Excerpt from…

Rome, A.D. 212

It was the month of Februarius in Rome, the cold still clinging to that eternal city of brick and marble. Winter held on with iron fists as it prepared to gust for yet a little longer, before Proserpina crawled her way out of Hades.

Rome pulsed, as always, at every hour, the silence in places broken by music from taverns, or giddy laughter sweeping out of brothels. The darkness of those ancient streets, when the moon crept behind a sliver of cloud, was broken by torches of the urban guard, or the fires in tripods before temples and shrines where they called for the Gods’ attentions.

But the light was not everywhere. In the shadows along the swift-flowing Tiber, two wolves slinked along the icy shore, pausing to sniff the air when a noise erupted, and then continuing on with a purpose like wraiths on the hunt.

The countryside was their domain, but with the winter months their survival was threatened, and the city needed to be risked.

There were two of them, one of deepest black with violent, yellow eyes, and the other an undecided shade of grey that leaned more toward white and brown in places. The second wolf’s blue eyes followed the first, his eyes darting from side to side as he went, his tongue licking the bits of flesh that yet clung to his muzzle from the gorging they had undertaken in the necropolis outside the city.

Both were still hungry, wishing for more, eager to the point of risking death at the hands of the men of Mars.

The lead wolf paused suddenly and cut away from the cold river water, up an alley that led into the streets toward a hill ahead of them.

A few times did people stumble upon them, but one look at the pair of slavering brethren was enough to send them scurrying behind closed doors.

The wolves walked on, hunting, drawn to that hill, to that high place. Close to walls and in angled shadow they crept, up the hard slopes, until they came to a broad open space and stopped, the start of a growl in the black one’s throat as it observed an enormous man upon a horse.

When the horse did not move at their snarls, they crept closer until they were beneath the legs of the horse and the man sitting astride it with his hand outstretched.

Footsteps echoed in nearby porticoes, and a gentle thrumming voice emanated from the open doors of the great temple before them.

Did Jupiter see them standing there before his shrine? Did he think to strike them down before the damage they might do, the havoc they might wreak on Rome?

No.

Divine laws are stringent, and the Gods themselves must uphold those timeless laws, lest they collapse like a vein bled dry, or like the heart of that ancient metropolis itself.

The wolves looked around, hunger still gnawing at their guts.

And then they saw it, heard the cry.

At the base of the steps of the house of Jupiter, a wounded eagle wept upon the marble slabs, one wing outstretched, but the other broken and bent.

The wolves spotted this noble lord of the skies, and felt their hunger keenly in that moment. They crept forward, their heads low and hackles high. They bared their white teeth as they approached.

The eagle’s mouth opened and closed, his voice lost, though his head was still high, keen eyes looking at the oncoming enemies.

Just as the wolves were about to pounce, the black one stopped, turned sideways and growled with a ferocity that startled the other. Then it leapt, its jaws clamping down on the neck of its sibling.

The eagle flapped its good wing, and stood, its talons scratching on the marble that was now wet with spattered blood.

The wolves twisted and turned, jaws gnashing and claws scratching. Howls and yelps filled the square until the black wolf found his hold once more and bit out the neck of the other.

Blood dripped from his maw as he turned to the eagle. It was a moment, but the eagle knew.

As the jaws opened before it, the eagle’s tallon struck out at the eyes just as razor teeth tore into it, shook it, sawed at it and crushed it, a memory of mountain clouds and eyries in its wild eyes.

Men were there then, running out of the temple and down the stairs, brandishing weapons at the wolf.

He fled, back to the shadows, and ran away from the hill and the light, and the unfinished meal he had left behind in the blood upon the steps.

The crowds of men and women thickened as he sped downward and came to an open area where fire burned at every turn, and more screams sent him in different directions, desperately searching for darkness.

Voices followed him now, more and more of them. He could smell their anger, hear the clang of their weapons.

