Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  Caracalla stood abruptly and spoke in a loud voice that cut over the boring bureaucrat.

  ‘Enough!’

  The civil servant stopped talking in surprise, and all eyes turned to Caracalla. He held the room for a moment, milking the silence. Then he spoke, in calm measured tones.

  ‘This cannot go on. The Empire is paralysed. We cannot make a decision on the most basic issues, let alone work out who should really be in charge. I have a proposition. We should divide the Empire.’

  This led to gasps all around the room. Geta stared at him, but Caracalla kept his face impassive.

  ‘I have given this matter some thought.’ It was true. He had racked his brains trying to find a solution that involved neither violence nor the death of his brother. This was all he had come up with. ‘We will both be Emperors, and the Roman Empire will still be one, but it will also be two. Geta would have the east. I would have the west, including North Africa as far as Cyrenaica. It is equitable and practical. What do you say?’

  Everyone turned to Geta, who was looking at his brother with a thoughtful expression, clearly trying to work out if this was some sort of plot or trap.

  ‘Tell me more,’ said Geta cautiously.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ asked Caracalla. ‘We can both have what we want. We will both have unchallenged power, answering to no one else. I will have most of the more challenging military situations under my purview – Britannia, North Africa, Germania. You will have the richer, more peaceful states of the east, with only the Parthian threat to worry about. The distribution of the legions will be even, so neither has the power to overthrow the other. And there will be benefits for the Empire too. Not just that the decision-making will be smoother without the two of us arguing over everything, but that each half of the Empire will get the close attention of a full Augustus. Just think of the benefits that increase in focus could bring, the ability to crack down on local corruption, to raise military forces whenever required, to manage taxes and finances by the requirements of each region. It’s perfect.’

  Geta nodded, then looked to his advisors and the other council members. Papinianus spoke first.

  ‘I must confess, Antoninus brought this proposal to me for discussion, and although I did not advise him for or against, I could not see a flaw in his plan. Antoninus’ capital would remain in Rome, and Geta’s could be Alexandria or Antioch. The senators and council would divide according to their origins, and legions would be stationed in Byzantium and Chalcedon.’

  Ulpianus spoke next. ‘I cannot see a legal impediment, if the Senate will support the move. Nor any insurmountable logistical problems. Although drafting the legal documentation to enable this move will be quite fascinating.’

  Sextus Varius Marcellus stood. Marcellus had always been a loyal supporter of Caracalla, and wanted Caracalla to be sole ruler of the entire Empire. Nevertheless, he could obviously see the practicality of the idea, and as the suggestion had come from the man he had pledged himself to, he argued in favour. Others in turn around the council spoke in favour of the proposition, and an uncommon agreement broke out in the council chamber.

  Until Julia Domna got to her feet.

  ‘I say no.’

  The harmonious chattering that had been bubbling around the chamber abruptly stopped.

  ‘You two young men! I am your mother!’ Only technically, Caracalla quickly told himself, but legally she was correct. ‘How are you going to divide me? How am I going to be cut up and assigned to each of you?’

  ‘Julia, what are you doing?’ hissed Caracalla under his breath. She ignored him.

  ‘You should kill me. Cut me in two, and bury each part. Then you can share me properly between you, like you are dividing the land and sea.’

  Caracalla saw genuine tears in her eyes. Maybe he should have discussed this with her before, and no doubt she would be angry that he had confided in Papinianus instead of her. But surely she could see this was the only way? The only way that would resolve this conflict without bloodshed?

  Domna suddenly threw her arms around Caracalla and Geta and pulled them into a tight three-way hug. Both men resisted briefly, then allowed themselves to be gripped by the Empress. She held them there, and for a moment, Caracalla felt like they were a real family, two brothers who had grown up together in love and rivalry, fought and laughed and cried together, and Caracalla felt tears coming to his own eyes. Then he pulled back, and looked at Geta, and his brother was frowning, eyes clear and dry, looking like a man who had won a prize and had it snatched away from him.

