Commodus Page 21

  And when October came about, and the campaigning season was over, the kings of the great tribes answered when summoned, sending deputations and some even coming in person to Vindobona to meet the man who had so ravaged them for one final year.

  The terms were relatively generous. Each and every tribe went home having sworn an oath not to cross into Roman territory or to raid our lands. Some gave men to help fill the dwindling Roman ranks. Some sent their sons as hostages to Rome, where they would be educated and taught why such war was folly. They went home with gold that Rome could scarce afford, but then, as Commodus had so often noted this past year, neither could Rome afford not to give it them.

  And when it was over and the barbarians had gone back to their own land, some of the generals complained to the emperor about his generous terms. Lucilla, still bitter, still trouble, put in that her father would never have done such a thing. I saw Commodus properly angry with her, then, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  ‘You think so, dear sister? You think me so much less than he? You think I yield where he would fight? Then think back to those terms our father agreed with the Marcomanni ten years ago, for you will find these just an echo of those. I used Father’s terms, Lucilla, more or less. Keep your beak from matters that do not concern you.’

  The look she shot him was pure evil and I think that, while I had always known she was dangerous, I had perhaps previously underestimated quite how dangerous.

  I was in one of the side rooms of the grand building later that afternoon. I had sought somewhere quiet to pray and knew that to go back to my own rooms would be to risk bumping into Quadratus, who was as sour and mean now as ever, all but ignored by his cousin. I prayed for Mother’s soul and for that of the emperor, apologising to God in a strange way for the fact that the man for whom I prayed was also considered a god. Sometimes even my religion made my head ache.

  The door opened, and I started, feeling guilty for praying such, knowing I was almost certainly the only Christian in the building. I turned to see Commodus in the doorway. He gestured for his men to shut the door behind him.

  It was the first time I had been alone with him in almost a year. The first time since he had been emperor, anyway. I sank to my knees, head bowed.

  ‘Majesty.’

  ‘For the love of Jove, Marcia, get up.’

  ‘You are Emperor of Rome,’ I reminded him.

  ‘You have seen me having my arse wiped. I think we can dispense with ceremony, don’t you?’

  I smiled. It was hard sometimes now to remember that this was the boy with whom I had grown up. Commodus was nineteen and well muscled, sporting a full beard. He strolled across the room and leaned back against a table, folding his arms in a manner that reminded me of his sister. ‘I understand your mother died while we were in the east, Marcia.’

  The simple statement floored me. I had no idea how to respond and therefore stood staring like some dead fish at a market. He gave me a sympathetic smile.

  ‘I can only apologise that I never consoled you for the loss. I remember her only vaguely. A stern woman, for sure, but one with kind eyes and a good heart.’

  What an unnervingly accurate picture of her.

  ‘I know we have been . . . distant, let’s say, for some time. Much of that is my doing, because events have swept me up in their wake and pulled me along. Some, I think, is yours. Are you protecting yourself, Marcia? Or me?’

  Or both of us? Still I remained silent. I had the unaccountable urge to cry, and that made me angry, for I am not some wet sponge, but a strong woman.

  ‘How did you grieve?’ he asked. An odd question that I’d have had trouble answering even if my voice worked. Did he mean because I was Christian? He seemed to sense my confusion. ‘I mean, how did you find time?’ he explained. ‘I am the master of the world and I have barely two heartbeats to myself before I am once more the centre of someone’s attention. I have not yet found time to grieve for Father.’

  Guilt flooded through me. In my understanding of how things had changed, I had nearly forgotten how the man before me was prey to black moods beyond his control. I had pulled away and he had gone off to fight a war. Had he suffered out on campaign on his own, as he used to as a boy?

  ‘Are you . . .’ I stuttered. ‘Did you . . .’

