In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  “Strapped to the inside of my thighs,” said Brude. “Along with a small dagger, just in case.”

  “By Hercules, I don’t think I want to know about that.”

  Cleon left again, this time remembering Brude’s warning to walk slowly and calmly. He returned some minutes later. “The guards have been changed,” he confirmed.

  “Then let’s go,” Brude told him.

  Carrying the tray in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, Brude set off. Cleon followed at a discreet distance, a parchment scroll in his hands, trusting to the old truth that nobody ever questioned someone carrying letters and who looked as if they knew where they were going.

  Brude had memorised tthe bout of the rooms and corridors from a plan Cleon had drawn. He walked, head down like a slave, following the route he had been over so many times in his mind. If he got any turns wrong, Cleon, walking twenty paces behind, would call him, pretending to need a slave for some errand. But he made no mistakes, rounding the final turn to see, in the light of the burning candles mounted in brackets on the wall, two Praetorians standing at attention outside a door. Beyond the guards and around the next corner was his second target, the doorway to the adjoining room. First, though, he had to get in and remove the bar, which blocked the bathroom door.

  He walked up to the guards who watched him incuriously. Slaves were commonplace in the Principia. “Fresh water for the emperor,” he said in his slave voice. It was almost disconcerting how easily he had slipped back into a slave’s way of behaviour.

  One of the guards opened the door, standing aside to let him in. Scarcely believing how easy it was, he walked into the room. In the gloom he could make out the large bed on the far wall between two shuttered windows, the small bedside cabinet where, sitting among several other items, were a jug and goblet, just like the ones he carried. To his right, he saw the door to the bathroom. Taking his time, he went to the bedside table, took his water jug and goblet off the tray, picked up the originals and went to the bathroom door. Now he had to be quick. He saw the bar straight away, placed across the opposite door. He put down the tray then quickly lifted the bar, praying it would make no noise. Fortunately, it moved easily. He propped it carefully against the wall then went back to his tray, noisily pouring the water down the washing basin. Thank goodness for Roman indoor plumbing, he thought. Replacing the jug on his tray, he returned to the bedchamber to see one of the guards watching for him. With a subservient bow, he left the room as quickly as he could, heading back the way he had come, while the guards closed the door and resumed their posts. His pulse was racing but he felt elated. He had done it. The crazy plan was actually working. As he rounded the corner Cleon heaved a sigh of relief, then, remembering his part, said, “You! Slave! Come with me.”

  The quickest way to where Brude needed to be was past the guards but he needed an excuse to go that way without arousing their suspicion. Cleon gave him that excuse. The Greek began talking, telling his newly acquired slave that there were some important errands needing attending to at the rear of the building and that he would have to be quick so that he could get back to clear up after the feast. They walked past the two Praetorians, Cleon talking as they went. Then they rounded the corner and reached the door to the adjoining room. Cleon took the oil lamp and tray while Brude hitched up his tunic, pulling out one of the two keys Moritasgus’ smith had made from the mould. He slipped it into the lock and turned it while Cleon kept talking in a loud, self-important voice about all the tasks needing attention. The lock clicked loudly as the key turned but Cleon coughed to cover the sound. Then Brude was in. He turned, exchanging a look with Cleon that spoke a thousand words. He gave his friend a farewell nod, then closed the door. As he locked it, he heard Cleon walk away down the corridor. Cleon’s route back was long and convoluted but he could eventually reach the entrance hall without passing the guards again.

  Now Brude stood in the darkness, trying to get his bearings. There was no light at all for the windows were shuttered so he moved slowly, carefully, sliding his sandalled feet across the stone floor. He followed the wall, searching for the door to the bathroom, the door he had unbarred from the other side. Completely blind, he moved painstakingly slowly so that he would not knock anything over in the impenetrable darkness. He found the first corner of the room, then a wooden cabinet, and then the second corner. Half way along the next wall was the door. He turned the handle and pushed, wondering what he would do if the door did not move but it swung open easily. He moved cautiously through and into the bathroom. Going entirely by touch, he found the bar he had removed. Gently, taking an age, he lowered it back into position, moving it barely a finger’s breadth at a time so as to make no noise. It nestled securely and he breathed another in a long line of sighs of relief. Now he removed his sandals and felt for the other door. It opened with a slight creak. He stopped, afraid the guards might hear, but there was no sound from outside the room so he squeezed through, easing the door shut behind him.

  The heat from the hypocaust warmed the floor beneath his feet as he warily crossed the room, feeling for the bed, making his way towards the emperor’s wardrobe. This was, according to Cleon, a small room in its own right. He found the door and went in. Now all he had to do was find somewhere to hide. He had thought this would be easy but there was no light at all so he was utterly blind, having to rely solely on touch. It took a long time for him to search out the whole room. There were robes, togas, tunics and cloaks hanging around the edges of the room above rows of sandals and boots which were arranged on a low shelf. There was a recess at the rear of the room, near the shuttered window, where some wooden boxes and crates had been piled. He felt all around and discovered that there was just enough room for him to squeeze behind them and, hopefully, stay out of sight. Satisfied he could find his way around the small room, he returned to sit beside the door to wait.

