Commodus Page 16

  We passed a huge lake on our thirty-third day out of Ancyra that had all but dried up, leaving miles of salty, uninhabitable grey, and began the slow but constant climb through Cappadocia to the Taurus Mountains.

  We stopped at a small village called Halala in the high foothills, at the lower end of the great pass known as the Cilician Gates. Though the place was minor and poor in itself, it thrived in other ways due to its position, and boasted a major imperial mansio way station for the many officials and couriers that used the pass. The resident visitors had all been moved on to less impressive quarters by the Praetorians who ranged ahead of us, and so the entire mansio was given over to the emperor’s court. The bulk of the force that accompanied us camped a little further back down the valley.

  The weather was already on the turn and we had noted in the past days of travel a bitter chill in the morning, even in this arid region. It had something to do with our elevation on the edge of the Taurus Mountains, of course, but it most definitely also heralded the cusp of winter, and we could imagine snow awaiting us at the highest points of the range. Still, comfortable and warm in the mansio, we thought little of what awaited us.

  As was so often the case in my life, disaster was heralded by Cleander.

  I was leaving the comfort of the mansio proper to visit the bathhouse that stood a little apart, down a slope and a small flight of steps, when I heard that hateful voice already raised in anger emerging from another doorway. Cleander appeared, jabbing a finger at Saoterus as though it were a gladius, and I rolled my eyes at what resembled a pair of endlessly bickering children.

  ‘You would climb into the prince’s bed had you the chance,’ Cleander sneered.

  ‘You would have me Antinous to his Hadrian?’ Saoterus replied loftily. ‘A lover and favourite?’

  ‘Me? I would have you skinned and roasted and, who knows, one day I might.’

  ‘You will never have that kind of influence, Cleander. You’re just a spoilt, overambitious peasant.’

  ‘And you are a momentary blink of the eye. A bath attendant too big for his boots. Soon you’ll be gone, and I will mourn your passing appropriately. With good wine and song.’

  I tried to stop listening as they descended into the usual name-calling and concentrated instead on the steps down to the baths, which were slippery. I was startled to see half a dozen Praetorians suddenly emerge from the door below, spreading out, two of them climbing the path towards me as the emperor himself and the empress Faustina appeared from the golden glow of the bathhouse doorway.

  Respectfully, I stepped off the path onto the grassy slope some paces away, being careful to maintain my footing as the soldiers climbed. Similarly, Cleander and Saoterus had halted their endless tirade and moved aside in silence. The only noises were the clatter and scrape of the soldiers’ boots on the damp stone and the conversation of the man who ruled the world, and his wife.

  ‘I swear,’ the empress said gaily, ‘that the man’s face was so deformed that I honestly wondered if he had been put in the wrong way up.’

  The emperor exploded in a shower of mirth at the story that we’d clearly missed much of, rubbing the back of his head and shaking with laughter.

  ‘This, my heart, is why soldiers need their wives on campaign.’ He smiled. ‘The world can oft appear too bleak without the soft tone and light heart of a woman to heal it.’ In an almost unseemly show of affection, Aurelius put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and squeezed her to him. ‘Come. Warm food and ingratiating, sycophantic company awaits.’

  Faustina rolled her eyes. ‘And you make it sound so appealing.’

  The imperial couple climbed back towards the comforts of the mansio, smiling and easy. Suddenly, with a sharp cry of alarm, Faustina slipped on the treacherous stone and fell heavily. The emperor made to grab her, but she slipped through his fingers, landing with a hard crack. She rose, sheepishly, laughing at her clumsiness even as the six Praetorians turned and hurried to help, their compatriots who guarded the entire perimeter of the mansio complex running to join them. But as she rose, smiling, she yelped and fell again, thudding down onto the cold wet grass beside the steps. I looked at her and winced. The empress’ leg was soaked with blood where it had torn on the edge of the stone step, and I could see the white of bone.

