‘Felicianus has volunteered to go back out to the Campus Martius. It is brave. The act of a man.’ Mamaea lightly ran her fingers over the sculpted muscles of the Prefect’s cuirass. Alexander hoped the rumours were untrue. He had never trusted Felicianus.
‘The greed of the troops is insatiable.’ Mamaea addressed her son. ‘Felicianus will offer them money, a huge donative. The subsidies to the Germans will end. The diplomatic funds will be promised to the soldiers. And they will want those they believe their enemies.’ She dropped her voice. ‘They will demand Veturius’ head. The treasurer must be sacrificed. Apart from the four of us, Felicianus can surrender anyone to them.’
Alexander looked over at the glutton. Among all the court grotesques, the polyfagus was Alexander’s favourite. It was unlikely the mutineers would demand the death of the imperial omnivore.
‘Alexander.’ His mother’s voice brought him back. ‘The soldiers will want to see their Emperor. When Felicianus returns, you will go out with him. From the tribunal you will tell them you share their desire for revenge for their families. You will promise to march at their head against the barbarians who killed their loved ones. Together you will free the enslaved and exact awful vengeance on those who inflicted such terrible sufferings. Give the soldiers the proper address of an imperator: fire and sword, burning villages, heaps of plunder, mountains of enemy corpses. Make a better speech than you did this morning.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Felicianus saluted, and left the tent.
It was monstrously unfair. He had done his best. In the grey light of pre-dawn he had gone to the Campus Martius. Clad in his ornamental armour, he had ascended the raised platform, stood and waited with the troops who had renewed their oaths to him the night before. When the mutinous recruits had emerged out of the near-darkness, he had filled his lungs to address them. It was never going to be easy. Latin was not his first language. It had made no difference. They had given him no chance to speak.
Coward! Weakling! Mean little girl tied to his mother’s apron strings! Their shouts had pre-empted anything he could have said. On his side of the parade ground, first one or two then whole ranks had put down their arms. He had turned and run. Pursued by taunts and jeers, he had stumbled back to the imperial quarters.
With the Prefect Felicianus gone, Mamaea sat as immobile as a statue. Granianus tried to whisper. She waved him to silence. The small birds fluttered here and there.
Alexander stood, irresolute. An Emperor should not be irresolute. ‘Polyfagus.’ The fat man lumbered up and waddled after Alexander to where the food was set out. ‘Amuse me, eat.’
Alexander pointed to a mountain of lettuces in a basket. The glutton started to eat, his jaw chewing steadily, his throat bobbing. He ate with little enthusiasm.
‘Faster.’
Using both hands, the omnivore stuffed the green leaves into his mouth. Soon there were none left.
‘The basket.’
It was made of wicker. The polyfagus broke it, and began. Although piece by piece it disappeared into his mouth, he was not attacking it with anything like his customary relish.
Alexander wished he could be free of his mother. But there was no one else. No one else he could trust. He had trusted the first wife they had given him. Yes, he had trusted Memmia Sulpicia with all his heart. But then her father Sulpicius Macrinus had plotted against him. The evidence produced by the imperial spies had left no doubt. The frumentarii of Volo, the Spymaster, had been thorough. Even before Sulpicius was tortured, there had been no doubt. His mother had wanted Memmia Sulpicia executed as well. Alexander had been firm. They had not let him see his wife, but he had commuted her sentence to exile. As far as he knew, she was still alive somewhere in Africa.
The omnivore spluttered, and reached for a pitcher.
Much the same had happened with his second wife, Barbia Orbiana. He had not been fortunate with his fathers-in-law.
The polyfagus took a huge draught of wine.
It might have been very different if his father had lived. But he had died before Alexander was really old enough to remember him. Then, when he was nine, they had told him Gessius Marcianus, the half-recalled equestrian officer from Arca in Syria, had not been his father at all. Instead he was the natural son of the Emperor Caracalla. But by then Caracalla too had been dead for a year or more. This unexpected turn in Alexander’s paternity had revealed that the newly reigning Emperor Elagabalus was not only his first cousin but his half-brother as well. It had been given out that their mothers, the sisters Soaemis and Mamaea, had committed adultery with Caracalla. And then Elagabalus had been prevailed upon to adopt Alexander. Not many a boy had three fathers publicly acknowledged before he turned thirteen, with two of them worshipped as gods, and the last just five years his senior.
Five years his senior, and perverse beyond measure. Mamaea had tried to shield Alexander from Elagabalus and his courtiers, both from their malice and their influence. Alexander’s food and drink was tasted before it was brought to the table. The servants around him were individually chosen by his mother, not drawn from the common pool in the palace. It was the same with the guards. Droves of experts in Greek and Latin literature and oratory had been hired at vast expense, along with men skilled in music, wrestling, geometry and every other activity considered suitable to aid the cultural and moral development of a princeps. None had been selected for his light-heartedness. After his accession, many of the intellectuals had remained at court, like Granianus moving to positions in the imperial secretariat. Their augmented status had not instilled any increase in levity.
While his cousin-brother reigned, Mamaea had kept Alexander safe. Yet despite all her efforts, dark stories of depravity and vice seeped from the intimates of Elagabalus. Alexander remembered how, all at once, these whispered stories had appalled and excited him. Elagabalus had cast off any decency, cast off the restraint of his mother. A life of dinners, women, roses and boys, of futile pleasure on more pleasure; a hedonistic Pelion heaped upon Ossa; a life which put the imaginations of Epicureans and Cyrenaeans to shame. Think of the freedom, the power. Like a diligent warder, Mamaea had shielded Alexander from the chance to experience such temptations. But she had not shielded him from the end of it all.
A dark night, torchlight reflected in the puddles. Two days before the ides of March. Alexander was thirteen, standing in the Forum with his mother. Shadows shifting on the tall columns of the temple of Concordiae Augustae. The Praetorians handed their victims over to the mob. Both were naked, much bloodied. Elagabalus, they dragged with a hook. It entered his stomach, curled up into his chest. Soaemis, they hauled by her ankles, legs obscenely apart. Her head banged on the roadway. Most likely they were already dead. Mamaea watched the final progress of her sister, a journey she had in part orchestrated. Alexander had wanted to go back up to the palace and hide. No, at a signal from his mother the Praetorians had hailed him Emperor, and formed around him to take him to their camp.
Alexander cast around to get rid of the image. All types of cold food were presented to his gaze: watermelons, sardines, bread, biscuits. There was a mound of snowy-white imperial napkins. Alexander tossed one across. ‘Eat this.’
The polyfagus caught it, but did not begin to eat.
‘Eat!’
The man did not move.
Alexander drew his sword. ‘Eat!’
Mouth
