Silus sat in a corner with Atius, as far from Caracalla’s throne as possible. He still felt sick, but Oclatinius had summoned him to attend this council meeting with an invitation that strongly intimated declining was not an option. He and Atius flanked Oclatinius and Festus, who sat together, observing not only the Emperor but everyone else in the meeting.
Seated either side of Caracalla were Sextus Varius Marcellus, currently acting as both Praetorian prefect and Urban prefect, and Julius Avitus Alexianus, who was both father-in-law to Marcellus through his daughter Julia Soaemias, and brother-in-law to Caracalla through his wife Julia Maesa, Julia Domna’s sister. Julia Domna, however, was nowhere to be seen, the Empress’s throne awkwardly empty. Quintus Marcus Dioga, head of the treasury, and Ulpianus, the jurist, sat near two freedmen who were acting as scribes and scribbling furiously on wax tablets to take down the pronouncements and commands of the Emperor.
Caracalla talked loudly and fast, and his audience listened attentively, mouths tightly closed.
‘I want work on the great bath complex that my father began accelerated. They are behind schedule. Whip slaves, dismiss overseers, spend more money, whatever is necessary. My father commanded these to be the greatest baths in the city, and when they are finished, they will shout to the city of the glory of my father’s reign and of my own.’
Dioga whispered a comment to the scribes, who nodded and made a further note.
‘Furthermore, I wish every citizen of the Empire to be gifted a caracallus.’
Dioga raised his eyebrows. ‘A… caracallus, Augustus?’
‘Am I speaking too softly for you, Dioga?’
‘No, Augustus. I just wanted to clarify…’
‘The common man named me Caracalla after the cloak I liked to wear in Britannia. Well, they can all wear one now, and I will own that name that they have given me.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘And talking of the common man. I intend to issue an edict that will make all free men in the Roman Empire into Roman citizens, and to give all free women in the Empire the same rights as Roman women.’
The advisors looked at each other, genuinely surprised, the odd command about the cloak already forgotten.
‘Augustus,’ said Alexianus hesitantly. ‘Is that even possible?’
‘If I command it, it is possible,’ he said.
‘But… why?’
The advisors and counsellors in the room all wore expressions that made Silus suspect they all thought the Emperor had gone mad. Maybe they were starting to question their decision to back him.
Caracalla looked for a moment like he might explode at being questioned by Alexianus. But the old man had been a good advisor and friend to Severus, and strictly loyal to Caracalla since Severus died, and he bit back a retort.
‘Old friend, do not look at me as if you are regarding a man possessed by demons. These ideas are not the ravings of a madman. Caracalla is a name that has been used derisively about me for some time, and it will always be with me. If I embrace the name in such an emphatic fashion, it takes all the sting out of it as an insult. Work on the baths will show the people that I care about the city and wish to improve it. And not just by building a temple that improves my own standing with the gods, but baths that are open to all.’
‘But, to make all free men Roman citizens. Could that even work?’
‘I expect my advisors to give me the answer to that. Ulpianus?’
The studious lawyer pinched his nose and considered. He clearly didn’t want to say the wrong thing after the horrific death of his fellow jurist Papinianus, but also had his own professional pride.
‘Would the Augustus allow me time to think through the legal implications and the possible consequences?’
‘I can tell you one consequence,’ said Marcellus, somewhat emboldened by the others who had stuck their necks out and questioned the Emperor. ‘The incentive to join the legions of becoming a citizen at the end of twenty-five years’ service will disappear overnight, and recruitment will plummet.’
Caracalla waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nonsense. I have just increased the pay of the army. There is still every incentive for the poor of the Empire to sign up. Still, we will increase the length of service to twenty-eight years to offset this possible issue.’
‘And,’ said Ulpianus, putting a finger in the air, ‘tax revenues will increase. Non-citizens are not liable for tax.’
‘That isn’t the purpose of the decree,’ said Caracalla. ‘Increasing tax on the poor has only a minimal effect on the treasury. But it will be a popular move with the population of the Empire.’
