Soaemias was around twenty-four at the time, six years younger than Caracalla, and fifteen years younger than her husband. Marcellus and his wife had laughed and joked with the young Augustus as they became drunker, and Soaemias had flirted ever less subtly.
Towards the end of the evening, Soaemias had excused herself to relieve her bladder, and Marcellus had nudged Caracalla and asked with a conspiratorial wink whether he thought his wife was a beauty. Caracalla had replied that of course he did, and it was then that Marcellus offered her to him for the night.
He still felt a stab of guilt at the thought, and that guilt was mainly to do with Domna. She had found out, of course. Soaemias had bragged about it until the Empress had had a quiet but severe word with her niece.
He knew he shouldn’t really feel guilty that he had betrayed Domna. She had been with his father at the time, after all, not there for him when he needed her.
Soaemias had tried to seduce him on multiple occasions after that. Marcellus remained prepared to turn a blind eye and play the cuckold for the sake of preferment from the Augustus, but beautiful and tempting as Soaemias was, Caracalla could not bring himself to repeat the performance and disappoint Domna further.
The young lad was playing with his mother’s make-up box, using a mirror to apply kohl with a hand skilled enough to suggest it was not his first time. He was wearing a stola he had taken from the daughter of a freedman who was a client of Marcellus. Caracalla raised an eyebrow. Marcellus reddened and made a dismissive gesture.
‘It’s just a phase he is going through, Augustus. He will be organising cock fights and playing soldiers with wooden swords before we know it.’
Caracalla said nothing, but he ached to ask, Is the boy mine?
Instead, he turned to business.
‘The division of the Empire seemed such an ideal solution.’
‘The Syrian women are formidable when their ire is up, Augustus,’ said Marcellus sympathetically. Caracalla nodded. There were a number of them that Caracalla regularly had to deal with, with Soaemias, Domna and Domna’s sister Julia Maesa the most problematic. But even if Caracalla had wanted to clip their wings, their influence with the Syrian faction of court, as well as in their homeland, would make it challenging. Domna and Maesa were daughters of the high priest of the Syrian god Elagabal, and Soaemias’ son would inherit that role one day.
Fortunately, he was generally content to let them have their way, finding it the easier path. But Domna’s intervention in his plan to resolve his issue with Geta was disappointing as much from the mere fact of her opposition to him as the situation it left him in.
‘What next, old friend?’ Caracalla asked.
‘Next, I believe, is the festival at the Circus Maximus that you are due to attend with your brother. Maybe you could speak to him when you sit by him in the Imperial box?’
‘Maybe. But I fear that the last chance for compromise has passed.’
The young Sextus was now running in circles around his indulgent mother, crying out in a high voice, ‘I’m a naughty girl, I’m a naughty girl.’
Marcellus sighed.
‘It will pass,’ he said, without conviction.
* * *
Naturally, Atius found the whole thing hilarious, nothing more so than the climax of Silus’ account.
‘Nearly buggered? By your own knife?’
He bent double, howling with laughter. Daya looked on in bemusement, while Silus fumed.
‘Well, thanks a fucking bunch. I’m so glad I came to my best friend to tell him about this horrible experience. I knew I would find sympathy here.’
‘I’m sorry, Silus,’ said Atius, attempting to collect himself. ‘Does it still hurt?’
‘What do you think?’ snapped Silus. ‘Yes, it hurts, with every fucking step. And shitting is agony.’
That set Atius off again and Silus shook his head in despair. They were in a tavern in the late afternoon, and although it was busy, they had a corner table to themselves, with anyone approaching warned off by a glare from Silus and the flash of a blade from Daya. Apicula was also present, clutching Issa to her chest, who was loving being fed scraps from the table. The little dog had walked with a limp ever since she had suffered a fracture at the hands of the barbarians in Britannia, but she didn’t seem to notice it unless she was playing on it to beg for food. Apicula still looked shaken, and Issa seemed to be a welcome distraction and comfort.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Daya, ever practical.
