Even a rather dry account of placing a poultice on the emperor’s anus? The question popped into Lucius’s head but he did not speak it aloud.
“Of course,” the shop owner went on, “there has always been a great appetite among readers for anything about Marcus, ever since he was a young man, even before he was emperor. People adored him. But you know that already, Senator Pinarius, with your workshop turning out all those thousands of images of him, for people all over the city to put in some place of honor in their houses, no matter how humble or great. I sell such images here, as well.” He gestured to a row of niches in the wall, each of which contained a little statue or bust, varying greatly in size and quality but all depicting Marcus at various stages of his life, from beardless boy to wise elder. “People worship him, if not as a god then as a demigod or a divine hero, a demon as the Greeks call them, like Hercules or Achilles, a savior to call upon in times of need or to lavish with gratitude when things go well. I’m sure some of these images must have come from the Pinarius workshop.”
“Only the very best ones, I should imagine,” said Galen with a smile.
What a good mood he was in, despite the day’s terrible news, thought Lucius. Galen was this way every time he had a new treatise come out, a happy author with a new book to show the world. His prolific writings had made him famous, not just in Rome and his native Pergamum, but all over the empire, wherever books were sold and read. At home, Lucius had a bookcase in which every niche was filled with a scroll by Galen. To be sure, of all those many words, Lucius had read only a fraction. Galen’s work tended to be bit too detailed and technical for his taste.
The bookseller handed Galen a scroll that had the crisp edges and inky smell of a brand-new book. As Galen handed it to Lucius, he read the expression on his face. “This one is quite different from my others, I promise you. Not dry at all. Full of name-dropping and gossip, just the sort of thing you’ll love.”
Lucius responded with a lopsided smile. As the bookseller could attest, he did have a taste for scandalous imperial biographies and romantic Greek novels.
* * *
When they returned home, Lucius and Gaius and the entire household put on black robes of mourning. Incense was burned before the images of Antinous and Apollonius of Tyana, and prayers said in memory of Marcus, beseeching the gods to give special help to Rome in the uncertain days ahead.
Lucius should have been recalling fond memories of Marcus, but instead he found himself able to think of only one thing: the absent fascinum.
In the year that both Commodus and Gaius turned fifteen and put on their manly togas, the fascinum should have been returned to the Pinarii. That was what Marcus had agreed to. That was what he had promised.
As the toga day of Gaius had approached, Lucius had greatly looked forward to the return of the fascinum so that he could hold it once again, if only briefly, before ceremoniously handing it over to his son. But when Lucius asked for the fascinum, Marcus refused to return it. He explained, in a lecturing, condescending way, that as the war raged on with no end in sight, and as Commodus assumed greater responsibilities, his son’s safety was more vital than ever, even as the danger to him grew. Marcus had insisted that Commodus keep the fascinum, which had successfully protected him so far. It was for the good of Rome. It was a sacrifice the Pinarii must be willing to make.
Not long after his birthday, Commodus had been named consul—a bit hubristically some thought, as no Roman except Nero had ever been elevated to such a high office at such a young age. Then Commodus was given the title Augustus, essentially making him joint ruler, as Verus had been, and legally establishing him as Marcus’s successor, despite his youth. Commodus was also soon married. To commemorate that event, coins were issued and lavish spectacles were staged.
As for Gaius, he was given a minor rank in the legions and assigned to accompany Commodus to the front, to be part of his entourage, a friend and companion of the Augustus. Marcus had told Lucius, “Your son will at least be close to the fascinum at all times, if that gives you comfort.”
When an uprising by an upstart general required the emperor’s response, not only Marcus and Commodus, but also Faustina and much of the imperial court made a months-long excursion to the eastern provinces. Kaeso remained with the troops containing the Germans, but Gaius accompanied Commodus, and returned with wide-eyed tales of exotic wonders. The upstart general was defeated and killed, but on the way back the imperial family suffered a terrible casualty: Faustina fell ill and died in Antioch. Marcus bore her passing with Stoic fortitude, but Commodus was distraught at the loss of his mother, especially in a strange city so far from home.
