by Kyle Onstott
Filthy? Of course they were filthy! He, Caracalla, knew all about them for he had spent one night in the Temple of Elah-ga-baal at Emesa and he had seen what happened. He was disgusted. He had seen how the High Priest had fortified himself with the virility of other men so that he would gain strength to bring the male sun back in the morning. He had seen the obscene black stone, the gigantic phallus of the sun, glistening wet from the sacrifices of men—the more men and the stronger they were the more strength the sun gained in its passage from nightly death to life.
And now, his cousin, the young Varius was about to become the High Priest of Elah-ga-baal. Only fourteen years old! What a life for any boy. He would be denied all the pleasures of women. Well that was one thing that he, Caracalla, had never denied himself. Women liked him and, by Eros, he liked them.
He might go on to Emesa anyway. He’d like to see Aunt Maesa. She would remind him of his mother. Probably Aunt Maesa hated him for having exiled her to Emesa. She was better off there than in Rome for Aunt Maesa was a troublemaker and she was rich. There was nothing more dangerous than a meddling rich woman, especially if she were as clever as Aunt Maesa. Soaemias would be there. How he would like to sleep with Soaemias again. Now there was a woman whom even he could not satisfy. Soaemias had loved him in Rome. No, of course she didn’t love him. Nobody ever loved him. His own mother didn’t love him. Nobody ever loved an emperor except his soldiers, his friends. He looked back over his shoulder to the dim forms riding behind him. It was getting dark. They must stop for the night. He pulled up on his reins and halted his horse.
What was the young soldier’s name—the one Macrinus had sent from Antioch a few days ago? Macrinus had recommended him so highly. Ah, yes! Martialis.
Caracalla called out his name, “Martialis, attend me.”
A young soldier rode up beside the Emperor and bowed low in the saddle.
Caracalla reached over and cupped the soldier’s chin in his band and lifted his head. “You are but recently arrived and are unaccustomed to our procedure here. I am a soldier like yourself and one soldier does not make obeisance to another. Do not bow to me.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
It had grown too dark for Caracalla to see the other’s face. He thought he detected a trace of sarcasm in the fellow’s words but he decided to ignore it.
“We must camp for the night. Ride ahead and find a suitable spot. Let it be sheltered by rocks so the fire will burn brightly and not be blown by the wind. Light a fire if you have time and it will serve as a beacon for us. Ride, Martialis.”
The soldier slapped his horse’s rump and galloped off, soon lost in the quickening dusk. Caracalla dropped back so that he would be with the other men. The gathering darkness seemed unfriendly and he wanted human companionship, the brightness of the fire and the fraternity of his men. He hoped Martialis would find a place soon. He had to piss. By Priapus, he had to piss! Should he stop now? No, better ride on. It would only delay matters and he could stand the dull ache in his bladder a little longer. He signaled to two of the company to ride close to him and they brought their horses so close to his own that he could feel their bare knees through the folds of his cloak—the caracallus.
Caracalla! That was what they called him although never to his face. He was proud of the name. It signified the cloak that he wore and that stamped him as a soldier. Caracalla! What a name to call an emperor of Rome, a Divine Caesar. They had called Tiberius’s son Caligula from the Caligulae, the soldier’s boots he always wore. Caligula—soldier’s boots! Caracalla—soldier’s cape! Fine name for emperors of Rome. But Caligula had been murdered. They said he was a bloodthirsty monster. Well, nobody could say that about Caracalla. He had had people murdered but it had been necessary. He had had to murder his own brother, Geta.
“Look, Caesar,” one of the soldiers pointed ahead. There was a fire burning. “Martialis has discovered a camp spot for the night and lighted a fire.”
“A hundred drachmae to the man who arrives second. I shall be the first for divine though I am, I need to piss like any man.”
