Silus sat before Maglorix’s cell, regarding the barbarian steadily. The metal-barred cage that held the chieftain was in the open, on display for all in the town to see, and Maglorix was exposed to the elements, his long, curly hair plastered to his skull, soaked through from the rain.
On the orders of the Augustus Caracalla, Maglorix had been brought down to Eboracum. Eboracum was the largest town in the north of Britannia, the headquarters of the legions in Septimius Severus’ campaign, the Expeditio Felicissima Britannica, and the Imperial household’s base in Britannia. Silus and Atius had been given permission by Menenius to join Geganius and form part of the guard that had conveyed the prisoner from the fort of Voltanio to Eboracum, to be presented to Caracalla for judgement and execution. Even though Maglorix had been transported in a cage on the back of a horse-drawn cart, and everyone else had been on horseback, (including the reluctant horseman Silus, who was now horribly saddle sore), the journey had taken a week. During this time, Silus had visited Maglorix frequently, but had found little to say.
Atius had been a source of comfort during that journey. Whether initially it was his sense of duty instilled by his strange religion or a genuine empathy for Silus’ grief, Atius had been there for Silus, making sure he ate even when he didn’t feel hungry, giving him beer, enough to dull the pain but not so much to make him unwell and morose, listening when Silus wanted to talk, and accompanying him in silence when he wanted peace. Despite everything, he had even managed to make Silus crack a smile once or twice with his stupid sense of humour. Silus wondered if, without Atius, the journey would have been prematurely ended by the death of either Maglorix or himself.
Now, Maglorix looked back at Silus, a hint of amusement in his expression.
‘Is it like an itch?’ asked the prisoner, speaking in his Gallic dialect.
Silus didn’t reply but tilted his head slightly.
‘Or is it more like a fire, burning inside you so hot you just want to rip out your own heart? The desire to kill me, I’m talking about.’
Still Silus said nothing, so Maglorix continued. ‘You are such a good little Roman soldier, aren’t you, Silus? Obedient to your superiors. When honour demands you should have my blood, all you can do is sit and look at me, impotent. I am not impotent, Roman. Your wife so nearly found that out for herself. You were too weak to stop me. She would have found out what a good solid Maeatae cock feels like, not your tiny, limp Roman dick.’
A muscle tensing in Silus’ cheek as his jaw clamped was the only sign that Maglorix’s barbs were biting home, but it was enough for Maglorix to continue.
‘Or maybe she knew already? You know what it’s like with soldiers’ wives. All that time while their husbands are away. Especially you, spy. She must have got lonely. No doubt she was spreading her legs for anyone who made her feel wanted. Was that little girl even yours? I think maybe I saw a touch of the Caledonian in her features.’
Silus threw himself at the bars, rattled them furiously, reached through in an attempt to grab the barbarian, hurt him, kill him. Maglorix simply stepped back deeper into the cage. Two auxiliaries ran over to grab Silus and pull him away. When he fought them, one of them thumped him in the kidney with the hilt of his sword. Silus staggered, then threw himself at the cage once more. Maglorix roared with laughter as the soldiers wrestled him to the ground, finally sitting on him to keep him restrained.
A small crowd quickly gathered, enjoying the spectacle of the cursing soldiers trying to subdue the raging Silus.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ came a loud voice, ringing with authority.
Geganius, accompanied by Atius, barged his way through the onlookers, and looked down at Silus. Then he turned and snapped, ‘Fuck off, you lot.’
Atius shook his head. ‘Crap, Silus. Couldn’t you have left it?’
This time the crowd did as they were asked, and reluctantly dispersed.
‘Mithras’ arse, what the fuck am I going to do with you, Silus? I knew it was a bad idea bringing you.’ He addressed the auxiliaries. ‘Help him to his feet.’
Reluctantly, the soldiers got off him and hauled him upright. Maglorix laughed.
‘And you,’ said Geganius, addressing the grinning barbarian. ‘Have you heard of a man called Vercingetorix? Maybe one called Spartacus? Jugurtha? Proud, noble warriors all. Strangled, crucified, starved to death. I don’t think our Augustus Caracalla has such a kind end in mind for you. And tomorrow we will all find out.’
