is the difference, except the eclipse is caused by something bigger than my cloak?’
In the murk, the soldiers stopped weeping. They stood, trembling like frightened animals.
‘You are soldiers of Rome, not irrational barbarians, or effete easterners. Master yourselves, remember you are men, recover your discipline.’
His words were greeted by an uncertain silence. Not all men were amenable to reason.
‘The gods control the cosmos.’ Which was true in a sense. ‘When we return safe to Aquileia, we will sacrifice an ox to Helios, the sun god, another to the god of the river. See, the moon is passing from the face of the sun, the light returning.’
With the daylight, the men’s courage returned. Some looked shamefaced, but others were still evidently shaken. Hard labour and the very real dangers of the river in spate would take their minds off the eclipse.
The downpour in the night had combined with the spring melt from the mountains to make the Aesontius rise dangerously. The barges were riding higher than allowed for by the engineers who had built the bridge. The anchor of the central one on which Menophilus stood had dragged. Its cable was now at an angle of no more than forty degrees; not enough to hold against the stream were the barge not lashed to those on either side. The others were much the same. The anchor of one, however, had caught. It was now dragging the prow of its barge down towards the surface. The pontoon was under intense stress, yet it would stand, unless something intervened. Menophilus gave the order to cut the anchor rope.
As two of the men clambered onto the prow, and prepared to wield their axes, a messenger ran back from the advance post on the enemy side of the river. There were troops moving in the woods to the east. Menophilus kept the runner with him. He could not see the enemy yet. Anyway, there was nothing to be done. The handful of men on the far bank would have to hold.
The axes bit down into the cable. It was thick, waterlogged, taut as if woven of steel. The impact of every stroke vibrated through the barge. Suddenly, like a clap of thunder, it parted. One end shot away into the river like a water snake. The other narrowly missed the legs of one of the axemen. The decking shifted under Menophilus’ feet, the barge wallowed, lurched backwards. The screech of tortured ropes and wood was loud over the roar of the river. The additional strain pulled at the cables that ran laterally from barge to barge, and up the risers to the banks.
Originally Menophilus’ plan had been to sever the bindings from the Aquileian bank. It would have been infinitely safer for those doing the cutting. Yet, Patricius had told him there was the possibility that the pontoon would swing like a hinge, and many of the barges might come to rest against the far bank. If undamaged, they would allow Maximinus’ men to quickly repair the bridge. Menophilus had taken the engineer’s advice, and made the hard decision to break the centre of the structure.
The runner was sent to recall the outpost from the far end of the bridge.
Menophilus spotted a flash of movement in the treeline on the opposite shore. The enemy had rallied fast, much faster than he had expected. There was not a moment to lose. The bridge must be destroyed before it could be retaken.
The men of the piquet ran past, boots drumming on the woodwork. Menophilus told the axemen to turn their attentions to the ropes securing the barge to its neighbour. They hefted their blades. He hesitated, trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to him. He turned, and ran after the others, towards safety.
Looking back from the bank, the scene was set out like some grand spectacle in the Flavian Amphitheatre: the dark green hills beyond, the pale line of the pontoon crossing the roiling waters of the river. There were two ropes at the prow of the barge, two at the stern. The men worked in pairs, legs braced, blades flashing in the sun.
Now there was a new audience: a Century of enemy legionaries on the far bank. Their Centurion, marked out by his bronze helmet with its jaunty transverse crest, was belabouring them with the vine stick of his office. Again and again he brought it down on their backs, trying to force them to move out onto the bridge. Enduring his blows and imprecations, they would not budge.
A crack echoed above the noise of the river. A rope at the prow of the barge whipped back, dashed one of the axemen to the decking. The rope next to it parted. Another man went down. With an awful inevitability, the pontoon began to give, bowing downstream. The men on their feet dropped their axes, started to run back towards Menophilus and safety. Two loud reports, and the ropes at the stern snapped. The bridge parted, the force of the floodwater forcing its sides apart.
The decking heaved and swayed under the feet of the running men. They staggered, reeling side to side, as if drunk. One went sprawling. Green water spumed up between the planks. Fifty paces to go. Behind them, a barge ripped free, ropes hissing murderously through the air. Then a second, and a third. Thirty paces. The men lurched, fell to their knees, scrabbled forward. Then the walkway in front of them splintered and tipped, and the whole pontoon came apart, unstitched along its entire length.
The heavy barges spun, ramming into each other, crushing everything in between. All of Menophilus’ men were gone, except two. In the chaos of wreckage, they clung to an upright barge. Their shouts could be heard above the din. The barge swung out into midstream, turned side on to the torrent. Slowly, very slowly, it tilted, and overturned. And there was no more shouting.
‘The men are ready, the prisoners secured.’ Adiutor’s voice was flat, betraying no emotion or criticism.
‘Have the men form column of march.’
‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Menophilus looked out at the Aesontius, at its waters as they swept the debris downstream, and he felt the relentless, remorseless pounding of guilt. It was like the river; it never stopped.
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