‘Not with the Senate,’ said Marcellus. ‘Nor with the poor Roman citizens who will object to those they consider their inferiors being elevated to the same rank as them.’
‘Nevertheless. Unless Ulpianus can find some legal or other compelling reason to make me change my mind, it will be done.’
Marcellus bowed his head.
‘We will need to raise money for these measures in other ways. We can raise inheritance tax, and maybe some other taxes too. We will also debase the silver coinage. Dioga, look into these things.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘Marcellus, I want shows in the Flavian amphitheatre, the Circus Maximus and in the theatres. Organise a lavish programme of events to entertain the populace.’
‘It will be done, Augustus.’
‘Next, I want my brother’s name and memory damned. All signs, all paintings, all monuments throughout the Empire are to be erased. I wish none to remember that he ever existed.’
Silus was glad that Domna was not present. He couldn’t imagine how she would feel, to have the memory of her son desecrated even while she still grieved.
‘Now, Marcellus, Festus, Oclatinius, we turn to matters of security. There are many in the city who supported my brother, and who still oppose my rule. I am going to give you a list of men who must be disposed of. You will see to it, in conjunction with the Urban Cohorts and the Praetorian Guard under Marcellus.’
Festus and Oclatinius inclined their heads.
‘I am not going to nail these names up on signs in the forum, like Sulla and Octavian did. You will deal with them privately, and with the minimum of fuss. Am I understood?’
‘Yes, Augustus,’ they replied in unison.
‘Very well. The following lives are forfeit, and their estates are to become the property of the throne.
‘Valerius Patruinus.’ A former Praetorian prefect, Silus knew.
‘Lucius Valerius Messalla Thrasea.’ A previous consul, Silus thought. He didn’t know what either of these two had done to offend.
‘The son of Papinianus, who is now old enough for the quaestorship.’ A threat after the death of his father. Silus felt another pang of nausea and guilt.
‘Aelius Antipater.’ One of the few surviving tutors of the younger Caracalla.
‘Titus Claudius Pompeianus.’ Grandson of Marcus Aurelius.
‘Publius Helvius Pertinax.’ The son of the former Emperor Pertinax.
And more. Serenus Sammonicus, an intellectual, Silus believed. The governors of Baetica and Narbonensis. The list went on and on, until Silus became almost numb to the scale of the forthcoming slaughter. Was this all necessary for the safety of the Emperor and the Empire? Or was it something more base, like petty revenge for previous slights? Or even, worst of all, was it indeed madness?
Eventually the list of condemned ended. Caracalla was breathing heavily through his nose, looking satisfied and unburdened, like he had set down a heavy load.
‘I have one more duty today. I must honour three men who have stood by my side when I needed them most, who saved my life from my treacherous sibling. Step forward, Oclatinius, Silus, Atius.’
The three Arcani stepped out in front of the Emperor and bowed their heads.
‘As the head of the Arcani, and two of its most skilled members, you three have done me immeasurable service in recent times. And you have served the Empire well, in Rome and abroad. Although my rewards for you cannot reflect the value of your deeds, they are a token of my esteem.
‘To legionary Lucius Atius, I award the sum of eight thousand sestertii.’ Atius smiled. It was a whole year’s pay at the new rates for a legionary of the Urban Cohorts.
‘To centurion Gaius Sergius Silus, I award the sum of twelve thousand sestertii.’ A year’s pay for a Praetorian. He was rich. Not senator or even equestrian rich, but set for life. He would never starve or be without food or home or a household slave. He should be rejoicing inwardly, but found it hard to summon up any enthusiasm.
‘And to Oclatinius Adventus, the sum of forty thousand sestertii.’ Silus was sure the old bastard didn’t need the money, but his boss nodded his acceptance and replied on behalf of them all.
‘We thank you for your kind gifts, Augustus, and accept them gratefully, though we were only doing our jobs, and our duty to Emperor and Empire.’
‘If only all Romans were as diligent in their obligations. Now, with that final pleasant task done, this council is finished. You all have work to be doing. I look forward to reports of your success.’
