Tales of Ancient Rome
A collection of short stories by S.J.A. Turney
This collection is also available on the author’s website: www.sjaturney.co.uk
Published in this format 2011
Copyright - S.J.A.Turney
Smashwords Edition
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Also by the Author:
The Marius’ Mules Series:
The Marius’ Mules series follows Marcus Falerius Fronto and the officers of Caesar’s legions from 58bc onward as the great general launches his campaign to subdue and occupy Gaul. Available in paperback, kindle and other formats.
Marius’ Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)
Marius’ Mules II: The Belgae (2010)
Marius’ Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)
Tales of the Empire
Set in a world reminiscent of the crumbling and fragmented later Roman Empire, this historical fantasy series contains three interlinked standalone novels and is available in paperback, kindle and other formats.
Interregnum (2009)
Ironroot (2010)
Dark Empress (2011)
Hold The Wall
It seemed like days since they had come the first time, drifting like ghosts from the mist, death incarnate, shrouded in white. Forgais, the commander of the limitanei troops who garrisoned the milecastle, leaned back and sighed, lifting the rim of his simple iron helm and wiped away the sweat and grime.
Glancing to his left he could see Saturninus and Artorio leaning against the stonework and breathing deeply, recovering from the last push. Finn and Carro at the wall’s curve to his right completed the remaining garrison.
Just in case, he turned and scanned the interior for the hundredth hopeful time. No. Just the five of them left now. The few bodies that remained in the yard of the milecastle below had already turned grey in the cold, with no blood to warm them, their skin tone matching the frosted gravel. Twisted grins and mangled limbs, lying where they had fallen from the wall. This morning there had been nine defenders, and before nightfall last eve: sixteen. The son-of-a-whore barbarians in this forbidding northern land never seemed to let up, even at night. It had been almost two days since he’d slept and he was starting to feel far too groggy to keep control of the situation.
Twenty men down to just five in less than two days. He bit down hard on his personal suspicion that the milecastles on either side, as well as the nearest fort, Aesica Castrum, were probably suffering similar attacks at this point. No good would come of snatching away the last ounces of hope the others still clung to. He blew on his hands to warm them. At least the wall was still in Roman hands, since none of the bloodthirsty bastards had come along the parapet yet; when they did, the game would be over.
There was no hope of sending for relief; they could only wait and fight to the last and hope that it came unsought. Aesica, two miles away to the west, was out of sight in the gloomy mist. Two short miles, but it might as well be a hundred. Hell, anywhere more than twenty yards from the wall was indistinct in the white fog, and had been since the enemy first came.
Briefly, he re-considered sending a runner to try and fetch help, but quickly he discounted the possibility. They had tried that twice before over the last couple of days. Somehow some of the enemy had managed to get south of the wall and both times a runner left that gate he had been peppered with arrows before the mist even enveloped him. How many there were and where they lurked would remain a mystery, at least until the fog lifted, though there could only be few as they hadn’t made a try for the gate. With only five defenders left, none could be spared to make a try for it.
What had led to this sudden siege would also likely remain a mystery. The men who were coming out of the mist in both darkness and light were snarling maniacs, spittle on their lips and murder in their eyes. But they weren’t the blue-painted, spike-haired cannibals that people said lived to the north and would come soon for blood. These were farmers, fishermen, smiths; ordinary people, just like those to the south of the great wall of the Emperor Aelius Hadrianus. Ordinary people like Forgais had been five short years ago, down to the south in Isurium. What had driven ordinary people to this?
A blood-curdling cry sounded somewhere in the mist and was picked up and whooped by numerous other voices.
“They’re coming again, lads.”
There was a chorus of tired and fatalistic nods from the other four and they wearily hoisted their huge, round shields onto sagging arms, propping swords where they could be easily retrieved, and hefting their heavy spears. The men crossed themselves and muttered prayers to God almighty that he either spare them or grant them a swift and noble death and accept them into his kingdom afterwards. All except Carro, of course, who still refused to acknowledge the truth of the church and had alone maintained the fires in the mithraeum a couple of miles away for years. Even Carro made prayers in his own way, though. Somehow, in the face of a screaming enemy, the months of argument over the truth of the one God seemed petty.
“Carro? Best get down below and make sure the gate’s still secure. Shore it up with anything you can find. See if there’s anything left of the bunks in the barracks.”
The shorter, dark-haired man nodded, hoisting his shield and weapons and making for the staircase down.
“Finn and Saturninus: you take the corners. Artorio, you’re in the middle with me. Anyone got any plumbata left?”
The men shook their heads. The last of the heavy, iron darts had been used hours ago, but he had to be sure. The small piles of rocks and bricks they had gathered desperately this morning as additional missiles was all but depleted too. The stones they would be able to throw now were little more than pebbles; nothing but an irritation to the attackers.
He glanced over the parapet, being careful not to lean too heavily. The battlements were less than secure. The mortar was ancient and crumbling and the stones often loosely stacked atop one another. The last repair work on the wall had been done before Forgais had been born, and even that had been done by a unit of Syrian boatmen who had as much knowledge of construction and engineering as they did of weapon-smithing or property law. This was not like the ancient days when well-paid and heavily-armoured men learned a craft and fought in drilled precision to expand the borders of the Empire.
The nearest of the old legions was half a world away in Deva, and even they were poorly-paid and equipped these days, with priority given instead to the field army of the Dux Britannicus. Forgais tapped the laminated plates of his armour, an antique he had purchased at great expense in the forum at Isurium on his last visit. It really was in excellent condition given its age. Apart from Saturninus with his chain shirt, he was the only one with any kind of armour.
His wandering attention was brought sharply back to the present as a thrown axe smashed into the wall two feet below where he stood, sending shards of facing stone out into the mist and releasing a cloud of desiccated mortar that resembled the mist into which it flew.
