This time it wasn’t a feint. This time it wasn’t a punitive raid, dashing in and doing some damage before the Romans could collect themselves. This time it was war.
Maglorix sat on the back of his wiry highland pony, with Buan to his left and Taximagulus to his right. The main gates to the fort had been breached by a combination of fire and an improvised battering ram, and his men were already pouring through. Taximagulus and Maglorix had drawn together around a thousand warriors, and this time had concentrated their forces on one stronghold: Voltanio.
The choice of point of attack had been fiercely debated by the elders and warriors, with some suggesting that Maglorix wanted to attack Voltanio for a second time because he had a personal score to settle. Maybe that was true, but the thought of finding Silus within and executing him slowly was merely a bonus. Maglorix wanted Voltanio because his men already knew the ground, and had seen that the enemy was beatable. Furthermore, they had killed a number of Romans the last time they were here, and though the manpower supply at the disposal of the Empire was vast, it may be that not all the casualties had yet been replaced.
The Romans fought fiercely at the breach, but they were gravely outnumbered. Maeatae warriors carrying only spear and shield clashed against the interlocked shields of the auxiliaries and were mostly rebuffed. But enough thrusts sneaked through a careless gap to start thinning the Roman ranks, and Maglorix knew it would only be a matter of time before the resistance collapsed.
‘Do you think this message is strong enough?’ asked Taximagulus, grinning.
Maglorix smiled back. ‘I think this will provoke the Romans to anger and the Caledonians will have to respond, if only to defend themselves. They will have to cast aside the whining puppies opposing war, and let the wolves have their way.’
A mounted warrior skirted the edge of the fort wall, the rider peppering arrows at the defenders. But as Maglorix watched, a slingshot from the battlements shattered one of the pony’s forelegs. The mount went down hard, tipping its rider head first. The rider lay stunned for the briefest of moments, but even as he tried to rise, half a dozen more slingshots rained down on him, and he lay back, still.
Taximagulus looked across at Maglorix to gauge his reaction.
Maglorix shrugged. Though the rider was a Veniconian noble, Maglorix displayed no emotion. ‘There will be losses,’ he said. ‘This is just the start. If we want to defy the invaders, if we want our peoples to have a future, to survive, then this land must be engulfed in a fog of death like it has never experienced before.’
Taximagulus chewed a dried piece of meat thoughtfully, and watched the battle unfold.
‘It’s hopeless,’ Atius yelled at Geganius. The centurion was staring grimly at the splintered gates which moments before had looked so impenetrable. Three ranks of auxiliaries held the breach, mostly Batavians and Thracians with a sprinkling of exotic and local ethnic flavour. They held firm for now, but the numbers assailing them were truly frightening. Atius had seen the extent of the warriors’ strength from the battlements and had hurried to warn Geganius, but the old veteran seemed stunned.
‘Sir, what are your orders?’ cried Atius.
Flames licked around the gateway, creating ominous shadows against the walls and eating away at the supports of the main tower. The ramparts themselves were layered clay with earth piled behind to reinforce it, but there was no need to breach the walls when the gate was so vulnerable. Two brave auxiliaries poured a cauldron of heated oil down on the attackers. This exposed them to missile fire though, and the burning gates illuminated them against the night sky. One of the men took an arrow that skewered him from cheek to cheek and shattered his upper jaw. He let out a muffled cry and toppled down into the attackers, who finished him off quickly with spear thrusts.
‘What is there to do?’ asked Geganius helplessly. ‘We stand and fight.’
‘Sir, there are too many!’
‘What would you have me do, soldier?’ snapped Geganius. ‘Pray to the Unconquered Son to appear and smite our enemies? Or maybe pray to Christos, and then ask them for mercy and forgiveness while we kneel before them?’
Atius winced. His faith in the Christos was being sorely tested at that moment, and he didn’t need his usually unflappable centurion mocking the risen saviour.
The Maeatae drew back briefly, then charged, the momentum rocking back the three defending lines of auxiliaries, and leaving a dozen gaps in the first rank and half a dozen in the second. The auxiliaries dutifully closed the gaps, but the line was looking threadbare now. With a resigned sigh, Geganius drew his sword.
‘Go and find Menenius and report to him what you have seen. If he has orders for me, come back here. If he wishes you for something else…’ Geganius trailed off and looked at the scores of barbarian warriors thrusting and howling and vying to be the first inside the fort. ‘Well, your god be with you, soldier.’ He clapped Atius on the back, squared his shoulders, and marched into the back of the defensive line, waving his sword and yelling encouragement to the auxiliaries.
