Dominus

by Steven Saylor

  Lucius had little doubt about how the “nephews” made their income, but it was not his concern. “You do realize that Justin faces torture and execution?” he asked. The Cynic began speaking before he was finished.

  “One of my boys is even named Chrestos—that’s Greek for ‘good,’ you know—which he certainly is, and which also sounds awfully like the Greek Christos, don’t you think? But when I pointed out this happy coincidence to Justin—oh my, he threw such a fit!”

  “You make a good living off these boys, then?” Lucius saw no point in being subtle.

  “I? Certainly not. I myself own nothing. Well, next to nothing—only a staff to lean on and a leather pouch to hold my meager assets.”

  Chrestos raised an eyebrow. “Oh, your assets aren’t that meager.”

  Callinicus grinned. “But he does keep them in a leather pouch.”

  “Most of the time!” Hilarion giggled.

  This was not at all the interview Lucius had in mind when he agreed to meet at the baths. “Do these boys pay for your admission to this place?”

  “Certainly not! To cover such basic expenses, I myself earn a poor pittance, as do most philosophers, by giving public lectures in the gardens adjoining the baths, to those rare Romans who are philosophically inclined. My latest talk, and very popular it is, is titled ‘The Christians in Rome: Threat or Menace?’”

  Lucius chuckled, despite himself. Like all authors rewarded with a laugh, Crescens was delighted. He clapped his hands. “There! How much less stuffy you look, Senator. We are all allowed to laugh at life, you know. Laughter costs nothing. The Christians never laugh. Never! What dour people they are. And so backward, so ignorant of even the rudiments of life. ‘Boy-lover,’ Justin calls me, as if that were an insult! Well, I can hardly deny it. Only Hadrian ever loved a boy more than I love these three scamps. Justin calls them my ‘little Ganymedes’—as if that, too, were an insult, comparing me to Jupiter—except that I have three Ganymedes to Jupiter’s one! Just another example of Justin’s impiety, for which his ignorance and his rude disposition offer no excuse.”

  “I thought you Cynics were oblivious to insults.”

  “To insults, yes. To blasphemy, no. I am a Cynic, Senator, not a Stoic. Stoics are forbidden to complain. We Cynics do little else!”

  “Perhaps you’re jealous of Justin.”

  “How so?”

  “It occurs to me that Cynics and Christians compete in poverty, as other men compete in wealth or power. And like the wealthy and powerful, you, too, must be susceptible to jealousy. Is Justin poorer than you, more austere, more wretched? Does that make you jealous of him?”

  “Preposterous! He is jealous of me.”

  “Justin says you are a corrupter of youth.”

  “Also preposterous! Does the gardener corrupt the flower, or the farmer his apple tree? I merely bring my boys to fruition, in accordance with the natural order of the universe, as ordained by the gods, and bless them for it! Justin is the corrupter of youth, luring impressionable young minds from the proper worship of the gods, leading them into the crime of impiety, and delivering them to the just punishments of our emperor.”

  Lucius grunted. “Yes, Justin does have a small but ardent following. A few of his fellow Christians were arrested along with him. They happened to be in his room at the time of his apprehension, taking part in some Christian ritual.”

  “Ah, yes, that weird cannibal rite they practice—stomach-churning, I call it. How any boy could be lured into such atheism—though, if the boy is young and innocent enough, vulnerable to all and any nonsense … never realizing, until too late … it will be the death of him…” Crescens’s sardonic cheerfulness abruptly ended. His grin became a scowl. His eyes lost their sparkle.

  “He’s talking about Mopsus,” said Chrestus, in a low voice.

  “Don’t even mention him!” snapped Crescens.

  “Why not?” asked Lucius.

  Chrestos leaned toward him and whispered, “He can hardly bear to hear the name spoken aloud, ever since Mopsus died—”

  “Was executed, you mean!” cried Crescens. The word seemed to curdle in his throat. He swallowed hard and blinked back tears. “For the crime of impiety—for refusing to honor the gods—because that foul Christian, that atheotatous corrupter of youth and hater of all that is beautiful, that hideous spider Justin drew that poor boy into his web, and so filled his little head with horrible ideas that Mopsus felt compelled to make an example of himself, to become a martyr for that wretched death-cult.”