Maglorix kept the mocking smile on his face all the time Geganius spoke, but Silus saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Taking this crumb of satisfaction, Silus allowed Atius to lead him away.
The sky was clear blue, the sun low and climbing lethargically, its heat still insufficient to provide any warmth. Silus stood at attention in full uniform, fighting the urge to shiver. Alongside him were Atius and the rest of the execution party drawn from the auxiliaries that had escorted Maglorix from Voltanio, augmented by legionaries from the Legio VI Victrix based in Eboracum. Geganius stood before them, back stiff. A short distance away, in an open space just outside the city walls, was a large pile of tinder and branches. Protruding from the centre of this was a tall stake, which sported a small platform big enough to stand on just above the wood.
Mounted on a fine black gelding, walking the horse up and down inspecting the men, sat Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Augustus, popularly known as Caracalla after the Gallic style long-hooded tunic called a caracallus that he habitually wore, even, so it was said, to bed.
Caracalla finished his inspection, then turned his horse to face the soldiers. A large crowd of locals had also gathered, both to see the Emperor’s son and to enjoy the execution. A significant number had lost friends and family in previous Maeatae and Caledonian raids, especially in the years prior to the arrival of Severus and his army on his Expeditio Felicissima Britannica, when the north of the Roman province of Britannia had been repeatedly ravaged. A massive incursion that had devastated the Romano-British three years previously had forced the governor Lucius Alfenus Senecio to appeal to the Emperor and the Senate of Rome for aid against the barbarians. The Emperor, Septimius Severus, bored and with two unruly sons to keep occupied, had jumped at the chance of excitement and glory and gathered his legions for war.
Caracalla, the elder son, had grown hard, tempered in the forge of battle. Silus watched him now with fascination, the closest he had ever been to the heir to the empire. Caracalla had short dark tightly-curled hair, a heavy brow and a square, bearded chin which framed a dark-skinned face that seemed to hold a perpetually fierce expression. He was broad and well-muscled, the months and years spent marching with the army having toned him so that no one could doubt that this was a man with the personal strength to back up his imperial authority.
Caracalla addressed the crowd. ‘We are at war,’ he said, and absolute silence fell the instant he spoke. ‘We fight an enemy without honour. One that flees rather than face open battle. That hides like a coward and ambushes like a back-alley cut-throat. That slaughters and rapes and destroys unarmed and undefended civilian settlements, like the vicus near the fort of Voltanio pillaged by the Maeatae, led by a craven barbarian called Maglorix. A man, if he even deserves that name, who dared not attack the brave Roman soldiers in the fort himself, though he was prepared to let some of his men die in a diversion. A man who took delight in ravaging the innocent population: the defenceless tradesmen, the merchants, the labourers who help support the army, and their families, the women and children.’
A low murmur ran through the crowd, and even from some of the soldiers. Geganius turned to glare at his men, who were instantly quiet, though the grumbling from the crowd continued.
‘Many were lost in that raid. But many were saved, due to the actions of one man. Gaius Sergius Silus, step forward.’
Silus’ heart skipped a beat at the unexpected mention of his name, but he immediately marched forward obediently to stand before the young Augustus. Caracalla regarded him steadily, and Silus looked uncertainly to Geganius for guidance. Geganius inclined his head towards the ground, and Silus swiftly knelt, head bowed.
‘This man, despite being in some disgrace for a previous misdemeanour and despite being confined to barracks, anticipated the raid. Not only did he warn the fort of the impending attack, allowing the diversionary raid to be beaten back easily with minimal losses, he was also the first to realise the true target. He sent a warning to his commanding officer and without thought of danger to himself, rode to the rescue of the vicus. His actions, in summoning help and in engaging the enemy until reinforcements arrived, saved many lives that day. Sadly, his own family were not among the lucky ones.’
Silus was glad his head was bowed, so no one could see the tears springing to the corners of his eyes. He clenched his jaw rhythmically, struggling for control.
‘I have three boons to bestow upon you,’ said Caracalla, placing one hand on Silus’ head. ‘Firstly, you are pardoned for your transgressions prior to the attack. Secondly, extend your hands.’
Silus looked up and held his hands out. Geganius passed Caracalla a small, engraved silver cup. Caracalla presented it to Silus, who took it wordlessly.