Then, a ruffle of feathers ahead drew his eye. His nose flared.

Pigeons in a soft, still mass before him… It was too much to resist. He would grab one and run, sate his hunger one more time.

The wolf ran and lunged, but something bit him and he turned violently, howling.

Another bite, and another…and another.

He lay still now upon the enormous cobbles of that human forum, looking up at the iron teeth of the men who had hunted him.

Then…darkness.

 

It had been a calm morning on the Palatine hill, the quiet a gift from the Gods that extended throughout the day.

From the high window of her private chambers in the Severan palace complex, Julia Domna had watched the sun rise and soar across the wintry sky until late in the day.

Wrapped in furs, she had lain upon her couch reading over piles of correspondence that had been sent to her sons. She read more slowly now, her eyes tiring easily, even in the light of day.

She sighed, reaching up to touch the tight weave of her hair, wondering as she did so how the sacrificium at the temple of Concord in the Forum Romanum had gone.

The senate had offered to perform the rites to honour her sons, the joint emperors, successors to their father Septimius Severus, whose loss the empress yet felt. However, her grief had hidden in the shadows for long now, for she had been busy trying to bridge the widening divide between Caracalla and Geta.

Rather than working together, pursuing the harmony their father had wished for them, each brother had retreated to a separate wing of the palace under guard at all times, food, water and wine tasted by others before passing imperial lips.

She had to admit that she had had her misgivings, especially with the chaotic jollity of Saturnalia when she had arranged for Geta to be shadowed at all times to ensure his safety. 

It was not long before the boys spoke of an empire divided, the East for Geta, and the West for Caracalla.

“I too, together with earth and sea, would be partitioned between you!” she remembered yelling at Caracalla not three days before.

It had been that moment, that loss of composure, that had, she believed, rattled her son and brought him around. For the very next day, Caracalla had sent word to her that he would accept the senate’s offer to perform a sacrificium before the sacred altar of Concord, that he was willing to sit, as a family, with his mother and brother to find a harmonious solution.

Julia Domna smiled as she felt hope fill her, and she sipped the wine in a golden cup that sat upon the table beside her couch.

There was hope, and yet…all the blood spilled to get to that point still haunted her. She remembered her cousin, Papinianus. She missed speaking with him of home, of their other cousins, of the warmth of family recollections, and memories of Severus.

Her sister, Julia Maesa, spoke little of all that was happening. In fact, she saw her little, and wondered if she, her husband and daughters, Julia Soaemias and Julia Mamaea, had decided to pull back for fear of their safety. If Papinianus, Euodus, and Castor had not survived, then…

Stop this, Domna! she told herself. I must think of the present, of peace between my sons… Oh Goddess Concord, bless this day for me…

She breathed deeply as the saffron curtains of her window blew inward with a gust of wind, and she closed her eyes as the cool wind of winter kissed her face. Are you there, Septimius…watching?

She was startled by a sudden knocking on the door, and waited a moment before speaking.

“Enter!” the empress said, turning her head to look at the gilded, double doors at the back of the room.

“Empress,” came the gruff voice of Macrinus, the new Prefect of the Praetorian Guard.

“What is it?” Julia Domna answered, not bothering to rise. She did not like Marcus Opellius Macrinus. Not only was he lowborn, but he had also been a legal advisor to her old enemy, Plautianus, before becoming director of the via Flaminia and of her husband’s properties. He was boor and upstart, she knew, but she dared not gainsay Caracalla’s choice. Not yet, anyway. “What do you want, Macrinus?” she said again as he walked slowly into the room, admiring the gilded furnishings and armour that had belonged to her husband.

“Empress,” he bowed, “the sacrificium at the temple is finished.”

“And?”

“The senate seems propitiated.”

“And did my sons perform their duties admirably?”

“They would have, I am sure…were they in attendance.”

She sat up then. “They were not there?”

