Caracalla arrived in Domna’s audience room before his brother. The Empress was alone, and he stopped and just stared at her beauty. She sat on her throne, straight-backed, with empty thrones to her left and right, angled inwards. She was delicately made up, skin pale with lead powder, highlighted with kohl eyeliner, rose lipstick. She wore a loose blue stola, and small gold earrings.
He loved her. He always had, but what might once have been a hormonal, slightly Oedipal crush on his stepmother had grown into a deep adoration that her age and her relationship with his father did nothing to diminish. He hated that it had to remain secret. He wished he could parade her in front of the world as his wife, not his stepmother. Maybe, if he was sole ruler, he could consider it. His predecessors had done worse. Claudius had married his brother’s daughter and, if the gossips were to be believed, Caligula had slept with his own sister and Nero with his own mother. Emperors unchecked by Senate or family members seemed to be able to do what they liked, as long as the army supported them, and they could avoid assassination.
Domna smiled at him, and his heart missed a beat. He stepped forward, took her hands in his and kissed each one.
‘Thank you, Antoninus. From the bottom of my soul. I know you are only doing this for me.’
That was partly true. Much as he loved her, though, he had not lost his wits to her charms, and Oclatinius’ words about the uncertain loyalty of the Praetorian Guard had shaken him more than he would admit.
‘He is my brother,’ said Caracalla. ‘I don’t want this to end in bloodshed.’ And that was partly true as well. He really did want an agreement with his irritating brother, even to the point of forgiving him the recent attempt on his life. But things could not continue as they were. He hoped that something meaningful would come from this peace meeting.
‘What is he actually going to suggest?’ he asked. ‘Is this going to be a waste of time, or is he prepared to offer something of substance?’
‘First I have asked him to beg for your forgiveness for the poisoning.’
‘He admitted it to you?’ Caracalla raised an eyebrow.
‘He did.’
Caracalla sighed. ‘What else?’
‘He is going to bring a proposal to divide the responsibility for ruling the Empire, not on geography, but along the lines that Papinianus suggested. And you seemed open to this too.’
‘I may be. It depends on the detail. But that sort of division, leaving me in charge of the military, effectively makes me the senior Augustus, with the power to enforce that position if I wished. Will he accept that?’
‘He says he would. Honestly, Antoninus, he seemed different. He was desperate for this meeting to happen. I think he really wants to find a solution that will work.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Please, say you will do your best, Antoninus. For me.’
‘I promise,’ said Caracalla.
She looked deep into his eyes, then leant forward and kissed him impulsively, deeply, her tongue seeking his tongue, her hand on his chest. His passion stirred inside him, suddenly feeling the way only she could make him feel.
The door opened and they stepped back guiltily from each other. Caracalla turned to see Geta enter the chamber. He paused, giving them a long, appraising stare.
‘Geta, you’re late.’
Domna stepped forward with her arms outstretched. ‘My son, I’m so glad you are here to find a new friendship with your brother.’
Four men stepped through the door behind him. They wore short swords at their belts, and nondescript tunics, indicative of no particular branch of the military. Caracalla noticed now that his brother too was wearing a sword.
Domna stopped dead, her arms dropping to her sides. Caracalla took a step backwards.
‘Brother,’ he said in a low voice. ‘What is the meaning of this? The arrangement was that it would be just the two of us and the Empress. Unarmed.’
The men closed the door behind them, and drew its bar across.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Bassianus.’
Caracalla frowned. Geta only used his childhood name when he was being insulting. His brother was clearly in no mood for conciliation, whatever his words to the Empress. Which made the presence of the armed men even more alarming.
‘The Augusta said that you wished for a genuine solution to our conflict.’
‘Oh, I do, brother, I do. And I think I have found one.’
‘What are you talking about? Why are these men here?’
‘Mother,’ said Geta, turning to Domna.
‘Geta. What are you doing? I vouched for you. I promised your brother you had too much respect for me to use me as bait in a trap.’
‘Respect? Hmm.’ Geta gave her a quizzical look. ‘You are looking very well, Mother. Oddly well, in fact. Galen is the world’s foremost physician, would you not say?’
Domna looked puzzled at this seeming non-sequitur. ‘Undoubtedly, but I don’t see—’
‘And it is Galen’s assertion that a woman who is chaste will soon begin to show signs of hysteria. You were there when he said this.’
‘He accepted that your father’s vigour was sufficient to protect me from such issues. But Geta, this is not seemly.’
