Empire's End

by Leila Rasheed

  As I watched, an eagle circled the burning funeral pyre three times, then lifted into the sky, bathed in gold from the sunset.

  “Farewell, Septimius Severus,” I whispered to myself. “Now you are a god.”

  22.

  Springs of Sulis

  I stumbled down from the hill in the dawn, heading still further north. I did not know where I was going, nor did I know how long I could continue. I dreamed as I walked, of voices that had been dead a long time. And I dreamed I was arguing with Avitoria, shouting at her, accusing her of murdering Theodora.

  “Camilla! Camilla!” My mother was calling me, in the distance. “This way!”

  I blundered after her voice. I almost thought I could see her, like a wisp of mist on the edge of a cliff. If I ran just a little bit faster, reached just a little bit further, I could touch her.

  “Ma!”

  I flung myself forwards, my arms stretched out to hug her. But the look on her face was so sad. She turned away from me and melted just as my fingers touched her. I fell forwards and my foot slipped on a rock that was suddenly smooth as glass. I found myself slithering down into a gully.

  I ended up, bruised and shivering, on the brink of a clear stream that ran through a cool, green cleft. It was still running despite the winter’s cold. Around it, the rocks were frozen with a skin of ice. Icicles had formed, like jewels dripping from the Empress’s neck.

  I dipped my hand into the water and drank as deeply as I could. Then I began following the stream downwards, over the steep, slippery rocks, clinging to the bushes that grew out of the cracks to steady myself. I felt as if I had been here before, perhaps in a dream, because I seemed to know the way. Then I was clambering straight down into a small green valley, where the water fell into a natural stone bowl and disappeared into a black crack in the rocks.

  I could feel that this place was sacred to the gods, but I was too tired to feel fear. I sat on the stones, dozing in and out of sleep. After some time, I noticed there were metal sheets in the water. Some glinted like gold. I could read some of the Latin as the water flowed over them. ‘Cure my son who cannot walk, goddess!’ and ‘I give thanks to the goddess who made me see again.’

  I looked up and saw that all around the spring, tucked into niches and in clefts in the stone, were little models of hands, ears, feet, eyes and other parts of the body. This must be a healing spring, I thought. And then, all at once, I realised this must be the spring where I was meant to meet my father.

  The gods had helped me find my way here. I could do nothing now but wait. So I did.

  The water danced in the stone bowl and birds fluttered in the trees. Now and then snow slid from a branch and landed with a soft thump in the clearing. The light was ghostly.

  I did not know if it had been minutes, or hours, before finally the bushes parted before me. A white horse stepped through the undergrowth. The rider on its back wore the birrus Britannicus. He looked at me from under his snow-laden hood. It was Arcturus.

  I said nothing; I was used to dreams by now. They were sent by the gods. It did not seem surprising that I should have another one, in this sacred place.

  “Why have you been running from me, you fool?” he said, getting down from the horse and coming towards me. His feet crunched in the snow and dead leaves. “You could have been killed, rambling over the hills like that!”

  I smiled at him dreamily. True enough, dreams sent from the gods did not usually call you a fool, but after all, I was just a girl. I probably got the dreams with rougher, less elegant language.

  Arcturus picked me up and carried me to the horse. He continued complaining as he tried to seat me on it, finally wedging me in front of him. I started to think that this horse smelled, and sounded, very real. Then it lifted its tail and delivered a stream of hot urine, melting the snow beneath it. I woke up. No dream horse sent from the gods did that.

  “Arcturus?!” I croaked.

  “Who else? I have been following you for three days. Every time I got close you went off the road.”

  “I heard hoofbeats, I thought the soldiers—”

  “No one is following you,” he interrupted.

  “My father?”

  “Dead. I am sorry.”

  His words were blunt, but I was glad he had told me the truth. I had half-guessed it anyway. For good or ill, Avitoria was a liar. She must have known I would not leave without my father. She had told a lie to save my life. My father must have guessed this would happen; that was why he had sent me away with Arcturus – to protect me.

