Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  “As Commodus succeeded Marcus? When I think of the savage behavior of those two boys—‘malicious little monsters,’ as their cousins called them—and the impulsive way the older one destroyed that trinket rather than return it, in spite of his strong-willed mother, and in front of everyone … well, the idea of such a child as emperor is a sobering thought.”

  A.D. 204

  A crier in a bright yellow tunic, attended by boys waving colorful cloth streamers, strode down the street, announcing a forthcoming celebration. “The likes of which,” he shouted, “no one alive has seen before, nor will ever see again!”

  “How can he make such a claim?” asked Aulus, peering out a window at the motley procession below. “I’ve never seen these so-called Saecular Games before, but I’m only fifteen. Who’s to say I won’t live to see the next Saecular Games?”

  They were in the upstairs room of the workshop. On a long summer day, the room could become very warm, but the open windows provided the best light for drawing. Aulus had shown himself to be an excellent draftsman. Even now, he was making a quick sketch of the herald and the boys with streamers.

  “The Saecular Games take place only once every hundred and ten years,” explained his father. “The last were held in the time of Domitian, when your great-great-grandfather wore the fascinum and knew Apollonius of Tyana. I wasn’t around for those Saecular Games, and I surely won’t be here for the next. Nor will you, my son, unless you live to be a hundred and twenty-five.”

  “Why every hundred and ten years?”

  “Because that is thought to be the longest possible length of a human life, and thus the schedule makes true the claim—any given man will see only one in his lifetime, if indeed he sees one at all. Thus the old joke: An athlete loses every competition at the Saecular Games, but he is comforted by a friend who tells him, ‘Cheer up! I’m sure you’ll win at the next Saecular Games!’”

  Aulus groaned. His father told terrible jokes.

  “And because they are so rare, those who stage them feel obligated to make the Saecular Games truly memorable. It’s a rare opportunity for an emperor to celebrate his reign.”

  In fact, Septimius Severus had much to celebrate. After successfully putting down Roman rivals in both Asia and Gaul, and winning the greatest victories in the East since Trajan—not only sacking the Parthian capital Ctesiphon but adding the rich city of Palmyra to the empire—Severus had taken a valedictory homecoming tour of his native Africa with the sixteen-year-old co-emperor, Antoninus. Back in Rome at last, Severus was in the mood to stage an expensive, extravagant, truly once-in-a-lifetime spectacle to celebrate his reign and the restored well-being of the empire.

  Along with plays and chariot races and athletic contests, the Saecular Games would be marked by ceremonial sacrifices on various nights at different temples and sacred sites all over the city, each ceremony overseen by the emperor himself and attended by a chorus of boys and girls to sing the ancient hymns, including the famous song composed by the great poet Horace when Augustus revived the Games, which had lapsed during the civil wars of the old Republic. Because he was blessed with a splendid singing voice and had not yet put on his manly toga, Aulus had been chosen for the chorus, which was a great honor.

  For the last month, he had spent many hours rehearsing with the chorus. Among the other singers, despite having only a passable singing voice, was the emperor’s younger son, Geta, who was the same age as Aulus.

  Gaius dismissed the workers. He and Aulus spent the last hour of daylight at the baths, washing off marble dust, then went home and changed into suitable tunics for dinner. Gaius welcomed two friends he had not seen in some time, Galen, who at seventy-five seemed quite old, and Philostratus, who at thirty-four seemed very much in his prime. Before dinner, everyone gathered in the vestibule and lit incense before the shrine of Apollonius of Tyana. Everyone conversed in Greek, in deference to the native tongue of the guests, and also because Gaius felt that Aulus did not speak Greek often enough and could use the practice.

  Over dinner, they gossiped about the imperial family. Aulus had his own unique insights, having befriended Geta and having listened to his complaints. Geta was jealous that his brother, older by only a year, had been made co-emperor at the age of ten. Antoninus would serve as his father’s partner at the upcoming sacrifices, while Geta was literally to be relegated to the chorus. Domna, who frequently attended and on occasion took over rehearsals of the chorus, expended a great deal of energy keeping peace in the household. Mother, father, and sons all had domineering personalities. This created conflict but also a certain dynamism. No one could call the Severans boring.

