Emperor's Lion, page 21
Among the senators were Dio Cassius the historian, and Helvius Pertinax. Silus was aware that there was a lot of resentment from the senators towards Caracalla’s behaviour. He demanded they funded his expedition, but often treated them with contempt, summoning them and then leaving them standing outside in the heat for the entire day. Silus dreaded to think how Dio Cassius would write about Caracalla when he reached the present day in his great work of history.
The presence of the young Pertinax in Caracalla’s council always intrigued Silus. In that year in which five different emperors ruled Rome, and Septimius Severus emerged as victor, Severus never fought against Pertinax senior, only entering the race to the throne after his death. Caracalla’s father always honoured his memory, to the extent of adding his name to the extensive list of his own to become Imperator Caesar Lucius Septimius Severus Pertinax Augustus. Pertinax senior was deified and his son was made priest of his cult, theoretically able to style himself son of a god, though he was generally considered too politically astute to do something so dangerous. He was still a potential threat to Caracalla, though, and generally he was careful to offer the Emperor no cause for concern.
Which is what made what followed all the more surprising when Silus thought about it later. Maybe Pertinax thought that Caracalla was mellowing as he aged, in which case he was a naive idiot. Maybe he was aware of the rumours of conspiracies, or was even involved in one himself, and was emboldened by the thought of Caracalla’s weakness or vulnerability. Though that still made him a naive idiot. Or maybe it was just because he was drunk.
Macrinus was giving a fine performance of sycophancy, drawing subtle sneers and eye rolls from Dio Cassius, though only when he was sure Caracalla wasn’t looking his way.
‘Victory after victory, Augustus,’ Macrinus was gushing. ‘Your successes surely surpass even the genius of your father.’
Caracalla narrowed his eyes. ‘My father was a great ruler and a great general. The enemies he vanquished were many – Africans, Britons, Parthians…’
‘Romans,’ put in Pertinax.
Caracalla looked at him sharply. ‘Traitors,’ he said. ‘Men who were responsible for the death of your father. Who my father avenged.’
Pertinax raised his silver goblet in salute. ‘To the deified Emperor Severus, immortal companion of my father.’ The words were slurred, and Silus was sure that it was not only to his ears that they sounded sarcastic. Caracalla paused, then raised his own cup, and everyone else did the same, mumbling a chorus of praise to Severus’ memory.
Macrinus continued his flattery, as if the interruption had never occurred.
‘Surely you will add to your own titles now,’ he said.
‘If the Senate grants them to me, I would of course accept any honours,’ said Caracalla.
‘There are many they could vote you. You are already titled Britannicus, Arabicus, Germanicus. Surely you could also be voted Sarmaticus, Dacicus…’
‘Geticus,’ said Pertinax.
The silence that followed was so profound, Silus thought he could have heard a feather land on a lake. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Nervous eyes darted from Pertinax to Caracalla. It took Silus a moment to understand the tension. Pertinax had made a joke, referring with seeming innocence to Caracalla’s defeat of the Getae people, while implying he could also take a title for the murder of his brother Geta. As jokes went, it wasn’t bad, and was surely one of the most misjudged in history. Domna was white as marble, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. Caracalla had turned somewhere between red and purple. Pertinax’s smile at his own cleverness died as he realised the impact his jest had had. He opened his mouth to speak, but there was really nothing he could say or do short of throwing himself at Caracalla’s feet, tearing at his clothes and hair, and begging forgiveness. As a son of a god, he clearly believed that behaviour was beneath him.
Caracalla breathed heavily, mouth closed, air snorting through his nostrils like he was a bull about to charge. Everyone waited for the dam to burst.
Domna put a gentle hand on Caracalla’s forearm. ‘Augustus, I feel tired. Would you escort me to my quarters?’