The axe fell from the wall into the mass of twisted corpses below. How many there were could no longer be counted, as they were stacked at least three or four deep, much more in places. Twenty defenders had killed more than five or six times that number. It was something to be proud of, but somehow it still wasn’t deterring the regular assaults.
“Spears!” he bellowed as the enemy began to climb the mound of bodies in dribs and drabs. Their dead were making a very effective siege ramp. Even if the five limitanei could hold for another day, the enemy bodies would be piled so deep they could simply walk up to the parapet.
A snarling man, his beard matted with spittle and blood, threw himself against the gate of the milecastle below and the wooden door shuddered.
“Carro?”
“It’s holding” the strained reply came from below.
Suddenly a man appeared from the mist with a long spear, leaping up the mound of the dead. There was so little warning that Forgais barely ducked to the side as the nicked blade glanced off his shoulder plate, close to his cheek.
Changing his grip, he leaned against the parapet, hoping it was still strong enough, and jabbed down with his own spear. Other indistinct shapes moved behind the spearman. The mist suddenly flurried and Forgais had no idea where he was striking, but a yelp of pain confirmed his success.
An arrow zinged from the stonework close to his arm and a second buried itself with a thud in the ‘P’ of the Chi-Rho painted on his shield.
“Cover!”
A hail of arrows began as the four defenders on the wall ducked behind the stonework, their shields raised. A hundred or more arrows hissed past them, falling into the yard below and peppering the dead; others bounced from the wall below the battlements, disappearing back down into the white.
Forgais gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. He knew very well what a cloud of arrows meant. This would be perhaps the tenth time the manoeuvre had been tried in the past two days. As the last arrow fell, he stood again, dropping his shield to the walkway.
“Defend!” he bellowed, and lunged to the parapet, his spear reversed in his grasp again, the point facing down.
Below the battlements the defenders had used the cover of the arrows to rush roughly-constructed ladders to the wall and raise them. The hail of missiles had now halted to allow their own men to climb safely.
With a shout of rage, the commander leaned over the parapet and thrust down, the spear’s leaf-blade stabbing into the man climbing the ladder between his neck and shoulder and sliding deep into his chest cavity, impaling organs on its journey. The man grunted, dead before he even had time to scream, and fell into the white.
Desperately, Forgais tried to maintain his grip on the spear, but it was too tightly wedged in the falling corpse and was ripped from his grasp. Leaning over the battlement and wincing at the slight movement in the stones, he grasped the top of the ladder and thrust it back out, away from the wall.
A shout to his left attracted his attention. The curse had been in Latin. Artorio staggered back from the edge, clutching his chest. His face had that look that the commander dreaded: half surprise, half resignation.
“Sorry” was all he managed, as he toppled back from the walkway to land among his brothers in the courtyard below, a blossom of red growing on his white tunic, a flower of death.
Forgais muttered a brief prayer; all there was time for.
A face appeared at the edge, frost in the shaggy brown hair and moustache, rotten teeth bared in anger. A muscular arm hooked itself over the top as the man tried to clamber on to the parapet. Grasping the hilt of his long sword where it stood leaning against the stone, Forgais spun a full circle, picking up enough speed as he swept out with the blade to take the top half of the man’s head off.
The commander shrank back, appalled at the sight of the man’s sheared head, his brain slopping out as he toppled from the wall, his expression invisible behind the destruction of his face. He turned his face away.
Happier times they had been, back in Isurium, selling fruit and vegetables, before the army had begun calling up everyone they could. Before he was made an offer he couldn’t refuse and shipped to this border zone at the end of the Empire.
“Sir!”
He turned at the shout. Saturninus was gesturing toward the other end of the fort. In confusion, Forgais turned and looked at the south gate. Slowly, his ears caught the sound of combat out there in the mist. Shouts in Latin echoed away in the white and, miraculously, there was a heavy thump at the gate.
“Go get it open. Must be the relief!”
Grinning, Saturninus paused briefly to smash a climbing barbarian in the face with the pommel of his sword before running down the stairs and crossing the courtyard, leaping over the piles of his comrades until he reached the gate.
“Who goes there?” he yelled, though he was already unlatching the heavy bar.
“Volusianus, centurion of the Cohors Secundae Asturum at Aesica. Open up.”
With a relieved smile, Saturninus finished unbarring the gate and swung the heavy portal open. Without pause or acknowledgement, a rider trotted into the courtyard and reigned in at the centre, close to the piles of bodies, his horse prancing impatiently, four heavily-armoured men following him in and standing to attention behind him. Saturninus peered through the gate but, seeing nothing without, turned back to the visitor, frowning.
A brief glance over the wall’s edge told Forgais he had a few moments before the next push. Two bodies screamed and writhed at the wall’s foot, but nothing else stirred in the mist. Turning in to look down at the figure in the courtyard, he sighed with relief.
“Sir?” he shouted, his heart lurching. He barely allowed himself to believe it. Relief! The relief was arriving at last. They had clearly dealt with the archers outside the south gate already from the earlier sounds of combat.
“Who’s in command here?” the centurion called out, eyeing the dead before him.
“I am, sir. Forgais: commander of the Numerus Gaesatorum Raetorum. We never thought you’d arrive, sir. We’ve held. Almost to the last man, but the wall’s held, sir.”
The man’s expression hardly changed.
“You are under attack?”
Forgais squinted through the drifting mist.
“Sir? Yes. The wall holds, but not for much longer. Where are the others?”
The officer frowned, waving the question aside with a sweep of his hand.
“How many are left here?”
“Four, sir. And they’re still coming.”