Atius watched him for a moment, then looked around to find Menenius. The prefect was observing from the centre of the courtyard, deep in conversation with his second-in-command, and flanked by four tough auxiliaries who were fidgeting and fingering the hilts of their swords while watching the developing battle.
Atius ran over to him, and two of the auxiliaries barred his way with outstretched palms and half drawn swords. Menenius saw him and motioned for him to be allowed through.
Menenius’ second-in-command, a veteran centurion from Thrace named Damanais, was arguing, face red behind his grizzled beard. He stopped speaking and glared at Atius.
‘Report, soldier,’ he snapped.
‘Sirs, I come from the battlements. Centurion Geganius told me to report to you. I have seen the enemy numbers and their movements.’
‘Speak. Be quick.’
‘I estimate fifty score warriors. Most are concentrated at the main gate, but detachments are circling around in both directions to mount an attack from the rear. They have ladders with them.’
Damanais turned to Menenius. ‘Sir, we must strip the walls and gather everyone for a counter-attack, before these others get into position. The line can’t hold as it is, and if they get behind us, we are done.’
Menenius shook his head. ‘They have ladders. If they see the walls undefended, they will be free to launch their assault on the ramparts. They will be in and among us before we know it. It will be slaughter.’
‘Then what? We just hold for reinforcements?’
Menenius looked grim. ‘Damanais, you know as well as I do that our messenger was killed before he was out of arrow shot. Before anyone knows this battle has even started, it will be long finished. Still we must hold.’
‘What’s the point?’ muttered Damanais. ‘Just to die with honour?’
‘No. We need to hold, to give this man time to get a message out.’
‘Me?’ yelped Atius in surprise.
‘Him?’ grunted Damanais.
‘Yes, Atius, you. I haven’t forgotten the bravery you and Silus showed in the last raid, nor the good sense. Take my cygnet ring and escape this fort. Find the first waystation and requisition two horses in my name. Leave word of what has happened here, so the other forts can be alerted, but make all haste to Eboracum to tell the command what has happened. We will buy you as much time as we can, but it will be with our blood, so spend that time wisely.’
Atius stared in disbelief. First Geganius and now Menenius had given up. It was fine for a foot soldier such as himself to despair, but these were the men who were supposed to tell him everything was going to turn out for the best.
‘Two horses?’ enquired Damanais.
Menenius looked sheepish for a moment, then he said, ‘Take my daughter with you, Atius. For the sake of all the gods, please spare her this.’ He looked defiantly at Damanais, who stared back, angry for a moment that Menenius could be so selfish when everyone else was going to die. Then he relented, and gave a harsh nod.
Menenius twisted the tight-fitting ring off his finger and slapped it into Atius’ hand. ‘She is in my quarters. Show her the ring and get her out of here.’ The pleading in Menenius’ eyes nearly broke Atius’ heart. ‘I know you have used her as a plaything. But she is the most precious thing in the world to me. Please, Atius.’
Atius grasped Menenius’ hand. ‘I will protect her with my life, sir.’
Menenius held the grip for the briefest of moments, then in a gruff voice, said, ‘Go.’
Atius sprinted to the Camp Prefect’s praetorium, his house in the centre of the fort. A flight of stone steps led to the entrance, and he hammered loudly on the door. When there was no instant reply, he tried the handle and found it was unlocked.
Atius had visited three times before, twice when reporting for punishment for minor misdemeanours, and once when he had slipped in for his liaison with Menenia. This time though, the place was deserted. He ran through the atrium, up some more steps to the peristylium, and on to the cubiculum that he knew was Menenia’s bedroom. The door was locked, and with no time to waste, he barged the door open with his shoulder.
The girl inside, who was clutching a small dog against her chest, screamed the moment he burst in. He hesitated, holding a hand out, palm up, scanning the room for threats. The screaming continued, and Atius realised that looking grimy and blood-spattered and having just knocked her door down was doing nothing to calm the situation.
‘Menenia, darling, it’s me, Atius.’
Menenia hesitated, then placed the dog down and rushed forward, threw her arms around him and placed desperate little kisses over his face. He gave himself a moment to enjoy it, then took her wrists and slowly pulled her away.
‘Menenia, listen. Your father sent me. He wants me to get you to safety.’
Menenia looked confused, and Atius’ heart skipped a beat as he looked into her eyes. She really was very beautiful.
‘Safety? But we are in the fort. Surely this is the safest place?’
