Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  ‘And you believe that Emperor should be you, of course,’ put in Geta.

  ‘Little brother,’ said Caracalla. ‘I am the older, I am more experienced, and I am more respected by the legions. It would be a disaster for the Empire to be run by you.’

  ‘I have experience in administration and I am better educated and more intelligent than you,’ retorted Geta. ‘Tell me, did Caesar Augustus’ lack of military experience make him a poor ruler?’

  ‘Augustus had Agrippa and Tiberius to fight his battles for him. Who do you have but me?’

  Domna stood before Geta could argue back.

  ‘Augusti,’ she said, and her voice was mellow but firm. ‘Your father was clear. He made you both Augusti before he died so that you could rule together.’

  ‘Do you really think that is possible?’ asked Caracalla.

  ‘I believe it is the duty of both of you to do your utmost to work together in harmony. It was your father’s dying wish.’

  Caracalla pursed his lips, and Geta looked down abashed. Papinianus took the opportunity to speak.

  ‘If I may be so bold, Augusti, Augusta. It was your father’s wish that you rule together. Maybe it will be a challenge, but I believe with the right spirit on your part, and the right advice, you can successfully rule as co-Augusti and co-Emperors.’

  Caracalla looked across at Geta, who was glowering down at the table before him. Papinianus was right that this was what his father wished. And maybe it was the path of least resistance, to at least try to rule with his brother. Besides, what was the alternative? Could he rule as sole Emperor and let his brother live, agitating and plotting against him? Despite their conflicts, he did love his little brother. He remembered when he was born, how he had been both delighted and jealous of the baby’s affection from his father and from Domna. Even then, he had worshipped Domna discreetly, and resented Geta while he loved him. Growing up had been typical of two rival siblings –pranks, contests, fights, arguments. Now, though, they were both adults, and maybe if they behaved like adults and not like children vying for their parents’ attention and affection, they could make joint rulership work. Maybe.

  ‘But that is irrelevant right now,’ continued Papinianus, causing Caracalla to look at him and frown. ‘We are at the furthest extremity of the Empire. When Commodus died, the Empire suffered the year of the Five Emperors, and thank the gods, your father, your husband, was victorious. But he was not in Rome when Commodus died and maybe if he had been, the succession would have been less chaotic.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Caracalla.

  ‘I am saying that although an Emperor can be created outside Rome, as Galba discovered, he cannot rule until he is confirmed by the Senate, and has taken his throne in the capital. And until he, or they, do that, there is a risk of a usurper. A Didius Julianus maybe, buying the loyalty of the Praetorians.’

  ‘You are Praetorian prefect,’ said Caracalla. ‘Can’t you guarantee the loyalty of your own men?’

  ‘I am not the only prefect,’ Papinianus reminded him. ‘Quintus Maecius Laetus commands the guard in Rome.’

  Caracalla’s eyes narrowed. He wouldn’t put it past Laetus to do something underhand.

  ‘Do you have any evidence for your defamation of Laetus?’ asked Geta.

  ‘I am making no allegations,’ said Papinianus, ‘and I have no reason to doubt the loyalty of my colleague. I am merely reminding you both that while you sit so far from the centre of power, unconfirmed as Emperors, you are vulnerable.’

  Caracalla looked around the room. There was no disagreement. His and Geta’s followers looked at each other distrustfully, but no one spoke up against Papinianus. Caracalla caught Oclatinius’ eye, and the old spymaster gave him a subtle nod.

  ‘You speak wisely,’ said Caracalla. ‘We could easily argue among ourselves here for so long that we both lose the Empire. And I, for one, am ready to honour my father’s wishes, and rule in harmony with my brother. What do you say, Geta?’ Caracalla held his hand out.

  Geta hesitated, then stood and grasped it. Spontaneous cheers broke out around the room, and the tense atmosphere lifted. Members of the rival factions smiled and clapped each other on the back. Caracalla pulled his brother to him, and hugged him tight. Over his shoulder, he looked at Domna. She looked back at him. Her face wore a smile, but in her eyes he could see worry and doubt etched deep.

