by Simon Turney
‘We do not make the same mistake,’ the prefect replied. ‘The best plans are simple and small. A good strategy does not require an extended army of conspirators and a carefully constructed timeline. A good plan is basic and focused, with as few people involved as possible.’
I shivered. ‘You speak as though you’ve done this before?’
He fixed me with a withering look. ‘Was it not you, Marcia, who came to me when I was a centurion in the Guard and enlisted me in a conspiracy against Cleander? Men went to the sword for the failure of one plan. Not I, though. I stayed careful and hidden. I will not make mistakes. And I have, in truth, given thought as to how it could be done, given the likelihood of just such a list as this appearing with my name on it.’
God, but he was prepared.
‘Tell us,’ breathed Eclectus.
‘It has to be quick. If he lasts until morning then we die. For the best results it should be subtle and hard to discern cause and origin of death. I had thought myself poorly placed for carrying out such an act in private, though there are occasional times when I am with him alone. I could slip in a knife when the opportunity next arises, but we do not have time for that. He plans to sleep in the gladiator barracks tonight, I understand, and gladiators guard him now. I would be dead before I had a chance to be alone with him. Eclectus, you have almost unparalleled access to him?’
The chamberlain shook his head. ‘Not any more. He is not interested in my views. I am on the list, remember. I doubt I will get past the guards on his door. Marcia?’
I stared back and forth between the two of them. ‘No.’
‘Marcia, harden yourself,’ Eclectus whispered. ‘Us or him, remember? We do not contemplate this on a whim. If we do not act, then tomorrow we all die.’
I shivered. I could not admit the truth of that. I shook my head. I could not do such a thing. Would not. ‘I cannot get to him, anyway,’ I said. ‘I already tried. The wrestler Narcissus guards his door. He will not admit anyone. Except the slaves, of course.’
‘We cannot trust a slave to do it,’ Laetus said. ‘Perhaps we could do something when he leaves his baths?’
‘Surrounded by gladiators?’ Eclectus sighed.
‘No,’ Laetus answered, chewing on his lip.
I shivered still. ‘I cannot be a part of it. I am a Christian.’ What a pathetic excuse. Had I been such a Christian when I engineered Cleander’s downfall? When I fed silphium to the empress? And the way the two men shot knowing looks at me suggested that neither of them were buying that idea.
‘Would you die for him?’ Laetus said bluntly. ‘For that is plainly the price of refusal.’
Hesitantly, I nodded, but found that even as I tried to nod, my head was shaking. Was I not willing to die for him? That came as something of a revelation to me. But the fact was that the more I thought about it, the more I knew that the Commodus for whom I’d have died, who I lifted from dreadful misery and who I’d loved even as a girl, was gone. How long had it been now since I had seen that innocent golden prince? A year? Two years? Five? Even when I thought we had healed and become close, the signs had been there that he was not the same man. In our early days when we had made love, his fingers had traced designs on my skin. He had put me at ease and whispered of love. But now? The last time he had come to me, he had lain atop me and promised to show me something about power. I shivered now, thinking back on it. He had been lost to me the moment Bruttia poured her poison into his ear.
‘Poison,’ I repeated, this time out loud, and then clamped my mouth closed in shock.
‘Go on,’ urged Laetus, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.
I shook my head, but my mind was already working, despite my shock. I had once managed to poison the empress in these very halls with silphium, had I not? It was surprisingly easy for someone who knew the ways of the palace kitchen. At banquets and meals there were tasters to overcome, but when Commodus was alone in the baths . . .
‘Wine.’ God, but why did I say that out loud?
‘What?’
Let me show you something about power.
‘He’s on a wine-drinking spree. He is in a rage and a foul mood, and he is drinking. He sent for a jug of wine from the kitchens and when I arrived at the baths I saw a discarded jar near the door.’ My mouth and mind seemed to have decided on a course without consulting my heart first.
‘But the wine will already have left the kitchens and be with him.’
