Emperor's Knife

by Emperor's Knife (retail) (epub)

  The Imperial party had rested outside the city walls the night before, so they were refreshed to start the journey in the morning. The Praetorians led the way, with Geta and Caracalla riding behind them, flanking the carriage that conveyed Julia Domna with their father’s ashes.

  The ashes were contained in an urn of purple stone that Severus had selected himself. Not long before his death, he had held the urn in his hands, and said gravely, ‘You shall hold a man that the whole world could not hold.’

  And it was true – his mortal remains, those few ashes that were all that was left when the rest of the flesh was burnt away, were now held in that small pot. It hardly seemed real to Caracalla that the presence which had dominated his entire life was now in that small container. And soon to be interred and never seen again.

  The procession went across the Pons Aemilius and through the Forum Boarium, through the Forum Romanum at the bottom of the Palatine and Capitoline Hills, and circling the Flavian Amphitheatre, before heading west past the theatres of Marcellus and Pompey, then back over the Tiber at the Pons Aelius to the Mausoleum of Hadrian. All along the way, crowds thronged the sides of the street and threw flowers and laurel branches in the path of the two Emperors and the Augusta. From the rostra in the forum, Hedius Lollianus Terentius Gentianus and Pomponius Bassus, the consuls, gave flowery speeches praising Severus’ merits and achievements, as well as those of the two new Emperors.

  While it was technically a funeral procession, and the Imperial family was in mourning, this was the first time in more than three years that an Emperor of Rome had visited the city, and Caracalla and Geta were celebrating a devastating victory over the tribes of Northern Britannia. Both Geta and Caracalla had been awarded the titles Britannicus, along with their father, although Caracalla grumbled privately to Domna that Geta had done little to deserve it. In those moments Domna would usually silence him with a kiss.

  The Mausoleum of Hadrian contained the ashes of the Emperor Hadrianus, who had built the great wall that had proven so important in the war against the northern Britons waged by Caracalla and his father, and most subsequent Emperors had also been interred there. They were famous names, now gods, like Antoninus Pius, builder of the more northerly wall that had taken such a beating in the Maeatae raids, and the brothers Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, who had ruled together in such harmony. He still wondered how that had been possible. Lucius Verus surely deferred to his older, more experienced sibling? If only things were so easy for Geta and him.

  The Mausoleum itself was magnificent. A square base, topped by a large cylindrical structure, shaped like a layered cake, it was the tallest building in Rome. It was faced with blocks of marble, and marble statues thronged the first layer. Rising from the middle of this small neat forest of figures was a columned tower. On top of the tower was a marble statue of a quadriga, a chariot drawn by four horses abreast. Severus had restored and built some impressive structures during his time in power, not least his arch at the other end of the Forum celebrating his victories over the Parthians. It was still a source of pride, even all these years after its dedication, that Caracalla himself was honoured on the arch, although he was obviously annoyed that his younger brother was also honoured, given that Geta had only been ten years old when the Parthian wars ended.

  The procession halted before the gate in the bronze railings that surrounded the monument. Domna, holding the funerary urn, together with Geta and Caracalla and a small entourage of the most prominent nobles, entered the mausoleum.

  Caracalla looked around, impressed despite all the wonders in Rome and around the Empire that he had seen. He had never been inside, and he stared at the resting places of the previous Emperors, situated in this enormous, magnificent structure. At the far end of the chamber was a colossal statue of Hadrian, looking down on them. Caracalla felt uncharacteristically small. He wondered if the great Emperor would approve of him as the ruler, or would prefer Geta.

  A steep spiral ramp led up into the central tomb chamber, and Geta, Domna and Caracalla climbed alone. The Pontifex Maximus, as chief priest of the state religion, would have been expected to play an important role in the interment ceremony of an Emperor, but as the Emperor had also been the Pontifex Maximus since the time of Augustus Caesar, it was difficult to achieve unless the old Emperor was buried after the Senate had bestowed the title of Pontifex Maximus on the new one. At the moment it wasn’t clear which of the two, Geta or Caracalla, would be given the honour, although Caracalla naturally thought it should fall to him as the elder.

