Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  Even more theatrical had been the attempt on the emperor’s life by the ex-soldier Maturnus, a sort of Spartacus figure who incited a following of fellow ex-soldiers, bandits, and other desperate types to wreak havoc in the countryside. Maturnus and some of his henchmen entered the city during the Hilaria, when costumes and disguises were part of the festivities. Dressed as Praetorians, they attempted to infiltrate Commodus’s private bodyguard and murder him. But they were easily apprehended, then publicly whipped and beheaded as part of the festival, lending a macabre air to the usually lighthearted Hilaria.

  “Someday, someone will write a play about the emperor’s narrow escapes,” said Gaius. “But will it be a comedy—or a tragedy?”

  “If we may return to my point, son: Marcus never put a senator to death, because Marcus never had cause to do so. No one can say the same about Commodus, whose life has been repeatedly threatened, virtually from the start of his reign, back when the two of you were hardly more than boys. It’s no wonder he’s so suspicious, and so often resorts to violence. And to add to his problems, this horrendous recurrence of the plague, just when we thought it was gone for good. Two thousand people are dying every day in the city. So Galen says, and he should know.”

  “And yet Commodus seems to be immune, and people have noticed,” said Gaius. “He tells people that his secret is to withdraw every so often to his estates at Laurentum, so named for all the laurel trees. His physicians hypothesize that the lovely scent fills the nostrils and allows no ingress to whatever foul matter in the air causes the plague. As a result, you see desperately frightened people all over Rome dousing themselves with prophylactic perfumes, and filling their houses with choking clouds of incense, thinking a sweet smell will ward off the plague.”

  “At least the smell of perfume serves to cloak the stench of corpses,” said Lucius grimly.

  “Meanwhile, you and I know what really protects Commodus, or at least what he thinks protects him—the fascinum of the Pinarii. He never speaks of it to anyone, keeps it a secret, for fear an enemy might steal it and leave him defenseless.”

  Which means that he has no intention of ever returning it. Both thought it. Neither said it.

  “And then, to follow plague, famine,” said Lucius, as if to change the topic to something less distressing. It seemed to Lucius and many of his colleagues in the Senate that the food shortage had been a direct result of the plague, because it disrupted trade and agriculture, but a wicked rumor had spread among the populace to the effect that the famine was entirely manmade, due to the incompetence of Cleander, the right-hand man who was practically running the state while his master spent his days practicing archery or sword-fighting or racing chariots on his private track. Others said that the famine was deliberately manmade, by conspirators in the imperial bureaucracy who wanted to get rid of Cleander. Rome had been torn by riots, with huge loss of life as soldiers were ordered to kill citizens—an atrocity that in all his years Lucius had never known to happen in the city. To stop the chaos, Commodus finally had Cleander put to death and then threw his corpse to the mob to be mutilated. A massive purge of the state bureaucracy followed. Many magistrates and senators had been put to death. Commodus became even more feared and hated by the Senate and even more secretive and withdrawn.

  The Pinarii were among a handful of people who had regular contact with him, thanks to his ongoing demands and his oversight of their work. Lucius liked to think that he and Gaius were immune from the havoc Commodus had wreaked on others—accusing senators of conspiracy, stripping them of property, and exiling them to rocky islands or putting them to death. As long as Commodus was impressed by their work, and wanted more from them—and as long as they knew when to keep their mouths shut—Lucius and Gaius would be safe. So Lucius told himself.

  The thing that would most help Commodus, he thought, would be to sire a son. That might put an end to the schemes of his rivals and nervous family members. But after more than ten years as emperor, Commodus remained childless.

  Lucius looked about them, at models and drawings of the column, and sighed. How he would love to devote himself to the project full-time! But now Commodus had come up with yet another, quite literally colossal, diversion, his most audacious idea to date …

  The foreman of the workshop appeared and cleared his throat to get their attention. “Dominus, I’ve assembled the men, the ones you want to go with you today.”

  “Very well,” said Lucius. “Let’s be off.”