  “Justin lured away one of your boys?”

  “Seduced his spirit! Poisoned his mind!”

  “Turned him into a Christian, you mean. And then the boy made a public show of his atheism and got himself arrested, and ended up…”

  “Dead!” wailed Crescens. Without the barbed armor of his Cynicism, he was like a turtle without its shell, exposed and vulnerable and not pretty to look at. His sharp features and defiant posture softened into a mass of fleshy wrinkles. He looked like any other old man long past his prime, gray and befuddled and sad.

  “So the grudge is personal, between the two of you,” said Lucius, but he did not wait for a response. He had had quite enough of such tawdry surroundings. He would have to take a long soak at his regular bathing establishment to wash himself free of the place.

  * * *

  Justin would not budge.

  Lucius saw him again and tried to reason with him, to no avail. There was no reasoning with a mortal who believed the whole world was wrong about everything, and only he and a handful of others were right—and not merely right but absolutely sure of their rightness because of an imaginary authority that could not be questioned.

  Under the circumstances, Lucius could hardly recommend leniency, especially since a substantial part of the citizenry blamed the Christians for somehow starting the plague, or for making it worse by their intransigent impiety.

  “No mortal can defy the laws of both gods and man and expect no consequence,” said Lucius when he met with Marcus.

  “Yes. They will have to be executed. As Pontifex Maximus, considering the very loud and active complaint against Justin and his friends, I can endorse no other judgment.”

  Lucius frowned. “Do you remember that hoaxer in the fig tree?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You showed mercy to that fellow. You merely banished him, saying there was enough death in Rome already. Must Justin be put to death?”

  Marcus sighed. “The hoaxer was nothing more than a petty criminal preying on gullible fools. These Christians are something more sinister. They not only mock the gods, they mock their own punishment. They set an insidious example. It is a good thing, to have no fear of death. But to yearn for suffering and death is perverse. In Justin’s case, the law must follow its course.”

  * * *

  On the night before Justin’s trial, Lucius dreamed that he was in a noisy, crowded place, amid a throng of spectators, and a man bound to a stake was being set on fire. Lucius was horrified, and wanted to escape, but instead the crowd pushed him closer and closer to the burning man. He felt compelled to look up at the victim, but the smoke and flames obscured his face. Was it Justin? Then, through the murk, he saw a glint of gold. The man was wearing the fascinum! This was the long-ago Pinarius who had been a Christian, who was turned into a human torch by Nero while all of Rome looked on and jeered.

  Lucius woke with a start. He sat bolt upright, covered with sweat.

  He had been wavering about attending the trial of Justin, thinking of excuses not to go, but now he had no choice. Not to do so would be cowardice.

  Unable to go back to sleep, he started the day very early, but even so he ran late. Every simple act, even putting on his shoes, seemed to vex him and slow him down.

  When he finally entered the examination chamber in Trajan’s Forum, the torture and questioning were already well under way. Against one wall, in shackles and with armed guards watching them, stood Ju
stin’s fellow Christians, waiting their turn to be questioned. On a low dais sat the city prefect, Marcus’s white-haired old mentor, Rusticus. Nearby sat a scribe who was recording the proceedings, using Tironian shorthand. In the center of the room, stripped to a loincloth, was Justin. His hands were tied behind his back. The rope binding his wrists was attached to a hoist manned by several rough-looking brutes. They seemed to be enjoying their work, certainly more than Rusticus, who looked quite exasperated.

  “Very well,” the prefect snapped, “hoist him up again!”

  The brutes went to work. Justin was drawn upward until he stood on his toes with his arms bent backward and raised behind him. The pressure on his shoulders must have been excruciating, yet Justin showed no expression. But if his face was his to control, his body was not. Sweat erupted from every pore, drenching him. His bladder was loosened. His loincloth grew wet and streams of urine mingled with the sweat running down his skinny, naked legs. The torturers grunted. Lucius turned up his nose. Rusticus sighed.

