‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘Now walk with me. We have much to discuss, and many plans to lay.’
Caracalla and Marcellus left Domna’s atrium, leaving the Empress staring at his retreating back in disbelief.
* * *
Dio Cassius could not seem to stop his foot from tapping. His knee jerked in time like it was a slave to some unheard rhythm. His hands grasped each other in his lap, and he leaned forward in a vain attempt to ease the tension his gut.
‘You should have seen him, Festus. His brother not yet cold, and there he was, telling us we must thank the gods for his survival and put our faith and loyalty in him. Straight after attempting to justify his fratricide with a flimsy story about his brother plotting to kill him.’
Festus sipped his wine. Dio could not understand how he could appear so calm when Rome was falling into Hades as they sat there.
‘It just happens that what the Emperor said was true. Geta did try to kill him. He took soldiers to the peace talks.’
Dio snorted. ‘I don’t believe it. Geta wouldn’t do that. I believe the soldiers belonged to Antoninus, and they were there to kill his brother, right there in his mother’s arms. I know that demon that sits on the throne, I know what was in his mind. And when I write my history of these times, that is what will be told.’
Festus shrugged. ‘Write what you like, it is no concern of mine whether posterity hears the truth or not. But I would say this: if you want to survive long enough to complete your work, I suggest you keep your opinions on our Emperor to yourself.’
Dio raised his eyebrows. ‘Of course. I am not a simpleton.’
‘I’m just telling you that there is a slaughter on its way. The looting of the temples by the Praetorians was just a foretaste. Aper is dead. Papinianus and Cornificia are imprisoned, awaiting trial. Plans are already being made to purge all of Geta’s supporters.’
Dio started to tremble. ‘But surely no one knows… I mean, apart from Titurius, bless his shade… no one knows that I had anything to do with Geta.’
‘I know.’
‘You? But you were a supporter of Geta too.’
Festus inclined his head. ‘Don’t worry, Dio. Your secret is safe with me. But I would have your counsel. As a learned man, and a well-respected member of the Senate.’
Dio swallowed, pushing down the nausea and panic rising from deep within.
‘Go on.’
‘If an alternative ruler could be found to Antoninus, would the Senate embrace him?’
‘An alternative? Is there one? Geta and Caracalla have no heirs, not even by adoption.’
‘You’re a historian. You know there is plenty of precedent for a new Emperor coming from outside the incumbent Imperial family.’
‘But there was always a candidate respected by the army and loved by the people ready to take power.’
‘Really? Didius Julianus?’
‘That’s your best example?’ Dio Cassius scoffed. ‘Bought the throne at auction from the Praetorians, executed sixty-six days later.’
‘Well, we are talking hypotheticals at the moment.’
‘Then talk real names, or this conversation is a waste of time.’
Festus hesitated. ‘There is someone who is connected to the Imperial line who could be made Emperor, if Antoninus could be done away with, and if the Senate would support him. Someone who is related to the Severans by blood. And rumour has it that he is even more closely related than official sources would have us believe.’
Dio Cassius scowled, intrigued, distracted from his anxieties by the interesting turn the conversation was taking.
‘A name doesn’t immediately spring to mind,’ he said. ‘Who?’
‘Varius Avitus Bassianus.’
Dio stroked his chin. ‘I don’t know anyone by that… wait. Are you talking about that odd child? Marcellus’ son?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘But… but…’ Dio had so many questions and objections he couldn’t work out what to say first. ‘The first time I met him, he was about five years old, running around the peristylium naked with his private parts tucked between his legs, yelling, “look mother, I’m a girl.”’
‘Well, we’ve all done that.’
Dio tilted his head on one side and gave Festus a hard stare. Festus blushed. ‘Well, maybe not all of us. Not exactly that. But he was just a child.’
‘He is still just child!’ exclaimed Dio. ‘He is what, eight years old now?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘And you wish to put him forward as a candidate to be Emperor? Why?’