He rose, and abruptly swept from the room, two German bodyguards hurrying to catch up with him.
Silus sighed. Despite the monetary reward, he felt at the edge of despair. He still wanted to serve, to be of value to the Empire, to help keep its citizens safe. But what glory was there in the role he was playing now?
He had had enough. He needed to talk to Oclatinius.
When Marcellus returned home from the meeting, his wife Julia Soaemias was waiting for him in the atrium. She was wearing a blue stola and a hood that covered most of her head, but still displayed the foremost part of her painstakingly coiffured hairstyle, modelled on the fashion popularised by her aunt, the Empress Julia Domna. She was thirty-two years old and had been his wife for twelve years, and if anything was more beautiful than when he had married her. At least outwardly. Beside her was the eunuch Gannys, their son’s tutor, and more and more recently, his wife’s advisor and confidante.
‘Tell me everything, Marcellus,’ she snapped. ‘Leave nothing out.’
He sighed. Beautiful on the outside for sure. Increasingly domineering, though. As Marcellus’ star had risen, until he was now one of the most powerful men in Rome, his wife’s control over him had tightened. It embarrassed him, and he tried to assert his dominance as paterfamilias, with the power of life and death over her and their son, Avitus. But they both knew that much of his ascension was down to her. Her family connections, of course, but also her seduction of the young Caracalla.
It still humiliated him, that he had drunkenly offered his wife to the young Augustus to gain preferment, more so that his wife and Caracalla had both agreed, and even more so that Soaemias had continued to attempt to seduce him, although Caracalla after that one night had continually turned her down.
But the result of that one night of calculated, negotiated passion was uncertainty about the paternity of his son. He had been elevated to acting commander of both the Praetorian Guard and the Urban Cohorts. He stood at the Emperor’s right hand. At that moment he could be considered the second most powerful man in the world.
Was it worth it? Probably, he had to concede. And maybe now he should start to behave towards his wife the way a real Roman man behaved.
‘Join me in my room, my dear,’ he said in an even tone.
‘Tell me now,’ said Soaemias.
Marcellus looked at Gannys, who was studying the wall, carefully ignoring the exchange.
‘Come with me to my room, dear. Please.’
Soaemias tutted, but she followed him to a small private room near his office.
‘Marcellus! What has got into you?’
‘Soaemias, I am a powerful man. You should respect me as such. If you have words you wish to say, you should say them to me in private. In public, even in front of the slaves, you should behave like a dutiful wife, a good Roman matron.’
Soaemias looked at him contemptuously. ‘I am the niece of the Empress! A powerful woman in my own right.’
‘What you are,’ said Marcellus, ‘above all else, is my wife. And I wish you to start behaving like it, and not like my mother. If you have counsel for me, you should offer it in private. In public you must talk to me with respect. Or there will be consequences for you.’
Soaemias stared at him in disbelief. Marcellus felt suddenly nervous. This shouldn’t be so hard. It was the normal way of things, even if that wasn’t the case in his own home. But he was the Emperor’s right-hand man. He had real power. Surely he could be the master of his own home. Surely now he could begin to act with the dignitas and auctoritas of a noble Roman.
‘Do you understand me?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
‘Now understand this. If you ever speak to me that way again, in public or in private, I will take a knife while you sleep and cut your balls off, and offer them to the mountain god.’
Marcellus gaped. He should strike her. Punish her for her words. But he quailed under her unwavering gaze. His shoulders drooped. Why could he not control her? Her domination of him unmanned him.
‘Now, husband and master, will you tell me what transpired at today’s meeting?’ Her tone and words were sweet and correct. Maybe if she could at least pretend to respect him in public, that would be sufficient.
He paced the room. ‘We are in a fortunate position, my love. To be in favour with the Emperor at such a time not just allows advancement, it preserves life itself. The list of those to die was… there were so many.’
‘Who?’
Marcellus listed those he could remember off the top of his head, although he was sure there were many he had missed out.
