Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  Then, at a battle near Antioch, Macrinus was soundly defeated and his troops slaughtered. Those who survived defected to his rival.

  Disguised as a courier, Macrinus made a headlong rush toward Rome. His little boy was sent in the opposite direction, to seek sanctuary with the king of Parthia. Both were quickly hunted down and assassinated.

  The senators, receiving this news, were thrown into panic. They quickly reversed themselves, declaring that Macrinus had been the pretender and the young man calling himself Antoninus was in fact the legitimate emperor, and was also (though the evidence was thin) the son of Caracalla. In return, the fourteen-year-old emperor issued a blanket pardon to the Senate and began a slow journey westward, consolidating support along the way, heading for Rome.

  Son of Caracalla or not, the new emperor was part of the imperial family. He was the son of one of the two teenage girls Gaius had seen in the palace years ago, squabbling with the brats Caracalla and Geta. That made him the grandson of Maesa and the grand-nephew of Severus and Domna. Now those girls were grown up and both widowed, but each had a teenaged son. It was the older of these boys, born and raised in Emesa, who was now emperor of Rome.

  To Gaius, the assertion that the boy was the son of Caracalla seemed far-fetched, a ploy to legitimize his claim to power. His mother, Soaemias, was married (and not to Caracalla) at the time of his birth, so to claim that Caracalla was the father was to declare herself an unfaithful wife and her son a bastard. Gaius found it hard to imagine that the squabbling little boy and his angry teenaged cousin grew up to become lovers. Caracalla would have been fifteen at the time and his cousin Soaemias twenty-three. But stranger things had happened, and since both Soaemias and Caracalla had been in Rome at the time of the child’s conception, it was not impossible that Caracalla was the father. At any rate, when the senators voted to ratify the boy’s ascension, they legally affirmed Caracalla’s paternity, so it was now a political fact, whether true or not.

  The boy’s name at birth had been Sextus Varius Avitus Bassianus. As emperor, his legal name was Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus. Antoninus was now the most common name in the whole empire, thanks to Caracalla’s extension of citizenship to every man who was not a slave. Thousands upon thousands of newly enfranchised citizens, many with no Latin name, took their patron’s name and called themselves Antoninus. When Macrinus had called his rival the “False Antoninus,” it had been something of a joke. Any man could call himself Antoninus, and a multitude of citizens did so.

  As he waited for the unveiling of the portrait, Gaius overheard the conversation of two fellow senators who were standing close behind him in the crowd.

  “How old is he?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Hardly old enough to rule an empire. Even Nero was older at the start.”

  “Domna’s sister and her daughters are behind it. Some say the boy is merely a figurehead.”

  “But it was the boy, not his mother, who rode across the battlefield at Antioch to rally the Third Legion. They say the sight of such a fearless youth put fresh courage in the men. Macrinus turned tail and ran, and that was that.”

  “I wonder if he looks like Caracalla?”

  “In the portrait, you mean? We’ll soon see. But pictures can be deceiving. Soon enough we’ll see him in the flesh, and judge the resemblance.”

  “The letter that accompanied the portrait used an odd turn of phrase. It said the painting was being sent ahead to Rome, ‘so that the senators may accommodate themselves to his appearance.’”

  “Because he looks so very young?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he has a disfigurement of some sort…”

  The veil concealing the portrait was taller than a man, and equally wide, so the painting was presumably a full-length portrait. Its prominent placement in the vestibule meant that every senator would see it each time he entered or left the chamber.

  “Enough idle talk,” said one of the men behind Gaius, raising his voice. “Let’s have a look, then!”

  Others took up the cry, impatient for their first glimpse of the new emperor.

  The imperial emissary in charge of the ceremony stepped forward. “Senators of Rome, so that you may see a likeness of our new Dominus before his arrival in the city, he sends you this painting. When you gaze up at Victory, gaze higher, upon our emperor, and remember his victory at Antioch. This is Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus, grandson of Imperator Caesar Lucius Septimius Severus Eusebes Pertinax Augustus, son of Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus who was called Caracalla by his loyal legions. He himself is imperator of all the legions and high priest of Elagabalus.”