When the imperial court returned to Rome, a torrent of gossip about Faustina was unleashed, including alleged infidelities with everyone from sailors and shopkeepers to the late emperor Verus. The old story resurfaced that Faustina had bathed in a gladiator’s blood to fend off an illicit lust, afterward making love to Marcus under a full moon and conceiving Commodus in the process. There was even a rumor that Marcus, discovering that Faustina had been in league with the upstart general, poisoned her. Lucius dismissed such wild rumors. Why was it so, when a famous person died, that so many people felt compelled to fabricate malicious lies?
Now, after a reign of nineteen years, Marcus was dead. Gaius had arrived with the advance party that rushed to Rome to bring the news. Commodus was heading back from Vindobona at a slower pace, accompanying the ashes of his father so that they could be interred in the mausoleum of Hadrian. Upon his arrival, Commodus would be hailed as sole emperor by the Senate. There had been no emperor so young since Nero, who ascended at an even younger age, sixteen. Even Caligula (whose birthday, the last day of August, Commodus happened to share) had been twenty-five—old enough, since the days of Augustus, for a man to be made a senator, but still too young, Lucius thought, for any man to be made sole ruler of the empire. Even so, having been raised by such a wise father, Commodus was sure to do a better job than Nero or Caligula.
And also, now that Commodus was to be emperor, surely he would hand over the fascinum to Gaius, its rightful owner, who had been such a loyal friend to him. Lucius imagined that Commodus would be eager to trade the tiny, much-worn amulet for the glittering diamond which for so many generations had marked by its bestowal the transmission of power from one emperor to the next, a sign of the abiding trust between each ruler and his chosen successor, an acknowledgment that the recipient was truly worthy of the honor. Now the King of Stones would mean everything to Commodus and the fascinum would mean nothing, thought Lucius. But when he mentioned this to Gaius, his son only nodded vaguely and said nothing.
* * *
The long period of mourning was over. The ashes of Marcus Aurelius had been properly interred. He had been deified by the Roman Senate, which established a cult and priesthood to honor him. It was proclaimed that his spirit had ascended to the heavens, where he now dwelt with the gods. He would now be called the Divine Marcus.
Despite what many senators and military officers believed—that Rome’s latest victories over the Germanic tribes were so tenuous they could hardly be called victories—Commodus decided to commence his reign with the celebration of a triumph.
Lucius, along with his fellow senators, marched down the Sacred Way at the head of the procession, then took a seat in the viewing stands to watch the rest of the parade—the glittering booty of barbarian treasures, the wagons full of captured arms, chained captives representing all the many tribes that had been defeated, and then, at last, the conqueror himself, Commodus, driving the ancient ceremonial chariot that had been used by countless generals and emperors before him.
The handsome new emperor looked very relaxed as he held one arm aloft and nodded to either side, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. He seemed neither intimidated by the occasion nor too impressed. Commodus was the first emperor to be born heir to the throne—“born in the purple” as it was called in countries that had kings and royal dy
nasties—and he seemed completely at ease, behaving as if he had been emperor all his life. Even seen at a distance, Commodus’s appearance was impressive. His physique was youthful and muscular, like that of Apollo or Hermes, and his fair hair shimmered like a halo. For this occasion, in imitation of the late emperor Verus, Commodus had sprinkled his hair with gold dust that sparkled in the sunlight.
How comparatively nondescript Gaius looked, dressed in armor with his helmet under one arm and his shield on the other, following after the chariot in the imperial retinue. Lucius could remember when the young men were children and seemed not so very different from each other. The gods had shown great favor to Commodus.
Why, then, thought Lucius, did Commodus insist on keeping the fascinum as his personal talisman? Why did he need it any longer? Commodus was undoubtedly wearing it at that very moment, under his purple toga. This fact struck Lucius with painful irony, because he knew that beneath the triumphal chariot, unseen, there was a much larger golden phallus, an object of ancient veneration kept by the Vestal virgins and placed by them under the chariot each time it was used in a triumph. A man celebrating Rome’s highest accolade was the object of every eye in the city, beloved and praised but also a target of envy and perhaps even spite. The Vestals’ fascinum was specifically intended to ward off the Evil Eye as the conqueror rolled down the Sacred Way. With such a powerful talisman now protecting him, why must Commodus keep the heirloom of the Pinarii?
