Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  Lucius answered slowly. “I have.”

  “You have no comment?”

  “To be sure, Dominus, I am … less enthusiastic about Lucian’s work than you are.”

  Gaius gently elbowed his father. “You must admit he’s awfully funny.”

  “And sometimes … impious, I would say. After I read the piece in which he scoffs at the divinity of Antinous, I put down the scroll and never picked it up again.”

  “Where does Lucian do that?”

  “Assembly of the Gods. Oh, he doesn’t refer to Hadrian and Antinous by name, he talks of Jupiter and Ganymede, but his meaning is clear. Frankly, I had rather read Galen. Heaven knows, there’s so much of him to read, on such a wide array of topics, not just medicine but also philosophy, and the language of the Athenian theater, and—”

  “Galen?” Commodus made a rude noise. “Please! It’s enough that I must submit to his finger down my throat or up my rectum every now and again. Don’t ask me to wade through one of his endless treatises! I’d sooner swallow a dose of that foul medicine he had Papa taking every day. Theriac! Poor Papa said it steadied his nerves and helped him sleep at night. If I want to doze off, I don’t swallow viper’s guts, I just drink more wine. Surely by now Galen has written enough treatises. What might we do to keep him busy and stop him from writing more? I could send him off to Britannia to patch up the soldiers. Scribe, take a note—”

  Lucius groaned on his friend’s behalf. The last thing Galen desired or deserved was to be sent to a war-torn backwater.

  “Perhaps … instead … it would be better to put Galen to work looking after the imperial gladiators. Who better than Galen to keep them at the peak of health and fitness? In his younger days he was a physician to gladiators in his native Pergamum.”

  Commodus tapped his beardless chin. “Yes! Why did I never think of that? There are physicians on staff here, but none of Galen’s caliber. As he began his career, so might he end it. Perhaps, after one of these fellows dies in the arena, I might allow Galen to dissect the body. You know he would love the chance to slice up a human body, instead of yet another pig or a monkey.”

  “Human dissection?” The idea was so appalling, so against all standards of decency, that Lucius could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  “Why not?” Commodus lowered his voice. “Once, during the war—I tell you this in strictest confidence—some of his physicians talked Papa into letting them dissect a dead German. It’s true! Big fellow, thick-skinned and hairy as a boar, covered with a wiry red pelt. Killed with an arrow through the head, so the body was perfectly intact. No one was allowed to watch, except Papa. And me—after I begged him to let me watch. Once they cut open the body, the physicians squabbled so much about which organ was which, and what belonged where, Papa became disgusted and told them the procedure was pointless, and he never let them do anything like it again.”

  Commodus abruptly sat forward. “Or—why wait until one of them dies? Can you imagine old Galen’s excitement if I allowed him to vivisect a gladiator? Strap the big fellow down and then let Galen have at him with his scalpels and hooks and pincers and chisels? Now that would be a spectacle to behold! You know those tricks he does, making a pig squeal and then making it silent and then making it squeal again, simply by pressing on a nerve? Imagine a demonstration like that—but with a human. Could it be staged in the arena, do you think, for an audience? Ha! Perhaps I should offer Galen a senator to vivisect, instead of some poor gladiator. Yes, that’s a lovely idea…”

  Lucius felt his mouth go dry. He stared at the emperor, unable to tell whether he was serious or not.

  “Listen to me ramble!” said Commodus. “All this book talk. It’s because I can’t discuss such things with that lot.” He nodded toward the arena to show that he meant the gladiators. Lucius realized that the clacking din from the arena had stopped. He thought he heard the neighing of a horse. “Hardly any of them can read. Some don’t even speak Latin. With them, the level of discourse never rises above ‘Helena with the huge breasts,’ or ‘Chrestos with the tight bum.’ Mention the word ‘philosophy’ and they only scowl. But they are religious. They never fail to join me when I offer incense at the altar of Hercules. Good men. Pious men. Not a Christian atheist among them.” Commodus looked thoughtful, then grinned. “But I brought you here for a reason. I have something to show you, something really quite special.”

  He abruptly rose and left the cubicle, not bothering to put on any clothes besides his loincloth. Lucius and Gaius followed him down a flight of stairs, then through an open gate and onto the sandy arena. The practice period was evidently over, for no gladiators were to be seen.

