“Imagine the most magnificent house you’ve ever been in. It has porticoes, passages, courtyards and gardens. Then imagine that house is surrounded by another house, more courtyards, more pools and gardens, more offices and workrooms. Then surround it with yet another, pathways and passages all branching like a tree. And another. And another. That was how it felt to walk into the palace of the Emperor of Rome.”
Now you are really listening. Power is like the sun: you can’t ignore it.
You just have to try not to get burned up.
The noise from the city died away as we followed our escort, who was not a soldier this time, but a Greek slave who managed to look down his nose at us despite being a slave. I followed at my mother’s heels, trying not to stare as we passed pillars of different coloured marbles, statues covered in silver and gold, murals and mosaics like glittering jewels. Banners and curtains wafted in the breeze, and there was the sound of dancing water from hidden gardens. I caught the occasional glimpse or scent of beautifully dressed people drifting about like nymphs.
Door after door was opened for us and closed behind us. Then, at last, the slave stopped before a door that opened like a picture frame onto a sunny garden, where a woman and two young men sat in golden chairs. Beyond them was only blue sky.
“The imperial family,” the slave murmured.
The woman who rose to meet us was Julia Domna, wife of the Emperor. She looked like her pictures, but with one difference – her skin was much darker than it had been painted. Her dark brows almost met in the middle, and her face was severe, with a strongly carved nose and deep-set brown eyes. Her hair was done in a way I had never seen before; it looked almost like a helmet, but you could see it had taken hours of painstaking work to create those regular, regimented braids. It framed her face like a setting frames a jewel. She was not beautiful, but one look at her told me I would never dare disobey her.
Beside her, in golden chairs, sat two men in their twenties. One was older, and very like the Emperor’s statues, if the statues had been in a scowling, bad mood. The other, younger one looked more like his mother. I guessed at once that the older one was Bassianus, who was always called Caracalla, and the younger one was Geta.
I remembered the arch of Septimius Severus in Leptis Magna. On that stone, the brothers had been shown grasping hands with their father, tall and straight and in complete agreement. Concordia: peace. But the men in front of me were not calm, dignified marble heroes. Caracalla’s face was red and puffy and his eyes were sharp and watched every move we made. Geta was pale and fidgety, and he seemed to know when Caracalla’s knife-blade eyes were on him.
Even from a distance, I noticed how Caracalla leaned forward as if about to pounce, and how Geta cringed away from him, while trying to pretend he was not afraid. The cats stood like that back at home, when the older kitten was bullying the younger one into a fight he would never win. No, there was no concordia here.
“Doctor – I have heard much about your skill,” Julia Domna said, sweetly.
My parents walked towards her, responding to the Empress’s welcoming smile and her outstretched hand. I hung back, feeling tongue-tied and shy.
A shadow fell across me. I turned and looked up, into the face of the Emperor himself, Septimius Severus.
8.
Eagles
I recognised Septimius Severus at once from his statues. He was in his sixties, the same age as my father, but he looked older. Pain had scarred his face, and he was leaning on two sticks. When he walked, he hobbled. Still, his arm muscles were strong beneath his purple toga, and he had the face of a fighter.
I do not know what I said or did. Probably nothing, but my expression must have echoed my shock and terror.
“Who do we have here? A nymph unwilling to step into Olympus,” said the Emperor. Although I knew he came from Leptis Magna, it was still startling to hear an accent like my own, coming out of the mouth of the Emperor himself. He ushered me forwards into the garden, and the sunlight blazed in my eyes.
“Quintus Camillus, the great physician!” I heard the Emperor exclaim. “Have you finally come to save me from the chalkstones that are crippling my feet?”
The Emperor quickly dropped the Latin and spoke about his health in Punic. He asked my father to take his pulse. What my father diagnosed seemed to please the Emperor. Slaves came to offer us food. One – a boy my age – had a dint under his eye the size and shape of five big knuckles. He stared at the ground as he offered us the golden tray then seemed to vanish with the others into the depths of the gardens. I followed him with my gaze – and spotted the soldiers who guarded the gates, expressionless in scarlet, gold and iron.
Somehow I knew that we were being judged – on our loyalty, our weaknesses, our potential usefulness. I also knew that, like slaves, we could be disposed of if we did not meet the Emperor’s needs. Now I understood why my mother said as little as possible and smiled a great deal.
Driven by fear, I edged away from the Emperor and his wife, towards the blue sky. I did not dare look away from the Emperor for fear of being thought disrespectful, until I sensed a drop below me. I looked down behind me, and I realised that the garden ended in a cliff. There was a low wall, and then I looked out over the city of Rome. Red-brick walls and shining
