He couldn’t believe the news about Titurius. Fire was an ever-present danger in Rome, with minor fires a daily occurrence and even larger conflagrations experienced on a regular basis. But it was unusual for a fine house to burn down, given the preponderance of stone over wood in the superior construction, and the separation from neighbours in the richer districts making the spread of the flames harder. He felt fortunate that he had not been invited to stay the night at Titurius’ domus. That Caracalla and the Empress had left before the fire seemed some sort of miracle, a divine intervention of sorts. Cilo would have been suspicious that it was an act of arson aimed at himself if it wasn’t for the fact that Caracalla knew he was not staying the night. As far as he was aware, Titurius had given neither Emperor offence. He presumed, therefore, it was a tragic accident.
Maybe his sacking as urban prefect was a blessing in disguise. It was all becoming too much. He looked down to see his hands shaking, a fine tremor he couldn’t still, even when he clasped them together. It was time to retire. Take his family and go to his villa in Campania. Grow vines and olive trees. Go for long walks in the country with his wife, Cilonia Fabia.
A loud hammering from the front door reached him, disturbing his reverie. He sighed and rose from the bath, donning a short tunic and a pair of slippers, and walked into the peristylium. Then he sat on a marble bench and waited for his porter to find out who was disturbing him. If it was someone sufficiently important, the porter would escort them to the atrium and then inform him of their arrival.
Instead, a tribune and two uniformed legionaries from the Urban Cohorts strode straight into his peristylium.
He stood at their approach, confused. He thought at first they had come to report to him in his official capacity. As he had only just come from Caracalla, they couldn’t yet know that he was no longer their commanding officer.
‘Tribune. What is the meaning of this intrusion?’
‘Come with us,’ said the tribune roughly. His tone was insolent, disrespectful.
‘Watch your tone, tribune. You will pay if you speak to me that way again.’
‘Take him,’ said the tribune, and the two legionaries grabbed him by the shoulders. The porter stepped forward to intervene, but the tribune half-unsheathed his sword, and the porter backed away, hands spread in a gesture intended to show he wasn’t going to get involved.
The legionaries dragged Cilo out of the peristylium, through his atrium and onto the street. A number of soldiers waited for him. A small crowd had gathered, curious to find out what was going on.
The tribune spoke loudly, for all to hear. ‘Lucius Fabius Cilo. You have committed treason against the Emperor. We are here to administer your punishment.’
Cilo went cold, but he stood straight and kept his voice steady. ‘On whose orders?’
‘On the orders of Gaius Julius Asper.’
Asper? His deputy? That snake.
‘Wait,’ said Cilo. ‘Tribune, I command you—’
The tribune struck him across the face, and Cilo dropped to his knees, aghast at the assault. The officer signalled to his soldiers, and before Cilo’s disbelieving eyes, they went into his house and started to plunder it, bringing out silver plate, plush robes, his wife’s gold jewellery and his coins.
‘We will show you how traitors in Rome are treated,’ said the centurion. ‘Bring him.’
The soldiers hauled him to his feet and marched him, resisting weakly, down the Sacred Way towards the palace.
* * *
‘Who is that?’ Silus asked a fellow bystander in the crowd as the old man, dressed only in a short tunic and slippers, hair still wet from bathing, was dragged out of his house.
‘That’s Cilo, the urban prefect.’
Silus turned to Atius. ‘Cilo. Caracalla told us that he was one of his supporters.’
Atius called out to the soldiers, ‘Hey, what are you doing to him?’
‘Shut your mouth and mind your business, you foreign scum,’ came the reply.
‘Is this Geta’s doing?’ Silus wondered aloud. ‘Atius, run to Oclatinius and tell him what is going on. I’ll try to keep Cilo alive until we have orders from the boss. Go!’
Atius took off at a run. Silus watched as Cilo was struck down, and as the soldiers plundered his house of all its valuable goods. It didn’t take long before the legionaries had brought sacks of riches out of the domus. Then they lifted Cilo up onto his feet and started to march him down the Sacred Way.