The camp site was as Caracalla had ordered, at the base of a rocky cliff, well sheltered from the wind. A small fire of grass and hastily gathered brush was burning and Martialis, the soldier was gathering other wood as they rode up. He dropped the armful of faggots on the fire, making it blaze up, gilding the soldiers’ armor and causing their faces to shine redly. Caracalla hoisted one heavy leg over his saddle and jumped to the ground. A clump of low bushes, growing at the summit of a rise, shielded him as he turned his back to the soldiers. They heard the stream of urine frothing against the rocks and Caracalla’s voice.
“Ho, Martialis, there is plenty of wood here. Come and I will help you gather it.’’
The soldier started towards Caracalla as the other soldiers dismounted, removed their saddle bags and began to set up the meagre camp for the night.
Suddenly they heard a scream from the bushes.
“Geta! Geta! Not here! Not now!” The scream ended in a high note of horror.
The big body, enveloped in the long cloak plunged forward, fell into the bushes with a crash and rolled down the hill. The soldier, Martialis, wiped the blood from his sword on the edge of his tunic and thrust it back into his scabbard.
“Death to the tyrant, Caracalla. Long live Opellius Macrinus, the new caesar.”
The other soldiers ran to where he was standing and quickly surrounded him.
“You have killed Caracalla!” One of the soldiers grabbed Martialis from behind, his arms around his neck, choking off his wind.
“Free him, Dacius,” the others shouted, “we would learn what he has to say.”
“Kill him! He has murdered Caesar.” The massive brute, Dacius, tightened his arm, lifting Martialis off his feet.
“Yes, kill him! But first make him sign a confession that he killed Caracalla, else we shall all be crucified.”
Dacius released his hold and Martialis fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He looked up at the ring of soldiers’ boots around him. As he raised himself on one elbow, he managed to stutter.
“You will not be crucified. You will be rewarded. I acted on orders of Opellius Macrinus, Prefect of the Praetorian Guard. He sent me from Antioch to kill the beast. Now, Macrinus will be Emperor. Five hundred drachmae to each of you. That is what he bade me promise you.”
“Stingy bastard! Caracalla would have given me that for being second to the camp site tonight.” Dacius kicked Martialis to the ground. “Dion, you are the scribe. Hand this man your tablet and stylus.”
Another soldier fumbled inside his robe and drew out a brass bound wax tablet with a steel stylus and handed them to Dacius.
Dacius knelt on the ground beside Martialis. “Write here! ‘I murdered Caracalla this night by order of Macrinus’ and sign your name.” He pushed the tablet and the stylus into Martialis’s hands.
“It will mean a promotion for all of you. Macrinus will not forget his friends.” Martialis slowly printed the words on the soft wax, closed the tablet and handed it back to Dacius who in turn handed it to Dion. Martialis was smiling now and he started to get up but Dacius pushed him down. His sword flashed in the light of the blazing camp fire.
A ring of raised steel surrounded Martialis and in its quick descent, he had only time to half raise his arms in a futile gesture of self-defence. As they withdrew their swords, Dacius leaned over and decapitated the corpse. He grabbed the brush of the helmet and raise the severed head high, looking into the frightened eyes.
“You did not die, lad, because you killed an Emperor of Rome. Caracalla was a poor emperor, an empty-headed pisspot of a man. But, my lad, he was a good soldier and he was my friend.” He flung the head to the ground and the steel helmet rang out as it hit the stones.
They left it lying there and went down into the clump of bushes and found Caracalla’s body. He was a powerful man and they struggled up the hill under his weight. When they had laid him down by the fir
e and folded his arms across his armor and wrapped him in his long cloak, they knelt beside him. In death his face had lost the harsh lines of dissipation and become young and handsome again: They took a long, sorrowful look at his face, the flashing eyes now closed, the handsome straight line of the nose, the flaring nostrils, the fleshy lips and the hair that curled from his head down the sides of his face to his chin. Slowly they covered his face with a corner of his cloak—the caracallus that had named him.