  He let go of his brother and turned to the assembly, raising his hands for quiet. When the noise had died down, he said, ‘After too long an absence, it is time to return to Rome. Generals, ready your legions, allocate your garrisons, and prepare the ships. The rest of you, pack your bags.’

  * * *

  Castor lay on his front on a massage table in the steam room of the bathhouse, trying to let the heat and the firm hands of the masseuse rid him of the worries that had plagued him since that morning. Had they made a monumental mistake?

  Caracalla had seen him privately as requested, and listened politely as Castor stuttered and stumbled through his story about what Euodus had heard, and what it meant for Rome and the Empire, and for Caracalla and Domna personally, and how it was their opinion that he should cede his powers to Geta, and serve in a purely ceremonial role, and…

  He had trailed off when Caracalla had simply regarded him, emotionless and silent. He had expected an explosion, shouts for the guards to kill him outright, or even to plead for his mercy. Nothing. Caracalla had thanked him for his time and dismissed him. Castor had stutteringly pointed out that Euodus and Torpacion also knew and if anything happened to one of them, the others would shout the information from the walls to anyone who would listen. Caracalla nodded and told him that he understood, and bade him a good day.

  So here Castor lay, after reporting back to the others and leaving them equally confused. They had decided all they could do now was wait, and so Castor had gone to the baths for his regular early-evening massage in a vain attempt to relax. There was a knot of anxiety in his guts, though, and the humid air felt oppressive and left him short of breath.

  If this worked, the pay-off would be immense. The three of them could become the power behind the throne. Yes, others would try to manipulate Geta too, and jostle for influence, but the lad would always listen to his childhood tutors and companions. If Caracalla did not play along, though – well. It would all be over.

  He sighed as the masseuse kneaded his muscles through the layers of fat that encased him. He could feel some of the tension easing with the pressure on his spine and neck. Then the masseuse took the strigil and began to scrape away the oil.

  There was a sharp pinch on his neck, like a little bite, and he grunted and let out a curse.

  ‘Be careful with that thing,’ he said.

  There was no reply. He propped himself up and looked around, but the masseuse had gone. Other patrons were having massages, some were sitting on benches soaking up the heat and steam, but the masseuse who had offered her services when he had first arrived, the new young girl with the dark skin, was nowhere to be seen.

  He put his hand to the back of the neck, which was starting to sting, and when he looked at his palm, he saw it was spotted with blood. Damned new slave girl must have got scared when she had accidentally cut him and run off.

  He suddenly felt weak, and lay back down on the massage table. All this stress was not good for him at his age. He was aware how much he was sweating suddenly, more than usual even for the steam room, and the walls and floor began to move in a nauseating motion. His heart started pounding in his chest, an irregular rhythm, and he began to feel scared. What was happening to him? Was this some sort of stroke, or problem of the chest? His fingers and toes started to tingle, and a numbness crept up his limbs. He began to struggle for breath, but couldn’t force his chest to move enough to get the air he craved.

  Oh, no.

  Realisation hit him. Caracalla had given him his answer. Would the others realise he was dead and spread the co-Emperor’s secret before t
he young assassin reached them too?

  He felt a strange fluttering in his chest, and darkness began to move in from the periphery of his vision. And suddenly, he didn’t care about Caracalla, or Rome, or power and influence, or anything else at all.

  * * *

  Torpacion lay on his back on the bed in his cubiculum. He had retreated there while he waited to hear from Castor about Caracalla’s decision. He was being attended by a young Greek boy he had taken a liking to – clean-shaven face and chest, well-muscled. Torpacion had bought him at market just a few weeks ago, but had not yet taken his pleasure from him.

  Maybe this evening was the time to sample him for the first time. A celebration. He started to become aroused. He was sure that Caracalla would accede to their demands, and give Geta the purple. And through Geta, Torpacion and his two elderly friends would finally get the power and respect that years of service to the old Emperor and his sons deserved. First, though, a drink.

