by Morgan Wade
“These magnificent baths, of which I conceived and to which I have leant my name, I present to you as eternal proof of the greatness and the glory of our exalted city! May Jupiter and Juno, Minerva and Mars bless her forever and always!”
Polite applause ringed the arena.
“What did he say?” someone up on the Via Ardeatina asked.
“Latin mangler. Half the time you don’t understand what he’s saying and the other half you wish you didn’t.” said Rauthwulfs.
“It’s not so bad as all that,” said an old man standing nearby, “Yes, he has his habit of blurting out everything that comes into his head and of feeling no shame about airing all his thoughts…”
“On that we agree, at least.”
“…but he often stumbles upon a happy phrase.”
“You peacock!” Rauthwulfs hollered. “It was built with the blood and muscle of Germans and Hispanics, Gauls and Numidians!”
His companions laughed and joined in with the heckling.
“Stultus!”
“Mentula!”
“Pathicus!”
Some in the crowd turned to look at the unruly Germans. Some laughed. Others glared.
Marcus regretted mightily his decision to accompany Rauthwulfs and the others into Rome. The hot, malicious stares coming from those nearby made him flush and sweat. He’d seen those expressions before, in Verulamium, usually just prior to an unprovoked assault or public humiliation, suffered at the hands of the bigger boys. Shuffling backwards, Marcus attempted to hide his long, thin frame behind his new acquaintances.
Still, he was noticed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Patricius Constantius the Younger was one of those who glowered at the scruffy Marcomanni. He too had breached the Servian Wall to take in the unveiling of the thermae, not wanting to miss the show. He spied Marcus standing at the centre of the disturbance, conferring with the ringleader. I was right about the Briton, he thrilled, he’s a rebel, plotting against the empire.
Patricius the Elder had served Caracallus’ father, Septimius Severus, as a soldier in the Sixth Legion, campaigning in far-off Parthia. It was there that he’d had his skull cracked and had lost an eye and a foot.
“Caracallus, the son, is a traitorous, dung-brained, half-Syrian camel fucker who’s pissing away the empire,” the Elder had said.
Patricius the Younger loved his father no more than he loved the emperor, but as far as the Younger was concerned, the Elder was right in this regard. He shared his father’s disdain for the emperor with the oriental features and the Gallic cloak. Like his father, he hated him for extending Roman citizenship to every free male in the empire. Like his father, he could not forgive him for inviting a plague of filthy foreigners to enter Rome, diluting the purity of the Roman race, of which their family, Constantius, was a once-proud bloodline.
“He is under the sway of some Egyptian witch or Parthian whore,” the Elder would say.
Still, Caracallus was emperor. He represented the greatness of Rome. In some bent, perverted way he represented the old glory of the republic, a thread of continuity back through the centuries to the senate, and the great old families, the Cornelii, the Claudii, the Julii, the Aemilii and the rest. Patricius the Elder would include the Constantii in that illustrious list, even though it had been many generations since their particular branch of the family had held any positions of power or prestige. This being his first trip out of the marshy confines of little Ravenna, Patricius the Younger wanted to see some of the vestiges of that glory. He desperately wanted to drink in the pageantry of a better past with the hope of forgetting, for awhile, his unfortunate present.
He also wanted to do something about the noisy Marcomanni and the crafty Briton, loathsome foreigners. Caracallus offered large rewards to the delators, the professional informers, who brought public accusations of sedition and saw them successfully prosecuted. Patricius had heard of men making small fortunes by exposing traitors. The accuser could be granted up to a quarter of the guilty man’s estate. Just the capital I need to get started on my own. While trying to blend himself further into the crowd, he edged toward Marcus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back in the arena, Caracallus had heard nothing of the hectoring and he continued his speech.
“And yet! And yet, despite Rome’s magnanimity, despite her might, despite her generosity, despite being a beacon of light and justice throughout the world, we still have many enemies. Enemies of our way of life. These barbarians would like nothing more than to see the Empire crumble.”
