Emperor's Axe

by Emperor's Axe (retail) (epub)

  Silus found a seat. Although he had been looking forward to his own bed, it made more sense to take shelter.

  ‘I think we should stay here for the night,’ he said.

  ‘Silus spending a night in a brothel?’ marvelled Atius. ‘What a day this has turned out to be!’

  ‘It’s just sensible.’

  ‘It may be sensible, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the experience.’

  ‘Sirs,’ said Karpos, ‘the beds are all occupied by my girls, and they are resting.’

  ‘I’m sure they could be woken up,’ said Atius.

  ‘He’ll pay,’ said Silus. ‘Won’t you?’

  ‘I suppose,’ grumbled Atius. ‘But the wine is free, right?’

  Karpos considered the compromise, and nodded. ‘Would you like me to waken one of the girls for you now?’

  ‘Give me a moment to get my breath back, man. I’m not a god! Where is that wine?’

  Karpos poured them each a cup of wine which was strong and sour. Silus took a deep drink, then lay back on his couch. He suddenly found it impossible to keep his eyes open. He placed the cup on the floor, turned onto his side, and in moments was fast asleep.

  * * *

  The next morning there was a stench of burning and fear hanging over the city. Silus and Atius made their way along streets brimming with uncertainty and anxiety. The Praetorians had mostly returned to their barracks, with the ones that weren’t still lying drunk propped in shop doorways or slumped in the refuse in alleys, or broken as a result of picking the wrong citizen to bully. The populace were trying to return to normal – those who could. They walked past a furious cobbler nailing planks across his broken door, a child weeping as she cuddled the bloodied corpse of a small dog, a baker who was clearing away the mess of smashed pottery and broken benches in his shop so he could start baking loaves for his waiting customers. There was an atmosphere of tension – people seemed to be wondering whether it was over, or worse was to come. Silus didn’t know the answer.

  By the time they reached Oclatinius’ office, Silus felt thoroughly miserable. All the tension and uncertainty of the past year, the conflict between Caracalla and Geta, it should have ended with the death of one of them. Rome should be stable now. So why did he feel like this was just the beginning of something worse?

  Oclatinius obviously sensed their mood from their demeanour, although Silus thought he wasn’t looking particularly happy himself.

  ‘Come on lads, perk up. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Tell that to Geta,’ said Atius.

  ‘Atius! When will you learn to keep that stupid mouth of yours shut? Thank the gods you work for me, otherwise I would have to have you executed for treasonous remarks like that.’

  ‘Just trying to keep it light, sir,’ said Atius.

  ‘How about you just be quiet and listen?’

  Atius pursed his lips together and nodded.

  Oclatinius shook his head despairingly.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you. I think you might like this one.’

  Silus could see Atius itching to make a quip about hoping it involved wine and whores, but he had committed to silence. Silus just listened respectfully.

  ‘You both realise that the Emperor must now consolidate his position. It’s a very dangerous time, the start of a rule, especially if the rule began in violence. Look at the five emperors who contested the throne with the divine Septimius Severus. Pertinax and Didius Julianus dead within a year, Niger dead the next, Albinus dead within four years. Or further back, after Nero died…’

  ‘We get it, sir,’ said Silus. He was tired, sore and fed up. He was in no mood for history lessons.

  Oclatinius narrowed his eyes at the interruption. He sat down behind his desk and looked from one Arcanus to the other. There was a moment of silence, which Oclatinius drew out uncomfortably.

  ‘Do we have a problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Problem?’ asked Silus. ‘No, sir.’

  Atius shook his head.

  ‘Do you need reminding of your oath?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I think you do. You swore loyalty to the Emperor and to the Arcani. I am the leader of the Arcani and I serve the Emperor. Is there any part of that that is unclear?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What is your word worth, Gaius Sergius Silus, Lucius Atius?’

  Both Arcani now looked indignant.

  ‘Sir,’ protested Atius. ‘I have done nothing to make you doubt my loyalty!’

  ‘And you, Silus. You have disobeyed an order, and you have killed a fellow Arcanus. Do you only keep your word when it is convenient?’

