Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  Caracalla regarded the lyre player, who blushed under his stare and concentrated on her instrument. Her hands started to tremble, and she fumbled a note.

  ‘You play beautifully,’ he said.

  Her hands froze on the instrument and she stopped playing abruptly.

  ‘Thank you, dominus.’

  ‘It was a Phrygian tune, I think. Aristoxenian enharmonic?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, dominus. My mother taught me the tune when I was a little girl.’

  Caracalla was secretly relieved. He had gambled that the girl had not had a classical musical education. Although he had an interest in music himself, he had never had the patience to develop any expertise in the theory, so his comments had been something of a bluff from half-remembered childhood lessons. Hopefully, though, it had served its purpose of impressing the cultured Domna. If it had, she gave no sign, her eyes remaining closed, as if she was drifting into sleep.

  ‘Pass me the lyre, girl.’

  He sat up, gently easing Domna onto the bed, where she rolled onto her back and watched curiously. The girl passed him the instrument. The upright arms and the tuning knobs were bronze, and it had seven strings of equal lengths but varying thickness, stretched over a calf skin which spanned the lower halves of the arms. He made a show of altering the tuning somewhat, though in reality he knew he had probably made it worse, and began to pluck out a tune.

  It was amateurish even to his own ears, but Julia listened with an indulgent smile on her lips. His tutor had taught him the song, and it had left the teacher perpetually disappointed with his pupil’s level of competence. But when he finished, Julia clapped her hands together in delight.

  Caracalla waved away the praise and passed the instrument back to the slave.

  ‘I think we should let the expert continue,’ he said.

  The lyre girl began to play a much more melodious harmony as Caracalla rejoined Julia on the bed. He lay on his back, and Julia lay beside him, propped on one elbow, index finger stroking his chest.

  ‘How long can he last?’ asked Caracalla.

  Julia sighed. ‘He has always been as strong as an elephant. But even elephants don’t live for ever. Time catches up with them eventually.’

  ‘It’s pitiful really. I remember when he could wrestle against two strong men, fight a professional gladiator and win, then run ten miles and not break a sweat.’

  ‘He was always a physical man,’ said Julia, and Caracalla gave her a sour glance. She had the good grace to look down, abashed.

  ‘Time is growing short,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘His illnesses worsen. His gout and arthritis leave him writhing in agony, and every breath is a constant struggle.’

  ‘And yet he lingers.’

  ‘Antoninus,’ said Domna reprovingly. ‘You sound like you want him gone.’

  ‘Of course not. Not really. I love my father, I’m proud of him. But this man, this hollow shell of what he once was. Is he still my father?’

  ‘Of course he is!’ snapped Domna.

  ‘Yes, yes. But surely he is suffering now. In body and in spirit. Wouldn’t it be a kindness now to help him on his way to meet Serapis?’

  Julia drew in a hiss of air, and looked over at the lyre player, who was staring straight ahead, trying desperately to look like she hadn’t heard anything. Trusted slave she might be, but talk of murdering the Emperor in front of anyone was reckless.

  Caracalla realised he had crossed a line, and put an apologetic hand on Julia’s arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, of course I didn’t mean that. It is just sad to see him in this state.’

  ‘And frustrating waiting for your turn to rule?’

  ‘Julia…’

  The Empress sat up and clicked her fingers for her slave. The lyre girl stopped playing and hurried over with a robe. Julia snatched it from her impatiently and covered herself up.

  ‘I should attend him. I shouldn’t be here with you when my husband is suffering.’

  ‘Julia, I’m sorry…’

  Julia swept out of the room, the lyre player hurrying after her. Caracalla slumped back onto the bed, let out a frustrated grunt and thumped the mattress with his powerful fist. Soon though, surely, it would be all over. And then he would have it all, everything that now belonged to his father.

  The army.

  The Empire.

  The woman.

  * * *

  ‘You’re a disgrace, the pair of you,’ said Oclatinius, his voice not loud, and all the more frightening because of it. Atius and Silus stood before him in his office, dishevelled, unshaven, bruised and smelling of beer and piss. Silus had a dark lump on the side of his head, and Atius kept probing his ribs, wondering if they had re-broken.

