Caracalla stood before the full assembly of the Senate, dressed in a purple toga. He was outwardly calm and confident, as he should be with a double row of Praetorian guards, fully armed against the rules of tradition, arrayed around the benches of senators, thoroughly cowing them. Nevertheless, he felt comforted by the fact that hidden under the fine woollen folds of his toga he could feel the weight of the lorica he had worn as an extra safety measure.
They were gathered in the open at the top of the Capitoline hill, as when every member of the Senate gathered at the same time; the usual meeting site, the Curia Julia, was not large enough to hold them all. It was chilly, as would be expected in midwinter, even with the afternoon sun. Many of the faces he surveyed among the ranks of senators looked pale, and some were shivering. He didn’t know if that was due to the cold weather or to fear.
He remembered a time when Geta, maybe only five years old, had discovered a snake beneath a rock, and had run to his older brother for safety and comfort. Caracalla had hugged him, and assured him that the terrible serpent was likely more afraid of him than Geta was of the snake. He nearly laughed at the comparison with his own feelings about the Senate at that moment – who was most afraid of whom?
But the thought of his brother, dead at Caracalla’s hand, quashed any levity the way Caracalla had used a rock to crush that snake’s head. A pang of anguish tightened his guts, and he forced himself to put the thoughts from his mind, in case it unmanned him.
Was he right to fear the Senate? On the surface, they looked like a body of unfit and infirm, mainly elderly men, an irrelevance to a powerful ruler who needed only to pay lip service to their opinions. But at the time of transition of power, their support could be crucial. Each man in that august body had immense wealth, powerful family and connections and a vast network of clients who owed them absolute allegiance. Many had once been military leaders themselves, for example in their times as proconsuls or governors, and as such most, though not all, were held in respect by various legions around the Empire.
Further, succession to the throne was not guaranteed purely by birth and inheritance. In the history of Rome, only three emperors had come to power by right of being the natural son of the previous Emperor – Titus, Domitian and Commodus – and the latter two had been particularly unpopular with the Senate. Caracalla had the advantage of being an incumbent Emperor, transitioning from co-Emperor to sole Emperor rather than being elevated anew. But these were still dangerous times for him, and he needed to ensure his precarious grip on power was cemented by a combination of persuasion, fear, bribery and removal of any possible threats.
It was bribery that had tipped the loyalty of the Praetorians and legions toward his favour. That morning he had travelled to Alba, to the south of the city, to gain the support of the Legio II Parthica which was stationed there. It had been a humbling and harrowing experience. At first he had been refused entry to their headquarters, the humiliation of a severity that he had not experienced since his father became Emperor nearly twenty years previously. The Legio II Parthica had been moved to Alba after serving Severus successfully in the Parthian wars, a reserve for use against rebellion and usurpation. It was the first legion stationed in Italy for centuries. It hadn’t helped that due to the proximity of the legion’s headquarters to Rome, Geta had come to be known to them more closely than any other legion, and many of the legionaries grumbled that they had sworn allegiance to two emperors, not just one.
It was particularly galling to Caracalla since he had led the legion into battle in Britannia. Maybe it was this that finally dragged the legion into his corner, although prolific bribery helped as well, including a fifty per cent increase in their pay, the same he had promised the Praetorians. Still, the end result was that once he had secured the allegiance of the Praetorians and the only other military force of any size stationed anywhere near Rome, his short-term position was secure. Now he could move to tactics of persuasion and fear against the Senate.
An ornate, gilded throne had been set before the senators, and Caracalla mounted the three steps leading up to the cushioned seat and settled himself. To his right was Papinianus, one of the Praetorian prefects and a relative of his stepmother Julia Domna (the other, Laetus, had sent a messenger saying he was terribly ill and could not leave his bed), and to his left was Marcellus, the recently appointed Urban prefect and commander of the Urban Cohorts. He regarded the assembly for a moment, heart racing, skin prickling, but showing his audience a furrowed brow and pursed lips. He knew his features, his thick curly beard, his broad forehead, his dark eyes, were often enough on their own to intimidate, but he needed more against these experienced men, despite their apparent submission to the display of force.
The senators murmured among themselves, and one or two of the brave ones even shouted angry questions.
‘Why are the guard armed?’
‘What happened to your brother?’
He waited for silence to fall, enforced here and there by the hilt of a sword or a smack around the head. Then he rose and spoke, his deep voice projecting across the peak of the hill, clearly audible to all.