‘Because he has Imperial blood. Maybe richer blood than is officially accepted.’
‘You mean the rumours about his parentage, that he is actually Antoninus’ son?’
‘True or not, the merest suggestion can be helpful in reinforcing a claim to the purple. And also, he is young and can be… let’s say guided, by someone wiser and more experienced. And whose thinking is maybe more aligned with that of the Senate.’
‘Like who?’
‘That is yet to be decided. Not me, my role is behind the scenes. Not you either, I would wager. Maybe it would be more of a council. But that is getting ahead of ourselves. My question to you is, would the Senate accept him as Emperor?’
Dio considered. ‘The way Antoninus has treated the Senate, before and after the death of his father, and with his blatant display of threat and intimidation yesterday, the Senate would be in a mood to support just about anyone but him. But on sober reflection, I think many would have reservations about supporting someone of such youth and such… odd behaviour. Rome has had its fill of emperors like Nero, Domitian and Commodus. For all Antoninus’ faults, he has not outraged the dignity of the Roman people. Not yet, at least.’
‘As far as the public know,’ said Festus.
‘Oh? What secrets do you know?’
‘Many, but they are not for sharing, senator. I hope you understand.’
‘You are asking for my advice about an act of treason, and yet you withhold information from me?’
‘Come now, friend. You know I can’t share everything I know. Nor, I suspect, would you want me to.’ He gave Dio a pointed stare, which made the senator blanch, wondering what it was that Festus had discovered of the many aspects of his private life he would rather not become public knowledge.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Dio hastily, returning the conversation to its original topic. ‘I think you would struggle to get the entire Senate to accept Avitus as Emperor. I suspect in fact there would be a split. The boy has Syrian heritage, and if I recall correctly, some sort of hereditary position as an eastern priest. The Senate and members of the Imperial court with eastern origins or allegiances might support him – the Syrians, Alexandrians and Greeks. But those of the West, from Gaul, Hispania, and particularly from Italia, they would not. And you could say the same for the legions. Those based in the East would likely be more supportive than those based in the West.’
‘So what you are saying is that Avitus could command support from the eastern half of the Empire but not the West?’
‘I believe so.’
‘That’s very helpful.’ Festus stood. ‘I thank you for your time.’
‘What are you planning, Festus?’
‘If I’m successful, you will be able to write all about it in your history. If not, then it is best that you know nothing.’
‘Festus. Am I safe?’
The Commander of the Sacred Bedchamber shook his head. ‘I fear that in Rome these days, no one is safe.’
* * *
It had fallen to Silus to take care of Cornificia. Of course. There would be no trial such as had been organised for Papinianus. It would do Caracalla no favours to allow this articulate noblewoman, the daughter of one of the most beloved rulers Rome had ever had, to stand in public and condemn the new Emperor. So Silus entered her cell in the basement of the palac
e, bearing just a simple but sharp knife.
Cornificia was in her fifties and showing signs of age, although not nearly to the same extent as someone from the poor classes of the Empire. The women in their fifties that Silus knew growing up in Britannia were toothless, shrivelled old hags, and that wasn’t just the perception of a child. Poor nutrition, tough living conditions and a lifetime of manual labour took tolls on the body that the rich were never exposed to.
She stood when Silus entered, and he bowed his head.
‘Lady.’
‘Who are you?’ Her voice was superior, her tone compelling.
‘I am Silus, my lady. I am here on the business of the Emperor.’
Her eyes dropped to the knife at his belt and she paled, but gave no other outward sign of fear. If anything, her rod-like back became even straighter.
‘Then state your business. You are disturbing my rest.’
The cell was cold and damp. The stone bench was covered with a straw mattress, giving some comfort beyond that of the common prisoner, but the ubiquitous bucket in the corner still spoke of the indignity inflicted on this high-born woman.
