Isle of the Blessed

I - The Aged Emperor-1

I

Senex Imperator

‘The Aged Emperor’

“Peace… Finally, some peace…”

Emperor Septimius Severus sat back in the great fur-covered chair that had been set up for him in the lush, green gardens of the imperial palace complex of Eburacum.

His body ached all over, but his cough had finally subsided after an entire morning of receiving various clients and hearing petitions from people wanting things from him - lands, favour, advantages over their enemies, and more.

He pulled the bear fur closely about him to ward off the cool spring air. It felt good to be alone now, after so many pulling at his attention like merchants’ hands in the African animal markets. The emperor was happy to have sent everyone away, even Castor, his faithful freedman who was ever at his side, helping him, tending to him.

“I need time,” he said to himself, but then laughed, and was pulled into another coughing fit. “Hmm. That is the one thing I do not have much of…”

Severus peered up at the grey clouds where they hung low, just above the red tile rooftops of the palace. He wondered if, being in Britannia, he had starved himself of the sun’s light so much that it had sped the weakening of his body and soul even more.

No! he chided himself. Fate has set its course and it would be the same were I sitting here, or in the heat and golden light of Leptis Magna.

Since the beginning of the Caledonian campaign, Severus had missed his North African home more than ever - the sights, the smells, the colour and the light, brilliant light that penetrated the eyes such that it filled one with hope. The welcome he had received from the people of his home several years before, when he had returned, had rejuvenated him beyond measure.

Now, he fought against the waves of sadness and despair daily, as brutal an enemy as the Parthians or Caledonii had ever been.

“Time…”

How many sunrises and sunsets had he seen? How many cycles of moon and stars? He had ruled the world, believed he had been shown favour by the Gods. And yet his body wasted away with him still in it.

The emperor rubbed his eyes as they came down from the sky to rest on the ponds and tall marsh grasses before him. All was dark and deep green, the water black.

The tall grasses shivered then, despite the absence of wind, and Severus continued to stare into them, his eyes searching the spot where they seemed to part as if someone were moving through them.

“Castor?” the emperor said. “What are you doing there?”

But there was no answer.

Then, the minute amount of light that had been gracing the garden was completely choked from the sky and the emperor found himself in darkness.

The grasses rustled again.

“My son?” Severus called out, remembering with regret how Caracalla had thought to murder him before the legions in Caledonia. “Come out!”

The face that appeared was not that of his son or his freedman, or any other among the living. It was, however, the face of a man he had known.

The man approached slowly, his arms parting the reeds and grasses which hid his legs and waist. He stopped without making a sound or splash in the water.

“Clodius?” Septimius Severus sat up and forward, nearly falling over but holding on with his pale hands to the knobs of his chair. “You are dead, shade!”

Severus remembered giving the order for the murder of Clodius Albinus, his one-time friend, then rival claimant to the imperial throne. The troops had brought Severus his family seal after having cut his body up and thrown it in the Rhodanus, along with his family. Yet there the man stood, tall, his short curly hair and beard healthy and vibrant, framing his handsome face.

Albinus smiled knowingly at Severus, and extended his hand to point directly at the emperor.

You are rotting away like a corpse in the desert, Septimius.

“And you are dead!”

Yes… Murderer and thief!

“I stole nothing,” Severus insisted. “I won the war because I was the strongest and my men the best.”

Your legions cannot help you now. Not against the stars that are your fate…

Severus sat back in his chair, struggling to stay upright as the grey face seemed to stretch out to him, the eyes going from black to crimson.

Your time is near… So say the stars upon your ceiling, Septimius.

“You cannot frighten me, shade!” Severus said, his voice hoarse and angry. “I know my fate, and the hour of my death.”

Albinus smiled, and teeth fell out of his mouth, even as the skin greyed and shrivelled upon his face and body, and his armour rotted and fell off to reveal his lacerated torso.

You will not see Elysium…ever. The gods will tear you apart as you tore my family apart…as you tore the Empire apart…

“No!”

Clodius Albinus’ head toppled from his shoulders then, followed by the rest of his savaged form, and Severus drew back to hide beneath the furs.

“Get out!” the emperor shouted, as his hand grasped for the sword that leaned against his chair. “Be gone from me!”

“Sire!” the voice reached out, full of fear and concern. “My Emperor, I am here!”

The sword Severus had been grasping for fell onto the stone slabs with a loud clang, and he threw the furs aside to look up at Castor with rheumy eyes.

“Sire, it is me,” the freedman said, his own aged eyes blinking back stinging tears when he saw the emperor in that state. “All is well, sire. It is only a passing storm cloud to block out the light. Nothing more.”

Septimius Severus gripped Castor’s tunic tightly and pulled him down to hiss into his ear.

“I saw him, Castor! Albinus! He is back for vengeance!”

As the emperor spoke, Castor put out his hand for one of the slaves to hand him the tonic he had prepared for Severus.

The emperor drank, rivulets running from the corners of his mouth to soak into the fabric of his purple and gold robes.

