The Games held to celebrate the return of the Emperor to his faithful city were the most splendid within living memory. Eutychianus had planned them in outline; and by a useful tradition the curule aediles bore most of the cost. But it was obvious to those who knew him that the Emperor had taken a hand in the details.
I stood among the guards at the back of the imperial box, where I could see everything. The huge Flavian amphitheatre was packed with a happy and contented throng of citizens, all the more content because the proceedings opened with a congiary of startling generosity. The Emperor proclaimed that every Roman citizen present would receive a gift of 150 drachmae; and the same amount would be given to every woman, a thing that had never been done before. In those days the great amphitheatre did not hold so many spectators as it does now; damage done by an earthquake in the reign of the Divine Commodus had been left unrepaired. The new government had already taken in hand its restoration, as the most urgent public work of this peaceful reign. Even in its damaged state it held a great many people; I wondered how long the ancestral treasure of the high priests of Emesa would stand the strain.
I noted something else. The Emperor had been serious when he proposed to do something to better the hard life of Roman harlots. Respectable wives do not frequent the amphitheatre; this strange female congiary would benefit chiefly the loose women who ply their trade in every crowded place.
The Emperor’s behaviour was always unexpected. After this congiary to his civilian subjects he announced a donative to the soldiers; but at the rate of a hundred drachmae a man. Some of the guards looked sour; until I whispered that a hundred drachmae was a very nice present when you had done nothing to earn it, and that soldiers would keep all they got while the civilian congiary, or most of it, would go straight to the tax-gatherer.
The events which followed in the arena gave further evidence of the Emperor’s planning. Gladiators fought to the death, in pairs dotted all over the sands; because without gladiators the crowd would have rioted. But there were not very many of them and they fought all at once, so that the murdering should be quickly over. The mob demands death, but mere bloodshed without beauty did not amuse the Emperor.
The distribution of the congiary, and then the hasty slaughter of the gladiators, occupied the morning. During the dinner-hour most of the gentry went home for their meal, according to the custom of Rome; but no one left the imperial box, because the Emperor had brought a picnic lunch with him. Nowadays fools quote this as evidence that Elagabalus was bloodthirsty, so bloodthirsty that he could not leave the amphitheatre even to eat. They should remember that no one is killed during the dinner-hour, which is traditionally devoted to comic relief.
The comic relief devised by the Emperor was in one respect curious. It is the custom that tumblers and acrobats, of both sexes, should entertain the public with obscene dances. That was not enough for our new master. He had commanded that every obscene gesture should be carried to its logical conclusion. Even the ignoble tumblers blushed at some of the things they had to do in broad daylight, before thousands of spectators. But the crowd, squealing with delighted embarrassment, loved every minute of it.
In the afternoon wild beasts were hunted. Gladiators should be seen at close quarters, or you will miss the blood and the gaping wounds that are the attraction of the entertainment. The hunting of wild beasts can be beautiful as a spectacle, seen from the back of the imperial box; especially if the programme has been devised by a connoisseur of beauty like our young Emperor.
In the first scene mounted Arabs hunted gazelles. The crowd thought this dull because there was no danger for the hunters. But we saw some magnificent riding as the men darted and twisted after the twisting gazelles, dodging the stone walls of the arena until they rode beside their quarry to hurl their javelins.
Next men on foot hunted wild bulls. The naked hunters carried short spears and lengths of coloured cloth to throw over the bulls’ eyes. Quite a number of them had been disembowelled before the bulls were killed, which put the spectators into a better temper.
Then came what was for connoisseurs the most important event of the day, the hunting of an enormous African elephant. Every Roman is familiar with elephants, for they figure in many state processions. But in fact there are very few of them in the City, because they are hard to catch and ship oversea; the same dozen or so of the beasts, mostly tame Indians, parade again and again. It was a long time since an elephant had been turned loose in the arena to be killed. His hunters were a band of black men armed with two-edged swords. In the end they got him, cutting the tendons of his hind legs from the rear; but not until he had killed a good number of the hunters. Even after he was down he took a lot of killing; his hide was almost proof against a swordstroke. Soldiers watched this with deep interest. If you campaign in Africa or the east you never know when you may have to face elephants in war; though the Parthians do not employ them and I have never seen a genuine war-elephant.