  When they reached the niche that had been prepared for Severus, Domna gently placed the urn in its spot. Once the ashes were interred, Severus’ shade could finally cross the Styx. Caracalla was relieved that he would no longer be hanging around. When he made love to Domna, he wondered if the shade of Severus had been watching in impotent outrage. Now, the shade would be gone, and he would no longer feel his father watching him have sex with his widow.

  Domna stepped back, and they all bowed their heads, alone with their thoughts. Caracalla’s own thoughts never strayed far from his future, and a quiet moment just meant more time dwelling on the difficulty of sharing power, and what he could do about it.

  After a few moments, Domna led them back down to the rest of the waiting party, then out into the light. It was Domna who had been chosen to give the funerary speech, since it could not be agreed if Geta or Caracalla would have the honour, or if it was to be both who would speak first.

  Domna stood at the entrance gate and raised her hands for quiet. The crowd which lined the bank of the Tiber and the pons Aelius hushed, although only the most important who dominated the front ranks would properly hear her.

  ‘Citizens of Rome. We have laid to rest Imperator Caesar Lucius Septimius Severus Pius Pertinax Augustus Arabicus Adiabenicus Parthicus Maximus Britannicus Maximus, Pontifex Maximus, Tribuniciae Potestasis, Father of the country.’

  Caracalla only ever heard his father’s full list of titles and honorifics at formal occasions. They were usually greatly truncated given how long they were, but Domna had pronounced them all correctly from memory without hesitation or faltering.

  ‘He was one of the greatest of all Emperors,’ continued Domna. ‘A man who claimed the throne that was rightfully his and held it against a horde of usurpers. Who conquered some of Rome’s oldest enemies, the tribes of Caledonia and the Parthians. Who ruled with justice and authority.

  ‘Now he has been laid to rest, and his shade has departed, waiting to ascend when he is deified. Rome will never see the like of him again, and I will miss my husband for the rest of my days.

  ‘But Rome is fortunate. My husband clearly decreed that Rome will be ruled jointly by his two sons, Geta and Antoninus. The chaos of the civil wars is not to be repeated, as our two Augusti reign in brotherly harmony. Rome is about to move forward, from the wondrous situation my husband has left it in, into a new Golden Age!’

  The crowd went wild. It was a good speech, Caracalla thought, as he applauded and put on his best smile. Maybe it was even true. Maybe he should try to make it true. Was it possible? He could talk to Geta at the funeral feast, see if they could find a way forward together.

  Geta leant across to him, still clapping.

  ‘I have given orders for the palace to be partitioned. The interconnecting passages are being bricked up. My mother will have the central portion. I will take the north wing and you can have the south. We will not need to talk to each other unless on official business.’

  Geta walked forward and placed an arm around Domna, and saluted the cheering crowds. Caracalla kept his smile plastered to his face and stepped forward to do the same.

  * * *

  Caracalla had his elbow on the arm of his throne, and his head was resting on his hand. Oclatinius stood to his right side, and apart from the two Arcani, the room was otherwise empty. Two tough-looking Praetorians stood on the other side of the door, forbidding entrance to anyone except by the express pe
rmission of the Emperor. Silus and Daya stood at attention in front of Caracalla and waited.

  Daya was breathing slowly and calmly, her nostrils flaring and a gentle movement of her chest the only indication that she wasn’t actually a statue. Silus’ heart was racing, and he felt as though he couldn’t get enough air into his chest, but every time he took a deep breath, it seemed to him like a yawn, and he became even more terrified that Caracalla would think that he was showing boredom at the wait.

  Caracalla paid no attention though. He seemed uncharacteristically indecisive, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again and stroking his beard while looking at the two assassins uncertainly. Finally, he broke the silence and spoke.

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  Silus was the senior officer, and the full Arcanus, so it was his duty to deliver the report.

  ‘Augustus,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. ‘I can report that our mission was entirely successful.’

