Silus decided he was really coming to hate Oclatinius’ office. He had woken with a start when the light of dawn broke through the small window in his apartment. Oclatinius would be wondering where he was, might even send someone to find him.
Tituria had been fast asleep. Apicula, lying on the hard, cold floorboards, dozed lightly beside her. He had touched his slave’s shoulder to wake her, put a finger to his lips, and indicated that she should bar the door behind him. He had then hurried out and rushed to see Oclatinius, stopping only to urinate in a public toilet.
Atius was waiting for him outside when he arrived.
‘What happened, Silus?’ he asked urgently. ‘Where have you been? Where’s Daya? Oclatinius is furious.’
‘Silus, is that you?’ came a voice from within the office. ‘Get in here.’
Silus took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then entered, Atius at his back.
‘Report,’ snapped Oclatinius. Then his eyes narrowed, looking beyond Silus through the open door into the corridor behind. ‘Where is Daya?’
Silus bowed his head. ‘Sir, I’m sorry to report—’
‘Atius,’ interrupted Oclatinius. ‘Shut the door.’ Atius did as he was told. ‘Continue.’
‘I’m sorry to say that Daya lost her life in the action last night.’
Oclatinius pressed his fingertips together, touched them to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing. Silus wasn’t sure whether to carry on with his report.
Oclatinius wiped one hand over his face, ending the motion with his palm pressed to his mouth. Then he said, ‘Start at the beginning.’
Silus related the mission honestly, all the way to the fight with Titurius. Oclatinius interrupted intermittently to ask for details, which Silus easily supplied. It was when he got to the point where Daya faced Titurius that he diverged from the truth. He had rehearsed the story in his mind on the hurried walk over from his apartment, had examined it for holes, and thought it was watertight. But Oclatinius was an expert. Would he accept Silus’ version of what happened?
‘Daya underestimated him. She thought he was unarmed and helpless, but he was stronger and faster than she realised. When she stepped forward to finish him, Titurius grabbed the blade and turned it on her. I couldn’t get there in time. I rushed around the desk and cut his throat, but it was too late for Daya. She died in my arms.’
That much was true, and Silus’ eyes blurred with tears again as guilt and grief accentuated by exhaustion threatened to overcome him.
Oclatinius looked sceptical. ‘This senator managed to disarm her. Disarm Daya?’
‘As I said, she underestimated him. She was complacent.’
Oclatinius looked deeply into his eyes, and Silus held the gaze, willing himself not to break down, not to tell his superior everything. Not for himself. At that moment, he would have been happy to confess all, and take whatever punishment he was due. But that would mean the end of the little girl. And Daya’s death would have been for nothing.
‘Fine,’ said Oclatinius. ‘You have accounted for everyone except for Tituria, the child.’
‘She had been hiding in a large vase in the tablinum during the fight. When I killed Titurius, he crashed into the vase and smashed it, and I found her.’ The best lies were as close to the truth as possible. Oclatinius had taught him that.
‘And? Is she dead?’
‘Yes, sir,’ lied Silus. ‘I stabbed her in the heart myself.’
‘That must have been difficult for you,’ said Oclatinius, though his tone held no pity.
‘It was.’
‘And then you burnt the domus. I understand the vigiles did not arrive before the whole house and two neighbouring houses were ablaze. They stopped a conflagration developing, but Titurius’ domus was razed to the ground. It’s still too hot for them to look through the rubble for bodies, and as the house collapsed, they are unlikely to be able to identify much about the remains. That was well done, Silus.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Why did you leave Daya there?’
‘Sir?’
‘What if they find an extra body – it will arouse suspicion. Why didn’t you bring her to me for burial?’
Oclatinius’ voice was thick, and Silus realised that the spymaster had also been fond of the young assassin.
‘I reasoned that walking through the streets carrying a body that had clearly died a violent death might have aroused more suspicion than losing her in a jumble of bones which would likely never be properly identified after the fire and heat and collapse of the house had done their work.’
Oclatinius frowned. ‘Are you being sarcastic with me?’
‘No, sir,’ said Silus hastily. ‘Just letting you know my reasoning.’
Oclatinius nodded. He seemed satisfied, although of course the head of the Arcani was impossible to read with any certainty.
‘And where have you been since the mission finished?’
‘Sir, I’m sorry. I was fatigued. I meant to come straight to you, but I rested briefly, and fell asleep.’
