Commodus

by Simon Turney

  Twice in one month I found Praetorians in my room, rummaging through my things. Once upon a time I had trusted the Praetorians. They had kept us safe in the mountains of Asia and fought valiantly for Rome on the Danubius. Now, they were little more than the armoured agents of Cleander. I had a small but trusted cadre of palace slaves that I relied upon for information and aid, and gradually over the months they disappeared, either arrested on some ridiculous charge and taken to the cellars to scream out their tortured confessions or simply gone with no explanation. I was being systematically disarmed.

  On one occasion I managed to speak to Commodus, briefly, although not out of earshot of the Praetorians, so I was forced to be oblique and careful.

  ‘My privacy has been cast to the wind,’ I muttered. There was no harm in that. Of all people, the Praetorians knew it, for they were the very prying eyes and ears responsible, and it would be natural for me to complain. ‘The Guard feel free to ransack my room and question my slaves.’

  ‘Your slaves?’ Commodus raised an eyebrow. Clearly, all slaves in the palace were his or the imperial family’s. I actually owned none of them. But he smiled and let that go. ‘Since that day with my sister and the arena, the Guard are more watchful than ever. If anything, it does them credit. They are just being thorough.’

  ‘They think to find an assassin’s blade beneath my pillow? I am being targeted, and you know precisely who by.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not having that old argument again, Marcia.’

  ‘With respect,’ I said, though I suspect there was little indication of that in my tone, ‘I think you are ignoring what is going on around you. You let people run the empire for you.’ Praetorians were paying attention to me now. I was breaking my own promise to be careful. ‘But while your favourite drives you to extravagant gestures and wild ideas, those gestures are taking root in people’s minds differently. What to you is recreation to them looks like excess. The population of Rome only sees the heights to which Cleander drives you.’ Damn it, I’d said it now. ‘They talk of orgies and profligacy. Even of incest. Rumours abound because, while you should be dealing with your people, you are instead driving chariots and holding parties, leaving the business of empire to Cleander.’

  He pulled away from me then, angry. ‘You think me blind to unhealthy influences, Marcia, yet here you are trying to persuade me to distrust my own guard. Curb your tongue when you speak to me.’

  With that he stalked away angrily and I, all too aware of the Praetorians watching me, also went my own way.

  While all this was happening I at least knew that other good men were moving towards the inexorable goal of tipping Cleander from his lofty perch, so I settled into palace life, waiting for the inevitable, or rather, for what I presumed to be inevitable. Despite everything, Commodus remained with Bruttia Crispina. She was no longer a smiling little thing, but a sad, moping, bitter creature with little hope of a future. I had torn that away from her. Perhaps out of some childish loyalty, Commodus remained steadfastly married to his barren empress, though he never slept with her.

  I was devious enough to work like Cleander, but not quite as corrupt in the soul. I had taken from Bruttia Crispina the chance to bear the emperor’s children, but had stopped short of seeking harm to Bruttia herself. And even now, while Commodus clung to her despite everything, I would not seek her fall. The inevitable. Soon, the importance of the succession would force him to cast her aside without my interference.

  Winter rolled into spring with the news that the revolt of the deserters in Gaul had finally been put down. Between the generals Niger and Pertinax, the rebellious force had been utterly smashed and control reasserted over the roads and towns of the province. The ringleader and a small number of his men escaped, and the authorities continued to investigate in Gaul, attempting to track him down, but the danger was clearly over, and even the emperor heaved a sigh of relief.

  Urged on to unnecessary extravagance as always by Cleander, Commodus decided to celebrate the return to peace in as grand a manner as possible. Beginning on that least auspicious of days, the Ides of Martius, the festival of the mother of the gods, Cybele, lasted a whole week and was one of the more anticipated celebrations of the pagan year. I had seen the festival numerous times and was prepared to witness licence, abandon and even debauchery. Commodus, however, planned grand games and parades and plays.

