‘Numidia is on the verge of open rebellion,’ said Oclatinius. Giving bad news to an Emperor, especially one currently as unstable as Caracalla, was always a risk, but Oclatinius had lived long enough and seen enough to feel little anxiety, and to show none. ‘I have had a report from an informer in Cirta. The city is split between Geta’s supporters and your own, Augustus. The province itself is split along the same lines.’
‘And where stands the governor?’ asked Caracalla.
‘Publicly, Quintus Cornelius Valens has sworn an oath to you. Privately, my informer tells me he is intriguing against you. Gauging the level of support he has in Numidia, and even sounding out powerful men in Rome.’
‘Like who?’ asked Caracalla in a dangerously low voice.
‘My informer didn’t say.’
Caracalla looked at Marcellus. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘Rome is yours, Augustus. If there is going to be a threat to your rule, it is going to come from the provinces.’
Caracalla gave a thin smile. ‘I admire your confidence. There is much work to be done before my position in Rome is secure, but I think we are making progress. I think you are right about the provinces, though. Which legions are based in Africa now?’
‘In Numidia, just the III Augusta, plus a few detachments from other legions. The II Traiana in Alexandria is a long way from Numidia but easily reached along the coast by boat or foot. The VII Gemina in Hispania is closer, but the governors in the peninsula are solid. I think.’
‘But I don’t have to tell you how close Numidia is to Sicily,’ said Oclatinius, ‘and from there, it is a short distance to Rome. You may command the loyalty of the legions in Britannia, Germania and Syria, but if Valens brings his legion to Rome, gathering troops on the way, you would have only the Praetorians and the II Parthica to oppose them. Probably enough, but not by a comfortable margin. More worrying would be if he marched east to Egypt or persuaded the Egyptian prefect to join him with the II Traiana. He could then cut off the grain supply to Rome, and the city would starve. Your rule depends on providing bread to the mob.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Caracalla sourly. He sighed. ‘I need to send someone loyal to take control, someone with authority.’
‘Dioga?’ suggested Oclatinius.
‘No, not enough military experience.’
‘What about Oclatinius here?’ suggested Marcellus.
‘I’m sorry to say this, Oclatinius, but you don’t carry the authority. Fear and respect, yes, but you are not in a position to command legions or take over governorships. And I need you here in Rome now more than ever.’
‘Then it has to be Marcellus,’ said Oclatinius.
Marcellus spread his hands. ‘Augustus, my place is at your side.’
‘Is there no one else?’ asked Caracalla, somewhat plaintively. ‘I am loath to lose Marcellus at this difficult time.’
‘As Marcellus said, Rome is all but secure. The risk is from the provinces. Marcellus is your closest ally, and he has the intelligence and sense to squash this threat.’
Marcellus glowered, clearly reluctant to take this posting far away from the centre of power, but unwilling to contradict Oclatinius’ positive assessment of his capabilities.
‘You are right, Oclatinius. I’m sorry, Marcellus. It has to be you. You will go to Numidia and you will relieve the governor there.’
Marcellus nodded, resigned. ‘Thank you for the honour, Augustus.’
And in truth, it was an honour. Marcellus’ rise to a high position from relatively humble beginnings had been rapid, particularly since the death of Plautianus, the confidant-turned-traitor of Septimius Severus a few years before, who had hated Marcellus. Since then he had held the prestigious role of procurator of the aqueducts, and later procurator of Britannia. In all that time, though, he never been promoted to senator.
‘Augustus, I agree with your decision. But may I suggest that you take action to increase Marcellus’ authority even further. He is currently Praetorian prefect and Urban prefect, but he is still an equestrian. His task would be much easier if he was senatorial rank.’
‘You are right, Oclatinius. What do you suggest?’
‘Admit him to the Senate with the rank of propraetor. That should make it obvious to all that he is a man who commands respect and who wields the authority of the Emperor and the Senate.’
‘It shall be done.’
Marcellus gave Oclatinius a genuine smile of thanks, but Oclatinius merely shrugged it away.