‘When a man kills a relative, then the deed is despised as soon as it is known, and the name of brother-killer is swiftly bestowed with harsh words on the perpetrator. The victim is pitied and the victor hated. Yet sometimes, if one were to reflect soberly upon the deed, evaluating the victor’s motive and intent, one would find it both reasonable and necessary for a man who is about to suffer an injury to defend himself, rather than stand passively and submit. In that latter case, the man would be criticised for cowardice.
‘My brother made many plots against me. He attempted to poison me at the Saturnalia feast. My loyal men discovered this attempt on my life, and the perpetrator confessed he was acting on Geta’s orders. And yet I forgave him this foul deed, for the sake of brotherly love and unity, and at the beseeching of the Augusta, I agreed to meet him, alone and unarmed.
‘But in his final act of treachery, he burst in on me while I was with Julia Domna, with swordsmen he had hired to murder me.
‘I defended myself against an enemy who no longer displayed the attitude or feelings of a brother. It is proper to defend oneself against plots, just as Romulus refused to allow his brother to ridicule what he had done.
‘That is not to mention Germanicus, brother of Tiberius, Britannicus, brother of Nero and Titus, brother of Domitian. Even Marcus Aurelius, who loved philosophy and excellence, would not tolerate his brother-in-law’s arrogance and had him removed.’
Caracalla watched the expression of the audience. That all those emperors had murdered their brothers was no more than rumour, and particularly unlikely in the case of Marcus Aurelius, but he judged correctly that he would not be challenged on these points at this time.
‘So, when poisons were prepared for me, and a sword pointed at me, I defended myself against my enemy, for I must call my brother this, in order to best describe his actions.
‘So I say to you, you must thank the gods that they have preserved at least one of your emperors for you. You must lay aside your differences of opinion in thought and attitude, live your lives in security, looking to one Emperor alone to lead you, just as Jupiter is the sole ruler of the gods.’
He finished speaking, and the only sound was the shuffling of the guards and the wind whipping around the hilltop. No jeering, no boos, no applause, no cheers. He let his gaze roam over the senators, seeking out his brother’s supporters. Aper was already dead and Laetus had excused himself, but there were others who had been loyal to Geta to a greater or lesser degree, and as he caught the eye of each one, they bowed their heads, or opened their eyes wide in terror.
When he was satisfied there was to be no challenge to his rule, he spoke up again.
‘I hereby decree, as my first action as sole ruler of mankind, that all exiled men may return to Rome.’
This brought a gasp from the assembled senators. Men were exiled for a variety of crimes, such as treason, murder, religious reasons or merely falling out of favour of the Empire. Caracalla hoped that these forgiven noblemen would owe their loyalty to him, as a counterbalance to the African faction that had supported his brother. He hoped it wouldn’t return to bite him one day.
‘Now, I will take your oath of loyalty.’
He stood, straight-backed, and the senators as one chanted their allegiance to Caracalla as the sole Emperor of the Roman Empire. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, ashamed at the natural reaction to the extreme stress he had experienced over the last day and more. What now for Antoninus? he thought, his mind drifting. It was all about safety now. Safety for himself, and safety for Rome. There could be no return to the civil strife that led to his father ascending the throne. Rome needed a strong and permanent leader. And he would lead Rome to glory, like his hero Alexander. But first, he needed to be sure there were no more enemies within. And to be sure, he would have to be ruthless.
When the oath was finished, he simply nodded, then slowly descended the steps. As he walked away from the assembly, he felt suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. He had not slept for a day and a half, a time period in which he had fought for his life, killed his brother, begged, cajoled and bribed two different military forces for their support and then intimidated the entire Senate into obedience. His knees gave and he stumbled. Papinianus put out an arm, and Caracalla took it. Marcellus took position on his other side. They walked together in silence, escorted by a century of Praetorians, towards the Imperial palace.
When Caracalla arrived back at the palace, four of his German bodyguards saluted him. He had deliberately left them behind, knowing that Romans distrusted foreigners, and correctly choosing the Praetorians as an escort more likely to win over the people and the Senate. Now that he was back in the palace, out of sight of the public, he dismissed the Praetorians. He actually trusted the Germans more than the Praetorians, since they had each individually sworn a personal oath on their gods to protect him to the death. Papinianus and Marcellus remained, waiting dutifully for his commands, but at that moment, his mind was empty.
He slumped onto a plushly-upholstered chair in his tablinum, staring into space. What should he feel at this moment? Victory? Elation? Grief? He felt only exhaustion. His eyes closed of their own accord, and he lacked the will to open them again. He sensed the presence of Somnus at his shoulder, and started to drift downwards into the realm of the god of sleep.
