Chapter Four

Two years went by. Sadly, the Emperor Marcus Aurelius, by this time extremely frail, passed on while in Germania with the legions, meaning Commodus, his ill-tempered, reckless progeny, was now poised to ascend the throne. Inevitably, this meant that he would be returning to the Palace to live on a full-time basis, a prospect I truly didn't savour. His threatening missive of two years previous had gnawed at my insides ever since, and if I had been unable to forget it, then it was unlikely that he had either. As I had discovered to my peril the day he crudely grabbed my arm in the corridor and hissed his proposed "revenge" in my ear, Commodus hated to "lose." Now, gifted with absolute power at his reckoning, not even Lucilla could protect me. I was certain I'd be booted out of the Palace's employ...or worse...soon. My stomach heaved with anxiety each time I contemplated the imminent return of the Young Buffoon. I began to seriously entertain the thought of running away, knowing in my heart that a eighteen year old girl would stand little chance against his Praetorian lackeys, who had in recent weeks become more conspicuous ever since the news of Commodus' ascension arrived. And in any case, where could I go? I'd probably never see Britannia again; I had no money and scant prospect of earning any. I would be forced to live undercover for the rest of my life, assuming I even got as far as the city walls before being intercepted by Praetorians or Imperial spies. In spite of all this, I would spend successive nights awake in the sleeping alcove, planning my escape as Hestia snored lightly beside me

I have to admit my plans were rather sketchy and dependent on the mercies of the Gods. I could sneak out of the palace in a laundry basket, hidden beneath piles of old, musty-smelling sheets. Having no money to speak of, I'd be forced to entertain the possibility of selling my body once out on the streets of Rome. I hated the idea on principle, but the notion of forfeiting my virginity in such questionable and unpleasant circumstances seemed infinitely preferable to anything Commodus would have in store for me. Besides, the only other option was theft, and I couldn't bring myself to do that.

I'd purchase passage along the Tiber to Ostia, ensconcing myself on a boat bound for Sicily, Sardinia or Caprae, possibly even Carthage or the Greek Islands, funds permitting. I'd have to change my name, darken my red hair, seek work with a family of patrician status but modest means, preferably without connection to the Imperial Family. Then the whole idea would strike me as ludicrous, what with Praetorians sniffing around every corner, even in the sodden depths of laundry baskets. I would sigh and try to go to sleep, usually without success.

The day Commodus re-entered Rome "triumphant," resplendent in the ubiquitous laurel-leaf crown and flowing robes of an Emperor, followed by a triumphal procession of Praetorian "yes-men" (as Portia caustically termed them), saw me standing on the Palace steps, paralysed with fear inside. One would never have assumed this from my stance and expression, which remained immobile, giving no hint of my internal trauma. The prescence was required of all the domestic staff, including Trincula, Hestia, Cleandrus, Portia, young Lucius' tutor Castillus (who had also tutored Commodus as a boy) and myself. Several Senators and Consuls of note were also present; influential men such as Gracchus, Falco, Gaius and Albinus, in addition to the consuls Sulla and Septimus Severus, together with Pertinax, the city prefect. Eleven-year-old Lucius stood before them, eagerly anticipating the return of his mother. We were instructed to bow gracefully, smiles intact, as he-who-had-to-be-obeyed at-all-costs swept haughtily up the Palace steps.

"He's taking enough flaming' time...my bladder can't wait for no one, plebeian OR Emperor" Portia grumbled through gritted teeth, forced smile forming a facetious rectangle as she swayed in discomfort. Trincula smiled slyly. "You should have gone before, sweetheart," she replied, winking at us. At that moment a pair of local children, bedecked in garlands of peonies and multi-hued silks, ran forward to present the new Emperor and Lucilla with lavish clusters of flowers. I surmised that this gesture was intended to represent the Emperor's so- called "bond" with the common people... a shrewd political move, I thought. The children were understandably awe-struck and thrilled; after all, it isn't every day you get to greet the Emperor on his homecoming. However, without getting too caustic, their delight obviously had a lot to do with the fact that they'd never witnessed the sweet-natured recipient of their tributes throwing a tantrum, kicking a servant or slashing a robe out of sheer, pig-headed spite. So much for the Emperor's bond with the "common people..."

Commodus greeted the Senators and Consuls gathered at the top of the steps, sweeping past the domestics, acknowledging our presence with little more than a cursory nod. I didn't move, even my smile didn't quiver, but while Portia's insides were creased from a full bladder, mine were creased with fear.

During the initial month of his reign, Commodus kept busy with official duties, paperwork of various description, holding court in the Senate. Kitchen gossips kept us reliably informed of the latest twists and turns, but I felt that things were a little TOO quiet for my own personal comfort. Informed of the Emperor's plans to reopen the Flavian Ampitheatre by staging a series of Games, ostensiably to honour his father, Portia was on a roll. "Hmpf!" she snorted, comically brandishing a wooden spoon (with a little too much innate menace, I thought; had Commodus been present, I wouldn't have bet against her giving him a good swipe with it.) "Games to honour himself, more like! His father, may he rest in peace, didn't want anything to do with them gladiator games, and I for one understood him! Where's the money coming from to fund this obscenity, I'd like to ask him that! It's disgusting when some poor folks don't have anything to eat!

