Geganius led Silus and Atius to Caracalla under the watchful eyes of the Praetorians, and knelt at the co-Emperor’s feet. Atius and Silus quickly followed suit, dropping to one knee, gazes downcast.
‘Centurion Marcus Geganius and auxiliaries Lucius Atius and Gaius Sergius Silus, as commanded, Augustus.’
There was silence. Silus risked a glance up. Caracalla was reading from a wax tablet, his heavy brow furrowed. To one side of him was a balding, grizzled man in his sixties, scars on his face and his still well-muscled arms. To the other side stood a tall, thin noble man, his olive complexion and aquiline nose making him look like a Syrian Julius Caesar. Silus looked back down, waiting, not daring to push his luck. He studied the mosaic beneath him, though only a small portion of the big picture was within his field of vision. A shapely woman’s ass and a swan’s head. Presumably an illustration of Leda’s seduction by Jupiter in the form of a swan. Why a woman would be attracted to a swan he had never been sure, though of course it wasn’t as bad as Minos’ wife Pasiphae, and all that stuff with the bull. His father had told him some messed up bedtime stories.
The silence stretched. Then Caracalla sighed and tossed the tablet aside, where it clattered onto the floor.
‘Maeatae and Caledonians, curse them. Fine, so they live in the worst land in the entire world, with its rain and its cold and its mountains, but it’s their home. Why couldn’t they have just stayed there, instead of raiding Britannia and dragging me and half the Roman army the length of the Empire to put them back in their place?’
Caracalla seemed to notice the three soldiers kneeling before him for the first time. Silus and Atius exchanged uncertain looks, unsure whether they were supposed to answer.
‘Maybe because they had insufficient resources for their needs, and felt their only solution was to steal from those they saw as more affluent in the Roman province…’ Atius’ voice trailed off, as Caracalla fixed him with a glare that could have crucified him. Then he laughed.
‘It was a rhetorical question, soldier, but thank you for your analysis.’
Sweat beaded on Atius’ brow, but he still smiled cheekily.
‘The pleasure was mine, Augustus.’
Caracalla shook his head, disbelieving the impudence, but seeming entertained by it. Silus could see Geganius clenching his jaw rhythmically, clearly restraining a desperate urge to smack Atius around the side of his head.
‘Stand,’ said Caracalla, and they rose promptly to their feet. ‘Be seated on those couches.’ He gestured to a couple of plushily upholstered couches to one side, and they dutifully trooped over, then awkwardly sat, unsure whether to recline in the traditional manner of the Roman banquets they had heard all about but never attended, or whether they should attempt to sit at some sort of attention. They opted for the latter, and Silus had the uncomfortable feeling they looked like they were lined up in the cubicles of a lavatory having a synchronised shit.
Caracalla took a sip of wine from a gold goblet, swilled it round his mouth, then spat.
‘British piss,’ he said sourly. ‘Slave, get me some of that stuff from Gallia Aquitania that I had last night. And tip the entire amphora of this stuff in the sewer.’
The slave bowed deep and took the goblet from the Augustus with trembling hands. Slaves had been tortured for lesser crimes than serving a bad wine, but if Caracalla was that sort of master, he didn’t show it today.
‘Wait,’ said Caracalla, and the slave froze, turning pale. ‘Distribute the wine to the soldiers from Voltanio. I’d wager they don’t get the chance to drink even wine of this quality with any regularity. Am I right?’
‘You are right, Augustus,’ confirmed Geganius. ‘It’s mainly beer. Thank you for your generosity.’
Caracalla nodded. ‘See to it, slave. After,’ he added, ‘you have fetched me a new full cup.’
The slave hurried away, and Caracalla turned his attention to the three soldiers.
‘So Silus, I owe you an apology. All of you, really.’
This seemed unlikely to Silus, so he kept his mouth shut. What would the co-Emperor feel the need to apologise to him for? Caracalla supplied the answer.
‘It was my intention to have that barbarian prince, Maglorix, suffer for his crimes, and for you, Silus, to be the one to deliver justice upon him. My interfering brother stopped that.’