‘There are precious few military resources I can spare to assist you with this, Marcellus,’ said Caracalla. ‘With only one legion and the Praetorians in Italy, if another governor decides to march on Rome, I will need every man. I’ll give you a small detachment of legionaries from the II Parthica. You will have to win the loyalty of the III Augusta for yourself.’
Marcellus looked uncertain, and understandably so. Marching into a province on the verge of revolt with little more than his personality as sword and shield was a challenge.
‘If I might suggest,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I could spare my men Silus and Atius to accompany Marcellus. Their skills may prove invaluable in assisting Marcellus with his task.’
‘But what if they are needed in Rome?’ asked Caracalla.
‘I believe we have sufficient resources here for what we need to do between the Praetorians, the Urban Cohorts, the speculatores, the frumentarii, Festus’ staff of the sacred bedchamber, Festus’ and my network of priests, seers and astrologers who act as informers. Besides, given what they have done for you lately, their lives may be in danger from Geta supporters wanting revenge. A posting outside Rome might be prudent…’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Caracalla. ‘You have made your point. Send them with Marcellus.’
Marcellus shot Oclatinius a grateful look.
‘We will need to discuss replacements for your two positions, Marcellus,’ said Caracalla.
‘Well, you have Quintus Maecius Laetus,’ said Marcellus. ‘He could continue in his current role as co-Praetorian prefect and do the job on his own.’
‘There is recent precedent for a position once shared to be continued by just one man,’ said Caracalla wryly.
Oclatinius and Marcellus looked at each other, uncertain whether a laugh was expected. Fortunately, Caracalla continued before they had to decide.
‘Laetus is hopeless. I have never fully trusted him, and when word got out that he might be part of my proscriptions, he feigned illness so he didn’t have to present himself at the palace. I was never going to have that coward executed anyway. He is too ineffective for there to be any point. So no, he cannot do it alone.’
‘How about Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus?’ said Oclatinius. ‘He is a man with a good reputation and has served Rome and its emperors well for many years.’
‘Agreed,’ said Caracalla. ‘And the Urban prefect.’
‘How about Gaius Julius Asper?’ said Marcellus. ‘He and his son are consuls for the year, he has a lot of experience, and his loyalty to your father and yourself has never been in question.’
‘Oclatinius?’
Oclatinius looked thoughtful. ‘I have some concerns about his… competence. But Marcellus is right, his loyalty is impeccable. And at this moment, that counts for more.’
‘Good. It is decided. Now, I believe there are some senators waiting to see me. You will both attend me while I hear them.’
‘Before you do, Augustus, there is one matter I would like to bring to your attention,’ said Oclatinius. This was going to be even more delicate than the problem with Numidia, he knew.
‘Go on.’
‘The vestals.’
‘What about them?’
‘Are you aware of their importance to us?’
‘Talk to me as if I’m not.’
‘Well, obviously, their main duty is to keep the sacred fire burning in the Temple of Vesta, and all the sacred duties which go with their office. The mob think very highly of the importance of this role in keeping the city and the Empire safe. Famine and floods have been blamed on the vestals failing to perform their duties diligently, or being let down by those responsible for the vestals’ well-being.’
Caracalla nodded non-committally. Oclatinius realised he was likely telling the Emperor things he was very familiar with, but for what was to come, he needed to be clear as to what was at stake. He continued.
‘The people also believe the vestals capable of various magics through their prayers – capturing runaway slaves, finding lost children, healing disease. If the vestals are impious, the people get very angry at the thought of the danger that can put them in personally. We also need to consider that the loyalty of the vestals to the Emperor is of paramount importance. The vestals are too highly regarded to allow any doubts about their allegiance.’
‘Get to the point, Oclatinius.’
‘Augustus, there is a rumour going around the population regarding the chastity of four of the vestals.’
‘Four?’ exclaimed Marcellus.
‘Four.’
‘There are always rumours about the chastity of the vestals,’ said Caracalla. ‘It was once even said that I had deflowered one myself.’
‘This rumour does not concern you, Augustus, but your brother.’
Caracalla became suddenly very still. Oclatinius swallowed.
