Silus had decided he didn’t like standing in Oclatinius’ office. He reported there twice daily with Daya and Atius, usually to get a nod and a quick dismissal, or if he was lucky, some minor surveillance operation. If he was unlucky, Oclatinius was in a bad mood, such as today, which made it all the more difficult to pass on the message the young boy had given him. But there was no benefit in keeping it to himself, and for all his harshness, Oclatinius was wise and experienced, and would know what to do.
Right now, the old spymaster was ignoring the three Arcani before him, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shaking his head while he read from a wax tablet.
‘Cilo, you idiot,’ he muttered. ‘What are you playing at? This will have consequences.’
Silus remained at attention, correctly surmising that Oclatinius was talking to himself and would not welcome interruption. Atius of course had no understanding of a rhetorical question.
‘Maybe if you gave us some details about what the man has done, we could speculate for you, sir,’ he said.
‘By Venus’ tits, will you just keep your mouth shut for once, you dumb cunt!’
That shocked even Atius into silence. Oclatinius roared and bellowed but it was all bluster, and Silus had never seen him lose control.
Oclatinius shook his head. ‘Well, the Emperor’s response to that is for other people to attempt to moderate. Silus, you asked for an urgent meeting. It’s late. What do you want?’
The other two Arcani looked at Silus curiously. He hadn’t yet told them about the messenger, or why he wanted this meeting. He wasn’t sure how this made him look, in their eyes or the eyes of the spymaster.
‘Well,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Spit it out.’ He had been mainly fulsome in his praise of how they had dispatched Euprepes. Silus had been careful to give Atius his due for his diversion, and Daya hers for saving him. Oclatinius had been critical that he had needed saving at all, blaming bad intelligence work by Silus. It was a little unfair given the time they had been allotted, but that didn’t make it any less true. Still, he hoped he had enough credit with his boss to soften the impact of his next statement.
‘Someone knows I killed the charioteer.’
Oclatinius went quiet. Silus hated it when he did that. It meant he was in trouble.
‘Your head was covered, yes?’ said Oclatinius.
Silus confirmed it was.
‘And your hood remained up the whole time. Even during the chase?’
‘One man saw me, but he could not know my name. He would not be able to give my identity to anyone else unless he saw me again.’
Oclatinius thought for a moment. ‘One of Geta’s spies, then. They must have been following you. Festus is behind this, for sure.’
‘Festus? The bedchamber fellow? What has he got to do with anything?’
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Leave him to me.’
‘Is it a problem, sir?’
‘I don’t know yet. Time will tell.’
The door to Oclatinius’ office flew open, and Caracalla strode in.
Oclatinius jumped to his feet. ‘Augustus! What brings you here at such an hour?’
‘I need some people dead. Right now.’ The Emperor’s face was full of fury and something else. Fear?
‘Of course, Augustus. Name them.’
‘Titurius.’
Oclatinius nodded, a little surprised. ‘I thought you were going to say another name. Has Titurius declared for Geta? I hadn’t heard. I will have words with my informer.’
‘No, he hasn’t. At least, not yet. I don’t know.’
Caracalla seemed distracted, anxious.
‘You said some people, Augustus. Who else?’
‘His entire familia.’
There was a pause. ‘I see.’
‘Everyone in that house. His wife. His son. His daughter. All the slaves too.’
Silus risked a glance at Daya. Her face was impassive. Atius looked troubled, but he knew that with his broken hand, he would be playing no part in this slaughter.
‘Would it be helpful to know why, Augustus? I can dismiss my Arcani if you wish to tell me privately.’
‘One of them… saw something they shouldn’t. It only just happened, so they shouldn’t have had time to pass on what they saw to anyone outside the household. Make sure everyone inside that house dies, and do it now.’
‘Augustus, is it not so that the Empress and her attendants are staying at Titurius’ domus this night?’
‘They have returned to the palace. She informed her hosts that she was unable to sleep in the bed they had provided, and has left.’
