Commodus

by Simon Turney

  ‘We shall go, if you wish to bathe in the vapours of Hades.’ Commodus grinned. ‘Or are Christians immune to such things? I mean, you do not acknowledge the gods, so what happens when they toast your backside? Do you just not believe it and it stops?’

  ‘Mock me all you like,’ I said, lifting my chin defiantly. ‘Yet it’s to me you come.’

  He peered at me intensely for a moment, then pinched my chin between thumb and forefinger, pulling my haughty face back down and planting a forceful kiss that went wrong because we were both grinning too much.

  People laud the great Vespasian and the magnificent Trajan and Hadrian. Yet Vespasian destroyed the Jews’ whole world. Trajan was no friend of the Christian. Hadrian obliterated Holy Jerusalem and renamed it for himself. In Commodus was a man of true tolerance. My people could go far under his rule.

  It was a perfect, tranquil moment, framed by the tinkling of the water. Like all perfect, tranquil moments, it passed too soon.

  Voices outside were being raised in alarm. I looked to Commodus, whose brow lowered. He nodded and we both hurried out, past the shrine of the household gods and the doorman’s cubbyhole, through the arch and into the cold morning air, pulling our cloaks around us.

  The gardens were in turmoil. The gladiator guards were swarming to the wall, armed and shouting to one another. Off to the side, out of sight, we could hear the metallic thunder as the Praetorian detachment emerged from their quarters and hurried around towards the villa’s front. Still holding my hand, Commodus began to stride out across the circular garden towards the gate, where men were gathering. The walls were but eight feet high. Tall enough for privacy, yet paltry for defence. Along the inside were raised steps that allowed a guard to see over the top, and men on these steps were gesticulating outside.

  I felt very tense suddenly. Beneath the buzz of action and voices around the villa there was a rumbling undercurrent. It was not dissimilar to that deep grumble that the vast armoured column made when we travelled north with the emperor’s army. That very notion set me even more on edge. The noise was coming from somewhere along the drive, I was sure.

  As we moved towards the gate, a man turned from bellowing orders at the gladiators and started waving at us. ‘Majesty, you must return to the villa.’

  ‘Why?’ Commodus asked. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘A mob. A huge mob, Majesty.’

  A mob? Here? The very idea seemed far-fetched. Yet that low rumble, like distant thunder, seemed to confirm it. The gates were opened and three gladiators hurried in, men whose duty it had been to keep watch on the surrounding area. Past the three men, we could see down the long drive to the main road, perhaps half a mile distant. There was a cloud of dust and many, many people. A mob it was. And mobs are a very specific thing. They are always seeking something, and no one ever heard of a happy mob. I was ready to do just as the gladiator officer had said and hurry back to safety when Commodus let go of my hand and shrugged off his cloak.

  ‘Sword.’

  ‘Majesty, inside you—’

  ‘Give me a sword.’

  Without further argument, the officer passed over his weapon. It was not a glorious, decorative officer’s weapon or an emperor’s blade. It was the tool of a killer, hard iron pitted with the marks of a hundred fights. Commodus hefted it expertly.

  ‘Cowards run from trouble. Cowards like Nero. Cowards cannot rule an empire.’ He turned to me. ‘You go inside, Marcia. I will come for you when this is over.’

  I shook my head. No way in Hell was I going inside and leaving him to face an angry mob.

  ‘Ten men,’ bellowed Commodus. ‘The best ten, with me.’

  The Praetorians were now falling in in two rows of eight, looking more than a little irritated that their emperor was relying upon his gladiators when his official elite guard was also present. Still, their centurion stood, blank-faced, awaiting orders that would never come.

  To the shock of all present, except possibly me, Commodus brandished the sword and strode out of the gate onto the drive, the ten gladiators around him. I made to hurry after him, but the guards stopped me from leaving the villa. Foiled, I ducked to the side and climbed the steps so that I could see over the wall.

  The mob was a mass of a few hundred souls, by my estimation. Mostly plebs in poor dress, though there were a few among them who were certainly equestrians. They were running, but not in anger. A turma of Praetorian cavalry was racing down the drive after them, spears levelled, blades brandished high. My heart leapt into my throat. These men were out for battle. They were not going to stop.