  The Ides came around and we prepared for the opening procession. With no rigid mother to stop me these days, I threw myself into the fun of the festival. At least for a few days neither Cleander nor Bruttia would be troubling me, for everyone would be busy.

  I deliberated for some time on what to wear, for it is the custom during the festival to dress in whatever manner one desires, regardless of station or gender, adopting disguises. Even soldiers, senators and priests would be there in their costumes and masks. This was the only time of the year in which I could legitimately and without fear adopt any mode of dress I wished and it was clearly important, at least in my head, that I make a statement. I thought long and hard about it. I wanted to appeal to Commodus for obvious reasons, but I had had my time as a concubine, a plaything for a rich animal, and I would not demean myself so again. I considered a goddess, but even in these days of relative freedom from Mother’s disapproval, my fear of the Lord and his commandments on idols and worship made me flinch from doing so. I needed something sensual and alluring, but temporal. It needed to be enticing and yet strong. It needed to draw the emperor’s eye and the empress’ ire. I settled upon my disguise of an evening while reading Juvenal’s satires. The very notion leapt from the vellum. It was everything I required and more.

  I waited on the morning of the festival outside the temple of the Magna Mater on the Palatine, the sacred sanctuary of Cybele. I was dressed as a gladiatrix and could see all male eyes lingering on me. In little more than a leather wrap for my breast and a leather loincloth, I held a wooden sword and a small wooden shield, my hair held back by a simple leather thong and my face covered with an expressionless yet very feminine steel mask.

  Juvenal was my guide and my muse that day. ‘What modesty can you expect in a woman who wears a helmet, abjures her own sex, and delights in feats of strength? Yet she would not choose to be a man, knowing the superior joys of womanhood.’

  Lysandra the gladiatrix awaited her emperor.

  I smiled as the last two figures emerged from the palace, making their way to the temple under the escort of half a dozen men who had foregone the chance to dress as they liked and wore the traditional white toga of the Praetorians. The group of soldiers surrounded a small man dressed as the goat-god Pan, and a tall one wearing the lion skin and carrying the club of Hercules. Despite the gold mask covering his face between beard and hair, no one in Rome would be in any doubt of the true identity of the god walking among them. I might have baulked at impersonating a pagan deity, but I found delight, oddly, in seeing him dressed as one.

  The emperor and Cleander joined the group, and Commodus gave me an appraising look. I clearly came down favourably and silently I thanked Juvenal for his inspiration. What would Bruttia make of me when she saw me? Other notables and guests joined us, then finally there was a fanfare from the temple and the Galli – the eunuch priests – emerged at a stately pace. Leading them was the reed-bearer with his simple piece of flora on a perfect cushion of white. Behind him came more and more of his ilk, each carrying the paraphernalia of the goddess and her associates. Finally, the statue of the great mother herself, seated in a rich chair, appeared on the shoulders of six priests, sweating under the weight.

  The procession moved off, heading along an age-old route that took it through the streets to the adulation of the people. The emperor and his escort, along with myself and various other notables, fell in behind the priests. All was jubilant and good-humoured. Men and women shared jokes, unaware with whom they were laughing. At the end of the day, when th
e rites were done with and the taverns seduced the populace, there would be more than jokes shared between hidden identities. I smiled at the thought. Everywhere we went, two figures in the procession attracted attention above all others: the golden Hercules at its heart, and the lithe, swarthy, alluring gladiatrix nearby.

  We picked up more and more followers in the crowd as we travelled, for figures would fall into the procession and join as we moved, such that it would be a long, snaking line by the time we arrived in the forum. Initially I worried about the emperor’s safety, given the proximity of so many hidden faces, but Commodus was no fool. He was separated from the public by Praetorians, who were fierce and undisguised.

  We moved through the city and I laughed and joked. It felt good, even for just a day, to be free of machinations and dark thoughts, and I revelled in the opportunity to enjoy myself for a change. Even Cleander seemed untroubled and in high spirits. The only stern faces were the Praetorians, and they had a job to do. That was simply professionalism.

