Isle of the Blessed

I - The Aged Emperor-3

Claudius slowly opened his cold blue eyes and turned to Caracalla. For a moment, he did not salute, but the young Caesar’s eyes dared him not to, and so he stretched his arm out slowly.

“Augustus,” Claudius said.

“Well?” Caracalla relaxed a little, but his eyes continued to bore into the man. “It must be something important for you to interrupt me at this hour.”

“It is,” Claudius answered, throwing back his black cloak to reveal his muddy cuirass and greaves. He had obviously been riding for some time. “I received word from some of my scouts north of the wall.”

“Yes?”

“They found the bodies.”

“Really?” Caracalla stepped back, his shoulders caving in a little, as if a wave of relief washed over his spirit. “They’re dead?”

“Not who you think, sire. The Metelli live. It was the bodies of our men…” he cleared his throat, “…your men, which they found.”

Caracalla’s fists balled and Claudius thought for a moment he would pommel him as he had done on occasion.

“All of them?” Caracalla asked.

“Yes. They also found the body of Centurion Kasen.”

“What? So, he did go to help them.” Caracalla walked around to the other side of the impluvium, his chin in his hand. He had stopped trusting Alerio some time ago, but to know that he was finally out of the way gave him some comfort, even though the Metelli were still alive.

“Alerio must have overheard us speaking and gone to warn the Metelli, or stop our men from carrying out their orders.”

Caracalla looked up from the water, his eyes full of anger, and before Claudius could react, Caracalla’s fist slammed into the side of his head, sending him reeling onto the black and white mosaic floor.

“You’ve failed again, Marcus!” Caracalla spat at him and then walked over and pulled him to his feet.

Claudius did not fight back as he would have liked to, but let himself be man-handled by Caracalla. He did, however, meet his gaze directly.

“It is only a matter of time,” he said, his lip bleeding to blend with the mud upon his face.

“Make no mistake, Claudius Picus. I can put you right back where I found you on the death lists. The only reason you are alive is that I need you for certain tasks, this one the main among them. You have a great number of men and spies at your disposal, so you should be able to rid me of one troublesome man, his wife and children, no? Is that too much for you? Has Lucius Metellus Anguis proven once and for all to be the better man than you?”

Claudius’ cold exterior cracked then and he stepped forward to meet his Caesar nose to nose.

“No…” he growled.

“Then prove it to your emperor,” Caracalla said. “For that is what I am. And you… You are nothing unless I say you are.”

“Yes, sire,” Claudius found his calm again and stood down.

“Good. Now, I want you to use your vast spy network to watch the Metelli, perhaps infiltrate their surroundings. I don’t care how you do it, but do it you must.”

“Why can’t we just kill them in their sleep?”

“While the emperor lives, such a thing would not be wise. The best course of action is to find some proof, real or not, of his guilt or suspicion of treason.”

“That won’t be easy,” Claudius acknowledged.

“Then I can find someone else who will - ”

“No, sire!” Claudius jumped in. “I shall see to it.”

“Good.”

“And if the emperor should…join the Gods?” Claudius asked, his voice lower now so that only Caracalla should hear him.

“Then you may dispose of them as you see fit. Just don’t fail again.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Claudius said, a smile coming to his thin lips.

As the moon emerged over the rooftops of Eburacum that night, its cold light trying to penetrate the veil of heavy rain clouds over the city, Emperor Septimius Severus lay still in his bed, staring once more up at the ceiling of his rooms.

Incense burned upon the altar, the blue smoke rising slowly to snake its way among the beams above. It reminded him of the sand serpents that wound their way across the sands of Africa when the Gods blew gently from their distant caves.

How I used to love watching them…so long ago.

He turned his head to see Castor asleep in the chair beside one of the braziers, the fold of a scroll from Rome gripped gently in his limp hand.

Severus could not remember the matter in the letter, so tedious it was. However, he comforted himself with the fact that he would leave his sons with few enemies at their gates, most of their opponents having been eliminated in the years since he had donned the purple.

He thought of their grievous behaviour toward each other, and it pained him. He worried that they would be each other’s worst enemies.

The stars above beckoned him once more, and he gazed up. Odd that it was at such times as these that his mind now gave him the most clarity, a clarity that previously was only to be had in battle, whether on the fields of Mars or in the Senate.

There was a gentle knock upon the door, and Severus looked, expecting to see Julia Domna enter to see him comfortable before settling in for the night. It had become her habit since arriving in Britannia to bring him a cup of infused herbs to help alleviate his cough through the night, a concoction she insisted on mixing herself since the treaty with the Caledonii and their son’s embarrassing display.