‘So the Empress concurs with this action?’
Caracalla’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would the Empress’ approval be required?’
‘Oh, of course, it isn’t, Augustus,’ said Oclatinius quickly. ‘I just know how much you value her counsel.’
‘I instructed the Empress to leave Titurius’ house. She does not know why.’
‘There will be some suspicion around the fact that you and the Empress have both excused yourselves when you were expected to stay. Do you have any concerns about who people believe are responsible for this?’
‘No, I don’t care what people think!’ Caracalla clenched his fists, breathed hard through gritted teeth, and slowly regained control of himself. ‘Can we make it look like an accident?’
‘Four family members and ten slaves? Not easily.’
‘Burn it down,’ said Daya.
Oclatinius and Caracalla turned to look at her, as if they had both forgotten the presence of the Arcani.
‘Daya,’ said Oclatinius, a warning in his voice. ‘You are speaking to the Emperor.’
‘Apologies, Augustus. I merely wanted to point out that destruction of the house and its contents will make it hard to ascertain the cause of death of its occupants, and will at least make it plausible that their deaths were an accident.’
‘Get it done,’ snapped Caracalla and swept out.
Oclatinius stood to attention until he had left, then his shoulders slumped and he let out a long breath.
‘Well, Daya, Silus. You heard our Emperor. Do you know which one is Titurius’ domus?’
‘I do,’ said Daya. ‘I visited with my master when he went there on business, when I was a slave.’
‘You know the layout of the house?’
‘Some,’ said Daya.
Oclatinius considered. ‘You know I normally expect my Arcani to do their own intelligence work, but there is no time for that, given the urgency of the mission.’ He gave the Arcani a detailed account of the floorplan. ‘There are four family members, Titurius, his wife Autronia, his son Quintus and his daughter Tituria. Besides that, there are two porters, one of whom will be awake, four kitchen slaves, three cleaning slaves and a steward. There must be no survivors. And make sure the place burns well. Any questions?’
None that Oclatinius would answer, Silus thought. ‘No, sir.’
‘Silus, Daya, go and report back to me as soon as it is done. Atius.’ He looked at the big Arcanus’ broken hand and shook his head. ‘Just go home.’
The Esquiline Hill was quiet. It was the opposite side of Rome to the Tiber, where much of the trade arrived in the city, and was mainly a high-class residential district, with well-tended public gardens and baths, as well as the fine houses of the rich. The vigiles patrolled occasionally, looking out for fires and people up to no good, but as they were far more likely to find both these problems in the centre of the city amongst the narrow streets and insulae, they were seldom seen.
There were two main ways into a domus in Rome. The frontage of the house facing the street had a narrow doorway, leading to a vestibule and then the atrium. Either side of the front door were shops, using the valuable street frontage to make money. In the case of Titurius’ house, the shops either side were a jeweller and a perfumier. Both were shut up tight, but they did not connect to the domus in any case.
The door to Titurius’ domus was thick wood with metal crossbars that would put up a good resistance to a strong man with an axe. It would be impossible to enter quietly that way.
The other entry point was the wall of the peristylium, climbing into the open-roofed enclosed garden, and Daya led Silus to a street that ran along the back of Titurius’ domus. The wall was smooth, stuccoed, and ten feet high, but Daya was light and agile. She found handholds and footholds in cracks, and shinned up the wall like a monkey. Once she was on the roof, she dropped a rope down for Silus, and he scaled the wall, walking up it as he hauled himself upwards.
They paused on the tiled roof for a moment, looking down into the garden, confirming it was empty, then dropped silently down off the roofed colonnade. The peristylium had a number of rooms leading off it – kitchens, storerooms and some small bedrooms for the slaves. Silus and Daya moved through the shadows cast by a half-moon and slipped into the first bedroom. Two female slaves were sleeping together on a straw mattress, covered by a single sheet. The two assassins drew their knives, and in perfect synchrony clamped their hands over the slaves’ mouths and slit their throats.
