‘No. I love my brother too dearly.’ He hoped Aper would not see through the lie. ‘But we will make him aware that this murder has not gone unnoticed. Make it known to that Arcanus, Silus, that his actions have been noted. Maybe it will restrain my brother’s future actions.’
Aper could not hide his look of disappointment, and Geta felt a spasm of shame.
‘If that is your wish, Augustus, I will have my man deliver a message. A literal one, rather than a metaphorical one.’
Geta inclined his head. ‘Go. I have a headache, and wish to retire.’
Aper bowed and departed from Geta’s private chamber. Geta waited until he was out of earshot, and then let out a roar of frustration which echoed off the walls and through the very real ache that was building inside his skull.
* * *
Silus sat at a table in the street outside a tavern near his apartment. Issa lay at his feet, stretched out to enjoy the late-afternoon sun. Apicula sat beside him. It did not take her long to complete her chores in the tiny accommodation – she had cleaned, scrubbed, done the laundry, brought his provisions and fed the dog. Now she sipped water and silently watched the world go by.
Silus did the same. Rome was an endlessly fascinating place, and he soaked up the street life for his personal as well as professional interest, attempting to understand the little habits of everyday life that the lifelong residents of the city took for granted, but the lack of knowledge of which might mark out a foreigner as someone out of place. He observed daily routines of shopping and washing and bathing, he noted which gods’ statues were worshipped and which could safely be neglected, and he watched the haggling over goods sold in the markets and shops and by the wandering street hawkers.
That morning he had gone for a long walk to try to familiarise himself with the local topography. Maybe it was a hopeless task, but he had felt particularly vulnerable the day before, fleeing through streets he didn’t know, and his unfamiliarity with his surroundings had nearly cost him his life.
He had had a strange feeling all morning of being watched, but it had come to nothing. He had doubled back, turned suddenly, hidden in shadows and round corners, but had never come closer to catching anyone shadowing him than a movement at the corner of his field of vision. He dismissed the thought from his mind, but couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling making his guts clench.
He picked up a date and chewed it, extracting the stone with his tongue and spitting it onto the street. His eyes fixed on a hawker carrying a bag of cooking utensils, walking slowly down the street. His hood was up, despite the fine weather, and he appeared to be making little effort to make a sale, not shouting out his goods and prices like most hawkers. Silus felt for the knife where it lay hidden beneath his tunic, reassured by its solid presence.
A hand touched his arm, and he turned, startled, to see a young boy of no more than seven years, dressed in street-grimed rags, staring at him intently.
‘Are you Silus?’ said the boy.
‘What do you want, child?’ snapped Silus.
‘Are you Silus?’
‘What if I am?’
‘I have a message.’ The boy looked up, searching his memory for the exact words. ‘“We know you killed the old man. The Emperor Geta is very unhappy. There will be a reckoning. Let your masters know.”’
A chill shot straight down Silus’ spine. He grabbed the boy’s arm. ‘Who sent you?’ he hissed.
‘Master, you’re hurting me.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know his name. He was selling stuff. He gave me the message and told me to give it to a man called Silus sitting here.’
Silus’ eyes darted around. No one was paying him any attention, everyone just going about their usual business. The hawker was no longer to be seen.
‘Master, please, can I go now?’
Silus let go of the boy. He would know nothing more. As soon as he released his grip, the boy dashed off like a frightened hare. Silus cursed.
‘What is it, master?’ asked Apicula.
‘Trouble,’ said Silus. He needed to see Oclatinius.
* * *
No expense was spared for the visit of the Emperor. Fine tapestries hung from the walls depicting scenes of famous military victories such as Zama, Alesia and Actium. The tables were draped in linen cloth with broad purple stripes. The plates and goblets were gold and silver, and the silk cushions on the couches were embroidered with pictures of exotic wild animals. Even the slaves had been dressed in expensive tunics for the boys and fashionable stolae for the girls.
