“There is a way. There must be a way. We can leave the palace by the servants’ quarters. Make our way down the hill past the Magna Mater temple dressed as common folk and head to the docks. We can be in Ostia by dawn and then take ship to anywhere we want.”
Genialis’ lip curled. It galled him in the extreme to be laying his life on the line for such a man but, regardless of what anyone said about the praetorian guard, he had only been prefect for a month and was damned if he would be remembered for turning on his rightful emperor in a time of trouble. When it was over and Severus came, he would decide whether Genialis should live or die, but for now the rightful emperor of Rome should stand proud as the office he held demanded.
“Nero fled his palace in disguise. It gave him little extra time, and think how eternity remembers him. Come, Caesar.”
The praetorian commander ducked around the corner and ran lightly down the beautiful mosaic floor, his white cloak billowing behind him.
The ruler of the world’s greatest Empire peered nervously around the corner, reluctant to follow this man who claimed to be leading him to his end, but equally sure of the fatal nature of cowering alone in these corridors. Severus’ supporters were already in the Palatine complex somewhere and could be here at any moment.
He felt an embarrassing warm trickle and cursed his nerves.
More than thirty million sesterces he had paid the guard to secure this throne and here he was, after little more than two months under the purple, fleeing through his own palace from the rabble of a barely-literate African thug. Where had the majesty and glory of the Empire gone? Where had justice gone?
Ignoring the warm yellow pool gathering in his boot, he waved his son-in-law on with him and rounded the corner to see his praetorian prefect ahead, holding open the door to the great chamber that overlooked the circus maximus.
Running breathlessly, he pounded down the corridor in his soft, stinking leather shoes and hurtled through the door, throwing himself onto the low couch by a table covered in fruit and dining accoutrements.
“Perhaps I can appeal to them again? Severus might want to exile me? I could go and be governor of Hispania? I think I’d like Hispania. They make a lot of fish sauce there, and I like garum. Maybe I could build an estate and retire? Just grow olives or something? I could…”
He stopped rambling in shock as his guard commander gave him a stinging slap across the face.
“You are the emperor of Rome for however long you have left. Have the grace to act like it!”
Julianus stared. He hadn’t paid this man’s unit more than thirty million sesterces just to be treated like this: like a schoolboy.
“Don’t shout at me!” he burbled petulantly.
Genialis shook his head in disgust.
“I took your money and the vow to protect you. If it weren’t for that, Caesar, I would see nothing worth protecting!”
The prefect tossed his gladius into the air and caught it deftly by the blade, proffering the hilt to his master. The emperor stared at the weapon.
“No!”
“Do the honourable thing, Caesar, and I shall do what I can to protect your daughter and son-in-law. If they renounce their titles, Severus and the senate may let them live.”
Repentinus, the only recently married son-in-law of Julianus, nodded vigorously.
“Caesar, you must save your daughter!”
Again, Genialis’ lip curled in revulsion at the constant displays of cowardice and fear this family exhibited. Despite his oath to serve and protect them, he was rapidly becoming convinced that Severus, the ‘Lion of Leptis’, might just be exactly what Rome needed: a strong leader, unafraid and severe.
Marcus Didius Julianus, master of the world, hugged the couch and wept like a little girl, his nose running, mucus matting his moustache.
“Get up!” Genialis snapped at him.
The heap of toga, shuddering and whining, remained exactly where it was, the cowardly Repentinus gingerly embracing his father-in-law, ostensibly begging him to save the young princess. Genialis was in no doubt as to whose skin the young man was really interested in saving.
“Get up!” he barked again.
Reaching down, he grasped the emperor by the throat, bunching the folds of the toga in his fist and hauling the man to his feet with a grunt. The waxy, pale Julianus, tears in his red-rimmed eyes and mucus in his beard, staggered, his knees quaking, the stink of urine about him.
Genialis thrust the gladius into his unwilling hands and folded the emperor’s fingers around the hilt. Julianus stared down at the weapon and raised it hesitantly, gesturing at the prefect. Genialis sneered and simply batted it aside.
“Killing me would hardly help you, Caesar.”
“Perhaps I can appeal to the masses? To the army? I still have a fortune. They’re gathered in the circus maximus, you say? I could shower them with sesterces from here! They will hear me and they will love me and I’ll be safe and they’ll kill Severus and I’ll rule Rome and I’ll be safe forever and…”
Another ringing slap stopped him chattering. He pulled away, the sword in his hand, and started toward the balcony before stopping dead again. His son-in-law was standing on the hem of his partially-undone toga, shivering, while the praetorian prefect glared at him with barely concealed loathing, his arms folded.
“Repentinus!” he barked, but the young man remained where he was, reached toward him, gripping the blade of the gladius in the emperor’s hand and gently pulled it from his grasp.
“Yes, yes” Julianus nodded. “I won’t need that, you’re right. I can buy them off. I will buy their love.”
Repentinus nodded and turned.
Genialis’ eyes widened as the young, cowering son-in-law drove the blade deep into the praetorian officer’s side, above the cuirass and below his folded arms, pushing the hilt with a grunt and listening to the grating as the blade slid between bones and vital organs. It was a masterly blow, worthy of a soldier; an almost instant kill.