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I took my seat in the Imperial enclosure of the Flavian Amphitheatre's hot, bristling environs. It was the second week of the Games, and the tension, like a monstrous, beating heart, was palpable, inflaming the heaving ellipse of humanity who chattered excitedly within the arena; outside, the mob squalled like angry children over the remaining few tickets. I knew I would find no pleasure from the dreadful spectacles soon to be unleashed. Descending from his seat, Commodus glanced over his feverish subjects, gesturing as only a God would, revelling in the swelling chant of "CAESAR! CAESAR!" Lucilla, hands twisting in her lap, had been strangely quiet of late. I had no doubts whatsoever that this had everything to do with her brother's sudden ascent to power. Caution had sapped her spirit; she had Lucius' welfare at heart, as any good mother would. Her son was there too, peering over the balcony, eyes wide with curiosity.

A stout man with rouged cheeks and a ridiculous-looking wig - the Master of Ceremonies, presumably - entered the arena to a thunderous herald of African drums. Gesturing for silence, he began to speak in singsong fashion, his voice rising with pomposity, falling with dramatic solemnity, stirring the braying mob. The crowd broke out in scornful laughter as he introduced a rag-tag group of gladiators positioned in the arena's centre as the "Barbarian Hoard;" a mocking allusion to the great Carthaginian general Hannibal's defeated armies of antiquity.

"And now," he continued, his voice rising several notches, Caesar is proud to give you...THE LEGIONNAIRES OF SCIPIO AFRICANUS!"

Fifty thousand pairs of eyes shifted towards the enormous, forbidding gates at the south side of the arena, which swung open with a flourish to the tumultuous sound of chariots and horses, their passengers - mostly men, with a few women added provocatively to the mix - bedecked in golden breastplates and wielding fearsome weaponry. Much as I wanted to, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the terrible carnage being re-enacted before me. Chillingly, it reminded me of my last day in Britannia, the uprising, the soldiers, the brutality. Equally disturbing was the fact that the mob grew more delirious with every second, as swords flashed and blood spurted from gaping wounds. They cheered, roared, stamped their feet. Hestia, sitting to my right, turned to me. "Vinca...I feel sick...she said. Cleandrus surreptitiously passed her a small bag in which to vomit. Luckily, no one saw her , except me.

Drusus, Commodus' barber, who was sitting to my left, chuckled. "I take it this isn't your idea of entertainment, Vinca," he exclaimed.

"You're right" I replied, returning his amiable gaze through narrowed eyes. "It's a shameful waste of life, in my opinion...and public funds." I righteously folded my arms and settled back in my seat.

"But just look at the skill. There's some heavy-duty swordsmanship taking place down there. Look at that fellow," Drusus said, indicating one of the "Barbarians" below, a man sitting astride a horse and wearing a helmet partially obscuring his face. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's had training in the military. Just watch how he commands the situation!" Indeed, this "Barbarian" had something of a ringleader's air about him, commanding his ragged and hastily assembled "troops" with an almost military precision. The battle drew to a close, the crowd roaring its approval, much of it directed at this mysterious leader of the Hoards. By some strange historical twist, the "Barbarians" had triumphed!

The rouged and bewigged Master Of Ceremonies leaned over Commodus, whispering in his ear. Commodus stood and swept down into the arena, accompanied by a dark-crested wave of Praetorians. The crowd collectively held its' breath. Was the Emperor displeased for some reason? Curious, I craned my neck to get a better view of the situation.

Unfortunately, I couldn't hear a thing, so I can only describe what I saw. Commodus strolled over to the man, beckoning him with his hand to rise. Then Lucius, also keen to meet this gladiator, ran up to join his uncle. Connodus addressed the man who, in an unprecedented gesture of defiance, turned his back on the Emperor! Half the crowd gasped as one, the remaining half too astonished to respond in any way whatsoever. Hestia trembled on the edge of her seat, visibly sweating, mouth wide open with disbelief.

"Oh my!" she gasped. "He'll really be in trouble now!"

"Hush a moment!" I snapped. "I want to know what's going on!"

That wasn't all. The gladiator, head bowed, removed his helmet and turned to face down the Emperor, who reeled visibly as the man took slow, menacing steps towards him. This was unbelievable! A gladiator, a humble slave no less, challenging the Emperor, the most powerful man in our known world, in such an imprudent, yet breathtaking, manner! Needless to say, his stance endered him still further to the mob as their voices rose in unison, chanting "LIVE! LIVE!" I stole a glance at Lucilla, who had suddenly become animated, her eyes shining and, dare I say it, hopeful...it was patently obvious that this enigmatic warrior had stolen her heart, as well as the crowd's. Commodus glanced around the arena in desperation; his expression cauterised, trapped between two fires. After what seemed like several lifetimes, he finally conceded the battle and gave the thumbs-up signal, as if this gesture was the most painful thing in the world to do.