  Brude did not know how long he sat there but it could not have been more than an hour when a sound from the far side of the main room disturbed the eerie silence. Through the tiny crack of the nearly closed door, he could see the main door being opened, swinging silently inwards to admit a light from an oil lamp. A small, middle-aged man came in carrying the lamp. He said to someone behind him, “I will light your candle, Caesar.”

  Brude watched, poised to move quickly, as a second man came in. His hair and beard were still fashionably curled but greyer than Brude remembered. His skin was drawn and tight across his face, which looked pinched and tired. But although time seemed to have caught up with him, there was no mistaking Lucius Septimius Severus, emperor of Rome. Portraits and busts of this man had haunted Brude for years. Most citizens of the empire knew his face as well as they knew their own.

  The emperor walked slowly to the bed, his steps small and shuffling. Two more retainers followed him. They helped him to undress whle the first man lit the candle which stood on the small table beside the large bed. Brude remained alert, watching in case any of the servants came towards the wardrobe but the emperor’s night gown was already laid out for him and his clothes were whisked away for cleaning. The servants said their goodnights and left, closing the door behind them, leaving the ruler of the empire lying half propped up on a mountain of pillows. The solitary candle cast a dim light, illuminating a bowl of dried figs, the goblet and jug of water and a small hand bell on the table beside the bed.

  Brude peered through the tiny gap. The emperor seemed to be dozing, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. There was no sound from outside the room. Brude forced himself to wait.

  At last he moved. He opened the door as quietly as he could, fearing the slight creak from the old wood would waken the emperor or alert the guards. After a moment, he padded, barefoot, across the room towards the bed, feeling once more the heat from the hypocaust system rising through the tiled floor. On cold nights like this, the slaves would keep the fires burning permanently. He reached the bed and looked down at the man whose actions and decisions ha
d shaped so much of his life. He saw the gauntness of the emperor’s features, heard the breath coming in laboured wheezes. He could scarcely believe he had succeeded in getting this close, undetected.

  He had given himself some choices for this moment. He had his dagger and he had some poison in a small pouch. He could also use the pillows. That might be best, for he did not want to use his dagger unless he had no alternative. There would be no mistaking murder if the emperor was stabbed.

  Murder. That was the problem. Brude knew he was trapped in a plot from which there was only a slim chance of escaping. He had done all he could to save Mairead, Castatin, Barabal and little Seasaidh but he knew there was not much hope for himself. Fothair had a better chance if he remained undetected but he, too, was in danger. Cleon was not immune to discovery either. If everyone knew the emperor had been murdered, his killers would be hunted down mercilessly. So it had to be the pillows.

  Brude looked at the frail old man lying on the bed in the dimly lit room and knew that he should have no problem suffocating him. Still he hesitated. He had sworn not to kill unless he had to. For the sake of his own humanity he did not want to kill, yet Veleda’s words thrummed through his head, an imperative he could not ignore. He remembered the years of slavery, the terror of the arena, the destruction of Dun Nechtan and Peart, Cruithne’s lone stand against the Roman raiders. All of these things had happened because of this one man lying asleep in front of him. It was in Brude’s power to stop any more. Cut off the head and the beast will die.

  Indecision gripped him, froze him in place like a statue. Did he have to kill this man? Was it the only way to save the Pritani? To save himself? He stood there, wishing he could think of another way. This is foolish, he told himself. You have come this far. Do it.

  Then the emperor opened his eyes.

  Brude should have moved quickly, should have grabbed a pillow and rammed it over the emperor’s face before he could shout a warning. He should have. He did not.

  Septimius Severus looked straight at him, no sign of alarm showing in his eyes. “Who are you?” he croaked, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Come to kill me, have you?”

  Brude looked into the emperor’s brown eyes, seeing resignation and weariness but no fear. “That is my intention,” he whispered back.

  The emperor coughed. “Hah! I thought it would come to this sooner or later. My son sent you? Of course he did. I should have had him killed years ago, but I couldn’t do that to my own blood, not even someone as twisted as Caracalla.”

  “I believe both your sons want you dead, but I am not here at their bidding.”

  The emperor still had not moved but his head cocked slightly to one side when he heard that. “Geta wants me dead too? The boy has more balls than I thought, then. He’ll make a good emperor if he gets rid of Caracalla, too.”

  Brude was confused. He had expected shouts of alarm, summoning of guards, but the old man just lay there, his voice barely audible, speaking as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Brude said, “You value your sons’ lives so cheaply?”

  The emperor’s shoulders twitched slightly in what might have been a shrug. “They are Romans. They know how the world works. I am trusting to my wife to keep them in line but, sooner or later, one of them will kill the other. I have done my best to make them work together but they really hate each other. And the empire needs only one emperor. The legions only need one emperor.” His mouth twisted into a grotesque grin. “It’s easier to get your own way with a few kind words and thirty legions at your back than with just a few kind words. And Caracalla has the legions.”

  “I don’t care either way,” said Brude, wondering what he was going to do now. This whole thing was surreal. He was here to kill the emperor, yet here he was chatting to him about the machinations of the man’s sons.