Caracalla stared at her, grinding his teeth. Then he took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
‘Of course, Augusta.’ He rose to his feet, and all the guests did likewise, waiting respectfully as they left. Athaulf and Silus fell into step behind them. As Silus passed Oclatinius, they locked eyes. Oclatinius inclined his head subtly towards Pertinax, and Silus knew the spymaster well enough to receive the unspoken message. There was a dead man walking.
Chapter XI
Oclatinius’ quarters held a wooden travel chest, a bed covered in standard legionary-issued blankets, and small desk and chair. Oclatinius sat at the desk, his face lit from beneath by a flickering oil lamp, the unnatural direction of illumination and the dancing flame making him look like some evil lemur, haunting the camp, unable to find rest. Or maybe Silus just needed some sleep. His day job guarding the Emperor had been passed to those Leones nominated for the night watch, but he had to make time for his other occupation, arcanus, assassin, spy. So now, rather than tucked up under his blankets, he was perched on the edge of the bed of an old man who just happened to be one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the Empire.
‘What will happen to him?’ asked Silus. They had been discussing Pertinax’s disastrous blunder.
‘Maybe nothing,’ said Oclatinius. ‘It depends whether he messes up again. Severus did genuinely respect Pertinax’s father, I think, though he used his memory to shore up his own claim to the throne. And Caracalla honours his father, by and large. Besides, Pertinax has much sympathy and support in the Senate, and Caracalla cannot afford to treat him too rashly, however contemptuous he is of senators in general.’
‘So he could be a conspirator?’
Oclatinius considered, stroking his chin. ‘Of that, I’m not sure. He moves in circles I would consider anti-Caracalla, but whether he is an active participant…’
‘So you do know who is plotting against the Emperor?’
Oclatinius shook his head firmly. ‘Of course not. If I had evidence, don’t you think I would take it to Caracalla?’
Silus wasn’t sure he would, but he kept that to himself.
‘So who do you suspect? Dio Cassius?’
‘Again, he may be on the periphery. And he intensely dislikes Caracalla. But he is not the bravest of men, I can’t see him being a man of action.’
‘Macrinus and his followers?’
Oclatinius shuffled some papers on his desk. Silus waited.
‘You know, Macrinus is a remarkable man in many ways. He came from a very poor background, humble origins in Mauretania. Somehow he managed to scrape enough money together to get a legal education. Some say he did it by being a gladiator, some that he was a prostitute, but people always say things like that. Whatever the case, he was a competent administrator, even though he was no genius compared to the Roman-educated lawyers. He was useful to Severus, and survived the execution of his friend Plautianus through flattery, bribery and a good dose of backstabbing. Since then he has been of aid both to Severus and Caracalla, hence his promotions. He is an ambitious man, but not a bold one. So. Maybe.’
Silus sighed. Considering the extent of Oclatinius’ network of spies and informers, it was surprising he had not made more progress in discovering who was behind Marcellus’ murder and who was plotting against the Emperor. Or was it? Again he felt the uncomfortable feeling of suspicion towards a man he respected, maybe even liked.
‘And Festus?’
Even in the gloom, Silus saw a shadow pass across Oclatinius’ face.
‘Leave Festus to me,’ he said, tone leaden.
‘But I don’t trust him. There is just something about him. I’m sure he is up to his neck in it.’
‘I said leave him.’ The words snapped out like a rebuke, an uncharacteristic loss of control from the usually impassive old man.
Silus pursed his lips and a long moment of silence passed between them. He wished Atius was here. The big oaf had little subtlety, but he was far from stupid, and was always a good sounding board when it came to this kind of thing. He wondered for a moment how his closest friend was doing, whether he was bonding with Avitus, and attempting to seduce Soaemias.
Nothing more was forthcoming from Oclatinius, so Silus stood.
‘You don’t have any more to report?’ asked Oclatinius.
Silus hesitated. What was there to tell him? About the battles where Caracalla madly threw himself against the enemy? About the healing shrines, and his assault on the priest? They were nothing to do with conspiracies or assassins or plots. In fact, what evidence did he have that there was a plot against Caracalla at all? Maybe whoever wanted Marcellus dead had nothing against the Emperor. He sighed.
