Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  ‘Why would you do such a thing, Cilo?’

  ‘Because it is my duty to the Senate and people of Rome. If Antoninus and Geta could come to an arrangement, could reign together in peace, then we could avoid the bloodshed that is to come. And maybe they could even augment Rome’s power and glory better together than either on their own. Antoninus with his military prowess and strength of personality, and Geta with his more intellectual approach, and his willingness to listen to advice.’

  ‘You know what a dangerous path this is, don’t you? You risk alienating them both, and making it seem like you support neither.’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, Titurius.’

  ‘I know.’ Titurius ran his hand through his hair, reflexively tidying a rogue quiff that tended to stand up at times of stress if he neglected it. ‘Still, you haven’t said what you want from me.’

  ‘I want you to host a dinner for Antoninus and Domna, and invite Papinianus and myself. Papinianus thinks as I do, though he has a loyalty to Antoninus that restrains his tongue.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You have not come out strongly in favour of either Emperor, though that may be just because you haven’t been put in that position yet. But I’m sure Antoninus will be pleased to come and attempt to win you to his side. And I know you and trust you. Most other senators would use an evening with one of the Emperors solely for their own advancement. You aren’t like that. You can seat me to Antoninus’ left, while you are seated to the right of Domna, and give me the chance to try to talk some sense into him.’

  Titurius touched his fingertips to his bearded chin.

  ‘I don’t like it, Cilo. I have a wife and a son and daughter. I don’t want to do anything to put them in danger.’

  ‘There will be no danger to you, Titurius. I’m not asking you to say or do anything that would be a risk to you or your family. I just want to be in close proximity to Antoninus, in a relaxed social setting, away from his more poisonous influences.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You need me to list them? You really should pay more attention, Titurius. Sextus Varius Marcellus has long been an Antoninus loyalist, but Quintus Marcius Dioga, Julius Avitus and Julius Asper are all close to him. Marcellus is now urban prefect, and there are rumours that Dioga will be put in charge of the treasury. Their interests all lie with Antoninus as sole ruler. I need to speak to him without them present to contradict me.’

  Titurius considered for a while, and Cilo sat in silence for his answer, biting at an already short fingernail while he waited.

  ‘Very well.’

  Cilo let out a breath Titurius hadn’t realised he had been holding. But he couldn’t tell if Cilo wore an expression of relief or despair. Maybe he had been hoping Titurius would decline, and then Cilo could feel his conscience was clear, that he had tried. Now, the course was committed.

  ‘Antoninus might refuse my invitation, you know. I’m sure he has a hundred offers of social events to consider.’

  ‘You have influence, Titurius, though you may not fully appreciate it. You have the respect of the senators. Antoninus will very much want to persuade you to his cause. I believe he will accept.’

  ‘We will see. Cilo, you don’t have to do this. Say now, and this is all forgotten.’

  Cilo looked close to tears. ‘Titurius, I must.’

  Titurius nodded. ‘I’ll send the invitation today.’

  Cilo rose, shook Titurius’ hand, and left, walking slowly, head bowed and shoulders rounded. Titurius watched him go with sympathy, and then turned his attention to organising a banquet fit for an Emperor.

  * * *

  They hadn’t had long to scout out their target’s position, work out his habits and movements, and assess his strengths and weaknesses. Silus reflected how everything in Rome seemed hasty and rushed, not just his missions. Food was served in stalls and on street corners hot and ready to eat, and was consumed in moments before the customer got on with their day. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, to see their patron for a handout, to get to the market early for the freshest produce and the best meals, or to deliver an urgent message that would get the messenger beaten if they were tardy.

  In Britannia, he had sometimes spent weeks observing a target before getting back to his superiors with the intelligence they wanted. And when he returned home, it would commonly take hours for Velua to prepare him a meal – to fetch the wood for the fire, boil the water, and let the tough meat and vegetables stew until they were edible. Yes, some things were urgent, but generally there just seemed a lot less to fit into your day back home.

