Alexander returned to his devotions. What you do not wish that a man shoulddo to you, do not do to him. He had had the phrase inscribed over his lararium. He had heard it in the East from some old Jew or Christian. An unwelcome thought struck him. He raised himself on to his elbows. He looked for the court glutton. Alexander had seen him eat birds, feathers and all. It was all right. The omnivore was in a corner beyond Alexanders musical instruments. He was huddled with one of the dwarves. Neither was paying any attention to the ornamental birds. They were staring blankly into space. The mutiny seemed to have drained all their vitality.
Alexander, get up, and come here. His mothers voice was peremptory.
Slowly, not to appear too craven, the Emperor got to his feet.
The air was thick with incense, although the sacred fire burnt low on its portable altar. Alexander wondered if he should tell someone to get some fuel. It would be terrible if it went out.
Alexander.
The Emperor turned to his mother.
The situation is not irretrievable. The peasant that the recruits have clad in the purple has not arrived yet. His acclamation will attract few supporters among the senior officers.
Mamaea was always good in a crisis. Alexander thought of the night of his accession, the night his cousin-brother died, and shuddered.
Praetorian Prefect Cornelianus has gone to fetch the Cohort of Emesenes. They are our people. Their commander Iotapianus is a kinsman. They will be loyal. The other eastern archers also. He will bring the Armenians and Osrhoenes.
Alexander had never liked Iotapianus.
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 Prefects 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 Alexanders favourite. It was unlikely the mutineers would demand the death of the imperial omnivore.
Alexander. His mothers 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 mothers 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.