‘Looks like you have quite a bit more in there.’
He was right. Despite the night’s drinking, Silus’ purse was full. He had just been paid, and was surprised to find out how much more a centurion in the legions got than a scout in the auxiliaries.
‘Don’t do this,’ said Silus, sobering up fast.
‘Do what, comrade? We are just asking for some help, brother soldier to brother soldier.’
‘I’ll give you four copper coins if you tell us the way home.’
‘Well, that’s not very generous, is it?’
‘You’re right. I’m not known for my generosity.’
‘Hey, lads,’ said Atius, slowly coming to the realisation that this meeting wasn’t as friendly as he had hoped. ‘Why don’t you tell us the way home, and we can fuck off, and no one gets hurt?’
The men looked at each other and laughed. Silus and Atius certainly seemed like hard men to the casual observer, but they were completely drunk, bedraggled as sewer rats and outnumbered.
‘Last chance,’ said Atius.
‘Or what?’ said the one-handed man.
Atius’ knife was in his hand before Silus could speak. The big Celtiberian took one step forward and stabbed the blade deep into the side of the one-handed man’s neck. One-hand gripped at the handle, tried to pull it out weakly. Then his legs went from under him and he toppled to the ground.
There was a moment of stillness, then the other veterans let out a roar of anger and rushed forward as one. This was no ordinary untrained street gang – they had drilled and trained and fought together, and they knew the power of acting together. And Atius and Silus were badly impaired by the drink.
On the other hand, Silus and Atius were younger, fitter, especially now Atius’ ribs had healed, and they knew how to fight dirty. The two Arcani reeled back under the initial onslaught, ducking and dodging fists and kicks, evading bear hugs. Silus’ spinning head made his retaliatory blows inaccurate, and his arms felt like they had lead weights attached to them.
A thump to the side of his head sent him back further, but sharp fingers to his assailant’s throat had the man on his knees clutching for air. His second attacker had a club, however, and a glancing blow to his temple staggered him. He stumbled and tripped over backwards.
Atius was having similarly mixed fortunes. His knife still stuck in the one-handed man’s throat, he had to fight with fists and feet, and his strength was keeping the other two at bay, but he made no headway.
The man with the club bent down to Silus and ripped his purse away. ‘Come on, lads,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the money. Let’s get out of here.’
The three men still standing limped off into the darkness, leaving two fallen comrades behind. Atius came over and helped Silus to his feet. He gingerly touched his head where the club had caught him, feeling an egg-sized lump already swelling up under his fingers.
‘Fuck,’ he said. Then he looked at his belt, where his full purse had been moments before, and said, ‘Fuck’ again.
* * *
Aulus Triarius Rufinus was a crushing bore, Titurius decided as he walked home from the Senate meeting. As the previous year’s consul, he had every right to be heard out, but couldn’t he find something more interesting than the forthcoming cabbage harvest to discuss? He sighed and pulled his toga closer. Before him, two well-built slaves pushed aside anyone too slow to get out of his way of their own accord. An old man with one leg reached out his hands in supplication for a coin, and a slave shoved him hard, so he fell face first into the shit and mud that ran down the street towards the sewers. It had been raining hard, and the cripple sent up a big splash of ordure as he fell with a cry. Brown droplets splashed across the front of Titurius’ pristine white toga, and he stopped abruptly.
‘Look what you have done!’
The muscular slave turned and his mouth formed an O when he saw the muck on his master’s clothing.
‘Dominus, I am so sorry,’ he said, and rushing to his master, tried to rub off the dirt, only succeeding in smearing it in deeper.
‘Stop, stop,’ said Titurius, ‘you are just making it worse. Let’s get home.’
‘Yes, dominus. Out of the way, fools,’ cried his slave, and began clearing a path again, although this time making sure that he directed any shoves well away from his irritated master.
They made their way out of the forum and up the Esquiline Hill to Titurius’ residence, a beautiful town house high enough above the city to escape the worst of the noise and smells, although nowhere in Rome could compete with the tranquillity of a country villa. As he reached his front gate, the porter stood to attention.
