Iron and Rust. Harry Sidebottom

sixteen thousand. Of which, as you say, almost half are merely firemen. The imperial field army numbers some forty thousand, before reckoning what further forces could join it from the armies on the Rhine and Danube.’

      Gripping him by the arm, Gallicanus thrust his ill-favoured face close to that of Pupienus. ‘My dear friend.’ Gallicanus squeezed the arm. His gaze and voice were fervent in their sincerity. ‘My dear Pupienus, no one doubts your commitment to libertas, your devotion to the Senate, or your courage. But in a free Republic it will not be for us to assign ourselves commands. As it was when Rome grew great, the Senate will vote who leads its armies.’

      Gallicanus released Pupienus’ arm and began to pace the room. He was babbling about electing a board of twenty from the Senate, all ex-Consuls, to defend Italy. Others would be sent to win over the troops and the provincials. In his eagerness he was bobbing about the confined space and swinging his arms like an agitated primate in a cage.

      Pupienus was seldom flabbergasted, and he had not been so angry for a long time. What sort of fool was Gallicanus? He had come into Pupienus’ home and endangered everyone in it with his talk of treason. And he had done so not to offer Pupienus the throne, not even to offer him a leading role in a new regime. Instead the ape had wanted Pupienus to seize the city for his insane cause, and then, rather than reap the rewards, simply give up his legitimate authority and step down to the level of a private citizen.

      ‘This must stop.’ Pupienus had recovered quickly.

      Gallicanus had rounded on him, suspicion and anger in his eyes.

      Pupienus had smiled. He had hoped it looked reassuring. ‘All we Senators wish we had lived in the free Republic. But you know as well as me that the principate is a harsh necessity. The imperium was tearing itself apart in civil wars until Augustus took the throne.’

      Gallicanus had shaken his head. ‘We can learn from history.’

      ‘No—’ Pupienus had been adamant ‘—the same would happen again. The leading men would fight for power until one of them won or the empire fell. You have read your Tacitus. Now we must pray for good Emperors, but serve the ones we get.’

      ‘Tacitus served under the tyrant Domitian. He was nothing but a quietist, a time-server. He was a man of no courage, a coward.’ Gallicanus had shouted the last words.

      ‘You and I, we both held office under Caracalla.’ Pupienus had pitched his voice at its most reasonable. ‘Give up this scheme before you bring disaster on your family and your friends.’

      Gallicanus stood wringing his hands and pressing them together as if he could physically crush this opposition. ‘I thought you were a man of honour.’

      You ape, Pupienus thought, you stupid, arrogant Stoic ape. ‘I hope you will think so again, because I will never mention this conversation to anyone.’

      Gallicanus had left.

      The mellifluous tones of the Consul brought Pupienus back to the Senate House:

      ‘… And that whatsoever he shall deem to be according to the custom of the Res Publica and the greatness of divine and human, public and private matters, there be right and power for him to undertake and to do, just as there was for the divine Augustus …’

      The Consul had reached clauses that were surely otiose. As Maximinus had already had been vested with the tribunician power, which brought the ability to make and unmake all laws, of course he could do whatsoever he should deem according to the custom of the Res Publica, and any other thing as well. Pupienus was only half listening. He was still watching Gallicanus posturing in his near-rags on the floor of the Senate House. The previous evening he had forgotten that Gallicanus had moved from following the doctrines of the Stoa to those of Diogenes. Not a Stoic ape then. A Cynic dog instead. It made little difference. The ragged Senator was still a dangerous fool, made all the more dangerous by a conviction that profoundest philosophy underpinned all his beliefs and actions.

      Gallicanus had not been the only visitor to the house on the Caelian that night. Pupienus and his wife were starting their belated dinner when Fortunatianus had announced another caller. This time the secretary had suggested no ingenious espionage. He was plainly terrified. Honoratus was outside. The street was full of soldiers.

      Pupienus had dreaded such a moment since first he acquired wealth and position. The knock on the door in the night. The imperial official standing in the torchlight, the armed men at his back. The muted terror sliding through the corridors of the house. In the reign of Caracalla, it had happened to several men close to Pupienus. Neither those vicarious experiences nor the years of expectation had made the sudden reality any easier.

      Surely there had been no time for Gallicanus to have approached someone else. Even that hairy fool must have realized that he could never seize Rome without the Urban Cohorts. Pupienus had felt a hollow deep in his stomach. Could he have so misread Gallicanus? Was all that conspicuous virtue no more than a mask? Was all his talk of the Res Publica no more than a trap?

      The new arrival could be unconnected. But still lethal. A new regime often began with a purge. But it could be nothing. With all the courage and dignitas he could muster, Pupienus had told Fortunatianus to bring Honoratus to him. While waiting, he had managed not to touch the ring on his right middle finger which contained the poison. Instead, he had put his hand on that of his wife, squeezed, and forced himself to smile into her eyes.

      Honoratus was still wearing the same clothes muddied from the road in which he had addressed the Senate. He entered alone. Pupienus fought down a surge of hope. If it was premature, it would be all the more devastating.

      ‘Forgive the intrusion, Prefect.’ Honoratus had spread his arms wide, showing his empty palms. ‘I should have sent a messenger ahead. I have been somewhat occupied.’

      ‘Think nothing of it, Senator.’

      Honoratus had bowed to Sextia. ‘My Lady, I need the advice of your husband.’

      Like a true Roman matron, she had spoken some graceful words and withdrawn. Only the slightest catch in her voice betrayed the relief that her husband would be neither hauled off to the torturers in the palace cellars nor butchered in front of her.

      ‘Have you eaten?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Please, do.’

      Honoratus stopped his host calling for a slave to remove his boots. ‘I will do it myself. Discretion might be best.’ He pronounced it ‘dishcretion’.

      Pupienus had watched the younger man wash his hands, tip a libation and start to eat. He sprinkled some salt on a hard-boiled egg, dipped it in some fish sauce. He ate it delicately. He reached for another. The speed of his feeding increased. He was hungry. Pupienus had forced himself to keep quiet. Behind the dirt and fatigue, Honoratus was still ridiculously good-looking: dark hair, dark eyes, the cheekbones of a statue. Pupienus had thought it would be almost unseemly to be killed by someone so beautiful.

      Honoratus drained his glass.

      ‘Shall I call for more?’

      Honoratus smiled. ‘You were never one for much wine, Pupienus. No, leave it until they bring in the next course.’

      Pupienus had passed him more bread.

      ‘Alexander had to go,’ Honoratus had said. ‘He was trying to pay off the Germans. He was too scared to fight. The soldiers despised him. It would have been a disaster, much worse than the East. His mother’s greed was getting worse. The troops’ pay was late. If we had not acted, someone else would have.’

      Pupienus had made an understanding noise.

      ‘Maximinus is a good soldier, a good administrator. He has courage. He will fight the German tribes, and he will win.’

      Pupienus had repeated the noise, with just a hint of a question.

      ‘As an equestrian,