‘No, it really is not seemly. Bassianus, where is Titurius’ daughter?’
Caracalla went cold. ‘What… who…?’
‘Please, brother. Your denials are pointless. You disgust me, both of you. How could you disrespect Father in this way? Was it happening when he was alive? Mother, were you cuckolding him with his son?’
‘Geta, listen, you don’t understand, it’s not—’
‘Silence!’
Caracalla and Domna both took an involuntary step back, shocked at the forcefulness that was so rare in the younger Augustus.
‘Maybe I would have been open to some sort of solution. Some division of rule that acknowledged me as your equal while giving you the greater responsibility and power. But I will not rule with the man who made a cuckold of my father. Nor will I suffer him to live.’ Geta drew his sword and held it in front of him in his right hand, point angled towards the floor. Then he lifted it above his left shoulder and stepped quickly forward, slashing in a downward backhand. Caracalla flinched backwards, and as he did so, Domna stepped forward, arm outstretched, palm raised, crying, ‘Geta, no!’
Geta tried to pull the stroke away, but the edge of his blade sliced through his mother’s palm. She clutched it to her chest, blood staining her dress. She stared at her son, her eyes full of hurt, the emotional pain worse than the physical.
‘Mother, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Stop this, Geta. End this now. Take your men and leave.’
He looked down, and for a moment it seemed that he might acquiesce. But when he spoke, his voice was full of regret. ‘I’m sorry, Mother. There is no going back from this. Now please stand aside.’
‘No.’
‘Brother, come out from behind my mother. It is not befitting of your dignity to hide beneath her skirts.’
Caracalla gently eased Domna to one side, though she resisted.
‘You know, brother, I have always admired you. You were stronger than me, faster, braver, and not just because you were the elder. And I would be for ever in your shadow, no matter how equal we agreed to be. I think I could have accepted that. But I can’t accept your character, your anger and ruthlessness, your moral baseness. Your relationship with my mother. I’m sorry it has to end this way. But it must.’
He lifted his sword, and Caracalla tensed, staring at the point, preparing to move, to take whatever slight chance of survival he might have by fighting back, even though he knew that Geta had four armed men backing him up.
And then there was a huge crash at the door, and the wood splintered.
‘Again!’ urged Silus. ‘Put your whole weight into it.’
Atius shoulder-barged the door again, and the wood splintered inwards. He stepped back, rubbing his upper arm and prepared to charge again. Silus pushed him aside and aimed a kick at the door by the jamb. On the other side, the metal hoop that held the draw bar in place exploded into the room, and the door flew open.
Silus dived through the gap, staying low, reducing the possibility of an arrow or sword swing that had been lined up finding him. He rolled, came instantly to his feet, sword in hand. Behind, Atius charged through, his blade held ready before him.
Silus took in the situation in the briefest moment. Four armed but unarmoured guards faced them, swords drawn, expressions surprised but resolute. Behind them, Geta had his sword out and was facing Caracalla who was unarmed. Behind Caracalla was the Empress Julia Domna, bleeding freely from a wound on her hand.
All eyes had turned to Atius and himself, which was all Caracalla needed to save his own life. The muscular Emperor rushed forward, grabbing the wrist of his brother’s sword arm, and they struggled for the weapon.
Silus knew he couldn’t get to Caracalla until the guards had been dealt with, and in any case Atius and he had their work cut out staying alive against the four men. But he could keep the guards off Caracalla to allow him a fair fight with his brother.
Atius looked to Silus for guidance. Rush in, swords flailing? Spar and keep them occupied? It was Silus’ decision. The guards had no clear leader, especially with Geta occupied with Caracalla, and so they failed to take advantage of their natural superiority in numbers.
Silus gave Atius a hand signal, and Atius nodded his understanding. Silus dodged left, Atius right, bringing them to opposite corners of the room, backs to the walls. The audience chamber was not vast, and now it would be hard to come at them more than one at a time.
Hesitantly, a young guard approached Silus, pushed forward by an older colleague. He was fit, well-toned, but no more than twenty years of age. Too young to have built much muscle, and too young to have learnt how to fight dirty.
‘You’re not old enough to die,’ said Silus. ‘Drop your weapon and fuck off.’
The young man, not much more than a boy, looked terrified, but he gripped the hilt of his sword tight, and raised it up high for a heavy cleaving stroke.
