‘Now, husband and master, will you tell me what transpired at today’s meeting?’ Her tone and words were sweet and correct. Maybe if she could at least pretend to respect him in public, that would be sufficient.
He paced the room. ‘We are in a fortunate position, my love. To be in favour with the Emperor at such a time not just allows advancement, it preserves life itself. The list of those to die was… there were so many.’
‘Who?’
Marcellus listed those he could remember off the top of his head, although he was sure there were many he had missed out.
Soaemias sat tight-lipped as she listened to the list. ‘There will be many vacancies in the most important posts in the government, and in the Senate. We need to make sure our relatives, clients and supporters fill those posts as far as possible.’
Marcellus nodded his agreement. ‘Power is transitory. One day Papinianus seems unassailable in his position, and the next day he is being hacked to pieces in front of the Senate.’
‘And his son is now to follow him into the embrace of Elagabal.’
‘Yes. We must make sure we don’t place our own son in this position. We need to work together, Soaemias, to make ourselves indispensable to the Emperor, to carry out his every command to the best of our ability, and to secure my position. The lives of all of us may depend on it. Are you with me?’
Soaemias stepped forward and kissed him lightly on the side of the mouth.
‘Of course, my love. Now, will you join me in the daily sacrifices? Avitus is going to lead the ceremony, and my mother will join us.’
Marcellus hesitated. He came from Apamea, a Hellenistic city in Syria, and he was brought up worshipping the Graeco-Roman pantheon. But his wife was a devotee of the god Elagabal, the supreme god of her home city of Emesa, and their son Avitus would accede to the role of Elagabal’s high priest one day, the position that Julia Domna’s father had occupied. Both Soaemias and Avitus undertook the worship of the Emesene gods with utmost seriousness and solemnity, and Marcellus had long since learned not to mock, demean or disrespect the Emesene pantheon in any way. And he had just lost a battle with his wife that had left him feeling unsettled. So despite his pressing list of tasks that worried at the back of his brain, he nodded.
‘Let us worship.’
* * *
They had dedicated a small room at the back of their domus as an Elagabalium, a temple to the supreme god, Elagabal. Soaemias had told him that Elagabal was originally a god of the mountain, which was where his name came from in the ancient language of Emesa. He had been worshipped since ancient times, and was the oldest of all Emesene gods, although over time he had become associated with sun gods, particularly Sol Invictus, the unconquered sun. The walls of the Elagabalium were frescoed with scenes of sacrifice against backdrops of Syrian countryside. The floor mosaic was a radiant sun, surrounded by minor deities, with a magnificent eagle soaring above the sun. At one end of the room was a marble altar. And in the centre was a conical black rock, a representation of the holy rock which resided in the temple in Emesa and was supposed to have fallen from the skies.
Marcellus was still unclear as to whether the Emesene rock was supposed to be the god himself, or merely a representation, or something in between. He wasn’t sure the worshippers were entirely certain themselves. But in any case, the rock before them now was purely a symbol, albeit one that Soaemias had had blessed by the high priest himself.
Julia Maesa was kneeling in the centre of the room, eyes closed. She was Julia Domna’s younger sister, and the family resemblance was marked, but her features were somehow more severe. Where Domna’s nose looked beautifully sculpted, hers was rodent-like. Where Domna’s eyes were round and open, hers were heavy-lidded. Marcellus believed that her appearance was an outward reflection of her inward ugliness. He had never liked his mother-in-law.
Maesa turned at their entrance, flicked a contemptuous look at Marcellus, and then smiled at her daughter, holding out her hand for Soaemias to join her. Marcellus’ wife knelt beside her mother, and Marcellus knelt on the other side of her.
Six slaves dressed in plain robes were present in the room. Four of them were musicians, equipped with drums, cymbals, flutes and pipes. The other two were female slaves, one young and beautiful, the other much older, gap-toothed and bent-backed. They represented Elagabalus’ consort, Astarte, the goddess of water and fertility, and Atargatis, the great earth mother.