After the procession, which ended with sacrifices and ceremonies atop the Capitoline Hill at the Temple of Jupiter, the streets were filled with revelry and feasting. Accompanied by his entourage, Commodus took a leisurely stroll among his subjects, smiling and waving. At the sight of him, men shouted, “Ave Commodus! Long live Commodus!” Boys and girls screamed and jumped with excitement. Women swooned.
Later that day, as shadows lengthened, Lucius attended a private reception for the emperor held in a magnificently appointed room in Trajan’s Forum. Marcus had preferred simple surroundings, but Commodus had a taste for luxury and ornament.
Among the hundred or so people present were Gaius, who had taken off his armor and put on his best tunic, and Cleander, who seemed never to leave Commodus’s side. One of the new emperor’s first acts had been to make Cleander a freedman and to grant him an official role in the court. Commodus, Cleander, and Gaius were conspicuously the youngest men in the room, which was filled with senators and magistrates.
A hush fell as Commodus stepped onto a dais and Cleander gestured for everyone to be silent.
Commodus seemed as relaxed in this prestigious company as he had been all day. “The era of constant, costly war, which has gone on for most of my lifetime, is over and done with. My triumph today marked the end of that age and the beginning of another. A philosopher-king and a warrior-king—my father was both, one by nature and the other by necessity. I intend to be neither. I will be my own man. Papa listened to advisers who insisted the Germans must be pacified once and for all and that a new province or two should then be established to contain them. With that as his goal, he fought on and on, year after year, battle after battle. But I tell you, more war in the north would only be a waste of men and treasure. It is time now to declare peace, and to enjoy the fruits of peace.
“My first order of business will be to decommission all those gladiators Papa drafted into the legions and put them back in the arena where they belong.”
His audience responded with some quiet laughter and scattered nods of approval.
“Dear Papa! Do you remember how he used to behave in the imperial box at the Flavian Amphitheater, writing letters and conferring with clerks and completely ignoring the gladiators, because he found their combats so distasteful—and wanted us all to know it! And the rules he imposed, having gladiators fight with wooden swords. As if people should be happy to go home at the end of a long day at the arena and say, ‘Oh, what terrible bruises those gladiators inflicted on each other!’ Really, I don’t think he understood the whole point of death in the arena—not just the thrill of bloodshed but the deep satisfaction such a death gives the audience. Poor Papa saw enough blood and gore and severed limbs fighting the Germans, I suppose, but your average Roman, here in the city, is starved for such sights. Well, I shall give it to them!” He grinned. “To his credit, Papa did put on some impressive hunts in the arena. That time he had a hundred lions killed by archers all firing at once—I was only a boy of five at the time, but I never forgot that spectacle, and the awe that fell over the spectators. Well, I shall do better than that. I myself shall shoot a hundred lions—yes, all by myself.”
Some in the crowd laughed nervously, and a few even dared to scoff. Lucius grimaced, for no emperor had ever, or could ever make such a public spectacle of himself, lowering his dignity to take part in the arena games for the amusement of the mob.
Commodus mistook the pained reactions of his listeners for skepticism. “You don’t think I can do it? Ask Gaius Pinarius here how good an archer I am. He’s been on many a hunt with me over the years, in the Roman countryside and up north as well. That’s all those endless forests up there are good for, all the game. Once, on horseback, I shot a boar through the eye at a hundred paces. Isn’t that so, Gaius?”
“Yes, Dominus. I counted the paces myself,” said Gaius, looking acutely uncomfortable. Lucius could tell his son had drunk more wine than he was used to, and had not expected to be called on to speak in public.
