‘Silence!’ The chamber fell quiet. ‘Papinianus, I have a queue of Praetorians lining up to denounce you for various crimes of treason and sacrilege. But you have served me and my father well over the years. I am not above clemency for a loyal servant. If you are prepared to swear your unequivocal and undying loyalty to me, your crimes may yet be forgiven.’
‘You have always had my loyalty, Augustus,’ said Papinianus.
‘Your sole loyalty. No division in your allegiance. I require you to condemn my brother before this Senate.’
Papinianus shook his head sadly.
‘I cannot do that, Augustus.’
Caracalla’s face turned the colour of his robe.
‘You… cannot? Papinianus, you stake your life.’
‘I pledged allegiance to your father, and when he died to his two sons. Both of them.’
‘Papinianus! You will explain to this gathered body why it was necessary that Geta should die. That I was protecting myself from his murderous intent.’
Papinianus sighed. ‘Augustus, it is easier to kill a brother than to explain it away.’
It would have been possible to hear a mouse sneeze, the absence of all sound was so profound. Silus could hear his own blood pounding in his ears, and his heart started to race even as his stomach sank. Oh, Papinianus. You proud fool.
Caracalla raised his hand slowly, and pointed a trembling finger at Papinianus.
‘You condemn yourself with your own words.’
Domna put a hand on Caracalla’s arm.
‘Augustus, consider…’
‘Silus!’
Oh fuck.
‘Come here.’
Silus looked at Oclatinius, who gave him a helpless shrug. Silus walked forward on legs trembling like a newborn calf. He stood beside Papinianus, facing the Emperor.
‘The penalty is death. The sentence will be carried out immediately. Silus, execute the traitor.’
Silus reached down to his belt, and his hand clasped around the hilt of the vigiles’ axe.
‘But Augustus, I only have…’
‘Do it now!’ roared Caracalla.
Silus bowed his head and turned to Papinianus. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Then more loudly, ‘On your knees.’
Papinianus did as he was told. Silus drew his axe. Papinianus’ eyes widened and he looked to Caracalla. ‘But…’
Silus brought the axe down hard into the side of Papinianus’ neck. It bit deep.
But not deep enough.
The axe of one of the vigiles was not a weapon of battle, such as the Caledonians had used, that could cleave off limbs and heads with one mighty swing. Not even the huge axes that foresters used to fell trees. This was the tool of a fireman, used to break down flimsy wooden doors that were usually half rotted through. A hand axe, small so as to be easily portable along with the other tools that the vigiles needed to carry – ropes and buckets and hooks.
Papinianus fell to one side with a cry, clutching his neck where the axe had opened up flesh. Blood flowed, but there was no pumping, no flood. It was not a mortal wound.
Silus raised the axe again, aiming for the gash he had opened before. But Papinianus was moving now, and his hand was clamped over his neck. The axe severed three fingers and smashed into his jaw, shattering it. He fell to his hands and knees, blood leaking from his neck, gasping and howling in pain.
Silus looked around helplessly to the throne. Caracalla’s face was impassive. There would be no mercy, no help from that quarter. He caught Oclatinius’ eye. The spymaster looked grim, but merely gave him a nod to continue.
Silus turned back to Papinianus, lifted the axe high, and with all his strength, brought it down on the back of the former prefect’s neck. It cut through spine, and Papinianus sprawled forward onto his face. He was motionless, his cries ended, but still he breathed. Silus lifted his axe and brought it down on the back of his head, again and again. Blood and brains sprayed the immaculate white togas of the nearest senators, who flinched back in horror.
When he was sure that he was dead, Silus stood up straight and faced the Emperor. Blood dripped from the blade of his axe, and his face and tunic were covered in gore.
Caracalla regarded him for a moment.
‘He deserved a sword,’ said the Emperor, as if he was reprimanding a wayward child.