  A cord was pulled. The veil fell away. There was a murmur as the painting was revealed, followed by absolute silence.

  The picture was shocking, and not because the new emperor looked like a child, though in fact he did (and nothing at all like Caracalla, thought Gaius). It was the way he was dressed that left the senators speechless. Their new emperor was depicted not in a purple toga, nor in armor, nor heroically naked, but wearing the very ornate and exotic costume of a priest of Elagabalus. Next to him in the painting, and almost as tall, was a conical black stone.

  The young man was in fact the high priest of Elagabalus at the god’s temple in Emesa, a role he had inherited through his mother. But now that he was emperor he was also Pontifex Maximus, head of the Roman religion, and to appear as an Emesene priest was quite inappropriate.

  The garment itself was very exotic to Roman eyes, and rather feminine. A long-sleeved undergarment covered him from head to foot, the bottom half appearing to be pantaloons of the sort that Parthians wore. The fabric was appropriately purple, but wildly ostentatious, with pleated sleeves and hems embroidered with gold thread and sewn with white pearls and colorful gems. On his feet were half-length boots with pointed toes, likewise decorated with jewels. A purple overgarment was draped like a mantle over his chest, then pulled over his shoulders onto his back, then pulled forward over his hips. A gold ring cinched the fabric below his waist, and the remaining fabric descended in folds beyond his knees.

  On his head was a golden diadem. A single antenna-like object attached at the center pointed toward the viewer, rather like the cobra poised to strike atop certain Egyptian crowns.

  “What is that thing?” Gaius whispered, wondering aloud, but in the silence everyone heard him.

  “It’s a dried bull’s penis. That’s what it is,” said one of the older senators, with an authoritative tone. “I was in Emesa many years ago when the boy’s grandfather was high priest of Elagabalus. I saw the fellow wearing this very outfit, with the same headgear. Don’t ask me why, but that’s a shriveled bull’s penis mounted atop the diadem. And that object next to him is the sacred stone they worship. A baetyl, as the Greeks call such stones. They say he’s lugging the thing with him all the way from Emesa, so that all of us can worship it, too.”

  There were scoffing noises, some nervous laughter, and then a loud hubbub as everyone spoke at once.

  A.D. 221

  It was a festive day in Rome. The new Temple of Elagabalus on the Palatine had just been finished, and on this day the sacred baetyl was to be paraded through the Forum and installed in the temple. Gaius, wearing his senatorial toga, was part of the procession. His son and grandson were in the crowd, as was his old friend Philostratus.

  For better or worse, Gaius no longer enjoyed the privilege of being an insider at the palace. The Pinarii had almost no direct contact with the young emperor, who brought his own sculptors and artisans from Emesa to make portraits of the imperial court. The likenesses they sculpted looked oddly stiff and lifeless to Roman eyes.

  Restoration of the burned Flavian Amphitheater had progressed slowly; the very rapid construction of the Temple of Elagabalus had been given priority. Nonetheless, the Pinarii stayed busy, salvaging charred statues or making new ones that would eventually decorate the many niches of the reconstructed amphitheater.

/>   Since the emperor was only a teenager, no one expected him to have the judgment or sophistication of a man. It was widely assumed that his mother and grandmother were in charge. The Emesene women were no strangers to the palace, thanks to their kinship to the late Domna. They were just as ambitious as she had been, or more so. Domna had never presumed to set foot in the Senate House, but Soaemias appeared beside her son in the Senate, sharing the dais with him. (Agrippina, mother of Nero, had notoriously attended the Senate, but kept behind a curtain, out of sight.)

  Was the new emperor a weakling, then? There were indications to the contrary. Young Antoninus was certainly headstrong when it came to promoting the worship of Elagabalus. Whenever any deity was invoked in a ceremony, Elagabalus had to be mentioned first, even ahead of Jupiter. The emperor was equally headstrong when it came to matters of state, promoting his loyal coterie of followers ahead of men from old Roman families. As magistrates, he appointed not only newcomers from Emesa, but also cooks, dancers, and athletes. A man once condemned to the galleys was now city prefect. As one disgruntled senator quipped, “This is the logical outcome of his so-called father’s decision to make everyone in the empire a Roman citizen. Not only can any person call himself Antoninus, it seems that anyone can become anything!”