‘That jar, but the jars of wine that he gets are small ones, since they’re carried through the palace by the slave boys. If he is truly engaged in drinking as I think he is, then there will be more. He will call for more wine. Poison in the jar will get past Narcissus and into the emperor unnoticed.’
God, forgive me, but try as I might to fight the facts, the simple, selfish truth was that I did not want to die.
‘How do we get the poison in the jar?’ Laetus mused.
‘The jars are taken from stores cold, stacked in a small area of the kitchens where they are opened as required and warmed if needed. From there, they are distributed. Commodus favours Caecuban if possible, and the jars of that wine in the corner of the kitchens will be bound for him. Deal with the first open jug and it will be in the emperor in less than an hour.’
I shuddered again. What was I saying? Was I really considering this? But I could not rid myself of images of that executioner’s blade falling. The quick death of the Aegyptian governor. The much, much slower and more agonising one of Quadratus. How sharp would the blade be for me? No. I did not want to die.
‘You sound as though you know the system and the kitchens,’ the prefect said. ‘If I get you the poison, can you get it into the wine?’
‘No,’ I replied decisively. There had to be limits. Even if I settled on the fact that I was willing to lose Commodus to save my own neck, I could not be the one to do it.
Laetus’ eyes narrowed. ‘I did not ask if you would. I asked if you could.’
Though I was shaking my head, I said, ‘It would be possible, yes.’
‘Then you must do it.’
‘No.’
Eclectus suddenly grasped my arms and gripped them tight. ‘Listen, Marcia. Tomorrow we all die. And Pompeianus. And Pertinax. And Falco. And Clarus. And half a tablet full of other names, none of whom deserve a blade simply for having an opinion. You cannot condemn us all for the life of a man who would execute you on a whim.’
I was still shaking my head. I did not want to die. But I had never killed. I might be corrupt and dark, but I had never taken a life myself. ‘He is my love. My prince.’
‘He will be your murderer, Marcia. Can you not see? He does not love you. Maybe he once did, but something in him has soured. He has gone too far and now he would kill everyone who might stop him going further.’ He shook me. ‘He . . . does . . . not . . . love . . . you.’
I pulled away, trying to tear myself from his grip, and stopped in shock as Laetus slapped me. I had a sudden memory of Commodus doing the same mere hours ago. Let me show you something about power. They were right: he did not love me. In fact, quite possibly he hated me now. And I would never be with him again, even if I lived. Commodus was gone, and only Hercules remained now. I had an odd, cancerous knot forming deep inside. An old, familiar feeling. One that had already led me to do dreadful things in my time.
‘What poison would we use?’
I could see the relief wash over the two men like a wave.
‘You don’t need to know that. Meet me in the Griffin room as soon as you can. Now go.’
Eclectus and I left. Neither of us spoke. We had committed to the most appalling plan, and I felt torn and ruined by the knowledge that I hated the very idea of what I proposed, and yet knew that it must happen, lest we all die.
A quarter of an hour later I was in that very room, close to the kitchens, waiting
. Eclectus had gone but would meet me near the baths shortly. Laetus appeared silently, with a dour expression. He passed me a small phial of something. I made to uncork and sniff it, but he put his hand over the top and shook his head. ‘It has a distinctive smell. It should go unnoticed in a kitchen full of food smells, but here it would linger dangerously. Find the jug, add the phial, and we are done.’
I took it, feeling the tremendous weight of such a small thing, for this tiny vessel carried death for a man, and damnation for me. I held it as though it were a blade.
‘Meet me in the vestibule near the baths,’ he said. ‘I will wait with Eclectus.’
I nodded and watched him go. Uncharitably, I mused that they were distancing themselves from me should anything go wrong and I get caught. Sensible, really.
The job was ever so easily done. I had not been here in years, since my days of silphium and noon meals, but I knew the kitchens, and I knew what I was about. Holding my breath and pausing as I entered, I cast up to Heaven a plea. ‘God, if this is wrong, stop me. Stay my hand somehow.’ But either God sought the emperor’s death in his ineffable plan, or my god is no more real than that gilded Greek the emperor emulated, for nothing happened to stop me. It took only moments to find the wine that would next be taken to the emperor and to tip the phial in and give it a swift shake to mix it all up. Laetus had been correct. The smell was acrid, but soon lost, dissipated among the heady odour of spices and wines.