The entertainment was refined. Titurius was no fan of bawdy storytellers, or sex shows, or displays of deformed individuals to mock. Instead he had paid for the best flautists, lyre players and dancers that were available, and he watched them perform with satisfaction.
As Cilo had requested, Tituria was reclining to Domna’s right, while Cilo was to Caracalla’s left, with the Augusta and the Augustus in the centre in the place of honour. Few others had been invited, just a few friends and distant relations of Titurius, Papinianus and some of Domna’s inner circle – Galen, Philostratus and Macrinus.
Titurius was familiar with Galen’s work and had even consulted him about some ailments of his own in the past. He had met Philostratus the sophist socially in the past, and didn’t really care for his preachiness and air of intellectual superiority. Macrinus was a man who he hadn’t really encountered except in passing. He knew he was an accomplished jurist, like Ulpianus and Papinianus, and had occupied some important official roles. He was also liked by Caracalla, without being part of his inner circle, at least not yet, and Cilo had suggested Titurius invite him as a friend to the Emperor, but one who was not in a position to be overly influential.
An intricate dance by a troupe of Alexandrian slave girls finished, and the dancers swept out of the triclinium. Low conversation resumed around the room. Titurius’ wife, Autronia, reclining on his right, leant forward to speak to Domna.
‘Augusta, your hair looks wonderful tonight. How long did it take your ornatrix to style you?’
‘Around two hours,’ replied the Empress. ‘It is so tedious, this fashion, isn’t it?’
Autronia had recently purchased a highly expensive ornatrix herself, specifically to copy the style of Domna’s tightly curled hair, and she patted her locks and nodded agreement. ‘The things we do to make ourselves presentable for our men, Augusta.’
Titurius fought to stop his eyes rolling. Autronia spent half of her day shopping for clothes, jewellery, make-up and perfumes, and the other half wearing it. Yes, she made herself look elegant and fashionable, but Titurius wouldn’t have cared if she wore her hair loose and unstyled, and put on no make-up. He still thought the woman he had married fifteen years earlier was beautiful, and he still loved her.
He wished he could swap places with the Empress so he could talk to the Emperor, and leave her to talk to his wife, but it would be poor etiquette. Besides, he knew that Domna could be an interesting conversationalist if he got her on the right topics, such as Greek poetry. On the other side of Caracalla, Cilo was talking, and Titurius strained his ears to filter out the discussion of make-up techniques and eyebrow plucking and hear what Cilo was saying.
‘The example of Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius is an inspiration, though, don’t you agree, Augustus?’ Cilo was saying.
Caracalla grunted noncommittally.
‘They showed that two brothers can rule the Empire for the benefit of all, with love and peace.’
‘Yes,’ said Caracalla. ‘But Verus always deferred to Aurelius. And Verus died during the Antonine plague. Who knows how their relationship would have developed if he had lived longer? And maybe striking him down with plague was the gods’ way of telling us that it is unnatural for Rome to be ruled by more than one Emperor.’
‘I don’t believe the gods would intervene in that way, Augustus,’ said Cilo.
‘Maybe we could ask a philosopher,’ said Caracalla, and wa
s about to gesture to Philostratus to join them when the next act came in. This was an actor reciting a section from Arrian’s Anabasis of Alexander, ‘The Battle of the River Granicus against Darius III’. It was common knowledge how much Caracalla admired the great Macedonian conqueror. He had even been known to go out and about dressed in ancient Macedonian style to mimic his hero – the flat kausia hat and the crepidae shoes. He shushed Cilo to silence during the performance so he could listen more attentively. Titurius silently congratulated himself on the choice, seeing how entranced Caracalla was.
When the scene had finished, Caracalla applauded loudly and everyone else joined in dutifully.
‘Now there was a ruler,’ said Caracalla admiringly. ‘A brilliant general, and none of his followers would think of opposing him, or of asking to share his rule. His half-brother was never considered as a co-Emperor.’
‘Alexander’s half-brother was weak of mind,’ said Cilo.
‘He shares that with my own half-brother,’ quipped Caracalla, and a ripple of nervous laughter circulated around the room.