  “Let me make very clear to you, Justin,” said the prefect, “exactly what will happen if you continue to refuse to burn incense to the gods. Once my questioning is over, before sentencing, a hook will be inserted through both of your cheeks. That is to prevent you from uttering curses against the emperor. After sentencing, you will be taken to the place of execution where a crier will announce your crimes while these brutes take turns lashing you with a whip. This will happen in public, where people are free to watch and make comments, to jeer and insult you and gloat. There are plenty of people in Rome nowadays, frightened and angry because of the plague, who will come to watch you die. They will pelt you with stones, rotten fruit, or whatever comes to hand. Quite often, feces, human and otherwise, are thrown at the villain.”

  “I do not fear the opinion—or the waste—of other mortals,” said Justin, in a hoarse whisper.

  Rusticus shrugged. “A bit higher, then.”

  Justin was hoisted upward. His toes no longer touched the floor. He hung suspended in space. Lucius was appalled. How did the man keep from screaming?

  “And in the end, finally, mercifully, you will be beheaded,” said Rusticus.

  “I—do—not—fear—death!” Justin said, gasping between each strangled word.

  “But that is not quite the end. There is the aftermath. Your separated head and body will not be buried or cremated—I forget what you Christians prefer. Burial rites are not for those who mock the gods. Your remains will be handed over to the citizens, who will be allowed to do whatever they wish. Your head will be kicked through the streets, and your carcass dragged by long poles with sharp hooks. They’ll head for the Tiber, where they’ll toss your mangled remains into the river, like so much garbage. It is an unseemly business, in my opinion, but it is sanctified by long tradition. By making yourself an enemy of the gods, you are an enemy of Rome, and no respect whatsoever will be shown to your corpse. Do you understand? Can I persuade you to relent from your impiety?”

  This seemed to give Justin pause. He grunted. His lips trembled. Then he gasped and fervently shook his head.

  If Lucius recalled correctly, the Christians believed that after death their mortal bodies would come to life again and be transported to some wonderful place. But what sort of body would Justin have to resuscitate? What would eternal life be like in such a ruined vessel?

  What strange ideas these Christians had!

  * * *

  “I can hardly believe you attended the execution,” said Kaeso. “That sort of spectacle is aimed at the very lowest creatures of the mob, the kind of lowlifes who need to be reminded every now and then of the consequences of crime and impiety.”

  Lucius had just described to his brother the beheading of Justin and several of his cohorts. “And yet, they seemed to find it rather entertaining,” said Lucius, his voice a bit shaky.

  “Who, the Christians?”

  “Is that a joke, Kaeso?”

  “Well, you said they went to their punishment singing.”

  “So they did, some with more bravado than others, though all the singing stopped pretty quickly once the scourging began. The song itself was actually rather pretty. ‘O holy glory, O joyful light, the sun has set and comes the night, but the stars shine brighter than day…’ Something like that, a sort of chant to their god—or is it gods? One is the son of the other, I think, except they’re actually identical, and their mother was a virgin.” He shook his head. “It’s all quite confusing.”

  “It confuses even the Christians,” said Kaeso. “I saw quite enough of their squabbles in the East. They’re constantly at war with each other about this or that fine point of their religion—as if any of it mattered, since it’s all made up. All that yelling alarms their neighbors, who then complain to the magistrates, who then have no choice but to set in motion the whole ugly business of interrogations and executions. Really, they bring it on themselves.”

  “They do seem to crave this martyrdom, as they call it, this horrible self-destruction. With so many people dying from the plague, you’d think life would be more precious to them.”

  “Enough talk of Christians, brother. Right now there’s a greater threat to Rome than antisocial atheists, or even the plague, and that’s the barbarians up north.” Kaeso was busy sorting through and packing his few belongings. “We did a good job, putting out fires on the Euphrates, but now there’s trouble along the Danube River—Langobardi and Obii invading Pannonia, gold mines in Dacia under attack, on and on. The generals up north have called for both emperors to lead us into battle. My comrades here in Rome say we should have set out long ago, but both emperors kept dragging their feet, Marcus because he thinks the city will need him until the plague abates, and Verus because—well, because Verus is having too good a time at his villa!”

