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Rome

The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Eight Days before the Ides of April, AD238

The eunuchs were dancing in the Forum. It was a bad omen. Wailing, clashing cymbals, they capered away from the armed guard. The eunuchs were everywhere, the streets full of their cacophony. It was the third day of the festival of Magna Mater. The courts were closed, and the Senate should not convene. Yet there were few days in April without one festival or another. Even an Asiatic deity, an immigrant like Cybele, accepted that in an emergency the Res Publica took precedence. And it was the anniversary of Caesar defeating the Numidians; that, at least, was auspicious.

Pupienus walked under the Arch of Septimius Severus. In the crowded reliefs above his head, the Emperor made a speech, his troops took cities, battering rams shook walls, barbarians surrendered, and gods looked on in approval. The scenes of overwhelming triumph were timeless, all the more powerful for being divorced from narrative. Severus had been a fine Emperor; certainly stern, and a terror to his enemies at home and abroad. Pupienus owed much to Severus, and would keep his example in mind.

As Pupienus and his entourage ascended, their progress was hindered by gangs of plebs drifting up to the Capitol. Unlike the eunuchs, the sordid plebs did not leap aside. Some stood, with dumb insolence, until the guards shoved them out of the way. As Pupienus passed, the plebs – men and women – regarded him with silent hostility. Pupienus knew they thought him harsh, blamed him for the deaths in the Temple of Venus and Rome the previous year. The plebs were fools. There had been only a few killed. As Prefect of the City, he had ordered the Urban Cohorts to use cudgels, not their swords. He had left the side gates clear for the rioters to escape. If it had not been for him, the Praetorians would have been sent in, and massacred everyone in the holy precinct. As it was, his clemency had cost him his office. Maximinus had dismissed him for insufficient zeal in his duties. Now he was Prefect of the City again, and, if the gods were kind, by dusk he would be something greater. He put the plebs out of his thoughts. They were not worth considering.

They came out onto the summit of the Capitol by the altar of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Behind it loomed the huge temple of Rome’s patron deity. The gilded doors and roof of the home of the Best and Greatest god glittered in the sun.

There were more of the plebs up here. Off to one side, they clustered around the statue of Tiberius Gracchus, the long-dead demagogue and would-be tyrant they regarded as their martyred champion. It had been erected on the spot where he had been beaten to death by patriotic Senators intent on saving the Res Publica. The plebs did not concern Pupienus. Let them wait outside the doors, while their betters decided the fate of the empire.

Pupienus walked up the steps, through the tall columns, and, leaving his bodyguards at the doors, into the inner sanctum. The cella was tall and dark. Already there were several hundred Senators murmuring on the ranks of benches set out along the sides. Looking neither left nor right, Pupienus walked the length of the chamber, and stopped before the statue of Jupiter. At a small, portable altar, he made a libation of wine, and offered a pinch of incense into the fire. Jupiter – seated, massive, and chryselephantine – gazed over Pupienus’ head at the smoke coiling up to the ceiling.

Piety satisfied, Pupienus acknowledged the presiding Consul, Licinius Rufinus. He took his place on the front bench in the midst of his supporters. On either side were Praetextatus and Tineius Sacerdos; both also ex-Consuls and fellow members of the Board of Twenty. Their combined friends and relatives were ranked about them.

The opposite benches contained Balbinus, and his repellent coterie of patricians. Prominent among them was Rufinianus. It was contemptible, and utterly predictable, that Rufinianus, also one of the Twenty, had abandoned his assigned post defending the passes over the Apennines, and scurried back to Rome to see what personal advantage he could secure.

Pupienus lifted his eyes, let them wander over the golden eagles, whose wings supported the roof. It was in the lap of the gods. He had done all that he could. Balbinus was bought and paid for. His cruel, sensuous mouth had slobbered at the offer. Undoubtedly it would not stop him reneging on his word, if his greed spotted something yet more tempting on the table. The avarice and vanity of the other patricians had been accommodated; not that they were any more to be relied upon.

