The Castra Praetoria was an impressive structure with thick masonry walls, similar in style to a fortress in the hostile provinces, but far more ornate and luxurious, its temple and baths more suitable for their situation in Rome rather than a far-flung outpost needed to hold back barbarian hordes. They entered through the Porta Praetoria, leaving the crowd of civilians behind. Caracalla went straight to the camp temple, where the standards of the guard were worshipped, ascended the steps and threw himself onto the floor.
As a crowd of stunned Praetorians grew at the bottom of the steps leading up to the colonnaded temple entrance, Caracalla prayed in a loud voice in front of the altar.
‘O Mars, O Jupiter, I give thanks here for my safety, that you have seen fit to spare me from this terrible attempt on my life by my brother.’
A shocked murmur went through the guard. Silus, crowded in with the soldiers, saw the idea dawning that something of real significance and import was happening this evening.
Caracalla rose, and with the help of the temple priest who attended him nervously, sacrificed a white dove and a white rooster in gratitude for his delivery from danger.
Praetorians from all over the fort scrambled to attend as word about what was happening got around. Some had been asleep, some in the bathhouse, so they had wet or untidy hair and beards, and were still adjusting their uniforms as they reached the temple. Caracalla walked out of the temple, and stood at the top of the steps, so he could address them in a loud voice.
‘Loyal soldiers, my Imperial guard. Tonight, an attempt was made on my life, by my very own brother. He invited me to peace talks: just me, him and the Empress. He came wearing a sword and with armed men to kill me. The Empress tried to defend me and was injured.’
This drew a gasp from the collected soldiers. To inflict an injury on the sacred body of the Empress was sacrilege, and a palpable sense of anger washed over the assembled guards like a wave. Caracalla held up a hand.
‘The Empress is well. The injury is not fatal. But while defending myself, I struck my brother Geta dead, with the very sword he brought to kill me.’
The soldiers went silent at the news. Then roars broke out, and Silus found it hard to tell whether the anger was directed against the actions of Geta or Caracalla.
Caracalla held his hands up again, and when the noise didn’t die down, he shouted to be heard.
‘My loyal guard, you are most happy. Because Fortuna has chosen me to be your sole Emperor, and now I, the one who loves you most, am in a position to reward you greatly. I say to you now, I am rewarding your loyalty with a bonus of two thousand five hundred denarii.’
This got a reaction, as those who had heard passed the information to those who had been shouting too loudly to hear. The roars of anger died out to be replaced by cheers of celebration at the award of this vast sum.
‘Furthermore, your rations are increased by one half. See how I reward those who are faithful to me!’
More cheers, applause, laughter. Silus swallowed bitterly, the happiness so incongruous after the scene of grief and death he had just left.
‘Now go and claim the gift I have given you, from the temples and treasuries, and let no man stop you, for I, Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Pius Augustus Britannicus Maximus, whom men call Caracalla, decree that it is your due.’
The Praetorians started chanting, ‘Imperator, Imperator,’ and Caracalla waved his hand in acknowledgement. Then the guards dispersed, flooding into the city to ransack the temples and the depositories of the Imperial treasure. Silus doubted that they would demand the exact number of coins that was strictly owed, but instead they would loot as much as they could. Rome would be a chaotic and dangerous place that night.
Suddenly alone with Atius in a rapidly emptying camp, Silus felt overwhelmingly tired. He squatted down on his haunches, and pressed his face into his hands, fingers massaging his sore eyes. After a moment, Atius nudged him with a thigh, and he looked up. Caracalla was standing over them.
Silus struggled to his feet, leaning on Atius as a wave of dizziness struck him.
‘Augustus,’ he said, bowing his head.
‘Silus,’ said Caracalla. He looked grave, morose, like a man defeated rather than one who had finally got what he had craved for so long. ‘My brother is dead, at my own hands. I have bought the loyalty of the Praetorians, for the time being. But there will be many in the city who despise me now. Many of my brother’s faction who wish me ill.
