by Simon Turney
Still, it was a rural idyll if ever I saw one. But my positivity was to be short-lived. Lucilla was a prickly presence even to begin with, but her moods plummeted to new depths early on. Her ongoing uncertainty over her status was swiftly cleared up when her father, barely allowing her an appropriate period of mourning, betrothed her to his favoured general, Pompeianus. The decision caused what I can only describe as a human explosion.
Upon receiving the command for her betrothal, she rose from her chair like a phoenix from the ashes, all fire and fury. ‘This is unacceptable,’ she snapped, directing her ire at the man who ruled the world, drawing wide-eyed shock from those family and close advisors present. The emperor turned a tired look on her but said nothing, and she had the temerity to jab a finger at her father. ‘Pompeianus is nothing. A provincial soldier. I am an empress.’
As though speaking to a tantruming child, which, in a way, he was, Marcus Aurelius spoke levelly and quietly. ‘You were an empress, Lucilla.’ She bridled, and I prepared for the worst, but the emperor went on quietly. ‘Pompeianus is a senator, a former consul, one of the most senior commanders of my army, and a clever, respectable man. You could use a little sensible, I think.’
Lucilla made a strange growling noise and stalked two steps forward, more leonine, now. ‘Pompeianus is new money,’ she sneered. ‘A backwater farm boy whose father grew too big for his boots and made it to Rome. He is a rustic and low-born and wholly inappropriate. I will not accept this match. I am an empress and the ashes of my husband – your brother – are not yet cooled.’
Aurelius took two steps towards his daughter – two lions now, meeting in ire – and I actually thought for a moment he might strike her. Instead, he squared up to her, his expression cast in stone. He had always been a great emperor, wise and clever, but I had never seen him so forceful. That afternoon, he stared down his daughter and spoke in tones of steel and bronze that could have bested a legion.
‘You are no empress. You are my daughter, who shows scant regard for the niceties of mourning, busily positioning herself among the great instead. It is you who have outgrown your boots, Lucilla, in believing that because I married you to my stepbrother you are my equal in some way. You are not. I rule Rome, and I alone, now. And when I die, my sons will rule. That is the way of it. You may keep your petty privileges: seats in the arena, positions at banquets and the like. You may keep a villa or two. But you will also keep your tongue tucked away inside that swelling head of yours and you will make a good wife for Pompeianus, who is a great man, if born of the equites, and who does not deserve to be saddled with a shrew. Now get out of my sight.’
It was impressive. Had it been me before the great man, I fear I would have shrivelled and perished on the spot, and I am no shrinking flower. Lucilla was made of even sterner stuff. She accepted her berating with cold silence, bowed her head respectfully, a hair’s breadth short of insolence, and left. She would be remarried and no more an empress. But this would not be the last blow of that particular combat, for sure, and the following months at the villa were appalling in her presence. I avoided her as much as possible, but could not always do so.
The presence of his icy sister did little to raise Commodus’ still flagging spirits, though the companionship of young Annius, so long absent but now returned, helped a great deal. Between my periodic ministrations and the youthful spirits of Annius, we began to lift Commodus from the misery of his uncle’s passing.
A second unpleasantness was caused by an old enmity. Cleander came as part of the emperor’s household. His access to Commodus and also to myself was extremely limited, since he was constantly beset by chores and tasks in this, a smaller complex than the city palace, but whenever opportunity allowed him close to either of us he continued his machinations, ingratiating himself to the prince and bathing me in snide remarks. Between Lucilla and Cleander, I spent every hour in the villa on the lookout for someone determined to ruin my day.