  But the arena was not empty. While they had been talking with the emperor, a number of horse-drawn vehicles had been driven into the arena. The drivers were all dressed alike, in bright green tunics, and the teams of horses were superb creatures, every one of them tall and muscular and gleaming white in the sunshine. The vehicles themselves were quite unlike any that Lucius had ever seen before, beautifully designed and crafted and very ornately outfitted with sumptuous leather upholstery and gold-plated hardware.

  “This is my private fleet of wagons and chariots and carriages. What do you think of them?” asked Commodus. “As an artist, I mean. I designed them myself. By which I mean I told the builders and engineers exactly what I wanted and how I wanted it done. See here, on this open-air carriage, how these bronze steps appear with a simple touch on this lever, and then with another touch, they retract out of sight. Ingenious, don’t you think? No more of that nonsense of having a slave carry wooden steps, and having to call him to put the steps down, and then he never puts them in quite the right place, and you lose your footing, and it’s all a tragedy, for the slave, anyway. Instead, pull the lever, and the steps fold out. Push the lever, and the steps retract.”

  “Ingenious!” said Gaius, with genuine enthusiasm. “But why is this here?” He referred to a stack of folded sailcloth at the back of the carriage.

  “That, Pinarius, is the retractable top. In good weather, one prefers to ride in the carriage with the top down, to feel the breeze and to take in the scenery. But if there should be rain, or if the sunshine is too hot for the fair-skinned beauty with you, you have only to pull on this cord, and the top unfolds, rises up and over—you attach the cord securely here—and there you have it: the vehicle and its passengers are now nicely protected from the elements.”

  “That is too fine!” said Gaius. Hearing his son gush, Lucius wondered if a mania for fancy vehicles was a trait of the younger generation.

  Commodus proceeded to show them one vehicle after another, all of them outfitted in unique and extraordinary ways, and clearly at great expense. There were adjustable awnings, seats that fully reclined (“For sleeping?” Lucius asked, at which Commodus and Gaius both laughed), and a device with gears attached to the axle that could calculate how many miles one had traveled, and, by further consultation of an hourglass, at what rate of speed.

  Commodus insisted on taking them for a few turns around the arena in the most elaborate of the chariots, which had straps to hold all three of them in place and all sorts of leather compartments, though what a charioteer would need them for, Lucius could not imagine. The vehicle was designed not just for show but also for speed, as Commodus proceeded to demonstrate by driving the horses faster and faster. “See how it hews to the sand, even at speed?” shouted Commodus. “A lesser chariot would tip over and crash into the wall!”

  When at last the ride was over, Lucius unstrapped himself and staggered from the chariot feeling not just queasy but profoundly disconcerted. Commodus was over thirty now, yet he seemed to care more about fancy carriages and fast chariots than about the state of the Roman frontiers or the sufferings of Rome’s citizens. Lucius found the emperor’s passion for gladiators and chariots to be in extremely bad taste, if not downright dangerous. All through his twenties, Commodus had grown increasingly withdrawn and suspicious of those ar
ound him, and now he seemed to have let go of all inhibition, losing himself in a frivolous regimen of athletic training, racing, hunting, and mock-combats.

  Commodus saw his expression. “I used to see that very look on Papa’s face. Cheer up, Senator Pinarius! So, Gaius, what do you think? Is this the chariot I should use to make my entrance at the Roman Games in September?”

  Now Gaius frowned. “I hardly think a chariot would fit the private passageway that leads to the imperial box.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t, you fool! I mean to enter directly into the arena, dressed as a charioteer and taking a few turns on the sand at top speed, for everyone to see. The people will love it!”

  Lucius was appalled. “And the senators?”

  “Who cares what those old farts think? If they scowl at me, I shall raise my sword and shake it at them, then watch them whimper and wet themselves like frightened slaves.”

  “Your … sword?”

  “Of course I’ll be carrying a sword, Senator Pinarius, since I am to fight in the Flavian Amphitheater.”

  “In … the arena? With … gladiators?”

  “Of course. Why do you think I sleep and eat with these fellows, and train for hours every day? It’s not for the sparkling conversation! Come the Roman Games, I intend to put on a performance the people of Rome will never forget.”

  “But, Dominus … in public? In the Flavian Amphitheater?”