‘This cup is presented to one who has slain an enemy in single combat after throwing himself into extraordinary danger,’ said Caracalla.
Silus turned it over in his hands, eyes skimming over the intricate depictions of uniformed legionaries overpowering cowering barbarians. He felt numb, as if he was floating above himself and looking down at the scene. Was he really here, kneeling before the son of the Emperor, receiving honours, while Sergia and Velua lay buried in the small cemetery outside the vicus?
Caracalla bent forward, and in a voice lowered so only Silus could hear, he said, ‘I am sorry for your loss.’
Straightening again, he addressed the gathering once more.
‘For the third gift. Well, bring out the prisoner!’
A small door in one of the gate towers opened, and stripped naked, hands bound before him, Maglorix was led out by two burly auxiliaries. As soon as they caught sight of him, the crowd started jeering and screaming abuse.
‘Murderer! Barbarian! Pig-fucking cunt!’
Maglorix scanned his gaze over them all, a sardonic smile playing on his features. One of his guards noticed and gave him a sharp dig in the ribs with an elbow, making the smile falter. It was soon back though, and when he saw the kneeling Silus, the smile broke into a full-faced grin.
Silus slowly rose to his feet, despite the lack of command from Caracalla, and stared at the man who had torn apart his world and ripped out his heart. His fists balled of their own volition, his teeth gritted, and he took a step forward. A hand on his shoulder restrained him. He turned angrily to see that the hand belonged to Caracalla, who was looking on him with compassion.
‘Hold, Silus,’ he said. ‘I have one last gift.’ He gestured to the guards. ‘Tie him to the stake.’ The guards led Maglorix to the pile of wood and ushered him onto the platform. Maglorix did not try to resist, obviously sensing the futility and aiming to retain his pride for as long as possible. The guards swiftly tied his hands behind the stake and looped another rope around his midriff, binding him tight. Caracalla nodded to Geganius, who, while Maglorix was being paraded, had fetched a lit torch. Geganius handed the flame to Silus and stepped back.
‘Gaius Sergius Silus. You, who did the most to foil this barbarian. You, who lost as much as man can lose. The honour of lighting the fire that will take his life is yours.’
Silus looked at the torch in his hand, the cloth at the end impregnated with lime and sulphur to hold the flame. Acrid smoke irritated his nostrils, and for a moment he could smell burning houses and burning flesh, hear the screams of the dying, see…
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
‘Thank you, Augustus,’ he said, and walked to the pyre. Maglorix regarded him haughtily, but when Silus stared into his eyes he saw the doubt and fear. What was the man thinking? That he could retain his bravery to the end? Silus knew that would not happen.
‘Nice trinket,’ said Maglorix, nodding to the cup that hung loose in one of Silus’ hands.
‘I was awarded it for killing two of your friends. Killing your father was of course its own reward. And killing you, that is purely for pleasure.’
Maglorix stiffened, then put on a smile.
‘It’s not a very big pile of wood that I’m standing on,’ he said. ‘Think it’s enough? I know you Roman men are used to think little things are sufficient for big jobs, but I assure you, your women don’t think the same.’
‘It is small because it takes you longer to die,’ said Silus matter-of-factly. ‘I have been told by people who understand these things that people burned to death in a big fire die quickly from the smoke, sometimes before the flame has even touched them. This fire will build slowly. You will feel it eat away the flesh on your legs, but your heart and lungs will still beat and bellow. It will reach that cock you are so proud of, and shrivel it like an overcooked sausage. Then it will eat into your guts before it kills you. You are going to scream for a long time.’
This time Maglorix had no reply, and Silus saw a little urine had trickled down the inside of the barbarian Chief’s thigh.
‘Nothing to say now, Chief?’ asked Silus. ‘No jokes, no last words?’
‘My shade will come for you,’ whispered Maglorix.
A shiver went down Silus’ spine as he locked eyes with the condemned man, and he felt frozen in place.
‘Get on with it,’ yelled someone from the crowd. Others joined in. ‘Do it! Burn the murderer! Kill the barbarian!’
Silus thrust the torch into the dried grass, leaves and twiglets at the base of the pyre, and the kindling caught immediately. Maglorix looked down as the flames leapt into life, small at first like a seedling in spring, but growing rapidly, igniting the branches. Silus stepped back as the heat built, and he watched. Maglorix stared at Silus, exuding hate. He remained stiff and straight as long as he could, then began to writhe as the pain on his feet and lower legs became intense. Finally, able to bear it no longer, he started to scream.
