THE AMAZING EMPEROR
                              HELIOGABALUS

                             [Illustration]

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                                   THE
                             AMAZING EMPEROR
                              HELIOGABALUS

                                   BY
                              J. STUART HAY
                       ST. JOHN’S COLLEGE, OXFORD

                          WITH INTRODUCTION BY
                      PROFESSOR J. B. BURY, LITT.D.
    REGIUS PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE

                       MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                       ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
                                  1911




PREFACE


The life of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, generally known to the
world as Heliogabalus, is as yet shrouded in impenetrable mystery. The
picture we have of the reign is that of an imperial orgy—sacrilegious,
necromantic, and obscene. The boy Emperor, who reigned from his
fourteenth to his eighteenth year, is depicted amongst that crowd
of tyrants who held the throne of Imperial Rome, by the help of the
praetorian army, as one of the most tyrannical, certainly as the most
debased.

Few people have made any study of the documents which relate to this
particular period, and fewer still have taken the trouble to inquire
whether the accounts of the Scriptores are trustworthy or consonant with
the known facts.

To this present time no account of the life of this Emperor has been
published. Histories of the decline and fall of Imperial Rome there are
in plenty; other reigns have been examined in detail; German critics have
sifted the trustworthiness of the documents, few in number and all late
in date, which refer to other reigns; so far nothing has been done on
the life of Elagabalus.

The present writer started this study with the view that the Syrian
boy-Emperor was, in all probability, what his biographers have painted
him, and what all other writers have accepted as being a substantially
correct account of the absence of mind, will, policy, and authority
which he was supposed to have betrayed, along with other even more
reprehensible characteristics.

The first reason to doubt this estimate came from the continually
recurring mention of a perpetual struggle between the Emperor and his
female relatives; a fight in which the boy was always worsting able and
resolute women, carrying his point with consummate tact and ability,
while allowing the women a certain show of dignity and position, where it
in no way diminished the imperial authority or his own prerogative.

This circumstance alone was scarcely consonant with Lampridius’ account
of a mere youthful debauchee, who had neither inclination nor will for
anything, save a low desire to wallow in vice and unspeakable horrors as
the be-all and end-all of his existence.

On further inquiry, another circumstance obtruded itself, namely, that
the boy had a vast religious scheme or policy, which he was bent on
imposing on his subjects in Rome, and indeed throughout the world. This
policy was the unification of churches in one great monotheistic ideal.

Religion may be neurotic in itself, but the scheme of Elagabalus was
not essentially so. Certainly the course of action by which he purposed
to effect his ideal was not that of a mere sensualist. It showed
understanding, persistency, and dogged determination; it was not popular,
because in the general incredulity, the earlier deities had lost even the
immortality of mummies.

Yet another reason which forced one to disagree with the usual summary of
the character under discussion was that, despite (1) the awful accounts
of the imperial orgies; (2) the accusations brought against the cruelty
and incompetency of the government; (3) the announcement that all good
men were exterminated in the general lust for destruction of such
worthies; (4) the account of the class and calibre of the men employed
in all state offices; (despite all this) the authors inform us that the
state did not suffer from the effects of the reign. This was obviously
an impossibility at the outset, and the terminological inexactitude
became even more apparent when all the known good men were mentioned as
peaceably holding office, not only during the reign in question, but in
that of Elagabalus’ successor; either they had been resurrected or had
never been exterminated.

Again, the account given of the military policy is not that which would
be the work of a weakling. The fiscal policy may have been unchanged,
but the edict which enforced the payment of Vectigalia in gold, showed a
considerable amount of sense, in demanding the payment of taxes in the
one coin whose standard had been maintained when all others had been
debased by preceding Emperors, and no one had been worse than the great
financier Septimius Severus in this debasing of the currency.

In legal matters alone we are told that the period was sterile, because
only five decrees of the reign are recorded by the editors of the
_Prosopographia_. This may be true, but it is quite possible, in fact
more than probable, that in later redactions much of the work which
Papinian, Paul, Ulpian, and other such produced during this reign has
been embodied in later decrees or codifications, and one can scarcely
imagine that these men were entirely sterile for four years in the zenith
of their authority.

Again, it is most noticeable that in the mass of abuse and obvious animus
which the “life” exhibits, there is not one definite act of cruelty
reported; no wanton murder is cited; no hint given that the people were
discontented with the appointments made, or that they suffered from any
of the misrule which had been so prevalent for years past. On the other
hand, we are told that the people considered Elagabalus a worthy Emperor,
despite all that could be said to his discredit.

Chiefly it was this too obvious animus, shown on each page of the
documents, which led the writer to examine the opinions of German
and Italian critics on the measure of credibility which could safely
be attached to the Scriptores Historiae Augustae. It was an agreeable
surprise to find that their estimates of the Scriptores ranged from
those of men who stigmatised the whole collection as an impudent and
unenlightened forgery to men who, like Mommsen, contended that, though
originally the lives might have had some real historical value, they had
been so edited and enlarged as to lack the essential weight of historical
evidence, and contained, as they stood, but a modicum of consecutive and
unvarnished fact.

Authorities being so far in accord, the present writer set to work to
sift the accounts which were obviously quite unnaturally biased, and to
separate what was merely stupidly contradictory from what was mutually
exclusive.

This method has been applied merely to the first seventeen sections of
Lampridius’ work, the portion which professes to contain a more or less
historical account of the events from Elagabalus’ entry into Rome to his
disappearance into the main drain of the city.

In the latter portion of the life there is a wealth of biographical
detail, which, in plain English, means an account _in extenso_ of what
has been already described too luridly in the foregoing sections. It is
written in Latin, and has never been translated into English, to the
writer’s knowledge, nor has he any intention of undertaking the work
at this present or any other time, as he has no desire to land himself,
with the printers and publishers, in the dock at the Old Bailey, in an
unenviable, if not an invidious and notorious position.

Those, however, who are capable of reading the Latin tongue, and
therefore inured against further corruption, will find an excellent
edition published in Paris by M. Panckoucke in 1847. The last three
chapters in the present volume are an attempt to bring together all the
material capable of publication in these seventeen sections, and take the
form of three essays on the main figures of the Emperor’s psychological
imagination. They are in no way an endeavour to expurgate the sections
referred to, as any such attempt would leave one with the numerals as
headings and the word “Finis” half-way down a sheet of notepaper. It is
better for the sapient to read the chapters for themselves, and so all
men will be satisfied.

It has also been impossible, on the same grounds, to criticise
the statements here made; the greater part are, like those in the
biographical portion, frankly impossible, when not mutually exclusive. It
is needless to say that the author accepts the whole with all the Attic
salt at his disposal.

Another anomaly that may strike the reader is the fact that various names
are used to designate the Emperor. Tristran remarks that “they are as
many as the hydra has heads.” The present idea is to use the titles
which the boy bore at the different stages of his life, rather than apply
to him on all occasions the nickname which was attached to him after his
death.

In the earlier part of the work I have referred to the youth as Varius
and Bassianus, the two names which appear most frequently, in reference
to his reputed fathers, but have neglected Avitus, by which title he is
occasionally known, in reference to his grandfather, as also that of
Lupus, which is sometimes found in Dion, because, as Dr. Wotton remarks,
there is no means of finding out whether he was so called (if ever he was
given the name at all) on account of some ancestry, by reason of a false
reading, or on account of some other matter now long laid to rest.

After the Proclamation, I have preferred to call the Emperor by his
official name, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, or Antonine for short, as
this is the only manner in which the coins, inscriptions, and documents
describe him. After his death, it seems allowable to give him the
nickname which his relations and later biographers have applied to
him, namely, the latinised form of the name of his God. I have nowhere
adopted the later Greek spelling or adaptation, Heliogabalus, either
when referring to the God of the Emesans or to the Emperor himself. The
only form in which the name occurs in inscriptions is in describing
the Emperor as “Priest of Elagabal” or the Sun. Lampridius certainly
Hellenised its form a century later, on what grounds is by no means
clear, when one realises that neither the boy nor his God had any
trace of Greek blood, tradition, or philosophy about them, and that
the identification of a particular Syrian monotheism with Mithraism
or general Sun worship is not universally admitted as a necessary
consequence, either in the case of Elagabal, Jehovah, or indeed in that
of any of the other “El” claimants to exclusiveness, though the balance
of probability may lie on the side of the identification. It is further
unnecessary to drag in the Hellenised form of the Emperor’s name in
order to pander to a popular and erroneous conception of the reign,
which conception this book is designed to combat and generally offend.
Heliogabalus is nevertheless the sole title by which this Emperor is
known to the world at large, in consequence of which I have allowed the
name to stand on the title-page, chiefly in order that Mrs. Grundy’s
prurient mind may know, before she buys or borrows this volume, that it
is the record of a life at which she may expect to be shocked, though she
will in all probability find herself yawning before the middle of the
introductory chapter.

As I understand the reign, the main object on the part of the boy’s
murderers in nicknaming him Elagabalus after his death, was to throw
discredit on his memory by depriving him of the venerated title Antonine,
and substituting therefor the name of a Syrian monotheistic deity, who
by his exclusiveness was an offence and a byword in the eyes of the
virile, pantheistic philosophy which then held sway.

A word must also be said as to the attitude in leaving untouched much
of the scandal attaching to this Emperor’s name. I have only been able
to deal with the public side of his character, as there are no coins or
inscriptions which refer to his private life, and have in consequence
been forced to quote what the tradition, gained from his traducers’
writings, states was his unfortunate abnormality.

These traditions may be true wholly or in part, they certainly could only
be disproved by the actual persons implicated, who have written neither
for nor against the Emperor’s psychological condition. The traditions,
however, as far as they treat of the public position and reputation of
the Emperor, have been shown to be grossly unfair where they are not
horribly untruthful, and may be—in all probability are—of an equal value,
when they discuss private practices about which no one can have had any
particular knowledge except his actual accomplices. Suffice it to say,
that any stick is good enough to beat a dog with once he is incapable of
defending himself, and in this case it has been laid about Antonine’s
shoulders with almost diabolical ingenuity.

I much regret that I have been unable to find any portraits of the
Emperor for whose authenticity Bernouilli will vouch. Alone of the whole
family there remain authentic busts of Julia Mamaea and Julia Paula,
neither of whom are important enough to be included, since we are unable
to give a portrait of Elagabalus himself. I have therefore confined
myself to the use of coins, whose veracity is undoubted, hoping that the
reader will supply from his imagination that charm and beauty which the
biographers have been unwillingly forced to allow both to the Emperor and
his mother.

In the preparation of this work I have had much valuable and kindly
assistance, for which I desire to acknowledge my deep indebtedness here.
First, to Professor Bury of Cambridge, for his unwearying and sage
advice on my whole manuscript; also to Dr. Bussell, Vice-Principal of
Brasenose College, Oxford, for his interest and kindly corrections; to
the authorities in the Bodleian Library; to the assistants in the British
Museum, especially to Mr. Philip Wilson and Mr. A. J. Ellis for their
continued help in my work there, and to Mr. Allen for the time and care
he has spent in helping me find the coins that explain the text.

I have also to acknowledge with sincere thanks the permission of Mr. E.
E. Saltus of Harvard University to quote his vivid and beautiful studies
on the Roman Empire and her Customs. I am deeply indebted to Mr. Walter
Pater, Mr. J. A. Symonds, and Mr. Saltus for many a _tournure de phrase_
and picturesque rendering of Tacitus, Suetonius, Lampridius, and the
rest. I also desire to thank Dr. Counsell of New College, Oxford, and Dr.
Bailey of the Warneford Asylum, not only for their help in correcting my
proofs, but also for their assistance in the preparation of my chapter on
Psychology.

