“Here, let’s go up inside the column, to the very top,” said Commodus.
Accompanied by Cleander, a secretary to take notes, and a pair of messenger boys, Lucius and Gaius followed Commodus down to the courtyard and then into the base of the column, with its shrine to Trajan and his wife, Plotina, and then up the dizzying spiral staircase, lit every so often by tall rectangular openings.
Lucius had been to the top of the column a number of times, but not for many years. The bird’s-eye view of the city, open in all directions, took his breath away. Higher still, above their heads, loomed the gilded, larger-than-life statue of Trajan, forever gazing out on the magnificent Forum he had built with Roman blood and Dacian gold.
Commodus saw him peering upward. “Just such a statue must be made of my father, to put atop his column.” Commodus returned his gaze to the city below, and to the roof of the distant Senate House. “And now that I think of it, there must be another gilded statue of my father, to place before the Senate House, perhaps posed thusly.” He struck an exaggerated pose with upraised hands, like a flamboyant actor in Plautus’s Swaggering Soldier. Never in his life would Marcus Aurelius have assumed such a ridiculous pose. Gaius actually laughed out loud, but immediately covered his mouth and coughed.
Holding the pose, Commodus called to the secretary. “You there, hand your stylus and tablet to Senator Pinarius, so that he can make a sketch for reference.” The slave hurried to obey, and Lucius set about drawing, his teeth on edge.
“Quickly, just a sketch. Your emperor is far too busy to play artist’s model. Done? Good. Another thing, that wonderful equestrian statue you made of Papa some years ago…”
“Yes?” The statue was one of Lucius’s proudest achievements, the single most recognizable image of Marcus anywhere in the city.
“A masterpiece, to be sure, superb in every detail. But even that splendid work could use an improvement.”
“Yes?” said Lucius uneasily. Marcus and even Verus, in his extravagant way, had been paragons of good taste who always respected Lucius’s judgment, but Lucius was not at all sure what to expect from Commodus.
“That equestrian statue was made to celebrate one of Papa’s triumphs, and yet, there’s no indication of triumph in the statue itself.”
“No? He rides a charger, he has his hand raised, as if to greet his loyal troops, his expression is that of a confidant but merciful conqueror—”
“Perhaps too merciful. Should there not be another figure in the piece?”
“Another figure?”
“Yes, a cowering barbarian trapped beneath the horse’s upraised hoof. Domitian had a statue like that, and he hardly conquered anybody.”
Lucius drew a sharp breath. He knew well the equestrian statue of Domitian, and in fact had used it as a model for the statue of Marcus, but Domitian’s inclusion of a downtrodden foe had always struck him as superfluous and a bit vulgar. He had never considered including such a motif in the statue of Marcus, and Marcus had not requested such a motif. It would be impossible to add such a figure at this point, anyway, as he was quick to point out. “There’s no room for such a figure. The space beneath the hoof is not large enough. To fit it in, the foe would have to be quite out of scale, practically a dwarf—”
Commodus clapped his hands and grinned. “All the better! The German foe shall be depicted as a sniveling dwarf beneath my giant father and his mighty steed! Cleander, you come from some mongrel barbarian stock, do you not? Perhaps you could model for the dwarf. Kneel down, hunch your back, bring your face to the floor and put on a cowering expression. Don’t just stand there, do it!”
Lucius thought the emperor could not be serious, but Cleander, used to the whims of his master, adopted the humiliating pose without hesitation. He had been obliged to put up with much worse from Commodus over the years, and had learned to make the best of it.
“Yes, that’s perfect!” said Commodus. He gave Cleander a playful kick on the buttocks, as if to drive home his satisfaction. “There, Senator Pinarius, sketch that!”
“There’s no need, Caesar. I shall remember the pose. And if needed, I shall ask a slave, not a Roman citizen, to assume the posture.”
