Blood and Steel. Harry Sidebottom

further encroached on the floor space. Among those waiting, he saw Timesitheus.

      As he marched down the nearer colonnade, Vitalianus brought the case to mind. The little Greek was embroiled in a private dispute over an inheritance. Timesitheus was in charge of the grain supply. His opponent was a leading Senator. All things being equal, neither was a man one would choose to alienate. But things were not equal. Timesitheus had a sworn enemy in Domitius, the Prefect of the Imperial Camp, and the latter was one of the few patrons Vitalianus had close to the Emperor. And there was a personal animosity. Three years before in the consilium, in front of all the councillors of the Emperor, Timesitheus had argued against the appointment of Vitalianus as governor of Mauretania Caesariensis. The Graeculus had to be desperate to seek his aid now. The desperation would do him no good.

      A centurion of the Praetorians stepped forward as Vitalianus approached the apse where the tribunal stood.

      ‘Soldiers have arrived from the north, Prefect. The despatches bear the imperial seal. Their officer says he has a private message of the utmost importance from Maximinus Augustus himself. It concerns the security of the Res Publica. They are waiting in the portico outside.’

      Vitalianus nodded. ‘Tell them I will hear them in a moment.’ He ascended the raised dais, and faced the hall. ‘Forgive me, the court will delay its sitting. Orders have come from the most noble Augustus.’ Despite his politeness, a sea of anxious faces gazed up at him. They knew as well as he what it meant: more arrests, more leading men rushed under close guard to the north, never to be seen again. It could be any one of them. The Graeculus Timesitheus, his senatorial opponent and every man present would be consulting his conscience, calling to mind every recent conversation, no matter how trivial. They did not fear just for themselves. All knew the dreadful repercussions for the family of the victims: the headman’s block, or, at best, exile, confiscation and abject poverty.

      Outside the sun had risen. The light flashed back from the highly polished cladding of the walls. Treachery and fear were nothing new in Rome. Long ago the Emperor Domitian had had the white reflective stone brought from distant Cappadocia. Like all Emperors, he had wanted to see what happened behind his back.

      Two soldiers were talking to the centurion and the four Praetorian guards by the rear doors of the basilica. They fell silent, and snapped to attention, when they saw Vitalianus. The centurion gestured out beyond the portico into the open space.

      An officer was standing by the central fountain. He had his back to Vitalianus, and seemed to be studying how the waters ran down the island that depicted Sicilia and gave the courtyard its name. At the sound of footfalls, he turned. He was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, dark haired and good-looking. He was vaguely familiar, but Vitalianus could not place him.

      ‘Prefect.’ The young officer saluted. Close up, he was pale and looked tired. His tunic was travel stained. Among the ornaments on his military belt was a memento mori, a skeleton in silver. He handed over the despatch.

      Vitalianus turned the diptych in his hands: ivory and gold, clumsily sealed in imperial purple with the eagle of the Caesars. He broke the seal, unfolded the hinged block, and read.

       Imperator Gaius Iulius Verus Maximinus to Publius Aelius Vitalianus, our most loving and loyal Prefect of the Praetorians. While marching against the Sarmatians, it was with great sadness we received information of yet another conspiracy. The eminence of the traitors precludes writing their names. The bearer of this letter will tell you their identity. Now I entreat you that in the same spirit in which you were chosen as Prefect and have conducted your duties you will spare no efforts in apprehending these evil-minded malefactors and convey them to us, so that with careful inquiry we can ascertain how far they have spread their sacrilegious poison.

       Our son Verus Maximus Caesar sends his greetings, and his wife Iunia Fadilla, too, greets both you and your wife. To your daughters we will send a present, worthy both of their virtue and your own. We command you to hold the troops in the city in their allegiance to the Res Publica and to ourselves, my most loyal, most dear, and loving friend.

      Below the courtly hand of the imperial secretary was the rough scrawl MAXIMINUS AUGUSTUS.

      ‘Who?’ Vitalianus said.

      Unexpectedly the officer smiled. ‘The Prefect of the City, Sabinus, and he is only the first.’

      Vitalianus looked up sharply. A movement caught his eye reflected in the wall opposite. He turned. The two soldiers had drawn their swords.

      A whisper of steel. Dropping the diptych, Vitalianus tugged his own blade from its scabbard. ‘Guards!’ Yelling, he spun back, and blocked the cut aimed at his head.

      ‘Guards!’ He parried a thrust. Hearing running feet, he risked a glance over his shoulder. The two soldiers would be on him in a moment. The centurion and the Praetorians had not moved.

      A searing pain in his right arm told Vitalianus that he had paid for his inattention. Somehow he fended off another blow.

      ‘Why?’

      The young officer said nothing.

      ‘I have done everything. Never betrayed him.’

      Vitalianus felt the steel slice into his left thigh from behind. He staggered. The blood hot on his leg.

      ‘Why?’

      Another slash into his left leg, and he collapsed. His weapon gone from his hand, he curled on the ground, one hand half covering his head, the other outstretched in supplication. What of his daughters? They were children, virgins. It was unlawful to execute virgins. Gods, not the fate of the children of Sejanus. No, dear gods, no!

      One of the soldiers moved to finish him.

      ‘Wait.’

      Vitalianus peered from behind his fingers up at the speaker.

      ‘It is my responsibility.’ The young officer rolled him onto his back, put his boot on his chest, the tip of his sword at his throat.

      Vitalianus looked into his eyes. ‘Spare my children. Please spare my daughters.’

      ‘Yes,’ the officer said, and thrust down.

       Chapter 2

       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