  “In the Senate they speak of logistical problems and shortages. There’s a great deal of death and disorder in the legions, because of the plague.”

  “You’d think the gods would make soldiers immune from sickness, so as to grant them the chance for a nobler death in battle,” said Kaeso quietly. He buckled the leather satchel he had been packing. “Well! I for one have had enough of the city. I shall be glad to get back to the real man’s business of war.”

  Lucius raised an eyebrow.

  “Intending no insult to you, Senator Pinarius,” said Kaeso, with a feeble laugh. “It’s just that I’m hoping … that I’ll have the opportunity … to vindicate myself.” He grimaced. “To shake the shame I’ve felt, every day since that slaughter in Seleucia.”

  Such talk made Lucius uneasy. Was his brother hoping to die in battle? Had Kaeso come to desire death, as Justin and the Christians desired it?

  “If the danger is so very grave, brother, then perhaps … you should take this.” Lucius reached into his tunic, pulled the necklace above his head, and held forth the fascinum.

  Kaeso stared at the lump of gold for a moment, then shook his head. “No, you’re the elder son, Lucius. Of course you must keep it, to give to little Gaius when he comes of age, and for him to give to his firstborn. Besides, I’ll be in no greater danger than you will be here in Rome, surrounded by death on every side. I’d rather fall in battle than die of plague.” He reached out to touch the fascinum and lowered his voice. “And if what I believe is true … that I unleashed this accursed plague, at Seleucia … then no power on earth—not even the fascinum of our ancestors—can protect me from whatever suffering I deserve.”

  The words sent a chill through Lucius. He closed his fist around the fascinum and uttered a silent prayer.

  A.D. 169

  “Who will bid on this rare treasure?” cried the auctioneer on the Rostra, holding up a pair of ornate goblets. “Made of solid silver, and decorated with splendid images of satyrs and maenads at their leisure. The emperor Marcus says he finds these vessels too precious to drink from, yet too exquisite to be melted down. You need have no such qualms, if today you make them yours. Who will bid?”<
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  Lucius and Galen were some distance from the auction platform, strolling between the rows of open tents in the Forum of Trajan, where imperial treasures were on display, tended by imperial clerks and armed guards.

  “What do you think?” asked Lucius.

  “What a spectacle of excess and greed,” muttered Galen.

  “The imperial collections? Or the people bidding on them?”

  “Both! I mean, really, what could this possibly be good for?” From a table displaying jewelry, under the baleful gaze of an armed guard, Galen picked up a ring made of silver clasping a huge lump of topaz. “The stone is as big a baby’s fist. Much too large and cumbersome for the hand of a child or even a grown woman, and any man would look ridiculous showing off such a gaudy stone.”

  Lucius, who was almost certain he had seen the ring in question on one of Verus’s fingers during a banquet at the villa, coughed and cleared his throat. Galen returned the ring to the table. The guard never blinked.

  There were indeed many extravagant objects being auctioned—vases carved from murra, clothing made of silk, and jewels of rare size and perfection. Some were going for a steep price, but others were being snatched up at a bargain. There were also a great many common household items on offer, and these also were in great demand, simply because they came from the imperial household. As Lucius had noted of an ivory claw on an ebony stick, “I suppose the new owner can boast, ‘Marcus Aurelius himself might have used this to scratch his back!’”

  Galen was finally back in Rome. First he had gone to Aquileia, where Marcus and Verus were marshaling their forces in preparation for the march northward. But an outbreak of plague had so devastated the troops that the emperors suspended the military campaign and headed back to Rome. While the emperors hurried back, Galen and the surviving legions made the journey from Aquileia to Rome with excruciating slowness, their journey delayed by a great deal of suffering and death. Almost an entire legion had been lost, and not a battle had been fought. In the meantime, hordes of barbarians were crossing the Danube, meeting no resistance.