‘Nothing.’
Oclatinius looked at him sternly, like a schoolteacher waiting for his pupil to confess to a misdemeanour. Silus found himself involuntarily shifting from foot to foot, waiting to be dismissed.
‘Very well,’ said Oclatinius eventually. ‘Good night.’
A sense of relief washed over him as he left. There was no doubt things between Silus and Oclatinius were more strained than at any time since Oclatinius had recruited him, and he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe his own suspicions about Oclatinius’ behaviour were obvious to the canny spymaster. He seemed to have a knack of looking directly into people’s minds and souls.
Silus stomped back through the camp, giving the password absent-mindedly when challenged by a pair of patrolling guards. The conversation had felt distinctly unsatisfying, like he had eaten half a meal – he was still hungry and there was food left on his plate. He walked past his own quarters and paced around the roads between the rows of tents and the more substantial wooden structures that made up the legionary camp. What was it about Festus that made Oclatinius close down the conversation that way? It wasn’t the first time. Did Oclatinius know something about Festus? Were they in it together? Did Festus have some hold over Oclatinius? Too many questions whirled inside Silus’ head. He stopped dead, then turned and strode back towards Oclatinius accommodation, determined to have it out with him.
Oclatinius’ quarters were basically a large tent. Larger than the average legionary’s, designed for sole occupancy, not eight sweaty soldiers belching and farting all night, with a proper bed instead of a thin papyrus rolled mattress, and a desk and lamp. But still just a tent. So when Silus marched up, ready to call out and pull back the tent flap, he was halted in his tracks by the sound of two voices. The first was Oclatinius, low, patient, sad. The second wasn’t quite as familiar, and Silus took a moment to identify it. Then he realised, and his heart began to hammer in his chest.
Festus.
He crept away from the entrance, and around the side of the tent, out of sight of any passers-by, and listened.
‘This isn’t the first time I have had to warn you,’ said Oclatinius.
‘You aren’t my master,’ Festus replied.
‘Yet who is it that gets you out of trouble every time? Like that nonsense with young Avitus and his crazy mother. I still can’t understand what you were thinking!’
‘You owe me, Oclatinius.’
‘And at what point would you consider that debt repaid in full?’
‘You tell me. How could what I did for you ever be repaid?’
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Maybe you are right. But there are limits. There are some things I won’t be able to protect you from.’
‘You will. I know you take your debt seriously.’
‘Festus, I have known you a very long time. You were my very first Arcanus. We have been friends and rivals. Our bond is strong. But if you make me choose between you and the Emperor…’
‘Yes, Oclatinius. What will you decide?’
There was a long pause. Then Oclatinius said, ‘I don’t know.’
Silus couldn’t listen any longer. He wandered away from Oclatinius’ tent in a daze. Festus was the first Arcanus? Oclatinius was in his debt? Festus needed protecting from his own actions? And what was Silus supposed to do with this knowledge? Normally he would talk to Atius or Oclatinius. Atius was a thousand miles away, give or take, and Oclatinius was the problem. He could go to Athaulf, but the big German had no discernible subtlety, and Silus suspected he would either go straight to Caracalla and denounce both Oclatinius and Festus, or take matters into his own hands and slaughter the pair of them.
Silus wandered back to his own quarters, settled himself on his mattress roll, and stared at the side of the tent, sleep as far away as Atius.
* * *
The next day Silus had woken with a splitting headache. He didn’t know how long he had slept for, but he knew it wasn’t nearly enough. He had drawn a rebuke from Athaulf for his slovenly appearance when he reported for duty. Now he rode in Caracalla’s guard, each thud of the horse’s hooves on the road shuddering through him and making him wince. The Emperor was a dozen yards ahead, with Athaulf by his side. Maximinus Thrax rode beside Silus. Silus was relieved that Thrax didn’t try to engage him in conversation, but when the column took a break, and they dismounted to pass horses to the grooms for water and food, Thrax approached Silus.
