In the Shadow of the Wall (62 page)

He had given himself some choices for this moment. He had his dagger and he had some poison in a small pouch. He could also use the pillows. That might be best, for he did not want to use his dagger unless he had no alternative. There would be no mistaking murder if the emperor was stabbed.

Murder. That was the problem. Brude knew he was trapped in a plot from which there was only a slim chance of escaping. He had done all he could to save Mairead, Castatin, Barabal and little Seasaidh but he knew there was not much hope for himself. Fothair had a better chance if he remained undetected but he, too, was in danger. Cleon was not immune to discovery either. If everyone knew the emperor had been murdered, his killers would be hunted down mercilessly. So it had to be the pillows.

Brude looked at the frail old man lying on the bed in the dimly lit room and knew that he should have no problem suffocating him. Still he hesitated. He had sworn not to kill unless he had to. For the sake of his own humanity he did not want to kill, yet Veleda’s words thrummed through his head, an imperative he could not ignore. He remembered the years of slavery, the terror of the arena, the destruction of Dun Nechtan and Peart, Cruithne’s lone stand against the Roman raiders. All of these things had happened because of this one man lying asleep in front of him. It was in Brude’s power to stop any more.
Cut off the head and the beast will die
.

Indecision gripped him, froze him in place like a statue. Did he have to kill this man? Was it the only way to save the Pritani? To save himself? He stood there, wishing he could think of another way.
This is foolish
, he told himself.
You have come this far. Do it.

Then the emperor opened his eyes.

Brude should have moved quickly, should have grabbed a pillow and rammed it over the emperor’s face before he could shout a warning. He should have. He did not.

Septimius Severus looked straight at him, no sign of alarm showing in his eyes. “Who are you?” he croaked, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Come to kill me, have you?”

Brude looked into the emperor’s brown eyes, seeing resignation and weariness but no fear. “That is my intention,” he whispered back.

The emperor coughed. “Hah! I thought it would come to this sooner or later. My son sent you? Of course he did. I should have had him killed years ago, but I couldn’t do that to my own blood, not even someone as twisted as Caracalla.”

“I believe both your sons want you dead, but I am not here at their bidding.”

The emperor still had not moved but his head cocked slightly to one side when he heard that. “Geta wants me dead too? The boy has more balls than I thought, then. He’ll make a good emperor if he gets rid of Caracalla, too.”

Brude was confused. He had expected shouts of alarm, summoning of guards, but the old man just lay there, his voice barely audible, speaking as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Brude said, “You value your sons’ lives so cheaply?”

The emperor’s shoulders twitched slightly in what might have been a shrug. “They are Romans. They know how the world works. I am trusting to my wife to keep them in line but, sooner or later, one of them will kill the other. I have done my best to make them work together but they really hate each other. And the empire needs only one emperor. The legions only need one emperor.” His mouth twisted into a grotesque grin. “It’s easier to get your own way with a few kind words and thirty legions at your back than with just a few kind words. And Caracalla has the legions.”

“I don’t care either way,” said Brude, wondering what he was going to do now. This whole thing was surreal. He was here to kill the emperor, yet here he was chatting to him about the machinations of the man’s sons.

“And you? What drives you to do this?”

“I am of the Pritani. If your armies leave the north my people will be safe.”

“You speak good Latin for a barbarian,” observed the emperor.

“I was a slave for a long time. A gladiator. You freed me.”

“Did I? You must have been good, then. I didn’t free many from the arena. I expect you have a lot of reasons to hate me.”

“More than you can know. But I hardly know you,” replied Brude. “It is what you stand for that I hate.”

The emperor waved an arm weakly. “Oh! No philosophy, please. That is my wife’s interest, not mine. I did what I had to do. If you were in my shoes, you’d probably have done the same. You fought in the arena, so you know there are times you have to be ruthless. It might seem an easy life to you but, believe me, it’s not. I’m probably almost as much a slave of the empire as you were.”

“I doubt that,”

“Well, perhaps not,” the emperor agreed with a weak smile. “So what happens now? Are you going to kill me or bore me to death?”

Brude felt more trapped than ever. “I don’t really want to kill you but, if I don’t, a lot of my friends will die.” He wondered why he was telling the old man this. All it needed was one shout and the guards would run in, leaving Brude no alternative but to fight. And to almost certainly die.

“Some assassin you are,” the emperor said disapprovingly. “Don’t worry, I am not going to resist or call for help. I’m old and I’m tired and I have to get up to pee four times a night. I can’t eat very much without throwing up and my bones ache all the time. Death would be a welcome release, believe me. I won’t last out the year anyway. My sons will get their wish before long, whatever you do.”

Brude looked at him in astonishment. He had seen slaves, gladiators and soldiers who had been so badly injured that they welcomed death but to learn that the ruler of the empire shared that desire was a strange revelation. “If you really mean that, I can make it painless and peaceful,” he said.

The emperor raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“I have hemlock.”

“The death of Socrates? There’s a thought.” He gestured towards the goblet on the table beside his bed. “Go ahead and mx it, then.”