  They left the workshop with a large entourage, all on foot, including Lucius, who at seventy-one was proud that he could get about as well as any other man. The party headed to the Flavian Amphitheater, where some of the Pinarii’s other workers were already gathered at the feet of the Colossus, sketching, taking measurements, and assembling materials to erect massive scaffolding.

  It was Nero who first erected the Colossus, in a courtyard of his Golden House, as an image of the sun god Sol, giving it Nero’s face. At great effort and expense, Hadrian had enlisted a previous generation of the Pinarii to move the statue closer to the Flavian Amphitheater, in order to make way for his enormous Temple of Venus and Roma; it remained a statue of Sol, but the face had been remodeled so that it no longer looked like Nero. Now Commodus had ordered the whole gigantic statue to be refashioned so that it would no longer depict Sol, but Hercules.

  The Pinarii stood at the base of the statue, staring upward. “When he says Hercules, we may presume he means himself, just as Nero expected his Sol to look like Nero,” said Lucius. “So how in Hades are we to set about making this big fellow into Commodus-cum-Hercules?”

  “Obviously, the golden sunbeams radiating from the head will have to go,” said Gaius. “A pity, as they’re so striking when seen from a distance.”

  “But removing the gilding will hopefully supply the gold we will need for the new pieces,” said his father.

  “In place of sunbeams, we’ll need to add a lion-headed cowl. Hercules’s club could touch the ground—that would give the structure additional support. And if it’s to resemble Commodus, it will need a beard, and a narrower nose than it has now. How soon does the emperor want the job done?”

  “He’s quite insistent that it must be ready to show in time for the Roman Games in September,” said Lucius.

  “It’s going to require a great deal of gold and silver, and many hours of bronze-smelting, and enormous manpower.” Gaius, who had taken over most of the practical management of the family business, seemed to be adding sums and filling out ledgers in his head. “The imperial finances are already strained, thanks to circumstances no one can blame on Commodus—war in Britannia, plague, famine. What will this cost?”

  No sooner had they given instructions to the artisans and laborers for the work that needed to be done that day than a messenger arrived with a summons from the emperor. They followed the messenger, Gaius with a capsa full of rolled drawings and plans slung over his shoulder. They both expected to be taken to the Palatine palace, but instead they were conducted to a vast complex on the Caelian Hill, not far from the Flavian Amphitheater, where gladiators lived and trained.

  A keeper unlocked a barred gate for them. They followed the messenger down a long corridor and emerged into a sunlit gallery that overlooked a large sandy court. Scores of gladiators were exercising or training with wooden swords that made a constant clacking noise.

  “The smell of an arena—sweat and dust and sand baking under sunlight. Don’t you love it?”

  They turned to see that the messenger was gone and in his place was the smiling figure of Commodus. But this was not the Commodus-as-Hercules of the marble statue they had just finished, or the Commodus that Gaius had been sketching from memory as ideas for the reimagined Colossus. His beard was gone. So was most of the hair on his head. He was very casually dressed in a simple short tunic that showed off his brawny arms and his long, suntanned legs.

  He saw them both staring at his cropped hair and reached up to run his fi
ngers through it. “It’s called a ‘gladiator cut.’ Very simple, very practical. It makes me feel more at home in this place.” He stepped to the railing of the gallery and looked down at the sandy arena. “I could stand here and watch them train all day,” he said. “I know the name of every man down there, how many times he’s fought and with whom—and how many kills he has to his credit. I can spend hours setting up imaginary matches, moving those fellows about in my mind like tokens on an Egyptian game board. Well—if we stand out here I’ll only be distracted, so let’s go inside.”

  On the opposite side of the gallery was a row of cubicles. Commodus showed them into one of the small, dusty rooms equipped with a few pieces of rustic furniture.

  “Is this how they live, the imperial gladiators?” asked Gaius. “How many in a room? I see only one cot for sleeping.”

  “That’s because I’m the sole occupant.”

  “This is … your room?” asked Lucius.