‘Augustus, it is being said that after your father’s death, Geta visited the temple secretly on a regular basis. That he regularly debauched four. Only the very youngest, and the Virgo Vestalis Maxima, were untouched, and they were only left alone because of the extremities of their age.’
‘Six years old and sixty years old,’ put in Marcellus.
Oclatinius watched mixed emotions play across Caracalla’s face as the implications sunk in. On the one hand, this showed his brother in a terrible light, and the more Geta’s character could be tarnished, the easier it was to justify Caracalla’s actions. On the other hand, Caracalla was the Pontifex Maximus, and thus in charge of the vestals. The people would not allow him to let this sacrilege and treason against the city itself go unpunished.
‘Is it true?’ he asked.
Oclatinius spread his hands in apologetic uncertainty.
‘I have not been able to confirm it at this stage. My spies have observed Geta entering the temple on multiple occasions, but that could be for political reasons, attempting to gain support, finding out secrets confided to them by those consulting them as seers and sages, or even attempting to find out the contents of the wills they keep.’
‘The visits themselves will be enough proof in the minds of many.’
‘I could torture some of the slaves that attend the vestals to find out more. With your permission.’
Caracalla shook his head. ‘It would add nothing. The belief of the people is all that matters here. Anyway, we both know that slaves under torture will just say whatever it is they think we want to hear, so are likely to condemn the vestals, whatever the truth, to save their own skins.’
Oclatinius inclined his head in agreement. He had no compunction about using torture where it was necessary or deserved, but he agreed that it usually served little purpose, and just ended up with broken or dead slaves, with the rest of the servants of the household or institution scared and resentful rather than productive. And Oclatinius took no pleasure in inflicting suffering for its own sake. He caused enough death and misery as part of his job that he had no need or desire to take it up as a pastime.
‘What is your command, Augustus?’
Caracalla sighed. ‘They must be tried, found guilty and executed. Marcellus, attend to it before you depart.’ He rubbed his face wearily. ‘Now, send in the senators.’
‘We are going where?’ Soaemias’ voice was like the screech of a vixen.
Marcellus shook his head. His wife was still adjusting to the new reality or their household, but at least her anger was directed at him in private, so he was prepared to tolerate it.
‘It is a great honour, my dear,’ he said. ‘I am made a senator at last. With the rank of an ex-praetor. And I am going to become a governor.’
‘You are currently both Urban and Praetorian prefect. That is where the real power lies. If you doubt it, just read your Suetonius. Find out about who made Claudius emperor. And Galba. Look at the power Sejanus wielded. The Praetorians even sold the throne to Didius Julianus!’
‘Calm yourself. The Praetorian prefectship is a poisoned chalice. You want examples from history, look no further than Plautianus and Papinianus.’
‘But… Numidia? There is no glory to be had there.’
‘There is honour. And a valuable service to the Empire. And also, as I believe this interests you, there are riches to be had there. Being a governor of a settled province, which it will be once I have put down the brewing revolt, is very lucrative.’
Soaemias paced up and down, searching for words, barely able to speak in her anger.
‘What about our son? He is to be high priest of Elagabal one day. At least if we have to leave Rome, can’t we go east, to be near our home, near the birthplace of the Lord Elagabal?’
‘I go where the Emperor commands, my dear,’ said Marcellus, still managing to maintain his equanimity. His wife seemed to be struggling with something, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He understood she might be reluctant to leave Rome, the centre of power, but it wasn’t for long, and in these turbulent times, having some distance between themselves and the capital may not be entirely a bad idea.
‘Refuse,’ she said abruptly. ‘Tell him he still needs you as Praetorian prefect.’
‘He has replaced me already.’
Soaemias gripped her hair in her fists and let out a screech of frustration.
‘Marcellus. You are hopeless.’
‘Hopefully you have got this out of your system while we are in private. I am sure I don’t need to remind you there will be consequences if you put on this sort of display in public. Oh, and I hear Avitus was wearing a dress made entirely of silk yesterday.’
‘What of it?’
‘You indulge him, and his peculiarities. He is old enough for this nonsense to stop. Men’s clothes only, from now on. Now excuse me, I have four sorry vestals to execute. I will see you at dinner.’
