Emperor's Axe

by Emperor's Axe (retail) (epub)

  They were led through an atrium, whose impluvium was green with algae and pondweed, and into an open room. Seated cross-legged on the floor, looking up at a round-bodied, middle-aged woman, her back towards him, was Tituria. He watched teacher and pupil for a moment, heart jumping at the thought of seeing her, stomach clenching with anxiety at her reaction to seeing him. He felt paralysed, desperate to call to her, give her a hug, terrified of her response.

  Issa took the matter out of his hands and went scampering across the floor to jump into Tituria’s lap. The tutor screamed and jumped backwards.

  ‘It’s a rat!’ she screeched.

  Issa put her paws on Tituria’s shoulders and started licking her face furiously.

  ‘Eww, stop, stop,’ giggled Tituria. ‘I know where you put that tongue, Issa.’ She picked the dog up, her arms around her chest, twirled her around, then saw Silus standing in the doorway and stopped dead.

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and Silus thought his heart would jump out of his chest, it was racing so hard. Hesitantly, he held out his arms. She left him like that, feeling increasingly foolish, increasingly hopeless. Then she ran forward and threw her arms around him. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and his strong arms hugged her tight, and suddenly they were both crying uncontrollably. Silus was aware that Atius was a short distance behind him, and didn’t know whether he was shuffling uncomfortably, grinning stupidly or laughing at him. And he didn’t care.

  Eventually they parted, and Silus wiped his eyes and his runny nose. Tituria did the same and smiled up at him.

  ‘You came to visit.’

  Silus nodded. ‘I said I would.’

  The lady who had been tutoring Tituria finally regained enough composure to approach.

  ‘I am Myrtis, Tituria’s guardian. Who might you be?’

  ‘I am Gaius Sergius Silus. This is Lucius Atius.’ He gestured vaguely behind him.

  ‘And what business do you have here?’ Her tone was brusque, nervous, but she was trying to assert her authority.

  ‘That is none of your concern. Now, Tituria and I are going for a walk. Atius will want wine and food, and I will also want some sustenance when we return. See to it.’

  He put an arm around Tituria’s shoulders and guided her away. Issa followed at their ankles.

  Once they were out of earshot, Tituria said, ‘Thank you for putting her in her place, Silus. She isn’t a nice tutor.’

  ‘Does she treat you badly? I can put a stop to that easily enough…’

  ‘No, no. She just clearly doesn’t want to be here. Any more than I do. So she is grumpy most of the time, and it makes me miserable.’

  They walked out of the villa and along a clifftop path. Tituria pointed south.

  ‘That island is called Vulcano. The god Vulcan visits sometimes and stirs up the fires beneath the earth. That northernmost tip is called Vulcanello. It came up out of the seas only three hundred years ago.’

  ‘Your tutor is doing some good then.’

  ‘She prefers to teach me sewing, weaving and cooking. I have to beg her to teach me the things that interest me. Rhetoric, Greek, philosophy, history.’

  ‘You have an active mind, little one.’ It was her curiosity that had led her and her family into disaster, ending in their deaths and her exile. But as he was responsible for their deaths, he was not about to remind her of that, even if he could be so cruel as to point out the consequences of her actions.

  ‘I’m so bored, Silus. And lonely. Myrtis hates me because I am the reason she is stuck here. The guards hate me for the same reason. I am allowed no other visitors – even when I see ships dock or boats come ashore, the guards keep them away. Will I be here forever?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Silus truthfully. ‘I hope not.’ He wondered if there was something he could do to shorten her exile. The recall of the exiles that Caracalla announced had not been extended to Tituria. The Emperor was clearly prepared to forgive those who had sinned against his father, but still considered Tituria a threat. Maybe if he was of sufficient value to the Emperor, he could make some bargain with him. Or one day, when Tituria had been long forgotten, he could just spirit her away. For now, though, he would not give her false hope. What he would give her was the only thing he could.