  He snapped his fingers for the Greek lad to bring him wine. The boy filled a cup of lightly watered wine from a jug and proffered it to him. He sat up, drank deeply, then handed the cup back to the boy. To his irritation, the slave wasn’t paying attention, but looking towards the doorway. Torpacion followed his gaze and saw a tall, well-built man, a knife loose in his hand.

  The cup fell from Torpacion’s fingers and smashed on the stone floor. The slave rounded the bottom of the bed and stepped forward, begging for mercy in Greek. The intruder strode forward and thrust his knife up into the boy’s belly and through his liver. The boy gasped, held on to him, then slid to the ground.

  ‘I have money,’ said Torpacion. ‘I can pay you more than whatever the Emperor is paying you. A fortune. Just spare me.’

  He knew it was hopeless. He could see in the assassin’s eyes that he was not here for financial reward, but from loyalty to the Emperor. They had gambled and lost. He slowly stood, legs weak, trying not to let his bowels loose.

  ‘Very well. Please make it quick.’

  The assassin nodded, and plunged his dagger straight through Torpacion’s eye into his brain.

  * * *

  Euodus was already packing a small bag. It was madness. What had he been thinking, agreeing to this stupid plan? He had been caught up in the enthusiasm. They had goaded each other into it. And to what end? They were old men. They were comfortable. Respected. They had money. They should have sat out the rest of their lives in quiet retirement. What need had they of power?

  So what if Antoninus was fucking his stepmother? So what if Geta was the more cultured of the two? What did it matter to him?

  He thrust some jewellery into his leather satchel, then threw in a purse with some gold coins. He looked around the room for anything portable and valuable. He didn’t know yet where he would go. Flee to Londinium maybe, then take a boat to Gaul, then from there travel south, maybe to Sicily or Greece. Somewhere quiet and rural, where he could live out the rest of his days with a small library, a couple of slaves and a supply of decent wine. That was all he wanted from his life. All he wanted, if he lived.

  What else could he take? Obviously no furniture, no ornaments. Maybe some personal correspondence. He bent down to open a drawer in his desk. Which ones? There was a letter from Caracalla, a poem written by Geta, an order from the old Emperor. And he should take his seal, not least to stop anyone forging a letter from him.

  He suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. He let the scrolls drop out of his hand, stood slowly, and turned. He recognised the man standing there. Short brown hair, short beard streaked with the beginnings of grey, lean but well-muscled. Hands behind his back. A sad expression in his eyes. He had remembered seeing him at more than one banquet and meeting, usually in close company with Oclatinius.

  Oh.

  ‘I’m sorry, Euodus,’ said Silus. ‘It’s too late.’

  Euodus looked down, trying to compose himself. When he trusted himself to speak, he said, ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ said Silus. He brought his hands round in front of him and Euodus saw he was holding a short length of thick rope, knotted at either end. Terror rose in his chest and he fought it down.

  ‘I know Antoninus sent you. You have to go back to him. Tell him that if you kill me, my friends will tell his secrets.’

  ‘Your friends are dying right now. Even as we speak. Castor and Torpacion.’

  All hope deserted him at the news, but the desperate desire to live remained. He sank to his knees.

  ‘Please.’

  Silus stepped behind him and looped the rope around his neck.

  ‘I know things,’ babbled Euodus. ‘I heard them together. Antoninus and—’

  Silus pulled the rope tight, cutting off the end of the sentence. Euodus reflexively reached for the garotte, fingers digging into his neck to try to relieve the pressure, his nails scraping the skin ineffectually, making it bleed. His back arched, eyes wide, mouth gaping like a fish on a line, sucking no air in.

  Madness, he thought as the darkness approached. Utter madness.

  * * *

  ‘That was well done,’ said Oclatinius. ‘The timing was critical, and you all pulled it off flawlessly.’

  Silus, Atius and Daya acknowledged his praise only with slight smiles and nods.

