Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  The bright red blood on his face focused every eye upon him, and its symbolism drew on the deepest traditions of Rome. Long ago, beginning with Romulus, commanders in a triumph had painted their faces red for their sacred procession through the city. The Flavian Amphitheater, not the Sacred Way, was the venue Commodus deemed appropriate for his triumph. The blood on his face was a primal symbol of a victory not just over mortal enemies, but over death itself.

  If this was the high point of the games, the low point came when a flock of ostriches was driven into the arena, and Commodus appeared in his Amazon costume, followed by attendants carrying the various weapons of his arsenal. The ostriches made a strange clucking noise and ran about in constant panic while a circle of beaters made escape impossible and drove them back toward Commodus. Some he killed using a bow and arrow, some with a spear at a distance, some he jabbed to death, and some he knocked about with the broad edge of a sword before delivering a death blow. The effect was comical, and intentionally so—the slaughter of the ostriches had been scheduled at a point when usually mimes in outlandish costumes amused the crowd with pratfalls. The amphitheater roared with laughter. Commodus was delighted.

  Eventually, only one ostrich was left. The exhausted creature cackled and flapped its useless wings as Commodus closed in, raised his sword, and with a single blow sliced off its head. The body of the ostrich continued to run wildly about, headless and spurting blood from its neck, until it tripped over its own head and tumbled in a heap of feathers on the sand. The crowd went wild with excitement. Even the beaters doubled over with laughter.

  Then with his right hand Commodus picked up the ostrich head and held it aloft. Blood and bits of gore dribbled from the dangling neck. With his left hand he pointed his bloody sword at the senators in the stands, grinning at them and slowly shaking his head. The sight was at once ludicrous and terrifying. Some senators sputtered with laughter. Some stared stonily back at Commodus. Some went pale with fear.

  Was the emperor deliberately issuing a threat, or was he only clowning? Either way, it seemed to Lucius that the gesture was incredibly reckless. No man was invulnerable. Even Achilles was undone by his heel.

  Then, amid the sweat and dust on the emperor’s chest, Lucius saw a glint of gold, and was reminded that Commodus wore the fascinum.

  * * *

  It was the next-to-last day of the year, and the festival of Saturnalia was in full swing. Slaves and masters changed roles, extravagant gifts were exchanged, and at night people gathered under the starry sky with tapers and candles to dispel the winter darkness and sang ancient songs to Father Saturn.

  But amid that day’s universal celebration, Lucius and Gaius were busy working, overseeing the dismantling of the scaffolds that for months had surrounded the Column of Marcus Aurelius. Lucius had promised the emperor that the grand project would be finished by year’s end, and he was determined to meet his deadline.

  As more scaffolds were removed, more of the brightly painted spiral frieze was lit by the white winter sunlight. The sight was stunning.

  Kaeso, back from Britannia, was with his brother and nephew to watch the gradual unveiling. His horrific tales of combat and atrocity had influenced many scenes on the column. It was altogether a somber work, a testament more to truth than to glory, and a greater work of art, Lucius thought proudly, than the Column of Trajan.

  It was Kaeso’s version of the Rain Miracle that was depicted in the frieze. Lucius and Gaius had gone over the details with him many times. Their depiction was also inspired, like so many sculptures, by poetry. To depict the Rain God, Lucius drew on Ovid’s description of Notus: “Forth flies the South-wind with dripping wings, his awful face shrouded in darkness, his long beard heavy with rain. Water flows in streams down his frosty locks. Dark clouds rest upon his brow. His long wings drip with dew. With huge hands he kneads and squeezes the low-hanging clouds. He claps! The thunder is deafening, and dense clouds pour endless rain.”

  “So the emperor hasn’t seen it yet?” asked Kaeso.

  “Not in its entirety,” said Lucius.