Silus ran him through before his sword could even begin to descend. Silus twisted, the sword tearing internal organs and lacerating vessels, and pulled it out, a gout of blood following. He kicked the young man in the chest, and he toppled backwards out of the way. The older guard who had pushed the younger into conflict stared in dismay at the corpse of his comrade, but he had no time to grieve. Silus was on him in a heartbeat, forcing him to lift up his sword to parry a thrust.
The older guard was wilier than the younger had been, and kept Silus at bay, not committing to a killing blow that would leave him vulnerable, content to keep Silus back and occupied.
Silus took the opportunity to glance around. Atius had likewise dispatched his first opponent, who was writhing on the ground clutching a mortal gut wound, and was forcing his second opponent back with heavy, axe-like swings of his sword. Behind them, Caracalla and Geta were wrestling, the sword swinging around them wildly as they pushed and pulled, trying desperately for an advantage. Julia Domna had retreated to her throne, where she looked on in horror while clutching her injured hand.
Silus decided he had to bring things to an end. Caracalla was strong, but Geta was still the one holding the sword. If Caracalla died, Tituria would die too. It would all have been for nothing.
He feinted, a high thrust towards his opponent’s eyes, and when the guard pulled his head sideways to avoid the blow, he kicked him hard in the leg, scraping his hobnails down the shin. Silus had had this low trick performed on him in a barracks brawl in the past, and he knew how excruciating it was. The guard howled and hopped backwards, momentarily off balance. Silus swept a foot round hard to catch the guard’s standing leg, knocking it out from beneath him. The guard crashed hard to the floor, lying on his back, winded. Silus stepped astride him and thrust downwards, putting all his weight through the hilt of the sword so it cracked ribs as it transfixed his chest.
He stepped back, panting. Atius had battered his opponent to his knees, and as Silus watched, a vicious side swipe cut the unfortunate guard’s sword hand off at the wrist. He stared at the pumping stump for only a moment before Atius cleaved his sword into the side of his neck, almost decapitating him. The guard with the gut wound was already dead.
Behind the dead guards, Caracalla had forced Geta up against a wall. He used his superior weight and strength to hold his brother there, his left hand gripping Geta’s right wrist so the sword was pinned uselessly. His right hand found Geta’s throat, and he started to squeeze, while the grip of his left hand tightened powerfully and painfully on Geta’s wrist. The only sounds in the room came from Geta as he gurgled, and Domna as she sobbed quietly. His eyes widened in terror as he failed to draw breath into lungs desperate for air.
The sword dropped from his hand and fell to the floor with a clatter that seemed deafening in the small room. Caracalla looked at the fallen weapon, not easing the pressure on his brother’s throat.
‘Antoninus.’ Domna’s voice was pleading, desperate. ‘Stop.’
Caracalla turned to her, and the look in his eyes was full of anger, but also anguish. He released his grip on his brother’s throat. Geta fell to his hands and knees, gulping air into his chest as a man rescued from the desert drinks cold water. He crawled on his hands and knees over to Domna, where she still sat on her throne. She leant forward and took his arm, and he dragged himself into her lap, breathing noisily through his damaged windpipe.
Caracalla looked thoughtfully at the sword on the floor, the one that his brother had been about to kill him with. He bent down and picked it up, hefted its weight experimentally in his hand, squinted along its length to check it wasn’t warped.
‘This is a fine blade, brother.’ He made a couple of practice swipes and thrusts. ‘Yes, very fine.’
Domna’s arms were wrapped around her son, and she watched Caracalla with eyes brimming with tears, wet rivulets carved through the lead make-up revealing the darker skin beneath.
Caracalla turned to the throne. The sword tip was angled towards the ground. Geta stared at his elder brother.
‘Antoninus…’ began Domna, but Caracalla held up a hand and stopped her.
‘You’re bleeding, Domna.’
‘It’s just a scratch. Please put the sword down.’
‘No, Domna. I’m sorry.’
‘Antoninus, this can be fixed. Geta will submit to you. Acknowledge you as sole Emperor. Go into exile.’
Caracalla shook his head sadly. ‘He will always be a rallying point for discontent as long as he lives. And how can I ever forgive him for this base betrayal?’
‘Mother,’ said Geta. He sounded like a little boy, seeking solace from a nightmare. ‘Don’t let him hurt me.’
‘Show me your hand, Domna,’ said Caracalla.
‘It is nothing…’
‘Show me!’ he yelled.
Hesitantly, Domna held up her palm. There was a deep diagonal gash, the skin drawn back to reveal white tendon and bone among glistening redness. Caracalla stared at the wound.