‘Augustus, I must speak frankly,’ said Cilo, in a firm voice, and a hush fell over the room. It was rare to hear the Emperor spoken to in this way, even in such a small gathering of intimates. Everyone waited to hear what was to come.
Cilo took a nervous sip of his wine, and as he put the cup down, Titurius could see his hand was trembling.
‘Augustus, you are a magnificent Emperor. You are strong, powerful, a clever and energetic military leader, and a wise ruler. The Senate, the people and the army all love you.
‘But they also love your brother. He resembles your father. And he has some qualities of his own. Where you are a man of action, he is one of reflection. Where you are a man of passion, he is a man of cool judgement. Where you are brave, he is cautious. Maybe he is Fabius Maximus to your Alexander. There is a place in the world for both, you know.’
The room was completely silent now, except for the sound of Cilo’s voice, and Caracalla breathing deeply through his nose, nostrils flaring like an angry racehorse.
‘Galen would tell you that balance is everything. When there is imbalance in the humours, the body becomes ill. Galen, am I right?’
Galen inclined his head, clearly reluctant to be drawn into the larger argument but looking like he felt he was on safer ground with medical knowledge.
‘Quite right, Cilo. Health is the state in which the four humours are in balance with each other, both in strength and in quantity. If there is a marked deficiency or an excess of one of the four humours, then the body shows this as an illness. Even a minor disturbance of the balance can alter one’s temperament. So when there is a deficiency or excess in one of the humours, I try to restore the balance by correcting the level of the abnormal humour, while altering its opposing humour in the opposite direction. So if a man has a fever, he has too much yellow bile. We can counter this with treatments that increase yellow bile’s opposite, phlegm, such as cold baths, while using medicaments to decrease the yellow bile level. Similarly, we may bleed an excess of blood, or use purgatives for an excess of black bile. Take a patient I had last week—’
‘Thank you, Galen,’ said Cilo before the elderly physician could take the conversation off on an irrelevant tangent. ‘My point is that the Empire thrives on balance, just as the body does. You may think that the Empire would be better with a sole ruler who embodies the attributes of the elements of fire and air, but the world needs earth and water as well.
‘Augustus, I beg of you. Make your peace with your brother. Let balance and harmony reign, and together, you will make Rome, and each other, greater than ever before.
‘To do otherwise is to mean civil war, destruction and death, when all should be uniting to confront the enemies, internal and external, that the Empire faces.’
He stopped speaking and everyone seemed to be holding their breath, bracing themselves for a Vesuvian response from Caracalla.
The Emperor was looking down into his cup. Muscles on either side of his jaw clenched rhythmically. His face looked flushed. Domna put a calming hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off. He stood slowly, and everyone shrank back from the storm that seemed about to break.
‘I think I will retire for the night,’ said Caracalla. His voice was tight, but controlled. ‘Titurius, thank you for your hospitality, but I am weary. Have your steward escort me to my room.’
Titurius snapped his fingers hurriedly and his steward rushed forward, showing Caracalla the way to the sumptuous bedroom they had prepared.
Low murmurs started as soon as the Emperor had left the room. Titurius looked over to Cilo, who was ashen-faced, head bowed, a fine tremor noticeable from his shoulders down. Next to him, Domna’s expression was mournful. Titurius wondered if she had already resigned herself to the loss of either her son or her stepson. It was obvious that Cilo’s plea had fallen on deaf ears. There would be no reconciliation.
The next act, a professional jester, seemed wildly inappropriate as he buffooned about, tumbling, falling and making farting noises, and he left, crestfallen, without raising a single laugh. Autronia looked distraught at the way the evening had transpired, but Titurius was philosophical. He had not shared with his wife the true reason for inviting the Emperor, and he had never had high hopes that anything of value would come from the evening. Still, he was pleased he had made the effort. He felt it would ease his conscience, that he could tell himself he had tried, when the storm broke.
Domna thanked Autronia and Titurius for a wonderful evening, lying with ease and grace, and she rose to be shown to her own chambers. Titurius watched her leave, always amazed by how her beauty defied her age. He looked over to his own wife, younger, but more worn by time, smiled, and squeezed her hand.
