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To all the readers over the years who have chosen
one of my books to read, including this one
The Pinarii of Rome in the Imperial Period
WEARERS OF THE FASCINUM ARE IN BOLD TYPE
Artemis
Gods may not
cut athwart
a mortal’s fate.
Hippolytus
Then are the gods
no greater than mere men?
Artemis
Sometimes less great.
—H.D.
Hippolytus Temporizes, Act I
καὶ γάρ τε θεοὺς ἐπινίσσεται ἄτη.
Even gods make mistakes.
—Apollonius of Rhodes
Argonautica 4.817
(Richard Hunter translation)
DOMINUS: Latin for “Master,” the word by which slaves in the Roman Republic addressed their owner; then, under the Empire, the form of address rejected by some emperors but demanded by others; then, under the Christian Church, the title by which worshippers address their god.
I
THE BLOOD OF A GLADIATOR
(A.D. 165–192)
A.D. 165
I’m afraid our daughter might die …
These words of his wife rang in the ears of Lucius Pinarius as he stepped inside the Senate House, holding the hand of his four-year-old son. Surely the situation was not as bad as that, he thought. What were Pinaria’s symptoms, after all? Sleeplessness, lethargy, loss of appetite, an irregular pulse, mental distraction—hardly the signs of a plague, and rather mild if the problem was an infestation by some evil spirit. On the other hand, Lucius’s wife had cited a number of examples of friends and loved ones who had died from symptoms far less severe than those of their teenaged daughter, with the end sometimes coming quite suddenly. Pinaria’s illness had already lasted for at least two months, despite the efforts of three different physicians to cure her. Today a new physician was coming to examine Pinaria, a young fellow from Pergamum recommended by one of Lucius’s colleagues in the Senate.
But first, Lucius would begin the day as he tried to begin every day, with an offering to the goddess who presided over the vestibule of the Senate House. As he and little Gaius stepped inside and the tall bronze doors closed behind them, the goddess loomed over them, her body much larger than that of any mortal, her massive wings spread wide, one arm extended over their heads to offer a laurel wreath too big and surely too heavy for any mortal to wear. The bronze statue was painted with such skill and delicacy that the laurel leaves looked freshly picked and the winged goddess appeared ready to leap from her high pedestal at any instant. The soft light from high windows enhanced the illusion.
Little Gaius, who had never been inside the Senate House, stared upward at the statue of Victory. He made a noise between a gasp and a whimper, and grabbed hold of his father’s toga.
There was no one else in the vestibule. Except for the goddess, they were quite alone. The slightest sound echoed from the marble walls.
Lucius laughed softly and touched the boy’s blond curls, which gleamed by the light of the pyre that burned low on the marble altar before the statue. “Have no fear, my son. Victory is our friend. We worship and adore her. In return, she has shown great favor to us. A senator never enters this chamber without first pausing here at her altar to light a bit of incense and say a prayer. Smoke is the food of the gods, and there is no smoke sweeter than that of incense.”
As he touched a bit of incense to the flame and watched it smolder, he looked up at the statue and whispered, “Sweet Victory, beloved by all mortals, bestow your favor on our esteemed emperor Verus in his campaign against the Parthians. Scatter his enemies before him. Keep safe the legions under his command. Grant them many conquests and much plunder. And when their work is done, see the emperor Verus and his troops safely home so that they may parade in triumph up the Sacred Way. I give voice to the prayers of all Romans everywhere. We all bow our heads before you.” He glanced down at his son, whose head was already bowed. “And also, sweet Victory, for myself and for my family I ask a much smaller favor—that you give your blessing to my endeavor today. Let the physician be skilled and honest. Let him restore my daughter to full health.” And let him not be too expensive, Lucius thought, but did not speak the words aloud. He did not believe in bothering the gods with trivialities.
Behind them, the massive bronze doors creaked open. The man who entered wore a toga with a purple stripe, like that of Lucius. He saw little Gaius and smiled.
“The boy’s first visit, Senator Pinarius?”
“Yes, Senator…” Lucius knew the man only from meetings, and could not think of his name. When on official business he had a slave at hand to whisper such details in his ear, but his small retinue of servants was waiting for him outside.
“I thought so, from those wide green eyes. A senator’s son never forgets his first time inside the Senate House. She’s quite impressive, eh, young man?”
“Yes, Senator.” Gaius had been taught always to answer his elders and to address them respectfully.
“His first visit, but far from his last, I suspect. Do you want to grow up to be a senator like your father, young man?”
“Yes, Senator!”
Lucius took Gaius by the hand and stepped aside to allow the man to make his own offering at the altar. They passed through the door, which was still ajar, and onto the broad porch of the Senate House. Father and son blinked at the bright sunshine. Below them, in the open spaces of the Forum, men stood in groups, loudly conversing. Slave boys ran about, carrying messages or running errands for their masters. After the hush inside the Senate chamber, the noise of the Forum on a busy morning was striking, and to Lucius’s ears quite pleasant. The noise of the Forum was the pulse of the city, and on this morning it was neither hectic nor sluggish, but indicated the normal functioning of the grandest, most powerful, and most noble city on earth.