Silus still said nothing. He was certainly not going to criticise one Augustus to another.
‘Politics. Nothing more, nothing less. Geta said he had good reason for what he did, but I think his main motive was simply to humiliate me.’
‘What reason?’ asked Silus, surprising himself at his own boldness, but angry enough inside not to care.
‘A ransom,’ said Caracalla. ‘A prisoner swap. Some fool favourite of Geta’s got himself captured by the Maeatae, and Geta cares enough to trade Maglorix for the idiot’s life,’ said Caracalla sourly. ‘Personally, I don’t get it. If someone is useless enough to get themselves captured, they only have themselves to blame.’
Silus thought about how close to getting captured he had been on numerous occasions while spying and suppressed a shudder at the thought of being totally on his own with the barbarians. But he had always been too good for them. So far.
Caracalla sighed. ‘Explain, Papinianus.’
So that was who one of the men flanking Caracalla was. Aemilius Papinianus, close friend of Septimius Severus and Prefect of the Praetorian Guard.
The nobleman looked down his nose at the lowly auxiliaries and answered grudgingly. ‘He is some sort of official, helps Geta with the bureaucracy. His party was ambushed, and everyone killed, but they thought he might have some value, so they sent a messenger offering to trade him. Negotiations were ongoing to hit upon a sum, but when you captured Maglorix, Geta realised there was a way to get his man back without having to spend a sestertius. He claims that the man is indispensable.’
‘I think he is just Geta’s favourite fellator,’ interjected Caracalla. Papinianus closed his mouth tightly, not speaking.
Silus gritted his teeth to stop himself from speaking out loud. He didn’t know who this important official was, and he didn’t care. All he wanted was Maglorix dead in the most painful way possible and this useless bureaucrat had prevented that. Silus hated him, whoever he was.
‘So Geta negotiated the exchange behind my back and got approval from our father at the last moment. Just a little longer and that barbarian bastard would be charcoal like he deserves.’ Caracalla shook his head before continuing, ‘There is little I can do to make it up to you, Silus. Maglorix is gone, released already. He looked lightly grilled to me, but I think he will sadly recover. But what I will say is that your skills and bravery have been noted.’
Silus couldn’t resist stealing a sideways glance to Geganius, who had called him fucking stupid when he had brought him the head of Maglorix’s father. At least someone appreciated him.
‘Oclatinius, what do you make of Silus here?’
Silus’ gut clenched. Oclatinius? That’s who that old bastard was? Shit!
Oclatinius walked up to Silus and stood in front of him, looking down on him from a height that was still considerable despite the stoop in his upper spine. Silus felt strangely vulnerable, seated, looking up at this man with his fearsome reputation. Images of his father flashed into his mind, towering over him with a stick in his hand.
Oclatinius spoke in a deep, gravelly voice.
‘Physically unimpressive. Past the first flush of youth, but not over the hill yet. Naïve. Reckless. Some skill with stealth and tracking.’ He turned to Caracalla. ‘I would say not completely useless.’
Silus reddened and Caracalla laughed. ‘Silus, that’s high praise. You should be flattered. Thank you, Oclatinius.’
Oclatinius nodded and resumed his place at Caracalla’s side.
Caracalla put his hand on his chin and regarded Silus thoughtfully. Then he waved his hand.
‘Centurion Geganius, Lucius Atius, you are dismissed. Return with your men to Voltanio.’
The three soldiers stood promptly, saluted, and turned to leave.
‘Silus!’ snapped Caracalla. ‘Did I dismiss you?’
All three turned, hesitating.
‘You two, get out! Oclatinius, find Silus some decent quarters and some decent clothes. He can dine with the Imperial family tonight. Tomorrow you will start training him as one of my Arcani.’
Silus felt his guts tighten as his sphincter relaxed, and he nearly had the embarrassment of voiding himself in front of the co-Emperor of the Roman Empire. Juno’s tits, had he ever been this scared?
Geganius and Atius threw him sympathetic looks and trooped out. Atius mouthed, ‘I’ll look after Issa.’