  Finally, as the sun neared its zenith, we reached the forum, passing the great amphitheatre and the Temple of Venus and Rome, watching with mirth as the priests struggled to manoeuvre the seated goddess through Titus’ arch, then on again, down the Via Sacra.

  It was as we passed the Temple of the Divine Caesar that it happened.

  So suddenly we had no chance to stop it, one of the Praetorians around the emperor ripped his sword from its hidden place beneath the folds of his toga and turned on the emperor. Two more followed suit, then another. I realised in the blink of an eye that there were far many more Praetorians around us now than there had been at the temple when we departed.

  Commodus was doomed.

  Two more Praetorians ripped their swords free and went for the emperor. It seemed his entire escort were assassins in the guise of his guard. For a horrifying moment I panicked that Laetus had foresworn his association with our conspirators and launched an attack of his own, but I swiftly pushed down that idea. Laetus was no fool.

  ‘Men of the Eighth Augusta! Protect the emperor,’ bellowed a voice, and suddenly soldiers were launching themselves at one another, their identities baffling as true Praetorians and assassins fought, all dressed identically.

  The assassins had the edge, and though there were many more true Praetorians around the procession, the crowd and the priests kept them from coming to the emperor’s aid. I caught sight for a moment of Laetus, struggling to reach the action, which confirmed for me that this had nothing to do with him. Now figures were fleeing the fighting, senators and plebs alike, colourful tunics and rich togas hurtling away into the forum in panic, Cleander was unarmed and useless. He did what he could, to his credit, placing himself between the attackers and the emperor and waving his pipes menacingly, though he flinched away when a sword came near him. But the assassins had not reckoned with the Hercules they faced. Commodus was no shrinking flower. I had seen him train with gladiators, hunt animals, throw spears. This was a man who had been blooded at ten years old in Marcomannia. And suddenly I was glad he was Cleander’s extravagant gladiator emperor.

  The emperor swung that great Herculean club and the effect was devastating, for it was no facsimile of papyrus and reeds, but a real ash staff bound in rings of iron. The huge weapon took two attackers from their feet, shattering the arm of one. I marvelled, but my own attention was distracted a moment later as another would-be assassin was trying to push past me and get to the emperor. Clearly, as a woman, I was no threat. I had not trained like a gladiator or ridden to war in Marcomannia. But I was strong, I was determined, and I had a three-foot ash-wood gladius.

  I slammed the tip of the weapon into the man’s ribs as he passed and was rewarded with a violent explosion of breath as the man fell. I am sure I at least cracked a few ribs. I had no chance to follow up on my blow, though, for he was dispatched easily a moment later by a Praetorian with a real sword.

  By the time I recovered from the shock of the whole incident, and my unexpected part in it, the danger was over. Nine Praetorians lay dead on the paving around us. There were screams and moans from the gathered crowd and from the priests, but Commodus was unharmed, his club smeared with blood.

  ‘You,’ the emperor called, pointing at one of the white-togate, sword-wielding men who had leapt to his defence. The soldier bowed his head respectfully, sword lowered.

  ‘You,’ Commodus repeated. ‘You identified them as men of the Eighth. That’s a Gallic legion. Maternus’ men. How did you know?’

  The man, his head still bowed, cleared his throat. ‘Because I was one of them, Majesty. Aulus Rutilius Secundus, Eighth Augusta, formerly.’

  Commodus stared. This was one of those men who had ravaged Gaul until the two generals put down the revolt.

  ‘Explain,’ Commodus said in a dangerous voice.

  ‘Majesty, some of us lads, we left the legions for good reasons. Bastard centurions who beat us and stole our pay, kept us on the worst duties, and all ’cause they didn’t like our faces. We had to leave, and we had to survive, but it was never our intention to cause harm to the emperor. That was Maternus and four of his cronies, Majesty.’

  Commodus stared, his face unreadable.