  ‘I made it through, if that is what you’re asking. I will not say this has been the brightest year of my life, but somehow Father’s passing was different. Fulvus, Annius, Verus, Mother, they were all torn from me unexpectedly through illness or the will of capricious gods. Father I knew was nearing his time. I saw it coming, and so did he. He was prepared. And he prepared me. No, I have not torn at my hair in grief. But I would have liked adequate time to mourn. During the days of his funeral, there was always someone clearing their throat, tugging at my elbow. I was never alone. How did you mourn, Marcia?’

  I shrugged, ‘Alone. I mourned alone. And for a long time. Time and solitude were all I had, after all.’

  It sounded like a recrimination, and from the chastened regret in his face, Commodus saw it as one.

  ‘I am sorry, Marcia. Things will change. Once we are home and all this activity and border settlement is complete, things will change.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘Yes. We leave this month and will be in Rome and recovered long before Saturnalia. We will have a triumph, for Rome will demand it, and games in memory of Father, but we will settle once more. I know Bruttia is in my life now, and that you cannot be pleased at that, but these are the ways of state and it is not her fault. I beg you to remember that, when you see the woman to whom I am wed. It is not her fault, and it was never her choice.’

  Did he already see how much I hated her? God above, but I thought I was subtler than that. Did he have even an inkling that she hated me every bit as much? It came as something of an epiphany that, despite the differences between Bruttia Crispina and myself, we were far more alike than anyone could guess. We both sought only Commodus’ heart, and we were both jealous and possessive. God, but that was almost at the root of it. Bruttia and I were reflections of one another. Only one of us could ever be real to Commodus.

  ‘And do not fear,’ he went on, ‘I will not let Lucilla or Quadratus hurt you in any way. In fact, I would take you from him if you wish it?’

  Freedom? From Quadratus? A thrilling prospect if ever I heard one. And I was on the very verge of saying yes, of begging that he do just that, when an image struck me. Lucilla, Quadratus, Cleander. Three black crows. Before I truly knew what I was doing, I found myself saying no, and I think that took him more by surprise than anything. He knew how much I wanted to be away from Quadratus, but really I was in no danger. The man barely registered my existence these days and never came to my chamber. I might as well have been furniture in his house. But there was something about Quadratus and Lucilla – about the way they kept talking together quietly – that made my spine itch. And somehow, being part of his household, I reasoned that I was in a unique position to make sure they did nothing untoward or unexpected.

  ‘However you wish it,’ he said eventually, ‘but know that I am here, and I will help.’

  I thought he would turn and go, then, but instead he reached out and the gesture came so unexpectedly that I failed to react. He gripped me tight before I could fend him off.

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t like you being with him any more than you like me with Bruttia. Perhaps there is still a chance for us?’ he murmured, caressing my arms, my shoulders, my back, in a way that I had spent years longing for, touching my very soul.

  ‘Oh, God . . .’ I was reaching for him now. I had always wanted him, but never so much as in that moment. In that glorious embrace, I saw it all: he could be my love and I could be his empress, and I knew that no one else would ever have that.

  Except Bruttia . . .

  I must have flinched at the thought, for s
omething changed, the air cooled and Commodus unfolded his arms. When he let go of me, all too quickly, it was like having been given gold and then watching it being taken away again. Duty had reclaimed him once more. For a dangerous moment, his defences had been down. Had we moved on it – had I moved fast enough – he might just have cast his cold witch aside. But no. Despite my fleeting dream, I was still the tagalong friend and Bruttia still his wife. My anger boiled over then, silently and bitterly, locked away deep within, hidden from the young emperor as he straightened and bowed.

  ‘Gather your belongings, Marcia. Within days we leave for Rome.’

  I struggled. There is no denying it. In that moment, he had almost been mine, and only Bruttia Crispina had stood between us. God, but she needed to be moved aside.

  And in the meantime, Commodus would return to Rome.

  Hercules was coming home.

  XII

  HOPE

  Rome, ad 180

  The journey south from Pannonia was nothing like those we had undertaken previously, though from what I understand it strongly resembled the journeys of Lucius Verus once upon a time. When we had travelled with Aurelius, he had taken his court and his army purposefully, making for his destination with focus, and dallying along the way only to settle problems or impose the imperial presence where it was most needed. Commodus, however, like his uncle, made pomp and show of his travels.