As if to add weight to his words more crashes and shouts arose and Finn, at end of the wall, lunged out across the battlements with his sword. Forgais nodded at his friend and then turned back to the visitor. It was hard to feel pride in Rome when she barely knew you existed these days, but pride in duty and a job well-done was hard to take away.
“Sir?”
The centurion nodded, thoughtfully and tapped his lip.
“Well, come down from there and gather your equipment quickly. Four men is better than none, I suppose, though I was expecting the full numerus.”
It was Forgais’ turn to frown.
“Sir?” he repeated once more.
“The general Magnus Maximus had ordered the withdrawal of our forces. The prefect at Aesica sent me to fetch your unit. Be proud, commander. We travel to Rome to make an Emperor.”
“But the wall?” Forgais gestured to the small fort around him.
“Leave it for the farmers; we have higher concerns now. I shall expect you at Aesica within the hour.”
Without a further glance, the officer turned and rode back out through the south gate, his guard of four men following obediently. Forgais stood silent, his eyes wide and angry, breath frosting in the air. His gaze took in the milecastle with its twin barrack blocks, stripped of bunks yesterday to provide the timber to reinforce and bolster the north gate. The bodies of the numerus, laying where they fell, mute witness to the proud defence of… what? A wall that some Spanish ponce in a fur hat had decided was no longer important if he had a chance at the purple?
He realised the others had paused and were watching him, waiting for orders. Even as they stood silently, regarding their commander, the hail of arrows began again, the very first one taking Saturninus through the eye and plunging him over the edge to the ever-increasing pile of their fallen companions.
“What do we do?”
Forgais turned to Finn and shrugged.
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t care what the commander at Aesica says, Gratianus is my Emperor, not Magnus Maximus or any other would-be usurper. I intend to follow the orders of my emperor: hold the wall.”
The hail of arrows slowed and ended.
“Ready for the ladders, lads!”
Cries of rage, defiance and pride rang out, enveloped quickly by the shrouding mist.
Vigil
Gaius Postumus turned over in his bed, snorting and pulling the cover tight up to his throat. What a lovely dream. He knew it was a dream, for sure, but continued forcing himself to stay that little bit more sleepy, prolonging the night time images as long as possible. Half a sow turned on the spit, fat dripping down into the fire and sizzling with a delicious smell. Probably wine. Those goblets looked like wine goblets. He wondered who was holding the party, since he seemed to be the only guest. Why so many goblets and so much food just for him.
Finally, the messages from his frantic and overactive nostrils won through a passage into his gluttonous brain, and Postumus’ right eye flicked open with some difficult, the sticky sleep still trying to hold it shut.
Smoke?
His eye closed again and a satisfied smile crept across his face. Of course there would be smoke. You couldn’t roast a hog without there being some smoke. He would have to tell Safranius how delicious it was in the morning.
Safranius.
The morning.
Smoke.
The eye flicked open again.
In a fraction of a second, before even the left eye could join its fellow in wideness, Postumus was out of the bed and frantically panicking, spinning this way and that and waving his arms, achieving entirely nothing.
He stopped, trying to remember his training through the combined fug of sleep and panic. As one of the vigiles, the fire-fighters of Rome, Postumus had been trained well and trained hard for months in every aspect of his duties. It had been said, even by his mother, that his head was so thick that not even basic concepts could pass into it. Hurtful and untrue, but he had to sadly confirm that at this very point, standing in his room on the second floor of the insula that had been allocated as the headquarters of the Second century in the Fourth cohort of vigiles, he couldn’t even remember his name without concentrating really hard.
Safranius would kill him.
The heavy pall of roiling smoke was coming under the door to his room in puffs. That meant it must be coming up the stairwell.
Postumus slapped his hand over his face. Idiot. His had been the simplest duty of all, tonight. The rest of the century were absent. Half of them were asleep in their own homes, it being their week off-duty. Many of the others had been given special leave to go to the Lucaria festival. The rest would be out patrolling the streets, watching for signs of fire or for acts of criminal behaviour. Safranius would be leading the first patrol.
He would be less than happy to get back to the headquarters some time just before dawn to find it had been gutted by fire and all because the untrustworthy idiot he left in charge of the insula had started the stove in the kitchen to cook his fish supper and had come over ever so tired and gone to bed, leaving it burning.
Prat.
His days in the vigiles would almost certainly be numbered after this. Particularly given that debacle last week with the explosion at the emporium. His wages would be halved for the next thousand years to pay for the replacement pump.
Hurriedly throwing on a cloak and grateful that he’d gone to sleep wearing his tunic and breeches and not even unlacing his boots because he was so tired, he decided on his course of action. He would have to check the extent of the fire and get down to the yard. In the central courtyard that had previously been the light well for the insula, a series of large tablets on the walls bore the instructions and rules and regulations for all trainee vigiles. He would have to read them and remind himself of what to do next.
Reaching out, he grasped the door handle and pulled.
The words ‘back draft’ rose though the levels of denseness in his head a fraction of a second before the explosion of boiling fire blew the suddenly freed door into the room, knocking him flat, but miraculously protecting him from the worst of the heat.
Struggling out from under the battered portal, he peered fearfully around the room. The blast had calmed and the fire was starting to take hold on the walls and furniture in his room. Pulling himself upright, he wandered across to the large bronze mirror next to a small glowing oil lamp that seemed almost ridiculous in the circumstances.
His eyebrows had gone and his lush, curly black hair had disappeared as far back as his ears, leaving only tiny charred stumps. His face was covered in sooty grime, pink lines extending from his eyes where he had instinctively screwed them up.
He looked idiotic. But then people told him that under normal circumstances, too.
Leaning to the side, he peered out into the corridor. The formerly painted walls, white and red, with a decorative strip of something he couldn’t remember, were black, fire ripping its way along the wooden railing that surrounded the stair well. Leaning the other way, he could see the blanket of flame that filled the corridor, blocking off any chance of reaching the other stairs. Other than trying to jump down the fifteen foot drop into the light well, these stairs would have to do.