Before the altar stood their eight-year-old son. He was dressed in a long-sleeved, gold-laced Syrian style robe which reached down to his feet, and on his head he wore a crown decorated with jewels of red, blue and green. He was heavily adorned with gold and silver bangles, necklaces and rings. In one hand he held a twig, a sacred fertility symbol. His face was heavily made up, pale cheeks and eyes outlined in black, the corners tilted up to give an oriental appearance. He ignored his father, mother and grandmother, fully focused on the worship of his god. Marcellus, Soaemias and Maesa bowed their heads to the stone.
‘Children, it is the hour of worship of the all-powerful Elagabal, god of the mountains, god of the sun, supreme god of all gods, be they Roman, Greek or Egyptian.’
It always felt strange to Marcellus to hear his own son refer to him as child, even though he often presided over these daily episodes of worship. Avitus’ voice was high, reedy, with a slight lisp which he would probably grow out of. Marcellus hoped that he would grow out of some of his other traits too. It was nice to see him in dress suited to a man, albeit in eastern style, instead of a stola, or to Marcellus’ acute embarrassment, sometimes nothing at all.
A slave brought in a male calf, only a day old, still smelling of milk and afterbirth. He placed it on the altar and held it steady, stroking its head to keep it calm.
Avitus picked up a curved, wickedly sharp blade. Marcellus had long had his reservations about this, but Soaemias had insisted that Avitus fulfil all the functions of the attending priest, and to be fair to the boy, he had been doing this for a number of months now without losing any fingers.
The drummer beat a slow, soft rhythm and the cymbals laid a shimmering, quiet tone over it while the pipes and flutes played a haunting, ululating melody.
‘Great god Elagabal, your all-holy wife and mother Astarte and Atargatis, accept our meagre offering, along with our bodies, our hearts and our souls.’
Avitus drew the blade in a curve around the calf’s neck. It was so sharp that the young beast didn’t even flinch. Blood spurted out forward and was caught in a bowl. Avitus skilfully managed to avoid getting a fleck of red on his tunic, which Marcellus was pleased with – blood was a nightmare to get out of fine clothes.
The calf’s front knees buckled, then it toppled onto its side on the altar and kicked its legs, eyes flickering around the room in panic before unfocusing. It struggled for breath, then the breathing slowed and stopped.
Avitus took a jug of wine and poured it into the bowl, swirling it to mix the two liquids. He poured a libation onto the floor in front of the altar, then lifted the bowl and drank from it, blood spilling down his chin and down his robes. Marcellus cursed inwardly. He suspected he would be paying out for a new set of expensive ceremonial clothing soon.
The musicians kicked up the tempo and volume. Avitus passed the bowl to Marcellus. He took a sip of the salty, warm liquid, swallowed and passed it to Soaemias, who also drank and then passed it to Maesa. Then they rose and joined hands with each other and with Avitus and the two slaves representing the consorts. In a circle they danced around the stone, chanting and singing hymns of praise to the Emesene gods in time to the musicians.
The music built to a crescendo, and they danced faster and faster, their breathing accelerating with the effort and emotion. Marcellus’ heart raced, as despite his best intentions he found himself wrapped up in the moment. Maesa and Soaemias looked solemn and devout, but his son seemed to be in some sort of ecstatic trance, rolling his head wildly, eyes narrowed to slits. There was a crash l
ike thunder from the players and the music ended. They all fell to their knees, and closed their eyes for a moment of silent worship.
Eventually, Avitus got slowly to his feet. Maesa, Soaemias and Marcellus did the same. He held out his arms.
‘My children, go with the peace of Elagabalus, god of gods.’
‘Yes, father,’ said Maesa, Soaemias and Marcellus.
Then Soaemias added, ‘Now go and study your Greek grammar. If you get behind, Gannys has permission to thrash you.’
Avitus flushed, turned and fled from the room.
‘You could have let him get out of his robes before you reminded him he is a little child,’ said Marcellus.
‘He will be a child for precious little time. Less than most, I fear.’