They repeated this twice more, with two male slaves in the next bedroom, and two more female slaves in the one after that. Silus tried to remain dispassionate about these brutal murders of innocents, but his heart was racing, from the fear of being caught, of waking the household, and at the guilt for his actions. Daya seemed to have no such compunction, brutally efficient as always.
The next small bedroom held an older man, and his mattress was feather instead of straw. Silus presumed this was the steward. He had his arms around a young woman, another of the household slaves, he presumed. In moments, they were dead too.
That left just the two porters and the family. They approached the main part of the house.
Tituria swung her legs out of her bed, and walked to her bedroom door, clutching her doll in her hands. She hesitated, then opened the door and padded out. She wore a short wool tunic, but her feet were bare, and the floor tiles were cold on her soles. She passed her brother’s door, paused to hear his deep breathing, then continued on to her parents’ bedroom.
She heard the sound of her mother crying, and unable to break her lifetime’s habit, she opened the door a crack and peered through with one eye, even as a voice at the back of her mind reminded her how much trouble her curiosity had created for her this night.
‘I don’t understand,’ sobbed Autronia. ‘What did I do wrong?’
‘Nothing, dearest,’ said Titurius, putting his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s politics, I’m sure.’
‘The Empress said the bed was uncomfortable. That mattress was stuffed with goose down! And why did the Emperor leave? Did the food make him ill?’
‘I don’t know. I think Cilo upset the Augustus quite markedly. Maybe they left because of his speech at dinner.’
‘But that wasn’t our fault.’
‘Well, it was a little.’
‘What do you mean?’
Tituria’s father looked sheepish. ‘Cilo asked me to invite both him and the Emperor, so that he could plead for reconciliation between Antoninus and his brother.’
‘You knew?’ gasped Autronia. ‘This disaster was planned?’
‘I had to, my love. My duty is to Rome. I was trying to avoid a civil war.’
‘And have you?’
Titurius looked glum. ‘I doubt it. Now, I think it’s just best to keep our heads down, and hope the storm blows out above us.’
Tituria pushed the door open wide, and her mother and father looked up at her, surprised.
‘What is it, darling?’ said Autronia. ‘Bad dream?’
Tituria pressed the rag doll to her mouth, and shook her head, eyes wide and brimming with tears.
‘What then? What has upset you?’
‘I’ve been bad.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing awful, darling.’
‘Why don’t you go back to bed, and cuddle your dolly, and we can talk about it in the morning.’
‘I went into the Emperor’s bedroom.’
Autronia and Titurius went quiet.
‘You did what?’ asked Titurius, voice low.
‘I wanted to see what you had done to it, Mother, so I sneaked in while you were all at dinner.’
‘Did the Emperor see you?’
Tituria nodded, not daring to speak.
‘He came in and found you there?’
She shook her head, swallowed. ‘I hid under the bed when he came in.’
Titurius knelt in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
‘I stayed quiet, and he didn’t notice me. Then someone else came in.’
‘Who?’
‘It was the Empress. The Augusta.’
Autronia’s hand flew to her mouth. Titurius’ face was as white as a freshly fulled toga. ‘Go on.’
‘They got on the bed together, and they… did things.’ Now the words came out in a rush. ‘I could hear them, and the bed rocked a lot. Then they stopped. And I was going to wait until they fell asleep so I could escape, but then I sneezed, and the Emperor saw me, and I ran, and he chased me, but the Empress told him to stop, and I ran to my room, but I wanted to tell you, Father, because you always know what to do, and I’m so sorry…’
She dissolved into tears, and Titurius grabbed her and held her tight. But only for a short moment. He pushed her away, held her by the shoulders at arm’s length, looked into her eyes sternly. ‘It was an accident, darling, I understand that. But we are going to have to leave Rome now. Tonight. Go to your room and get what you need for a journey. Only absolute essentials, clothes, hairbrush, dolly. Autronia, you start doing the same. I’m going to send the porter to Geta for help. If Antoninus is after us, Geta is the only person in Rome we can turn to. Go now, Tituria, quickly.’