All the vigiles had practiced the jump, of course. They were supposed to be able to manage something as easy as that. It was often required in the course of duty. Postumus, with his somewhat portly figure and his apparently severed connection between mental function and the gangling muscle-free flesh he called limbs, had never managed anything but a temporarily-crippling belly-flop onto the hard floor. He had in the past year, broken one ankle, twisted another, cracked five ribs and broken his nose during training jumps. Two months ago Safranius had given up trying.
Honestly, if it weren’t for his illustrious lineage and the sizeable donations his long-suffering father made to help the vigiles, he would probably have been thrown out long ago.
Taking a deep breath and gagging on the smoke, he stepped closer to the stairs, muttering a quick and very fervent prayer to the lares and Penates of the building.
A flickering orange glow was visible through the cracks in the wooden staircase. Downstairs was already an inferno. But there was nothing else for it. He had to brave it.
Putting one foot delicately on the top step, he applied pressure and winced as it groaned and shifted underfoot. Biting his lip, he put all his weight on that leg and moved down a step. Another charred groan.
Postumus whimpered and hoped his bladder would hold under the panicked pressure.
He was just reaching out with his first leg again when a noise caught his attention.
‘Meeee-owwwwwooooo?’
“Mister Socks!”
The second step cracked as he turned hurriedly and ran back up into the corridor. Mister Socks was the station cat; a mangy, fat thing with an evil temper, one ruined eye, a perforated ear and a bad case of flatulence. Of the eighty periodical occupants of the building, the only one that treated Postumus as anything other than an unfortunate piece of furniture was Mister Socks. It wasn’t that he didn’t bite and scratch the overweight vigil; he did, and frequently, but less frequently than he bit and scratched the others.
Of course, it was Postumus that fed Mister Socks, which might go a long way to explaining it. Many of the others just kicked the station cat and would happily evict the menacing, evil creature. It was Postumus that had renamed ‘That Smelly Bastard Cat’ as Mister Socks. It was so much nicer.
Running along the corridor, he spotted the four legged terror of the station crouched in a doorway, hissing at the danger all around. Beyond, the inferno had gripped the corridor, making it impassable to man and beast alike. Through the doorway, the glow of violent orange spoke volumes. A rafter fell between the two of them, roaring with dancing flames and sealing off the cat. Even the wooden frame of the balcony above the light well on remaining wall was starting to char and fall away.
“Don’t worry Mister Socks. I’m coming.”
Carefully, he edged toward the burning beam and jumped across it, just as another fell where he had been standing but a moment before. His heart lurched. A whole insula, just for the sake of a late night snack and forty winks!
Reaching out, his face turned away from the searing heat, he reached out for Mister Socks, muttering soothing noises.
The cat turned its one baleful eye on him and leapt away, momentarily touching the charring balcony to gain leverage, and dropped to the courtyard below, landing, as expected, on its feet. Postumus leaned close to the balcony and stared down to see Mister Socks give him a superior glance, turn, display its bottom in graphic detail, and then prance away to the safety of the street.
Postumus sobbed.
Standing straight and taking in ragged breaths, the vigil nodded to himself and turned. Taking two steps carefully across the burning rafters, he felt his bowels loosen a little as a third crashed down next to him, bouncing off his foot and hurting his little toe.
A moment later, he was back at the stairs.
Carefully navigating the first, he passed over the cracked second step and winced as the third almost gave under him. He could feel the hot glow beneath him and a gust of warm air blew his tunic up around his armpits.
Pushing it back down coquettishly, he stepped as lightly as possible down the stairs to the first turning. The fire on the floor below was blazing, filling the corridors. There was no way out that did not involve passing through a wall of fire.
Taking yet another deep breath and gagging and coughing on the roiling smoke, he unfastened his cloak from around his neck and wrapped it around him as thoroughly as he could, leaving a small spy-hole to see through.
Damn that cat.
“One…”
Safranius was going to crucify him.
“Two…”
The people out in the street would be watching in amusement as the fire-watch station burned down, knowing damn well who was at the heart of the problem.
“Three!”
Lowering his head, Postumus charged into the sheet of roaring flame, his legs pumping as they scorched and seared while he ran, heedless of the pain, through the corridor, around the bend, past the well-room and its blessed water, through the courtyard, where he managed a couple of deep, cleansing breaths without slowing, and on into the far side of the building.
The main corridor ran from the light well and past rooms that had once been people’s residences, out past the shops that occupied the outer façade, looking onto the street.
Without pausing, he ran on along the corridor. The flames had not yet consumed the main entrance, but it was dark and solid with smoke.
Choking, wheezing, and stinging red from the heat, Postumus burst out into the street, the twin hills of the Palatine and Caelian rising before him, behind the insulae opposite. He stopped, heaving breaths, bent double with his hands on his knees, coughing up black dust and spitting soot onto the road.
Mister Socks appeared from nowhere and rubbed around his red raw ankles, purring affectionately.
It was then that Postumus straightened and looked about him.
Buildings flowered with blooms of flame. Roiling black columns rose from insulae along the street. Flames burst from windows and screaming citizens ran wildly in the thoroughfare, their panic infectious.
The city was afire.
But something Safranius had taught him had apparently stuck in his brain after all.
How to track the source of a fire.
Buildings were burning all the way along the street and up side alleys also. But the progression was clear. The insula of the Second century in the Fourth cohort of vigiles was the furthest gone and the epicentre of the spreading chaos.
“Gods, Postumus. What have you done?”
