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Etruria

The Hills outside the Town of Volaterrae, Four Days before the Nones of April, AD238

Nothing separated humanity from the beasts except self-control. No one had greater need of that quality than a man who had hidden his own history. More than half a century of lies and evasions, of subterfuges and half-truths had left their mark. Pupienus knew that he had been shaped by the long decades of iron discipline, the ceaseless guard against an unconsidered word. Today he would cut the last link to the past. The severance would demand every ounce of his self-control.

The plebs thought him gloomy and aloof, even forbidding. Pupienus had nothing but contempt for their views. During the eclipse earlier, as they passed through Telamon, he had watched the plebs running here and there, howling and wailing. Surely even the meanest intelligence could grasp that it was nothing more than the moon passing between the earth and the sun. The plebs had no self-control.

The small cart rattled up the narrow track into the hills. Pupienus turned the ring on the middle finger of his right hand, the ring containing the poison. His wife and sons, all his household, thought he was visiting the estate on the coast south of Pisae. It had been bought for that purpose. He would go there afterwards; talk to the bailiff, inspect the fields, act as if nothing had happened. Looking out at the wooded slopes, Pupienus found it hard to believe that he would never make this detour again. As ever, he travelled with just his secretary Fortunatianus. The latter drove the cart. There would be no other witnesses.

It was a bad time to be away from Rome. The next meeting of the Senate would be held in five days. In politics there was always more that could be done, but Pupienus’ preparations had been thorough, indeed meticulous. He thought he could count on enough votes. The inducements he had offered should be enough to sway both the faction of the Gordiani as well as the avaricious patricians clustered around Balbinus. For the former, Valerian was promised a senior post with the imperial field army, and his brother-in-law Egnatius Lollianus the province of Pannonia Superior. Before the latter had been dangled the prospects of Rufinianus becoming Prefect of the City, and Valerius Priscillianus a travelling companion of the Emperor. Although the stroke of genius had been the mouth-watering delicacy Pupienus had set before the greed of Balbinus.

The cart lurched around a bend. Not far now. Since setting out, Pupienus had tried to fortify himself with examples of men who had put the Res Publica before their families. Nothing useful had come to mind, nothing Roman, or edifying. Instead the old story of Harpagus had haunted his thoughts. Harpagus had offended the King of Persia. Invited to a royal banquet, Harpagus had eaten his fill. At the end of the dinner, the King ordered a salver uncovered to reveal what Harpagus had consumed. Under the cover was the head of the courtier’s beloved only son. Asked how he had liked his meal, Harpagus had managed to reply, ‘At a King’s table, every meal is pleasant.’ That was how one ate and drank at the court of a King. One must smile at the slaughter of one’s kin.

One last rise, and they were there. Pupienus told Fortunatianus to stop. He got out, and looked down on the little homestead tucked away in a fold of the hills. The simple dwelling, the yard with the cistern and the small forge. The drystone walls of pebbles from the river bound with clay. The smoke drifting over the red tile roofs. The ringing of the hammer on the anvil. It seemed impossible that he would never come here again. What he had to do was unfeasible. It was against nature. But in the pursuit of an empire there was nothing between the summit and the abyss.

Pupienus walked down the slope, and went through the gate. The aged dog lying on the dung heap recognized him, and did not bark. Getting to its feet, it came unsteadily over. Wagging its tail, it licked his hand.

The forge was as Pupienus remembered. The slave boy was standing, pumping the tall bellows, forcing air into the furnace. The aged blacksmith was perched on a stool by the small anvil. He had the head of a hunting spear in the pincers, was working it with a hammer. Pupienus noticed the hammer was lighter than his last visit.

Seeing him, a look of delight appeared on the face of the smith; quickly suppressed. Telling the boy to go and prepare food, the blacksmith quenched the spearhead, then got up, agile despite his more than eighty years. Fortunatianus had remained outside. They were alone.

Pupienus embraced the old man, inhaling the familiar scorched smell, feeling the strength that remained in the muscles of arms and shoulders.

‘Health and great joy, Father.’

Not letting go, the smith leant back, regarded him.

‘What is wrong?’

Pupienus took a deep breath – charcoal, hot metal, dust – and tried to find the words. ‘The Gordiani are dead.’

‘Even in this remote backwater, we heard.’

‘The Senate intends to elect a new Emperor from the Board of Twenty.’

His father smiled, sadly. ‘And you are a candidate.’

‘Yes.’

They stood without speaking, holding each other like men on the edge of some disaster.

Pupienus’ father broke the silence. ‘You know that I never wished to be parted from you. Your brothers and sisters were dead. I had buried your mother. You would have died too. I had nothing. The man I sold you to was not unkind.’

‘No, my master did not mistreat me,’ Pupienus said. ‘And our kinsman Pinarius soon saved the money to buy my freedom, took me to Tibur, brought me up as if I were an orphan. I have never blamed you.’

His father disengaged himself. ‘But an ex-slave cannot hold a magistracy, let alone aspire to the throne. Give me the ring.’

‘No!’ Pupienus was shocked despite himself. ‘There is no need. Apart from the two of us, only Pinarius and Fortunatianus know. My old master has been dead for more than three decades. Your slave thinks that I am an old patron of yours.’

‘Give me the ring.’ His father’s voice was gentle. ‘I am old, my strength failing. Would you deny me a peaceful release?’

Pupienus could not speak.

‘My mind begins to wander. I talk to myself. Words escape my mouth unintended.’

The slave boy knocked on the door. The food was ready.

They walked across the yard to the house with its bare earth floor, sat on rustic benches. The boy sent away, they ate alone: bread, cheese, cold mutton.

‘I know you cannot come here again,’ his father said.

Self-control, Pupienus told himself. He could not let his discipline desert him now. He took the ring from his finger, and handed it to his father.

That was how one ate and drank at the court of a King.