Isle of the Blessed

I - The Aged Emperor-2

Caracalla slammed his fist on the table, making a carefully-stacked display of cooked fish collapse to either side, just as the double doors to the triclinium opened and the emperor and empress appeared there, flanked by Praetorians.

Geta rose from his couch and went to his father’s aid, taking Castor’s place at his father’s left arm and helping him down the single step and around the table to the head couch.

“I’m glad to see you well, Father,” Caracalla said from his couch.

Septimius Severus glanced at his son, but said nothing, reaching instead for the wine cup before him.

“I am not well,” Severus replied, after taking a sip.

There was silence then, but for the splash of wine as one of the slaves went around the table to fill everyone’s golden cups.

“You seem better than you were is all I meant,” Caracalla said, reaching for a piece of steaming bread.

The emperor sipped his wine again, his eyes glancing at his sons from the top of his cup while two slaves placed braziers close behind him.

“And how are you, Sister?” Julia Domna asked Julia Maesa as she reclined across from Caracalla, beside Geta who kissed her hand as she did so.

“I am well, though I have to admit that the excitement of Eburacum is fast waning for me. I’m of a mind to go to Londinium to see what entertainments the town has.”

“You’ll do no such thing. The family stays here,” the emperor said to his sister-in-law.

Julia Maesa nodded slowly in acquiescence, her hand reaching for her nephew’s arm again.

The empress pat her husband’s arm too and looked about the comfortable room, golden light reflecting off of the frescoed walls, their beauty blurred by the steam of the hot foot placed before them.

Julia Domna looked tired, her eyes betraying the weight of her worries, but beyond that, her presence soothed most, as did her calm demeanour. She reclined amid the folds of her gold and emerald tunica and stola, her shoulders covered by a matching palla. It was a simple, elegant look to match her tightly bound hair, quite the opposite of her sister who, despite the cold British climate, insisted on going bare-shouldered about the palace.

Julia Maesa’s sea blue stola betrayed the actual season and place in which she found herself.

The empress smiled thinly at her, knowing that the incessantly-full wine cup her sister held aloft warmed her enough.

She did not mind, she supposed. Julia Maesa never imposed upon her own imperial powers. She knows better…

What the empress did mind was the way her sister always seemed to be touching Caracalla, and how, to him, it seemed perfectly natural.

We are not Ptolemies in Alexandria! she thought, uncharacteristically bitter.

Then again, a woman’s relationship with her sister’s son was special and complex.

Julia Maesa, however, had only daughters.

“My son,” the emperor suddenly said, leaning as much as he could in Geta’s direction as he ripped a chunk from a loaf of warm bread. “Tell me about the newest building projects in Eburacum. We’ve spent much time here, and we should enrich the city for it.”

“An excellent notion, Father,” Geta said. He sat straighter, his eyes finally deigning to meet his brother’s gaze, not without flinching at the vehemence he saw there. “The engineers have finished the improvements on the city bathhouse and the populace has begun to enjoy them. The people seem pleased. Also, the new docks along the river are improved and expanded. There are many more berths for trading traffic which will feed into the newly refurbished agora of Eburacum. Everyone is pleased.”

“You’ve done well while we were in the North, Geta,” Julia Domna said, her eyes watching Caracalla as she said so, aware that the great tension between them, one of the reasons for the Caledonian campaign, had not dwindled, but rather grown in intensity.

“There’s more,” Geta interrupted. “The bridge across the river, leading to the via Praetoria of the base on the other side, has been strengthened. It should now withstand the occasional rise in the river level.”

“It’s a shame you can’t do anything about the stink of the river in this place,” Caracalla put in.

Julia Domna stared at her older son for a moment and her sister removed her hand slowly. “Why don’t you tell us what our second Augustus has been up to? We are no less proud.”

“Really, Mother?” Caracalla scoffed. “Well, I’ve finally cleaned all of the blood off of my armour and weapons.” He turned to Geta. “Actual fighting does get rather messy.”

Geta chose to ignore him.

“The Gask Ridge remains intact and regular patrols go out to ensure that that does not change. I left Claudius Picus there to oversee things in my absence, and he assures me that all is in hand, and that the Caledonii have not broken the truce.”

“If they do,” Geta laughed, “will you ride out and spank them, Brother?”

“Stop this!” the emperor suddenly burst out, throwing a crust of bread that was too hard to chew down onto his plate. His sharp eyes went around the table, resting longer on his two sons to either side of him. “You both carry the title of Augustus, just as I do now, and I expect you to act accordingly. You both have your strengths and should use them to your advantage, that of this family, and the empire we rule.” Septimius Severus sighed and looked up at the pine ceiling of the triclinium, the beams painted red and blue. There were no stars there, but he could see them nonetheless. He remembered the stars on the days each of his sons were born.