But it was not the kind of thing to interest the populace, who like to see a lot of fights going on at once in every corner of the arena. The hunting of a single animal, even if that animal was an elephant, seemed to them evidence of shameful stinginess. It was an historic occasion, to be recorded in the annals of the City; but to send the crowd home in a good temper something more lavish was needed at the finish.
The last turn of all was spectacular enough to please anybody. Oxen drew into the arena more than fifty wheeled cages, and in each cage sat a hungry tiger. Tigers, which must be brought from beyond the Empire, are more expensive than lions which are sent to the City as part of the tribute of Africa. The loosing of the tigers was the first attraction; it gave the spectators an opportunity to bet among themselves on a more or less even chance, which always amuses them. Condemned criminals, unarmed and naked, were lined up at the far end of the arena; when a trumpet blew they raced towards the cages. Each man had to open a single cage, then run to get out of the arena by a wicket gate before he was caught by a tiger. Of course those who opened the first cages had the best chance, which made them race well. Some got away and others were caught.
Then men armed with long pikes fought the tigers. Their method was to provoke a tiger into charging, and spear him in the belly as he sprang. The hunters began with great confidence, for they had been trained to the work; but of course each man could watch only one tiger at a time, and many were killed by unexpected attacks. In fact you might say that the tigers won; when fifty-one of them had been killed there were no more hunters left on their feet. The half-dozen surviving beasts were driven back to their cages by attendants who waved blazing torches.
The amphitheatre was properly dotted with the bodies of men and animals; the sand was properly splashed with blood. For a full half-hour the citizens shouted their gratitude before they went home in an orderly manner, without rioting.
Throughout the long day the Emperor had behaved perfectly. He sat still in his place, enjoying everything but not showing too much excitement. Gordius stood beside him, and occasionally they chatted; but the young man carried a tray with drinks and the Emperor’s handkerchief, so that only courtiers in the know recognized him as more than a valet. The imperial toga, arranged in graceful folds, looked as though it were made of the convenional wool. The Consuls and the other curule magistrates shared the imperial box, and the Emperor greeted them correctly. The ladies of the imperial household, even the Augusta, sat in a separate box, behind the Vestal virgins. We might all have been real Romans, born and bred on the Palatine; instead of a collection of queer foreigners from the most outlandish province of the Empire.
The Games continued for many days, until the supply of wild beasts was exhausted. But no more elephants were killed, because the Emperor had thought of another use for them. The supply of trained gladiators lasted better; the Emperor was not interested in fights between man and man, and showed as few of them as he could without irritating the populace.
After the Games in the Flavian amphit
heatre we continued to celebrate the new reign by a special race-meeting in the circus. But on the morning of the first race there was a special parade at the Praetorian Camp, for the Emperor to announce his approaching marriage. The Divine Severus set the precedent of announcing these family events first to his guards, as though they also were members of the imperial family; the Senate does not like it, but the custom is too firmly established to be altered.
Since this was a family occasion the imperial household were present in force. The Augusta, wearing a purple cloak and a wreath of laurel, took the principal part. She held her grandson by the elbow as though he were still a child, and herself called the troops up to attention before announcing that Antoninus Elagabalus would shortly marry the only daughter of Julius Paulus. The Emperor blushed, looking uncomfortable but obedient; but he summoned up the resolution to embrace his future father-in-law as though he liked it. Paula herself was not present, in accordance with the theory that a tender virgin would be frightened by the sight of soldiers in the mass.
