, the enemy are near. We should send out our horsemen.’ There was no mistaking the note of apprehension in the voice of his son.

Over the heads of the infantry, Maximinus now could see the Iazyges cavalry. Individuals could be just distinguished riding in the gaps between their columns, but he could not yet make out the round dots of their heads. It meant the Sarmatian tribesmen were between thirteen hundred and a thousand paces distant. They were coming on slowly, still moving at a walk. There was plenty of time, but no point in leaving things until the last moment. He gave the order for the cavalry to advance.

A trumpet rang out. Its call was repeated throughout the army. Volo’s men swung up into the saddle, and cantered away through the intervals in the line of heavy-armed foot. There was a short pause, and then the light horse out on the Steppe to the right also moved off. The cataphracts remained with Sabinus Modestus, level with the infantry front line.

Maximinus often wondered how he and Paulina had produced such a son as Verus Maximus. Perhaps at the moment of conception she had looked at something weak and perverse, some picture or statue. Certainly – and it was the one criticism he would make of her – she had spoilt the boy. Things might have been different if they had had other children. But the gods had not been kind. While she lived, their son had attempted to disguise his vices. Now she was dead, and he was Caesar, the only thing Verus Maximus tried to mask was his cruelty to his wife. Maximinus felt sorry for Iunia Fadilla. An attractive girl, she seemed amiable and easy going. Most young men would be delighted to have such a wife. Verus Maximus must be a fool to think his father did not know. Of course there were imperial spies in their household. His son was a fool, as well as a coward.

Ahead volleys of arrows arced up into the sky from both sides and fell like squalls of black rain. Squadrons of Persian and Parthian horse wheeled back towards the army, then turned and raced towards the enemy, before wheeling back again; all the time shooting, as fast as they could. Here and there the tiny shape of a man pitched from his mount, or rider and mount together crashed to the ground, as a nomad shaft found its target. Volo’s Moors would be closer to the Iazyges, using their javelins. Like all light-cavalry fights, to the inexperienced eye it would look like chaos.

Maximinus called for his warhorse. While Borysthenes was led up, his gaze fell on Marius Perpetuus. The Consular looked as frightened as the young Caesar next to him. Maximinus had given him the signal honour of being one of the two Consuls who had taken up office on the first day of the previous year because once, in his youth, he had served under Perpetuus’ father. The son was not the man his father had been. Few Senators matched their ancestors. Virtue was in decline. Was Perpetuus one of those who muttered against their Emperor? Closeted with his ilk, all servants banished, drink imparting a spurious boldness, did Perpetuus call him Spartacus; the Thracian slave, the Thracian gladiator?

Without dismounting, Maximinus stepped from the hack to the charger. He leant forward, smelling the clean, warm horse in the frigid air. He rubbed Borysthenes’ ears, patted his neck. The sky was overcast; the wind getting up at Maximinus’ back carried a few flakes of snow.

Paulina had been right. The elite hated him, not just for what he did, but for what he was. Maximinus had never tried to hide his origins. He had been a shepherd boy in the wild hills of Thrace. What else could he have been in the small village of Ovile? He had risen through the ranks of the army, via the patronage of Septimius Severus and his son Caracalla, but also through his courage and his devotion to duty. He had achieved high command, but he had never desired the throne. The recruits he had been training had forced the purple on him. He would have been dead within the day, his head on a pike, if the Senatorial triumvirate of Flavius Vopiscus, Honoratus, and Catius Clemens had not ridden into his camp and offered him their oath and that of the legionaries they led.

Maximinus had not wanted to be Emperor. It had brought nothing but tragedy. Micca, his life-long friend and bodyguard, speared in the back as they stormed a ridge in the forests of Germania. Tynchanius, his companion since childhood, cut down by mutineers in the town of Viminacium. Even now, twenty-one months after, Maximinus’ mind often shied away from that day. Other times, like now, he faced the horror. Tynchanius had died trying to save Paulina. The old man had failed. Reports indicated she was alive when she fell from the high window. Maximinus would never know if she had jumped or was pushed. But his imaginings of her last moments – the cobbles of the street rushing up – would never leave him.

Shouts and the rumble of hooves brought Maximinus back to the wintry plain. Volo’s light horse were steaming back through the infantry. All order gone, each man seemed to ride for his own life, the picture of rout. Off on the right, it was the same with the auxiliary troopers. Like a stream in spate, they lapped around the cataphracts of Sabinus Modestus, circling and pooling behind the motionless iron-clad men and horses.

Now, Maximinus thought, gazing forward. By Jupiter Optimus Maximus, by all the gods, now. As if impelled by his will, the rear eight ranks of the legionaries and Praetorians jogged around their fellow soldiers, and filled the gaps between their formations. Where there had been isolated pieces, waiting to be swept from the board, now stood a solid mass of armoured men. Eight deep, shoulder to shoulder, the silent line of soldiers reached out two thousand paces from the wooded stream.