Scarcely able to believe what he was doing, half suspecting a trick of some sort, Brude walked round the bed. He hitched up his tunic and pulled a small vial from his pouch. He poured some water from the pitcher into the goblet, unstoppered the vial and emptied the contents into the drink. Hemlock was sometimes used as a sedative, although only in extreme cases. The difference between an amount that would render someone calm and pain free, and the amount that would kill them was very slender. Severus accepted the goblet with a nod. “How long will it take?”

“Not long. Ten minutes perhaps. Maybe less.”

“What will you do then? My guards will hardly let you live, you know.”

“I will leave through the next room. The guards won’t see me. I am just a slave.”

“Is that how you got in? Someone must have helped you. That door is barred.”

Brude said nothing. The emperor had not yet touched the potion and Brude suspected he was trying to get information out of him so that he could have the conspirators arrested.

“So you have a plan and an accomplice but you are not going to tell me? I think you might be smarter than you look. Well, no matter. What do I care?” He lifted the goblet to his mouth and slowly drained it. “There. Now, tell me when I freed you.”

Brude could not believe that the man was so calm. He took the empty goblet, placing it back on the small table. “At the Secular Games. In the Flavian amphitheatre. Nearly seven years ago now.”

The emperor half closed his eyes, searching his memories. “You were the one who got himself tangled in the net on purpose!” he exclaimed. “I remember seeing that and telling my sons you were a man who had gambled everything on one throw of the dice. You got lucky.”

“That was me,” Brude admitted.

“Now you are doing the same again. Gambling on one throw of the dice. You think you’ll be able to just walk out of here?”

“I walked in.”

“You are quite a fellow, aren’t you? More Roman than barbarian, I think.”

“No, I am just me. A man.”

“So what will happen to you after you walk out of here? Someone will talk, sooner or later.”

“Let them. I will be far away, back with what is left of my people.”

The emperor snorted. “Your ambition is to live in a mud hut with the other barbarians? Maybe you are not so smart after all.”

“Maybe not,” Brude conceded. “But it will be my choice of how I live, not someone else’s.”

“You have seen what
Rome
can offer and yet you turn your back on it,” the emperor whispered. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone do that.
Rome
brings peace, security and prosperity. What do your barbarians have to offer you?”

“Friendship, family.
Rome
brings death and destruction. I have seen it.”

“Is your own way any better? The tribes of this island were constantly fighting each other before we brought order.”

“Just because you want to rule, it doesn’t mean we want to be ruled by you,” Brude said.

“Everyone would rather rule than be ruled.”

“In my experience, most people would rather be left alone to get on with their own lives,” Brude told him.

The emperor smiled weakly. “I am not like most people. How long did you say this would take?”

Brude lifted the bed covers. He pinched the skin of the emperor’s leg. “Can you feel that?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” the old man replied.

Brude tried further up at the top of the thigh. “That?”

“No.”

Brude let the covers down. “It won’t be long now.”

“Good. I am tired of this life.”

“Then we will both gain from this.”

“You mentioned family. Do you have sons?”

“Only one.”

“Is he like my sons? Does he want you dead?”

“Not that I know of,” Brude said with a slight grin despite himself.

“Then you’re a richer man than I am,” Severus told him. The emperor’s breath was ragged now. Suddenly, without warning, his eyes were fixed open, staring at the ceiling. Brude touched his arm but there was no reaction. After a few moments Brude realised that the old man had stopped breathing. He felt the neck for a pulse but there was nothing. Gently, he closed the emperor’s eyes. Whatever else he was, Septimius Severus had met his end unflinchingly and with dignity. Brude just hoped that he never grew so tired of life that he would welcome death in the same way. It seemed sad that a man who ruled the whole world did not want to live.

It was done. Now all he had to do was get out unseen.

He took the candle and went back to the wardrobe where he quickly selected a long white robe, a pair of fine leather boots and a thick woollen cloak, which he wrapped around himself, fastening it with a gold brooch that was already attached to the cloak. He checked himself in a tall mirror that hung on a side wall and reckoned he could pass for a nobleman, although a rather dishevelled one. He found a hat with a wide brim, ramming it on his head to complete the disguise. From his pouch he pulled out a gold ring, which he placed on the middle finger of his left hand, the sign of a knight of the
Roman Empire
. He shoved his old sandals among the rows of shoes and boots, hiding them in plain sight.

He took the candle back into the bedchamber and set it on the table. He looked at the emperor again. The death would appear to be natural so, if he could get out undetected, there should be no hue and cry after an assassin.

He took the goblet and jug into the bathroom where he washed the goblet out to remove any traces of the poison, then retraced his steps and replaced them on the bedside table so that everything in the imperial bedchamber was as it had been. He left the candle burning. Illuminated only by its solitary light, he took one final, relieved look at the body of the emperor then felt his way back through the bathroom. He tried to figure out how to put the bar back in place but there was no way he could think of so he decided to leave it. He cautiously opened the door, passed through the other bedchamber, felt for the door, which led to the hall and, taking a deep breath, slowly unlocked it. He opened it a fraction and peered out into the hallway. Light still flickered from the candles hung on the wall brackets but there was no sound. He stuck his head out, looked both ways, then stepped into the hallway. Closing the door quietly, he locked it again, then headed away from the imperial room, unsure of where he was going but glad to be putting distance between himself and the scene of the crime.