In the Shadow of the Wall (61 page)

The guards on the doors were bored but kept on their toes by the duty centurion who would emerge from his tiny office from time to time to check on them and to make a brief circuit of the building. When the emperor and his family were around, the Praetorians were ever vigilant.

Cleon saw one of the outer doors being opened and the silhouette of an imperial messenger strode into the hall. It was Brude, as he had promised. Cleon almost jumped up to run to him but Brude looked at him with an expression that revealed no recognition and walked on. Cleon recovered his composure but his heart was pounding, beating so loud he was certain thefy">

Brude took the proffered beaker, draining it at one go. “Thank you.” Under his breath he whispered, “Relax. You look terrified.”

“I
am
terrified,” Cleon whispered in response. Then aloud, “The centurion is in here, sir.”

Brude removed his helmet, knocked on the door and went in. He left the door ajar so Cleon was able to hear what was said. This was the first point of real danger. Brude had stayed away from the Principia as much as he could over the past months but there was still a risk that he might be recognised, especially with his helmet off. The officer, though, seemed to be seeing what he expected to see; an imperial messenger. “Despatches, sir!” said Brude, passing the pouch over.

The centurion, seated at his desk, took the pouch and opened it, pulling the parchment scrolls clear. He unwound one of them, giving it a cursory glance. “These are late,” he said, his expression as dark as his tone. “They should have been here days ago.”

“Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!” Brude had heard enough soldiers make excuses to know how they should react. “I was delayed by snow in the north, sir. Then my horse went lame. It took me a couple of days to reach a staging post to get a fresh one. Afterwards, I was waylaid by brigands and had to make a long detour to escape. My horse was shot and died under me. Blood is still on the message pouch, sir.”

The centurion looked at the message pouch and saw the dark stain marking the leather. Brude knew the blood was that of the owner of the uniform he was wearing, but blood was blood. The centurion grunted, but seemed to accept the story. He gathered the scrolls and said, “Then you did well to get them here. I will see they get to the appropriate people.”

“Thank you, sir. Permission to rest?”

“Granted.”

Brude snapped a salute, fist to chest, then arm extended. He span on his heel and made for the door, where Cleon met him. “Come, sir,” said the Greek. “I will show you where you can get some refreshments.” He scuttled away, Brude following in his wake. Cleon led him through a back corridor into the rear parts of the building, where the shadows were dark and all was quiet. He ushered Brude into a small room, leaving the door open long enough to allow him to light a lamp. Then he closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. “My knees are shaking,” he said. “I can’t believe you got away with that.”

“Relax, Cleon,” Brude told him. “The despatches were genuine, the uniform is genuine. They see what they expect to see. Now, have you got the change of clothes for me?”

“Under the bed. Put the uniform there. I will go to the kitchens to get the water.” He slipped out of the door again.

Brude felt under the bed, found what he was looking for and pulled out a simple tunic and sandals. As quickly as he could, he unfastened his armour and changed out of the uniform, shoving it out of sight under the bed. In its place he slipped on the tunic and sandals.

Cleon returned a few moments later, carrying a tray bearing a fine clay jug and a silver goblet. He handed the tray to Brude. “The guard changes in ten minutes. The emperor’s fresh water was taken in half an hour ago but the new guards, hopefully, won’t know that.”

“Even if they do, I’ll blame it on confusion in the kitchens,” said Brude. He was feeling remarkably calm, despite the next phase of their plan being the most dangerous. Cleon had managed to get a mould of the key they needed but he had also discovered that there was a small private bathroom between the emperor’s bedchamber and the room they had the key to. Both rooms had doors connecting to the bathroom but, when the emperor had moved in, a wooden beam had been put in place inside the bathroom so that nobody could get through from the adjoining bedchamber. Lucius had told Cleon all about it when Cleon had asked what the emperor’s chambers were like. Having got the key, Cleon had felt a crushing despair when he learned of the barred door. Brude had come up with this crazy idea to allow him to get in. Privately, Cleon thought he had no chance. “You have the key?” he asked, “And your potions?”

“Strapped to the inside of my thighs,” said Brude. “Along with a small dagger, just in case.”

“By Hercules, I don’t think I want to know about that.”

Cleon left again, this time remembering Brude’s warning to walk slowly and calmly. He returned some minutes later. “The guards have been changed,” he confirmed.

“Then let’s go,” Brude told him.

Carrying the tray in one hand and the oil lamp in the other, Brude set off. Cleon followed at a discreet distance, a parchment scroll in his hands, trusting to the old truth that nobody ever questioned someone carrying letters and who looked as if they knew where they were going.

Brude had memorised tthe bout of the rooms and corridors from a plan Cleon had drawn. He walked, head down like a slave, following the route he had been over so many times in his mind. If he got any turns wrong, Cleon, walking twenty paces behind, would call him, pretending to need a slave for some errand. But he made no mistakes, rounding the final turn to see, in the light of the burning candles mounted in brackets on the wall, two Praetorians standing at attention outside a door. Beyond the guards and around the next corner was his second target, the doorway to the adjoining room. First, though, he had to get in and remove the bar, which blocked the bathroom door.

He walked up to the guards who watched him incuriously. Slaves were commonplace in the Principia. “Fresh water for the emperor,” he said in his slave voice. It was almost disconcerting how easily he had slipped back into a slave’s way of behaviour.

