Dio Cassius grabbed Titurius’ arm as he left the Senate meeting and dragged him into the shadows behind a pillar.
‘I heard a whisper that you are hosting a party for Antoninus,’ said Cassius, without preamble.
‘Maybe that should be a warning to us both that little stays secret in Rome,’ replied Titurius. ‘Who told you?’
‘Festus.’
Titurius gave Cassius a hard stare.
‘You associate with him? His job is to terrorise and blackmail the likes of us to toe the Imperial line.’
‘He serves the Senate and people of Rome, and he sees Geta as the superior of the two Augusti.’
‘The question is highly debatable.’
‘Is this your answer then? You have picked your side?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Titurius. ‘This is a favour for a friend.’
‘Cilo? What is he playing at?’
‘He is playing at peace, Cassius. Maybe we should all be following his example.’
Cassius shook his head. ‘Cilo’s influence is on the wane. Without Severus to protect him, he is just an old man living off past glories. He will not succeed.’
‘Maybe not, but who can fault him for the attempt? You said you were going to speak to Papinianus.’
‘Pah. There is another who cannot make his mind up and take a side.’
‘If these good men think the best way forward is a rapprochement between the two Emperors, do you really think to know better?’
‘Titurius, my friend, I am a historian. My great work starts with the founding of Rome, and tells the stories of the end of the Kings, the Gracchi, Sulla and Marius, Caesar and Pompey, Octavian and Antony and the year of the Four Emperors, and when I eventually reach more recent history, the year of the Five Emperors and the rise of Severus. Rome is no stranger to civil war, and neither am I. Each time of internal strife left Rome stronger than before. Brutus ended the Kings and led to the foundation of the Republic. Caesar took the Empire to a power it had never had before. Octavian stabilised the Empire and made it strong, well-defended and peaceful. Severus reigned long and was a great leader. I have no doubt that the right victor of the current struggle will glorify and strengthen Rome further.’
‘And by the right leader, you mean Geta? Your argument seemed to favour the stronger, more military candidate for power.’
‘Not so. Look at Octavian. Not a good physical specimen, not a great military leader, but he had strong advisors and generals such as Agrippa, and he was arguably our greatest ever Emperor. With the exception of Severus, of course.’
‘Of course.’ They might be talking treason and ran the risk of being hurled from the Tarpeian Rock if their conversation was overheard, but there was still no sense in showing disrespect to the recently deceased Emperor. His shade should have long departed, after his interment, but maybe he was still prowling the curia, raging impotently at the senators and his feuding sons.
‘Refusing to take a side is a dangerous path, Titurius. Will you support Geta?’
‘I’ll think on it more,’ said Titurius, uneasy with the conversation, especially in such a public place, although he constantly checked no one was near enough to overhear.
‘Don’t take too long. Soon it will be too late.’
Dio Cassius patted Titurius on the shoulder, looked around furtively, and strode away.
A sick, heavy feeling of dread rose in Titurius’ gorge.
‘It’s just not fair,’ said Geta. ‘He has all the advantages. He is older, bigger, stronger.’
‘But not wiser, cousin,’ said Aper. Gaius Septimius Severus Aper liked to refer to Caracalla and Geta as his cousins, although in reality they shared not a grandfather but a great-great-grandfather. Many of their relatives used familiar terms closer than they deserved to exaggerate their own status as kin of the Imperial family. Geta didn’t mind – Aper had been a good friend to him over the years, and a close supporter. He also had a tendency to say the right thing to make Geta feel better.
‘He has the army,’ said Geta. ‘He has the military experience. Further – and I am confessing this to you in private and in confidence – he has the greater boldness.’
‘Which is not necessarily a strength. Charging into battle stark naked, holding only your cock as a weapon, is bold. It is not necessarily wise. Boldness can lose battles, and lose Empires.’
‘Still, his boldness has made me look weak. I hate him, but in a way, I have to admire how he feels he can kill Euprepes, one of the most beloved men in Rome, and fear no repercussions.’
