Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves

by Luke Devenish

  At midday the prison was emptied and the briefly jubilant inmates were told to kill each other in the square. The last man standing would win his freedom and those who quailed would be set aside for baiting bears. Antioch was enjoyably distracted by such impromptu entertainment.

  In the commandeered palace of the High Priest of Elagabal, every last servant was instructed to discard their tasks and attend the festivities. The household guards were re-employed to marshal the crowds. Syrian administrative staff, clients and even taxation officials found themselves barred at the palace gates without explanation. All were ordered to attend the games. A clerk who voiced his suspicion that something serious was being hidden from the city’s gaze was stabbed in an alleyway.

  In the dim and chilly halls of the private suites there were no outsiders left to overhear Germanicus’s agony.

  Wracked by hours of it, he could no longer lie in his couch. The wringing of his innards was endurable only if he crawled on the floor, doubled over. The pain advanced its assault on him in waves. In Germanicus’s mind it was an invading force of barbarians. It was the Teutoberg clans rubbing their victory like salt into his secret inner wounds.

  A twist in his guts was so severe that he struck his head on the floor to displace it until the petrified Agrippina snatched his skull from ruin and cradled him in her lap.

  ‘What has happened to you?’ she sobbed. ‘What is causing this?’

  Little Boots held a cloth to his father’s brow, dry-eyed and staring. Germanicus could barely answer. ‘It is deep inside me. My bowel, my guts are ringed with wire.’

  ‘You will endure it,’ his wife vowed. ‘You will triumph. Nothing can defeat you.’

  ‘The lowest cur can defeat me. I’m nothing.’

  ‘It’s the pain talking. Fight it, please, Germanicus.’

  But a fierce new knot tied up his belly and made his whole body flush white. His heels jerked and kicked Little Boots to the side, then beat out in spasm on the floor. Agrippina clutched him as his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets and he tore at his tunica.

  ‘Help him, Gaius …’

  Little Boots flew to his father’s feet and clung to them, begging the gods for a stop to the convulsions. He meant it. He was terrified. Germanicus gnashed and chewed his own lips, spitting blood and froth and stench. Agrippina shoved her palm in his mouth and he drove his teeth into it like bread.

  Little Boots screamed to Jupiter to end his father’s pain as Germanicus bucked like a man possessed and called the father of heaven a cunt. Then his guts grew a horn so sharp that it pierced through his anus and shot out a shower of shit.

  Germanicus fell limp, his breathing deep and slow, his forehead bone-dry.

  Drenched in his filth, Agrippina wrapped her legs around his loins, her hands to his chest, and her lips to his.

  The whisper of his voice was from the lowest depths of Hades. ‘I’m poisoned.’

  She kissed him tenderly. Then her heart chilled with a hatred that would blind her to everything else but vengeance for the rest of her days. She knew by whose hand this could only have been done.

  Tiberius.

  She was wrong, of course.

  *

  The four public slaves whom Piso kicked from their pallets at dawn knew the withdrawal of a cowardly dog when they saw it; the Legate was fleeing. Forced to carry the rented litter that concealed his ugly wife, they did little to stop themselves skidding and tumbling on the sharp gravel at the approach to the river port, before finally upending Plancina in the dust. With his wife shrieking in his ear, Piso beat the slaves with a rod he’d purloined from a palace lictor, ordering onlookers to pick up the few items of luggage. But the beaten slaves rebelled and fled into the crowd.

  Dock labourers, sailors and whores good-naturedly decried the outrage, but no-one stopped the slaves – or helped Plancina to her feet. Piso didn’t give chase; he wished only that he could flee too. Fortune’s wheel had turned against them and it would not be turning back. He didn’t know how it had happened or why, but he knew that Antioch wanted a scapegoat and that it would shortly look to him.

  The Legate of Syria and his good lady wife attempted to smile at the hostile rabble smiling back at them. ‘You,’ Piso commanded one group, ‘assist the Lady into her litter and take up the positions vacated by the slaves.’

  There was no worded response, only laughter.

