by Simon Turney
The house was filled with playwrights, musicians, dancers and artists that Verus had brought back from the east, as well as freedmen from a variety of provinces and the few members of the senatorial elite with whom Verus could be bothered. Unlike Aurelius, Lucius Verus was not over concerned with maintaining the fiction that the emperor was in some way beholden to the senate: he preferred to fill his household with talented unknowns rather than noble wastrels. It was a trait in him that Commodus took note of early, for good or ill.
Throughout autumn those entertainments often passed me by. With the emperor’s return and the presence of his wife and the baby princess, Mother was very busy once more, which meant that so was I. Here in the villa’s isolation, Mother had no local seamstresses to call upon for aid, and so such tasks fell to me. I spent what little leisure time I had with Commodus and that time was good, for he was in his element at the villa, about the most content and positive I had seen him since the death of his twin. I only realised just how much the sojourn was affecting him on the kalends of November, when Mother’s workload had once more grown light. I was invited by Commodus to the private matches held at the villa as our answer to the great Sullan games being celebrated in the plague-ridden city.
It was the first time I had seen gladiators at work. Not because of my age or standing, of course – plenty of girls younger and poorer than I had passed the time in arena seats – but I simply had never had the opportunity. Mother disapproved of the practice and believed that all Christians should do so. I was less settled in my faith, I think, and had always been intrigued by the ludi – the great, bloodthirsty games of Rome. Whatever Mother’s opinion, though, she was not about to refuse the prince’s offer, and so this time I attended, with numerous warnings from Mother still ringing in my ears:
‘Do not revel in blood, for sin will eat deep into your heart if you let it.
Pride is a terrible sin. Do not feel glorious in the presence of the prince, for even happiness at his closeness could pave your way to hell.
Pray for the souls of those poor men who fight. Always. Never forget that they are men.
You are a striking girl and the court is full of lechers and debauchers. Stay still and try not to be noticed.’
It was the first time Mother had ever acknowledged my looks and in hindsight it probably did more harm than good to draw attention to them.
The villa’s arena was a small affair in comparison to those in the cities. It was just an oval of sand with three rows of wooden seats, but it was comfortable, and well-provisioned tables of snacks and wine stood at intervals all around. Commodus brought me in and indicated the seat next to him, only a short distance from the emperor. Praetorians stood silent and watchful around the periphery. Had we been in public, my seat next to the prince would have been a high honour, though in a private arena traditional restrictions are not usually observed.
‘Secutor,’ Commodus whispered as the hubbub among the observers died away with a last chuckle from Verus at some humorous comment. I followed the prince’s pointing finger and saw the gladiator emerging from the doorway onto the sandy arena floor. He was a heavy man, short and bulky with fat bulging out over the leather belt that topped his loincloth. His sword was gleaming in the autumn sunlight and the arm above it was encased in a thick linen sheath. His other arm held a shield like those of the legions, but his helmet was a thing from nightmare. Like a smooth, gleaming skull with only two dark eye sockets and a mouth slit for decoration. It made me shudder to look upon it.
‘He’s fat,’ I whispered in surprise. ‘I thought he’d be fit, like a soldier.’
Commodus chuckled with the confidence of a boy who had seen a hundred fights like this, but it was Lucius Verus, who had overheard, who leaned towards us and answered me.
‘Soldiers have armour, child. Gladiators only have fat. Fat heals much quicker than muscle, and don’t think for a moment the man’s not fit just because he’s fat. He’s called secutor – the chaser. Watch now for the retiarius.’
I did so, feeling at once embarrassed and wondrous that the emperor himself had spoken to me. The net man appeared moments later, as the applause for the secutor began to die away, rising once more at the second man’s arrival. This man was thinner than his opponent. Or perhaps that was just an illusion of the mind because of the lightness of his equipment, for all he bore was a net weighted down with lead balls around the edges, and a trident, his only armour a mere loincloth.
‘Surely he’s at a disadvantage?’ I whispered. ‘No shield? No helmet?’
Again, Commodus laughed, but this time it was he who answered. ‘No. Watch, Em.’
At Verus’ command, some unseen official gave the signal and the bout began. The secutor closed in slowly, shield held forth, ready to turn aside blows. The retiarius stood his ground – in this small arena there was not an awful lot of ground to stand – trident jutting forward. His left arm began to move in a strange, twirling pattern. The motion transferred down to the net, and it began to swing, slowly at first, but then picking up speed once it had sufficient momentum to overcome the weight of the lead balls. I suddenly realised that the net was more than an opportunity to snag an enemy – it was a weapon in itself, with those lead weights whirring through the air. The secutor knew it, too, for his advance slowed and the shield moved that tiniest bit closer to his flesh.
Lucius Verus, close by and clearly already enthralled, stood and shouted, ‘A wager on the secutor. Any takers?’
I turned in surprise. I may not have spent time at the games, but I knew enough about imperial etiquette to know that even in close company like this it was unseemly for the emperor to make low wagers. Certainly, Marcus Aurelius would not have done so. But Verus’ house was more relaxed, and a wiry man in a toga with a strangely equine face rose and opened his mouth to answer, but Commodus beat him to it.
