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Rome

The Palatine Hill,

The Day before the Nones of March, AD238

‘Follow me.’

The two soldiers moved to clean their blades.

‘Do not sheath them,’ Menophilus said. ‘The blood needs to be seen.’

They walked back, their gory reflections fractured and disjointed in the mirrored walls of the courtyard.

Behind the Praetorians, close-packed faces peered out of the two doorways of the basilica. Silent, round-eyed and open-mouthed, they gazed beyond the military men at the corpse lying at the base of the fountain.

‘The Prefect has been executed. Command of the Emperor.’ Menophilus spoke to the centurion of the Praetorians. He kept his words low, clipped and military, as if about some oft-repeated routine. ‘There is a new watchword: Liberty. Remain at your posts. Await further orders.’

‘Libertas!’ The Praetorians chorused without emotion.

The first of the civilians wedged in the doorways were ducking back out of sight into the basilica. So far, so good, Vitalianus was dead. He could go over the implications of that again later, but now Menophilus and his men had to get away. Soon the palace would be in uproar. Unexpected bloodshed often unleashed random violence, and there was never any reckoning on the volatility of a frightened mob.

Menophilus raised his voice to address the onlookers. ‘The court is adjourned until further notice. The traitor has been executed. There will be no further arrests. There is nothing to fear. None of you will be detained further.’

The main gate of the palace was off to his right. To reach it, you had to go through the great vestibule, and that would be crammed with petitioners, clients and guards; hundreds of men waiting attendance on the Praetorian Prefect. When word arrived of his death, fear alone would create chaos.

Menophilus nodded to his men, and turned left. It was no distance to the smaller western gate, but he found it hard not to run. Walking slowly, the two soldiers marching behind, the bloodied sword ridiculously held up in front, he felt like an unconvincing actor in a tragedy. Perhaps a mask would have helped.

The small, octagonal vestibule was empty. The doormen were nowhere to be seen, and the Praetorians here had deserted their posts. Already discipline had slipped into the vacuum created by the killing of the Emperor’s main officer in the city. There was a chance for looting. Avarice was ever a strong passion.

Outside, Menophilus turned right, glanced over his shoulder at his followers, and broke into a run. Cloak in his left hand, sword in his right, he rounded the corner of the palace. A tall wall, marble faced and blank, stretched away. From further up the façade, from among the balustrades, statues and columns, came bursts of noise and half-glimpsed movements. He angled away to the left, across the forecourt, towards the arch that straddled the path down to the Sacred Way and the Forum.

Menophilus started to shamble, his breathing became laboured. The soldiers closed up on either side. Left to their own devices, they would have overtaken him. One had a curious action. Neck craned forward, knees high-stepping, it reminded Menophilus of the big, flightless African birds exhibited in the amphitheatre. The other covered the ground more normally.

Under the arch, Menophilus had to stop. Hands on thighs, he doubled up. The flagstones blurred in his vision. Each breath dragged pain up through his chest. It was not the exertion. They had only run a short distance. It was the enormity of what he had done; the killing of an unsuspecting man. Menophilus hawked and spat. He felt disorientated and sick. There was blood smeared up his arms.

The soldier who ran like an ostrich cleared his throat and shifted his feet. Menophilus knew they should not delay, but could not force himself to continue. The ostriches went into the arena without awareness of their fate. The hunters used a special half-moon arrowhead to sever their necks. Gods, this would not do. Menophilus had to rein in his thoughts, regain his self-control. To Hades with flightless birds and unawareness. Behave like a man. Flanks still heaving like a dog, he hauled himself more upright.

Downslope, what he could see of the valley of the Forum still lay in early-morning shadow. There must have been any number of examples in its history of men who had done terrible things for the right reasons, had committed awful crimes for the good of the Res Publica. Sick to his stomach, not one came to Menophilus. There must be innumerable instances of men constrained by their conscience to make choices that had put them outside the law. The Forum had been the heart of the free Republic. For centuries men could speak and act as their principles dictated, until Augustus had seduced power up to the Palatine. That was long ago. It could no more be reversed than the killing of Vitalianus. Neither could be changed by Menophilus. In that light, both were irrelevant. He stood straight, gripped the hem of his cloak, and set off again. Several times at the games he had seen ostriches continue to run after they had been decapitated.

As they reached the Sacred Way, with the suddenness of some fearful epiphany, six armed men emerged from the Arch of Titus. At the sight of the naked steel in their hands, Menophilus skidded to a halt, jerked his own blade up into a blocking position. At his shoulders, the soldiers did the same.

‘Is Vitalianus dead?’