* * * * *
The great fire of 64 AD burned for five and a half days and levelled three quarters of the city, destroying thousands of homes and some of the grandest buildings that had stood for half a millennium. Rumour placed the cause in the hands of the Emperor Nero, who hurriedly, and very effectively, passed the blame on down to the burgeoning cult of Christians.
Gaius Postumus rose to the rank of tribune, commanding one of the cohorts of Vigiles, one of few survivors of the service during the conflagration.
Of the fate of his fish supper, history does not relate.
Lucilla
Lucilla licked her lips and rolled over, pulling the covers tighter. The room was chilly in the November night, frost forming on the garden of the villa outside her wall, the bone-cold breeze sneaking in through the shutters and lowering the room’s temperature.
Briefly she contemplated leaving the room and going to the closet to collect a spare blanket. Possibly one of the slaves would still be up and about preparing things for the morning and could get her one. Certainly if her mother or father caught her wandering around the villa’s corridors at this time of night, no amount of defensive argument over the temperature would save her from trouble.
She rolled back over again, irritation at her parents bringing her extra wakefulness and driving elusive sleep that bit further away. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents. Of course she did; they were her parents, after all. But they were sometimes a little too careful about her, instituting so many rules to keep her safe and sound that at times her safe, sound life felt more like a prison.
The few friends she’d had years ago were gone now, leaving the valley and its wealthy villas, taken to Deva where they were matched and married off. Oh, Lucilla should have been married and gone from here more than two or three years herself. She was hardly a girl anymore, anyway. At sixteen years, she should already be contemplating her own children.
But she wasn’t healthy. No man would want her, as her father told her repeatedly. Her body was too frail; too weak. She was not the bright and robust girl her friends had known when they used to play in the woods and river of the valley.
It had begun with the visit from her sister. Her father would deny that, of course, as would her mother. But then they had always denied even the very existence of her sister. Whatever Livia had done when Lucilla was still a baby had been so horrifying that they had shut her out of their life, not even speaking of her. Only one or two of the slaves spoke warmly of her when confiding in Lucilla.
She turned over again, shivering in the wind, wondering once more about getting that blanket.
Yes, it had begun with her sister; that first night about three years ago when she had found out that Livia even existed. The older girl, very reminiscent of her younger sibling, had defied their parents and crept back into the house, into Lucilla’s room. She hadn’t said anything, just stood watching with a sad smile on her face. It made Lucilla’s heart break to think of her sister being out there in the outbuildings, denied her parent’s love and the comforts of the villa. Perhaps that was why mother and father kept Lucilla so safe?
No. That was because of her frailty. But her frailty had begun then. It had, as she had said, made her heart break. Quite literally. The next morning, the robust girl was gone, leaving this pale, willowy, feeble girl with the short breath and the twitch.
Her mother had been quite distraught, and her father, calling on his veteran’s benefits, had brought the legion’s chief medicus from Deva to examine her. The surgeon had explained, after lengthy tests, that her heart was damaged. Some great shock had actually stopped it for a time, and it had resumed its beat with a problem.
The care and virtual imprisonment had begun that day. Perhaps she would have recovered in time; found herself a handsome soldier to wed, and been gone from this dreadful, grey, chilling villa, if only she had not declined in steps.
Every step, of course, coincided with the infrequent visits from her sister. Livia could only sneak into the house very rarely when it was dark and everyone but Lucilla was asleep. Perhaps twice or three times a year she came.
Every time was a wrench for Lucilla. She loved her poor, exiled sister so much and the warmth of her return filled her with a fleeting joy that soon plummeted into the icy river of sadness again as Livia, wordlessly, smiled that sad smile and returned to her freezing den in the outbuildings.
Lucilla had stopped telling her parents about Livia’s visits after the first year, as the conversation inevitable led to an argument and anger from her father, denial that Livia could have come to see her, and an extra layer of cold security being placed around their younger daughter.
But the visits still came. Livia never explained why she came or how she could live like she did, but Lucilla didn’t care. It was enough even to see her beautiful sister on those rare occasions. Even if it was rapidly dragging her toward her own demise, her weakening heart now making it dangerous for her even to leave the interior of the villa. Eventually, if she died, her sister would join her and they would be together in the beyond, living in the light of Sol Invictus.
Too cold. The temperature just appeared to be dropping all the time. It had merely been chilly earlier, but Lucilla would swear she could see ice on the shutters, reflecting the moonlight shining through the crack in the shutters. Frost seemed to be forming on her blanket.
She gave a deep sigh and sank back into her blankets, feeling the welcome pull of sleep at last.
It was then she knew that Livia was in the room. Shuddering, she sat up rigid to see the pale figure in her grey tunic, with the long, lustrous black tresses of her hair hanging low, touched and speckled with the frost.
Lucilla smiled. It had been long months since her last visit. She straightened her night tunic and raised her eyebrows questioningly. Livia never spoke, of course. She couldn’t. But Lucilla instinctively knew what her sister was wanting or trying to say.
Livia curled a beckoning finger, and Lucilla frowned. This was new. She’d never left the bed before. A surge of dangerous excitement ran through her cold, frail figure. Could Livia be taking her to show her the den where she spent her time? Gingerly, wincing at the freezing marble of the floor, Lucilla swung out her legs and climbed from the bed, swaying slightly for a moment, before she got herself under control. Her legs were so weak she had to shuffle toward the figure in the doorway, holding out her hand to the wall to steady herself.
Livia smiled that sad smile of hers, but this time, actually walking toward her, it didn’t drive Lucilla’s spirits down into that icy river of loss once more. Instead she felt the electric thrill of discovery. She would, she knew instinctively, find out about her sister this time. She had to. It felt right.
As she approached the open doorway of her room, the corridor dark beyond, Livia beckoned once more and then slipped around the corner out of sight.
