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

imperial spies and assassins and was feared throughout the empire. The former dealt with latrines, horse lines and bundles of hay. Yet it was the presence of Domitius that worried Timesitheus more. He had heard that Domitius had survived the coup, but he had not known that he had remained in his post. Timesitheus very much hoped Domitius had not been a part of the plot.
    It had started some years earlier in the East. Three men – all equestrians – had been charged with securing the supplies for the Persian war of Alexander Severus. One had been Timesitheus, another Domitius. Timesitheus had taken no more than was customary; if anything, rather less: just the usual presents, certainly no more than one part in ten. His wife had chided him with his restraint; but then Tranquillina was ever boldness itself. The spouse of Domitius would have had no grounds for complaint. His peculation had been egregious. Units had marched hungry and with no boots, the money having vanished into the ledgers of Domitius. Each man had threatened to denounce the other. No charge had been lodged, but by the time the campaign limped to an inglorious close, the enmity was deeply rooted.
    The third man who had dealt with the logistics now sat on the throne of the Caesars. In the East, Timesitheus had met Maximinus only once, and they had exchanged no words in a crowded council. But what he had learnt of the Thracian’s actions spoke of reasonable efficiency and complete, even priggish probity. Yet when, back in Rome, this campaign against the Germans became an inevitability, Alexander’s mother and senatorial councillors had decided that Timesitheus alone would handle all issues of supply. The role of Domitius had been cut back to digging ditches and mucking out stables. Maximinus had been assigned the role of training recruits. Timesitheus had interpreted that as a demotion. Now, he hoped the big Thracian had not seen it the same way.
    The Senators of the standing inner council were grouped to the left of the throne. Seeing them in a group was never pleasing. They appeared to have been selected on grounds of advanced age and evident venality. Also, Timesitheus thought, they shared ill-favoured looks as a common possession. Petronius Magnus had the bulging eyes of some crustacean adapted to dim light. With his long, artful hair, Catilius Severus resembled an eastern priest, one of the scum who dance along the roads begging for coppers, clashing their cymbals and shaking their arses. The enormously fat Claudius Venacus seemed to have been dipped in something viscous. The other thirteen were hardly more aesthetic.
    ‘Let in the rest,’ Maximinus said.
    Timesitheus followed Priscillianus to the opposite side from the sixteen Senators. This was too near Domitius for his liking. Timesitheus could feel the eyes of the Prefect of the Camp on him.
    The others entered. Most, especially the Senators, tried not to push and shove, tried to preserve their dignitas . It was not easy. Too many men were trying to get in at once. Senators and equestrians, those holding commands and magistracies and those without, jumbled together. All wanted to get to the front, catch the eye of the new Emperor.
    It had to be deliberate. Sanctus had been ab Admissionibus for years. Not a bad ploy, Timesitheus thought. Let them in at once, and have them demonstrate their own inferiority by scrabbling to get near you. Much more likely the hand of Flavius Vopiscus was at work than that of his putative ruler.
    Sabinus Modestus struggled through the throng, grinning in a slack-jawed way. Timesitheus thought that, while his cousin might not be over-intelligent, at least he was good with his elbows and commendably loyal. Although, on second thoughts, it might be that Modestus had failed to realize the precarious nature of Timesitheus’ position.
    Maximinus had sat serene apart from the scrum. Now, he got to his feet. His vast, powerful bulk dominated the space. There was a scabbard in