Gaius drew a sharp breath, thinking his father had gone too far, but Commodus perceived no rebuke. “Alright, then, Cleander, back on your feet. But I’m sure you see, Senator Pinarius, that my idea will improve the statue, not just thematically, but aesthetically as well. It shall be both more impressive and more beautiful than before. My old tutor Onesicrates said that unforeseen ‘accidents,’ undesired and perhaps even detested by the artist, sometimes actually improve a work of art, and here is just such an example. Write that down, scribe. Today your emperor Commodus added more genius to a work already of genius, and all to honor the shade of his departed father.”
He smiled at Lucius, oblivious of his discomfiture. “Thanks to me, Senator Pinarius, in future you will have many opportunities to put all those long-dead Greek sculptors in the shade. The great column, more statues of my father and of myself—and who knows what other assignments I’ll have for you? My mind is always at work, you see, conceiving wonderful, beautiful, spectacular things.”
Commodus gripped the railing and gazed out at the city, a joyful look on his face.
Suddenly, Lucius felt the perfect moment had arrived to offer Commodus the diamond. Lucius had carried it on his person all day, hoping for such an opportunity. He pulled it out and extended his arm. The jewel flashed in the sunlight.
“Dominus, I feel the moment has come when I should return to you the King of Stones. You are emperor now, and this is yours to hold in trust for your successor, as emperors have done since the time of Nerva.”
Lucius looked past Commodus to Gaius, expecting to see a smile on his son’s face, but instead Gaius looked appalled. That he was a better judge of Commodus than his father was demonstrated the next moment. Commodus took the diamond, frowned at it, and then tossed it away, as one might discard an apple core. The diamond plummeted over a hundred feet, landing with a sharp crack that echoed around the courtyard between the two libraries. Lucius clutched the rail and looked down to see that the diamond had actually cracked a paving stone.
For a long moment Lucius stared at Commodus with his mouth open. “You refuse it?”
“Of course not. That stone is mine and always has been, or at least since the day Papa made me Augustus and officially his heir.” Commodus peered over the rail. Directly below, a librarian, hearing the noise, had emerged to inspect the cause. He spotted the diamond and picked it up, looked at it, and then gazed up in wonder, perhaps thinking the stone had fallen from the sky. At once, the man saw Commodus peering down at him. Even at such a distance, Lucius saw all color drain from the librarian’s face.
“I did that simply to get your attention,” said Commodus. “It seems to have worked. Now, Senator Pinarius, and you as well, Gaius, go down all those stairs, fetch that stone, bring it back to me, and then be on your way. You were thinking to trade it for this, weren’t you?” He reached into his purple toga and pulled the fascinum into view. “Well, that shall never happen. This little amulet means a great deal to me. It’s kept me safe through plague, battle, boar hunts, storms at sea—even an earthquake in Alexandria, when a wall fell on two slaves behind me, squashing them like bugs, while I was spared. The fascinum must continue to keep me safe now that I’m emperor, threatened from all sides by the scheming, lesser men. The Evil Eye of the envious is always trained on one such as I.” He looked sidelong at Gaius, then smiled broadly. “Both of you, do as you are told. Go fetch the diamond, bring it back to me, and then be on your way.” He turned his back on them and gazed out at the city.
As Lucius moved to obey, he heard the emperor muttering under his breath. What was he saying? He seemed to be turning his own name into the name of a city, and testing the sound. “Commodopolis … Commodiana? Commodiana … Commodopolis? Both sound pleasing, but which is better?”
Every down
ward step was galling. Father and son did not look at each other. The perplexed librarian, waiting at the foot of the statue, handed them the stone and then quickly vanished. It was perfectly intact, unharmed by the fall. Every upward step, taken in silence, was harder than the one before.
The glittering diamond, pressed into Commodus’s hand, seemed to spark a kindred fire in his eyes. Now he possessed both diamond and fascinum, and the Pinarii had neither. This was surely not what Marcus had intended.
With one hand, Commodus had granted the Pinarii commissions that would last for years and bring them much income. But with the other hand, he had taken back the diamond, leaving Lucius empty-handed. This might have been a day for rejoicing. Instead, it had become one of the worst days Lucius could remember.
