Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  ‘Tituria, it’s time for your wool-working lessons with the slave girls.’

  Tituria grumbled but her father gave her a glare, and she reluctantly left.

  Titurius noticed now that Autronia was holding a folded parchment letter. It was closed with Dio’s seal. He broke it and read quickly, digesting the news. He looked at Autronia.

  ‘The Emperor is dead.’

  Autronia put her hand to her chest and inhaled sharply.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day before the nones of Februarius.’

  ‘So long ago. Why are we only just hearing it now?’

  Titurius sighed inwardly. The education she despised would have helped her here.

  ‘Eboracum is over a thousand miles from here as the crow flies. When the Augustus died, they would have dispatched a messenger by ship to inform the Senate as the quickest way to reach Rome. But it would have to sail down the coast of Britannia, round Gaul and round Hispania before travelling along the Mare Nostrum to reach Ostia. That is some journey.’

  ‘And who is now the Emperor?’

  That was the question on everyone’s lips. Severus had reigned for nearly two decades, and it had been fourteen years since he had defeated his last rival for the throne. Rome had got used to uninterrupted and uncontested rule, and now found itself anxiously waiting for what came next.

  ‘Antoninus and Geta will rule together as co-Emperors.’

  ‘But don’t they hate each other?’

  Titurius looked at the ludus latrunculorum board on the floor, the counters scattered. When he had last spoken to Dio about the succession, a storm had been coming. Surely, this news was a distant crash of thunder.

  * * *

  Not long into his first day at sea, Silus had decided that he hated ships even more than he hated horses. He grudgingly accepted that horses got him from one place to the next in a faster time than he could walk or run, that they were of use in battle, and had even saved his life in the past, such as when he was escaping from imprisonment by Maglorix at Pinnata Castra.

  Ships, though, were unnatural. Men were not supposed to ride the waves like dolphins. They had no flippers on their feet, no webbed hands, and they couldn’t breathe underwater like fish. And clearly the gods thought he had no right to be there, either, and had visited on him feelings of nausea and bouts of vomiting such as he had not experienced since his father forced him to eat raw squirrel as a child. He had spent the first day of their voyage hanging over the side rail of the ship, heaving himself dry, while Daya looked on with ill-disguised condescension.

  After a few days of misery and sickness, Silus began to find his sea legs, as the sailors put it. Being unable to keep food down, he was sure he had lost pounds of weight, and once his stomach was up to it, he ate hungrily to regain his strength. After the sickness had passed, though, the boredom set in. Every so often, the captain would point out a feature on the coast they were passing, but it interested him little. Only when they passed through the Pillars of Hercules into the Mare Nostrum did he show any real interest. The Mare Nostrum was also notably calmer than the waters of Oceanus that they had just left, which was kinder on his stomach.

  Daya spent the voyage exercising and training on deck, running the short distance the space allowed, doing squats and push-ups, practising knife play and archery. Once he started to feel less like a victim of poisoning, he joined her for some of the exercises. Archery was the only thing in which he was her equal, and he was even able to teach her a few tricks. Despite some initial doubts, once she saw his prowess with bow and arrow, she listened carefully to his lessons about breathing, aim and visualisation of the target, and soon she was incorporating his teaching into her shooting. He understood now how she managed to be so good at everything. She practised continually, not just until she got the hang of it, but until she was as good as she could be, and then she practised some more. He wondered if her background as a slave, and the accompanying feelings of worthlessness, pushed her to prove her worth, if only to herself.

  In the evenings they slept near each other. A horny sailor had once approached her bed. Silus had only woken at the man’s cry as he retreated with a broken wrist. The captain had been angry about that. Apparently, he was one of their best rowers, and the captain had to find a port, put him ashore and employ another oarsman at increased expense when the new employee realised that the captain’s need of the oarsman was greater than the oarsman’s need for employment. Nevertheless, the rest of the crew left Daya well alone after that.