“Come, sire,” Castor soothed. “I have set the braziers in your chamber alight to ward off this British chill.”

With Castor and the slave’s help, Septimius Severus rose from his chair and began the long walk to his private chambers.

The darkness of the corridor was punctuated with fire from the torches, between which stood several Praetorians whom the Praetorian prefect, Papinianus, had chosen specifically for their loyalty.

Two guardsmen saluted, opened the double oak doors to the emperor’s chamber, and closed them once more after Castor led him through.

Inside, Severus made his way directly to a marble altar that stood before bronze statues of Jupiter, Mars, and Baal.

Castor, well used to the emperor’s routines, lit a chunk of fine Syrian frankincense, placed it in the emperor’s hand and supported him as he placed it upon the altar.

Severus closed his eyes and swayed as he prayed, his mouth moving quickly, but uttering only incoherent words to the gods before him.

“Thank you, Castor,” said the voice of the empress as she came up behind him from one of the secret doors to the chamber. “I shall care for the emperor now. I will call for you when we are ready to join the others in the triclinium.”

“My lady,” Castor said, bowing low to her, before ushering the slave out and leaving.

“Come, Husband,” she said, her arm beneath Severus’. “It is time to rest.”

She led him to the large bed flanked by two burning braziers with bronze lions’ claws for feet.

Septimius Severus sighed once and his eyes focused on the ceiling above where he had ordered the stars painted in the pattern given him by his astrologer - the stars that reminded him his end was near, that it was written.

“I hate this feeling of weakness,” he said to Julia Domna, his wife and empress.

“I know…” she said, “It is a feeling foreign to you.” She held his hand in hers and squeezed.

He nodded, but his eyes widened and he shook his head, unable to forget the visage of death, of the man he had murdered, whose family he had hacked to pieces with the blades of his men.

He saw Albinus’ shade more often recently. It haunted him. It undermined his strength.

Severus had told himself that all of the blood and death, of friends and enemies, had been for the good of the empire. All of it. But certainty was no longer a luxury. The only thing he knew for certain was the message in those stars painted upon his crumbling ceiling.

“I shall die soon,” he said.

The empress gripped his hand tightly and nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

The imperial palace at Eburacum was a place of contrasts. At times it bustled as much inside as any market across the empire, the noise from the city’s streets pouring in through every window and doorway to echo along every hall and corridor. At other times, it was silent and tense, like a prisoner awaiting sentence, or a disciplined army awaiting the call of a cornu to commence battle.

That night, the palace was silent, the darkness suspicious of the torches carried by guards as they made their rounds. Every room was carefully watched, especially the marble triclinium of the imperial family where Caesar Caracalla and his brother Geta sat opposite each other upon couches, their aunt, Julia Maesa, sitting beside the former.

“What’s keeping them?” Caracalla said. “I’m hungry and have duties to attend to!” He fidgeted with a knife which he spun on the table top, a small indent forming where the blade turned round.

“Father was resting,” Geta replied, popping a grape into his mouth, his eyes never meeting those of his brother or aunt. “They’ll be here shortly. Mother told me when I passed her in the hall.”

Julia Maesa, the empress’ sister, laid her hand upon Caracalla’s arm and smiled. “Your father was not feeling well today. Give him time. I think he wishes to speak with you both.”

“Talk, talk, and more talk,” Caracalla said, throwing his black cloak back so that it fell onto the floor behind his couch to reveal his red tunic. “We should not remain here in Britannia. The war with the Caledonii is over. We have a treaty.”

“Father is not well enough to travel. You know this. Travelling will surely kill him,” Geta said sadly as he wiped a drop of wine from his blue and gold embroidered tunic.

Caracalla eyed his brother over the flames jutting from several oil lamps amidst the platters of fowl, fish, fresh bread, olives, and cheese that had been laid out by the kitchen slaves for the imperial family. He was angry and resentful, like a bear that had been baited too many times, not with weapons, but with laughter and derision, and the favour of their parents, which Geta seemed ever to enjoy.

Caracalla worked his jaw and ran his fingers through his dense, curly hair. It irked him that Geta walked about Eburacum as if he ruled there. While his brother had held court in Eburacum, Caracalla had bloodied his sword in Caledonia, plunged it into the flesh of their enemies. He had brokered a treaty with the barbarian chieftain, Argentocoxus, and had recovered the line of forts that made up the Roman Gask Ridge.

Much had happened since they had arrived in Britannia. As soon as he had arrived, Caracalla had been pulled into a maelstrom of blood and guts, to be spat out the other side before he had even known what happened. He was proud of his actions, of the wounds he had endured in the campaign, but the act of sitting still and tending to administration alone now irked him no end. He wanted to be in Rome.

At council meetings, his father no longer took his advice, nor did his opinion matter when it came to the running of the Praetorian Guard. Papinianus, the Praetorian prefect, no longer sought his council. In fact, he had been assured by his closest ally, Marcus Claudius Picus, that the emperor, Geta, and the Praetorian Prefect actively sought to exclude him from decisions on the future of the empire.