  “Why not? I need somewhere to rest when I’m tired from training. I sleep better in this room than anywhere else. Over on the Palatine, the magistrates and clerks are constantly after me to approve of this or that expenditure, or I have to dress up and put on a show for visiting dignitaries. Here, I can relax and be myself. The keeper at the gate knows not to allow any of those nattering bureaucrats inside. And if some insistent clerk should dare to slip into my sanctum, I’ll throw him into the arena and let the gladiators kill him for sport.”

  Gaius and Lucius sat on a crude bench. Commodus stripped off his tunic, which was drenched with sweat. Wearing only a loincloth, Commodus displayed the body of a well-muscled athlete in his prime, the sort of physique that sculptors searched for when making a statue of Mars or Apollo, or of Hercules in his youth. He tossed his tunic onto a small table, atop a wooden sword.

  “Have you been … training? With the others?” asked Lucius.

  “What else? An hour or two of hard exercise down in that arena, and all is well with the world. But I need to find better gladiators, or better trainers. I’m twice as fast as any man down there, and as strong as the strongest. And much smarter, which goes without saying. None of them can pose enough of a challenge for me.”

  Nestled between his hairy pectorals glimmered the golden fascinum. Commodus saw that Lucius was looking at it, even as Gaius was trying not to do so. Commodus touched it. “It’s kept me safe through years of plague and from countless assassins. Now it’s my amulet for good luck when I’m in the arena. That’s why I’ve never lost!”

  “Surely the emperor’s skill is the reason for his victories,” said Lucius, dismayed that Commodus had found yet another reason to keep the fascinum.

  “Even the best gladiator needs a bit of luck from time to time,” said Commodus. “But I see that capsa you’ve brought. Have you something for me to look at?”

  Gaius produced the preliminary drawings and plans for the transformation of the Colossus. Commodus sat on the cot and pored over them.

  “These are not bad, not bad at all. But as you can see, the statue must now have short hair, and it should remain clean-shaven, like myself.”

  Lucius thought of the newly completed Commodus-as-Hercules statue back in the workshop. Would Commodus want that to be redone, as well? The emperor mistook the pained look on his face for one of disdain for the surroundings, and laughed.

  “Not every man feels at home around so much sand and sweat. But don’t think I’ve abandoned the life of the mind. People say I don’t like books. Not true! I just don’t like boring books. I’m a more avid reader nowadays than ever before. In fact, I have quite a nice little library here in my gladiator’s cubby.”

  He reached into a basket and produced a scroll with ornately carved and gilded handles.

  “That must be quite a book, to justify such an elegant scroll,” said Gaius.

  “Oh, it is. This is a copy of my father’s private war journal, a daybook where he recorded his thoughts while he was stuck in darkest Pannonia. Marcus Aurelius, to Himself, I call it.”

  “I had no idea such a work existed,” said Lucius, feeling a poignant thrill at being near such a venerable relic.

  “Papa had a remarkable mind, that’s for sure. In a lifetime of consorting with philosophers, he never met a man more brilliant than himself. This book is philosophy, of a sort, but not boring, at least not to me. Reading it, I sometimes get the uncanny feeling he’s in the room with me, looking over my shoulder. But it’s not cheerful reading, I can tell you that. Here, listen to this: ‘Consider the court of Augustus—wife, daughter, descendants, ancestors, friends, physicians, and sacrificing priests—the whole court is dead. Then think of the death not of a single man but of a whole family, like that of Pompey, and the words engraved on their tombs: “The Last of His Line.” Think of all the pains taken by their predecessors to leave an heir, and yet, in the end, someone must be the last—and another whole race of men is made extinct.’ Just a bit morbid, eh? What a glum fellow Papa was! But I’ve turned out rather differently, don’t you think? The exact opposite of Papa, some say.”

  “Do they?” said Gaius, casting a sidelong glance at his father.

  “Might I borrow it?” asked Lucius, awestruck at the idea that Marcus had recorded his innermost thoughts.

  “You may keep it,” said Commodus, handing him the scroll. “That copy is my gift to you. I had a number of copies made, mostly for family members. Some of them think I don’t appreciate my father, but that’s not true. The column with the statue of Papa on top will demonstrate to the whole world my reverence for him.”