‘You have served me well. Time and again. Though once you defied me, I can forgive that. I need your loyalty now, more than ever. Can I depend on you?’
Silus bowed his head. ‘Of course, Augustus. I am your man.’
And he meant it. As long as Tituria was held hostage, her life in the hands of this impetuous and ruthless man, then Silus’ faithfulness to Caracalla was as solid as the Tarpeian Rock. He would do whatever was commanded of him, however it made him feel, however distasteful.
And he knew that there was a lot of distasteful work ahead. He had begun this journey as a scout, a soldier, a sword for the Emperor. He feared what would be demanded of him next.
A cold wind blew through the evening air of the parade ground, and a chill ran down Silus’ spine.
Epilogue
‘So, that is how it ends, old friend.’
‘I fear it is just a beginning.’
Festus and Oclatinius were standing at the top of the Tarpeian Rock. Two old men, well over a century of years in combined age, and barely enough hair between them to make a rat’s toupee.
‘How long have we known each other now?’ asked Oclatinius.
‘Too long.’
Oclatinius wasn’t sure whether that was a comment on their age or their acquaintanceship. He wasn’t prepared to reciprocate his colleague’s appellation of friend. He simply nodded agreement.
The Tarpeian Rock was their habitual meeting place, usually late at night, where they grudgingly shared intelligence when they thought it was beneficial to their individual ends. Though both were the heads of clandestine organisations reporting directly to the Emperor or Emperors, their activities much less conspicuous than the agents of the legions, the Urban Cohorts, the frumentarii, the speculatores, the Imperial bodyguards or the Praetorians, they were also rivals, with little trust between them. The Tarpeian Rock, the promontory at the southern summit of the Capitoline Hill, was the traditional site of the execution of traitors, as well as murderers and other criminals. Although it had fallen out of use for this purpose – why give a criminal a quick death, when a more protracted one could entertain the crowds in the arena? – it still carried the aura of the punishment of treachery. The phrase, ‘The Tarpeian Rock is close to the Capitol,’ was still in use, and was both literally true and a reminder that even the highest were never far from a fatal fall. As such, it had always seemed a fitting meeting point for the two spymasters.
‘There will be a slaughter,’ said Oclatinius. ‘How can it be otherwise? The Emperor must consolidate his position. Whether it is from a place of fear, anger or good sense, will not matter to those whose heads are sent rolling.’
‘Will you come for me?’
‘Not I.’
‘Does the Emperor trust me?’
‘He trusts almost no one. But he will not hear of your support for Geta from me.’
Festus nodded.
The wind ruffled Oclatinius’ sparse hair, and he pulled his cloak tighter. He felt the cold so much more keenly now than in his youth.
‘Will he be a tyrant?’ asked Festus.
Oclatinius shrugged. ‘I am no more a seer than you. He has it in him certainly. But he has the character and ability to be so much more. Time will tell us.’
He looked down to the Velabrum, the valley between the Capitoline Hill and the Forum Boarium. A few years before, the money-changers and merchants had dedicated an arch to the Severan family. Although Oclatinius could not make out the detail from this distance, in the dark, with hi
s old eyes, he knew that on one side there were images of sacrifices involving Severus, Domna and Geta, and on the other side Caracalla, his wife Plautilla and his father-in-law Plautianus. Of those depicted, only Caracalla and Domna still lived, and Oclatinius doubted that the images of the traitorous father-in-law, the unfaithful wife and the treacherous brother would be left undisturbed for long.
Shouts and cries rose up from the city below as the soldiers rampaged, looting the temples and treasury. No doubt there would be rape and murder tonight. What else could be expected when thousands of soldiers were let loose on a city? It would be as if Rome was being sacked by barbarians.
‘One thing I can predict,’ said Oclatinius, ‘is that we are going to be busy.’
‘I don’t doubt it, my friend.’
Oclatinius ground his teeth at the second use of the epithet.
‘We will need to meet again soon, I’m sure,’ he said.
‘We will,’ agreed Festus. ‘I’ll send a messenger with the time.’
