Commodus Read online

  Before I could help him up, the Praetorians were there. Two of them had been following us at a discreet distance, as they always did with members of the imperial family, and now they were lifting him carefully. His eyes rolled, and I hurried along in front as they carried him, as fast as they could, into the villa. We put him in his room, and I was instantly dismissed by the soldiers, who took to his door on guard. I hovered in the vestibule outside, frantically pacing, worried to death.

  That hook-nosed physician arrived quickly, with an entourage of slaves carrying his equipment. Various noblemen gathered in a group in one of the antechambers, concerned for the prince’s health. Notable by their absence, to my mind at least, were Lucilla and Quadratus. No great concern for the prince from his sister or his cousin, though even the meanest senator staying at the villa hurried to his apartments.

  I fretted as the physician disappeared inside. I waited, worried, impatient, and finally a slave called for me. The prince was calm now, stable and breathing, though the sweat on his brow was flowing like the Tiber, and he still had that waxy sheen. The physician pressed me for details of everything the prince had done, said or endured the past three days since his treatment had begun. I told him everything I could, which was virtually nothing of value, and then I was dismissed to the corridor again.

  Two days passed in tense concern. Lucilla still made no appearance, though she very thoughtfully sent him a message that she would implore the gods on his behalf. How generous, I thought. Quadratus did visit once, though he spent more time pawing at me than showing concern for the prince. I almost snapped at the man to leave me alone, only just managing to keep a tight rein on my tongue. Commodus’ tutors turned up occasionally, arguing among themselves as to the cause and nature of the illness. One of them seemed to have spread a rumour that the prince had somehow contracted the plague that afflicted the empire, and consequently his visitors tailed off to just a core of those most concerned. Even then, several of them would only visit him with a posy of dried flowers slung beneath their mouth and nose to ward off the deadly vapours of the plague.

  He was not getting better. He regained a more conscious attitude periodically, though he was so weak and confused that he did little more than gasp and attend to whatever medication the physician prescribed. The medicus himself began to get that look of sleepless worry about the eyes. If the prince died, he had little doubt that the blame would land with him when the emperors returned.

  Our deliverance arrived on the fourth day, when all hope for his recovery seemed lost. I was kneeling in the corridor outside, praying to God for His help, and somewhat impiously adding the odd plea to Aesculapius just in case, when the door of the antechamber suddenly burst open and a small party of men flooded in. The one in the lead wore a long tunic of pale green and a cloak of grey. He sported an impressive curled beard and his eyes were everywhere, like a watchful hawk. He had with him several servants, carrying bags and satchels. One, I noted, was a roll of surgeon’s tools. My heart fluttered at the sight. Behind him came the lady Annia Fundania Faustina, one of Marcus Aurelius’ more favoured cousins. Both she and the new physician seemed focused and determined, and they were followed by half a dozen Praetorians.

  ‘Stand aside,’ the man in the long tunic said to the guards on the door as though he had the natural right to command Praetorians. The two soldiers dithered for only a moment, but the presence of the lady Fundania decided them and they swung open the door and stepped out of the way of this marching man. I risked much by simply slipping in among the man’s entourage as they passed and found myself in the prince’s chamber with them.

  ‘Gods above and below,’ the lady breathed as she caught sight of Commodus.

  ‘Hot fever,’ the physician said confidently as he approached the bed.

  ‘Can you save him?’

  I felt a chill run through me at the very notion he might not be able to, but my doubts were dissipated by the confidence of the physician. ‘He is mis-prescribed. Some two-as halfwit thinks he knows what he’s doing. Medici should only be allowed to practise if they’re licensed. I’ve said as much before.’

  I was all but knocked aside as the villa’s resident physician arrived and pushed through the crowd in a mix of anger and panic. ‘What is the meaning of this? My patient . . .’ His voice tailed off as he reached the bedside and the man in the green tunic turned, one eyebrow rising. The man who’d been treating Commodus swallowed nervously. ‘Galen?’