  The emperor was horrified and called out for help. Moments later, soldiers in white tunics were carefully bearing the empress aloft, carrying her up the steps towards the inn proper, their shields and other equipment discarded on the grass. A trail of crimson climbed the stair behind them. I hurried after the men, my desired soak in a hot bath long forgotten. Faustina was taken to her room and Galen, who had accompanied the court east, fetched to tend to her. Shortly after he arrived and shut himself in the chamber with her and the emperor, Commodus appeared. Cleander and Saoterus immediately flocked to his side, each acting as though the other wasn’t there, but Commodus waved them both away irritably, instead crossing to me where I stood nervously, nibbling my manicured nails.

  ‘What happened? I heard she fell?’

  I nodded. ‘On the bathhouse steps. They were icy. Her leg is a mess.’

  We stood there in silence, each moment becoming tenser and more worrying than the last as we waited for someone to leave that room. My fears for the empress gave rise to thoughts of my mother, who I had not now laid eyes upon in four years or more. The one occasion I had managed to secure time and freedom to visit, she had not been there. I had thought of her from time to time, of course, but the empress’ predicament somehow flooded me with feelings of guilt over how long it had been since I had spoken to Mother. I resolved to speak to Commodus when the chance arose and beg more time to visit her, sure that we could somehow recapture the closeness of my youth.

  It was over an hour before the physician emerged. The gathered faces – everyone who cared for the empress, as well as those who could see an advantage in appearing to be more concerned – leaned forward expectantly. Galen shook his head sadly and I blinked in surprise.

  ‘The empress is not in a good way,’ he announced

  ‘You dolt,’ Commodus snapped. ‘I thought she had died, the way you looked.’ I nodded, and I was not the only one, but the physician held up his hands in mollification.

  ‘Please, it is not good. The empress has lost a great deal of blood and the wound is bad – too wide to simply stitch and I cannot attempt to patch the wound with such a flow of blood. She is deathly pale, and her breathing is shallow. I have bound the leg in an attempt to halt the bleeding and clot the wound. If Aesculapius is listening to our prayers and the empress is strong, then she will make it through the night, and if she does and has not lost too much more blood, then I might be able to attempt a surgical graft. For tonight we are in the hands of the gods. I would suggest, your Highness, that you pray for your mother.’

  As the crows gathered above Halala, we did. We prayed that night as we had prayed for Annius. As we had prayed for Verus. As we had prayed for Fulvus. Commodus found the mansio’s lararium and added to the collection of gods a small statue of Aesculapius that was now a part of his permanent baggage, making libations, lighting expensive incense, praying until exhaustion finally took him. Saoterus did likewise, some respectful distance from the prince, and so did Cleander.

  I prayed to God, and, though my relationship with my saviour had been rocky at times, I prayed with all my heart, for the empress had a good soul and her loss would be a disaster for Commodus. Pompeianus took it upon himself, good man that he was, to control the court and keep them informed of all events, allowing the imperial family their privacy. Lucilla put in a brief appearance, a rare display of actual worry and grief as she waited for news of her mother. Quadratus joined us for a while, for once leaving aside all thought of advancement and genuinely praying for his aunt.

  I prayed quietly until I was interrupted by a whisper.

  ‘Praying to your lo
ne Jewish god is going to kill the empress.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I hissed, casting around my gaze to see if we were being listened to. Quadratus, Pompeianus and Lucilla were all absent. Commodus had retired to his chamber in an attempt to squeeze in an hour or two’s sleep, and Saoterus had gone off to check in with the physician. I was alone with Cleander. Had I realised that, I might have left earlier. ‘The empress needs all our goodwill,’ I said, as patiently as I could manage.

  ‘Not yours,’ Cleander snapped. ‘Mark my words: in the morning, Aesculapius will turn his back on us because of your Jewish cult and your unwillingness to recognise the true gods. It happened with Prince Fulvus, it happened with Prince Annius, and now your impious rituals will kill the empress, too. How the prince tolerates your kind I shall never understand.’