  Perhaps that is a little unfair. Perhaps it would be better to say that the people on our journey made pomp and show for the new emperor. Every settlement we passed through greeted him with garlands and games, sacrifices and honours. And while in some ways that would clearly be seen as an attempt to curry favour for their cities with the new emperor, there was definitely something else to be felt now, too. There was an undercurrent of hope across the land that we had not previously experienced. It was not that the people were relieved at the passing of Aurelius, of course, for he had ever enjoyed a good reputation, but more that it had become known that Commodus intended to end the war and to stabilise the borders. And after two decades of almost constant conflict, and the poverty and anguish that had brought, the people were more than pleased to look forward to an era of peace and, hopefully, prosperity.

  The populace celebrated their new emperor and, with him, a new age was felt to have dawned.

  It took more than a month to get home, so leisurely was our pace, arriving as winter gripped the city in a white embrace. By that time the armies freed from the war across that great northern river were already back in their long-term garrisons, beginning the task of rebuilding their shattered ranks and settling into border life. All was returning to peace and normality across the empire.

  I had never been more grateful to see the glorious city that is the heart of empire. The first time I had returned from the north I had been too concerned with Commodus’ recent near dip into melancholia, the machinations of Cleander and my own position in Quadratus’ house to truly welcome our return. When I had returned from the east, it was with a distant Commodus and to the ashes of my mother. Now? Now, things were different.

  We returned to Rome in glory and I had little over which to worry. We came back in heroic style with a young emperor determined to change the world and bring about a new golden age for Rome. We brought back no corpses and came home to no pyres. Of course, there were still corpses in the streets, but the plague seemed to have abated somewhat and there was nothing like the horror I had seen in previous years. There would be games in honour of the departed emperor, but in truth the funeral and the grieving had been done more than half a year ago in the cold north, and now it was just spectacle for the people. Moreover, Commodus seemed settled into a calm, stable and uplifting mood and, given that he had already offered to rid me of my connection to Quadratus, I knew that nothing bad would befall me now in the man’s house, for I could flee at any time. Now, I stayed of my own volition, and for a good reason.

  That was one of the only two stains on that golden return: the fear that Lucilla and Quadratus were up to something. The other reared its ugly head mere days after we reached Rome, and it was a familiar, ophidian one.

  All that time in Vindobona after the passing of Aurelius, two camps had polarised among the court and the military staff: those who stood against peace with the tribes and advocated only war and conquest, continually wheedling at Commodus to change his mind, and those who supported the new ideal and the man who had decided upon its course. Naturally, the former camp tended to be filled with idealists and men of strength and action, while the latter was largely formed of the sycophantic, but such is always the case when an emperor’s choice is involved. It requires men of backbone to stand up against power, and men who bend easily are drawn to support it.

  Upon our return, Commodus wasted no time. Those who remained steadfast in opposition to him were given new commands that dispatched them to unimportant peripheral posts, or were simply sent into retirement. The ranks of the emperor’s court and his consilium were swiftly filled instead with freedmen of talent, and ‘new men’ like Commodus’ brother-in-law – men who had come from unimpressive backgrounds and had climbed to the top of Rome’s heap purely through their own talent. To give Commodus his due, he kept the best of the opposition and removed a number of the less able sycophants from positions of authority and influence. What remained was a council of intelligent and loyal men who largely had no agenda but the tasks laid before them, for they had no web of influence to play. Three men only of those doubters from the north remained in Commodus’ circle: Pompeianus, the heroic general Pertinax, and Publius Seius Fuscianus, who had been a childhood friend of Aurelius.

