Then came a little group of dancers, scattering rose-petals as they jigged. These were handsome boys; but the paint on their faces and wiggling of their bottoms showed what kind of boys they were. This sort of thing creeps in because orientals cannot think straight. First they decide that only males may serve a male god; then, because they themselves like pretty boys, they encourage some of these boys to behave as females. If Elagabalus was as manly as they supposed, he must have disliked some of his servants.
I was surprised to see two ladies walk next in the procession; they were dressed in the same long gowns and tall hats as the priests. They looked like mother and daughter, and from the acclamations of the crowd I learned their names. The elder was Maesa, sister to the late Empress; the other was Soaemias, the mother of the high priest. It seemed strange that Roman matrons, trained to the etiquette of the imperial household, should parade publicly in such outlandish clothes. I suppose they thought it better to be princesses of the ancient priestly race of Emesa rather than to be forgotten relatives of a fallen Emperor.
Now came the focal point of the procession: a great white bull, his horns gilded, garlands round his neck. Walking backwards before him, since at this stage in any religious ceremony the sacrifice embodies the godhead, came a graceful youth of thirteen. As he passed I had a good view of his face, and I gasped in astonishment. The boy, though he looked childish for his age, was yet a perfect miniature of the Divine Caracalla.
This means that he was strikingly handsome. Beneath a fantastic head-dress of gauzy silk peeped a cluster of golden curls; his eyelashes fluttered like butterflies; as he moved his head I caught a glimpse of huge brimming violet eyes. The elaborate ornaments and face-paint which were part of his ritual costume made his beauty seem that of an exquisite doll. But this perfect beauty had in it nothing of the feminine; even the long embroidered gown could not conceal his manliness. The Greek sculptors of long ago would have been overjoyed to employ young Bassianus as a model.
Slowly he walked backwards. All his attention was on the guiding of the bull who was also for these few moments the Sun and the sky-stone. He did not look like a boy who had been reared in the respectable Roman court of the Divine Severus. Rumour hinted that the court of the Divine Caracalla had been less bound by convention, but even there such a figure would have seemed unusual. But if he did not look like a Roman neither did he resemble a feeble oriental. He seemed a fair servant of the gods, come down from Olympus to supervise their worship. If the Eagle of Jupiter had perched on his shoulder I would not have felt at all surprised.
There followed more priests and temple guards; but I did not linger to see them. I returned to my inn, and made arrangements to leave for Antioch in the morning.
As I rode back to the army I tried to sort out my impressions. The high priest of Emesa was a youth of fantastic beauty, with a striking resemblance to the Divine Caracalla. Hippias had indicated that among the locals there was a movement to use him as figurehead for a revolt. I did not like Macrinus, and I had been lucky enough to avoid the obligation to be faithful to him.
After long indecision I made up my mind to take no part in these dangerous intrigues. I was influenced, of course, by fear of the punishment that follows unsuccessful rebellion; but in addition it seemed to me that young Bassianus had no claim on my services. Hippias and his accomplices would put it about that the boy was Caracalla’s bastard. I might owe a duty to the son of my old leader, but I did not believe this rumour of his parentage. I counted back on my fingers. The boy looked to be about thirteen. Fourteen years ago the whole imperial family, including the boy’s mother and the youthful Caracalla, had been together in Rome for the Secular Games. But surely Caracalla had been very young? His father kept him pretty firmly under control. Why should he risk the Emperor’s anger by seducing a lady of the imperial house, when any common girl in Rome would be his for the asking?
As far as I could recall, the Divine Caracalla was not the man to run risks for the love of a lady. In every garrison you hear gossip about the private life of the reigning Emperor, and half of these scandalous stories are meant only to amuse. But even with the usual discount for baseless rumour it seemed evident that though Caracalla often wanted a woman, he did not greatly care which woman. At the height of his power he maintained an establishment of 300 concubines; some say that in addition he kept 300 boy friends, though whether they lived in a separate building or mingled with the females I do not know. A man with such inclusive tastes would not bother to seduce a cousin who must have been carefully guarded.
There was a simple explanation for the remarkable resemblance. The Divine Caracalla must have taken after his mother. That striking beauty was hereditary in the family of the high priests of Emesa.
All the same, the resemblance was there, and so was the beauty. Both would appeal to the soldiers. It was likely that we would hear more of young Bassianus.
5. Civil War
After the army the secret police is the most expensive institution in the Empire; and every penny spent on it is wasted. In theory this enormous body of men should warn the central government of the first whisper of disaffection; if they did their duty no Emperor would ever be overthrown. In fact these creatures expose some petty conspiracies; if a rich man takes one cup of wine too many and permits flatterers to salute him with imperial acclamations, if a cohort of second-rate garrison troops force some seedy legate into hopeless rebellion, secret agents work hard to track down the second cousins and the creditors of the rash traitors. But if a really dangerous movement takes shape they do not expose it, they join it. Thus they safeguard their power under the new ruler, after the death of the prince they are sworn to protect.
