Heavily bruised from repeated beatings and the impact of stones thrown during a riot, arms aching from the impact of a sword fight, bone weary after a race across the city to save the life of the Emperor, Silus looked at the chaos in front of him and said, ‘Fuck.’
Atius nodded. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
They had been making their way slowly from the Praetorian camp, where they had left the now sole Emperor Antoninus Caracalla heavily guarded by his most loyal bodyguards and Praetorians. The scent of smoke wafted across the city, and the air was full of distant cries and screams. Only hours before, Rome had been ruled by the two brothers, Caracalla and Geta. Since then, Geta had tried to kill Caracalla, and with the help of Silus, freshly escaped from prison and torture, Caracalla had slain his brother and taken the throne.
Now Silus and Atius were heading back towards Silus’ lodgings in the Subura, where they hoped to recuperate from their injuries and their fatigue with a long drink and a longer sleep.
But interfering with this simple plan was a detachment of Praetorian guards who were sprawled across the Vicus Patricius, which linked the Viminal hill to the Subura. The Praetorians were normally pristine in appearance, metalwork polished like mirrors, leather buffed, boots spotless. But these soldiers, set loose on the city by Caracalla’s orders to go and reward their loyalty by looting the temples and treasuries, sported uniforms covered in dust, blood and vomit. Buckles were undone, belts hung loose, and they laughed, cheered and sang with drink-slurred voices.
The reason for their celebrations, apart from the huge bribe in the form of cash and increased rations that Caracalla had given them, was that they had just looted a small temple. In the temple courtyard, in front of the steps leading up to the colonnaded building, half a dozen soldiers surrounded a priest. The young lad, barely old enough to have started shaving, was on his knees, blood and snot dribbling from his nose, begging for them to stop while the soldiers laughed.
A centurion sat on the steps of the temple with his optio, a small chest open, counting silver coins with the look of a child who has been given a bag full of honeyed treats. Some of the soldiers were drinking wine from silver goblets, heads tilted back and pouring into open mouths so it overflowed and ran down their chins.
Silus and Atius exchanged weary glances.
‘This isn’t going to be pretty,’ muttered Silus.
‘You’ll fit right in, then,’ said Atius.
‘Come on.’
They approached the drunken soldiers cautiously, hands away from their swords, attempting to appear unthreatening. They were half a dozen yards away before one of the Praetorians noticed them and stood up abruptly, swaying slightly. He had a mop of curly red hair, exposed as his helmet was nowhere to be seen.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he slurred.
‘No trouble,’ said Silus. ‘We just want to pass through.’
‘This road is ours,’ said the soldier.
‘The road belongs to the Emperor, and the Senate and People of Rome,’ said Silus.
‘Rome is ours tonight,’ put in another soldier, his bushy black beard damp with wine. ‘The Emperor told us to go and take what we wanted. And he said no man should stop us.’
‘I was there,’ said Silus. ‘And he said to take what he has granted you. He didn’t say anything about owning the streets. Or beating up priests.’
The redhead looked over to the priest in time to see one of the guards give him a hefty kick in the abdomen, making him curl up, hands around his head, knees drawn up, sobbing quietly.
‘He tried to stop us taking the money,’ said the redhead. ‘He deserves it.’
‘He is no concern of ours,’ said Silus. ‘Although isn’t that the Temple of Mephitis, goddess of the foul smells of the earth? I would imagine her revenge for the desecration of her place of worship and her priest will be… unpleasant.’
The two Praetorians confronting them looked at each other uncertainly. But others had noticed their presence now, and were shouting at their comrades.
‘Why are you mucking about? Break their heads.’
The centurion handed the chest to his optio and walked over, his face showing irritation.
‘I suggest you two fuck off back the way you came, sharp,’ he said. His voice was hoarse, likely from a combination of cheering, shouting orders and smoke inhalation.
‘Centurion, we have had a long, long day. We just want to go home.’
‘Are you deaf? Fuck off!’
Silus sighed. ‘We don’t want to hurt you.’
The centurion looked at them in surprise and let out a barking laugh. He gestured to the soldiers.
‘I have twenty men here. Trained fighting men.’
‘Fighting men?’ said Atius. ‘I thought you were Praetorians.’
The centurion growled and drew his sword. Atius made to do the same, but Silus put a hand on his wrist, making him keep the weapon sheathed.
