M. Scott: The Art of War

Rome, September, AD 70

The Emperor, Vespasian

It ends as it began, with the scent of wild strawberries filling the throne room.

I could smell it when I entered this morning, and can smell it still now, when everyone else has left us. We are here alone, just me and Caenis; the emperor and his woman, who can never be his wife.

It’s the first time we’ve been alone together since I landed. Being a soldier was my life and I was moderately good at it. Being emperor will be my future and perhaps, having taken the wolf by the ears, I will learn how to ride it. But today I am a man long separated from his woman, and the petitioners and robe-makers and goldsmiths can all wait.

As the last grovelling senator leaves, I open my arms. She steps slowly into my embrace, as if she, or I, were too fragile for sudden moves.

‘What?’ I know her every frown, every line about her mouth. I kiss them, each one, gently, with lips tired from talking. She tastes sweet as nectar, ripe, perfect. She is Diana, Isis, Astarte, Demet ‘There is one more,’ she says. ‘One more to see, to talk to, before today is done.’

‘Oh, please… Must we?’ I am beyond tired. I have fought battles that lasted from dawn until dusk and felt less exhausted after them than I do today, when I have done nothing more than ride up from Misene to Rome, and there met with my senate and all who serve my state.

But I know that look. I close my eyes. ‘Who?’

‘Look,’ she says, softly, and I do, and there is a man standing before me who was not there when I turned my head away.

‘Pantera.’

Am I glad to see him? I am certainly surprised. I am surprised first that he is able to walk when I had heard he was still on a nodding acquaintance with death, and second that he looks so thin, so hollow, so unlike the man I knew.

Except he doesn’t, really. His eyes are the same, and the dry, knowing intelligence that burns at their core.

‘I believe I owe you my throne,’ I say; an exaggeration, but not by a great deal. Antonius Primus claims that distinction for himself. Mucianus claims it, louder, as his own. Nobody has claimed it for Pantera, but he is here, which is perhaps claim enough.

I glance at Caenis; she knows why he is here, and I don’t.

‘Yes?’ I ask.

She says, ‘He won’t take Seneca’s spy network on my command. I thought your word might do it.’

Pantera is smiling; however blue his lips, however haggard his cheeks, however thin his arms, he can still make me feel like a child in front of a stern parent.

‘You don’t want it?’ I ask.

He bows, just a little. ‘Lord, I am not fit to take it, on any level. The lady Caenis would do far better.’

‘The lady Caenis,’ says the lady Caenis, crisply, ‘has absolutely no wish even to attempt such a thing.’

My spy (is he mine? Ever? Truly?) casts me a glance that says Is she always uncontrollable? and since she is there seems little I can do. I am not prepared to become caught between these two who ran Rome while I was locked in Alexandria, hearing of my war at second hand.

But there is, possibly, a way through.

I say, ‘But perhaps my lady could organize the administration under Pantera’s direction until he is well enough to take up the reins fully? He, meanwhile, can recuperate at our expense, since his… affliction was garnered in our defence.’

Myself, I think this is an ideal solution. They both look at me sourly, at each other, open their mouths to protest.

I hold up my hand. ‘I order it,’ I say. ‘There will be no discussion.’

They both look surprised and I have no doubt I will pay later, but there are advantages to being emperor and I could begin to enjoy this, given time. These two, between them, might give me the time.

There is nothing else to say, and I am a man who has not seen his woman in nearly two years. I turn to her, take her into my arms again, and she resists only a little.

‘You may leave,’ I say to the man who still waits.

‘Lord.’

Pantera turns and walks out of the room. Gods be thanked, he doesn’t back away bowing.

‘Stop.’

He is near the door. He stops. I say, ‘The woman Jocasta, who poisoned you, what happened to her?’

‘Trabo killed her,’ he says. ‘Not on our orders. But she could not have been let loose in the world and we all knew it. I think he did it at her request, or at least her instigation. He has not been disciplined, but he has been permitted to retire from army life. The Guard was not big enough for him and Geminus together and neither could readily have been demoted to a legion.’

‘Good.’ All good, all wise. I will need this wisdom in the years ahead. I wish… it doesn’t matter what I wish. What matters is what I have. Which is a great deal.

I wave a hand and he departs, and I am left with Caenis, my Caenis, who smells of wild strawberries, whose smile can lift me over seas and over nations, who will reign with me in all but name for as long as we both may live.