Emperor's Knife Read online

  Emperor’s Knife

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Emperor Caracalla: Does He Deserve His Reputation?

  Dio Cassius on Caracalla

  Herodian on the death of Septimius Severus and the co-reign of Geta and Caracalla

  Bibliography and Further Reading

  Acknowledgements

  The Imperial Assassin Series

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Winter 210–211 AD

  Eboracum

  On the approach to Eboracum, saddle sore, tired as a quarry slave and wanting nothing more than a large beer and a soft bed, Silus pulled up his horse and said, ‘Fuck.’

  He exchanged glances with his equally fed-up-looking companion.

  ‘Fuck,’ agreed Atius.

  Ahead of them was the north gateway of the city walls, flanked by formidable towers, the cobbled north road leading straight through the invitingly open gates to rest and healing. And before them, dressed in full uniform, armour gleaming, red cloaks spotless, were half a dozen Praetorians, blocking the road, spears bristling.

  Silus looked behind him. A hundred yards back was a carter, his plodding oxen hauling a cart laden with pottery, and a little nearer, a hunched old man, a sack of garden vegetables slung over his shoulder. Silus had to conclude that the welcoming party was for Atius and himself.

  ‘Look at the bastards,’ said Atius. ‘Bet they’ve never drawn a sword in battle. Just sit in headquarters, occasionally beating someone up when their commander orders it and the rest of the time stuffing their faces and fucking the women the real men have left behind.’

  Silus sighed.

  ‘I’m sure Menenia has had nothing to do with the Praetorians while you have been gone,’ he said.

  Atius looked somewhat mollified until Silus said, ‘How could she have time when she has had half of the Sixth Legion between her legs?’

  Atius’ brow creased and his lips drew back in a snarl.

  ‘Silus, say that one again, and I’ll spill your guts on these cobbles right now, even after everything we have been through together.’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Silus, a half-smile playing across his face. It was rare enough he found anything to smile about these days, but irritating his friend was one of his favourite pastimes. ‘You know I’m joking.’

  ‘I don’t care. Say it again and my knife will be in your belly before you can draw breath to laugh.’

  ‘Hey!’

  They both turned to face the Praetorian centurion who led the small detachment.

  ‘Are we interrupting something?’ asked the centurion in mock-politeness.

  ‘Yes,’ said Silus. ‘You are interrupting an important discussion. And you are in our way. Who the fuck are you, anyway?’

  The centurion gaped, and he puffed his chest out and straightened his back. He was obviously not used to being spoken to without huge ladles-full of respect.

  In a voice as deep and full of authority as he could make it, the centurion asked, ‘Am I addressing Gaius Sergius Silus and Lucius Atius?’

  ‘Lucius?’ said Silus. ‘You know, all this time together and I never asked you your praenomen.’

  ‘You just don’t care,’ said Atius.

  ‘Am I addressing Gaius Sergius Silus and Lucius Atius?’ roared the centurion.

  ‘You are,’ acknowledged Silus. ‘Pleased to meet you. And you are…?’

  ‘I am Pontius Calvinus, centurion of the Praetorian Guard, and you two are under arrest.’

  ‘By whose orders?’ asked Silus.

  ‘By the direct orders of the co-Emperor, Publius Septimius Geta Augustus.’

  ‘What a surprise,’ muttered Silus under his breath.

  ‘I reckon we can take them,’ said Atius in a whisper deliberately loud enough for the Praetorians to hear.

  ‘Come on,’ said Silus. ‘Let’s go with the lovely men.’

  He dismounted and surrendered his weapons, and Atius reluctantly did the same. Two Praetorians grabbed each of them and escorted them roughly into the city, not to a soft bed with a large beer, but a damp cell with a stone bench.

  They sat in the prison and stared at the walls. There was a variety of graffiti scratched into the brickwork.

  ‘Tertius buggers eunuchs.’

  ‘Verica is the best whore in Eboracum.’

  A crude picture of a phallus, with the words, ‘Handle with care,’ next to it.

  ‘Crotus shat here.’

  There was indeed a pile of faeces in the corner, filling the cell with a fetid smell.

  Silus put his head in his hands and softly said, ‘Fuck.’

  * * *

  The door to the cell flew open and four well-built Praetorians entered. Calvinus the centurion came in next.

  ‘Stand,’ he barked.

  Silus and Atius looked at each other and shrugged, then got wearily to their feet.

  ‘Gaius Sergius Silus. Lucius Atius. You are both charged with desertion and disobeying orders. You are found to be guilty of this crime. You are to be taken from here to the parade ground and stoned to death. Men, take them.’

  Before Silus could say a word, each of his arms had been taken in a firm two-handed grip by the Praetorians, and Atius and he were being dragged from the cell.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ yelled Silus at the centurion’s back as he marched in front of them, but Calvinus continued to stride forwards.

  ‘This is bullshit!’ cried Atius.

  ‘Fetch Oclatinius,’ demanded Silus. ‘He’ll vouch for us.’