Returning his gaze to the floor of the hall, Pupienus sought out Valerian. Broad and solid, with an open, trusting face, he sat modestly some way from the tribunal of the Consul. Of course inducements had been offered and accepted, but Valerian was a dutiful man, and would do what he had been persuaded was best for the Res Publica in this time of danger. By default leader of what remained of the faction of the Gordiani in Rome, Valerian brought with him the allegiance of the commanders of those troops in the city not already under the command of Pupienus himself. Yet Valerian had vetoed bringing soldiers onto the Capitol. Pupienus had conceded the point. The impression created would have been one of military tyranny. The guard of young men from the equestrian order was altogether more fitting. It evoked that of Cicero in his finest hour; when he saved the state, defending libertas from the conspiracy of Catiline.

The bodyguard had been the idea of Timesitheus. An equestrian himself, within hours, the Praefectus Annonae had raised a hundred stalwart youths from good families, equipped them with swords. The stock of Timesitheus stood high. The first in the field against Maximinus, he had slain the Thracian’s Prefect of the Camp. He had organized irregular forces to harass Maximinus’ communications and supply lines over the Alps, had risked his life and taken a wound escaping from the tyrant’s men, and ridden post-haste to bring the news to Rome. The bandages on his left hand were widely regarded as a badge of honour. Pupienus did not trust him. There was no denying his capacity, but a strange light burned in the dark eyes of the Greek; a light of ambition unrestrained by any morality or compassion. Now Timesitheus had armed men at his beck and call, and, as Praefectus Annonae, he controlled the grain supply of Rome. Timesitheus needed watching very closely. Any Emperor might feel the need to be rid of such a dangerous subject.

‘Let all who are not Conscript Fathers depart. Let no one remain except the Senators.’

The ritual words of the Consul were to be taken literally. This was to be a closed session. The clerks, scribes and other servants, public and private, filed out. Licinius ordered the doors shut and bolted.

‘Let good auspices and joyful fortune attend the people of Rome.’

There were no windows, and the only light came from torches in archaic sconces on the walls. Shadows massed in the recesses, flitted across the walls; insubstantial yet threatening, like the souls of the dead. The air was close, sickly with incense. Pupienus was sweating, his chest tight. From long habit, he went to turn the ring which was no longer on his finger. The throne was almost within his grasp, the reward for a lifetime of endeavour and self-control, the culmination of his rise from obscurity. When his patron Septimius Severus ascended the throne, he had himself adopted into the imperial dynasty. Some wit had congratulated Severus on finding a father. No one would find Pupienus’ father now. The familiar, terrible emotions of guilt and love gathered in the darkness at his back, and were now joined by an aching sense of loss.

‘Conscript Fathers, give us your advice.’

At the Consul’s words, two men got to their feet.

‘I humbly request permission to address the House.’ There was no humility in Gallicanus’ harsh voice, and none whatsoever in his ostentatiously homespun toga, with its conscious air of antique virtue and moral superiority.

‘Publius Licinius Valerian will address the house,’ the Consul said.

Gallicanus raised his voice. ‘In the name of libertas, I demand to speak to prevent tyranny.’

‘Valerian has the floor.’

Gallicanus sat down. He wore a look of grim satisfaction on his face, as if yet again given evidence of the moral deliquescence of his fellow Senators.

‘I am well aware, Conscript Fathers, that when events press, we should refrain from lengthy words and opinions.’ The innocent, guileless face of Valerian shone with sincerity. ‘Let each of us look to his own neck, let him think of his wife and children, of his father’s and his father’s father’s goods. All these Maximinus threatens, by nature irrational, savage and bloodthirsty.’

Valerian had a natural dignity. Pupienus wondered if he was too credulous to sit on the throne.

‘There is no need for a long speech. We must make an Emperor, to confront the dangers of war, to manage the affairs of state. We must choose a man of experience, an intelligent and shrewd man of sober habits. I recommend to the house the Prefect of the City, Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus.’

It is right, it is just. The shouts rang up to the roof. Pupienus Augustus, save the Res Publica. Aequum est, iustum est.

Pupienus composed his expression, and – weighty dignitas personified – rose to his feet.

It is right, it is just.

Pupienus noted that Balbinus could not bring himself to join in the acclamations. How Pupienus loathed and despised that bloated wine-sack that passed for a man.

‘Conscript Fathers,’ Pupienus tried to put Balbinus from his thoughts, ‘to wear the purple is to wear the yoke of slavery; a noble slavery, but servitude all the same. The Emperor is a slave to the common good, to the Res Publica. Duty lies hard on an Emperor. The task is daunting, and, as Jupiter is my witness, not one to which I aspire. Yet when Maximinus, whom you and I declared a public enemy, is upon us, and the two Gordiani, in whom was our defence, are slain, it is my duty to accept.’