Atius pursed his lips. The forts could hold off a small attack for a limited time, but there were plenty of times in the recent past when barbarian assaults had overwhelmed the local forces and garrisons had been massacred. Atius knew that garrison duty meant long periods of mind-numbing tedium interspersed with moments of bowel-loosening terror. He couldn’t ignore the cold sweat and creeping skin, the senses heightened so every bang and crash made him jump. But he also understood that, dangerous as escaping from the fort would be, he stood more of a chance than the poor grunts in the defence line below, trying to hold on as long as they could before being overwhelmed and killed on the spot, or taken into captivity and tortured to death.
‘There’s no time to explain. Come with me.’
Menenia backed off, shaking her head. ‘No, my father would never…’ She stopped when she saw Atius holding Menenius’ ring out to her in the palm of his hand. She put a hand to her open mouth. ‘Is he…?’
‘He lives,’ said Atius. ‘I left him organising the defence. But he ordered me to take you away. Now, come. Please.’ Atius held out a hand, and after a moment more of hesitation, she took it. Atius gripped it tight and pulled, but she reached down to scoop up the dog. Atius realised it was Silus’ dog, Issa. After promising his friend he would look after her, he had given the old little bitch to Menenia’s safekeeping, and she had been delighted. He was glad he had the chance to save the last remnant of his friend’s family, as well as his commanding officer’s daughter.
From the top of the stairs at the front of the praetorium, Menenia was able to see the perilous state of the defences. The defensive line had been forced back even further in the short time since Atius had left Menenius. Bodies littered the courtyard – gore-covered faces, heads split open, limbs torn like cuts of meat, guts like a gorgon’s head bursting from midriffs. Menenia froze, face white, mouth a perfect circle of shock. Atius tugged at her hand, yelled her name, but she was as immovable as a statue. He considered throwing her over his shoulder, but that would slow him down considerably.
Instead he slapped her hard across the face.
She flinched back and stared at him accusingly, hand pressed to her cheek.
‘If you want to live, we need to run. Now!’
The spell broke and Menenia followed Atius down the steps, clutching Issa tightly. At the bottom Atius looked left and right, assessing where the fighting was at its most intense. Then he pulled her towards the south-east corner of the fort.
‘Where are we going?’ hissed Menenia. ‘There is no way out in this direction.’
Atius ignored her, rushing for the building in the corner. At the doorway, a foul smell hit them and Menenia pulled back.
‘You think to hide in the latrine?’ gasped Menenia. ‘We should be trying to climb over the wall.’
Atius grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘I will say this only once: you will do everything I tell you, without question or hesitation. Do you fucking understand?’ He yelled the last words. Menenia blanched, but nodded mutely.
‘Good.’ He kissed her impulsively on the lips, then dragged her into the latrine.
The construction was standard, a long wooden bench-like structure along the length of two walls with holes in the top and the front. A small stream ran down the centre, for the men to rinse their sponge sticks in, or more commonly given the rarity of sponges in northern Britannia, to discard used leaves and moss.
More importantly, though, a stream ran underneath the seats themselves, to wash away the solid matter out of the fort and into the nearby watercourse.
Atius grabbed the wooden seat nearest the external wall of the fort and heaved. It resisted for a moment, then the nails ripped out and he staggered backwards as it came loose. He looked down into the dark channel below. At springtime in rainy Britannia, the stream was in full flow, which meant the smell wasn’t as bad as it would have been at the height of the summer. Nonetheless, decades of intermittent use had stained the walls with faecal matter, and mushrooms and ferns grew in the dank conditions.
‘I’ll go first,’ said Atius. ‘With Issa. You need to be right behind me.’ She stared at him in horror, and he knew she was thinking about the delicate stola she wore and the expensive jewellery hanging from her neck, ears and wrists. But to her credit, she didn’t argue.
Atius swallowed, took the dog, then stepped into the hole he had created. Even though Atius was not a particularly bulky individual, the space available was tight. He got flat onto his front and wiggled along the narrow channel like an earthworm, holding Issa in front of him. At the end, the stream disappeared under the wall. Atius sent up a brief prayer to Christos and the God of the Jews that he would not get stuck, then took a deep breath, and ducked under.
The water was freezing cold on his face, and he squeezed his eyes and mouth tight shut as he reached forward, using any handhold he could find him to drag himself beneath the wall. He was aware on a purely factual level how wide the wall was, but as he struggled forwards, holding his breath, feeling the sides of the channel grazing him on all sides, he fought the rising panic down. Issa, panicking too, struggled out of his grip, and he prayed she was swimming ahead of him. He kicked hard with his legs, aware that with his exertions he was using up his breath faster than he should, but not caring.