Then he let out a wordless roar, charged forwards and thrust his sword deep into the side of Geta’s chest.
The sword penetrated between two ribs, just below Domna’s arm which embraced him protectively around the shoulder, and stopped when it lodged against the inside of his ribcage on the other side. Geta let out a single, choking cry. He looked up into his mother’s eyes, and opened his mouth to speak. Instead of words, dark blood bubbled out and over his mother’s dress, mixing with the bloodstains from her wounded hand.
Caracalla released the hilt of the sword and stepped back, whole body shaking.
Domna stared down at her dying son, and cradled him like a baby, stroking his face and crooning soft words to him. Geta tried to breathe, but just coughed out more blood. His body stiffened, head going back in a spasm, and then he was still.
Domna looked at Caracalla, and let out a single, disbelieving, hysterical laugh.
‘Gods, Antoninus,’ she said. ‘He’s gone.’
Caracalla bowed his head. Then he dropped heavily to his knees, put both hands to his face, and started to howl.
Much to Silus’ relief, Oclatinius arrived a short while later. Atius and Silus had been looking at each other awkwardly as the mother wept over her dead son, and the brother who had killed him cried out his grief and guilt.
Oclatinius limped in, supporting his weight on a crutch, and surveyed the scene, quickly taking in the details. He neither needed nor asked for any information from Silus, although Silus was sure an in-depth debrief would be required later. Oclatinius moved over to Caracalla and put a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, the distraught Emperor looked up at him.
‘Oclatinius. I had to do it.’
‘I know, Augustus. He left you no choice.’ He looked over at Geta’s body, pallid from the blood loss. ‘I’m sorry that I let this situation arise. I sent my men as soon as I found out.’
Caracalla slowly got to his feet with Oclatinius helping support him despite his own injury. The new sole Emperor turned, as if seeing Silus and Atius for the first time.
‘You two. Again. I owe you my thanks.’
Silus bowed his head in acknowledgement. The Emperor’s thanks meant nothing to him. He was at best ambivalent towards Caracalla. But Tituria’s life depended on the Emperor’s health and his goodwill, and Silus had just preserved both.
‘Silus, Atius, relieve the Empress of her burden.’
Silus swallowed, and the two of them approached Domna. She looked at them piteously, and gripped her son’s body tighter.
‘Augusta,’ said Silus and took a hold of Geta. Domna gripped him even more tightly. ‘Empress, please. I know what it is like to lose your only child. But you have to let go.’ Domna gave one more squeeze, then let her arms drop to her sides. Geta started to roll out of her lap, but Silus and Atius were there, and they caught him and eased him to the floor, straightening his legs and folding his arms over his chest.
‘Augustus,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I know you are grieving. But you have to act now. This event will unsettle the city, and in particular the Praetorians. You must go to them and explain what happened.’
Caracalla took a deep breath, then let it out slowly through his nose.
‘Very well.’
‘Silus and Atius will accompany you. I will attend the Empress and… take care of things here.’
Silus and Atius looked at each other. They were grimy, bloodstained, bruised and dishevelled. Hardly an appropriate honour guard to accompany the Emperor to the Praetorian barracks. But at that moment, it was all he had.
‘I should change,’ said Caracalla, sounding a little dazed. ‘Dress in the purple.’
‘No, Augustus. With respect, let them see the blood upon you, so that the truth of the attempt on your life is self-evident.’
‘You are right.’ Caracalla looked across to Domna, who was still sitting on the throne, drenched in congealing blood, her own and her son’s. The look she returned was coloured with anger, loss and the hurt that only a loved one could inflict. Caracalla’s mouth worked as he searched for words. Then he shook his head, and flicked his fingers at Silus and Atius. ‘Come.’ He strode out of the chamber.
They had gathered some Praetorians from the palace before they walked to the Praetorian camp. It was a long walk across the city from the Palatine to the Castra Praetoria – it was situated to the north-east of the city, outside the Servian walls, behind the Viminal, and the sun had fallen by the time they arrived. The party of pristine Praetorians escorting two blood-covered men out of uniform, and a similarly blood-soaked Emperor, who hurried through the city on foot calling out intermittently that he had narrowly escaped an attempted assassination, had collected a large crowd of curious and concerned citizens.