‘Centurion, your men are drunk. And they are celebrating, they aren’t in the right frame of mind for serious combat. You may have the numbers on your side, but we are ready to fight, and if we do, many of your men will die. You first. Now think carefully what you are going to do with that sword.’
The centurion was not used to being spoken to in this way by anyone who was not his superior in the Praetorians. He looked over to his optio uncertainly, who had stopped counting the coins and was watching with interest.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Silus knew his role was supposed to be secret, not bandied about idly. But he had had enough. Of this argument, of this day, of fighting and killing. He stepped forward, pushing the centurion’s blade out of the way with the back of his hand, and pushed his face up close to the centurion’s face.
‘Have you heard of the Arcani, centurion?’
The man paled, eyes widening.
‘Are you…?’
‘Order your men to stand aside. Now.’
The centurion swallowed and nodded.
‘Let them through,’ he called out.
The soldiers made a corridor and Silus and Atius walked through, backs straight, too tired to feel anxious. The Praetorians glared at them and muttered curses under their breath, but none of them tried to impede the two Arcani. Moments later they were through, and on a clear road, leaving the Praetorians to their looting and rioting.
They walked on through a city of houses locked and barred, of streets emptied of their usual traffic. Carts and wagons were abandoned, overturned, some aflame, filling the air with the scent of smoke flavoured with the contents of the transport – corn, vegetables, herbs, cloth. A scant few frightened citizens scurried down the streets, heads down, casting glances around them as they rushed to safe destinations.
Silus contemplated the damage this magnificent city was taking. He knew fire was a constant danger, even though more buildings were constructed from stone these days than in centuries past, and the Roman infrastructure had suffered much worse damage from floods, fires and invasions, and it always survived. But there would be suffering on a grand scale this night.
They rounded a corner and almost stumbled into a member of the Urban Cohorts lounging against a wall, watching two colleagues having sport with a woman. She was wearing a toga, heavily made up, dark kohl-stained tear streaks down her cheeks. The two Urban guardsmen were making her walk on her hands and knees and howl like a wolf. One poked her backside with the tip of her sword.
‘Growl, lupa,’ he said. The pathetic woman bared her teeth and attempted a snarl, which broke down into a sob. The guards roared with laughter.
The soldier leaning against the wall clapped Silus on the shoulder.
‘Funny, huh?’ he said, wearing a broad grin.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Silus.
‘Oh, you aren’t from Rome,’ said the soldier. ‘Let me explain. Lupa means both she-wolf and prostitute. The lads are making this whore act like a wolf.’
‘Utter genius,’ said Silus, unsmiling. ‘What do you think, Atius?’
‘Marvellous. It could have been written by, what’s the name of that fellow who wrote that funny play we saw. Pluto?’
‘Plautus,’ said Silus. ‘Yes, he would be proud of such a work.’
The guardsman’s eyes narrowed, looking from one to the other. ‘Are you mocking me?’
The stench of strong wine wafted over them as he breathed, and Silus knew that he was probably genuinely struggling to follow their irony.
‘That’s enough, I think. Let her go now.’
Now the Urban guardsman realised the two newcomers weren’t joining in the fun. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘What the fuck has it got to do with you?’
‘Nothing. Doesn’t mean we have to walk by and ignore it though, does it?’
‘Silus,’ said Atius. ‘He is right. This is nothing to do with us. And what are you going to do, patrol the streets all night and rescue every woman in distress?’
‘Listen to your friend,’ said the guard confronting them. ‘Leave us to our games and get on with your night. I won’t warn you again.’
A scream came from the woman. Silus looked over the guardsman’s shoulder to see that she had curled up into a ball, and one of the soldiers, a short man with broad shoulders and curly black hair, was kicking her, hard and repeatedly.
Silus thrust his forehead into the guard’s face. The cartilage in the nose of the finely dressed guard crunched, and blood immediately began to stream down his face, staining his uniform. He staggered back, clutching his face, and Silus followed up with an uppercut to his jaw. The soldier’s eyes rolled up into his head, his legs folded and he crumpled to the ground.
The other two soldiers looked up, noticing Silus and Atius for the first time now, and took a step towards them, ignoring the shaking woman lying curled up in the dirt.
‘What have you done to Sulinus?’ asked one, sounding genuinely confused.
‘They’ve messed him up,’ said the other, the one who had been kicking the woman.