  He sat down on a rock and patted his knees so that Issa jumped onto him, overjoyed to be given attention as always. He hugged the little bitch, inhaling her doggy smell, feeling the texture of her fur on his cheek. Memories flooded over him, of his home in the vicus in Britannia, arguments with his wife about the dog, his daughter playing obsessively with her to the delight of them both. Then he sighed and passed her to Tituria.

  ‘She is yours.’

  Issa cuddled up to Tituria, who looked at Silus with wide eyes. It had been to Issa that Tituria had first responded after the loss of her family. The dog was obviously still dear to her.

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘She is an old lady. Too old to be accompanying me on adventures across the Empire. She needs someone to look after her in her retirement.’

  ‘Me? You trust me with her?’

  ‘I can think of no one I trust more to take care of her.’

  Tears filled Tituria’s eyes as she pulled Issa to her face and cuddled her like a doll.

  They sat together and watched the sea in companionable silence until the breeze started to chill them, and their bellies began to rumble.

  When they returned to the villa, Myrtis had prepared a simple meal of bread, cheese, olives and dates. Silus wondered if she was being deliberately insolent in offering them such poor fare, but she had forgotten that she was feeding soldiers, and as long as it was not rotten and it was of sufficient volume to fill an empty stomach, they were unlikely to complain.

  They sat together, Atius, Silus and Tituria, and talked about trivia – weather, clothes, what Issa liked to eat and how much exercise she needed. In the afternoon they played games – ludus latrunculorum, knucklebones, fetch with Issa. A game of hide and seek became uncomfortable for Silus when he found himself alone in the room in which he and Daya had assassinated Caracalla’s wife Plautilla and Plautilla’s young daughter. He looked around the small bedroom and felt a chill. Had the bodies been properly put to rest? Or were their shades still there, standing behind him, breathing cold wind down his back?

  When Tituria found him and let out a shriek of joy, he physically jumped, then put his hand to his suddenly racing heart. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then gave her a weak smile and tousled her hair.

  ‘My turn to hide,’ she cried, and raced off.

  That night Atius and Silus shared a bedroom that Myrtis had begrudgingly prepared for them. Atius was soon asleep, snoring loudly. Silus lay on his back, eyes shut but sleep evading him. Pale images of Plautilla and her daughter floated just behind his eyelids, and merged with the dead, bloodied visages of his own wife and daughter.

  He gave up on sleep, walked out of the villa, past Myrtis’ room, from which sounds of creaking bed furniture and guttural groans were emerging, out through the atrium and along the cliffs. He sat on the edge, legs dangling into open air. Beneath him waves whipped up by winter winds crashed against the rocks, throwing spray up to the height of several men standing on each other’s shoulders. He marvelled at the power of the sea, so far beyond the might of man. Even the Emperor with all his legions was as nothing if the sea decided to turn on him, sink a fleet, flood a city. It could take the life of a man without the slightest interruption to its ebb and flow. A wave would not pause if a human body was thrown in its path. The tide would not alter its rhythm. He could cast himself off this cliff now and it would inconvenience no one, nothing. He stared into the darkness and a tear welled up in his eye, fell, joined its kin. One drop in an ocean.

  He shook himself. Maybe the world didn’t need him. Maybe he didn’t need the world. But he wasn’t ready to leave it yet. Certainly not of his own accord. And if anyone else wanted to try to make
him go, they would be in for a fuck of a fight.

  He might not be happy now. He might not be quite sure what he was fighting for.

  But one day, things might be different. And until then, he would carry on.

  * * *

  The god of the mountain and the sun, the great god Elagabal, had blessed him, he was sure. He had prayed and sacrificed that morning to the success of his mission, and the sun had broken through an overcast sky, shining down on him and suffusing him in warmth. Aziz was a man of few doubts, but whatever misgivings he ever had about a mission were always dispelled after worship, giving him a certainty that was almost ecstatic.

  That Elagabal was with him was confirmed when he spied his target walking with his family out of the governor’s residence and into the city. The great god had guided him here. Together with a little inside information, of course.

