I suppose Gannys had turned sour because of some disappointment in his love-life; the Augusta and her daughters now had a great many stalwart courtiers, and a man who had ruled undisputed among the elderly priests of Emesa could not cope with competition. Whatever the reason, he was very difficult to live with. He was also losing his touch with the Emperor. Since he spent the day moping in the palace he did not see his pupil behaving like a grown man among the race-horses. He thought he could still bully the child in his care; and he was mistaken.
I was there when the trouble came to a head. I had knocked on the schoolroom door to remind the Emperor that he had an engagement at the stables, to watch an important gallop. He called to me to come in. I entered to find him alone with his tutor, who was in a towering rage.
‘No, my lord, you can’t get away from your lessons so easily,’ Gannys shouted as he saw the boy pick up his cloak. ‘Everyone knows about the great Hannibal, and your last answer put him in the First Punic War. I don’t care if they can’t begin racing until you have gone round with your little bucket to pick up the dung. That’s all they let you do at the stables, I understand. You must stay here until you can repeat without mistake all the great battles in which Hannibal commanded.’
On other occasions the Emperor had been kept in the schoolroom until he knew his task. He was sensible enough to obey, for he wanted to know the outlines of Roman history. He might have obeyed this time, if it had not been for the sneer at his horsemanship.
‘I drive a four-horse chariot as well as anyone in Nicomedia,’ he answered fiercely. ‘Duratius, you have seen me doing it. Tell this fool he is wrong. Of course I examine the horse-droppings, as a good driver should. A horse can’t tell you when his stomach is upset, and it’s a way of checking his health. As for you, Gannys, you don’t know the difference between a cow-pat and a camel-turd, for all that your mother was a she-camel.’
I don’t know why that particular insult always rouses a Syrian. It is untrue on the face of it; and they listen unmoved to the most frightful descriptions of their fathers. But I have never heard it spoken without a fight following.
Gannys turned white. With eyes blazing he strode over to the Emperor.
He looked so menacing that I stepped forward to get between them, to save the poor fool from the deadly crime of laying hands on his master. I was not quick enough. Towering over the boy, he raised his hand to strike. Then he checked, for the Emperor had drawn a dagger from his tunic.
As Gannys withdrew the Emperor took a step to follow, holding his dagger poised like a sword. They were both mad with anger and quite reckless of consequences. ‘You little bastard,’ shouted Gannys as he backed against the farther wall. ‘I’m glad I’m not your father. I don’t know who was your father, among the hundreds who enjoyed your mother before me. Now drop that dagger, or you will be sorry for it.’
Since the Emperor still came on, Gannys drew his own dagger from his wide Syrian waistband. I had been staring in stupid surprise, but now I saw where my duty lay. My centurion’s sword was on my thigh, as usual. I drew it as I jumped across the room.
For the only time in my life I brought off a stroke that even veterans boast of: though in battle, against an adversary who wears a helmet, it is almost impossible of performance. A horizontal sweep of my sword cut through Gannys’s neckbone and sank deep into his throat. I did not exactly cut off his head with one stroke but I was not far off it. He collapsed in a fountain of blood, and before I could interfere the Emperor was worrying at the tattered neck with his little dress dagger. When the head came free he waved it to get the blood out, like a public executioner. Then he held it by the hair, staring at me.
‘Together we have killed a traitor,’ he said solemnly. ‘Is this the first man you have killed? Of course not, what a silly question. On the frontier you killed masses of barbarians. All the same, he is the first man I have killed, and I shall remember today all my life. It’s not difficult to kill a man, is it? But it’s not nearly so much fun as I had expected.’
‘He drew steel on you, my lord. I am your bodyguard. We could have done nothing else. We didn’t kill him for fun; killing is always a miserable business. Let’s never do it again unless we are driven to it. It’s a great pity you were driven to it just now. Why did you say his mother was a camel? You know that a Syrian can’t take that lying down.’
