‘At what cost? To what end? So he can try to kill me again?’
‘Do we know for sure that Geta was responsible for this outrage?’ asked Papinianus. ‘Without wishing to cause offence, Augustus, there are numerous people who might wish you dead. Just by virtue of your position. Maybe adherents of Geta, acting without his knowledge. Or maybe someone else with their own agenda. Maybe even a supporter of the Greens. An admirer of Euprepes…’
Caracalla looked to Oclatinius. ‘Well?’
‘My intelligence is solid, Augustus. The order came from Geta himself.’
‘Then can anyone here tell me why I should spare him?’
His Medusa-like gaze swept the three standing before him. Oclatinius’ expression was inscrutable. Papinianus looked grim, while Domna was clearly distraught. She stepped forward and put a hand lightly on his forearm.
‘I went to see him last night, Antoninus.’
Caracalla’s face darkened even further. ‘You did what?’
‘I had to. This will end with one of you dead, and I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I’ve tried, Julia,’ he said, voice softening marginally. ‘You know I have. But how can I let this pass?’
‘Listen to me. He has agreed to a peace conference.’
‘A what?’
‘I talked to him. Made him see that it doesn’t have to be this way. He is proud, Antoninus, like you. He hates the idea of being second best for the rest of his life. Yes, you are co-Emperors, but he knows that you are the older, the one the military look up to, and let’s face it, you are the more forceful of the two of you. You are the one most likely to get your way. If you could find a way to rule together, with both of you retaining your auctoritas, your dignitas and gravitas…’
‘There is no such way. I am the senior Augustus, and he should defer to me.’
‘But if you made some show of compromise. This could be a turning point. If you just talk to each other. After all, you are brothers. You have a bond of blood. You should be able to trust each other.’
‘Oclatinius, how easy would it be to assassinate Geta?’
‘Give the order and he will be dead before sundown, Augustus.’
‘No, please,’ gasped Domna.
‘Papinianus. Your opinion?’
Papinianus hesitated, pressed his palms together and touched his forefingers to his lips as he considered. ‘Augustus,’ he said slowly. ‘You have been grievously wronged. You have every right to anger, every right to wish for justice and retribution. But it is my duty to counsel you, paying regard to two imperatives – your well-being, and the well-being of Rome. And it may be that in this regard those two imperatives are aligned.’
Caracalla frowned, but indicated that he should continue.
Papinianus gathered his thoughts, then spoke again. ‘Rome faces unprecedented challenges at this time. There is pressure on its borders like never before. Subduing the north of Britannia took three years and the attention of three Augusti. Meanwhile the Alemanni and other Germanic tribes are restless. The civil war in Parthia has destabilised Armenia and the region may require intervention in strength in the near future. Yet our manpower has never fully recovered from the Plague of Galen that ended three decades ago, and our economy is feeling the strain of funding the military we need to keep the Empire safe. We can only devalue the currency for so long before it starts to have a serious effect.’
‘I am fully aware of the threats the Empire faces, Papinianus. That is why it needs a strong leader in sole charge.’
‘What if the job is too much for any one man?’ He held up a placating hand as Caracalla opened his mouth in anger. ‘Hear me out, please, Augustus. Who would not acknowledge Marcus Aurelius as one of our greatest ever Emperors? And yet he ruled the Empire with his brother Lucius Verus, dividing responsibility so they could together face down threats such as the plague and the Marcomanni and Quadi invasions. Maybe Rome would benefit from two strong leaders, to face its challenges and bring it even further glory. And if Geta ruled in Rome, you could concentrate on the military, which is your main interest and your main strength. Let Geta worry about grain supplies and the economy while you bring Rome victory against the barbarians.’
Caracalla looked uncertain. ‘We talked about dividing the Empire before. The Augusta persuaded us against it, and it has brought us to this moment.’ He gave Domna a reproachful glare, and she flushed and looked down.
‘I am not proposing to divide the rule of the Empire geographically, but in terms of spheres of responsibility.’