Oclatinius approached Silus, put a hand between his shoulder blades and propelled him out of the door.
The room Oclatinius assigned to Silus in the Imperial headquarters was about the size of Silus’ barrack room in Voltanio, which was designed for eight. He looked around in some confusion at the bed with a feather mattress, the decorated chamber pot and the ornate oil lamp.
‘Sir, I don’t really understand what is happening,’ he said.
‘I don’t think your understanding is really required, soldier,’ said Oclatinius.
‘No, sir.’
‘Listen. Things are complicated around here. It’s best if you keep your head down and do as you are told.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What you need to know is this: Caracalla is angry with his brother. Nothing new there. He sees something he likes in your actions. He is a man of action himself, I’m sure you know. And in these times, he wants people like you in his camp. But you are far from the finished product. That’s where I come in.’
‘You, sir?’
‘Yes. You know of me?’
Crap, of course. Who hadn’t heard of Oclatinius? Ex-mercenary. Ex-Frumentarius, the messengers and spies of the Emperors. Ex-speculator, darker side of the scouting service, who doubled as couriers, bodyguards and executioners. Now presumed by everyone to be the head of Caracalla’s secret police, the Arcani. His exploits were the stuff of legend. And of nightmares.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you know of the Arcani?’
Rumour had it that the Arcani were like a secret cult, fiercely loyal to the Emperors, and ready to do anything that was commanded of them. Execution, assassination, extortion, blackmail, inciting riots, and dealing with any threats to the Imperial court, real or perceived, in any way they liked. The laws did not apply to them, and they operated under the direct command of the Augusti, particularly Caracalla these days. And yet nothing was ever written about them. No one ever discussed them except in hushed whispers. And no one ever – ever – wanted to meet them.
Silus swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fine. I don’t need to waste any time scaring the shit out of you then.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Caracalla wants me to knock some rough edges off you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Oclatinius looked him up and down. ‘Not sure I see it myself. But the Augustus is no fool. I’ll give you a chance. If you don’t break, you may be of some use. For now, though, get yourself to the bathhouse and get cleaned up, then get yourself into a decent toga and get ready for the banquet.’
‘Sir, I don’t have a toga.’
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Fine, I’ll have a slave bring you one. I presume he will need to help you put it on as well?’
Silus nodded, embarrassed.
‘Listen, son. You will need to learn some airs and graces for your job, but I don’t care if you are low born or a fucking patrician. I’m from a poor family myself. But I do care that you are loyal, obedient, and a fucking good soldier. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fine. Be ready.’
Oclatinius walked stiffly out. Silus sat on the soft bed and stared at the wall, head spinning. Images flashed through his mind: Maglorix screaming, then grinning; Caracalla furious during the aborted execution, then laughing in the throne room; Sergia and Velua, dead.
Sergia and Velua. Dead.
He curled up on the mattress and hugged himself.
If Silus had been intimidated by the throne room, the banquet hall took it to new heights. He was reclining on a couch at the lowest level while beautiful young slave girls and boys served him fine wine and imported olives. Next to him was a minor official who had not yet deigned to introduce himself. On the next couch, keeping an eye on him, but too far away to whisper too, was Oclatinius. Silus stayed quiet and tried not to spill anything. He resolved to drink heavily to calm his nerves.
On other couches were high ranking army officials, bureaucrats, officials and other Imperial courtiers. On the top couch lay the Imperial family. Silus tried not to stare, but he had never expected to be this close to the cream of the Empire. In the centre was the Emperor, Septimius Severus, his curly grey beard longer than Caracalla’s, ageing, his dark skin deeply lined. Beside him lay his wife, Julia Domna. The Syrian Empress was around fifty years of age, the second wife of Severus, and some fifteen years Caracalla’s senior. Her dark brown hair was arranged in curly waves, and her fine features were still smooth. Objectively, Silus thought, she was still beautiful, although the idea stirred no emotion. To her right lay Caracalla and to Severus’ left lay Geta. The atmosphere was subdued. Most of the guests who weren’t on the top couch seemed disinclined to contribute too much to the conversation, maybe for fear of talking over the Imperial family. However, the three Augusti were quiet too. Geta and Caracalla seemed to not be speaking to each other, and Severus seemed out of sorts, picking at his food listlessly. At one point he started to cough uncontrollably, and when the spasm continued despite Julia’s slaps between his shoulder blades, the guests started to look at each other nervously and a Praetorian officer stepped forward, uncertain how to deal with this possible threat to their Emperor’s life.
