by Simon Turney
I smiled. All things seemed to be improving once more. Then I caught sight of Cleander among the functionaries at the rear of the room, and my spirits sank again.
‘This sudden slew of mortality has me thinking,’ Verus said finally, speaking to his brother. ‘It is said that some of the more noble lines in the city are dying out. We cannot have the same happen with the imperial family. Remember how many dynasties have fallen through failure to prepare the succession.’
Aurelius frowned. ‘I have sons. There is no need to adopt, as my childless forebears did. Commodus will be emperor after me. And your son after you.’ He gave Verus a slightly uncomfortable, disapproving look. He did not like speaking of such private things in front of their retinues, though Verus had no such notions of propriety, and simply snorted.
‘I have a daughter only,’ he replied, ‘and you have two sons, Marcus. But Rome has not had a boy born to the purple for a hundred years. People will be uncertain. Make it official. Make Commodus and Annius Caesars. Make them your heirs designate. Then, if the worst should happen with this rot in the streets, at least the succession will be smooth.’
‘Jove, but you are an uplifting conversationalist, brother,’ Aurelius said, stepping back and releasing his son from his grasp. ‘Months I have not seen you and your first concern is what might happen when I become diseased and die?’
Verus rolled his eyes. ‘It makes sense, and you know that. Do it, and they can ride with us in the triumph.’
‘Us?’
Now Verus laughed. ‘I may have gone east, but do you really think I once drew a blade and thrust it in the Parthian’s black heart? No. I reviewed the troops, reorganised the lines and bases, then settled in at Antioch where I could deal with both my armies with equal ease. I mostly spent my time scribbling.’
‘And drinking,’ Aurelius noted wryly.
Verus laughed off the jibe. ‘That too. We built a canal at the Orontes, brother, and found the most astounding thing: the bones of a Titan. Enormous, he was. A true giant. We tried to bring him home as a curiosity, but there was a mishap on the voyage and the bones were lost. Perhaps the gods do not approve of giants?’ He chuckled. ‘I digress from my purpose. My point was that not once did I draw blade from scabbard, yet I deserve a triumph for leading them. And so do you. It is your policy and mind and wisdom that put us on that victorious track. This is a triumph of the whole family. Of the empire entire, in fact. And the people of Rome need something to lift the spirits. Let them see the imperial family in glory, and we shall give largesse and hold games. We shall make Rome cheerful once more.’
Aurelius looked unconvinced. Whether it was the inherent danger of taking his young family through the pestilential streets unnecessarily, I do not know, but he was uncertain. Verus badgered him, though, until he relented and accepted the notion. I was too busy to listen, for while the emperors held their discussion, Commodus returned to the waiting group and found me.
‘I will be emperor,’ he grinned.
‘Heir designate,’ I corrected him, but with a warm smile.
‘Then emperor,’ he said over his shoulder as his father and uncle made to leave, and he reluctantly followed his beckoning mother while the palace staff sent the rest of us to our appropriate quarters.
We settled back into the palace and I was oddly lonely and listless in the days that followed. Everyone was busy on the Palatine in preparation for the coming triumph – everyone but me. With such a grand affair planned for the whole imperial family, the entire palace was aflutter. Mother acquired a second helper from somewhere and worked hard, even by guttering lamplight, to provide garments fit for such an occasion. There was no time for lessons, and the tutors were dismissed for a time, young Commodus and Annius instead being prepared for what would be expected of them. Consequently, since Mother once more had her professional assistants, I had no chores, no lessons, no family and no friends to occupy my time. I drifted around the palace like a ghost.
Occasionally in my wanderings I would come across the empress Lucilla, and hurriedly find something to do while she passed. Commodus’ sister-and-aunt was tetchy at the best of times, but during our time at the villa she had become pregnant once more, and pregnancy did nothing to improve her moods. Indeed, she had been in a particularly foul temper since it had been decided that she would be the only member of the imperial family not to be part of the triumph, given the danger it could present to her unborn child.
