by Simon Turney
The journey along the Via Appia took seven days, for we were travelling at leisure and with no pressing timescale. The road passed through the landscape of Latium and I drank it all in as we went, for I did not have to worry about the sea this time. We were accompanied only by a couple of units of guards rather than a vast field army, which made travel easier, and we were heading in a direction that was new to me.
For two days the Via Appia marched through a gradually changing world, with the high craters and peaks of the Alban Hills on our left and on our right flat agricultural lands stretching out to the Tyrrhenian Sea some ten miles distant, the coast running parallel to us. At Tarracina we met the water and followed it onwards from there.
Though my attention was regularly swept up in the landscape or the fascinating and noteworthy places we passed – Caligula’s Alban villa, the favoured estate of Antoninus Pius, and so on – I found myself pondering odd questions, one of which concerned the route that we travelled. The Via Appia is indisputably Rome’s most famous road. She is often called the ‘queen of roads’ in fact, and it occurred to me that I had no idea what the name meant. This was compounded when, as the road moved from good solid land into the Pontine Marshes causeway, we passed through the small town of Forum Appii, where we spent the night.
‘What does the name mean?’ I asked over our evening meal.
‘What?’
‘Via Appia. Forum Appii. What are they named for?’
Commodus smiled. ‘And here was I thinking that you knew everything, always with your nose in a book. The road was the first real purpose-built military road in the empire. It was built half a millennium ago by a man called Appius Claudius. That’s where the name comes from.’
I nodded, turning over this new knowledge in my mind. The great and the good of Rome often had buildings named for them. The Basilica Iulia. The Flavian amphitheatre. Even the Servian Wall. It was a way of remembering the great after their death, but it was also a way of honouring those luminaries while they lived, for not all such names were given posthumously.
An idea began to filter in at Forum Appii, and it strengthened and grew as we travelled. When we reached the Bay of Neapolis, we passed through the ancient port city of Puteoli and rounded the headland to Neapolis itself. Then, little more than a few miles from that sprawling metropolis, we passed through the latest of the innumerable small settlements on the route and my eyes widened at the place’s name as we crossed the boundary into the village.
Marcianum.
I had the entire column stop and pointed it out excitedly to Commodus, who smiled and soothed my sudden activity as though I were an overreacting child. A town with my name! It was such a thrill to find. I had the tiniest hope that perhaps Commodus had had the place founded a few years ago in my honour, though that was clearly fantasy and the place was a lot older than that. But the name sank in and joined Forum Appii in my growing idea.
Rome was beginning to identify Commodus with Hercules, you see. The statues and friezes and paintings that had appeared in public places across the empire were received with appreciation. The people did not resent his association with Hercules, in fact they loved it. Romans always like to think they are special, more important than all other people, and having their emperor seen as a divine hero fitted well in their philosophy. Had not Caesar been descended from Venus, or so he claimed? My faith allowed me something of an outsider’s view on the matter, and I could see well how it worked.
Commodus was Rome’s new Hercules, and all it had taken was a few statues to embed the notion in the minds of the people. But it did not have to end there. Commodus had become Hercules in the eyes of the people, but Rome remained Rome and as such languished under the twin torture of plague and taxation.
What is in a name, though? Names are mutable, changeable things. Commodus himself had been born Lucius Aurelius Commodus. On his accession he had dropped the Lucius and taken his father’s name Marcus, identifying him as the successor. A simple name change but an important one. The land through which we were passing was once the land of the Aurunci before it became Rome. What did they call the place? What about when Neapolis was Greek, before the days even of the Republic? Names change.
Better still, names were given to identify with important people. Just as Forum Appii was named for this Appius Claudius fellow in the distant past, there was a long tradition of such things. Forum Iulii in Gaul, named for Caesar. Pompelo in Hispania, named for his enemy Pompey. And Jerusalem that, as Commodus himself had told me, had become Aelia Capitolina under Hadrian, named for his own family. If other great men could have places named for them, why not Commodus? Why stop at the new image of the Herculean emperor?