On one occasion, mind, when Commodus was again in good spirits and fine physical form, I was forced to acknowledge a certain value to Cleander’s influence on the prince. Commodus and young Annius played a game in the grounds that had begun innocently as a series of simple physical competitions – seeing who could jump the furthest across the flower beds and the like. I had been half watching as I sewed a tunic for my mother, sitting on a marble bench. Had I paid more attention, I might have noticed the brothers, throughout their laughter, becoming more and more dangerous, daring one another to ever greater feats. It was only when I looked up to see them both tottering along a narrow balustrade over a sizeable drop that I realised what was happening and my heart lurched. I rose to try and interfere and, even as I came to my feet, saw Annius waver and begin to slip, toppling out towards the drop. I saw it all about to happen, and then suddenly Cleander was there, as he had been that ice-cold day to fish a prince from the deadly water, his hands reaching up and grabbing another brother of Commodus, preventing his fall.
I started running to join them, but on the way bumped into Mother, who had been looking for me. As she rattled her disapproval at me, my eyes continually flicked towards the tableau out in the gardens. Cleander had lifted Annius down and was now talking almost sternly to Commodus, then helped him too down to the ground.
I realised that, in an odd way, Cleander was the down to my up. While I was there to pull Commodus from the gloom of despair and lift him into the light, so Cleander seemed to be there when the prince pushed himself to excess, keeping control of the situation. Had he not been such a constant drain on my own spirits, I might have been able to find an odd appreciation for him, then.
And then there was my third trouble. Among the many courtiers who managed to secure an invitation to Praeneste and, rather unsettlingly, with the support of Lucilla, came the former consul Quadratus. Everywhere I went in the villa, when I wasn’t being sneered at by Cleander or shouted at by Lucilla, I was being leered at by Quadratus and occasionally touched and caressed. Perhaps worse still was the fact that he had recently adopted a son who was around my age, and the son kept fixing me with the same hungry look as his father. I shuddered a lot.
Other than Commodus, my only ally and the only true relief I found was in the form of Eclectus. The former secretary of Lucius Verus had not passed to Lucilla but had instead been taken on by Aurelius himself, and become a man of some importance. And Eclectus liked me. It might purely have been born of the fact that we had both spent ample time in the icy, difficult presence of Lucilla, but more than once Eclectus interrupted difficult moments and saved me from trouble.
Throughout our time there, with the companionship of young Annius, I managed to work my little miracles with the prince. Commodus returned fully to the waking world once more. He was not quite the same, I believe. The loss of Fulvus had shaken him to his core, and he had recovered well but, compounded by the loss of Verus, he simply could not reach the heights of easy humour we had once shared. In fact, I think that, more than ever before, his sullener moments became counterpoint to peaks of idiotic spirit that often went too far. In high summer, an incident brought one matter to a head, much to my regret.
I had been in the gardens, hiding from Lucilla, who was once again on a rampage, and as I passed into the atrium at the villa’s northern side, I stumbled into Quadratus’ son. I rounded the corner and, walking directly into him, stumbled back, startled and embarrassed. I mumbled an apology, for I was a nobody, while he was the son of an important man. The next thing I knew, he was on me. We were alone in the place, which was a rarity in that busy villa, and I was in trouble.
His hands were suddenly on my shoulders, pushing me back. His leering mouth opened, and his tongue darted out, moistening his lips. I felt my breath forced from me as I hit the painted wall, and I almost fell.
‘You’re too pretty to be alone,’ he said, his voice little more than a sickly whisper.
‘Get off me,’ I said, desperate
ly. I dared not shout, oddly. Though he was attacking me, I was wise enough to the ways of the court and the social levels we moved in to know that any accusation I made would come down to his word against mine, and mine would count for nothing. Consequently, I knew I had to fight this battle here and on my own.
I pushed him away, but he was stronger than me and he came back with another shove, smashing me against the wall once more, this time delivering a painful crack to the back of my head. He was holding me now, forcing me to remain still as his tongue advanced on me. But I am not weak, and Christian charity and forgiveness go only so far. I brought my knee up into his groin. I was wearing a flowing tunic with plenty of give, and I hit him hard. I left him in the atrium, doubled over and whimpering as blood trickled down his lip from where he’d bitten deep into it. Just as I would not tell anyone what he had done, I knew he was bound in a similar manner, especially faced with admitting that a plebeian girl had bested him.