  Silus flushed and looked down. He tried to find words to justify his actions, but they didn’t come to mind. Instead, he stuttered, ‘The Emperor forgave me.’

  Oclatinius shot to his feet, pointing a finger at Silus. ‘Because you blackmailed him!’ he roared.

  ‘I saved his life!’ Silus shouted back.

  Oclatinius put his hands on his desk, breathing heavily. Then he swallowed.

  ‘Yes, yes you did. And I believe that will keep you safe in the days and weeks to come, when all those of suspect loyalty will be purged.’

  ‘Purged?’

  ‘You told me you got it, but you clearly don’t. Rome is ruled by an Emperor who has recently lost his father, has just killed his own brother, who is in a complex relationship with his stepmother, has had his wife murdered and is now in fear of his position and his life. There will be blood, and lots of it. And you will be shedding much of it. So I ask again, do you need reminding of your oath?’

  ‘No, sir,’ muttered Silus and Atius together.

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘No, sir!’

  Oclatinius sat back down. ‘Good. To business. As I said, I have a job for you. I know how much you like revenge, Silus. You are to go to the house of Gaius Septimius Severus Aper, the Emperor’s cousin, and kill him. He was a Geta follower and helped run a network of spies, including Bek, who were working against Antoninus.’

  ‘Just him, sir? Not his wife or children.’

  ‘Just him,’ confirmed Oclatinius.

  Silus nodded, relieved. ‘You said he helped run a network of spies, sir. Who else was involved?’

  Oclatinius frowned. ‘That is not something you have to concern yourself with. Forget I said that.’

  Silus thought Oclatinius looked uncomfortable, and wondered if he had let something slip he hadn’t intended. Had the seemingly infallible spymaster made a mistake? He was an old man, he had been imprisoned, tortured, and wounded. He supposed even Oclatinius could not be perfect all the time. He filed the loose piece of information away in his mind for later use.

  ‘So how do you feel about taking care of the man who ordered Bek to capture and torture us?’

  ‘I am an Arcanus, sir. I obey.’

  Oclatinius sighed. ‘Fine, take that attitude, just get it done.’

  * * *

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’

  The man who spoke was short and lean, but well-muscled. His skin was light brown, the colour of a semi-ripe olive, and he spoke with an eastern accent.

  Aper was stuffing gold plates and cups into a large cloth sack. Slaves were hurrying around his domus, ferrying the most portable and valuable pieces of furniture out of the house onto waiting carts, collecting tapestries and statues. One slave, hastily clearing out the lararium, dropped one of the bronze household gods. The Lar crashed to the ground, and an outstretched arm holding a libation bowl snapped off.

  ‘You idiot,’ cried out Aper. ‘Do you want to curse us all?’ He set his sack down and scurried over to grab the broken statuette off the terrified slave.

  ‘You’re lucky time is so short or I would have the skin whipped from your back for this, slave. Get out of my sight.’ The slave disappeared at a run. Aper tried to force the broken arm back onto the statue, but he knew it was hopeless. It needed a blacksmith and a hot fire to repair it. ‘Gods of the h
ousehold, I will sacrifice richly to you to atone for this insult. But… not now. Forgive me.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the man, more urgently. ‘What am I to do?’

  Aper whirled on him. ‘Run for your life, Aziz,’ he hissed.

  Aziz took a step back. ‘Sir, Caracalla cannot be allowed to rule unchecked. He will not honour the gods of the East. He will persecute the Syrians who supported his brother. Just because we failed with Geta, it doesn’t mean that we can’t still…’

  ‘It’s over, you fool. Get out while you can.’

  ‘It can’t be over. There are others…’

  ‘Enough! I have given you sound advice. Run, or wait for Oclatinius’ men to find you.’

  ‘No one knows about me apart from you and Festus.’

  ‘Then you had better hope that neither Festus nor myself are tortured to reveal the names of those who were working for Geta. Because I am sure that neither of us are brave enough to take those names to the grave with us once Oclatinius starts using his talents on us.’