Soaemias sat tight-lipped as she listened to the list. ‘There will be many vacancies in the most important posts in the government, and in the Senate. We need to make sure our relatives, clients and supporters fill those posts as far as possible.’
Marcellus nodded his agreement. ‘Power is transitory. One day Papinianus seems unassailable in his position, and the next day he is being hacked to pieces in front of the Senate.’
‘And his son is now to follow him into the embrace of Elagabal.’
‘Yes. We must make sure we don’t place our own son in this position. We need to work together, Soaemias, to make ourselves indispensable to the Emperor, to carry out his every command to the best of our ability, and to secure my position. The lives of all of us may depend on it. Are you with me?’
Soaemias stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the side of the mouth.
‘Of course, my love. Now, will you join me in the daily sacrifices? Avitus is going to lead the ceremony, and my mother will join us.’
Marcellus hesitated. He came from Apamea, a Hellenistic city in Syria, and he was brought up worshipping the Graeco-Roman pantheon. But his wife was a devotee of the god Elagabal, the supreme god of her home city of Emesa, and their son Avitus would accede to the role of Elagabal’s high priest one day, the position that Julia Domna’s father had occupied. Both Soaemias and Avitus undertook the worship of the Emesene gods with utmost seriousness and solemnity, and Marcellus had long since learned not to mock, demean or disrespect the Emesene pantheon in any way. And he had just lost a battle with his wife that had left him feeling unsettled. So despite his pressing list of tasks that worried at the back of his brain, he nodded.
‘Let us worship.’
They had dedicated a small room at the back of their domus as an Elagabalium, a temple to the supreme god, Elagabal. Soaemias had told him that Elagabal was originally a god of the mountain, which was where his name came from in the ancient language of Emesa. He had been worshipped since ancient times, and was the oldest of all Emesene gods, although over time he had become associated with sun gods, particularly Sol Invictus, the unconquered sun. The walls of the Elagabalium were frescoed with scenes of sacrifice against backdrops of Syrian countryside. The floor mosaic was a radiant sun, surrounded by minor deities, with a magnificent eagle soaring above the sun. At one end of the room was a marble altar. And in the centre was a conical black rock, a representation of the holy rock which resided in the temple in Emesa and was supposed to have fallen from the skies.
Marcellus was still unclear as to whether the Emesene rock was supposed to be the god himself, or merely a representation, or something in between. He wasn’t sure the worshippers were entirely certain themselves. But in any case, the rock before them now was purely a symbol, albeit one that Soaemias had had blessed by the high priest himself.
Julia Maesa was kneeling in the centre of the room, eyes closed. She was Julia Domna’s younger sister, and the family resemblance was marked, but her features were somehow more severe. Where Domna’s nose looked beautifully sculpted, hers was rodent-like. Where Domna’s eyes were round and open, hers were heavy-lidded. Marcellus believed that her appearance was an outward reflection of her inward ugliness. He had never liked his mother-in-law.
Maesa turned at their entrance, flicked a contemptuous look at Marcellus, and then smiled at her daughter, holding out her hand for Soaemias to join her. Marcellus’ wife knelt beside her mother, and Marcellus knelt on the other side of her.
Six slaves dressed in plain robes were present in the room. Four of them were musicians, equipped with drums, cymbals, flutes and pipes. The other two were female slaves, one young and beautiful, the other much older, gap-toothed and bent-backed. They represented Elagabalus’ consort, Astarte, the goddess of water and fertility, and Atargatis, the great earth mother.
Before the altar stood their eight-year-old son. He was dressed in a long-sleeved, gold-laced Syrian style robe which reached down to his feet, and on his head he wore a crown decorated with jewels of red, blue and green. He was heavily adorned with gold and silver bangles, necklaces and rings. In one hand he held a twig, a sacred fertility symbol. His face was heavily made up, pale cheeks and eyes outlined in black, the corners tilted up to give an oriental appearance. He ignored his father, mother and grandmother, fully focused on the worship of his god. Marcellus, Soaemias and Maesa bowed their heads to the stone.
