Emperor's Axe

by Emperor's Axe (retail) (epub)

  They were gathered in the open at the top of the Capitoline hill, as when every member of the Senate gathered at the same time; the usual meeting site, the Curia Julia, was not large enough to hold them all. It was chilly, as would be expected in midwinter, even with the afternoon sun. Many of the faces he surveyed among the ranks of senators looked pale, and some were shivering. He didn’t know if that was due to the cold weather or to fear.

  He remembered a time when Geta, maybe only five years old, had discovered a snake beneath a rock, and had run to his older brother for safety and comfort. Caracalla had hugged him, and assured him that the terrible serpent was likely more afraid of him than Geta was of the snake. He nearly laughed at the comparison with his own feelings about the Senate at that moment – who was most afraid of whom?

  But the thought of his brother, dead at Caracalla’s hand, quashed any levity the way Caracalla had used a rock to crush that snake’s head. A pang of anguish tightened his guts, and he forced himself to put the thoughts from his mind, in case it unmanned him.

  Was he right to fear the Senate? On the surface, they looked like a body of unfit and infirm, mainly elderly men, an irrelevance to a powerful ruler who needed only to pay lip service to their opinions. But at the time of transition of power, their support could be crucial. Each man in that august body had immense wealth, powerful family and connections and a vast network of clients who owed them absolute allegiance. Many had once been military leaders themselves, for example in their times as proconsuls or governors, and as such most, though not all, were held in respect by various legions around the Empire.

  Further, succession to the throne was not guaranteed purely by birth and inheritance. In the history of Rome, only three emperors had come to power by right of being the natural son of the previous Emperor – Titus, Domitian and Commodus – and the latter two had been particularly unpopular with the Senate. Caracalla had the advantage of being an incumbent Emperor, transitioning from co-Emperor to sole Emperor rather than being elevated anew. But these were still dangerous times for him, and he needed to ensure his precarious grip on power was cemented by a combination of persuasion, fear, bribery and removal of any possible threats.

  It was bribery that had tipped the loyalty of the Praetorians and legions toward his favour. That morning he had travelled to Alba, to the south of the city, to gain the support of the Legio II Parthica which was stationed there. It had been a humbling and harrowing experience. At first he had been refused entry to their headquarters, the humiliation of a severity that he had not experienced since his father became Emperor nearly twenty years previously. The Legio II Parthica had been moved to Alba after serving Severus successfully in the Parthian wars, a reserve for use against rebellion and usurpation. It was the first legion stationed in Italy for centuries. It hadn’t helped that due to the proximity of the legion’s headquarters to Rome, Geta had come to be known to them more closely than any other legion, and many of the legionaries grumbled that they had sworn allegiance to two emperors, not just one.

  It was particularly galling to Caracalla since he had led the legion into battle in Britannia. Maybe it was this that finally dragged the legion into his corner, although prolific bribery helped as well, including a fifty per cent increase in their pay, the same he had promised the Praetorians. Still, the end result was that once he had secured the allegiance of the Praetorians and the only other military force of any size stationed anywhere near Rome, his short-term position was secure. Now he could move to tactics of persuasion and fear against the Senate.

  An ornate, gilded throne had been set before the senators, and Caracalla mounted the three steps leading up to the cushioned seat and settled himself. To his right was Papinianus, one of the Praetorian prefects and a relative of his stepmother Julia Domna (the other, Laetus, had sent a messenger saying he was terribly ill and could not leave his bed), and to his left was Marcellus, the recently appointed Urban prefect and commander of the Urban Cohorts. He regarded the assembly for a moment, heart racing, skin prickling, but showing his audience a furrowed brow and pursed lips. He knew his features, his thick curly beard, his broad forehead, his dark eyes, were often enough on their own to intimidate, but he needed more against these experienced men, despite their apparent submission to the display of force.

  The senators murmured among themselves, and one or two of the brave ones even shouted angry questions.

  ‘Why are the guard armed?’

  ‘What happened to your brother?’