  ‘The very same. What was your diagnosis? Inflammation of the tonsils, I hope?’

  The man nodded, his face ashen. ‘You went back to Pergamon,’ he said, weakly.

  ‘Until I was summoned. The emperor apparently feels Rome needs my skills. He was clearly as shrewd as ever.’ I stared. This was the famous Galen, who they said was the greatest physician since Hippocrates. My pulse thundered. Could the great man save my prince? ‘I reached the city,’ he said, ‘and the good lady here told me of the prince’s condition. I came with all haste.’ He picked up the cup by the table, peering at it and giving it a sniff that made him recoil. ‘What in the name of sacred Aesculapius are you giving him?’

  ‘A standard concoction,’ the other physician bridled.

  ‘The salt content is far too high. And you have bird faeces in it?’

  ‘Owl.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Listen,’ the villa’s doctor said angrily, ‘there is nothing in there that is not recognised as curative for infections of the throat.’

  ‘But you need to be careful and sparing, you dolt. You do not simply shovel every ingredient that could help into a liquid and stir. The prince is fortunate indeed that you have not also poisoned him.’

  ‘Now listen to me,’ began the physician, but it took only a look from Galen and a nod from Annia Fundania, and the former court physician found himself unceremoniously ejected by the muscled hairy arms of two Praetorians. The room settled to silence once more as Galen bent over the patient and examined him. He opened Commodus’ mouth and peered down into the throat, tested his pulse and his temperature and stood back, satisfied.

  ‘He will be fine. Get rid of this cup. Burn it, in fact. Find a new cup and fill it with slightly warmed water, containing only honey and essence of rose. It is all he needs. With it he will be fit in a day or two. I am somewhat sad to say that he would probably have been up and about by now had he been simply left alone for the illness to run its course. The cure prescribed by that idiot has done more to hurt the prince than the infection itself.’

  That night I stayed beside his bed, the prince finally sitting up, looking perkier, with some of his colour returned already. Galen remained at the villa with the lady Fundania, though both were elsewhere at the time there came a knock at the door. Commodus took a last sip of the gentle medicine and placed the cup down, then smiled weakly at me and gestured for me to get the door. His voice was still painful and croaky, and he saved it where he could.

  I opened it to find one of the villa’s slaves holding a scroll case with the Minerva seal that labelled it as from the emperor’s pen. Another update on the war, of course, as we’d received periodically during our stay. Still, it would help to take Commodus’ mind off his discomfort. I thanked the slave, closed the door and passed the scroll to the prince. I lit two more oil lamps to make reading easier.

  Commodus broke the seal, withdrew the scroll and unfurled it, his blinking, tired eyes devouring the spidery words as he worked through it. I glanced across and smiled just as his face paled and his jaw dropped. His fingers shaking, he let go of the bottom of the scroll, which instantly furled, and he dropped it to the bed, his eyes staring, lips moving soundlessly.

  I stared in shock. ‘What is it?’

  Whether because of his painful throat, or because he could not bear to repeat the words he’d read, he gestured at the scroll, urging me to take it. Gingerly, I did so, peering at the small, spidery
writing.

  In a somewhat strangled and brief missive penned by the great Marcus Aurelius himself, we were informed that Lucius Verus had succumbed to the plague on their return journey from the Danubius River. So virulent was his affliction that he never even made it back as far as Aquileia, passing from the world of men after a mere three days of agony.

  My shocked, horrified eyes rose to the prince and I saw all hope and spirit drain from him.

  First Fulvus, his twin. The other half of his soul.

  Now Verus, his beloved uncle, after whom he had moulded himself.

  Commodus’ heart had taken a second blow.