‘Children, it is the hour of worship of the all-powerful Elagabal, god of the mountains, god of the sun, supreme god of all gods, be they Roman, Greek or Egyptian.’
It always felt strange to Marcellus to hear his own son refer to him as child, even though he often presided over these daily episodes of worship. Avitus’ voice was high, reedy, with a slight lisp which he would probably grow out of. Marcellus hoped that he would grow out of some of his other traits too. It was nice to see him in dress suited to a man, albeit in eastern style, instead of a stola, or to Marcellus’ acute embarrassment, sometimes nothing at all.
A slave brought in a male calf, only a day old, still smelling of milk and afterbirth. He placed it on the altar and held it steady, stroking its head to keep it calm.
Avitus picked up a curved, wickedly sharp blade. Marcellus had long had his reservations about this, but Soaemias had insisted that Avitus fulfil all the functions of the attending priest, and to be fair to the boy, he had been doing this for a number of months now without losing any fingers.
The drummer beat a slow, soft rhythm and the cymbals laid a shimmering, quiet tone over it while the pipes and flutes played a haunting, ululating melody.
‘Great god Elagabal, your all-holy wife and mother Astarte and Atargatis, accept our meagre offering, along with our bodies, our hearts and our souls.’
Avitus drew the blade in a curve around the calf’s neck. It was so sharp that the young beast didn’t even flinch. Blood spurted out forward and was caught in a bowl. Avitus skilfully managed to avoid getting a fleck of red on his tunic, which Marcellus was pleased with – blood was a nightmare to get out of fine clothes.
The calf’s front knees buckled, then it toppled onto its side on the altar and kicked its legs, eyes flickering around the room in panic before unfocusing. It struggled for breath, then the breathing slowed and stopped.
Avitus took a jug of wine and poured it into the bowl, swirling it to mix the two liquids. He poured a libation onto the floor in front of the altar, then lifted the bowl and drank from it, blood spilling down his chin and down his robes. Marcellus cursed inwardly. He suspected he would be paying out for a new set of expensive ceremonial clothing soon.
The musicians kicked up the tempo and volume. Avitus passed the bowl to Marcellus. He took a sip of the salty, warm liquid, swallowed and passed it to Soaemias, who also drank and then passed it to Maesa. Then they rose and joined hands with each other and with Avitus and the two slaves representing the consorts. In a circle they danced around the stone, chanting and singing hymns of praise to the Emesene gods in time to the musicians.
The music built to a crescendo, and they danced faster and faster, their breathing accelerating with the effort and emotion. Marcellus’ heart raced, as despite his best intentions he found himself wrapped up in the moment. Maesa and Soaemias looked solemn and devout, but his son seemed to be in some sort of ecstatic trance, rolling his head wildly, eyes narrowed to slits. There was a crash like thunder from the players and the music ended. They all fell to their knees, and closed their eyes for a moment of silent worship.
Eventually, Avitus got slowly to his feet. Maesa, Soaemias and Marcellus did the same. He held out his arms.
‘My children, go with the peace of Elagabalus, god of gods.’
‘Yes, father,’ said Maesa, Soaemias and Marcellus.
Then Soaemias added, ‘Now go and study your Greek grammar. If you get behind, Gannys has permission to thrash you.’
Avitus flushed, turned and fled from the room.
‘You could have let him get out of his robes before you reminded him he is a little child,’ said Marcellus.
‘He will be a child for precious little time. Less than most, I fear.’
Marcellus wondered what made her feel like that, but he had other matters on his mind.
‘Slave, get me a cup of wine. I will be in the tablinum.’ He kissed Soaemias on the cheek, nodded to Maesa and headed for his study, mind full of games, plays, races and executions that he had to organise.
‘I’ve had enough,’ said Silus. ‘I want out.’
‘You can’t just walk away from the Arcani,’ said Oclatinius simply, as if it was a truism.
‘You think you can stop me?’
‘Of course I can.’