Silus stood in front of the soldiers, barring their way. ‘On whose authority have you arrested the urban prefect?’ he said defiantly.
‘None of your business. Get out of the way, or you will feel my sword in your guts.’
Silus stood his ground, but when the tribune put his hand on his hilt, he stepped aside. He couldn’t fight them all, and besides, he didn’t fully know the rights and wrongs of this situation.
Word spread rapidly that something interesting was happening, and a sizeable gathering lined the streets to watch the rich nobleman being marched towards the palace. Fevered speculation and imaginative rumour circulated as to his crime. Some said he had attempted to murder one of the Emperors, or the Empress, or he had violated a Vestal Virgin. Some even made bets on what he had done and what his punishment was to be.
Silus kept pace with the soldiers, hoping that Atius would return quickly with orders from Oclatinius. He hated the feeling of helplessness and uncertainty. Should he try to intervene again?
At a crossroads, Cilo stumbled, and fell to his knees again. A few legionaries laughed, and some of the crowd joined in the mockery. The poor of Rome were always happy to see the rich and powerful humbled.
The tribune ordered Cilo to his feet, but the nobleman continued to kneel, head bowed, breathing heavily. The tribune struck him with the back of his hand, but Cilo simply took the blow passively. He looked up.
‘If you feel you are worthy enough, end my life, tribune. I, who have been legate, military prefect, consul, proconsul, urban prefect. Do you think you have the dignitas and auctoritas to murder someone so far your superior?’
The tribune turned red. ‘Seize him,’ he commanded. ‘Strip him.’
Two of the legionaries hauled him up with hands under his arms. Then they ripped his tunic down the front with sharp tugs, revealing a ribby chest with white curls of hair. They pulled the rest of the clothing away, and even pulled off his slippers, so he was naked.
There was more laughter from the crowd, but it faded as Cilo stood straight, arms by his sides, making no effort to cover his nakedness, looking the tribune straight in the eyes.
The tribune could not take the defiance and became enraged. He drew a knife from his belt and slashed it across Cilo’s cheek, opening up a deep gash which dripped red profusely. Cilo did not flinch, nor put his hand to his face. The crowd was silent now.
Cilo’s dignity infuriated the tribune further and he slashed him across the other cheek.
‘Leave him alone, you coward!’ shouted Silus. Others joined in the shouts. ‘Let him go! Bully! Bastard!’
The crowd’s sympathies turned completely at that moment, now perceiving a dignified old man taking undeserved punishment from a bully. Some threw stones at the soldiers and the tribunes. The soldiers closed ranks, drawing their swords. Silus realised the scene was about to turn ugly. But he was not prepared to see this helpless old man die. He gritted his teeth and stepped forward, drawing his knife.
‘Soldiers! Stand down!’
The voice carried clearly through the growing din, and was full of absolute authority. Silus turned, as did the crowd and soldiers, to see the newcomer.
It was Caracalla, riding down the Sacred Way on a night-black stallion, in full military dress, escorted by twenty Praetorians.
The tribune stared at the Emperor in disbelief, then bowed his head. ‘Augustus.’
Caracalla dismounted and strode to Cilo’s side. He removed his cavalry cloak and draped it around Cilo’s shoulders, coverin
g his nakedness. He turned to the Urban Cohort legionaries in fury.
‘This man was once my tutor. How dare you insult his dignity this way!’
He flicked his fingers at the centurion in charge of the Praetorians.
‘Disarm these disloyal men and bind them.’
The legionaries threw their swords to the ground and submitted immediately to the Praetorians, who tied their hands behind their backs and forced them all to their knees.
‘Augustus,’ said the Urban Cohort tribune. ‘We thought we were doing your bidding. We had orders—’
‘Silence!’ snapped Caracalla. His eyes locked on Silus for the first time. ‘I see I have one man here who is loyal to me. This man obeys my orders without question, with bravery and skill. Is that not so, Silus?’
Silus bowed his head. ‘Of course, Augustus.’ His thoughts went to Tituria, hiding in his apartment, and he hoped the Emperor couldn’t read his thoughts.
