The room was quiet apart from the rattle of dyspnoeic breath and the slow drip, drip of blood from the Emperor’s wrist into a copper bowl on the floor. Galen sat on a stool, holding Severus’ non-lacerated wrist, two fingers on the pulse. Julia Domna was seated by his head, dabbing his cheeks with a damp flannel. Caracalla and Geta stood at the foot of the bed, watching. Hovering near the door were Papinianus and two Praetorian Guards. It had been some hours now since the collapse. Night had fallen. The palace beyond the Imperial chambers was deathly silent. Even those slaves and servants who had business to be up at this time tiptoed around, aware that something momentous and terrible was happening.
Lucius Septimius Severus Pertinax Augustus Parthicus Britannicus was sixty-five years old and had reigned as Emperor of Rome for nearly nineteen years since the year 966 Ab Urbe Condita. His predecessor was the egregious Didius Julianus, who had tried to purchase the purple as the highest bidder in an auction instigated by the corrupt Praetorian Guard. Severus had been the ultimate victor of the wars stemming from the Year of the Five Emperors, and had gone on to defeat the Parthians, expand and refortify Africa province as well as defeat the barbarians of Caledonia. He had ruled the Empire for longer than any since Marcus Aurelius.
Now here he lay, surrounded by his family, body ravaged by time, sickness and an intemperate climate, weaker than a newborn kitten. Caracalla was in his prime, strong and fit, and couldn’t imagine ever being in such a physical condition. Maybe he never would be. Severus was something of an exception in recent years in his length of reign, and to die of natural causes while wearing the purple was unusual. No one wanted to die before their time, but Caracalla was realistic – when he took the throne, he would be a target for everyone with an ambition to rule. Not least his younger brother.
Galen’s prognostication had been grave. The old doctor was not a seer or a haruspex and did not claim to be infallible. Nevertheless, even Caracalla could see that his father was fading fast. His belly fluttered with excitement. Much as he loved his father and admired his achievements, his time had gone. Caracalla had served his apprenticeship. He was ready to be the master now.
Severus opened his eyes, and raised a hand to Domna. She bent her ear close to his lips, and Severus whispered to her. She nodded and closed her eyes, tears overflowing and rolling down her cheeks. Caracalla felt mixed emotions at this display of affection from the woman he loved towards his father. But soon, Domna would be his alone as well.
Severus spoke aloud, his voice weak and breathy but audible.
‘Julia. Antoninus. Geta. Come close. Everyone else. Out.’
Papinianus bowed, and nodded to Galen. The physician hesitated, then stiffly stood and was escorted out by the two Praetorians. The door closed. Geta and Caracalla stepped forward and knelt on either side of their father’s bed.
For a moment Severus just breathed heavily. His lids fluttered, and Caracalla wondered whether there would be any last words. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at Caracalla and Geta in turn.
‘You boys have made me proud,’ he said. The words came slowly, punctuated by struggles for breath, but they were clear. ‘You will both be an asset to Rome. You have different qualities, complementary…’ He trailed off and his eyes closed again.
Caracalla waited. The time was very near now. Severus took a deep breath, and Caracalla wondered if it was that last agonal gasp that he had witnessed so many times on the battlefield. But it was merely a prelude to more words.
‘The Empress and I…’ More breaths. ‘We wish you to rule together. Co-Augusti. Like Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus.’
Caracalla and Geta both bowed their heads. Caracalla sighed inwardly. He had hoped, even at this late hour, that Severus would come to his senses. That he would realise that making them equal could only lead to conflict. Caracalla and Geta were not Aurelius and Verus. They did not have that deep brotherly love. Nor would Geta subordinate himself to his older brother the way Verus had to Aurelius. He could only hope now that Geta would succumb to an untimely natural death like Verus had.
‘I know that the two of you have conflicts. But heed these words. Live with each other in harmony. Enrich the soldiers. And damn the rest.’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Caracalla, wondering already how he could live up to his father’s dying wishes.
‘Yes, Father,’ said Geta sombrely.
‘Julia,’ said Severus. ‘My love. For ever.’
He closed his eyes. This time he did not open them. His breathing became deeper and more erratic. Then it slowed. Slowed. Stopped.