‘And he is right, isn’t he?’ asked Aper. ‘He will get away with it.’
Geta paced his private chamber, hands clasped behind his back, taking small, rapid steps. If he let this pass, it would weaken his own position further. And he could not have that.
Father elevated me to co-Augustus, he thought, and named me as co-Emperor as his dying wish. To rule is my right. And my brother would deny me this, because he feels he is so much better than me. But I know he is wrong. I know I would make the better Emperor. And I will not disappoint my father’s shade. Or my mother.
The thought of failing his mother brought a flush to his face, and he turned away from Aper to hide it. He adored her, and hated how close she was to Caracalla, even though he wasn’t her real son. He gritted his teeth and turned back to Aper.
‘What can I do?’
‘Maybe you should do away with one of his supporters.’
Geta shook his head. ‘I’m not killing a charioteer or gladiator. That would make me look petty.’
‘What about one of his spies?’
‘You know someone suitable?’
‘I have my sources. Oclatinius is not the only man in the city with secret connections.’
‘Oclatinius. Hades take him.’ Geta’s tone was sour. ‘Why is he so loyal to my brother?’
‘I don’t know, cousin, but I can tell you who killed Euprepes.’
‘What? Who?’
‘Silus, the Arcanus.’
‘Him! Always him! How do you know this?’
‘The Commander of the Sacred Bedchamber discovered it through his network and passed it on to me.’
‘Festus? I’m not sure where his loyalties lie.’
‘You can trust him, cousin. And anyway, I understand this Silus has been a problem to you in the past.’
‘Ever since I first encountered him in Britannia. I believe it was his fault that the barbarians rebelled a second time after we had pacified them.’
‘So, there is your answer. Have him killed.’
‘Could I?’ Geta stroked his chin. ‘It is a sweet thought. Get my vengeance for all the problems he has caused me, and kick my brother in the balls at the same time.’
‘Say the word, cousin. I have a skilled man who works for me – he could take care of the matter in such a way that no evidence points at you, while making it clear why he has been killed.’
‘Maybe your man would be better employed taking care of my brother.’
Aper’s eyes widened. ‘Is that what you want, Augustus?’
Geta hesitated. He saw a fork in the road ahead, and he knew that if he chose the darker path, he would not be able to turn back. Caracalla gone, himself reigning as sole Emperor. All the authority, all the respect. All the love and attention from his mother.
But he couldn’t. The temptation was strong, but…
He was scared. Scared of his brother if he failed. Scared of Oclatinius if he didn’t. And scared of disappointing his mother. There was no one in the world that he could admit that to. Not Aper. Not even his dear mother herself.
‘No. I love my brother too dearly.’ He hoped Aper would not see through the lie. ‘But we will make him aware that this murder has not gone unnoticed. Make it known to that Arcanus, Silus, that his actions have been noted. Maybe it will restrain my brother’s future actions.’
Aper could not hide his look of disappointment, and Geta felt a spasm of shame.
‘If that is your wish, Augustus, I will have my man deliver a message. A literal one, rather than a metaphorical one.’
Geta inclined his head. ‘Go. I have a headache, and wish to retire.’
Aper bowed and departed from Geta’s private chamber. Geta waited until he was out of earshot, and then let out a roar of frustration which echoed off the walls and through the very real ache that was building inside his skull.
Silus sat at a table in the street outside a tavern near his apartment. Issa lay at his feet, stretched out to enjoy the late-afternoon sun. Apicula sat beside him. It did not take her long to complete her chores in the tiny accommodation – she had cleaned, scrubbed, done the laundry, brought his provisions and fed the dog. Now she sipped water and silently watched the world go by.
Silus did the same. Rome was an endlessly fascinating place, and he soaked up the street life for his personal as well as professional interest, attempting to understand the little habits of everyday life that the lifelong residents of the city took for granted, but the lack of knowledge of which might mark out a foreigner as someone out of place. He observed daily routines of shopping and washing and bathing, he noted which gods’ statues were worshipped and which could safely be neglected, and he watched the haggling over goods sold in the markets and shops and by the wandering street hawkers.
