She heard voices coming down the corridor. The steward.
‘This way, Augustus. I do hope it will be to your satisfaction.’
No! It was too early. The banquet was not due to finish for hours. She knew there were several entertainment acts that had not yet performed. Was the Emperor ill?
She looked around wildly. The room had one door and no windows. There were no large cupboards to hide in. She could get behind a tapestry, but the bulge of her body would be obvious.
The sheets over the bed hung down to the floor.
The door swung open.
Tituria dived under the bed, straightening the valance behind her as the Emperor entered the room, accompanied by the steward. She curled herself up into a ball, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears so loudly she was sure the Emperor would hear it. She breathed slowly and steadily, in through her nose and out through her mouth, to keep the volume from her respiration as quiet as possible.
The steward fussed around the room, showing Caracalla the decorations, a jug of water and an empty cup, and the chamber pot which was fortunately placed in a corner rather than under the bed. Soon, Caracalla’s patience wore thin.
‘Get out. Leave me to my sleep.’
The steward apologised profusely and rushed out. Caracalla sat on the bed with a sigh. For a moment, he just sat there, not moving. Then he unlaced his sandals and tossed them aside, removed his toga and let it fall to the floor. There was a tiny gap where the valance crinkled, and she could see the fine purple woollen garment, with a gold hem, lying crumpled in a mess on the floor. Her first thought was what her mother would have said if she had seen such an expensive item of clothing so poorly looked after. Her mother, of course, thought her tucked up safely in her bed at that moment.
Her second thought, quickly on the heels of the first, was that the Emperor of Rome was lying about two feet above her head completely naked. Her heart raced anew, in excitement and fear. What was she to do? Wait for him to fall asleep, and then try to sneak out without waking him? Or wait there until morning, and escape when he had left, but risk being found by the household slaves? That would be the less dangerous way of being discovered, but it meant her staying there the whole night long, and already she needed to pee.
Either way, she was going nowhere at this moment. She shifted her position slightly, silently, and settled in for a long wait.
Unfortunately, the Emperor gave no indication he was likely to go to sleep any time soon. He turned from side to side, flung his covering sheet about, got up and paced the room before getting back into bed, all the time muttering things like, ‘Who does he think he is? How dare he?’
Tituria was pleased that the slaves had cleaned thoroughly under the bed. A little dust provoking a sneeze, and it would all be over. She wondered what her punishment would be for hiding in the Emperor’s bedroom. Was it a capital crime? She had always believed implicitly that her father would protect her from any danger. But even he could not protect her from the Emperor’s anger, could he?
She fought down a rising panic, reassured herself that all she needed to do was keep calm and still, and the night would pass, and everything would be normal. She resolved to show more caution in her spying activities in the future. She had been foolish, and this could have not only put her in danger, but embarrassed her father too. She would hate to disappoint him.
Eventually, the Emperor seemed to settle. He was less restless, and his breathing became deeper and more regular. She decided to wait a little longer, maybe until he started to snore, before she attempted her escape.
The door gave a quiet creak as it opened, and Tituria held her breath again. She heard Caracalla sit up, let out a sigh.
‘Julia,’ he said.
* * *
Caracalla tried to speak, but Domna was in no mood for words. Her stola hit the floor the moment the door closed behind her.
‘Julia,’ he said again, but she held out a finger and pressed it to his lips, closing them. She reached behind her to take the pins out of her hair and he watched as the movement pulled her breasts back, lifting and tightening them. He licked his lips, then tried again. ‘Julia, how dare he? What should I do about him?’
Her arms encircled his neck, and she kissed him long and deep, silencing him. He responded to her, kissing her back aggressively, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She let him take control, slipped easily into the role of submissive Roman woman, let him push her onto her hands and knees, and rode out his anger.
His hands were strong on her body, gripping her hips, breath hissing between gritted teeth, and he satisfied his lust and fury inside her, until they collapsed onto the bed together, both satisfied, exhausted, and their emotions temporarily assuaged.
They lay together, breathing heavily, naked bodies covered in a light sheen of sweat, unaware of the terrified and now shocked little girl a short distance beneath them. Domna ran her fingertip across Caracalla’s bearded cheek.
‘You had a lot of passion tonight,’ she said.
‘I didn’t hurt you?’ asked Caracalla, suddenly concerned.
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘It’s one of the things I like about you. You can be tender one time, rough the next. Your father was only ever rough.’
Caracalla huffed. ‘How many times, Domna? Will you stop comparing me to him?’
‘I miss him, though.’
‘As do I. But there is a time and a place to grieve. And that time and place is not when we are in bed together.’ Caracalla turned his back on her, his hands beneath his head to form a pillow. She lay against him, breasts pressing into his back, her hands stroking the wiry curls on his muscular chest. Her touch drifted downwards, cupped his groin, squeezed playfully. He turned abruptly, grabbing her wrists, pinning her on her back and looking down into her eyes. She laughed, lifted her head and kissed his nose. He let her go and flopped onto his back.
‘You’re impossible sometimes, Domna. How do you distract me from my cares so thoroughly?’