Geta’s face appeared in front of him, real enough to smell the sweet wine on his breath. It was pale as freshly fulled wool, and held an expression of reproach and deep disappointment.
Caracalla jerked awake with a cry.
‘Augustus, are you well?’ asked Marcellus, leaning over him anxiously.
Caracalla looked around him wildly for a moment, then took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. A dream or a vision. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t real.
Suddenly he needed comfort. He was a man without a father, a mother, a brother or a wife. But he did have someone.
‘I need to see the Empress. She was injured by her treacherous son. I need to make sure she is well and safe.’
He rose, and Papinianus offered his arm, but Caracalla shook it angrily away. He marched with purpose through the palace with Papinianus, Marcellus and the four German bodyguards to his stepmother’s rooms. The thought of seeing Julia Domna, even in public where he could not take her in his arms, feel her warmth, kiss her hands and her lips, was buoying his spirits.
He entered her atrium and found her sitting with a group of noblewomen. To his shock, he found they were all wailing with grief. Domna was sitting on a couch with tears streaming down her face. Her hand was being held by Cornificia, the daughter of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. Cornificia herself was weeping copiously, while offering Domna platitudes and words of wisdom.
‘Terrible,’ she was saying between sobs. ‘A terrible, foul deed. My brother murdered my husband and son. No mother should have to watch her son die in her arms. But for Geta to be murdered by his own brother, so treacherously… the gods will punish him.’
‘What is going on here?’ roared Caracalla.
The cries and wails stopped instantly, and all the mourning women turned to Caracalla in shock. Fury overtook him, both at Cornificia’s words, and at the sight of his lover so distraught as a consequence of his actions.
‘Did I give anyone permission to grieve? Is it right and proper that a traitor against the Emperor, and the very Empire itself, should be mourned? A man who attempted to murder his brother for his own advancement. Should we bare our chests and tear our hair and cover ourselves in ashes at the passing of such a one?’
‘Antoninus,’ said Domna hesitantly, standing and raising a hand. Bandages were wrapped around the palm, and fresh blood had leaked through to spot the white cloth. The sight of the injury his brother had inflicted on his lover enraged him even more.
‘There will be no mourning. There will be no displays of grief. A traitor is dead, and we should rejoice.’
Cornificia stood now and pointed a finger at Caracalla. Her voice was tightly controlled, but even so trembled a little in her anger. ‘An Emperor is dead, the son of an Emperor, and the brother of an Emperor, if that man deserves such a title. The whole Empire should grieve the passing of one with so much promise, who could have been so much to Rome. But at the very least, his mother should be allowed to shed tears.’
‘You dare speak to me that way?’ Caracalla was now apoplectic with rage. ‘By what right do you address your Emperor like this?’
‘By right of my birth and my ancestors,’ countered Cornificia. Domna put a warning hand on her arm, but she shrugged her away. ‘I am the daughter of the great Marcus Aurelius. I am sister to the Emperor Commodus. My mother’s great uncle was the Emperor Hadrian. I have Rome flowing through my veins. And I have watched Rome be ruled by men who deserved to become gods, like my father and yours, and I have watched it fall into the hands of tyrants, like my brother and like you!’
Caracalla was speechless for a moment. To be admonished before his bodyguard, before Marcellus and Papinianus, before all these damned squawking women! It was unacceptable.
‘Papinianus. Arrest her. She speaks treason.’
‘Antoninus, no,’ pleaded Domna.
‘Do as you are commanded, Papinianus.’
Papinianus shook his head sadly. ‘I will not, Augustus.’
Caracalla turned to him and his jaw dropped.
‘Papinianus. You disobey me?’ He was genuinely stunned. Papinianus had always felt free to express his opinions, and he had not been as unequivocal in his support of Caracalla as had, say, Marcellus, for example counselling peace between the brothers when Caracalla wanted war. But never before had he directly gone against him like this.
‘I’m sorry, Augustus. This is not right. Cornificia has done nothing wrong.’
‘She speaks words of sedition against the Emperor.’
‘Maybe she has that right. As she said, she is the daughter of an Emperor herself.’
‘Papinianus. You are my friend as well as my advisor. But do not defy me, I warn you.’
‘In this matter, Augustus, I must.’
The moment hung in the air. It felt like a crossroads. Which direction would he take his reign? If he was truly strong, he could forgive those who transgressed against him, just as Julius Caesar had done. He could shrug off the insults and the defiance, admonish the guilty, and continue secure in the knowledge of the unflinching support of the army, the Senate and the people.