That morning he had gone for a long walk to try to familiarise himself with the local topography. Maybe it was a hopeless task, but he had felt particularly vulnerable the day before, fleeing through streets he didn’t know, and his unfamiliarity with his surroundings had nearly cost him his life.
He had had a strange feeling all morning of being watched, but it had come to nothing. He had doubled back, turned suddenly, hidden in shadows and round corners, but had never come closer to catching anyone shadowing him than a movement at the corner of his field of vision. He dismissed the thought from his mind, but couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling making his guts clench.
He picked up a date and chewed it, extracting the stone with his tongue and spitting it onto the street. His eyes fixed on a hawker carrying a bag of cooking utensils, walking slowly down the street. His hood was up, despite the fine weather, and he appeared to be making little effort to make a sale, not shouting out his goods and prices like most hawkers. Silus felt for the knife where it lay hidden beneath his tunic, reassured by its solid presence.
A hand touched his arm, and he turned, startled, to see a young boy of no more than seven years, dressed in street-grimed rags, staring at him intently.
‘Are you Silus?’ said the boy.
‘What do you want, child?’ snapped Silus.
‘Are you Silus?’
‘What if I am?’
‘I have a message.’ The boy looked up, searching his memory for the exact words. ‘“We know you killed the old man. The Emperor Geta is very unhappy. There will be a reckoning. Let your masters know.”’
A chill shot straight down Silus’ spine. He grabbed the boy’s arm. ‘Who sent you?’ he hissed.
‘Master, you’re hurting me.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know his name. He was selling stuff. He gave me the message and told me to give it to a man called Silus sitting here.’
Silus’ eyes darted around. No one was paying him any attention, everyone just going about their usual business. The hawker was no longer to be seen.
‘Master, please, can I go now?’
Silus let go of the boy. He would know nothing more. As soon as he released his grip, the boy dashed off like a frightened hare. Silus cursed.
‘What is it, master?’ asked Apicula.
‘Trouble,’ said Silus. He needed to see Oclatinius.
No expense was spared for the visit of the Emperor. Fine tapestries hung from the walls depicting scenes of famous military victories such as Zama, Alesia and Actium. The tables were draped in linen cloth with broad purple stripes. The plates and goblets were gold and silver, and the silk cushions on the couches were embroidered with pictures of exotic wild animals. Even the slaves had been dressed in expensive tunics for the boys and fashionable stolae for the girls.
The entertainment was refined. Titurius was no fan of bawdy storytellers, or sex shows, or displays of deformed individuals to mock. Instead he had paid for the best flautists, lyre players and dancers that were available, and he watched them perform with satisfaction.
As Cilo had requested, Tituria was reclining to Domna’s right, while Cilo was to Caracalla’s left, with the Augusta and the Augustus in the centre in the place of honour. Few others had been invited, just a few friends and distant relations of Titurius, Papinianus and some of Domna’s inner circle – Galen, Philostratus and Macrinus.
Titurius was familiar with Galen’s work and had even consulted him about some ailments of his own in the past. He had met Philostratus the sophist socially in the past, and didn’t really care for his preachiness and air of intellectual superiority. Macrinus was a man who he hadn’t really encountered except in passing. He knew he was an accomplished jurist, like Ulpianus and Papinianus, and had occupied some important official roles. He was also liked by Caracalla, without being part of his inner circle, at least not yet, and Cilo had suggested Titurius invite him as a friend to the Emperor, but one who was not in a position to be overly influential.
An intricate dance by a troupe of Alexandrian slave girls finished, and the dancers swept out of the triclinium. Low conversation resumed around the room. Titurius’ wife, Autronia, reclining on his right, leant forward to speak to Domna.
‘Augusta, your hair looks wonderful tonight. How long did it take your ornatrix to style you?’