‘That’s poor, Silus. I ordered you to report to me as soon as you were done.’
‘I know, sir. I apologise.’
‘Still. I can inform the Emperor that the mission was a success, despite the loss of an Arcanus?’
‘You can,’ said Silus and wondered what sort of retribution, from man or god, he was owed.
‘You did well,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Go and clean yourself up, and make a sacrifice to Daya’s shade.’
Silus nodded, suppressing a shiver at the thought of Daya’s restless ghost coming to visit and castigating him for his crime. He bowed his head, and left with Atius. Outside the office, Atius patted him gently on the back.
‘I’m sorry, friend. It sounded really hard. And I know you liked Daya.’
Silus squeezed Atius’ arm, not trusting himself to speak.
‘You look like shit. Let’s go back to your apartment. Apicula can clean you up, you can put on some fresh clothes, and I can have a drink while you get some rest.’
‘No!’ said Silus, and Atius looked surprised at the vehemence. ‘No, I really want to go to the baths. Clean this muck off me, soak myself, get a massage.’
Atius looked doubtful. ‘You have blood all over you.’
‘We can clean the worst off in a fountain before we go in. Come on, let’s go, and then let’s offer a libation to Daya and the other manes.’
‘I’ll offer a prayer to the Christos and his mother,’ said Atius. ‘Apart from that, I agree.’
He put his arm around Silus’ shoulder and they walked towards the nearest bathhouse.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, Augustus. The whole household.’
‘Including the girl?’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘And you don’t think they had time to tell anyone outside Tituria’s familia?’
‘I don’t see how, Augustus. The Arcani struck that night. I doubt they would have believed there would be such a swift response, nor have even considered the right course of action in that short time.’
Caracalla sat back and let out a breath. It was highly unfortunate that this action had been necessary. Domna had initially advised against it, but it didn’t take much to change her mind. The consequences of their affair being made public were unthinkable. It might even be worse if the secret was held privately, especially by his brother, for then he would be Geta’s hostage.
But it seemed the drastic action had been successful. The relief was almost ecstatic.
‘I’m sorry for the loss of your girl,’ he said. Oclatinius bowed his head in acknowledgement of the sympathy.
‘Augustus,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I have served you for many years and you have always considered my counsel in the past. Might I offer you some advice now?’
‘Speak.’
‘I don’t know what it was that the young girl saw that provoked this reaction. I believe it would have been of a private nature. And sufficiently damaging that a senator and his family had to die to keep it private.’
Caracalla had a suspicion that Oclatinius knew or strongly suspected exactly what the girl had witnessed. Oclatinius knew everything about everyone.
‘Go on,’ said Caracalla, but his voice was low, urging caution.
‘Perhaps that private activity should be carried out with more… discretion.’
Caracalla regarded him with a chilly glare.
Oclatinius swallowed but continued. ‘There are ways of arranging liaisons away from spying eyes and ears. I can assist if you wish. But those meetings must become less frequent.’
‘Must?’
‘The more often this private matter takes place, the greater the risk of discovery, Augustus.’
‘Did you just say your Emperor “must” do something?’ Caracalla’s voice was getting higher, louder.
‘Augustus, I would never suggest that you be compelled to do anything, of course. I was merely suggesting—’
‘How dare you, Oclatinius? I should have the Praetorian Guard come in here right now and—’
There was a loud knock at the door. Caracalla breathed fiercely through his nose, nostrils flaring. Then he shouted, ‘Enter!’
The Praetorian on guard duty opened the door, entered and saluted.
‘Augustus. The deputy urban prefect, Gaius Julius Asper, is here to see you as you commanded.’
‘Choose your words more carefully in future, Oclatinius,’ said Caracalla.
‘Yes, Augustus. I apologise for any offence.’
‘Send Asper in,’ Caracalla said to the guard.
Gaius Julius Asper was descended from nobles from Antioch and though he had been many years in Rome, including as a consul under Commodus, he still had the olive skin of his ancestry. He was approaching, but had not yet reached, old age, and had been around in politics long enough to have been a consul under Commodus. Now he acted as the deputy urban prefect under Cilo.
‘Augustus, how may I serve?’
‘Tell me about Cilo,’ said Caracalla.
‘Augustus? What in particular did you want to know?’
‘I know you are loyal to me, Asper. Oclatinius here has vouched for you. But we have concerns regarding the urban prefect. Where do his loyalties lie?’