Domna laid her head on his chest and wept. Caracalla’s thoughts whirled. He was now the most senior Augustus, by age, experience and length of time in the purple. Maybe he could make this work with his brother, if Geta could be persuaded to accept him as the senior partner.
He looked at his father’s still body, and offered a silent prayer to the gods for his swift passage to the afterlife.
Februarius in Eboracum was a foolhardy time to go swimming in an open-air pool. But Daya didn’t seem to feel the cold, and Silus could not let himself be shown up by this young woman. Atius, Daya and he swam lengths of the thirty-yard pool that was the centrepiece of the Fortress baths. Apart from the three of them, the pool was unsurprisingly empty. The snow had only just melted from Januarius’ biggest fall, and the water could not have been much above the temperature at which it would freeze. He gritted his teeth and swam on, using a steady breaststroke. Daya was half a length ahead of him, Atius just behind, grumbling loudly, then choking as his mouth filled with water.
He reached the nymphaeum at the south end, where a statue of a group of dolphins played in the water coming from the fountain that supplied the pool. The freezing spray splashed his face as he came near it and he squeezed his eyes shut.
They had agreed ten lengths, and he had one more to go. His limbs were tired and his breath short, but the cold was absolutely numbing. He put in a burst of speed, but actually lost ground to Daya who reached the far end and hauled herself out. She stood there, water dripping off her slim, naked body, waiting for Silus to arrive, and when he reached her, she offered a hand and helped haul him out of the water.
It was even colder out than in, he felt, as the cool breeze played across his wet body.
‘Gods, that was horrible,’ said Silus.
‘To the caldarium,’ said Daya, and set off at a run.
Atius was at the far end of the pool, and got out without completing the ten lengths. He stared daggers at Daya’s retreating back, then looked at Silus. Silus shrugged and set off after her.
They ran briskly through the frigidarium and tepidarium, but it was too fast to acclimatise. The heat of the caldarium hit Silus like a slap, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe, difficult to properly fill his lungs. Daya didn’t hesitate and jumped straight into the hot plunge pool, a big splash making some nearby legionaries who were sitting on stone benches soaking up the heat look up and send curses her way. Silus gritted his teeth and jumped in after her.
It felt like he had landed in a cauldron of boiling water and he yelped aloud. The hot plunge pool was a high enough temperature to make him wince even when he had already acclimatised in the caldarium room. Going straight from freezing cold to boiling hot instead of the usual, civilised build-up through frigidarium and tepidarium prior to entering the caldarium was excruciating. He jumped out as quickly as he had jumped in.
‘Are you trying to kill me?’ he gasped.
Daya wallowed in the hot water for a moment, then leapt out.
‘That felt amazing,’ she said, a huge grin painted across her face. ‘Atius. Your turn?’
‘Fuck that,’ said Atius, and sat down heavily on one of the stone benches.
Daya and Silus joined him. The hot air circulated around them. Silus thought his body didn’t know whether to shiver or sweat. It had certainly got the blood pounding, though, and he felt strangely alive.
The great bathhouse had become a regular haunt for Atius and himself over the winter, as they exercised, gambled, chatted, and in Atius’ case, found women to entertain him, especially after Menenia had thrown him out. Atius had encouraged Silus to take a woman, and he had actually thought about it, but though it was almost a year since the loss of his family, he still could not bring himself to be near anyone else. He knew that the memories, and the sense of betrayal of his beloved Velua, would be too intense.
Daya now wore a breast band and thong, and it only now really occurred to Silus that he was sitting next to a barely clothed woman. There had been no time to look when she had stripped and dived into the swimming pool, and he had been too cold and exhausted afterwards to even think about her nudity. Now, when he had time to contemplate her, he found himself strangely uninterested. He realised that women generally had little interest for him after the loss of his family, but he was a man, and not entirely immune to feminine charms. Yet Atius, the womaniser, was showing no interest either. Maybe it was her handsome but androgynous features, her boyish build and face, her short-cropped hair.
Or maybe it was just that it was so unusual to have a female warrior. Yes, history and legend were littered with examples, such as Boudicca, Cartimandua, Camilla and Antiope. He had even seen gladiatrixes who fought in the arena, although most aficionados considered them an amusing diversion rather than a serious contest. So maybe Silus and Atius were just not viewing this athletic, martial young woman as female at all.