Even competent secret agents could not have saved the Divine Caracalla. He was murdered by an angry man who was willing to buy vengeance with his own life; on those terms any good swordsman can kill his ruler. The story they tell about the murder may or may not be true; but if true it explains some features of the affair which puzzled me at the time, and I give it for what it is worth.
They say that Macrinus, then Praetorian Praefect, was afflicted with astrologer-trouble, a scourge which may unexpectedly strike down any eminent man. Astrologers make a living by predicting prosperity for their clients; but if the clients are already very successful it is hard to think of greater heights for them to climb. Macrinus was already the third man in the state; so when an obscure cousin paid an astrologer to foretell the future of his famous kinsman the fool could think of nothing to say but that Macrinus would one day be Emperor.
Such a prediction is treason. A secret agent heard of it; instead of denouncing the astrologer he thought it would pay him better to denounce the Praetorian Praefect. The denunciation travelled by official post to Rome; and from there was forwarded, unopened, to imperial headquarters at Antioch. It arrived at the bottom of a bulging mailbag. Caracalla, just setting out to hunt, threw the bag to Macrinus, telling him to read the letters and report anything of interest. The only chance for Macrinus was to act before his master heard of the charge; for no one so denounced is ever acquitted. On the same day the local police denounced the discontented soldier Martialis. Instead of ordering his arrest the Praetorian Praefect got in touch with him.
Thus Caracalla died because he could not be bothered to open his letters; the agents had done their duty. It may be a true story, or it may be an excuse put out by the police.
There can be no excuse for the negligence of the agents in the following winter. During the ten-day holiday of Saturnalia the troops talked of nothing but the claims of this marvellous youth at Emesa. He was Caracalla’s acknowledged son; at his birth it had been prophesied that he, and he alone, could overcome the Parthians; his divine origin was shown forth in his supernatural beauty; he was brave and accomplished, and as hereditary high priest of Emesa he was possessed of such enormous private wealth that from his own resources he could distribute a donative richer than the oldest veteran could recall.
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p; That was what every soldier in the camp was saying. Soon the officers heard of it. At last it reached even the headquarters staff, who were as usual out of touch with the feelings of the troops. The citizens of Antioch discussed it in every tavern. When eventually someone told the Emperor Macrinus the whole of Syria, soldier and civilian, knew that the Divine Caracalla had returned to earth to reclaim the Purple.
Even then no official action was taken; though there was an official point of view, which was expounded by hundreds of busy and unreliable agents. You could not visit a tavern without being approached by some dirty little loafer, who would stand you a drink and explain that the country people round Emesa had been seduced by Parthian gold; the high priest was a mere child, incapable of mischief, but wicked Parthians were using him; however, the Emperor was taking prudent measures; a garrison would be stationed in Emesa, and then the excitement would vanish.
In January a full legion, the Third Gallican, went into camp at Raphanae near Emesa. The army as a whole, and the Praetorians in particular, were disappointed to hear of it. Now that there was peace with the Parthians we had hoped that imperial head quarters would move back to Europe; most of us had been reared on the Rhenish or Danubian frontiers, which are always in danger while the field army is in Asia. It seemed that the Emperor intended to linger in Syria until the whole east was at peace; and that would mean a very long stay.
At the beginning of April a comet appeared in the sky, which is supposed to foretell a change of dynasty; it was not a very bright comet, but then Macrinus was not a very great Emperor. I myself cannot believe that the Sky is deeply concerned about which man should command the Roman army, but public opinion was against me and the supporters of the established order were disheartened.
On the 12th of April the sun was eclipsed. The astrologers were taken by surprise, though as a rule they can foretell eclipses of the moon. However, such events have been recorded in the past, and there is a routine for dealing with them. A ceremonial parade was ordered, to witness the expiatory sacrifices which would be offered by the Emperor in person. No one in the army felt very worried. An eclipse of the sun is indeed an adverse omen; but it is such a general omen, foretelling hard times for the whole world, that it is unlikely to harm obscure private soldiers.
It took six days to collect a hecatomb of bulls, for the long Parthian War had diminished the herds of Syria. When all was in readiness we paraded before an altar in the open air, while the Emperor personally conducted the sacrifice. In the ancient Roman ritual nine victims were the maximum for the most solemn occasions; but the modern Greeks are in love with size for its own sake (though their ancestors were more moderate), and a hecatomb, a full hundred of victims, is considered necessary for any important religious event.
Six days of consultation had not devised a seemly ritual. Every priest must have added some minor deity whom it would be unwise to neglect; the introductory prayers went on and on. When the killing began that also threatened to continue to all eternity. The Emperor must personally dedicate each bull, sprinkle its head with barley and pronounce the words of sanctification; and there were a hundred bulls. Macrinus did not shrink his duty, but he was not handy at it. After the blood of a few bulls had been spilled the rest played up, frightened by the smell. Attendants wrestled to hold them, but the elderly and pacific Emperor was obviously nervous when he must approach their heads. The burly, half-naked killers who wielded the pole-axes became exhausted. There should have been relief butchers standing by, but because of some muddle two men must kill a hundred bulls. The later victims were butchered so clumsily that we seemed to be watching a fight between men and bulls rather than a solemn offering to the gods.