It was an exciting idea, and the more I thought about it as we travelled, the more I realised it could be done without seeming ridiculous. Had not whole months been renamed for Julius Caesar and his heir Augustus? I knew of legions that bore the names of emperors they served well: the Thirtieth Ulpia Victrix of Trajan; the Fourth Flavia Felix of Vespasian. I began to see possibilities.
Commodus wanted a new golden age for Rome, and his people had been anticipating it ever since he ended the Marcomannic War and brought peace to the empire. It had not come about, though, through the constant deprivations of the plague and the mismanagement of men like Cleander. Well, there was little we could do about the plague, but the corruption had been cut out of Rome, and now was the time for Commodus to rebuild, to glorify, to create. Now that golden age could begin, at last
I smiled all the way down the remaining coast towards the villa. I kept my thoughts to myself, letting the idea bubble away like a soup of invention. Commodus kept throwing me intrigued glances. He knew I was up to something, and was interested, but I wasn’t quite ready. Perhaps what I needed was the catalyst to bring my half-conceived idea into the light of day. I smiled at his intrigue as we passed through the great urban sprawl of Neapolis, of which my overriding memory is the smell of old fish. We travelled past the high peak of Vesuvius, which had exploded and buried those poor towns nearby, causing the death of that same admiral Pliny whose estate at Laurentinum had bordered ours. Somewhere under those lush fields lay one of the old imperial estates, lost at the same time as the whole city.
Then it happened. I found my catalyst. My trigger.
We passed through a small shanty village that bore a rather grand sign proclaiming its ancient name. The true town, equipped with all the paraphernalia of a grand Roman urbs, had been yet another victim of that terrifying mountain, but its name lived on in the village built atop its ruins.
I stared.
Herculaneum.
In fact, I was so astounded to see the name that I gasped, drawing Commodus’ attention.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a sign,’ I breathed, reverentially.
‘It is. It’s a sign for Herculaneum,’ he said prosaically.
I rolled my eyes. ‘You’re a follower of omens and portents. What else could this be, this city of Hercules?’
He frowned. The connection had clearly not struck him before. ‘It was supposedly founded by the demigod himself. Here was where he defeated Cacus and built a city. I always wanted to come as a boy, as a sort of pilgrimage, but Father would never devote the time to visiting the site of a city that is no more. Too many living places to take care of, he said.’
I nodded, still distracted, still marvelling.
‘But this is your city. This is the land of Hercules. And it is God telling me that I am thinking along the correct line. It is time, my love.’
He frowned, but his interest was clearly piqued.
‘Time for what?’
‘Time for your golden age in Rome. You say you still want to see it happen? Now is the time, and portents have been assailing me all the way here. Appius. Marcianum. Herculaneum. It’s all in the names.’
‘You speak in riddles, Marcia.’
‘No. No, it’s very clear. You told me the story of Hadrian and the Jews. That dreadful revolt and the unsettled nature of Judea. Hadrian wanted a new age. He wanted to wash away the rebellious past and create a proper Roman province there. He did it with names and symbols. He swept away their ancient temple and built a Roman one, and in it he put himself as a god. And because even the name Jerusalem carried the taint of rebellion, even that name had to go. It became Aelia Capitolina – the capital of Hadrian. He rewrote the very identity of Jerusalem to make it a new place.’
He was still frowning, but I could see a sparkle in his eyes now. He had caught some of the fever of excitement from me. He nodded, encouraging me.
‘It’s not unknown,’ I went on, almost breathless, ‘in fact, there is a long tradition of great men stamping their name on the empire. The Fourth Flavia Felix. The Via Appia. The Basilica Iulia. Even the Dacian king’s old capital became Ulpia Traiana after Trajan’s own name. And these names have stayed. They have changed the very identity of that to which they are applied. I mean, think of the months that were Quintilis and Sextilis? How long is it since those names were used? Now the summer months are Iulius and Augustus.’