‘My lady, I am sorry to say that the Emperor has decreed that your words and actions were treason. The penalty is death.’
Cornificia nodded once. ‘Comforting a woman who has lost her son is treason to this madman, is that so?’
‘I have no influence on the decision, my lady.’
‘Of course not. Just the unthinking lackey who obeys orders without question.’
Silus knew there was no point in contradicting her. What good would it do this woman, who was bravely facing her death, to burden her with his own doubts, disappointment, distress?
‘The Emperor has done you the honour of letting you choose the manner of your death.’
‘Such consideration.’ She pointed at the knife on his belt. ‘Give that here,’ she said peremptorily, hand outstretched. Silus hesitated, then passed the blade to her, hilt first. She looked along its length, checked its balance, and tested its sharpness with her thumb. Although he was now unarmed, and she held the knife, he felt no fear. He knew he could still easily overpower her, but knew too that it would not be necessary.
‘This will do.’ She took off her necklace and laid it on the bed, then removed her earrings, and each of four gold, jewelled rings which she wore on her smooth, fine fingers. Then she sat on the mattress, placed the knife against her wrist, and looked into Silus’ eyes.
‘Poor, unhappy soul of mine, imprisoned in a vile body, go forth, free now. Show them that you are Marcus’ daughter, whether that suits them or not.’
She cut deep, biting her lip at the stinging pain. Blood flowed quickly, and when she swapped the hand holding the knife, the viscous liquid made it harder to grip. Silus stepped forward to help, but she shrugged him off, and sliced into her other wrist. Then she passed the knife back to Silus and lay back on the bed. One arm dangled over the edge, and blood poured from the wound, pooling on the cobbled floor, crimson rivulets streaming along the cracks.
She did not look at Silus as she died, instead staring at the ceiling as she drifted slowly away into unconsciousness. Her face remained expressionless throughout. But near the end, when her breathing was becoming shallower, her eyelids fluttering closed, a single tear formed in the corner of her eye, trickled across her cheek and dropped to the floor.
Silus waited dutifully until she was gone. He checked her pulse to ensure she was definitely dead, then whispered a prayer for the safe passage of her shade. He bowed his head and stood in respectful silence for a few moments. Then he knocked on the door for the guards to enter.
‘Take care of her,’ he said. ‘Instructions on what to do with her body will follow. I will make sure the Emperor is informed of her death.’
He walked out of the cell without a backwards glance, moving slowly and stiffly. Two noble people, bravely dying a noble death, for no reason except the Emperor’s pride and fear. And there was so much more to come.
This wasn’t the work he had signed up for. He wasn’t fighting Rome’s barbarian enemies any more. Nor even taking one side in a civil war, joining the one most likely to keep Rome strong and safe. This was just murder. Cornificia was no threat to Caracalla.
He needed to get out.
He could run. Leave Rome, take his money, set himself up in some far-flung part of the Empire where no one would ever find him.
But what would happen to Tituria? And what about Atius? Maybe he could persuade Oclatinius to discharge him, or at least give him some time to get away. He was not needed for these executions. They required none of his skills. Let another carry out these heinous tasks.
He thought about Tituria, alone on her island. He had promised to visit her. Would Oclatinius allow it? He resolved to ask. But first, there was the trial of Papinianus to get through.
* * *
The Senate was gathered once more, though this time not all of them, and not enforced by the Praetorians. The smaller number of senators was able to fit in their usual meeting place, the Curia Julia. The interior of the building was quite simple, Silus reflected, compared to the lavish decorations of temples and palaces he had seen since he first arrived in Rome. The walls were fitted with plain white marble to about two-thirds of their height, and rows of wooden chairs supported the backsides of the richest men in Rome. The floor, by contrast, was striking. It was similar to a mosaic, but with larger, specially shaped pieces of materials fitted together to make specific designs, rosettes in squares and cornucopias, coloured red and green on backgrounds of yellow and purple.