‘These men who have plotted against Cilo have plotted against me. They are traitors. I condemn them to death. Silus. Carry out the sentence.’
The legionaries stared in horror at their Emperor. The tribune stammered. ‘But Augustus, we only strived to do your will…’
Silus swallowed. ‘Augustus, wouldn’t it be better to pass them to Oclatinius to get more information about their plotting?’
‘Do you defy me as well?’ roared Caracalla.
Silus looked at the knife in his hand that had already drawn so much blood. When would it end? But his Emperor had just given him a direct order. He moved behind the tribune, took his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat, and looked at Caracalla. Caracalla nodded peremptorily.
‘Augustus, we were acting on orders from—’ The tribune’s words were cut off by the sharp edge slicing deep across his neck. Silus held him until his convulsions stopped, then moved on to the next man.
Some of the legionaries started to resist, to struggle to their feet, but they were bound, unarmed and outnumbered by the Praetorians, and they were clubbed back into a kneeling position with the butts of spears and the hilts of swords. Silus moved down the line, cutting throat after throat. Some took their deaths stoically, some babbled for mercy, some just shook and soiled themselves. They all bled and died the same.
When it was over, Caracalla did not even acknowledge Silus’ work. He ordered a litter brought, and the Praetorians bore Cilo away with the Emperor following solemnly behind. Silus looked at the dead bodies strewn around the crossroads, lying in a lake of their pooled lifeblood. What would happen to them?
It wasn’t his problem. He used the hem of the tunic of one of the dead soldiers and wiped his hands and his knife. Then head down, dark thoughts in his head, he went to find a drink.
Chapter Thirteen
It was unusual for Silus to be the drunk one, and Atius to be the voice of reason and sobriety.
‘Come on, mate, take it easy.’
‘Are you fucking deaf? I said get me another.’
Atius sighed and ordered another cup of wine from the serving slave, making sure they knew to water it well. It seemed that seeing his friend in this state had driven the will to drink from him, at least temporarily, and he ordered water for himself.
When Silus drank the diluted wine, he spat. ‘What is this piss? Has it even seen a grape? You, fetch me a cup, and make sure there is none of your sewer water polluting it this time.’
The slave nodded and replaced his drink with a stronger one, ignoring the dark looks from Atius.
‘Listen, mate. There is no need for this. I get that today was tough—’
‘Tough? Are you fucking kidding me? Tell me, mate,’ he emphasised that word with a snarl, ‘when was the last time you cut the throats of a dozen men and watched them all twitch and bleed out at your feet?’
Atius reached out to place a hand on Silus’ shoulder, but he shrugged it off angrily.
‘What the fuck are we doing, Atius? When Oclatinius took us on, we were soldiers, fighting an enemy in Britannia that wanted to destroy us, kill our families, steal our possessions and burn our homes. That was a real purpose, an honourable reason to risk our lives. Then we became Arcani, spies for the Emperor, killing traitors and enemy leaders, getting revenge for atrocities and saving Roman and British lives. But it’s changed. From soldier to spy to assassin.’
‘We do what we do because we are loyal to the Emperor.’
‘Killing the weak and innocent, because Caracalla wills it?’
Atius looked around nervously. There were only a few in the tavern, most engrossed in their own conversations or games, and fortunately no one seemed to be paying them particular attention.
‘Watch your words, friend. Talk like that could get you thrown to the beasts.’
‘What do I care? I’ve lost everything. I’ve had my revenge. I thought serving the Emperor would give my life meaning. But this morning… Atius, I was a simple executioner. Those soldiers were following orders, and because they followed the wrong leader, they died.’
‘That has always been the way, Silus. Pick the wrong gang in your village or the wrong side in battle, or just the wrong country to be born in, and you will suffer through no fault of your own. The Christos knew that man was born to suffer. That is why he came to us, to offer us a better life to come.’
‘Fuck the Christos too.’