He was nodding now, but I had the bit between my teeth.
‘A golden age needs a line to differentiate it. There needs to be a clear point at which you can say, “This is when things change. This is when dirty old Rome, weighed down by war and disease, seething under the corruption of bad men, ends. This is when the new Rome begins. The Rome of Commodus. The golden Rome.”’
His eyes were bright as he caught up with me on the run and took the baton. He leaned forward, gesturing wildly. ‘A new foundation. As Romulus founded Rome and Venus founded the first imperial dynasty, so a new divine hero. A new foundation. A Rome of Commodus, yes, but also a Rome of Hercules. Hadrian may have rebuilt Jerusalem as Aelia Capitolina, but of equal importance was the statue of himself in the temple of Jupiter. A statement. That Hadrian was the king of gods in that place that now bore his name. So I cannot just be Commodus. I must also be Hercules.’
I nodded. ‘Your statues are already in place.’
‘No, Marcia. Don’t you see? That is just me in the clothes of a god. Me dressed as the man. And the people know that. But that is not enough. I must become Hercules.’
I could almost feel the energy vibrating from him and I nearly fell into the vision alongside him, so seductive was it. But he was too energetic. Manic, almost. This was not just excitement. This was a momentary flash of that same Commodus who had oiled his flesh and strapped on bronze plates to fight in the arena. This was Cleander’s Commodus. I felt just a tinge of warning at that realisation.
‘I’m not sure you need go so far,’ I said quietly.
‘Nonsense. I am strong like Hercules. I am a twin like Hercules. I am of divine blood just as he. I can fight. I can run. I can overcome any labour that great hero managed. Fetch me Geryon and I shall loose a deadly arrow true to his skull.’
‘Listen . . .’
But he was beyond mere listening now. I had stoked something and let it loose, and Commodus was running with the idea. ‘All things. Not just a month. Why one month? Why not all of them?’
‘You cannot call every month Commodus. No one would know what time of year it was.’
He shot me an exasperated look. ‘Don’t be facetious, Marcia. You know what I mean. And I shall attach the name to the legions. The Herculians or the Commodiana? Or both?’
‘Which legion? It is peacetime, so none have really had the chance to distinguish themselves.’
‘All of them, then. Why not? An honour to every soldier of Rome, not just one unit.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s too much.’
‘No. That’s the thing. It isn’t. Watch.’
He leaned out of the window of the carriage and waved over a Praetorian cavalryman who’d been riding alongside. ‘With whom did you serve before you were transferred to the Praetorians, soldier?’
The man frowned. ‘The Seventh, Majesty.’
Commodus nodded. ‘The iron that holds Moesia together. Veterans of Caesar’s wars and of Trajan’s. A good legion. You must be proud.’
‘Prouder to be Praetorian, Majesty, but yes. The Seventh were my home for many years. My family.’
‘And what is their full title, soldier?’
‘The Seventh Claudia Pia Fidelis, Majesty.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because we supported that emperor and put down the usurper Scribonianus, Majesty. Proud to be the Claudian legion, loyal and faithful.’
Commodus nodded. ‘Of course you are, and rightly so. Once upon a time, they were just the Seventh, fighting in Gaul under Caesar. But under Augustus, when they were already known as Paterna – the old ones – they acquired the name Macedonica for their time in garrison there. But for more than a century they have been the Claudia Pia Fidelis, and proudly so.’
He waved the rider away, and the cavalryman moved back into position. Commodus gestured at me. ‘You see? They are proud of their name. But I would wager that before then they were proud of being the Macedonica. And before that they were proud of being the Paterna. Every name carries a tale, Marcia, and a new name just adds to the pedigree.’
I was less convinced. ‘Slowly. Carefully. Draw a line, but do not aggravate people with it.’
‘You worry too much, Marcia.’