Finally, the day of the triumph came around. The palace was in utter turmoil, or so it seemed to my nine-year-old eyes. In fact, given the administrative ability of the two emperors and the efficiency of the many freedmen upon whom they relied, I’m certain that everything was moving like a well-tended machine, but to a child it appeared chaotic.
I was finally useful, though. Mother had me running back and forth, fetching her work for various members of the imperial family and the extended court. She had even sewn a tunic for the prefect of the Praetorian Guard, which was a new honour. I dithered at the edge of the organised chaos, watching silently and respectfully as I waited for my next job.
At the centre of the room, the imperial family were gathering, and Aurelius’ voice suddenly cut through the hubbub.
‘Where is my son?’
Young Annius looked up at his father, but it was clear that he meant Commodus, for the young prince was the only member of the direct imperial family not present. Galeria, one of his older sisters, gestured back towards their private apartments. ‘He was in his room when I last saw him, Father. He was shouting at someone and banging around.’
I felt a flutter in my chest. I had not seen him in many days now. Since returning to the city, he had been full of energy and excitement once more, and it was only with the sudden realisation that he had not been around that I remembered how swiftly he had sunk into gloom during those icy months at the villa.
‘Go fetch him,’ the empress waved at one of the slaves.
I turned to Mother, who was making last-moment adjustments to the hem of a palla for one of the girls, and cleared my throat. ‘Mother?’
‘I’m busy, Marcia. Go and find something to do.’
Gratefully, I nodded and backed from the room with a respectful, slow gait until I was in the corridor outside, where I turned and hurried off after the slave, my sandals slapping on the marble. I found the poor hapless lad at Commodus’ door. He raised his hand nervously and knocked.
‘Go away,’ came a muffled shout from within. The slave dithered, hand still raised. He was caught in an unpleasant situation. To return to the empress without the prince would land him in deep trouble, but disobeying the heir-apparent to the empire was almost as unpleasant a notion. Had it been me, for I have ever been a practical woman, I would simply have disappeared into the palace and left the matter to itself, for I am well aware that nobody pays the slightest attention to slaves, and even ten heartbeats after the lad had left the room, Faustina would not have recognised him in a line-up. He was simply mobile furniture. But the slave remained, and dithered.
I hurried along the corridor towards them as the boy cleared his throat and called through the closed portal in a wavering voice, ‘Highness, your father awaits you in the aula regia.’
I came to a breathless halt behind the slave just as the door was wrenched open from within. Commodus was an impressive sight. Closing in on his sixth birthday, he might still be a child, and he might have been hiding away in his room, but he was already dressed for the occasion, and what a panoply he wore.
His tunic, belt, boots and short cloak were all of the highest quality and threaded with gold, but clearly modelled after the military dress of a general. Oddly, despite his age, an image flashed into my mind of him on a battlefield, and he did not look out of place there. His hair was neatly coiffured in a far more ordered manner than was common for the active prince, and a wreath of gold nestled among the curls, almos
t lost against the similar colour of the hair. Only his face spoiled the image of a hero of old, for his skin was sallow and pale, his eyes rimmed with red. My heart skipped as I realised how tortured he looked.
The young prince glared at the slave, caught sight of me behind, then returned his attention to the boy.
‘I’ll come soon. Go away.’
The slave bowed and ran, leaving in the air a vapour of fear and gratitude that he could now legitimately return to the empress. Something made me aware that there was another person in the room beyond – just a vague shuffling sound, but I felt my spirits sink a little further, sure it would be the ever-present viper Cleander.
‘Highness,’ I began. From the outset, I had been one of very few privileged to be able to call the prince by name, and rarely used his title, but right now, dressed as he was, it felt appropriate.
‘Come in,’ he said, simply, and then withdrew into the gloom of his room.