‘Around two hours,’ replied the Empress. ‘It is so tedious, this fashion, isn’t it?’
Autronia had recently purchased a highly expensive ornatrix herself, specifically to copy the style of Domna’s tightly curled hair, and she patted her locks and nodded agreement. ‘The things we do to make ourselves presentable for our men, Augusta.’
Titurius fought to stop his eyes rolling. Autronia spent half of her day shopping for clothes, jewellery, make-up and perfumes, and the other half wearing it. Yes, she made herself look elegant and fashionable, but Titurius wouldn’t have cared if she wore her hair loose and unstyled, and put on no make-up. He still thought the woman he had married fifteen years earlier was beautiful, and he still loved her.
He wished he could swap places with the Empress so he could talk to the Emperor, and leave her to talk to his wife, but it would be poor etiquette. Besides, he knew that Domna could be an interesting conversationalist if he got her on the right topics, such as Greek poetry. On the other side of Caracalla, Cilo was talking, and Titurius strained his ears to filter out the discussion of make-up techniques and eyebrow plucking and hear what Cilo was saying.
‘The example of Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius is an inspiration, though, don’t you agree, Augustus?’ Cilo was saying.
Caracalla grunted noncommittally.
‘They showed that two brothers can rule the Empire for the benefit of all, with love and peace.’
‘Yes,’ said Caracalla. ‘But Verus always deferred to Aurelius. And Verus died during the Antonine plague. Who knows how their relationship would have developed if he had lived longer? And maybe striking him down with plague was the gods’ way of telling us that it is unnatural for Rome to be ruled by more than one Emperor.’
‘I don’t believe the gods would intervene in that way, Augustus,’ said Cilo.
‘Maybe we could ask a philosopher,’ said Caracalla, and was about to gesture to Philostratus to join them when the next act came in. This was an actor reciting a section from Arrian’s Anabasis of Alexander, ‘The Battle of the River Granicus against Darius III’. It was common knowledge how much Caracalla admired the great Macedonian conqueror. He had even been known to go out and about dressed in ancient Macedonian style to mimic his hero – the flat kausia hat and the crepidae shoes. He shushed Cilo to silence during the performance so he could listen more attentively. Titurius silently congratulated himself on the choice, seeing how entranced Caracalla was.
When the scene had finished, Caracalla applauded loudly and everyone else joined in dutifully.
‘Now there was a ruler,’ said Caracalla admiringly. ‘A brilliant general, and none of his followers would think of opposing him, or of asking to share his rule. His half-brother was never considered as a co-Emperor.’
‘Alexander’s half-brother was weak of mind,’ said Cilo.
‘He shares that with my own half-brother,’ quipped Caracalla, and a ripple of nervous laughter circulated around the room.
‘Augustus, I must speak frankly,’ said Cilo, in a firm voice, and a hush fell over the room. It was rare to hear the Emperor spoken to in this way, even in such a small gathering of intimates. Everyone waited to hear what was to come.
Cilo took a nervous sip of his wine, and as he put the cup down, Titurius could see his hand was trembling.
‘Augustus, you are a magnificent Emperor. You are strong, powerful, a clever and energetic military leader, and a wise ruler. The Senate, the people and the army all love you.
‘But they also love your brother. He resembles your father. And he has some qualities of his own. Where you are a man of action, he is one of reflection. Where you are a man of passion, he is a man of cool judgement. Where you are brave, he is cautious. Maybe he is Fabius Maximus to your Alexander. There is a place in the world for both, you know.’
The room was completely silent now, except for the sound of Cilo’s voice, and Caracalla breathing deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring like an angry racehorse.
‘Galen would tell you that balance is everything. When there is imbalance in the humours, the body becomes ill. Galen, am I right?’
Galen inclined his head, clearly reluctant to be drawn into the larger argument but looking like he felt he was on safer ground with medical knowledge.