  He waited for silence to fall, enforced here and there by the hilt of a sword or a smack around the head. Then he rose and spoke, his deep voice projecting across the peak of the hill, clearly audible to all.

  ‘When a man kills a relative, then the deed is despised as soon as it is known, and the name of brother-killer is swiftly bestowed with harsh words on the perpetrator. The victim is pitied and the victor hated. Yet sometimes, if one were to reflect soberly upon the deed, evaluating the victor’s motive and intent, one would find it both reasonable and necessary for a man who is about to suffer an injury to defend himself, rather than stand passively and submit. In that latter case, the man would be criticised for cowardice.

  ‘My brother made many plots against me. He attempted to poison me at the Saturnalia feast. My loyal men discovered this attempt on my life, and the perpetrator confessed he was acting on Geta’s orders. And yet I forgave him this foul deed, for the sake of brotherly love and unity, and at the beseeching of the Augusta, I agreed to meet him, alone and unarmed.

  ‘But in his final act of treachery, he burst in on me while I was with Julia Domna, with swordsmen he had hired to murder me.

  ‘I defended myself against an enemy who no longer displayed the attitude or feelings of a brother. It is proper to defend oneself against plots, just as Romulus refused to allow his brother to ridicule what he had done.

  ‘That is not to mention Germanicus, brother of Tiberius, Britannicus, brother of Nero and Titus, brother of Domitian. Even Marcus Aurelius, who loved philosophy and excellence, would not tolerate his brother-in-law’s arrogance and had him removed.’

  Caracalla watched the expression of the audience. That all those emperors had murdered their brothers was no more than rumour, and particularly unlikely in the case of Marcus Aurelius, but he judged correctly that he would not be challenged on these points at this time.

  ‘So, when poisons were prepared for me, and a sword pointed at me, I defended myself against my enemy, for I must call my brother this, in order to best describe his actions.

  ‘So I say to you, you must thank the gods that they have preserved at least one of your emperors for you. You must lay aside your differences of opinion in thought and attitude, live your lives in security, looking to one Emperor alone to lead you, just as Jupiter is the sole ruler of the gods.’

  He finished speaking, and the only sound was the shuffling of the guards and the wind whipping around the hilltop. No jeering, no boos, no applause, no cheers. He let his gaze roam over the senators, seeking out his brother’s supporters. Aper was already dead and Laetus had excused himself, but there were others who had been loyal to Geta to a greater or lesser degree, and as he caught the eye of each one, they bowed their heads, or opened their eyes wide in terror.

  When he was satisfied there was to be no challenge to his rule, he spoke up again.

  ‘I hereby decree, as my first action as sole ruler of mankind, that all exiled men may return to Rome.’

  This brought a gasp from the assembled senators. Men were exiled for a variety of crimes, such as treason, murder, religious reasons or merely falling out of favour of the Empire. Caracalla hoped that these forgiven noblemen would owe their loyalty to him, as a counterbalance to the African faction that had supported his brother. He hoped it wouldn’t return to bite him one day.

  ‘Now, I will take your oath of loyalty.’

  He stood, straight-backed, and the senators as one chanted their allegiance to Caracalla as the
sole Emperor of the Roman Empire. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, ashamed at the natural reaction to the extreme stress he had experienced over the last day and more. What now for Antoninus? he thought, his mind drifting. It was all about safety now. Safety for himself, and safety for Rome. There could be no return to the civil strife that led to his father ascending the throne. Rome needed a strong and permanent leader. And he would lead Rome to glory, like his hero Alexander. But first, he needed to be sure there were no more enemies within. And to be sure, he would have to be ruthless.

  When the oath was finished, he simply nodded, then slowly descended the steps. As he walked away from the assembly, he felt suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. He had not slept for a day and a half, a time period in which he had fought for his life, killed his brother, begged, cajoled and bribed two different military forces for their support and then intimidated the entire Senate into obedience. His knees gave and he stumbled. Papinianus put out an arm, and Caracalla took it. Marcellus took position on his other side. They walked together in silence, escorted by a century of Praetorians, towards the Imperial palace.