I followed him, becoming more worried as I did so. His window was covered by thick drapes, blocking all the light from outside. The only illumination in the room came from one small oil lamp and the dying glow of a brazier – it more closely resembled a Stygian cave than a royal bedchamber. And it was warm in there, too. I had another notion that this was an echo of my mother’s tales of Hell. I didn’t like it. I wanted to throw open the curtains and let in cleansing light.
My eyes fell on the other occupant of the room and I was grateful to discover that it was not Cleander after all. The man was old, his long robe and leather bag indicative of a physician – Lord knows, we saw enough of them those days to recognise one instantly. He was not the court physician, though. I turned to Commodus as he closed the door, plunging us into darkness once more.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked quietly.
‘Can’t sleep.’
I glanced across at the physician, who shrugged. In an accent of some eastern region, I guessed probably Judean, he said, ‘I can find nothing wrong. Physically his Highness is hale and untroubled, barring a clear case of exhaustion. He is, in fact, in fine shape. Given the souls I am used to treating in the city these days, it is a relief to find such a healthy person.’
‘Then what’s stopping him sleeping?’
Commodus sloped over to his bed and dropped heavily onto it, gripping his knees and shaking his head. ‘I am.’
‘What?’
He raised those red-rimmed eyes to me and I shivered at the flood of raw emotion that poured through them. ‘I . . . I lie down and close my eyes, but all I see is . . .’ He faltered, and I noted how tightly he gripped his knees. It must be hurting him. ‘I’m Fulvus. I’m under the ice, drowning. And it only stops when I open my eyes. I get a few hours sometimes, but even then, I wake up frightened.’
And I had not been here to help him. Was this what he was like when I was not around? I dreaded to think of it, remembering the torn chunks of hair, the self-blame, and even the unwillingness to look at the frozen ponds of the villa. I hurried over to him. I wanted to hug him and tell him it was all right, but it wasn’t, and no matter how close we were, a pleb did not embrace a prince, especially in front of a stranger. Moreover, his description of the scene in his head took me back to my own watery horror – the memory of that day of the great flood, which still chilled me.
‘I fear he suffers from melancholia,’ the physician said with a sigh.
‘Melancholia?’ I asked, unfamiliar with the term.
‘An inclination to negative thoughts and innate sadness that is not of conscious choice,’ the easterner explained. ‘The noted medicus Aretaeus of Cappadocia has researched the subject more than anyone. He advocates bathing in a certain form of brine salt, though given the nature of the prince’s night terrors, that may do more harm than good.’
‘And it won’t help right now,’ Commodus said with sagging shoulders.
‘I will enquire about the subject and see if I can uncover any more useful research,’ the physician said.
‘Do not speak of this outside this room,’ I said to the man, then blinked as I realised that I, a low plebeian daughter of a freedwoman, had just issued an order to a man who was probably a full citizen, in the presence of a prince, and yet neither seemed to disapprove.
Indeed, the physician threw me a chastened look. ‘I would never do such a thing.’
‘Good,’ Commodus said. ‘Leave me.’
The physician bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Oddly, it never occurred to me that Commodus might mean me too. I stood, biting my lip, wondering how best to approach the problem, beset alternately by unwelcome images of Fulvus under the ice and of that deadly surge crossing the city and felling buildings on the night of the flood.
I had found Commodus in similar states to this in the past, but those times we had been simply children at leisure, and I had been free to divert him with the menagerie and other activities. Now, his family awaited him in the imperial audience chamber, gradually growing more impatient, while the whole of Rome expected him in the streets. I had no time.
‘You’re not Fulvus,’ I tried.
‘I know, Em.’
I took a deep breath and looked at his dreams from another angle. ‘You are not responsible for what happened to him.’
‘I am.’
‘No, you’re not,’ I said with some firmness. ‘And nor am I. Nor was he. It was an unhappy accident, plain and simple. It could have been you. Had I been more playful that day, perhaps it might even have been me. But it was Fulvus. You cannot torture yourself for that.’
He said nothing, simply slumped back on the bed.
‘And there is no time for this.’