  “Commodus promises he’ll come on New Year’s Day to see the finished column,” said Gaius, “as soon as he’s performed the annual induction of the two new consuls and the other magistrates. If he’s satisfied, he’ll choose a propitious date for the dedication. It’s going to be the high point of Papa’s career.” He beamed at his father, then went to oversee some of the workers, leaving Lucius and Kaeso alone.

  “Will you have more work to do tomorrow?” asked Kaeso.

  “No, the column is truly finished. Tomorrow Gaius and I will sleep late for the first time in months, and finally take a Saturnalia holiday on New Year’s Eve. Then it’s back to work on New Year’s Day, when Commodus and the new consuls come to inspect our work.”

  Kaeso lowered his voice. “The troops in Britannia are a bit confused by the emperor’s theatrics, or at least what we hear about them. The emperor as Hercules—that, they like. The emperor as Hercules in Amazon clothing—not so much. And renaming the city Commodiana—that smacks of hubris.”

  “Here in Rome, Kaeso, my fellow senators hate everything he does. But the citizens adore him.”

  “Do they?” Kaeso lowered his voice even more. “The only sure way I know to gauge the temper of the people of Rome is to watch the mime shows you see on street corners, where the performers beg for alms and scamper off before the authorities can nab them. I saw such a show just today, a bit of Saturnalia fun, about a gladiator with a crown, a veritable king of gladiators, who uses his left hand for everything, including masturbation—just like his idol, another gladiator who’s nicknamed Scaeva.”

  “And what was the plot of this mime show?”

  “Well, when it comes time for the combat between the gladiator-king and Scaeva, the king takes fright. He says that two left-handers can’t possibly fight. Instead, he orders his minions to crucify Scaeva, who’s hoisted up on a cross. But as soon as the king turns his back, Scaeva gets loose and comes down off the cross. He picks up his sword and skulks closer and closer to the king. The children and the simpletons in the crowd yell at the king, ‘Look behind you! Look behind!’ But the king thinks they’re cheering him, and takes one bow after another. Meanwhile, Scaeva sneaks closer and closer and raises his sword to stab the king in the back—then thinks better of it and runs off. The crowd cheers his escape—and the vain king thinks they’re cheering for him. To end the play, a narrator tells the crowd they have just seen the story of Scaeva, the genuine left-handed gladiator, not the pretend one, the only mortal ever known to survive a public crucifixion—except of course the man-god of the Christians. The jab at the Christians gets a big laugh, of course, since we know they detest blood sports, and then the mimes end the play and go through the crowd asking for donations.”

  “At least people laughed at the expense of the Christians,” said Lucius.

  “Oh no, brother. They were laughing at the emperor.”

  “Perhaps the column will give them something else to think about—the emperor’s father. Everyone loved and respected Marcus Aurelius. And everyone knows that the pacification of the northern barbarians, which the column commemorates, was his greatest achievement. Had the times been right, had there been no plague, Marcus could have been another Trajan.”

  “And then Commodus could have been another Hadrian?” Kaeso scoffed.

  Lucius shook his head. “Only with you, little brother—and only out of earshot of the workers—would I ever talk so freely.”

  “Not even with your son?”

  “Gaius has his own relationship with the emperor, from when they were young. He also has children of his own. Rightfully, he puts their survival above all else. So I try to avoid putting my own negative thoughts into Gaius’s head, for fear he might repeat them at precisely the wrong moment.”

  Kaeso sighed. “Is the problem simply that Commodus became emperor too young? Or was he never fit for the role? Nero wanted only to be an actor,
they say. And Commodus wants only to be a thrill-seeker, with flashy chariots and shiny swords and all the allure of being a gladiator with none of the danger. Nero and Commodus both would have been happier leading a different life. Neither of them should ever have become emperor.”

  “Yet the gods allowed it.”

  “Your friend the Divine Marcus is the one who allowed it. And now … will Commodus end as Nero ended?’

  “No one wants that, Kaeso. Four emperors in a single year followed Nero, and a very bloody civil war. If Commodus were to die, who would be fit to replace him? He’s killed all the decent, competent men appointed by his father, and replaced them with worthless sycophants.”