  I turned away from the former slave and ignored his jibes, though with a new, unsettling thought. If the empress did not pull through, I knew it would not be because of my beliefs, but Cleander would feel vindicated. What would he do? Christians have rarely been popular in the Roman empire, and more emperors had murdered our kind than had preserved us. Yes, we had freedom and rights under the glorious reign of the Antonines as never before, but how long would that last?

  I spent the rest of the night nervous, even when Commodus, unable to sleep, returned to the altar and made a fresh appeal for his dwindling family. ‘God has a plan,’ my mother would always say, ‘but it is not always given to us to understand it or to find meaning or comfort in it.’

  She was right about that.

  The empress died a little before dawn. We could not quite comprehend it. Mere hours earlier she had been laughing and vital, and now she was grey and still. The emperor emerged from her chamber with the drawn-faced physician, and the two paused in the doorway to deliver the news.

  Moans of anguish arose from every quarter, and as I stood, shivering, taking in that scene, I realised that the two people who were not wailing or sobbing were the empress’ husband and son. Aurelius had seen enough tragedy in his life and was of a composed and sober enough nature that he was able to box up his raw pain and save it to deal with later. Commodus, in a way that was at once similar and yet so very different, had again drawn that mask of composure down over his face to hide the fact – which I knew full well – that he was screaming inside. It was a habit he must have developed to help deal with his pain whenever I had not been there for him, and the knowledge of that sent fresh waves of guilt through me. How could I let him suffer behind the mask when I was here now to soothe him? I felt that pit of anguish opening up in front of the prince and was reminded of those days I found him closeted away in a dark room, dreaming of death. His descent had to be arrested before he began to wallow, but for a while I had not the chance.

  I was ignored for days. Commodus and his father closeted themselves away when they were in private, and the rest of the time they were involved with the inevitable responsibilities of the bereaved. I ached to console my prince but had to let him suffer behind his mask – for a time, anyway. On the eighth day, as was customary, we held the funeral, witnessed only by the court, a grand military presence that had been encamped in the valley below, and the paltry inhabitants of a small provincial stopover. Only when the ceremony had been held and the empress rendered down to ash to lie cooling in her urn did I finally spend any time with Commodus.

  I walked into his room at his bidding and closed the door behind me. He looked up, rose from the bed and threw his arms around me. The mask slid from his face and he wept like a heartsore child for hours. That night we talked of death and of loss. Of the ever-diminishing line of the Antonines. I was desperate to push aside such subjects and try to help him find his way back to the light as we had done with the Palatine menagerie, but I also knew that I had to let him vent these emotions to me, first. Grief has to play itself out, as I was already aware. Finally, his body weak from hours wracked with sobbing, his eyes dry and his pillow wet, he slept.

  The next day I called again and the Praetorian at the door bade me wait, for the prince already had a visitor. For half an hour I fretted in the corridor until the door opened and Cleander emerged. It was an interesting transition that I saw occur on his face. As he left the room he wore a look of chastened sadness and sympathy, but as he emerged into the corridor it slipped into sour anger, which only deepened as his eyes fell upon me. His lip twitched into a sneer and he stomped away without a word. I was intrigued and entered the prince’s room once the guard had confirmed my invitation.

  ‘Highness?’

  He was sitting quietly, and his expression was odd, I couldn’t place it.

  ‘Is your god an understanding one?’ he asked quietly.

  I paused, unsure where this was going. ‘The most understanding. The most forgiving.’

  ‘Cleander claims your impiety killed my mother. Others in the court, I know, would share his opinion, for your god is not popular.’

  ‘God—’ I began.

  ‘Your god,’ he said quietly.

  ‘My God,’ I conceded, imagining Mother’s face at such phrasing, ‘would never see an innocent suffer so, and the gods of Rome are said to look after their people, are they not? Only madmen like Nero blame the Christ for tragedies befalling the empire.’

  Commodus nodded wearily. ‘I had come to a similar conclusion, and I told Cleander precisely what I thought of his theory.’