After moments that seemed like hours, he emerged into a small sewer that was just big enough for him to get onto his hands and knees and turn round. It was completely black, and he could only tell where he was by touch. Issa was splashing in the water, and he reached down and grabbed her. He felt the edge of the fortress wall, waiting anxiously for Menenia to emerge.
Too much time was passing. She had been right behind him. Had she balked? Had she got stuck? His heart sank at the prospect of going back for her.
Then there was a splashing noise, and Menenia emerged, gasping and floundering, a flailing limb catching Atius painfully in the nose. He grasped her hands, and whispered calming words. When her panic subsided and her breathing stabilised, he said, ‘I think the sewer runs about a hundred yards before it empties. Follow me. The worst is over.’
Maybe that was true for them, he thought, but the worst was just about to start for the poor defenders fighting for their lives in the fort behind them.
They crawled in a silence broken only by the sounds of their hands and knees splashing in the fast-flowing water that accompanied them, and by the snuffling of Issa just ahead. Time stretched again, with no way of judging distance in a darkness that was so complete he may have been blind. But then a dim light emerged from the black, and Atius could make out the end of the sewer. As they neared, he saw that the exit was covered by an iron grill. Water flowed through it and over the edge, and various bits of detritus from the fort’s inhabitants had been caught in the metalwork: a worn boot, a mouldy scarf, pieces of broken pottery.
Atius grabbed the grill and gave it an experimental shake. Anxiety arose at how immovable it seemed. He wriggled around so he was feet first, and then kicked it. At first, there was no discernible result except for painful shock waves radiating up his legs. But by concentrating on one corner, he was able to see the concrete holding the grill in place starting to crack. One final two-footed kick sent the whole piece of metal spinning out to land in the stream below with a splash.
Atius wriggled forward and looked out. The drop was about ten feet. He turned, dangled his legs over the lip and then slowly lowered himself down. He had intended to hang from the edge before letting himself fall the last part, but the grip was slimy with algae and shit, and he tumbled backwards.
The stream was a couple of feet deep, enough to break his fall as he landed on his back and disappeared under the surface for a few moments, before finding his feet and emerging, spitting out ice cold water.
Above him, he could just make out Menenia’s face peering down at him.
‘Jump,’ he called out, in a voice he hoped was low enough not to carry. ‘I’ll catch you.’
Menenia seemed to have passed beyond resistance now. She sat on the edge of the outlet, Issa in her arms, and then simply let herself tumble forward. Atius put his arms out to grab her, but he had not accounted for her velocity or the fact that she had done nothing to break her own fall, so she hit him like a falling sack of wheat, and once again he disappeared under water, this time with the weight of a young lady on top of him. After some more undignified flailing, he managed to get to his feet, and grabbing Menenia’s arm, hauled her upright too.
She coughed for a few moments, then looked at him with eyes full of wretchedness. Her hair was tangled with fern leaves and slime coated her face and bare arms. Her necklace and one earring were gone, and her stola was streaming dirty water from the hem. He stepped forward and took her in his arms, hugging her. Out of her depth, Issa was paddling. She swam to the bank and dragged herself out, then shook the water out of her fur.
Shouts came from nearby, then the clash of weapons and a scream. Atius grabbed Menenia’s hand and helped her out of the stream.
‘We need to get moving,’ he whispered. ‘Can you run?’
Menenia nodded.
‘Fine, let’s go. The waystation is about five miles south of here. We can be there before dawn.’
Atius started them off at a slow jog through the boggy terrain, Issa leaping between tufts of grass sticking up above the surface water. Behind them, the fort glowed as flames reached for the starless night sky.
Menenius, Geganius and Damanais knelt before Maglorix, hands tied behind their backs, ankles tied together. Geganius was being held upright by two warriors. He was bleeding profusely from a head wound and was barely conscious. There were only a handful of other survivors from the garrison. Menenius had debated whether to surrender, and some of the auxiliaries had thrown down their weapons of their own accord. In the end, he had commanded his men to fight to the last. He could guess what sort of fate awaited them if they were captured.
Menenius, Geganius and Damanais had all tried to fight to the death, but Maglorix had clearly decided he wanted the officers taken alive. The three had formed a circle back to back, but the Maeatae warriors had parried their sword thrusts with their shields, and used the blunt end of their spears to knock the Romans to their knees. Geganius had been the last to go down, and it had taken an axe blow to his helmet to finally fell him.