The match was in every way suitable. Julius Paulus was an eminent lawyer of impeccable breeding. There were no black sheep in his respectable family, and yet it was not very ancient or famous; there was no danger that his kin would found a powerful faction. So long as the Emperor remained obedient to his grandmother there was a chance that he would win the friendship and support of the Senate, which no Emperor has enjoyed since the death of the Divine Marcus Aurelius.
Unfortunately the chariot-races on the same afternoon introduced a disturbing influence. I saw the beginning of it; for I happened to be in close attendance on the Emperor, for the first time since we had arrived in Rome.
In the circus there has never been the formal etiquette of the amphitheatre. Watching the death of gladiators is an ancient Roman custom, tenuously connected with the worship of the gods. Watching horses race is a new diversion, introduced from foreign parts; and even the Greeks who brought it to Rome never regarded it as more than a diversion.
Therefore at the circus the Emperor might recline in comfort, instead of sitting in a chair of state. He wore a comfortable tunic instead of his ceremonial toga. He might have his friends round him, instead of placing the curule magistrates in accurate order of precedence.
Gordius squatted at his feet. The imperial ladies sat behind him. I stood at his side, the only bodyguard in the imperial box; though there were sentries within call.
The first race was not important, a sprint for three-year-olds with apprentice drivers. While the chariots were lining up for the start the Emperor chatted with me, just as in the old days at Nicomedia. He was chaffing me about my correct military turn-out.
‘Must you carry a centurion’s cudgel, as well as a sword? Of course you must. It’s in standing orders, dress, and equipment for a centurion on guard duty within the City. But suppose a wicked Senator jumped out, brandishing a dagger? Would you hit him with your cudgel, as though he were a clumsy recruit? Or would you drop your stick to draw your sword, at the risk of appearing improperly dressed in the circus?’
‘Duratius would get it right at all costs,’ said Gordius lazily. ‘He would submit a written report to the Praetorian Praefect, asking for permission to draw his sword within the peace of the City. Until the answer came the Emperor would rely for protection on the fists of his gallant stable boys.’
‘If it was a Senator I would not need even the cudgel,’ said I. ‘A soldier has only to scowl from under his helmet and any Senator will run away. More likely the assassin would be another soldier, and then the cudgel would come in useful. After all, it’s laid down in the manual: “The legionary should fear the cudgel of the centurion more than he fears the swords of the enemy.”’
‘Meanwhile I would run away, uttering the little falsetto screams that make the heart of Gordius go pit-a-pat. I wonder would he run after me, or stay behind to fight the murderer?’ the Emperor continued.
‘Run after you, of course, my dear, and leave fighting to those who are paid for it. Hallo, they’re off. Only novices, but it may give us a pointer for next year. Let’s watch.’ Gordius became professional.
There was a bit of trouble as the chariots swept round the first turn. The leading Green, boxed in, wrenched his team away from the central spine to avoid a collision. His horses fought the bit, for they had been trained to keep close to the wall; by brilliant driving the young charioteer pulled them clear of the ruck. But he spurted too soon, trying to make up lost ground on the straight; his unbalanced team were not properly on their legs when he gave them the whip. One of the inner horses stumbled, and his weight on the yoke was too much for his mates. After a long complicated scramble the chariot and the four horses together rolled over in a spectacular spill right in front of the imperial box.
Accidents usually come at the turns, not in front of the imperial box half-way down the straight. The Emperor and Gordius craned to see, shouting to the sentries to run down and unyoke the horses before they could kick one another. The young driver had been thrown clear. He lay on his back, naked save for his breech-clout, for his cloak was tangled in the chariot; his cap also had fallen off, and golden curls framed a pink-and-white face. Even I thought him attractive; the Emperor was thunderstruck.
‘Who’s that, Gordius? I know him, he’s one of the boys from Nicomedia. But he’s come on, hasn’t he? Odd how ten days will suddenly turn a good-looking child into a youth of amazing beauty. I ought to know, it happened to me. But tell me his name. We must have him at the palace.’