Silenced first by shock and then simply by the journey to Elysium, Titus Flavius Genialis, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, collapsed in a heap, his legs buckling beneath him as blood rushed from the mortal wound in his side. A single gasp escaped his lips. Repentinus let go of the sword hilt and helped lower the dead man to the floor with a surprising show of respect. Fumbling with his toga, the young man stood.
Julianus, his eyes still wide with shock, started to nod madly, grinning like an idiot.
“Of course. Good boy. He had to go. He would never have let me live. Now we can buy them off and I can…”
His voice tailed off as Repentinus stood again. The respectful lowering of the body and strange toga-fumbling had simply been the boy removing the prefect’s dagger from his belt. Now he brandished the leaf-shaped blade with a sad, resigned look.
“What is it, Repentinus?” the emperor squeaked.
“You see, Caesar, there is a problem. Genialis would never manage to save us. Severus will kill him for simply being in your guard, and Didia and I will follow quickly. But he was right that you simply have to die. No amount of generosity and coin will save you now. But there is still time for me to secure my future.”
Reaching out with his free hand, he grasped the emperor’s toga and bunched it in his fist in the same fashion as Genialis had done.
The emperor stared in shock and panic.
“But you’re my family!” he wailed.
“Sadly you’re no longer in mine, Caesar.”
Julianus tried to say something. His last words may have been profound and noble, though they probably weren’t. Whatever they may have been, they were inaudible as Repentinus drew the knife across his throat, watching as the blood began to gush and spray, soaking his own toga.
Letting go of his father-in-law as he fell, Repentinus ignored the thrashing as the emperor tried to hold his throat closed, making hissing, rattling sounds. Reaching down with the knife, he began the onerous task of sawing through the prefect’s
neck with the razor-sharp dagger and removing the head. Moments later, treading through the blood-slick, he repeated the process on the now-expired emperor.
Letting the knife fall and grasping the heads by the hair, he walked, one in each hand, toward the balcony.
Quintus Aemilius Saturninus, loyal soldier of Septimius Severus and future prefect of the Praetorian Guard looked up. The crowds of soldiers in the circus maximus continued to shout momentarily, but the noise gradually died away as they took note of the small figure, high up in the palace window perhaps sixty or eighty feet above them, past the stands of the circus and the Imperial box.
The man was clearly wearing a toga, though it could be seen even at this distance that it was stained heavily red.
“Behold the heads” the figure repeated for the third time, now finally sure of attention in the silence, “of the traitorous renegade Marcus Didius Julianus and his chief enforcer Genialis!”
With masterly theatrics, the man hurled first one head and then the other out into the air, watching along with the gathered crowd of legionaries as the heads of the emperor and praetorian prefect struck the seating area below the window and bounced, clunked and rolled down the stands until they fell, bloody and battered, to the sand of the circus.
The guards stared down at the grisly prizes as the killer in the window bellowed once again.
“Hail and long life to the Emperor Septimius Severus, Lion of Leptis!”
A roar rose from the crowd.
And so passed Marcus Didius Julianus: the man who bought Rome.
Sold by his own kin in return for a future.
Trackside seats
Lentullus leaned to his left, closing on Citus’ ear to be heard over the general hubbub.
“Should be a good one today. Prudens is up for the greens, and you know what he’s like.”
Citus’ voice came back, deep and hoarse as always.
“He’ll have a hard race against Sura, make no mistake.”
Lentullus let out a low chuckle. According to his sources, which were, after all, quality ones, Prudens stood little chance of a loss today. His team had been carefully selected from the best steeds bred by Sarmatian trainers who knew their horses better than any man. Certainly his sources damn well should be correct, given the amount he paid them. Even if Prudens walked away with a clear victory today, Lentullus’ profits would be heavily eaten into by what he owed to various people ‘in the know’. Of course the profit he cleared would still buy him the nice new estate down near Antium he had his eye on… figuratively speaking, of course.
“Andros? Are you there?”
The slave turned to his master, grateful that the latter’s long-term total blindness prevented him from seeing the expression on the young, long-suffering Greek’s face.
“I am, master.”
“What’s happening?”
Lentullus lounged back, his hand tapping along the marble of the seat toward Citus until it closed on the cheese and grapes that rested between them on a bronze plate.
“Master… the quadriga aren’t out yet, but I can see movement in the carceres. Should be any moment now.”
“Don’t miss a thing, boy. You hear? If this goes well, I’ll perhaps take you with me to Antium for the weekend.”
Andros nodded, frowning, trying to keep the ennui and sarcasm from his voice while speaking. Lentullus was sharp enough, but his equally blind friend Citus could almost hear an eyebrow rising.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good. Now pay attention.”
Citus leaned to his friend.
“You say the boy is good?”
“Excellent. It’s almost as good as actually seeing it, though I have to admit it’s been so long I can barely remember.”
Andros leaned forward onto the rail, looking along to his left toward the starting gates. The crowd thronged the circus maximus, every stand full to capacity. He shouldn’t complain, really. How many slaves got to have trackside seats at one of the most important chariot races of the year? Glancing directly across, past the spina that ran along the centre of the circus, he could just make out the purple robe of the Emperor Domitian, himself leaning on a railing, the Praetorian Guard surrounding him and glinting in the sunlight.