But he was not in that position. He had bought the loyalty of the army in Italia and frightened the Senate into submission. Yet there were many discontents who supported Geta, and who would now probably oppose him, or even put forward their own candidate for the purple. Could he keep them all in check with promises of money and forgiveness of their crimes, or would they just take that as evidence of weakness, empowering them all the more to oppose him?
He had long admired Sulla, the dictator, who had secured his position by instituting proscriptions which resulted in the deaths of thousands of enemies of the state. And by state, he meant of course himself. Sulla was a brilliant general and a ruthless ruler, who nevertheless had survived his enemies so that he was able to give up his role of dictator, retire to his estates and ultimately die of natural causes. Caracalla considered him almost as great a role model as Alexander himself. And Alexander of course hadn’t lived long enough to have to administer the Empire he had created. Would Alexander have been as ruthless as Sulla if he had managed to return home victorious?
Domna looked at him. Her eyes were red, her make-up blotchy. Normally he would find himself melting at the first sign of her distress. Instead, something hardened inside Caracalla.
‘Guards, arrest Cornificia and Papinianus. Have them held in isolation, awaiting my judgement.’
The German bodyguards, tall, powerful, long-haired brutes, stepped forward. Two took Papinianus firmly by the arms, but he offered no resistance. Cornificia on the other hand was not so easily taken. When one of the bodyguards reached for her, she batted his hand away angrily.
‘Don’t you dare touch me, you dirty barbarian.’
The bodyguard turned to Caracalla with a question in his eyes. Caracalla simply nodded. The bodyguard turned back to Cornificia and attempted to take hold of her again. Her hand shot out and slapped him. The bodyguard put a hand to his cheek where a red hand print was developing. Then he smiled and backhanded her hard across the face. Her head snapped sideways and she fell to her hands and knees, gasping in pain and outrage. Giving her no time to recover, two guards grasped her under her armpits and hoisted her to her feet. In front of the disbelieving eyes of Domna and the other shocked noblewomen, Cornificia was dragged out and Papinianus was escorted away behind her, head bowed.
Domna stepped towards Caracalla, a trembling hand outstretched. He turned his back on her.
‘Marcellus. I’m appointing you acting Praetorian prefect.’
‘Yes, Augustus. It is my honour to serve you in any capacity I can be of help.’
‘Rome is full of supporters of the traitor. We must deal with them as soon as possible. We should start with the conspirators in my brother’s wing of the palace. Fetch a century of Praetorians and have them cleared out. And have those damned bricked up doors knocked down. I wish to walk wherever I want through my own palace.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘Now walk with me. We have much to discuss, and many plans to lay.’
Caracalla and Marcellus left Domna’s atrium, leaving the Empress staring at his retreating back in disbelief.
Dio Cassius could not seem to stop his foot from tapping. His knee jerked in time like it was a slave to some unheard rhythm. His hands grasped each other in his lap, and he leaned forward in a vain attempt to ease the tension his gut.
‘You should have seen him, Festus. His brother not yet cold, and there he was, telling us we must thank the gods for his survival and put our faith and loyalty in him. Straight after attempting to justify his fratricide with a flimsy story about his brother plotting to kill him.’
Festus sipped his wine. Dio could not understand how he could appear so calm when Rome was falling into Hades as they sat there.
‘It just happens that what the Emperor said was true. Geta did try to kill him. He took soldiers to the peace talks.’
Dio snorted. ‘I don’t believe it. Geta wouldn’t do that. I believe the soldiers belonged to Antoninus, and they were there to kill his brother, right there in his mother’s arms. I know that demon that sits on the throne, I know what was in his mind. And when I write my history of these times, that is what will be told.’
Festus shrugged. ‘Write what you like, it is no concern of mine whether posterity hears the truth or not. But I would say this: if you want to survive long enough to complete your work, I suggest you keep your opinions on our Emperor to yourself.’
Dio raised his eyebrows. ‘Of course. I am not a simpleton.’
‘I’m just telling you that there is a slaughter on its way. The looting of the temples by the Praetorians was just a foretaste. Aper is dead. Papinianus and Cornificia are imprisoned, awaiting trial. Plans are already being made to purge all of Geta’s supporters.’
Dio started to tremble. ‘But surely no one knows… I mean, apart from Titurius, bless his shade… no one knows that I had anything to do with Geta.’
‘I know.’
‘You? But you were a supporter of Geta too.’
