Tituria looked out across the sea, watching the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon. She clutched her doll against her belly with both hands. She was bored. It had been months since she had been brought here, to the island of Lipari. She lived in a beautiful villa, with plenty of good food, fruits and sweet treats. There were baths on the island she could use. Her guardian, a Greek freedwoman called Myrtis, cared well for her, continued her education in Greek and Latin, in rhetoric and philosophy, and played games of ludus latrunculorum or knucklebones when she wanted.
Silus had seen her off at the docks at Ostia on the boat that was to take her to her prison. She was under no illusion that this was a gaol for her, and she felt she deserved it, for the tragedy she had brought on her family and herself. Silus had warned her to say nothing of what she had seen to anyone ever again. Not the guards on the island, not her tutor, not any visitors. He had made it clear that if she did, it would be the end of her.
Tituria had not been told where she was being taken, and Silus didn’t know either, but the sea journey had lasted a few days, including stops at various ports along the coast.
The poor girl was bored. No children her age. No adults to eavesdrop on, although she doubted she would do that again even if the opportunity arose after what had come of her spying before. This was it. A golden cage, like that of a songbird kept for the amusement of a young woman.
She had heard that another family had been exiled here before, including a young girl. She had found some of her toys when she went exploring. She wondered what had happened to them.
She also wondered if Silus would ever come to visit. Whether he would be allowed, whether he could even find her. Whether he cared. She wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing him again. But at least it would break the routine.
She sighed, bid Myrtis goodnight, and went to bed.
Myrtis clutched Tuccius tight, her arms and legs around him, as he groaned and bucked above her. He wasn’t a particularly good lover – no real interest in her pleasure and far too quick, but she wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice on this island, and the Praetorian Guard was the best she could get.
When he had finished, she stroked his hair while he lay slumped, breathing heavily, murmuring sweet words to him that she half-meant. When he rolled over onto his back, she put her head on his chest and stroked his arms. She liked his arms. They were strong with a nice covering of wiry hair.
‘She was talking in her sleep again tonight, you know.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Tuccius showed little interest. His eyes closed, his breath deepening as he drifted away.
‘I could make it out a bit more clearly this time.’
‘Right.’
‘It was quite strange. She said, ‘“It’s one of the things I like about you. You can be tender one time, rough the next. Your father was only ever rough.”’
Tuccius let out a short laugh. ‘Odd dreams for one so young. Do you think she saw a couple of her slaves together? Sounds like one woman was sampling two generations.’
‘And then she said, “How many times, Domna? Will you stop comparing me to him?”’
Tuccius propped himself up on one elbow, looked at his lover quizzically.
‘Domna? She said, “Domna”? You’re sure?’
‘Fairly sure. She was asleep. Why? What do you think it means?’
‘Probably nothing. Best to forget it.’
He turned over, and within moments started to snore. Myrtis looked at his back in annoyance, then closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come.
‘It’s a crap posting, that’s for sure, Kyriakos,’ said Tuccius, and took another deep draught of wine.
‘How much longer are you here for?’ asked Tuccius’ drinking partner.
‘Another nine months, curse my luck.’
‘It doesn’t sound that bad. You have nice weather, nice quarters, as much food and drink as you want, no danger, and a good woman to fuck.’
‘Yeah, true, but she’s a bit needy and demanding. And the other lads get jealous and give me a hard time. It’s so boring. I’m a Praetorian Guard. I should be in Rome, looking after the Emperor, marching in parades, getting all the girls. Instead I’m a glorified babysitter. Your visits when you sail into harbour to bring supplies are all that keep me sane.’
‘You never did tell me why you have to guard that little girl. Why is she so dangerous?’
‘Apollo may know, but I don’t. Although get this, Myrtis heard her talking in her sleep last night.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Something like, “You are a much better fuck than your father.” And then, “Stop comparing me to my father, Domna.”’
‘“Domna”? Really? How interesting.’