Oclatinius turned his back to the cliff and began to walk away, in the direction of the Forum Romanum. ‘Are you coming?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘I think I’ll just stay a while and collect my thoughts,’ said Festus.
Oclatinius waved a hand and disappeared from sight. Festus turned back to look out over the cliff edge. After a while, another figure joined him. They stood in silent contemplation for a time. Then the figure spoke. The language was Greek but the accent was Syrian.
‘Do you trust him?’
‘He won’t betray me. Too much has passed between us. But someone else? Aper will not live long. But will he be executed immediately, or tortured first, in which case he may give up my name?’
‘I doubt the Emperor is in a mood to look for confessions and hear pleas for mercy right now.’
‘Maybe not. So we lie low for now. He will consolidate his position with the army first, and he will likely make some grand gesture for the masses to make sure they love him too. But he alienates the Senate, and there is mutual distrust and hatred there. My position is precarious. But things will come to a head. And when the mood has shifted against him sufficiently, we must be ready.’
‘I am always ready. This will be the greatest revolution in the history of Rome, since the time of the Kings.’
Festus nodded. ‘And its time has come.’
The wind swirled around them, and they remained in silent contemplation, looking down at the rocks that had ended the lives of so many traitors.
Author’s Note
That history is written by the victors is a quote attributed variously to Churchill, Machiavelli and Hitler, and is often considered a truism. Yet there are many examples in which history was written by the losing side, such as the Athenian Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War, which Athens lost; the Greek scholars who fled to the west after the fall of Byzantium; or even, controversially, American depictions of the Vietnam War (although of course many Americans such as Otto in A Fish Called Wanda claim that was a draw).
Whether or not Caracalla should be counted as a victor after the death of his brother, he certainly was the survivor of that year of conflict, yet the contemporaneous, near contemporaneous and more recent historiography is almost universally hostile. I have explored Caracalla’s reputation further in the essay below, but for this historical note, I will concentrate on a few contentious points that are found in this novel.
The most important, of course, is whether Caracalla planned to kill his brother at the peace meeting in Domna’s chambers, or whether it was Geta who attempted to murder Caracalla, and Caracalla was merely defending himself. The two main sources, Herodian and Dio Cassius, were markedly hostile to Caracalla. Dio Cassius was a senator during Caracalla’s reign, and no doubt resented the Emperor’s dismissive treatment of the Senate. However, both historians acknowledge that the two brothers were plotting against each other, or at least believed this was the case. Both historians also record that Caracalla claimed he had been saved from a plot against his life by Geta. So it is equally plausible that Geta really did instigate a murder plot against his brother at the peace meeting as that Caracalla may have been the guilty party. We will never know for sure, but fortunately, as I have said before, as a historical novelist I can choose the possible version of events that suits my narrative best.
Another area of doubt in the history is whether Plautilla, Caracalla’s estranged wife, had offspring. This is not recorded in the contemporary records, but numismatic evidence from before the downfall of Plautilla and her father in AD 205 shows a coin of Plautilla holding a child. If this is a representation of her own child, and it is illustrated on a coin, then officially at least the child must have been Caracalla’s. But Caracalla hated Plautilla, whom his father had required him to marry to cement his ties with the Praetorian prefect Plautianus. When Plautianus was executed after a failed plot against Severus, Caracalla was able to have her exiled with her brother and presumably, if it existed, her child.
Herodian says that Caracalla refused to eat or sleep with his wife, and Dio called her a most shameless creature, so it is reasonable to assume that it is at least possible that the girl was not Caracalla’s. He may not have been sure himself, but would likely want the whole family disposed of to avoid any future threats to his rule, including ones claiming a hereditary right to rule by someone marrying his supposed child. If he is not the monster that history makes him out to be, then he no doubt felt remorse at this act, but equally felt it was necessary.