The Castra Praetoria was an impressive structure with thick masonry walls, similar in style to a fortress in the hostile provinces, but far more ornate and luxurious, its temple and baths more suitable for their situation in Rome rather than a far-flung outpost needed to hold back barbarian hordes. They entered through the Porta Praetoria, leaving the crowd of civilians behind. Caracalla went straight to the camp temple, where the standards of the guard were worshipped, ascended the steps and threw himself onto the floor.
As a crowd of stunned Praetorians grew at the bottom of the steps leading up to the colonnaded temple entrance, Caracalla prayed in a loud voice in front of the altar.
‘O Mars, O Jupiter, I give thanks here for my safety, that you have seen fit to spare me from this terrible attempt on my life by my brother.’
A shocked murmur went through the guard. Silus, crowded in with the soldiers, saw the idea dawning that something of real significance and import was happening this evening.
Caracalla rose, and with the help of the temple priest who attended him nervously, sacrificed a white dove and a white rooster in gratitude for his delivery from danger.
Praetorians from all over the fort scrambled to attend as word about what was happening got around. Some had been asleep, some in the bathhouse, so they had wet or untidy hair and beards, and were still adjusting their uniforms as they reached the temple. Caracalla walked out of the temple, and stood at the top of the steps, so he could address them in a loud voice.
‘Loyal soldiers, my Imperial guard. Tonight, an attempt was made on my life, by my very own brother. He invited me to peace talks: just me, him and the Empress. He came wearing a sword and with armed men to kill me. The Empress tried to defend me and was injured.’
This drew a gasp from the collected soldiers. To inflict an injury on the sacred body of the Empress was sacrilege, and a palpable sense of anger washed over the assembled guards like a wave. Caracalla held up a hand.
‘The Empress is well. The injury is not fatal. But while defending myself, I struck my brother Geta dead, with the very sword he brought to kill me.’
The soldiers went silent at the news. Then roars broke out, and Silus found it hard to tell whether the anger was directed against the actions of Geta or Caracalla.
Caracalla held his hands up again, and when the noise didn’t die down, he shouted to be heard.
‘My loyal guard, you are most happy. Because Fortuna has chosen me to be your sole Emperor, and now I, the one who loves you most, am in a position to reward you greatly. I say to you now, I am rewarding your loyalty with a bonus of two thousand five hundred denarii.’
This got a reaction, as those who had heard passed the information to those who had been shouting too loudly to hear. The roars of anger died out to be replaced by cheers of celebration at the award of this vast sum.
‘Furthermore, your rations are increased by one half. See how I reward those who are faithful to me!’
More cheers, applause, laughter. Silus swallowed bitterly, the happiness so incongruous after the scene of grief and death he had just left.
‘Now go and claim the gift I have given you, from the temples and treasuries, and let no man stop you, for I, Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Pius Augustus Britannicus Maximus, whom men call Caracalla, decree that it is your due.’
The Praetorians started chanting, ‘Imperator, Imperator,’ and Caracalla waved his hand in acknowledgement. Then the guards dispersed, flooding into the city to ransack the temples and the depositories of the Imperial treasure. Silus doubted that they would demand the exact number of coins that was strictly owed, but instead they would loot as much as they could. Rome would be a chaotic and dangerous place that night.
Suddenly alone with Atius in a rapidly emptying camp, Silus felt overwhelmingly tired. He squatted down on his haunches, and pressed his face into his hands, fingers massaging his sore eyes. After a moment, Atius nudged him with a thigh, and he looked up. Caracalla was standing over them.
Silus struggled to his feet, leaning on Atius as a wave of dizziness struck him.
‘Augustus,’ he said, bowing his head.
‘Silus,’ said Caracalla. He looked grave, morose, like a man defeated rather than one who had finally got what he had craved for so long. ‘My brother is dead, at my own hands. I have bought the loyalty of the Praetorians, for the time being. But there will be many in the city who despise me now. Many of my brother’s faction who wish me ill.
‘You have served me well. Time and again. Though once you defied me, I can forgive that. I need your loyalty now, more than ever. Can I depend on you?’
Silus bowed his head. ‘Of course, Augustus. I am your man.’
And he meant it. As long as Tituria was held hostage, her life in the hands of this impetuous and ruthless man, then Silus’ faithfulness to Caracalla was as solid as the Tarpeian Rock. He would do whatever was commanded of him, however it made him feel, however distasteful.
And he knew that there was a lot of distasteful work ahead. He had begun this journey as a scout, a soldier, a sword for the Emperor. He feared what would be demanded of him next.
A cold wind blew through the evening air of the parade ground, and a chill ran down Silus’ spine.