No. He really shouldn’t complain. When his family had sold him eight years ago in order to have the money to keep his brothers and sisters alive after his father’s business failure and their subsequent eviction, he’d been sure the world was going to end for him. He would end up chipping marble in a quarry or fighting gladiators for the right to live another day. His father had smiled and told him he really landed on his feet with service to the ageing blind senator, while his mother cried in a corner.
Of course, his father didn’t know how strict Lentullus was. He didn’t realise that the reason the senator needed a new slave was because he’d beaten the last one to death over a petty theft. But all things considered, Lentullus wasn’t that bad. Andros had only ever been beaten twice, and both times he’d made mistakes. Now he was wise and knew how to hide his mistakes from the sightless senator. But it would be nice to be free again. He’d never experience manumission, of course, but he could still dream. There were people who could remove all traces of slave marks from you. You just needed to get far enough away and fast enough to evade the slave hunters.
But what use would escape be anyway. To be free and penniless in Rome was worse than any slavery.
He shook his head and concentrated as he heard a fanfare.
“Ah… this’ll be it” said master Citus with a smile.
“Alright boy. Here you go. The best you can and I may even give you a free day in Antium with some coin.”
That was a surprise. Lentullus was hardly noted for his generosity with money.
“The Emperor is raising his hand… and he drops the nappa cloth.”
He took a deep breath. There was an art to the commentary.
“The gates spring open. First, third and fifth are out ahead. Fourth and seventh are close behind, with the others lagging. Already they are settling into that order.”
The blind senators leaned forward instinctively, as though they could see better there. Citus opened his mouth to complain that he didn’t know which rider was in which gate, but Andros was already thundering on with his commentary.
“From gate three, Sura in the red, has taken an early lead with a light, bronze quadriga built for speed rather than sturdiness, I’d say. His team are all blacks and pretty big, like the mountain horses from Armenia. I think that’s what they are. Seems he’s got two equally well-trained mares on the inner and outer position balancing the team.”
Citus leaned back happily. Lentullus was absolutely right. The lad was a genius at this. Hopefully he would never let the boy go.
“Behind Sura the three, Prudens came from the first gate. He has a fairly plain quadriga, pulled by three chestnuts and a piebald. The piebald is the biggest; a really powerful looking horse, on the inside to guide and control the team. The team look a little weak in themselves, but the piebald is holding them together nicely. He’s closing on Sura, but the lead driver is swerving here and there, trying not to leave enough room to pass.”
Lentullus grinned. Prudens was just playing at this point.
“The third chariot is from the fifth gate. I think its Scauvus the Sicilian for the blues. He’s got two whites and two greys. Very pretty and sleek. I think they’re chosen for their speed. He doesn’t seem to have an anchor horse in his team, but they’re working well together anyway. He’s a good length and a half behind the other leaders and the nearest to him is another red perhaps three lengths back.”
Andros cleared his throat, took a deep swig of water from his cup and a deeper breath.
“The rest are too far back to make a play for victory. It’s all going to be between Sura, Prudens and Scauvus. There’s no sign of a white until far back in the crowd. The dust cloud’s kicking up strong, but they’re coming clear into view ag
ain as they reach the end of the spina and turn.”
He grinned. A spectator at the far side had just turned round, lifted his toga and bared his backside at the third driver. Scauvus wouldn’t have been noticed, of course, but the laughter around him showed the act had been taken in good spirits.
“They’re rounding the spina. Sura is still in the lead, but he took it quite wide. I think the outer horse on his team was vying for dominance with the inner. He’s going to have trouble between the two mares before long.”
His master nodded in the darkness, smiling. It was all decided long before the day, really, by the choices of horse, driver and vehicle, but it was still always exciting.
“Prudens has pulled a much tighter turn. His guide horse is really excellent. He’s jostling for position with Sura now. There’s trouble… they’re almost touching… but Sura has pulled out a little. It’s close now.”
Another momentary pause.
“Scauvus has made a beautiful tight turn and reclaimed almost a length from the leaders. The three are in close competition now, with the next nearest far enough back that he might as well be in a different race.”
“How’s the crowd?” Lentullus enquired, tensely.
“Mostly in good spirits, though with some bad feeling. Particularly bad among the white supporters. There’s a crowd of them not far from the carceres on the other side of the track and they’re weighed down with curse tablets they’re hurling into the riders. Some of them are waiting for the leaders, I think.”
“Ha. They’ll have to throw like Hercules himself to hit the leaders near the centre.”
“Indeed, master. The three drivers are passing us.”
Hardly necessary commentary, really, given the deafening roar from the crowd and the noise from the vehicles on the sand below.
“Now they’re coming into the turn again for the end of the first lap. Sura is close enough to see the man in white at the back of the previous lap and might pass him this time. He turns and it’s tight… tighter than last time. He’s managed to keep Prudens behind him, trapped. The positions are the same as they come into the initial straight for the second time.”
Tales of Ancient Rome Page 3