  The civilians made it more than halfway to the villa before the cavalry ploughed into their rear ranks. I watched in horror as white-clad imperial guardsmen with their unique hexagonal, scorpion-motif shields began to butcher what appeared to be innocent Roman citizens. The first few were run through with spears, jerking and lurching to the side, falling in agony to be pulped beneath the hooves of their killers’ mounts. Then the swords began their work, cleaving and slicing.

  I stared. How could this be happening?

  The front of the crowd was closing on us now, howling for mercy as though it had been us who had commanded such violence. Commodus turned to look back at me and I could see the fury in his expression. He wheeled once more and began to bellow. One thing about my love that I may not have mentioned is his voice. He had a powerful baritone that was capable of carrying over most noise. In another life he would have made a great actor.

  ‘Halt!’ he bellowed.

  The mob ground to a halt, stumbling into one another. Behind them the Praetorians, as yet unaware amid the dust cloud raised by so many feet and hooves, were still busy killing indiscriminately.

  ‘Praetorians,’ he called out at the top of his voice, ‘form ranks!’

  Oddly, where a single order had gone unnoticed, a more military command in an authoritative tone seemed to have the desired effect. The massacre slowed and stopped as the horsemen pulled back and returned to form a column, four men wide.

  Commodus pointed at them with his raised blade. ‘The next Praetorian who raises a hand against a Roman citizen without my express permission will be thrown into the Tiber in a bag full of vipers. Do I make myself clear?’

  There was a rumble of acceptance among the soldiers.

  ‘Now, what is the meaning of this?’

  A dozen voices started to clamour at once. Commodus raised his hands to stop them, his scowl still angry. And then, as the noise subsided once more, a single horseman emerged from the ranks of the Praetorians like some figure from nightmare, trotting forward. He was in the uniform of a senior Praetorian and it was only as he broke clear of the worst of the dust cloud that I recognised the chamberlain.

  ‘What is this, Cleander?’ Commodus demanded angrily.

  The chamberlain and commander of Praetorians reined in and sat straight in the saddle, looking down at the emperor. I noted with anger that he did not even bow his head in respect.

  ‘Rome seethes with riots. I had word that a mob was bound for the villa, so we came to protect the imperial person.’

  ‘Horse shit,’ bellowed someone in the crowd, earning a fiery look from the rider. Commodus’ head snapped back and forth between them. ‘They are curiously unarmed for a dangerous mob, Cleander.’

  ‘An enraged man can kill with his hands. Think what hundreds can do.’

  ‘He lies, Majesty,’ called that same voice from the crowd.

  ‘I will have your fucking tongue, maggot, before you are nailed up,’ Cleander spat.

  The crowd parted and the speaker emerged. It took a moment for me to recognise Eclectus. He had lost weight and looked older. He wore the simple garb of a country man now, but it was most definitely him, despite the long hair and the matted beard. From secretary to the great Marcus Aurelius to angry revolutionary pleb. How far he had fallen. How far h
ad he been pushed, I reminded myself.

  Clearly, neither Commodus nor Cleander recognised the man.

  ‘Is your appetite for torture not sated yet?’ Eclectus spat back at him. I could see the indecision in Commodus. There seemed little grounding to the belief that this crowd meant harm, and yet he had always relied so heavily upon Cleander. Even I had to admit that the snake had never once shown a sign that he was anything other than loyal to the emperor.

  ‘Let him speak,’ I yelled from the wall-top into the silence that followed. Such a command issued at a critical time by a woman was shock enough to draw every pair of eyes in my direction. Most gazes were surprised or disapproving. I saw relief in Eclectus’, interest in Commodus’ . . . and blind fury in Cleander’s.

  ‘Marcia?’ Commodus prompted, still craning over his shoulder to look at me.

  ‘It is Eclectus, Majesty.’

  His head snapped back to the dusty civilian. I could not see his face but could quite imagine what it looked like.

