Titus nodded.
“A grim business. But I come to you on a more immediate matter. Is this the document you’ve been looking for?” He held forth a small scroll tied with a purple ribbon. “I’m afraid I took it from its pigeon-hole myself, without informing anyone. The poor scribes have been scuttling all over the house in a panic, while all along I sat on the balcony off my room, reading it at my leisure. But why so downcast? Are you depressed at remembering the downfall of your kinsman Pupienus?”
Titus sighed. “Do you think there’s any truth to the idea that the same faction that championed the Gordians put the Praetorians up to it? With Balbinus and Pupienus out of the way, the only legitimate successor was young Gordian. They were determined to have a Gor-dian, and they got one.”
Philostratus pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do I believe that a group of senators, frustrated that the two elder Gordians had died in Africa, conspired to have Praetorians break into the palace and murder two emperors, all so that a thirteen-year-old boy could take their place? It seems a terrible gamble, don’t you think? So much could go wrong. But, to be sure, once that terrible year was over, it was a Gordian on the throne, and the Gordian faction was ascendant in the Senate. But I think one might … with a bit of imagination … perceive in all this not a conspiracy of mortals, but a pattern woven by the Fates.”
“How so?”
“The last emperor who could claim a successful reign, however badly it ended, was Severus Alexander—who had started as a youth. So it was with his eventual successor, the young Gordian, who was even younger upon his accession. The empire was twice given by the Fates to very young men who ruled with a great deal of help and guidance from the Senate.”
Titus nodded. “And both of those young emperors might have reigned for many more years—for a full lifetime—had they not died far from Rome, brought down by…”
“By angry soldiers, in the case of Alexander,” said Philostratus, lowering his voice slightly. “The case of young Gordian, dying on the Persian frontier, was quite another matter, of course.” He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you might ask these scribes to leave us for a while. They deserve a brief rest, after all the bother I’ve caused by taking this scroll without telling anyone.”
Titus nodded and dismissed the slaves.
Philostratus touched his fingertips together. “You reach the part of your history where you must tread most cautiously. The thousand years must end, indeed, must culminate with the accession of Philip. Everything that comes before is prelude, especially the reign of his immediate predecessor.”
“But Philip himself saw to it that the ashes of Gordian were brought back to Rome, and that he was deified. Gordian wasn’t even twenty.”
“And so you may say good things about Gordian. But not too good. There must be no possible inference that the reign of Gordian was better than that of Philip, that Philip’s reign is, in any way, a step down.”
“Of course not. I understand that.”
“Indeed, Gordian was so young that his reign was largely conducted by his father-in-law, Timesitheus, yes? You should stress that.”
“Until both his father-in-law, and then Gordian, after six years as emperor, died during the Persian campaign, and then it was Philip—”
“How they both died must be handled with the utmost finesse.”
“Timesitheus died of dysentery. So say all the accounts. Some say the doctors did more harm than good, giving him a potion that made his symptoms even worse…”
“That is an extraneous detail that need not be included. It’s mere speculation, for one thing. And for another, it might encourage some reader to imagine that the doctors were compelled to give Timesitheus a remedy that was actually a poison. That would be deliberate murder. And then one would have to ask: Who was the murderer? Do you see the problem?”
Titus nodded. “Timesitheus died of natural causes, then, as happens to many a soldier in the camps.”
“Exactly.”
“And his successor, as Praetorian Prefect, was Philip.”
“So the Fates saw fit to weave the strands of his life. Philip may have been born the son of an Arab chieftain, but he was a Roman military officer of proven ability.”
“And as Gordian had looked upon Timesitheus as a father, so he began to look upon Philip. And Philip looked upon Gordian as a son.”
“Yes. That is a lovely way to put it; almost poetic. You should use that in your account.”