  Silus tried to engage Daya in conversation numerous times, but she tended to give one-word answers to questions when she could get away with it. Used to Atius’ garrulousness, it was disconcerting to sit in silence with the young woman, and so he sought the captain and the crew for company, leaving her to herself. He exchanged war stories with the sailors, told them tales of Caledonia, of battles with barbarians, of capture and torture. They told him stories of pirates and mermaids, and battles against storms that nearly carried them to the bottom of Poseidon’s kingdom.

  They asked about Daya, and he told them what he knew. They listened with fascination and frustration at her incomplete history. The crew knew they were being conveyed on a military or diplomatic mission of some sort, but Silus had obviously told them nothing about their assignment, nor even that they were Arcani. Still, they wanted to know more about the slight girl who fascinated and terrified them.

  They were around two days out from Lipari when Daya ignited. He had been standing by the rail, watching Sardinia disappear over the horizon behind him, when he felt two hands grab the collar of his tunic and thrust him forward. His feet left the ground, and he balanced precariously, like a lever with the rail a fulcrum pressed painfully into his midriff. He cried aloud and flailed his arms for balance, seeing the dark sea passing by a few feet below, knowing that if he fell, he would likely drown before the ship could turn and rescue him.

  A face came near his cheek, and a female voice hissed in his ear, ‘What have you been saying about me?’

  ‘Daya, Daya,’ he cried out frantically, his fear of drowning crowding out all thought. ‘Let me go. What are you talking about?’

  ‘I overheard two sailors talking about me,’ she said, and her voice dripped venom. ‘They didn’t know I was there. They said that I fucked Bulla Felix. They said I sucked his dick, that I was his mistress and whore. They said that he liked to give it to me up the arse because I look like a boy. Now, Silus, think carefully before you answer,’ and she tipped him forward a little further to emphasise the point. ‘Who might have told them that?’

  ‘Daya, I never said that,’ he said desperately.

  ‘But you were talking about me?’

  ‘Yes, but I never said—’

  ‘You told them about me and Bulla?’

  ‘Well, I said that you were part of his gang—’

  ‘You sullied his honour and my reputation? For what? A laugh? Some pats on the back and some increase in your standing among these rough men?’

  ‘Daya, listen to me. Yes, I talked about your time with Bulla Felix. I didn’t know it was a secret. I’m sorry, I should have known better. You are right, I talked about you to become better liked by them, because I was bored, because…’ He was babbling, he knew, but the rail in his guts was getting painful, and making it hard to breathe.

  ‘But I never said any of those other things about you. They are just gossiping. Making things up for their own amusement. You have to believe me. Daya!’

  He teetered over the edge of the ship for a moment. Then she yanked him backwards and he fell to the deck, breathing heavily and holding his bruised abdomen.

  ‘Daya,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I was indiscreet. But I never said a bad word about you. I only praised your courage and abilities. I… I respect you. I want you to know that.’

  She knelt over him, gripped his tunic and brought her face close to his.

  ‘What sort of an Arcanus are you? Is this the stand
ard I am supposed to be aspiring to? I am supposed to be learning from you? Someone who runs his mouth off at the first opportunity because he is bored and seeking approval?’

  ‘Daya…’

  ‘Fuck you, Silus. Leave me alone.’

  She stood abruptly and walked to the prow of the boat where she sat cross-legged on the deck and stared out at the horizon, as if she were the ram of a trireme, her furious stare enough to cut a ship in two.

  You’re so fucking stupid, Silus, he thought. Then he felt a lump in his throat as he remembered who had told him that before. Menenius and Geganius, his commanding officers. Velua his wife. All now dead. They were right then, and Daya was right now. What was he thinking?

  Daya and Silus avoided each other for the rest of the day. Silus knew he should be reaching out to her, trying to apologise again, but her silence was like armour, and he didn’t have the energy or courage to try to batter it down.

  After night fell, they lay in their beds. In the close proximity of the cramped quarters, he could hear her breathing. Steady, even, but not slow and deep enough to indicate sleep.