Asper became guarded, seeming uncertain what answer Caracalla was looking for.
‘He is a dedicated servant of Rome, Augustus.’
‘And of Rome’s Emperor?’
‘Of course, Augustus.’
‘Which one?’
‘I think…’ Asper hesitated. He looked to Oclatinius for help, but the spymaster’s face was impassive. ‘I think he keeps a foot in each camp.’
‘I thought as much. He whines about peace and harmony, but really he doesn’t want to commit to either side, and risk backing the loser.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Cilo appears to be a man who genuinely wants the best for Rome.’
‘I am the best for Rome!’ snapped Caracalla.
‘Of course,’ said Oclatinius quickly.
‘I think Cilo needs a lesson in loyalty. Asper, you are dismissed. You too, Oclatinius.’
The two men bowed and left promptly.
Caracalla watched them go, thoughts in turmoil. It had been a close call with Titurius’ girl. Oclatinius was right, he would have to be more circumspect. At least as long as the Imperial throne was still disputed. Without Geta to destabilise him, to use his love for Domna to his advantage if he found out, then maybe it wasn’t so important. Maybe he could even marry her. Would Rome stand for that? Would Domna accept if he asked?
He stood up and paced. He had sacrificed a noble Roman family to protect his position and his relationship with Domna. He asked himself how much further he was prepared to go.
He knew the answer: as far as necessary.
Silus returned to his apartment feeling clean on the outside and filthy in his soul. Atius had been his usual chatty, light-hearted self, and had tried to cheer Silus up. When that failed, he had become serious, attempting to get Silus to open up to him about what happened. He had known that Silus was becoming attached to Daya, maybe before Silus had realised it himself, and understood how devastating it was that he had lost her – especially in a mission he was leading, where the blame and responsibility would fall on him.
Silus knew he had been sullen and uncommunicative, and it pained him to see the hurt in his friend’s expression at being shut out. They had bathed and one of the bath attendants had washed Silus’ tunic for a copper coin while he had a rub-down with oil and a strigil. But when Atius had suggested they get some lunch and a drink, Silus had pleaded exhaustion.
Atius, clearly worried, had again offered to take Silus back to his apartment, and suggested they eat and drink and dice there. He had looked confused and dejected when Silus had declined, and they had walked away with Atius watching him in puzzlement.
At the top of his stairs, he knocked on the door and called out Apicula’s name. He heard the door being unbarred, and it opened just enough to admit him, without showing the occupants of the apartment to prying eyes.
Apicula held a hairbrush, and Tituria sat on a stool, her back to her. The slave was running the brush gently through Tituria’s long hair, easing out the tangles. The young girl had Issa in her lap, and was stroking the old bitch’s head between the ears. She stopped the fussing and looked up when Silus entered. Issa protested about the interruption to her attention, and butted Tituria’s hand with her head. Tituria gave a half-smile and carried on stroking.
‘Apicula, take this purse and go and buy some supplies. Wine, bread, cheese, some honeyed pastries. Some ox liver for Issa. She can’t manage anything tougher with her old teeth.’ He looked at Tituria, dressed in a tunic of fine wool, but covered in grime and dust. ‘And buy a change of clothes for our young guest.’
Apicula gave one last stroke of the brush, patted the girl’s head, then took the money from Silus before leaving. Silus looked at the hairbrush and considered picking it up before thinking better of it. Instead, he poured himself a cup of water from a jug and sat on the floor on the far side of the room. Tituria watched him uncertainly, still subconsciously smoothing the little dog.
‘We haven’t introduced ourselves yet, have we?’ he said. He kept his voice quiet and gentle, the sort of tone he had used when telling Sergia bedtime stories. Calm and unthreatening. ‘I’m Silus. Your name is Tituria?’
She nodded cautiously.
‘This is my home,’ said Silus. ‘I’m sorry it isn’t what you are used to. But you are welcome here as long as is necessary.’
Tituria said nothing.
‘The little dog is called Issa.’
Tituria looked down, as if only just remembering she was holding the pet. ‘Issa,’ she repeated.
‘She is older than you, I would think,’ said Silus. ‘How old are you? Eight years?’
‘Nine.’
‘I had a daughter. She was younger than you.’
‘Did she die?’
‘She did.’
‘Is my father dead?’
Silus had no idea what he was supposed to say. Lie? The truth, or at least as much of it as he was prepared to reveal? He decided there was nothing to be gained from delaying her discovery of the awful facts.
