Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  She wiped the flow away with the back of her hand, and stared at him with a hatred he had never seen, even from Maglorix. Tears sprang to his eyes as he realised what he must do.

  She flew at him like an enraged cat. Whether it was the blow that had stunned her, or she had lost control in her anger, she fought with none of the skill which she usually displayed. She screamed as she flailed with knife and fist and nails. Silus blocked and parried each attack, and although none of her attempts hurt him, he could feel himself tiring, while she showed no sign of slowing.

  He took a deep breath, grabbed her knife wrist, pulled her close to him and thrust the blade into her chest.

  She was instantly still. Her hand opened and her weapon clattered to the ground. She looked him straight in the eyes and he saw no pain or fear there, only incomprehension and betrayal.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, his vision misty. ‘I couldn’t. Not another…’

  She said nothing as she went limp in his arms. He didn’t let go, held her body against him, felt the warmth of her blood spreading from the mortal wound in her chest and seeping into his tunic, against his skin. Her head flopped backwards, eyes still open, staring at the ceiling. He kissed her once, lightly, on the lips, almost breaking down as he did so. Then he lowered her gently to the ground, and laid her on her back.

  She was still beautiful in death, the only differences from life the red blossom on her chest and the pallor of her skin. He bowed his head over her and cried silently, letting the tears drip onto her bloody tunic. What had he done? He had killed his colleague, friend, someone he… He couldn’t bring himself to express his feelings for her, even inside his own mind. But what were the other consequences? He had betrayed Oclatinius, Atius. Caracalla.

  Fear suddenly shot through him. This would be the end of him. He would be executed without trial and without question when the Emperor was informed what he had done. He didn’t know why every member of the household needed to die, but Caracalla had been completely explicit. And Oclatinius would not tolerate the murder of one of his own, by one of his own.

  He stood slowly, turned to where the little girl was huddled on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chin, hugging her shins. She was of course the only witness to what he had done. He could still complete his mission. He could kill the girl, tell them Daya had died in the raid. He would be commended by Oclatinius and Caracalla. He would be rewarded. He would be spared.

  ‘Are you the man my father sent for to protect us?’ The girl’s voice was tiny, but clear in the silence. She was not crying, too shocked probably right now. What did she mean? Then Silus realised that she had not seen him kill anyone apart from Daya. All she had witnessed was him defending her, and killing the assassin who had murdered her father.

  She thought he was her rescuer.

  Silus had tried to save his daughter, and had failed. He had stood by while Hortensia died. He would not let it happen again.

  He put out a hand to her. She didn’t move. He stepped towards her, squatted down. He must look a terrifying sight, a rough stranger in her house, covered in blood, amongst all this slaughter. But right then, he was all she had. He took her hand, and helped her to her feet. Her whole body was shaking.

  Amongst the debris of the broken pottery was a rag doll. Silus bent down and picked it up, brushed the dust and shards off it as best he could, and handed it to the girl. She clutched it tightly.

  ‘What is she called?’

  ‘Helen,’ she said.

  ‘Beautiful. And what is your name?’

  ‘Tituria.’

  ‘I’m Silus. Now listen. I am going to get you out of here. But I need to take care of some things. I’m going to carry you to the atrium and leave you there for a few moments. I want you to close your eyes until I say it’s fine to open them, understand?’

  She nodded, and he picked her up, one arm beneath her. She was a little older than Sergia, a little heavier, though not by much. She put her arms around his neck, and buried her face in his chest as he walked out of the tablinum, past the bedrooms containing the corpses of her mother and brother, past the room with the sleeping porter, into the luxurious atrium, where her father would have conducted much of his public business. He sat her on a marble bench and said, ‘You can open your eyes now.’

  She did as she was told, staring blankly at the impluvium full of ornamental fish. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Do not move.’ He left her there, and went back into the domus.

  Working quickly, he dragged all the bodies into the tablinum. That meant moving one porter, the mother and son, and eight other slaves, one at a time. It was hard work, but he was well-conditioned from his training, and soon he had the bodies piled up together.

  Although the building was constructed partly in stone, as expected for a wealthy senator’s house, there was still plenty of wood and other flammable material to make a fire. He pulled down some tapestries, gathered some wooden furniture and threw some scrolls into a pile around the bodies. Then he collected as many oil lamps as he could find and emptied their contents onto the tapestries. Finally, he took a lit lamp and applied the flame.

  It might look suspicious that all the occupants of the house were in a single room, although maybe it could be argued that they had all fled to the one room as the conflagration took hold. He wasn’t sure how good the vigiles were at reconstructing the causes of a fire, or even whether they cared. But the important thing was that all the bodies were burnt sufficiently to conceal the causes of their deaths, and give a plausible alternative explanation.

  The flame spread across the cloth tapestries, the oil from the lamps accelerating the process. Daya’s face was exposed, and he watched for a moment as the fire advanced on her, then took her. He stepped back as the heat became more intense, and knocked something with his heel. He bent down and picked up a wax tablet, hinged in a double-leaved diptych style. It was the tablet that Titurius had dropped when the Arcani had first entered the room. He looked at the markings on the wax, scribbles that were hard to make out in the flickering firelight. He closed the leaves and tucked it into his belt. He gave one last look towards the fire consuming Daya, and all the others that she and he had killed that night. Then he went quickly back to the atrium, and to Tituria.

