Commodus Read online

  I do not know why, but with there being no slaves around to announce me, I walked straight into Quadratus’ rooms, expecting him to be up and about at this time. Instead, I found him sprawled naked across his bed next to an equally naked woman. I had known that his interest in me had waned and he was looking elsewhere, but to be confronted with this was difficult. To make matters worse, I swiftly realised that this was no local whore, but the wife of one of the garrison commanders, a woman I had met socially a few times. I ran from the room before they awoke, feeling outraged and confused, despite my hatred of the man.

  I wandered aimlessly around the town. Unlike the seedy backstreets of Rome, this Vindobona was safe for a woman of any standing, for Praetorians were in evidence all over the place, precluding the possibility of trouble in the emperor’s camp. I had, quite by chance, found my way to the palatial building being used by the emperor and his court and was about to turn and leave when I saw the line of lictors standing patiently outside, and recognised at least two of them as being Commodus’ men. I struggled with myself, then. I didn’t really think visiting the prince – the emperor, I reminded myself yet again – would be a good idea, even if he would see me, but I felt lonely and friendless with the discovery that I was now utterly superfluous, even to Quadratus.

  ‘Oh look, the peasant girl is lost. If you’re at a loose end, I can direct you to a whorehouse that needs new girls?’

  I sighed. I’d not seen Cleander much recently and, while I still hated him more than any man alive, even Quadratus, it was oddly comforting to be in the presence of his old familiar bile amid all these changes.

  ‘You’ve visited one? And they would touch you? Poor girls must be desperate.’

  Cleander simply answered with a sneer. ‘Quadratus thrown you out? It was only a matter of time.’

  ‘Go drown in a latrine.’

  ‘Wishful thinking,’ he smiled. ‘What’s it like to be nobody, with no place in the world? What will you be next: a seamstress? A beggar?’

  I was too dispirited to rise to it and just shook my head. My attention was then drawn back to the building as the lictors snapped to an attentive stance and Commodus emerged. With him were two Praetorian officers I didn’t know. I caught sight for just a moment of Commodus’ face and I knew in a flash what had happened. Despite the distance between us, my heart went out to him.

  At his instruction, the two officers dispersed. The sight of this commotion had an odd effect. As though the vultures that circled the ailing emperor had been perched on every windowsill, suddenly all those men of importance seemed to be emerging from doors and streets. A soldier sounded a horn with three short blasts and a unit of Praetorians emerged from somewhere and formed up.

  I was rooted to the spot. Commodus stood, stony-faced, with his lictors, and finally, as the expectant, tense crowd began to become restive, Pompeianus stepped out of the door behind him, hands raised for silence.

  ‘The emperor is dead,’ he announced, eliciting a low moan from all present. They must all, like me, have expected this, yet hearing it was still difficult. ‘The legions and cohorts are being assembled on the fields outside Vindobona to be addressed by their new emperor and to give their oath. With the passing of the divine Marcus Aurelius, it is my privilege on behalf of the senate of Rome to acknowledge Caesar Lucius Aurelius Commodus sole emperor of Rome, Augustus, imperator, pater patriae, pius felix, pontifex maximus. Hail Aurelius Commodus Augustus!’

  I knew Pompeianus to be a well-regarded commander, but I had not realised how skilled a politician and orator he was, too. His very stance and every motion of his hands were carefully tailored, his tone clear and strong, brooking no argument and inviting no interruption, rising towards the end in a crescendo such that the last four words were bellowed like a challenge to God.

  I was flooded with emotions. The great emperor, who had ruled Rome all my life, had died. My oldest friend would be sorrowful and lost, and yet would not have time to grieve, for the world would crash in upon him. It was saddening and nerve-wracking. Yet there was something else there. Something glorious and uplifting. The man I always thought of as my prince stood like one of his gods outside that building, strong and tall, hair golden and burgeoning beard gleaming. He looked so powerful, so great, that I could not imagine there being anything he couldn’t achieve.