  VI

  THE YEAR OF SORROWS

  Rome, ad 169

  The year of sorrows began with a soul-wrenching wait in subdued misery as the emperor and his entourage escorted the body of Lucius Verus back to us from the north. We received periodic updates on the procession’s progress, so we knew when he came close to Rome. Lucilla, who I thought typically unfeeling considering her husband’s unexpected death, took the reins and was all business, making what arrangements she could in advance of the body’s arrival. The household was quiet and all affairs, bar that of funerary preparations, stopped. I was at a loss. Commodus retreated into his rooms, and no matter how persuasive I tried to be, I could not gain access to him, for he had given the Praetorian outside his door orders not to be disturbed.

  I imagined all the things he would be doing, just as he had years ago, tearing out his hair, failing to sleep, sitting in the dark, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Sure enough, when Marcus Aurelius and his sombre column reached Rome with the embalmed remains of his brother, Commodus finally emerged from his chamber with pale, sallow skin and dark circles beneath the eyes. I tried to speak to him, to judge his state and see whether I could help, but there simply was not time. All was now preparation, and everyone was busy, including Commodus, and I myself was aiding Mother in preparing all the garments required for the coming days.

  Mother disapproved, quietly and in private, of the arrangements for the passing emperor. Her – our – faith is rooted in the belief that the dead will be judged, and those found worthy will ascend to Heaven. Despite the seeming positivity of such a belief, I had always found Mother, and those few other Christians we regularly came into contact with, to treat the world with a dour joylessness. She clearly felt that theatre performances, chariot races and the like were inappropriate ways to mark a death. And as for the fights in the arena in his name, the less said the better. But it is the way of Rome, if it is not our way, to mark the passage of the great in such a manner, and the people of the city remember Verus that way, which is reassuringly fitting.

  We watched as Verus was rendered down to ash on a massive pyre in the Campus Martius, and the urn interred in the great mausoleum constructed by Hadrian across the river. Illustrious company awaited him: Hadrian himself, and Antoninus Pius and his empress. We then attended the various games and ceremonies in his honour as the senate declared Verus’ divinity. It is perhaps a mark of the change we could expect with our patron’s death that even Mother attended the fights, albeit with a sour, stony expression. Verus had understood and had been indulgent in allowing us our faith’s tenets, but, with his passing, Lucilla would grant no such tolerances. No matter what our beliefs, we were to watch men shed blood for the gods and cheer them on. In my secret heart, I was grateful. I had discovered an unexpected appreciation of the sport back in the villa with my golden prince.

  We moved back to the Palatine for the time of mourning, to be near the temples and the tomb and the various venues for events. Lucilla came too, obviously, though while the entire imperial family wore drab faces of grief, she was more concerned with putting her own house in order. The death of her husband had left Lucilla in a strangely uncertain position: she was the daughter of one emperor and had been the wife of another. From Aurelius she inherited the status of an imperial princess, which carried advantages I could never even dream of, but from her marriage to Verus, she had become an empress, which placed her above every woman in the empire, barring her mother. With Verus gone, though, and the succession settled on the shoulders of her brothers rather than her own children, that status appeared destined to shatter and fall away. I think I knew Lucilla well enough even then to realise that she had no time to mourn – she was busy building her webs to maintain her position in the empire’s hierarchy.

  On the fifth night of the funerary games I finally spoke to Commodus. The summons came unexpectedly, one of the many palace slaves sent to find me, and I was grateful it was not Cleander, who was back in circulation now that we had returned to Rome. I had seen the man a few times, but we had yet to speak, which was undoubtedly a good thing.

  I found Commodus sitting on a chair in front of his private lararium, a small replica temple on a base containing the statues of the deities to whom he currently turned. Hercules was there, of course, as well as the more popular gods of Rome and a newly fashioned, bearded one that I think must have been his deified uncle. An odd parody of the ascent of Christ, it seemed to me.

  The door closed behind me, and we were entombed in a dim room, lit by two small oil lamps.

  ‘Are you . . . How are you faring?’ I managed, not sure after all this time how to approach the subject.

  ‘Badly,’ was his simple reply. He was almost eight now, and yet there was a strange maturity to his manner that reminded me he was precocious and sharp, and no ordinary boy. Like the infant Hercules he so revered; a gifted child who strangled serpents and made a conscious choice to follow a path of virtue. What would Hercules have been had his twin died while just a boy? I wondered suddenly.