Marcellus wondered what made her feel like that, but he had other matters on his mind.
‘Slave, get me a cup of wine. I will be in the tablinum.’ He kissed Soaemias on the cheek, nodded to Maesa and headed for his study, mind full of games, plays, races and executions that he had to organise.
* * *
‘I’ve had enough,’ said Silus. ‘I want out.’
‘You can’t just walk away from the Arcani,’ said Oclatinius simply, as if it was a truism.
‘You think you can stop me?’
‘Of course I can.’
Silus glowered at Oclatinius, whose face remained serene. The spymaster had a temper, but he only let it show for a reason. His ability to control his emotions and fail to rise to the bait could be infuriating for anyone trying to argue with him.
‘This is not what you promised when you recruited me.’
‘Is that so? Tell me what I promised you. Tell me what I swore to the gods would be yours.’
Silus thought back to that time in Britannia, soon after the death of his family, at his lowest ebb, when Oclatinius had taken him under his wing and trained him. He had nearly walked away, but Oclatinius had offered him the chance to avenge his wife and daughter, and he had pledged himself to the Arcani and their head. But had he actually ever promised him anything? Searching his memories, he couldn’t think of a single vow that had come from Oclatinius’ lips.
‘Promises are chains that restrict us,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I make it a habit to refrain from making them wherever possible. But when I do make them, I keep them. Such as my vow to serve the Emperor Antoninus.’
‘Emperor Caracalla, you mean?’ said Atius.
Silus and Oclatinius both gave him a dagger stare, and he shut his mouth, abashed.
‘Well, maybe it wasn’t a promise. But I did not think this was what being an Arcanus was about. I’m not working as a spy. Not even an assassin. Just a common executioner.’
‘We all serve at the Emperor’s pleasure. Do you think I enjoy commanding the death of men who have served Rome with honour and dignity?’
‘Then why do it?’
‘I just told you. My oath is a chain. I swore to serve the Emperor, and I will until I die. And you swore the same.’
Silus looked down. His word was important to him too, although he knew it was not unbreakable. Some things were even more important than a vow. Nevertheless, he did not break his word easily. For example, he had promised to visit Tituria in her island exile, and he intended to see that through. It gave him an idea.
‘Maybe I could have some leave?’
Oclatinius stared at him.
‘Some what?’
‘A break. From all this. Oclatinius, I’m so sick of it. So tired.’
Oclatinius spoke slowly, his words measured.
‘Within the last nundinum, one Emperor has murdered another, the Praetorians have sacked their own city, the Senate has been cowed into submission by the Praetorians, the former Praetorian prefect has been hacked to death in front of the Senate, by you, I don’t need to add, and there is now a long list of prominent Romans who are to be executed, while the army are kept in check only by bribery and the general population don’t know whether to rejoice, riot, or hide away in terror. And you want a holiday?’
‘He’s got a point,’ said Atius.
Silus wondered why he was friends with the big idiot. But it was true, he did have a point.
‘Don’t you have a mission for me outside of Rome, at least? So I can get away from all this madness.’
‘Silus, much as it pains me to say it, you are my best man. The two of you are my best team. I don’t want to lose you at this crucial time. But I don’t want to have you so disillusioned you don’t do your job properly. Or even decide to desert. I do appreciate I am asking a lot of you at the moment, but the Emperor is asking a lot of us all. From many people, he is taking everything. Be grateful you are not one of those.’
‘Sir, has the Emperor gone mad?’ asked Atius, bluntly as always.
‘Honestly, Atius, I don’t know. I don’t think so. His actions are affected by grief, anger and fear. But they are rational. He is making his position safe. And he is doing what many rulers and emperors have done in Rome’s history, without them being called mad.’
Atius nodded, and Silus had to agree with the assessment. Not that it made the things he was being asked to do any easier.
‘Listen, Silus, I don’t need you for anything right now. Most of the executions are being performed by the Praetorians and the Urban Cohorts. The Emperor largely wants them to be public, not hidden from view and performed by the more secret elements of his forces. And Festus and his men can take up some of the slack for a change.’