“But then there comes a detail that puzzles me. Timesitheus was known for setting up excellent supply lines and storing caches of food, so that the army never went hungry. But after his death, there was a sudden food shortage, so severe that there was serious grumbling in the ranks, and harsh words against Gordian. Soldiers said he was still too young to rule on his own—only nineteen—and that his youthful incompetence was starving them to death. How did such a state of affairs develop, if Timesitheus had done such a good job of management?”
“Yes, it is a mystery. One might almost think there was deliberate treachery at work. But no responsible historian would make such a charge without conclusive evidence.”
“At any rate, there was a demand from the troops that Gordian should take Philip on as his co-emperor, and that Philip, being older, should be the senior of the partners.”
“So it came about.”
“And with Philip in charge, the food shortage was quickly alleviated.”
“Proof of his able management, and the wisdom of the ranks.”
Titus stood and paced the terrace, making sure they were alone. “Or could it be that the man who engineered the shortage was the man able to relieve it?”
“Titus! You cannot even hint at such a possibility in your work.”
“The closer my history comes to the present, the more circumspect it must be?”
“Exactly.”
“It will be challenging then to deal with the end of Gordian. There are the official reports, to which I have access. And certain other documents—letters written by a centurion to his father—were made available to me. And even some conversations I had with soldiers who were there…”
The witnesses, guaranteed confidentiality, had told him stories of the growing hostility between the high-born young Gordian and the older, low-born Philip, and the vote of no confidence given to Gordian by the troops. Had Gordian been murdered by Philip—even, as some said, raped—or had he died of disease, or in battle? No single truth had emerged from Titus’s research.
Ultimately, Titus would need to shape his account of recent history so as to give no offense to the emperor. It would be better not to suggest that conspiracies were at work in the elevation of the Gordians, or the fall of Pupienus and Balbinus, or the death of Timesitheus and the end of Gordian; better to suggest that these events had somehow been decided by the Fates or by the gods.
“Is this how history is written?” Titus asked. “This can’t be how Thucydides went about it.”
“He was not writing for an emperor.”
“Or Suetonius.”
“He wrote for an emperor, but about men long dead.”
“This can’t be how you would do it!”
“Perhaps not. But I am a man at the end of a long life, while you are young and have much to lose—and much to gain.”
“But surely, to ascribe certain events, clearly the outcome of deliberate human acts, to the Fates or the gods does the immortals a disservice as well—indeed, it approaches impiety. It is certainly not ‘truth’ in any meaningful sense. I might as well simply make it all up, as if I were writing a novel about imaginary people, set in some invented land!”
Philostratus raised an eyebrow. “Then you will not be needing this.” He held up the scroll that had been missing from the library.
Titus took a deep breath. “I glanced at it once, but only very briefly before I put it back. Is it what I think it is?
“I suspect it is. An official dispatch written by Philip himself, just after the
death of Gordian, and sent to Philip’s brother, who was also a prefect at the front. The document is not unusual—a simple announcement of Gordian’s death, with no real explanation, certainly no startling revelation. But at the very bottom of the document there is a bit of writing that appears to be a private note intended for the eyes of the emperor’s brother only. Almost certainly it was meant to be torn off and destroyed after being read, but for some reason that did not happen. The note is written in code, but the cypher is not complex enough to puzzle an old scholar like myself. I was engaged in working it out in my head while sitting on the balcony off my room, before I came here.”
“And? What does it say?
“It tells the true story of how Gordian died.”
“Then hand it to me!
“Are you sure? My old hands are weak. They tend to shake. How easily I might, by a whim of Fate or the will of some immortal, or simply from my own ineptitude, drop it … right here … into the flames of this brazier…”
They looked at each other for a long moment, and then, having read the look in Titus’s eyes, Philostratus dropped the parchment into the flames, where it quickly caught fire and emitted a burst of light and heat, warming them both for a brief moment before turning to ash.
Philostratus put his hand on Titus’s shoulder. “And now, my boy, you really must get back to work, and finish your history. The emperor is waiting for it, and so are a great many readers eager to discover how, over the course of a thousand years, the Republic of Brutus became the empire of Philip the Arab.”