Tituria fled to her room, a feeling of doom pressing down on her. She pulled out a couple of dresses, a practical tunic, a couple of pieces of jewellery and some pots of make-up. She looked around for her hairbrush, then remembered she had left it on her father’s desk in his study. She knew that they were in a hurry, and it was all her fault, but she was sure she had time to fetch it. She ran lightly, still barefoot, still clutching her doll, to the study, and looked around in the gloom for a moment. She spotted it on the edge of the desk when she heard voices approaching.
Her father had instilled a terrible dread into her, and her immediate thought was that it was murderers come to kill them all. She rationalised that it was stupid, that it was probably a couple of the slaves, but she decided to err on the side of caution, and she nimbly squeezed herself into the vase she had used in the past as a hide to spy on her father.
She immediately identified the voices as her father and the night porter. She thought about revealing her presence, but she decided she was in enough trouble already without her father finding her hiding away yet again. She was ready to go; she could wait until they left, grab the hairbrush, and then fetch her other belongings that she had got ready without holding anyone up.
‘Take this message directly to the Imperial palace on the Palatine,’ her father said, and she heard him scuffling on the desk for his wax tablet and a stylus. ‘Make sure you go to the Emperor Geta’s wing, not the Emperor Antoninus’. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, master,’ said the porter.
‘Put it in the hands of Geta’s personal guard. No one else.’
‘Yes, master.’
There was a pause as Titurius scratched out a message, then handed it to the porter. Then he gave a sudden gasp, and Tituria heard the tablet fall to the floor.
‘Who are you?’ asked Titurius, voice full of fear.
They decided to leave the family until last – they were the least threat. So they bypassed the bedrooms at the main part of the house which were near the triclinium and tablinum, and went straight for the rooms off the atrium. It was not hard to find the off-duty porter. He was snoring as loud as a thunderstorm. He did not stir when Silus slipped into his room, and thrust the dagger through his heart. The sleeping doorkeeper never even woke.
They circled round the atrium in opposite directions, checking rooms, until they converged by the front door.
‘Where’s the other porter?’ hissed Daya.
The night porter should have been sitting in the vestibule just off the atrium, guarding the front entrance. It would not have been surprising to find him dozy or even asleep. The chances of him being required to perform his duties as a nightwatchman or doorman were remote in such a nice area, in a well-protected house, at that time. But not to be there at all – that was odd.
‘Maybe he is having a piss,’ suggested Silus.
‘Well, the front door isn’t open, so he hasn’t gone out that way. And look, there is a chamber pot, so he doesn’t have to leave his post.’
‘Let’s head back into the main house. He must be there.’
They retraced their steps back through the atrium, and heard sounds from the main bedroom, drawers being opened and closed hurriedly. Silus approached the half-open door and glanced in.
‘It’s the wife,’ he whispered to Daya.
‘I can hear someone asleep in the bedroom next door,’ she said. ‘I think it’s the son.’
‘I’ll deal with the wife, you take the son, meet you back here.’
Daya nodded and eased herself into the adjacent bedroom. Silus entered the room before him.
Autronia had her back to him. She was letting out sobs and muttering to herself as she pulled clothes out of a drawer and threw them over her shoulder.
‘Titurius, what have you done? What have you done? Letting that man into our house. Letting him threaten our family. And Tituria, why couldn’t you keep your nose out of everyone else’s business for once in your life.’
Silus approached silently, dagger drawn. He was within a foot of her and ready to strike when she turned. The wig she had in her hand dropped to the floor. Her shoulders sagged in acceptance.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Not my children.’