To all these gentlemen I owe a great debt, which, I hope, the general
public will repay by an appreciation of their work. We have endeavoured
to right a wrong; if our efforts are in any way successful, the reader
will acknowledge that this _mauvais quart d’heure_, which has been
stigmatised as full of impossible situations and intolerable surprises,
is in reality a very human life which, like our own, has its exquisite
moments of which we would as soon deprive ourselves as Elagabalus.




CONTENTS


                                                                      PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                                       xxiii

                                 PART I

                                CHAPTER I

  General sketch of conditions, 1. The Augustan Histories and their
    writers, 2. Lampridius, author of the Life of Elagabalus, 4. First
    attempts at criticism, 4. Modern criticism, 4. Latin sources: Marius
    Maximus, 5. Greek sources: Dion Cassius, Xiphilinus, 7. Herodian,
    8. General attack on the authenticity of the “Lives,” 9. Mommsen’s
    opinion, 10. Peter, Richter, Dessau, Seeck, Klebs, Kornemann, 11-15.
    Italian opinion, 15. General opinion of the biographies, 16. Reasons
    for the tainted sources, 18. Church historians, 19. Jurisprudence,
    21. Numismatists, 21. Object of this work, 23.

                               CHAPTER II

  Emesa, 24. High-Priest Kings, 25. Septimius Severus, 27. Julius
    Bassianus, 27. Julia Domna’s marriage, 28. Caracalla’s birth, 29.
    Septimius Severus, Emperor, 30. Julia’s court, 31. Maesa comes
    to Rome with her family, 31. Marriage of Soaemias, 34. Birth
    of Elagabalus, 35. Paternity of Elagabalus, 35. Birthplace of
    Elagabalus, 36. Julia Mamaea, her marriage, and her connection with
    Caracalla, 38. Macrinus Praetorian Praefect, 41. His plot against
    Caracalla, 42. Election of Macrinus, 43. Julia’s position, 43. Her
    work to recover the empire, 43. Banishment and death, 44.

                               CHAPTER III

  Maesa’s return to Emesa, 46. Macrinus’ weakness and tyranny, 47. The
    legion at Emesa, 48. Bassianus High-Priest, 49. Worship of Elagabal,
    50. Bassianus’ religious outlook, 51. Eutychianus and Gannys corrupt
    the soldiers, 53. Date of the proclamation of Elagabalus, 55.
    Macrinus astonished, 56. The Empire in favour of Bassianus, Julian’s
    expedition, 59. Deserters to Bassianus, 61. Macrinus at Apamea,
    and Diadumenianus’ elevation, 63. Macrinus retires to Antioch, 66.
    Bassianus wins allegiance of soldiers at Apamea, 67. Dion on the
    dates of proclamation and battle, 67. Arval Brothers’ meeting, 68.
    Wirth, 69. Battle of Immae, 69. Antonine at Antioch, 71. Macrinus’
    escape, 72. Capture and death, 74. Character of Macrinus, 75.

                               CHAPTER IV

  Antonine’s refusal to allow the sack of Antioch, 77. Chief minister,
    78. Antonine’s temperament, 79. Acts of the new Government, 81.
    Amnesty, 83. Position of the Senate, 84. Delight of Rome, 86.
    Dismissal of troops, 87. Treasonable attempts and pretenders, 88.
    Elagabal to accompany the Emperor, 91. Journey to Nicomedia, 92.
    Winter in Asia Minor, 93. Illness of the Emperor, 94. Xiphilinus on
    Antonine’s religion, 95. Monotheistic or Mithraic not polytheistic,
    96. Death of Gannys, 101. Antonine’s character, 102. His popularity
    and his taxation, 104.

                                CHAPTER V

  Date of arrival in Rome discussed, 107. The entry into the city
    according to Herodian, 110. First marriage, 111. The temples, 112.
    The scheme for the unifying of religions, 114. The worship, 115. The
    Eastern cults, 115. Date of scheme discussed, 118. Reasons for its
    failure, 118. Women in the Senate, 119. Senaculum, 121. Lampridius on
    the Emperor’s popularity, 124. Charges against the Administration,
    125. Divorce of Julia Paula, 126. Pastimes, 127. Summary, 128.
    Elagabal’s alliance with Vesta, Antonine’s with Aquilia Severa, 129.
    Pomponius Bassus’ plot, 131. Antonine divorces Elagabal from Minerva,
    himself from Aquilia Severa, 132. Sends for Tanit from Carthage, 133.
    Marries Annia Faustina, 134. Alliance of Maesa and Mamaea, 135.

                               CHAPTER VI

  Lampridius on Alexander, 137. Seius Carus’ plot, 139. Military
    expenditure, 140. Maesa’s plan for the adoption of Alexander,
    141. The Emperor’s reasons for concurrence, 142. Name Alexander
    accounted for, 144. Date of adoption discussed, 145. Position after
    adoption, 146. Alexander’s titles, 147. Antonine’s endeavours, 148.
    Antonine’s resolve to divorce Annia Faustina and disown Alexander,
    150. Accusations against the Government, 151. Antonine’s attempt to
    assassinate Alexander discussed, 152. Antonine goes to Praetorian
    camp, 154. Camp conference, 155. Hatred of Maesa and Mamaea testified
    against Antonine, 157. Mamaea’s precautions, 158. Antonine’s
    preparations for suicide, 160. Alexander designated Consul, 160. The
    Emperor’s refusal and reasons for his compliance, 161. Lampridius on
    Julius Sabinus, 163. Ulpian and Silvinus, 164. Reasons for the murder
    and the various accounts, 165. Criticism on the above, 170. The
    treatment of Elagabalus’ body, 171.

                               CHAPTER VII

  The Emperor set free to further his cult, 173. The procession, 174.
    Mismanagement and appointments, 178. Freedmen, 180. Return of
    Aquilia Severa, 183. Desire for military glory, 184. The names of
    the Emperor, 185. Activity in building, 186. Military disaffection,
    its causes and result, 188. Date of Elagabalus’ murder and length
    of reign discussed, 191. Date for renewal of tribunician power
    discussed, 194. Elagabalus’ interest in public affairs, 198. The
    treatment of inscriptions, 198. Outlook of the Roman world, 200.

                              CHAPTER VIII

  Roman views on matrimony, 203. Elagabalus’ marriage with Julia Paula,
    205. Position of Julius Paulus, 206. Serviez, etc., on Julia Paula,
    207. Dates of this marriage and divorce, 208. Elagabalus’ marriage
    with Aquilia Severa, 211. Vestals discussed, 211. Roman religion,
    212. Elagabalus’ lack of prejudice, 214. His explanation to the
    Senate, 215. Family of Aquilia Severa, 215. Probable dates of
    marriage and divorce, 216-18. Maesa’s desire for an alliance with
    the nobility, 218. Annia Faustina chosen, her family discussed, 222.
    Her age and her divorce, 223. Further marriages discussed, 224.
    Elagabalus’ return to Aquilia, 225.

                                 PART II

                               CHAPTER IX

  Lampridius’ Life of Elagabalus impossible, 227. Elagabalus a
    psycho-sexual hermaphrodite, not wicked, 229. The condition quite
    usual then as now, 229. Virtue a virile quality, not a neurotic
    negation, 229. The Phallus natural and omnipresent typifies joy and
    fruitfulness, 230. Elagabalus has strong homosexual nymphomania and
    every inducement to gratify his feminine instinct, 231. His nature
    incredibly open and affectionate, 232. Maesa an aggravating factor,
    234. Modern authorities on similarly inverted cases to-day, 234.
    Biblical parallels, Greek instances, modern religious tendencies,
    234. Normal intolerance largely hypocritical, 235. The usual
    instincts of such natures, 235. Elagabalus’ love of flowers, feasts,
    and teasing, 236. His marriages psychologically considered, 238.
    His castration and desire for an operation which might produce the
    female organs discussed, 238. Elagabalus’ marriage with Hierocles,
    239. Hierocles and Zoticus discussed, 239. Comparison with Messalina,
    240. Spintries, 240. Elagabalus’ love of colour, 241. His frankness,
    241. Greek love opposed to effeminacy, 242. Gulick on the psychology,
    on Christianity, 242. Effeminacy, not homosexuality, disgusts Roman
    world and gives reason for Elagabalus’ downfall, 244.

                                CHAPTER X

  Description of Nero’s golden house, 245. Elagabalus compared with
    Nero, 246. Pastimes, prodigalities, and dress, 246. Extravagances of
    ritual, 250. Congiaries and games, 251. Table appointments and food,
    252. Maecenas’ feast, 254. Perfumes, 256. Fish, 258. The spectacles
    described, 260. Gladiators discussed, 262. Elagabalus’ skill as a
    sportsman, 263. The lotteries, 264. Elagabalus’ devices for suicide,
    265. The psychology of extravagance, 266.

                               CHAPTER XI

  Elagabalus’ piety, 267. Constantine the opponent of other monotheisms,
    268. Theories of religion, 269. Civilised religion becomes
    philosophical, 269. Rome both atheist and credulous, 270. Civic
    religion leaves the forces of sex and superstition out of count, 270.
    Gods always necessary to the superstitious, the more mystical the
    more attractive, 271. Semitic rituals attract the mob, 273. Elagabal
    exclusive and absorbs other cults, 273. Elagabalus’ scheme Erastian,
    compared with Tudor conception, 273. Elagabalus will not persecute,
    276. Religion and castration, 276. Elagabalus no idolator, 277. His
    mistake in trying to amalgamate the hated Judaism with Roman deities,
    277. Marriages of Elagabal, 278. Human sacrifices discussed, 280. The
    column for the meteorite, 281. Contest between religion and dogma,
    282. The numbers of the mob prevail against the rationalists, 284.
    Rome bored with all Gods, hence Elagabalus’ failure, 285.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY                                                         289

  INDEX                                                                299




LIST OF COINS


                                                               FACING PAGE

  Coin of Antoninus Pius, struck at Emesa (British Museum)              26

  Coin of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla) (British Museum)        26

  Medal of Julia Domna Pia, Empress (British Museum)                    40

  Coin of Julia Maesa Augusta (British Museum)                          40

  Coin of Julia Soaemias Augusta (British Museum)                       40

  Coin of Julia Mamaea Augusta (British Museum)                         40

  Coin of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla) (British Museum)        60

  Coin of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Elagabalus) (British Museum)       60

  Coin of Macrinus recording Victoria Parthica, A.D. 218. (From a
    woodcut)                                                            60

  Coin of Diadumenianus as Emperor, A.D. 218 (British Museum)           60

  Coin of A.D. 219 commemorating the arrival of Elagabalus in Rome
    (British Museum)                                                   110

  Liberalitas II. Coin struck in A.D. 219 for the Emperor’s marriage
    with Julia Cornelia Paula. (From the collection of Sir James S.
    Hay, K.C.M.G.)                                                     110

  Coin struck in A.D. 219 concerning the grain supply (British
    Museum)                                                            110

  Coin struck in A.D. 219 to commemorate the Emperor’s recovery
   (British Museum)                                                    110

  Thyatira Coin of Elagabalus (British Museum)                         142

  Coin struck to commemorate Alexianus’ adoption, A.D. 221
    (British Museum)                                                   142

  Coin struck to commemorate Alexander as Pont. Max., A.D. 221
    (British Museum)                                                   142