Festus inclined his head. ‘Don’t worry, Dio. Your secret is safe with me. But I would have your counsel. As a learned man, and a well-respected member of the Senate.’
Dio swallowed, pushing down the nausea and panic rising from deep within.
‘Go on.’
‘If an alternative ruler could be found to Antoninus, would the Senate embrace him?’
‘An alternative? Is there one? Geta and Caracalla have no heirs, not even by adoption.’
‘You’re a historian. You know there is plenty of precedent for a new Emperor coming from outside the incumbent Imperial family.’
‘But there was always a candidate respected by the army and loved by the people ready to take power.’
‘Really? Didius Julianus?’
‘That’s your best example?’ Dio Cassius scoffed. ‘Bought the throne at auction from the Praetorians, executed sixty-six days later.’
‘Well, we are talking hypotheticals at the moment.’
‘Then talk real names, or this conversation is a waste of time.’
Festus hesitated. ‘There is someone who is connected to the Imperial line who could be made Emperor, if Antoninus could be done away with, and if the Senate would support him. Someone who is related to the Severans by blood. And rumour has it that he is even more closely related than official sources would have us believe.’
Dio Cassius scowled, intrigued, distracted from his anxieties by the interesting turn the conversation was taking.
‘A name doesn’t immediately spring to mind,’ he said. ‘Who?’
‘Varius Avitus Bassianus.’
Dio stroked his chin. ‘I don’t know anyone by that… wait. Are you talking about that odd child? Marcellus’ son?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘But… but…’ Dio had so many questions and objections he couldn’t work out what to say first. ‘The first time I met him, he was about five years old, running around the peristylium naked with his private parts tucked between his legs, yelling, “look mother, I’m a girl.”’
‘Well, we’ve all done that.’
Dio tilted his head on one side and gave Festus a hard stare. Festus blushed. ‘Well, maybe not all of us. Not exactly that. But he was just a child.’
‘He is still just child!’ exclaimed Dio. ‘He is what, eight years old now?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘And you wish to put him forward as a candidate to be Emperor? Why?’
‘Because he has Imperial blood. Maybe richer blood than is officially accepted.’
‘You mean the rumours about his parentage, that he is actually Antoninus’ son?’
‘True or not, the merest suggestion can be helpful in reinforcing a claim to the purple. And also, he is young and can be… let’s say guided, by someone wiser and more experienced. And whose thinking is maybe more aligned with that of the Senate.’
‘Like who?’
‘That is yet to be decided. Not me, my role is behind the scenes. Not you either, I would wager. Maybe it would be more of a council. But that is getting ahead of ourselves. My question to you is, would the Senate accept him as Emperor?’
Dio considered. ‘The way Antoninus has treated the Senate, before and after the death of his father, and with his blatant display of threat and intimidation yesterday, the Senate would be in a mood to support just about anyone but him. But on sober reflection, I think many would have reservations about supporting someone of such youth and such… odd behaviour. Rome has had its fill of emperors like Nero, Domitian and Commodus. For all Antoninus’ faults, he has not outraged the dignity of the Roman people. Not yet, at least.’
‘As far as the public know,’ said Festus.
‘Oh? What secrets do you know?’
‘Many, but they are not for sharing, senator. I hope you understand.’
‘You are asking for my advice about an act of treason, and yet you withhold information from me?’
‘Come now, friend. You know I can’t share everything I know. Nor, I suspect, would you want me to.’ He gave Dio a pointed stare, which made the senator blanch, wondering what it was that Festus had discovered of the many aspects of his private life he would rather not become public knowledge.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Dio hastily, returning the conversation to its original topic. ‘I think you would struggle to get the entire Senate to accept Avitus as Emperor. I suspect in fact there would be a split. The boy has Syrian heritage, and if I recall correctly, some sort of hereditary position as an eastern priest. The Senate and members of the Imperial court with eastern origins or allegiances might support him – the Syrians, Alexandrians and Greeks. But those of the West, from Gaul, Hispania, and particularly from Italia, they would not. And you could say the same for the legions. Those based in the East would likely be more supportive than those based in the West.’
‘So what you are saying is that Avitus could command support from the eastern half of the Empire but not the West?’
‘I believe so.’
‘That’s very helpful.’ Festus stood. ‘I thank you for your time.’
‘What are you planning, Festus?’
‘If I’m successful, you will be able to write all about it in your history. If not, then it is best that you know nothing.’
‘Festus. Am I safe?’