  “Who killed him?” I whispered.

  “Caracalla. He slaughtered all his father’s friends before the Emperor was cold. Thirty men and more must be dead,” he added bitterly.

  “Geta?” It had not really sunk in yet that my father was dead.

  “Not yet. The army likes him. Caracalla, Geta and Julia Domna have set off for Rome already. They want to be back at the heart of the Empire, to make sure no one tries to steal their power. Abandoning Britain, once again.”

  We rode up out of the small valley and slowly made our way, by hidden paths that were much older than the Roman roads, to Arcturus’s farm.

  “No one will betray you there,” he told me as we rode. “My father has lived under several emperors – he knows what they are like.”

  When I first looked down on the farm from the hill, a blanket of snow lay over everything. The farm was almost invisible under it, tucked into the earth. It looked like somewhere animals lived: a place to huddle, a den or a nest, a refuge. Only the bare trees and the bare walls poked out like bones.

  But when the moon rose, the hills were like silver, just as Arcturus had promised.

  “And that was how you came home?” you ask.

  Home, I think. I halt the pony and look down at the farmstead beneath us. Is this home?

  Perhaps it is, now.

  *

  It did not feel like home at first. Not even close.

  There was straw on the floor, not mosaics, and it was often stuffy with the smell of some sick animal or other brought in to recover. It was a busy place. As well as Arcturus’s younger sister and brother, there were men and women who came in sometimes to help with the harvest and to herd the animals. Some were from the British tribes, but others were Gaulish, Belgae, Greek and Syrian. It was not a Roman villa, and it was not even our home in Leptis Magna. But it was a happy home, with plenty of laughter, and everyone, citizen or slave, ate at the same table.

  Arcturus’s father was a grizzled old centurion with twinkling eyes. I saw something of Marcus in him. His eyes did all the talking, for he never wasted a word. It took some getting used to. His wife, though, was magnificent. Tall, with long grey hair that still glinted golden in some lights, she wore a golden torc around her neck and was every inch a Brigante princess. And she rode. For British women, it turned out, rode horses. The day I saw her come galloping across the fields on her strong pony, her hair flying wild in the wind, was the day I thought that maybe there might be something in Britannia I wanted.

  As I regained strength, I began to worry about what I should do next. One evening I had the chance to speak to Arcturus about it. After he brought me to the farm, he vanished for a few days. He came back carrying my silver medicine chest and the news of Theodora’s death. The box he gave to me, and he did not seem to have opened it.

  When no one was looking, I put the cosmetic pot into the box too, and hid it under my bed. I had not told Arcturus what I suspected about Theodora’s death. I knew that if I did, he would have to seek out vengeance whether he wanted to or not, and. . . well, somehow, I could never bring myself to say it. I could not rid myself of the memory of Avitoria’s veiled blue eyes. By now, she had gone North, I heard, and Vitia was doing well, working for the same people as before, but this time earning money she could keep and save for her future. Who would have gained if I told the truth? If I must, I will answer to the gods and the spirit of Theodora for it when I die.

&
nbsp; “Your mother was kind to me while you were in Eboracum,” I said to Arcturus after he gave me my medicine chest.

  “She sees you as a sick lamb who needs feeding up,” he said with a grin. “Then she’ll send you out into the fields again.”

  “That’s what I am wondering. I have some skills. . . I can read and write Latin and Greek. I have some ability in medicine. Do you think anyone would want to employ me?”

  “A few might,” he said carefully.

  “But in any city, they will wonder who I am, and it will get back to the Emperor, and. . .” I began to panic again. “What am I to do?” The thought was there, but it was a horrible one. “In my circumstances, girls with no protection, no family, no money. . . sell themselves into slavery.”

  “You could stay here,” he said, looking down at his feet.

  “As a slave?” I snapped back. I had thought better of him, but now I felt foolish and angry. Of course, I had to be of some benefit to him. He would not have come to rescue me for nothing. My mind leaped forward: he would sell me eventually, and then who knew who would own me or what would happen to me? No doubt an educated slave girl would make some money on market day.