‘Dominus, you have a visitor.’
Titurius sighed. Of course he did. His clients queued from before the break of dawn to beg indulgences – favours, resolution of disputes, or just straight cash. Although most disappeared by mid-morning, some lingered. Several hopefuls hung around outside the gate now, attempting to catch his attention.
‘He is waiting in the atrium.’
Ah, that was more interesting. The household slaves only showed important visitors inside.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dio Cassius, dominus.’
‘Hmm.’
The trouble with the design of houses in the city was that there was only one way in and out, through the vestibule and into the atrium. There would be no way of getting into a fresh toga before greeting his guest. He brushed himself down as best he could, straightened the folds, and strode inside.
The atrium was floored with a beautiful mosaic of satyrs frolicking amongst woodland creatures in leafy groves, and the impluvium was well-stocked with eels that broke the surface of the water with their sinuous bodies. Two marble benches sat against the walls that bracketed the door leading into the interior of the domus. On one sat a grey-haired grey-bearded thin man with a receding hairline over a wide forehead. He stood as Titurius entered, and Titurius couldn’t help but notice that his visitor had a perfectly clean toga. Titurius advanced to greet him, and Dio Cassius looked down at his smutty clothing with a momentary sneer of disdain that was quickly gone. It was replaced with an easy smile as he shook Titurius’ hand.
‘Good afternoon, Dio,’ said Titurius.
‘And to you, Titurius.’
‘Is this a passing visit, or would you care to join me for a Falernian? My agent has managed to acquire a particularly fine vintage which I think will amuse you.’
‘You know how much I like to be amused,’ said Dio without a trace of humour.
‘It’s a bit chilly to sit in the peristylium, I fear. Shall we recline in the tablinum and I will have some morsels brought as well?’
‘That would be delightful.’
Titurius escorted Dio through to the dining room, and offered him a couch. Titurius lay next to him, propped up on one elbow, and after Dio had accepted a goblet of wine from the serving slave, Titurius took his own. Dio swirled the liquid around the goblet, sniffed, took a sip and swished it around his mouth ostentatiously. Then he swallowed.
‘That is entirely satisfactory,’ he said.
Titurius inclined his head, and took a sip himself. It was in fact excellent, and had cost a fortune, but he didn’t expect Dio to acknowledge that.
‘I didn’t see you at the Senate,’ commented Titurius. They spoke in Greek, the language of the higher echelons of the Empire, especially those who considered themselves educated and cultured.
‘Rufinus was speaking, wasn’t he? What was his diatribe regarding today? The inflationary pressure on the price of asparagus?’
‘The crisis in the cabbage supply line, actually.’
The corners of Dio’s mouth turned up marginally.
‘And you wonder why I wasn’t there? Besides, I was working.’
‘Your history? Which era have you reached now?’
Dio’s face lit up. It was an easy way to get the senator in a cheerful mood, prompting him to talk about his passion and life’s work.
/> ‘It is a work in progress, and as it approaches the present day, I will likely continue it until I die, and describe the events that unfold around me. I am already making records about the Emperor’s British expedition for a future volume. As of now, though, I am working on the fortieth book. Crassus’ Parthian disaster, and the beginning of the rift between Pompey and Caesar.’
‘The start of the civil war,’ commented Titurius.
‘Would that all Rome’s wars were so civil.’
The sound of children’s voices reached them, laughter mixed with outrage, and in a moment a young girl burst into the triclinium hotly pursued by an elder boy. The girl was screaming, and the boy was yelling at her to stop and see what present he had for her. On seeing their father with a togate visitor, they both stopped abruptly and stood still, expressions sombre. The boy hastily hid something behind his back.
Titurius held back a smile and adopted a stern expression and tone.
‘Children, explain yourselves.’
The siblings – they were clearly brother and sister from their close resemblance of jet-black hair, and thick dark eyebrows – looked at each other guiltily but said nothing.
‘Tituria, what is going on?’