One by one kneeling soldiers paid tribute to him.
“He shared his meal with me one night, dividing the bread and beans of a common soldier and he gave me the major part.”
“Only a meal! He shared a whore with me once in Antioch. We had a wager who could mount her the most times. He won but he paid me the wager.”
“When my wife sickened in Rome, he heard about it and sent his own physician. She was cured.”
“We once rode from Rome to Neapolis together. He talked with me like a common soldier. He was my friend.”
“And mine!”
“And mine!”
“And mine!”
They were hard men—men who had endured hunger, cold and every kind of hardship but they wept for Caracalla, not for Caesar but for Caracalla, their friend.
6
Barracks of the Praetorian Guard,
Antioch, Syria.
Opellius Macrinus
The smoking lamps cast a flickering and fitful illumination on the surging mob of men below. They were lifting Opellius Macrinus to their shoulders with hoarse shouts of “Ave Caesar!” Caracalla was dead! Now the proud Praetorians—the pampered bullies of the Roman Army—harangued by a well-bribed few, and confident of their own power, were electing their own man, their Prefect, to the Roman purple. “Ave Caesar!”
Marcinus smiled down from the precarious position he had finally achieved on the shoulders of two guards. He stroked the sparse beard which he had grown to cover the weakness of his chin. So, Caracalla was dead! So, “Ave Caesar!” that meant himself. He would now be Emperor of Rome. Not would be but already was, because his Praetorians had elected him. The Senate would confirm him if the army said so. Tomorrow he would don the golden laurel leaves. Tomorrow? Why not tonight? He was master of the world. Caracalla was dead. There was no other claimant to the throne. “Ave Caesar!”
No other claimant? Well, there was that cousin of sorts in Emesa. What was his name? Varius Avitus. But . . . be had no claim to the throne and by all reports he was a weakling—only fourteen years old and soon to be a priest of Elah-ga-baal. That was enough to disqualify him if what they said about the Sun God priests was true and undoubtedly it was. These Syrians were a degenerate lot and the priests of Elah-ga-baal were the worst.
Yes, Caracalla was dead and he, Macrinus, had been wise to send Martialis to kill him. Martialis had always hated Caracalla because Caracalla had killed his brother. Just because he was a friend of Geta’s. There was no blood on Macrinus’s hands anyway. Nobody knew that he had sent Martialis. Nobody except Martialis himself and he was dead. Just as well! Emperor of Rome. Divine Caesar! Well, perhaps not divine because he was not of the Antonine house, but he would have the Senate confer divinity on him.
He steadied himself on his Praetorians, shoulders and patted one of them on the cheek. “Ave Caesar!” Perhaps it would be wise to strangle the young Varius. But that posed a problem. The worship of Elah-ga-baal was strong here in the East. He might make enemies. Alas, he could not afford that luxury. Well let the brat live. By no stretch of the imagination could he prove a serious rival.
He must have a purple robe to wear tomorrow. Anything that Caracalla had would be too big for him. Caracalla was a big man. But . . . he would search Caracalla’s chests and find one and even if his wife had to sit up all night, she could alter it to fit. The scrawny bitch! Before he married her she had been a seamstress, employed by a maker of robes near the Ostian Gate. She could still thread a needle—if she would only keep her infernal mouth still long enough. She could spend her first night as Augusta of Rome stitching one of Caracalla’s togas. Now, he’d no longer be bound to the bony old drab. As Emperor of Rome he could have his choice of all those high born Roman women, even that snobbish cousin of Caracalla’s, the high-breasted Soaemias who had never looked twice at him. What a woman to bed!
“Ave Caesar!”
The Imperial Apartments in the Palace,
Antioch, Syria
Julia Piadomna
“I should weep. I know I should weep because my son is dead. But . . . I cannot weep. I wept when Caracalla killed Geta—Poor boy! He had fled to my arms for sanctuary and I could not help him. I would have wept then but Caracalla would not let me weep. “No trace of tears”, that is what he said. No trace of tears if I valued my life. He would have killed me as quickly as he killed Geta, his own brother.