And that was it. For the remaining twenty miles that brought us into Surrentum at the close of day on a balmy spring night, Commodus enthused about the possibilities for his new golden Rome. I had to repeatedly haul myself back and be objective, for it was almost hypnotic and was most definitely enticing, listening to the litany of possibility. Commodus’ vision of the new world was grand. Grander than reality generally allows, of course, but then I have heard it said that only dreamers change the world. I was exhausted from listening to the plans by the time we arrived at the villa, and I slept well that night.
I awoke the next morning to find myself alone. I had woken beside Commodus now for long enough that it felt odd and worrying to do otherwise. I rose, performed my morning ablutions and dressed, allowing my hair to simply hang wild. I scoured the apartments, but there was no sign of him.
I enquired of the guard, but all I could glean was that the emperor had gone out for the day and would return in the evening. A little investigation revealed that wherever he had gone he had taken Praetorians and gladiators both. There was little I could do about it, and so I spent the day exploring the estate and perusing the market and shops of Surrentum with an appropriate escort. It was a pleasant way to spend the day, and the Sorrentine peninsula is a ridiculously beautiful spur of land. I even appreciated the sea, partially because it was some distance below me over the cliffs and therefore safely far away. Still, I did not linger at the sea views. By mid-afternoon I was starting to become a little twitchy. I did not like Commodus being away from me, and I liked not knowing where he was even less.
He returned just before the evening meal, looking tired and pale. I hurried over to him and asked if he was all right. Was he unwell? He shrugged it all off and waved me away, telling me everything was fine, though his expression suggested otherwise. There was a haunted aspect to those glorious blue eyes that had not been there the day before. In fact, I had not seen that particular look since he had been forced to order the execution of Perennis, despite believing the man to be innocent.
I pressed him for information as he bathed and changed.
‘I crossed to Capri,’ he said quietly.
‘Bruttia.’
‘Yes. It was part of my reason for coming here. It had to end, Marcia.’
‘Is she . . . ?’ But the answer to that was evident in his eyes.
‘I made sure it was quick and as painless as possible. Bruttia had changed, Marcia.’
I
could understand that. Exile on an island for more than a year, away from everything you knew and loved, could hardly fail to affect someone.
‘Was she contrite?’
‘She said things, Marcia. Terrible things. I . . .’
He walked away then, his sentence unfinished. I tried to speak to him about it for the rest of the evening, but once he had stopped, he refused to be drawn further. He had closed off that part of his life and sealed it away now. I felt a tiny thrill of worry over what Bruttia might have said, but no matter how I worried at it, the fact was that she knew nothing of anything underhand I had ever done. She could hardly incriminate me. What, then, had she said that was so terrible for Commodus to hear?
That evening he began to talk more on his plans for his new Rome, though he felt different. Less enthusiastic. More subdued.
We would cut short our summer at Surrentum and return to Rome to institute his grand new plan. He continued to feel odd and distant. I hoped that returning to the city would change that, but hopes are like clouds – the slightest breeze and they tear apart and drift away.
XXII
BLACK CLOUDS
Rome, Maius ad 191
Whatever had passed between Commodus and Bruttia Crispina as she waited for the blade to descend on that island of exile had changed everything. On the surface, the emperor was the same man with whom I had fallen in love, but there was something new beneath the surface. It was as though he wore a new mask, but this one was impenetrable and I could no longer tell why he wore it. It certainly wasn’t the old familiar melancholia that I knew how to deal with.
We continued to share a bed, and even a life, but I could feel him pulling away from me, infinitesimally slowly, but doing so all the same. And I did not like the direction he was taking, either. Where he had spent a year or more holding great races in the circus and cheering on the victors, lavishing gifts and praise on them, now he would take part himself, against all the advice of his friends and family. Chariot racing is the most dangerous sport in the world. More charioteers die per event than gladiators, for the fights are often to first blood, while a man whose chariot fails him is invariably dead when he is carted from the sand. I stopped going to the races altogether. I could not watch him endanger himself so.