  Jovi Ultiori. The Eliogabalium as reconsecrated to Jupiter,
    A.D. 224. (From a woodcut)                                         174

  Coin struck to commemorate the Procession of Elagabal, A.D. 221
    (British Museum)                                                   174

  Coin of A.D. 221 representing the Eliogabalium. (From a
    photogravure)                                                      174

  Coin of A.D. 220, misread by Cohen as T.P. III Cos. IIII
    (British Museum)                                                   196

  Coin of A.D. 221, misread by Cohen as T.P. IIII Cos. IIII
    (British Museum)                                                   196

  Coin of A.D. 222 (British Museum)                                    196

  Coin of Julia Cornelia Paula Augusta (British Museum)                216

  Coin of Julia Cornelia Paula Augusta, A.D. 220-21 (British Museum)   216

  Coin of Julia Aquilia Severa Augusta, A.D. 220-21 (British Museum)   216

  Coin of Annia Faustina Augusta, A.D. 221-22 (British Museum)         216

  Coin of Julia Aquilia Severa Augusta, A.D. 221-22 (British Museum)   216




INTRODUCTION


The Emperor who is studied in this volume has commonly been treated
as if his reign had no significance, unless it were to show to what
deep places the Roman Empire had sunk when such a monster of lubricity
could wield the supreme power. If the chronicle of his naughty life has
been exploited to illustrate the legend that the pagan society of the
Empire was desperately wicked and infamously corrupt, he has not been
taken seriously as a ruler. Yet Elagabalus appeared under too ominous a
constellation to justify us in dismissing his brief attempt to govern the
world as unworthy of more than a superficial description and a facile
condemnation. His reign lasted less than four years; but those years fell
in a period which was critical for the future of European civilisation,
and he was brought up in a circle intensely alive to the religious
problems which were then moving the souls of men. Mr. Hay has broken
new ground, and he has done history a service, in making Elagabalus the
subject of a serious and systematic study.

The third century, so obscurely lit by poor and meagre records, saw the
Empire of Rome shaken to its foundations. There was a manifest decline
in its strength and efficiency, marked by the insolent domination of
the common soldier, and luridly illustrated by the statistical facts
that from Septimius Severus to Diocletian the average reign of an
Emperor was about three years and that there were only two or three
sovereigns who were not the victims of a mutiny or a conspiracy. As
one of the efficacious causes of this decline has often been suggested
(most recently by M. Bouché-Leclercq) the detachment of men’s interest
from the public weal by the attraction and influence of individualistic
oriental religions, which did not aim at securing the stability of the
state, like the old religions of Rome and Greece, but undertook to save
the individual and ensure his happiness in a life beyond the tomb. It is
undoubtedly true that in this period religious currents were stirring
society to its depths, and several rival worships were engaged in a
competition of which the issue was decided in the following century. And
if the state was really weakened by a cleavage which had become sensible
between the private spiritual interests of the individual citizen and
the public interests of society, if its cohesion was endangered by
the tendency to place the former interests above the latter, we can
understand the statesmanship of Constantine the Great, who, by closely
connecting the state with one of those individualistic religions,
conciliated and identified the two interests. I do not suggest that
Constantine formulated the problem in the general terms in which we
may formulate it now; he was pushed to his far-reaching decision by a
variety of particular social facts, which involved the general problem,
while they forced upon him a particular solution. But the problem which
he solved had long been there, and a hundred years before Constantine
established Christianity, another Emperor had attempted to solve it. That
Emperor was Elagabalus.

The religious currents of the age of the Severi did not escape the
notice, or fail to engage the interest, of the Court. Julia Domna, Julia
Mamaea, Alexander Severus, were all under the influence of the spirit
of the time. These were the days in which Julia Domna and Philostratus
discovered for the world a new saviour in the person of Apollonius of
Tyana. But the religious zeal of Elagabalus was more passionate than
the intellectual interest of any of his house. He conceived a universal
religion for the Empire, and his abortive attempt to establish it
is examined by Mr. Hay with a full sense of its significance and an
unprejudiced desire to understand it.

With all his unashamed enthusiasm, Elagabalus was not the man to
establish a religion; he had not the qualities of a Constantine or yet of
a Julian; and his enterprise would perhaps have met with little success
even if his authority had not been annulled by his idiosyncrasies. The
Invincible Sun, if he was to be worshipped as a sun of righteousness,
was not happily recommended by the acts of his Invincible Priest. I have
said “idiosyncrasies”; should I not have said “infamies”? But it is
unprofitable as well as unscientific simply to brand Elagabalus as an
abominable wretch. His life is a document in which there is something
demanding to be comprehended. If all men and women are really bisexual,
this Syrian boy was of that abnormal type in which the recessive is
inordinately strong at the expense of the dominant sex; he was a
remarkable example of _psychopathia sexualis_; but in his age there
were no Krafft-Ebings to submit his case to scientific observation.
From this point of view, which Mr. Hay has taken, Elagabalus becomes an
intelligible morbid human being. And the young man, though so highly
abnormal and spoiled by the possession of supreme power before he had
reached maturity, was far from being repulsive. A salient feature of
his character was good nature; he appears to have wished to make every
one happy. His pleasures were not stained by the cruelties of Nero. It
amused him to shock people, but he was always good-humoured. He is said
to have genially inquired of some grave and decorous old gentlemen who
were his guests at a vintage festival, whether they were inclined for
the pleasures of Venus. The anecdote, if not true to fact, seems to be
characteristic. It is told in the _chronique scandaleuse_ of Lampridius,
one of the writers of that Augustan History round which a forest of
critical literature has grown up in recent times. The outcome of all the
criticism is generally to the discredit of these authors, and Mr. Hay has
the merit of having strictly applied this unfavourable result to the Life
of Elagabalus.

But though the religious enterprise of this eccentric Emperor was doomed
to fail, it was not by any means the wild project of a madman, which
those who judge _post eventum_—after the triumph of Christianity—or who,
like Domaszewski, see in it merely _eine Vergöttlichung der Unzucht_,
are apt to take for granted that it was. In those days, it was not in
the least certain, as yet, that Christianity would be chosen and its
rivals left; this religion was not, as its apologists would have us
believe, the only light in a dark world. To a disinterested mind it would
appear that Mithra or Isis might have become the divinity of western
civilisation. They were certainly well in the running. We may guess what
circumstances aided the worship of Christ to rise above competing cults,
but for inquirers, like Mr. Hay and myself, who hold no brief, and do
not accept the easy axiom that what happens is best, it is unproven
that Christianity was decidedly the best alternative. Perhaps it was.
Yet we may suspect that, if the religion which was founded by Paul of
Tarsus had, “by the dispensation of Providence,” disappeared, giving
place to one of those homogeneous oriental faiths which are now dead, we
should be to-day very much where we are. However this may be, it seems
that in the third century the Christians were far from commending their
doctrine to the rest of the world by any signal moral superiority in
their own conduct. The bad opinion which pagans held of their morals in
the time of Tertullian cannot be explained as a mere wilful prejudice,
and Tertullian’s reply that the charge is only true of some but not of
all nor even of the greater number (_Ad nationes_, 5) is a significant
admission that, taking them all round, the Christians were not then
conspicuous as a sect of extraordinary virtue. Moreover, there was
nothing in the ethics of their system which had not been independently
reached by the reason of Greek and Roman teachers, and they are entitled
to boast that the success of their religion depended not on any
superiority in its moral ideals to those of pagan enlightenment, but on
its supernatural foundations.

Slander, with ecclesiastical authority behind it, dies so hard, that
I may take leave to add a remark which to well-informed students of
antiquity is now a platitude. The offensive performances of Elagabalus
prove nothing as to the prevailing morality of his time, just as the
debauches of Nero prove nothing for his. To judge the private morals of
the pagan subjects of the Empire from the descriptions of Suetonius and
Lampridius is even more absurd than it would be to portray the domestic
life of Christian England from the reports of the Divorce Court. The
notion that the poor Greeks and Romans were sunk in wickedness and
vice is a calumnious legend which has been assiduously propagated in
the interest of ecclesiastical history, and is at the present day a
commonplace of pulpit learning. If pagans, in ignorance or malice,
slandered the assemblies and love-feasts of the early Christians, it will
be allowed that Christian divines of later ages have, by their fable of
pagan corruption, wreaked a more than ample revenge.

Among readers of Gibbon, the very name of “Heliogabalus” will always
“force a smile from the young and a blush from the fair.” But it may be
expected that, after Mr. Hay’s investigation, it will be recognised that
this Emperor made, according to his lights, a perfectly sincere attempt
to benefit mankind, which must be judged independently of his own moral
or physiological perversities.

                                                              J. B. BURY.




PART I




CHAPTER I

THE CRITICAL LITERATURE CONCERNING THE AUGUSTAN HISTORIES

_The Scope of this Book_


The age of the Antonines is an age little understood amongst the present
generation. The documents relating thereto are few in number, and for
the most part the work of very second-rate scandal-mongers. Like the
Senate of the time, these writers had so far lost their sense of personal
responsibility that they were quite willing to record anything that
their “God and Master” ordered. The pleasures and vices of the age were
lurid and extravagant. The menace of official Christianity, with its
destruction of literature and philosophy, was almost at the gates of
the city. All which facts serve to render this most magnificent period
of Roman history unreal and fantastic to men of our more practical and
rationalistic age.

The reign of Elagabalus is not a record of great deeds. It shows no
advance in science or in military conquest. Save in the realm of
jurisprudence, it is not an age of great men, because these are born in
the struggles of nations. It is not an age of poverty or distress. It is
rather a record of enormous wealth and excessive prodigality, luxury and
aestheticism, carried to their ultimate extreme, and sensuality in all
the refinements of its Eastern habit. Such were the forces that swayed
the minds of these eager, living men, made idle by force of circumstances.

It was a wonderful and a beautiful age, full of colour, full of the joy
of living; and yet, as we look back upon its enervating excitements, who
can wonder at the greatness of the decline which followed the triumph
of so much magnificence? Rome was at the apex of her power; the Empire
was consolidated; the temple of Janus was closed; the Pax Romana reigned
supreme, and with it order and government in the remotest corner of
that vast dominion. What mattered the extravagances of a foolish boy
to the merchants of Lyons or to the traders of Alexandria, so long as
they were undisturbed and taxation was at a minimum? What mattered the
blatant outburst of a Semitic monotheism, when men’s minds—amongst the
superstitious—were already attuned to the kindred mysteries of Mithra and
the spiritual chicanery of Isis? The harm had been done both to reason
and to ancient belief by the secret dissemination of other superstitions,
whose effete neuroticism, whose enervating and softening influences had
done almost more to ruin the glorious fighting strength of the Empire
than all the luxury and effeminacy of the bygone world.

It was a pitiful exhibition, the powers of ignorance and mystery
undermining the strength of knowledge and virility, till the barbarians,
whom the very name of Rome had conquered and held entranced, overthrew a
greatness which, in the age of reason, the world had found irresistible.
It is pitiful, but it is true, and the record of merely a part will be
found in the Augustan Histories.

The difficulties presented to the student of the Scriptores Historiae
Augustae are manifold and ever increasing. Not the least of them lies in
the variation of standard by which this collection has been judged, and
in the diametrically opposing theories which eminent scholars have drawn
from the same passages.

The criticism owes its origin to the confusions which are bound to exist
in any series of lives covering a period of 167 years and purporting to
be the work of several—though none of them contemporary—writers.