Silus attended the execution at the forum, like many others. Apicula and Atius stood with him. The crowd looked on expectantly with a mix of horror and excitement. Four vestals stood together in a huddle, looked down on by Caracalla, who was seated on a high throne which was placed on a dais. They were dressed in the formal attire of their office, a long white woollen stola, a palla pulled over the head and pinned at the shoulder and a white woollen veil lifted back over their heads. Red and white woollen ribbons were tied in their elaborately braided hair to symbolise both their commitment to keeping the fire of Vesta burning, and their purity and chastity. Two other similarly dressed vestals stood nearby, one elderly and one a young child, holding hands and weeping loudly.
‘Clodia Laeta, Aurelia Severa, Pomponia Rufina, Cannutia Crescentina,’ proclaimed Marcellus from the dais at the foot of the throne. ‘You have been found guilty by the college of pontifices of breaking your vow of chastity. This treason, this sacrilege, endangers everyone in Rome. Worse, your crime was committed with the traitor Geta, compounding your treason. The sentence is that set down since the time of the kings of Rome, burial alive.’
Marcellus stepped forward, and one by one, removed the veils and ripped the symbolic ribbons from their hair, as they shook and tears streamed down their face. The two uncondemned vestals then stepped forward and wrapped each of the condemned in a grey shroud such as would be worn by a corpse for burial. The young girl tried to cling onto Clodia Laeta, but an Urban Cohort legionary pulled her away roughly, which drew some shouts of disapproval from the crowd.
Clodia Laeta turned towards the throne, and said in a loud voice, ‘The Emperor knows that I am a virgin, I am pure.’
Caracalla remained expressionless and nodded to the guards. The vestals were led each into one of four waiting litters, and once they were seated, the curtains were drawn to hide them from view. They were then borne in a procession through the streets, followed by sombre priests, wailing relatives of the condemned and the ambivalent crowd, torn between horror at the treatment of these beautiful young women, anger at their crimes, and a prurient thrill.
They arrived at the Campus Sceleratus, the evil field, just within the city walls by the Colline Gate. Here there was a raised mound under which a small underground vault had been prepared. It was forbidden to shed the blood of a vestal, but it was also forbidden to bury anyone within the city walls, alive or dead. To bypass these two laws, the chamber contained enough food and water to survive a few days, together with a lamp, a table, and four couches, so they were not technically being buried, but placed in a habitable room.
When the litters came to a halt, Caracalla lifted his hands skywards and uttered a prayer to the Olympians. Then he stepped forward and pulled the curtain aside. He offered his hand to help Clodia Laeta down, and then repeated this with the other three litters. The vestals stood before the hole in the side of the mound, staring in horror at the ladder leading down into the darkness.
Two speculatores from the Praetorians stepped forward. Fortunately, Oclatinius had not suggested Silus for the role of executioner. He didn’t know what he would have done if he had been given that order.
One by one, the young women were taken to the ladder and led down, each taking a last look around at the light, catching the eyes of relatives, before descending into the dark.
The last to go was Cannutia Crescentina, a tall, willowy woman who was trembling like a leaf in a storm. At the top of the ladder, she suddenly stopped. The speculator with her urged her forward, but abruptly she ripped her arm from his light grasp and ran.
The crowd gasped as she fled, her shroud flowing behind her, bare feet slapping on the cobbled streets.
Marcellus saw Silus in the crowd, and caught his eye as the terrified vestal ran past him.
‘Silus,’ he yelled. ‘Get her.’
Though his heart ached for the poor girl, the instinct to obey was deeply ingrained, and he raced after her. The crowd cheered and jeered as he followed her down a narrow street, gaining on her quickly as she shoved a bemused street seller aside, then nearly tripped over a snuffling pig. Looking back and seeing Silus right behind her, she turned to the steps at the side of an insula leading to the upper floors and raced up them.
Silus took the steps two at a time, but the girl was young and light, and she remained just out of his reach until she got to the top and ran out onto the roof. When Silus made the top of the stairs, she was standing on the edge, a crowd gathered below, in full view of the ceremony at the Campus Sceleratus. From five storeys up, he could just make out the throne from where Caracalla was looking on, Marcellus by his side.