  All four had spent time not only in Rome but also on campaign, including Domna, who was called “Mother of the Camp.” Severus seemed to rely on her for political advice and even for military strategy.

  “They say there’s been no woman her equal since Cleopatra,” said Philostratus.

  “Ah, Cleopatra!” said Galen. “Always the standard against whom any strong female is compared.”

  “And not always as a compliment,” noted Gaius, “since Cleopatra was the enemy of Rome, and came to a bad end.”

  “Better comparison to Cleopatra than to Agrippina!” said Aulus, whose tutor had recently assigned him Suetonius and Tacitus on the reign of Nero.

  Talk turned to business matters. Gaius and his workshop had at last finished the equestrian statue of Severus that Domna had commissioned years ago. Gaius proudly believed it could stand comparison with the renowned equestrian statue of Marcus, his grandfather’s masterpiece. Renovation of the Colossus of Sol had been finished and dedicated long ago, and the great Arch to mark the emperors’ victories over Parthia had been dedicated the previous year.

  “For Parthia, Severus deserved to celebrate a triumph,” said Galen, “but alas, his gout had taken so severe a turn that he couldn’t possibly stand upright in the chariot for the duration of the parade.”

  “Will he be able to stand for the ceremonies at the Saecular Games?” asked Aulus.

  “We must pray that he will. The affliction waxes and wanes.”

  “But we were speaking of the new equestrian statue of Severus,” said Philostratus. “I’ve just finished my composition commissioned by Domna, a brief discourse in Greek that I will read to a private gathering of the imperial family before the dedication of the statue.”

  “Father says you’re the best writer in Rome,” said Aulus. Galen frowned. He had come to consider himself not only a physician and scientist but also a philosopher and, if he were frank, the greatest living master of the Greek language. Aulus didn’t notice the old man’s reaction. “Why didn’t our Domina also ask you to write a hymn for the Games, as Augustus asked Horace?”

  “The answer is simple, Aulus,” said Philostratus. “First, I am not a poet. Second, I write in Greek, not Latin. Imagine a Greek hymn sung at the Saecular Games of Rome!”

  “How goes your biography of Apollonius of Tyana?” asked Galen, a bit maliciously, since they all knew that Philostratus despaired of ever finishing it.

  “It plods along. The research is never-ending, but I’ve finished a few chapters to show Domna that I progress. If anything, she’s more enthusiastic than ever. She says that my book is something the world sorely needs right now, to remind people of the greatest of all the wonder-workers who ever lived, and to acquaint them with the source of his marvelous powers, the singular, universal spirit that underlies all existence, and is most clearly manifested to mortals in the life-giving rays of the Sun.”

  Galen cleared his throat, sorry now that he had asked, but Philostratus wasn’t finished.

  “There are so many fools and charlatans and cults nowadays that prey on the gullible and the ignorant, turning them away from philosophy and true religion. As Domna puts it, ‘Who would waste his time bowing down to the mean-spirited storm god of the Jews, or adoring the imaginary wonder-worker-on-a-cross worshipped by the Christians, if he could be made aware of the mar
velous story of Apollonius of Tyana, and emerge from the shadows that obscure true wisdom into the full light of the Sun?’”

  Gaius nodded. “Well put! Except from sheer ignorance, what man would worship a local storm god above the one and only Sun that shines on us all? What rational person would revere a convicted criminal above the most beloved and miraculous of all wise men? I came across a Christian writing recently that I found particularly offensive. I would never have bothered to read such trash, except that a friend who knows of our direct family connection to the Rain Miracle, via my uncle Kaeso, thought I should know about it.

  “A certain Tertullian claims that it was the prayers of Christian soldiers to their god that brought about the Rain Miracle and saved the Roman army, and further, that the proof of this can be found in a letter written by Marcus Aurelius himself, wherein he openly credits the Christians. Now, if Tertullian means the letter Marcus wrote to the Senate to report on the Rain Miracle, Marcus said no such thing! I actually went to the archives to read it myself. In the letter Marcus states what everyone knows: it was the prayer of Harnouphis the Egyptian and the piety of the Divine Marcus that saved the Romans that day.”