‘Why couldn’t Gannys take it lying down? Such a man ought to swallow any insult. He was only the palace stallion. Oh, do you think the Augusta will be cross with me?’
‘She won’t be cross because Gannys is dead, my lord. Lately she has been thinking of getting rid of him. She may be upset because you cut off his head with your own hands. An Emperor should order his soldiers to do these things.’
‘There wasn’t time, was there? Though you acted very quickly. I might not have managed it without your help. But now we must go and tell the Augusta, before she hears of it from some servant.’
I noted that the Emperor had slain Gannys. Well, if that was to be the official version I need not defend my own part in the affair.
In search of his grandmother the Emperor wandered through the palace, the severed head dangling from his hand. I walked half a pace behind him, still holding my bloody sword; it was a good sword, and I did not want to risk dulling the edge by putting it back in the scabbard dirty. We must have made a very frightening procession.
We found the Augusta at her dressing-table. Her maids shrieked with well-bred horror, to prove that they were not common slaves but refined attendants. The Augusta herself was more curious than dismayed.
‘Whose head is that, my lord? Gannys, isn’t it? Don’t you think you have been rather too violent? If you have outgrown the tutor who taught you as a child you might easily have dismissed him. To kill him seems to show a lack of reverence for learning. And really I must ask you not to bring carrion into my private apartments. Stick the thing on a spike if you want, but don’t carry it about as though you were fond of it.’
‘He attacked me with a dagger, so I killed him with my own dagger. That’s all,’ said the Emperor sulkily. His grandmother had only to raise her eyebrows and he saw himself as a naughty little boy.
‘Then you did right to kill him, and it was brave of you to kill such a big man. Now let Duratius take away that horrid head and dispose of it in the manner usual for such trophies. Then I’ll send these maids packing and you can tell me all about it in private.’
I went out with the shuddering maids, who could not make up their minds whether to avoid me with horror or to make up to me so as to learn the inside story of this terrible event. Then I found Eutychianus, and together we arranged that the head and body of the unfortunate Gannys should be decently burned, and the ashes sent to his kin in Syria. The sooner the whole thing was forgotten the better for everyone, and especially for the Emperor; it would never do if he should develop a liking for killing his subjects with his own hands.
Later I escorted the Emperor to the stables. He seemed subdued; he would not drive a team but instead pottered about among the loose-boxes. He did not mention Gannys, either to me or to the lads who chatted with him. He came back early, and announced that he would spend the evening with Gordius in his private apartments, and did not wish to be disturbed.
I put on my dress uniform and sat down to wait in my bedroom. I knew the Augusta would send for me, to find out what really had happened. At a knock on my door I sprang up and tucked my helmet under my arm, ready for the summons to the presence. Instead of a chamberlain the Augusta walked in, alone.
She wore a black gown and kerchief, like any respectable Syrian housewife; no jewellery, and no facepaint, so that her sunburned skin seemed darker than ever. Without speaking she squatted cross-legged in a corner, her back against the wall. She was completely at her ease, but there was nothing about her of the great imperial ruler.
‘Why did you kill him this morning?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I mean, why this morning in particular? Was it
really necessary to kill him in the presence of the Emperor? Couldn’t you have waited until you got him alone?’
I told her the whole story. She listened without interruption. When I had finished she sighed.
‘So that’s what really happened. My grandson spoke so excitedly that I could not make out what Gannys had done to offend. Poor man, he hadn’t a chance, had he? But it was your duty to kill him once he had drawn his dagger. Does the Emperor really think he killed him single-handed?’
‘That I can’t tell you, Augusta. It is no part of my duty to contradict anything said by the Emperor. Had the Emperor killed him, he would have acted correctly. I saw the daggers.’
‘I suppose my grandson was jealous of him. He wants all the love of all his family. Some Romans may be shocked at the idea of mother and daughter sharing a man. That’s what we did, you know, and it’s silly to try to conceal it. But we were faithful to our husbands while they lived; and widows of the imperial family are allowed a certain relaxation.’