However, it was not the empress who entered when Castor rose sleepily and opened the door.

Papinianus, Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, appeared and whispered that he had some urgent business to speak with the emperor about.

Castor, to his credit, tried to delay it until morning, but Papinianus was persistent.

“Castor,” Severus said as he sat up slowly, adjusting his gouty, aching legs beneath the thick covers. “The Praetorian prefect has every right to speak with me.” He nodded to Papinianus. “What is it, my friend?”

Papinianus bowed and entered the lavish room. The glow cast from the braziers shone off of his black and brown cuirass which he kept clean and well-polished at all times.

“Sire,” Papinianus sat on the chair which stood beside the bed. He waved away the cup of wine which Castor offered him and leaned close to the emperor.

“You have something important to say to me, it seems… I wonder what?” Severus looked keenly at his prefect and could discern the great discomfort upon his brow.

Severus may have been weak of body, but he was still a good judge of men.

“Do you wish for Castor to leave us?”

“No need, sire. For I know and trust Castor as well as you.” Papinianus leaned in and rubbed his balding head.

The two of them had aged with time, even more so since arriving in Britannia, but whereas the emperor’s body had been wasting away, his mind intact, Papinianus felt as though the worries upon his shoulders would crush him, drive him mad, though his body had not yet betrayed him.

“Sire, it is about your son.”

“Geta?”

“No, sire. It is about Marcus.”

“I thank you for not using that ridiculous name the men insist on calling him. For a caesar to be named after a bit of clothing…”

“Yes, sire. Well… I know you love him well - ”

“He is my firstborn son.” Severus’ voice was slightly harder, but he allowed Papinianus to speak.

“I am afraid, sire, that he may try again to…to…harm your imperial majesty.” Papinianus exhaled deeply, the sweat appearing upon his brow.

Severus’ head straightened and his eyes narrowed. “You had better explain yourself, Prefect. I do not take this sort of accusation lightly.”

“Nor do I, sire. Believe me. But ever since the treaty with the Caledonii, and your son’s attempt to -”

“His rash thought to kill me,” the emperor corrected. “He made no attempt.”

“Even so, sire. It is my charge to see to your safety in this world, and so I have had a watch kept upon him at times. I believe he still harbours thoughts of harming you.”

Papinianus stood and paced before the end of the bed, the emperor’s eyes following him every second, boring into him.

“What proof can you offer of these harboured thoughts, Papinianus? Have you a mind-reader among your staff?”

“No sire. Some of the men I had set to watching him and his friends have gone missing. Besides, it is obvious that he bears you no love.”

“As is often the case between fathers and sons.”

“It is not so with Geta, though, is it?”

“Geta is different.”

“I quite agree.”

“What is your point? If you have no proof of further treachery on the part of my son, then all you have done this moment is endanger yourself in my eyes.”

Papinianus was taken aback, and a look of betrayal lashed his old face them. “Sire, I have ever been loyal to you and your family. Your family is my family!”

“My wife’s family is your family, and yes, I am aware of your loyalties. But I cannot leave this world knowing that my son does not have someone such as you minding his back at all times. You must be ruthless in this task.”

“Sire, the Gods have not called you to them yet.”

There was a pause and Severus pulled at his long, white and black beard. “No, they have not.” He looked up at the ceiling.

Papinianus decided to push one more time.

“Sire, if it comes to light that your son, Marcus, is conspiring against you, then I must advise that you…that you execute him with all haste. As your friend and protector, I know I risk my life in telling you this, but I do so because the Gods compel me to.

He expected Septimius Severus to rise from his bed, a final image of his former self, take up the golden-hilted gladius that stood beside the bed, and dispatch him then and there to put him out of his misery.

But the emperor merely looked upon Papinianus with pity.

“My friend, you do not understand the love one has for a son… Even were it true, I could not carry out such an act, even as the divine Marcus Aurelius could not.”

“Sire.” Papinianus stood straight, his composure regained, his disappointment acute.

“But make no mistake, that if you come to me with such a suggestion again, I will have no qualms about ending your life.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Papinianus saw Castor stiffen. They had often spoken of Caracalla and the threat he posed. They had talked of taking this opportunity to set the emperor upon the correct, though supremely difficult course he had only just suggested.

It seemed, however, that it was no use.

“There will be no need, sire, to take my life,” Papinianus said. “For I remain your loyal servant, and that of your family.”

“Good,” Severus leaned back as if the intensity of his thinking then had exhausted him. “Remember, Prefect, that when I die, Marcus will be the Empire’s greatest strength and weapon against Rome’s would-be enemies. And trust me when I say that Rome will always have enemies.”