  He was becoming the Hercules he had decided to be all those years ago when Fulvus died.

  I don’t know what made me turn and look. They’d made no noise, but perhaps I just felt the hate wash out across the street like a wave. The emperor’s sister, my former mistress Lucilla, was a stony figure of seething resentment, a polite smile bolted on below hate-filled eyes. Quadratus, beside her, switched back and forth with every breath between disappointment and hope. Trouble was definitely brewing in that quarter.

  Commodus began his reign with an address to the assembled legions outside Vindobona. I remember it almost word for word, and it stays with me as an example of what an orator he could be.

  ‘I grieve,’ he said. ‘I grieve for my father, the greatest of emperors, and I know that you share my grief, you who have been our fellow soldiers throughout this bleak and dreadful time of war. And I know that when you take your oath to me, you will be echoing that very oath you took to him, that it will be soldiers making their vow to a fellow soldier, for I am one of you, just as he was. I have spent my childhood with the legions. Grown with you. Learned with you. I owe you all. I owe you for the man I have become, and I hope to enjoy your goodwill throughout my reign.’

  He paused for a time for the huge surge of support and cheering that washed across the land from many thousands of voices. Finally, as it died down, he held up his hands.

  ‘For a century we have relied upon adoptions for the succession. Men who were chosen to learn the rule of state from their predecessor. I am the first emperor for a hundred years born to the purple.’ Another cheer. ‘But I still learned from my father,’ he bellowed across the surge. ‘My childhood was spent preparing me for this day. I might have been born to be emperor, but it was my father who made me one.’

  He paused and gestured at the standards of the legions, gleaming and proud.

  ‘You are soldiers of Rome, and I salute you as the best of men. Would it were that we could conquer even the skies, for I cannot see how you could fail.’ Ridiculous praise, of course, but it struck like a lance into the heart of every man listening. ‘Whatever the days to come might deliver,’ he said, finally, ‘I know that you will bring renown and dignity to Rome, such that even my father – our father – who has ascended to Heaven, will hear and look down upon us with pride.’

  There was a strange silence, and I realised that Commodus had looked down at his feet. Everyone watched, waiting, and suddenly that golden prince, a young Hercules in Roman armour, lifted his gaze to the sky.

  ‘For the senate, and the people of Rome,’ he roared, as though addressing his father.

  The army exploded into noise.

  The greatest emperor Rome had ever known deserved an efficient, respectful and quiet funeral and succession. Whether Christian or pagan, respect for the honoured dead is a prime tenet, I know. Yet what happened with the passing of Marcus Aurelius I can only describe as a feeding frenzy. Those in positions of power and authority sought to solidify their claim to such. Those who felt they had been overlooked or undervalued – such as Quadratus – took the opportunity to seek advancement and change. Those with nothing sought something, anything. And those who knew their place precisely and were confident in it became part of the frenetic activity, Saoterus and Cleander in particular. Neither man seemed to stop moving for days, so busy they did not even have time to argue with one another.

  Amid this seething sea of ambition and greed only four figures stood proud as islands amid the crashing waves. Lucilla, who knew well enough that she was unlikely to change her position through her brother, sim
ply watched from the periphery with eyes that bore no filial concern whatsoever. Pompeianus, whose position as Commodus’ brother-in-law put him near the top of the heap, was confident enough in his ability and intelligence that he helped the emperor keep an element of control amid surging events. Bruttia Crispina ambled on calmly and overtly happy in the knowledge that she was now the most powerful woman in the world. One might have thought her calm and pleasant, were it not for the acidic looks I occasionally caught her casting at me.