* * *
Titus paced nervously in the vestibule outside the imperial audience chamber. His history was finished. Some days ago it had been delivered to the emperor. Now Titus awaited the judgment of Philip. He realized he was biting his fingernails—a terrible habit, for which Clodia would chide him later.
A door opened. A small party, the emperor’s previous guests, emerged from the audience chamber, conversing quietly. Overhearing a few words, Titus realized they were the heads of the Christian sect in Rome. As Titus knew from his research, Maximinus Thrax had been hostile to the sect, and had exiled the leaders in Rome to Sardinian mines. Gordian had allowed their return. Philip, it seemed, welcomed them into the palace.
A chamberlain called his name. Titus was admitted.
Sitting on the dais next to Philip was his ten-year-old son, to whom, retaining the title of Augustus for himself, Philip had given the title of Caesar. With their swarthy features they both looked rather exotic to Titus. Whether Philip came from a more reputable, less “barbaric” family than Maximinus Thrax remained a question. Titus himself had been spared from having to delve too deeply into the matter, since he had been instructed to end his history with the tragic and untimely death of young Gordian, and the moment of Philip’s elevation. Titus was rather proud of the very carefully worded sentence he had concocted, which strongly suggested that the teenaged emperor died in combat fighting the Persians, without literally saying so, whereupon Philip, as the obvious and most legitimate successor, had humbly assumed the throne.
In such turbulent, uncertain times, who could say what an emperor should look like, or where he should come from? If Philip could maintain his hold on the throne, and if his son succeeded him, this dynasty might rule Rome for the rest of Titus’s lifetime.
“Titus Pinarius! What a happy coincidence,” said Philip. “I was just talking about The Millennium—the book—with my previous petitioners.”
“The Christians, Dominus?”
“Yes. They very earnestly proposed that I ban all prostitution in the city ahead of the upcoming celebrations. With all the visitors in town, and the inevitable inebriation, they fear that Rome will become nothing but a huge open-air brothel. They described their fears in quite lurid detail. What vivid imaginations these Christians have, especially when describing the so-called sins of others! Well, even if I wanted to grant their request, enforcing such a ban would be impossible. But I did agree to one new law, something I’d decided anyway, which is to put a stop to the prostitution of young boys.” He sighed and shook his head. “Just a few days ago, I was out and about in the city, inspecting progress on venues for the upcoming celebration, and I happened to duck into the latrina at the old Theater of Pompey. A lad no older than my own son approached me and offered to do—well, as he put it, ‘anything Dominus can imagine.’ The child had no idea who I was, he simply addressed me as a slave addresses a master. He looked clean and well fed, and reasonably dressed, not at all like a beggar. I asked him a few questions, and his story is just what you’d imagine: orphaned young, thrown onto the streets to fend for himself, until a pimp scooped him up, cleaned him up, and put him to work as a whore. I decided then and there to issue a law banning the prostitution of boys his age. The Christians thought I gave them a crumb, but they were glad to get it.”
“But Dominus, how will that boy feed himself? And what of other boys in the same situation?”
“You’re right, there should be an increase in funds to the orphans’ charity established by Hadrian. If only I had the money for it! But more to the point, the Christians have another request. Word has spread about the thousand-year history you’ve been working on.”
“And these Christians have a suggestion, I presume?” Titus tried not to make a face.
“Yes. Several suggestions, but one in particular. They have some idea that the famous Rain Miracle that took place under the Divine Marcus was brought about by the prayers of Christian soldiers. They want to see the episode presented that way in the history.”
Titus grimaced. “As you must know, Dominus, any such version of the story is not in accordance with the facts. I myself had a great-uncle who was present at the Rain Miracle, and so I have some privileged knowledge in this regard. And in any case—”
“You need not lecture me, Pinarius.”
