Paulina had been right. The Senators would always hate and despise him as a low-born usurper. They were too far from virtue to understand. Maximinus had never wanted to be Emperor. Since he had ascended the throne, nothing he had done had been for himself. Everything had been for the safety of Rome. From their palatial residences on the Esquiline, and their villas on the Bay of Naples, they could not see the terrible threat of the northern tribes. Everything – private estates and fortunes, even the treasures stored in the temples of the gods – must be sacrificed for the war. If it was lost, the barbarians would stable their horses in the temples, and tear down the empire.
Maximinus tipped wine over the heifer’s brow. As the liquid splashed down, the beast dipped its head, as if agreeing to its own sacrifice. Maximinus took a handful of flour and salt, and sprinkled it over the heifer. Then, with the iron knife only to be wielded by the Pontifex Maximus, he made a pass over the victim’s back, intoning a prayer of thanks for the blessings already received, and asking for the deity’s favour in the trials to come.
Stepping back, Maximinus nodded to an attendant. An axe swung in the sunshine, thumping down into the nape of the heifer’s neck. The heifer collapsed, stunned, its soft, gentle eyes unfocused. Two assistants pulled back its head, and one, with the assurance of long practice, cut its throat. Another of the victimarii moved to catch the blood. Some went into the jar, more gushed onto the ground, spattering up the man’s bare legs. Bright red blood ran in the cracks between the paving stones.
The trials to come. What had given the Senators the unexpected courage to continue the war? With the deaths of the Gordiani, they had lost the resources of Africa. Italy was virtually unarmed. Perhaps a thousand Praetorians remained in their barracks in Rome, and roughly the same number of legionaries of the 2nd Parthica in their base on the Alban Hills. As the majority of their fellow-soldiers were with Maximinus, the loyalty to the senatorial cause of those left in Italy must be suspect. Of course there were six thousand men with the Urban Cohorts, another seven thousand in the vigiles. But the former were better at controlling the crowds at the spectacles than standing in the line of battle, and the latter were no more than armed firemen. The fleets at Misenum and Ravenna had turned traitor, but their marines were of little account on land. Against these inadequate, motley forces, Maximinus was bringing the might of the imperial field army. With Maximinus here at Emona were over thirty thousand veterans. Already Flavius Vopiscus, with an elite detachment of another four thousand men from the Pannonian Legions, was over the Alps, and across the Aesontius river.
How could the Senate hope to resist such a force; an overwhelming force which could draw reinforcements from all the armies stationed throughout the provinces? The thought brought Maximinus a stab of doubt. Was there something else? Was the Senate gambling on some further treachery, as yet unknown? Capelianus had proven his commitment by crushing the rebellion in Africa. From Spain, Decius dominated the West. No one was more loyal than Decius, an early patron of Maximinus’ career. Nothing untoward had been heard from Britain, and nothing was to be expected from that dismal, damp backwater. The only credible challenge could come from the great armies stationed on the Rhine, the Danube, and in the East.
As the victimarii went about their business, Maximinus considered the problem.
From Cappadocia, Catius Clemens oversaw the other governors in the East. Clemens was a hypochondriac, forever dabbing his nose, complaining of this and that fever. Yet at the battle of the Harzhorn, he had fought like a Senator of the free Republic. After the death of Paulina, mad with grief and drink, Maximinus had punched Clemens in the face, knocked him to the ground. No Roman with any spirit would forget such an insult to his dignitas. Clemens had been one of the instigators of the plot which had killed Alexander and put Maximinus on the throne. Having overthrown one Emperor, Clemens had the nerve to strike down another. And Clemens need not act alone. His younger brother was in Rome, while his elder brother was governor of Germania Superior. Combined with the authority of the Senate, the armies of the Rhine and the East could shake the world.
Then there was the Danube, watched by Honoratus from Moesia Inferior. Absurdly beautiful, Honoratus looked as if the noise of a symposium would frighten him. Yet he also had proved himself on the battlefield in Germania, and, of course, he was the second of the three complicit in the death of Alexander. Honoratus had been reluctant to leave the imperial court, and take up a post in the distant North. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might attempt to return to the centre of power by force.
Perhaps, Maximinus thought, it might be best to remove them from office. But that begged the question who should replace them. Flavius Vopiscus was wracked by superstition; always clutching amulets, or trying to foretell the future from random lines of Virgil. Yet he was resourceful and determined. Maximinus, however, could not spare him. He was needed for the campaign in Italy. Anyway, Flavius Vopiscus was the final member of the triumvirate that had overthrown Alexander. There were many high-ranking men in the imperial entourage. Maximinus’ eye fell on Marius Perpetuus, a Consul of the previous year. But what was to say any of them would prove more trustworthy? And might not an order dismissing Clemens or Honoratus provoke the very uprising it was designed to prevent?
Paulina had been right; an Emperor could trust no one. At least no one of wealth and status. Maximinus trusted his soldiers. Some spark of antique virtue still lived in simple men; the sons of peasants and soldiers, born on the farm, or in the camp, uncorrupted by city life. Although rations were limited, and remounts in short supply, the army was rested, ordered, and ready to march. Cross the Alps, join with Vopiscus at Aquileia, take that city, then march on Rome. A speedy campaign, reward the troops, and punish the guilty with exemplary severity. That was the way to stamp out any sparks of rebellion before they flared.
A fable of Aesop came into his mind; one of those his mother had told him. A lion and a bear fought over the carcass of a fawn. When they were bloodied and exhausted, a fox stole the prize from under their noses. Maximinus dismissed the idea. This would not be a long campaign. The army only had to set foot across the Alps for almost everyone to come, holding out olive branches, pushing forward their children, begging for mercy and falling at their feet. The rest would run away because they were cowards.
The victimarii had rolled the corpse of the heifer onto its back, had slit open its belly. Arms red to the elbows, to the armpits, they cut and sawed at the innards. Soon they offered the slimy, steaming products of their labours to their Emperor. Maximinus might be impatient, but if any of the organs were deformed he would order another sacrifice. The gods were to be treated with all reverence. Without their approval, nothing could prosper. Turning them in his hands, one by one, he inspected the liver, lungs, peritoneum, and gall bladder. There was a shadow on the heart, but nothing to cause concern. He announced the sacrifice propitious.
As Maximinus washed and dried his hands, he noticed spots of blood on the white of his toga. Such things happened, it signified little.
He had never desired the throne. Duty demanded that he crush this revolt, then make one last campaign into the forests of Germania. Then, the empire secure, he could set aside the purple. He would return to Ovile, the village of his birth, there to be reunited with Paulina, his dead wife. A sharp sword, an end to troubles. He would go as willingly as this sacrificial animal.
Yet what of the succession? Unlike Sulla the Dictator, or Solon the Athenian lawgiver, Maximinus could not walk away, leave it to chance. The Res Publica needed a strong hand at the helm.
Maximinus gazed across at his son. Verus Maximus stood, sulky and bored, not bothering to feign interest in the sacrifice. The breeze played with the boy’s artful curls. His son was beautiful, but weak and vicious. How had he and Paulina bred such a creature? At the moment of conception had she looked at something ill-omened? Or had there been witchcraft, a malignant daemon, or some terrible