  “You’re still alive, Lucius.”

  “And there are many who would call me a sycophant, or worse. Do I not glorify the emperor with every statue I make? Whatever his faults, Commodus has given the Pinarii constant work, and rewarded us handsomely.”

  “After Nero, it was a military man who finally took control,” said Kaeso quietly. “Is there a commander alive today, anywhere in the empire, who could equal Vespasian? That’s the question.”

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, Lucius was awakened by a tapping on his forehead. Kaeso softly whispered his name. Lucius left his slumbering wife and followed his brother to the library, which was lit by a few flickering lamps.

  “Commodus will never see the finished column,” said Kaeso.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lucius, but in his chest he felt a sinking sensation.

  “Commodus won’t live to see the new year.”

  “What are you saying, Kaeso? How do you know this? Are you involved in some sort of plot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Kaeso! What are you thinking?”

  “If I want to see the new year myself, I have no choice. Only an hour ago, I was shown a list that was taken from the emperor’s bedchamber.”

  “What sort of—”

  “A list of names—enemies and rivals. Commodus intends to begin the year with another purge. Anyone he imagines might pose a threat will be arrested and executed. Pertinax is on the list, which is madness, because he’s probably the best Roman general still alive.”

  “And?”

  “My name is on the list, too.”

  “Oh, Kaeso! Are you sure this list was authentic?”

  “Absolutely. My choice is to flee Rome tonight … or else take action.”

  “And my name?”

  Kaeso made a rude noise that Lucius took for a laugh. “No, brother, your name is not on the list, and neither is your son’s. The fact that you could even imagine such a thing is proof of how terrified we’ve all become.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “To get you and Gaius and the rest of the family out of harm’s way, should something go wrong. Get out of Rome for the holiday. Go to one of your country estates. Or better, to the estate of someone you trust, where you might not readily be found.”

  Lucius thought for a moment. “Galen has a place in Campania…”

  “No, not there! Not … Galen.”

  Lucius was startled. “Is Galen on the list?”

  “No. But…”

  Lucius gasped. “Is Galen part of the plot?” No one in Rome knew more about antidotes, thought Lucius—or more about poisons. No one knew more about Commodus, his diet and habits and physical constitution, having been his lifelong physician. Galen would know the poisons to which Commodus would be most susceptible, and exactly when and how they might be most effectively administered.

  “Galen is a healer, not a killer. But … is that it? Is it to be by poison?”

  “I can tell you no more. But tomorrow you might want to be away from the city and safe, no matter what the outcome. Even if we succeed, matters may spin out of control.”

  “What does that mean?” said Lucius.

  “Think of what happened after Nero. No one could see the future. No one was safe. Many good citizens died before the bloodshed finally stopped.”

  “What makes you think this plot will succeed, when so many previous attempts have failed?”

  “Because this time the deed will be done by those closest to him.”

  “Who could be closer than a sister? Yet Lucilla failed. First she was exiled. Now she’s dead.”

  “Closest to him physically, I mean. In closest proximity, within his private quarters, when he bathes, when he sleeps.”

  “Will you tell Gaius, too? We had a long day. I assume he’s fast asleep in his wing of the house.”

  “He’s your son. I leave it up to you, to decide what Gaius should be told.”

  “And if this plot does succeed? Will you restore the Republic?”

  Kaeso snorted. “You attend the Senate, Lucius. You’ve told me how they dawdle and bow to Commodus. Do you think your fellow senators are up to the challenge of ruling an empire? Hardly! If you ask me, Pertinax should be the next emperor. Marcus Aurelius thought highly of him. I know him well, and he’s certainly my choice. He’s also here in Rome—and not part of the plot, which will be to his advantage. But he might not accept.”

  “Who else, then?”