Rauthwulfs protested loudly.
“Irrumator!”
“Scelus!”
The Germans were enjoying themselves, hurling their abuse across the expanse of the crowd, dancing, stomping, and laughing.
“Did you know that our Caracallus here is the first emperor in over one hundred years, besides his hero Commodus of course, to be born into the purple?”
Marcus shook his head.
“Rauthwulfs, is it wise to be shouting such things? People are looking. They don’t look pleased.”
Rauthwulfs snorted and continued.
“Oh yes. There once was a tradition of adopting a man who’d shown himself to be worthy. Nowadays, the emperors are either born into the purple or they purchase it.”
“Yes, but Rauthwulfs, this hardly seems like the time or the place…”
Loyalist members of the crowd were approaching Marcus, Rauthwulfs and the rest of the Germans. Patricius was among them, not wanting to lose sight of Marcus. The spectators were so close together and the crowd so tight that he couldn’t make up any distance between himself and Marcus. Jeering from the vigilantes formed a counterpoint to Rauthwulfs and the chorus of obscenities coming from his comrades and allies. The disturbance the Marcomanni had hoped for was coming to life, largely through their own efforts.
Caracallus was now aware of the commotion taking place up on the Via Ardeatina, but seeing a number of Praetorians on their way to deal with the matter, he continued.
“The greatness and the glory of Rome aren’t fed by the hot air of the Senate! Jupiter no! It’s won on the bloody battlefields of Gallia, Hispania, Africa, and Asia.”
Caracallus gestured dramatically to the immense baths standing behind him and to the city extending past them.
“You, the soldiers, are the ones who help accomplish all this. Our freedom and our way of life are in your hands -- and they're in the best of hands. I want to thank you for your service in the cause of Roman values. I want to thank you for wearing the tunica and for carrying the scutum. I am one of you, and it is because of you alone that I care to live, in order that I may confer upon you many favours; for all the treasuries are yours.”
“Do you know what his old man’s advice was on his death bed?”
“Rauthwulfs please! You’re making them angry. Cease your shouting.”
Marcus looked over his shoulder to see spectators advancing toward their little group. Everyone seemed to be yelling at everyone else. He realized that he should have bolted earlier, but now there wasn’t anywhere he could go. They were hemmed in. If Rauthwulfs could sense his discomfort, he made no sign of it.
“’Pay off the soldiers; and disregard everyone else.’ I’d say if nothing else, he’s an obedient son. He buys them off with our money. That’s how he got away with murdering his brother.”
“Rauthwulfs, you must stop. There’s going to be trouble.”
“Remember your Seneca! Iniqua nunquam regna perpetuo manent! Unjust rulers do not reign for a long time!”
Marcus began to edge his way up and away from the Via Ardeatina. The emperor’s speech continued.
“The summus pontifex has examined the entrails of the white bull and the portents are very good. May Sol Invictus continue to bless Rome.”
“Caco!”
“Fraudator!”
A barking, red-faced man reached around to grip the collar of Marcus’ tunic, spun him around and hel
d him fast. Familiar feelings of panic and nausea were washing over him, triggered by the imminent brutality. The Praetorians were now almost on top of the twisting, bristling mob. Patricius the Younger shouted and waved his hands at the nearest guardsman, beckoning him over. He told him everything he knew, and everything he suspected, about the stranger from Britannia.
Caracallus strode back to the slain lion, put his heavy caligus boot on the beast’s dusty, blood-caked head and extricated his pilum with a yank. Upon seeing the arrival of the Guard he relaxed and smiled.
“Remember! Here in Rome everyone should do their part. Our enemies walk among us! I encourage you to be vigilant. Report anything unusual to your local authorities. Keep Rome safe, free and strong!”
“Sed quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Who will keep watch over the guardians?”