Silus glowered at Oclatinius, whose face remained serene. The spymaster had a temper, but he only let it show for a reason. His ability to control his emotions and fail to rise to the bait could be infuriating for anyone trying to argue with him.
‘This is not what you promised when you recruited me.’
‘Is that so? Tell me what I promised you. Tell me what I swore to the gods would be yours.’
Silus thought back to that time in Britannia, soon after the death of his family, at his lowest ebb, when Oclatinius had taken him under his wing and trained him. He had nearly walked away, but Oclatinius had offered him the chance to avenge his wife and daughter, and he had pledged himself to the Arcani and their head. But had he actually ever promised him anything? Searching his memories, he couldn’t think of a single vow that had come from Oclatinius’ lips.
‘Promises are chains that restrict us,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I make it a habit to refrain from making them wherever possible. But when I do make them, I keep them. Such as my vow to serve the Emperor Antoninus.’
‘Emperor Caracalla, you mean?’ said Atius.
Silus and Oclatinius both gave him a dagger stare, and he shut his mouth, abashed.
‘Well, maybe it wasn’t a promise. But I did not think this was what being an Arcanus was about. I’m not working as a spy. Not even an assassin. Just a common executioner.’
‘We all serve at the Emperor’s pleasure. Do you think I enjoy commanding the death of men who have served Rome with honour and dignity?’
‘Then why do it?’
‘I just told you. My oath is a chain. I swore to serve the Emperor, and I will until I die. And you swore the same.’
Silus looked down. His word was important to him too, although he knew it was not unbreakable. Some things were even more important than a vow. Nevertheless, he did not break his word easily. For example, he had promised to visit Tituria in her island exile, and he intended to see that through. It gave him an idea.
‘Maybe I could have some leave?’
Oclatinius stared at him.
‘Some what?’
‘A break. From all this. Oclatinius, I’m so sick of it. So tired.’
Oclatinius spoke slowly, his words measured.
‘Within the last nundinum, one Emperor has murdered another, the Praetorians have sacked their own city, the Senate has been cowed into submission by the Praetorians, the former Praetorian prefect has been hacked to death in front of the Senate, by you, I don’t need to add, and there is now a long list of prominent Romans who are to be executed, while the army are kept in check only by bribery and the general population don’t know whether to rejoice, riot, or hide away in terror. And you want a holiday?’
‘He’s got a point,’ said Atius.
Silus wondered why he was friends with the big idiot. But it was true, he did have a point.
‘Don’t you have a mission for me outside of Rome, at least? So I can get away from all this madness.’
‘Silus, much as it pains me to say it, you are my best man. The two of you are my best team. I don’t want to lose you at this crucial time. But I don’t want to have you so disillusioned you don’t do your job properly. Or even decide to desert. I do appreciate I am asking a lot of you at the moment, but the Emperor is asking a lot of us all. From many people, he is taking everything. Be grateful you are not one of those.’
‘Sir, has the Emperor gone mad?’ asked Atius, bluntly as always.
‘Honestly, Atius, I don’t know. I don’t think so. His actions are affected by grief, anger and fear. But they are rational. He is making his position safe. And he is doing what many rulers and emperors have done in Rome’s history, without them being called mad.’
Atius nodded, and Silus had to agree with the assessment. Not that it made the things he was being asked to do any easier.
‘Listen, Silus, I don’t need you for anything right now. Most of the executions are being performed by the Praetorians and the Urban Cohorts. The Emperor largely wants them to be public, not hidden from view and performed by the more secret elements of his forces. And Festus and his men can take up some of the slack for a change.’
‘Sir, do you trust Festus?’ asked Silus.
‘What makes you ask, Silus?’
‘Just a feeling, sir. I don’t have any evidence, but my gut says maybe he was behind some of the things that have been going on.’
‘Festus is none of your concern, and you will not be repeating what you just said to anyone outside this room, do you understand?’
Oclatinius’ tone was uncharacteristically shaky and high-pitched.
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’
Oclatinius shook his head. ‘It is I who should apologise. But please, leave Festus to me. He and I have a long history. Professional and… non-professional.’