  The young girl was sitting on the bench, holding Helen tight, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. ‘It’s time to go.’

  He held out his hand and she took it without resistance. He led her to the front door, unbarred it and pushed it open. It was long past midnight, and the street was as quiet as it ever got. He looked behind him, and saw smoke billowing out towards the atrium. The fire had caught well, and should spread beyond the tablinum, making it hard to see where it had started or what had caused it. Other nearby buildings might even catch, although it wouldn’t be as dangerous as a fire in the poorer districts where the houses were closely packed and shoddily constructed with more flammable materials.

  The vigiles would be alerted soon, either a patrol spotting the fire themselves, or being fetched by alarmed neighbours. They needed to be a long way away by then. He picked Tituria up, and she sat on his hip with her legs around his waist, one arm around his neck. He put his head down and walked fast, descending the streets down the Esquiline Hill.

  As they moved into the centre of the city the streets became busier. Rome never truly slept. Wheeled carts, banned during the daylight hours, rattled along the cobbles, carters and merchants shouting warnings and curses at each other. Silus kept his head down when patrols of vigiles passed, though he doubted he was of interest to them. A glow developed on the horizon, the merest suggestion of dawn, which was still a couple of hours away. At least, that was what Silus presumed. He had been walking west away from the Esquiline, so he wondered if it was actually a spreading fire. He hoped not. There would be an investigation if the fire turned into an out-of-control conflagration, and the penalty for ars
on was, appropriately, burning alive.

  He felt a strange relief as he entered the narrow, winding, maze-like streets of the Subura. He was a new resident, and yet it felt like a safe haven. With only a couple of wrong turns, he found his way to his apartment. Tituria had been quiescent for the whole journey, not asleep but silent, but she was becoming quite a burden, and carrying her up the flights of stairs to the top floor was exhausting. He managed it without stopping, though, and when he reached his own apartment, he kicked the door three times to rouse Apicula.

  Issa started yapping at the disturbance, and after a few moments, Apicula opened the door. If she was surprised to see Silus carrying a young child into the apartment, she said nothing to show it. Silus laid the girl down on his mattress, and Apicula came over with a cup of watered wine and helping Tituria sit up, held it to her lips.

  Tituria swallowed, coughed, then swallowed again. She looked from Apicula to Silus, her eyes full of questions, but unable to formulate them in her fear and shock and grief. Issa came over to her cautiously, sniffed her hand, then cuddled up to her, nestling under her arm. Tituria looked down at the little dog and stroked her head absently.

  Silus went to the door and barred it, then slumped down on the floor, his back against the wall. The wax tablet that he had shoved into his belt dug into his belly, so he pulled it out and tossed it to one side. It came to rest beneath the table.

  He was aware that he smelt of smoke, that he was covered in blood, mainly other people’s, much of it in fact Daya’s. And that he had just appeared at his apartment in the early hours of the morning with a strange child.

  He had not had much time to have any long chats with Apicula, if that was what one did with slaves. He wasn’t sure – he had never been able to afford one before. But he understood that a slave’s loyalty to their master was absolute, that the master held the power of life and death over them, and besides this, he felt deep down that Apicula was someone he could trust.

  So he spoke to her in a low voice, telling her as much as he thought was necessary.

  ‘The child is in danger. She must be kept hidden. You are to tell no one she is here. She is not to leave this apartment, and neither are you unless I am here to watch her. You are to admit no visitors. Not even Atius. You are to look after her as if she were your own.’

  That last caused a flash of pain to cross Apicula’s face, and he wondered if she had children of her own. As a prostitute, there were precautions that could be taken, but it was hard to avoid pregnancy completely. But a brothel had no use for children, and they were likely to have been sold at an early age. Her children, if she had been fertile, and any had survived the dangerous early years, could be anywhere in the Empire right now.

  This wasn’t the time to ask about her past, though.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, master. I will care for the child.’

  ‘Sit with her now. She has experienced horror tonight.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Apicula settled herself beside Tituria and stroked her hair. The little girl was staring into space, her doll clutched under one arm, Issa snuggled under the other. Her shallow, panicky breathing began to calm, and though she fought it, exhaustion overcame her, and she slept.

  Silus knew he had to report to Oclatinius. He also knew he would have to lie convincingly to the wily spymaster, and he wasn’t sure how. He mentally prepared himself to leave. But first he would close his eyes, just for a few moments. His head sank down onto his chest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Silus decided he was really coming to hate Oclatinius’ office. He had woken with a start when the light of dawn broke through the small window in his apartment. Oclatinius would be wondering where he was, might even send someone to find him.

  Tituria had been fast asleep. Apicula, lying on the hard, cold floorboards, dozed lightly beside her. He had touched his slave’s shoulder to wake her, put a finger to his lips, and indicated that she should bar the door behind him. He had then hurried out and rushed to see Oclatinius, stopping only to urinate in a public toilet.