‘So is that your idea of fun?’ Silus asked Daya.
‘Why not? I live for extremes. Why spend your life in the tepidarium, when there is a frigidarium and caldarium out there?’
‘There speaks someone without enough experience of life,’ said Atius. ‘There will be times when you long for tepid.’
Silus’ body decided the heat was here to stay, and his pores opened and sweat began to pour down his head and back.
‘Daya. You are a master of unarmed combat. A fast swimmer. You don’t seem to feel heat or cold. Is there anything you can’t do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Daya. ‘I haven’t found anything yet.’
‘I bet she can’t piss standing up without getting her feet wet,’ muttered Atius.
‘Maybe you have a challenge for me?’ Daya suggested.
Atius regarded her steadily. ‘Maybe I do. Come with me.’
Atius led Daya to the gymnasium. Some dedicated legionaries and auxiliaries were working out, lifting weights, doing squats and press-ups, keeping themselves in shape through the winter inactivity. More of them would be drinking, gambling and whoring, mocking those who did work they didn’t have to. Silus wondered who was more likely to survive a battle. It wouldn’t necessarily be these men striving to be the best. They were often found in the front line, or taking part in a hopeless charge. The shirkers and wastrels had a tendency to survive.
Two round stone balls, about the size a man could encircle with his arms, sat at one end of the gymnasium. Atius stood behind one, and motioned to Daya to stand behind the other.
‘What’s the game?’ asked Daya, still cocky. The young woman was much slighter than Atius in build, both in her natural frame and the lack of muscle that developed as one matured. Yet she seemed to show no doubts.
‘Simple,’ said Atius. ‘Pick up this ball, and carry it to the far end. First there wins.’
‘What’s the prize?’
‘If you lose you have to find the finest whore within a hundred yards of the bathhouse and pay for me to spend half an hour with her.’
‘And if I win?’
‘Well, it’s not likely, is it? Do you want me to find you a man whore?’
She gave him a contemptuous look.
‘Fine, I’ll buy you some jewellery to the same value.’
She didn’t look like the sort who was interested in pretty trinkets, but she shrugged and accepted. It was not the sort of wager to bankrupt either of them. The finest whore to frequent the bathhouse was hardly the sort of high-class courtesan that might attract the attention of a senior commander or high-up civilian. But the motivation for the contest was far more about proving prowess than financial gain.
‘Silus, you’re the judge,’ said Atius. ‘Count us off.’
‘Right,’ said Silus. ‘First to carry the stone between those two pillars over there. Get ready. On three. One, two, three. Go!’
Both the contestants bent their knees, wrapped their arms around the stones, and heaved them up. In unison, they took their first steps.
Silus was impressed with how Daya had started. He had doubted whether the young spy could even lift the weight, and it had certainly taken some effort. But once she had it in her arms, she did not hesitate. Slowly, one steady foot after the other, she began to make progress.
But she did not have Atius’ bulk. Though the larger, older man was not finding the task easy either, breathing hard through gritted teeth, his steps were longer and firmer. Silus watched the muscles stand out in bunches around Atius’ arms, the veins on his neck bulging, his legs rigid as tree trunks.
The total distance was around twenty yards, and by the halfway point, Atius had opened up a gap between them of three feet. The strain was showing on both. The temperature in the gymnasium was neutral, but sweat poured down both contestants’ bodies.
When Atius reached the three-quarter mark, Daya was only at the halfway point, and her legs were beginning to tremble. Her breathing came in a ragged hiss, and her back stooped. Suddenly, the ball slipped from her hands and crashed to the gymnasium floor, cracking a tile, and narrowly missing crushing Daya’s foot. Atius looked back, and gave a smile that was more of a grimace. He lowered his own stone to the floor and took some deep breaths.
‘Ready to quit?’ asked Atius, unable to keep a mocking tone from his voice.
In answer, Daya bent down and with immense effort hefted the stone back into her arms. She set off again, a determined look on her face, and Atius suddenly seemed alarmed as the young woman began to close the distance between them. He reached down and hastily grabbed his own stone. The effort of carrying the boulder with already fatigued muscles was even worse now, and he grunted with each step. The finish line was yards away, then feet. Atius glanced back over his shoulder.