  Aziz hesitated, watching the household, the frantic activity reminding him of an ant’s nest that had been poked with a stick. Then he appeared to make up his mind.

  ‘This is not the end. Just because you do not have the courage to stand for the cause does not mean that others feel the same.’

  Aper turned to him. ‘Courage? Watch your tongue. And call me sir.’

  ‘No. You have given up the right to respect. I will find Festus. I will fight on.’

  ‘Do what you want, then,’ snapped Aper. ‘Just get out of my way. I intend to get out of this damned city and survive.’

  Aziz sneered. ‘I should put a sword through you now. But I suspect Oclatinius will arrange that for you soon enough. Goodbye.’

  Aziz whirled and strode from the domus, pushing an inconveniently placed slave out of his path as he left. Aper watched him for a moment, then shook his head and went back to filling his sack.

  * * *

  Silus and Atius marched into the domus of Gaius Septimius Severus Aper, first cousin of Caracalla, without any opposition or even at first any attention. The household slaves were too busy with their tasks, rushing about as the steward shouted directions and orders and swore at those slow to obey.

  They walked through the vestibule and through the atrium, swords sheathed, shaking their heads at the chaos. Slowly they were noticed, and slaves abruptly stopped what they were doing and stared. The steward continued to shout orders, his back turned to the two Arcani until Silus tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around, a curse dying on his lips as he saw the two armed assassins. He took a step backwards, his hands coming together before him in supplication.

  ‘Please, sirs. Don’t hurt me. I am at your service.’

  ‘Where is your master?’ asked Silus.

  ‘In the peristylium,’ said the steward, voice shaking, gesturing behind him but not taking his eyes from Silus’ sword.

  ‘Thank you. You may continue about your business, although I fear you are wasting your time. You will be serving a new master soon.’

  The steward blanched, backing away, head bowed.

  They walked through into a beautifully designed and cared-for garden, surrounded by a colonnaded walkway. A few doors led off the walkway to bedrooms, and at the far end was a staircase leading to a second floor of rooms. Two slaves were attempting to lift a large marble statue of a half-naked Venus while a tall man wearing a red cloak fastened with a gold brooch shouted exasperated commands at them.

  ‘Take the weight. Tilt it. Tilt!’

  ‘Gaius Septimius Severus Aper,’ said Silus.

  Aper turned and stared at the two intruders. The slaves froze, the statue unbalanced, resting on one side of its base, one of the slaves straining to stop it toppling over. For a moment Aper looked like he was about to speak. Then he turned and ran, with the speed of a cat pursued by a pack of hounds.

  Silus cursed and sprinted after him, elbowing the slave supporting the weight of the statue out of the way. Atius began to follow, but the statue crashed in front of him, shattering into a thousand pieces on the flagstones, causing him to jump back as shards of stone sprayed him.

  ‘Silus, you idiot,’ he yelled after his colleague, then ran after him.

  Aper ran straight for the stairs at the far end of the peristylium, Silus on his heels. As he leapt up them three at a time, he ripped his cloak from his shoulders and threw it behind him. It wrapped around Silus’ face, and, unable to see his feet, he tripped and pitched forward, scraping his knee painfully on the edge of a step. Silus tore the cloak away, picked himself up and continued to race up the staircase.

  Aper had reached the top, and he charged along the open walkway above the garden. Silus yelled after him as he followed.

  ‘Aper, stop. It’s useless. You’re trapped.’

  ‘Go to Hades, assassin.’ Aper yanked open a door at the far end of the walkway and ran inside the small room. It was dark, in contrast to the brightness of the garden, and when Silus peered inside, he could see little except for a shaft of light filtering through the street window. Silus drew his sword and entered cautiously. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Atius caught him up and Silus held out a hand, gesturing for him to wait. He moved further into the room, then lunged forward, slamming the door closed so he could see behind it.

  Aper leapt out from behind a cupboard, roaring, a bronze statuette raised over his head. He brought it down just as Silus turned. Silus threw up an arm, and managed to deflect the blow just enough so it missed his skull and thumped painfully into his shoulder. He cried out, and Aper leapt away towards the window. For a moment, his frame blocked out the incoming sunlight. He turned back to Silus.