A sense of urgency overtaking her, unwilling to let her sister out of her sight for fear she might lose her entirely, Lucilla let go of the wall and tottered quickly to the doorway, her feet slapping on the freezing floor.
The move was too quick for her frail body and as she reached the door jamb, dizziness overcame her and she slumped, her mind fogging with confusion and pain, her body cold and aching. It was almost half a minute before she pulled herself up, peering off around the corner, hoping her sister was still there.
And there was her room. Somehow, during her dizzy fall, she must have got turned around and confused.
There was Livia, lying on her back on the bed, her grey, thin face surrounded by lustrous black hair as she rested among the blankets and pillows. She looked so peaceful.
Lucilla smiled sadly. Best not disturb her now. She’d come back and see her soon.
The man who bought an Empire
Lamp-light glinted off the cuirass of burnished bronze with its protective medusa head, honorific scorpion emblem and winged horses and off the tip of the gladius in the man’s hand. Breath clouded in the chilly night air and condensation formed on the red-painted walls.
Titus Flavius Genialis leaned around the corner of the corridor and glanced left and right sharply before pulling back to safety.
“No one. The passage is clear, Caesar, but we must hurry.”
Behind him, the emperor Marcus Didius Julianus flattened against the wall, wild-eyed and breathing heavily. His normally intricately-combed and curled black beard hung loose and ragged, much like his hair. His normally swarthy, handsome features were strangely pale and glistening, the result of such desperate nerves. His toga was muddy and covered in dust from the many hiding places they had been forced to utilise on the way through the enormous Palatine palace complex.
“Where now, prefect?”
Genialis shrugged.
“Rome crawls with your enemies, Caesar. The circus maximus throngs with the soldiers of Severus; his agents are abroad across the forum and the Capitol. Most of the praetorian cohorts are already shouting his name. There is nowhere to go but to your chambers and prepare for death.”
The emperor stared at the commander of his praetorian guard. Behind them, Julianus’ son in law shuddered like the inveterate coward he was.
“I thought you were helping me escape!”
Genialis sighed.
“I would give my life if it would save yours, Caesar, but there is simply no escape. Rome belongs to Severus now. All that is left for you is to decide the manner of your end.”
“There is a way. There must be a way. We can leave the palace by the servants’ quarters. Make our way down the hill past the Magna Mater temple dressed as common folk and head to the docks. We can be in Ostia by dawn and then take ship to anywhere we want.”
Genialis’ lip curled. It galled him in the extreme to be laying his life on the line for such a man but, regardless of what anyone said about the praetorian guard, he had only been prefect for a month and was damned if he would be remembered for turning on his rightful emperor in a time of trouble. When it was over and Severus came, he would decide whether Genialis should live or die, but for now the rightful emperor of Rome should stand proud as the office he held demanded.
“Nero fled his palace in disguise. It gave him little extra time, and think how eternity remembers him. Come, Caesar.”
The praetorian commander ducked around the corner and ran lightly down the beautiful mosaic floor, his white cloak billowing behind him.
The ruler of the world’s greatest Empire peered nervously around the corner, reluctant to follow this man who claimed to be leading him to his end, but equally sure of the fatal nature of cowering alone in these corridors. Severus’ supporters were already in the Palatine complex somewhere and could be here at any moment.
He felt an embarrassing warm trickle and cursed his nerves.
More than thirty million sesterces he had paid the guard to secure this throne and here he was, after little more than two months under the purple, fleeing through his own palace from the rabble of a barely-literate African thug. Where had the majesty and glory of the Empire gone? Where had justice gone?
Ignoring the warm yellow pool gathering in his boot, he waved his son-in-law on with him and rounded the corner to see his praetorian prefect ahead, holding open the door to the great chamber that overlooked the circus maximus.
Running breathlessly, he pounded down the corridor in his soft, stinking leather shoes and hurtled through the door, throwing himself onto the low couch by a table covered in fruit and dining accoutrements.
“Perhaps I can appeal to them again? Severus might want to exile me? I could go and be governor of Hispania? I think I’d like Hispania. They make a lot of fish sauce there, and I like garum. Maybe I could build an estate and retire? Just grow olives or something? I could…”
He stopped rambling in shock as his guard commander gave him a stinging slap across the face.
“You are the emperor of Rome for however long you have left. Have the grace to act like it!”
Julianus stared. He hadn’t paid this man’s unit more than thirty million sesterces just to be treated like this: like a schoolboy.
“Don’t shout at me!” he burbled petulantly.
Genialis shook his head in disgust.
“I took your money and the vow to protect you. If it weren’t for that, Caesar, I would see nothing worth protecting!”
The prefect tossed his gladius into the air and caught it deftly by the blade, proffering the hilt to his master. The emperor stared at the weapon.
“No!”
“Do the honourable thing, Caesar, and I shall do what I can to protect your daughter and son-in-law. If they renounce their titles, Severus and the senate may let them live.”
Repentinus, the only recently married son-in-law of Julianus, nodded vigorously.
“Caesar, you must save your daughter!”
Again, Genialis’ lip curled in revulsion at the constant displays of cowardice and fear this family exhibited. Despite his oath to serve and protect them, he was rapidly becoming convinced that Severus, the ‘Lion of Leptis’, might just be exactly what Rome needed: a strong leader, unafraid and severe.
Marcus Didius Julianus, master of the world, hugged the couch and wept like a little girl, his nose running, mucus matting his moustache.
“Get up!” Genialis snapped at him.
The heap of toga, shuddering and whining, remained exactly where it was, the cowardly Repentinus gingerly embracing his father-in-law, ostensibly begging him to save the young princess. Genialis was in no doubt as to whose skin the young man was really interested in saving.
“Get up!” he barked again.