‘Quite right, Cilo. Health is the state in which the four humours are in balance with each other, both in strength and in quantity. If there is a marked deficiency or an excess of one of the four humours, then the body shows this as an illness. Even a minor disturbance of the balance can alter one’s temperament. So when there is a deficiency or excess in one of the humours, I try to restore the balance by correcting the level of the abnormal humour, while altering its opposing humour in the opposite direction. So if a man has a fever, he has too much yellow bile. We can counter this with treatments that increase yellow bile’s opposite, phlegm, such as cold baths, while using medicaments to decrease the yellow bile level. Similarly, we may bleed an excess of blood, or use purgatives for an excess of black bile. Take a patient I had last week—’
‘Thank you, Galen,’ said Cilo before the elderly physician could take the conversation off on an irrelevant tangent. ‘My point is that the Empire thrives on balance, just as the body does. You may think that the Empire would be better with a sole ruler who embodies the attributes of the elements of fire and air, but the world needs earth and water as well.
‘Augustus, I beg of you. Make your peace with your brother. Let balance and harmony reign, and together, you will make Rome, and each other, greater than ever before.
‘To do otherwise is to mean civil war, destruction and death, when all should be uniting to confront the enemies, internal and external, that the Empire faces.’
He stopped speaking and everyone seemed to be holding their breath, bracing themselves for a Vesuvian response from Caracalla.
The Emperor was looking down into his cup. Muscles on either side of his jaw clenched rhythmically. His face looked flushed. Domna put a calming hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off. He stood slowly, and everyone shrank back from the storm that seemed about to break.
‘I think I will retire for the night,’ said Caracalla. His voice was tight, but controlled. ‘Titurius, thank you for your hospitality, but I am weary. Have your steward escort me to my room.’
Titurius snapped his fingers hurriedly and his steward rushed forward, showing Caracalla the way to the sumptuous bedroom they had prepared.
Low murmurs started as soon as the Emperor had left the room. Titurius looked over to Cilo, who was ashen-faced, head bowed, a fine tremor noticeable from his shoulders down. Next to him, Domna’s expression was mournful. Titurius wondered if she had already resigned herself to the loss of either her son or her stepson. It was obvious that Cilo’s plea had fallen on deaf ears. There would be no reconciliation.
The next act, a professional jester, seemed wildly inappropriate as he buffooned about, tumbling, falling and making farting noises, and he left, crestfallen, without raising a single laugh. Autronia looked distraught at the way the evening had transpired, but Titurius was philosophical. He had not shared with his wife the true reason for inviting the Emperor, and he had never had high hopes that anything of value would come from the evening. Still, he was pleased he had made the effort. He felt it would ease his conscience, that he could tell himself he had tried, when the storm broke.
Domna thanked Autronia and Titurius for a wonderful evening, lying with ease and grace, and she rose to be shown to her own chambers. Titurius watched her leave, always amazed by how her beauty defied her age. He looked over to his own wife, younger, but more worn by time, smiled, and squeezed her hand.
‘Titurius, it was a disaster,’ she whispered to him.
He reached out to stroke her face, looking into her eyes with deep affection. ‘No, my love. The disaster has not yet reached us.’
Tituria was frustrated. A banquet for the Emperor, and she wasn’t invited! She hadn’t really expected to be – children hardly ever got to attend such important events, especially girls. There was some discussion as to whether Quintus should be allowed to join them, his mother arguing that it wouldn’t be long before he could don his toga virilis and be considered a man. But father was unusually resolute that he should not be there, and no pleading from mother or tantrums from Quintus would sway him. So Tituria stood no chance of being allowed to go, and she didn’t even ask.
But what was even more infuriating was how hard it was to snoop. The triclinium only had one entrance, and it was guarded by two menacing-looking Praetorians who moved her on when she tried to peer inside to catch a glimpse of the Emperor and Empress. She considered climbing onto the roof, but the domus was well-maintained as befitted a wealthy senator’s house, and she knew from previous expeditions that there were no cracks or gaps in the roof tiles through which she could spy on the party. She even considered getting into the hypocaust and hiding beneath the floor of the triclinium. The recent warm weather meant that the underfloor heating had been turned off. But she wasn’t as small as she once had been, and it would be embarrassing, or even dangerous, if she got stuck down there, as had nearly happened on her last excursion there the previous summer.