I replaced the jug and stoppered the bottle, dropping it into a box of used jars and jugs awaiting disposal. I turned to leave and found a kitchen slave standing in the doorway. She was perhaps seven or eight years old, pretty in a bland way, pale and reedy, and she was inscrutable. Slaves often are. In order to prevent themselves drawing the ire of their masters, they cultivate a permanent, safe blank expression.
Had she seen? What did she know? What did she think?
My heart thundered and my mind raced. I had just committed to killing a man I had loved. Perhaps in an odd way still did. What price a slave girl, then? I was no wilting flower, stronger than I looked by far. It would not be beyond my ability to silence her, and quickly. But there are depths to which even I will not stoop. I took a deep breath and walked away. I glanced for a moment over my shoulder to see her approaching the wine jugs.
I would not kill a slave girl. I had done what I could, and now it was in God’s hands. Quaking with fear and horror at what I had done, I joined my two fellow conspirators in the hallway swiftly.
‘It is done?’
‘It is.’ Unless God had other ideas and the slave girl threw the wine away.
‘Then we wait.’
I still could not truly believe I was part of this. As we stood in conspiratorial silence, alone, waiting for the fatal wine to be delivered, I was battered by unwanted images. That golden boy I had first known. The wooden sword fight in the garden. The horror at Fulvus’ death. The melancholia I had discovered, and my joy at finding a way to counter it. Distress at the appearance of Bruttia, and my joy at her departure – that in itself carried acrid self-loathing. I had wondered briefly how I could now find myself part of such a despicable plan, but other images were scattered among those of my golden prince that told a darker tale. A curse tablet. A bowl of silphium. A web of conspiracy. I was a ghastly creature, in truth. A harbinger of death. I had always liked to think my motives good, even when my actions were evil. But there was no denying it. Perhaps this was what I was really born for. To kill.
I was pondering such awful things as that slave girl scurried past, apologising to us, the tainted wine jug in hand. Had she not known? Or had she known and yet said nothing?
I realised I was holding my breath. What had I done?
I started to follow the girl, fully meaning to stop her, and Eclectus and Laetus were at my shoulders, but as I burst into the antechamber outside the baths, the slave was already disappearing inside with the jug.
My heart raced, pumping cold self-loathing around me.
It was done. To try and stop it now would require persuading Narcissus on the door, and he would need to know why. That way lay all our deaths anyway, I was sure.
We came to a halt, me shivering and sick to the stomach. Narcissus gave us a passing glance. He was not the most imaginative of men and it probably did not occur to him to wonder why three so disparate people might be found together here of all places.
We stood in the weirdest uncomfortable silence for perhaps half an hour. The slave girl had not emerged. I was beginning to feel panic clawing at me. What had happened? Was he dead?
Then suddenly a voice called out from the baths.
‘Come quick. The emperor is ill.’
Narcissus gave us one quick look. ‘Stay here,’ he said firmly, turned and ran inside the baths, letting the door close. I was there before it shut, thrusting in my hand to stop it.
I pushed open the portal and could see only the apodyterium – the changing room. Exchanging glances with the other two, I hurried inside, followed by the prefect and the chamberlain. Shouts and the most appalling noises were coming from the warm bath room. We made our way over to it, with me in the lead. I stopped at the corner and we peered inside.
Commodus was naked, on his knees, vomiting copiously. The floor was already covered in his mess, and he was wracked with spasms as he gagged and coughed up more and more. Most of what emerged was a deep purple liquid, coated with froth, indicative that he’d eaten very little but drunk a lot of wine.
‘It is done,’ whispered Eclectus at my shoulder in a hoarse tone. I felt hollow. Dead inside. I watched as Commodus retched up more and more, but Laetus cleared his throat.
