by Simon Turney
One thing I did know was that I did not like the way the man in the toga looked at me as the emperor returned his attention to other matters. As his eyes scoured me from my curls down to my bare ankles, I felt as though my outer layers had been peeled away like an onion. I did not understand the look, nor the discomfort it brought forth in me, until a snide, unpleasantly familiar voice close behind me made it perfectly clear.
‘You’d best make a willing bed slave for that one.’
In an instant, Mother’s words that day at Verus’ villa flooded back in.
‘You are a striking girl and the court is full of lechers and debauchers. Stay still and try not to be noticed.’ God, was this what she had worried about? I did not turn. If I saw the look that I knew was on Cleander’s face I might well have scratched it off him, and that would not be a good idea in the imperial presence.
‘I’m not old enough to be married,’ I said firmly.
‘Who mentioned marriage?’ he said nastily. ‘That’s Marcus Ummidius Quadratus, the consul. He wouldn’t even marry his dog to someone like you, but he’ll screw you.’
. . . the court is full of lechers and debauchers . . .
I spun now, angry. I had to force my arms down and restrain myself, keeping my tone low, given the company we were in. ‘I could have you beaten for speaking to me like that.’
Cleander simply smiled again. ‘Our good prince has already promised me my freedom as soon as he can arrange it. Don’t think yourself safe behind your status forever. Remember that while the consul ruts on you at night.’
I turned away from him again. Looking at his face any longer would have resulted in a fight. Instead I focused on the imperial procession, which was now making ready to leave the room. My mother had completed her final ministrations and was stepping back. Commodus was looking at us, his expression troubled, questioning. Whatever Cleander did that I couldn’t see seemed to settle the prince and he nodded as I felt space open up behind me with the departing figure of the obnoxious slave.
My mind furnished me with a timely memory of the slave girl pushing her lead curse tablet down into the drains to bring horrible ruin upon a man, and I found myself wondering where I might buy such a thing, before reminding myself that Mother would tear strips from me if she found out.
I would just have to hope that something nasty happened to Cleander.
And plan something myself, if it didn’t.
V
A CLOAK OF GREY
Rome, autumn ad 168
Following the great and glorious triumph, there was a time of strange positivity. Though plague still ravaged the streets of Rome and the news from the north continued to be of concern, that grand event succeeded in lifting the worst of the pall from the city. Verus, unusually self-effacing, continued to promote his victory as one for the entire dynasty. Despite his protestations – possibly even because of them – Marcus Aurelius commissioned a grand triumphal arch to stand across the Via Appia at the point where we had met the victorious general upon his return.
I say positivity, but do not mistake that for peace. There was no peace to be had, for, as Verus had predicted, a campaign had been announced against the tribes from beyond the Danubius that were besetting our northern borders, and both emperors were to take part. Consequently, Rome became a hub for the transfer of troops and supplies: the Praetorian Guard were thrown into a frenzy of pre-campaign organisation; legionary cohorts came and went, camping outside the city before they moved on to various marshalling positions on the route north; and the Misenum fleet sent ship after ship in and out of the Navalia up the great River Tiber.
I think Commodus was disappointed. He had expected to travel with his father and the golden Verus, along with the court, but the joint emperors made the unusual decision to treat the campaign as a military exercise rather than an imperial expedition and did not take the entire court on tour with them, relying instead on a small consilium of senators, generals and knowledgeable freedmen. We children, the wives, and the endless support staff were all to remain in Rome.
At Verus’ insistence, we accompanied his empress Lucilla and his familia to the villa outside the city once more, keeping us as clear of the pestilential urban sprawl as possible. It would have been a good time for me, had it not been for the company.
Though Cleander remained blessedly in Rome and out of earshot, Lucilla was a constant icy, bad-tempered presence and, despite the danger of courting rumour, she invited a number of the more important members of the senatorial class to attend her in an endless cycle of long-term visits. One such, who seemed to be ever-present, was that consul Quadratus, whose gaze continued to fall upon me with an unpleasant hunger. I was almost eleven now, close to marriageable age, and blossoming into an attractive young woman, or so Mother warned me again and again.
The senior empress Faustina, perhaps distancing herself from this procession of nobles, preferred to stay at Aurelius’ favoured villa near Praeneste with her youngest son. Commodus, who remained close to Annius, felt keenly the absence of his younger brother, and while I sympathised, especially after losing Fulvus, I was grateful to be able, to some extent, to fill the gap left by the prince.
Commodus shone in those days. In the absence of his favourite uncle, the young prince slipped seamlessly into Verus’ role as patron of sports and entertainment. The changes wrought by his stay with his uncle came to the fore, and he even began to have his hair styled like Verus, as close as possible with his young curls. Had he been able to grow a neck beard, I’m sure he would have.
The races began once more. Gladiator pairings fought for our excitement. Plays were performed – though only the light-hearted ones with blundering slaves and kicked behinds, since he had no interest in the dour Greek tragedies. Music. Dance. Art. And Lucilla left him to it, not through a serious desire to please her brother, I think, but rather because she had no interest in such things and was busy constructing webs of patronage in the villa while Commodus kept the rest of us entertained.