She wandered listlessly from room to room. She had her hairbrush in her hand, and idly stroked it through her hair as she walked, ever mindful of her mother’s instructions to keep her hair well-kempt. She walked into the tablinum, and saw a wax tablet on the desk. She put her hairbrush down and picked up the tablet, struggling to make out the little marks and convert them into words in her head. In the end she worked out it was some tally of supplies, and she threw it back onto the desk and wandered off disconsolately.
In the end she had to satisfy herself with sitting in the peristylium, hugging herself to stay warm in the cool summer evening air, bats swooping past with their high-pitched beeps, snatching moths out of the sky, with her ear pressed hard against the wall that separated the triclinium from the enclosed garden.
It was an unsatisfactory experience. When the musical acts played, she could hear little of the conversation. When everyone was talking at once, it was hard to make out individual voices. But her persistence and patience paid off when a man called Cilo started speaking. His voice sounded old and scared, but he spoke clearly. She listened as he talked about peace and harmony between the two Emperors, frowned when a more distant voice started talking about sickness, then listened intently again as Cilo continued.
When he finished, she waited for a reaction. Surely an impassioned speech like that should be answered with something similar. But she only heard a short, indistinct reply. She gave up. This was no fun. She stood, stretched and wandered back into the main house. Their domus was not a palace, but her father was extremely wealthy like most senators, and she had long ago realised from visits with her mother to other households that their own was enormous in comparison.
She decided she would sneak a look in the Emperor’s room before he retired for the night. Her mother had been lambasting the slaves all day to make sure the guest rooms for the Emperor at one end of the house and the Empress at the other end were lavishly decorated, and Tituria decided she wanted to get a quick peek at the place where the Emperor would spend the night. All the other guests would depart for their own homes. Only the Emperor and Empress had been invited to stay.
The Emperor’s guest room was down a long corridor. She eased the door open, and closed it behind her quietly. The room smelt of a delicate spicy fragrance. The walls had been freshly painted with pastoral frescoes, and hung with floor-length tapestries of colourful birds and fishes. The bed was covered in silk sheets stunningly embroidered with flowers separated by broad purple stripes. The room was lit by a number of oil lamps that sent multiple copies of her to the walls as flickering shadows. She touched the silk sheets with her fingertips in awe, inhaled the wonderful smell with a deep breath through her nostrils. She was tempted to dive onto the bed – she was sure the mattress was stuffed with the finest down – but she knew that messing up the neatly made bed would lead to unimaginable punishment from her mother.
She heard voices coming down the corridor. The steward.
‘This way, Augustus. I do hope it will be to your satisfaction.’
No! It was too early. The banquet was not due to finish for hours. She knew there were several entertainment acts that had not yet performed. Was the Emperor ill?
She looked around wildly. The room had one door and no windows. There were no large cupboards to hide in. She could get behind a tapestry, but the bulge of her body would be obvious.
The sheets over the bed hung down to the floor.
The door swung open.
Tituria dived under the bed, straightening the valance behind her as the Emperor entered the room, accompanied by the steward. She curled herself up into a ball, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears so loudly she was sure the Emperor would hear it. She breathed slowly and steadily, in through her nose and out through her mouth, to keep the volume from her respiration as quiet as possible.
The steward fussed around the room, showing Caracalla the decorations, a jug of water and an empty cup, and the chamber pot which was fortunately placed in a corner rather than under the bed. Soon, Caracalla’s patience wore thin.
‘Get out. Leave me to my sleep.’