  They had had less than a day to prepare for this mission. Oclatinius wanted the job done while the insult to Caracalla was fresh in people’s minds, so there could be no doubt of the reason for his death. Daya, Silus and Atius had also had a brief meeting to discuss their approach. Daya and Atius had their own strong and completely opposing views. Daya had advocated a subtle and stealthy approach, involving kidnapping Euprepes, torturing him and then crucifying him at night and leaving him to be found by a shocked city the next morning. Atius wanted to find him and go in fast and hard, swords swinging, until the charioteer was dead, along with any who got in their way.

  Fortunately, it was Silus who was in charge, and he got their reluctant agreement to follow his own plan. They had spent the morning making discreet enquiries about Euprepes – where he lived, where he ate, what he did with his day. It was less satisfactory and less secretive than observing those things directly with their own eyes, but time was not on their side, and it yielded enough information. While not a man of regular habits, Euprepes would usually visit the stables of the Green faction at least once a day to talk to the owners of the teams, the grooms and farriers, and the charioteers themselves, who were always delighted to receive words of wisdom from the champion, to accept his words of admonishment if he was disappointed in their performance, or bask in the glow of his praise if he was pleased with them.

  Silus had ordered Atius to dress like a beggar – it wasn’t hard, he just selected his unwashed outfit from his last night out on the town, which was sufficiently stained with food, wine and vomit to easily pass for the clothing of one of Rome’s army of derelicts – and had him beg outside the Greens’ stables. At least it was a mission for which his broken hand didn’t hinder him. Daya and Silus played dice at a table on the street outside a nearby tavern. Graffiti on the walls and carved into the table displayed slogans such as, ‘Curse Pollox the Red, and let him fall on the first lap,’ or simply ‘The Blues are shit.’ Someone had gone so far as to paint a lengthy curse on the outer wall that read, ‘O demons, I call upon you to torture and kill the horses of the Whites and Blues, and crush the drivers Felix, Alexander and Hermes so there is not a single breath left in their body.’ Silus wondered what sort of welcome a Blues supporter would receive in here on race day.

  The sun was well past its zenith when Atius shuffled over to them, enjoying his acting role. He approached their table, cupped hand out.

  ‘Copper coin for an old veteran, kind sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve got nothing since the army tossed me out for screwing the centurion’s mother.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Silus. ‘Join us for a drink, brave soldier.’

  When Atius sat at their table, Silus hissed at him, ‘For Mithras’ sake, Atius, what are you doing? You fancy a career on the stage or something? We are supposed to be avoiding attention.’

  Atius gestured around him. Their exchange had gone completely unnoticed by the people on the streets and at the nearby tables, all occupied with their own conversations or activities.

  ‘Fine. Speak.’

  ‘Euprepes has just entered the stables with his entourage.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘About twenty.’

  ‘Twenty? Why so many?’

  Atius shrugged. ‘A couple of bodyguards, big Germanic types. A few slaves. The rest seemed to be fans.’

  ‘And we know what we will face
inside the stables,’ said Daya. ‘Charioteers, blacksmiths, grooms. Not to mention the guards. From what I have heard, the factions are constantly trying to get into each other’s stables to see what advantage they can get, whether it is injuring their best horse or poisoning their best charioteer. If we go in there, we will be spotted and questioned immediately, and then we will be facing a very angry, very tough mob, armed with whips and hammers.’

  ‘Then we have to catch him when he leaves,’ said Silus.

  ‘If we aren’t doing it inside the stables, we should do it directly outside, for maximum impact,’ said Daya. ‘This isn’t supposed to be a discreet doing away with. We are to send a message.’

  ‘The timing will have to be just right, then,’ said Atius. ‘We will have to catch him the moment he comes out, execute him, then escape. And we will need to make sure we aren’t recognised. The whole city will be looking for the murderer of Euprepes, half to kill us and half to congratulate us.’

  Silus thought back to his time sitting in the cold, wet forests of Caledonia, scouting for the legions. He would never have dreamt back then that within a year he would have swapped those frigid environs for the hot streets of Rome, stalking not a Maeatae barbarian but a Roman sportsman. He marvelled at the position he found himself in, a board marker in a grand game of ludus latrunculorum between the two great players in the Empire, the brothers Augusti. And with no idea if he was on the right side. But that was the situation the Fates had handed him.