‘That’s what I thought. I don’t know how much to read into it, though. Anyway, keep it to yourself, right? I don’t want to get into any trouble.’
‘Of course.’
‘When do you need to leave?’
‘We’ll sail with the morning tide. Enough time to get a bit of drinking done. It’s a long way back to Ostia.’
Domna looked around the triclinium at her dinner-party guests. She loved being surrounded by intellectuals, although there were times when they could be argumentative and tedious, and in those moments her mind drifted to thoughts of Caracalla: his broad, hairy chest and thick muscular thighs.
At that moment, Ulpianus was holding forth about the upcoming Saturnalia celebrations. While it was tradition that masters should serve their slaves during the festival, this was rarely followed beyond a token display. After all, the festival lasted six days. Which master would be prepared to be a slave for that long? Ulpianus, however, argued that all men are equal, except the Emperor of course, which was just as well, since Geta was looking on. He argued that the behaviour exhibited in the Saturnalia should be extended throughout the year – free speech to be able to criticise their masters, wearing clothes that reduced the distinction between master and slave, rich and poor.
Papinianus laughed at the idea. ‘You sound dangerously like a follower of the Christos cult,’ he said. ‘At least you agree that our Emperor here is above this strange equality you are talking of.’
Domna was glad that Caracalla wasn’t there. He had become less and less tolerant of Geta being referred to as Emperor in his presence. But of course, there was no way Caracalla would attend a meal at which Geta was a guest, and vice versa. Their relations had become so low that they never spoke or were ever found in each other’s company.
‘You will be telling us that women and men are equal next,’ commented Philostratus, the sophist, and this earned a chuckle from around the table.
‘Hippocrates taught us that, according to their humours, women are physiologically cold and wet, where men are dry and warm,’ said Galen. ‘It leads to many of their problems.’
‘Do tell me more,’ said Domna, and Galen failed to notice the acid bite in her tone.
‘Their character makes them prone to putrefaction of the humours, and this causes the uterus to become sick, leading to all the symptoms of hysterical passion. This is of course a particular problem in those that abstain from sexual intercourse, widows and virgins and the like, since the sexual act widens the woman’s canals and allows cleansing of the body. If this doesn’t happen, the uterus produces toxic fumes and migrates around the body, causing symptoms of anxiety, tremors, a sense of suffocation and paralysis.’
‘It may have escaped your notice, physician,’ said Domna coldly, ‘that I am a widow. Do I display any of the symptoms you suggest? Do I need my canals widening?’
‘No, no, Domna. You are the picture of health. Physiology is an inexact science. But that you remain hale while clearly abstaining from male relations is a puzzle. Maybe the undoubted prowess of your much missed husband has protected you thus far. But for your health, there will come a time when you should remarry.’
‘Physician, you are impertinent. Let us change the subject. Dio Cassius, tell us how progresses your book?’
It was a topic that the historian could talk about at great length, and so the conversation veered away from an increasingly uncomfortable discussion. Domna took a sip of wine while Dio Cassius droned on about the war between Pompey and Caesar, and her thoughts turned back to Caracalla’s chest.
She didn’t notice Geta looking at her thoughtfully.
‘Augustus, I have heard some news that will be of interest to you.’
Geta looked up from his tablet.
‘Bek, do you have any idea what supplying the army with boots costs every year?’
‘No, Augustus.’
‘I’m willing to bet my brother doesn’t either. All he cares about is glory on the battlefield. What sort of Emperor would he make?’
‘A bad one, Augustus.’
‘Exactly. Rome needs someone to rule it wisely, take care of its laws and its finances, not just its legions.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘What were you saying?’
‘I received some information, Augustus.’
‘Well?’
‘You… may not like it. And it is only hearsay, at this stage.’
‘Go on.’