  “You could stay as a slave,” he said bluntly. “Or you could stay as a wife.”

  I stop talking and give a short laugh. It’s strange to think back on that day, though those words are imprinted on my mind like an official seal on a letter.

  “So you did,” you say, clearly uninterested in the love stuff.

  “So I did,” I agree. After all, there was not much love stuff, not at first.

  You charge down the hill towards home, wooden spear whirling above your head. I watch you, smiling. You are right, of course. All that matters is that I am here. I stayed, as a wife, at the end of the Empire, where fate and the gods drove me.

  Arcturus comes out of the house, a smile on his face at the sight of you back safely.

  “Daddy!” You dismount and run into his arms. Arcturus hugs you and swings you around. He looks up at me. I raise a hand in a silent message: it is done. I have hidden the treasure until safer times come along.

  For the truth is, Rome’s Empire is over.

  Looking back, I think the Empire began falling apart the moment that Septimius Severus died. He was the keystone that held the arch of the Empire together. Just six years after his body went up in flames on a hill near Eboracum, Julia Domna, Caracalla and Geta were all dead too. Caracalla murdered Geta, the army killed Caracalla, and Julia Domna took her own life when she knew that both her sons were dead.

  I remember that eagle I saw soaring above Septimius Severus’ funeral pyre. Back then, I thought it was the spirit of the Emperor. But perhaps it was the spirit of the Empire itself, leaving us – because things were never the same for Rome after that day. We were never really safe again.

  The last emperor who was of Septimius Severus’s line, Severus Alexander, has just been murdered by his own troops. There is no one to take the reins from him. Legions are arming and marching, and generals from Gaul to Syria, all wanting to be the next emperor of Rome, are preparing for war. It is vultures, not eagles, that will swoop on Rome now.

  When Rome fights itself, the borders of the Empire will be left undefended. The Caledonians have never forgotten how Caracalla massacred their people. They will take their revenge on the Romans in Britain if they can, and we are in their path.

  That is why I chose today to bury my treasures, the pieces of my story. They will remain hidden until times are safe again.

  But, as I watch you play with your father, the wind scudding clouds high above our heads, I realise that I have buried another treasure today, one I did not plan to. I have buried the story of my life, the story of your history, in your memory. Some day, perhaps, you will dig it up – and pass it on to your children.

  Present-day

  Epilogue

  THE YORKSHIRE GUARDIAN

  Saturday

  ANCIENT TREASURE DISCOVERED BY GIRL ON HOLIDAY

  A silver ‘treasure chest’ dating to the third century ad has been discovered at Strandby Cliffs by a Birmingham girl on holiday in the area with her family.

  Zaibun Ali (9) said: “I was just climbing on the rocks by the beach and I noticed something that looked like an old tin can, so I tried to get it out because we’ve been learning about keeping beaches clean in school. Then I saw that it was a box, and I showed it to my mum who said it was probably very old.”

  Researchers at the University of the North said that the engravings of Hercules and Dionysus on the sides suggest that the box was made in Leptis Magna, in present-day Libya. It would have belonged to a wealthy owner. They believe it dates to the reign of Septimius Severus, the first North African emperor of Rome, who ruled from York (then called Eboracum) from 209 to his death in 211 ad.

  Dr Steve Smith, of the Department of Archaeology, said: “It’s a bit of a puzzle, because the box is clearly meant for use as a medicine chest. It has the symbol of Asclepius, god of medicine and doctors, engraved on the lid – two snakes coiled around a staff. However, the contents are very varied.”

  The box contained a gold ring with an early Christian symbol on it, a bracelet made of jet from Whitby, and a small enamelled gold pot, which was probably intended for cosmetics. There was also some organic matter which has not yet been identified. It is thought it may have some connection with the ruins of a late second-century farm and villa some miles away, where skeletons of men, women and children from across the Roman world have been found buried.