  The emperor’s unabashed femininity also raised eyebrows. It was one thing for a manly emperor to surround himself with manly gladiators and perhaps, discreetly, to engage in manly sex with them; many assumed that Commodus had done so. It was something else for an emperor to relish the female role, and to blatantly advertise the fact. He had even introduced his favorite, a blond charioteer and ex-slave named Hierocles, as “my husband.” Many of the low-born citizens and soldiers seemed to find such stories amusing, but senators were scandalized.

  The Pinarii got most of their inside news about the palace from Philostratus, who was still part of the imperial court, though not as favored as he had been under Domna. He had met the new emperor only in passing. Young Antoninus cared nothing for philosophers or wise men, and did not read books.

  “What does he care about, then?” asked Aulus. He was standing next to Philostratus on a viewing platform at the end of the parade route, close to the Temple of Elagabalus.

  “Only two things, as far as I can tell. First, his god. Second, bedding men.”

  “You’re being facetious,” said Aulus.

  “I am not. Nero wanted only to be an actor; Commodus, to be a gladiator; and young Antoninus … to be Venus!” Philostratus sighed and shook his head, affecting a dismay that Aulus found unconvincing. Philostratus was discreet about his personal life, but one had only to read some of his writings to see that he had a weakness for men, or at least an infatuation with dead Greek heroes.

  “Some say the boy is as beautiful as Venus,” said Aulus with a sly smile, for he sometimes enjoyed teasing the older man.

  “I hadn’t noticed, so I cannot comment,” said Philostratus with a straight face, refusing to take the bait. “But look, here comes the procession. I think I see your father amid that sea of togas. Yes, there he is!”

  The senators and magistrates came first, so that when they reached the temple they could assemble on the steps and watch the rest of the procession as it arrived. Their expressions were variously confused, pained, glum—anything but festive. That included Gaius Pinarius, who gave his son and friend a nod of recognition.

  Behind the senators, in ornately carved and sumptuously upholstered litters, came the emperor’s grandmother, mother, aunt, and younger cousin. The brawny slaves carrying them were nearly naked, in stark contrast to the female occupants, who were covered from head to foot, so that nothing could be seen but their faces and hands. Even these were largely covered, the hands by bracelets and rings, the faces by the sort of wig and makeup Domna had imported from Emesa and made fashionable in Rome. Their voluminous stolas were typically Roman, as was the suitably modest long-sleeved tunic worn by the thirteen-year-old Alexianus. The women looked straight ahead with serene expressions, ignoring the spectators, but the wide-eyed boy appeared overwhelmed at being the focus of so much attention, almost as if he might cry. The boy’s mother noticed, reached for his hand, and pulled it under a fold of her stola, so that she might hold it, out of sight. Alexianus appeared to gather strength from his mother’s touch, and stiffened his jaw.

  So far, there had been nothing exotic in the proceedings. Then came the priests of Elagabalus.

  First, Aulus heard them. Their chanting was in a foreign tongue, accompanied by the shrill, clashing music of flutes, drums, and tambourines. Then the priests came into view, wearing outfits much like those of the emperor in the picture he had sent to the Senate—pleated sleeves and pants and an outer garment draped over the shoulders and gathered at the hips. These vestments were in many colors, and on their heads they wore high conical hats made of felt, with tasseled earflaps that stood straight from their heads as they whirled about, performing a hopping, leaping, spinning dance. The musicians were not as flamboyantly outfitted, but wore foreign costumes nonetheless and played decidedly foreign music. The tone was joyous, not somber, as befitted the introduction of the baetyl to the people of Rome and the stone’s arrival at its new home.

  Following the musicians, carried in wagons or by priests, came some of the most sacred objects in the city. These included the baetyl of Magna Mater, which had been imported to Rome in the desperate days of war against Carthage, and was believed to have tipped the scales in Rome’s favor. There was also the fire of Vesta, and the sacred shields of Rome’s dancing priests, the Salii, and the Palladium, the Trojan image of Athena brought to Rome by Aeneas. To see these things all in one place was marvelous, and the crowd reacted with cries of religious awe and wonderment. But Aulus felt a chill. If this were a triumph, these would be the captured subjects paraded before the people, ahead of the conqueror in his chariot. These revered objects had been removed from their ancient, rightful homes to be collected in a single place, where they would be subservient to the god of that temple, Elagabalus.