The Commander of the Sacred Bedchamber shook his head. ‘I fear that in Rome these days, no one is safe.’
It had fallen to Silus to take care of Cornificia. Of course. There would be no trial such as had been organised for Papinianus. It would do Caracalla no favours to allow this articulate noblewoman, the daughter of one of the most beloved rulers Rome had ever had, to stand in public and condemn the new Emperor. So Silus entered her cell in the basement of the palace, bearing just a simple but sharp knife.
Cornificia was in her fifties and showing signs of age, although not nearly to the same extent as someone from the poor classes of the Empire. The women in their fifties that Silus knew growing up in Britannia were toothless, shrivelled old hags, and that wasn’t just the perception of a child. Poor nutrition, tough living conditions and a lifetime of manual labour took tolls on the body that the rich were never exposed to.
She stood when Silus entered, and he bowed his head.
‘Lady.’
‘Who are you?’ Her voice was superior, her tone compelling.
‘I am Silus, my lady. I am here on the business of the Emperor.’
Her eyes dropped to the knife at his belt and she paled, but gave no other outward sign of fear. If anything, her rod-like back became even straighter.
‘Then state your business. You are disturbing my rest.’
The cell was cold and damp. The stone bench was covered with a straw mattress, giving some comfort beyond that of the common prisoner, but the ubiquitous bucket in the corner still spoke of the indignity inflicted on this high-born woman.
‘My lady, I am sorry to say that the Emperor has decreed that your words and actions were treason. The penalty is death.’
Cornificia nodded once. ‘Comforting a woman who has lost her son is treason to this madman, is that so?’
‘I have no influence on the decision, my lady.’
‘Of course not. Just the unthinking lackey who obeys orders without question.’
Silus knew there was no point in contradicting her. What good would it do this woman, who was bravely facing her death, to burden her with his own doubts, disappointment, distress?
‘The Emperor has done you the honour of letting you choose the manner of your death.’
‘Such consideration.’ She pointed at the knife on his belt. ‘Give that here,’ she said peremptorily, hand outstretched. Silus hesitated, then passed the blade to her, hilt first. She looked along its length, checked its balance, and tested its sharpness with her thumb. Although he was now unarmed, and she held the knife, he felt no fear. He knew he could still easily overpower her, but knew too that it would not be necessary.
‘This will do.’ She took off her necklace and laid it on the bed, then removed her earrings, and each of four gold, jewelled rings which she wore on her smooth, fine fingers. Then she sat on the mattress, placed the knife against her wrist, and looked into Silus’ eyes.
‘Poor, unhappy soul of mine, imprisoned in a vile body, go forth, free now. Show them that you are Marcus’ daughter, whether that suits them or not.’
She cut deep, biting her lip at the stinging pain. Blood flowed quickly, and when she swapped the hand holding the knife, the viscous liquid made it harder to grip. Silus stepped forward to help, but she shrugged him off, and sliced into her other wrist. Then she passed the knife back to Silus and lay back on the bed. One arm dangled over the edge, and blood poured from the wound, pooling on the cobbled floor, crimson rivulets streaming along the cracks.
She did not look at Silus as she died, instead staring at the ceiling as she drifted slowly away into unconsciousness. Her face remained expressionless throughout. But near the end, when her breathing was becoming shallower, her eyelids fluttering closed, a single tear formed in the corner of her eye, trickled across her cheek and dropped to the floor.
Silus waited dutifully until she was gone. He checked her pulse to ensure she was definitely dead, then whispered a prayer for the safe passage of her shade. He bowed his head and stood in respectful silence for a few moments. Then he knocked on the door for the guards to enter.
‘Take care of her,’ he said. ‘Instructions on what to do with her body will follow. I will make sure the Emperor is informed of her death.’
He walked out of the cell without a backwards glance, moving slowly and stiffly. Two noble people, bravely dying a noble death, for no reason except the Emperor’s pride and fear. And there was so much more to come.
This wasn’t the work he had signed up for. He wasn’t fighting Rome’s barbarian enemies any more. Nor even taking one side in a civil war, joining the one most likely to keep Rome strong and safe. This was just murder. Cornificia was no threat to Caracalla.
He needed to get out.
He could run. Leave Rome, take his money, set himself up in some far-flung part of the Empire where no one would ever find him.
But what would happen to Tituria? And what about Atius? Maybe he could persuade Oclatinius to discharge him, or at least give him some time to get away. He was not needed for these executions. They required none of his skills. Let another carry out these heinous tasks.