“What was wrong with my son? Caracalla was such a handsome boy, so headstrong, so sure of himself. Yet, he was cruel. He learned that from Plautinus. Vile Plautinus, who under guise of friendship for my husband, undermined my son. Oh, Caracalla! I call you that because everyone called you that and yet I should call you by your own name. Some called you Tarantas because you were so cruel. Tarantas or Caracalla, what does it matter? I only know that the Marcus Aurelius who was once my son died years ago and an Emperor of Rome took his place. No wonder I cannot weep for you, Marcus. Twenty thousand Romans perished at the word of Caracalla. And countless Alexandrines were slaughtered, all because they were friendly to Geta. And . . . Caracalla, Geta never plotted your life. Never! Oh, if I could only squeeze one small tear for you, Marcus.
“I remember once when you were a little boy and you fell while running down the path in the garden. You scraped your pretty face and you came to my arms, crying in your little-boy pain. I held you and comforted you and I thought then that no mother had a more beautiful son than you for you were beautiful, little Marcus. You were always beautiful, even when your face was only a handsome mask for the evil thoughts that ate your brain like worms. Sometimes I think you were mad.
“But now you are with Geta. I hope your shades will be reconciled. I shall pray to Elah-ga-baal. I shall pray, Caracalla, but I cannot weep. Opellius Macrinus is now Caesar. His guards will order me out of the palace. Where shall I go? I wish I could be with Maesa. At a time like this I need my sister. She would comfort me—but no, Maesa is too cold. She has no warmth of sympathy in her heart. Her grandson Varius looks like you, Caracalla, only he is even more beautiful. Yet he is weak. Weaker than you ever were. At least you were a man. Maesa has made a simpering catamite out of Varius. Probably she is even now plotting how she can put him on the throne, but she cannot. He has no legitimate claim to it.
“I must pack my jewels. I will be forced out tomorrow. How little I mind. I shall go back to Rome and live at the villa in the Campania. No palace has ever brought me joy. I have been the wife of Caesar and the mother of Caesar—Julia Domna, Augusta of Rome, Mother of Rome. Now, for the rest of my life I shall be just Julia Pia. I am glad. Poor Marcus. As the months pass I shall try to weep for you. I will try, Marcus, I will.”
The Bassianus Palace,
Emesa, Syria
Varius Avitus
“Why do I awaken so early? There is something I must think about—something that happened last night. Oh, yes, a courier arrived with the news that my cousin Caracalla is dead, murdered. By all the gods, Caracalla was handsome, unless the bust in the atrium flatters him. Once I fell in love with that bust and every time I passed it, if nobody was looking, I kissed those cold marble lips, wishing that they could kiss me back. I wanted Caracalla. Now he is dead and grandmother says I shall be Caesar. That homely old man, Opellius Macrinus, is now Caesar but she says he won’t be for long and then it will be my turn because Caracalla was my father. Imagine! Wanting to sleep with my own father. Well, it would have been an experience. At least I’d have known what made me.
“They say that Caracalla never slept with boys
. How stupid of him. What a lot of fun he missed. This soldier’s arm rests heavy on my chest and his body is hot against mine. He sleeps and no wonder. I gave him little chance to rest last night. Let me look at him. How his black hair curls over his forehead and it is wet with his sweat. He told me he is twenty-eight years old and before he entered the legion, he was a sailor from Gades in Hispania. How strong his hands are. They are big and calloused and the nails are bitten down to the quick. He is very handsome and very strong and very cruel and yet I wanted him to be cruel. Last night I did not want to wield the whip. Perhaps I am getting to be like Gannys. Perhaps I shall grow to like it as well as he does. Oh, but it is thrilling to have a strong man force me to his will.