  ‘You do understand the concept of secret police? Of spying? Blending in? Remaining unseen and unnoticed?’

  The two Arcani said nothing. Silus’ head throbbed from the hangover and the injury, and the only saving grace of their current situation was that Oclatinius wasn’t shouting at them.

  Their superior shook his head. ‘I expect better from you. I know that this winter has been tedious, but that is no excuse. How will you keep your discipline in the field, if you can’t remain focused in the comfort of a Roman city?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ they both mumbled.

  ‘I’ll think about your punishment later. For now, I summoned you to my office for a reason. You two are not the only Arcani. The order does not number vast amounts, though, and they are spread thinly throughout the Empire. Sometimes, replacements are needed, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Retirement, sir?’ enquired Atius.

  Oclatinius looked at him steadily. ‘No one retires from the Arcani.’

  Atius dropped his gaze.

  ‘So, replacements. I have a youngster I intend to bring into the order. This one has had some instruction from me already, and shows promise. You two aren’t my most experienced men, but you are the only ones available. I want you to take them under your wings, give them some training, show them the ropes.’

  Silus groaned inwardly. Teaching some rookie how to sneak and spy and fight dirty was not his idea of fun. ‘It will be our pleasure, sir.’

  ‘I don’t really care whether you enjoy it or not, soldier.’ He raised his voice. ‘Daya, get in here.’

  The door opened, and a dark-skinned young woman sauntered in. She had a swaggering step and a half-smile on her lips. Her frame was slight, and she was short, but she held herself with the confidence of a famous gladiator. She looked Atius and Silus up and down, and her half-smile changed to a sneer. Silus was aware that they weren’t looking their best, but this cocky young whelp’s condescension irritated him.

  ‘This is her?’ asked Atius. ‘This little girl?’

  ‘Don’t be so quick to judge by appearances, Atius,’ said Oclatinius.

  ‘Training her is one thing, but you can’t fix puny.’

  ‘Strike her,’ said Oclatinius.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hit her. Punch her in the face. Grab her throat. Whatever. Attack her.’

  Atius turned to face the girl. Silus estimated she was about twenty years old, and when he looked closer, he could see that the slim limbs were finely muscled. Oclatinius was smiling, and alarm bells were going off in Silus’ mind.

  But before he could say anything, without warning his friend aimed a jab straight at Daya’s nose.

  The movement was too quick for Silus to follow. Somehow, Daya had deflected the blow, grabbed Atius’ wrist and twisted it behind his back, then slammed the big Celt face down into Oclatinius’ desk.

  Oclatinius regarded Atius’ squashed visage for a moment, then looked up at Silus. ‘As I said, she has promise.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Silus.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Atius, his voice muffled by the woodwork. ‘Could you ask her to let me go now, please, sir?’

  * * *

  Caracalla and Geta reclined on a couch o
n either side of Julia Domna and Severus. The Empress had insisted they dine together as a family, although she was probably the only one of the four of them that had the slightest desire to be there. No officials were with them, nor was there any entertainment. Only serving slaves were present, and the mood was sombre. Severus ate sparingly, his breathing noisy. His face was pale behind his grey-white beard, and his eyes were bloodshot. He said nothing, slowly picking up morsels of meat, and masticating noisily with his mouth open. Caracalla couldn’t help but feel disgust when he looked at him, though it shamed him. His magnificent, powerful, terrifying father reduced to this shade of his former self.

  Geta was in a foul mood, stabbing his meat with the point of his knife, and chewing aggressively. The two brothers had seen little of each other recently, keeping themselves to themselves, surrounded by their own adherents and loyalists. It was obvious to all that Severus would not be Emperor for much longer, if he even was now, and the intriguing and tussling for position amongst the senior officials and courtiers was intensifying.