‘I think I need to send them a message. Let them know I am not someone to fool with.’
Atius, trying to recover himself, said, ‘You could ask Oclatinius to ask someone to send the Praetorians round to have a word.’
‘The Praetorians wouldn’t dirty their boots in my street. And if I asked the Urban Cohorts to come round, what sort of message does that give? That I can’t fight my own battles. No, I think I need to find out where he spends his time, and scare the piss out of him.’
‘What do you think, then?’ said Atius. ‘Threaten to cut his balls off, roast them like chestnuts and feed them to Issa?’
‘Something like that. Or maybe something more subtle, but that would worry him even more. Threaten to damage his business. Scare away the customers so they won’t use his whores and his taverns any more. Spread messages that he and his men are marked, and any associating with him and his enterprises risks death.’
‘Yes,’ said Atius. ‘We could beat up a customer or two, maybe give some of his thugs a scar or two, and let it be known we are not to be messed with.’
Daya was looking from Silus to Atius in confusion. Silus noticed her expression.
‘What is it, Daya?’
‘Why don’t we just kill them all?’ she said.
‘Well,’ said Silus, failing to find a good answer.
‘I suppose we could…’ said Atius.
Daya nodded, like it was decided. ‘We just need to know where to look for him.’
‘I can tell you where to find him,’ said Apicula. Her voice was tremulous and she still look scared, but she seemed resolute, and Silus wondered if she was proud that her master was standing up to the bully. ‘He spends most of his time at a brothel and tavern, two streets over from where I… where I worked. I can take you there.’
‘No,’ said Silus. ‘You need to look after Issa. Just give us directions and we’ll take it from there.’
* * *
The Circus Maximus was the biggest structure in the Roman Empire. Nestling in the valley between the Palatine and Aventine Hills, overlooked by the palaces of the super-wealthy, the Circus was the venue for chariot races. While the Flavian Amphitheatre could hold eighty thousand spectators, enjoying a day of gladiatorial fights and executions, the Circus could accommodate more than one hundred and fifty thousand avid fans screaming for their own teams, Green, Blue, Red or White, with the fanaticism of the most extreme cultist.
Caracalla looked down from the Emperor’s box situated on the lowest tier at the northern end of the stadium. Arrayed above him were the other ranks of society in descending order of importance: senators first, then equestrians, then the wealthy humiliores, and then the poor. Sadly, he was not the only Emperor in the Imperial box, with Geta seated next to him, waiting excitedly for the race to begin. Papinianus, Dio Cassius and a few other honoured guests joined them in the box. Since boyhood they had supported opposing factions. The Greens and Blues had been dominant in the Circus for many years, with the Reds and Whites generally just making up the numbers.
Caracalla had supported the Blues ever since his first race, so Geta had naturally become a Green. Their rivalry had been fun at first, until they became more seriously adversarial. When the brothers started racing each other for their teams, the rivalry reached a dangerous level, culminating with Caracalla falling from his chariot, nearly being trampled to death by the horses behind him, and lucky to escape with a broken leg. To this day it still pained him in the winter, and he remain
ed convinced it had been an attempt by his brother, furious at continually losing to his older and better sibling, to kill him.
The ceremonial procession before the race started was over, thankfully. Endless processions of priests holding statues of their gods and sacrificing at the altars and temples around the grounds had bored Caracalla to tears, waiting for the action to start, and while some of the crowd were respectful, most yelled for them to get on with it. Now, though, in front of him were arrayed twelve quadriga, the four-horse chariots, three from each team, ornately decked out in their respective teams’ colours. The starting boxes were staggered so that no team got an advantage as they raced to the central barrier, although the boxes were allocated by lottery in any case.
They were waiting from a signal from the Emperor. But there were two. Julia Domna was not present – she was with her circle of intellectuals, and she and Caracalla, still angry and emotional, had been avoiding each other since the council meeting. So who would start the race?