  ‘Are you awake?’ asked Silus quietly, tentatively.

  ‘No,’ replied Daya.

  Silus said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘Will you accept my apology?’

  ‘We have to work together.’

  That wasn’t a yes. Should he push?

  ‘This wasn’t just about our reputation among the sailors, was it?’ It was a guess, but her reaction had seemed quite extreme to a little bit of gossip. ‘Was it about Bulla Felix?’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘You know nothing.’ Her voice was quiet, and he detected a little tremor in it.

  ‘Did you love him?’

  No reply.

  ‘Oh.’

  Silence. Silus tried one more time. ‘I didn’t know. I am truly sorry.’

  After a moment, Daya said, ‘It’s not like you think. He loved me like a daughter. I loved him… more strongly than that. But it never transformed into anything… physical.’

  ‘That must have hurt,’ said Silus.

  ‘No!’ she said vehemently. ‘He was a great man. Being with him was enough. He saved me from a life of slavery. He taught me how to survive. How to be free. Being with him didn’t hurt, even if I loved him in a way that he didn’t love me back. It was losing him that…’

  She broke off. Silus reached out a hand to hers but she jerked away from his touch. He folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘I know what it’s like to watch loved ones die,’ he said.

  There was a pause, then a small hand reached out, squeezed his shoulder briefly, and was gone.

  ‘Oclatinius told me about your family. It’s my turn to be sorry.’

  The old spymaster was a gossip too? No, he always had a good reason to do anything. Maybe he wanted to bond Silus and Daya more closely. That might even be the reason that Daya was on this mission instead of Atius.

  ‘He told you that, huh?’

  ‘He did. But I haven’t blurted it out to the crew to gain their favour.’

  He took the reprimand stoically. Was the conversation, the brief rapprochement, over?

  ‘I still don’t understand something though, Daya,’ he said tentatively. ‘How did you go from running with the outlaws to trying out for the Arcani, the Emperor’s spies? Don’t you hate the Emperor for what he did to Bulla Felix?’

  ‘I do,’ she said vehemently. Then, more uncertainly, ‘I did. Now, the Emperor who ordered him hunted down and executed is dead. His sons had nothing to do with his death.’

  ‘So it was the man himself you hated, not the position, not Rome itself.’

  ‘Bulla was always kind to the people, and merciful to the soldiers he defeated and captured. That makes his end even more bitter. They gave him a wooden sword and set two lions on him. He didn’t attempt to fight. He was never cruel to animals any more than to people, and I believe he knew these animals held him no personal animosity. Hating them was as useless as hating the executioner’s garotte.

  ‘Before they attacked, he looked around the crowd. For a moment, our eyes locked. I was so far away, I don’t know if he recognised me. But I must believe that he knew I was with him to the last. After that, he disappeared beneath the beasts, and I couldn’t hear his screams over the cheering of the crowd. After the beast handlers had used their whips and spears to get the animals off him and out of the arena, his body was dragged away, leaving a long trail of blood in the sand. His head was hanging half off, one arm ripped clean away. I looked at the Emperor, and I knew what I had to do.’

  ‘What?’ asked Silus, spellbound.

  ‘I had to kill him.’

  * * *

  Plautilla looked out across the narrow sea that separated Lipari from mainland Sicily and sighed. A short distance away was the island of Vulcano. She could probably reach it by swimming, but what was the point? Vulcano was even less interesting than Lipari, as it was primarily used for forestry and mining. Lipari at least had some interesting ruins from when it was owned by the Greeks before the Romans conquered it. Occasionally wealthy Romans still visited to use the baths that were fed by the island’s hot springs. Sometimes she was able to obtain news from the Empire. Her guards were taciturn and grumpy, resenting their posting to this isolated place to act purely as gaolers, and they told her next to nothing. But the visits to the island had become less and less frequent. She didn’t know if people were avoiding her out of fear of incurring disfavour from the Imperial family, or because there were more interesting places in the Empire to visit.