  “Not to mention wing-footed Mercury and the storm wrought by Jupiter,” said Galen, stating the obvious.

  Gaius nodded. “You know, Commodus tried to take credit for the Rain Miracle, too, though no one ever believed him, and now these Christians want to do so. It’s quite horrible how an event so remarkable, so singular, so beautiful, must inevitably be tarnished by latter-day opportunists with their own agenda and no respect for the truth!” He took a deep breath. “I apologize for my outburst of emotion. I suppose it’s because thoughts of the Rain Miracle bring to mind Uncle Kaeso, whom I still miss so very much. Dear Uncle Kaeso would have given this Tertullian a kick in the balls! But now I descend to vulgarity, so let’s change the subject. What else are you working on?”

  Philostratus pressed his fingertips together. “There is a—a dream project, shall I call it?—a work I will call On Heroes, about the afterlife of Achilles and other Greek heroes who attained immortality and live on in the mortal realm as demons—it’s good that we’re speaking Greek, for I think there is no exact Latin equivalent for that word. When a mortal calls for help in times of distress, and no god or goddess hears and responds, that beleaguered mortal may turn to a demon, like Achilles. I myself on numerous occasions have called on Protesilaus. The hero has never failed me.”

  Philostratus saw the blank look on the face of Aulus. “When the Greek fleet landed at Troy, Protesilaus was the first man to leap ashore, despite the prediction of an oracle that the first Greek warrior to touch land would be the first to die. Protesilaus was bold and fearless. He killed four men in combat before he himself was slain by Hector. Thus he became the first Greek to die, fulfilling the prophecy. He is not as famous as Ajax or Achilles, to be sure, but he is a powerful and trustworthy demon, nonetheless. Perhaps, Aulus, your tutor should assign more Homer and less Tacitus.”

  “That would be fine with me!” said Aulus. The others laughed.

  “Many people, when they are sick, turn for help to a demon rather than a physician,” said Galen. “That is, if they can afford to do so. As you know, I’ve never charged a fee for my services, but the priests who keep the shrines of heroes invariably demand an offering if one wishes to sacrifice at an altar or to sleep overnight on temple grounds, seeking guidance from a dream. Consulting demons can be quite expensive.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s expensive,” said Philostratus. “Theriac. Yet everyone seems to be using it, and everyone swears by it. It’s said to be good for every ailment.”

  “And even better if you have no ailment,” quipped Gaius, who had once tried theriac and had found it quite intoxicating.

  “You know, theriac used to be quite rare,” said Galen. “It was available only to a select handful, like the Divine Marcus—who consumed it voraciously, as if it were a food. Now theriac is everywhere, though I suspect much of the stuff that passes for theriac is counterfeit, or made from inferior recipes. Real theriac alleviates pain and induces a restful sleep. It also relieves loose bowels.”

  “Causes constipation, you mean,” said Gaius, with a grunt.

  “That can be a side effect,” said Galen.

  “No wonder so many people in Rome walk about looking so glum nowadays,” mused Philostratus, “if they’re all taking theriac!”

  * * *

  The three days of the Saecular Games began at sundown with a distribution to all the citizens of torches made of pitch and brimstone. The smoke from these torches purified the city, fending off plague and illness. The light illuminated temples and altars where nocturnal sacrifices were made to the deities of the underworld. Black hogs and milk-white lambs were slaughtered by priests and offered to the gods.

  For all the citizens to be out on a warm, starry summer night was strange enough; to see the city lit by thousands and thousands of torches was truly magical. Surely the gods, no matter how high they dwelt, could see the lights of Rome that night. Gaius felt a welling of religious fervor that he had not experienced in a long time. Rome was truly the center of the world, he thought, and the sacred rites and ceremonies of the Roman people, so numerous and complicated and ancient, practiced century after century, were the most pleasing of any on earth to the gods, who continued to bless the city, its people, and its empire. The spectacles, feasts, plays, and races in the days ahead would be produced on a scale no other city in the world could match, but it was the religious rites that were the essential core of every Roman festival. These moments of animal sacrifice, observed with pious devotion and scrupulous attention to the minutest details, exemplified the everlasting bond between the citizens and the priests, between the people and the gods, between the living and their ancestors and the generations yet to come.