“No. They were not.” He stood there, hand upon his sword hilt, looking down at her with no regard for her station, for all that she had done for the empire. “I suspect they stayed away because of the ill omens last night.”

“Omens?” she asked.

“Two wolves crept into the city. They fought on the Capitoline where one of them died. The other fled, but was cut down in the Forum Romanum.”

That gave her pause. She tried to abide by the stars more than anything, but such omens could cause a panic among the people, especially on the eve of an important sacrificium.

“I will speak with them, Macrinus. Are they still planning on attending me soon? We have much to talk about together, as a family.”

“Oh yes, Empress. They are coming.” Macrinus stroked his long beard as he said so, the hint of a smile behind his whiskers, but the empress did not notice, for she could not bear to look upon him for too long.

“Very well. Please go and bring them to me.”

Without a word, he saluted and went out, casting a backward glance at her as he closed the door.

“My lady?” asked one of her serving maids from a quiet corner of the room. “Shall I have food brought for your conversation with the emperors?”

“Yes. Do. They will be hungry, I’m sure. They eat so little now.”

The slave went away to make arrangements, and Julia Domna settled back down onto her couch to watch as the first stars began to alight in the sky beyond her balcony.

Her eyes closed briefly, and a smile began to play about her lips. She loved the stars, and she knew she could, that very night, turn the fortunes of her sons around for the better.

It was dark in the marble corridors of the palace, the light from the intermittent braziers casting wavering shadows upon the walls and smooth floors outside the empress’ quarters.

Geta approached with one of his men from the east end of the corridor, his eyes searching the dark, but not too much, for he always felt safer near to his mother.

The Gods knew he had done his share of plotting against his brother, but Caracalla, he knew, had done more, and so he hoped this conversation with their mother would be the olive branch they needed to heal the rift, to make sure he would survive to rule from a distance in the East.

It had surprised Geta when Caracalla had sent word that he wanted to talk together with their mother. Such a thing had not happened in a long while.

“There he is, sire,” his man said beside him.

Geta stopped before the doors of his mother’s chambers and watched Caracalla approach from the western end of the corridor.

There was a sudden gurgling beside him and he turned to see his man with a pugio jutting from his neck, eyes bulging in surprise.

Geta turned to scream, but the heavy fist out of the dark that connected with his check sent him to the floor.

“Help!” Geta tried to yell through the shock. “Help!” He looked up and saw Caracalla bearing down on him, a glinting blade in his right hand, his eyes holding a flame of determined fury in them.

Geta kicked out quickly, sending Caracalla back.

A hand gripped at his cloak, ripping it away, and he lunged for the double doors, crashing into his mother’s chambers.

“Mother!” Geta yelled, his voice cracking with fear. “Mother! I’m being murdered! Help me!”

Julia Domna felt her heart explode out of chest as she jumped up from her couch to see her younger son running toward her with outstretched arms.

“What is happening?” she demanded, ready to take Geta into her arms.

Geta stiffened suddenly, and Caracalla’s face appeared over his shoulder.

“No! No! NO!!!!” the empress cried, but the sound of the dagger plunging into the body of her son would not stop. She fell backward onto the couch, still holding onto her boy as his head slumped against her chest and his blood spattered all around her.

She looked up and saw the face of her son’s murderer, not his brother, nor her son, but that of a cold and bloody fratricide, a distorted theatre mask of hatred.

She began to shake, her face drenched with her boy’s blood, her furs, her stola, the couch…the blood was everywhere.

Caracalla stared down at them, grabbed Geta’s hair and pulled his head back abruptly to ensure there was no life.

“Leave him alone!” Julia Domna cried, swatting desperately at the murderer’s hands, her son’s hands!

“We will not divide the empire!” Caracalla roared, before being pulled away by the Praetorian Prefect.

Julia Domna sat there shaking, her mind and soul exploding like a star in its death throes. Her voice came to her then, from deep within, a loud terrible wail that shattered the peace of the Palatine hill, and could be heard across the city.