The Biographies which have survived are nominally the work of six
authors, to wit, Aelius Spartianus, Julius Capitolinus, Vulcacius
Gallicanus, Aelius Lampridius, Trebellius Pollio, and Flavius Vopiscus.
The author of the Life of Elagabalus in this series is Aelius Lampridius,
of whom personally nothing is known. Peter[1] postulates that he was not
a plebeian, as he wrote at Constantine’s bidding, and presumably, from
the virulence of his attacks, with some ulterior object in view. This was
probably an attack on the Imperial author of that species of Mithraic
worship which Constantine desired to extirpate, as the most formidable
opponent of his own new religion.

Lampridius dedicates his Life of Elagabalus to this Emperor, which
at once shows us that at least 100 years had passed since the events
recorded had taken place, and calls for an inquiry into the sources
of Lampridius’ information. The text as it stands to-day is at times
incomprehensible, largely through the efforts of scholars of the Bonus
Accursius and Casaubon type,[2] while Dodwell in 1677 played his part
in corrupting, according to his lights, what must always have been a
document whose need of further mutilation was highly unnecessary. The
first attempt at modern criticism of the texts began in 1838, when
Becker[3] of Breslau endeavoured to reassign the various lives to their
respective authors, without very much success. In 1842 Dirksen[4] of
Leipzig attempted to ascertain the sources employed by the various
Scriptores, and their use or misuse of the material to their hands. He
founded his criticism mainly on the recorded speeches and messages of the
Emperors, which, unfortunately for the theories then put forward, were
discovered by Czwalina,[5] in 1870, to be largely spurious.

The next work of any importance was done by Richter[6] and Peter,[7]
when the former tried to date the Scriptores themselves from internal
evidence; the latter threw light on the time when the actual lives were
written, and, amongst others, assigns Lampridius’ Life of Elagabalus to a
period in or about the year A.D. 324. In 1865 the same author[8] placed
the study of the Scriptores on a firmer basis altogether, by introducing
the system of textual criticism as applied to the sources, both Latin and
Greek, from which the writers had drawn their facts.

Amongst Latin sources the chief name mentioned was Marius Maximus, of
whose works nothing now remains. He was Consul under Alexander Severus
and a devoted servant to that Emperor, at whose direction he attempted
to complete Suetonius[9] by a popular and scandal-mongering edition
of recent events. Mueller,[10] in 1870, after a careful investigation
of all the references to this author, concluded that his work was the
compilation of a volume styled _De vitis imperatorum_, which contained
the lives of Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius, Marcus, Commodus,
Pertinax, Julianus, Severus, Caracalla, and Elagabalus. That the last
of these lives should have been written by the friend and servant of
Elagabalus’ murderers is in itself unfortunate, as one immediately
suspects that some attempt will be made to justify the crime, or at
any rate that veiled malignancy rather than a true historical portrait
will be the result. It is easily discovered from the shortest perusal
of the wealth of mere abuse which it contains that no veil was
considered either necessary or expedient, and that if Lampridius drew his
information of the Emperor Elagabalus from Maximus, as a sole source,
his work was, historically speaking, as worthless a caricature as that
with which Maximus had bolstered up Alexander’s government. Mueller,
therefore, propounded the theory that though Maximus was the main Latin
source, other authors were used by the Scriptores in a supplemental way.
In this theory he was supported by Ruebel, Dreinhoefer, and Plew,[11] who
cite, amongst other names, that of Aelius Junius Cordus, an author who
is quoted with considerable frequency throughout the lives. This theory
of one main Latin source—Maximus—held ground until quite recently, when
the work of Heer, Schulz, and Kornemann, as we shall see, put a somewhat
different, if less satisfactory, complexion on the matter. It may be
remarked, in passing, that Niehues,[12] in 1885, attributes the earliest
life of Macrinus and his son Diadumenianus—amongst other Emperors whose
period does not concern us in this present inquiry—to Cordus rather than
Maximus, which may account for a certain amount of impartiality about
Macrinus’ life, there being no special end to serve either way.

The Greek sources used by the Scriptores are more easily fixed, for,
though most of the authors have perished, the work of Herodian is
preserved, and the abbreviation of Cassius Dio, which was made by
Xiphilinus of Trebizond for ecclesiastical purposes, is still readable.
It is perhaps necessary to state Haupt’s[13] opinion that the Scriptores
did not actually transcribe the Greek sources, and that these can only
give one a certain idea as to how the writers used their materials.
Unfortunately for the reign in question, neither of these two authors
can be considered as unprejudiced authorities. Indeed, circumstances
have conspired to obscure the history of Elagabalus at every point.
Cassius Dio is by unanimous consent the best historian of the third
century, infinitely superior to Maximus as a man of literary ability
and historical insight; he is not highly exciting, and has an annoying
habit of mistaking sententious platitudes for speculative philosophy.
His impartiality is certainly very questionable, and his obviously
superstitious credulity notable. But these defects are easily overlooked
by the student, because his work does embody a vast store of information
on the workings of the Imperial system. In all probability he was absent
from Rome during the reign of Elagabalus, since he tells us (79-7)
that Macrinus appointed him Curator of Smyrna and Pergamum in the year
218, from which posts he was not removed by Elagabalus.[14] When next
he appears it is as the friend and servant of Maesa, at the beginning
of Alexander’s reign. He was then—successively—twice Consul, Proconsul
of Africa, Governor of Dalmatia and Pannonia Superior, and presumably
died under Alexander at 80 years of age, as we have no work from him
after that date. As servant of the dominant faction, Dio’s history must
have been compiled to support Maesa’s action in causing the murder of
Elagabalus, and to justify the succession of Alexander, when once the
women had cleared the headstrong boy and his mother from their path. Dio
advances his information as that of an eye-witness, and as such it was
presumably derived from the same source as that of Maximus—so much so,
that Giambelli[15] in 1881 tried to prove that Dio’s main source for his
history was Maximus throughout and none other.

The other Greek contemporary is Herodian, the facts of whose life are
by no means certain. Kreutzer[16] thinks that he came to Rome about
the beginning of the third century, and subsequently held some minor
administrative posts in the government. He stands on a different plane
from Dio, as he possessed very small qualifications as a historian. He
narrates, it is true, salient features of court life and current foreign
affairs, though he has small conception of their bearing and less regard
for their chronology. In this matter it is only fair to remember that the
ignorant emendations of Bonus Accursius and a tribe of mediaeval scholars
may account for much that now looks so outrageous.

As regards the sources from which Dio and Herodian took their facts, much
has been written, though the attempts[17] made since 1881 to show that
both used Maximus are at best poor and inconclusive. Mueller[18] in 1870
pointed out with some considerable weight that the similarities which
exist between the parallel accounts found in Herodian and the Scriptores
were probably due to the fact that both had used Maximus. This line
of argument was developed by Giambelli and Plew[19] on the basis of a
supposition that Herodian had been worked over before he was used by the
Scriptores, thus endeavouring to account for the discrepancies between
Herodian and Maximus, and supporting the Maximus-as-root-base theory of
both authors. Boehme[20] in 1882 introduced the name of Dexippus as the
probable intermediate writer, and pointed out that the references made
by certain Scriptores to Herodian, under the name of Arrianus, are hard
to understand if the scriptor had the correct name before him. Certain
passages can however be shown to have been taken direct from Herodian, on
account of which Peter[21] entirely rejected the Dexippus intermediary
theory a few years later. In the main, however, the general authenticity
of the sources, whether Greek or Latin, was accepted up to the year 1889,
though one or two discoveries had been made which weakened their hold and
prepared the way for the general attack.

The first was made by Czwalina[22] of Bonn in 1870, who declared that
the documents and letters in the Life of Avidius Cassius were spurious;
and in 1880 Klebs[23] destroyed the authenticity of those at the end of
Diadumenianus’ Life. Things were more or less quiet until the year 1889,
when Dessau[24] opened his attack on the general authenticity of the
Scriptores’ work, asserting from the strongest internal evidence, such as
their mention of persons and things—in lives dedicated to Constantine as
Emperor—which did not happen till after his death, that the lives were
the work of a forger in the later part of the fourth century; a man who
had been stupid enough to give an appearance of antiquity to his work by
the use of names and dedications borrowed from older sources, but not
smart enough to avoid the inclusion of glaring anachronisms.

Mommsen[25] at once undertook to defend the authenticity of the
collection, asking saliently why a forger of Theodosius’ time should
undertake to praise the extinct dynasty founded by Constantius. The very
patchwork, he says, is enough to prove the collection no forgery. Again,
the use of pre-Diocletian geographical names, such as those given to
the legions, all date from a period prior to Diocletian. Mommsen then
proceeds to his criticism, in the course of which he divides the lives
into primary and secondary, which to his mind solved the problem, and
on this basis he drew entirely different conclusions from the facts
which Dessau had adduced as proofs of forgery. The progress of Mommsen’s
study forced him to admit what he had so entirely repudiated at first,
that the lives do contain hints of a later period, all of which, he
asserts, can be accounted for by the manner in which the collection took
form. Mommsen’s opinion, as finally stated, was that about A.D. 330 an
editor collected the available material and then filled in the gaps with
his own work. Again, at a later time a reviser retouched this whole
collection and added the evidence of the latest period, which has caused
all the trouble. By him also the work resembling Eutropius and Victor
was inserted. It is not the clearest of statements, and had to be so
modified, as it proceeded, that it certainly has not the weight attaching
to it that others of Mommsen’s works carry.

During the year 1890 two works appeared, the first by Seeck,[26] who
attempted to assist Dessau, the other by Klebs,[27] who had accepted a
modified Mommsen estimate of the authenticity of the Scriptores. Seeck
began by pointing out that a work which was first heard of in the latter
part of the fourth[28] century was not likely to arouse sufficient
interest to induce any one to revise it during the earlier part of
that century. He attacked the work attributed to Vopiscus, Pollio, and
Spartianus in particular, pointing out, in the case of Vopiscus, that had
he written under Constantine he would not have put him second in the
dedication,[29] or, if Pollio had written in the third century, when the
title Mater Castrorum was commonly given to the Empresses, he would never
have spoken of it as a speciality in Victoria’s case.[30] If Spartian
wrote under Diocletian, it is obvious that he must have had a prevision
of that Emperor’s sudden change of plan as to the succession. Klebs[31]
in the same year further modified Mommsen’s position, and explained
the similarities to Victor and Eutropius as due to the use of the same
sources by these authors and by the Scriptores, and rejected the idea of
a revision by a late hand on the ground that no one would be so foolish
as to imitate the style of the original writers for the sake of inserting
nonsense; certainly not the most convincing of the arguments which might
have been used by a man who presumably had at least heard the history of
the Gospel additions. A later article (1892)[32] was more conclusive,
as here he attempted to prove that no one forger could have adopted the
variety of attitude towards both the Senate and Christianity which we
find expressed in the various sections of the “lives,” while the presence
of geographical names and official titles, lost before the beginning of
the fourth century, point to earlier authenticity, not later forgery.

Woelfflin[33] in 1891 supported Mommsen on textual grounds. He traces
the differences of style to the fact that certain authors had used
Suetonius, others Maximus, while others again had trusted to their own
retentive memories, not altogether a safe historical criterion. He states
that the traces of similarity running through the works are due certainly
to a reviser, but that the reviser was Vopiscus,[34] which either puts
Vopiscus at a much later date than had ever been done before, or resigns
the idea of a late reviser in the Mommsen sense.