  Court politics was greatly to Caracalla’s distaste. He preferred the rigid hierarchy of command that was found in the legions. Men below you to take orders. Men above you to give them. In Caracalla’s case, one man above him. The one who was currently dribbling saliva and meat juice down his beard. And when that man was no longer his superior and commander, he fully intended that there would be no man higher than him in the Empire. Nor even his equal. He did not even want to be primus inter pares.

  Domna made an attempt to break the awkward silence.

  ‘I dined with Papinianus yesterday,’ she said. ‘He really is a remarkable man. His knowledge of the law is second to none.’

  Geta stifled a yawn and looked away. Caracalla feigned interest.

  ‘Yes, he is certainly a man of intellect.’

  ‘People say his books on the law will last for ever.’

  ‘As will Father’s renown.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Domna, looking over at her husband to check she hadn’t inadvertently offended him.

  ‘He is the greatest general of our times,’ said Caracalla. He believed it and he was genuinely proud of his father’s achievements, but it didn’t hurt to get on his father’s good side, especially with the succession so close to being decided. Unfortunately, Severus appeared to be concentrating mostly on getting more of his food into his mouth than down his front.

  ‘Father’s military prowess is inarguable. His victories prove it,’ said Geta, obviously deciding he needed to get in on the sycophancy. ‘But what of the greatest general of ages past?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Caracalla. ‘Alexander. It is beyond doubt.’

  A mischievous look came over Geta’s face, and Caracalla knew that he was about to take a contrary view for the sake of annoying his older brother.

  ‘It’s clearly Hannibal,’ said Geta.

  Caracalla took a sip of wine, deciding whether to engage. But he was bored, and a good argument was better than this excruciating family gathering. He shook his head.

  ‘You know nothing of military matters, brother. Stick to administration.’

  ‘You should study harder, brother, and you would understand these matters better. And maybe you would be able to conquer a small primitive country at the furthest reach of the Empire without bogging the cream of the legions down for two years.’

  Caracalla’s jaw clenched. The slow progress in Caledonia had been a frustration, but the tactics of the Caledonian and Maeatae barbarians had made it impossible to win a quick victory. Geta was also coming dangerously close to criticising their father, whose idea the whole British expedition had been, and who had dictated the grand strategy. But he had obviously decided that Severus was concentrating too little on their conversation to register the slight.

  ‘Tell me then,’ said Caracalla. ‘Why is Hannibal so clearly superior to Alexander?’

  ‘Because he defeated Rome. Alexander never attempted that.’

  ‘When Alexander came to power, Rome was beneath his notice. He wished to conquer the greatest Empire in the world, which was Persia. If Alexander had turned on Rome at that time, he would have crushed us, and the Roman Empire would never have existed.’

  ‘You think little of your forefathers, Bassianus.’ The use of Caracalla’s childhood name always grated, and Geta knew it.

  ‘I know war, little brother.’ He knew calling Geta little brother was just as annoying. ‘I know that Rome wasn’t yet mighty enough to resist the Macedonians. It’s like saying you are being disrespectful to a gladiator just because you don’t believe he could win a fight as an infant.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Hannibal did in fact defeat Rome when it was becoming a proper regional power. And he did it in enemy territory, and stayed there undefeated for ten years. He did it after his country had lost a disastrous war against Rome. Alexander inherited a powerful land and army from his father that was already in the habit of winning.’

  ‘Yet in the end, Hannibal lost, defeated by Scipio. Alexander was never defeated, except by ill health.’

  ‘Hannibal was only defeated after he was betrayed by the elders at home.’

  ‘Alexander conquered vast territories, further east than even the Roman Empire has ever reached. For all his tactical skill, Hannibal had no strategy. He never conquered anything.’

  ‘In the end, though, he is African, like our family. Family loyalty is everything, is it not?’

  It was strange how Geta gravitated to the African side of the family through their father, with most of his close circle coming from the province, while Caracalla tended to be closer to Domna’s Syrian relatives such as Papinianus, despite not actually being related to Domna except by his father’s marriage.