If only his daughter could be as healthy as Rome seemed to be on this fine spring morning!
“Will I be a senator when I grow up?” asked Gaius.
“There is every reason to think that you will. But you must be at least twenty-five years old, and you are many years away from that.”
“How will I become a senator?”
“The old-fashioned way was to be elected to office, but nowadays it usually happens when one or the other of the emperors appoints a worthy candidate to the Senate. So it is always a good idea to stay on the good side of both emperors.”
“Why are there two emperors? Are they brothers?”
Lucius smiled, pleased that his son was showing such a precocious interest in the ways of the world.
“Not brothers by blood; not in the same way that you and Pinaria are brother and sister. But Verus and Marcus did grow up in the same household, and the previous emperor thought it would be best if both of them took the office, so as to share its burdens, which has worked out quite well
. The Empire has grown so vast that one man can hardly be expected to run it anymore. So Marcus, who is a very learned and thoughtful kind of person—a philosopher, actually—stays here in Rome and tends to laws and commerce and that sort of thing, making sure the citizens are fed and behave themselves, while Verus marches off to war. Different men are gifted in different ways. Rome is very lucky to have two such fine rulers—a thinker and a doer, if you will.”
Gaius frowned. “But why aren’t you the emperor, Father? Isn’t our family the oldest family in Rome?”
Lucius smiled. “That is something we Pinarii like to say, and it may even be true. Certainly, we Pinarii can trace out roots all the way back to the founding of Rome and even further, deep into the age of legend. The Pinarii were there when Hercules killed the monster Cacus on the banks of the Tiber. It was the Pinarii who put up an altar to honor Hercules for saving the people—the very first altar anywhere in the Seven Hills. And we Pinarii were there when the deified Augustus installed the altar and the statue of Victory in the Senate House. I myself was honored to grow up alongside Marcus, years before Antoninus Pius decided to make him his heir.”
“Did you wrestle him, Father?”
Lucius laughed. “Yes I did, and beat him as often as not. But to be honest, he was a better horseman and hunter than I, and a much better scholar. Not just smarter than I, but smarter than any of our tutors.”
“Did you grow up with the emperor Verus too?”
“No. He’s ten years younger than Marcus and I—about the same difference in years as between you and Pinaria. As a boy, Verus excelled at wrestling and hunting, too, and was not a bad scholar, though never a great lover of philosophy, like Marcus. But Verus is a fine warrior, which is something that Rome greatly needs right now, to keep the Parthians on their side of the Euphrates River, and maybe even slice off a bit of their empire, to teach them a lesson. My own brother and I are a bit like Marcus and Verus, I suppose. I’ve stayed in Rome, running the family business I inherited from your grandfather, while your uncle Kaeso became a warrior and serves under the emperor Verus. Oh! I think I forgot to mention Kaeso by name in my prayers to the goddess. Perhaps we should go back inside … but I did pray specifically for the safe return of all the troops, and that includes your uncle…”
Lucius could see by the boy’s face that he was no longer listening, distracted by some sudden flurry of activity below them in the Forum. Ah well, Gaius was hardly old enough to listen to a senator rattle on and on, even if the senator was his father. The good thing was that the boy had curiosity and was not afraid to ask questions, and took pride in his ancestry.
“Enough talk, son. We must hurry home. I want to be there when this new physician arrives.”
* * *
With two slaves to carry his various satchels full of medical devices and another to lead him to the home of his patient, Galen walked through the streets of Rome. Well into his thirties, he had traveled much of the world, including a long stay in Alexandria, and his hometown was the sophisticated metropolis of Pergamum. He was by any standard a worldly and sophisticated man. But sometimes, though he had been living in Rome for almost three years, he could still find himself agog at the sights and sounds of the world’s capital. Surely Rome must be the biggest, richest, most elegant city on earth, and also the most squalid.
He had just passed through a particularly odiferous part of the Subura, filled with the smells of stewing cabbage, slave-sweat, and excrement, both canine and human, only to emerge into the bright squares between the temples and public buildings of the Forum. Here the city smelled of incense smoldering on altars, scribes’ ink, warm sunshine on marble, and the tangy residue of the diluted urine used to wash to utmost whiteness the togas of senators and other prominent citizens going about their important business.
Galen and the three slaves ascended the Palatine Hill, which was almost entirely occupied by temples and imperial palaces, but not quite, as was attested by the relatively small but immaculate house tucked away on a narrow, tree-shaded street. The slave who had guided him rapped on the door and spoke to another slave inside, whereupon the broad oaken door swung inward.