Dessau[35] in 1892 replied with a scathing attack on this same Vopiscus,
from the point of view of his age and the impossibility of his having
seen and heard all he claims to have done. Seeck[36] in 1894 published a
second article supporting Dessau with six points culled from titles and
names not known till after the reputed dates of the Scriptores. He now
considers that plurality of authors, or forgers, as the case may be, is
certain, and that they wrote, or forged, as Diocletian and Constantine
gave command, using for their work many sources, including the Imperial
Chronicle. But it is an inconclusive article.

In 1899 an American, Dr. Drake[37] of Michigan, published some studies
in detail on the life of Caracalla, which tended to establish the
genuineness of certain portions which had been thought spurious. Heer[38]
of Leipzig followed in 1901 with a critical survey of the life of
Commodus, dividing it into two parts, the first chronological, the second
biographical, and came to the conclusion that, though the chronological
part was trustworthy, the biography was derived from very poor sources,
and was only in part contemporaneous. Schulz[39] in 1903 applied the same
methods to the lives from Commodus to Caracalla, in 1904 to the life
of Hadrian,[40] and in 1907 to the lives of the house of Antonine,[41]
unfortunately leaving out Elagabalus.

Kornemann[42] in 1905 attempted to bring together the materials of the
lives from Hadrian to Alexander Severus, much on the lines of Schulz’s
work. He points out that the characteristic note was to be found in
the author’s interest in the affairs of state, as opposed to those of
war, and how Alexander Severus has been raised to his pinnacle of smug
propriety on account of supposititious favours to the senatorial body,
while extreme animus is betrayed towards the warlike Emperors or those
who, like the paternal despots of the Antonine House, trusted in the
army and only used the “slaves in togas” for ratifying any decree that
they might think necessary, a mode of procedure in government to which
that body had long been slavishly subservient. Kornemann goes on to
suggest that this fondness for Alexander presupposes the writer’s work
having been published during that Caesar’s reign, especially as no
trace is found of his work later. Kornemann then invents a new name for
our old friend Marius Maximus, and calls him, with some further show of
scholarship, one Lollius Urbicus,[43] a theory which still only interests
Kornemann. Heer[44] in 1901 had given him a certain support, however,
in refusing to believe that any one could have credited Maximus with
any part in the chronological side of the lives, and Schulz in his Life
of Hadrian adopted the same view, assigning the references to Maximus
to a later hand. It was Peter[45] who, in 1905, asked pertinently why
Maximus should be ousted from the authorship of the chronological source
in favour of an _unknown_ contemporary, though he admitted, with some
freedom, that many of the citations from Maximus stood in passages of
questionable value, or seem to have been thrust into the text.

In 1899 Tropea[46] of Padua published a treatise on the general
literature of the S.H.A., in which he shows that the aim of the
collection was political, and in the interest of the reigning house; in
consequence of which he postulates that it is either falsified in fact,
or wholly fabricated in the sense that Czwalina had already suggested.
Tropea was followed by his pupil Pasciucco,[47] who examined the life
of Elagabalus in detail in 1905. The result of this examination was
to show that Lampridius had not only failed to examine his sources of
information, but had exhibited a singular lack of order and proportion
in his imaginations. Pasciucco concluded with the illuminating remark
that Lampridius’ sources are either fabulous or of little value, and
answer only to the political complexion which that writer had adopted.

In 1904 Lécrivain[48] published an admirable conservative presentation of
the available material, which, with Schulz’s work on the Imperial House
of Antonine in 1907, leaves the textual criticism of the sources in a
sufficiently nebulous condition to please the majority, at any rate for
the time being.

In the light of the foregoing criticism and the almost universal
conclusion, drawn by both parties, as to the obvious want of impartiality
not only amongst the sources but also in the lives themselves, the
scope of this work will limit itself to a psychological criticism of
the life of Elagabalus, as contained in the Augustan Histories. These
documents, as will be remembered from the foregoing summary, are a
collection of heterogeneous and unenlightened compositions, to which
Lampridius, by no means the ablest contributor, has added the life of the
Syrian boy-emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. Lampridius exhibits to a
striking degree the want of method and order, the vain repetitions and
frequent contradictions, the lack of historical insight and love of petty
detail which characterise the whole collection. This he shows to such a
degree that it would be as obviously unfair to regard his biographical
compilation on Elagabalus as historical fact, as the more than
questionable “Tendenzschriften,” which were his sources of information;
the perusal of which must have left the compiler with a distorted view
of events, even had he started with a fair and unprejudiced mind.
This certainly was not Lampridius’ outlook, as is evinced by the
obvious animus against his subject portrayed on every page both in his
unsupported accusations and in his puerile fault-finding.

In all probability this series of lives was never intended to be more
than a succession of scandal-loving biographies, designed to take the
place of the improper little novels which used to be imported from
Greece, but whose supply was falling short with the decadence of Greek
literature.

In the result, the biographies of the Augustae Historiae Scriptores are
for the most part an inartistic farrago of unordered trivialities, which
modern criticism has shown to be late in date, and with little or no
individual significance. Their whole value depends on their source, or
sources, and these have been proved, at least biographically speaking,
to have been only too often untrustworthy. The Life of Elagabalus, as
caricatured by the particular Scriptor, or forger, is not even an attempt
to portray historical events in either their chronological or natural
order; it makes no mention of the origin of the Emperor, his claims
to the throne, his fight with Macrinus, nor yet of the facts of his
subsequent government. It is merely one vast stream of personal abuse
and ordures, directed against the memory of the great exponent of that
monotheism which was the chief danger to Constantine’s theories in a
similar direction; while Lampridius’ sources are vitiated by the fact
that they are Imperial attempts to blacken the memory of a murdered
Emperor, whose popularity with the masses made his murderer’s position
insecure on the throne of the world.

It may not be altogether fair to charge the young Alexander personally
with the murder of Elagabalus, and even if one does, it is only right
to remember that he claimed a certain justification for the deed.[49]
Alexander affirmed that he had himself been in danger of death at
his cousin’s hand on more than one occasion. Undoubtedly, the true
instigators of the murder were Mamaea, Alexander’s mother, and Maesa,
the common grandmother of the cousins. Both of these women saw power and
authority passing from their hands, and could ill brook a second place
in the direction of the government. By their machinations, bribery,
and corruption, they had endeavoured already three times to suborn the
Praetorian Guard. But the effort had failed. Sufficient men had always
been wanting for the project, and only an unlucky chance threw the
Emperor into the hands of those few on the day of his death. Alexander’s
complicity in this crime might have been overlooked, on account of his
youth, had not his strenuous efforts to justify the deed called attention
to his attitude, not of regret, but of exultation in the crime. This
attitude is most clearly seen in the scandalous literary productions
which alone disgrace the name of Elagabalus, all issued from the pens
of Cassius Dio, Herodian, and Maximus,—or Lollius Urbicus,—all three
servants and bedesmen of Alexander and his female relatives.

Surely if it had been possible to give proof of cruelty, tyranny,
bloodthirstiness, deceit, or guile, the record of these deeds would have
filled the pages of the paid traducers; but contemporaries, who loved
Elagabalus too well for his generosity, charm, and beauty, would know
better. The only course open to the writers, therefore, was to attack
personal habits of which the outside world knew little and cared less,
because they were habits that affected no one save the boy’s familiars,
who were perfectly free to depart if they objected to his manners or
conversation.

As regards the later compilers of Imperial histories, mention must be
made of Zosimus and Zonaras, the twelfth-century editors of Cassius Dio,
who, however, add little to our knowledge. They are of a certain value
because they omit many of the scandals before produced, while the same
may be said for Aurelius Victor and the _Breviarium_ of Eutropius.

The Church historians make little mention of the period; they were
undisturbed by persecutions, and had no emperor or praefect to abuse.
They were, in fact, so busy inventing the difficulty of the diphthong
and developing Pauline theories on the doctrine and position of Christ,
that they had but little time for the real facts of life and progress
around them. Origen is a slight exception, but then his pride had been
flattered by a summons to Court, where, Eusebius tells us, he discussed
astronomical theology with the now visionary Julia Mamaea—who seems to
have aped her aunt, Julia Pia, in these matters. Origen’s pride was
further flattered by the dignity of a Praetorian escort on the journey
to Antioch—he does not mention the return voyage—which was certainly a
most astonishing honour, for which one would like to have other than
sacerdotal confirmation.

Further literary authorities, such as Sextus Rufus, Orosius, John of
Antioch, and Jordanis, though inferior in weight, have obviously got
some of their information from sources other than those open to the
Scriptores, and their statements may be accepted with reserve, unless
they can be shown to be irrational and contrary to known facts.

When all is gathered in, the sum total of the recorded history, as
Mr. Cotter Morison[50] says, is meagre to a degree. The investigation
of the various isolated records in the light of what is known of the
movements and tendencies of the age—combined with the psychology of
the boy’s character—is and must be the key to much that at first sight
seems contradictory and obscure in the scandals reported—none of which,
as Niebuhr has said, are capable of historical treatment with anything
like an assurance of accuracy. In this part of the biography Lampridius
himself is of considerable use. In the course of his vituperation he
is continually letting fall allusions and observations revealing a
character, instincts, and religion which he is quite incapable of
comprehending, and can only malign with a vitriolic vehemence worthy of a
better cause. His very vehemence is fortunate, since it has left the way
open for psychology and science to proclaim the abuse, what we now know
it to be, both malicious and untruthful.

The evidences from the jurisprudence of the reign are certainly
unsatisfactory. Later codifications have left us with but few dated laws
of a reign that stands in the golden age of Roman jurisprudence. Ulpian,
Papinian, and Paul were not men to allow a break in the order of legal
succession, and though Ulpian was presumably banished in connection with
Alexander, it was not until within a few months of Elagabalus’ death.
Sufficient remains to show us that the Empire suffered no break in the
perfect autonomy of jurisprudence, justice, and government, throughout a
period which Forquet de Dorne[51] has dignified under the pseudonym of
the reign of military anarchy.

Cohen and Eckhel are of great importance in fixing, as nearly as
possible, the chronology of the period, by their records of the medals
and coins of the reign. The same may be said of the inscriptions which
have escaped the vandalism of the Emperor’s enemies. Duruy, in his great
history, is unwilling to give the medals much biographical weight,
comparing them to the governmental journals of all times, which give
only the account of events as seen through official spectacles, and on
which as little reliance can be placed as on the published bulletins
of victories: witness the Parthian medal of Macrinus, the record of a
great victory for the Roman troops over Artabanus; the real fact being
a colossal defeat followed by a peace, the latter purchased in a manner
disgraceful to both the people and the arms of Rome.

Inscriptions are unfortunately few and far between, owing to the fury
with which Alexander and his relatives pursued Elagabalus’ memory.
Undoubtedly it was no new thing to call upon the Senate to execrate the
memory of a murdered rival. It was, in fact, one of that body’s most
important functions during the period under discussion. Rarely has the
work been done so thoroughly and effectively, which says something for
the zeal of Alexander and the money he spent in extirpating all reference
to the memory of Elagabalus.