The brothers looked at each other, and reached a silent agreement born of years of love and rivalry. They both stood and raised their arms simultaneously, then brought them down as one.
The starting gates sprang open, and the horses leapt out, taking up the slack on the reins and yanking the chariots forwards. The first challenge was to gain some advantage before the track narrowed at the white break line between the lower line which ran between the lower turning post and the right-hand wall of the stadium seating area. After this, they raced in parallel to the line before the judges’ seats, after which they could cross lanes. This was when the action began.
The real race was between the lead chariots of the Blues and Greens. The other Blue and Green chariots played support roles, only really coming into their own if the lead chariot crashed out. As for the Reds and Whites, more poorly supported and funded, their financial survival tended to depend on deals done behind closed doors with the two major factions to assist one or the other to victory. Caracalla wondered how long it would be before the two small teams were simply absorbed into the larger ones.
The Red faction showed their allegiance early. One of the Red chariots was clearly weaker than the rest of the field, the horses less muscled, the charioteer less experienced, even the quadriga itself shabbier and more poorly maintained. But this chariot had never been intended to finish the race, or even the first lap. The charioteer yanked hard on the reins, steering his team outwards. One of the Green support team had made a move to pass him on the outside, and the Red cut across his path, forcing both chariots into the stone wall in front of the seating.
They impacted with a crash that momentarily drowned out the cacophony of the crowd. Both teams disappeared in a mess of dust, metal and flesh, human and equine. A wheel came loose and flew high into the crowd, impacting a spectator several rows back, who went down, skull caved in.
Course attendants rushed out from their sanctuaries along the central spine of the track to help the victims. The horses were likely all beyond rescue and those still alive would have their throats cut when it was safe to do so. The wreckage would have to remain until the race was over as an obstacle to the other teams. But it was accepted that it was reasonable to try to save the charioteers, not least because they were usually skilled men who could not be easily replaced. As the other chariots thundered on, the attendants dragged the two men out of the carnage. The Green charioteer was clearly dead, but the Red was moving weakly. If he survived his injuries, he would likely be richly rewarded. Caracalla decided to send a few gold coins his way himself.
The Green fans booed and jeered loudly as the Red charioteer was carried to safety, and some threw fruit and vegetables at him. A soft pear hit him in the face, which brought a cheer from the Green and White fans.
The lead chariots rounded the far end of the spine in a tight curve. The top Blue chariot held a slight edge over a support Green, while the top Green chariot was holding back, steering a wide course to try to keep out of trouble early in the race. The support Green tried to manoeuvre inside the Blue, but the quality of the Blue team and driver, not to mention a liberal use of his whip against his opponent, held him back. He dropped behind, allowing the Blue to accelerate down the back straight and open up a short lead.
As the leader passed the finish post, a dolphin statue was tipped over on the spine of the track to indicate the first of seven laps completed, drawing another cheer from the Blue supporters.
Caracalla looked across to Geta, and saw an expression of excitement and envy that mirrored his own conflicted feelings. Fun as it was to watch this spectacle, little beat the visceral excitement of racing itself. For the sons of an Emperor, protected from most of the dangers of the world, it was one of the few real thrills they could experience. Caracalla even rated the sensation above that of battle. Much as he loved to ride into a crowd of barbarians with his spatha swinging, his Praetorians protected him too well for him to be in genuine danger. Out in the Circus, the risk was very real.
One more chariot, a White, failed to complete the first lap as the charioteer, trailing the rest of the field, attempted the sharp turn at the far end of the spine clumsily, clipped a wheel and overturned. The charioteer was thrown clear, and managed to run to the safety of the spine before the field came round again. The horses continued to run, dragging the chariot on its side, for a further lap, the attendants unable to stop the beasts when they had their head. Eventually, a brave and athletic slave leapt from the side wall onto the back of the front horse of the four, and guided the team out of the Circus, to appreciative cheers from supporters of every colour.