Now Maglorix drank deep from a cup of ale, letting it overflow down his face. He filled his mouth with the liquid, then spat it over Menenius. Menenius didn’t flinch, just kept his eyes fixed tightly ahead.
‘How does it feel, mighty Roman?’ said Maglorix. Behind him, Taximagulus smirked. Both warriors wore soot- and blood-stained visages that looked terrifying in the light of the dancing flames from the burning fort. ‘To kneel before better men?’
Menenius said nothing. There was nothing to be gained from conversation.
His silence angered Maglorix though. Maglorix gestured to one of the Romans who had surrendered. Two warriors dragged him over and thrust him into the dirt. He was a burly Batavian, but his face ran with tears. Menenius racked his mind for the man’s name, struggling to recall it through weariness and fear. Brinno. That was it.
Maglorix drew a curved knife from his belt, and Brinno flinched back, the whites of his eyes showing.
‘Brinno,’ said Menenius. ‘Courage.’
Brinno looked Menenius straight in the face and said, ‘Fuck you! And fuck Rome!’
Maglorix laughed aloud and dragged the blade across Brinno’s neck, cutting deep. Blood fountained, and as Brinno’s eyes rolled up into his head, Maglorix shoved him aside where he twitched and gurgled for a short time before lying still. Menenius closed his eyes. But Brinno had probably been lucky. He suspected Maglorix had far worse in store for him.
‘Well,’ said Maglorix, ‘he didn’t seem too happy. I wonder how many of these foreign mercenaries that you drag over here to fight for your Empire really love their Emperor and would die for him and his sons? Still no answer? Shall I kill another of your men before your eyes?’
‘What do you want from me?’ said Menenius. ‘I will tell you no secrets.’
‘We don’t need secrets. We have our spies. You trust too many who come from the tribes of northern Britannia. Do you really think that every one of the Brigantes and Votadini who you call allies have forgotten their freedom?’
‘Then what?’
‘I just want your realisation, Roman, that your days in the north are nearly at an end. I want to see defeat in your eyes before you die.’
‘You won this battle, barbarian. But you have no idea the destruction you have unleashed on your people.’
Taximagulus gave a mocking smile, but Maglorix wore an expression of fury. He grasped a spear from one of the standing warriors, and thrust it through Geganius’ eye. The point burst out the back of the veteran centurion’s skull, carrying blood and brain with it. Geganius went rigid and his limbs spasmed. The warriors supporting him stepped back and let him fall.
Damanais roared in anger and threw himself at Maglorix, but the chief simply stepped backwards as the bound Thracian fell on his face. Maglorix kicked him hard in the head and Taximagulus laughed.
‘We are wasting time here,’ said Maglorix to Taximagulus. ‘Nail the survivors up on trees and burn them. Tell the men they can loot, eat and rape whatever they can find, but be quick about it. We will be gathering soon to take the next fort. The Romans will be enraged, and the Caledonians will have to join us to defend against their retaliation. This is the year the invaders will be thrown from our lands in despair.’
The warriors near enough to hear let out a cheer, and his words were passed to those further away.
Menenius felt his bladder loosen as he was dragged to his feet and marched towards the nearby woods. He prayed he would have the courage to die like a Roman. But he prayed even harder that Atius had got his daughter to safety.
From behind his desk, Oclatinius regarded with narrow eyes the two auxiliaries who stood before him. Silus stood at attention, while Atius, still grimy and dishevelled from the road, slumped wearily. Atius had delivered his report succinctly. Oclatinius’ initial suspicion that Atius had deserted was quickly allayed by the Prefect’s ring.
‘And you rescued the Prefect’s daughter, you say?’
‘Menenia, yes. She is in Silus’ quarters now.’
Little more than an hour had passed since Silus had opened his door in amazement at finding Atius and Menenia, with little Issa jumping up to his knees and yapping excitedly. Atius had been unsure who to report to or what to do with Menenia and Issa, so had asked around about where to find Silus and eventually had been directed by a friendly soldier to Silus’ quarters. After hearing an outline of Atius’ tale in distress, he had taken him straight to Oclatinius, to whom Atius gave the full story.
‘Do you believe there were any survivors?’
Atius shook his head. ‘At the time of my escape, I believe it was Menenius’ intention to fight to the death. There was no hope of victory or rescue. And if he surrendered or was captured…’ The sentence didn’t need finishing. They had all witnessed the mutilated corpses of Romans captured after the previous year’s campaigning.