  ‘He is playing games,’ I said, angrily. ‘Jostling for position, seeking power and to push down anyone who might get in his way, such as me, or Saoterus.’

  ‘I have known Cleander almost as long as I’ve known you, Marcia. He helped try to save Fulvus. He saved Annius from a fall. I know you hate him, but you see only what you want to see. There is another side to him. He had often been my friend when I most needed one.’

  I nodded, though that cut me deep, partially because I was supposed to be the one he turned to, and partially because I knew even in the bitterest part of my heart that he was right. ‘Even a rangy wolf looks like a loyal dog sometimes,’ I said meaningfully. He did not look convinced by my analogy. ‘Enough of this, now. It is still early morning. Come out. Come with me.’

  He threw me a look that suggested he would rather almost anything else at that moment, but I would not relent. We emerged from the room and made our way down the corridor into the light. Two Praetorians fell in behind us protectively as we made our way through the mansio.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, his voice still hollow and cracked with grief. I knew my prince. Ahead lay months of despair unless I could help him. And it was not a matter of healing him, but of supplying him with the opportunity and tools to heal himself. I was becoming adept at this, I think.

  ‘We are going to see the world,’ I said brightly. He still looked dour and unhappy, but there was just a twinkle of curiosity about him, then. We exited into the chilly, late autumn mountain air, and I beckoned him towards the stables.

  ‘How easy is it to ride?’ I asked.

  He stared at me. Roman women don’t ride. We travel in carriages or litters. But where I had a mind to go only feet or hooves would be possible, and travelling through Pannonia and the east I had seen women on horses – the poor and the semi-barbaric, admittedly, but something bloody-minded in me suggested that if a Thracian peasant woman could manage a horse, then damn well so could I.

  ‘I intend to ride, unless there is an imperial command coming preventing me. Is there?’

  Commodus continued to stare at me, but shook his head slowly.

  We took the horses from the stable, Commodus selecting his own well-rested mount and the equisio giving me the beast he thought the tamest and most steady. After just a few moments of instruction, I laughed at the worry of the stable master.

  ‘I will be fine. Wedged between four horns in this saddle, where could I go? Kick to move, haul back to stop, pull one side to turn. I cannot
understand why horsemanship is considered such a skill.’

  Commodus actually laughed, then, as much at the equisio’s face as at my comment. We set off with twelve Praetorian cavalry keeping us company – a prince’s life is too important to expose needlessly – and I soon learned my folly in simple assumption. I had the tamest, calmest horse in the world and damn me if he did not continually go the wrong way, stop when I was busy kicking him in a frenzy, turn left when I pulled the right rein. At least he never ran and never jumped or bucked, but still, he made my first, and last, horse ride difficult. Even with my troubles, more so because of it, in fact, the ride was worth it. My difficulties continually improved Commodus’ mood.

  We were to ride some ten miles, which the men I had overheard in the mansio discussing this place had suggested was the work of an hour. In fact, it took me almost three times that, though in addition to my lack of skill the terrain was not easy. Casting my mind back to the conversation I had listened in on at the inn, we followed the road to the south as it rose towards the Cilician Gates, but before we reached that pass we took a small side road to the left. This meandering path led us high up a hill split with several jagged peaks, tapering green trees jutting from the sharp grey scree.

  It was principally a logging trail, I think, but it was wide enough and well-trodden enough for us to make our way up without too much difficulty. Nearing the end of our third hour, and with me regretting my curiosity for the saddle, we arrived at the top. The tumbledown remains of an ancient watchtower stood there, and as we reached the crest and reined in, I could understand what the men I’d overheard meant when they said you could see the world. The view allowed for the faint recognition of Halala, whence we had come, some distance north along the snaking road, and valleys stretched out east. To the south we could see the wide, deep vale leading to the Cilician Gates. I had travelled now across mountains in Italia, Illyricum, Moesia and Bithynia, but never had I experienced a view like this.