Bek looked at Festus doubtfully. Festus stood on Geta’s left side, with Aper on his right. Festus was around fifty years old, completely bald, with a thin face and piercing blue eyes. His official titles were Commander of the Sacred Bedchamber and Keeper of the Emperor’s Daily Record Book, but his real role involved bullying senators and military officers with physical threats and blackmail to keep them in line. For these purposes he employed his own set of spies and enforcers. Bek reported to Aper, but feared Festus and didn’t trust him.
‘You may speak freely in front of these men,’ said Geta impatiently.
‘Yes, Augustus. Some captain on the docks was telling stories while he was in the tavern. One of my men heard what he said from another. We tried to question the captain himself, but he had already set sail.’
‘And? What was he saying?’
‘He had a voyage to take supplies to where a young girl is being held captive on an island. By Praetorians.’
‘Praetorians? Who is she?’
‘I don’t know, Augustus, nor where she is being held. But it was what she said that was most interesting. She speaks in her sleep. She said… Augustus, you might find this upsetting.’
‘Spit it out, spy.’
‘Augustus, she said in her sleep, ‘‘You make love better than your father.” And then said, “Stop comparing me to my father, Domna.”’
Geta’s brow furrowed in confusion.
‘Father? Domna? What does it mean?’
‘It’s very speculative, Augustus. But she hasn’t been exiled by you, so in some way she must have wronged your brother, as she is guarded by a Praetorian. And if she is dreaming of some trauma she has witnessed for real, then maybe…’
Geta’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying… are you implying that she witnessed my brother and my mother in bed together?’
‘It is a possibility, Augustus. I’m sorry.’
Festus and Aper exchanged glances. Geta stared into space. ‘My mother and my brother. Surely not. And yet. All those times Mother took his side instead of mine, her real son. And then there are Galen’s words – if my mother is not sexually active, why is she not displaying signs of hysteria?’
‘I am not a physician, Augustus,’ said Bek.
‘Can we prove it, Bek?’
‘No, Augustus. It has no more status than a rumour, easily denied and dismissed as slander.’
‘I will not let him get away with this. How long has it been going on? Since before Father died?’
‘I have no way of knowing, Augustus. It may not even be true.’
‘I believe it is. And it will not stand. That he refuses to acknowledge me as his equal is bad enough. But that he defiles my mother, his own stepmother…’
Bek kept his face impassive.
‘Aper, you have agents in his part of the palace?’
‘Of course, Augustus.’
‘Then it will be poison. It is fitting for his toxic character. Do it at the feast on the last day of the Saturnalia. It is time. He must die.’
These days, Caracalla found the Saturnalia feast farcical, and paid the merest lip service to its traditions. He had his secretary arrange gifts for the whole Imperial household, and he put in a brief appearance at the public banquet that the Senate arranged for the population of Rome. But when it came to serving slaves himself, he restricted this to a token where he poured a cup of wine for the Saturnalis princeps, who was master of ceremonies at the banquet. He took more seriously the offerings to Saturn, and attended the sacrifice at the god’s temple, although his allegiance was much stronger to eastern gods such as Serapis. But once his public duties were done, he retired to his part of the palace for a private meal with a few close friends.
It was a marked contrast to his childhood love of the celebration, when he had taken the gifts from his father – dice, writing tablets, a hunting knife – and passed them on to his tutors and to his clients. But he had grown up, and adulthood had a tendency to leach away childish joys, especially when you grew up in the Imperial family.
Domna was present, sitting on his right. It was difficult for her to choose whether to visit Caracalla or Geta on this important occasion, but she had compromised by attending Geta at lunchtime and Caracalla in the evening. Papinianus, Marcellus, Julius Avitus, Dioga, and even Cilo were present. Cilo’s face was badly scarred, the marks from the stitches that had reattached the flap of skin on one cheek and sewed up the gash on the other still visible, and it seemed to give him some pain when he ate. Marcellus’ wife Julia Soaemias, Julia Domna’s niece, was beside her husband, to Caracalla’s discomfort. Throughout the feast she fired winks and suggestive smiles in his direction, and he could feel the frostiness radiating off Domna when she noticed.