Silus took a quick step forward, pushed her backwards over her dressing table, hand over her mouth, and thrust his dagger expertly through her ribs into her heart. He held her, looking into her terrified eyes, until she was dead. Then he eased her to the floor, and stepped back outside.
Daya was already there, wiping the blood from her dagger.
‘The boy’s dead,’ she said.
‘And the wife,’ he replied.
‘Just the porter, the father and the girl to go.’
Voices reached them from the tablinum. Silus nodded towards it, and together they crept to the study. Inside, they could see the father, Titurius, scribbling on a wax tablet.
‘Where’s the girl?’ hissed Daya.
‘Probably hiding,’ whispered Silus. ‘We finish these two, then we find her, burn this place to the ground and get out of here. I’ll tell you something, Daya, I’m getting tired of this shit.’
‘Keep your focus. Get the mission done. If you want a change of career, you can talk to the boss about it after.’
He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and for a moment his heart skipped a beat. Then he gripped his knife tight, and stepped into the tablinum.
Titurius and the porter turned together as they entered, and Titurius let the tablet fall to the floor with a clatter that was deafening in the deathly quiet of the domus.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, tremulous. The Arcani did not answer. Blades drawn, they advanced on the two men.
The porter, a large, dark-skinned Numidian, let out a roar and charged at Daya, who was nearest him. She took a step back, sat down hard with her foot up into the porter’s midriff, and tossed him over her head. He clattered across the floor, and Daya sprang to her feet, whipped around and advanced on him as he struggled to regain his feet.
Silus moved forwards, blade out and low. Titurius reached behind him onto the desk for a weapon of any sort. His fingers touched the stylus, grasped it. It was made of bronze, its point sharp. As Silus came within reach, Titurius whipped it round, stabbed it down hard towards Silus’ neck.
Silus reacted quickly, ducking and rotating his body to the side. The stylus stuck into the muscle in his upper arm. He grunted in pain, slashed out with his knife. Titurius jumped sideways, away from the desk, edging towards the door. Silus circled, keeping himself between his prey and the exit.
Behind him, Daya kicked the supine porter in the face. His head snapped back, hitting the floor and stunning him. Before he had a chance to shake it off, Daya was on him, straddling his chest, plunging her knife down into his neck repeatedly.
Titurius looked like a cornered animal, eyes darting around desperately for any escape, any help.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Spare my wife, my children. If I have wronged Antoninus or Geta, let the punishment fall on me alone.’
Daya, back on her feet, walked up beside Silus. Blood coated her blade.
‘I’m sorry, it’s too late for that,’ she said.
Titurius’ brow creased in anguish. ‘No,’ he whispered.
‘It’s time to finish this.’ She took a step forward, arm raised to strike the final blow. Her arm came down.
But Titurius was no fat, idle senator who had never known exercise. He practised regularly with the sword, spent time lifting weights in the gymnasium, sparred and boxed with trainers. As the blade descended, he ducked inside the arc, reached forward with both hands and grabbed Daya by the neck.
She brought her knife down again, but she no longer had the right angle, his firm forearms restricting the amount of motion she could achieve. She made small ineffectual stabs as she tried to gasp air. Silus moved to intervene, but Daya’s back blocked him. He moved to go round the desk to attack Titurius from the other side, but before he got there, Daya found purchase with her feet. She drove Titurius backwards, and he crashed into a large vase, which toppled sideways and smashed on the floor. She continued the momentum, the skilled little fighter using her speed and her opponent’s own weight to drive him backwards. As his back thumped into the solid wall, his hands came away from Daya’s throat.
She thrust upwards.
Her wickedly sharp dagger sliced up through guts, into liver, slicing major vessels. Titurius clutched her as he bled out, dropping to his knees, then slumping face forward.
Daya stepped back, and the eyes of both the Arcani were drawn to the wreckage of the smashed vase.
