‘No, no, just checking in on the welfare of one of my best operatives.’
‘Do you have cause for concern, sir?’
‘Let’s just say that a friend of yours thought you weren’t yourself. Acting out of character. That you were erratic, and wanted to be alone.’
Thanks a fucking bundle, Atius, thought Silus.
‘Before you take it out on him, I have to tell you he came to me because he was worried, not to report you. Silus, the things you have seen and done. They can wear on a man’s soul.’
Juno’s tits, please don’t go into detail about what I have seen and done. Not with Tituria listening to every word. Could she remain silent if she found out he had been responsible for her family’s death?
‘I’m fine, sir.’
Oclatinius looked at him, and the old man’s eyes seemed to spear into his soul. Could the wily spymaster drag his secrets out of him without him even speaking a word? Silus swallowed.
‘If that’s all, sir?’
The door opened, and Apicula entered, looked at Oclatinius in surprise, then around the room in confusion. While Oclatinius turned away from Silus and towards her, Silus gave her a subtle warning shake of his head.
‘This is your slave, Silus?’
‘Yes, sir, Apicula.’
Oclatinius looked her up and down, seeming to take in every detail, and despite her past profession, Apicula blushed at the attention.
‘Sir, I have brought supplies for… for you.’
Oclatinius looked in her basket. ‘Goat’s milk? Honey cakes?’
‘I had a heavy night last night, sir. I thought the sweetness might be good for my head. I asked her to get me fried canary – I understand the Romans swear by it as a hangover cure. I’ll punish her when you leave, for the poor performance of her duties.’
‘As you see fit. I will take my leave.’
‘You won’t stay for a honey cake, sir?’
‘Most kind, Silus, but no. Report to me as usual this evening.’
Oclatinius nodded to Apicula and left. Silus shut the door behind him, then put his hand against it and let out a long breath that whistled through his teeth.
‘Where is Tituria, master?’ whispered Apicula. Silus nodded to the bedroom, barely able to speak with relief. Apicula opened the curtain, and got on her hands and knees to help the little girl out from under the bed. Tituria stood and dusted her tunic off, then looked at Silus curiously.
‘What did he mean, the things you have seen and done?’
Silus glared at her, feeling irritation at the way she challenged him, head cocked to one side, hands on hips.
‘Nothing to concern a child. Apicula, give her some food. I’m going back to bed.’
Chapter Fourteen
Silus wrenched the door open to find Atius on his hands and knees, his eye pressed against a crack in the door. Silus grabbed him by the collar of his tunic.
‘Atius, you bastard. You really are a hopeless spy. I could hear you breathing.’
Atius looked past him into the apartment. Apicula was out on errands, and the room was empty, but the curtain to the bedroom was drawn.
‘I saw, Silus. I saw her in here. Where is she? Under the bed? Was that where she was hiding when Oclatinius came round?’
Silus sagged, let go of the tunic and took a step back.
‘Atius, I thought you were my friend.’
‘I am, Silus. I was genuinely worried about you when I spoke to Oclatinius. But after he visited you, he came away more suspicious than before.’
Silus reflected that he should have known he had not pulled the wool over his boss’s eyes. Maybe after the spymaster visited him he should have just taken Tituria and fled Rome. Or done that right from the start. But that would have marked him as guilty, and he would spend the rest of his life a wanted man. And the gods alone knew what he could do with Tituria. Adopt her?
‘He sent me to spy on you. To find out what you were hiding. I couldn’t say no.’
‘You could have asked me.’
Atius raised his eyebrows.
‘Tell her she can come out, Silus. It must be dusty under that bed.’
Silus said nothing, but Tituria emerged from the bedroom anyway. She looked at Atius with wide scared eyes.
‘Who is she?’
Silus pressed his lips together.
‘Tell me she isn’t the senator’s daughter? The one you—’
‘Atius, shut it.’
‘Silus, we need to talk about this.’