‘Would Geta accept this? Would he allow me this degree of glory? Wouldn’t he fear that I would ultimately eclipse him?’
‘It would be better than he has now, if you were to acknowledge him as fully your equal, and swear an oath to rule in harmony with him.’
Caracalla looked up, as his mind raced with possibilities. Though his personal sense of outrage demanded justice and revenge, Papinianus spoke sense. He had no real interest in the minutiae of rule. He was desperate to be away with the legions, emulating his hero Alexander, expanding the borders and defeating the barbarians. But there was a risk to being absent from Rome – that a usurper might try to seize power. Having his brother ruling in the city should prevent that. If only he could trust him.
‘Please, Antoninus,’ said Domna. ‘Meet him. Hear what he has to say.’
‘I don’t know.’ Caracalla was torn, the pride in his heart warring with the sense in his head.
‘There is another issue, Augustus, if I may,’ said Oclatinius.
‘What is it?’
‘The loyalty of the Praetorians.’
Caracalla scowled, then glared at Papinianus.
‘Is it suspect?’
‘No, Augustus,’ protested Papinianus.
‘Yes, Augustus,’ said Oclatinius.
‘You dare question my allegiance to the Emperor?’
‘Not you, prefect. The men themselves. They know there is conflict between you and your brother. They don’t like it. And while they respect you most for your military prowess and your willingness to share their hardships, they have a love for your brother based on his youth and his close resemblance to your father, whom they adored. And of course, Papinianus’ co-prefect Laetus is questionable, to say the least.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Caracalla.
‘If it came to open conflict between yourself and your brother, I could not guarantee which side the Praetorians would choose.’
‘And if Geta was dead?’
‘Then I couldn’t guarantee that they would follow you.’
Caracalla stared at him. ‘But… the men love me!’
‘They do, Augustus. But perhaps it is prudent not to test the depth of their love.’
Caracalla slumped back into his throne, shaking his head. ‘If we had reached the end of all possibility of compromise, I would test their love to destruction. But I can’t take the final step without one last chance at reconciliation. I must try just one more time to follow father’s last advice to Geta and myself.’
‘“Live with each other in harmony. Enrich the soldiers. And damn the rest,”’ quoted Domna.
Caracalla nodded. ‘What does he propose?’
‘A family meeting. Just you, me and him. No guards. No attendants. No weapons. No voices to whisper in your ears, to manipulate or provoke. Just the wife and sons of Severus, in a room alone.’
‘Are you serious? When he has tried to kill me? How do I know it isn’t another plot against my life, luring me into a trap?’
‘He wouldn’t use me like that,’ said Domna with certainty. ‘He loves and respects me too much. I believe this is a genuine offer. One last chance to avoid bloodshed and have peace.’
Caracalla hesitated, his brow creased with deep furrows as his mistrust of his brother warred with his affection for his stepmother.
‘Please, Antoninus. For me.’
Caracalla shook his head. Achilles had his heel. He had Domna.
> ‘Very well. Tell him I agree.’
* * *
Silus shuffled disconsolately down the alleyway. He kicked at a chicken that got too close while on its hunt for worms in the gutter muck, and it squawked and leapt into the air with a flutter of wings and flurry of feathers. It landed a few feet away and looked at him reproachfully before continuing to peck in the dirt.
He was trapped now. If what he had done was to mean anything – killing Daya, defying Caracalla – then he had to follow through and be the Emperor’s loyal servant, or Tituria would suffer for it. And how many others would die at his hand to keep Tituria safe? He needed to harden his heart, turn himself into a monster, to protect this girl that he hardly knew, but had decided to care about. Whom he had promised to visit, as though she was a favoured niece that he would pop over to see for a vacation.
It was just past dusk, and the wheeled vehicles were once more allowed into the city. He stepped aside and breathed in to allow a donkey cart laden with grain, almost as wide as the alley, to squeeze past. He was on his way to meet Atius. They were reconciled, but their relationship was strained now. Both of them had done things the other found hard to forgive – Silus in killing Daya, Atius in betraying Silus. They hoped that gambling and drinking would help put it behind them. It hadn’t yet, but they kept trying.