A noise in the crowd and a mumble growing to shouts of surprise caused Silus to turn. Many had taken their eyes away from the execution and were pointing towards a detachment of Praetorian Guards that were marching double-time towards them. As they came on without slowing their pace, even Caracalla turned to stare open-mouthed.
Eight Praetorians and their mounted commander ploughed into the middle of the gathering. The commander, a tall slim man, his hooded cloak drawn tight against the cold, gestured to the fire. Two of the guards ran to the pyre. Using spears and swords, they began to hack at the fire, exposing themselves to the heat and smoke, but doggedly beating the fire out with brave efficiency. After a brief moment of shock, Silus stepped forward to stop them, but two other Praetorians stepped in front of him, hands on half-drawn swords.
‘Soldiers, stop what you are doing this instant,’ yelled Geganius, face white with anger. ‘On whose authority are you interrupting this execution?’
‘On mine,’ said their commander, pulling his cloak back. Silus stared in disbelief at the dark, smooth-chinned face of Geta, the Emperor’s youngest son, easily recognisable from his attire and from the ubiquitous coins and statues of the imperial family throughout the empire.
The fire was subdued enough for one of Geta’s men to step through and cut the bonds holding Maglorix. The barbarian chief screamed as the soldiers pulled him out and dumped him on the grass. He lay on his back, coughing and wailing in agony. His feet and lower legs were blistered and black, but Silus could not tell how much damage had been done under the soot and ash.
A bucket of water was produced and dumped over Maglorix’s feet, then another over his face, which worsened the coughing but stopped the screams. Silus stared down at the man he had been expecting to see die, stunned.
Caracalla strode up to Geta, his face a mask of fury. Geta looked down on him haughtily.
‘Get down, brother,’ hissed Caracalla.
Geta considered for a moment, then with insolent slowness dismounted. Standing side by side, the contrast between the two Augusti was marked. Geta was some fifteen years junior to Caracalla and the difference in age was visually striking. Caracalla’s curly beard was full and wiry, his face was broad-boned but leaner, his shoulders wider and his arms more muscled. Caracalla had been campaigning in the field since a much younger age than Geta had. He had been promoted by their father to Augustus twelve years previously and had lived the life of a soldier emperor like his father. Geta by contrast had only been promoted to Augustus in the last year to appease their mother Julia Domna, it was said, and had spent much of his time on bureaucratic and administrative duties, while Caracalla had been commanding legions.
Physical appearance was not the only difference between the brothers that their disparate military experience had engendered in them. Caracalla exuded confidence. Slightly taller, he looked down at Geta with a sneer, hands loose at his side, near but not gripping his spatha.
Geta was not intimidated, and his right hand gripped the hilt of his sword in its scabbard on the left.
‘I should have you cut down where you stand,’ Caracalla growled, and the civilian and auxiliary onlookers stared in amazement at this public row between the two powerful men.
One of Geta’s Praetorians took a step forward, half unsheathing his sword. Instinctively, Silus moved forward too, his own sword half out of its scabbard, chest almost touching his opponent’s. They locked eyes, daring, even willing the other to make a move. Silus felt a cold anger deep inside him, ready to be unleashed at the least provocation.
‘Stand down,’ said Geta and without hesitation his soldier sheathed his weapon and stepped back.
‘You too, Silus,’ said Caracalla, and reluctantly Silus complied.
Geta smiled. ‘No embrace for your brother, Bassianus?’ he said, contemptuously using his brother’s childhood name, before their father had renamed him for political reasons. Caracalla frowned at this, then gave a contemptuous snarl.
‘Start talking, little Publius,’ said Caracalla.
‘My dear brother,’ said Geta. ‘You always choose the violent way. War, slaughter, execution. Sometimes there is a better path.’
‘Listen, you little prick,’ said Caracalla, drawing gasps from the crowd. ‘While you have been sat on your round backside, putting your seal on orders for new consignments of writing tablets and socks, I have been out there.’ He gestured vaguely to the north. ‘Fighting the Maeatae and the Caledonians. Getting bloody.’