The coughing fit passed and the Emperor waved away his wife and the Praetorian.
‘I’m fine,’ he rasped, and took a deep sip from a cup of water.
Serving slaves brought out another round of drinks and fruits, and after chewing on some apple chunks, Caracalla addressed his brother.
‘My fellow Augustus, how’s your wine?’
‘It passes, Augustus. Straight through, actually.’
A few of the guests chuckled politely at the joke, but Caracalla just nodded.
‘Maybe we should try to develop a taste for beer, if we are stuck here longer.’
‘Hopefully we can leave this island forsaken by the gods before too long,’ said Geta.
‘We could leave quicker if we didn’t release the important prisoners we catch.’ He gestured at Silus. ‘This poor soldier lost his entire family to that monster, and not only has justice been denied to him, we have released the murderer back to his people to stir up more trouble.’
Silus stiffened as all eyes turned towards him. So that was what he was doing here: a visual rebuke from Caracalla to Geta. A little piece in a game of ludus latrunculorum, and Silus wondered how carelessly Caracalla would sacrifice him for an advantage in this contest between the brothers. When the attention swung back to the top table, he took another long draught of the wine, starting to feel pleasantly warm inside.
‘There is a bigger picture here, Marcus. It’s not all about cutting throats and slaughtering innocents.’
Caracalla stiffened. ‘Don’t be naïve, Publius. Just because you managed to pacify some upset Christians by giving them the recognition they wanted doesn’t mean you know anything about waging war or governing a rebellious province.’
‘I think you will find that your army would grind to a halt pretty damn quickly without me organising the supply chain here.’
‘Maybe so. Every army needs those unwilling or unable to fight to help in any way they can.’
Silus saw Geta’s fists clench, and he realised he was holding his breath, waiting for an explosion. The explosion that came was from Severus, however, in another coughing fit. After a few deep breaths, he gestured to a slave standing nearby. ‘It’s like a funeral. Sort some entertainment out.’
‘Antoninus,’ said Geta to Caracalla, ‘maybe you could play us a composition by Mesomedes on your lyre.’
To Silus, the comment seemed superficially well meant, but Caracalla let out a grunt.
‘You know well I am a complete beginner, brother. It would be unfair to inflict that on our guests, and I think would do Mesomedes dishonour too. Slave, do as your Emperor bade you.’
The slave rushed to the door, and in moments the centre of the open-ended square of couches was filled with swirling dancing girls and flautists. Silus reflected that Atius would have been disappointed that the girls were clothed. Maybe the entertainment would have been more risqué if the elderly Emperor and his wife had not been present. Silus didn’t care. Women held absolutely no interest to him whatsoever. He felt that he would never look at another woman with desire ever again.
Geta, however, showed the young girls a lot of attention as they danced towards him, then tantalisingly twirled away. Caracalla paid them scant heed though, engaging in whispered conversation with the Empress, which made her frown, smile and once even giggle. Severus’ eyes closed several times, and his head began to nod. Then suddenly, he fell asleep, his face plunging into a bowl of seafood. He jerked upright and began coughing once more. The dancers stopped mid-twirl and stared. Julia grabbed a cloth from a slave and brusquely wiped the Emperor’s face, holding him until the coughing fits passed once more. Then she helped him to his feet.
‘Gentleman, my husband has a busy day tomorrow. He will take his leave now.’
The guests rose together to bid their Emperor goodnight. He waved at them, and allowed himself to be led away by his slaves. Silus noticed an odd look pass between Caracalla and Julia Domna, but no one else seemed to pick up on it. Geta was still distracted by the dancing girls, and the others were averting their eyes from the frail Severus, the once omnipotent soldier Emperor. Julia settled herself back down.