  ‘There’ll be coin in it for you,’ called Piso to the wider mob. ‘And coin for all those who assist in our passage.’

  ‘You’re Piso, aren’t you?’ said one of them, his accent Roman. ‘And you – you’re his bitch.’

  Plancina screamed at the insult. ‘Give me your insolent tongue, so I can cut it off.’

  But Piso clapped his hand on her mouth. ‘We are making a prudent departure, beloved,’ he hissed. ‘As private citizens only. Tourists. All wrongs here will be righted once we make the safety of a ship.’

  Plancina burned the faces of the mass into her memory as Piso readdressed the mob. ‘You are mistaken, I am not the noble Legate, merely a man at the end of a pleasant week’s sightseeing in your fair city …’

  ‘He’s Piso,’ called the man with the Roman accent. ‘Look at his toga.’

  ‘I’ve seen him tossing off in the square like he owns the place,’ echoed another man, also Roman.

  ‘And I’ve seen the Lady boiling frogs in a pot and calling it breakfast.’

  The mob guffawed – until Piso viciously took his lictor’s rod to the first joker and then forced himself into the throng, pulling Plancina behind him, his smile chiselled and rigid as if nothing was untoward at all.

  ‘Make way. My wife and I must reach our ship for departure.’

  But the violence turned the mood sour and the beaten man screamed through bloodied lips: ‘What’s happened to Germanicus, Piso? What have you done to him?’

  Piso blanched. ‘I am not Piso. I am a private citizen. You are mistaken.’

  ‘What’s happened to Germanicus? Why is he ill?’

  Piso couldn’t reach the man to hit him again and was wary of striking others now. ‘I know nothing of Germanicus’s wellbeing. He is not of my acquaintance.’

  ‘She poisoned him! She did it! Your bitch.’

  Plancina retched in anxiety. ‘My jewel box, Piso, for the gods’ sake. Is it secured?’

  Piso turned to see luggage vanishing into the surging mass, but he spotted the jewel box still unnoticed beneath the litter and snatched it up before it caught the mob’s focus. ‘A coin for all those who show us the kindness and hospitality for which Antioch is so famous,’ he declared.

  ‘I’ll take your coin, Private Citizen,’ said a smirking Syrian, ‘as soon as you tell us what you did to Germanicus.’

  ‘What have you done to him?’

  ‘What have you done to him!’

  Piso saw sanctuary in a small group of legionaries watching the scene from a trireme at the river port’s edge. ‘Disperse this rabble and assist my party aboard,’ he ordered them.

  The legionaries knew exactly who he was and their leader answered for them: ‘Identify yourself.’

  Piso saw the insolence of the crowd reflected in the faces of Rome’s own soldiers, and the shock of it ignited his true anger at last. ‘You know who I am, and if you do not order your men to assist me aboard you’ll be flayed for it.’

  ‘A “private citizen” may not command Rome’s soldiers,’ the centurion informed him.

  The crowd loved it.

  ‘You’re in for it now, mate,’ called the Roman-accented man to the centurion. ‘This is Legate Piso you’re talking to.

  ‘Hope you don’t value your hide!’ said another. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a good flaying.’

  ‘You fools are mistaken,’ rejoined the centurion, holding Piso’s gaze. ‘No Legate of Syria would depart his province with such reduced dignity. Where are his lictors? Where are his freedmen? This man can only be a tourist. Legate Piso and his wife
are sobbing at the bedside of Germanicus, praying for a swift recovery.’

  Piso’s mouth went dry and the jewel box slipped from his grasp – caught at once by Plancina. She flung it open and held up an emerald clasp.

  ‘This will pay for your troubles,’ she screamed to the centurion. ‘And there’ll be another one of these when we’re aboard.’

  Piso snatched the clasp from her and kicked the balls of those who tried to prevent him from getting to the soldiers’ ship. The crowd jeered and pushed, but Piso’s force was turned against him by a nimble boy who stuck a skewer in his knee, sending him to the flagstones where the mob set upon him with kicks of their own. A hobnailed blow from the original Roman-accented man he’d beaten saw the emerald clasp fly from his grip. It was swallowed by the crowd like water on sand.