  ‘You should have been put down when we had the chance,’ snarled Cleander, but Commodus’ hand, still brandishing that blade, shot out at him.

  ‘Quiet, Cleander. Speak, Eclectus.’

  ‘This man has turned Rome to revolt, Majesty. To the very brink of a civil war, in fact. Even now, the streets run with blood, for good men will no longer take his oppression and raise blades to defy him, even as he has his Praetorians gut the populace in the forum.’

  He threw out a hand, pointing at Cleander. ‘As the Praetorian commander, he has become overlord of Rome, master of spies and butcher of citizens. He casually murders those who oppose him and takes their lands. As chamberlain he is worse. Rome starves, Majesty. In times of such dreadful famine, the best of emperors past have increased the grain dole, doubled shipments, even diverted the navy to ease the crisis. What does this man do? Hoard what little is left in private granaries and put to the sword any man who tries to feed his family from what should be public grain.’

  Unease crossed Cleander’s face now.

  ‘Is this true, Cleander?’ the emperor asked, turning to the mounted man.

  ‘After a fashion. On the advice of the grain commissioner, I began to stockpile the grain against the time of greatest crisis.’

  I felt a strange lurch inside. The grain commissioner. Years ago, when I began to build my web of allies on the Palatine, I had been introduced to Papirius Dionysius, who filled that role. Was it still he? Connections began to fall into place. Rufinus, the prefect of the fleet. A man who could impede or aid the flow of grain at will without the knowledge of the administration, probably in conjunction with Nicomedes, who could ease or restrict the flow of information at will with his couriers.

  ‘You do not feel that starvation in the streets is the time of greatest crisis?’

  I realised as Cleander opened his mouth again that not only was he not bowing his head, but he was also repeatedly failing to address the emperor with any kind of title or honorific.

  ‘Things can always get worse. I was preparing for disaster.’ His voice was becoming edgy.

  ‘You were causing disaster,’ Commodus snapped. ‘What do the consuls have to say on all of this?’

  Cleander’s eyes narrowed. I could see him thinking his way around the problem, but he was too late.

  Eclectus cleared his throat. ‘Majesty, Consul Vitellius has fled the city, fearing Praetorian blades in the night, for he has already lost a son and most of his property to Cleander. Severus is one of those lionhearts in the city who wields a blade in defiance.’

  Severus. Another of my conspirators. A city pushed to the point of revolt by oppression, starvation and disease. It had not taken much to finally burst the dam. Just the failure to feed the starving. A consul, a grain commissioner and an admiral. How neat. And how very hard to prove. Cleander must be sweating.

  Commodus turned back to the chamberlain, who thrust out an angry finger at Eclectus. ‘This man is twisting the truth. I followed the advice of the grain commissioner. He assured me more supplies were on the way. The Misenum fleet has been dispatched to speed the flow. The consuls should be helping to keep the peace in Rome so that I can do my job . . .’

  It almost sounded plaintive. Almost like a child attempting to excuse some clear failure of their own.

  ‘Yet you have driven one consul from the city and turned the other against you as a champion of the starving?’

  Cleander shook his head. ‘No.’

  Still no sign of deference to the emperor. I could see Commodus’ free hand constantly clenching and unclenching. He was becoming truly angry.

  ‘And these people are such a danger that you thought to bring a turma of cavalry and slay hundreds of Roman citizens in my driveway?’

  Cleander again, still shaking his head. ‘No, but—’

  ‘But you could not allow news of your mismanagement and cruelty to reach my ears?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That would be no, Majesty.’

  Cleander suddenly realised what he was doing and dropped his head. ‘I sought only to serve.’

  ‘I can see that now. I have been blind. Perennis once warned me. He said that you paid me lip service but only ever served yourself.’

  Cleander was in the grip of panic now. ‘No. Perennis was a traitor.’

  ‘Was he? The evidence was always so uncertain to my eye. And Marcia has been telling me all my life that you only ever sought your own glory.’

  ‘The whore is a liar.’

  That was a mistake. I watched Commodus’ hand fall very still as he spoke again.