The works of Valsecchius[52] and Turre,[53] amongst seventeenth-century
scholars, are illuminating on the subject of the length of Elagabalus’
reign. Tristran’s[54] attitude shows the slavishness of tradition;
certain of Saumaise’s[55] emendations show the same tendency despite
his usual impartiality; in fact, all have accepted the tradition of
wickedness without the least question as to its _fons et origo_. This
work proposes to take the texts as they exist, and endeavour from their
unwitting statements of the boy’s psychology to convict them of untruth.
From their unsupported charges of secret crimes, to show that real
crimes were largely non-existent, and to throw the burden of all the
ordures which have covered this Emperor’s name on to the shoulders of his
relations and murderers, to whom alone it was a vital object to destroy
his fair renown before a world which loved him. That his world did love
him, despite all, there are manifold traces. The prodigal Emperors
always were adored; so were their successors, the wicked popes. Man was
too near to nature to be aware of shame, and infantile enough to like
to be surprised. That was Elagabalus’ scheme; he amused his people and
surprised them at the same time.

The whole spirit of tolerance of the unusual makes it difficult for us
to picture Rome. Modern ink has acquired Nero’s blush; yet, however
sensitive a writer may be, once Roman history is before him although
he may violate it, may even give it a child, he never can make it
immaculate. He may skip, indeed; and it is because he has skipped so
often that you may fancy Augustus was immaculate. The rain of fire which
fell on the cities that mirrored their towers in the Bitter Sea might
just as well have fallen on him, on Virgil, on Caligula, Nero, Otho,
Vitellius, Titus, or Domitian[56] why, then, condemn Elagabalus alone
unheard, save for the fact that his relations hated him, and as far as we
can see, hated him without a cause, or perhaps because he was growing too
strong, and his unfortunate disease gave them their opportunity to gain
that power after which the women were striving like grim death?




CHAPTER II

THE FAMILY OF THE EMPEROR MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS


Great houses, says a historian, win and lose undying fame in less than a
century; they shoot, bud, bloom, bear fruit; from obscurity they rise to
dominate their age, indelibly to write their names in history, and after
a hundred years give place to others, who in turn take the stage, while
they descend into the crowd and live on insignificant, retired, unknown.
This is true, in some periods, but not of the Imperial houses of Rome.
Their flight across the stage was meteoric in its rapidity. A generation
saw the rise and total extinction of many of those families who aspired
to the Roman Purple, particularly the revived house of Antonine.

On the borders of the Orontes, in that part of Syria which is known as
Phoenicia, lies a small, disagreeable, and melancholy-looking town,
which to-day bears the name of Homs, or Hems. It is a construction of
yellow and black stones mixed with mud and broken straw, and is the
rendezvous of Curds, Bedouins, and Turkomans, a straggling village,
where dirt, squalor, and misery proclaim the absence of trade, roads,
or contact with an outside world. A short distance away are the ruins
of an ancient castle, built by the Crusaders to dominate the route to
Antioch. Here alone is there a trace of fruitfulness, a sort of oasis of
green gardens, extending along the river-bank towards what was once the
graceful and beautiful capital of the Elagabal monarchy, the famous city
of Emesa—celebrated under the independent High-Priest Kings of the family
of Sohemais for the splendour of its palaces and the magnificence of its
temple, and because it was the headquarters of the worship of the God of
Gods, Elah-Gebal, or Baal, which is the name more familiar to Christian
ears. For us the chief interest in this wretched village lies in the
fact that it is the home of that race of Syrian Emperors who ruled Rome
during the period of her greatest renown and prosperity—a period when
the splendour of the Purple reached its apogee. Rome had been watching a
crescendo that had mounted with the ages; it culminated in the revived
Antonine house; but the tension had been too great, something snapped,
and there was nothing left. So it had been with Emesa; her splendours
endured sorrowfully until the twelfth century, and then were engulfed,
as her house had long since been, in a great earthquake which devastated
that part of Syria, along with lesser-known parts of the earth’s surface.

Little is known of the early history of the hereditary High-Priest Kings
of Emesa. Strabo tells us that, like the neighbouring sovereigns of
Jerusalem, their origin was sacerdotal, to which functions they had
attached the title and jurisdiction of secular rulers on the breaking-up
of the Seleucid monarchy.

The most famous princes of the Emesan dynasty of High-Priest Kings were
Samsigeramus and his son Iamblichus, the friend of Cicero. In the war
between Octavius and Antony this prince found he had taken up arms on
the wrong side, and was killed by Antony for fear of treachery. In the
year 20 B.C. Augustus re-established the kingdom of Emesa in favour
of the son of Iamblichus, which kingdom certainly continued until the
time of Vespasian, according to Froelich, and probably until Antoninus
Pius, during whose reign we have the first known Imperial coins of Emesa
(Eckhel). The kingdom was small, and the wealth, except the revenue
which came as religious offerings, insignificant—facts which undoubtedly
decided the rulers of the time to yield gracefully before the advancing
arms of the universal Emperor, who, in return, left the High-Priest
Kings a certain amount of political as well as their inherent religious
authority, much in the same way that he left the family of Herod their
nominal monarchy, along with the support of a similar Babylonian
religion. Certainly the fame of the temple at Emesa and the oracle of
Belos at Apamea was widespread, and the hereditary High Priest in the
year of grace 179 was an astute gentleman.

[Illustration: Coin of Antoninus Pius, struck at Emesa (British Museum).

Coin of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla) (British Museum).

_Face page 26._]

In that first year of the reign of the Emperor Commodus there was
appointed to the command of the fourth Scythian legion then quartered in
Syria, in all probability, as Peter thinks, at Emesa itself, an African,
one Septimius Severus by name, a native of Leptis Magna in Tripoli, born
in the year 146, and therefore about the age of thirty-three years.

Whether or not he was a widower at the time is uncertain. He had
previously married a lady, by name Marcia, but as no children by her
are known to have existed, it is probable that she was either dead or
repudiated by that year, added to which his precocious inquiries as to
the marriageable young women in the neighbourhood presuppose that the
general was either free or at least travelling _en garçon_.

The High Priest of the period was—according to two references in the
Epitome of Aurelius Victor—a certain Julius Bassianus, descended in
hereditary line from the afore-mentioned Iamblichus. Certainly he was
not a plebeian, as Dion says, somewhat sneeringly, when referring to his
daughter’s origin, unless, of course, Dion meant in point of comparison
with the rank to which she eventually attained.

It was certainly a happy chance that Bassianus possessed not only a wise
prophet, but also a superstitious commander in the army of occupation,
and was astute enough to work both for the miraculous profit of his house
and lineage. Unfortunately he had no daughter old enough for an immediate
marriage. She who is presumed the eldest, Domna by name, was at the time
only nine years of age, having been born in the year 170, whilst her
sister Maesa was presumably somewhat younger.

But to return to the Oracle. In the year of grace 179, when Septimus
found himself in a peaceful province, _en garçon_ and very much admired,
he took an interest in the marriageable daughters of important persons,
like most young men of ambition in their more calculating moments,
and—being a religious-minded man—he determined to consult the gods,
especially the famous voice which spoke so near at hand. Here he learnt
that to the elder daughter of Bassianus was reserved, according to her
horoscope, the power of making the man whom she should wed a king. It was
an ambitious height to which Septimius aspired, and an ambition which
would have cost him his life had Commodus got bruit of the transaction.
Nevertheless, being a prudent man, and at the same time ambitious, he
resolved to let no chance slip. He did what Bassianus expected—demanded
the lady’s hand and obtained the reversion thereof.

At what date the marriage took place is by no means certain; there are
two references in Dion which are mutually exclusive. The first says that
the Empress Faustine (who, by the way, the same Dion says, died in 175)
herself prepared their marriage bed in the precincts of the temple, which
sounds a highly unsatisfactory beginning to ordinary matrimony. But as
he has just told us that the lady was of an age of five in the year
above mentioned, it is highly improbable that her nuptial couch would be
prepared by any one, or anywhere, for some time to come, especially as
there is no indication that Septimius had heard of the lady before 179,
when he consulted the Oracle. Again, Dion assumes that Marcia did not
die until Septimius was appointed Governor of Lyonese Gaul about the year
187, so that her husband could only have been playing with astrology,
wise prophets, and other things against the time when the obex to solid
matrimony should be removed. Possibly even Dion is referring—when he
drags in the Empress Faustine—to Septimius’ first marriage, or, as has
been suggested, the whole thing was a dream of either Septimius or
Dion, probably both, as both were much addicted to such proceedings.
Considering the so-called scandal against the lady’s character, her
proclivities, and the knowledge that her eldest son Bassianus was born at
Lyons on April 4, 188, it is most natural to conclude that the marriage
took place some time in the spring of the year 187, though the pledges
may have been given when the child was nine years old or thereabouts, and
the actual marriage deferred till Julia’s seventeenth year, Septimius
amusing himself in the interval, after the manner of soldiers. It must
be admitted that, as the record of his scrapes is limited to two, he was
more discreet than the majority of his profession.

His choice of a wife, if made on unusual grounds, was more than
successful. Few Emperors have had more renowned ladies or more helpful
spouses than Julia Domna Pia, the daughter of Bassianus, proved herself
to Septimius. It was fortunate that she had more than a horoscope to
assist her in her new position. Even the governorship of Lyonese Gaul
was an important post, and there she had large scope for the use of her
wit, learning, beauty, and wisdom, in addition to her Syrophoenician
adaptability for amorous intrigues. By means of which combination the
family became people of renown throughout the length and breadth of
Pertinax’s Empire, a circumstance which enabled them, on the murder of
that Emperor, to assume the rôle of avengers, the deliverers of Rome, the
saviours of the Empire, which had now three heads but no commander.

It was Julia, we are assured by Capitolinus, who decided her husband
to assume the Purple; it was Julia who first amongst Empresses was
Domna, or Mistress, Mater Castrorum, Mater Senatus, Mater Patriae, Mater
Totius Populi Romani. Of course she had the sad notoriety of being
mother to Caracalla, and late authors (_vide_ Tertullian _ad Nationes_)
have reproached her with many indiscretions—have even accused her of
conspiring against her husband; but Dion, who is by no means partial to
her, mentions neither accusation, and the absurdity of the latter throws
doubt, at least on the public knowledge of the former story. In any case
her elevated mind, her four children, and her rank, even when combined
with her sun-warmed nature, ought to have protected her from anything
except occasional amusements, of which she might have preferred her
husband ignorant. Julia’s real fame rests on the basis of her character
as a mathematician, an astrologer, and a wise counsellor. The fruit of
her learning and philosophy has been handed down to all time by her
friend and associate Philostratus in the dedication to her of his Life
of Apollonius, the miracle-worker of Tyana, the Thaumaturge whose life
and miracles are supposed to form so large a part of the traditional life
of Jesus as it exists to-day.

In the palace Julia Domna had gathered round her a circle of learned men,
where all subjects were discussed, and whence, in all probability, a
contemporary derived his idea of the _Deipno sophistae_. It was a circle
of rhetoricians, lawyers, astrologers, physicians, philosophers, and
historians, which included men such as Cassius Dio, Ulpian, Papinian,
Paul, Galen, and Philostratus—one and all names which speak volumes for
the gravity of the lady and the perfection of her taste. If, therefore,
any truth is to be attributed to the account of her frailties, the worst
that can be imagined of the pious Julia is, that like the Virgin Queen
of this country, she took her recreations in those ways which nature and
temperament prompted, while the main business of her life was social,
political, and philosophical. Many, like Bayle, have made merry over the
carnal anecdotes, though surely for a true judgment of her character the
preservation of a single conversation with Philostratus of Lemnos would
be worth the record of a thousand dull intrigues—in surmise—for which
familiarity has bred contempt.