We were kept standing rigid at the Present until men began to faint in the ranks; but a lot of bulls were still alive when the Praefect changed his mind and brought us down to Attention. Then the Emperor, intent on keeping clear of the horns, made three efforts to sprinkle the head of one lively beast. Someone in the rear rank raised the low derisive cat-call that greets a clumsy gladiator. You can make that noise without moving your lips – at least an old soldier can. Soon the whole parade, nearly 10,000 Pretorians, were mocking their sovereign while he was engaged in the service of the gods.
The officers were furious, but while they and everyone else must stand steady on parade there was nothing they could do. As the pole-axe flashed over the head of the last beast a legate snapped: ‘Prepare to march off in column of route’, an order which permits officers to turn about and face their men. At once there was such utter silence that we could hear the thump as the bull fell.
After such an important ceremony we looked for an allocution from the Emperor; but he hurried from the field without even giving us the order to march off. The Praefect took over. He displayed his anger by calling us up to the Present half a dozen times, and telling us how badly we did it. We were hot and tired and bored, and impatient to get off parade. Again catcalls murmured elusively through the ranks, even though our officers were now facing us.
The Praetorian Praefect knew that his men were working themselves up to open insubordination, and he was anxious to get us marched off before the trouble grew worse. But there was a further delay, as a civilian clerk scuttled over the wide parade ground with a written message. Soldiers often hoot any civilian who crosses the parade ground, even when there is no particular excuse for bad behaviour; in our present humour we hurried that office boy along on a real gale of whistling.
The Praefect read the message, and with a wooden face commanded silence in the ranks. He got it, too, for we could see that this was something serious. In a firm but expressionless voice he bellowed: ‘Addition to standing orders. Pay attention. The Third Gallican Legion is to be treated as a hostile force. Any sentry sighting an enemy patrol is to give the general alarm without delay, and is authorized to make use of his weapons. Parade, prepare to march off.’
We marched off in silence, keeping the correct intervals. War had begun, and that recalls any trained soldier to his duty. But as my maniple neared the edge of the parade ground I could hear ahead of me a roar like a waterfall. My comrades, marching at ease, were discussing the latest news.
In my opinion there was nothing to be discussed. The Third Gallicans had been sent into camp to overawe the people of Emesa; if they were now hostile they must have gone over to young Bassianus. Soldiers do not often declare for a pretender in the province actually occupied by the imperial field army; such mutinies break out usually in a province that considers itself neglected. But there could be no other explanation. Within a few days I would be fighting for the first time in the ranks of the Praetorians.
In fact we did not at once go into action. Instead the Emperor moved his quarters from the city of Antioch to the middle of the camp, where I suppose he felt safer; and the Praetorian Praefect marched against Emesa with three legions.
That is quite the wrong way to fight a civil war. Macrinus represented nothing in particular, no special cause or programme for the better government of the Republic. His followers would be fighting only to maintain him as Emperor, and if he did not bother to lead them they could not be expected to fight for him with enthusiasm. I expected early news of defeat. I was surprised to hear that Julianus, the Praetorian Praefect, had formed the siege of Emesa and pressed hard on the rebel city.
Meanwhile Syria suffered the usual rigours of civil war. Soldiers requisitioned supplies and transport all over the province, though the revolt was confined to the neighbourhood of Emesa. Praetorians keep better discipline than the legions; our patrols never burned friendly villages, though we helped ourselves to anything of value we might find in them. When I happened to see Scythian auxiliaries selling peasant girls in the Antioch market I sickened of this pointless war.
Presently my turn came round again for sentry at imperial headquarters, which was not a duty anyone enjoyed. The quick temper of Macrinus made it positively dangerous; even though you heard all the latest news it could be b
oring to listen, standing at attention, while a deputation from some ruined village bored the Emperor with their grievances.
With my usual bad luck I drew the afternoon watch. At night even a sentry can snatch some rest, and in the morning there is an interesting bustle of couriers. Two hours in the imperial ante-room, while the court dozes during the heat of the day, foreshadows eternity.
Of course a few petitioners appeared; there is never an hour of the day or night when someone is not wanting to see the Emperor. I told them to wait, and most of them sat down in a corner.
Then a junior officer bustled in, a commissioned centurion. In the Praetorians our centurions are all promoted rankers, at the end of their career; but every legion has a few of these young men, who join the army as centurions and hope to rise to high command. I don’t like them. They join the army only because their families have influence, and most of them take advantage of it by making subordinates do their work while they hang round headquarters intriguing for promotion.
This young man wore field equipment, covered with dust; his shoulder-badge was missing, so that I could not identify his legion. But as he strode quickly up the hall he was obviously on duty.
‘The Emperor is resting, I suppose?’ he said casually as he returned my salute. ‘There’s no need to disturb him. I bring good news, but it can wait for an hour or so. The guard-commander can take my bag. When he has signed for it I shall go and clean up, in case the Emperor wants to speak to me after he wakes.’
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