‘That one is mine,’ said Silus, pointing to the shorter man who had just spoken.
Atius sighed. ‘Let’s try not to kill them?’
‘I’m making no promises.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ asked the taller guard. ‘Why don’t you piss off and find somewhere to bum each other, or I’ll rip your cocks off.’
‘Suddenly I feel like I’m going to enjoy this,’ said Atius.
The guards looked at each other uncertainly. Their swords were drawn but they hesitated, drunk, leaderless and without a plan.
The two Arcani took any decisions out of their hands. Moving forward swiftly as one, they paired off against their chosen opponents. Silus’ opponent swung his weapon round towards Silus’ midriff, but Silus stepped back easily, the sword carving only empty air. The black-haired guard grimaced, pushed forward and swung again. Again, Silus let the blade pass harmlessly. A smile came to his face. This actually felt good. After all the betrayal, torture and murder, a good, honest, one-on-one fight was just what he needed.
He toyed with his opponent, watching his eyes to predict his actions, side-stepping, ducking, retreating. The guard grew increasingly infuriated, his swings becoming wilder and less accurate. Silus saw the man’s breathing coming harder and faster. He waited for the right moment.
It came soon. The guard was not only inebriated, but unforgivably unfit. A hefty swing missed by the best part of a mile, and the tip of the sword sagged at the end of the arc, slow to return. Silus took a swift step forward and gripped the wrist holding the sword tightly. He smashed the opposite forearm into the guard’s face, and as the man staggered back, he twisted the wrist painfully, so the sword fell from his fingers.
The guard scrabbled for him, attempting to grip him in a bear hug, but Silus ducked his head and punched him twice in the gut. The guard doubled over, and Silus gripped his hair and thrust his head down while bringing his knee up sharply. The force of the impact reverberated through Silus. He threw the guard away from him, who fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Silus looked around. Atius had his foot on the chest of the other guard, his sword pressed to the terrified man’s groin.
‘What took you so long?’ he asked Silus.
Silus shrugged. ‘You don’t rush a fine meal, do you?’
‘These two hardly count as a fine meal. More of a rotten meat pie.’ He looked down at the man below him. ‘Didn’t you say you were going to take my cock?’ He pressed the sword harder against the guard’s groin.
‘Please,’ gasped the guard. ‘We were only having a laugh. The Emperor himself said we could.’
Silus shook his head. It seemed all the Praetorians and Urban Cohorts guardsmen had interpreted Caracalla’s command to take their reward direct from the treasuries and temples as a licence to rob, harass, rape and kill. He turned to the woman, who had shuffled to the side of the road and was sitting, chin on her knees, hugging her shins.
Silus offered a hand. She looked up at him with wide, scared eyes.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ she said in a whisper.
‘Not a thing,’ said Silus. ‘Except maybe escort you home. Where do you live?’
‘At the Venus Lupanar.’
‘Is it somewhere you want to return?’
‘I’m a slave, sir. Where else could I go?’
Silus nodded. ‘Very well, let’s at least get you home safe.’
The woman hesitated, then took his hand as he helped her upright. She winced as she put her weight on one leg, and Silus offered an arm for her to lean on. She took it gratefully.
‘Thank you, sir. It’s not far.’
‘What shall I do with this one?’ asked Atius. ‘Shall I cut his cock off?’
‘No, please,’ cried the guard.
‘Let him go,’ said Silus. ‘These idiots are only doing what thousands of other soldiers are doing across Rome. It’s not our place to punish them.’
Atius paused just long enough for the guard to begin to tremble, then he took his foot off the man’s chest.
‘Let’s get this woman safe, and then get off the streets,’ said Atius.
Silus nodded, and they followed her directions. It was only two blocks, and they avoided any major confrontations in that time. The Venus Lupanar was a small brothel, a painting of the naked goddess on the front wall, and above it a drawing of a large phallus. The door was firmly shut and Silus pounded on it. There was no reply, and he heard no movement inside, so he thumped it louder.
‘Open up.’
Now he heard steps and a croaky, tremulous old man’s voice came from the other side. ‘We’re closed. Go away.’
‘I have one of your girls here. Let her in.’
There was a pause. Then the old man said, ‘Are there any Praetorians or Urban guards out there?’
‘No,’ said Silus. ‘But I don’t know for how long that will be true.’