  “Some think Septimius Severus. He’s a fine general, certainly, but his greatest support would come from Africa, where he’s from, and right now he’s posted to the opposite end of the empire, in Upper Pannonia, keeping the northern barbarians at bay. Better to have a claimant here in the city, on the spot.”

  “If neither of those men, then who?”

  “If not Pertinax … or Severus…”

  “Yes?”

  “My name has been put forward by some.”

  Lucius felt a sudden chill, even as his face turned hot. Who would have dared to imagine it—a Pinarius as emperor? And yet, if Commodus were to be removed, it might happen. The Pinarii were as ancient as any family in Rome. A Pinarius had been one of the three heirs of Julius Caesar, though it did the fellow little good in the end. Since then, the Pinarii had experienced their share of bad fortune, but what family in Rome had not? Kaeso had commanded troops in Asia, the German front, and Britannia, earning wide respect, rising high enough in honor and distinction to earn a place on Commodus’s list of rivals to be eliminated. At fifty-one, he was also the right age, still young enough to have the stamina required—considerably younger than Pertinax, who was well into his sixties—yet mature enough to possess the gravitas that Commodus had never attained, and never would.

  “All hail Kaeso Pinarius!” Lucius whispered slowly, thinking aloud. “Dominus … Caesar … successor to the Antonines … founder of a new imperial dynasty? Or one could say restorer of the dynasty of Julius Caesar, given our blood kinship with him.”

  “Believe me, it’s not something I desire,” said Kaeso. “But only the Fates know what lies ahead.”

  * * *

  Lucius returned to bed, but did not sleep. As the sun rose, he decided that he would not leave Rome. If the assassination succeeded, whatever followed, he would need to be in the city to look after his workshop and his home and all his other interests. And if the plot failed, he would only draw attention to himself by having fled, and the distance of a day’s journey would not put him beyond the wrath of Commodus.

  He resigned himself to a long, anxious day of waiting for news, one way or the other. He decided not to tell Gaius about the plot—better that his son should know nothing, and go about his business as usual. After a frugal breakfast, Lucius walked down the long hallway to Gaius’s wing of the house. Their plan for the day was to relax for a few hours at the baths, eat a leisurely meal, and then host a small New Year’s Eve party with close friends.

  But Gaius was not to be found in any of the public rooms of his wing. Lucius saw one of the slaves, an old fellow who had been with the family a long time, but whose name Lucius could never remember.

  “Is your master still abed?”

  “The master rose early. But he’s not here. A little while ago, an imperial messenger arri
ved, with a summons to the palace. The master was going to put on a toga, but the messenger said he shouldn’t bother, and to come at once.”

  “What nerve! Imperial messengers had better manners when the Divine Marcus was alive. So Gaius set out for the palace alone, without me?”

  “As the messenger requested. The master only just left. I was about to come and tell you.”

  What did it mean? Had Kaeso been arrested, and the plot revealed? If so, why was only Gaius summoned, and not himself? Perhaps it was some concern to do with the Column of Marcus. But again, why summon only Gaius and not himself? What was he to do now, follow, or stay put? Lucius paced anxiously, paralyzed by indecision.

  * * *

  Gaius, meanwhile, was being carried aloft in a litter sent by Commodus. Like all the emperor’s vehicles, this one had a number of luxurious features. The upholstery was of very fine leather, and there seemed to be hidden compartments everywhere. There was also a long wooden tube through which the passenger could speak directly into the ear of the chief litter-bearer, which seemed to Gaius a needless innovation, unless one was too hoarse to shout orders at the slave.

  They were headed not toward the Palatine, where the refurbishment of the fire-damaged imperial quarters was not complete, but to the Caelian Hill, where Commodus had taken over an old villa adjacent to the gladiator training facilities and made it into his imperial chambers. Gaius was puzzled by the unexpected summons, but was more irritated than anxious. He would almost certainly feel underdressed without his senatorial toga, wearing only a simple long-sleeved tunic. He should have made the messenger wait, but the man insisted that he come immediately, just as he was.