  And there was me. I still had ties to Lucilla through her patronage of my mother, though she had clearly not even appended me to her list of things to consider, which was fine by me. Quadratus was nominally my master. Legally, of course, as a grown woman, a spinster, and beholden to no one personally, I could have opted out of being Quadratus’ mistress at any time, especially now that Aurelius, who had allowed his spiteful daughter to put me in this position, was gone. But I could not see Quadratus taking such a thing well, and any trouble there would bring me to Lucilla’s attention. Besides, what would I do? I had nothing. All my money was given to me by Quadratus. I had no home, no job, no family, no discernible skill apart from a passing talent with needle and thread. That was not strictly true, of course – I was steadily building a whole collection of skills, but there were limited circumstances where they could come into play. I certainly had no intention of being one of those women who used them on street corners. I was wilful and far too well educated for my gender and class, thanks to the palace tutors, so would probably be unlikely to attract attention from men of high class or low as a wife. I was saddled with being Quadratus’ mistress until something better came along.

  I was practical, at least.

  What had seemed so simple and glorious then, even amidst the sadness, became complex and fraught now. Though I only saw him from the edge of events, Commodus appeared to me to be drowning in people and supplications, wearing his benign, beatific mask, yet slightly wild-eyed and losing the fight against the flow. Left largely to myself, as I was, and known to be a consort of the imperial family and a childhood friend of the emperor, I was given almost free access to everywhere automatically, though getting close to the emperor was impossible in those days.

  Thus it was that I found myself among the lesser attendants at the periphery of the hall when Commodus had finally had enough. I had been sipping good wine sparingly and pinching the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to ward off a burgeoning headache. I had let myself defocus, both visually and aurally, the seething mass of people just a blur to me and their noise like a gaggle of geese on a lake. I have no idea what had been said, but it had provoked consternation and argument. The geese all began honking at once, as loud as they could. I winced.

  Then it stopped.

  A single voice that I knew well bellowed, ‘Enough!’

  As the crowd fell silent, Commodus stepped up on to the dais. ‘Silence,’ he barked, and the last few stragglers fell quiet.

  I concentrated at last, allowing the gathering before me to come into focus. I realised with a start that almost everyone in the room was a military man. They are indistinguishable from the senators and courtiers when they are out of uniform – after all, most of the latter had been military men themselves at some point – but this was a military discussion, obviously, and a largely military gathering. I began to feel a little nervous that I was intruding. Every other meeting had just been filled with people trying to jostle for position. I decided I would slip out quietly, but not before I listened to what came next. Commodus looked irritated. I wouldn’t say angry, but definitely not pleased.

  ‘The Marcomanni cannot be conquered,’ he snapped. ‘Have you all learned nothing from the dozen years that drained my father of the will to go on?’

  Shock rippled across his audience, and I realised people had been asking about plans for the coming season. Most of those present would be hoping or expecting to be in command in some way.

  ‘The Marcomanni,’ Commodus shouted, pointing at the huge map on the wall. ‘The Quadi. The Iazyges. The Suebi. The Buri. There is an endless list of tribes that go on from the Danubius right to the great encircling sea. And they cannot be conquered or subdued. We have utterly broken the Marcomanni time and again, even while I have been here, and what has it gained us? Some slaves. Some loot. And a huge pile of Roman corpses. And what difference has it made across the river? None at all. A different king. Some empty villages. But the Marcomanni and their allies remain strong. My father’s dream was grand, but for all that it was still a dream. A Roman Marcomannia is impossible. And every year we push for it, we lose more men in the legions and depopulate more provinces to create new armies. And every year we drain the treasury drier. And here we are, twelve years later, on the same damned river with different men in a land pockmarked with the graves of thousands of Romans.’

  There was a horrible silence. I could almost feel the more martially minded among the crowd lining up their arguments, but no one dared interrupt.

  ‘I am aware,’ he went on, slightly calmer now, ‘that to simply drop everything is impossible. We will press on for this one season, but we are not campaigning with a view to conquest and the settling of this fabled Marcomannia. We are campaigning to control and strengthen. We will batter the tribes until they are unwilling to cross the river and are happy to sue for peace. We will make them want a permanent border that we have no more desire to cross in anger than they. Even if it takes months, we will do it. And then, when the season is over, we will pay what needs to be paid and agree what needs to be agreed with anyone we need to do it with.’