  ‘Execution is the only answer for a deserter,’ Cleander said quietly, and to his credit the soldier remained calm and accepting. I stepped forward.

  ‘He and his friends saved you, Majesty.’

  The emperor nodded thoughtfully. ‘A condemned deserter who saves the emperor from harm. I would wager there is no precedent for dealing with such a thing.’ He straightened and turned to Cleander. ‘Identify the intruders among the living and the dead. Every man who fought alongside Rutilius Secundus here is to be pardoned his desertion and to be offered the choice of returning to his legion or receiving honourable discharge with pension.’

  I was paying only passing attention. My quick mind was making calculations. Maternus and four of his cronies, the deserter had said. But I remembered six men attacking the emperor. I ran the scene back through my head once more but was sure it was six.

  ‘Which one of these is Maternus?’ Cleander snapped at the deserter, gesturing at the bodies that were now being laid side by side.

  ‘None of them, sir. You’ll find him in the temple we just passed, I’ll wager.’

  True Praetorians were dispatched to search the Temple of the Divine Caesar, but that only made my math that bit more shocking. Only four deserters then, but six attackers. And there was only one explanation. The other two would have to be actual Praetorians from Rome, who had attacked the emperor.

  For a sickening moment, I blamed Cleander. Praetorians had tried to assassinate emperors before, some even succeeding, but why? Who had led this? Certainly, no guard in Rome would be working for the leader of the Gallic deserters, which pinned culpability in my mind to Cleander. But what could he hope to gain? Even if Commodus had been struck down, the senate and the people would not accept the accession of Cleander. He could not be emperor. Never. So, what was going on? Even if Laetus had been involved in the attack, which he clearly was not, he’d have been trying for Cleander, not the emperor.

  Whatever the case, what meagre trust I had left in the Praetorians withered.

  I watched, sick to the stomach, as the rebel leader Maternus, who had fled among those many running figures to the temple the moment the fight started, realising it was doomed to failure, was dragged before the emperor. Commodus had been merciful to the men who had saved him, but there was no clemency in him for Maternus. The former officer was held down as he spat bile and hatred, and one of the Guard lifted his gladius. The standard weapon of the Roman army is a multi-purpose blade but is most dangerous when stabbing. The edge can be keen, but still, as the man swept it down into Maternus’ neck, it did little more than cripple him and leave his head lolling in agony. The man tried to scream, but his pipe had been severed and only a strange whistle
emerged. It took the soldier two more blows to take off the head. I watched the entire grisly scene, my mind casting me images of the governor of Aegyptus accepting such a blade stoically, and of Quadratus, hacked at and screaming for what seemed an eternity. I am no wallflower, and blood does not overly concern me, but this was appalling.

  The rest of the day was exceedingly strange. While I could see an edge to Commodus’ expression that spoke of uncertainty and even anger, he was safe, the would-be assassins were all dead, and loyalty and aid had come from unexpected sources. Commodus was determined to go on. Indeed, he launched into the rest of the procession and festivities with renewed vigour, adding to the planned prayers and speeches new thanks to the gods for his deliverance. The public echoed that very sentiment, too. Their emperor was saved, and on an auspicious day: that same day upon which the assassins of Caesar had not failed in their task.

  It was only when the day was done and we returned to the palace that I had a chance to air my concerns to the emperor. Bruttia Crispina was in her room preparing for the grand banquet that was planned, and Cleander was seeing to the security arrangements in the company of his two sycophantic prefects. I went looking for Commodus and found him in an unexpected location. Clearly, he had been more shaken by today’s events than he had shown, for he was in a place I had not seen since we were children. Oddly, it was when I was passing that open door, and smiling about our childhood games of hide and find, that I realised this was where he had been on the day of Fulvus’ accident.

  The Palatine is a complicated palace, with many different regions and built on numerous levels. There are cellars upon cellars in some places and those that are infamous for their Praetorian interrogators are only one such area. The one that Commodus had found his way to is a dank area beneath the heart of the palace.