‘Wish you were out there?’ asked Caracalla.
Geta turned to him, looking like he wondered if there was a trap in the question. Then seeming to accept it at face value, he said, ‘Of course. What times we had.’
Caracalla was tempted to mention his suspicious crash again, but he felt suddenly weary. Was there no way to reconcile with his brother? He knew the answer to that. Geta would only be satisfied if Caracalla accepted him as an equal ruler in all things. And what sort of a man would that make him? Submitting to the wishes and whims of his younger, less qualified, less experienced, less skilled brother, purely for the sake of avoiding conflict. Is that the attitude that built the Empire?
But how he wished he was playing his brother at ludus latrunculorum, betting against each other at quail fights, listening together to their father’s stories of his youth before he was Emperor. How he wished for those simpler times. Were they really gone for ever?
‘Brother,’ he began, then was interrupted by a huge crash below the Imperial box.
‘What happened?’ asked Geta, annoyed that he had missed the excitement because of his brother’s distraction.
‘One of the support Blues jumped into the Green leader’s chariot and steered the horses into the barrier,’ said Papinianus.
Geta rounded on Caracalla. ‘Your team always cheats!’ he spat, pointing a finger straight into his face. Caracalla strongly resisted the temptation to smack it away and follow that up with a punch to his brother’s nose.
‘Is this your first race, brother? That isn’t against the rules.’
‘There is such a thing as the spirit of the contest as well as the rule,’ Geta snapped back. ‘The Blues are dishonourable, and always have been, like all who support them.’
Caracalla felt anger rising up in him, his head aching with tension, and the pain in his leg from his old racing injury suddenly throbbing. He clenched one fist, his fingernails digging into his palm, using the pain to control his emotions. The race roared on beneath them, and he focused on the contest, blocking his brother from his hearing and his mind.
By the end of the sixth lap, only three chariots remained, the Blue lead chariot, which was winning, the slower of the Green support chariots, lagging a full length behind the leader, and a back-marking Red, which was close to being lapped by the Blue.
Caracalla watched intently as the Blue chari
ot took the turn to start the last lap. He went wide, slower than he could have, but showing caution as he had the luxury of a decent lead on the chasing chariot. The Green closed the gap a little, cutting the corner as close he dared, but they went out on the last lap with the Blue looking as though only a disaster would prevent his victory.
The disaster came at the final turn. The Blue caught the lagging Red at the corner. It was clear Red was supposed to be co-operating with Blue from the way the race had panned out so far, and so Red went wide as was customary for those being lapped.
But Blue was also taking the turn wide to avoid clipping the spine or turning over with too tight a circle, and in the confusion, the foot of one of Blue’s horses connected with Red’s wheel. The spokes shattered the coffin bone and the horse went down and rolled over its own head, breaking its neck and dragging the rest of the team down with it. The Blue chariot careered straight into the horses, pitching the charioteer out and into the path of the oncoming Green.
Whether the Green could have made more of an attempt to avoid the Blue charioteer was hotly debated and argued over for weeks afterwards. The Green fans said that there wasn’t time to swerve without risking a crash, while the Blues said there was plenty of room to manoeuvre around, and that the Green just wanted to take out one of their best men. Many of these conversations came to blows, with even some permanent injuries and the odd death resulting from the debates.
Whatever was in the mind of the Green charioteer in that instant, the result was that as the Blue crawled on his belly towards the safety of the spine, the Green chariot rode over him at high speed. The thin wheel with the weight of the quadriga and the Green charioteer pressing down cut the unlucky Blue in two. The crowd gasped, roared, cheered and even laughed as for a moment, the Blue continued to drag himself towards safety by his hands, leaving his lower body and a mess of entrails behind him in the dirt. He made it a bare couple of feet before slumping face down.
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