‘I honestly don’t know. You have your choice of so many beautiful women, noble and slave. Why do you choose to bed this old woman?’
‘Domna, you know you are beautiful. It is your hairstyles and clothing fashions that the ladies of good society in Rome still follow loyally. Men still turn their heads to watch you walk. I see it all the time.’
‘I thought that maybe you were only with me as some sort of… act of defiance to your father. I thought when he passed, you might finish with me, and then I would lose the only two men I have ever loved at once.’
Her eyes were wet, and despite the mention of his father again, Caracalla put his arms around her and drew her close, kissing each eyelid.
‘Surely after all these years, you know better, Julia. I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ said Domna. They kissed, and the room was silent except for the noise of their mouths working on each other.
And then the sound of a little sneeze.
* * *
Tituria lay frozen as the Emperor and Empress made love above her. The bed rocked violently back and forward, the wooden frame groaning in protest, and she feared that the whole thing might collapse and crush her to death.
She knew about sex in theory, though she was too young to properly understand it. Some of the older slave girls had told her about the mechanics, and she had witnessed a few acts of love when she had been sneaking around the house. She had even once seen her mother and father together, which had left her strangely unsettled.
But this was different. This was serious, and somehow wrong. The Empress was not the Emperor’s mother, she knew, but she was his father’s widow. Was that allowed? It was illegal for brother and sister or father and daughter to do it, she knew, but what about this situation? And if it was acceptable, why did they have to do it in secret?
But it clearly was a secret, and if the Emperor wanted something kept secret, it would be foolish to give it away. She resolved to stay silent after she had escaped the situa
tion, and take the details of the Emperor and Empress’ private affair to the grave with her.
The rocking stopped suddenly, and she heard them talking to each other in words of love. She flushed. It was so intimate, she felt excruciatingly embarrassed.
There was a movement beneath the bed and she tensed, her eyes coming together as she focused on the thing near her face. A spider, about the size of a coin. Moving forward, pausing, moving again. Her breath suddenly caught in her throat, and she went cold all over.
She knew that spiders were unlikely to hurt her, that the poisonous ones were found in much more exotic places like Africa and the East, but that didn’t stop her irrational fear, something she thought she had inherited from her mother. The spider crept closer, and her stillness was her undoing. If she had moved the merest fraction of an inch, the creature might have fled. But taking her for something inanimate, it saw her merely as an obstacle to be surmounted. It stepped onto her hair, walked onto her forehead. From above her were the sounds of kissing. Her breath was fast and shallow as it walked down between her eyes, down her nose, to the very tip.
And then, to her horror, she sneezed.
‘Did you hear that?’ Caracalla’s voice, deep, confused.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said Domna. ‘Kiss me.’
‘I swear to the gods I heard a sneeze.’
‘You are overly vexed, dear. Come here.’
‘No, it came from under the bed.’
The silk sheet was yanked upwards, and suddenly she was looking into the stern, bearded, upside-down face of the Augustus, Emperor Antoninus, who they called Caracalla. They both stared, neither moving, one from terror and one from blank incomprehension.
Then Tituria rolled out from under the bed and ran for the door.
‘Stop,’ cried Caracalla, and lunged for her. His hand grasped the hem of her dress, and she looked back at the huge, hairy, naked man, momentarily held back. She gripped the dress and tugged, freeing it from his grip. Caracalla was prostrate, leaning out from the edge of the bed, and Tituria had the barest moment to make the door before he regained his feet.
It was all she needed. She wrenched the door open and fled, fear lending her speed.
She heard Domna’s voice behind her. ‘Antoninus, stop. You can’t raise the alarm. We will be found.’
She ran down the corridor, turned a corner, then another, and ran to her bedroom. The little rag doll her mother had made for her when she was a baby was lying on the sheets. She grabbed it and clutched it to her chest, pulled the bedcovers over her head, and curled up into a ball, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She had been bad. Very bad. She was in real trouble this time, she knew. Not just a stern telling-off, confinement to her room, or even a beating. She had to tell her father what she had seen. He would know what to do. But she couldn’t bear to see the look of sadness and disappointment in his eyes.
She clutched her doll tight and wept, as quietly as possible.
Chapter Eleven
Silus had decided he didn’t like standing in Oclatinius’ office. He reported there twice daily with Daya and Atius, usually to get a nod and a quick dismissal, or if he was lucky, some minor surveillance operation. If he was unlucky, Oclatinius was in a bad mood, such as today, which made it all the more difficult to pass on the message the young boy had given him. But there was no benefit in keeping it to himself, and for all his harshness, Oclatinius was wise and experienced, and would know what to do.
Right now, the old spymaster was ignoring the three Arcani before him, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shaking his head while he read from a wax tablet.
‘Cilo, you idiot,’ he muttered. ‘What are you playing at? This will have consequences.’
Silus remained at attention, correctly surmising that Oclatinius was talking to himself and would not welcome interruption. Atius of course had no understanding of a rhetorical question.
‘Maybe if you gave us some details about what the man has done, we could speculate for you, sir,’ he said.