  Dr Smith commented: “Roman-era Britain was a multicultural place. The Romans traded goods from as far away as China, so it is not a surprise that objects from Leptis Magna reached Britain. We just don’t know the story behind this particular box.”

  The box may have been buried for safe-keeping during the so-called Crisis of the Third Century. In 235 AD, the last emperor of the Severan dynasty, Severus Alexander, was murdered and a chaotic time followed, in which the Roman Empire split into three parts, each controlled by a different general.

  Zaibun said: “I want to be a doctor, so I was really excited to find out that the box was a medicine chest. But now I think I might want to be an archaeologist instead! I would love to know who buried the box and why.”

  The items will go on display at the county museum from September.

  Timeline

  193 AD/CE: The Year of Five Emperors. Septimius Severus, a general in the army, comes to power. Camilla is born. A severe fire destroys much of the city of Rome.

  207 AD: Camilla’s family leave Leptis Magna for Rome.

  208 AD: Septimius Severus begins his journey to Britain.

  211 AD: Septimius Severus dies at York (Eboracum)

  228 AD: Camilla and Arcturus’s son is born.

  235 AD: The Crisis of the Third Century begins. The last Severan emperor, Severus Alexander, is murdered by his own soldiers. Different generals fight for the Empire and the Empire is eventually split into three. The Roman Empire is never the same again.

  Author’s Note

  When I was two years old, my family moved to Libya. I grew up in Benghazi. On weekends we sometimes went on long drives to the ruins of ancient Greek and Roman cities like Cyrene, where we played among fallen columns and picnicked with a view of temples.

  I think this was where my love of history began. It was so easy to feel a connection to the ancient world when you were running around the same backyards and houses that children had run around over a thousand years ago. Of course, things had changed since the days of the Roman Empire, but some things were not so different. For example, the billboard-sized portraits of Libya’s ruler, which were everywhere, were a lot like the arch of Septimius Severus.

  As a result, it wasn’t hard for me to imagine myself into Camilla’s world. Nor was it hard to see that people have always travelled across the world, whether they wanted to or not, and created new homes, families and cultures wherever they went. All of these real people,
for example, lived at around the same time that Empire’s End is set:

  •Septimius Severus: a Libyan-born emperor who died in York (Eboracum).

  •The powerful Syrian wife of Septimius who followed him across the world, taking her religion with her.

  •A Syrian called Barates who freed, then married, his British slave, Regina.

  •The ‘ivory bangle lady’, found buried with rich jewellery in York. She had black African heritage and may have been a Christian.

  •Galen, a Greek from Turkey, who became the most famous doctor ever. He treated emperors, including Septimius Severus – and invented the ham ’n’ cheese treatment. (Yes, it’s real. No, it doesn’t work.)

  Together, this group makes up a picture of a Roman world that was full of many different cultures, religions and ethnicities.

  The Roman Empire, of course, was not paradise. It was a bloody, violent place, based on slave labour, where murder was entertainment and most women had little control over their lives. As soon as I introduced the fact that Camilla’s family owned slaves (as they would have done in real life), I found I had to explore that in some way. I didn’t feel comfortable ignoring the injustice of slavery, but nor did I feel comfortable pretending Camilla would have had the attitudes of a twenty-first-century person. I wanted Camilla to seem like a real girl, but a real Roman girl. As a result, slavery ended up being a bigger part of the book than I had first intended it to be.

  In 235 AD, the year in which Camilla buries her treasure, the Roman Empire began to fall apart. When it was finally united again, it was as a Christian empire – a huge change from Camilla’s world. Constantinople (today’s Istanbul, in Turkey) became the centre of a new Holy Roman Empire. The city of Rome itself was overrun by invaders, and so were its provinces, including Britain. A world that people had thought would last forever had lasted just a few hundred years.

  In the final chapter, Camilla is history and mystery for someone who will never know her story. The most interesting thing about history, I think, is that one day we will be history for someone else, in a world we can’t imagine. How long will our world last? What treasures will we leave behind, and what will future historical fiction writers say about us?