‘Yes,’ Menophilus said.

‘We should have executed Sabinus too,’ Valerian said.

‘Gordian’s orders were explicit.’ Menophilus lowered his sword.

‘A mistake. The Prefect of the City commands six thousand men in the Urban Cohorts.’

Menophilus suppressed his irritation. ‘You were there, you know as well as me, neither Gordian nor his father would hear of it.’

Valerian shrugged. ‘Potens should have been killed as well. He has another seven thousand in the Watch.’

Silently, not even moving his lips, Menophilus recited the Greek alphabet. After Gordian had been proclaimed Emperor with his father in Africa, the most important of his initial orders had been this mission to take control of Rome. No one but the Praetorian Prefect was to be killed. The new regime was to be one of principle, bound by restraint, different from the bloodstained tyranny that had gone before. Menophilus struggled for the words to make Valerian understand. ‘If we had killed them, we would be no better than Vitalianus, and Gordian would be no better than Maximinus.’

‘A mistake,’ Valerian’s complaints continued their ponderous course. ‘When the Liberators cut down Caesar, they spared Mark Antony, and everyone knows how that turned out. Why kill Vitalianus, when there are less than a thousand Praetorians in Rome, and leave alive two men just as close to the regime of Maximinus, who between them …’

‘Enough!’ They had been through all this. There was no time now for Menophilus to go from alpha to omega again. ‘We have our orders, and we will obey them.’

Valerian scowled. Evidently he did not relish being interrupted by the younger man.

‘We all know our roles.’ Menophilus nevertheless felt it was his duty to repeat them. Gordian had entrusted this to him. There could be no mistakes. ‘Valerian, there is little time, but it is not far to the Caelian. Fulvius Pius will not have left his house yet. With the other Consul away, tell him the Res Publica depends on him. When you are certain Fulvius Pius will summon the Senate, collect his neighbour Pupienus as well, and escort them both to the Curia. Everything now depends on how quickly we act.’

Valerian nodded.

Menophilus turned to the one other present who was not a soldier. ‘Maecius, when you reach the Carinae, go straight to the home of Balbinus. The patrician is notoriously indolent. He may be reluctant. Flatter him, bribe him, do whatever. Use threats if necessary. Balbinus has many connections among the Senators. We have to have him at the meeting. Only when you are sure he will attend, go to the house of the Gordiani, and warn Maecia Faustina. Lock and bar the windows and doors of the Domus Rostrata. Arm the slaves. Stay with your kinswoman. Remember the safety of Gordian’s sister rests on you.’

The gold ring on Maecius’ hand flashed as he waved to acknowledge his orders. Then both the young equestrian and Valerian turned to go.

Trying to hide any misgivings, Menophilus watched the two men depart. Each was trailed by his utterly inadequate escort of just two soldiers. The next few hours might see them all dead. Duty demanded that he send Maecius to the house of Balbinus before securing the Domus Rostrata. Yet it was not an easy decision. Gordian was not close to his sister, but he might find it hard to forgive Menophilus if something happened to her or his ancestral home.

Regarding Valerian’s broad back as it receded under the Arch and off up the Sacred Way brought a certain comfort. The older man provided a wordless lesson in duty. Valerian’s young son was a hostage in the imperial school on the Palatine. The day held the sure promise of violence; at the least riot, and perhaps savage repression and revenge. And Valerian was going to summon the Consul of Rome from the Caelian, instead of rushing to protect his son.

It was time to go. Menophilus regarded his two fellow assassins. Filthy, reeking with blood, eyes popping and wild; his own aspect would be no better. He motioned them to follow, and marched out into the Forum.

‘Libertas!’ he roared, and raised his fatal blade to the skies.

‘Libertas!’ the soldiers echoed.

A row of astrologers, dream diviners and others of similar callings sat or stood in front of the House of the Vestals.

‘Libertas!’ Menophilus cried to them. ‘Citizens, your freedom is restored. Here in Rome we have cut down your oppressor. The Prefect Vitalianus is dead.’

They regarded him with misgiving, these down-at-heel peddlers of divine foresight. Nothing in their self-proclaimed expertise had given them any warning. They exchanged anxious looks. A couple began to gather up the tools of their trades.

‘The tyrant is dead!’ Menophilus brandished his sword. ‘The news has come from the North. Maximinus has been slain. Beyond the Danube, his corpse lies mutilated and unburied.’

As one, galvanized by his pronouncement, the charlatans scooped and scrabbled up their meagre accoutrements. Wordless, they fled in all directions.

‘Maximinus the Thracian is dead!’ Menophilus shouted at their scurrying figures.