Besides which, Severus lived in the bosom of his family, or rather of his
wife’s family, the Bassiani. With his two sons and two daughters there
had come to Rome about the year A.D. 193 the family of his wife’s sister
Julia Maesa, a lady for whom fate had provided no Imperial horoscope,
and who in consequence had no right to be anything like as ambitious as
her sister the Empress. Maesa was, however, equally beautiful, equally
clever, and equally determined to climb, if climbing were possible. To
her mind Rome was the place where fortunes were to be made if you had
an Imperial connection, so to Rome Maesa came. She had married, at an
early age, the Proconsul Julius Avitus, by no means an undistinguished
government servant. The fact that he held the governments of Asia,
Mesopotamia, and Cyprus successively, and was Consul in the year 209,
says something for the trust which was reposed in him. He seems to have
been resident in Rome in his own mansion on the Aesquiline—according to
Lanciani—from the year 193, a fact which presupposes that he was already
a man of wealth and position, who considered himself justified—on account
of his relation to the Imperial home—in resigning the government of
the provinces, though at no time was the proconsulship an unprofitable
possession, even for the most upright. Herodian testifies most fully to
the wealth of the family, leading us to suppose that Maesa knew full
well that “poverty is no recommendation anywhere,” and had amassed money
accordingly.

At the period now before us Maesa’s political ability seems to have
had little or no scope. It was gold she wanted at that time, and gold
she was getting together against an emergency. This emergency fate
provided under the Emperor Macrinus, and she was thus enabled to use
her stores of gold and statecraft with much profit both under Elagabalus
and in the early years of Alexander’s reign. She was then free, and
showed herself in her true colours, a sort of Dowager-Empress after the
Chinese pattern, greedy, with a terrible eagerness for power, authority,
and a command such as Julia with more good sense had never thought of
encompassing. It was a longing that she had to satisfy at the price of
her treasure, her popularity—if ever she had any—even at the price of
her own children’s blood. Maesa’s family consisted of two daughters,
whose sons were both to become renowned Emperors, men whose names live
by their very eccentricities, though their deeds are but far-off fables
meet for the acrimonious discussions which make historians famous. Of
the two daughters, Soaemias, or Symiamira, the elder, was less of the
politician, had less of the calculating, self-possessed individuality
which was so strong in both her mother and sister, who were both women
with the true courtesan instinct, which could turn their very amours to
substantial account. Soaemias was certainly no ruler. She was a living,
passionate, human woman, full of the joy of life, generous both for good
and evil, courageous too, according to Herodian. By common consent, she
was voluptuous, devoted to those who loved her, willing to give her very
life for that of her well-loved son. A woman who was bound to be popular
with men, and hated by her sisters for all time, both on account of her
qualities and her defects. To such a nature the position Lampridius
ascribes in the state would have been utterly impossible. Nor is this
borne out anywhere by the existing inscriptions, which always make
Soaemias take a place second to that of Maesa, except in the Senate on
the Quirinal, which was her special concern.

Soaemias married some time before the year 204 Sextus Varius Marcellus.
He was, according to Dion, a native of Apamea, and a man of some
considerable prominence. As early as 196 we hear of him in the position
of Procurator Aquarum, and his advancement, presumably helped by his
connection with royalty, was very rapid. Through the usual grades of
procuratorships he reached the rank of Praefect in early life, and
thence the height of ambition, the Praetorian class of the Senatorial
order. At the time of his death he was about to complete his term of
office as Legatus Legionis III. Augustae, Praeses provinciae Numidiae,
or may just have vacated that position; at least such is the reading of
the inscription according to Domaszewski, who puts his death some time
in the year A.D. 217. The young couple seem to have had an estate at
Velletri, a city some twenty-five miles south of Rome; as here Varius
Marcellus’ funeral inscription was found some short time back. Whether
or not her husband’s praefectorial duties left Soaemias much to herself
can be judged by the statement, made by all authorities, that she spent
the greater part of her time with her aunt at Court, which she could
scarcely have done had her husband been at Velletri. There is a question
raised by Eckhel as to the number of her children; he cites from a
Bilingue Marmor, which contains the inscription—“Julia Soaemias Bassiana
cum _filis_,” but as this is the only mention of any children, apart
from Bassianus himself, the others have passed into obscure oblivion.
Probably this mention is responsible for more than one of the many
scandalous stories which centre round her name. She certainly had one
son, Varius Avitus Bassianus (sometimes also called Lupus). Whether he
was first, second, or last, we have no sort of information. Various
writers give the boy different names in early life; few agree even as
to the year of his birth. Dion says that he was born on October 1, 204.
Herodian, for no discoverable reason, puts it as early as 201, while
both Ammianus Marcellinus and Julianus imply that his birthplace was
Emesa, which latter fact seems most improbable. Bassianus’ very parentage
is obscure, on account of the reputation which his mother had acquired
during her residence in Rome. Certainly her cousin Caracalla admired her,
but he admired most women of the type, and if we can believe any of the
scandals, Soaemias was in no way averse to passing her time in amorous
converse with her very vigorous cousin, or indeed with any other strong
and healthy soldiers who thronged the imperial ante-chambers. This state
of affairs seems to have been one of which people in Rome were well
aware, as was testified by the vestal whom Caracalla, having impotently
failed to violate, burned alive, protesting her innocence on the grounds
that Soaemias had put it beyond the power of Caracalla to violate her
when he tried.

In one way it was a misfortune for her son that no one could fix
exactly—perhaps his mother least of all—the paternity of Bassianus,
though, on the other hand, this very uncertainty had its peculiar uses
at the psychological moment. Certainly the discovery that she had other
children, whilst Bassianus alone comes to the front, lends countenance to
the official story that her attachment to Caracalla was not unfruitful,
while the name Bassianus, which her son bore, was the name by which
Caracalla was always known until the time of his proclamation, and
even afterwards. At any rate there is nothing unlikely in the imperial
paternity which all authors mention, some as conjectural, some even
assuming as a fact, with, however, very little chance of ascertaining the
arcana of the circumstances. There is and can be, at any rate medically
speaking, no truth in the abominable suggestion of Lampridius, that
the boy was named Varius on account of the variety of gentlemen who
contributed to his _mise en scène_, especially when Lampridius knew, if
he knew anything at all, that the lady’s husband was by name Varius.
What, therefore, was more natural than that the lad should bear the
family name along with the other belonging to his natural father the
Emperor Bassianus?

The reputed birthplace is certainly a mystery. Why Soaemias should
have taken the long and tiring journey to Emesa, when she could have
enjoyed herself so much better in Rome, has never been explained. Even
though the birth were an accident which she wished to conceal from her
husband, why go to Emesa, where she was best known outside Rome, and
where people could talk just as well as in the imperial city? Her husband
may have been absent on military or civil duty for too long a time to
stop people talking about the interesting event (in some provinces the
tenure of office was five years), which would suggest things best left
undiscovered, but even then there were many such accidents happening in
the best-regulated families. No one would be shocked, her family was in
too good a position to allow any such expression of feeling; she was a
married woman and could claim the protection of that state of life at
Terracina, or Baiae, or any other seaside resort, until the time was
safely over. There seems no suggestion possible that will accord with
Julianus’ implication. It may be true, though we can see no earthly
reason for the journey, and, in the absence of corroboration, we may
conclude that in all probability it is merely a loose way of saying that
the family of a man belongs to a certain village or island, without
necessarily implying that the person in question was himself born there.
It may even be a backhanded way of disparaging the birth of him whose
memory had to be slighted, by saying that he was a mere provincial
nobody, whilst the birth of his murderer and successor is vaunted and
raised to great splendour by circumstantial untruth, in order to prove
him fully _capax imperii_.

The second daughter of Julia Maesa was Julia Mamaea. While still abroad
with her family, she had married another Syrian, by name Gessianus
Marcianus, a native of Arca. Nothing is known of him except from Dion’s
statement that he had filled, more than once, the office of Imperial
Procurator. By this marriage Mamaea incurred the _capitis diminutio_
on account of the inferior rank of her husband, but by means of a
privilegium from Severus and Caracalla she was allowed to retain her
own Senatorial rank. Of this admirable woman none of the frailties so
common amongst her family and relations are reported. She lived and died
a model of unswerving rectitude. This affectation she carried almost to
the Jesuit extreme, when she made use of her reputation and wealth to
obtain the murder of the nephew of whom she so highly disapproved and by
whose murder she would benefit so materially. There is, of course, the
story of one indiscretion with Caracalla, by means of which she consented
to gain popularity for her son. She, as well as her sister, claimed the
distinction of having been Caracalla’s mistress, and Alexianus, as well
as Bassianus, was claimed as the result of that cousin’s too amorous
embraces. The admission was doubtless due rather to a hypocritical
affectation of wickedness, prompted by the political exigencies of the
moment, than to the fact that her cold and stately beauty had unbent to
tempt a too ardent cousin by the offer of those seductive attractions
which he could get so easily elsewhere. Especially as the assumption of
this rôle of temptress might cause her in after-life all the reproaches
of a misspent youth, with little to show for the sacrifice. Perhaps
mention ought to be made of the opinion of Dexippus, that the boys
Bassianus and Alexianus were cousins-german _paternal_, which, as we
know from theologians, when they are fitting facts to theory, is the
same thing as brothers by the same father. Certainly Mamaea’s beauty is
remarkable. As we see it in her bust at the Louvre, she is a younger
edition of her aunt Julia, perhaps without the humanity and gentleness
expressed in that lady’s portrait, which is to be found in the Rotondo
at the Vatican, but there is a real resemblance between the two. Both,
though Syrian by race, are remarkably Western in type, whereas the
features of Julia Soaemias—in the statue representing her as Venus
Coelestis, also in the Vatican museum—are distinctly of a more Oriental
cast. Soaemias’ form is most beautiful, though it must be confessed that
her head and arms would have pleased Rubens’ taste better than they do
our present pre-Raphaelite ideas of attractiveness. Soaemias’ history,
however, leaves no doubt in our minds that all men considered her the
more attractive at the time; and certainly, if but a tittle of the
stories concerning her be true, she must have been as fascinating as the
goddess in whose form she has been portrayed.

We have now before us the main personages in the political revolution of
the year A.D. 218, a revolution which displaced the Moor, the beloved
of the Senate, and replaced the house of Severus, the beloved of the
army, upon that peak whereon the young Emperors of old Rome balanced
themselves—a peak with a precipice on either side.

First, there is the _Empress Julia Domna Pia_, clever, witty, sagacious,
and beautiful.

Then her sister, _Julia Maesa, Sanctissima_,—for so her religiosity
is described—the widow of Julius Avitus, wealthy, hard, crafty, and
domineering, but a woman with a policy and limitless determination, as
her later history shows. Then her two daughters—

(1) _Julia Soaemias Bassiana_, the wife of Varius Marcellus, beautiful,
voluptuous, religious, neurotic, the mother of Elagabalus, a woman with
few, if any, political aspirations, tendencies, or abilities.

(2) _Julia Mamaea_, the upright (except when other things paid
better), classic, cold, calculating, philosophic, mildly interested in
Christianity, and devoted to the interests of her own family.

Finally, the two successive Emperors, their sons, _Varius Avitus
Bassianus_, the impulsive, affectionate, headstrong child of about
thirteen years, with all his mother’s hereditary sexuality, neurotic
religion, and love of life; and _Alexianus_, a child of approximately
nine, Mamaea’s son, and bearing her reputation, of whom more at a later
time.

Let us follow in outline the actions and movements of this family from
the death of the Emperor Antoninus Caracalla to the inception of the
movement which placed his, at least reputed, son in his place.