If Soaemias had been faithful to her husband then the Emperor was not the son of the Divine Caracalla. The Augusta ought to know the facts, and it seemed that she was being frank with me. I noted this, in case it should come in useful one day; but I did not say anything that might check the flow of confidences.
‘The Emperor has killed a courtier with his own hands, or that’s what he thinks,’ she went on. ‘Did he enjoy it? Will he want to do it again and again? We can’t tell. Duratius, I want you to help me to handle my grandson. At present his subjects like him, and he knows it. He enjoys being popular, and he will do his best to please them. But if he loses his temper and does something abominably cruel, so that the people hate him, he will go on from one evil deed to another, just to spite the tiresome grown-ups. There are so many respectable men and institutions that he despises already.’ She sighed.
‘My lady, couldn’t you tell him that it is wrong for an Emperor to kill evil-doers with his own hands? Forbid him to carry a weapon. He doesn’t need one.’
‘You are like all the others, Duratius. I thought you had been with us long enough to understand this court. You see me giving orders right and left, without consulting the Emperor. So you suppose I govern the Republic. I don’t. I can’t control the Emperor. No one can control the Emperor. What would happen if he saw me as an obstacle, coming between him and his pleasures or his work? The soldiers will obey him in anything, because they believe him to be Caracalla come again. Did you learn about Nero when you were at school?’
‘Not a great deal, my lady. But I recall that he murdered his mother. I had no idea things were so bad.’
‘They are not – now. That’s because I never thwart him. He lets me rule in his name because for the present he is not interested in ruling. I spoke to him once about the disgrace of living openly with a lover ten years older than himself. But I saw he was growing angry, and I gave way immediately. Now I am gracious when I met Gordius, and ask him polite questions about the prospects of the Green faction.’
‘Can’t you make my lord see, tactfully, that he is not yet quite a man?’ I asked hopefully. It was hard to believe that the Augusta feared the grandson who treated her with such deference.
‘Of course I can’t. Anyway, he does not think of himself as a man. He is the chosen minister of the divine sky-stone, and he feels that with its help he can do anything. That’s not strange, when you remember what he has already accomplished. Eutychianus and a legion came over to him, just because he showed himself to the soldiers and asked for their allegiance. Then he led his army in a pitched battle, and in fair fight won the Purple. All before his fourteenth birthday! How can you expect him to heed the advice of his elders?’
‘He has sound principles,’ I said, trying to be cheerful. ‘ He is brave and compassionate. He likes happy faces round him. So far he has not spent a great deal of money.’
‘That may change when we get to Rome. Perhaps that beastly amphitheatre will teach him cruelty. We have nothing like it in Syria.’
‘What he needs, my lady, is a new interest. He’s fond of horses, but he’s too intelligent to regard chariot-racing as the chief end of man. Shall I try to persuade him to make war on the Germans?’
‘That won’t do. I could not be with him, and while he was on campaign he might forget me. In Rome I shall find him a bride. If she pleases him he may forget these revolting young men.’
‘Quite so, my lady. But marriage is no more worthy to be the occupation of a powerful ruler than chariot-racing. Can’t we find some other hobby for him?’
The Augusta frowned, and I saw I had been tactless. But what I said was true; marriage may be the chief interest of a woman, but a real man must live his life in public.
‘What about the sky-stone?’ I continued. ‘He thinks more of being high priest than of being Emperor. Can we encourage his interest in religion?’
‘The Romans do not take kindly to eastern gods. All the same, it’s an idea. When we get to Rome I shall keep him busy with his bride, and with organizing a fitting cult for the sky-stone who gave him the Purple. Then he won’t have time for his wild ideas about bringing back the Golden Age to this sordid world.’