Another pause. ‘How do I know this isn’t a trick? To get my money and my girls.’
Silus shook his head. He turned to the woman. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Agathina, sir.’
‘Tell him you are safe, and that there are no soldiers here.’
Agathina spoke loudly.
‘Master, it is Agathina. The man tells the truth. He saved me from the soldiers.’
There was a moment’s silence, then the sound of a bar being removed and a chunky key turning in a lock. The door swung open a crack, and a sharp-nosed face peered through. Patience lost, Silus pushed the door wide, and the slight old man staggered back. Silus and Atius entered the brothel with Agathina. Atius closed the door behind them and barred it.
‘Agathina!’ said the old man. ‘Where have you been?’
‘You ordered me to the house of Onesiphorus the merchant, remember?’
‘I should have you beaten, staying out this late, risking your life, my property in this way.’
‘I think she has taken enough beatings for tonight,’ said Silus.
The man looked at him through narrowed eyelids, then gave an unctuous smile. ‘Of course, of course. I am Karpos, the owner of this establishment and the girls in it. And you are…?’
‘Silus. This is Atius.’
‘Well, I thank you for bringing my girl home safely. I’m afraid I have no coin with which to reward you, but I will remember you in my prayers next time I sacrifice. Have a safe trip home this dark night.’ He made to unbar the door.
Atius put a hand on his arm. ‘Are you kidding?’
Karpos looked at Atius with an expression of genuine puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand what you mean, sir.’
‘We rescued your slave, your property, at considerable risk to ourselves, and you don’t so much as offer us a cup of wine for our trouble?’
Karpos hesitated, torn between his desire to get these rough-looking men off his premises, and avoid giving them offence. ‘Certainly. I just thought you would be in a rush to get home to your loved ones on a night such as tonight. But you are of course welcome here for as long as you wish it.’
‘Excellent.’ Atius walked in and sat down on a grubby couch, putting his feet up. ‘Make it a decent vintage.’
Silus found a seat. Although he had been looking forward to his own bed, it made more sense to take shelter.
‘I think we should stay here for the night,’ he said.
‘Silus spending a night in a brothel?’ marvelled Atius. ‘What a day this has turned out to be!’
‘It’s just sensible.’
‘It may be sensible, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the experience.’
‘Sirs,’ said Karpos, ‘the beds are all occupied by my girls, and they are resting.’
‘I’m sure they could be woken up,’ said Atius.
‘He’ll pay,’ said Silus. ‘Won’t you?’
‘I suppose,’ grumbled Atius. ‘But the wine is free, right?’
Karpos considered the compromise, and nodded. ‘Would you like me to waken one of the girls for you now?’
‘Give me a moment to get my breath back, man. I’m not a god! Where is that wine?’
Karpos poured them each a cup of wine which was strong and sour. Silus took a deep drink, then lay back on his couch. He suddenly found it impossible to keep his eyes open. He placed the cup on the floor, turned onto his side, and in moments was fast asleep.
The next morning there was a stench of burning and fear hanging over the city. Silus and Atius made their way along streets brimming with uncertainty and anxiety. The Praetorians had mostly returned to their barracks, with the ones that weren’t still lying drunk propped in shop doorways or slumped in the refuse in alleys, or broken as a result of picking the wrong citizen to bully. The populace were trying to return to normal – those who could. They walked past a furious cobbler nailing planks across his broken door, a child weeping as she cuddled the bloodied corpse of a small dog, a baker who was clearing away the mess of smashed pottery and broken benches in his shop so he could start baking loaves for his waiting customers. There was an atmosphere of tension – people seemed to be wondering whether it was over, or worse was to come. Silus didn’t know the answer.
By the time they reached Oclatinius’ office, Silus felt thoroughly miserable. All the tension and uncertainty of the past year, the conflict between Caracalla and Geta, it should have ended with the death of one of them. Rome should be stable now. So why did he feel like this was just the beginning of something worse?
Oclatinius obviously sensed their mood from their demeanour, although Silus thought he wasn’t looking particularly happy himself.
‘Come on lads, perk up. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘Tell that to Geta,’ said Atius.
‘Atius! When will you learn to keep that stupid mouth of yours shut? Thank the gods you work for me, otherwise I would have to have you executed for treasonous remarks like that.’
‘Just trying to keep it light, sir,’ said Atius.
‘How about you just be quiet and listen?’