Maximinus spat on his chest for luck. Flavius Vopiscus had done his part. Now it depended on the Iazyges. Everything hung in the balance. The spittle trickled down over the sculpted muscles of his cuirass. Would the nomads take the bait?

Iotapianus was hurrying his archers close up behind the heavy infantry. The covers were being pulled off the carts, men leaping up to man the catapults on them.

Drums and horns sounded out to the south. The Iazyges were ordering their lines, the horse archers retiring, the armoured lancers moving to the fore. Did they believe the Romans were afraid, starving, had attempted to escape them by a night march? Had they taken the flight of the Roman light horse at face value?

In the centre of the Roman line, where Flavius Vopiscus stood with his veteran legionaries from Pannonia, the tall pikes of the front ranks shifted and clacked together like dry reeds when the wind blows. Maximinus smiled. Daemon-haunted, Vopiscus might be, but an intelligent competence lived alongside his many superstitions. One evening in camp, they had discussed the signs an experienced commander can read on a battlefield: how the sounds the troops make and the way they brandish their weapons can reveal their state of mind; how nothing more clearly indicates fear than the wavering of spears. This was an unexpected touch of near genius from Vopiscus – as long as the pretence did not translate into the reality.

The barbarian drums beat a different rhythm, their horns blared, savage incitements to battle. At a slow walk, long, thin lances pricking the sky, the Iazyges began their advance. Numbers were impossible to judge. The armoured warriors in the front rank rode knee to knee. They stretched unbroken from the line of trees to beyond the Roman infantry, and beyond the cataphracts. Sabinus Modestus had the latter arrayed two deep. Say two paces for each cataphract, another two thousand paces. Exceeding four thousand paces, the enemy frontage had to contain over three thousand riders, possibly many more, and their formation was very deep, no telling how many ranks.

‘Gods below,’ someone muttered. ‘Look at them.’

‘Silence in the ranks,’ Maximinus snapped.

The Sarmatian tribesmen were closing into effective bowshot, some three hundred paces beyond Maximinus’ position behind the front line. Bright dragon standards writhed above tall pointed helmets and a shimmering wall of scale armour. They had moved up to a canter. Necks arched, their horses were plunging, lifting their front legs high to break through the standing snow, hooves struggling to find purchase.

It had worked. They were committed. Maximinus took stock. Volo’s light horse were moving close up behind the infantry, and the auxiliary cavalry out to the east had rallied around Sabinus Modestus’ cataphracts. Maximinus gave the order for the cohorts under Florianus and Domitius to pivot to the right to protect the rear of the legionaries should, as was only too likely, the riders under Modestus be overwhelmed.

Maximinus and the horse guards stood alone in the lightly falling snow.

A fresh peal of trumpets from the Roman front line. The long pikes that the front four ranks had been issued for this campaign swung down. The rear four ranks hefted their shields above their heads. A moment later the thrum of thousands of bowstrings. The click-slide-thump of the ballistae. The air was full of projectiles; arrows arcing, artillery bolts darting. The arrows seemed to vanish into the mass of barbarian horsemen, their effect negligible. Where the ballista bolts struck Iazyges went down, men and horses crashing to the frozen plain. The following riders jostled and bored around them. Some were brought down. The line became ragged, but the momentum was unbroken.

A hundred paces out, every detail was visible. Scale-armoured warriors and mounts – steel, leather, horn – fused together like some nightmarish amphibian beast. The wicked spearpoints bobbing through the cloud of kicked-up snow. Wild-eyed horses, ropes of saliva streaming from their gaping mouths. Fierce bestial faces of the riders, screaming, the sounds lost in the thunder of their coming.

Seventy paces. The archers – horse and foot – shooting as fast as they could over the heads of the legionaries. The artillerymen winding their machines like daemons. All their efforts futile. Nothing human could break that charge.

Fifty paces. A tremor ran through the Roman line. Stand, boys! Stand, pueri, stand! Maximinus was yelling. Forty paces. Thirty. The line held, a hedge of pikes, backed by a wall of bodies.

Hauling on their reins, encumbered by their swaying lances, the Iazyges tried to pull up. Horses swerved, skidding on the slippery surface. They collided, fell, took the legs out from under others. In a heartbeat the irresistible charge was reduced to a tangle of flailing, fragile limbs, and the crushing, rolling weight of horseflesh. Pila flashed up from the rear ranks of the infantry. The square steel points of the heavy javelins punched down into the mass of rearing, balking horses, and the riders clinging desperately to their necks, punched through armour, down into flesh.

A terrible sound, like a great oak falling in a forest, smashing its way through other trees. Towards the right of the line a lone Sarmatian horse – maddened with fear and pain, perhaps already dead – had run on, impaled itself on the pikes of the 2nd Legion. Falling, its bulk crushed legionaries, hurled others backwards. Its rider was thrown over its head, knocking more soldiers off their feet. Like flood water surging at a crack in a dam, Iazyges poured into the opening.