‘Nothing, Father,’ said the girl.
‘Quintus,’ said Titurius. ‘What are you hiding behind your back?’
Reluctantly, the boy brought his hands in front of him to reveal a fat, wart-covered toad. Tituria took a step away, grimacing in disgust.
‘Quintus—’ began Titurius. Then with a loud croak, the toad kicked out its powerful back legs. Quintus grappled with it for a moment, but couldn’t hold it, and it leapt onto the floor and hopped towards Tituria.
She screamed and ran to her father, hurling herself into his lap.
‘By all the gods!’ exclaimed Titurius. ‘Quintus, catch that creature and throw it into the peristylium.’ But despite his angry voice, he clutched his daughter close against him as she wailed in fear. ‘Shh, Tituria, everything is well. I won’t let anything hurt you.’
Quintus chased the amphibian around the floor for a few moments before managing to recapture it.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said, panting and red-faced.
‘Get out of here, boy, and send your mother in.’
Quintus bowed to his father and his father’s guest and hurried out. Moments later, a plump, middle-aged woman hurried in. Her face was whitened, and she wore a heavy wig with a centre parting and waves the width of a finger, modelled on the look made fashionable in Rome by Julia Domna.
‘Autronia, I am having a meeting with the senator here. Would you please take this child away somewhere where we can’t hear her sniffling? And I would also suggest you think of a suitable punishment for your son.’
‘Yes, Titurius. Dio Cassius, I am so sorry for my children’s behaviour.’
Dio waved her apology away. ‘Think nothing of it. I have children of my own. I know what a trial they can be.’
Autronia reached out to take Tituria away. As she went, Titurius gave her hand a small squeeze and Tituria turned back and gave him a smile through her tears. He watched his wife and daughter go, then turned back to Dio.
‘Apologies again, senator. That was unacceptable. But if I may, can I enquire as to the nature of your visit?’
Dio took a deep sip of his wine, and swirled the goblet, looking deep into the contents as if he could divine some future there.
‘Rome has had three co-rulers before, of course.’
Titurius nodded agreement. ‘Of course. I did pay some attention to my grammaticus and my rhetor. We read Caesar and Tacitus and Suetonius.’
‘Pompey and Caesar were always destined to be rivals. Both were too proud to share power. Only Crassus, the eldest in the partnership, held the first triumvirate together. And when he was captured in Parthia, his molten riches were poured into his mouth.’
‘Do you believe that story to be true? I understand there is some doubt.’
‘Of course it is true,’ snapped Dio. ‘I have researched it myself!’
‘Interesting,’ said Titurius. ‘Do go on.’
‘My point is this. Imagine Caesar and Pompey as two bull elephants – powerful, angry beasts. Imagine Crassus as a strong iron chain that binds their yokes, holds them together even as they strain against each other. Now what happens when the chain snaps?’
‘They part ways,’ said Titurius.
‘Yes. And then what?’
‘Well, I’m no farmer, but my understanding is that two bulls will likely turn on each other.’
‘And woe betide anyone standing in their way when they charge.’
Titurius acknowledged the point and sipped his drink.
‘And when those two bull elephants turn on each other, bent on destruction, where would you rather be? On the ground between them? Or on the back of the more powerful elephant?’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Titurius, the first sensations of unease fluttering in his belly.
Dio looked around him. Satisfied that there was no one in earshot, he lowered his voice and said, ‘Severus is a strong chain binding his sons together.’
‘I would hardly call Geta a bull elephant,’ scoffed Titurius. ‘More of a suckling calf. And as for Antoninus – a boar maybe.’
‘Titurius,’ said Dio earnestly. ‘Severus is weakening. My reports from Britain say he will not survive until the spring. With the time it takes messages to reach Rome from that barbaric country, he may already be dead, for all we know. The time is approaching fast. The chain is about to snap. You will need to choose which elephant to ride.’
‘Senator,’ said Titurius. ‘Our loyalty is to Rome. Rome currently has three equal co-Emperors. To talk of Severus’ death borders on treason. May it be many years before he leaves us and is deified. But when that time comes, Rome will still have two co-Emperors, and it is our duty to serve them equally.’