Atius pursed his lips together and nodded.
Oclatinius shook his head despairingly.
‘I’ve got a job for you. I think you might like this one.’
Silus could see Atius itching to make a quip about hoping it involved wine and whores, but he had committed to silence. Silus just listened respectfully.
‘You both realise that the Emperor must now consolidate his position. It’s a very dangerous time, the start of a rule, especially if the rule began in violence. Look at the five emperors who contested the throne with the divine Septimius Severus. Pertinax and Didius Julianus dead within a year, Niger dead the next, Albinus dead within four years. Or further back, after Nero died…’
‘We get it, sir,’ said Silus. He was tired, sore and fed up. He was in no mood for history lessons.
Oclatinius narrowed his eyes at the interruption. He sat down behind his desk and looked from one Arcanus to the other. There was a moment of silence, which Oclatinius drew out uncomfortably.
‘Do we have a problem?’ he asked.
‘Problem?’ asked Silus. ‘No, sir.’
Atius shook his head.
‘Do you need reminding of your oath?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I think you do. You swore loyalty to the Emperor and to the Arcani. I am the leader of the Arcani and I serve the Emperor. Is there any part of that that is unclear?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What is your word worth, Gaius Sergius Silus, Lucius Atius?’
Both Arcani now looked indignant.
‘Sir,’ protested Atius. ‘I have done nothing to make you doubt my loyalty!’
‘And you, Silus. You have disobeyed an order, and you have killed a fellow Arcanus. Do you only keep your word when it is convenient?’
Silus flushed and looked down. He tried to find words to justify his actions, but they didn’t come to mind. Instead, he stuttered, ‘The Emperor forgave me.’
Oclatinius shot to his feet, pointing a finger at Silus. ‘Because you blackmailed him!’ he roared.
‘I saved his life!’ Silus shouted back.
Oclatinius put his hands on his desk, breathing heavily. Then he swallowed.
‘Yes, yes you did. And I believe that will keep you safe in the days and weeks to come, when all those of suspect loyalty will be purged.’
‘Purged?’
‘You told me you got it, but you clearly don’t. Rome is ruled by an Emperor who has recently lost his father, has just killed his own brother, who is in a complex relationship with his stepmother, has had his wife murdered and is now in fear of his position and his life. There will be blood, and lots of it. And you will be shedding much of it. So I ask again, do you need reminding of your oath?’
‘No, sir,’ muttered Silus and Atius together.
‘Louder!’
‘No, sir!’
Oclatinius sat back down. ‘Good. To business. As I said, I have a job for you. I know how much you like revenge, Silus. You are to go to the house of Gaius Septimius Severus Aper, the Emperor’s cousin, and kill him. He was a Geta follower and helped run a network of spies, including Bek, who were working against Antoninus.’
‘Just him, sir? Not his wife or children.’
‘Just him,’ confirmed Oclatinius.
Silus nodded, relieved. ‘You said he helped run a network of spies, sir. Who else was involved?’
Oclatinius frowned. ‘That is not something you have to concern yourself with. Forget I said that.’
Silus thought Oclatinius looked uncomfortable, and wondered if he had let something slip he hadn’t intended. Had the seemingly infallible spymaster made a mistake? He was an old man, he had been imprisoned, tortured, and wounded. He supposed even Oclatinius could not be perfect all the time. He filed the loose piece of information away in his mind for later use.
‘So how do you feel about taking care of the man who ordered Bek to capture and torture us?’
‘I am an Arcanus, sir. I obey.’
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Fine, take that attitude, just get it done.’
‘What are your orders, sir?’
The man who spoke was short and lean, but well-muscled. His skin was light brown, the colour of a semi-ripe olive, and he spoke with an eastern accent.
Aper was stuffing gold plates and cups into a large cloth sack. Slaves were hurrying around his domus, ferrying the most portable and valuable pieces of furniture out of the house onto waiting carts, collecting tapestries and statues. One slave, hastily clearing out the lararium, dropped one of the bronze household gods. The Lar crashed to the ground, and an outstretched arm holding a libation bowl snapped off.
‘You idiot,’ cried out Aper. ‘Do you want to curse us all?’ He set his sack down and scurried over to grab the broken statuette off the terrified slave.