Later, when Silus looked back on what happened in the next few moments, it was not a blur. His senses were heightened with excitement and fear, and he could remember every little detail. There was a smell of fresh blood in the air. Titurius’ last gasping breaths were the only sounds. The walls of the room were decorated with large abstract diamond patterns on a background of vibrant red. The floor was a fine mosaic of scenes of hunting, deer and boar, chased by men on horseback with spears. The smashed vase was terracotta, painted in the red-figure style of Ancient Greece with a black background, though it was no longer possible to make out the subject of the painting.
And sitting among the wreckage, a little girl was staring at her dying father with wide, terrified eyes.
It was Tituria, the last surviving member of Titurius’ family. But it was also Sergia, his daughter. It was Hortensia, Plautilla’s child. It was every little girl who had died in Caledonia of hunger or disease or the sword.
His heart stuttered in his chest. Time seemed to stop, and yet the moment was too brief for deliberation, for conscious rational thought. He looked at the little girl, and her danger bit deep into his soul, bringing out a father’s instinct to protect, no matter what the cost.
Daya took a single step forward with her knife raised.
‘No!’ cried Silus, and as the knife descended towards the little girl’s exposed neck, he threw himself at Daya.
His superior weight and the surprise of his attack knocked her off her feet, and she sprawled forward, face down. She was instantly on her feet, facing him, dagger pointing at his guts. Her eyes blazed with fury.
‘Wait,’ said Silus, blade in his right hand pointing down, left hand extended, palm up.
‘Traitor,’ she hissed, and lunged at him. He danced back as she swung, once, twice, rapidly reversing across the small room until his back was to the far wall. She feinted, thrust, and this time he defended himself, fending her knife away with his own.
‘Stop this. Please.’
His chest felt like there was a stone slab pressing down on it, and it was not fear or fatigue but anguish.
‘Don’t make me do this.’
‘She must die. There must be no survivors.’
Daya thrust once more, and this time, he let the blade pass by his body, before trapping her wrist against his side with a strong forearm. With the fist that clutched the knife, he punched her hard in the face, snapping her head back, stunning her. She staggered back two steps, blood pouring from her nose.
She wiped the flow away with the back of her hand, and stared at him with a hatred he had never seen, even from Maglorix. Tears sprang to his eyes as he realised what he must do.
She flew at him like an enraged cat. Whether it was the blow that had stunned her, or she had lost control in her anger, she fought with none of the skill which she usually displayed. She screamed as she flailed with knife and fist and nails. Silus blocked and parried each attack, and although none of her attempts hurt him, he could feel himself tiring, while she showed no sign of slowing.
He took a deep breath, grabbed her knife wrist, pulled her close to him and thrust the blade into her chest.
She was instantly still. Her hand opened and her weapon clattered to the ground. She looked him straight in the eyes and he saw no pain or fear there, only incomprehension and betrayal.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, his vision misty. ‘I couldn’t. Not another…’
She said nothing as she went limp in his arms. He didn’t let go, held her body against him, felt the warmth of her blood spreading from the mortal wound in her chest and seeping into his tunic, against his skin. Her head flopped backwards, eyes still open, staring at the ceiling. He kissed her once, lightly, on the lips, almost breaking down as he did so. Then he lowered her gently to the ground, and laid her on her back.
She was still beautiful in death, the only differences from life the red blossom on her chest and the pallor of her skin. He bowed his head over her and cried silently, letting the tears drip onto her bloody tunic. What had he done? He had killed his colleague, friend, someone he… He couldn’t bring himself to express his feelings for her, even inside his own mind. But what were the other consequences? He had betrayed Oclatinius, Atius. Caracalla.
Fear suddenly shot through him. This would be the end of him. He would be executed without trial and without question when the Emperor was informed what he had done. He didn’t know why every member of the household needed to die, but Caracalla had been completely explicit. And Oclatinius would not tolerate the murder of one of his own, by one of his own.