The final outraged taunt was barely out of Rauthwulfs’s mouth before two guardsmen reached him, one wrapping his thick forearm around the German’s neck and the other grabbing his arms and wrenching them behind his back.
“Today is a day of celebration. Before we begin the hard work of next week, we will relax and repose. And now, I invite fifteen hundred of the empire’s leading citizens to join me in inaugurating these baths. Sol Invictus bless you!”
Caracallus waved, the crowd surrounding the arena and the baths cheered, and he ducked quickly into the confines of the imposing caldarium, as officials began ushering in his guests.
Marcus heard the thump of the club on Rauthwulfs’s head. The rest of the Germans scattered and escaped into the crowd. Marcus pulled free, turned, and pressed up the Via Ardeatina toward the Porto Capena gate, back into the heart of Rome.
“Halt!”
Marcus stopped and turned slowly. Two Praetorians circled. In spite of himself, he found himself grinning absurdly.
“It’s amusing?”
“No. I think you’re…” Marcus started.
“Stultus! Shut your mouth or I’ll carve it off your fool face!”
“Come with us.”
Marcus imagined returning home to Verulamium after incarceration, to face his grandfather, unemployed and dishonoured. He imagined going to prison. He vomited.
“This is all a misunderstanding! I’m innocent!” he cried, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“So? We’ll be the judge.”
“But I’ve done nothing!”
“Don’t insult us. Inciting a riot. Causing a civil disturbance.”
“Inciting a riot? I didn’t!”
“Don’t bother. Eyewitnesses. You’ve been publicly accused.”
The guardsman pointed across the dissipating throng of spectators. He saw a man acknowledge the guard’s gesture with a quick nod. Patricius the Younger turned and dissolved back into the crowd.
“But I was just watching, I wasn’t involved. It was the Germans!”
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of them.”
“They’re strangers to me.”
“Our man says different.”
“How does he know?”
“He saw the whole thing. You and the mouthy one directed it all, he says.”
“It’s not true! I just met them!”
The guardsmen grabbed Marcus roughly by the arms.
“Where are you taking me? I’m not a Marcomanni, I had nothing to do with anything!”
He was frog-marched toward the Porto Capena gate.
“Please. I have to meet my employer’s agent in under an hour. If I miss this meeting my life will be ruined!”
“Terribly sad. Tragic. Should have been considered earlier, eh? And what employment? Shit shoveller, first class?”
The other soldier guffawed.
“No.” Marcus said. “Engineering apprentice for the Frontinus firm.”
The guards slowed their march.
“Frontinus?”
“Yes, Frontinus. I’m here from Verulamium to work for Frontinus.”
“Where?”
“Verulamium. In Britannia.”
They stopped.
“So you’re not a German?”
“No. Do I look like a German?”
The guardsmen scrutinized Marcus and then looked at each other.
“You don’t sound like a German either.”
“I’m not a German!”
It was then that Marcus remembered his grandfather’s letter of introduction. On the same morning Vincentius had pointed out the Baths of Caracallus on the map he’d told Marcus how he’d got his name. He had described how the welcome news arrived from Rome that the emperor Commodus had died, on the very same night, at the very same hour of his birth and how he’d convinced his parents to name him Marcus, in honour of the last great and noble father of the empire.
I want you to know how proud I am of you, how proud we all are. And that you carry into the world with you a name of distinction, a name with weight and bearing. And that behind this name is a long and distinguished history. I urge you to use that history as your teacher and guide.
It was then that Vincentius had given him a heavy, folded parchment sealed with a circle of dark red wax.
“A letter!” Marcus cried now, to the soldiers, “I have a letter! It proves who I am.”
“Fish it out.”
Marcus tore into his rucksack and extricated the letter. One of the guards snatched the letter from him and began to read.
“Appears to be true.”
At that moment, more shouting was heard back toward the baths. The guards swiveled to see two of their colleagues struggling with one of the Goths.
“Avoid trouble. Fortuna may frown next time.”
“Be on your way.”