Suddenly everything went dark, and his face was covered with linen material that made it hard to breathe. He reached up instinctively to clear his vision, but his wrists were grasped by strong hands and pulled behind him. Rags were stuffed into his mouth through the material, making him gag. His nostrils flared as he struggled to breathe through his nose, partially blocked by the linen, and panic rose in him. He started to flail, but a kick to the back of his knees sent him stumbling to the ground. In moments, his ankles were tied too. He felt himself lifted, then tossed onto the back of a cart. He found he was rolling from side to side as someone yelled for the mule or ox pulling the cart to get moving. He wriggled, flapping like a fresh-caught fish in the bottom of a boat, until someone punched him in the side of the face and told him to stay still.
The journey wasn’t long, and he lay quiescent as his mind raced. Had Caracalla changed his mind? Surely not. The deal was favourable to the Emperor. He was in no danger if he stuck to the terms, but he could be if something happened to Silus. At least, Silus was fairly sure he had convinced Caracalla of that. The reality was that if Silus died, Apicula would probably stay hidden, and the tablet would never surface. And even if he was well, he actually had no idea where Apicula had disappeared to.
But if it wasn’t Caracalla, who could it be? Random muggers? A fan of Euprepes, a Green?
The cart trundled uphill, and Silus had a vague sense that they were ascending the Palatine, but neither his sense of direction while blindfolded nor his mental map of Rome were sufficient for him to be more precise. They arrived at their destination, and Silus was hoisted off the back of the cart and carried like a dead body, someone with hands under his shoulders, someone holding his ankles. He considered struggling or shouting, but decided it would only earn him punishment, with no realistic chance of reward, so he stayed compliant and allowed himself to be taken inside a building.
Once he was off the streets, his ankles were untied and he was allowed to stand on his own two feet. He was propelled forwards with shoves in his back down several long corridors, and two flights of stairs, bumping his face or shoulders painfully into walls as he went, until he heard a heavy door opening, and was dragged into a room. His hands were untied, then manacles were clamped around his wrists. He tugged on them, and found that he was chained to the wall behind him. Then the linen bag was pulled from his head and he found himself staring into the olive-skinned face of Bek.
‘You?’ said Silus. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
‘That’s what your friends asked,’ laughed Bek.
Silus looked around him. To his left was Atius, and to his right was Oclatinius, both of them similarly manacled to the wall. Oclatinius looked stony-faced. Atius gave a half-smile and an apologetic shrug. Two men with no uniforms but with long knives at their belts stood behind Bek, one tall and skinny with a pox-scarred face, the other shorter and wider with a patchy beard.
‘There goes your hope of rescue, eh?’ Bek laughed and left the room, and the two guards followed him, slamming the door shut and barring it behind them.
Silus turned to his commander and his friend, incredulous.
‘Jupiter. What is this?’
‘We have been captured, Silus,’ said Oclatinius simply. ‘By adherents of the Emperor Geta.’
‘How? Why?’
‘For the how, I was snatched from the bathhouse, naked and unarmed, in the middle of a rather therapeutic massage. Whereas young Atius here was snatched, naked and unarmed, from a whorehouse in the Subura. As for the why, I expect we will find out more soon.’
‘But you must know, Oclatinius. You know everything that happens in the city.’
‘I like to give that appearance, yes. And I have my suspicions. It might help you to know that two nights ago, Geta made an attempt on the Emperor Caracalla’s life. And that tomorrow, there is due to be a peace conference between the two of them, hosted by the Empress.’
‘Then why take this action? Why now?’
‘Patience, Silus. I’m sure it will all become apparent. Now I suggest you get some rest and gather your strength. I have a feeling that we have something of an ordeal to face.’