‘He is.’
Silus watched for a reaction. Tituria said nothing, betrayed no emotion except an acceleration in the rhythm of her stroking. Then, not looking at Silus, she said, ‘Is my mother dead too?’
A memory of the matron pleading for the life of her children, just before his knife pierced her heart, flashed through his mind.
‘Yes.’
She breathed through an open mouth, her nose snotty and blocked. Her voice became even smaller, even quieter. ‘Quintus?’
Silus presumed that was the name of the brother. Now his own voice was thick with emotion.
‘Yes.’
He stared at the child, wondering why she didn’t cry, why she didn’t scream and beat her fists on his chest, and yell that she hated him. He felt as though he couldn’t stand what he had done to her, what Caracalla had ordered be done to her. That he had saved her life felt like scant comfort at that moment.
Of course, she believed he was her saviour. That he had come to their rescue, but arrived too late to save the rest of her family. Was that true? Had he really saved her, or just delayed the time when Caracalla discovered she still lived, and ended her life?
‘Why did that woman kill him?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’ That was true, beyond the obvious answer that she had been ordered to. Someone had seen something they shouldn’t? What? Who? Was it Tituria herself? He was desperate to ask, but if it had been her, then she would be the reason for the death of her entire family, and that wasn’t a burden he wanted this child to bear.
‘Do you know how to play knucklebones?’ he asked, looking for anything to distract her.
‘Father wouldn’t let me gamble. But Quintus and I played the game where you toss them in the air and catch them on the back of your hand.’
Silus knew the version. He had played it with Sergia. The throw and catch were repeated as many times as possible until they had all been dropped. He found his knucklebone set after a short search, as Apicula had tidied them away somewhere. They were old, their surfaces worn by time spent rubbing against each other in the same bag. One had tooth marks from when he had rescued it from Issa’s mouth after he had foolishly left her alone with them for the merest moment.
He sat on the floor and indicated that Tituria should join him. He took his turn first, tossing and catching the four bones until they had all fallen.
‘Six,’ he said. ‘That’s not bad, is it? Your turn.’
Tituria hesitated, then set Issa down. The little dog stared intently at the bones, licking her lips. Tituria picked up the bones and threw expertly, dropping the last on her eighth toss.
‘You’re good at this. I need to up my game.’ Silus picked the bones up and had another go.
The game required just enough concentration to be a distraction without being so complex that the miserable Tituria would give up easily. Every time it seemed that Tituria’s thoughts were wandering, Silus brought her attention back to the game, and this way they played on until Apicula returned with the supplies.
When she offered Tituria some bread and cheese, the girl looked up at her and said, ‘I’m not hungry.’ But when she offered her a honeyed sponge cake, Tituria took it with a timid ‘Thank you’ and put a small piece in her mouth. The sweetness was enough to overcome her lack of appetite and soon, one morsel at a time, she had finished the whole cake.
Apicula had bought some goat’s milk and she poured a cupful. Tituria took small sips from this while the slave brought out the clothes she had purchased. Although not as expensive as Tituria was surely used to, the little girl looked appreciative when Apicula passed her a light blue linen tunic with a woollen belt, and a matching palla to drape over her head and shoulders.
Apicula instructed Silus to turn his back, and he stared at the cracks in the wall while his slave helped Tituria out of her clothes of the previous day and into the new purchases. Apicula cleaned Tituria’s face with a damp cloth, and then told Silus he could turn back again.
Silus regarded the little girl standing before him, chin lowered, looking up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, and felt as though something inside him crumbled. His legs started to tremble, and he dropped to his knees and took her hand.
‘I’m so sorry, Tituria. So sorry for your loss. For… everything. But I swear to the gods, and to my daughter’s shade, that I will not let any harm come to you. You are safe. Do you understand?’
Tituria nodded. Then she turned and picked up Issa, and sat cross-legged on Silus’ mattress. He saw that the tears in Apicula’s eyes matched his own. He gave her a nod, and she pursed her lips and nodded back. Apicula didn’t know the circumstances of the girl’s bereavement, or her background, but Silus could tell that she would protect her as one of her own. He desperately hoped that between the two of them, it would be enough.
Silus met Atius near the Praetorian barracks, well away from the Subura, away from his apartment and Tituria. Sitting on chairs in front of the tavern on the street, they drank and diced, and watched the citizens go about their day.