  The guards exchanged worried glances at the mention of the old man’s name, but Calvinus did not turn, and continued his march to the exercise ground beyond the city walls. Arrayed in one line were a dozen Praetorian Guards, immaculately turned out as always. Before them was a pile of fist-sized rocks. Two posts had been sunk into the ground. Silus and Atius were dragged to them and their hands were tied behind them on the other side of the solid wood. All their humour had vanished like a puff of smoke.

  The reality of the danger hit Silus like a blow to the gut. ‘Wait,’ he cried. ‘I demand a hearing with my commanding officer. We were acting on the orders of the Emperor himself!’

  ‘Gag them,’ ordered Calvinus, and strips of cloth were forced into their mouths and tied behind their heads.

  Silus struggled and roared, but his words were muffled. Atius looked over at him with a helpless look in his eyes. Could this really be the end, after everything they had been through? The battles, the fights, the torture, and the escape from imprisonment and near-execution. To die at the hands of their own side, purely for doing their duty. It was so unfair as to be laughable.

  ‘Take a stone each,’ ordered Calvinus.

  The guardsmen reached down and each picked up a rock. Some hefted them thoughtfully, some smiled sadistically, some looked sombre.

  Silus’ eyes darted back and forth, looking for an escape, a saviour. His heart raced and a cold sweat dripped down his brow.

  ‘First two, throw!’

  Two guardsmen stepped forward and hurled a stone each at Silus and Atius
from a distance of ten yards. The missile headed towards Silus’ head, but he ducked, and the rock hit the wood behind him. Atius took his in the gut, letting out an oof that was muffled by his gag. Some of the guardsmen teased the fellow who had missed, and mocked Atius’ reaction. Others looked on impassively.

  Silus roared against his gag. This couldn’t be happening.

  ‘Second two, throw!’

  This time the rock hit Silus a glancing blow on his upper arm and he cried out against the cloth in his mouth. Atius took the blow in his chest. Silus heard a crack as a rib broke. Atius slumped forward, nostrils flaring as he gasped for breath.

  ‘Third two…’

  ‘Stop!’

  The voice was authoritative and brooked no argument. The Praetorians turned and stood to attention. Silus saw an old but sturdy man striding towards them. Oclatinius. Thank the gods. His knees weakened in relief.

  ‘Centurion. Explain yourself.’

  ‘Sir, you have no business to interfere—’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ roared Oclatinius.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the centurion, voice small.

  ‘Would you like to tell me again where I do and don’t have business?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then explain yourself.’

  ‘These men are deserters. They are being executed by stoning as decreed—’

  Oclatinius turned his back on the centurion and gestured to two Praetorians. ‘Cut them loose, and fetch a medicus.’

  The Praetorians hurried to obey.

  ‘But sir,’ protested the centurion. ‘I am acting on the direct orders of the Emperor.’

  Oclatinius turned back to him, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Which Emperor?’

  * * *

  Caracalla, Geta and Domna sat on thrones in the audience chamber of the palace that Septimius Severus had built for the Imperial family when he first arrived in Eboracum. Severus himself was in bed, too infirm to attend the morning of petitions that were being brought before his wife and sons.

  Caracalla found himself drifting off as the two supplicants before them argued their cases. It was some sort of dispute regarding the ownership of a runaway slave, a beautiful red-headed young British girl, who stood between the two men, head bowed and cheeks flushed. The plaintiff complained that the girl was rightfully his, but had absconded. The defendant complained that she had been captured and sold at market, and he had paid full value for her, and it wasn’t his fault if her first owner could not keep his property under control.

  Geta seemed to enjoy this sort of thing, Caracalla reflected. Maybe he liked the sense of power, the ability to give orders and see them obeyed, without having to experience the danger of the battlefield. Or was he being unfair? Their father had groomed and trained Caracalla for military leadership and glory in battle, and held Geta back, so the younger son had never had the elder’s opportunity to prove himself in arms. That was just the way it was. Caracalla, the older son, martial, powerful, loved by the troops, was the leader that the Empire deserved. And soon their father would be no more, and they would have to see if they could rule as co-Emperors, or whether there was only room on the throne for one. If it came to that, Caracalla had no intention of letting his half-brother be that one.

  Still, maybe there was hope for co-operation. If Geta could deal with administrative problems like this and leave Caracalla to the important job of defending the Empire, maybe they could make a success of being co-Emperors.

  He looked over to where Julia Domna sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, head tilted to one side to demonstrate her attention. Fifty years old. How did she remain so beautiful, how did she keep such a hold over him? He tried to catch her eye, but she stayed focused on the case before her. She was always completely proper with him in public, and she was very wise to do so. If anyone found out about the relationship between the Emperor’s wife and her stepson, if the Emperor found out, or Geta, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. Severus would demand they both be executed for treason. Caracalla would be forced to rally his supporters. There would be civil war, again. But would his allies support him, if they found out the truth?

  No, it must remain secret. At least until his father had passed on. Even then, while any threat to his rule existed, he must not give his enemies ammunition to hurl at him. And when did an Emperor not have a threat to his rule?

  He turned his attention reluctantly back to the case, where the supplicants were summing up. Caracalla got the impression that this was about more than the monetary value of the girl. She was a beauty, and with the way they both talked about her, and looked at her, he thought there was probably a large measure of lust involved, maybe even a dusting of love.