Silus took a deep breath. Then he turned to Tituria. ‘Stay here. Do not leave this apartment. I need to talk to this man. Understand?’
Tituria nodded.
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
* * *
She counted to a hundred heartbeats before she tried the door. Silus had locked it, so she went to the window. It was small, but so was she, and she wriggled out of the gap and with her feet on the sill clambered up onto the roof. From there it was simple to drop down onto the stairs outside the apartment and hurry down.
Silus and Atius were walking slowly and she soon caught sight of them. Silus clearly didn’t intend to go far from the apartment, and when they got to the nearest crossroads, they stopped at the central fountain and sat side by side on the retaining wall that held the pool. Slaves and the poorer matrons filled buckets of water to take back to their homes, and others washed in the pool or drank from the stream spouting out of the mouth of a finely carved fish.
She weaved through the crowd of taller adults to bring herself closer to the two men without being seen, and sat on the far side of the fountain from them. The noise of the street and the splashing of the water made eavesdropping harder than she was used to. But she was young, with acute hearing, and when she closed her eyes and filtered out the extraneous noise, she could make out their words.
‘You aren’t serious?’ It was Atius speaking. ‘Please tell me you aren’t serious. Did you lose your mind?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Silus.
‘She is Tituria? The senator’s daughter?’
‘I already told you. And you guessed before that.’
‘But how? Why?’
‘I couldn’t do it, Atius. She reminded me too much of my own Sergia. And after Daya killed that little girl on Lipari… I know why Caracalla said she needed to die, but that didn’t make it any easier. I couldn’t let it happen again.’
There was a pause, and Tituria wished she could see their expressions.
‘So how much of what you told Oclatinius was true?’
‘Most,’ said Silus.
‘So you killed the slaves. You killed the porters. You killed Autronia and Daya killed Titurius.’
Tituria held her breath. No. Please, no.
‘Yes,’ said Silus.
Tituria thought her heart had stopped. The man who had saved her life, who she had watched kill the assassin who had killed her father. He had been sent to kill her. And he had murdered her mother. Her fingers and toes started to tingle as she lost control of her breathing, taking deep gulps of air as though she had just come up from almost drowning.
‘And Daya?’ said Atius. Even through her distress, she could hear the threat in his tone.
Silus was silent.
‘Did you kill Daya?’ asked Atius, pronouncing each word slowly.
‘Atius.’ Silus sounded like he was pleading. ‘I cared about Daya. You know that.’
‘Did you kill her?!’ Atius was shouting now.
‘I had no choice. I couldn’t let the little girl die.’
Tituria’s head spun and she thought she would pass out. It was too much to take in. He had been sent to kill her? He had saved her? He had killed her father’s assassin? He had loved her father’s assassin? She stumbled to her feet, walked away from the fountain, away from the apartment, in a daze.
Passers-by gave curious looks to the little girl alone with tears streaming down her face. A woman in a to
ga, heavily made up, stopped in front of her.
‘What’s wrong, little one?’
Tituria just shook her head and waved her away, carrying on her aimless walk. Through the fog of her misery, she realised for the first time in her life she had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. She couldn’t trust Silus. It didn’t matter that he had tried to save her – he had killed her mother. And she could trust no one else. She didn’t know whose side anyone was on. She wasn’t entirely clear what the sides were. Should she visit Dio Cassius? Silus had thought it would be dangerous. But Silus was a liar.
One thing was clear from what she had just heard. Caracalla was the one who had ordered their deaths. And she suddenly realised why. It had nothing to do with her father’s politics. It was because of her. Because of her snooping and exploring, because of what she had witnessed. Caracalla had decreed that she and everyone in her household must die.
Her family was dead because of her.
She stumbled against a stall selling brass pots and pans, and was cursed by the vendor when she knocked a saucepan to the ground with a clatter. He shook his fist, rounded his table to chase her, and she ran, turning left and right until her pursuer was gone. Then she slumped against a wall, curled up and shook uncontrollably.