He reached out a hand tentatively.
‘Cannutia. Come down. You don’t have to do this.’
She backed away, shaking her head.
‘Please, this is not the way it is supposed to be. The gods will not be pleased.’
The words sounded hollow, even to him.
‘I don’t want to die,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘But I am not stupid. I know what suffering there is in starving to death. Better to end it quickly.’
‘Please, take my hand. Come back down. You will be with your sister priestesses.’
‘I’m innocent,’ she said. ‘I have never been touched by a man.’ She looked him straight in the eyes as tears flooded down her cheeks. ‘Do you believe me?’
‘I do believe you,’ he said, and he meant it. She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and stepped off the edge.
She made no noise as she fell, but a collective cry came from the crowd as she hit the crowd with a solid, final thump. Silus didn’t look over the edge. He walked slowly back down the stairs, and back to the Campus Sceleratus without even a glance at where the body lay in a spreading pool of blood.
When he reached the burial chamber, the executioners had already pulled up the ladder and were blocking up the entrance. The spectacle over, the crowd began to disperse, feeling strangely unfulfilled as they realised they were not actually witnessing the death of these women. Atius clapped Silus on the shoulders. ‘Drink?’ Silus shook his head slowly.
Marcellus came over to speak to Silus. ‘You were too slow. I hope the gods aren’t angry with you.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Silus. ‘I don’t believe it is me that has sinned here. Nor that poor girl.’
Marcellus’ eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond to the implied rebuke to the Emperor.
‘Well, I hope not. We are going to be seeing a lot more of each other for the foreseeable future.’
Silus frowned in confusion. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
But Marcellus had turned away, seeing a senator that he needed to talk to. He shouted and waved, walking over to him and putting an arm around the man’s shoulder as they disappeared into the crowd. Silus looked at the mound that concealed the terror and suffering of three petrified young women. He felt suddenly nauseous.
‘How is your hand?’ asked Caracalla.
‘It heals, slowly,’ said Domna. She was seated on a carved ebony chair with a flowing ivory inlay, a high back, and a silk cushion. It was a seat emphatically for one. Her hands were clasped demurely in her lap, and her gaze was downcast. Caracalla sat on a wooden bench, a seemly distance away from her. Several slaves stood nearby in attendance, ready to serve water, wine or delicacies at the snap of a finger.
‘You didn’t attend the execution.’
‘No.’
‘It was necessary.’
‘So you say.’
‘They were guilty, Domna.’
‘If that is what you believe, then who am I to disagree, Augustus?’
Caracalla let out an exasperated sigh.
‘What do you want from me, Domna?’ he exclaimed.
‘What could you possibly give me? Can you return what I have lost?’
Caracalla gave a scowl, his broad forehead deeply furrowed.
‘I have told you – you are not to mourn.’
‘No, Augustus. I have stoppered up the amphora containing my tears. I shall ensure it does not leak. I would not wish to suffer Cornificia’s fate at your hands.’
‘Cornificia took her own life.’
Domna merely regarded him steadily, an unfathomable sadness in her eyes.
‘Domna, I need you.’
She looked pointedly at the slaves within earshot, but he ignored them. He leaned forward and took her uninjured hand in his. She passively let him take it, limp in his grasp.
‘I need your counsel. I need your advice. I need your love. I need…’ Now he did look round at the slaves. ‘I need it all.’
‘I am yours to command, Augustus. Your loyal servant.’
He let the hand drop and sat back.
‘How long are you going to keep this up?’
‘How long will Geta remain dead?’ she snapped.
Caracalla jumped to his feet so suddenly the heavy bench tipped over backwards with a crash, startling the slaves.
‘Get out!’ he yelled at them. The slaves scurried away like kittens frightened by an exuberant hound.
‘Domna, I want things to be the way they were.’
Domna looked him straight in the eyes. He could see moisture welling in her bottom lids, close to overflowing, but remaining contained. ‘So do I, Antoninus. With all my being. But time does not run backwards.’