  A brave soul somewhere among the crowd called out in a worried tone, ‘If we agree to pay the barbarians good gold from Rome, we will bankrupt the treasury.’

  Commodus simply raised an eyebrow. ‘And if we commit to another season of mass destruction across the river, we shall do exactly the same. But my way it all ends this year, while war can go on for ever. No. One season and then we are done here. Rome has laboured under twenty years of constant war with Parthia and the Marcomanni. She is poor, sick and dispirited. She needs a respite. We will have peace to heal, and I shall secure it at any price.’

  I smiled. I felt pride in the man my prince had become. Years ago, when we had first been here, he had decided that war was not the answer, but it had not been his place to do anything about it. Now he had the power to back up his belief.

  A new voice cut through the silence that followed. A quiet yet powerful voice. A voice I hated almost as much as Cleander’s.

  ‘You would give up everything our father fought for?’ Lucilla said, arms folded. I frowned. She had never to my knowledge shown the slightest interest in the war, or any war for that matter. This was a challenge, pure and simple. She had seen a tiny crack between her brother and the generals that he had almost sealed tight once more with his reasoned words, and she was determined to crack it open, the harpy.

  Commodus threw her an angry look. He knew what she was doing every bit as much as me.

  ‘Fought for, but did not win,’ Commodus replied, and I could hear the pain behind his words. He wanted nothing less than to downplay his father’s many achievements, but Lucilla was forcing him to do so, or submit to his generals.

  There was a murmur of discontent again, now, and Commodus silenced his sister with a glare, though she was content to be quiet now, with the damage already done.

  ‘Rome needs to heal,’ he tried again. ‘You are leaders of men and victors in the field, but you are also senators and nobles of Rome, with interests in the capital and the provinces. You must have felt your purses thinning these past years? Your business interests slowing and sometimes failing? Your hard-earned land devaluing? Why do you think that is? Mismanagement?’

  Now there was a faint chuckle at his gentle jibe. He had them again, was lifting them. ‘Twenty years of war. But not just that. Our richest lands have been pillaged and endange
red. Precious Aegyptus, with its gold and wheat, for a while in the hands of Cassius’ rebels. Dacian gold mine production halted by Iazyges incursions, the cities of Greece sacked, even Italia herself under the barbarian heel, with Aquileia destroyed. And this while we were fighting them. Our own lands ravaged. Better, surely, to send a few chests of gold that are too heavy for them to cross the river with?’

  Another chuckle.

  ‘Plague. Banditry. The north ruined. The east depopulated. Raiders from Africa in Hispania, farms untended, villages emptied. This is not the golden land that our ancestors enjoyed. This is a land of dust and of death. Of iron and rust. We must rebuild. And to rebuild we must have peace, surely you can see that?’

  It was an impassioned appeal, though that last had been a little plaintive to my ears. Still, he had recovered from Lucilla’s jab. ‘And if it’s glory and the grass crown you’re seeking and seeing slip past, then take heart. You have one more season to win it and prove your manliness to the women of Rome!’

  His grin at this last was the clincher, and the generals roared with laughter, slandering one another in good humour. I could see Lucilla on the far side of the room, seething and plotting, and then Quadratus was suddenly with her. Damn it but they made a dangerous pair. And with Cleander hovering nearby I could foresee only disaster. Oddly, as I looked at them, I noted three crows in quick succession swoop past the window over their heads and I shuddered. I was a Christian, and the old Roman superstitions had been frowned upon by Mother, but it was hard to shake them when they came calling. Three black crows could not be a good sign in anyone’s faith.

  True to his word, once the old emperor’s funeral had been held and all rites observed, the new emperor of Rome, a Hercules in bronze, led campaigns along the Danubius for seven more months, giving his generals plenty of opportunity to win their decorations. He fought not for territory or loot, but to prove the superiority of his forces and the lunacy of taking up arms against them.