  It seemed that Caracalla had been holding his breath, and with Silus’ news, he let out a long sigh and his shoulders slumped.

  ‘So, it is done,’ he said, and his voice was a whisper.

  Silus looked at Oclatinius, uncertain whether he should respond. Oclatinius shook his head slightly, and Silus held his tongue. Caracalla wiped his palm across his eyes.

  ‘All of them?’ he asked.

  ‘We were able to spare the guards as instructed,’ said Silus. ‘Everyone else in the household was taken care of. The slave, the brother, the mother and the…’ Suddenly his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and tears blurred his vision. Get a fucking grip on yourself, Silus. This display of emotion could get you thrown from the Tarpeian Rock. ‘The child,’ he finished.

  After Daya had killed the little girl, Silus had been stunned and distraught. He had felt uncomfortable enough about killing the defenceless woman, but it was the Emperor’s wife, and he could do with her as he wished. But his daughter? That had been a surprise. He wondered what would have happened if Daya hadn’t coldly performed her duty. Could he have gone through with it himself?

  Daya and he had talked little about what happened that day. When Daya saw that he was angry and upset, she had tried to bring it up with him, had explained that it was just a job, and as paterfamilias, Caracalla had every legal right to order the death of his wife and child. On their trip north through Italia, Silus had slowly thawed. Intellectually, he knew that Daya was right, and that in fact they had had no choice but to carry out their orders, but as a man who had lost his wife and daughter to violence, it felt like Silus had done violence on himself.

  By the time they reached Rome, riding all day together, sharing their food, and sleeping next to each other, Silus had put it behind him. He wondered if part of his shock was that it was the young woman who had done this dreadful deed. But Daya’s life had been one of brutality, as a slave and as an outlaw, and he could not expect her to behave like the sheltered daughter of a free man. They had entered Rome together shortly before the arrival of the legions and the new Emperors. They had watched the interment ceremony from the crowds, then reported to Oclatinius, who told them that Caracalla himself was keen to hear their report personally.

  Fortunately, Caracalla did not react to his hesitation, nor his careful avoidance of using the names of the murdered mother, brother and child. His eyes had unfocused, staring over Silus’ shoulder into the distance. After a moment he turned back to Silus.

  ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘Plautilla was brave, and the garotte is very quick—’

  ‘Not her,’ interjected Caracalla. ‘I don’t care about that bitch. The girl. Was it quick?’

  Silus noted the Emperor couldn’t bring himself to say his daughter’s name out loud. He opened his mouth, then glanced across at Daya.

  ‘I broke her neck, Augustus,’ said Daya matter-of-factly. ‘Her death was instantaneous.’

  Now a tear crept down Caracalla’s face. The Augustus, ruler of the civilised world, was crying?

  Silus opened his mouth, then snapped it shut when he realised how suicidally stupid speaking now could be.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Caracalla, seeing that Silus had been about to say something.

  ‘Nothing, Augustus,’ said Silus, bowing his head.

  ‘Speak your mind, spy. I command it.’

  Silus felt the blood drain to his feet, and he felt light-headed. He looked to Oclatinius, who just shook his head sadly. He should have thought of something insipid and inoffensive to say, but his thoughts had frozen, and all he could bring to mind was the question that had formed when he saw Caracalla cry.

  ‘Why did the girl have to die, Augustus?’ he blurted out.

  Daya turned to him, gaping. Even Oclatinius drew a breath.

  Caracalla’s stare felt like a dagger through the eyeball. He rose from his throne, the dark skin that could be seen around his thick beard blanched with rage. For a moment, Silus thought the burly Emperor would beat him to death with his bare hands. Then he sat back down, put his head in his hands and wept.

  For an uncomfortably long time, Daya and Silus stood at attention while their Emperor wept in front of them. When he had recovered, he fixed Daya and Silus with a stern glare each in turn.

  ‘Needless to say, if you tell anyone what you just witnessed, I will have you both tortured to death.’

  ‘Yes, Augustus,’ said Silus and Daya hastily.