Caracalla rose, and walked from the chamber, escorted by bodyguards, Praetorians and Marcellus. Domna remained seated, staring in horror at the bloodied and mangled remains of her Syrian relative. Oclatinius walked stiffly over to her and took her hand, then led her away. Slowly, the chamber emptied. Slaves came over, grabbed the corpse by its ankles and dragged it off, leaving a long bloody smear behind.
Silus stood alone, unmoving. He didn’t know how much time passed before Atius arrived. Atius took in his friend’s appearance and the evidence of the remains of the botched execution. He took Silus’ arm, and slowly led him out of the building.
Chapter Three
Silus sat in a corner with Atius, as far from Caracalla’s throne as possible. He still felt sick, but Oclatinius had summoned him to attend this council meeting with an invitation that strongly intimated declining was not an option. He and Atius flanked Oclatinius and Festus, who sat together, observing not only the Emperor but everyone else in the meeting.
Seated either side of Caracalla were Sextus Varius Marcellus, currently acting as both Praetorian prefect and Urban prefect, and Julius Avitus Alexianus, who was both father-in-law to Marcellus through his daughter Julia Soaemias, and brother-in-law to Caracalla through his wife Julia Maesa, Julia Domna’s sister. Julia Domna, however, was nowhere to be seen, the Empress’s throne awkwardly empty. Quintus Marcus Dioga, head of the treasury, and Ulpianus, the jurist, sat near two freedmen who were acting as scribes and scribbling furiously on wax tablets to take down the pronouncements and commands of the Emperor.
Caracalla talked loudly and fast, and his audience listened attentively, mouths tightly closed.
‘I want work on the great bath complex that my father began accelerated. They are behind schedule. Whip slaves, dismiss overseers, spend more money, whatever is necessary. My father commanded these to be the greatest baths in the city, and when they are finished, they will shout to the city of the glory of my father’s reign and of my own.’
Dioga whispered a comment to the scribes, who nodded and made a further note.
‘Furthermore, I wish every citizen of the Empire to be gifted a caracallus.’
Dioga raised his eyebrows. ‘A… caracallus, Augustus?’
‘Am I speaking too softly for you, Dioga?’
‘No, Augustus. I just wanted to clarify…’
‘The common man named me Caracalla after the cloak I liked to wear in Britannia. Well, they can all wear one now, and I will own that name that they have given me.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘And talking of the common man. I intend to issue an edict that will make all free men in the Roman Empire into Roman citizens, and to give all free women in the Empire the same rights as Roman women.’
The advisors looked at each other, genuinely surprised, the odd command about the cloak already forgotten.
‘Augustus,’ said Alexianus hesitantly. ‘Is that even possible?’
‘If I command it, it is possible,’ he said.
‘But… why?’
The advisors and counsellors in the room all wore expressions that made Silus suspect they all thought the Emperor had gone mad. Maybe they were starting to question their decision to back him.
Caracalla looked for a moment like he might explode at being questioned by Alexianus. But the old man had been a good advisor and friend to Severus, and strictly loyal to Caracalla since Severus died, and he bit back a retort.
‘Old friend, do not look at me as if you are regarding a man possessed by demons. These ideas are not the ravings of a madman. Caracalla is a name that has been used derisively about me for some time, and it will always be with me.
If I embrace the name in such an emphatic fashion, it takes all the sting out of it as an insult. Work on the baths will show the people that I care about the city and wish to improve it. And not just by building a temple that improves my own standing with the gods, but baths that are open to all.’
‘But, to make all free men Roman citizens. Could that even work?’
‘I expect my advisors to give me the answer to that. Ulpianus?’
The studious lawyer pinched his nose and considered. He clearly didn’t want to say the wrong thing after the horrific death of his fellow jurist Papinianus, but also had his own professional pride.
‘Would the Augustus allow me time to think through the legal implications and the possible consequences?’
‘I can tell you one consequence,’ said Marcellus, somewhat emboldened by the others who had stuck their necks out and questioned the Emperor. ‘The incentive to join the legions of becoming a citizen at the end of twenty-five years’ service will disappear overnight, and recruitment will plummet.’