I ran through the corridors, ignoring demands that I slow and stop, and finally reached Commodus. For the first time in our lives, our common situation was reversed. I was shaking and fearful, and the young prince consoled me, and tried to talk me round. When he drew out of me something of what had happened, he was angry. I didn’t tell him all of it, of course, just that Quadratus’ son had shoved me. I once more voiced my fear over the former consul, and now of his son also. I was almost twelve, and only a year away from being promised to someone. I had to make sure it would not be him.
The next thing I knew, Commodus was leading me to his father. I had not needed to ask. The prince knew what needed doing. We were admitted to the imperial presence, and my spirits sank as I noted the familiar shape of Lucilla on another couch.
‘My son?’ the emperor said curiously.
‘Father, I don’t want Marcia to be Quadratus’. He wants her, but he’s not good for her. Since Uncle is gone, could I be her patron now?’
It was not well put. He was still only eight and without the tongue of an orator, but it was said from the heart, and his father recognised that. I was on my knees behind the prince, respectful in the imperial presence, and I kept my gaze lowered, just enough to still see everything. I could see the emperor mulling it over, deciding what could be done, but all my hopes were dashed when Lucilla shook her head.
‘No.’
‘I’m not asking you, Lucilla,’ Commodus replied. ‘I’m asking Father.’
‘But the girl is mine,’ Lucilla snapped. ‘Her and her mother. They were both part of my husband’s household, clients of his, freed by his hand. And when his estate passed to me, I inherited all of his people, barring the one that Father took as a secretary. The seamstress and her daughter are mine, not yours. If her mother wishes to remain gainfully employed and not have all her debts and favours called in, then she and the girl will submit to my will.’
We were, of course, beholden. Our home had been destroyed in that flood, and even that had been paid for by Verus. Yes, my mother was a talented seamstress, but we owed so much to the family of the divine Verus that my mother and I could never hope to live without their patronage. I felt the world crumbling away beneath my feet, and Commodus, clearly desperate, turned to the emperor.
‘Father?’
Marcus Aurelius shrugged. ‘It is her estate, son. They are her women.’ And I knew what was happening, here; what games were being played. The emperor had put down his foot with Lucilla, betrothing her against her will, and knew how badly it sat with her. He would not compound that decision by overruling her and meddling in her estate. Ever the wily ambassador, he had imposed his will upon her, now he must give concessions.
Lucilla’s icy glare of triumph sickened me.
‘You are almost of marriageable age, girl, yes?’
I nodded. ‘Almost twelve, Majesty.’
‘Quadratus cannot marry you. Look at you, just a raggy doll in a cheap tunic with slave’s blood. But Quadratus is a cousin, an important man, and it is crucial to keep the senatorial class of Rome, family included, loyal and content. You will be Quadratus’. Not a wife, for he has no wish for a wife, but a mistress. A plaything. And you will accept it. You will enjoy it, or at least appear to do so, for Quadratus is a friend, and I shall hear if it is otherwise.’
I felt sick. Nauseous and with shaking legs, I bowed lower, accepting my fate. Mother and Father had been slaves before the great Verus freed them. I had grown up free and had never known the feel of slavery. Yet even as a freeborn pleb, I realised now I was enslaved by Lucilla and Quadratus. Commodus could do nothing to stop it, and the emperor would do nothing.
I spent the following month largely in hiding. When Commodus was available, he kept me busy and accompanied me, for even in the knowledge that I was practically his, Quadratus would do nothing in the prince’s presence. The rest of the time, I tried to stay hidden and out of circulation. Occasionally I would meet Quadratus or his son, both of whom simply gave me a knowing glance, assuming that I would be theirs as soon as my age made it socially acceptable. Other times, I would meet Lucilla, who treated me like some unwanted rodent. And yet others, I would find myself in Cleander’s presence, though he had stopped taunting and pushing me now. That I had been effectively sold into sexual slavery and was waiting only until I first endured my monthly cycle was a dream come true for him, and he revelled in my misery.