Reaching down, he grasped the emperor by the throat, bunching the folds of the toga in his fist and hauling the man to his feet with a grunt. The waxy, pale Julianus, tears in his red-rimmed eyes and mucus in his beard, staggered, his knees quaking, the stink of urine about him.
Genialis thrust the gladius into his unwilling hands and folded the emperor’s fingers around the hilt. Julianus stared down at the weapon and raised it hesitantly, gesturing at the prefect. Genialis sneered and simply batted it aside.
“Killing me would hardly help you, Caesar.”
“Perhaps I can appeal to the masses? To the army? I still have a fortune. They’re gathered in the circus maximus, you say? I could shower them with sesterces from here! They will hear me and they will love me and I’ll be safe and they’ll kill Severus and I’ll rule Rome and I’ll be safe forever and…”
Another ringing slap stopped him chattering. He pulled away, the sword in his hand, and started toward the balcony before stopping dead again. His son-in-law was standing on the hem of his partially-undone toga, shivering, while the praetorian prefect glared at him with barely concealed loathing, his arms folded.
“Repentinus!” he barked, but the young man remained where he was, reached toward him, gripping the blade of the gladius in the emperor’s hand and gently pulled it from his grasp.
“Yes, yes” Julianus nodded. “I won’t need that, you’re right. I can buy them off. I will buy their love.”
Repentinus nodded and turned.
Genialis’ eyes widened as the young, cowering son-in-law drove the blade deep into the praetorian officer’s side, above the cuirass and below his folded arms, pushing the hilt with a grunt and listening to the grating as the blade slid between bones and vital organs. It was a masterly blow, worthy of a soldier; an almost instant kill.
Silenced first by shock and then simply by the journey to Elysium, Titus Flavius Genialis, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, collapsed in a heap, his legs buckling beneath him as blood rushed from the mortal wound in his side. A single gasp escaped his lips. Repentinus let go of the sword hilt and helped lower the dead man to the floor with a surprising show of respect. Fumbling with his toga, the young man stood.
Julianus, his eyes still wide with shock, started to nod madly, grinning like an idiot.
“Of course. Good boy. He had to go. He would never have let me live. Now we can buy them off and I can…”
His voice tailed off as Repentinus stood again. The respectful lowering of the body and strange toga-fumbling had simply been the boy removing the prefect’s dagger from his belt. Now he brandished the leaf-shaped blade with a sad, resigned look.
“What is it, Repentinus?” the emperor squeaked.
“You see, Caesar, there is a problem. Genialis would never manage to save us. Severus will kill him for simply being in your guard, and Didia and I will follow quickly. But he was right that you simply have to die. No amount of generosity and coin will save you now. But there is still time for me to secure my future.”
Reaching out with his free hand, he grasped the emperor’s toga and bunched it in his fist in the same fashion as Genialis had done.
The emperor stared in shock and panic.
“But you’re my family!” he wailed.
“Sadly you’re no longer in mine, Caesar.”
Julianus tried to say something. His last words may have been profound and noble, though they probably weren’t. Whatever they may have been, they were inaudible as Repentinus drew the knife across his throat, watching as the blood began to gush and spray, soaking his own toga.
Letting go of his father-in-law as he fell, Repentinus ignored the thrashing as the emperor tried to hold his throat closed, making hissing, rattling sounds. Reaching down with the knife, he began the onerous task of sawing through the prefect’s neck with the razor-sharp dagger and removing the head. Moments later, treading through the blood-slick, he repeated the process on the now-expired emperor.
Letting the knife fall and grasping the heads by the hair, he walked, one in each hand, toward the balcony.
Quintus Aemilius Saturninus, loyal soldier of Septimius Severus and future prefect of the Praetorian Guard looked up. The crowds of soldiers in the circus maximus continued to shout momentarily, but the noise gradually died away as they took note of the small figure, high up in the palace window perhaps sixty or eighty feet above them, past the stands of the circus and the Imperial box.
The man was clearly wearing a toga, though it could be seen even at this distance that it was stained heavily red.
“Behold the heads” the figure repeated for the third time, now finally sure of attention in the silence, “of the traitorous renegade Marcus Didius Julianus and his chief enforcer Genialis!”
With masterly theatrics, the man hurled first one head and then the other out into the air, watching along with the gathered crowd of legionaries as the heads of the emperor and praetorian prefect struck the seating area below the window and bounced, clunked and rolled down the stands until they fell, bloody and battered, to the sand of the circus.
The guards stared down at the grisly prizes as the killer in the window bellowed once again.
“Hail and long life to the Emperor Septimius Severus, Lion of Leptis!”
A roar rose from the crowd.
And so passed Marcus Didius Julianus: the man who bought Rome.
Sold by his own kin in return for a future.
Trackside seats
Lentullus leaned to his left, closing on Citus’ ear to be heard over the general hubbub.
“Should be a good one today. Prudens is up for the greens, and you know what he’s like.”
Citus’ voice came back, deep and hoarse as always.
“He’ll have a hard race against Sura, make no mistake.”
Lentullus let out a low chuckle. According to his sources, which were, after all, quality ones, Prudens stood little chance of a loss today. His team had been carefully selected from the best steeds bred by Sarmatian trainers who knew their horses better than any man. Certainly his sources damn well should be correct, given the amount he paid them. Even if Prudens walked away with a clear victory today, Lentullus’ profits would be heavily eaten into by what he owed to various people ‘in the know’. Of course the profit he cleared would still buy him the nice new estate down near Antium he had his eye on… figuratively speaking, of course.
“Andros? Are you there?”
The slave turned to his master, grateful that the latter’s long-term total blindness prevented him from seeing the expression on the young, long-suffering Greek’s face.
“I am, master.”
“What’s happening?”