‘Sir, do you trust Festus?’ asked Silus.
‘What makes you ask, Silus?’
‘Just a feeling, sir. I don’t have any evidence, but my gut says maybe he was behind some of the things that have been going on.’
‘Festus is none of your concern, and you will not be repeating what you just said to anyone outside this room, do you understand?’
Oclatinius’ tone was uncharacteristically shaky and high-pitched.
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry.’
Oclatinius shook his head. ‘It is I who should apologise. But please, leave Festus to me. He and I have a long history. Professional and… non-professional.’
Silus waited, but nothing else was forthcoming.
‘Silus, I don’t want to lose you from the Arcani. I can attempt to force you to stay and do your duty, but after your development over the last year and more, I would not be confident of success. I will think about your request. But for now, I have a surprise for you.’
He went to the door of his office and spoke to the slave waiting there. The slave hurried away, leaving Silus in suspense.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘You do know the meaning of “surprise”, don’t you, Silus?’
Moments later the door opened, and in walked a plumpish woman in her early middle-age, looking confused.
‘Apicula!’ cried Silus.
‘Master!’ She looked genuinely pleased to see him. She put the dog down and ran forward, hugging him tight. ‘Oh master, I’m so glad you are well.’ Silus hugged her back, pleased but a little awkward in her embrace. She stepped back, looking embarrassed, flushed but grinning broadly.
A shrill yapping came from Silus’ feet. The little dog was jumping up and down, desperate to be noticed.
‘Issa!’ Silus reached down and scooped the little dog into his arms. She immediately started to lick his face, her stump of a tail wagging furiously. Her breath stank, a combination of bad teeth and her habit of eating faeces she came across in the street, animal or human, but Silus couldn’t push the little bitch away. She was all he had left of his family and remained dear to him.
He looked at Oclatinius, who was smiling indulgently.
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Silus, I knew where they were the moment they fled.’
Silus, Atius and Apicula all looked at him in shock.
‘You sent me to kill her!’ said Atius, tone accusatory.
‘Only after my spy had told me that she had alread
y fled. And to where.’
‘But I made sure no one was following me,’ said Apicula. ‘I hid with an old customer in a village outside Rome, a farmer who only visited the city on market days.’
Oclatinius simply looked smug.
‘And the tablet, it’s safe?’ asked Silus, enquiring after the letter written by Titurius revealing that his daughter Tituria had seen Caracalla in bed with his stepmother Julia Domna.
Apicula looked stricken. ‘Master, I’m sorry, I failed you. I kept it with me until I reached my friend’s farm. I buried it beneath the floor of my room. But when I came to look for it, when Oclatinius’ messenger came for me, it was gone. I don’t know what happened. The floor didn’t even look disturbed. But the box I put it in was empty.’
Silus put a hand to his mouth. If that tablet, with its evidence of the Emperor’s transgressions with his stepmother, became public, it would be disastrous for the Emperor. And fatal for Silus and for Tituria, seeing as he had pledged to keep the tablet safe, and used it as insurance to keep the little girl alive.
‘Apicula,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, no.’
Oclatinius reached into his desk and drew out a wax tablet. It was closed, its outer leaves covered in dirt and dust. He brushed some off, blew away the rest. Then he passed it to Silus.
‘You had it all along?’ gasped Silus.
‘It’s not the sort of thing you leave lying around. Even buried under the floor of a country farm. I thought it would be safer in my hands.’
‘But, why didn’t you give it to the Emperor?’
‘And lose my best man? Give me some credit for sense.’
Silus shook his head. ‘And why give it to me now?’
‘Because that was the bargain. You keep the tablet in exchange for Tituria remaining alive. The tablet is less of a threat to the Emperor now it can’t be used by his brother, but it could still be very damaging at a vulnerable time in his reign. You have your leverage back to protect Tituria. I trust you to be mindful of its safekeeping.’
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