  ‘The last thing I need right now is any rumours of weakness of character. The Senate and army might seize any excuse to turn against me.’

  Silus and Daya remained silent.

  ‘You asked me a question. And as someone who has done me great service, Silus, not to mention the fact of your own losses, maybe I should give you an answer.’

  ‘There is no need, Augustus,’ said Silus. ‘I spoke foolishly—’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  Silus snapped his mouth shut.

  Caracalla sighed. ‘Plautilla had to go. My father had wanted her dead, the consequence of Plautianus’ treachery. You do know that her father was my father’s cousin and one of his closest friends. And yet he tried to kill my father and take his throne.’

  Silus bowed his head in acknowledgement, not daring to speak.

  ‘Plautianus was a cruel man. He abused his rank to indulge his whim to torture boys and girls and prey on them sexually, both free and slave. My father made me marry his daughter to cement a closer relationship with Plautianus and secure his position. But truly, Plautilla was a horrible woman. She had strings of lovers – slave, low-born and nobleman – and she had a love of spending money on any lavishly expensive pretty thing that caught her eye. Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, would have wept to see an Empress behave so.’

  Oclatinius was looking sombre behind the Emperor. Caracalla looked to the old spymaster for support, and Silus thought he had never expected to see this powerful man so vulnerable.

  ‘Your Emperor speaks the truth, of course. It was my sad duty to keep the Augustus informed of the lovers that his wife kept. And sometimes, if the Augustus thought the person was particularly egregious, to do away with them.’

  ‘There were too many to make an example of all of them, and to be honest I did not care that much. Can you be a cuckold over a woman you have never had sexual intercourse with?’

  ‘Never?’ said Silus, despite his resolve to be silent. ‘But that means—’

  ‘The girl was not mine,’ confirmed Caracalla, his voice weighted with regret. ‘Listen to me, Silus. You have earned my trust, and I hope I have earned yours. My position is precarious. As long as my father lived, there was a truce between my brother and myself. Now, the gods know what the outcome will be. Maybe we can work together. Maybe only one of us will survive, and if that is the case, I fully intend to be the victor. And I will do anything necessary to achieve it.

  ‘Plautilla and her brother could have been rallying points for the disaffected. They are related to the African faction, which su
pports my brother. People like Caecilius Aemilianus and Gaius Septimius Severus Aper. For my part I have the loyalty of one of the two Praetorian prefects, Papinianus, and the urban prefect Cilo and his deputy Asper. But the young girl could have been a bargaining chip, maybe promised in marriage to give a legitimacy to a claim to Empire. What if she was betrothed to Geta? It wouldn’t be the first time an Emperor has married his niece. And would my faction’s followers remain loyal with such a claim to the throne?’

  ‘Will you please forgive me, Augustus? I should never have questioned you.’

  ‘Of course you shouldn’t have, spy. Who do you think you are?’ Caracalla’s voice had risen. Silus quailed, shrank back.

  ‘Calm yourself, Silus. I ordered you to speak. And I am not a man who is deaf to the opinions and advice of others. The senators just believe that to be the case because I don’t listen to those old fools. I prefer the counsel of men who have experience of the real world, like Oclatinius here, like you.’

  Silus bowed his head in gratitude.

  ‘I think you have had enough of your Emperor’s innermost thoughts and feelings, spy, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Augustus.’

  ‘With the political situation as it is now, I’m sure Oclatinius and myself will have need of your skills very soon. For now, Oclatinius will reward you with a cash bounty for your service. You are dismissed.’

  Silus and Daya saluted, and Oclatinius followed them out of the throne room, leaving Caracalla alone with his thoughts.

  Once they were out of earshot of the guards, Oclatinius hissed, ‘Fuck me, Silus. It’s usually Atius shooting his mouth off. I thought better of you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just… it was difficult.’

  ‘Your job is difficult. Get over it. You chose this. You had the option to go back to your shitty life on the wall, scouting in enemy territory in the cold and the rain. You chose to work for me.’