  Four legionaries escorted them. Marcellus was not completely stupid or reckless, and the failed attack on his ship had obviously made him more cautious than usual. Aziz knew he had generally walked Rome with only a solitary slave as a bodyguard.

  It would make no difference. Aziz was well prepared. Some of his pirate crew, the ones who had survived, had quit when they reached Syracuse, but half a dozen remained, and he had hired half a dozen more thugs from a Syrian gang leader who ruled a run-down district near the docks.

  He had waited patiently for the moment, but knew it would come. He had been informed that Soaemias would tell her husband she was not prepared to stay cooped up in the governor’s palace for the entire length of their stay in Syracuse without at least a trip to the market and to see the sights, and Marcellus was too much under his wife’s thumb to refuse her.

  He trailed them at a discreet distance through the ancient streets of this Greek-founded city, almost as old as Rome itself. Although it was nowhere near as crowded, noisy or overwhelming as the capital city, it still buzzed, and anyone navigating its cobweb of alleys and thoroughfares had to jostle past a bustling throng of citizens and visitors, as well as the carts and wagons that were banned in Rome during daylight hours.

  Aziz followed near enough that he could hear them arguing. Marcellus was uneasy, and was begging his wife that they return to the safety of the governor’s residence. She dismissed his concerns with an imperious wave of her hands as she made a beeline for a stall in the market square selling fine silk dresses, imported at great expense from the East. The young boy and his tutor, Gannys, joined her, stroking the material and praising its quality.

  It was time. They were sufficiently far from the residence, sufficiently distracted. He nudged the lad he had hired as a runner and sent him scurrying to where his men waited nearby. Now he had to rely on the obedience and competence of others, something he was never comfortable with. His breathing tightened as he waited.

  There was a crash at the far end of the square and raised voices. He looked over to where a wooden trestle table had been upturned by an angry customer, spilling bronze and silver jewellery over the street. The stallholder screamed at the man while passers-by scrabbled around to pocket expensive rings and necklaces that had rolled into gutters and the cracks between cobblestones.

  The legionaries accompanying Marcellus and his family looked nervously towards the disturbance, which was rapidly dissolving into a mini-riot. Two of them advanced forward to attempt to assert some control over the situation, while the other two fingered the hilts of their weapons and scanned the crowd for threats.

  The two advancing legionaries were quickly swallowed up by the jostling crowd, which included several of Aziz’s men, making sure they got behind the soldiers and cut off their retreat. At the same time, behind the Marcellus party, the rest of his men advanced from several directions.

  They weren’t actors or spies, and although some of the thugs tried to disguise their direction of travel and target, the legionaries quickly picked up on at least two of the men advancing towards them. They shouted a warning to Marcellus and drew their weapons.

  All of Aziz’s men rushed forward at once. Innocent bystanders attempted to scatter, but some got pushed to the ground or clubbed with the hilts of swords and axes if they were too slow to move.

  The two sides clashed with a roar that reverberated around the square. Eight of Aziz’s men, who had not been involved with creating the disturbance to lure away half of Marcellus’ guards, fought against just three – Marcellus and the remaining two guards. Aziz hung back and watched.

  The square was still crowded as people screamed and attempted to flee, or to get to loved ones or prized possessions. This worked in favour of the defenders, who didn’t have to face all of their attackers at once, and were able to use bystanders as distractions and human shields. The quality of the replacements that Aziz had recruited in Syracuse was not up to the standard of the gladiators and veterans from Rome. They were untrained, unfit, and overconfident. So despite their numbers, they made little initial impression against Marcellus and his men.

  Furthermore, the two legionaries at the far end of the square had seen the attack and were forcing their way back through the crowd to lend their assistance. They were slowed by the fleeing shoppers and merchants, but made steady progress towards their commander and his family.

  Still Aziz hung back and watched. Waiting for the moment.

  Marcellus and his two legionaries had formed a protective semi-circle around Ganny and his wife and child, who hugged each other, wide-eyed and terrified at the battle raging scant feet away. Aziz watched them intently as he began to slip through the crowd, edging a respectful distance to the right of the battle.