  Caracalla felt his stomach lurch, and he was suddenly nauseous. There would be no reconciliation, and as he looked around the council chamber, he saw the sympathetic faces of the moved councillors, and realised that his plan was dead. There would be no division of the Empire, no peaceful solution.

  Julia had tears running down her face as she tousled the hair of her son and her lover, and Caracalla couldn’t believe that she was unable to see into Geta’s soul, see the animosity and resentment that was now boiling into hatred. Didn’t she understand the consequences? Did she really think that the Empire was better off this way? Or was she being entirely selfish, having her son and her lover remaining in the same city so she could continue to see them both?

  ‘Oh, Julia,’ he whispered, loud enough only for himself to hear. ‘What have you done?’

  * * *

  Silus lay on his back on his mattress, covered by a single blanket. Apicula lay on another mattress on the floor by the window, breathing lightly. He had a strange feeling this had all happened before, then he remembered his dream of Daya from two nights before and flushed. He looked at the door, half-expecting it to open and his colleague to walk in once more. When nothing happened, he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

  He had spent most of the day in the company of Atius and Daya. He had no other real friends in Rome, and when there was no mission, he had little to keep him occupied. Daya trained in her free time, and Atius whored and drank, and made lifelong friends for the evening that he never saw again. Silus liked to think he was more normal and balanced than either of those two who were at opposite ends of the scale of introversion–extroversion. But in reality, he was probably neither normal nor balanced. He was a spy and assassin. What was normal about that?

  His mind went back to the little girl that Daya had killed. He couldn’t quite picture how she looked now, and whenever he thought about her, it was his own daughter’s face that was there, conflated with Plautilla’s daughter’s. Sadness welled up inside, the loss threatening to overwhelm him, so acute even after all this time.

  There was a knock at the door and he sat up abruptly. It must be near midnight. He lit an oil lamp, then reached for the dagger beneath his mattress, always nearby, and crept to the door. Apicula had also sat up on her mattress, and was watching suspiciously. Silus unbolted the door and opened it a crack. A young, nervous-looking girl was standing there. He looked past her, ascertaining that no one was lurking a bit further down the stairs, waiting to pounce on him. When he was sure she was alone, he opened the door fully.

  The girl was maybe twenty years old, with long dark hair, almond eyes, a firm, round bust, and long, slim legs. She had an uncertain smile on her face. She was also completely naked.

  Silus stared in surprise for a long moment, words completely absent from his mind. The girl’s smile fell.

  ‘Don’t you like me, master?’ she said in a small voice with a mild Eastern accent.

  ‘What? I… No! I mean, yes, of course, but no!’

  ‘Don’t you want me?’

  ‘I think there has been some mistake. You must have the wrong apartment.’

  ‘No mistake, sir.’

  ‘Did Atius put you up to this? If this is his doing…’

  The confusion on her face told him it wasn’t Atius.

  ‘Look, I don’t know who sent you to me, but go back and tell them it was a mistake. Goodnight.’ The girl looked
concerned, but he closed the door in her face and bolted it again. When he turned around, he saw Apicula smiling.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘A neighbourly greeting, master, that’s all.’ She lay down again and turned her back to him.

  He settled himself back onto his mattress, but had only just closed his eyes before there was another knock at the door.

  ‘She is persistent,’ he muttered, and opened the door again, with less caution this time. But it was not the same woman. This one was shorter, rounder, a little older, with blonde hair and blue eyes. And naked.

  ‘Do you like me, master?’ she asked with a hint of a Germanic accent.

  ‘I’m sorry, but no,’ said Silus. He closed the door and went back to bed. Why was he declining the offers? he mused. It wasn’t the undoubted financial cost that the encounter would incur – he could afford a prostitute. It wasn’t that he had any moral qualms about using a prostitute either – he had done it plenty of times in the past, both before and after his marriage. But not since Velua died. He had been with no one since then. Not only did it not feel right, but ever since that horrific night in Britannia, there had been no desire.