Pupienus Augustus, may the gods keep you!

Again Balbinus remained silent. Even the patricians around him chanted, but Balbinus did not so much as mouth the words. Centuries of privilege, countless generations of office, had created that monster of self-satisfied complacency and arrogance. A lifetime of indulgence and ease had nurtured perversity and depravity. The pig-like eyes regarded Pupienus with malevolence.

Pupienus looked from Balbinus to Valerian; the latter honest and decent, the other a sack of faeces.

‘In a time of revolution, the duties of an Emperor are too heavy for one man. Conscript Fathers, you must clothe two men in the purple; one to rule the city, one to go out and meet the tyrant with an army. When I take the field against Maximinus, Rome must be left in safe hands.’

There was silence now, all eyes fixed upon Pupienus.

‘Conscript Fathers, I recommend to you a man of illustrious birth, a man dear to the state by reason both of his gentle character and of his blameless life, which from the earliest years he has passed in study and in letters.’

The bitter medicine must be swallowed; the unpalatable words said.

‘You have my opinion, Decimus Caelius Calvinus Balbinus must be raised to share the throne, in all its powers and duties.’

Balbinus Augustus, may the gods keep you.

Balbinus’ porcine features shone with undisguised triumph.

It is right, it is just. Balbinus and Pupienus Augusti, what the Senate has given you, take gladly.

Amid the uproar, few noticed the unbolting of the doors. Pupienus watched Gallicanus, his intimate friend Maecenas, and two other Senators slip out. Withdrawal could form the basis of a charge of treason. But let them go, let them play Thrasea or some other philosophic sage, who had courted martyrdom by their refusal to attend their Emperors in the Senate. Their resistance was puerile. They could achieve nothing.

‘We present to you, Conscript Fathers, a proposal that imperial powers be voted …’ The Consul began the formula that would free two men from all temporal restraint.

‘And that it be lawful for them to issue orders to all governors of provinces, by right of their overriding military authority, and that it be lawful for them to declare war and peace, and that it be lawful for them to make a treaty with whomsoever they should wish, just as it was lawful for the divine Augustus.’

Pupienus closed his eyes, let the sonorous words flow over him, and considered the tasks that lay ahead. He would go to Ravenna, raise troops there. With its lagoons and marshes, it was a good defensive site. If Aquileia fell, Maximinus would not be able to march on Rome leaving Ravenna behind unconquered. The Adriatic fleet could bring supplies and reinforcements into the town, and, in dire necessity, provide a means of escape.

Balbinus would remain in Rome, empowered to maintain order in the city. Most likely, he would relapse into torpor and vice. Should the patrician venture anything particularly ill-advised or detrimental to the public good, reliable men would be at hand to restrain him, or, at least, give Pupienus timely warning.

Defence alone would not win the war, or eliminate Maximinus. Nothing had been heard from the North. No word from Castricius, the knife-boy discovered by Timesitheus and sent by Menophilus to assassinate the Thracian. Either Castricius had been caught, or he had not made the attempt. If captured, the youth would have died in agony. If he had lost his nerve, the same fate would befall him if he were ever seen in Rome again. Likewise, the Procurator Axius had not yet seized control of the province of Dacia. Another initiative was necessary. Someone must be despatched to attempt to win over the governors along the Danube. Behind enemy lines, in the heartlands of Maximinus’ support, the odds against success were long. There was a Senator called Celsinus. An ex-Praetor, his estates were mortgaged far beyond their value. Celsinus was desperate enough to put everything on one roll of the dice to restore his fortunes.

The East was more promising. Catius Clemens, the governor of Cappadocia, was the key. Clemens had been one of the triumvirate that had put Maximinus on the throne. Pupienus had spent long hours cloistered with Clemens’ younger brother, Celer. The provisional arrangement reached might satisfy the family of the Catii. Young Celer would go from Rome to govern Thrace. While there he would be Consul in absentia. The eldest brother, Priscillianus, would retain Germania Superior for two years, with the province of his choice to follow. Clemens himself would leave Cappadocia. Returning to Rome, he would be enrolled in the Board of Twenty, and be entrusted with the defence of the eternal city.