Silus and Atius are fictional characters, but many of their actions are attested in the sources. I have mentioned the murder of Plautilla and her family. Also, the murder of Euprepes, the famous charioteer, is noted in Dio Cassius – killed, so it was said, for supporting a faction opposing his own. If by faction Dio is referring to the teams of Circus supporters, then it seems a bit arbitrary to kill off a famous old man, even if he was a fan of the other side, notwithstanding the passion with which the Circus fans supported their teams. (The Blues, Greens, Reds and Whites moved with the capital of the Empire to the Hippodrome in Byzantium/Constantinople, and a riot between fans in AD 532 led to nearly half the city being burnt and tens of thousands dead.) However, Geta and Caracalla supported opposing Circus factions, as they did the opposite in most things, and so if Euprepes had been vocal in his praise for Geta, the most prestigious of the Green fans, then Caracalla might have taken that as a personal slight.
The attack on Cilo is also historical, with Caracalla intervening to save him. I have therefore represented this as a sort of St Thomas of Canterbury/Henry II moment, with frustration being misinterpreted as an execution order.
Galen is another fascinating historical figure, as he was the most prominent doctor of his time. He was the personal physician to several Emperors, and his theories of disease and the workings of the human body were hugely influential until well into the sixteenth century. He was present in Rome when the Antonine plague, named after Marcus Aurelius, struck, and it is sometimes called the plague of Galen due to his attempts to understand and treat it. His descriptions have allowed modern researchers to identify this lethal pandemic as smallpox. He was a member of Julia Domna’s circle of intellectuals, and was Severus’ personal physician until his death.
I have mentioned one or two other historical figures who were to become important players on the Imperial stage. Macrinus became increasingly influential under Severus and Caracalla. Julia Soaemias was one of the Syrian women related to Julia Domna who had an unusually large influence and power in Severan Rome. And we have also now briefly met Sextus Varius Avitus Bassianus, who later became the controversial Emperor Elagabalus. And he is to play an important part in the story of Silus yet to come…
Emperor Caracalla: Does He Deserve His Reputation?
According to Edward Gibbon, Caracalla was ‘the common enemy of all mankind’. Further, Gibbon says that ‘although not destitute of imagination and eloquence, [he] was equally de
void of judgment and humanity’. Dio Cassius (or confusingly, Cassius Dio), the Roman senator and historian writing in the early third century CE, knew Caracalla personally and seemingly hated him. He said that Caracalla ‘belonged to three races; and he possessed none of their virtues at all, but combined in himself all their vices; the fickleness, cowardice, and recklessness of Gaul were his, the harshness and cruelty of Africa, and the craftiness of Syria, whence he was sprung on his mother’s side’. Not a fan then. Herodian, a minor Roman civil servant writing at a similar time, said Caracalla ‘was harsh and savage in everything he did, scorning the pursuits mentioned above [contrasting Caracalla’s behaviour with his brother Geta’s supposed interest in physical exercise and intellectual pursuits], and pretending a devotion to the military and martial life. Since he did everything in anger and used threats instead of persuasion, his friends were bound to him by fear, not by affection.’
But did Caracalla deserve all this disapprobation? He certainly committed some evil acts by modern standards, but if we compare them to the deeds of beloved Emperors such as Augustus, Diocletian and Constantine the Great, was he any worse? Does he deserve to be hated and reviled more than Sulla, Tiberius and Maximinus Thrax?
Much about the history of this period is murky, and there is a possibility of many inaccuracies in the accepted narrative of events and ‘facts’. These arise from all the usual problems we see in history, exacerbated by the huge distance in time separating us from the third century. So we see bias and contradiction in the sources and patchy archaeological and epigraphic detail. It is made worse that for the period of Caracalla’s life, the best contemporary history of the period, Cassius Dio (or Dio Cassius!) is available to us only as fragments and a brief summary made by the eleventh-century monk John Xiphilinus on the orders of the Byzantine Emperor Michael VII Doukas. Herodian, another important source, is relatively brief, while the other main record, the Historia Augusta, written by an unknown author or authors in the fourth century, is at least partly a work of fiction. The estimate for its accuracy of the history of Caracalla’s brother Geta is put at only 5 per cent!
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