The entertainment started again, but Caracalla looked bored, and soon he clapped his hands and ordered them away. Geta grabbed the wrist of the slave that had caught his interest the most, a young Egyptian girl, and whispered in her ear. Her eyes widened in fright, but she nodded, and hurried out after the rest.
‘Will you attend the games tomorrow, brother?’ asked Caracalla, seeming to Silus like he was making an effort to be polite to his sibling.
‘Perhaps,’ said Geta. ‘But can any gladiatorial contest match the quail fights we used to have when we were children?’
Caracalla grinned, a genuine smile splitting his face as childhood memories came back to him. ‘You certainly had a knack picking them. I lost a fair few denarii on those bouts.’
‘I have an eye for detail,’ said Geta, acknowledging the praise. ‘And what about our chariot races?’
Now Caracalla frowned, but Geta continued regardless. ‘Brother versus brother in the Circus, you in blue, myself in green, the crowds cheering us on. It was exhilarating.’
‘Until you nearly killed me,’ said Caracalla, his muscular arms tensing.
Julia put a calming hand on his shoulder. ‘My son, there was never any evidence that Geta was responsible for your crash.’
‘That crash nearly ended my life. I was lucky to get away with a broken leg.’
Geta smiled smoothly. ‘It was merely bad driving on your part, Antoninus. Some of us have natural talent—’
‘I was winning that race when the wheel suspiciously came loose.’
‘Blame the slaves who maintain your chariot then, and stop being paranoid. Anyway, you are one to talk. After you drew your sword on our father!’
‘I have told you, and him, over and over: I had raised my sword to give an order to kill the Caledonians!’
‘Who were surrendering!’
‘And you trust their word? I still don’t understand why father would not let us end them when they were most vulnerable. Instead, we have let them go, free to raise trouble against us once more. Just like you have done, letting the criminal Maglorix go, free to attack us once more.’
‘Father believed you were trying to kill him.’
‘I have explained, and he knows the truth now. When he told me to ask Papinianus here,’ he gestured to the Praetorian Prefect, ‘to cut him down, he tested my loyalty, and I was found not wanting. It is not me he needs to be wary of, brother.’
‘Meaning what?’ said Geta dangerously, rising to his feet.
Caracalla stood too. ‘Let’s just say my military prowess is not the only reason that father entrusts me with command over his armies, while leaving you in Eboracum to count nails for caligae.’
The guests looked uncomfortable, looking from one Augustus to the other with consternation, and the Praetorians shifted in position, uncertain when or if to intervene. Silus looked to the companion on his couch, but the man had his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
‘Boys,’ said Julia Domna, and her voice brooked no argument. ‘This is unseemly. Sit down and behave yourselves. Geta, drink your wine. Antoninus, eat.’
The brothers glared at each other. Then Caracalla made an obscene gesture at Geta.
‘I have no appetite, mother.’ He whirled and strode out.
Geta wore a smug smile as he settled back into the couch and took a glug of wine.
‘Geta,’ said Domna with a disappointed tone.
‘What, mother?’ asked Geta with mock innocence.
‘You knew mention of the chariot race would rile him.’
‘No, mother. He should accept it was just bad luck.’
‘You should apologise.’
‘And will he apologise to me for questioning my loyalty to father?’
‘As you questioned his.’
‘He believes he should be sole Augustus, mother, you know that.’
‘Geta, that’s enough. I will talk to him.’ Domna rose, and her personal slave hurried to her side. ‘My friends, I am sorry you have witnessed this disagreement. If my husband was not temporarily unwell, I think he might have had some words to say to his sons.’
Geta shot her a sulky look at the public admonishment, but said nothing.
‘I will take my leave now. Please stay and enjoy the rest of the banquet and entertainment.’
The guests stood and bowed heads, murmuring goodnights. Domna swept out, a picture of regal elegance and beauty, with all male eyes following her.
Geta called for the dancers and musicians, and they quickly reappeared. The girl that Geta had singled out earlier had smudged make up around her eyes, and Silus wondered what sort of reputation Geta had among the slaves.