  * * *

  When Caracalla arrived back at the palace, four of his German bodyguards saluted him. He had deliberately left them behind, knowing that Romans distrusted foreigners, and correctly choosing the Praetorians as an escort more likely to win over the people and the Senate. Now that he was back in the palace, out of sight of the public, he dismissed the Praetorians. He actually trusted the Germans more than the Praetorians, since they had each individually sworn a personal oath on their gods to protect him to the death. Papinianus and Marcellus remained, waiting dutifully for his commands, but at that moment, his mind was empty.

  He slumped onto a plushly-upholstered chair in his tablinum, staring into space. What should he feel at this moment? Victory? Elation? Grief? He felt only exhaustion. His eyes closed of their own accord, and he lacked the will to open them again. He sensed the presence of Somnus at his shoulder, and started to drift downwards into the realm of the god of sleep.

  Geta’s face appeared in front of him, real enough to smell the sweet wine on his breath. It was pale as freshly fulled wool, and held an expression of reproach and deep disappointment.

  Caracalla jerked awake with a cry.

  ‘Augustus, are you well?’ asked Marcellus, leaning over him anxiously.

  Caracalla looked around him wildly for a moment, then took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. A dream or a vision. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t real.

  Suddenly he needed comfort. He was a man without a father, a mother, a brother or a wife. But he did have someone.

  ‘I need to see the Empress. She was injured by her treacherous son. I need to make sure she is well and safe.’

  He rose, and Papinianus offered his arm, but Caracalla shook it angrily away. He marched with purpose through the palace with Papinianus, Marcellus and the four German bodyguards to his stepmother’s rooms. The thought of seeing Julia Domna, even in public where he could not take her in his arms, feel her warmth, kiss her hands and her lips, was buoying his spirits.

  He entered her atrium and found her sitting with a group of noblewomen. To his shock, he found they were all wailing with grief. Domna was sitting on a couch with tears streaming down her face. Her hand was being held by Cornificia, the daughter of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. Cornificia herself was weeping copiously, while offering Domna platitudes and words of wisdom.

  ‘Terrible,’ she was saying between sobs. ‘A terrible, foul deed. My brother murdered my husband and son. No mother should have to watch her son die in her arms. But for Geta to be murdered by his own brother, so treacherously… the gods will punish him.’

  ‘What is going on here?’ roared Caracalla.

  The cries and wails stopped instantly, and all the mourning women turned to Caracalla in shock. Fury overtook him, both at Cornificia’s words, and at the sight of his lover so distraught as a consequence of his actions.

  ‘Did I give anyone permission to grieve? Is it right and proper that a traitor against the Emperor, and the very Empire itself, should be mourned? A man who attempted to murder his brother for his own advancement. Should we bare our chests and tear our hair and cover ourselves in ashes at the passing of such a one?’

  ‘Antoninus,’ said Domna hesitantly, standing and raising a hand. Bandages were wrapped around the palm, and fresh blood had leaked through to spot the white cloth. The sight of the injury his brother had inflicted on his lover enraged him even more.

  ‘There will be no mourning. There will be no displays of grief. A traitor is dead, and we should rejoice.’

  Cornificia stood now and pointed a finger at Caracalla. Her voice was tightly controlled, but even so trembled a little in her anger. ‘An Emperor is dead, the son of an Emperor, and the brother of an Emperor, if that man deserves such a title. The whole Empire should grieve the passing of one with so much promise, who could have been so much to Rome. But at the very least, his mother should be allowed to shed tears.’

  ‘You dare speak to me that way?’ Caracalla was now apoplectic with rage. ‘By what right do you address your Emperor like this?’

  ‘By right of my birth and my ancestors,’ countered Cornificia. Domna put a warning hand on her arm, but she shrugged her away. ‘I am the daughter of the great Marcus Aurelius. I am sister to the Emperor Commodus. My mother’s great uncle was the Emperor Hadrian. I have Rome flowing through my veins. And I have watched Rome be ruled by men who deserved to become gods, like my father and yours, and I have watched it fall into the hands of tyrants, like my brother and like you!’