Caracalla waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nonsense. I have just increased the pay of the army. There is still every incentive for the poor of the Empire to sign up. Still, we will increase the length of service to twenty-eight years to offset this possible issue.’
‘And,’ said Ulpianus, putting a finger in the air, ‘tax revenues will increase. Non-citizens are not liable for tax.’
‘That isn’t the purpose of the decree,’ said Caracalla. ‘Increasing tax on the poor has only a minimal effect on the treasury. But it will be a popular move with the population of the Empire.’
‘Not with the Senate,’ said Marcellus. ‘Nor with the poor Roman citizens who will object to those they consider their inferiors being elevated to the same rank as them.’
‘Nevertheless. Unless Ulpianus can find some legal or other compelling reason to make me change my mind, it will be done.’
Marcellus bowed his head.
‘We will need to raise money for these measures in other ways. We can raise inheritance tax, and maybe some other taxes too. We will also debase the silver coinage. Dioga, look into these things.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘Marcellus, I want shows in the Flavian amphitheatre, the Circus Maximus and in the theatres. Organise a lavish programme of events to entertain the populace.’
‘It will be done, Augustus.’
‘Next, I want my brother’s name and memory damned. All signs, all paintings, all monuments throughout the Empire are to be erased. I wish none to remember that he ever existed.’
Silus was glad that Domna was not present. He couldn’t imagine how she would feel, to have the memory of her son desecrated even while she still grieved.
‘Now, Marcellus, Festus, Oclatinius, we turn to matters of security. There are many in the city who supported my brother, and who still oppose my rule. I am going to give you a list of men who must be disposed of. You will see to it, in conjunction with the Urban Cohorts and the Praetorian Guard under Marcellus.’
Festus and Oclatinius inclined their heads.
‘I am not going to nail these names up on signs in the forum, like Sulla and Octavian did. You will deal with them privately, and with the minimum of fuss. Am I understood?’
‘Yes, Augustus,’ they replied in unison.
‘Very well. The following lives are forfeit, and their estates are to become the property of the throne.
‘Valerius Patruinus.’ A former Praetorian prefect, Silus knew.
‘Lucius Valerius Messalla Thrasea.’ A previous consul, Silus thought. He didn’t know what either of these two had done to offend.
‘The son of Papinianus, who is now old enough for the quaestorship.’ A threat after the death of his father. Silus felt another pang of nausea and guilt.
‘Aelius Antipater.’ One of the few surviving tutors of the younger Caracalla.
‘Titus Claudius Pompeianus.’ Grandson of Marcus Aurelius.
‘Publius Helvius Pertinax.’ The son of the former Emperor Pertinax.
And more. Serenus Sammonicus, an intellectual, Silus believed. The governors of Baetica and Narbonensis. The list went on and on, until Silus became almost numb to the scale of the forthcoming slaughter. Was this all necessary for the safety of the Emperor and the Empire? Or was it something more base, like petty revenge for previous slights? Or even, worst of all, was it indeed madness?
Eventually the list of condemned ended. Caracalla was breathing heavily through his nose, looking satisfied and unburdened, like he had set down a heavy load.
‘I have one more duty today. I must honour three men who have stood by my side when I needed them most, who saved my life from my treacherous sibling. Step forward, Oclatinius, Silus, Atius.’
The three Arcani stepped out in front of the Emperor and bowed their heads.
‘As the head of the Arcani, and two of its most skilled members, you three have done me immeasurable service in recent times. And you have served the Empire well, in Rome and abroad. Although my rewards for you cannot reflect the value of your deeds, they are a token of my esteem.
‘To legionary Lucius Atius, I award the sum of eight thousand sestertii.’ Atius smiled. It was a whole year’s pay at the new rates for a legionary of the Urban Cohorts.
‘To centurion Gaius Sergius Silus, I award the sum of twelve thousand sestertii.’ A year’s pay for a Praetorian. He was rich. Not senator or even equestrian rich, but set for life. He would never starve or be without food or home or a household slave. He should be rejoicing inwardly, but found it hard to summon up any enthusiasm.