‘I’m aware that father has seen fit to give you a command,’ said Geta tightly. ‘And I am aware of how your atrocities have hardened the barbarians against us—’
‘Atrocities?’ said Caracalla, his voice rising, but Geta continued to speak over the interruption.
‘But often there is a bigger picture, and if you weren’t so bull-headed, sometimes you might be able to notice it.’
‘You have no authority to command me, little brother, or to stop this execution.’
‘No, but father does.’
Caracalla’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’
Geta held out his hand, and one of his men passed a scroll closed with a red wax seal. He handed it to Caracalla, who made a show of examining the seal, then opened it. The older Augustus scanned the contents, then threw the scroll into the sputtering embers of the aborted fire. The dry material quickly ignited and turned to ash. Caracalla gave Geta a hate-filled stare, then turned on his heel and strode away into the fort.
Geganius stood at attention, eyes forward, his example showing his men that they should also remain where they were until ordered otherwise. Silus looked around him with no idea what to say or do. Nearby, lying on his back, Maglorix had stopped coughing. His eyes locked with Silus’. Despite his pain, he managed a mocking smile.
‘So, Silus,’ he said, voice hoarse. ‘Not my day to die after all.’ He bent over, coughing uncontrollably again.
‘Bring him,’ said Geta to his men. Two soldiers gripped him under the arms and hoisted him to his feet, provoking more screams as his blistered soles touched the grass. The soldiers tried to get him to support his own weight, but his knees folded, so they pulled him backwards, his heels dragging, and lifted him unceremoniously over the saddle of one of the horses.
Geta remounted and kicked his spurs into his horse, moving to the front of his retreating men at a canter. The hooves kicked up great clods of dirt, one of which hit Silus in the face. They disappeared inside the fortress walls. Once the sound of hoofbeats faded, all was silence. Then Geganius turned to his men.
‘What are you all gawping at? Show’s over. Dismissed. Back to work, the lot of you. Civilians, disperse. Now!’
Silus stood still in disbelief as the area emptied. Geganius approached him.
‘I’m sorry, soldier,’ he said wearily. ‘The politics between those two brothers—’
‘No,’ said Silus, voice low.
‘What did you say, auxiliary?’ asked Geganius, a warning tone in his voice.
‘I said, no.’ Louder this time. ‘No!’ Voice rising. ‘I will not let this stand.’ Shouting now.
‘Control yourself,’ snapped Geganius.
‘Silus,’ said Atius, placing a cautioning hand on his shoulder. Silus shrugged him off.
‘How can you allow it?’ cried Silus. ‘That barbarian murdered innocent civilians. Women and children. My wife and daughter!’
‘It is not for us to—’
‘I will not let this stand!’ screamed Silus, stepping towards the centurion, drawing his sword from his scabbard. Geganius did not flinch as Silus drew the sword back. Fury and grief warred with duty and honour in his heart. His hand gripped the hilt tight till his fingers turned white, and the muscles bunched in his forearms started to tremble. Then he let the sword drop, and collapsed to his knees, head down, sobbing.
Two pairs of strong hands lifted him under the armpits.
‘Silus,’ whispered Atius, ‘what the hell are you doing?’
‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked the other who held him, a Voltanio auxiliary.
‘Lock him up till he cools off,’ said Geganius.
‘And then?’
‘The man has only just been honoured by the Augustus. And he has lost his family. Just… let him go.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Atius and the auxiliary led the unresisting, sobbing Silus into the fortress and into another cell.
From the shadows of the city walls, Caracalla looked on thoughtfully.
Silus was treated with respect by the legionaries, though he was a mere auxiliary. The soldiers had all seen how Caracalla had honoured him, and Caracalla was the military one of the two brothers Augusti, the one who shared their hardships and dangers. Silus was given fresh bread, meat, some well-watered wine and a comfortable mattress.
Atius was one of the two guards stationed at his cell door, but although his friend tried to engage him in conversation, or at least tried to initiate some interaction, Silus refused to reply or even meet his eyes. Instead he lay on his back, staring at the mould on the ceiling, distracting himself from the internal agony and fury by trying to make out pictures in the shapes. That patch in the corner looked a little like a wolf’s head. He thought of Issa, who had accompanied him on the journey and was being looked after by one of the slaves in the barracks. The blob in the middle could be an old lady with a long nose and pointy chin, like the aunt who helped raise him after his mother died. Another patch reminded him of a little doll that had belonged to Sergia.