The Augusta got to her feet before I could help her to rise. She went away without another word, to resume the stealthy padding up and down the palace corridors which showed that she was worried. I believe she called privately on Eutychianus and Gordius, and on both her daughters, before at last she went to bed.
It proved to be only too easy to encourage the Emperor in his religious duties. On the very next day he announced that solemn worship would be offered to the Sun-god on every seventh day, as had been the custom of Emesa. For the present this would be private worship only, offered by those who were already his dedicated servants; in other words, he added after he had read this from a scroll, everyone in the palace must attend but he would not bother the ordinary citizens of Nicomedia.
Three days later we assembled in the throne room, where once the Greek kings of Bithynia had reigned in state. I was among the crowd of slaves, freedmen, and guards who stood near the door of the hall. The god was brought in with great pomp, on a litter decorated with ivory, as though he were a magistrate of the Roman People. Eight senior officers of the Praetorians bore the litter. Behind it came first the Emperor, then the ladies of his family and little Alexianus, then a group of local priests. Three hundred of the regular priests of Emesa were on their way to Nicomedia, and when they arrived they would accompany us to Rome; in the meantime local servants of the Olympian gods could make themselves useful, for they knew at least the technique of sacrificing and burning incense.
I never mind attending a sacrifice. It may go on rather too long, but you are sure of a feast when at last it ends. Unfortunately sacrifice played a minor part in the worship of this Sun-god. Instead he liked to be praised to his face, in a fulsome strain that a god of better breeding might have found embarrassing. At least I consider the hymns sung at these ceremonies fulsome, but that may be the fault of the translation. The originals were in the Aramaic tongue.
The Emperor and his family sang these hymns, for no one else present was familiar with the language. While they sang the local priests placed the phallus upright on the marble chair that had once been the throne of the kings of Bithynia. The Emperor offered burning incense, and then withdrew by a side-door while the ladies continued their hymn.
We knew that the Emperor had gone to change his clothes. In his eyes one of the greatest attractions of the high priesthood was that it permitted him to wear the most elaborate vestments. There is a limit to what even an Emperor can wear as the dress of everyday without being considered mad; but what the high priest should wear had been decreed by the god long ago.
After a few minutes he came back again. We westerners gasped in amazement, even though we were familiar with the ritual of Syrian temples. On his head was a mitre at least two feet high, made of moulded Egyptian paper and gilded. Round his neck were so
many jewelled collars that he must hold his chin in the air. A long purple cloak, also fastened round his neck, floated behind him; from the way he managed it there must have been little weights in the hem. His breast was covered by a vest of purple silk, which ended at the heavy gold belt round his loins. On his feet were purple buskins, studded with gems. Between belt and boots he wore nothing at all.
Nobody notices a completely naked man. It is a mark of civilization to take exercise with no clothes on, and we laugh at the Persians who consider it indecent. But to be covered above the navel and nude below will look indecent in any part of the world; even the most carefree athlete wraps something round his waist before he goes into a temple. The Emperor looked like a half-plucked fowl. Two things made his nudity even more striking: his legs had been depilated; and he had stuck on himself, in the appropriate place, an enormous phallus of gilded leather.
In this remarkable get-up the commander of the Roman army performed an intricate and athletic dance, to the music of flutes and cymbals.
There was no denying that he looked impressive as he went through his act of worship. His lips and eyebrows had been gilded, his cheeks and chin stained purple, so that he hardly seemed a human being. The long cloak fluttered like beating wings. I was ready to believe that the heavenly messengers of the Sun-god, if such beings exist, must look like Elagabalus the High Priest.
Then Gordius sprang out from the side-door to partner his lover in the dance. At once the rite lost all dignity. Gordius was a beefy, heavy-muscled man, burned brown and gleaming with oil in contrast to the white powdered flesh of the Emperor. He wore nothing but three wreaths of lilies, on his brow, neck, and loins. The two of them had rehearsed the dance in private, but Gordius was a horseman who seldom used his legs. He pranced very clumsily.
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