‘He lives,’ he whispered in reply.
‘What?’
‘The poison should not make him vomit. He should by now be shaking and twitching as his limbs lose feeling. He should be dying fast from the inside out. This is not the poison.’
‘But he has drunk from the jug,’ Eclectus pointed. I shivered, realising what had happened.
‘He drank the wine, but he is ill from overindulgence. He has vomited it all up.’
‘And the poison with it,’ hissed Laetus.
I felt the oddest thing. Relief flooded through me. I had not poisoned the emperor after all. Commodus would live. God’s plan had not called for murder. Perhaps I had even saved him by poisoning him, in an odd way. He would live.
And I would die.
Selfish voices began to beg me from within once more, eroding my thankfulness, shattering my sudden peace. I would die. These men would die. The consuls would die. Noble old Pompeianus would die. So many people would die.
The slave girl was attending the emperor, and Commodus, irritable, waved his wrestler away. ‘Go. I’m only sick, you idiot.’
Narcissus turned and made for the door at a slow pace. I had already backed out, pushing the other two ahead of me. We were in the changing room once more, but while I made to leave altogether, Eclectus grabbed my arm. ‘We still have to do something.’
‘No.’ I was vehement now. ‘I tried. I cannot do it again.’
And I couldn’t. I had been wicked and vicious and had challenged God to stop it. He had done so. Divine providence had thwarted my attempt. I would not defy both God and my feelings and try again.
‘We have to,’ hissed Eclectus, and I spun to him, but my eyes fell on Laetus as I did so and I stared.
Before Narcissus ambled back in, and while Eclectus and I struggled, the Praetorian commander had produced the wax tablet from somewhere and was scratching something into the list hurriedly. He snapped it shut just as the wrestler reappeared.
‘I told you to wait outside,’ the big man rumbled.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Laetus demanded.
Narcissus’ brow creased as I stopped struggling in the chamberlain’s grip. What was happening now? ‘You are the Praet
orian prefect,’ the big wrestler answered.
‘And do you know what this is?’ Laetus pressed, holding up the tablet, open so that the man could see it.
‘I cannot read.’
‘But I know that you recognise your name, for it is on your cell door in the barracks, is it not?’
The big man’s brow folded further as he peered at the wax. I shivered, confused. Narcissus’ name was not on there. I had seen the whole list. And why would it be on there anyway? I realised with cold horror what Laetus had been doing. He had added the wrestler’s name to the list.
Narcissus nodded. ‘That is me.’
‘And this is me,’ Laetus replied. ‘This is the general Pompeianus. This is the lady Marcia. This is the imperial chamberlain. Do you know what this list is for?’
It took a moment, but I saw stark realisation dawn on Narcissus and his eyes widened.
‘Killing. A proscription list.’
‘Yes,’ Laetus replied. ‘The emperor will welcome his new world tomorrow by making a bloodbath of the old.’
‘But why me?’
Laetus nodded, and suddenly Eclectus let go of me and stepped forward. ‘It surprises you to find your name on it? Then think how we all feel. We who are the leading men of the Roman state. The emperor means to kill us all, man. This is only one list. There are many.’
What an astounding and easily delivered lie. But it made the list of names more convincing, for sure. Other lists might possibly mean more gladiators.
‘But me? I am his trainer.’
‘The emperor killed a Syrian prince for beating him to a lion,’ snarled Laetus. God, but that was a lie and a half. The lies, though, were like arrows, thudding into the wrestler’s resolve. ‘Two senators, nay consuls, are to die in the morning for disagreeing with him.’
‘He has to go, Narcissus,’ Eclectus breathed. Still the big man looked unconvinced.
‘A thousand sesterces and your freedom,’ Laetus said suddenly, changing tack so fast I almost lost the trail. But Laetus knew what he was doing. The wrestler was struggling with the idea of appearing on the list. He was a fighting slave of the emperor’s but had sworn loyalty to him. He was conflicted and uncertain. But gold and freedom talk to a slave on a level a free man will never understand.