  Alongside the reshuffle of the imperial consilium came a reorganisation of staff. During Commodus’ time as co-emperor, Saoterus had served as his secretary, and Cleander his chamberlain. I had, as subtly as possible, suggested that Cleander might not be the perfect material for chamberlain. I reasoned that he had been a slave in the palace these past two decades, and to place him in charge of the freedmen and citizens who he had previously served would be inviting trouble. Commodus agreed, but rather than shuffling him off somewhere unimportant as I had hoped, he simply swapped the roles between his two favourites, appointing Saoterus to the chamberlain’s post – a sensible choice, for sure – but making Cleander his personal secretary, which I liked somewhat less. Eclectus, who had been Aurelius’ secretary and was now therefore superfluous, was shuffled into the staff of the Palatine, where he seemed content.

  Winter rolled past with a grand Saturnalia celebration on a hitherto undreamed-of scale, and gradually the first signs of spring came about. A triumph had been planned to celebrate the ‘successful conclusion’ of the Marcomannic War. There were, I will admit, a number of dissenters, particularly those who had been dismissed from central positions, who muttered that suing for peace was no reason for a triumph, and I could see a twitch beginning to develop in Commodus’ left eyelid whenever rumours of such an opinion circulated. Fortunately for those responsible, they were careful with their words and Commodus was magnanimous enough not to set the imperial agents to uncovering the source of those voices.

  Still, the triumph went ahead and no one tried to prevent it. The people of Rome loved a show, after all. Panem et circenses, as Juvenal famously wrote – the people need only bread and circuses. Several hundred of the more impressive slaves taken during the past year, who were being held back from sale to keep prices steady, were roped together as part of the celebration.

  ‘Look at them,’ Cleander had said derisively, watching the slaves being assembled and tethered. ‘Animals. Less than animals.’

  Commodus had nodded distractedly, his attention elsewhere. As soon as the emperor moved away to discuss the minutiae of organisation, I confronted Cleander, though I knew it was just opening the cage of the rabid beast. Sometimes I cannot help it, though.

  ‘You are so disparaging of your own kind?�
��

  He turned to me with a flash of anger. ‘My kind? Hairy, tree-worshipping, beer-drinking apes. Yes, I came from nothing, but even my nothing had culture. The land of Midas, of Cybele, of Achaeus. And if you can compare me with these animals, then what of you, the Greek whore, daughter of a Greek whore slave?’

  He smiled viciously and strode off, which at least saved me from struggling with the urge to rip that expression from his face with my neatly manicured nails.

  I stood with those of the court who had no place in the triumph on a grey, unimpressive spring morning, waiting for the triumph. The city had turned out almost in its entirety to watch the great spectacle, and the streets were packed and lined with expectant faces all along the circuitous route. Those of us with influence or money found a place among the elite on the balustraded walkways of the old Tiberian palace on the Palatine. Oh, how times had changed for the daughter of a freedwoman who hovered on the periphery as a child. Here, high above the lofty arches of that ancient structure, we had an almost bird’s-eye view of the forum and the Via Sacra, along which the procession would pass as it neared its conclusion.

  Quadratus was a short distance away, making eyes at some hussy of a senator’s wife, and I was surrounded by people with whom I was at best barely acquainted, which suited me fine. Praetorians were very visible everywhere, as well as their counterparts from the urban cohorts, all keeping a watchful eye on the crowd for trouble. Even the vigiles – the watchmen – were in evidence, on the lookout for thieves and other lesser criminals in the crowd. We had little to worry about on our grand perch, of course. Nobles are more subtle criminals.

  It took time, the wait seemingly interminable. The procession was known to have gathered in the Campus Martius region almost two hours earlier and would now have been travelling for some time. A triumph necessarily moves at a stately pace so that the crowd can appreciate the victorious general before them, and the recipient can drink in their adoration. We knew where they were in the city at any given time from the noise. Even standing there among an expectant crowd on the Palatine, the din from the distant streets as the emperor passed was astounding. At one point, the route came close to our position from the other direction, where it looped to take in the Forum Boarium and the Forum Holitorium before moving off through the Circus Maximus. In those markets and stadium, there was a great deal of room to fit an adoring crowd, after all.