‘Titurius, it was a disaster,’ she whispered to him.
He reached out to stroke her face, looking into her eyes with deep affection. ‘No, my love. The disaster has not yet reached us.’
* * *
Tituria was frustrated. A banquet for the Emperor, and she wasn’t invited! She hadn’t really expected to be – children hardly ever got to attend such important events, especially girls. There was some discussion as to whether Quintus should be allowed to join them, his mother arguing that it wouldn’t be long before he could don his toga virilis and be considered a man. But father was unusually resolute that he should not be there, and no pleading from mother or tantrums from Quintus would sway him. So Tituria stood no chance of being allowed to go, and she didn’t even ask.
But what was even more infuriating was how hard it was to snoop. The triclinium only had one entrance, and it was guarded by two menacing-looking Praetorians who moved her on when she tried to peer inside to catch a glimpse of the Emperor and Empress. She considered climbing onto the roof, but the domus was well-maintained as befitted a wealthy senator’s house, and she knew from previous expeditions that there were no cracks or gaps in the roof tiles through which she could spy on the party. She even considered getting into the hypocaust and hiding beneath the floor of the triclinium. The recent warm weather meant that the underfloor heating had been turned off. But she wasn’t as small as she once had been, and it would be embarrassing, or even dangerous, if she got stuck down there, as had nearly happened on her last excursion there the previous summer.
She wandered listlessly from room to room. She had her hairbrush in her hand, and idly stroked it through her hair as she walked, ever mindful of her mother’s instructions to keep her hair well-kempt. She walked into the tablinum, and saw a wax tablet on the desk. She put her hairbrush down and picked up the tablet, struggling to make out the little marks and convert them into words in her head. In the end she worked out it was some tally of supplies, and she threw it back onto the desk and wandered off disconsolately.
In the end she had to satisfy herself with sitting in the peristylium, hugging herself to stay warm in the cool summer evening air, bats swooping past with their high-pitched beeps, snat
ching moths out of the sky, with her ear pressed hard against the wall that separated the triclinium from the enclosed garden.
It was an unsatisfactory experience. When the musical acts played, she could hear little of the conversation. When everyone was talking at once, it was hard to make out individual voices. But her persistence and patience paid off when a man called Cilo started speaking. His voice sounded old and scared, but he spoke clearly. She listened as he talked about peace and harmony between the two Emperors, frowned when a more distant voice started talking about sickness, then listened intently again as Cilo continued.
When he finished, she waited for a reaction. Surely an impassioned speech like that should be answered with something similar. But she only heard a short, indistinct reply. She gave up. This was no fun. She stood, stretched and wandered back into the main house. Their domus was not a palace, but her father was extremely wealthy like most senators, and she had long ago realised from visits with her mother to other households that their own was enormous in comparison.
She decided she would sneak a look in the Emperor’s room before he retired for the night. Her mother had been lambasting the slaves all day to make sure the guest rooms for the Emperor at one end of the house and the Empress at the other end were lavishly decorated, and Tituria decided she wanted to get a quick peek at the place where the Emperor would spend the night. All the other guests would depart for their own homes. Only the Emperor and Empress had been invited to stay.
The Emperor’s guest room was down a long corridor. She eased the door open, and closed it behind her quietly. The room smelt of a delicate spicy fragrance. The walls had been freshly painted with pastoral frescoes, and hung with floor-length tapestries of colourful birds and fishes. The bed was covered in silk sheets stunningly embroidered with flowers separated by broad purple stripes. The room was lit by a number of oil lamps that sent multiple copies of her to the walls as flickering shadows. She touched the silk sheets with her fingertips in awe, inhaled the wonderful smell with a deep breath through her nostrils. She was tempted to dive onto the bed – she was sure the mattress was stuffed with the finest down – but she knew that messing up the neatly made bed would lead to unimaginable punishment from her mother.
Emperor's Knife Page 20