  The men finished speaking, and there was a silence.

  ‘Brother, do you have any thoughts on how to proceed?’ asked Geta.

  Caracalla wasn’t sure he had been concentrating hard enough to come to a judgement, so he simply waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘Empress Julia?’ asked Geta. His tone towards his mother was always respectful, but often soft and loving as well, even on public occasions such as this.

  ‘It is certainly hard to choose, and I can see why both parties feel they have right on their side. Let us consult our distinguished jurists.’

  Aemilius Papinianus, the Praetorian prefect, was a Syrian and a relative of Julia Domna. He was also a noted legal scholar, and had written thirty-seven books of Quaestiones and nearly completed nineteen books of Responsa. Caracalla had read none of them, but had flicked through his work on the law on adultery, the Lex Iulia de Adulteriis Coercendis, which Caracalla had found a bit too uncomfortable.

  As Papinianus stood to speak, Caracalla thought of his own wife, Plautilla, in exile on Lipari, a tiny island just north of Sicily. The woman was an embarrassment and an impediment. He had sent her into exile some six years before when her father Plautianus was executed for treason. It had been no hard decision. The marriage had been forced on him by his father in order to strengthen his ties with the prefect of the Praetorian Guard at a time when Severus was planning to leave Rome to campaign in Africa. Although Plautilla was pretty, Caracalla despised her. She was unintelligent, profligate with his money, unfaithful and had a hugely irritating tendency to whine like a mosquito. Of course, it hadn’t helped their marriage that Caracalla was in love with Julia Domna, and it hadn’t helped Plautilla that Domna resented sharing the title of Empress with the younger, prettier woman. His estranged wife was lucky to escape with her life, but Severus had insisted that she be spared the full punishment of the sins of her father and merely exiled. Caracalla was glad she was out of his beard, but would rather she was gone from this world entirely.

  Papinianus was now arguing with his subordinate, Domitius Ulpianus, another famed lawyer. They seemed to be discussing a technical point of law which Caracalla could not follow. He couldn’t believe he was wasting his time here, when he could be practising chariot racing, or in the gymnasium, or in bed with Domna. All over a slave worth a handful of coins. Yes, the men involved in the dispute were local dignitaries of some sort, but even so, it was intolerable.

  ‘Enough,’ said Caracalla abruptly, cutting off Ulpianus in mid-declamation. All turned to look at him. ‘We have heard enough of the arguments for and against and it is clear that there is right and wrong on both sides. I therefore declare that I will purchase this slave for double the market price, which will then be split between the two supplicants here. The slave will join my personal household. Case dismissed, everyone get out.’

  The plaintiff and defendant looked confused as they bowed and shuffled out. It was a generous deal where neither lost financially or reputationally, but both were clearly upset about the loss of the pretty girl. Geta and Domna also glared at him angrily. Domna no doubt would be jealous that he had purchased the young girl, and would need some reassuring in private that he had purchased her not for his own use, but merely to end the stalemate in the case. Not th
at he wouldn’t mind taking his new slave to his bedchamber at some point.

  Geta was presumably angry about the high-handed overruling of his authority in the case. Well, he would have to get used to it when their father was no longer around.

  Geta turned to the guard at the door, and attempting to regain some control over the proceedings, said in a firm voice, ‘Next.’

  Caracalla was surprised to see Oclatinius Adventus, the spymaster, escorted into the Imperial presence. The balding, grey-haired old man walked confidently up to the thrones and bowed deep.

  ‘Oclatinius,’ said Caracalla. ‘If you need to speak to me about affairs of state, a private audience would be preferable.’

  ‘Yes, Augustus,’ said Oclatinius. ‘But a situation has arisen where I considered a mediation between yourself and your brother the co-Emperor might be of use, and I thought this could be a good forum, given the presence of you both in the company of such great legal minds.’

  Papinianus and Ulpianus inclined their heads in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  Caracalla was curious. He looked over to Geta who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Well, brother, shall we hear what Oclatinius has to say? I presume there is nothing you are hiding from me?’

  ‘Nothing of importance to trouble you with, brother Emperor,’ said Geta.

  ‘Good. Oclatinius, speak.’

  ‘Thank you, Augustus. As you all know, I have individuals working for me who sometimes use unconventional methods to achieve the goals that the Empire requires of them.’

  ‘They are called spies,’ said Geta flatly.

  ‘Yes, Augustus, and many other names besides. Exploratores, speculatores, frumentarii. Arcani.’

  The room grew quieter and colder when Oclatinius spoke this last word. The guards stood straighter and stiller. The jurists and other advisors paled. Geta leaned forward.

  ‘We do not talk about the Arcani much, do we?’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Oclatinius, ‘and with good reasons.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Geta.

  ‘They carry out their tasks on behalf of the Emperors and the Empire in secrecy. People may know who they are, but not what their mission is, or how they carry it out. The clandestine and mysterious nature of their work is part of their legend. People talk of them in whispers. No one writes of their deeds, for fear the author will receive an unwelcome visit in the night. And yet, one of my finest men languishes in a prison cell in this city.’