Smoke & Mirrors. Harry Sidebottom
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past them. They stepped smartly aside. Maximinus paused at the door. ‘And do it quickly!’
When the Emperor was gone, the three men regarded each other. They were the triumvirate that had organised the coup that had raised Maximinus to the throne. The big Thracian was a fierce warrior, an able leader of men in battle. He had begun life as a herdsman, having joined the army as a cavalry trooper, he had risen through the ranks. So lowly were his origins they had thought that he would be easy to control. Maximinus could fight the barbarians, while they governed the empire. Their judgement had been faulty. Against their unanimous, and strongly urged advice, he had doubled the pay of the troops. Now the treasury was almost empty.
The fire ticked, loud in the silence.
Finally, Vopiscus clutched his good luck charm and spoke. ‘The treasures stored in the temples?’
‘No,’ Honoratus said, more peremptory than he had intended. ‘Maximinus was right, when you raised that before. If the regime is thought to steal from the gods, everyone will turn against us.’
‘Not the treasures dedicated to the gods.’ Vopiscus was reluctant to abandon his idea. ‘Maximinus did not rule out claiming the things stored up by families that have died out. The Praetorian Prefect Anullinus volunteered to oversee their collection.’
‘Anullinus is not the most tactful of men,’ Catius Clemens sniffed.
Tact was not a quality that anyone would ascribe to the Praetorian Prefect. Anullinus had his uses. The triumvirate had sent him to kill the previous Emperor and his mother. Apparently he had accomplished the unpleasant task in cold blood and with evident pleasure. The word that came to Honoratus when he considered Anullinus was malignant.
Honoratus remembered the sight in the imperial pavilion. The Emperor had been decapitated. Both his corpse and that of his mother were naked. The old woman’s body had been hacked about, her fingers cut off. There had been a table set with food. The pet birds of the Emperor had fluttered and hopped about. Honoratus wished that he had not witnessed the scene.
Catius Clemens dabbed his nose with a silk handkerchief. ‘Those in charge of the Mint could adulterate the coinage, increase the amount of base metal in the gold and silver coins.’
Honoratus was thinking of his own family. His wife and son were in Rome. The boy was only six years old. If Honoratus himself fell, would they find any more mercy than the late Emperor and his mother? It was too painful to think of Anullinus, or another like him, forcing his way into their house.
‘Who receives most of the coins issued by the treasury?’ Vopiscus was speaking. Honoratus brought his thoughts back.
‘The soldiers are uneducated,’ Catius Clemens said. ‘They might not realise.’
‘They are not complete fools,’ Vopiscus said. ‘The soldiers are the only group whose loyalty can be relied upon. Adulterating their pay will turn them against Maximinus – and against his advisors.’
Silence again descended on the room.
There was a mirror on the wall opposite Honoratus. He looked at his own dark hair, and dark eyes, the cheekbones, chiselled like those of a statue. Even in the dim reflection, he was beautiful. As he admired himself, his mind was working.
Outside the wind fretted at the shutters.
Honoratus smiled his perfect smile, and said the one word they had all been avoiding: confiscations.
Catius Clemens wiped his eyes, hiding behind the perfumed cloth.
Vopiscus clawed at the magic object hidden in his clothes. ‘The Emperor has ordered the retrial of those rich men and women who, through bribery, avoided condemnation for their crimes in the last reign. There were many of them. The regime was corrupt. Now Vollo, the head of the imperial spies, is busy rounding them up.’
‘It is not enough,’ Honoratus said.
‘The unjust condemnation of the elite, the confiscation of their estates is the mark of a tyrant. Everyone hates such a ruler … and his ministers. Actions of that sort are utterly against the spirit of the reign of Maximinus Augustus.’
Vopiscus spoke the last sentence loudly. Although they appeared to be alone, at the imperial headquarters you never knew who might be listening surreptitiously. Imperial spies were everywhere.
Honoratus smiled wider – his teeth really were perfect. ‘Not when the traitors are guilty, condemned by their own words.’
The other two stared at him.
‘As our noble Emperor just said, we are educated men. You will both have read your Lucian, the Life of Alexander of Abonouteichus.’
Slowly remembrance dawned, and smiles spread across their faces.
The Legionary Fortress of Castra Regina on the Danube
The Kalends of January AD236
‘What do you know about Abonouteichus?’ Vollo asked.
Censorinus thought before answering. ‘A town in Paphlagonia, on the southern shore of the Black Sea. Now called Ionopolis. There is an oracle of a god called Glycon there.’
‘And what does Lucian tell us about the oracle?’
Censorinus took his time. When the commander of the imperial spies asked a question any of his men would do the same. Sometimes, Censorinus thought, just sometimes, honesty was best. ‘I have never read Lucian.’
Vollo nodded, as if he had already known the answer, and was pleased that the young frumentarius had not lied.
‘You should, you really should,’ Vollo said. ‘You have to read widely if you want to rise in the world. Being a good frumentarius involves much more than delivering covert messages, eavesdropping and opening the letters of the disloyal, much more than occasionally, for the safety of the Emperor, removing such people from this world with speed and discretion.’
Censorinus took the words not as a rebuke, but an encouragement. There had been no call for literature in the remote Alpine village in which he had been born. He had learnt to read and write serving in the Legion in Raetia. Although his Greek had not progressed much beyond putting the letter theta on rosters against the name of a soldier who was thanatos, dead. His promotion into the frumentarii had been the result of native wit, a good memory, and the efficient obeying of orders, no matter how unsavoury. Yet now he accepted that knowledge, if not power itself, was a key to gaining that desirable and both status and wealth enhancing quality. To move unnoticed in elite circles, a frumentarius needed to be able to pass himself off as a man of culture. Censorinus had bought a primer on the poetry of Homer, and, when unobserved in the barracks, had begun to laboriously plough through its turgid pages.
‘The oracle was founded back in the reign of Marcus Aurelius by a man called Alexander. Lucian says that he was as great in villainy, as his namesake the son of Philip was in heroism. This Alexander was worse than a bandit, because he filled not just one region, but the whole empire with brigandage. His soul was a compound of lying, trickery, perjury, and malice. He deserved to be torn apart by foxes and apes in the amphitheatre.’
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