  One of his men fell to a sword thrust through the side of his neck and he dropped to the ground, hand clamped in vain to the rent gushing blood. A legionary took a wound to his upper sword arm. He swapped the sword to his other hand and continued to defend, but less effectively. The two distant legionaries approaching suddenly found themselves beset from behind, as those of Aziz’s men who had started the disturbance caught up with them. But they had made sufficient ground to join up with their comrades, so Marcellus now had four legionaries by his side, albeit against a swollen number of foes.

  Training and stamina began to tell. Aziz’s men started to flag, breathing heavily. When another of their number was taken down by a slice to his head, a double-handed blow from a furious Marcellus that cleaved open the bone, their morale wavered.

  Marcellus saw the turning point in the battle, and urged his men to advance, to break the attackers’ hearts and rout them. The legionaries stepped forward, one step, another, thrusting and slashing hard. Aziz’s men dropped back.

  It was time.

  Unheard above the screams of the crowd, the clash of the weapons, the roars and cries of the combatants, Aziz sneaked in behind Marcellus and his men.

  Gannys saw him first, from the corner of his eye. He turned, opened his mouth.

  Aziz elbowed him in the side of the head and he crumpled to the floor without a sound.

  Soaemias stared at the attacker, and he gave the woman a hefty shove, sending her stumbling backwards, tripping over the hem of her stola and landing on her backside.

  The boy looked up at him now, penetrating blue eyes fixed on his, and for the briefest of moments, he felt paralysed, bewitched by the simple power.

  ‘Elagabal strengthen me now,’ he whispered. And he dropped a large sack over the boy’s head. He pulled it all the way down to his feet in one smooth motion, then hoisted him onto his shoulder, turned and ran.

  This time, the sack precluded biting or scratching. And there was no chance of rescue. No Arcani lurking nearby, ready to play saviours. He knew they were away.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Marcellus and their men hadn’t even noticed what had happened just at their backs, so transported by battle rage were they. Soaemias stared, slack-jawed, seemingly paralysed for precious moments, before she began to scream and shout for help. Her cries were lost in the din of the melee in any case.

 
; Aziz reached an alley at the edge of the square and gave one last look behind him. His men were turning to flee, some dead, some wounded, most insufficiently committed to the fight and the cause to have taken significant damage. It didn’t matter. Killing Marcellus would have been a bonus. But his mission was accomplished.

  He tarried just long enough to see Marcellus step back from the fight, turn to see his wife in a heap on the floor, his son gone, to look frantically look around him, shouting his son’s name. Then Aziz hurried away down the alleyway, clutching his prize tight, and headed in the direction of the docks.

  * * *

  ‘Silus, you piece of shit! Where have you been? You were supposed to be protecting me!’

  Silus stopped in his tracks. After he had disembarked at the Syracuse docks, he had gone straight to the governor’s residence to report to Marcellus.

  Saying goodbye on Lipari had been hard. He had promised to return, and to do all he could to secure her release. He had tried to navigate a path between the Scylla of false hope and the Charybdis of despair, but had not managed to take away the look of overwhelming sadness in Tituria’s eyes that must have channelled what was in her heart. It had been hard to get her to break the final hug before he got into his boat to row out to rendezvous with the cargo ship.

  He took comfort, difficult as it was for him personally, in seeing her hugging Issa tight as they rowed away. The little dog watched her master leave in some confusion, but he had left her many times before, and she did not appreciate that this time was different. She wagged her tail, and intermittently sneaked a lick of the tears running down Tituria’s face.

  So his emotions were dark and fragile and he bridled at Marcellus’ tone.

  ‘You knew I would be gone for a few days. Oclatinius approved it.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck if the Emperor himself gave you permission! You weren’t here when I needed you!’

  Silus now took in the frantic look in Marcellus’ eyes, the bruises, grazes and cuts on his face and forearms. He looked to Soaemias, who was sitting uncharacteristically quiet, and Gannys, who was nursing a hen’s egg-sized lump that protruded from his temple.