‘Me, uncle.’
The togate man threw the prince an obsequious, ingratiating look, and returned to his seat. Verus threw an approving nod to the boy beside me and for the first time, looking at the two of them, I could see the similarity between them. Not only physically, but in their personality and even in their relationships, too. Commodus and poor Fulvus, Verus and Marcus Aurelius. One golden and reckless. One thoughtful and quiet. So alike in so many ways. And at that moment I also realised that, over the months he spent at the Via Cassia villa, Commodus was changing. Every visit made him a little bit more like his uncle.
I was so busy contemplating the two that I missed the first clash. As the small crowd roared their excitement, my gaze snapped back to the arena to see the secutor staggering off to the side, adjusting the shield, which now had two long grooves carved across its painted face.
I watched. On one level, I was appalled at this show of barbarity, largely because Mother had spent nine years training me to be appalled at such things. On a deeper level, I was excited. And I thought that Verus had the right of it with his money on the secutor. He may have taken the first blow, but he was unwounded and clearly better equipped. He also knew what to do, for even as I weighed up his chances, he struck. His reeling had not been random – he had masked his preparations as a withdrawal from the blow, but in fact he had been moving to his opponent’s trident side, away from the swinging net. Now, suddenly, he was running. I never saw him set off. One moment he was lurching as though confused, the next he was racing full pelt at his opponent. The retiarius, taken by surprise, could do nothing with his net and managed more by luck than judgement to get his trident in the way. But the secutor had planned for it. As the long weapon wavered at him and he closed, he turned his shield and took the three points on it at an angle, so that the weapon was pushed harmlessly aside. The heavy secutor hit the net man hard, throwing him backwards to the ground. I never saw the sword strike, so quick was he, but as he ran on and slowed, the retiarius struggled to his feet, nursing a vicious wound on his trident arm.
&nb
sp; ‘You took a foolish bet,’ I whispered to Commodus, realising that no figure had been named and wondering how much Verus was willing to fleece his nephew. Commodus simply shrugged with an odd look. He was still so young, but was so much his uncle’s nephew. Although this was my first fight, Commodus had been watching them for years.
The retiarius was on his feet again. His trident had dipped, the points in the sand, and I realised the wound must be bad. He had not the muscle to lift the weapon. Instead, he began to whirl the net as the secutor, now confident, closed on him. I realised I was holding my breath and forced myself to breathe steadily. I had never known such excitement and anticipation. And the blood did not bother me at all. Mother would have been so disappointed in me.
The net swung. The secutor stomped forward. The retiarius let go.
I watched the weighted net fly through the air, cast with expert skill, and marvelled at the throw. The net took the secutor fully in the upper body. I heard the lead weights clacking together and bouncing off steel, leather, bone and flesh. I think it must have broken a rib or two from the way the secutor lurched and almost doubled over. But he was not entrapped as I had feared. The weird, frightening helmet was designed with purpose, I now realised, for it was so smooth that there was nothing for a net to catch on. Doubling over, the secutor shook and the net slithered off him to the floor. As he straightened I could see that he was in pain from the numerous contusions caused by the weights. But he was free and advancing once more. The retiarius had let go of his net, and his trident was still lowered, blood gushing down that arm. Verus would win the bet. I knew it.
I was sure.
The secutor came in for the winning blow, but suddenly the retiarius took a single step forward and the trident rose in the blink of an eye, showering sand all about. When the cloud settled and our view cleared, the two men were standing perfectly still. The secutor’s arms were held out wide in surrender, for the triple points of the trident rested against the flesh of his throat. I’d wondered why the retiarius had not swapped the trident to his other hand, even if he was not so good with that one, and I think the secutor had been pondering the same question as he made his final disastrous move.
The audience erupted in a roar of approval, and I stared. Commodus had been right. He’d evaluated them straight out of the door and decided that the retiarius would win, and he’d been sure all along. He turned and smiled up at the emperor, who laughed.
‘Always be prepared to sacrifice to achieve the end goal,’ Verus announced to the crowd, gesturing at Commodus. ‘I am tutored now by my nephew, and bested by him too. Fortunately, I do not believe we set a value on the wager, and fortunately I have a copper as to hand.’
He flicked the tiny, almost worthless coin across at Commodus, who caught it with a grin.
‘Don’t spend it all at once, nephew.’
The games went on for the afternoon. I watched two more bouts with the prince, whose judgement was often shrewd, and who was careful to put a price on his next wager. I eventually left, not through offended religious values, but because my posterior had gone numb and I needed to move about.
The year rolled towards a close in the presence of Verus, who treated Commodus more like a son than a nephew, paying him considerably more attention than his own daughter, much to the irritation of the empress Lucilla, I might add. The young prince clung to excitement and glamour in the company of his uncle, idolising the charioteers and cheering the gladiators at every occasion, sometimes with me, sometimes not.