The steward apologised profusely and rushed out. Caracalla sat on the bed with a sigh. For a moment, he just sat there, not moving. Then he unlaced his sandals and tossed them aside, removed his toga and let it fall to the floor. There was a tiny gap where the valance crinkled, and she could see the fine purple woollen garment, with a gold hem, lying crumpled in a mess on the floor. Her first thought was what her mother would have said if she had seen such an expensive item of clothing so poorly looked after. Her mother, of course, thought her tucked up safely in her bed at that moment.
Her second thought, quickly on the heels of the first, was that the Emperor of Rome was lying about two feet above her head completely naked. Her heart raced anew, in excitement and fear. What was she to do? Wait for him to fall asleep, and then try to sneak out without waking him? Or wait there until morning, and escape when he had left, but risk being found by the household slaves? That would be the less dangerous way of being discovered, but it meant her staying there the whole night long, and already she needed to pee.
Either way, she was going nowhere at this moment. She shifted her position slightly, silently, and settled in for a long wait.
Unfortunately, the Emperor gave no indication he was likely to go to sleep any time soon. He turned from side to side, flung his covering sheet about, got up and paced the room before getting back into bed, all the time muttering things like, ‘Who does he think he is? How dare he?’
Tituria was pleased that the slaves had cleaned thoroughly under the bed. A little dust provoking a sneeze, and it would all be over. She wondered what her punishment would be for hiding in the Emperor’s bedroom. Was it a capital crime? She had always believed implicitly that her father would protect her from any danger. But even he could not protect her from the Emperor’s anger, could he?
She fought down a rising panic, reassured herself that all she needed to do was keep calm and still, and the night would pass, and everything would be normal. She resolved to show more caution in her spying activities in the future. She had been foolish, and this could have not only put her in danger, but embarrassed her father too. She would hate to disappoint him.
Eventually, the Emperor seemed to settle. He was less restless, and his breathing became deeper and more regular. She decided to wait a little longer, maybe until he started to snore, before she attempted her escape.
The door gave a quiet creak as it opened, and Tituria held her breath again. She heard Caracalla sit up, let out a sigh.
‘Julia,’ he said.
Caracalla tried to speak, but Domna was in no mood for words. Her stola hit the floor the moment the door closed behind her.
‘Julia,’ he said again, but she held out a finger and pressed it to his lips, closing them. She reached behind her to take the pins out of her hair and he watched as the movement pulled her breasts back, lifting and tightening them. He licked his lips, then tried again. ‘Julia, how dare he? What should I do about him?’
Her arms encircled his neck, and she kissed him long and deep, silencing him. He responded to her, kissing her back aggressively, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She let him take control, slipped easily into the role of submissive Roman woman, let him push her onto her hands and knees, and rode out his anger.
His hands were strong on her body, gripping her hips, breath hissing between gritted teeth, and he satisfied his lust and fury inside her, until they collapsed onto the bed together, both satisfied, exhausted, and their emotions temporarily assuaged.
They lay together, breathing heavily, naked bodies covered in a light sheen of sweat, unaware of the terrified and now shocked little girl a short distance beneath them. Domna ran her fingertip across Caracalla’s bearded cheek.
‘You had a lot of passion tonight,’ she said.
‘I didn’t hurt you?’ asked Caracalla, suddenly concerned.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘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.’
Caracalla huffed. ‘How many times, Domna? Will you stop comparing me to him?’
‘I miss him, though.’
‘As do I. But there is a time and a place to grieve. And that time and place is not when we are in bed together.’ Caracalla turned his back on her, his hands beneath his head to form a pillow. She lay against him, breasts pressing into his back, her hands stroking the wiry curls on his muscular chest. Her touch drifted downwards, cupped his groin, squeezed playfully. He turned abruptly, grabbing her wrists, pinning her on her back and looking down into her eyes. She laughed, lifted her head and kissed his nose. He let her go and flopped onto his back.
‘You’re impossible sometimes, Domna. How do you distract me from my cares so thoroughly?’
‘I honestly don’t know. You have your choice of so many beautiful women, noble and slave. Why do you choose to bed this old woman?’