  Caracalla was speechless for a moment. To be admonished before his bodyguard, before Marcellus and Papinianus, before all these damned squawking women! It was unacceptable.

  ‘Papinianus. Arrest her. She speaks treason.’

  ‘Antoninus, no,’ pleaded Domna.

  ‘Do as you are commanded, Papinianus.’

  Papinianus shook his head sadly. ‘I will not, Augustus.’

  Caracalla turned to him and his jaw dropped.

  ‘Papinianus. You disobey me?’ He was genuinely stunned. Papinianus had always felt free to express his opinions, and he had not been as unequivocal in his support of Caracalla as had, say, Marcellus, for example counselling peace between the brothers when Caracalla wanted war. But never before had he directly gone against him like this.

  ‘I’m sorry, Augustus. This is not right. Cornificia has done nothing wrong.’

  ‘She speaks words of sedition against the Emperor.’

  ‘Maybe she has that right. As she said, she is the daughter of an Emperor herself.’

  ‘Papinianus. You are my friend as well as my advisor. But do not defy me, I warn you.’

  ‘In this matter, Augustus, I must.’

  The moment hung in the air. It felt like a crossroads. Which direction would he take his reign? If he was truly strong, he could forgive those who transgressed against him, just as Julius Caesar had done. He could shrug off the insults and the defiance, admonish the guilty, and continue secure in the knowledge of the unflinching support of the army, the Senate and the people.

  But he was not in that position. He had bought the loyalty of the army in Italia and frightened the Senate into submission. Yet there were many discontents who supported Geta, and who would now probably oppose him, or even put forward their own candidate for the purple. Could he keep them all in check with promises of money and forgiveness of their crimes, or would they just take that as evidence of weakness, empowering them all the more to oppose him?

  He had long admired Sulla, the dictator, who had secured his position by instituting proscriptions which resulted in the deaths of thousands of enemies of the state. And by state, he meant of course himself. Sulla was a brilliant general and a ruthless ruler, who nevertheless had survived his enemies so that he was able to give up his role of dictator, retire to his estates and ultimately die of natural causes. Caracalla c
onsidered him almost as great a role model as Alexander himself. And Alexander of course hadn’t lived long enough to have to administer the Empire he had created. Would Alexander have been as ruthless as Sulla if he had managed to return home victorious?

  Domna looked at him. Her eyes were red, her make-up blotchy. Normally he would find himself melting at the first sign of her distress. Instead, something hardened inside Caracalla.

  ‘Guards, arrest Cornificia and Papinianus. Have them held in isolation, awaiting my judgement.’

  The German bodyguards, tall, powerful, long-haired brutes, stepped forward. Two took Papinianus firmly by the arms, but he offered no resistance. Cornificia on the other hand was not so easily taken. When one of the bodyguards reached for her, she batted his hand away angrily.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me, you dirty barbarian.’

  The bodyguard turned to Caracalla with a question in his eyes. Caracalla simply nodded. The bodyguard turned back to Cornificia and attempted to take hold of her again. Her hand shot out and slapped him. The bodyguard put a hand to his cheek where a red hand print was developing. Then he smiled and backhanded her hard across the face. Her head snapped sideways and she fell to her hands and knees, gasping in pain and outrage. Giving her no time to recover, two guards grasped her under her armpits and hoisted her to her feet. In front of the disbelieving eyes of Domna and the other shocked noblewomen, Cornificia was dragged out and Papinianus was escorted away behind her, head bowed.

  Domna stepped towards Caracalla, a trembling hand outstretched. He turned his back on her.

  ‘Marcellus. I’m appointing you acting Praetorian prefect.’

  ‘Yes, Augustus. It is my honour to serve you in any capacity I can be of help.’

  ‘Rome is full of supporters of the traitor. We must deal with them as soon as possible. We should start with the conspirators in my brother’s wing of the palace. Fetch a century of Praetorians and have them cleared out. And have those damned bricked up doors knocked down. I wish to walk wherever I want through my own palace.’