  Gaius reached up and touched the fascinum where it nestled under his toga. In another year, he would be passing it on to Aulus. How quickly time passed!

  * * *

  The next morning, men and boys attended a sacrifice of white bulls to Jupiter, while at the Temple of Juno women and girls witnessed the slaughter of white cows and heifers. They all came together at the Temple of Apollo, where the boy singers stood along one side of the temple steps while the girls stood on the other.

  On the porch of the temple, looking out over the vast crowd, sat the imperial family. They had planned to stand, but the emperor’s gout was acting up, so all were seated.

  Senators stood at the front of the crowd. Gaius Pinarius was in the front row, with an unobstructed view of the singers, including Aulus, who stood next to Geta. Poor Severus, he thought, looking up at the imperial family. At fifty-nine the great general and statesman had become a gouty old man who could hardly stand, reduced to resting on his laurels. The Terror of the Senate—his promise to kill no senators had frequently been broken—had become the beloved and avuncular Father of the Fatherland. Next to him, Domna, at forty-four, was more demanding and domineering than ever. On this occasion as on others, she had intruded on the ceremonies and was taking part to a degree never previously allowed to a woman. Her older sister, Maesa, sat beside her, along with her two daughters, young women in their twenties now with senators for husbands. Gaius thought of the first time he had seen them, angry and tearful over the theft of a brooch, and smiled.

  At the right hand of Severus sat one-half of the cause of the girls’ vexation on that occasion, young Antoninus. Like his father, he was dressed in imperial purple. The little hellion was now a sixteen-year-old, a man by law, and deemed by his father ready to take on a share of the imperial burden. Antoninus certainly exuded a fierce energy, with his flashing eyes and brooding good looks.

  Nearby, on the steps, standing next to Aulus, was young Geta, looking a great deal like his brother, but a year younger, and thus relegated to the boys’ chorus. He was not as intense and somber as Antoninus. There was still something of the mischievous boy abo
ut him.

  At that very moment, in fact, Geta was whispering something to Aulus, and both of them were staring at Antoninus, ignoring the city prefect on the temple steps who was making a rather long and boring speech.

  “At home, we don’t call him ‘Antoninus’ anymore,” Geta whispered.

  “What, then?” Aulus whispered back.

  “Father started it. He calls him ‘Caracalla.’”

  “Do you mean to say ‘Caligula’?” asked Aulus, hoping to get a laugh, but Geta only grunted.

  “No!” he whispered. “It’s a kind of cloak worn by Gauls. You’d recognize one if you saw it—stupid-looking thing, reaches to the ankles. At home, Antoninus wears hardly anything else. He’d be wearing a caracalla now if Father didn’t insist on a purple toga in public, which I think looks even stupider on him. But you’re right, it does sound a bit like ‘Caligula.’ That name came from a common soldier’s boot. ‘Little Boots’—such a harmless name for a boy who turned out to be such a nasty viper.” He gave his older brother a baleful stare.

  “‘Caracalla’ sounds harmless, too. Rather euphonious,” Aulus whispered, using a Greek word he had learned from Philostratus. “‘Caracalla’—why, it’s almost musical. But sweet Apollo, there’s our cue!” The city prefect had finished his speech, the chorus master had taken his place, and the hymn was beginning.

  As they sang, the boys kept one eye on the chorister master and the other on Caracalla, as he would henceforth be known.

  Earlier, as everyone had been taking their place for the ceremony, Domna and the other women of the family had come over to say a few words to Geta and Aulus, wishing them a good performance. Caracalla had been with his mother, but had said nothing. As the imperial party turned away to walk up the steps, Geta and Aulus had performed a move they had practiced in advance, Aulus pulling back a fold of Caracalla’s toga while Geta dropped something inside. The maneuver had gone perfectly. No one saw or suspected a thing.