  ‘Yes, little brother. Family loyalty is everything. Every Roman owes allegiance to their paterfamilias. Right now, Father is our paterfamilias. When, gods willing many years from now, Father is no longer with us, I will be paterfamilias of the Severans. Then you will owe your loyalty to me.’

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ said Geta, his voice rising. Severus looked up now, stopped chewing, frowned. Geta didn’t notice. ‘We are co-Augusti. Co-Emperors. When Father is no longer here, we will rule as equals.’

  ‘You are not my equal,’ said Caracalla, his voice even.

  ‘Maybe you are right. There are some notable men that say that I am your superior. In every respect.’

  ‘And would those same notable men say this to my face?’ demanded Caracalla, finally letting his anger show. Domna put a restraining hand on his arm, but Caracalla shook her off.

  ‘Maybe they fear you as a tyrant. A Sulla? A Caligula? “Let them hate me as long as they fear me?” Is that what Rome needs? What Rome deserves?’

  ‘What Rome deserves and needs is a powerful leader to keep it safe. These aren’t the days of Seneca’s Pax Romana. The Empire faces threats on all sides. It needs a man like me to protect it. Not some boy who has barely stopped wetting the bed!’

  At this, Geta leapt to his feet.

  ‘You go too far with your insults,’ he said, stabbing a finger in Caracalla’s direction, and Caracalla stood too, only the parents between the two brothers preventing them from laying hands on each other.

  ‘Enough!’ said Severus, his voice cracking through the air with the power and authority of old. ‘That is… enough.’ His voice trailed away, and he grabbed at his chest, then slumped backwards onto the couch. His breath came fast and shallow, a groan on each expiration.

  ‘Slaves!’ cried Domna, leaning over her husband. ‘Fetch a medicus. Fetch Galen! Now!’

  The slaves hurried from the room, while Domna loosened Severus’ toga and stroked his face, which was now covered in a light sheen of sweat. He looked into her eyes, and reached a hand up to her.

  Caracalla and Geta looked at each other in alarm. Moments later, Galen bustled in with three assistants in close attendance.

  ‘Augusti, Augusta, your pardon, please give me some space.�
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  Galen was an elderly man now, his long beard white, his hair receded high on his head, deep sacks under each eye, and deep creases in his cheeks and forehead. Nevertheless, he still retained the full strength of his formidable intellect. The renowned doctor was an important part of Julia Domna’s intellectual circle.

  He immediately began assessing Severus with the eyes of a medical practitioner of many decades’ experience. He looked at the Emperor’s tongue and eye colour, felt the pulse in his neck and wrist, palpated his abdomen, bared his chest and pressed an ear against it to auscultate it, all done briskly but thoroughly.

  ‘Excess of phlegm,’ he muttered. ‘Excess of black bile. Stagnation of the blood.’

  He flicked his fingers. ‘Slaves, take him to his chambers. You, fetch my phlebotomy knife. You, go and prepare a paste of ginger, thyme and liquorice. You, fetch hot water.’

  Galen’s attendants hurried away, and the slaves carefully and respectfully put their arms beneath the Emperor’s shoulders and knees and carried him out of the triclinium. Domna followed them out, her hands clasped together, face creased in worry. The Praetorian Guards who had been standing watch at the door followed anxiously behind. The two junior Augusti were momentarily alone together.

  Caracalla glared at Geta. ‘This is your fault, provoking a stupid argument.’

  ‘My fault?’ retorted Geta. ‘Maybe we should be looking at what was in his food tonight? Did you bribe the food testers and threaten the kitchen slaves to put something in his meat?’

  Caracalla stared at his brother aghast. ‘You can’t be serious. Father has been ill for months. He didn’t suddenly become ill because someone poisoned him tonight.’

  ‘Maybe not. But people will speculate. Maybe they will think that you tired of waiting and helped him on his way.’

  Caracalla gritted his teeth. It was unsettling that Geta had inadvertently touched on his own recent musings. But in fact, Caracalla had done nothing. As far as he was aware, Severus’ illness was entirely the work of nature and the gods.