  At least until he had met Daya.

  The next knock came just moments later. He threw the door open to find a young boy, no older than twelve, his body hairless, his face made up like a woman.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ he yelled and slammed the door shut.

  Apicula was chuckling openly now. ‘What is going on?’ Silus demanded.

  ‘I think the local leno is trying to persuade you to sample his wares. And he obviously hasn’t worked out how to tempt you yet.’

  The fourth visitor was an enormously fat lady with a heavy growth of facial hair and a hunch. She had lost a leg at the knee sometime in the past, and supported herself with a crutch. Silus pitied her the walk up the stairs to his apartment and couldn’t bring himself to shout at her.

  ‘Listen to me. You tell whoever keeps sending you people to my apartment and disturbing my sleep that if I get one more visitor tonight I’m going to hunt down your leno and stab my knife up his backside. Can you pass that on for me, please?’

  The lady nodded, and limped back down the stairs.

  Silus wondered if the message would get through and was sufficiently threatening, and for a while he thought he had been successful. He had just started to drift away, when a knock came again. Silus jumped out of bed in a fury and threw the door open.

  A tall, wide man with broad shoulders and a chest like a barrel grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him hard back into the room, keeping the momentum going until Silus crashed backwards into the far wall. Apicula screamed, and then went silent as two more bulky men, armed with clubs, followed the first into the apartment. They had a brief look around, and one picked up the knife that Silus had carelessly left lying next to the mattress. Then they stood back, and allowed a much smaller man to enter the room.

  The large man had his forearm thrust up against Silus’ throat, keeping him pinned to the wall, but there was no point in struggling against such overwhelming odds. Silus used his hands in an attempt to keep enough pressure off his throat to breathe, and watched the newcomer.

  The small man had a completely bald head, a long, narrow nose and a condescending sneer as he looked around the room, taking in its diminutive size and state of disrepair. He noticed Apicula, who had backed herself into the corner of the room, her blanket pulled up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror, and he smiled and approached her. He reached out to stroke her face and she shrank back. Then he spoke, Latin but heavily accented with Greek.

  ‘Apicula, my dear. I heard that someone had made an honest slave of you. I do miss our times together. You were always very receptive to my tastes. And you were a good-looking thing once, too. Ah, well, it escapes, irretrievable time, as the poet said.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ hissed Silus, voice attenuated by the strangulation, partly to distract this man from his terrified slave, and partly because he wanted to know who the fuck he was.

  The man turned to Silus as if noticing him for the first time.

  ‘I’m Sidetes of Alexandria.’ The man watched for a reaction from Silus, and when he saw none, he shook his head with a wry smile. ‘You really aren’t from around here, are you? Because if you were, I would be terribly offended that the mention of my name doesn’t instil more deference.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of you. What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?’

  ‘I wanted to see who was so discourteous to my employees earlier this evening.’

  ‘That set of freaks you sent to my door were yours?’

  Sidetes nodded to the man restraining Silus, who took a step back, then punched him hard in the midriff. Silus doubled forward with an ‘oof’ sound, then with an effort forced himself upright. He was no longer restrained, but the three strangers watched him like dogs ready to pounce.

  ‘And there you were being discourteous again. I feel these slights to my employees as if they are against my own person. That is why none of my girls and boys have any harm come to them in the course of their duties. At least not since my colleague here cut off the cock of someone foolish enough to assault a young lad of mine.’

  The man who had been holding Silus smiled to reveal a mouth full of blackened and broken teeth.

  ‘I have introduced myself. Now tell me your name, stranger.’

  ‘I’m Silus. What do you want with me?’

  ‘Just to give you some, what shall we call it, orientation? I run this block. Everyone knows it, and respects it. But when a newcomer arrives, they need to know the score. I started off sending you employees with greetings to make you welcome. The experience and the price would have been most agreeable. Instead, you chose to send them away, insulted them, and threatened me. In fact, Aphrodite told me you had threatened to hunt me down and stab your knife up my backside.’