At one end of the chamber was an altar and a statue of Victoria, holding a wreath and standing on a globe. Before it was a marble throne on which sat Caracalla, looking down imperiously on the gathered body. Beside him sat Domna, her face expressionless, lifeless, drawn and tired. The Emperor and Empress were flanked by four German bodyguards and before them was a row of pristinely uniformed Praetorians. Silus stood with Oclatinius at the back of the chamber, inconspicuous in the shadows. He wished he was elsewhere. He hadn’t been home, hadn’t changed, hadn’t even had time to find a new weapon, the vigiles’ axe still hanging from his belt.
Standing in the middle of the floor of the great chamber, wrists manacled, stood Papinianus. His gaze swept easily around the assembled Senate, expressing an air of respect but a complete lack of concern.
Caracalla raised a hand to speak, and the silence that fell was instantaneous.
‘Papinianus,’ he said. ‘You have been brought here to trial to answer charges of treason. Witnesses will be brought against you. Once they have spoken, you will have a chance to answer their allegations.’
‘Tribune Torquatus, tell the assembled men your grievance against Papinianus.’
A young man, nervous but looking genuinely angry, stepped forward. He straightened his tunic and his red cloak and spoke up.
‘As a tribune of the Praetorians, I swear by the gods to tell the truth. When he was Praetorian prefect, I saw with my own eyes Papinianus take money that was offered to the gods in the temple at the barracks.’
This drew a gasp from the senators. Theft and sacrilege. Not a good start. It seemed unlikely to Silus though. Papinianus was very wealthy in his own right. Why steal a few coins from the gods?
‘And I heard him with my very own ears denounce the Emperor Antoninus, saying it would be better for Rome if the gods took him, so there would be peace.’
Papinianus shook his head. If he had said this, Silus suspected it would have been idle talk stimulated by frustration at the impasse between the Imperial brothers. More likely, though, was that this tribune had a grudge against Papinianus; maybe he had been humiliated in some way by his commanding officer, or overlooked for some honour, or even bribed by someone for his testimony. Silus looked at Oclatinius, but could read nothing in the old man’s face.
‘Do you have anything to say to this, Papinianus?’ demanded Caracalla.
‘The
allegations are untrue, Augustus.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘Of course not. I mean, unfortunately, it is my word against his.’
‘It would be if it was just one accuser. But it is not. Centurion Velius. Step forward and speak.’
Centurion Velius looked a lot more nervous than Torquatus, and a lot less like he wanted to be there. He gave Papinianus an apologetic look, then said, ‘As a centurion of the Praetorians, I swear by the gods to tell the truth. I served under Papinianus, and I witnessed him uttering sacrilegious words against the divine Septimius Severus.’
‘What words?’ asked Caracalla.
‘That your blessed father was no more divine than a cabbage, and that emperors did not become gods when they died.’
There were plenty of intellectuals in Rome who did not believe in gods or the afterlife, Silus knew, but they generally paid lip service to the apotheosis of emperors, for political expediency, if for no other reason. If Papinianus had truly said this in front of a centurion, he was being extraordinarily unguarded in his comments. Maybe the former Praetorian prefect was less popular with his men than he realised.
The third witness was a Praetorian legionary, a foot soldier of the rank and file, albeit better paid and with a shinier uniform than most legionaries. He spoke with a common accent that spoke of roots in the poorer quarters of Rome, an increasingly rare recruit to the army from the capital itself.
‘As a legionary of the Praetorians, I swear to the gods to tell the truth.’ He hesitated.
‘Go on,’ prompted Caracalla.
‘Right. Sorry, Emperor, er, Augustus…’
‘What do you have to say?’ snapped Caracalla.
‘Well, I saw the prefect here having… unnatural relations with a goat.’
The Senate erupted into laughter at that, and even Papinianus smiled at the absurdity. But Caracalla was in no mood for levity.
Emperor's Axe Page 4