Atius frowned and sat back. ‘It’s one thing to insult the Emperor. Or me. But you will put yourself at odds with me if you insult the Christos.’
Silus made a sour face and took a drink. Then grudgingly he said, ‘I apologise. To you, and to the Christos.’
Atius looked partially mollified.
‘Why don’t I take you home?’
‘No!’ snapped Silus.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want you to.’ Silus knew he was drunk. Not so drunk he had forgotten that he didn’t want Atius in his apartment, but too drunk to come up with a plausible explanation.
‘I don’t understand. If I didn’t know that you have nothing of any worth, I would think you were hiding something from me.’
A chill went through Silus, enough to make him shiver despite the fear being attenuated by the drink.
‘Go home, Atius. I want to be alone.’
Atius shook his head. He stood, his stool scraping backwards on the floor tiles.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, friend. I’m sorry you feel like this. Just remember where I am if you need me.’
Silus didn’t look up from his drink as his friend left, but just swirled the contents around the cup and watched the dark liquid circulate. He was torn between tiredness, a deep exhaustion in his soul making him desperate to lie down on his bed, and fear of returning to his apartment and looking into the empty eyes of Tituria, then waiting for the shades of twelve dead legionaries of the Urban Cohorts and their tribune to come to him with accusations and recriminations.
He threw his cup across the tavern. The contents sprayed a couple of old men gossiping nearby, and they sent curses his way. The cup smashed against the wall, and the tavern keeper shouted at him.
‘You, get out, or I’ll call the vigiles.’
For a moment Silus was tempted to confront them all, provoke them into a fight, so he could punch and kick and bite. But he was done with violence for the day. He stood, steadied himself with one hand on the table as a moment of nausea and dizziness swept over him, then made for the door when it passed.
He took a slow, gently weaving walk towards his home. Though night had fallen, it was not late, and the streets were crowded. As well as the wheeled vehicles threatening to crush anyone too slow to move, and the various drovers and carters bringing their goods to market, there were plenty of citizens of all ranks, from the wealthy borne in litters by slaves, to the poorest sitting on street corners and begging for coins, food or wine.
Silus was conscious that he was below his usual level of alertness. It was dangerous for anyone to be alone and drunk on t
he streets of Rome at night – it was just asking for a mugging. It was doubly dangerous for Silus, who had started to make enemies. He shook his head to clear it, and forced himself to pay attention to his surroundings. For a while, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Then he realised he had seen the same man twice, a short distance behind him. The man’s hood was up, and he recalled the hawker who had been nearby when he had received the threatening message, ostensibly from the Emperor Geta. He had been dressed similarly, if his drink-hazed memory could be relied upon.
Silus took a turn down a narrow alley, then stepped into a doorway and waited. The hooded man was only a short distance behind, and when he took the same turning, he stopped, confused, looking around for Silus.
Silus stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the man from behind, placing his blade against his throat. He pulled back his hood and got a good look at his face, olive skin with fine Egyptian features.
‘Why are you following me?’ he hissed.
The man tried to protest, but Silus dug the knife in deeper, drawing blood, and he yelped.
‘In three heartbeats I’m going to bring my count of throats slit today to fourteen. Honestly, my heart isn’t in it, but I will do it all the same. One, two…’
‘Wait. I have orders.’
‘From whom?’
‘Aper. He is working for Geta.’
Aper. Silus racked his drink-befuddled brains. There were so many politicians and nobles in Rome. Maybe if he were a native, he would know them all. As it was, he had to rely on Oclatinius’ lessons. Aper. Wasn’t he a cousin to Geta and Caracalla? He had obviously picked his side. Useful information for Oclatinius and Caracalla. If Silus still owed them his loyalty. He wasn’t sure any more.
‘And why me?’
‘You are marked, Silus. You have been a thorn in Geta’s side for a long time now, since Britannia. He wants you monitored closely. He hates you.’
‘Were you going to kill me tonight?’
‘I don’t have orders for that yet. You are under Caracalla’s protection.’
For now, thought Silus. And anyway, the protection of an Emperor had done Euprepes no good.
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