Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust by Harry Sidebottom Page A

serving with the standards. The latter would prove particularly hard to get at, given the prevailing corruption of the previous regime. Under-strength units still drew the pay due their numbers on papyrus; the differences found their way into various private coffers.
    ‘Come,’ Sanctus said.
    Timesitheus had not noticed the approach, but now followed the ab Admissionibus .
    They passed through the heavy hangings into the purple-tinted labyrinth. At least it was good to be out of the wind. Sanctus led them left and right, this way and that, along silent corridors and through empty halls where unseen voices whispered. They went through shade and deeper darkness, seemingly turning back on themselves. At last, like initiates at Eleusis or some other mystery cult, they emerged into the throne room.
    A shaft of light was arranged to fall from directly above on to the seated Emperor. The ivory of the throne gleamed. Maximinus sat robed and immobile, like a gigantic statue of porphyry and white marble.
    On the right hand of the Emperor stood Anullinus. No surprise there, Timesitheus thought. Everyone knew there had been three of them, but Anullinus was the only one whose identity was certain. It was the Prefect of the Armenians who had beheaded the young Emperor and his mother. Camp gossip held he had stripped the old woman naked, outraged her headless corpse. Anullinus was wearing armour and a sword on his hip. Was it the one with which he had killed them? Had it been in this room? Motionless in the half-light, Anullinus’ eyes exuded brutality and menace.
    Two togate figures on Maximinus’ left. Nearest to Maximinus was Flavius Vopiscus. It was common knowledge that the Senator from Syracuse, together with Honoratus, had orchestrated the change of regime. The latter was not yet returned from Rome. So Flavius Vopiscus stood closest to the Emperor they had created. The consummation of his designs did not seem to have lightened the demeanour of the Sicilian. As ever, he looked haunted. Pious to a fault or just riddled with superstition, it was said he dared not embark on the simplest endeavour – getting dressed or going to the baths – until he had consulted the sortes Virgilianae . How many times had he had to unroll the Aeneid and stab his finger on a random line before he considered the gods had guided him to one that read propitiously for the breaking of sacred oaths, for treason and murder?
    The other toga-clad figure was less expected. Caius Catius Clemens – the middle of the three brothers – commander of the 8th Augustan legion and legate to his eldest sibling, the governor of Germania Superior. So Priscillianus had been more cold than apprehensive when they were waiting. A terrible thought caught Timesitheus. He could feel the teeth of the rat gnawing, hear the scrabble of its paws. His brother would have told Priscillianus everything that was about to happen. Perhaps, outside the pavilion, in front of dozens of witnesses, Priscillianus had not wished to be too closely associated with a man bound to the wheel on its downward turn. Again, Timesitheus hurriedly forced his fear down deep.
    As was proper, the ex-Consul Priscillianus approached the Emperor first. Priscillianus came close and waited for a hand to be extended so that he could kiss the ring bearing the imperial seal. Instead Maximinus raised one of his great hands palm out.
    ‘While I reign, no man will bow his head to me.’ Maximinus’ voice was deep, grating like a mill wheel.
    Timesitheus gave a manly, Roman salute; nothing of the Hellene about it at all. He could have been an officer of the old, free Republic before Cannae. That was an ill-omened thought. He altered the image to before the gates of Carthage or Corinth, or some other wealthy city through whose streets the Romans had killed and raped in their heyday.
    Behind Anullinus there were two men: Domitius, the Prefect of the Camp, and Volo, the head of the frumentarii . The latter commanded the