For several days thereafter there was no looking at Coomodus. He barricaded himself in his quarters, emerging only to hurl the occasional invective in the direction of his personal staff. His meals were returned untouched. On the rare instances he deigned to "grace" us with his presence, his expression spoke volumes; hurt, disbelief, defeat, as if he had been struck hard and was only now beginning to register the blow. The kitchens swarmed with gossip; most of it surrounding this enigmatic gladiator whom had, for one rare and blinding moment, rendered the Emperor helpless before his people. Then one evening, something extraordinary happened.

It was Cleandrus' job to serve a goblet of hot wine to Commodus before he retired for the night. On this particular evening, however, Cleandrus had injured his foot after dropping a heavy vase on it, and was therefore prevented from climbing stairs as he waited for it to heal. With Cleandrus out of action for a while, I was duly summoned to perform the task instead. Needless to say, I did not relish the prospect of my first real interaction with the Emperor since our "disagreement" of two years previous. The walk to the Imperial Chambers felt like the longest of my life; the goblet trembled in my jittering grasp. Reaching the vast doors of Commodus' quarters, I came to a halt before Quintus, the stony-faced head of the Praetorian Guard.

"I have brought the Emperor's wine, Sire" I said my head bowed in deference.

"You may go in, slave" Unsmiling, Quintus took a key from his pouch and unlocked the door, bidding me enter.

Quintus politely closed the door behind me. Tiptoeing carefully through the vast suite of rooms, Commodus was nowhere to be seen. "S-Sire?" I enquired; part of me hoping he wasn't there. Then I saw him.

He was sitting on a window ledge, shadowlike, head in his hands, shoulders heaving. He was sobbing.

"Sire? Are you feeling well?"

Rousing himself, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe, he looked up at me. "Oh, it's you," he spat, the contempt in his voice alive and present. "Where's that fool Cleandrus?"

"He has injured his foot today Sire, but it will heal...I've been asked to..."

"Go away"

"Sire? But I've..."

"I said, GO AWAY!"

I bowed and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Commodus declared. I halted and turned back to face him.

"Slave, bring me the wine."

"Yes, Sire" Tentatively, I carried the goblet over to him, placing my hand over the rim of the goblet to prevent spillage. He took it from me, skewing me with his gaze, a chilly smile twitching on his lips.

"Taste it first," he commanded.

At that point my imagination began to run riot; my worst fears rose to the surface. What if Commodus had deliberately "set up" this "scenario" to have me poisoned, making the foul deed look like a foiled assassination attempt? I wouldn't have put it past him. Was this his "revenge?" Was this what he'd been waiting to do for two years?

Reluctantly, I lifted the goblet to my lips. I took a deep breath and drank deeply, waiting for paralysis to take hold of my form, dragging me down into sleep. It never came. Commodus started to giggle, the laughter tinged with mild hysteria. He removed the goblet from my hand. Suppressed rage flared within me as I realised he'd enjoyed torturing me, but I didn't flinch.

"You see, you stupid girl," he said, pausing to take a long swig himself, "your Emperor is ALWAYS right, as you will come to appreciate. In fact, he is right even when he is wrong. It is your duty to never, ever question his word." As he spoke, he encircled me like a bird of prey, prowling, poised to strike. Or perhaps that was what he wanted me to think. My eyes narrowed. Drawing to a halt behind me, he leaned forwards to whisper in my ear. "Seeing as we are stuck together, you and I, we will have to learn to trust one another. That was Lesson One. Lesson Two will be when I see fit..." He walked away. Then he bent over, arms clasped tightly round his waist and collapsed in racking sobs, the forces holding him together falling apart and dissipating, like the contents of Pandora's box.

True, I despised him for what he had just subjected me to. However, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy at his sudden, naked display of pain. His tears seemed to come from somewhere deep and wounded, and they affected me, in spite of everything. It was obvious all was "not right" with him... Portia had on more than one occasion remarked on how he seemed "touched in the head." And although Portia's observation was primarily a derogatory one, I, in contrast, felt for him.

"Sire...would you like me to fetch someone? The Lady? Quintus? A physician? Could I..."

He clutched at my hand like a drowning man. He gazed up at me, beautiful eyes glinting and tear-racked. "Slave...don't leave...everybody leaves...stay here. Everyone goes away..." Without a word; I helped him up and put him to bed.

I stayed with him awhile, holding him until he fell asleep. He did not touch me, or indeed speak to me, nor I did him. It wasn't necessary. That night heralded the sea-change in our relationship with each other, forged in unbroken, silent intimacy, planting the seed of our eventual friendship.