“Dominus, I mean no disrespect—”
“Anyway, as you and I both know, that particular episode does not even appear in The Millennium. It would have occurred in the part of the book written by the late Quadratus. I suppose he didn’t think the Rain Miracle important enough to include it.”
Titus nodded. “To be sure, the reign of the Divine Marcus is filled with so many important events—”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Brevity was Quadratus’s assignment, as it is yours. So we will not mention the Rain Miracle. And the Christians may continue to tell the story however they wish, to whomever will listen.”
“But, Dominus, that hardly seems right. Is it not impious of these Christians to discredit the role of Harnouphis the Egyptian, and more importantly the god Mercury, whom we know to have been the bringer of the rain?”
“Do we actually know that, Pinarius? For a certainty?”
Already nervous, Titus became flustered. He had always been more comfortable writing than speaking. “As I said, my own great-uncle—”
“Did you hear the story from his lips?”
“No, he died before I was born. But when I was small, I was told by my grandfather—”
The emperor silenced him with a wave of his hand. “A slippery thing, is it not, this history business? Very slippery indeed.” His sardonic gaze was unnerving. Titus’s heart sank. Did the emperor hate his book? “Even more slippery than history is religion. Might it not be, Pinarius, that in some way, at the furthest limit of human understanding, all the many gods whom we address by many names are truly but one god, each being a manifestation of the same substance, that which we call the Divine?”
Titus fumbled for words. “Indeed, Apollonius of Tyana spoke of a great singularity … a power … a sort of divine…”
“We are not here to talk about religion. But rather, this satchel full of scrolls you’ve delivered to me, this book of many words, The Millennium—vast enough to terrify the bravest schoolboy and give pause to the most ambitious tutor.”
“Too many words, Dominus?” said Titus, his mouth dry.
“No. Just the right
number required to tell the story, as Quadratus set out to tell it. Your revisions of Quadratus, and your Latin translations of his Greek, are quite good. And your own account of more recent events is … quite scrupulous. Judicious, I would say.”
Titus was immediately relieved, but also a bit disappointed. The emperor’s praise struck him as faint, perhaps even backhanded.
Philip saw his disappointment. “You writers! One would think you lived off praise rather than gold and silver like the rest of us. Never fear, your work is more than merely scrupulous or judicious—as important as those qualities may be—and in some places quite excellent, even occasionally poetic. I was inspired to mark some of the better passages.” He called to a scribe to hand him a particular scroll, searched a bit, and then handed it to the scribe to pass along to Titus. “Here, since you wrote it, I’ll let you read it aloud. The passage I’ve marked as ‘good’ in the margin.”
“‘Good,’ Dominus? I don’t see…”
“The Greek letters chi and rho, short for the word chrestos, or good. The P has a longish tail with the X atop it. Is this abbreviation not familiar to you?”
Titus stared at the symbol in the margin:
“Ah, yes,” said Titus. “I do recall seeing this symbol from to time to time. But only in books that are themselves in Greek.”
“And this text is Latin. I see. Force of habit. My tutor when I was a boy had a satchel full of Greek scrolls in which that abbreviation was often written in the margin to denote some important or well-written passage. And if I wrote a particularly good composition myself, he would mark the chi-rho with his stylus upon the wax tablet, and I would feel very proud.”
Titus nodded. “I remember now. Philostratus once told me, when I was a schoolboy myself, that the abbreviation was first coined—so to speak—by King Ptolemy Euergetes of Egypt, who used it on his coins as an assurance that the purity and weight could be relied upon.”
Philip grunted. “Would that my own coinage could be worthy of such a stamp.” Titus feared he had raised a touchy subject—the debasement of the coinage that had been going on for years—but Philip smiled. “Even so, I think the commemorative coins we are issuing to celebrate the Millennium are handsome enough as they are, and have no need of Greek letters to guarantee their value. But go ahead, read the passage aloud.”
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