Impossibly, the young woman was gaining on him. Only a few feet separated them now. Silus saw Atius start to tremble. His legs shook, and his face showed concern through his pain. He took another step. Another. Silus thought he would drop the boulder, and doubted he would manage to pick it up again if he did.
And then he was there, crossing the line, letting the boulder crash down to the floor.
‘The winner,’ declared Silus. ‘Well done, Daya, good effort. You can stop now.’
The young woman said nothing. She continued to take one step after another, eyes focused only on the finish line.
‘Daya, it’s over, you lost,’ said Atius. ‘You did a lot better than I thought, but you can rest now.’
It was as if she was deaf. Her face was white, her legs trembling violently. The pulse in her neck was thumping fast. Silus became alarmed.
‘Daya, you are going to hurt yourself. Stop.’
Others in the gymnasium who had initially paid only a passing interest to the wager now stopped their exercise to watch. Some shouted at her to stop. Some laughed. Some yelled encouragement. Inevitably some started to bet on whether she would make it or not, and one even wagered that she would die before reaching the finish.
Step.
After.
Step.
It was fascinating. Time seemed to slow down. The fantastically stubborn young woman, moving more slowly than a tortoise, approached the finish line.
Three feet left.
Two.
One.
She staggered over the line, let the ball tumble down, and collapsed onto her back beside it, gasping. An attendant slave rushed over with a damp towel and patted her head and body.
Atius and Silus stared in amazement.
‘Christos,’ said Atius. ‘What were you trying to prove, girl? You had already lost.’
Her eyes slowly refocused, and she looked up at them.
‘There,’ she said between heavy breaths. ‘Still nothing I can’t do.’
Silus shook his head and laughed.
‘You are something, Daya. I don’t know quite what, but you are definitely something.’
He offered a hand, and when Daya took it he hauled the young woman to her feet. Daya put a hand on Silus’ shoulder for a moment, looking momentarily dizzy. Then she straightened and smiled.
‘Anyone for a run?’
‘I think we’re done with exercise for the day,’ said Silus. ‘Let’s get a massage.’
‘And then go and find me that whore,’ said Atius.
Silus sipped his beer at the table outside the brothel, watching Daya curiously. She drank water and ate chestnuts sparingly. Silus figured he had seen about fifteen more years than the prospective Arcanus, and yet the young woman held herself with an air of unperturbable confidence. Her back was straight, her limbs relaxed, her eyes watchful and alert but not anxious.
They had time to kill while waiting for Atius. Daya had been true to her word and had found Silus’ friend a beautiful prostitute, a mature Caledonian slave, and paid for Atius to spend half an hour with her. Silus decided to indulge his curiosity.
‘Where are you from, girl?’
Daya took a sip from her cup, looked around, then looked at Silus steadily, saying nothing.
‘Lost your tongue, girl?’
‘Are you talking to me?’ said Daya.
‘Who else would I be talking to?’ asked Silus, confused.
‘It’s just you seemed to be addressing a girl, and I don’t see any girl within earshot.’
Silus sighed.
‘Fine, fine. Can I call you young woman?’
Daya seemed to consider for a moment, head tilted to one side. Then she nodded. ‘That will be acceptable.’
‘Then I’ll try again. Your accent is Syrian?’ It was a guess. Not only had Silus never travelled outside Britannia, but he was exposed to a relatively small mix of ethnicities.
Daya shook her head. ‘I’m from Mauretania. Mauri tribe.’
Silus racked his brain for mental images from the maps of the world that his father had shown him as a child. He had a vague recollection that Mauretania was to the west of the province of Africa.
‘So how did you end up at the other end of the Empire?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
Silus shrugged. ‘Listen, girl, young woman, whatever you are. I don’t really give a shit about you. But right now, I’m bored, freezing my ass off, and was looking for some conversation. We can sit here in silence if you prefer.’
Daya sipped her water again, and Silus resigned himself to seeing out the rest of Atius’ prize half-hour in tedium. Then Daya spoke.
‘My mother and I were kidnapped by pirates when I was young. My father was killed trying to save us. We were sold into slavery.’
Silus nodded, and waited. It seemed like Daya would tell her tale at her own pace, and with her own level of detail.