  Atius was waiting for him outside when he arrived.

  ‘What happened, Silus?’ he asked urgently. ‘Where have you been? Where’s Daya? Oclatinius is furious.’

  ‘Silus, is that you?’ came a voice from within the office. ‘Get in here.’

  Silus took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then entered, Atius at his back.

  ‘Report,’ snapped Oclatinius. Then his eyes narrowed, looking beyond Silus through the open door into the corridor behind. ‘Where is Daya?’

  Silus bowed his head. ‘Sir, I’m sorry to report—’

  ‘Atius,’ interrupted Oclatinius. ‘Shut the door.’ Atius did as he was told. ‘Continue.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that Daya lost her life in the action last night.’

  Oclatinius pressed his fingertips together, touched them to his lips. For a moment, he said nothing. Silus wasn’t sure whether to carry on with his report.

  Oclatinius wiped one hand over his face, ending the motion with his palm pressed to his mouth. Then he said, ‘Start at the beginning.’

  Silus related the mission honestly, all the way to the fight with Titurius. Oclatinius interrupted intermittently to ask for details, which Silus easily supplied. It was when he got to the point where Daya faced Titurius that he diverged from the truth. He had rehearsed the story in his mind on the hurried walk over from his apartment, had examined it for holes, and thought it was watertight. But Oclatinius was an expert. Would he accept Silus’ version of what happened?

  ‘Daya underestimated him. She thought he was unarmed and helpless, but he was stronger and faster than she realised. When she stepped forward to finish him, Titurius grabbed the blade and turned it on her. I couldn’t get there in time. I rushed around the desk and cut his throat, but it was too late for Daya. She died in my arms.’

  That much was true, and Silus’ eyes blurred with tears again as guilt and grief accentuated by exhaustion threatened to overcome him.

  Oclatinius looked sceptical. ‘This senator managed to disarm her. Disarm Daya?’

  ‘As I said, she underestimated him. She was complacent.’

  Oclatinius looked deeply into his eyes, and Silus held the gaze, willing himself not to break down, not to tell his superior everything. Not for himself. At that moment, he would have been happy to confess all, and take whatever punishment he was due. But that would mean the end of the little girl. And Daya’s death would have been for nothing.

  ‘Fine,’ said Oclatinius. ‘You have accounted for everyone except for Tituria, the child.’

  ‘She had been hiding in a large vase in the tablinum during the fight. When I killed Titurius, he crashed into the vase and smashed it, and I found her.’ The best lies were as close to the truth as possible. Oclatinius had taught him that.

  ‘And? Is she dead?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ lied Silus. ‘I stabbed her in the heart myself.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for you,’ said Oclatinius, though his tone held no pity.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘And then you burnt the domus. I understand the vigiles did not arrive before the whole house and two neighbouring houses were ablaze. They stopped a conflagration developing, but Titurius’ domus was razed to the ground. It’s still too hot for them to look through the rubble for bodies, and as the house collapsed, they are unlikely to be able to identify much about the remains. That was well done, Silus.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Why did you leave Daya there?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What if they find an extra body – it will arouse suspicion. Why didn’t you bring her to me for burial?’

  Oclatinius’ voice was thick, and Silus realised that the spymaster had also been fond of the young assassin.

  ‘I reasoned that walking through the streets carrying a body that had clearly died a violent death might have aroused more suspicion than losing
her in a jumble of bones which would likely never be properly identified after the fire and heat and collapse of the house had done their work.’

  Oclatinius frowned. ‘Are you being sarcastic with me?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Silus hastily. ‘Just letting you know my reasoning.’

  Oclatinius nodded. He seemed satisfied, although of course the head of the Arcani was impossible to read with any certainty.

  ‘And where have you been since the mission finished?’

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry. I was fatigued. I meant to come straight to you, but I rested briefly, and fell asleep.’

  ‘That’s poor, Silus. I ordered you to report to me as soon as you were done.’

  ‘I know, sir. I apologise.’

  ‘Still. I can inform the Emperor that the mission was a success, despite the loss of an Arcanus?’

  ‘You can,’ said Silus and wondered what sort of retribution, from man or god, he was owed.

  ‘You did well,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Go and clean yourself up, and make a sacrifice to Daya’s shade.’

  Silus nodded, suppressing a shiver at the thought of Daya’s restless ghost coming to visit and castigating him for his crime. He bowed his head, and left with Atius. Outside the office, Atius patted him gently on the back.

  ‘I’m sorry, friend. It sounded really hard. And I know you liked Daya.’

  Silus squeezed Atius’ arm, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘You look like shit. Let’s go back to your apartment. Apicula can clean you up, you can put on some fresh clothes, and I can have a drink while you get some rest.’

  ‘No!’ said Silus, and Atius looked surprised at the vehemence. ‘No, I really want to go to the baths. Clean this muck off me, soak myself, get a massage.’

  Atius looked doubtful. ‘You have blood all over you.’

  ‘We can clean the worst off in a fountain before we go in. Come on, let’s go, and then let’s offer a libation to Daya and the other manes.’