The similarity between the prince and his uncle was as clear as ever. I spent much time now watching chariots or racehorses thundering around the circuit in the grounds, or half a dozen poorly armed Thracian criminals trying to take down an ironclad crupellarius gladiator. Once, I went with Commodus to hunt a boar. I simply could not believe he was allowed such latitude, given the incredible dangers of such a pastime, though it turned out in the end, to the prince’s disappointment, that he was only to observe and direct, and the few nobles and men of the Guard who were there to keep him safe were the only ones to face danger as the great hog burst from the undergrowth intent on goring flesh. One of the Guard died the next day of his horrible wounds even as the rest of us ate roast pork. Such is the world.
Mother periodically dragged me in to aid her once more in the absence of more suitable helpers, though I was almost full-grown now and, with the emperors away, her work was scarce.
The first news of the war’s progress reached the villa one day while we were in the stands of the arena, less than a month after Commodus’ seventh birthday. My gaze was torn from the Gaul, who was busy jabbing at an agile Aegyptian with his long spear, by an imperial courier, dusty from his ride. He approached the stands where Commodus and I sat together, stopping four seats away, and bowed deeply. Commodus, one eye still on the closing stages of the fight, beckoned to him. The half-dozen Praetorians standing cold and observant nearby moved closer without a sound, their attention focused on every movement of the man. The dusty rider stopped nearby and extended his hand, proffering a scroll bearing the imperial seal. I noted, from a quick glance, four more such scroll cases clonking together in his leather satchel. We were not his last port of call, and we had probably not been the first; that would have been the prince’s older sister in the villa proper.
‘Is it from your father?’ I asked.
A number of senatorial nobles sitting nearby
threw me a look of faint irritation. It clearly irked anyone of rank that I could address the prince almost as an equal despite my low birth, while they, the product of centuries of carefully arranged political marriages, were forced to address him as ‘Highness’.
Commodus nodded, rubbing his thumb across the wax seal that bore the head of Minerva, a divine reflection of Aurelius himself – wisdom and war.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
Commodus frowned. ‘Will the news change if I don’t, Em? Because the murmillo might die while I read.’
We turned our attention back to the pairing. Sword against small shield, spear against large. A contest with no clear outcome to my mind, though the hoplomachus spear-man had clearly had the best of it so far. Both gladiators bore several small, bloody badges of courage, though.
I watched as the spear clonked off the shield and was turned aside. The murmillo, clad in bronze and padded linen with red streamers trailing from his limbs as he moved, capitalised on the failing and leapt forward, attempting to get his sword to somewhere critical. But the Gaul was fast. He danced back three paces as easily as if he’d been stepping forward, and as the heavy swordsman lunged, suddenly his target wasn’t there. He fell gracelessly to the dust and the Gaul casually stepped close and dropped his spear point to rest on the murmillo’s spine, just below his helmet’s neck guard. The fallen man raised two fingers together in supplication, and the spear-man looked to Commodus.
Somewhere not far away, a gruff voice called, ‘Highness, he should die. A clumsy attack.’
Commodus weighed this up for a moment, and then smiled.
‘Missio,’ he announced magnanimously, to a rumble of disappointment from the senators.
‘Not a popular choice,’ I murmured as the gladiators rose and bowed to the prince.
‘He fought well. It was one mistake. A prime fighter is worth too much to kill for one fall.’
Nothing to do with mercy, just economy and expediency. I could hardly fail to notice that Commodus was growing, and with the increased maturity of his conversation came a corresponding increase in the wisdom behind it. His choice may not have been made out of mercy, but it would feel like it to the man given a reprieve. As the two men staggered from the arena and a slave entered, raking the spilled blood into the sand, the prince finished running his finger across the wax likeness of the goddess and snapped the seal, opening the leather case and unfurling the short scroll. He read it through, his face inscrutable, and I smiled to think that only a few short years ago I had watched him struggling to read the line Cato’s cat eats birds in the schoolroom.
Finally, he rolled the scroll back up and tapped it on his knee. I waited patiently. We were friends, but to pry into the affairs of the imperial family without invitation was not done. Eventually, he leaned back with a sigh.
‘Aquileia is destroyed,’ he said simply. I frowned. I had heard of the city, of course. It was an important regional place with a distinguished history. It had been destroyed? ‘A tribe called the Marcomanni from across the border,’ he elucidated. ‘They looted and burned the place. Father and Verus are based there now, rebuilding and fortifying it. He says they are having to chase around to find any sign of the tribe, who seem to have moved back north. It sounds as though there won’t be much of a war. I expect they’ll be home for the winter.’
‘Your uncle will be champing at the bit to get to them, to win more victories for the empire.’ I smiled. The glorious Verus was Rome’s leading winner of military victories, and I knew Commodus idolised his uncle, so I was surprised when he gave a bored shrug.
‘War’s not a thing to prize, Em.’