‘Why do you look like shit, then?’ asked the huge barbarian.
‘None of your fucking business,’ Silus spat back.
‘Out whoring till dawn, no doubt.’
Silus gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the irritant.
‘You’re a disgrace. What are you even doing in the Leones? You are small and weak. You look a mess. And you are a Briton. You don’t belong here.’
‘And you do? A Carpi? I bet you’re a spy anyway. A traitor, planted by the barbarians, ready to strike when the time…’
He didn’t finish his sentence as the giant barbarian barrelled into him. Silus was knocked off his feet to land on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Thrax straddled him, drew back a fist like a mallet and punched down with all his weight. Silus saw the blow coming, and twisted desperately to one side. The impact of the blow on the sun-baked dirt sent up clouds of dust and he felt the shock reverberate through his body.
Silus wriggled and bucked. The weight of Thrax was crushing him, and he couldn’t force air into his lungs. Panic rose within, the sensation of suffocation threatening to drive out reason. He fought it down, and as Thrax prepared another mighty punch, Silus struck with stiff fingers into the giant’s throat. For an ordinary man, the strike might have been fatal. But Silus’ fingertips struck solid neck muscle, which cushioned the force. Thrax grunted, sat back. Silus took the opportunity to heave the huge bulk off him and rolled away, sucking air down in deep gulps on hands and knees.
Thrax slowly got to his feet and advanced on Silus, great fists balled. Silus bounced up and leapt forward, jabbing Thrax on the nose and then hooking him in the ribs. Thrax didn’t seem to notice. He threw his own punch at Silus, who ducked and countered ineffectually. The fight quickly became farcical, Thrax unable to land a blow on the agile Arcanus, Silus unable to injure the giant barbarian.
It ended moments later when Athaulf stepped between them. Though he said nothing, the fury on his face cowed both the combatants. Thrax bowed his head, and walked back to his mount. Silus looked at his feet, abashed.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Athaulf said, and strode away.
* * *
Festus met the slave in a temple dedicated to Artemis in the Thracian city of Philippolis. The slave looked understandably terrified, but the shrine was empty apart from an elderly priest cleaning blood off the altar.
‘You are Acacius?’
The slave was of Greek ethnicity, though Festus knew he was from Alexandria. He swallowed and nodded.
‘Good. I have a task for you. When we reach the Hellespont, you are to seek out a ship’s carpenter by the name of Evaristus.’
‘How will I find him?’
‘I hear you are resourceful. You will work it out. When you locate him, you are to give him this.’
Festus handed a bag of coins to the young slave, whose eyes widened as he weighed them in his hand.
‘We know how much is there, we will check with Evaristus that he receives the full payment.’
Acacius nodded.
‘You will give him these instructions. Memorise them. Do not write them down.’
Acacius was a scribe for his master, one of those literate slaves that had a quality of life envied by the labourers, cleaners and prostitutes whose miserable existence kept the free people of the Empire in comfort. Festus described in detail what he required. Acacius nodded and repeated it back.
‘And you understand what will happen if you fail?’
Acacius hesitated. Festus spoke slowly and clearly, as if he was talking to a child.
‘Your father and mother who sold you into slavery to pay their debts are dead, Acacius. But you have a brother. A little older than you. He lives free as a papyrus maker in Alexandria. He has a wife and daughter. The little girl is what, five years old now?’
‘How do you know so much about me?’ gasped Acacius.
Festus ignored the question and continued.
‘Your life as a slave is not a bad one. You have food and lodgings. No physical labour. I am informed your master is kind and never beats you. There are far worse lots for a slave. The farms in Sicily. The silver mines in Hispania. The brothels in the Subura. Fail me, and not only will you end up there, but so will your brother and his family.’
‘You can’t! They are free. They have been Roman citizens since Caracalla’s decree…’