One of the guards opened the door, standing aside to let him in. Scarcely believing how easy it was, he walked into the room. In the gloom he could make out the large bed on the far wall between two shuttered windows, the small bedside cabinet where, sitting among several other items, were a jug and goblet, just like the ones he carried. To his right, he saw the door to the bathroom. Taking his time, he went to the bedside table, took his water jug and goblet off the tray, picked up the originals and went to the bathroom door. Now he had to be quick. He saw the bar straight away, placed across the opposite door. He put down the tray then quickly lifted the bar, praying it would make no noise. Fortunately, it moved easily. He propped it carefully against the wall then went back to his tray, noisily pouring the water down the washing basin. Thank goodness for Roman indoor plumbing, he thought. Replacing the jug on his tray, he returned to the bedchamber to see one of the guards watching for him. With a subservient bow, he left the room as quickly as he could, heading back the way he had come, while the guards closed the door and resumed their posts. His pulse was racing but he felt elated. He had done it. The crazy plan was actually working. As he rounded the corner Cleon heaved a sigh of relief, then, remembering his part, said, “You! Slave! Come with me.”

The quickest way to where Brude needed to be was past the guards but he needed an excuse to go that way without arousing their suspicion. Cleon gave him that excuse. The Greek began talking, telling his newly acquired slave that there were some important errands needing attending to at the rear of the building and that he would have to be quick so that he could get back to clear up after the feast. They walked past the two Praetorians, Cleon talking as they went. Then they rounded the corner and reached the door to the adjoining room. Cleon took the oil lamp and tray while Brude hitched up his tunic, pulling out one of the two keys Moritasgus’ smith had made from the mould. He slipped it into the lock and turned it while Cleon kept talking in a loud, self-important voice about all the tasks needing attention. The lock clicked loudly as the key turned but Cleon coughed to cover the sound. Then Brude was in. He turned, exchanging a look with Cleon that spoke a thousand words. He gave his friend a farewell nod, then closed the door. As he locked it, he heard Cleon walk away down the corridor. Cleon’s route back was long and convoluted but he could eventually reach the entrance hall without passing the guards again.

Now Brude stood in the darkness, trying to get his bearings. There was no light at all for the windows were shuttered so he moved slowly, carefully, sliding his sandalled feet across the stone floor. He followed the wall, searching for the door to the bathroom, the door he had unbarred from the other side. Completely blind, he moved painstakingly slowly so that he would not knock anything over in the impenetrable darkness. He found the first corner of the room, then a wooden cabinet, and then the second corner. Half way along the next wall was the door. He turned the handle and pushed, wondering what he would do if the door did not move but it swung open easily. He moved cautiously through and into the bathroom. Going entirely by touch, he found the bar he had removed. Gently, taking an age, he lowered it back into position, moving it barely a finger’s breadth at a time so as to make no noise. It nestled securely and he breathed another in a long line of sighs of relief. Now he removed his sandals and felt for the other door. It opened with a slight creak. He stopped, afraid the guards might hear, but there was no sound from outside the room so he squeezed through, easing the door shut behind him.

The heat from the hypocaust warmed the floor beneath his feet as he warily crossed the room, feeling for the bed, making his way towards the emperor’s wardrobe. This was, according to Cleon, a small room in its own right. He found the door and went in. Now all he had to do was find somewhere to hide. He had thought this would be easy but there was no light at all so he was utterly blind, having to rely solely on touch. It took a long time for him to search out the whole room. There were robes, togas, tunics and cloaks hanging around the edges of the room above rows of sandals and boots which were arranged on a low shelf. There was a recess at the rear of the room, near the shuttered window, where some wooden boxes and crates had been piled. He felt all around and discovered that there was just enough room for him to squeeze behind them and, hopefully, stay out of sight. Satisfied he could find his way around the small room, he returned to sit beside the door to wait.

Brude did not know how long he sat there but it could not have been more than an hour when a sound from the far side of the main room disturbed the eerie silence. Through the tiny crack of the nearly closed door, he could see the main door being opened, swinging silently inwards to admit a light from an oil lamp. A small, middle-aged man came in carrying the lamp. He said to someone behind him, “I will light your candle, Caesar.”

Brude watched, poised to move quickly, as a second man came in. His hair and beard were still fashionably curled but greyer than Brude remembered. His skin was drawn and tight across his face, which looked pinched and tired. But although time seemed to have caught up with him, there was no mistaking Lucius Septimius Severus, emperor of
Rome
. Portraits and busts of this man had haunted Brude for years. Most citizens of the empire knew his face as well as they knew their own.

The emperor walked slowly to the bed, his steps small and shuffling. Two more retainers followed him. They helped him to undress whle the first man lit the candle which stood on the small table beside the large bed. Brude remained alert, watching in case any of the servants came towards the wardrobe but the emperor’s night gown was already laid out for him and his clothes were whisked away for cleaning. The servants said their goodnights and left, closing the door behind them, leaving the ruler of the empire lying half propped up on a mountain of pillows. The solitary candle cast a dim light, illuminating a bowl of dried figs, the goblet and jug of water and a small hand bell on the table beside the bed.

Brude peered through the tiny gap. The emperor seemed to be dozing, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. There was no sound from outside the room. Brude forced himself to wait.

At last he moved. He opened the door as quietly as he could, fearing the slight creak from the old wood would waken the emperor or alert the guards. After a moment, he padded, barefoot, across the room towards the bed, feeling once more the heat from the hypocaust system rising through the tiled floor. On cold nights like this, the slaves would keep the fires burning permanently. He reached the bed and looked down at the man whose actions and decisions had shaped so much of his life. He saw the gauntness of the emperor’s features, heard the breath coming in laboured wheezes. He could scarcely believe he had succeeded in getting this close, undetected.