I was somewhat nonplussed by his comment, given how we’d just watched two men thrusting deadly steel at one another for mere sport. Commodus must have seen my eyes flick to the bloodied sand, for he gave me an odd, wry smile. ‘It’s not the same.’ I threw a confused look at him and he shrugged. ‘War is different. It kills men by the thousand, and rarely solves anything. In ten years, for all Uncle’s victory, we’ll be watching Parthia rise again. All war does is hold back the tide for a bit. The only fighting that’s really worth anything is what you see down there.’ He pointed at the arena, where the last of the blood had been covered and the slave was slinking away. ‘That’s a contest of skill and bravery, and it’s got a purpose. To entertain. Give me two talented gladiators over a sea of soldiers any day.’
More news came as winter edged closer, though none of it was drastic or exciting. In the north, the tribes continued to hover just out of the reach of the two emperors, who concentrated on organising the defences of Italia in the region, raising new legions – which was apparently a difficult proposition given how far the plague had depopulated the countryside – and securing promises of peace, tribute and good conduct from whatever chieftains they could corner. In a way, I suppose, it could be considered a victory in itself that no more Romans had to die on a barbarian blade that season, though enough were reportedly falling in camp from the ongoing pestilence.
As the cold winds and the rains came in, and the more rustic of the freedmen serving in the villa assured us that snow was in the wind, I found myself fighting my own war. Consul Quadratus, who was now nearing the end of his term, found every opportunity to corner me when I was alone.
He was polite, which was oddly more unpleasant than if he’d been openly lascivious, but he was overly tactile, and his gaze was hungry. In numerous encounters across the villa, Quadratus made a habit of touching me lightly, on the shoulders, the hips, the arms. He was there when I emerged from the baths, freshly dressed. He was there in the corridors and hallways, always with the look of a predator. His presence made me shiver, made my gorge rise. He never made a move on me beyond those gentle brushes of fingers, and I felt safe from true danger, for if any harm befell me, Commodus would have him pay for it, but he was always there, an ever-present threat for the future. I am surprised I did not rub off my skin in the baths given how long I spent in there trying to scrub away the memory of his touch.
Commodus assured me that he would never let me fall into the clutches of a man who I didn’t want. It was comforting to hear, though I reminded myself that he may be a prince, but he was not even eight years old yet, and his opinion would likely be overridden by his elders.
I persevered, but my world was shaken at Saturnalia.
The emperors had not returned from their campaign as Commodus had predicted. Despite their inability to bring the troublesome tribes to battle, Aurelius and Verus opted to remain in winter quarters with the army, fearing the Marcomanni and their allies might capitalise on a winter withdrawal. Thus we suffered a somewhat subdued Saturnalia, with the patriarchs of the imperial family absent. Quadratus continued to cause me trouble, Lucilla was pricklier than ever with the ongoing absence of her husband, and Commodus had started, I think, to really miss his uncle, especially with the continuing absence of his little brother, Annius, who had remained in Praeneste with their mother and whom we had not seen for months.
On the second day of the festival we went to visit the palaestra where the wrestlers were training. They were to be part of the evening’s entertainment, at the instigation of the young prince, and he wanted to be certain that they were prepared. I was worried. Commodus had been complaining of a sore throat for days, and the villa’s attendant physician had prescribed a potent liquid to gargle with and insisted that he remain tucked up beneath blankets. Despite this, though he gargled with a rigid adherence to schedule, the young prince refused to spend Saturnalia in bed. I chided him gently for emerging onto the palaestra in just tunic, boots and short cloak, when there was still frost on the ground and the air carried a bitter cold that sank into the bones in mere moments. He brushed my concerns aside, though with little in the way of words, wincing whenever he swallowed.
The throat illness didn’t worry me. I’d had something similar years earlier, and it
had lasted but a matter of days. His unwillingness to look after himself was another thing entirely. He claimed that fresh air was better for his health than wallowing in bed all day, but I worried, for I trusted the physician. We watched the wrestlers, and I endured Commodus’ rasped notes and comments on their various strengths and weaknesses, all the time wishing we were inside. One of the wrestlers, a hulking bruiser of a man, explained some of the more difficult moves to us, and bowed respectfully as Commodus thanked him. Finally, seemingly content with what we had seen, we turned and made our way back to the villa proper.
I was discussing one of my prime concerns with him as we walked.
‘I cannot say that he is discourteous, as such . . .’ Quadratus, of course.
‘He hasn’t insulted you? Harmed you?’
‘No,’ I replied, hurriedly. ‘No insult or hurt. It’s just a threat. Or maybe a promise. There is something odd about him. I mean, what Roman nobleman reaches thirty years without marriage?’
It was odd, and Commodus knew it. But Quadratus was a cousin of the prince’s, carrying imperial blood, and he was a consul of Rome. He’d not done anything officially wrong, for all my concerns. Still, I didn’t like him.
‘Perhaps . . .’ the prince began, and then his voice disappeared. I had taken another step or two, watching the icy ground beneath my feet, and I turned. Commodus was lying on the floor, gasping. I stared in surprise. My first thought was that he’d slipped on the ice, and I almost laughed automatically, but something was clearly not right. His face, which had been pale with his illness, was suddenly waxy and red, and he was gasping as though fighting for breath.