Oclatinius appeared at Silus’ elbow, making him start. The old veteran leaned forward and murmured in his ear.
‘That’s enough for you, soldier. Time to leave.’
‘How do I take my leave?’ whispered Silus, no idea of the etiquette.
‘Usually, you stay until the Emperor leaves, but you were Caracalla’s guest, not Geta’s, and he is distracted now.’
Sure enough, Geta had pulled the slave girl onto his lap now, and he was kissing her hard, hand roaming under her tunic uncomfortably, judging by her pained expression.
‘Let’s go, stealthy now,’ said Oclatinius. Silus eased himself to his feet, and quietly followed Oclatinius out of the chamber, attracting a few envious glances from guests too bored to want to stay but too scared to leave.
When they were out of earshot, Silus let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.
‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘Is it always like that?’
‘Sometimes not so bad. Sometimes worse.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous being in the middle of all that bad feeling?’
‘You have no idea, soldier. You think mixing it up with the Maeatae is bad? The risk in there is higher.’
‘Crap. What the fuck have I got dragged into?’
‘Time will tell. Just keep your head down, do as you’re told, and hope the horse you are backing wins.’
Right now, Silus wished he was out in the Caledonian forests, being hunted by barbarians.
‘Go to your chamber, soldier. Report to me at dawn. Your training starts then.’
‘Yes, sir. Um, which way is my chamber?’
‘Are you serious, soldier? Have we chosen wrong? You’re the scout!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Oclatinius turned and stiffly marched away. Silus looked around him. He was at an intersection of two corridors, both of which looked identical, differentiated only by the scenes on the frescos. Silus cursed himself. Oclatinius was right. Some scout. He had paid no attention to the route when he had been led to the banquet hall by a slave, overawed by simply being there. And now he was comfortably drunk.
He looked at the floor, but the abstract pattern of the mosaic gave him no clues. The frescoes had various pastoral scenes. Had he come down the corridor with the shepherd boy and the flock of sheep, or the goatherd sitting on a hilltop? He sighed, picked one at random and set off down it.
After half a dozen turns, he was hopelessly lost. He encountered palace staff from time to time who eyed him suspiciously. He squared his shoulders and looked straight forward, hoping he looked like he knew where he was going, too embarrassed to ask directions, sure that he must come out somewhere he recognised soon. How big was this place?
One more turn took him into a blind end with a door at one end. He sighed, and slumped down against the wall, head in hands, feeling the effects of the alcohol. Stopping was a mistake, because the memory of his grief hit him like a club to the back of the head, the emotion heightened by the wine. Tears poured down his cheeks, and he sobbed silently.
Presently he became aware of a noise. He looked up, realising the sound was coming from the other side of the door. A regular knocking noise, like something banging against the wall. And as he listened harder, he heard human noises too. Moans – a man and a woman. He groaned inwardly. Of all the luck, to be mourning his wife right outside the room where a couple were fucking. The room was some sort of store room, so it was probably a guest taking advantage of a slave.
Their moans intensified as the banging rhythm speeded up. Silus wanted to run as far away as he could, but all will had left him. He pressed his eyes into his forearm, and hugged himself. Shortly, the moans crescendoed, then faded as the passion peaked, crested and passed.
For a short while all Silus could hear was the sound of heavy breathing and soft murmuring. He slowly heaved himself to his feet, but feeling momentarily dizzy he fell against the wall with a quiet thud. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if the mystery lovers inside had heard him. There was silence. He tiptoed away in search of his bedchamber.
‘Antoninus, you are wonderful.’
‘As are you, Julia.’
Caracalla paused, head cocked to one side.
‘Did you hear a noise?’
Domna listened, but all was silence.
‘Nothing, my love.’
Caracalla shook his head. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he hated to think what would happen if spies took news of his relationship with Domna to Geta or Severus. Although Caracalla was the son of Severus’ first wife Paccia Marciana, and so Domna and Caracalla were not blood relatives, it would still cause a scandal he would do best to avoid. The age gap alone would raise eyebrows – Caracalla was in his mid-thirties while Domna was around fifty. But worst of all, if news of the affair got out, he would surely lose his father’s favour, or even lose his head for treason.