The guardsmen handed the unfolded letter back to Marcus and they departed. Marcus placed his letter carefully back into the sack, turned to re-enter the Porto Capena gate, and rushed to find his arranged meeting place with the Frontinus agent, recalling the last of what his grandfather had said that morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I have one more thing for you. A book I’ve kept with me since I was your age,” Vincentius said, pulling a roll of parchment from his cloak and passing it to Marcus, “it has given me many happy and fruitful hours. I thought you might find it a welcome companion on the long and lonely road. Remember Cicero. Numquam se minus solum quam cum solus esset. You are never so little alone as when you are alone.”
Marcus took the scroll and uncoiled it.
“Open it up! Look. It is signed by Aurelius himself.” Vincentius leaned over to point out the faded signature.
Marcus looked absently at the first few lines.
MEDITATIONS
Marcus Aurelius
LIBER I.
1. Avi Veri exemplo operam me dare oportet, ut suavibus sim moribus neque irae indulgeam.
1. From my grandfather Verus I learned good morals and the government of my temper.
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Patricius lingered further down the Via Ardeatina, where crowds continued to mill about, but where he could still monitor Marcus’ arrest. He had already been counting the dozens of denarii that were surely to be part of the reward. Then he watched as the trio conversed. What can they possibly be discussing? He was appalled to see Marcus released. Crestfallen, Patricius followed doggedly from a careful distance. His public accusation was worthless now.
The Briton has friends in high places. He’s well-connected. If he’s from a rich and noble family, exposing him as a traitor would likely lead to a much larger reward. I will track the Briton until I am able to collect.
FIVE
Patrick Constantine Jr. followed Mark several blocks across Manhattan and watched him enter one of the glass towers casting its hulking shadows over mid-town. He waited for him to emerge and then followed him back downtown to the bus station and watched him buy a one way ticket. Patrick noted his destination, returned to the Phoenix, fired her up, and spent the next thirty-six hours coaxing her south down the interstate. Though he was careful n
ot to tax the car, plying her with the Bar’s Leaks and keeping a careful watch on the temperature gauge, he still managed to beat Mark’s Greyhound bus by four hours. Enough time for some food and a short nap.
Patrick knew what he was doing was crazy. But he told himself that it was his patriotic duty, trailing a suspected enemy, a threat to the nation’s security, and that he would be a hero, fame and fortune would be his, if he could take part in the capture. It was a mantra he repeated to himself, alone on the road, hoping to drown out the quiet but persistent voice that reminded him of the truth: he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do.
It had been a chilly night at a rest stop along Interstate 81 near the border between Virginia and Tennessee. Patrick didn’t want to pull over, but his eyes grated in their sockets. The Phoenix also needed rest. He parked the car, reclined his seat, and tried, with difficulty, to snooze.
Cold damp air seeped in through the doors and chilled him. Patrick scanned the car’s interior. On the back seat was his backpack and next to it Mark’s old sweatshirt and army surplus combat pants. He remembered the sleeping bag in the trunk. After donning Mark’s sweat shirt and sliding the baggy trousers over his own, Patrick fetched the musty sleeping bag, opened it up, stuffed his backpack against the left rear door, and created a makeshift pillow. As he slipped away into a restless slumber, he imagined what it would be like to be someone else, to be someone from a different country, with a different family, and a different path in life. In the morning, when he arrived at the bus station, he was still wearing Mark’s old clothes.
A man met Mark at the station and whisked him away. Patrick followed, urging the Phoenix after the SUV, as it barreled through the mid-afternoon traffic. But he eventually lost sight of them and, cursing, he eased the lurching car off the freeway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After the near disaster of the protest, Mark had just barely managed to keep his appointment with the human resources director. She explained that Mark wasn’t needed with the New York or Washington operations and that he was to proceed to one of the firm’s southern regional offices. He was exchanging one hinterland for another. The bus had rolled in at one. Gus, regional vice-president of the firm, was there to pick him up.