She didn’t know how long she sat there before she stopped trembling. There was a dull ache at the back of her eyes, and her legs were shaky when she stood. But she had made a decision.
Caracalla wanted her dead.
Caracalla was at war with his brother, Geta.
Father had been sending Geta a message for help.
She had to go to Geta, and tell him what she had seen. Then she could beg him for protection. And revenge.
Setting her shoulders, she began to walk towards the palace.
* * *
Atius’ mind was in turmoil. He had stormed away from Silus, leaving his friend, if he could still call him that, at the fountain calling after him. He turned a deaf ear to him.
Where did his loyalty lie now? To Emperor and Empire? Or to his friendship, that he had fought and nearly died for? It wasn’t that if he didn’t report what he had found out, he would be complicit in his friend’s crime. But he had taken an oath of loyalty to the Arcani, as well as one to the Emperor when he had signed up for the auxiliaries – albeit the old, dead Emperor.
He wanted to ask his best friend for advice. But he was the one person he couldn’t talk to. So he had to go to Oclatinius. He was wise. He would know what to do. And the problem would no longer belong to Silus alone.
But Oclatinius wasn’t at his quarters, and his secretary informed Atius coolly that the head of the Arcani had business with the Emperor Antoninus, and that he was welcome to wait, but he had no idea how long it would be. Atius decided that he couldn’t delay. Now that Silus knew his secret was out, Atius couldn’t predict his actions. He would either throw himself on the mercy of the Emperor, or attempt to flee the city. If it was the former, then what Atius did now didn’t matter. If it was the latter, then speed was of the essence.
So he hurried across the city towards the palace. Doubts crowded his mind. He had to betray his friend or betray his Emperor. Surely friends came first. And yet Daya was a friend. He had been fond of her, though not to the extent that Silus had clearly started to fall for her. Silus had killed their friend, their comrade. But he had done it to save a child, one who reminded him of his own daughter.
Atius wanted to scream. He didn’t like to think beyond the next drink, the next fight or the next fuck. He was a follower of Christos, as his mother had taught him to be, and he prayed to the God of the Jews and to His son, and the Mother Maria, but he didn’t give it much thought. It was just an unquestioned constant in his life, and the fact that not all believed the same as him did not particularly bother him or give him pause for thought. The only deep thinking he ever had to do was how to complete the mission he had been given, and recently he had had Silus to do that for him. Now he had a real choice to make, with terrible consequences whichever path he took.
It was in this state of mind that he turned a corner and ran straight into Tituria.
* * *
When Silus returned to his apartment, Apicula was waiting on the doorstep with an armful of laundry fresh from the fuller. Of course, he had locked the door after he left to stop Tituria from absconding. He turned the key in the lock, opened the door and saw immediately the empty apartment and the open window.
‘Where is she, master?’ asked Apicula, puzzled and concerned.
Silus groaned. This time he had no leads. This time she had a huge head start. He would not find her. It was over. He slumped to the floor and put his head in his hands, staying in that position until Apicula offered him some bread and cheese and a cup of wine. He took them, then ate and drank numbly. He contemplated flight, but was hit by an overwhelming sense of ennui. What did it matter any more?
The little doll, Helen, was lying on the floor beneath the window. Tituria had obviously needed two hands to escape, and had left her beloved toy behind. Silus picked it up and turned it over in his hands. It smelt musty. The hair was ragged and sparse, and the colour of the dress had faded. She had obviously had the doll a long time.
Sergia had had a doll when she was younger, which she had treasured. Silus had cremated it with her. His eyes misted. When he had started to recover from the throes of grief at losing his family, he wondered how long it would take to be able to think about them without wanting to howl and scream and punch walls. He realised now that the answer was never. Nor did he want that feeling to end. Because that would mean he was forgetting them. And that would never happen.