  Even through his fear, Silus was able to feel sympathy for the poor woman who had no doubt endured much mockery for being named after the goddess of love. Sidetes looked down and noticed Silus’ knife lying abandoned on the floor. Silus cursed his carelessness, and wondered what Oclatinius would say if he was here now. He almost felt more scared of the old man’s disappointment than of the thug in front of him.

  Sidetes bent down and picked up the knife, tested the point with his fingertip and flinched.

  ‘A nice piece. You keep it in good order. I think it would slide very easily up a man’s backside. Bend him over.’

  The three men grabbed Silus by the arms and neck and thrust him face down onto the table. They grabbed the light tunic he wore and pulled it up over his back, so his hairy arse was exposed. Sidetes stepped forward, knife in hand, and suddenly Silus felt real terror. He tried to turn to see what was happening, but one of the men grabbed his hair and shoved his face into the table. He struggled desperately, and became aware of Apicula sobbing hysterically.

  He felt the touch of sharp cold steel slide between his buttocks, the tip touching his hole. His breath hissed in and out in terror, and he leaked urine. The blade jerked forward and he screamed.

  But Sidetes had only stabbed half an inch. It hurt like hell, and blood ran down the insides of his thighs, but it was a flesh wound, not fatal unless it got an infection.

  The men let him go, and Silus sank to his knees, sobbing in pain and humiliation.

  ‘I will send Aphrodite to your bed every night. And every night you will fuck her, and pay her a denarius. Or next time, the blade goes all the way in. Do you understand?’

  Silus nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘Then I will bid you a goodnight. I’m sure we won’t have to meet under such circumstances again.’

  Sidetes turned and swept imperiously from the room, followed by his chuckling thugs.

  Apicula ran to the door and bolted it, then rushed over to Silus who was now face down on the floor, groaning. She took some of the rags she saved for her men
ses, wetted them from a jug of water, and pressed them between his buttocks.

  Silus screamed at the sudden intensification of the pain, but he didn’t resist. When Apicula had cleaned the wound and staunched the blood flow, she lay beside him on the floor and put an arm around him, stroking his hair. Silus turned to look at her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was trembling violently. Silus put his arm protectively around her, and spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘Don’t worry, Apicula. I will sort this.’

  * * *

  Caracalla watched the young boy playing with his mother, his perpetually wrinkled forehead creased even deeper than usual.

  ‘How old is the lad now?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight years,’ said Sextus Varius Marcellus. Caracalla squinted. The sun was low in the sky, but the Emperor’s vision was good, and he could make out his features clearly. Was there a resemblance?

  The boy was named Sextus Varius Avitus Bassianus, and he was the son of Marcellus’ wife Julia Soaemias, who also happened to be Julia Domna’s niece. He was also, officially, the son of Marcellus. But Caracalla had always had doubts, and those doubts grew just as the child did. And he knew there were many who shared those doubts, and whispered them when they thought no one dangerous was listening. But in Rome, someone dangerously usually was listening, and Oclatinius dutifully reported the rumours on the streets, whether or not Caracalla wanted to hear them.

  Marcellus had long been loyal to Caracalla and his father. He had married Julia Soaemias soon after Severus took the purple, and had been a Severan adherent ever since. But as Severus aged, he had subtly switched his allegiance to Caracalla, knowing that the old man would not be around for ever. There had been one particular occasion that Caracalla couldn’t help but think back to every time he visited Marcellus.

  Caracalla’s wife Plautilla had just given birth to a daughter, and Caracalla knew full well that it wasn’t his, as he never went near the spouse that he hated. Still, it was embarrassing, humiliating, that his wife had born another man’s child and he had been drowning his sorrows with a variety of fine wines from Marcellus’ Campanian estates.