On occasions when he roared at the games but I was not present, I would spend my time avoiding Lucilla, and it was on one of those occasions that I met a man who would become central to everything crucial in my life. One of the freedmen the emperor Verus brought back from the east, and who had become his ab epistulis – his secretary – was an easterner called Eclectus. He was a quiet fellow; one might even say taciturn. He was unremarkable in almost every way, and yet there was something about him that made him stand out to me. Perhaps it was God’s plan at work. At least, finding friends in unexpected places helped me while away my time.
Winter crawled by with frozen ponds and brittle branches, white frost settling on the world and chilling the city and its surroundings. I noted a downturn in Commodus’ mood during that time and it took a while for me to realise that he would not go near, or even look at, the icy waters, for they brought back such painful memories of Fulvus. I had not realised, in fact, how optimistic and excitable he had become until the winter stripped it away again.
We never once returned to Rome throughout that time, though regular visitors would deliver important news. Marcus Aurelius remained in the city, healthy despite having been a martyr to illnesses and colds throughout his life, and continued to administer efficiently. Verus’ court simply waited for the plague to run its course and fade. With his removal from the city to his rural villa to avoid the plague, and his seeming hedonism, I expected dismay from the populace. In fact, strangely, the legend of his Parthian victory continued to grow, and his exploits hunting wolves and bears on his estate became the talk of taverns. While Aurelius worked every hour the gods sent to ease his people’s suffering, it was Verus the golden who won their hearts. Fickle as ever, the people of Rome. There were even mutterings that a triumph had been expected and never occurred. But such positive news was tempered with ill tidings too.
We listened to every report that came to us, hoping to hear that the icy conditions which had settled upon Rome had killed off the Parthian plague. It had not. Despite Verus’ convictions that the disease would not survive the winter, it continued to kill many hundreds each day. New burial pits were being opened on the Esquiline to cope with the sheer volume of the dead. Moreover, despite the true origin of the pestilence, it was already being dubbed the ‘Antonine Plague’ after the imperial family who had brought it to the city.
We waited as the world thawed and spring came with its growth and fresh new warmth. The disease failed to disappear, and physicians worked flat out. Other news began to filter through to us with the approach of the warmer season. The tribes on the northern frontiers were stirring, causing trouble. Despite having so recently returned from war in the east, Verus began to mutter about the possibility of taking an army north in the summer, knowing that of the two emperors he was the one with the more robust nature, made for war and activity, and such duty would fall to him. Even with the pending likelihood of a new campaign, Verus made his decision. The triumph that had been put off because of the plague would go ahead in the spring, before the campaigning season began, whether the city had healed or not.
Word was sent to Marcus Aurelius, who consented to the event, and in a torrent of activity, a few days later the court moved from the rural villa back to the Palatine.
I was horrified as we passed through the Campus Martius and the northern regions of the city upon our return. What had once been a lively world of street sellers, citizens and slaves all shouting, laughing and making noise was now eerily quiet. People kept to their houses, fearing the pestilential air outside and contact with other humans. I saw dogs, cats, even chickens, that had been run through with a blade and burned in the belief that they carried the disease from door to door. A few places seemed to be thriving with activity, though. The bathhouses still seethed with customers, where those as yet untouched went to be clean and scrape away the dangerous grime of the city. The shops of the physicians displayed queues of pale, scrawny sufferers hacking up blood. Temples experienced a constant stream of people begging the gods and giving more than they could afford in an attempt to persuade the divine to strike down the disease.
It was a vision of Hell straight from the pious tales of my mother. I noted her making the sign of the crucified Christ as we passed each new horror. It was a subdued and dispirited column that finally reached the Palatine. The accompanying units of the Praetorian Guard left us and returned to their barracks once we were saf
ely within the walls of the palace complex. Verus’ household administrators immediately went about their duties, preparing the Palatine apartments and beginning work on the coming celebration. Those of us without pressing tasks remained with the emperor’s entourage, standing in the aula regia as the great Marcus Aurelius burst through one of the rear doors, accompanied by his own following, and hurried over to his brother with a genuine smile.
‘Lucius Verus, your absence has been a shadow over my soul.’
The younger emperor laughed and embraced the great man.
‘I have missed you, Marcus. And there will be much to do in the coming days, but tell me first that you are truly well. I was appalled by what I saw as we travelled through the city.’
Aurelius frowned. ‘The pestilence? This is the disease in abeyance, brother. You should have seen it a few months ago in the midwinter. The best physicians in Rome tell me it is now notably on the decline.’
Decline? I could not imagine how the scenes I had witnessed passing through Rome could have been any more distressing. Still, even the possibility that the worst was now over was a balm to the soul. I glanced at my mother, whose eyes were closed in silent prayer, and in one of my less pious moments I pondered on the possibility that all those myriad offerings given in the temples of Rome might have had something to do with it. Or was Verus right and the cold had killed it off, just more slowly than he had anticipated? Either way, I remained privately unconvinced that this was God’s work.
My attention was diverted as Marcus Aurelius gave a throaty chuckle and beckoned to someone in the gathering. Commodus emerged with a grin and hurried over to his father, who swept him up in an embrace.