‘And to Oclatinius Adventus, the sum of forty thousand sestertii.’ Silus was sure the old bastard didn’t need the money, but his boss nodded his acceptance and replied on behalf of them all.
‘We thank you for your kind gifts, Augustus, and accept them gratefully, though we were only doing our jobs, and our duty to Emperor and Empire.’
‘If only all Romans were as diligent in their obligations. Now, with that final pleasant task done, this council is finished. You all have work to be doing. I look forward to reports of your success.’
He rose, and abruptly swept from the room, two German bodyguards hurrying to catch up with him.
Silus sighed. Despite the monetary reward, he felt at the edge of despair. He still wanted to serve, to be of value to the Empire, to help keep its citizens safe. But what glory was there in the role he was playing now?
He had had enough. He needed to talk to Oclatinius.
* * *
When Marcellus returned home from the meeting, his wife Julia Soaemias was waiting for him in the atrium. She was wearing a blue stola and a hood that covered most of her head, but still displayed the foremost part of her painstakingly coiffured hairstyle, modelled on the fashion popularised by her aunt, the Empress Julia Domna. She was thirty-two years old and had been his wife for twelve years, and if anything was more beautiful than when he had married her. At least outwardly. Beside her was the eunuch Gannys, their son’s tutor, and more and more recently, his wife’s advisor and confidante.
‘Tell me everything, Marcellus,’ she snapped. ‘Leave nothing out.’
He sighed. Beautiful on the outside for sure. Increasingly domineering, though. As Marcellus’ star had risen, until he was now one of the most powerful men in Rome, his wife’s control over him had tightened. It embarrassed him, and he tried to assert his dominance as paterfamilias, with the power of life and death over her and their son, Avitus. But they both knew that much of his ascension was down to her. Her family connections, of course, but also her seduction of the young Caracalla.
It still humiliated him, that he had drunkenly offered his wife to the young Augustus to gain preferment, more so that his wife and Caracalla had both agreed, and even more so that Soaemias had continued to attempt to seduce him, although Caracalla after that one night had continually turned her down.
But the result of that one night of calculated, negotiated passion was
uncertainty about the paternity of his son. He had been elevated to acting commander of both the Praetorian Guard and the Urban Cohorts. He stood at the Emperor’s right hand. At that moment he could be considered the second most powerful man in the world.
Was it worth it? Probably, he had to concede. And maybe now he should start to behave towards his wife the way a real Roman man behaved.
‘Join me in my room, my dear,’ he said in an even tone.
‘Tell me now,’ said Soaemias.
Marcellus looked at Gannys, who was studying the wall, carefully ignoring the exchange.
‘Come with me to my room, dear. Please.’
Soaemias tutted, but she followed him to a small private room near his office.
‘Marcellus! What has got into you?’
‘Soaemias, I am a powerful man. You should respect me as such. If you have words you wish to say, you should say them to me in private. In public, even in front of the slaves, you should behave like a dutiful wife, a good Roman matron.’
Soaemias looked at him contemptuously. ‘I am the niece of the Empress! A powerful woman in my own right.’
‘What you are,’ said Marcellus, ‘above all else, is my wife. And I wish you to start behaving like it, and not like my mother. If you have counsel for me, you should offer it in private. In public you must talk to me with respect. Or there will be consequences for you.’
Soaemias stared at him in disbelief. Marcellus felt suddenly nervous. This shouldn’t be so hard. It was the normal way of things, even if that wasn’t the case in his own home. But he was the Emperor’s right-hand man. He had real power. Surely he could be the master of his own home. Surely now he could begin to act with the dignitas and auctoritas of a noble Roman.
‘Do you understand me?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
‘Now understand this. If you ever speak to me that way again, in public or in private, I will take a knife while you sleep and cut your balls off, and offer them to the mountain god.’
Marcellus gaped. He should strike her. Punish her for her words. But he quailed under her unwavering gaze. His shoulders drooped. Why could he not control her? Her domination of him unmanned him.
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