Silus waited, but nothing else was forthcoming.
‘Silus, I don’t want to lose you from the Arcani. I can attempt to force you to stay and do your duty, but after your development over the last year and more, I would not be confident of success. I will think about your request. But for now, I have a surprise for you.’
He went to the door of his office and spoke to the slave waiting there. The slave hurried away, leaving Silus in suspense.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘You do know the meaning of “surprise”, don’t you, Silus?’
Moments later the door opened, and in walked a plumpish woman in her early middle-age, looking confused.
‘Apicula!’ cried Silus.
‘Master!’ She looked genuinely pleased to see him. She put the dog down and ran forward, hugging him tight. ‘Oh master, I’m so glad you are well.’ Silus hugged her back, pleased but a little awkward in her embrace. She stepped back, looking embarrassed, flushed but grinning broadly.
A shrill yapping came from Silus’ feet. The little dog was jumping up and down, desperate to be noticed.
‘Issa!’ Silus reached down and scooped the little dog into his arms. She immediately started to lick his face, her stump of a tail wagging furiously. Her breath stank, a combination of bad teeth and her habit of eating faeces she came across in the street, animal or human, but Silus couldn’t push the little bitch away. She was all he had left of his family and remained dear to him.
He looked at Oclatinius, who was smiling indulgently.
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Silus, I knew where they were the moment they fled.’
Silus, Atius and Apicula all looked at him in shock.
‘You sent me to kill her!’ said Atius, tone accusatory.
‘Only after my spy had told me that she had already fled. And to where.’
‘But I made sure no one was following me,’ said Apicula. ‘I hid with an old customer in a village outside Rome, a farmer who only visited the city on market days.’
Oclatinius simply looked smug.
‘And the tablet, it’s safe?’ asked Silus, enquiring after the letter written by Titurius revealing that his daughter Tituria had seen Caracalla in bed with his stepmother Julia Domna.
Apicula looked stricken. ‘Master, I’m sorry, I failed you. I kept it with me until I reached my friend’s farm. I buried it beneath the floor of my room. But when I came to look for it, when Oclatinius’ messenger came for me, it was gone. I don’t know what happened. The floor didn’t even look disturbed. But the box I put it in was empty.’
Silus put a hand to his mouth. If that tablet, with its evidence of the Emperor’s transgressions with his stepmother, became public, it would be disastrous for the Emperor. And fatal for Silus and for Tituria, seeing as he had pledged to keep the tablet safe, and used it as insurance to keep the little girl alive.
‘Apicula,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, no.’
Oclatinius reached into his desk and drew out a wax tablet. It was closed, its outer leaves covered in dirt and dust. He brushed some off, blew away the rest. Then he passed it to Silus.
‘You had it all along?’ gasped Silus.
‘It’s not the sort of thing you leave lying around. Even buried under the floor of a country farm. I thought it would be safer in my hands.’
‘But, why didn’t you give it to the Emperor?’
‘And lose my best man? Give me some credit for sense.’
Silus shook his head. ‘And why give it to me now?’
‘Because that was the bargain. You keep the tablet in exchange for Tituria remaining alive. The tablet is less of a threat to the Emperor now it can’t be used by his brother, but it could still be very damaging at a vulnerable time in his reign. You have your leverage back to protect Tituria. I trust you to be mindful of its safekeeping.’
Silus turned it over in his hands.
‘You can trust me,’ said Silus.
‘Can I?’
Silus looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. You can.’
Oclatinius nodded, looking satisfied.
‘Now, take your slave, and your dog, who incidentally smells like she drinks from the Cloaca Maxima…’
‘She does,’ muttered Atius.
‘And get some rest,’ continued Oclatinius, ignoring the interruption.
‘Yes, sir.’ Silus ushered Apicula and Atius out, holding Issa under one arm. He considered how best to conceal the tablet now. Depositing wealth and important goods at temples was a common way of ensuring security, but they didn’t seem particularly safe after they had been pillaged by the Praetorians. He resolved to find a small-time private banker and deposit it in his safe for the time being, although at a later time he thought he would take it out into the countryside and bury it.