  “And you? What drives you to do this?”

  “I am of the Pritani. If your armies leave the north my people will be safe.”

  “You speak good Latin for a barbarian,” observed the emperor.

  “I was a slave for a long time. A gladiator. You freed me.”

  “Did I? You must have been good, then. I didn’t free many from the arena. I expect you have a lot of reasons to hate me.”

  “More than you can know. But I hardly know you,” replied Brude. “It is what you stand for that I hate.”

  The emperor waved an arm weakly. “Oh! No philosophy, please. That is my wife’s interest, not mine. I did what I had to do. If you were in my shoes, you’d probably have done the same. You fought in the arena, so you know there are times you have to be ruthless. It might seem an easy life to you but, believe me, it’s not. I’m probably almost as much a slave of the empire as you were.”

  “I doubt that,”

  “Well, perhaps not,” the emperor agreed with a weak smile. “So what happens now? Are you going to kill me or bore me to death?”

  Brude felt more trapped than ever. “I don’t really want to kill you but, if I don’t, a lot of my friends will die.” He wondered why he was telling the old man this. All it needed was one shout and the guards would run in, leaving Brude no alternative but to fight. And to almost certainly die.

  “Some assassin you are,” the emperor said disapprovingly. “Don’t worry, I am not going to resist or call for help. I’m old and I’m tired and I have to get up to pee four times a night. I can’t eat very much without throwing up and my bones ache all the time. Death would be a welcome release, believe me. I won’t last out the year anyway. My sons will get their wish before long, whatever you do.”

  Brude looked at him in astonishment. He had seen slaves, gladiators and soldiers who had been so badly injured that they welcomed death but to learn that the ruler of the empire shared that desire was a strange revelation. “If you really mean that, I can make it painless and peaceful,” he said.

  The emperor raised an eyebrow. “How?”

  “I have hemlock.”

  “The death of Socrates? There’s a thought.” He gestured towards the goblet on the table beside his bed. “Go ahead and mx it, then.”

  Scarcely able to believe what he was doing, half suspecting a trick of some sort, Brude walked round the bed. He hitched up his tunic and pulled a small vial from his pouch. He poured some water from the pitcher into the goblet, unstoppered the vial and emptied the contents into the drink. Hemlock was sometimes used as a sedative, although only in extreme cases. The difference between an amount that would render someone calm and pain free, and the amount that would kill them was very slender. Severus accepted the goblet with a nod. “How long will it take?”

  “Not long. Ten minutes perhaps. Maybe less.”

  “What will you do then? My guards will hardly let you live, you know.”

  “I will leave through the next room. The guards won’t see me. I am just a slave.”

  “Is that how you got in? Someone must have helped you. That door is barred.”

  Brude said nothing. The emperor had not yet touched the potion and Brude suspected he was trying to get information out of him so that he could have the conspirators arrested.

  “So you have a plan and an accomplice but you are not going to tell me? I think you might be smarter than you look. Well, no matter. What do I care?” He lifted the goblet to his mouth and slowly drained it. “There. Now, tell me when I freed you.”

  Brude could not believe that the man was so calm. He took the empty goblet, placing it back on the small table. “At the Secular Games. In the Flavian amphitheatre. Nearly seven years ago now.”

  The emperor half closed his eyes, searching his memories. “You were the one who got himself tangled in the net on purpose!” he exclaimed. “I remember seeing that and telling my sons you were a man who had gambled everything on one throw of the dice. You got lucky.”

  “That was me,” Brude admitted.

  “Now you are doing the same again. Gambling on one throw of the dice. You think you’ll be able to just walk out of
here?”

  “I walked in.”

  “You are quite a fellow, aren’t you? More Roman than barbarian, I think.”

  “No, I am just me. A man.”

  “So what will happen to you after you walk out of here? Someone will talk, sooner or later.”

  “Let them. I will be far away, back with what is left of my people.”

  The emperor snorted. “Your ambition is to live in a mud hut with the other barbarians? Maybe you are not so smart after all.”

  “Maybe not,” Brude conceded. “But it will be my choice of how I live, not someone else’s.”

  “You have seen what Rome can offer and yet you turn your back on it,” the emperor whispered. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone do that. Rome brings peace, security and prosperity. What do your barbarians have to offer you?”

  “Friendship, family. Rome brings death and destruction. I have seen it.”

  “Is your own way any better? The tribes of this island were constantly fighting each other before we brought order.”

  “Just because you want to rule, it doesn’t mean we want to be ruled by you,” Brude said.

  “Everyone would rather rule than be ruled.”

  “In my experience, most people would rather be left alone to get on with their own lives,” Brude told him.

  The emperor smiled weakly. “I am not like most people. How long did you say this would take?”

  Brude lifted the bed covers. He pinched the skin of the emperor’s leg. “Can you feel that?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” the old man replied.

  Brude tried further up at the top of the thigh. “That?”

  “No.”

  Brude let the covers down. “It won’t be long now.”

  “Good. I am tired of this life.”

  “Then we will both gain from this.”

  “You mentioned family. Do you have sons?”

  “Only one.”

  “Is he like my sons? Does he want you dead?”