  Then came an ornate chariot suitable for a triumphing commander and bearing a single occupant, not a man, but a man-sized stone—the baetyl that had been brought from the Temple of Elagabalus in Emesa. The thing was black and roughly conical in shape, but rounded at the top. It looked tremendously heavy; the chariot and its axles must have been reinforced to bear the weight. Reins were somehow attached to the baetyl, creating the bizarre illusion that the stone itself was driving the team of horses. The man who was in fact guiding the chariot, at a slow pace, was the emperor. In his purple and gold costume and golden diadem with its bull’s penis, he held in his two hands leather leads attached to each horse, and pulled them onward while he himself walked backward, performing a sort of bowing and skipping dance as he did so. Never once did he turn his head or look over his shoulder; his eyes were fixed on the baetyl. His lips moved constantly, as if whispering a prayer just loud enough for the god in the chariot to hear. Priests sprinkled sand on the roadway ahead of him, so as to give his feet purchase, and other priests walked alongside him, prepared to steady him should he falter in his backward dance, which he never did. His bejeweled boots were constantly in motion, flashing in the sunlight and making a rhythmic, scraping sound against the sand.

  Following the chariot of Elagabalus was a gilded wagon drawn by white oxen and festooned with flowers. In the wagon was another baetyl. This sacred stone had been brought to Rome from Carthage, where it had been worshipped for centuries as the heavenly goddess Urania, also called Astarte. Following the installation of the sacred objects inside the new temple, the two baetyls were to appear side by side on the porch of the temple for a divine wedding to unite Elagabalus and Urania, in a ceremony devised and performed by the emperor himself. Then the newly wedded baetyls would be taken inside the temple and installed in a place of honor.

  The chariot arrived at the forecourt of the temple. The senators were already assembled on the steps to welcome the b
aetyls. Ramps, pulleys, and ropes were in place to raise the stones to the porch. Side by side the baetyls ascended. The teams of men pulling the ropes were entirely hidden behind curtains on the temple porch, so that the stones seemed to ascend under their own power. The effect was uncanny.

  When the stones were in place, the wedding commenced. Both baetyls were strewn with flower petals, and the emperor, standing between them, made pronouncements in his boyish but quite strong voice. Very few people understood a word he said, since the ceremony was not in Latin.

  There was no animal sacrifice. Instead, hundreds of white birds were released to signal that the marriage had been divinely consummated. While the heavenly husband and wife were dragged into the temple, the emperor strode down the steps and across the courtyard to a high tower that had been built as part of the temple complex, an architectural feature imported from Emesa and previously unknown in Rome.

  From the top of the tower he looked down on the throng. “Elagabalus has come to Rome!” he cried. “Elagabalus has been wedded to a goddess worthy to rule over all other gods alongside him! Elagabalus and Urania are now at home in the temple I have built for them! All the blessings of Elagabalus will now be bestowed on the city of Rome, and on all Roman citizens everywhere across the world, wherever the light of the sun shines! Let feasting and celebration begin! Let tokens of the love of Elagabalus rain down upon the people, like golden rays of sunlight!”

  He threw gold coins from the tower, which flashed and glittered as they rained upon the excited crowd. Then he threw small silver goblets and other prizes, and more coins.

  This shower of gifts had been announced ahead of time, so that a huge, expectant multitude of citizens had gathered. The space was quite large, but constricted by the walls of the palace complex and the crowded viewing platform on which Aulus and Philostratus stood. People competed with each other to catch the falling prizes, laughing and shouting and making a game of it. Some fool had been spreading the absurd rumor that the emperor would throw live sheep and goats from the top of the tower. In fact, he threw wooden tokens that were redeemable for these prizes. There were no tokens for pigs, however. Like the Jews, the worshippers of Elagabalus did not eat pork, which they called “unclean.”