  ‘Fine, this is how we will do it,’ he said, and outlined his plan.

  * * *

  ‘I should cut you up and feed you to the dogs, you stupid bitch,’ he yelled, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the ground. It had rained the previous night, and all the sun had done was warm the wet dirt and shit that coated the road rather than drying it out, so the ordure splashed her as she fell.

  She landed on hands and knees, looking up at him with a pitiful expression which almost melted the heart of the watching Silus and made him intervene before he remembered they were both just acting. Atius jabbed a finger in her direction, and yelled curses at her again.

  ‘This is the last time you disobey me,’ he yelled, and gave her a backhanded swipe across the face with his good hand. Daya did a good job of rocking with the blow, just enough to take the force out of it, but not so much it didn’t sound convincing.

  Silus lurked in the shadows a dozen yards away. As soon as Euprepes had emerged from the stables and started to make his way back towards the main street, Silus had nipped ahead and given Atius the nod. Atius had started his performance with the enthusiasm of a Greek actor.

  A few passers-by and people sitting on the floor or at nearby tables turned to watch in idle curiosity. Watching a master beat his slave was hardly a rarity, but it was uncommon enough to warrant a little attention if one was bored enough.

  ‘Maybe I’ll sell you to the quarries,’ Atius said angrily. ‘Then I’ll get a little cash for you, and you will still be dead inside six months.’

  ‘Please, master, no, I beg you,’ said Daya piteously.

  ‘I gave you every chance. I’ve had enough. Maybe I should just give you away to one of these good people.’

  That attracted some notice. It wasn’t every day that someone gave a slave away for free.

  ‘You,’ said Atius, pointing at an old man with a mouth full of sausage sitting at a tavern table. ‘Will you take her from me?’ Before the man could hastily swallow and reply, Atius singled out a man too young to have more than the barest growth of beard lounging against a wall. ‘How about you? You could take her as a bed slave, if you like girls that look like boys.’ Silus was sure Atius would pay for that later. ‘Come on, who wants her? All I ask is someone who is prepared to knock her about enough to keep her in her place.’

  ‘I’ll take her,’ said a podgy man in a tight-fitting tunic.

  ‘No, give her to me,’ said a broad-shouldered man with a russet beard.

  ‘I spoke up first,’ said the podgy man.

  ‘You’ll get my fist down your throat if you speak up again,’ said the red beard.

  ‘Let me take the poor wretch,’ said a middle-aged woman of middling wealth judging by her fine but not too fine dress and jewellery. ‘I’ll turn her into a decent house slave, with no need for beatings.’

  A crowd was slowly drawn in, forming a circle around Atius and Daya, with jostling, shouting and even some bids to buy Daya on the cheap. Daya remained on all fours, face spattered with shit, looking down at the ground, while Atius whipped up the crowd.

  The timing was perfect. The crowd fully blocked the street by the time Euprepes and his entourage arrived and attempted to pass.

  ‘Clear the way!’ yelled one of Euprepes’ bodyguards. ‘Make way for Euprepes the charioteer!’

  But even the legendary hero could not tear the crowd away from the possibility of a free handout. Some started to push each other and one woman fell to the ground with a scream; a young man received a shove in the back as he bent to help her up, and retaliated by spinning and planting a brisk uppercut on the jaw of the man who had pushed him.

  In moments the brawl spread, punches and kicks thrown, hair pulled, limbs bitten. From a short distance beyond the crowd that was now a mob, behind Euprepes’ entourage, Silus saw Euprepes’ bodyguards wade in with clubs, breaking limbs and skulls to clear a path, helped by the slaves and fans who accompanied him.

  The charioteer looked impatient, shouting at his bodyguards to hurry up and make a path for him. He was dressed in a belted tunic made of fine wool, dyed green, and wore gold necklaces and bracelets, showing all his wealth and success. From his belt dangled his leather whip, a souvenir from his time in the Circus. He was still well-muscled, as any successful charioteer was. It took strength as well as skill and agility to win races, or even just to survive them. But Euprepes was an old man now, and the skin was wrinkled, the muscles flabbier than they once had been, and his gut bulged over his belt.