‘Follow me!’ Unhooking his shield from the horn of his saddle, Maximinus brought his heels into Borysthenes’ ribs. The huge warhorse gathered itself, iron-studded hipposandals biting into the snow and ice, it bounded forward. Maximinus dragged his sword from its scabbard.

The first Sarmatians were through. A dozen or so, no more yet. Lances jabbed down at fleeing bowmen. Long, straight blades swung in deadly, shining arcs.

The leading warrior sawed his reins to meet Maximinus. He thrust his lance. Maximinus turned it with the flat of his sword, urged Borysthenes into the other horse. The Sarmatian’s mount was set back nearly on its quarters. Its rider, lance jolted out of his grip, was half-out of the saddle. Another barbarian cut at Maximinus from his left. Taking the blow on the rim of his shield, Maximinus thrust back. The tip of his steel slid off scale armour. The Iazyges on his right had regained his seat, was clawing for the hilt of his sword. Backhanded, Maximinus brought the edge of his blade down into his opponent’s shoulder, buckling armour, biting into bone.

The world contracted to the reach of a sword. Maximinus fought with controlled ferocity. Cut, parry, thrust: nothing else existed. Long training and the memory in his muscles guided his hand. Steel ringing on steel. Men and horses screaming in fury and pain and fear. The iron taste of blood in the mouth. The breath torn from his chest, burning. From nowhere a face, insane with terror, in his own. Gone in a moment, down under the stamping, trampling hooves.

Ahead a dragon, red tongue lolling from gaping silver jaws, its scaled, green body twisting in the wind. Below it a chieftain, tattooed forearms protruding from gilded and chased armour. A well-equipped warrior holding the standard, others banded in front.

Roaring an invocation to the fierce deity of his native hills, Maximinus drove forward. The Rider God was with him. A flurry of blows, too fast to be accounted, and he was in their midst. Now other horses impeding his progress. Borysthenes was brought to a standstill. Maximinus’ shield was wrenched from his grasp. A clanging impact hit the back of his helmet. Vision blurred, he twisted this way and that, fending off the sharp, questing steel that would take his life. As if through a glass, he saw Javolenus and Julius Capitolinus trying to cut their way through to him. Too late, he was surrounded.

Death held no fear for him. Reunited with Paulina, he would ride the highland for eternity. But not yet. First the chieftain must die. Blocking a blow from his left, one from his right, Maximinus kicked Borysthenes on. The great-hearted beast shouldered through the tumult.

The chieftain swung at his head. Catching the sword on his own, the impact shuddered up Maximinus’ arm. With his left hand, he seized the Sarmatian’s wrist, dragged him off balance, then smashed the pommel of his own sword into the snarling face. Something struck from behind, hard enough to drive jagged, broken fragments of armour into his shoulder blade. Ignoring the pain, he brought the pommel down on the chieftain’s temple. The barbarian went down, his armour clattering.

Turning, seeking the next threat, Maximinus saw Javolenus hack down the standard bearer. The snarling dragon dipped, and toppled into the fouled, blood-stained slush.

‘They are running!’

Julius Capitolenus’ words held no meaning.

‘Augustus, they are beaten.’

Painfully fighting air into his chest, Maximinus took in the stricken field. The Iazyges were streaming away to the south. Those unhorsed and not too wounded to get to their feet were struggling to catch the bridle of a mount and follow. The rest – the living and the dead – were being butchered, mutilated and chopped into sides of meat.

‘Sabinus Modestus and the right?’ Maximinus was hoarse, his words a grating whisper.

‘Dead or chased off the field. But the auxiliary cohorts on the flank did not break. Maybe Sarmatian horses are scared of donkeys after all. The barbarians are fleeing there too.’

Maximinus felt no elation, instead nothing but pain and a weary relief. His plans had worked. His delaying had made the barbarians over confident. Exulting, they had thought to ride down a demoralized rabble. Their long approach, and the fresh snow had tired their horses. The battle was won, but now the advantage had to be pressed.

‘Open the ranks.’ Maximinus found it an effort to talk. His left shoulder was burning. ‘Have Volo’s light horse pursue them. They must be harried, not allowed to reform.’

As shouts and trumpet calls relayed his orders, Maximinus’ son rode up.

‘I give you joy of our victory.’ Verus Maximus was immaculate, his beautiful face radiant. It could not have been more evident that the Caesar had not fought.

Exhausted, blood-stained and wounded, Maximinus regarded him with disdain.

My sons will inherit, or no one, Vespasian had said. It was the attitude of all Emperors. Even Septimius Severus had let the treacherous Geta accede with his brother Caracalla. The Romans of old had been made of sterner stuff. When Brutus discovered his sons were trying to reintroduce monarchy, he had them dragged to the Forum, flogged, tied to a stake, and beheaded.

Maximinus looked away. High over the Steppe a pair of buzzards were circling, soaring on motionless wings. A man could disinherit his son. Those Emperors who had no son had adopted their heirs. Everyone told him, the will of the Emperor is law.