‘You’re lucky time is so short or I would have the skin whipped from your back for this, slave. Get out of my sight.’ The slave disappeared at a run. Aper tried to force the broken arm back onto the statue, but he knew it was hopeless. It needed a blacksmith and a hot fire to repair it. ‘Gods of the household, I will sacrifice richly to you to atone for this insult. But… not now. Forgive me.’
‘Sir,’ said the man, more urgently. ‘What am I to do?’
Aper whirled on him. ‘Run for your life, Aziz,’ he hissed.
Aziz took a step back. ‘Sir, Caracalla cannot be allowed to rule unchecked. He will not honour the gods of the East. He will persecute the Syrians who supported his brother. Just because we failed with Geta, it doesn’t mean that we can’t still…’
‘It’s over, you fool. Get out while you can.’
‘It can’t be over. There are others…’
‘Enough! I have given you sound advice. Run, or wait for Oclatinius’ men to find you.’
‘No one knows about me apart from you and Festus.’
‘Then you had better hope that neither Festus nor myself are tortured to reveal the names of those who were working for Geta. Because I am sure that neither of us are brave enough to take those names to the grave with us once Oclatinius starts using his talents on us.’
Aziz hesitated, watching the household, the frantic activity reminding him of an ant’s nest that had been poked with a stick. Then he appeared to make up his mind.
‘This is not the end. Just because you do not have the courage to stand for the cause does not mean that others feel the same.’
Aper turned to him. ‘Courage? Watch your tongue. And call me sir.’
‘No. You have given up the right to respect. I will find Festus. I will fight on.’
‘Do what you want, then,’ snapped Aper. ‘Just get out of my way. I intend to get out of this damned city and survive.’
Aziz sneered. ‘I should put a sword through you now. But I suspect Oclatinius will arrange that for you soon enough. Goodbye.’
Aziz whirled and strode from the domus, pushing an inconveniently placed slave out of his path as he left. Aper watched him for a moment, then shook his head and went back to filling his sack.
Silus and Atius marched into the domus of Gaius Septimius Severus Aper, first cousin of Caracalla, without any opposition or even at first any attention. The household slaves were too busy with their tasks, rushing about as the steward shouted directions and orders and swore at those slow to obey.
They walked through the vestibule and through the atrium, swords sheathed, shaking their heads at the chaos. Slowly they were noticed, and slaves abruptly stopped what they were doing and stared. The steward continued to shout orders, his back turned to the two Arcani until Silus tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around, a curse dying on his lips as he saw the two armed assassins. He took a step backwards, his hands coming together before him in supplication.
‘Please, sirs. Don’t hurt me. I am at your service.’
‘Where is your master?’ asked Silus.
‘In the peristylium,’ said the steward, voice shaking, gesturing behind him but not taking his eyes from Silus’ sword.
‘Thank you. You may continue about your business, although I fear you are wasting your time. You will be serving a new master soon.’
The steward blanched, backing away, head bowed.
They walked through into a beautifully designed and cared-for garden, surrounded by a colonnaded walkway. A few doors led off the walkway to bedrooms, and at the far end was a staircase leading to a second floor of rooms. Two slaves were attempting to lift a large marble statue of a half-naked Venus while a tall man wearing a red cloak fastened with a gold brooch shouted exasperated commands at them.
‘Take the weight. Tilt it. Tilt!’
‘Gaius Septimius Severus Aper,’ said Silus.
Aper turned and stared at the two intruders. The slaves froze, the statue unbalanced, resting on one side of its base, one of the slaves straining to stop it toppling over. For a moment Aper looked like he was about to speak. Then he turned and ran, with the speed of a cat pursued by a pack of hounds.
Silus cursed and sprinted after him, elbowing the slave supporting the weight of the statue out of the way. Atius began to follow, but the statue crashed in front of him, shattering into a thousand pieces on the flagstones, causing him to jump back as shards of stone sprayed him.
‘Silus, you idiot,’ he yelled after his colleague, then ran after him.
Aper ran straight for the stairs at the far end of the peristylium, Silus on his heels. As he leapt up them three at a time, he ripped his cloak from his shoulders and threw it behind him. It wrapped around Silus’ face, and, unable to see his feet, he tripped and pitched forward, scraping his knee painfully on the edge of a step. Silus tore the cloak away, picked himself up and continued to race up the staircase.
Aper had reached the top, and he charged along the open walkway above the garden. Silus yelled after him as he followed.
‘Aper, stop. It’s useless. You’re trapped.’