  Plancina took to her heels in terror, running in the opposite direction and leaving Piso to his fate. Jeering whores ran along side her baying insults, but none stopped her. She could hear her husband demanding she return but she was beyond listening. Ahead she saw descending steps that she knew would lead to boats – any boats. She would steal one and row. But at the first step she misjudged the drop and the jewel box flew from her hands and smashed on the stone, her treasure raining on the head of the lone fisherman in his boat below.

  Plancina literally rolled into his vessel, her gown torn and her head bloody. The terrified Piso was only a few seconds behind her.

  The fisherman pulled pearls and gold from his beard and looked from his sudden cargo and back to the gathering crowd at the steps. He knew that if the Legate and his wife ended up dead, the whole throng could be put to the beasts in the arena. But they were both alive, and the fisherman found his voice. ‘I’ll take you to the Styx and back for lolly like this, sweetheart.’

  Antonia’s veil was so dark that she was unable to see in the shadows. Only pools of daylight were visible through the heavy silk, and once the family had started on their slow journey through Antioch’s narrow streets, the sun disappeared behind high walls, leaving her virtually sightless.

  Nero guided her by her left hand, while her right hand rested on Drusus’s shoulder. Behind them, Drusilla walked unaided next to the small group of wet nurses and custos slaves from the childrens’ suite. The entire party had their eyes fixed upon the paving stones of the streets to provide a stark public expression of the tragedy. Deciding upon the correct manner in which to deliver the news had filled guilt-ridden Antonia’s days since Nilla’s suicide. This humble procession was, to her, the most fitting option.

  Not one of the mourners raised their gaze to look at the city before them. Silently demanding respect, they received it, even though they were unaccompanied by any men of strength who might enforce it for them. Their realisation that the bleak news had clearly reached Antioch ahead of them was slow in dawning.

  ‘Grandmother,’ Nero whispered. ‘These people already know.’

  Antonia was too lost in her darkness for his voice to register.

  ‘Grandmother – these people. They are in grief too. It’s in their faces.’

  Antonia tried to focus through her veil, just able to make out the silent figures of adults and children, watching them in silence from the streetside.

  ‘The sailors must have spread word,’ she whispered.

  ‘The sailors are still at the dock. We were first to disembark,’ said Nero.

  ‘The local augures then. They read the news in entrails.’

  A look passed between Nero and his brother – both knew this to be unlikely. ‘That must be so, Grandmother,’ said Nero respectfully.

  The party continued slowly up the hill towards the High Priest’s palace, and word spread of their procession. The observers began to swell, but no-one crowded them or blocked their path. All hung back against the walls of the shops and taverns with looks that seemed fearful – or ashamed. No-one addressed them.

  Thoughts filled both brothers equally that, as young lords of the Imperial house, they should acknowledge those who witnessed them. Nero stopped, stroking Antonia’s hand.

  ‘I must make a small speech, Grandmother. It will not take long.’

  Antonia peered through her veil again at the featureless faces. ‘Do they judge me?’ she whispered.

  ‘No, Grandmother,’ he replied, shocked that she would think this.

  ‘Look hard in their eyes – can you see their judgement?’

  ‘How would they dare judge you, Grandmother?’

  ‘For my inattention. Your sister was in my care.’ A sob cracked her throat. ‘My inattention let her kill herself.’

  Nero placed his arm around her shoulders as she wept again, and Drusus slid his around her waist. This spontaneous image of unity across generations proved too affecting for those who watched them. Antonia’s sobs became contagious and people began to weep openly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Antonia cried out, but Drusus hushed her and Nero stepped forward, placing a fist above each eye in a chironomic pose that would declaim his mourning with dignity.

  ‘I am Nero,’ he announced, ‘first son of Germanicus Julius Caesar of the Julian house.’

  A wail rose from somewhere in the crowd and built as others joined it.

  ‘I am not yet a man but I must assume a man’s responsibility today in thanking you for your love,’ cried Nero. ‘I am humbled by it, as are my grandmother and siblings – ‘

  ‘Spare this city, Nero!’ shouted a desperate voice. ‘Spare us! Beg Tiberius not to take revenge!’