‘It’s young Hierocles, a Carian. He’s one of my apprentices. Still a slave, you know, and not half such a good driver as he thinks he is. He need not have fallen if he hadn’t been too impatient. Do you really want him at the palace?’ I could sympathize with Gordius, who dared not lie to his master but was naturally reluctant to praise a rival.
The Emperor took in the situation with one of his queer flashes of adult insight. ‘He shall be nursed at the palace, and when he’s better we shall keep him there. But don’t you worry, Gordius. He doesn’t compete with you. You are my man, Hierocles shall be my boy. Does that sound very strange, Duratius? Anyway, you know what I mean. All too soon I shall be a husband. I am not looking forward to my wedding, but together the three of us will fix up something to make it more endurable.’
I smiled, and left Gordius to answer this pretty sentiment. The Emperor’s private life was his own affair, and it seems to me ridiculous to hold that it is more wicked to love boys than girls. But my own tastes lie in a different direction, and I could never understand the intensity of his feeling. For that matter, the Emperor himself could not understand them. At one minute he would talk as though Gordius and all his other boy-friends were no more than casual concubines; at the next he would sigh and groan as though he were one of the famous masculine lovers of Greek legend.
Hierocles was carried to the palace in a closed litter. The Emperor remained in his box until the finish of the day’s racing, so there was no occasion for scandal. That evening he supped with his two charioteers; but privately, so privately that half the court knew nothing of it. He was really doing his best to live like a conventional Roman.
Three days later I had the delicate task of passing on certain instructions to a section of Praetorians and the centurion who was to command them. They were to proceed, in all haste, to some backwoods city of Pontus; there they were to seek out the elderly slave-woman who was the mother of Hierocles. Her full and only name was, unfortunately, Ma; her owner had called her after a famous Cappadocian goddess, as some unimaginative men call their doorkeepers Cerberus and their boatmen Charon. It was a good enough name for a slave-woman, but it was hard to keep a straight face when explaining the business to soldiers. The centurion, who carried a blank draft on the provincial treasury, was to buy her at a price fixed by arbitration; then he was to see her emancipated in the court of a competent magistrate. Finally the section, transformed into a guard of honour, were to escort the old girl to Rome,
treating her with the respect due to a close friend of the Emperor.
Of course the whole project was absurd. Handled in the wrong way it might have grown into an insult to honourable Praetorians, enough to set off a dangerous mutiny. I treated it as a joke, and persuaded the detail to see it in the same light. Once they felt themselves to be confederates of the Emperor, helping him in an assault on the dignity of stuffy Senators, they were quite happy to begin their journey. I saw to it that they were provided with a travel-warrant drawn in generous terms, authorizing them to impress transport and requisition billets wherever they should find it convenient; they would return substantially richer than when they set off. They left willingly, and the Emperor’s high-spirited sense of humour became the talk of the Camp.
But you cannot do that kind of thing too often. Soldiers like a ruler who from time to time makes respectable civilians look ridiculous; they will not submit to a flippant young joker who cannot take serious things seriously. The goings-on at the time of the Emperor’s wedding were kept as far as possible secret from the troops.
Those goings-on were really disgraceful, and yet I cannot find it in my heart to blame the Emperor. He had never concealed his aversion from females, and we all knew that he went through with this marriage only to please his grandmother. He was performing an unpleasant duty, and he was entitled to a bit of his own kind of fun to make up for it. But I am sorry he brought me into it, for I was genuinely shocked by his behaviour. It made it harder for me to continue as his advocate with the Praetorians.
My troubles stemmed from the Augusta’s lack of understanding while we were in Nicomedia. Because I had taken the Emperor to a brothel, a thing I would never have done if I had not been acting under orders, he saw me as a rake who would condone any kind of irregular conduct. When he commanded me, a mere centurion, to be a witness of his marriage he was merely displaying his contempt for the Roman code of precedence; but then he kept me by him to be a witness of the secret ceremonies later in the same evening, a mistake in tact of a kind he seldom committed.
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