  “I shall demonstrate my prowess with the bow, as well.” Commodus mimed pulling a bowstring with his left hand, holding the imaginary bow with his right. His shoulder and arms bulged with muscles. “I shall stand atop a raised platform in the center of the arena, and below me, wild beasts of every sort will be unleashed, one by one. Like Ulysses dispatching the suitors of Penelope, I shall shoot the creatures, one after another—scores of them, hundreds of them!—while the people look on and marvel. I shall allot myself one arrow for each kill. I shall need no more than that.”

  This will not end well, thought Lucius, but he kept his mouth shut. He looked at the fascinum nestled between Commodus’s brawny pectorals. Of its protective power, he had no doubt; Commodus’s survival was proof. But could the fascinum save Commodus from himself?

  * * *

  Lucius and Gaius were atop the column, inspecting the area where the massive new statue of the Divine Marcus was to be put into place using a giant hoist. The day was clear but blustery, with strong gusts of wind. They both happened to be clutching the guardrail to steady themselves when the earthquake struck.

  At first, neither of them understood what was happening. They thought the sudden shaking was due to the wind. But not even the strongest wind could make the column shiver and tremble in such a way. Lucius let go of the rail with one hand and clutched his chest, searching for the fascinum that was not there.

  The platform pitched and swayed beneath their feet like a ship on a stormy sea. The tremor seemed to last an eternity, and then was over.

  The column still stood. It seemed undamaged. As their terror subsided, both felt a thrill of elation.

  “The column stands!” said Lucius. “A good omen, don’t you think? Sent to us by Neptune, maker of earthquakes?”

  “Or simply an indication of your engineering skills, Father. Or both!”

  Father and son laughed, more loudly than was called for. Both were a bit amazed that they were still alive.

  It was Gaius, whose vision was sharper than his father’s, who first spotted the plume of black smoke in the direction of the Forum. He pointed. His father squinted.

  “It’s very near the Temple of Pax,” said Lucius quietly.

  Even as they watched, the roof of the temple caught fire. Amid so much flame and smoke and at such a distance, it was hard to tell what was happening, but most certainly the Temple of Pax was engulfed in flames—and the wind seemed to be spreading more flames toward the Palatine Hill, with its jumble of temples and closely crowded imperial structures.

  Between faraway buildings they caught glimpses of people fleeing, antlike at such a distance, and heard echoes of screaming, crackling flames, and falling bricks. Eventually they saw, heading toward the flames, the helmeted and uniformed vigiles, the brigade of firefighters founded by Augustus.

  The vigiles went to work around the perimeter of the flames, bailing water, hoisting ladders, and firing a huge jet of water from a wagon with a water tank. Lucius and Gaius were spellbound. Eventually they dismissed the workers, then continued to watch the horrifying spectacle from their perch atop the column.

  They heard a commotion directly below them, and gazed down to see the arrival of a very ornate vehicle, its gold-plated hardware gleaming in the sunlight. It could only have been one of those owned by Commodus. Marcus had banned the use of carriages within the city, but Commodus did the opposite, flaunting his use of the vehicle.

  They saw the emperor step out of the carriage, using the retractable steps he was so proud of. He glanced upward at them, then entered the base of the column.

  He must have run up the spiral stairway, yet when he stepped onto the platform he was not at all out of breath. He rushed to the railing without saying a word. His staring eyes flashed red and yellow, reflecting the distant flames. His reaction was hard to make out. He seemed appalled, to be sure, but also thrilled.

  “Has there ever been such a fire since Nero’s day?” he whispered.

  “Surely it won’t spread as far as that,” said Lucius. “The fire of Nero went on for days. Huge parts of the city were burned to ashes. As far as I can see, this fire has destroyed only a small part of the Forum, and some of the Palatine—”

  “I shall have to rebuild the city, as Nero did,” said Commodus, not listening.

  With what money? Lucius wondered. The Temple of Pax and the heavily guarded treasury buildings adjoining it held a huge amount of both state and private wealth. Gold and silver might not burn like wood, but vessels valuable for their antiquity and workmanship would be destroyed, gems would shatter, and coins would melt.