He thought about Tituria, alone on her island. He had promised to visit her. Would Oclatinius allow it? He resolved to ask. But first, there was the trial of Papinianus to get through.
The Senate was gathered once more, though this time not all of them, and not enforced by the Praetorians. The smaller number of senators was able to fit in their usual meeting place, the Curia Julia. The interior of the building was quite simple, Silus reflected, compared to the lavish decorations of temples and palaces he had seen since he first arrived in Rome. The walls were fitted with plain white marble to about two-thirds of their height, and rows of wooden chairs supported the backsides of the richest men in Rome. The floor, by contrast, was striking. It was similar to a mosaic, but with larger, specially shaped pieces of materials fitted together to make specific designs, rosettes in squares and cornucopias, coloured red and green on backgrounds of yellow and purple.
At one end of the chamber was an altar and a statue of Victoria, holding a wreath and standing on a globe. Before it was a marble throne on which sat Caracalla, looking down imperiously on the gathered body. Beside him sat Domna, her face expressionless, lifeless, drawn and tired. The Emperor and Empress were flanked by four German bodyguards and before them was a row of pristinely uniformed Praetorians. Silus stood with Oclatinius at the back of the chamber, inconspicuous in the shadows. He wished he was elsewhere. He hadn’t been home, hadn’t changed, hadn’t even had time to find a new weapon, the vigiles’ axe still hanging from his belt.
Standing in the middle of the floor of the great chamber, wrists manacled, stood Papinianus. His gaze swept easily around the assembled Senate, expressing an air of respect but a complete lack of concern.
Caracalla raised a hand to speak, and the silence that fell was instantaneous.
‘Papinianus,’ he said. ‘You have been brought here to trial to answer charges of treason. Witnesses will be brought against you. Once they have spoken, you will have a chance to answer their allegations.’
‘Tribune Torquatus, tell the assembled men your grievance against Papinianus.’
A young man, nervous but looking genuinely angry, stepped forward. He straightened his tunic and his red cloak and spoke up.
‘As a tribune of the Praetorians, I swear by the gods to tell the truth. When he was Praetorian prefect, I saw with my own eyes Papinianus take money that was offered to the gods in the temple at the barracks.’
This drew a gasp from the senators. Theft and sacrilege. Not a good start. It seemed unlikely to Silus though. Papinianus was very wealthy in his own right. Why steal a few coins from the gods?
‘And I heard him with my very own ears denounce the Emperor Antoninus, saying it would be better for Rome if the gods took him, so there would be peace.’
Papinianus shook his head. If he had said this, Silus suspected it would have been idle talk stimulated by frustration at the impasse between the Imperial brothers. More likely, though, was that this tribune had a grudge against Papinianus; maybe he had been humiliated in some way by his commanding officer, or overlooked for some honour, or even bribed by someone for his testimony. Silus looked at Oclatinius, but could read nothing in the old man’s face.
‘Do you have anything to say to this, Papinianus?’ demanded Caracalla.
‘The allegations are untrue, Augustus.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘Of course not. I mean, unfortunately, it is my word against his.’
‘It would be if it was just one accuser. But it is not. Centurion Velius. Step forward and speak.’
Centurion Velius looked a lot more nervous than Torquatus, and a lot less like he wanted to be there. He gave Papinianus an apologetic look, then said, ‘As a centurion of the Praetorians, I swear by the gods to tell the truth. I served under Papinianus, and I witnessed him uttering sacrilegious words against the divine Septimius Severus.’
‘What words?’ asked Caracalla.
‘That your blessed father was no more divine than a cabbage, and that emperors did not become gods when they died.’
There were plenty of intellectuals in Rome who did not believe in gods or the afterlife, Silus knew, but they generally paid lip service to the apotheosis of emperors, for political expediency, if for no other reason. If Papinianus had truly said this in front of a centurion, he was being extraordinarily unguarded in his comments. Maybe the former Praetorian prefect was less popular with his men than he realised.
The third witness was a Praetorian legionary, a foot soldier of the rank and file, albeit better paid and with a shinier uniform than most legionaries. He spoke with a common accent that spoke of roots in the poorer quarters of Rome, an increasingly rare recruit to the army from the capital itself.
‘As a legionary of the Praetorians, I swear to the gods to tell the truth.’ He hesitated.
‘Go on,’ prompted Caracalla.
‘Right. Sorry, Emperor, er, Augustus…’
‘What do you have to say?’ snapped Caracalla.
‘Well, I saw the prefect here having… unnatural relations with a goat.’