‘And your numbers are accurate?’
‘My best estimate, sir.’
Oclatinius stroked his chin. ‘That’s no raid. And it’s more than enough to take one fort.’
‘They must be going for more,’ said Atius. ‘Other forts, or a full-scale incursion into Britannia.’
‘Or it’s a provocation. But the motivation is irrelevant. It’s a definite breach of last year’s peace treaties, and it must be answered. I need to see the Emperor. And you two are coming with me.’
The throne room of Imperator Caesar Lucius Septimius Severus Pertinax Augustus Parthicus Britannicus, father of his country, conqueror of the Parthians in Arabia and Assyria, Pontifex Maximus, was even bigger and more opulent than Caracalla’s. But the sight of Severus seated on the throne, with Caracalla to his right, Domna to his left, and Geta to her left, terrified Silus too much to consider examining the colourful frescoes and exquisite statuary decorating the room.
The three of them, Oclatinius flanked by Atius and Silus, knelt before the three Augusti and the Augusta, heads bowed. Severus gestured impatiently for them to stand.
‘What is it, Oclatinius?’
‘Augustus, this soldier, an auxiliary from the fort of Voltanio, is the sole survivor of the massacre of the garrison by a large force of Maeatae.’
Silus saw Caracalla lean forward, hands gripping the armrests of his throne. Domna looked from Caracalla to Severus. Severus’ eyebrows drew together in anger. Geta’s face was unreadable.
‘They dare to break the peace treaty? Not just a raid, but a full-scale assault.’ Severus’ voice was quiet, weak, but held an unmistakable threat.
‘So it would seem, Augustus.’
‘You, soldier, tell me what happened. But be brief.’
‘Sir… um… Augustus, the fort was assaulted in the middle of the night by around a thousand warriors of the Maeatae tribes. I saw different banners and shield decorations, and I believe…’
Atius trailed off, suddenly aware he was reporting opinion rather than fact.
‘Continue, soldier,’ said Severus. ‘What do you believe?’
‘I believe that it was an alliance of tribes, sir, I mean, Augustus.’
‘An alliance. You hear that, Antoninus? They dare to form an alliance against us?’
‘I hear, father,’ said Caracalla. ‘The war must resume.’
‘I thought we had finished this war last year when they surrendered to us,’ said Geta petulantly. ‘All we had to do was consolidate our territorial gains, and we could return to Rome in triumph.’
‘I’m sorry these barbarians have upset your travel plans, brother,’ said Caracalla.
Before Geta could reply, Severus asked another question.
‘Do you know who led these barbarians, soldier?’
Atius swallowed nervously. ‘I… I can’t be sure.’
‘But?’ prompted Severus impatiently. ‘Come on, do I have to have it beaten out of you?’
‘He was some distance away, and it was night, but once the fort started burning, I got a look at the face of their chief. I think… I believe it was Maglorix. Sir. Augustus.’
Silus turned to stare at Atius, mouth hanging open. He had not mentioned that little detail before. Caracalla in turn was staring in fury at his brother.
‘Would this be the same Maglorix,’ asked Caracalla through tight lips, ‘who recently massacred a vicus, including Silus’ family, was captured and was about to be executed on my orders, only for those orders to be countermanded by you, Geta, and the murderer set free?’
‘It was an exchange of prisoners,’ said Geta defensively. ‘Besides, executing him would have been a provocation, and father agreed with me.’
‘A provocation?’ roared Caracalla, leaping to his feet. ‘And what do you think this is? A tickling contest?’
Geta stood too, face red, but Severus held a hand up and barked, ‘Sit down, both of you.’ The Emperor then started coughing, drawing breath between spasms in strident gasps. Geta and Caracalla reluctantly retook their seats and waited for the coughing fit to pass.
Severus took some deep, wheezy breaths, then spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully.
‘When Menelaus fought before the walls of Ilium, he captured Adrestus, who begged for mercy and ransom. And Menelaus was of a mind to agree. Then Agamemnon came to him and said, “Has your house fared so well at the hands of the Trojans? Let us not spare a single one of them from sheer destruction – not even the child unborn in its mother’s womb; let not a man of them be left alive, but let all in Ilium perish, unheeded and forgotten.”’
Severus looked slowly around the room, at his family, the soldiers trying not to tremble before him, the courtiers lining the walls.
‘So shall it be with the barbarians. Antoninus, ready the men for war.’