  He leaned toward them and lowered his voice, as if confiding a secret. “But, to be perfectly frank, when it comes to books, I prefer The Golden Ass.”

  “The version by Apuleius?” asked Gaius.

  “That’s the one! Most novels are so boring, nothing but far-fetched love stories and totally fabricated travelogues, but this one, by this Apuleius fellow, is sheer delight! You almost believe he really was turned into an ass and then back again! I wish my tutors had given me books like that when I was a boy, instead of the scribblings of all those long-winded Sophists! But the writer I most admire is Lucian of Samosata, the satirist. Do you know him?”

  “Actually I met him once, briefly, here in Rome,” said Lucius. “Galen introduced us.”

  “Really? Well, I envy you that, Senator Pinarius. I just read Lucian’s diatribe against Peregrinus the Cynic, the one who burned himself to a crisp in front of the crowd at Olympia. The book is hilarious! Lucian is merciless. Have you read his exposé of that charlatan, Alexander? Scathing. It does make you wonder a bit about Papa’s judgment, his habit of turning for advice to sages and mages and priests like Harnouphis. In his piece on Alexander, Lucian writes about the time Germans were spotted across the Danube, and for some reason Papa sought the advice of Alexander, who declared that two lions must be driven across the river, whereupon the sight of them would terrify the Germans into disbanding.”

  “Lions?” said Gaius dubiously.

  “Well, wouldn’t you know, there happened to be a pair of lions at Carnuntum, or Aquincum, or some place with an arena for gladiator shows, and Papa saw to it that the beasts were carted up and brought to the riverbank, then floated on a barge halfway across, then forced into the water. The soldiers on the barge threw stones to drive the poor creatures to the far bank. The lions were in a foul mood when they stepped onto German territory, roaring and growling, and quite ready to eat any man they saw. But the Germans didn’t run away in terror. They’d never seen a lion, you see, and thought they were just some sort of shaggy dog. They took up clubs and went for the lions. The beasts fought back, and some Germans were indeed killed, but by then there was no turning back, and the Germans didn’t stop until they’d beaten the poor lions to death. Then they skinned them, ate the flesh to acquire their ferocity, and made the hides into trophies. What a fiasco! And all because people like Papa could never see what a complete fraud Alexander was.”

  Th
is sort of talk made Lucius acutely uncomfortable, and he would have liked to change the subject, but Commodus was not finished.

  “Then again, perhaps you can’t blame Papa. Diplomacy never worked with those barbarians. Lying backstabbers, every one of them. The Romans were at a low ebb, short of men, and Papa was at his wit’s end, ready to try anything to avoid open warfare. Oracles and sacrifices and wonder-workers served him well on other occasions. He always thought it was Harnouphis who pulled off the Rain Miracle using Egyptian magic, when of course we know it was actually this.” He fondled the fascinum. “I can’t wait to see your depiction of the Rain Miracle on the column. And of course you must not depict the slaughter of those two lions by the Germans, though it might make for a striking image. What a waste of lions!”

  “I don’t think Papa ever read Lucian; not dull enough for his taste. It’s ironic, don’t you think, that the two best writers of my lifetime should have been my father … and Lucian. Yet two men could hardly be more different. Imagine if the two of them had met! Where is Lucian these days? You, scribe!” A slave, posted outside the doorway, quickly appeared. “Take a note: I believe that Lucian of Samosata, the satirist, resided for quite some time in Athens, where he was able to support himself by his writings alone, no mean feat. Is he still alive? If so, let’s see if he might accept a sinecure. Well, of course he will. No one ever turns down an imperial posting that pays handsomely and requires no work. I’m sure we could find Lucian a cushy and lucrative imperial appointment in whatever city he might desire. Alexandria, perhaps? They could use more of his sort. Alexandria must have the largest population of charlatans and false prophets in the world, just waiting for a fellow like Lucian to make mincemeat of them. But here I am, doing all the talking. Have you read Lucian, Senator Pinarius?”