‘We were bought by a merchant from Byzantium, who travelled a lot. He kept my mother as his mistress for when he was away from home. She became pregnant. But she died in childbirth. My baby sister only lived a few days.’
So far so ordinary, thought Silus. A tale replicated thousands of times every year across the Empire. Still, he felt sorry for the lass. Traumatic as Silus’ upbringing had been, he had never been a slave, and his wife and daughter were freeborn. He couldn’t imagine what it did to a person’s soul, even if they later became free, to have been owned, entirely at the whim of their master or mistress, to be put to work or beaten or used sexually or killed as they willed it.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Silus, realising how inadequate that sounded. Daya dismissed the sympathy with a wave.
‘I was left behind at the merchant’s domus in Rome and raised by the house slaves. The mistress of the house resented me. I think she found her husband’s closeness to my mother upsetting, and I was guilty by association. I ran domestic chores for the household, but I was regularly beaten and whipped for minor mistakes. I think the mistress was a little bit insane. She drank a lot of unwatered wine and then would lose her temper and strike out. She once threw a serving girl down some stairs. The girl broke her leg and never walked straight again afterwards. The girl’s father, the steward of the house, lost his temper and struck the mistress. He was crucified.’
Less ordinary now, thought Silus. What an environment for a girl to grow up in! A stout, middle-aged man walked past them and into the brothel without a sideways glance. Daya watched him until he was out of earshot.
‘So what happened?’ asked Silus. ‘How did you get out of there?’
‘Her money started to run out. She carried on drinking the best wine. She looked for a lover to support her, but no one was interested in this drunk old woman. So she sold possessions. Furniture. Jewellery. Me.’
‘I see. So who was your next master or mistress?’
‘I have had no owner since that evil woman.’
Silus raised his eyebrows. ‘So you…’
Daya nodded. ‘I ran away.’
Silus whistled. ‘Does Oclatinius know that he has recruited a runaway slave?’
‘Of course,’ snapped Daya.
Of course, thought Silus. No way that Oclatinius would entertain allowing someone into the Arcani who he didn’t know inside and out.
‘Well, your story doesn’t end there. It’s a long journey from a runaway slave in Italy to a candidate for the Arcani in northern Britannia, any way you measure it.’
‘Why are you so curious? I’ve been through all this with Oclatinius.’
‘Like I said, mainly boredom. But also, if we might be working together, I think I have a right to know more about you.’
‘You have no rights over me,’ snapped Daya. ‘I have pledged my loyalty to one man. The rest have to earn my trust.’
Silus opened his mouth to snap back, then closed it again. He had never been a slave. How would he feel if he had had that humiliation in his past? He made an open-handed gesture.
‘Tell me what you will.’
Daya paused, then nodded.
‘I got out of Rome in the back of a cart taking empty vegetable sacks back to the latifundia. The carter found me a few miles out of the city and chased me, but I had nearly fifteen summers by then and he was fat and out of shape. I disappeared into the countryside and survived by stealing food from farmers.’
‘Brave. And hard. The slave hunters are pretty thorough in Italia, I hear. And aren’t there bandits? I don’t believe you made it long on your own.’
‘You’re right. I thought I was doing fine, until one day I was caught by a vicious slaver. He beat me, put an iron collar around my neck and threw me into a cage on the back of a cart to take me back to Rome.’
‘You were enslaved a second time?’
‘No. I was rescued.’
‘Rescued. Who would rescue an escaped slave? Spartacus is long dead.’
‘Bulla Felix,’ said Daya, in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
‘What!’
‘Greetings, brothers,’ said Atius, strolling out of the brothel, his face flushed, and his hair a mess.
Silus looked round at Atius, then back at Daya, his mouth hanging open.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “Greetings,”’ said Atius.
‘Not you, you idiot,’ said Silus, causing Atius to adopt an offended air. Silus ignored him and looked pointedly at Daya.
‘Bulla Felix rescued me,’ said Daya and took a long drink of his water.
Atius looked confused. ‘Who? What? When?’
‘Atius, sit down, have a beer and try to catch up. Daya is telling us how she ended up in Britannia. She is an escaped slave who was rescued by Bulla Felix.’
‘I don’t know who that is,’ said Atius.