“But I shall not neglect the honors due to my father,” said Commodus. “The blood of a hundred gladiators would not please him—but I know what would.” He turned his gaze on Lucius. “Many a time, Senator Pinarius, I heard my father praise the work of your father—I mean in particular the column your father helped to erect in honor of Trajan, only a few feet from this room. A long relief sculpture winds around it, from bottom to top, that shows in picture the whole story of the Dacian War. Trajan’s statue stands atop the column and his sacred remains are interred in the base. ‘A masterpiece like no other,’ Papa called it. ‘The greatest work of art ever produced in all the history of Rome.’ He said those very words. I suppose that praise was just a bit backhanded, since he didn’t include Greece along with Rome. Well, there’s nothing here in Rome or anywhere else that can compare with the statue of Jupiter at Olympia, or the Athena of the Parthenon, is there? Made all of gold and ivory, those statues. Chryselephantine, they call that sort of sculpture. Perhaps I should have you make a chryselephantine statue of my father, as large as the statue of Olympian Jupiter.”
Lucius winced. A gigantic, ostentatious statue was hardly the sort of monument that would be pleasing to the shade of Marcus Aurelius. Commodus continued to stare at him, awaiting a response. Lucius cleared his throat. “Only Nero ever dared to make a statue of himself on such a scale—I mean that statue of the Colossus by the amphitheater, which was changed to be a statue of Sol after Nero’s death. Surely such precious materials, on such a scale, are suitable only for portraying the gods.”
“Do you think so? Maybe you’re right. A column—that’s the thing! Come with me, Senator Pinarius. Let’s take a look at Trajan’s Column. You, too, Gaius. You shall put away your sword and take up a chisel again, like Cincinnatus going back to his plow. Cleander, come along as well.”
They followed Commodus out of the room, to a staircase that took them to an upstairs gallery. Here, a terrace surrounded and provided a close view of the column, which was enclosed in a courtyard with ground-floor libraries on either side. Lucius had visited this viewing gallery many times to admire the magnificent work of his father and grandfather and their workshop. The meticulously painted spiral relief depicted every phase of the Dacian War, from beginning to end. Trajan’s conquest of Dacia, especially his acquisition of the country’s legendary gold mines, had marked a high point for the empire.
“You shall design and build a second column for me,” said Commodus, “in honor of my father, to celebrate his triumph over the Germanic tribes. I
have no interest in waging wars myself, but I don’t mind celebrating the wars of my father. He was every bit as great a general as Trajan. Trajan had more rapport with his troops, I imagine—the common touch—but Papa made up for any lapse in leadership with a complete focus on whatever task lay before him. Unlike Trajan, he never allowed himself to be distracted by dancing boys! Or girls, for that matter. Dear Papa, what a dour fellow he was. But a great general—as the world must never forget. Imagine all the splendid scenes you can depict, captured upon a column for all time. You must include the Rain Miracle, of course. To picture that scene, you can use myself as an eyewitness.”
Gaius fought an impulse to roll his eyes. He had learned long ago that Commodus was prone to exaggeration and outright invention. His participation in the Rain Miracle, by calling upon the fascinum and invoking Hercules, was a complete fantasy, but Commodus had repeated the story so often that he seemed actually to believe it. If anyone should be consulted an expert on the Rain Miracle, it was Uncle Kaeso, who knew all the details and had witnessed it with his own eyes.
Lucius was not thinking that far ahead; he was too taken aback at the very idea of creating a second column. Trajan’s Column had already been done. Why copy it? The very idea was hubristic. He tried to think of some way to decline the commission without giving offense.
And yet …
Such a column—more than a hundred feet tall, with hundreds of images from the war, including of course the Rain Miracle—such a column would constitute the single greatest commission for the Pinarii since the giant quadriga atop Hadrian’s tomb. It would be a huge engineering challenge, never mind that it had been done once before, and not without hazard—Lucius’s father had often spoken of the near-catastrophe involving a building crane that collapsed and very nearly brought down Trajan’s Column with it. Such a project would allow Lucius to create a great work of art to honor his childhood friend, the man he had been privileged to call Verissimus. And, if the Pinarii were properly remunerated, a commission on such a scale, executed over a number years, could also make the family not just rich, but very, very rich …
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