“Momentous,” his astrologer had said. “Propitious…”

The emperor knew he had never been nostalgic before. A waste of time! he had thought. The stars only ever shine their light on the way forward…

However, as the day of his own death drew near, and the path before him grew ever shorter, his resolve to shut out the past had dissolved like mist when the sun emerged in Britannia. It was never more so than when he beheld his sons. He looked at them both, even as they spoke, unhearing of the words that escaped their mouths. He remembered their births, and the vow he had made to give Rome a new line of greatness. Before him, emperors like Antoninus and Hadrian had adopted their heirs - the ‘best men for the job’. But Severus had faith in his sons and the stars they were born beneath.

Yes, Caracalla had thought of killing him, but that sort of strength was needed in a ruler. He hoped that it was only his son’s love of him that kept him from carrying out the act, though his loyal troops, Lucius Metellus Anguis among them, were also responsible for stopping the embarrassing event.

All said and done, Severus knew full well that an emperor had to be prepared to kill. What mattered was the outcome of that killing, and if it left the empire, and their family, better or worse off in the Gods’ scheme.

“Father!” Caracalla suddenly burst out.

The emperor snapped back out of his thoughts, and the smile upon his face faded as quickly as the thoughts of his young children.

“How dare you!” Severus said to Caracalla.

“You aren’t even listening!” Caracalla said. “I told you I’m considering raising the average rate of pay for all troops. “They deserve it after this campaign, and it will bind their loyalty to you.”

“Buy their loyalty to you, don’t you mean, Brother,” Geta said as he dropped a fish spine onto his plate and sucked his fingers. A bit of oil splashed onto the nearest oil lamp and fizzled momentarily.

“You mind your tongue,” Caracalla growled. “I’ve learned a few new things in Caledonia.”

“Enough!” Severus smacked the table, his head and face shaking visibly with pent-up rage and frustration. “Your brother is correct to want to please the legions, Geta. Without them and their loyalty, we would not be where we are today.” He turned to Caracalla. “But be sure that I am not yet dead, despite the rebellion of my body. We may all three be Augusti, but only I am Emperor. Do not try to undermine me.”

“Gods forbid it, Father!” Caracalla said sarcastically.

Severus calmed himself and looked to his wife.

“Let us talk of other things. War is not the only way to guarantee the survival of our dynasty in the coming years…”

Julia Maesa sat up now and turned toward the emperor whom, before that, she had been ignoring as he ignored her.

“Marcus Aurelius saw fit to trust his son to the imperial throne after his death, despite the recommendations of others that Commodus was not fit”

“He wasn’t!” Geta said.

“Be still,” Severus silenced him. “Marcus Aurelius was a wise and warlike emperor. Yes, Commodus had his failings, but he inherited a mess. When I die, I shall leave you with an empire the likes of which has not existed before. I do so with the faith that you will both set aside your quarrelsome relationship and see fit to rule jointly and fairly so that, when the histories are written, they will have naught but good things to say.”

“You should speak with Senator Dio, then,” Julia Maesa put in. “He is considering writing a history of our time.”

Severus paused, frustrated at the interruption, but nodded politely at his sister-in-law before continuing.

“You would both do well to make your peace, for when I pass from this world…that will be the time when the imperial throne is at its most vulnerable.”

They were all silent, aware of the sad and severe truth that the emperor had just uttered. They held all the power in the world amongst them, and yet, the Gods could snuff out that flame in a heartbeat.

Caracalla stared directly at his father, and the emperor stared back at him, holding his gaze as if that would help him to ascertain his thoughts. Just as he was about to speak, say something to break the feeling of guilt that weighed upon him, one of the slaves touched him on the shoulder.

“Sire,” the slave whispered. “Marcus Claudius Picus awaits you in the atrium.”

“Tell him Caesar is busy,” Julia Domna said, her voice firm.

“No!” Caracalla countered. “He may have news.” He turned to the slave. “Tell him I am coming.”

The slave scurried away through the open doors which were then closed by the guards outside.

“He deigns to disturb our meal?” the emperor said.

“Frankly, I don’t know how you can tolerate that man,” Geta said. “He’s an animal from what I hear.”

Caracalla stood and leaned upon his fists on the table opposite his younger brother. “Because he gets things done, little Caesar.”

Geta scoffed.

Caracalla turned to leave. “I won’t return this evening,” he said as he pulled open the doors and went out into the torchlit corridor.

Caracalla strode quickly down the corridors, acknowledging the Praetorian troops he passed along the way.

They saluted back at him, keenly aware that he would be stepping into his father’s place in the near future.

His long cloak billowed behind him as he went, always with a determined step, as if with purpose or anger, most often the two indistinguishable in him. The corridor led into the atrium where the open part of the roof allowed a mist of rain to fall into the pool of the impluvium.

There, beside the water, Marcus Claudius Picus stood with his eyes closed, the rain falling on his face to give it a sheen in the firelight radiating from the red and white walls at the outer edge of the atrium.

“What is it?” Caracalla demanded, coming right up into Claudius’ face. “You had better have a good reason for this interruption.” Caracalla looked him up and down. “You haven’t even cleaned the mud from your armour.”