‘Don’t be naïve,’ snapped Dio. ‘It will be war, be it overt or covert. You are right our loyalty is to Rome. And for that reason, we must get behind the side that will bring most stability to Rome. One who is educated and who listens to advisors, not one who charges off headlong into battle seeking personal glory.’
‘You mean one who is most easily manipulated. I think I see which side you are favouring.’
‘There are some men, fine men, patriots, who want the best for Rome. All I ask is that you meet some of them, and hear what they have to say.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Titurius. Rome is not the power it once was. Our legions no longer sweep all before them like they did in the days of Augustus or Vespasian or Trajan. Even the great Marcus Aurelius barely kept the tide of the barbarians dammed back. Yes, our glorious Emperor Septimius Severus has reversed the decline in our fortunes, but do you expect that to continue under Caracalla? Do you think he has his father’s skill, temperament and wisdom?’
Titurius looked doubtful. Neither of the younger co-Emperors inspired in him any particular confidence. Their loose-living, quarrelling, drinking, gambling and chariot racing were legendary in Rome, and were thought to be the main reasons why their father had wanted a foreign war, in order to occupy them. Dio was right that there were threats to the Empire. Constant pressure on the borders from the Marcommani kept those who knew the danger awake at night. Financially, Rome was struggling. An Empire that for hundreds of years had been based on plunder and expansion was now having to live within its means, and it was finding this a challenge. The economy was a threat to the Empire from within to match the barbarian threat from without. It would take strong leadership over the coming decades to prevent collapse. And Caracalla and Geta were both young. If they survived war, disease and assassination, either one of them could be the leader of Rome for the whole of the coming crisis. Maybe Dio was right. Maybe they should be thinking about choosing a captain to weather the coming storm.
‘It has been an interesting discussion, senator,’ said Titurius,
standing. ‘I’m sure you are very busy. And as you will have noticed, I need to get the grime of the city from my clothes and my person. But perhaps we should continue this discussion another time. With some colleagues, if you think that appropriate.’
Dio stood, face grim. ‘Someone will be in touch,’ he said, and took his leave.
Titurius walked slowly into the peristylium. The open-roofed, colonnaded garden looked dour in the late winter weather. It had started to rain once more. At the far end, sheltered from the weather by the overhanging roof, Tituria teased a kitten with a length of twine. The kitten batted the string with its claws sheathed, and Tituria giggled at the game. He looked at the sky. A storm was coming. He shivered, and he didn’t think it was from the cold.
Chapter Three
Warm air from the underfloor heating wafted upwards. A bowl of hot water sprinkled with rose petals on a stand in the corner filled the bedroom with a light fragrance. Domna’s trusted lyre player picked out a slow tune on the sheep-gut strings with an ivory plectrum while tapping out a driving rhythm on the skin of the lyre.
Domna rode Caracalla to the beat of the rhythm, sinking down hard with each downbeat, lifting herself up to his tip with the upbeat. Caracalla’s eyes were narrowed, his hands on her thighs which were spread outside his hips, watching her move. The combination of sensations was exquisite: the music, the scents, the pleasure radiating from his groin in time with his stepmother’s movements.
The tempo increased, the beat coming faster, Domna keeping time. Her lips were parted, her fingers clutched in his wiry chest hair, her breath leaving her with a quiet moan on each exhalation. The music became louder, faster still, and then he was there, pulsing inside her as she ground down onto him and let out a cry.
They held still like a tableau, the music fading from the vibrating strings. Then Domna leant forward and kissed Caracalla firmly on the mouth. He slid his arms around her, held her still, then rolled her sideways, still breathing hard. The lyre player started up again, a light tune but with complex harmonies.
Caracalla kissed Domna’s lips, her cheek, her neck, and ran his fingertips down her back. She sighed and cuddled up closer to him, eyes closing, head on his chest moving up and down with his breathing.
Emperor's Knife Page 3