  ‘I should have listened to her years ago. Who knows, perhaps I would still have Saoterus. Eclectus would still be in the palace. Rome would not be under siege by its own populace and citizens would not be butchered on my drive by the imperial guard.’

  ‘Listen, I—’

  ‘You are hereby removed from the Praetorian prefecture and the office of cubicularius. I imagine there are legal hoops through which to jump with the senate, but they will not deny me when I brand you an enemy of Rome.’

  Cleander’s face blanched. Enemy of Rome. A traitor in the eyes of the empire. No chance of clemency. Even a swift death would be too much to hope for. ‘No, Majesty!’

  Commodus took a few steps, the mob pulling back in fear and respect. Only Eclectus remained in place, head bowed. The emperor stopped before him. ‘You are chamberlain and friend of the emperor. Deal with this animal.’

  He handed his sword to Eclectus, who stared at it in shock, and then bowed. Commodus turned and strode back towards the gate, his gladiators pulling in behind him. Outside, the scene played out to its inevitable end. Eclectus brandished the blade and repeated, ‘Enemy of Rome.’

  Cleander, desperation flooding him, turned to the cavalry he had brought. ‘Defend me!’

  But the horsemen did nothing. Stripped of his command and labelled an enemy of Rome, Cleander had no authority over them. Instead, they fanned out, barricading the route back to the main road. The former prefect, aware now that all were against him, wheeled his horse. The Praetorians were blocking his path of escape. The emperor and his gladiators had reached the gate and were standing in the open space, preventing entry. The mob were starting to chant.

  ‘Enemy of Rome.

  ‘Enemy of Rome.

  ‘Enemy of Rome.’

  Had I been capable of even one iota of sympathy for the man, it would have come then. He was trapped, and he was doomed. The sides of the drive were lined with trees and statues and there was no space through which to safely guide a horse. In desperation, he turned his mount towards a seated statue of Vulcan. Digging in his heels, he raced towards it and tried to jump.

  Cleander was no horseman. He’d learned enough to ride convincingly, but he had no mastery of the beast. There was not enough space to make such an insane at
tempt, and the statue was too high, and the horse knew both. It refused, stamping to a halt and sending Cleander lurching in the saddle. The mob surged towards him, still chanting.

  At the last moment, Cleander tried to draw the sword at his side, but suddenly arms were grabbing him, heedless of the nervous horse, people swarming all around mount and rider. Cleander was pulled from the saddle and disappeared amid the mass of bodies. I lost sight of him then, though my searching eyes scoured the crowd.

  There was a scream. Then another. Then a long, blood-curdling howl, such as might be made by a soul in unimaginable torment. I know from what later remained that he was literally cut and torn to pieces while still alive by that crowd of furious citizens. What I saw next at the time was his head suddenly lifted above the mass to a whooping accompaniment. The sword Commodus had given Eclectus appeared from somewhere and the tip was jammed into the gore of the neck so that it could be held aloft, trailing matter and dripping dark blood.

  Cleander was no more.

  ‘Take him to Rome,’ Commodus bellowed, and the crowd fell silent, that head bobbing around several feet above the others. ‘Take him to the forum and make sure all of Rome knows his crime and his fate. Eclectus? Take the cavalry to the Palatine, attire yourself appropriately, and call a public address in the forum in my name. Take to the rostrum and tell the people of Rome that I am on the way home. And when I arrive, I will open the grain stores, reinstate the disenfranchised and construct a new grain fleet to double the imports from Africa and Aegyptus. Tell the people their emperor hears their cries.’

  With that he returned to the villa with his men, the gates were closed and the mob, along with the cavalry and their grisly prize, turned and began the journey back to Rome. I stood at the wall for a moment while Commodus began issuing commands to his staff and guards. As the dust settled, all that remained were the bodies of two dozen or so civilians, and the unsightly lumps of meat that were all that was left of the man who had been my nemesis since childhood.

  I should never have doubted Severus, Dionysius or Rufinus. Their plan had been long in the making, but it had achieved what no direct action could. They had brought down the unassailable tyrant.