‘I was drinking with a chap I met from the vigiles last night. They are all talking about the fire on the Esquiline.’
Silus sipped his drink and said nothing as a heaviness settled in his stomach.
‘They are speculating that the fire might have been started deliberately, but they don’t know, and they say it is just as likely that it was an accident – an overturned oil lamp or suchlike.’
‘Have they been through the embers?’
‘They had a poke around, and found a few bodies. None were identifiable. The heat had burnt too fiercely, and the collapsing walls and roof had smashed up the bones too much to even be able to sort them into individuals. Not that I think they tried too hard. They don’t get paid much. They will put some bones in a box and present them to the relatives as if they knew who was who. The nobles will be cremated and placed in the family tomb, and the slaves will be no doubt be tossed into the Tiber.’
The tightness in Silus’ guts eased a little. They hadn’t counted the teeth to confirm the number of corpses. Why would they? So Tituria was presumed dead with the rest of her family. That much at least helped with her safety. For now.
Atius reached out a hand and gripped Silus’ shoulder. ‘If you like, I can ask them to go through the bones more thoroughly, see if they can identify Daya.’
‘No,’ said Silus quickly. Then he took a deep breath and said more calmly, ‘She is gone. We have no need of her body to honour her memory.’
‘I’ll pray that she gets resurrected with the Christians when the Christos returns,’ said Atius.
‘If you like,’ said Silus.
Atius looked over Silus’ shoulder, and his eyes narrowed.
‘Where are they going, I wonder?’
Silus turned to see a detachment of a dozen legionaries from the Urban Cohorts marching purposefully down the street, led by a military tribune in full dress uniform. They had got used to seeing patrols of two to four strolling around the city, keeping a watchful eye open for civil disturbances, but as Silus had learnt quickly, for most minor offences the citizens policed themselves. It was unusual to see a larger group of legionaries looking as though they had somewhere important to be in a hurry.
‘Should we follow them?’
Atius smiled. ‘We’re spies, aren’t we?’
Cilo lay in the warm water of his bath, situated in his private bathhouse which opened onto his peristylium, and inhaled the scent of roses and lavender. It was not like the large public baths in the city as it lacked the pools of different temperatures, the gymnasium and the massage rooms, but it also lacked the crowd, the noise, the commotion and the smell.
Bees buzzed around the flowers in the garden. Evergreen bushes pruned into neat cones were interspersed with statues of Hermes and various nymphs. A gentle splashing sound came from the central fountain, where water spurted out of the mouth of a dolphin into a surrounding pool. Cilo’s town house on the Aventine had been gifted him by the Emperor Severus, and the garden and bathhouse had always been a peaceful retreat for him, a place of tranquillity where he could contemplate the beauty of nature shaped by man’s artistry. He needed it now more than ever.
Sacked.
He had never suffered such a humiliation in his long life and his heart cried with the insult to his dignitas. But his head told him it could have been far worse. At least he still had a head. He had taken a risk in addressing Caracalla the way he had, and if losing his job as urban prefect was as far as his punishment went, he could consider himself fortunate.
Caracalla had been cold to him that morning, rather than angry, when he had informed him he was being stripped of his position. He did not give a reason, but he did not need to. Cilo’s words in the triclinium of the unfortunate Titurius had given offence, as he had feared. Caracalla wanted to hear no counsel of peace and harmony. If you weren’t behind him alone, then you were behind Geta, and Caracalla would clearly no longer tolerate that.
He couldn’t believe the news about Titurius. Fire was an ever-present danger in Rome, with minor fires a daily occurrence and even larger conflagrations experienced on a regular basis. But it was unusual for a fine house to burn down, given the preponderance of stone over wood in the superior construction, and the separation from neighbours in the richer districts making the spread of the flames harder. He felt fortunate that he had not been invited to stay the night at Titurius’ domus. That Caracalla and the Empress had left before the fire seemed some sort of miracle, a divine intervention of sorts. Cilo would have been suspicious that it was an act of arson aimed at himself if it wasn’t for the fact that Caracalla knew he was not staying the night. As far as he was aware, Titurius had given neither Emperor offence. He presumed, therefore, it was a tragic accident.
Maybe his sacking as urban prefect was a blessing in disguise. It was all becoming too much. He looked down to see his hands shaking, a fine tremor he couldn’t still, even when he clasped them together. It was time to retire. Take his family and go to his villa in Campania. Grow vines and olive trees. Go for long walks in the country with his wife, Cilonia Fabia.