  ‘It is not good to suffer in solitude,’ I managed.

  He turned a look on me that suggested otherwise and indicated the small altar with a sweep of his hand. ‘I think the gods send me messages. I have dreams. Nightmares. Each night is different. It’s not Fulvus under the ice now. But it’s always death. Always decay. Like the plague got into my head and sits there, hurting my mind. If the gods have a purpose, then these must be portents. Signs.’

  I frowned. This was a new and, to my mind, dangerous line of thought.

  ‘It is only natural to suffer such terrors. You had barely recovered from the loss of Fulvus when Verus was taken from you. A twin and favourite uncle wrenched away from you? Of course you dream of death, especially with what is going on outside. Rome suffers the pestilence from Parthia, and wars in the north threaten the world. I dream of such things on occasion, and those losses are nothing to me compared with what they are to you. But there is no plan to this. Your dreams are not signs.’

  I tried to push down the repeated memory of my mother telling me that everything that happened was all part of the divine design. That notion was particularly unhelpful just now, echoing the pagan suggestions of the prince as it did.

  ‘There is no portent in them,’ I went on. ‘All this is just what that physician a couple of years ago called “melancholia”. You are not consciously sinking into sadness, but it pulls you down regardless. And the only way to beat it is to fight back. To drag yourself up into the light. I’ve seen you rise from these black moods before, remember.’ And on occasion slide into them from a state of euphoric delight, too, I thought unhelpfully. ‘I can help. I will help.’

  He did not look convinced.

  ‘I . . . sometimes I think what it might be like to die. I consider it. I . . . I don’t know.’

  Dangerous paths indeed. I shivered at the raw emotion behind those words.

  ‘Don’t give in to it,’ I said, probably more urgently and pleadingly than was helpful.

  ‘I think this is what happened to my grandfather,’ he said in an odd voice. My brow creased again. I never knew his grandfather, and neither had he. The man had passed away long ago. Another shiver ran through me as the prince went on. ‘He died yo
ung. And when I ask Father about him, he just gets a strange, sad look and refuses to speak about it. I think . . . I think he might have—’

  I grasped his shoulders. I, a pleb, grabbed the shoulders of the empire’s heir. If the Praetorian on the other side of the door had seen me do such a thing, I’m certain my life would have been forfeit. Still, I held him like that and locked his eyes with my own.

  ‘I will not let anything like that happen to you. I will not let it. Do you understand?’

  There was another heavy pause and then he nodded.

  ‘Father says that when the games are done, we will move away again. To his Praeneste villa.’

  I felt a lurch in my heart. I would not be able to follow him. I was bound through Mother to the empress Lucilla, and her villa was north of Rome.

  As if reading my thoughts, he gave a sad smile. ‘My sister will come with us to Praeneste. She stays close to Father now.’

  I bet she did. Fearing the loss of her grand status, she would be endearing herself to him, I thought bitterly. But at least it meant that Mother and I would go too. I would be with him, and that drew from me a smile.

  We talked for an hour then, he constantly bringing the subject back to his fears and the dreams that haunted him, me constantly steering him to bright notions and optimistic plans. When I left, finally, I think he was in better spirits. At least I did not fear he would take his life in the night, now. I found myself wondering, as I wandered, what so tied me to the prince that I automatically planned my life to be near him.

  We moved out to Praeneste in the spring, and I felt relieved and grateful to be free of the ever-present atmosphere of a city crushed beneath the weight of disease. The imperial villa in that quiet, rustic region – one of several built by the illustrious Hadrian – sat among green fields and shady woodland below the hill of Praeneste itself, surrounded by considerable estates. It was larger even than the one of Verus’ in which we had spent so much time, though the grounds here were not utilised in the same grand manner. While there was a small theatre that could double up for fights, there was no racecourse, and the resident emperor here had little interest in hunting through the estate.