He got down on his knees before her. ‘What can I do?’
Domna let out a breath like a whisper of wind. She reached out and touched his cheek, stroked the curled beard. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
Caracalla’s head dropped. After a moment he stood, and turned his back on her.
‘There is still much blood to be shed. And when it is done, I will leave Rome to campaign against the Germans. I hope…’ he trailed off, his voice thickening. Then he simply said, ‘I’m sorry, Domna.’ And without turning back to see the tears finally overflow, he left her chamber.
‘He leaves Rome soon.’
‘For where?’
‘Numidia.’
Festus watched a drunkard totter past, lean against the wall to vomit copiously, then stagger on. The moon was gibbous, nearly full, so the arch they sat beneath cast an eerie shadow against a silvery background.
‘To deal with the unrest, I suppose.’
‘You are well informed.’ It wasn’t a question.
Festus turned to look into the eyes of the hooded figure by his side.
‘This changes things,’ he said.
‘Only in terms of timings. Will you be ready?’
‘Of course.’
‘You understand that for me, the stakes could not be higher?’
‘That goes without saying.’
A nod of the head beneath the hood. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Festus watched the figure depart down the dark street and felt a frisson of excitement. Oh Oclatinius. The game is on.
‘You’re going to Numidia,’ Oclatinius said.
‘Where’s Numidia?’ asked Atius.
‘Africa,’ said Oclatinius. Atius still looked blank.
‘Keep going south until you hit the sea,’ said Silus. ‘Then keep going some more.’
‘Well why didn’t you say that?’
Silus wouldn’t confess that he was a little hazy about Numidia’s exact location himself, but he knew it was a long way from Rome, and as far as he was concerned, the further the better.
‘Why are we being sent there, sir?’ he asked.
‘You are to accompany Marcellus and his family. He is going to take over as governor.’
‘We are going to be bodyguards?’ asked Atius.
‘More like dogsbodies,’ said Oclatinius. ‘You will be under his command, though of course you will continue to report back to me. But I will still be in Rome, so you will also have to act with some autonomy, as you see fit. I’m putting faith in you both – I hope you understand that.’
‘Yes, sir. But you haven’t really explained why we are being sent.’
‘There is unrest in the province, and the current governor, Quintus Cornelius Valens, is planning a revolt. If that happens, he could threaten Rome directly, or take Egypt and starve it. Marcellus is to replace him and restore order. Your job is to support him in any way necessary. Up to and including assassinating the current governor.’
Silus nodded. ‘More of the same, then,’ he said sourly.
‘No, Silus. Very different. This man is a threat to the security and safety of Rome, and a traitor. He must be dealt with. And Marcellus is a good man. You are to protect him. He will be travelling with his family, too, so their safety will also be your responsibility.’
‘Yes, sir. But why us?’
‘Firstly, because you are good, and I trust you both for this vital mission. Secondly, you expressed a desire to get away from Rome. And thirdly, because your lives may be in danger if you stay.’
‘Festus?’ asked Silus.
Oclatinius frowned. ‘I have no evidence of that. But you have angered and disappointed a lot of people in a short space of time. Let’s call it a precaution, while things settle down.’
‘There is one other thing. You will sail first to Syracuse. There, Marcellus intends to spend a few days meeting with the Governor of Sicily and other officials. That will give you time for a side trip.’
‘A side trip where?’ asked Silus, genuinely confused.
Oclatinius looked exasperated. ‘Lipari! Tituria!’
A broad smile broke across Silus’ face, and he felt a sudden lightness like he had not felt for months, or longer.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He grabbed Oclatinius’ hand and shook it firmly. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘You depart in two days. Take this Imperial signet ring, in case you need some authority.’
He handed Silus a gold ring with an engraving of Caracalla in profile. Silus placed it on his finger, deciding it was the safest place for something of such high value.
‘Get yourselves ready,’ continued Oclatinius. ‘Silus, make sure Apicula has enough money to keep herself and your apartment. Atius, say your goodbyes to whichever barmen and whores are going to miss you. Good luck. Now get out.’