He closed the door behind him and wondered how soon it would be before he was summoned to this office again for another distressing duty.
Soaemias felt the man behind her quickening his pace. His hands were on her hips, gripping her as he thrust into her. His balls slapped against her with a soft damp noise with each thrust, and she moaned aloud every time he pushed inside her. He was getting closer, but so was she. It was going to be a race – would she get there before him? She reached between her legs to stimulate herself and then she was arching her back, eyes rolling as the climax washed over her.
She recovered herself just in time to pull away. He groaned, and his seed spurted over her back rather than inside her. She turned over and looked up at him with a satisfied grin.
‘That was close,’ he said.
‘Risky,’ she agreed. ‘But doesn’t that make it more exciting?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
She reached out and cupped his balls, two soft fruits in his sack, and squeezed gently. He winced as she increased the pressure.
‘You think this painful. Imagine what it would have been like if you had genuinely been castrated, as everyone believes.’
Gannys raised an eyebrow. ‘I prefer not to think about that. Besides, how would you feel if I had been castrated? Not as good as you feel right now.’
‘Maybe. I’ve never had a eunuch, but I’ve heard that if they were castrated as adults, they can still perform adequately, and with no chance of an unwanted pregnancy.’
Gannys carefully eased himself free from her grip and lay on his back on the bed.
‘We have my mother to thank for this, of course,’ said Gannys.
‘Your mother?’
‘You never met her, of course. But she wanted a daughter, not a son. When I was young, she tried to dress me as a girl, but I always resisted, much to her resentment.’
Soaemias sighed. ‘Avitus likes to dress as girls without any prompting from me.’
‘And you indulge him.’
‘I find him hard to say no to. I want wonderful things for him, Gannys, the very best. He is such a wonderful child – intelligent, thoughtful, utterly devoted to our god.’
‘Blessed be the name of Elagabal. Anyway, whether out of spite or some unhinged desire to believe it true, she put it about that I was a natural-born eunuch, that I had been born without balls.’
Soaemias giggled. ‘Surely your encounters with women quickly disproved that?’
Gannys shook his head. ‘Mother was very controlling. She considered herself paterfamilias since father died before I was born. When I was young, Mother would not allow slaves to care for me. Only she bathed me or dressed me. When I was older, she did not allow me to mix with girls. By the time she died, the lie was so much part of me, I didn’t know how to let it be known that I had been whole all along. So I was only ever intimate with slaves who were sworn to silence, or with whores who did not know I was supposed to be a eunuch born to a minor equestrian family. You are the first free woman I have been intimate with.’
‘You honour me,’ said Soaemias. ‘And I must admit it is a wonderful pleasure. Marcellus is old and boring and was never interested in my satisfaction in bed. But it is so hard for a noblewoman in Rome to seek comforts outside her marriage without causing scandal. To have a real man who everyone believes a eunuch living in my house, able to spend time with him alone without tongues wagging – it’s a precious gift from your mother.’
‘Not one she would have been happy to bestow, I feel, the mad old cow,’ said Gannys sourly, and Soaemias laughed.
‘Regardless, you are here in my bed, while my husband waits on our insane Emperor.’
Gannys looked around nervously, though it was obvious they were alone in her bedchamber. Cuckolding the commander of the Praetorian Guard was dangerous enough, but it was nothing compared to uttering words of sedition against Caracalla.
‘Please, Gannys, stop looking like a scared hen. Caracalla is unstable, a murderer, a tyrant, and unfit to rule.’
‘He will not rule forever.’
Soaemias regarded him steadily. ‘This is true. Now, you may think you are a true Roman man. But you work for me, and it is your job to keep me content. Do your job.’
She grabbed him by the hair, and forced his head down, across her body, between her legs. As she felt his tongue go to work, in an act no dominant Roman man would consider, she closed her eyes and gave herself to the sensations.