Lentullus lounged back, his hand tapping along the marble of the seat toward Citus until it closed on the cheese and grapes that rested between them on a bronze plate.
“Master… the quadriga aren’t out yet, but I can see movement in the carceres. Should be any moment now.”
“Don’t miss a thing, boy. You hear? If this goes well, I’ll perhaps take you with me to Antium for the weekend.”
Andros nodded, frowning, trying to keep the ennui and sarcasm from his voice while speaking. Lentullus was sharp enough, but his equally blind friend Citus could almost hear an eyebrow rising.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good. Now pay attention.”
Citus leaned to his friend.
“You say the boy is good?”
“Excellent. It’s almost as good as actually seeing it, though I have to admit it’s been so long I can barely remember.”
Andros leaned forward onto the rail, looking along to his left toward the starting gates. The crowd thronged the circus maximus, every stand full to capacity. He shouldn’t complain, really. How many slaves got to have trackside seats at one of the most important chariot races of the year? Glancing directly across, past the spina that ran along the centre of the circus, he could just make out the purple robe of the Emperor Domitian, himself leaning on a railing, the Praetorian Guard surrounding him and glinting in the sunlight.
No. He really shouldn’t complain. When his family had sold him eight years ago in order to have the money to keep his brothers and sisters alive after his father’s business failure and their subsequent eviction, he’d been sure the world was going to end for him. He would end up chipping marble in a quarry or fighting gladiators for the right to live another day. His father had smiled and told him he really landed on his feet with service to the ageing blind senator, while his mother cried in a corner.
Of course, his father didn’t know how strict Lentullus was. He didn’t realise that the reason the senator needed a new slave was because he’d beaten the last one to death over a petty theft. But all things considered, Lentullus wasn’t that bad. Andros had only ever been beaten twice, and both times he’d made mistakes. Now he was wise and knew how to hide his mistakes from the sightless senator. But it would be nice to be free again. He’d never experience manumission, of course, but he could still dream. There were people who could remove all traces of slave marks from you. You just needed to get far enough away and fast enough to evade the slave hunters.
But what use would escape be anyway. To be free and penniless in Rome was worse than any slavery.
He shook his head and concentrated as he heard a fanfare.
“Ah… this’ll be it” said master Citus with a smile.
“Alright boy. Here you go. The best you can and I may even give you a free day in Antium with some coin.”
That was a surprise. Lentullus was hardly noted for his generosity with money.
“The Emperor is raising his hand… and he drops the nappa cloth.”
He took a deep breath. There was an art to the commentary.
“The gates spring open. First, third and fifth are out ahead. Fourth and seventh are close behind, with the others lagging. Already they are settling into that order.”
The blind senators leaned forward instinctively, as though they could see better there. Citus opened his mouth to complain that he didn’t know which rider was in which gate, but Andros was already thundering on with his commentary.
“From gate three, Sura in the red, has taken an early lead with a light, bronze quadriga built for speed rather than sturdiness, I’d say. His team are all blacks and pretty big, like the mountain horses from Armenia. I think that’s what they are. Seems he’s got two equally well-trained mares on the inner and outer position balancing the team.”
Citus leaned back happily. Lentullus was absolutely right. The lad was a genius at this. Hopefully he would never let the boy go.
“Behind Sura the three, Prudens came from the first gate. He has a fairly plain quadriga, pulled by three chestnuts and a piebald. The piebald is the biggest; a really powerful looking horse, on the inside to guide and control the team. The team look a little weak in themselves, but the piebald is holding them together nicely. He’s closing on Sura, but the lead driver is swerving here and there, trying not to leave enough room to pass.”
Lentullus grinned. Prudens was just playing at this point.
“The third chariot is from the fifth gate. I think its Scauvus the Sicilian for the blues. He’s got two whites and two greys. Very pretty and sleek. I think they’re chosen for their speed. He doesn’t seem to have an anchor horse in his team, but they’re working well together anyway. He’s a good length and a half behind the other leaders and the nearest to him is another red perhaps three lengths back.”
Andros cleared his throat, took a deep swig of water from his cup and a deeper breath.
“The rest are too far back to make a play for victory. It’s all going to be between Sura, Prudens and Scauvus. There’s no sign of a white until far back in the crowd. The dust cloud’s kicking up strong, but they’re coming clear into view again as they reach the end of the spina and turn.”
He grinned. A spectator at the far side had just turned round, lifted his toga and bared his backside at the third driver. Scauvus wouldn’t have been noticed, of course, but the laughter around him showed the act had been taken in good spirits.
“They’re rounding the spina. Sura is still in the lead, but he took it quite wide. I think the outer horse on his team was vying for dominance with the inner. He’s going to have trouble between the two mares before long.”
His master nodded in the darkness, smiling. It was all decided long before the day, really, by the choices of horse, driver and vehicle, but it was still always exciting.
“Prudens has pulled a much tighter turn. His guide horse is really excellent. He’s jostling for position with Sura now. There’s trouble… they’re almost touching… but Sura has pulled out a little. It’s close now.”
Another momentary pause.
“Scauvus has made a beautiful tight turn and reclaimed almost a length from the leaders. The three are in close competition now, with the next nearest far enough back that he might as well be in a different race.”
“How’s the crowd?” Lentullus enquired, tensely.
“Mostly in good spirits, though with some bad feeling. Particularly bad among the white supporters. There’s a crowd of them not far from the carceres on the other side of the track and they’re weighed down with curse tablets they’re hurling into the riders. Some of them are waiting for the leaders, I think.”
“Ha. They’ll have to throw like Hercules himself to hit the leaders near the centre.”
“Indeed, master. The three drivers are passing us.”
Hardly necessary commentary, really, given the deafening roar from the crowd and the noise from the vehicles on the sand below.
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