Julia Domna seemed to read the concerns in her lover’s eyes and raised her own.
‘Antoninus, what are we doing?’
‘Whatever we want, my love. I am Augustus of the Roman Emperor, and you are the Empress.’
‘You are not the only Augustus, Antoninus. You are one of three and you know it.’
‘Father is declining rapidly. And Geta is a little whelp with no experience and no guts. When father goes, the Emperor should belong to me alone.’
‘That is not for you to decide, Antoninus. Your father and I both want you to rule together.’
‘You’re biased, Julia. Just because Geta is your son.’
‘And you are my stepson. I love you both.’
‘In different ways, I think,’ said Caracalla with a laugh, and did something that caused Domna to let out a little shriek, then a giggle. Her voice became serious once more.
‘But we must be careful. The damage to your reputation, if we were discovered… even you might not survive it.’
‘I can survive anything, my love,’ he said with more confidence than he felt. ‘The army is mine.’
‘The army is fickle. You know that.’
‘As long as I march with them, share their hardships, lead them to victory, and pay them well, they will never betray me.’
‘Many Emperors have thought that, right before someone they trusted plunged a knife into them. Antoninus, please, try to overlook Geta’s foolishness. He is still a child in many ways. He respects you, you know, even as he resents you.’
Caracalla let out a sigh. ‘I do love my brother, Julia. Much as he angers me. I hope we can find a way for us to work together when father is no more. But he must acknowledge that I am his senior, in age and experience.’
‘Try, Antoninus,’ said Domna. ‘For me? I hate the thought of my son and my lover fighting, hurting each other, or worse…’
She broke off, gave a sob, controlled herself with an effort. Caracalla put his arms around her, always at his weakest with Domna. He didn’t envy her position, her loyalties split three ways between husband, son and stepson-lover. He hoped that he came first, but could any man hope to be put before a woman’s son?
‘I’ll try, Julia. For you, anything.’ She smiled at him, and he wiped a tear from the side of her nose.
Then he rose, adjusted his clothing, and went to the door. He opened it a crack, looked through to check no one was around, then took one last look back at Domna. He sighed, then slipped out.
Silus lay flat on his front, gasping for air, the heavy rucksack of rocks pressing down on his back not helping his efforts to breathe. His head was pounding and his tongue felt like sand. Oclatinius bent down and said softly in his ear, ‘Too much skulking around in forests and not enough route marches, son. On your feet now.’
Silus struggled slowly to his feet, legs trembling. He had managed to report to Oclatinius at dawn, head still muzzy from the night’s wine, several cups of water doing little to quench his thirst. Oclatinius had bawled him out for not being ready and waiting for him, then bawled him out some more for being out of shape before sending him on a five-mile run loaded down with the weighted backpack. Oclatinius rode alongside him, giving him instructions every half mile to drop and perform push-ups or squats. Silus hadn’t had a workout like it since basic training, and although his fitness was better now than when he was a raw recruit, he was considerably older.
Oclatinius threw a wooden sword onto the ground, then drew his own very real gladius. ‘Pick it up,’ he said.
Silus shucked off his backpack, bent and picked up the training weapon. Without warning, Oclatinius took a swing at Silus’ head. Silus whipped his own sword up just in time to parry. Although his arms were sluggish from the workout, the wooden sword was lighter than the steel one so moved quicker, but the heavier steel gladius swatted his own fake weapon aside easily.
Oclatinius gave him no time to recover, following up with thrust after thrust, making Silus dance and twist to keep from injury. Finally, the old veteran locked blades, gave a twist, and disarmed Silus, his weapon skittering across the ground. Oclatinius slashed a backhand like a striking snake, and Silus clutched at his throat, terror rising in him as he felt warm blood between his fingers.
Oclatinius had barely scratched the skin, so skilfully timed and placed had his stroke been. Silus dabbed the stinging wound, and then stared at the old veteran with anger.