He stood slowly, turned to where the little girl was huddled on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chin, hugging her shins. She was of course the only witness to what he had done. He could still complete his mission. He could kill the girl, tell them Daya had died in the raid. He would be commended by Oclatinius and Caracalla. He would be rewarded. He would be spared.
‘Are you the man my father sent for to protect us?’ The girl’s voice was tiny, but clear in the silence. She was not crying, too shocked probably right now. What did she mean? Then Silus realised that she had not seen him kill anyone apart from Daya. All she had witnessed was him defending her, and killing the assassin who had murdered her father.
She thought he was her rescuer.
Silus had tried to save his daughter, and had failed. He had stood by while Hortensia died. He would not let it happen again.
He put out a hand to her. She didn’t move. He stepped towards her, squatted down. He must look a terrifying sight, a rough stranger in her house, covered in blood, amongst all this slaughter. But right then, he was all she had. He took her hand, and helped her to her feet. Her whole body was shaking.
Amongst the debris of the broken pottery was a rag doll. Silus bent down and picked it up, brushed the dust and shards off it as best he could, and handed it to the girl. She clutched it tightly.
‘What is she called?’
‘Helen,’ she said.
‘Beautiful. And what is your name?’
‘Tituria.’
‘I’m Silus. Now listen. I am going to get you out of here. But I need to take care of some things. I’m going to carry you to the atrium and leave you there for a few moments. I want you to close your eyes until I say it’s fine to open them, understand?’
She nodded, and he picked her up, one arm beneath her. She was a little older than Sergia, a little heavier, though not by much. She put her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his chest as he walked out of the tablinum, past the bedrooms containing the corpses of her mother and brother, past the room with the sleeping porter, into the luxurious atrium, where her father would have conducted much of his public business. He sat her on a marble bench and said, ‘You can open your eyes now.’
She did as she was told, staring blankly at the impluvium full of ornamental fish. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Do not move.’ He left her there, and went back into the domus.
Working quickly, he dragged all the bodies into the tablinum. That meant moving one porter, the mother and son, and eight other slaves, one at a time. It was hard work, but he was well-conditioned from his training, and soon he had the bodies piled up together.
Although the building was constructed partly in stone, as expected for a wealthy senator’s house, there was still plenty of wood and other flammable material to make a fire. He pulled down some tapestries, gathered some wooden furniture and threw some scrolls into a pile around the bodies. Then he collected as many oil lamps as he could find and emptied their contents onto the tapestries. Finally, he took a lit lamp and applied the flame.
It might look suspicious that all the occupants of the house were in a single room, although maybe it could be argued that they had all fled to the one room as the conflagration took hold. He wasn’t sure how good the vigiles were at reconstructing the causes of a fire, or even whether they cared. But the important thing was that all the bodies were burnt sufficiently to conceal the causes of their deaths, and give a plausible alternative explanation.
The flame spread across the cloth tapestries, the oil from the lamps accelerating the process. Daya’s face was exposed, and he watched for a moment as the fire advanced on her, then took her. He stepped back as the heat became more intense, and knocked something with his heel. He bent down and picked up a wax tablet, hinged in a double-leaved diptych style. It was the tablet that Titurius had dropped when the Arcani had first entered the room. He looked at the markings on the wax, scribbles that were hard to make out in the flickering firelight. He closed the leaves and tucked it into his belt. He gave one last look towards the fire consuming Daya, and all the others that she and he had killed that night. Then he went quickly back to the atrium, and to Tituria.
The young girl was sitting on the bench, holding Helen tight, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards.
‘Come on,’ he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. ‘It’s time to go.’
He held out his hand and she took it without resistance. He led her to the front door, unbarred it and pushed it open. It was long past midnight, and the street was as quiet as it ever got. He looked behind him, and saw smoke billowing out towards the atrium. The fire had caught well, and should spread beyond the tablinum, making it hard to see where it had started or what had caused it. Other nearby buildings might even catch, although it wouldn’t be as dangerous as a fire in the poorer districts where the houses were closely packed and shoddily constructed with more flammable materials.