  ‘Sir?’ said Atius. ‘May I ask why the Emperor wished those three men dead?’

  Silus winced at the indiscreet question. But Oclatinius simply said in a mild tone, ‘Yes, you may.’

  There was a pause, then Atius realised he was expected to speak.

  ‘Sir, why did the Emperor wish those three men dead?’

  ‘None of your damned business!’ yelled Oclatinius, the sudden ferocity of his voice making Silus and Atius flinch, though Daya appeared unperturbed. ‘You are Imperial assassins. You carry out your orders without question and without hesitation. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ all three replied in unison.

  ‘Good.’ Oclatinius’ voice returned to normal. ‘Now, soon the bulk of the legions with the Imperial court will leave for Rome. Atius, you will remain with me. You never know when someone with your muscles may come in handy. Silus and Daya, I have another mission for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir, how may we serve?’

  ‘The Emperor Antoninus wishes you to travel to the island of Lipari.’

  ‘Um, where is that, sir?’

  ‘It’s a small island just north of Sicily.’

  ‘Sicily?’

  Silus had never travelled as far south as Londinium, let alone to a location in the middle sea near the centre of the Empire. He felt both nervous and excited at the prospect.

  ‘And what are we to do when we get there?’

  ‘You are to kill the Emperor’s wife and all her household.’

  Chapter Six

  Only five pieces remained on the board out of the original thirty-two. Titurius retained three black counters to his daughter’s two white. But he did not feel confident. His daughter always surprised him with her tactical sense and quick thinking. Maybe he was just old, or distracted by affairs of the state, but the nine-year-old girl won as often as he did.

  They were playing a speeded-up version of ludus latrunculorum. After each move, they both tapped the table three times, by the end of which the next person had to have made their move. Not only did it prevent endless internal strategising, but it forced errors, meaning the game could be completed within an hour, rather than take a whole day.

  Tituria’s two white pieces were close together, while his were spread further apart. He moved his more distant counter sideways to reinforce the other two. Tituria advanced a piece. He brought his piece closer again. Once it was nearby, he could force a win with superior numbers.

  Damn. It was the speed of the game that made him miss the obvious trap. She advanced her other piece, and caught one of his counters between the two, blocking it so it was no longer allowed to move. He turned this piece, called alligatus, upside down and
brought his outlying piece to just one square away from the beleaguered two. Tituria used her next move to take the alligatus piece out of play. He moved a counter away from him down the board in a way that he hoped would be able to bring it into play in a move or two, and then realised his error too late. Triumphantly, Tituria leapfrogged his counter, pinning the other.

  There was nothing he could do. He let the game play out – resigning at this moment of victory would be robbing her of the glory. He played his only counter that wasn’t alligatus in a pointless move, and she took his alligatus piece off the board with a huge grin on her face. With only one black counter remaining to him, he was defeated.

  Titurius leapt to his feet, and upended the board with a roar, sending the last three remaining pieces on it flying across the room.

  Tituria giggled at his mock display of anger, and he stepped forward and hugged her tight. Weren’t well-brought-up Roman girls supposed to respect and fear their fathers? He wouldn’t change a thing about her, his precocious, fearless, loving daughter.

  Autronia entered, and rolled her eyes. Titurius knew that his wife did not approve of educating girls, or encouraging them in sports of the mind. As far as she was concerned, the only training the daughter of a noble family needed was in running her husband’s household – controlling the finances, managing the house slaves, rearing children, spinning and weaving. The qualities she needed were piety, chastity, strength and an absolute devotion to her family. Not like the loose-living, hard-drinking, hard-partying women who made up most of their social circle. Autronia was a model matron, a rare Cornelia, Lucretia or Verginia for the modern times, and Titurius loved her for it, even while he secretly wondered what it would be like to be married to someone a bit more fun.

  Titurius exchanged a knowing look with his daughter that spoke of Autronia’s displeasure, and wordlessly agreed to humour and ignore it.