‘By Venus’ tits, will you just keep your mouth shut for once, you dumb cunt!’
That shocked even Atius into silence. Oclatinius roared and bellowed but it was all bluster, and Silus had never seen him lose control.
Oclatinius shook his head. ‘Well, the Emperor’s response to that is for other people to attempt to moderate. Silus, you asked for an urgent meeting. It’s late. What do you want?’
The other two Arcani looked at Silus curiously. He hadn’t yet told them about the messenger, or why he wanted this meeting. He wasn’t sure how this made him look, in their eyes or the eyes of the spymaster.
‘Well,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Spit it out.’ He had been mainly fulsome in his praise of how they had dispatched Euprepes. Silus had been careful to give Atius his due for his diversion, and Daya hers for saving him. Oclatinius had been critical that he had needed saving at all, blaming bad intelligence work by Silus. It was a little unfair given the time they had been allotted, but that didn’t make it any less true. Still, he hoped he had enough credit with his boss to soften the impact of his next statement.
‘Someone knows I killed the charioteer.’
Oclatinius went quiet. Silus hated it when he did that. It meant he was in trouble.
‘Your head was covered, yes?’ said Oclatinius.
Silus confirmed it was.
‘And your hood remained up the whole time. Even during the chase?’
‘One man saw me, but he could not know my name. He would not be able to give my identity to anyone else unless he saw me again.’
Oclatinius thought for a moment. ‘One of Geta’s spies, then. They must have been following you. Festus is behind this, for sure.’
‘Festus? The bedchamber fellow? What has he got to do with anything?’
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Leave him to me.’
‘Is it a problem, sir?’
‘I don’t know yet. Time will tell.’
The door to Oclatinius’ office flew open, and Caracalla strode in.
Oclatinius jumped to his feet. ‘Augustus! What brings you here at such an hour?’
‘I need some people dead. Right now.’ The Emperor’s face was full of fury and something else. Fear?
‘Of course, Augustus. Name them.’
‘Titurius.’
Oclatinius nodded, a little surprised. ‘I thought you were going to say another name. Has Titurius declared for Geta? I hadn’t heard. I will have words with my informer.’
‘No, he hasn’t. At least, not yet. I don’t know.’
Caracalla seemed distracted, anxious.
‘You said some people, Augustus. Who else?’
‘His entire familia.’
There was a pause. ‘I see.’
‘Everyone in that house. His wife. His son. His daughter. All the slaves too.’
Silus risked a glance at Daya. Her face was impassive. Atius looked troubled, but he knew that with his broken hand, he would be playing no part in this slaughter.
‘Would it be helpful to know why, Augustus? I can dismiss my Arcani if you wish to tell me privately.’
‘One of them… saw something they shouldn’t. It only just happened, so they shouldn’t have had time to pass on what they saw to anyone outside the household. Make sure everyone inside that house dies, and do it now.’
‘Augustus, is it not so that the Empress and her attendants are staying at Titurius’ domus this night?’
‘They have returned to the palace. She informed her hosts that she was unable to sleep in the bed they had provided, and has left.’
‘So the Empress concurs with this action?’
Caracalla’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would the Empress’ approval be required?’
‘Oh, of course, it isn’t, Augustus,’ said Oclatinius quickly. ‘I just know how much you value her counsel.’
‘I instructed the Empress to leave Titurius’ house. She does not know why.’
‘There will be so
me suspicion around the fact that you and the Empress have both excused yourselves when you were expected to stay. Do you have any concerns about who people believe are responsible for this?’
‘No, I don’t care what people think!’ Caracalla clenched his fists, breathed hard through gritted teeth, and slowly regained control of himself. ‘Can we make it look like an accident?’
‘Four family members and ten slaves? Not easily.’
‘Burn it down,’ said Daya.
Oclatinius and Caracalla turned to look at her, as if they had both forgotten the presence of the Arcani.
‘Daya,’ said Oclatinius, a warning in his voice. ‘You are speaking to the Emperor.’
‘Apologies, Augustus. I merely wanted to point out that destruction of the house and its contents will make it hard to ascertain the cause of death of its occupants, and will at least make it plausible that their deaths were an accident.’
‘Get it done,’ snapped Caracalla and swept out.
Oclatinius stood to attention until he had left, then his shoulders slumped and he let out a long breath.
‘Well, Daya, Silus. You heard our Emperor. Do you know which one is Titurius’ domus?’
‘I do,’ said Daya. ‘I visited with my master when he went there on business, when I was a slave.’
‘You know the layout of the house?’
‘Some,’ said Daya.
Oclatinius considered. ‘You know I normally expect my Arcani to do their own intelligence work, but there is no time for that, given the urgency of the mission.’ He gave the Arcani a detailed account of the floorplan. ‘There are four family members, Titurius, his wife Autronia, his son Quintus and his daughter Tituria. Besides that, there are two porters, one of whom will be awake, four kitchen slaves, three cleaning slaves and a steward. There must be no survivors. And make sure the place burns well. Any questions?’
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