  Suddenly Euprepes was alone. All the fans and slaves had waded into the crowd, and were themselves fully engaged in the fighting, shouting, kicking and punching, crying out that they should be showing respect to the great Euprepes.

  Silus drew his knife from under his tunic and stepped out of the shadows. His tunic was hooded, as had become more fashionable since Caracalla had started wearing a Gallic cloak in this style, and his face was mostly hidden by drawing the hood up and forwards. Euprepes was concentrating on the small riot in front of him, his fist balled, looking like he was itching to wade into the action himself.

  Silus didn’t hesitate. His blade in his right hand, he grabbed Euprepes’ chin from behind with his left hand, twisting it up left to expose the throat. His knife came round, edge honed to razor sharpness, ready to slice deep into the soft tissues, the vessels and pipes.

  But you didn’t win more than seven hundred victories in the Circus Maximus without having the reflexes of a cat and the strength of a bull. Before Silus could slash, Euprepes dipped his chin down, twisted his head right, and dipped his right shoulder. Atrophied by age though he was, he was still immensely powerful, and Silus found his left hand dragged by the old charioteer’s neck muscles, round and over his shoulder, and as Euprepes bowed forward, he grabbed Silus’ left wrist and yanked. Silus sliced deep into Euprepes’ cheek, a wound that would scar but not kill, and then found himself flying over Euprepes’ back to crash onto the muddy ground.

  Euprepes stood above him, hand clamped to the wound on his face, and roared in anger. As yet there was too much din from the disturbance Atius had stirred up for Euprepes’ entourage to have noticed his danger, but at that instant, it was Silus, stunned, squinting up into a terrifying expression of fury, who felt the most imperilled.

  Euprepes clasped his fists together, reached high above his head, and brought them down hard towards Silus’ chest. Silus recovered his wits enough to begin a roll to his right, but it was only enough to redirect the blow to his upp
er left arm, which immediately became numb. He continued his roll, and staggered to his feet, still clutching his blade in his right hand, left arm hanging loose, he hoped only temporarily paralysed.

  Instinctively he moved into a blade fighter’s stance, feet a foot apart, right side forward, blade out and low to easily stab upwards into the less protected vital parts. Euprepes adopted a wrestler’s stance, face on, feet wide, knees bent, arms out and ready to grip his opponent and hurl him about like a little girl’s rag doll. Silus wondered whether poison on the blade would have helped his position now, but he had never been a fan. It was too slow and unreliable, and it was too easy to cut yourself with your own weapon.

  ‘Who sent you?’ hissed Euprepes. ‘The Blues? Surely not the Reds?’

  Silus let out a chuckle, belying the level of confidence he really felt. ‘There are some people in Rome even more important than the racing factions, you know.’

  Euprepes narrowed his eyes. ‘Caracalla? He was really so insulted?’

  Silus gave a small nod of acknowledgement. He flexed the fingers in his left hand and felt the feeling slowly return.

  ‘When Geta’s men approached me to dedicate the next victory to him, I had no idea it could lead to this.’

  ‘My boss is a fan of yours. He is going to regret your death. Me, I’d never heard of you.’

  ‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Euprepes, and rushed at Silus.

  Maybe if Euprepes had been thirty years younger, maybe if he had been fighting a normal street thug with a knife who was trying to take his purse, the outcome would have been different.

  But Silus was an Arcanus, raised by a spy, trained as a scout, honed by Oclatinius to be one of the elite, and Euprepes, for all his natural power and skill, was an old man. Once Silus had recovered from the mistake of underestimating his opponent, the contest was one-sided.

  Silus sidestepped Euprepes’ charge, leaving a straight leg trailing which sent Euprepes flying forward, face down into the dirt. Instantly, Silus was on his opponent’s back, knees either side of his broad chest. He grabbed the charioteer’s hair with his left hand, and pulled his head backwards. Although still weakened from the blow to his arm, he was strong enough to expose Euprepes’ neck.