Blood and Steel. Harry Sidebottom

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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.