The Senate erupted into laughter at that, and even Papinianus smiled at the absurdity. But Caracalla was in no mood for levity.
‘Silence!’ The chamber fell quiet. ‘Papinianus, I have a queue of Praetorians lining up to denounce you for various crimes of treason and sacrilege. But you have served me and my father well over the years. I am not above clemency for a loyal servant. If you are prepared to swear your unequivocal and undying loyalty to me, your crimes may yet be forgiven.’
‘You have always had my loyalty, Augustus,’ said Papinianus.
‘Your sole loyalty. No division in your allegiance. I require you to condemn my brother before this Senate.’
Papinianus shook his head sadly.
‘I cannot do that, Augustus.’
Caracalla’s face turned the colour of his robe.
‘You… cannot? Papinianus, you stake your life.’
‘I pledged allegiance to your father, and when he died to his two sons. Both of them.’
‘Papinianus! You will explain to this gathered body why it was necessary that Geta should die. That I was protecting myself from his murderous intent.’
Papinianus sighed. ‘Augustus, it is easier to kill a brother than to explain it away.’
It would have been possible to hear a mouse sneeze, the absence of all sound was so profound. Silus could hear his own blood pounding in his ears, and his heart started to race even as his stomach sank. Oh, Papinianus. You proud fool.
Caracalla raised his hand slowly, and pointed a trembling finger at Papinianus.
‘You condemn yourself with your own words.’
Domna put a hand on Caracalla’s arm.
‘Augustus, consider…’
‘Silus!’
Oh fuck.
‘Come here.’
Silus looked at Oclatinius, who gave him a helpless shrug. Silus walked forward on legs trembling like a newborn calf. He stood beside Papinianus, facing the Emperor.
‘The penalty is death. The sentence will be carried out immediately. Silus, execute the traitor.’
Silus reached down to his belt, and his hand clasped around the hilt of the vigiles’ axe.
‘But Augustus, I only have…’
‘Do it now!’ roared Caracalla.
Silus bowed his head and turned to Papinianus. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Then more loudly, ‘On your knees.’
Papinianus did as he was told. Silus drew his axe. Papinianus’ eyes widened and he looked to Caracalla. ‘But…’
Silus brought the axe down hard into the side of Papinianus’ neck. It bit deep.
But not deep enough.
The axe of one of the vigiles was not a weapon of battle, such as the Caledonians had used, that could cleave off limbs and heads with one mighty swing. Not even the huge axes that foresters used to fell trees. This was the tool of a fireman, used to break down flimsy wooden doors that were usually half rotted through. A hand axe, small so as to be easily portable along with the other tools that the vigiles needed to carry – ropes and buckets and hooks.
Papinianus fell to one side with a cry, clutching his neck where the axe had opened up flesh. Blood flowed, but there was no pumping, no flood. It was not a mortal wound.
Silus raised the axe again, aiming for the gash he had opened before. But Papinianus was moving now, and his hand was clamped over his neck. The axe severed three fingers and smashed into his jaw, shattering it. He fell to his hands and knees, blood leaking from his neck, gasping and howling in pain.
Silus looked around helplessly to the throne. Caracalla’s face was impassive. There would be no mercy, no help from that quarter. He caught Oclatinius’ eye. The spymaster looked grim, but merely gave him a nod to continue.
Silus turned back to Papinianus, lifted the axe high, and with all his strength, brought it down on the back of the former prefect’s neck. It cut through spine, and Papinianus sprawled forward onto his face. He was motionless, his cries ended, but still he breathed. Silus lifted his axe and brought it down on the back of his head, again and again. Blood and brains sprayed the immaculate white togas of the nearest senators, who flinched back in horror.
When he was sure that he was dead, Silus stood up straight and faced the Emperor. Blood dripped from the blade of his axe, and his face and tunic were covered in gore.
Caracalla regarded him for a moment.
‘He deserved a sword,’ said the Emperor, as if he was reprimanding a wayward child.
Caracalla rose, and walked from the chamber, escorted by bodyguards, Praetorians and Marcellus. Domna remained seated, staring in horror at the bloodied and mangled remains of her Syrian relative. Oclatinius walked stiffly over to her and took her hand, then led her away. Slowly, the chamber emptied. Slaves came over, grabbed the corpse by its ankles and dragged it off, leaving a long bloody smear behind.
Silus stood alone, unmoving. He didn’t know how much time passed before Atius arrived. Atius took in his friend’s appearance and the evidence of the remains of the botched execution. He took Silus’ arm, and slowly led him out of the building.