* * *
As Silus had become accustomed to, Oclatinius was right. They were woken in the night by the door banging wide open. Their cell was windowless, and when the door had closed the only light filtered through cracks in the planks and under the gap between the door and tiled floor. Opening the door seemed to flood the cell with the light of oil lamps from the hallway beyond, making him blink, though in reality it was not bright. Bek walked in with the two guards and, without preamble, walked up to Silus and punched him in the gut. The guards followed suit, as the tall, pox-scarred one made a beeline for Oclatinius, and the shorter taking Atius, immediately laying about them with punches and kicks to the head and body.
After a few moments of beatings carried out wordlessly, their three captors left and the door slammed shut. The room held only the noise of their wheezy breathing, and groans.
Silus spat a bloody gob onto the floor. One tooth felt loose, but he couldn’t reach his mouth with his chained hands to check. ‘What the fuck was that about?’
‘Just softening us up,’ said Oclatinius. ‘The questions will come.’
‘I hope they are on a subject I know something about, like beer or girls. If they ask me about Greek plays, I’m screwed.’ Atius’ words were slurred, spoken through a thick lip, and Silus wondered why Oclatinius wasn’t showing more signs of pain and injury. But then, he was a tough old bastard.
Silus realised he was going to need a piss before the night was out, and decided he might as well get on with it. He certainly didn’t want to be beaten with a full bladder. Not only would it hurt, but there was a risk the wrong blow could rupture it, with fatal consequences. He opened his legs to avoid soiling his tunic and let the stream go. It pooled at his feet, then trickled down the slight incline of the floor towards Atius.
His friend yelped when the tepid liquid touched his toes. ‘Silus, you little shit, when I get out of here, I’m going to piss all over you.’
‘Atius,’ said Oclatinius wearily. ‘You would be better working out how we get out of this, rather than planning your celebrations.’
Silus chuckled despite himself. His mind went back to another time in captivity, in the depths of Caledonia, with Atius and their old commander. It was a strange contrast. Back then he was held by enemy barbarians who wished to sacrifice him to their gods in the middle of hostile territory. Now he was being held by Romans, in the middle of the capital of the Empire, and the gods knew why, although it was something to do with the complex politics of Rome. His position was
no less hopeless than when he was captive in Caledonia, and yet the presence of Oclatinius was strangely reassuring. The man always had something up his sleeve.
At that moment, though, shackled and imprisoned with his only allies in the city, he couldn’t see what that could be.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘In a holding cell in one of the vigiles stations,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Where the guards are used to the prisoners screaming and shouting for help.’
Atius started to sing a song about Christos and his disciples. Silus closed his eyes and tuned it out.
* * *
They were beaten twice more, with no questioning, no commentary. Just blows that crunched and smacked and bruised, and left them panting and moaning and bleeding. Time passed, but it was impossible to tell how much.
The next time the door opened, Silus braced himself for more, while wondering how much he could take. If they moved on to serious torture rather than just beating, with flame or knife or hammer, he thought he would break, although at that moment he had no indication what he could offer them to make it stop.
But this time, Bek and the two guards were accompanied by another man. Silus squinted at him in the dim light, through swollen eyelids.
‘Augustus,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I’m sorry not to be able to greet you more formally.’
‘There’s no need, Oclatinius,’ said Geta. ‘I’m sorry you find yourself in such a predicament.’
‘Your sympathy is appreciated, Augustus, though I’m not sure how or why I have found myself in this situation.’
‘I suspect that will all become clear. But in the meantime, I would like the answers to some questions, if you would be so kind.’
‘I will assist as best I can, Augustus, as will my men here.’
‘Excellent. That will prevent the need for unpleasantness. Or at least, unnecessarily drawn-out unpleasantness.’
‘Why don’t you just say what you mean?’ Silus was tired, hurting, and moving beyond fear to anger. He felt no great love towards Caracalla at this time, but this man, Caracalla’s brother, had been a stone in his boot from the first time he met him. From the time he had arranged the release of Maglorix, the murderer of Silus’ family, for some political prisoner exchange, to their arrest on returning from their last mission in Caledonia, to his situation now, Silus’ allegiance to Caracalla had put him at odds with Geta. ‘What is this unpleasantness shit? You are talking about torturing and killing. Be a man and stop hiding behind weaselly words.’
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