‘Domna, you know you are beautiful. It is your hairstyles and clothing fashions that the ladies of good society in Rome still follow loyally. Men still turn their heads to watch you walk. I see it all the time.’
‘I thought that maybe you were only with me as some sort of… act of defiance to your father. I thought when he passed, you might finish with me, and then I would lose the only two men I have ever loved at once.’
Her eyes were wet, and despite the mention of his father again, Caracalla put his arms around her and drew her close, kissing each eyelid.
‘Surely after all these years, you know better, Julia. I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ said Domna. They kissed, and the room was silent except for the noise of their mouths working on each other.
And then the sound of a little sneeze.
Tituria lay frozen as the Emperor and Empress made love above her. The bed rocked violently back and forward, the wooden frame groaning in protest, and she feared that the whole thing might collapse and crush her to death.
She knew about sex in theory, though she was too young to properly understand it. Some of the older slave girls had told her about the mechanics, and she had witnessed a few acts of love when she had been sneaking around the house. She had even once seen her mother and father together, which had left her strangely unsettled.
But this was different. This was serious, and somehow wrong. The Empress was not the Emperor’s mother, she knew, but she was his father’s widow. Was that allowed? It was illegal for brother and sister or father and daughter to do it, she knew, but what about this situation? And if it was acceptable, why did they have to do it in secret?
But it clearly was a secret, and if the Emperor wanted something kept secret, it would be foolish to give it away. She resolved to stay silent after she had escaped the situation, and take the details of the Emperor and Empress’ private affair to the grave with her.
The rocking stopped suddenly, and she heard them talking to each other in words of love. She flushed. It was so intimate, she felt excruciatingly embarrassed.
There was a movement beneath the bed and she tensed, her eyes coming together as she focused on the thing near her face. A spider, about the size of a coin. Moving forward, pausing, moving again. Her breath suddenly caught in her throat, and she went cold all over.
She knew that spiders were unlikely to hurt her, that the poisonous ones were found in much more exotic places like Africa and the East, but that didn’t stop her irrational fear, something she thought she had inherited from her mother. The spider crept closer, and her stillness was her undoing. If she had moved the merest fraction of an inch, the creature might have fled. But taking her for something inanimate, it saw her merely as an obstacle to be surmounted. It stepped onto her hair, walked onto her forehead. From above her were the sounds of kissing. Her breath was fast and shallow as it walked down between her eyes, down her nose, to the very tip.
And then, to her horror, she sneezed.
‘Did you hear that?’ Caracalla’s voice, deep, confused.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Domna. ‘Kiss me.’
‘I swear to the gods I heard a sneeze.’
‘You are overly vexed, dear. Come here.’
‘No, it came from under the bed.’
The silk sheet was yanked upwards, and suddenly she was looking into the stern, bearded, upside-down face of the Augustus, Emperor Antoninus, who they called Caracalla. They both stared, neither moving, one from terror and one from blank incomprehension.
Then Tituria rolled out from under the bed and ran for the door.
‘Stop,’ cried Caracalla, and lunged for her. His hand grasped the hem of her dress, and she looked back at the huge, hairy, naked man, momentarily held back. She gripped the dress and tugged, freeing it from his grip. Caracalla was prostrate, leaning out from the edge of the bed, and Tituria had the barest moment to make the door before he regained his feet.
It was all she needed. She wrenched the door open and fled, fear lending her speed.
She heard Domna’s voice behind her. ‘Antoninus, stop. You can’t raise the alarm. We will be found.’
She ran down the corridor, turned a corner, then another, and ran to her bedroom. The little rag doll her mother had made for her when she was a baby was lying on the sheets. She grabbed it and clutched it to her chest, pulled the bedcovers over her head, and curled up into a ball, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She had been bad. Very bad. She was in real trouble this time, she knew. Not just a stern telling-off, confinement to her room, or even a beating. She had to tell her father what she had seen. He would know what to do. But she couldn’t bear to see the look of sadness and disappointment in his eyes.
She clutched her doll tight and wept, as quietly as possible.