  “Or rather,” Commodus said, “I shall build a new city and name it for myself, as Romulus did. Yes! You must make a new statue, Senator Pinarius. Of myself, in the guise of Romulus when he yoked the oxen and plowed the sacred furrow to mark the boundary of his city. What does a plowman wear, I wonder? Never mind, I should be depicted nude, I think. As naked as the unadorned hills of Rome before Romulus clothed them in brightly painted temples and gleaming palaces. And I shall name my new city … Commodiana!”

  Lucius stifled a groan. Yet another statue of Commodus, yet another distraction! At least Commodus was not asking to be depicted as Nero. But to assume the guise of Romulus was almost as alarming, considering the way the founder ended—cut to pieces by senators who hid the remnants so well that no trace of him was ever found.

  * * *

  The fire raged for days, and was finally extinguished by a torrential rainstorm that caused landslides on the Seven Hills and flooded the Tiber.

  In the middle of the Forum, at the charred, soggy ruins of the round Temple of Vesta, a crowd had gathered. Lucius and Gaius met Galen, who had only just arrived in the city that morning, returning from what had been planned as a long, restful retreat at one of his estates in the countryside. Galen appeared weary and haggard. How old we both look! thought Lucius.

  When the Temple of Vesta burned, and its walls collapsed, the famous Palladium, the wooden image of Venus brought to Rome from Troy by Aeneas, had been exposed to view. Normally only the Vestals and the Pontifex Maximus ever saw it, kept as it was in the inner sanctum of the temple. Amazingly, the wooden image was unharmed. The eternal hearthfire at the temple’s center was also exposed to view. Even the torrential rain had not extinguished it. Crowds had been gathering each day, finding places to stand amid the rubble, to gaze at these rare and remarkable sights. A cordon of Praetorian Guards kept people from getting too close.

  As the three men watched, a procession arrived on foot, led by Commodus, dressed in the sacre
d robes of the Pontifex Maximus, followed by the Vestals. They filed past the Praetorians and mounted the temple steps. While Commodus stood before the eternal flame and the Vestals chanted, temple slaves carried the Palladium down the steps and loaded it onto a bier, covered it with a linen shroud, and carried it off, presumably for safekeeping until the temple could be rebuilt. The Vestals and Commodus followed after them. The crowd was awed by the solemnity of the ceremony.

  “I must admit,” said Galen, “Commodus makes a striking figure as Pontifex Maximus. So tall and handsome, with such a confident bearing.”

  Lucius made no comment.

  The three men took a stroll through the ruined parts of the city, past piles of blackened brick and charred timber, fallen columns, patches of impassable mud and pools of water choked with ashes. They came upon what remained of the Temple of Pax, which was unrecognizable amid the rubble and filth.

  “I was away from Rome when it happened, planning to be gone for quite some time,” said Galen quietly. “In my absence, to keep them safe from burglars, I stored my most precious possessions—including all my journals and notebooks, and my entire library—in the guarded storerooms at the Temple of Pax. I was told the building was fireproof because only the doors were made of wood. But when the doors burned, cinders must have been blown inside, and the contents caught fire. Then the roof collapsed. Everything was lost. All of it, completely and totally incinerated! I had been planning, on my return, to have a complete set of copies made of all my writings, to be sent to Pergamum, so there would be duplicates in cities far apart, to guard against exactly this kind of catastrophe. But too late!”

  “But there are so many copies of so many of your books, in many cities,” said Lucius.

  “That’s true of my more popular books, yes. But some of the burned volumes were the only copies I knew of. Lost now, forever! And my personal library has also been lost, which included recipe books for thousands of medicines. I spent a lifetime building that collection! And it wasn’t just my library that was destroyed. Imperial collections on the Palatine also burned, libraries nearly as great as those in Alexandria and Pergamum. Those collections housed thousands of titles, including some that were very rare, even unique. Not long ago, browsing in a musty little room that smelled of mouse droppings, I came upon a work by Aristotle that I’d never heard of—I don’t think anyone alive even knew it existed—a lovely little treatise about all the different colorations of living creatures. Yet there the scroll was, tucked behind some others on a dusty lower shelf, untouched and forgotten for decades, perhaps for centuries. If only I had thought to have a copy made! Now that book, too, may have been lost forever, for who can say if there was another copy in any other library in any city on earth? Books are so precious, and yet so fragile! All the library catalogues and lists were also burned, so we don’t even know what was lost.”