A loud hammering from the front door reached him, disturbing his reverie. He sighed and rose from the bath, donning a short tunic and a pair of slippers, and walked into the peristylium. Then he sat on a marble bench and waited for his porter to find out who was disturbing him. If it was someone sufficiently important, the porter would escort them to the atrium and then inform him of their arrival.
Instead, a tribune and two uniformed legionaries from the Urban Cohorts strode straight into his peristylium.
He stood at their approach, confused. He thought at first they had come to report to him in his official capacity. As he had only just come from Caracalla, they couldn’t yet know that he was no longer their commanding officer.
‘Tribune. What is the meaning of this intrusion?’
‘Come with us,’ said the tribune roughly. His tone was insolent, disrespectful.
‘Watch your tone, tribune. You will pay if you speak to me that way again.’
‘Take him,’ said the tribune, and the two legionaries grabbed him by the shoulders. The porter stepped forward to intervene, but the tribune half-unsheathed his sword, and the porter backed away, hands spread in a gesture intended to show he wasn’t going to get involved.
The legionaries dragged Cilo out of the peristylium, through his atrium and onto the street. A number of soldiers waited for him. A small crowd had gathered, curious to find out what was going on.
The tribune spoke loudly, for all to hear. ‘Lucius Fabius Cilo. You have committed treason against the Emperor. We are here to administer your punishment.’
Cilo went cold, but he stood straight and kept his voice steady. ‘On whose orders?’
‘On the orders of Gaius Julius Asper.’
Asper? His deputy? That snake.
‘Wait,’ said Cilo. ‘Tribune, I command you—’
The tribune struck him across the face, and Cilo dropped to his knees, aghast at the assault. The officer signalled to his soldiers, and before Cilo’s disbelieving eyes, they went into his house and started to plunder it, bringing out silver plate, plush robes, his wife’s gold jewellery and his coins.
‘We will show you how traitors in Rome are treated,’ said the centurion. ‘Bring him.’
The soldiers hauled him to his feet and marched him, resisting weakly, down the Sacred Way towards the palace.
‘Who is that?’ Silus asked a fellow bystander in the crowd as the old man, dressed only in a short tunic and slippers, hair still wet from bathing, was dragged out of his house.
‘That’s Cilo, the urban prefect.’
Silus turned to Atius. ‘Cilo. Caracalla told us that he was one of his supporters.’
Atius called out to the soldiers, ‘Hey, what are you doing to him?’
‘Shut your mouth and mind your business, you foreign scum,’ came the reply.
‘Is this Geta’s doing?’ Silus wondered aloud. ‘Atius, run to Oclatinius and tell him what is going on. I’ll try to keep Cilo alive until we have orders from the boss. Go!’
Atius took off at a run. Silus watched as Cilo was struck down, and as the soldiers plundered his house of all its valuable goods. It didn’t take long before the legionaries had brought sacks of riches out of the domus. Then they lifted Cilo up onto his feet and started to march him down the Sacred Way.
Silus stood in front of the soldiers, barring their way. ‘On whose authority have you arrested the urban prefect?’ he said defiantly.
‘None of your business. Get out of the way, or you will feel my sword in your guts.’
Silus stood his ground, but when the tribune put his hand on his hilt, he stepped aside. He couldn’t fight them all, and besides, he didn’t fully know the rights and wrongs of this situation.
Word spread rapidly that something interesting was happening, and a sizeable gathering lined the streets to watch the rich nobleman being marched towards the palace. Fevered speculation and imaginative rumour circulated as to his crime. Some said he had attempted to murder one of the Emperors, or the Empress, or he had violated a Vestal Virgin. Some even made bets on what he had done and what his punishment was to be.
Silus kept pace with the soldiers, hoping that Atius would return quickly with orders from Oclatinius. He hated the feeling of helplessness and uncertainty. Should he try to intervene again?
At a crossroads, Cilo stumbled, and fell to his knees again. A few legionaries laughed, and some of the crowd joined in the mockery. The poor of Rome were always happy to see the rich and powerful humbled.
The tribune ordered Cilo to his feet, but the nobleman continued to kneel, head bowed, breathing heavily. The tribune struck him with the back of his hand, but Cilo simply took the blow passively. He looked up.