“Gaius,” said Commodus, “you are dismissed from your various duties in my entourage, so that you may assist your father full-time. The two of you and your artisans have much work to do, if we are to turn this into a city worthy of my name.”
A.D. 192
“I think I’ve finally figured out how the mind of Commodus works,” said Gaius.
“Impossible,” said his father. “I’m ancient—more than seventy years old, and thank the gods for granting me the longevity they gave to my father and his father as well … though neither of them lived past seventy-one! But what was I saying?”
Gaius smiled. His elderly father’s mind had a way of wandering. “That you are ancient.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lucius, remembering his point. “Nothing in all my seven decades has prepared me to comprehend the mind of our young emperor. Young, I say, but his youth is no excuse. He’s the same age as you, Gaius. You’re over thirty, and you put aside puerile frivolity long ago. You have your own son to raise now. But the mind of Commodus follows no plan. His ideas for ruling the state are completely incoherent, and thus beyond comprehending.”
“Not exactly,” said Gaius. “Certainly, he has no deep ideas or clear political program, but he is consistent, and I shall tell you how. In every situation, when a choice is required, I think he must ask himself: ‘What would my father do?’ And then … he does the opposite. Marcus fought the Germans, again and again. Commodus, against the advice of all his father’s generals and diplomats, is determined never to fight them. Marcus made a point of asking senators for their counsel. Commodus spurns and humiliates the senators at every opportunity. Marcus in his last speech in Rome, which turned out to be his farewell, proudly noted that he had not put a single senator to death, while Commodus … well, I’ve lost track of all the senators, and the imperial relatives, and all the others who’ve been executed on the emperor’s orders. In trivial matters, it’s the same. Marcus despised banquets, Commodus loves them. And remember what Marcus thought of gladiator shows? He made them fight with wooden swords, lest the loser bleed! Commodus demands bloodshed at every match. In private, he trains as a gladiator himself—oh, yes, Father, with my own eyes, on trips to the imperial residence, I’ve seen him outfitted as a secutor, with shield and sword and a golden helmet. I hear he’s quite good as a gladiator, a match for anyone he trains with, which I can believe. Commodus was always a splendid athlete, strong wrestler, superb hunter. No one can draw a bow with greater strength, or throw a spear with more force, or shoot an arrow with truer aim. They say he’s just as good with a trident as he is with a sword.
“So there you have it. Commodus makes himself in every possible way the exact opposite of his father. It’s not a philosophy, but it is a kind of discipline. It keeps him consistent. You can’t call him erratic or unpredictable. Just imagine what Marcus would do in a given circumstance—and then expect his son to do the opposite.”
They were in their large new workshop on the Esquiline Hill. Their old studio on the Aventine had become too small to accommodate all their ongoing projects and to house the many artisans, both slave and free, whom they kept hard at work every day. Attached to the workshop was a sprawling new house where father and son lived in different wings. Selling their old family home on the Palatine had allowed them to buy a very large property on the Esquiline and rebuild it to accommodate all their needs. The new neighborhood lacked the quiet refinement of the Palatine—indeed, they were surrounded by considerable squalor—but they now had room to spare.
Lucius and Gaius were conversing in a relatively quiet corner of the workshop. The big room hummed with activity. There was the steady clanging of hammers striking chisels, as well as shouted orders, animated conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter. After a long winter, the days were at last growing longer, which provided more sunlight to work by. The lingering chill in the air was unnoticed by the more lowly slaves who were in constant motion, moving blocks of stone, fetching tools, or sweeping up wood shavings and marble dust.
Drawings and scale models of the spiral sculpture for the column were scattered all around. The engineering challenge of the column had proved even greater than Lucius anticipated. Apollodorus of Damascus, his maternal grandfather, had been the genius behind the erection of Trajan’s Column, with the assistance of Lucius’s father, but both of those men were long gone, and Lucius had been frequently stumped in his attempts to duplicate, let alone surpass, that structure.