I had no idea what it would do, but there was no time right then for gentleness. I strode over to the window and wrenched back the drapes, so that Rome’s bright sunlight flooded into the room, driving back the gloom and destroying the shadows to which the unhappy young prince clung. He recoiled, slinking off into the darkest corner he could find. My directness might have been making him worse, of course, but I had little option. In mere moments the emperors would send someone else and demands would be made. I threw open the window. The air of Rome in spring is not as bad as it gets in the heat of summer, but it was still cloying and malodorous, though against the foetid heat of the room it felt balmy. The embers in the brazier flared with the sudden breeze, and I walked across to the room’s centre, where I peered at Commodus. He was blinking and looked panicked.
‘Come on,’ I said, gently this time. I held out my hands, enticing him, urging him to stand. To my surprise he did so, and hurried straight over to me, throwing himself into my arms. I shivered for a moment, not sure how to react. Yet it felt right. He was shaking, and I realised with deepening concern that he was crying dry tears, all the moisture long since wrung from his red-rimmed eyes.
‘Your father is waiting for you,’ I said. ‘All Rome is waiting to see their emperor’s heir ride in triumph. The city is sick and poor, and they need this. And so do you.’
It took long moments, but finally I felt him nod in my embrace. I let go and he stepped back, wiping his face with the backs of his hands. ‘I . . . I’m not sure I can do it, Em.’
‘The prince who ran from his tutors and challenged a slave to a fight in the gardens could do it,’ I said with a wry smile, and he smiled back. His whole face changed with that smile, the broken prince gone, my Commodus returned.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, and we left the chamber. As we passed one of his sister’s rooms, a slave girl emerged, startled, and dropped to a knee in shock. Something occurred to me. I stopped, and called to Commodus to do the same. I had seen what the girl was carrying.
‘What is it?’ the prince asked, hurrying back.
‘This is your sister’s cosmeta,’ I replied, gesturing to the girl with her pouches and boxes of makeup and rolls of brushes.
‘So?’
I fixed him with a look. This was no time for gentle approaches. ‘You look like a spirit freshly returned from Tartarus. I swear even if we applied white lead you could not get paler. You don’t want your parents to worry, and the city to think you’re ill.’
‘You want me to wear my sister’s makeup?’ he asked incredulously.
‘You want people to think you’ve caught the plague?’ I turned to the girl, whose eyes were locked on the floor beneath her. ‘The prince has not slept well. He is perfectly healthy, but tired. I want you to make him look well rested and healthy and then never speak of this again. Do you understand?’
The girl, maybe a year older than me, nodded hurriedly.
We were in the room perhaps two or three hundred heartbeats before the cosmeta stepped back and the prince rose. She knew her business well. I crossed to Commodus and peered at him. Close up, the makeup was evident, but might not have been had I not been expecting to see it. Certainly, from any further away than a few feet he looked perfectly healthy. I grinned. ‘Just right.’
He examined his face in her bronze mirror and blinked in surprise, then threw the girl a smile that was probably more than she’d ever had from his sister. As we emerged into the corridor once more, a functionary turned the corner ahead with a Praetorian at his shoulder.
‘Highness, there you are. Your father is starting to grow impatient.’
Commodus simply nodded and we joined them, all of us returning to the aula regia. Once more entering the world of the imperial family, the prince was lost to me, pulled away by his mother and chastised for his tardiness. I saw him once throw me a long-suffering look as he was prepared and positioned with the rest of the family. Mother was busy adjusting the hang of her work on the Praetorian prefect, whose sneer annoyed me, and a wiry, horse-faced man in a toga, who I recognised as the one who’d risen at the games a few days earlier, stood with Marcus Aurelius. That man gestured at Commodus, sharing some smiled comment with the emperor, and then turned to me. I flinched as though struck. For someone as unimportant as I, being singled out by the powerful was rarely good. The man pointed at me and said something to Aurelius, who nodded and replied in quiet tones. I wished that the room was less busy and loud, for I’d have given gold coins to have heard the words that passed between them.