But the time of sorrows was not done with us yet.
The last timber on the funeral pyre of that year came during the night of a feast in late autumn. I forget what it was celebrating. I had no cause to be happy and simply sat with Mother at the periphery of events, for once less enthusiastic than she. Among the imperial family and the high nobles near them, the night was one of good-natured banter, and it peaked when the empress Faustina urged her younger son, Annius, to sing a song. Annius had a lovely voice, clear and perfect, and the boy, now almost seven, stood at the centre of the room and held out his hands. He began to sing, a popular melody of the time that I cannot for the life of me remember now.
When it started to go wrong, it was assumed to be some humorous childhood slip, and his parents and siblings, and all those present at the near tables, smiled and laughed. Annius had mispronounced something, and then his words slid to a halt, his brow folding in confusion. With a shrug, he began the refrain afresh, but this time, even the basic words came out as unintelligible noises. He seemed unable to speak, as though he had reverted to some foreign tongue.
Then he fell.
At that moment, we all knew something was wrong. The whole feast stopped instantly, and everyone rushed forward to be of aid if they could. I saw bits and pieces of it through the legs and between the bodies of other guests. Annius was on the floor, shaking, eyes rolling. On an impulse, I looked to the side, to Commodus. The emperor and the empress, the princesses and the nobles, were all intent on the suddenly fallen boy. No one was looking at Commodus.
No one but I.
And I saw it all flood back in.
The dreadful blackness of his moods after the passing of Fulvus, the despair and visions of death when Verus died. The dreams of decay and ruination that he believed had come from the gods in prescience, foretelling more pain. And he had been right. I should not, as a Christian, give credence to such ideas, but I find it impossible to deny. Commodus had thought his dreams of death to be omens sent by his gods. And that very notion seemed to be being played out. He was vindicated in the worst possible way.
And because I knew what had passed between us, I knew Annius would die.
It was an awful feeling, but I knew it with leaden certainty. And I believe Commodus knew it too.
The feast ended abruptly, and the young prince was carried to his room. The physician who was on hand in the villa announced that it was an affliction that struck the great and the glorious. Alexander had had it, he said. And Caesar. Now Annius of the Antonine dynasty. But, the man smiled, remem
ber that Alexander and Caesar lived full lives with the affliction. It did not kill them, and it would not kill this prince.
I knew otherwise.
Perhaps even the emperor did not believe him, for the next morning the noted physician Galen arrived in Praeneste, having hurried hither from Rome at Aurelius’ summons. The great medicus had been doing his best to heal the beleaguered city of its plague. Placed in charge by the emperor, he had instructed the vigiles, the authorities and the populace how best to minimise risk of contagion and how to deal with it when it arose. He was slowly bringing Rome under control. But now, with Annius’ fall, he had ridden hard for Praeneste.
When he was escorted into the imperial apartment, the local doctor had no argument. Galen’s reputation spoke for itself, and it was known how much the emperor valued him, after saving Commodus’ life so recently.
‘It is the falling sickness,’ the local physician said confidently.
Galen flashed him a look. ‘Tell me what happened. Precisely. Leave nothing out.’
And the physician did just that. Galen looked less and less convinced as it went on, and finally gestured at the man. ‘This is no more the falling sickness than it is diarrhoea. Go find me somewhere hygienic to work and have everything made ready. There will be surgery, I fear.’
The other man frowned, but did so without argument. In the presence of Galen and the emperor, he was hardly about to stand on his convictions. Galen hurried in to the prince, Aurelius at his heel.
‘Surgery, you think?’ the emperor said breathlessly. ‘What is it?’