Also slowing their progress was a severe recurrence of the plague, which had killed half of the artisans. His friend Galen had lost his entire household of slaves, even though Galen had carefully concocted and administered the only cure anywhere in the world that had been reported to work, a combination of cow’s milk from Stabiae, earth from Armenia, and the urine of a young boy. All of Galen’s slaves had been given the cure. All had died.
But at last the column was standing, surrounded by scaffolding, and the work of decorating it with the spiral relief depicting scenes of the war was progressing nicely. Looking at one section of the sculpture, Lucius wondered what Apollodorus and his father would have thought of it. Trajan’s Column was made while the emperor it honored still lived, designed expressly to please him. It told a story from beginning to end: the conquest of Dacia and its rich gold mines was Trajan’s greatest achievement. But Marcus was no longer alive to critique depictions of his war, and the story told by the sculpture was not so clear-cut. Lucius had based the images on conversations with the officers who were at the battles, including his own brother, Kaeso, and he had tried to be true to their bloody, sometimes horrific accounts.
Kaeso was away from Rome, as he usually was. Now a grizzled veteran, he had risen in the ranks and commanded the legions in Britannia, where savage barbarians had dared to venture south of the great wall built by Hadrian. Commodus’s desire to have no more wars had been thwarted by this breach in the empire’s seemingly endless frontier.
The emperor’s enthusiasm for the column had waxed and waned. Work on the vast project had frequently been sidelined by sudden demands from Commodus, who seemed to spend his days thinking of new statues he would like to see, mostly of himself. These had included one of Commodus as an archer with drawn bow, presumably in imitation of Ulysses when he slew the interlopers in his home, except that this archer was placed directly in front of the Senate House, aiming at the entrance. The message was not subtle. Lucius had not been aware of the planned placement until the very day the statue appeared in public. The first time he saw it, entering the Senate House, he had been mortified, and for days afterward had been unable to look his fellow senators in the eye.
The latest statue, just finished and still in the workshop, portrayed Commodus as Hercules with a club over his shoulder. It was not for public display, but destined for one of Commodus’s private gardens, the Horti Lamiani on the Esquiline Hill. “There I can look at it from time to time,” Commodus had said, “to remind me of who I am, and my true place in the world. The statue shall be my mirror, you might say.” The emperor’s identification with Hercules had become a sort of mania. At times, he seemed literally to believe that he was Hercules. At least the Pinarii had no need to embellish the statue’s beauty
so as to flatter its human model. Year by year, Commodus grew more handsome, and also more muscular, thanks to his rigorous regimen of athletic training. Many people said he was the handsomest man in the city.
“I’m not sure, son, that your analogy of opposites is entirely accurate,” said Lucius. “Is Commodus mainly driven by a desire to undo his father’s work, to make himself, perversely, into a sort of anti-Marcus? Surely there’s more method than that behind his madness.”
“I never said he was mad!” said Gaius with a nervous laugh. He and his father were already speaking more boldly than they should, even with their voices low and the constant hubbub of the workshop around them.
“His seeming madness, then, because however we define his behavior, it does have method,” said Lucius. “It’s precisely because Marcus waged constant war against the barbarian tribes that Commodus can now enjoy a respite of peace on the northern frontiers. And there’s good reason for Commodus to be suspicious of others, even those closest to him. His father had a much easier time of it, from the outset. Marcus was much older when he became emperor than was Commodus, more established, more mature, more sure of himself. And Marcus was not surrounded by scheming siblings and conniving cousins! Poor Commodus was emperor barely a year when his sister Lucilla and her circle hatched that plot to kill him. They nearly succeeded.”
“What a farce that was!” Gaius flashed a wry smile. “I’d say the would-be assassin behaved like a comic actor on a stage, but I’ve never heard dialogue that stiff in even the worst play.” He mimicked the infamous moment when Lucilla’s stepson (and lover), Claudius Pompeianus Quintianus, botched the whole plot by blurting out his intention too soon. He drew his dagger, rushed up to Commodus, and then, instead of striking at once, paused to announce his intentions: “Look! See what the Senate has sent to you!” The assassin was seized before he could deliver the blow. Lucilla had been exiled to Capri, and later killed.
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