‘Keep it in, son. Don’t let the anger get the better of you.’
But anger was what he had now. All he had. He looked down at his hand, where blood had navigated along the deep lines and around the calluses, like streams flowing around little hillocks, and something snapped. He put his head down and charged at Oclatinius with a roar.
The old soldier was taken by surprise, struggling briefly to keep to his feet, before toppling over backwards. From on top, Silus rained blow after blow upon him. But as he fatigued, and the anger ebbed with his strength, he realised that Oclatinius wasn’t fighting back, nor had any significant blows actually landed as Oclatinius blocked with his forearms.
Oclatinius twisted abruptly, flinging Silus to one side, then he sat up and started laughing, the rumbling chuckle coming from deep in his chest.
Silus frowned, prepared to renew the fight, but Oclatinius held a placating hand up.
‘Pax, son. It’s good to see the spirit. But we need to channel it.’
Silus panted heavily, not enough breath for words.
‘Caracalla sees something in you. I’m not sure. Maybe you carry something of the younger me. You will prove yourself, or you won’t. Survive, or die.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Silus managed to gasp out.
Oclatinius stiffly got to his feet and brushed the dust from his uniform. He held his hand out. Silus looked at it suspiciously for a moment, then took it and let himself be helped to his feet. He touched his wound, which was now a line of damp, clotted blood. Bastard.
‘You may have noticed there is a war on,’ said Oclatinius.
‘Oh, that must explain why those fucking barbarians killed my family. I thought they were just being friendly.’
‘Not that war. The one you saw last night.’
Silus thought of the obvious and public conflict between Caracalla and Geta, and then also recalled the odd looks between Caracalla and his stepmother. What was going on there? He frowned.
Oclatinius saw his expression and misunderstood. ‘You are right to look distressed. Conflict between rulers never does the rest of us any good. But when it does happen, you have to pick sides. Geta has his courtiers and his lackeys, but Caracalla commands the respect of the army. It’s not a hard choice.’
Silus shook his head. ‘I don’t give a shit about politics. I want to kill the Maeatae and their Caledonian friends. And that fucker Maglorix above all.’
‘Of course. But to defeat the barbarians, we need a strong leader. Severus was a magnificent soldier in his day, but now he weakens. And can you imagine Geta leading soldiers? We need Caracalla.’
‘So? Where do I come in?’
‘Like any ruler, Caracalla has enemies. Maybe they are commanded by Geta, maybe they do what they think Geta would like, maybe they hate Caracalla for their own reasons. We need someone with your skills and drive to weed these people out. Your main job of course will be to fight the Maeatae. But you may be called upon for other tasks from time to time. What do you say?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘There is always a choice, soldier. If you decline the Emperor’s offer, you will be allowed to return to your fort.’
‘Really?’
‘And another one of the Emperor’s spies will be dispatched after you to put a knife in you while you sleep. If they know their work, they will probably frame your friend Atius for it.’
‘Ah well, in that case, it is an honour to do the Emperor’s will.’
‘Yes, it is. Now, as it happens, soldier, we do have a job for you. But first we need to knock some rough edges off you. Where did you learn your scouting skills?’
‘My father,’ said Silus. Oclatinius waited for more information, but Silus was not interested in elaborating, so after a moment Oclatinius nodded.
‘Very well. You need to learn how to hide, how to run, how to kill silently, and how to kill from a distance, so you’ll need to practise more with a bow. You need to learn how to retrieve information. You need to be able to remain undetected for long periods of time. You need to swim and climb and live off the land, and pretend to be someone you are not. And you must be loyal, and keep your secrets to your grave.’
‘I can do all those things already,’ said Silus sullenly.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Oclatinius. ‘But how well? If you can’t perform them to perfection, it might cost you your life. Or worse, the mission.’
Silus looked sour but said nothing.
‘Let’s start with getting some of that flab off you. Then we can work on some real training.’ Oclatinius looked at the backpack full of rocks. ‘Pick it up, son. Let’s go again.’
Silus hefted the pack onto his back, though his muscles screamed.
‘Five miles. Now! Run, son, run!’