Jesters, fools and acrobats were the main entertainment for this Saturnalia feast, and while Caracalla clapped at appropriate moments, his heart wasn’t in it. Maybe it was the long nights of the midwinter that were depressing his spirit, or the stalemate with his brother and the frustration of his ambitions. Whatever it was, he just felt tired, and wanted to retire to bed with Domna.
He flicked his fingers for some mulled wine that one of the serving slaves was bringing round. He passed it to his taster first, who sipped it, swilled it around his mouth, then passed it back with a nod. A taster was a major inconvenience when feasting, but he had employed one since his father’s death, and he was sure Geta did the same. It was only prudent.
He took a sip of the spiced wine himself, but it was both strong and hot, and he clicked his fingers for it to be watered. A nearby slave poured cold water from a jug into his silver cup, and he swirled it around, then raised it to his lips.
To his surprise, a hand on his arm prevented him from drinking. He looked around to see Oclatinius. Damn, that man was quiet. How had Caracalla not seen him come up behind him?
‘What is it, Oclatinius?’
‘Augustus, I have just had some intelligence of a possible threat to your life.’
Caracalla frowned and looked around. The men at the banquet were loyal, he was sure, and there was a strong Praetorian presence both inside and outside the dining hall.
‘Are you sure?’
‘It came from a reliable source in… a rival’s employ. But it is easily proved. You!’ Oclatinius gestured to the slave who had poured the cold water into Caracalla’s cup. ‘Come here.’
The slave looked suddenly very pale, but he walked over slowly. ‘Master?’
‘That water in your jug, which you just used to cool the Augustus’ wine. Drink it.’
‘Master, I don’t… I can’t…’
Oclatinius took the jug from the slave’s unresisting hands. He proffered it to him, close to his lips, and the slave shrank back.
‘Guards, seize him.’
Praetorians grabbed the slave, and at Oclatinius’ instruction, pushed him to the ground and pinned him there, one guard holding each limb firmly. Oclatinius advanced on him, bent over and pinched the slave’s nose shut. When he opened his mouth to breathe, Oclatinius poured in the water from the jug. The slave struggled and spat and coughed, but lying on his back, he couldn’t help but swallow as Oclatinius continued to pour.
When the jug was empty, he gestured to the guards to let the slave go. He got to his feet, looked around wildly, then ran for the door. Praetorians barred his way. He turned back to Oclatinius. ‘Please, Master. Let me see a physician. I had no choice. They said I could see my son again if I did what they said.’
‘Who gave you the order?’ asked Oclatinius coldly. ‘Who supplied the poison?’
‘Please, I can’t say, they will—’
He got no further. In front of the horrified and fascinated guests, his legs abruptly gave way. He pitched onto his hands and knees, and started to salivate profusely, his mouth spewing foam. He tipped over onto his side, and his body was racked by convulsions, forceful jerks of every limb, jaw chattering, eyes wide with dilated pupils. A strong ammoniacal smell of urine flooded the room as his bladder voided. Then a few more jerks and twitches and he lay still.
The room was silent, stunned. No one moved except Oclatinius, who remained composed.
‘Remove this body,’ he ordered two guards, and seeming to snap out of a trance, they came to attention and dragged the dead slave away.
Caracalla pointed a trembling finger at the body. ‘That was meant for me?’ he asked in a shaky voice.
‘I’m afraid so, Augustus.’
‘My brother?’
Oclatinius pursed his lips.
Caracalla looked at the door that the slave had been pulled through. He rose to his feet, putting one hand on the couch to steady himself. His voice became tight with anger. ‘Papinianus, double the guard on my quarters tonight. Attend me at dawn tomorrow morning. You too, Domna. And you, Oclatinius. I will retire now.’ He pulled his toga tightly around him, and swept out, leaving a room full of guests suddenly terrified of what the next day would bring.