‘If you feel you are worthy enough, end my life, tribune. I, who have been legate, military prefect, consul, proconsul, urban prefect. Do you think you have the dignitas and auctoritas to murder someone so far your superior?’
The tribune turned red. ‘Seize him,’ he commanded. ‘Strip him.’
Two of the legionaries hauled him up with hands under his arms. Then they ripped his tunic down the front with sharp tugs, revealing a ribby chest with white curls of hair. They pulled the rest of the clothing away, and even pulled off his slippers, so he was naked.
There was more laughter from the crowd, but it faded as Cilo stood straight, arms by his sides, making no effort to cover his nakedness, looking the tribune straight in the eyes.
The tribune could not take the defiance and became enraged. He drew a knife from his belt and slashed it across Cilo’s cheek, opening up a deep gash which dripped red profusely. Cilo did not flinch, nor put his hand to his face. The crowd was silent now.
Cilo’s dignity infuriated the tribune further and he slashed him across the other cheek.
‘Leave him alone, you coward!’ shouted Silus. Others joined in the shouts. ‘Let him go! Bully! Bastard!’
The crowd’s sympathies turned completely at that moment, now perceiving a dignified old man taking undeserved punishment from a bully. Some threw stones at the soldiers and the tribunes. The soldiers closed ranks, drawing their swords. Silus realised the scene was about to turn ugly. But he was not prepared to see this helpless old man die. He gritted his teeth and stepped forward, drawing his knife.
‘Soldiers! Stand down!’
The voice carried clearly through the growing din, and was full of absolute authority. Silus turned, as did the crowd and soldiers, to see the newcomer.
It was Caracalla, riding down the Sacred Way on a night-black stallion, in full military dress, escorted by twenty Praetorians.
The tribune stared at the Emperor in disbelief, then bowed his head. ‘Augustus.’
Caracalla dismounted and strode to Cilo’s side. He removed his cavalry cloak and draped it around Cilo’s shoulders, covering his nakedness. He turned to the Urban Cohort legionaries in fury.
‘This man was once my tutor. How dare you insult his dignity this way!’
He flicked his fingers at the centurion in charge of the Praetorians.
‘Disarm these disloyal men and bind them.’
The legionaries threw their swords to the ground and submitted immediately to the Praetorians, who tied their hands behind their backs and forced them all to their knees.
‘Augustus,’ said the Urban Cohort tribune. ‘We thought we were doing your bidding. We had orders—’
‘Silence!’ snapped Caracalla. His eyes locked on Silus for the first time. ‘I see I have one man here who is loyal to me. This man obeys my orders without question, with bravery and skill. Is that not so, Silus?’
Silus bowed his head. ‘Of course, Augustus.’ His thoughts went to Tituria, hiding in his apartment, and he hoped the Emperor couldn’t read his thoughts.
‘These men who have plotted against Cilo have plotted against me. They are traitors. I condemn them to death. Silus. Carry out the sentence.’
The legionaries stared in horror at their Emperor. The tribune stammered. ‘But Augustus, we only strived to do your will…’
Silus swallowed. ‘Augustus, wouldn’t it be better to pass them to Oclatinius to get more information about their plotting?’
‘Do you defy me as well?’ roared Caracalla.
Silus looked at the knife in his hand that had already drawn so much blood. When would it end? But his Emperor had just given him a direct order. He moved behind the tribune, took his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat, and looked at Caracalla. Caracalla nodded peremptorily.
‘Augustus, we were acting on orders from—’ The tribune’s words were cut off by the sharp edge slicing deep across his neck. Silus held him until his convulsions stopped, then moved on to the next man.
Some of the legionaries started to resist, to struggle to their feet, but they were bound, unarmed and outnumbered by the Praetorians, and they were clubbed back into a kneeling position with the butts of spears and the hilts of swords. Silus moved down the line, cutting throat after throat. Some took their deaths stoically, some babbled for mercy, some just shook and soiled themselves. They all bled and died the same.
When it was over, Caracalla did not even acknowledge Silus’ work. He ordered a litter brought, and the Praetorians bore Cilo away with the Emperor following solemnly behind. Silus looked at the dead bodies strewn around the crossroads, lying in a lake of their pooled lifeblood. What would happen to them?
It wasn’t his problem. He used the hem of the tunic of one of the dead soldiers and wiped his hands and his knife. Then head down, dark thoughts in his head, he went to find a drink.