  Nero was thrown. ‘I thank you for your grief,’ he continued, ‘as we make our way to my father to tell him of the tragedy – ‘

  The wails intensified – and Nero saw that some in the crowd were white with fear.

  ‘We beg you, Lord! Antioch is a friend to the Julian house! We have been betrayed from within.’

  ‘The betrayal was a slave’s,’ Nero tried to explain to them. ‘He bewitched my sister. She was not of sound mind.’

  Antonia threw back her veil, exposing the deep gauges in her face from where she had clawed her flesh in the days after the event. ‘The betrayal was mine! And your wrath must be mine too, Antioch – not my fine grandsons. I let the girl follow the slave. I let Nilla kill herself.’

  The wails didn’t cease, but there was confusion now in the faces of those standing closest.

  Nero was horrified at seeing her appearance after so many days and tried to replace her veil.

  ‘The crime is mine,’ said Antonia, pushing away his hands. ‘Germanicus’s daughter’s death is on my hands and I will throw myself on his mercy when we reach the High Priest’s palace. I will accept whatever fate Germanicus decrees.’

  A woman broke the shocked confusion of the crowd. ‘A little girl is dead?’

  ‘By my negligence,’ said Antonia. ‘Please let us continue now.’

  But the people crowded closer.

  ‘You have lost his little girl?’ asked another woman. Fresh sobs broke out. ‘What cruel news!’

  ‘How could the gods torment you like this? Your house is honorable and loved,’ cried another.

  Antonia and the children were bewildered. ‘But our news is already known by you – we can see it in your faces,’ said Nero.

  It was then that they learned that this was not the case, and they were told of the greatest loss that could have possibly befallen them – and Rome.

  Agrippina had held him so long that her arms had no more feeling. Her eyes had no tears. Beside his mother, Little Boots had not slept in more than two days. His own eyes were like scratched white marble, still as wide and staring as they’d been when he’d realised what his father’s death would be. But now they were blank and unseeing, his mind filled with Thrasyllus’s words. Agrippina’s eyes were as pointlessly closed as the shutters of a window in a house left abandoned to the hordes.

  Germanicus reached his last words.

  She kept her ear to his cracked lips, wetting them with a rag, wetting her own lips too. She was the m
irror of him now, her skin white and dry like powder, not a bead of sweat left. Their hair was haloed around them, torn from their scalps as easily as leaves from a tree. Their breath was sweet like rotten apples.

  Yet only Germanicus had eaten poison.

  ‘Promise me …’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Promise me, Agrippina …’

  ‘Anything … I will promise you the world.’

  ‘Put aside your anger. Suppress your harsh manner. Please do this for me.’

  ‘Germanicus …’

  ‘I beg you. Put it all aside. You are too hot-headed for a woman. You always were. You have a man’s passions.’

  ‘But it’s for your sake, only for your sake,’ she whispered to him. ‘I fight for you always.’

  ‘It will lead to your doom – I know that now. And it will lead to the doom of our sons. You must not fight again.’

  ‘No, Germanicus …’

  ‘Do as my mother does,’ he begged her. ‘Look to her example. Please, Agrippina. Take on a life of seclusion.’

  ‘No – no.’ She clutched him even tighter. It was the poison making him say this. It could only be. ‘I must avenge you.’

  ‘The act is done. My death has been willed.’

  ‘Willed by Tiberius – carried out by his agents.’

  ‘We don’t know that. We don’t know it at all …’

  But Agrippina renounced this.

  ‘I was Icarus,’ he tried to tell her. ‘I flew too high – higher than my rightful place in nature.’

  ‘You are of the Julian house – you place is wherever you decide it.’

  ‘I flew where I did not deserve to fly. I have received my punishment.’

  She kept her lips so close to his that the words were lost to Little Boots. ‘You deserved to be Caesar.’

  ‘I deserved a life no better than Claudius … This was not the hand of Tiberius. My father loves me. It was the gods – the poison came from their hands. You must believe this.’