  The last time anyone of importance from the mainland had come to see her was before the Saturnalia. A Romano-Gallic nobleman was looking for warmer climes to see out the winter and he had stayed about a week. She had squeezed every bit of information she could out of him. Severus and Antoninus were still in Britannia, campaigning against the Caledonians, she discovered, but the Emperor’s health was failing.

  Knowing that the seemingly invincible Severus was ill sent a frisson of excitement and fear through her. When the old man who had executed her father and exiled her was gone, would she be recalled from exile? Would she be reunited with Antoninus, her father’s sins forgiven?

  Her brother Plautius threw cold water on that idea. In his years of exile, he had grown fat, drunken and morose. He did little but eat and drink and bathe, for what else was there for a man of his age to do here?

  ‘When Severus is gone, Antoninus can do what he likes. Geta isn’t strong enough to restrain him. We are an inconvenience from his past. He hated Father, and he never liked you. When the old Emperor dies, our own time will be about to run out.’

  She detested her brother on occasion. Even if what he said was true, why say it so cruelly? But he was the only adult Roman company she had, and sometimes she just needed someone to have a mature conversation with. Their elderly Greek house slave, Loukia, was no Socrates, or even a Julia Domna. Catching Plautius in the brief moments between his being too drunk and too hungover was the key to a discussion worth having.

  Right now, he was a little too drunk, but at least he was entertaining Hortensia. Plautilla’s daughter was her delight and the only thing that kept her sane. Just one year old at the time of Plautianus’ execution and Plautilla’s expulsion from Rome, she was now nearly eight, and had never known anything except exile, first in Sicily and now on this tiny, broken-down island. Despite this, or maybe because of it, she was a happy child, delighting in her lessons from her mother in Greek grammar and poetry, from Loukia in weaving and sewing, from Plautius in philosophy and history. She explored the island and befriended one of the feral dogs that roamed near the rubbish tip. She played board games and sang and played the lyre beautifully.

  Sometimes she asked Plautilla why they couldn’t leave the island, and Plautilla was always evasive, even as her heart was breaking. Her daughter should have been in Rome, her education preparing her for a life married to a Roman nobleman, caring for his household
and bearing his children. Was that future to be denied to her?

  She turned back to the sea, looking towards Sicily where any news or visitors would come from, and resumed her watch.

  * * *

  ‘And how did that work out?’ asked Silus, incredulous.

  ‘The Emperor is dead, isn’t he?’

  Silus gaped. ‘You? But it can’t have been. He was ill. He died of natural causes. How did you…?’

  He realised Daya was chuckling quietly, and he shut his mouth abruptly. Bitch.

  ‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘But were you serious about wanting to kill him?’

  ‘Deadly,’ she said. ‘He was the man I held responsible for Bulla’s death. Merciless and cruel. I vowed to make him pay.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You may have noticed I have some skills.’

  ‘One or two,’ admitted Silus.

  ‘I planned to infiltrate the palace as a serving slave, and stab him to death right in front of his family and the Praetorian Guards.’

  ‘And your escape plan?’

  ‘There was no escape plan.’

  ‘I see. So what happened?’

  ‘It took years. I allowed myself to be taken slave again, and worked domestically. Sometimes I couldn’t believe I had put myself back into slavery voluntarily, but it was the only way. I manipulated my masters into selling me to people that I wanted to be near. A word in the right ear about how much such-and-such a noble would pay for a particular skill I had, for example. Playing the lyre. Cooking a certain dish. I became a valued commodity, and eventually I was purchased by the Imperial court, much to my current master’s annoyance.’

  ‘So you got your chance? What went wrong?’

  ‘Oclatinius, of course.’

  Silus nodded. Of course.

  ‘I had finally been selected to serve at an Imperial banquet. They were all going to be there. Caracalla, Geta, Papinianus, Julia Domna. The Emperor himself. I had a small knife, tipped with belladonna to make extra sure, hidden up the sleeve of my tunic.