  ‘Curse you, and curse that foul Emperor you serve.’ Then with a cry, he jumped.

  Silus rushed to the window and looked down. Atius threw the door open and rushed in, sword drawn, searching for danger. He saw Silus at the window and peered out over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That didn’t go as planned.’

  A jump from a first-floor window was not a suicide attempt, Silus knew, but an escape. Unfortunately, although the height was not a fatal distance, bad luck and old bones had not favoured Aper. He lay in the dirt on the cobblestones of the road, clutching his leg. The shin bone had an unnatural angle in the middle, and a spiky white point protruded through torn and bloodied skin.

  Silus sighed. ‘Keep an eye on him from here. I’ll go round.’ He left the room, jogged down the stairs and walked briskly through the house, watched by slaves who had now completely abandoned their tasks and hovered uncertainly. As he marched through the atrium towards the front door, a woman came flying towards him. He lifted his sword, preparing to defend himself, but she dropped to her knees and clutched the hem of his tunic.

  ‘Please, sir. Spare him. He is a good man.’

  Silus tugged the hem out of her grip, but she grabbed his leg tight, weeping hysterically. Silus bent down and gently prised her away. Then he went outside, and walked to the back of the domus, where Aper lay, attempting to drag himself to some imagined safety.

  ‘Gaius,’ cried the woman when she saw him. She ran to him, held him tight, her tears flowing over him.

  Aper looked at his wife, and all resistance left him.

  ‘It’s over, darling. I’m sorry.’ He looked up at Silus. ‘Will you spare her?’

  ‘My orders only concern you,’ said Silus. ‘No one else here will be harmed. Not by me.’

  Aper nodded. ‘It could so easily have been the other way round. Geta on the throne, myself as Praetorian prefect. But I suppose I have you to thank for preventing that.’

  ‘It’s time. Make your peace.’

  Aper nodded and closed his eyes, and as soon as he did so, Silus stepped forward and ran his sword through his chest. It burst through his back, missing the ribs, and impacted on the stone street, the tip breaking off with the force of the thrust.

  Aper gripped the blade, then
slid backwards and lay still. Silus pulled the sword out, and stood respectfully for a moment as Aper’s newly created widow hugged him and howled.

  Atius reached Silus, and stood beside him for a moment. Then he looked at Silus’ sword. ‘Bad luck. That was a nice blade.’ Silus frowned at the comment, but couldn’t deny that it was inconvenient. He didn’t want to be unarmed at a time like this, especially as the number of enemies he was making seemed to be multiplying.

  Across the road, one of the vigiles was watching. Covered in smoke, he looked like he was on his way home from his night shift. He seemed uncertain whether he should be intervening, but clearly realised that even if this killing before his eyes was supposed to be his problem, there wasn’t much he could do against the two well-armed men that had carried it out.

  Atius took Silus’ sword and strode across to the nightwatchman. ‘Give me your axe,’ he said. ‘And take this sword. A good blacksmith will fix that in no time, and you can keep it or sell it for a decent amount.’

  ‘But I…’

  Atius handed over the sword, his expression brooking no argument. Reluctantly, the nightwatchman took his axe from his belt. It was short, with a wooden handle, and some nicks in the blade. It looked like it had been used that very night in helping fight a fire or rescue someone trapped. No doubt because of a blaze started by the rioting Praetorians. Atius handed it to Silus.

  ‘Until you get a chance to pick up something better.’

  Silus took the weapon and hefted it in his hand, then checked the edge. It would do for now. He looked down at the grieving woman, and over to the door of the domus, where the steward and some of the slaves looked on. He sighed. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter Two

  Caracalla stood before the full assembly of the Senate, dressed in a purple toga. He was outwardly calm and confident, as he should be with a double row of Praetorian guards, fully armed against the rules of tradition, arrayed around the benches of senators, thoroughly cowing them. Nevertheless, he felt comforted by the fact that hidden under the fine woollen folds of his toga he could feel the weight of the lorica he had worn as an extra safety measure.