Fuck.
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He gasped, rolled over onto his side, and curled up like a dormouse, face in his hands, fighting the rising nausea. Shudders racked his body.
‘Open the door,’ snapped Atius. The other guard fumbled for the key, and Atius snatched it off him. He unlocked the door and threw it open, and in two strides was at Silus’ side, kneeling by the mattress. He put his arms around his friend, rolling him over so Silus could weep into his chest.
The sobs lasted an age, and Atius held him the whole time, tears streaming down his own face at his friend’s distress and loss.
Finally the well ran dry, and Atius cautiously released his friend. Silus wiped a rough hand across his face and looked up.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ he said, voice hoarse.
‘Don’t you dare apologise, you idiot,’ said Atius, and pushed him firmly in the shoulder, making Silus rock back.
‘It’s not fair,’ said Silus dully.
‘The Lord our God…’ began Atius, then stopped and looked down. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It really fucking isn’t.’
They sat on the mattress side by side in silence for a while. ‘Why?’ asked Silus. ‘Did anyone tell you why they took him away? Let him go?’
‘No one is saying anything,’ said Silus.
Silus closed his eyes, then looked out of the barred window into the sunlight. It felt inappropriately bright, with the noise of city life, the carts, the squeals of pigs, yips of dogs and yells of children and merchants making it seem like nothing had changed in the world. Yet Silus knew that the world had been ripped apart, and no one even noticed.
‘It’s on me,’ he said. ‘No other fucker is going to sort him out. If I want my family avenged, if I want peace, it’s all on me.’
Atius said nothing for a moment, then squeezed his arm. ‘I’m with you, friend. I know it’s not the same, but I lost someone I cared for in that raid too.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. Who was it?’
‘That whore I mentioned. I was really quite fond of her.’
Silus looked up sharply, unsure if he was being cruelly mocked, and was surprised to see his friend’s eyes brimming with tears again. He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
They sat in silence once more. The guard at the door made no move to extract Atius, leaving them to recover. A slave fetched some water, and the guard passed it through to Atius. He offered it first to Silus, who took a swig, then drank from it himself.
‘Are you calm?’ asked Atius.
‘On the outside, yes, I suppose so.’
Atius nodded. ‘I’ll go and find the centurion to see if we can get you out of here now.’ He rose, but before he reached the door, Geganius appeared and cleared his throat.
‘Gaius Sergius Silus,’ he said in a booming voice, ‘you are summoned to appear before the Augustus.’
Silus and Atius looked at each other. Then Atius cocked his head. ‘Which one?’ he asked with a half-smile.
Silus wondered for a moment whether the question was unduly impudent, but the centurion simply frowned and said, ‘Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Augustus, of course!’
Caracalla. Atius stuck out a hand and hauled Silus to his feet.
‘May we change, so we are presentable before the Augustus?’ asked Silus.
‘No,’ said the Geganius. ‘You are summoned now.’
Atius patted Silus down, brushing off the worst of the mud and dust and straw, and adjusted his tunic. Geganius opened the door and marched straight to the imperial residence in the city centre with the two auxiliaries. Red cloaked Praetorians barred the way while a slave scurried inside to announce the visitors. He returned quickly, and they were ushered inside, escorted by a Praetorian centurion.
Silus had never been anywhere so opulent. He understood that this was a temporary headquarters for the Imperial family, and so would in no way be the equal of their palaces in Rome, but the ornate columns, the statues, the frescoes, the abundance of slave boys and girls carrying documents and food and wine, and the immaculate Praetorian guards standing at attention still took his breath away. This was as far removed from his experience of draughty huts or army barracks as Olympus or Elysium would be.
Silus could see that Atius and Geganius were looking around them in similar amazement, though Atius was doing his best to keep his cool. The Praetorian guided them to a pair of gold-inlaid bright red doors and knocked loudly. The doors swung open and the Praetorian centurion indicated that the three auxiliaries should enter. They walked into a large chamber at the end of which, flanked by two burly Praetorians, sat on a marble throne, was Caracalla.