Silus waited for Daya to interject, but when she showed no inclination to do so, with a sigh, Silus spoke.
‘Bulla Felix was a bandit who terrorised the Italian peninsula with six hundred men for two or three years, what, five years ago?’
Daya nodded.
‘So it was Bulla Felix who taught you to fight?’ asked Silus.
‘Yes,’ said Daya. ‘He took me under his wing and trained me. He was a great man. Brave, cultured, strong and a skilled warrior. He only took what he thought was fair from those he robbed, and distributed the gains to the local community.’
‘Oh, a kind-hearted thug,’ commented Atius dismissively.
‘Don’t talk about what you don’t know about,’ said Daya and her tone was low in warning.
‘There are all sorts of tales told about Bulla Felix, Atius,’ said Silus. ‘I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him. Once he rescued two of his men who were about to be killed in the arena by disguising himself as a provincial governor, telling the prison warden he needed prisoners for labour and describing the type of men he needed so that the warden himself picked out Bulla’s men and handed them over. Another time he ambushed a centurion who had been sent to capture him, gave him a mock trial, shaved his head like a slave, then sent him back with the message for his masters to feed his slaves properly so they didn’t become bandits too.’
‘Fine, maybe I would like him if I met him,’ said Atius.
‘He is dead,’ said Daya, and her face showed real grief.
‘Were you lovers?’ asked Atius bluntly.
‘No!’ said Daya vehemently. ‘I’ve never…’ She stopped speaking and reddened uncharacteristically.
‘The Emperor was furious,’ said Silus, smoothing over the embarrassing moment. ‘No one could catch Bulla Felix, and he seemed to be mocking authority at every turn. Severus sent out a military tribune and a bunch of Praetorians and told him that either he came back with Bulla or he would suffer dire punishment himself.’
‘So the Praetorians actually did something useful?’ said Atius.
‘It was no skill of theirs,’ said Daya. ‘He was betrayed.’
‘Really?’ said Silus. ‘I just heard that the Praetorians tracked him down.’
Daya shook her head. ‘Bulla was sleeping with the wife of one of his soldiers. The soldier found out, and told the Praetorians his location for revenge.’
‘So Severus got his man in the end,’ said Atius. ‘I think he defeated everyone who opposed him.’
‘Bulla was thrown to the beasts in the arena,’ said Daya. ‘Many of us from the band went along in secret to witness his end. He was a brave man to the last. The Emperor himself watched. I was close enough to see his expression. He showed no compassion or admiration for a defeated enemy. Only contempt.’
She paused, then said, ‘After Bulla was gone, everyone went their separate ways. Without him, we were nothing.’
‘He sounded like a great leader,’ said Silus. ‘But I still don’t understand how you got from there to here.’
There was silence. She seemed to be wrestling with something. Silus and Atius waited for her to ready herself to tell them. She opened her mouth, then something over Silus’ shoulder caught her eye. Silus turned to see two Praetorians in full uniform approaching at a brisk march. He thought it odd that they should visit the brothel in that dress, until he realised they were approaching the three of them at the table.
The guardsmen came to a halt, saluted, and said, ‘Centurion Gaius Sergius Silus?’
Silus hadn’t really got used to being addressed as a centurion. It seemed to him a purely honorary title since he didn’t command a century. He nodded acknowledgement.
‘Greetings from Oclatinius Adventus. He said we would find you here.’
How did the wily old man know where they were? They had only come to this place because of Atius’ stupid bet. Did he have spies following them? Spies spying on the spies? Or was it just his natural intelligence and intuition? He reminded himself never to underestimate the spymaster.
‘Yes, what does he want?’
‘I presume these with you are Atius and Daya.’
‘They are. Speak.’
‘Oclatinius orders you to attend him immediately in his offices.’
Silus’ eyes narrowed.
‘Why?’
‘Oclatinius said you would ask why, and said to tell you to obey your orders, you insolent bastard.’
Atius let out a laugh, which he had to choke back after a dagger glare from the silent Praetorian.
‘But he did authorise us to tell you this. The Emperor, Lucius Septimius Severus Augustus Parthicus Britannicus, is dead.’
Silus, Atius and Daya looked at each other in stunned silence. Atius spoke first.
‘Fuck.’