The vigiles would be alerted soon, either a patrol spotting the fire themselves, or being fetched by alarmed neighbours. They needed to be a long way away by then. He picked Tituria up, and she sat on his hip with her legs around his waist, one arm around his neck. He put his head down and walked fast, descending the streets down the Esquiline Hill.
As they moved into the centre of the city the streets became busier. Rome never truly slept. Wheeled carts, banned during the daylight hours, rattled along the cobbles, carters and merchants shouting warnings and curses at each other. Silus kept his head down when patrols of vigiles passed, though he doubted he was of interest to them. A glow developed on the horizon, the merest suggestion of dawn, which was still a couple of hours away. At least, that was what Silus presumed. He had been walking west away from the Esquiline, so he wondered if it was actually a spreading fire. He hoped not. There would be an investigation if the fire turned into an out-of-control conflagration, and the penalty for arson was, appropriately, burning alive.
He felt a strange relief as he entered the narrow, winding, maze-like streets of the Subura. He was a new resident, and yet it felt like a safe haven. With only a couple of wrong turns, he found his way to his apartment. Tituria had been quiescent for the whole journey, not asleep but silent, but she was becoming quite a burden, and carrying her up the flights of stairs to the top floor was exhausting. He managed it without stopping, though, and when he reached his own apartment, he kicked the door three times to rouse Apicula.
Issa started yapping at the disturbance, and after a few moments, Apicula opened the door. If she was surprised to see Silus carrying a young child into the apartment, she said nothing to show it. Silus laid the girl down on his mattress, and Apicula came over with a cup of watered wine and helping Tituria sit up, held it to her lips.
Tituria swallowed, coughed, then swallowed again. She looked from Apicula to Silus, her eyes full of questions, but unable to formulate them in her fear and shock and grief. Issa came over to her cautiously, sniffed her hand, then cuddled up to her, nestling under her arm. Tituria looked down at the little dog and stroked her head absently.
Silus went to the door and barred it, then slumped down on the floor, his back against the wall. The wax tablet that he had shoved into his belt dug into his belly, so he pulled it out and tossed it to one side. It came to rest beneath the table.
He was aware that he smelt of smoke, that he was covered in blood, mainly other people’s, much of it in fact Daya’s. And that he had just appeared at his apartment in the early hours of the morning with a strange child.
He had not had much time to have any long chats with Apicula, if that was what one did with slaves. He wasn’t sure – he had never been able to afford one before. But he understood that a slave’s loyalty to their master was absolute, that the master held the power of life and death over them, and besides this, he felt deep down that Apicula was someone he could trust.
So he spoke to her in a low voice, telling her as much as he thought was necessary.
‘The child is in danger. She must be kept hidden. You are to tell no one she is here. She is not to leave this apartment, and neither are you unless I am here to watch her. You are to admit no visitors. Not even Atius. You are to look after her as if she were your own.’
That last caused a flash of pain to cross Apicula’s face, and he wondered if she had children of her own. As a prostitute, there were precautions that could be taken, but it was hard to avoid pregnancy completely. But a brothel had no use for children, and they were likely to have been sold at an early age. Her children, if she had been fertile, and any had survived the dangerous early years, could be anywhere in the Empire right now.
This wasn’t the time to ask about her past, though.
‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, master. I will care for the child.’
‘Sit with her now. She has experienced horror tonight.’
‘Yes, master.’
Apicula settled herself beside Tituria and stroked her hair. The little girl was staring into space, her doll clutched under one arm, Issa snuggled under the other. Her shallow, panicky breathing began to calm, and though she fought it, exhaustion overcame her, and she slept.
Silus knew he had to report to Oclatinius. He also knew he would have to lie convincingly to the wily spymaster, and he wasn’t sure how. He mentally prepared himself to leave. But first he would close his eyes, just for a few moments. His head sank down onto his chest.