‘Go to Hades, assassin.’ Aper yanked open a door at the far end of the walkway and ran inside the small room. It was dark, in contrast to the brightness of the garden, and when Silus peered inside, he could see little except for a shaft of light filtering through the street window. Silus drew his sword and entered cautiously. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Atius caught him up and Silus held out a hand, gesturing for him to wait. He moved further into the room, then lunged forward, slamming the door closed so he could see behind it.
Aper leapt out from behind a cupboard, roaring, a bronze statuette raised over his head. He brought it down just as Silus turned. Silus threw up an arm, and managed to deflect the blow just enough so it missed his skull and thumped painfully into his shoulder. He cried out, and Aper leapt away towards the window. For a moment, his frame blocked out the incoming sunlight. He turned back to Silus.
‘Curse you, and curse that foul Emperor you serve.’ Then with a cry, he jumped.
Silus rushed to the window and looked down. Atius threw the door open and rushed in, sword drawn, searching for danger. He saw Silus at the window and peered out over his shoulder.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That didn’t go as planned.’
A jump from a first-floor window was not a suicide attempt, Silus knew, but an escape. Unfortunately, although the height was not a fatal distance, bad luck and old bones had not favoured Aper. He lay in the dirt on the cobblestones of the road, clutching his leg. The shin bone had an unnatural angle in the middle, and a spiky white point protruded through torn and bloodied skin.
Silus sighed. ‘Keep an eye on him from here. I’ll go round.’ He left the room, jogged down the stairs and walked briskly through the house, watched by slaves who had now completely abandoned their tasks and hovered uncertainly. As he marched through the atrium towards the front door, a woman came flying towards him. He lifted his sword, preparing to defend himself, but she dropped to her knees and clutched the hem of his tunic.
‘Please, sir. Spare him. He is a good man.’
Silus tugged the hem out of her grip, but she grabbed his leg tight, weeping hysterically. Silus bent down and gently prised her away. Then he went outside, and walked to the back of the domus, where Aper lay, attempting to drag himself to some imagined safety.
‘Gaius,’ cried the woman when she saw him. She ran to him, held him tight, her tears flowing over him.
Aper looked at his wife, and all resistance left him.
‘It’s over, darling. I’m sorry.’ He looked up at Silus. ‘Will you spare her?’
‘My orders only concern you,’ said Silus. ‘No one else here will be harmed. Not by me.’
Aper nodded. ‘It could so easily have been the other way round. Geta on the throne, myself as Praetorian prefect. But I suppose I have you to thank for preventing that.’
‘It’s time. Make your peace.’
Aper nodded and closed his eyes, and as soon as he did so, Silus stepped forward and ran his sword through his chest. It burst through his back, missing the ribs, and impacted on the stone street, the tip breaking off with the force of the thrust.
Aper gripped the blade, then slid backwards and lay still. Silus pulled the sword out, and stood respectfully for a moment as Aper’s newly created widow hugged him and howled.
Atius reached Silus, and stood beside him for a moment. Then he looked at Silus’ sword. ‘Bad luck. That was a nice blade.’ Silus frowned at the comment, but couldn’t deny that it was inconvenient. He didn’t want to be unarmed at a time like this, especially as the number of enemies he was making seemed to be multiplying.
Across the road, one of the vigiles was watching. Covered in smoke, he looked like he was on his way home from his night shift. He seemed uncertain whether he should be intervening, but clearly realised that even if this killing before his eyes was supposed to be his problem, there wasn’t much he could do against the two well-armed men that had carried it out.
Atius took Silus’ sword and strode across to the nightwatchman. ‘Give me your axe,’ he said. ‘And take this sword. A good blacksmith will fix that in no time, and you can keep it or sell it for a decent amount.’
‘But I…’
Atius handed over the sword, his expression brooking no argument. Reluctantly, the nightwatchman took his axe from his belt. It was short, with a wooden handle, and some nicks in the blade. It looked like it had been used that very night in helping fight a fire or rescue someone trapped. No doubt because of a blaze started by the rioting Praetorians. Atius handed it to Silus.
‘Until you get a chance to pick up something better.’
Silus took the weapon and hefted it in his hand, then checked the edge. It would do for now. He looked down at the grieving woman, and over to the door of the domus, where the steward and some of the slaves looked on. He sighed. ‘Let’s go.’