He had failed to save them. And now he had failed to save Tituria, despite risking everything to do so. He let the doll fall from his hands. Then he noticed, in a corner beneath his table, a wax tablet. Wood-backed with two hinges in a diptych style. He frowned, then recalled he had picked it up from Titurius’ tablinum. He had tossed it aside when he first arrived home with Tituria, and had not seen it or thought about it since. He picked it up, opened it, and saw there was writing engraved into the wax.
Silus was not an accomplished reader, but he had a basic grasp of letters, as was necessary for a scout who from time to time had to send and receive written messages. The words were small, but written in a neat, angular script which was perfectly legible. He read each letter individually, mouthing the words they spelt.
To Publius Septimius Geta Augustus, from your loyal servant Titurius,
I bring you grave intelligence regarding your August brother and your honoured mother. It grieves me to inform you that my daughter spied them together in congress contrary to the will of the gods, given the Empress’ relationship to both your father and your brother.
I fear that the Emperor Antoninus discovered my daughter’s knowledge of their illegal act, and that consequently my whole family is in mortal danger. I throw myself on your mercy, and beg that you extend your protection to my household in exchange for this intelligence I have now bequeathed to you, however distressing you find it. Encircling your Imperial cloak around my family will leave me for ever in your debt, and for ever your most devoted follower.
Silus closed the tablet and stared at the far wall. He felt as though a curtain had been ripped aside in his mind, revealing the mystery behind it, a mystery that had been obvious all along, with the benefit of hindsight. He suddenly recalled an experience in Britannia, in the Emperor’s palace when he had overheard an act of passion behind closed doors. Could that have been Caracalla and the Empress? If he had waited longer for them to emerge, would it have been him in Tituria’s place, privy to a fatally dangerous secret? The poor girl, what must she have been through? Did she realise it was she who had made her family targets, had caused their deaths?
What to do about it? He could go straight to Geta. Show the younger Augustus what his brother had been up to and let him use it to bring Caracalla down. What would that mean for Rome, if Silus effectively pre
sented the opportunity to take the throne for himself to the less experienced, weaker brother? At that moment, he realised, he didn’t really give a fuck about Rome. He only cared about Tituria and himself. But could he rely on Geta to free Tituria, in either ability or trustworthiness? Geta hated him personally, he knew, and Silus was strongly associated with Caracalla now, for right or wrong. He gripped the closed tablet tightly in his hands and pursed his lips, racked by indecision.
There was a loud hammering. Plaster flaked, and the wood cracked, only the bar stopping the door caving in.
‘Open up in the name of the Emperor Antoninus!’
Silus looked at the door in alarm. Atius! You bastard!
He thrust the tablet at Apicula.
‘Put this under your tunic. When they take me, go and hide somewhere safe. Take the rest of my money. They will probably come back for you. You need to disappear. Guard this tablet, and let no one else know of its existence. One day it might save your life. There is no more time. Do you understand?’
Apicula nodded, taking the tablet and stuffing it down the top of her tunic.
‘Open up, Silus, or we’ll break this flimsy door down.’
‘I’m coming,’ Silus shouted at the door.
‘Be brave,’ he whispered to Apicula.
Silus unbarred the door and opened it. Two uniformed Praetorian Guards stood there, faces stern and menacing. At the bottom of the stairs he could see half a dozen more. There was no real point in resisting. Where would he go anyway?
He stepped forward, and they laid rough hands on his shoulders, leading him down the steps, not paying any attention to his slave or his apartment. He gave one last pleading look to Apicula, hoping desperately she would be safe. Then he let himself be taken.
Chapter Fifteen
The holding cell in the Praetorian barracks was six foot square, with a bucket in the corner, sawdust on the floor and nothing else. There was no window, and the only light was filtered through a grille in the solid wooden door. Unlike the door in Silus’ apartment, this one wouldn’t come down with a good kick. It would need a hefty axe to get through it.
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