As he had expected—having made a few inquiries about his prospective client—the walls of the vestibule had numerous niches that housed wax funeral masks and marble busts representing the Pinarii of previous generations. All Romans venerated their ancestors in some fashion, and the higher classes kept images of them where they would be seen every day by everyone—whether visitors, slaves, or family members—entering or leaving the house. There were two niches larger than the others, facing each other across the vestibule. In one was an exquisite bust of the handsome young god called Antinous. In his travels Galen had seen many Antinous statues, but this was a remarkably fine example, of the very highest workmanship, the marble so perfectly shaped and tinted that it seemed alive. Galen almost expected the lapis lazuli eyes to blink. The other statue was in some ways the opposite of Antinous, a full-length statuette of an old, bearded man draped in philosopher’s robes. This image, too, was familiar to Galen from the many he had seen in his travels. It was the famous sage and wonder-worker Apollonius of Tyana.
A slave arrived to escort him to a garden within the house. Galen took his two assistants with him, to take notes and to produce any devices he might need. They were trained to walk softly and to keep utterly silent, so as to be as unobtrusive as possible. He would have rendered them invisible if he could, but such a trick reached beyond medicine into the realm of magic, which Galen scrupulously avoided. Not all physicians could say the same.
Senator Lucius Pinarius was seated in a garden surrounded by a colonnaded peristyle. He gestured for Galen to sit. Galen judged Pinarius, whom he knew to be in his mid-forties, to be in excellent health. His physique was robust, his green eyes bright, his blond hair of that golden color that grows lighter with age but never turns to gray. A woman and child entered the garden. Pinarius introduced his wife, Paulina, and their small son, Gaius.
“Gaius?” said Galen, giving the boy a smile. “That’s a rather old-fashioned name, not too common in Rome nowadays.” His Latin had such a thick accent that Lucius had to strain to understand him. Lucius’s Greek was almost certainly better than the physician’s Latin, so he answered in Greek.
“We chose it in remembrance of our kinship to the greatest Roman who ever bore that name, Gaius Julius Caesar.”
“Ah!” Galen nodded at this impressive assertion, but didn’t take it too seriously. Romans of the old patrician class invariably claimed impressive lineage. The emperor Marcus was said to be descended from King Numa, the famously wise and peace-loving ruler who succeeded the city’s bold but reckless founder, Romulus.
Glad for the implicit invitation to proceed in his native tongue, Galen switched from Latin to Greek, which he spoke with an elegant and refined accent. “Is the patient present? You all look in excellent health,” said Galen.
“No. It’s my thirteen-year-old daughter who is unwell. But first, tell me a little about yourself. You come from Pergamum, yes? Has the city suffered greatly from the war?”
“Normal life has been disrupted by shortages and such, but the barbarians never came within a month’s march. In Antioch the situation was much more precarious. But now the tide seems to have turned, thanks to the emperor Verus and his legions.”
“Do you miss your native city?”
“I do hope eventually to return to Pergamum, after the deprivations and uncertainties of war pass. In the meantime, my late father left me heir to property in Pergamum that produces sufficient income for me to travel and to live wherever I want.”
“You look young to be a physician,” said Paulina. “Not a gray hair on your head!”
“Nor is your husband yet gray, even though I judge him to be…” Galen cocked his head. “A healthy specimen of … forty-three years … ten months … and fifteen days.”
Lucius laughed. “But—how did you…?”
Galen
smiled. “Just as you no doubt asked your friends about me, so I asked a few questions about you. Invariably, the first detail everyone gives about Senator Lucius Pinarius is that he shares a birthdate with our beloved emperor Marcus. That means that you, like Marcus Aurelius, were born on the twenty-sixth day of April in the Year of Rome 873.”
“Are you an astrologer as well?” asked Paulina.
“No. And yes, I am younger than many of my fellow physicians. I started my medical studies very early, charged to do so by the god Aesculapius himself.”
“The god spoke to you?” asked Lucius.
“Not to me, but to my father. It was his desire, when I was a boy, that I should become a philosopher. He himself schooled me in arithmetic, grammar, and logic. But in my seventeenth year, Aesculapius visited my father in a dream. The great healer of mankind told him that I should become a physician. Two years later my father died. The cause was never determined. I had only just begun to pursue my studies, and I could not help but think: were I already the man Aesculapius wants me to be, I could have saved him! I’ve been trying to please the shade of my father ever since, and to catch up with my own destiny. For eleven years I studied in Pergamum, Smyrna, and at the Temple of the Muses in Alexandria.”
“Eleven years of study? Impressive.” Lucius nodded thoughtfully. “The last physician we consulted was a … how did he put it, Paulina?”
“He called himself a Thessalian Methodologist. According to him, all diseases can be put into one of two categories, laxum or strictum—conditions that expand or constrict tiny vessels inside the body.”
“He also told us that no more than six months of study was necessary for any apt pupil to learn everything a physician needs to know,” said Lucius.
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