Pupienus’ close friend Cuspidius had agreed to travel to the East. It was a terrible risk. There was no guarantee that Clemens would not remain loyal to Maximinus, or even aim for the throne himself. In either event, Cuspidius would suffer an awful fate. Pupienus had no desire to be responsible for the torture and death of his friend. But with the throne came terrible decisions.

‘And that whatever is undertaken, carried out, decreed or ordered by the Emperors Pupienus Augustus and Balbinus Augustus, or by anyone according to their command or mandate, they shall be lawful and binding, as if they had been undertaken according to the order of Senate and people of Rome.’

The thing was done. Now, according to tradition, the new Emperors should make offerings to the gods at the altar in front of the temple, then process down to the Forum, and speak to the people of Rome from the Rostra.

As the doors were opened, and the Senators arranged themselves in order of precedence, Balbinus waddled up to Pupienus. They shook hands. It was like grasping a fish.

‘You had better keep your word.’ Balbinus’ breath reeked of wine. ‘I will not be inferior to someone like you in anything. We must both be Pontifex Maximus.’

‘I gave my word.’

The drink had not dulled Balbinus’ covetous nature. The compromises and unworthy innovations required to gain power sickened Pupienus. Never had two men held the office of Pontifex Maximus, never had there been a less fitting intermediary between Rome and the gods than Balbinus. If it should prove possible to remove him, without doubt the gods would applaud. The joint reign should not be long enduring. Kingship was indivisible.

Outside the light was bright. They paused for a moment at the top of the steps.

The plebs – hundreds, if not thousands of them – stood in a wide semi-circle. Nearer at hand, the young equestrians cheered. Few of the plebs joined the acclamation.

At the altar, Balbinus took it on himself to address his new subjects.

‘The Senators, with Jupiter as fellow councillor and guardian of their acts, have vested in me the powers of an Emperor. One man alone cannot rule Rome and crush the bandits who march against us over the Alps. In my care for your safety, I have elevated Marcus Clodius Pupienus Maximus as my colleague. Rejoice, your troubles are at an end!’

The equestrians set up a chant.

Blessed is the judgement of the Senate, happy is Rome in your rule!

The massed ranks of the plebs greeted this with an ominous silence.

What the Senate has given, take gladly!

Obscured by the crush, men pushed through the midst of the crowd. To his left, Pupienus caught the white gleam of a toga, in another place got a glimpse of a slight, hooded figure that he half recognized. Near the latter, a man stepped forward.

‘Only the people have the right to pass law. Only the people can elect an Emperor.’

The man shouting wore a leather apron, high-belted. An innkeeper, one of the lowest of the low.

‘We do not want your cruel old Emperors. Let the people choose!’

Balbinus rounded on some of the equestrians. ‘Arrest that criminal.’

‘Jupiter is our only ruler!’ Others took up the innkeeper’s shout.

Three equestrians grabbed the innkeeper. He struggled.

Jupiter is our only ruler!

The first stone flew, then another.

Jupiter our only ruler!

The third missile hit Balbinus on the shoulder. He bellowed with pain, then screamed at the equestrians: ‘Use your swords, kill them all!’

The mob surged forward, engulfed the innkeeper. The three equestrians were down, being kicked and beaten.

Behind Pupienus the good and the great stampeded back up to the comparative safety of the temple.

‘Kill all the scum!’ Balbinus howled.

Timesitheus was at Pupienus’ elbow. ‘Augustus, retire into the temple.’

With what dignitas he could maintain – stones rattling off the marble – Pupienus went back up the steps. Disappointingly, Balbinus blundered past. For a moment, Pupienus had hoped outraged stupidity might have left Balbinus to be torn apart by the mob.

Pupienus paused at the doors, looked back. Timesitheus and the equestrians, blades in hand, were backing up the steps. The hail of stones had ceased.

In the cella, all the Senators were talking at once, like a flock of frightened birds.

Balbinus came up to Pupienus, grabbed the folds of his toga. ‘This is all your fault. There is no way out. We are trapped.’

Pupienus disengaged the grasping hands. The doors were not shut, but blocked by the armed young men. Pupienus went over to Timesitheus. ‘Do you think you can get through them?’

‘I am not a Senator. They should not harm me.’

‘Go and summon the troops.’

A strange light danced in Timesitheus’ eyes, like a candle behind glass. ‘Trust me, Augustus, and see what will happen. I will save you all.’