[Illustration: Medal of Julia Domna Pia, Empress (British Museum).

Coin of Julia Maesa Augusta (British Museum).

Coin of Julia Soaemias Augusta (British Museum).

Coin of Julia Mamaea Augusta (British Museum).

_Face page 40._]

Without doubt the family had lived securely and delicately in Rome
through the reigns of Septimius Severus and his son, growing in wisdom,
stature, and prosperity, and, as far as we know, in favour with God and
man, until the tragic events of the year 217 made it appear that the
fortunes of the family had come to a sudden and decided collapse. The
circumstances of the death of Caracalla were typical of that age of
sovereignty. As a general rule the knife gave what a dish of mushrooms
took away. Caracalla’s government had been cruel and severe in the
extreme, but he was adored by the army, with whom he lived and worked,
not as Emperor, but as comrade. For them he could never do enough in the
way of privileges, for them the treasury was depleted, and cities turned
into cemeteries that they might have the booty. Fighting was as natural
to him as to a tiger cat; and fighting he died. It was for the pursuit
of a campaign against the Parthians that the Emperor and Court had moved
to Antioch in Syria, where Julia, his mother, was acting as Secretary of
State, while the Emperor was bounding like a panther upon the various
cities of Mesopotamia. In the pursuit of her duties, it happened that
there came into her hands certain letters warning her of a plot against
her son’s life.

With the army at that time was a praefect, Opilius Macrinus by name, a
Moorish lawyer of low birth and pedantic habits. He had been procurator
to Plautianus, the so-called traitor, whom both Julia and Caracalla
had hated. Now Macrinus had been honoured by Severus after Plautianus’
murder, and still stood high in the imperial favour—though he was treated
by the Emperor, says Dion, as a sort of buffoon. Macrinus had dreamed
that the purple should be his, and was supported in his wish by the
African astrologer Serapion, who was obliging enough to prophesy the
speedy demise of Aurelius Antonine in Macrinus’ favour.

Julia immediately sent dispatches containing the account of what was
going forward to her son, who, as usual, was absent from the city. When
these arrived in the camp, Caracalla was just mounting his chariot, and
gave orders that the mail should be taken first to Macrinus, who would
sift its contents and only bring what was necessary to the Emperor. Thus
did Macrinus learn that his treachery was discovered and a death-sentence
for real or supposed treason imminent, which unpleasant certainty he
resolved to obviate without further delay. In a very few days he had
discovered a discontented person willing to do his work, one Martialis,
a centurion, whose brother, according to Herodian, had recently been
executed for some military offence, or, in Dion’s version, because he was
angered at his own tardy promotion. These two discussed the matter and
resolved on the extermination of their mutual grievance, Martialis to do
the deed.

The opportunity came on the 8th April 217, when Caracalla was on a
journey to visit the temple of the Moon at Charrae in Mesopotamia. By
the way, he had occasion to dismount for purposes of natural relief,
and withdrew somewhat from his staff, thus leaving himself unprotected.
Martialis saw his opportunity. On the pretext of having been called, he
rushed up and stabbed the defenceless Emperor in the back, then made off,
followed by the German officers, who immediately got wind of what had
been done. He was the cat’s paw, and suffered the penalty that Macrinus
had foreseen would be his. Four days later, and, _faute de mieux_, the
army offered the Empire to this same Macrinus, little wotting for the
moment what his part had been in the tragedy they deplored, desiring only
a leader against the approaching forces of King Artabanus. As usual,
according to Herodian, the Senate breathed a sigh of relief when the
Emperor died. In their effete condition they were only too anxious to
change masters as often as possible. With a want of political sense and
ability, which so well merited the treatment they received at the hands
of their tyrants, that august body continually preferred—with an entire
lack of statesmanship—the unknown to the known evils of their future.

At the time of Caracalla’s death, Julia’s chief grief was at the loss
of her influence. During the last quarter of a century she had had the
world at her feet, and not the world of sycophants by any means. Latterly
she had enjoyed the supreme power, and must have had enormous patronage
in her hands; naturally her nominees would be men eager in her interest
and support. Dion seems to say that her first idea was one of suicide,
as a means of escaping her loss of prestige, but he shows us that her
fears proved groundless, since the new Emperor left her in Antioch with
the outward marks of her dignity unaltered. It was certainly not a wise
policy from Macrinus’ point of view. Julia, knowing at least of his
treachery, and ably assisted by her crafty sister, took advantage of the
mismanagement of the Parthian campaign, and the insensate strictness with
which this pedantic lawyer immediately attempted to reform the manners
of his young soldiers, to suggest that she herself would make a better
ruler than this pedagogue (at least, so one gathers from Dion, 78-23).
It was a chimerical scheme at best, and as Julia knew her Rome so well,
she must have realized that no woman could have a chance, as sole ruler,
in such an environment. It is therefore more natural to suppose that
if she attempted anything at all, it was to suggest some youth to the
army in whose name she could exercise the power she loved; and who was
more natural than the son of Soaemias and Caracalla? It is conjectural,
of course, but the report of his paternity seems already to have been
abroad, and will account for the extraordinary alacrity with which the
troops received the lad a few months later. At any rate, something caused
Macrinus to change his mind as to the advisability of allowing Julia and
her relations to remain longer in the Eastern capital. Thus he ordered
them to return at once to Emesa, whence they were sprung. Julia was too
proud to submit to the condition of subject under the adventurer whom
her family had raised from nothing, or to become after so much grandeur
an object of public pity. She resolved, therefore, to escape from her
distress like a Stoic of ancient days. Moreover, she was suffering from
a disease which is still considered incurable. Death was approaching her;
she went out to meet it, and either allowed herself to die of starvation
or pierced her cancer with a poisoned dagger. The report that Macrinus
had ordered her suicide is quite incompatible with his other dealings
towards the family of Bassianus.

Maesa, more prudent and more far-seeing, resolved to obey the order
literally, and returned with her widowed daughters (Dion), their two
sons, and all her vast treasure to her native city of Emesa, some 125
miles south of Antioch. Here, as we have already pointed out, the family
was of immense importance, not only on account of their hereditary
position, but by reason of their wealth and imperial connections.
Macrinus’ short tenure of office is one continual record of gross
blunders, of which this is about the most futile, comparable only with
a few similar acts perpetrated by our own Stuart dynasty and the last
hereditary kings of France. Emesa was the one place in the Empire
where Maesa had real power and authority. A whole city would back her
pretensions and further her schemes with a devotion that Macrinus could
only expect from the handful of Moors who formed his bodyguard.




CHAPTER III

THE USURPATION AND FALL OF MACRINUS, 217-218

_Steps to Empire_


As we have suggested, Maesa saw more possibilities in living than in
assaying that better part which can never be taken from men, which
circumstance shows that she at least was not tainted with the growing
superstition that a mythical eternity is preferable to a certain present.
She promptly obeyed the edict of banishment which Macrinus had published
against the relations of the murdered Emperor, and, as we have said,
took with her to her native city the whole of her wealth and belongings.
It was some time during the winter of 217/18 that Macrinus ordered the
family of Bassianus to leave Antioch, and it was this very departure that
eventually cost him his throne and life. Certainly he must have known
that plans for replacing the house of Antonine on the throne were rife.
The final result shows months of work, effected only by hosts of agents.
In fact, we may almost surmise that government servants all over the
Empire had never acquiesced in the usurpation of Macrinus at all, and
were merely biding their time. There was only one safe plan for Macrinus,
if he wanted the loyalty of the civil and military parties in the state,
namely, to extirpate the whole house of Antonine. Instead of taking
this sensible and necessary measure, he merely banished the relations
of Caracalla, whom the soldiers regarded as their natural allies, most
especially the son and impersonator of that Emperor, the young Bassianus,
now aged about fourteen years.

They had more than one grudge against Macrinus. First, they felt the
utter disgrace of the Parthian campaign, and were disgusted at the lying
medal to celebrate a victory which all the world knew to have been a
colossal defeat. Next, they were righteously annoyed at the restrictions
put on their usual liberty. Third, they were quite unnecessarily
relegated, on half rations, to uncomfortable winter quarters, their pay
reduced, and their privileges stopped.

It is easy to imagine the soldiers’ disgust at finding themselves
subjects to a mere legal pedant, in the place of their popular idol and
born leader Caracalla, subjects of a man whose prime object seemed to
be the infliction of harsh and unnecessary punishments in all matters
concerning the ordinary enjoyments common to their state and life—a
ruler whose first reforms were to make criminal offences those natural
pleasures which were alone considered to make the strenuous military life
endurable. Tristran, quoting from Dion, recalls a law which ordained the
burning alive of a soldier and his mistress (_junctis corporibus_); or,
as an act of grace, their walling up together (in the same interesting
condition), and their being left to die of hunger and suffocation. This
feeling of rebellion was by no means lessened when men knew that the
new Emperor was taking his ease at Antioch, the Queen of the East, and
they compared this treatment with what they had received from their
friend and comrade the late Emperor. Macrinus was full of regulations
for others, but fully impressed with the legal maxim that the lawgiver
is above the law. It is small wonder, all things considered, if the
prayers of that host were that the Gods would favour their suppliants
both in their hatreds and in their lusts, prayers that were offered in
such right Davidic fashion that Forquet de Dorne thinks the attempts
made even during this period against the Emperor’s life would have been
successful, if it had not been for the fidelity of his fellow Moors.
Macrinus, like other amateur soldiers, did not recognise the power of the
army in the government of a military empire. He seems to have thought
that the best way to play up to his electors was to adopt a title of
Severus and display it towards them in all its rigour. Not that Macrinus’
incapacity as a statesman and military leader ceased here; he made a
yet greater mistake in leaving a large and discontented army in winter
quarters in Syria, partly at Emesa itself. These legions were nominally
for the protection of Phoenicia; actually, they kept Maesa in touch with
the outside world, and were under the direct influence of her active
brain and limitless treasure, for to such Herodian gives us to understand
that her spoils approximated. Little could the Moor have imagined
what a volcano he was preparing for himself when he left together the
discontented legionaries, the aunt of Caracalla, and the representative
of the house and name of Severus: whose title to bastardy henceforward
became of prime importance to the family and their fortunes.

Julia Maesa had not lived for twenty-five years at the Roman Court for
nothing. She knew the men with whom she had to deal, she was accustomed
to observe and meditate; further, she had gold which openeth the heart of
man, and an intelligence quite acute enough to know where it could best
be spent in order to yield the largest return. Besides this, she had a
grandson celebrated for his remarkable beauty, his vivid intelligence,
and his admirable gaiety. For such a youth employment must be found
immediately. Here at Emesa was the very thing ready to hand, the
sacerdotal position which was the property of the family. Maesa knew that
a high position in the Church is an acquisition which, even in this life,
is of lucrative and social advantage to the holder. The High-Priesthood
of one of the most important religions of Syria was Bassianus’ possession
for the mere trouble of undergoing the ordination rite, while with it
there still went a certain amount of the former princely kudos of that
house. No sooner had the family, with apparent grief and tribulation,
covered the intervening miles, than Bassianus was endowed with the
family offices, dignities, and emoluments, while his cousin Alexianus
was most probably associated with him as a sort of priest or acolyte. A
very fitting figure the boy made as High Priest of the Semitic Elagabal
or Sun God, the God of Gods made without hands, supreme, fecund, potent,
and glorious. Elagabal was worshipped under the symbol of a great black
stone or meteorite, in the shape of a Phallus, which, having fallen from
the heavens, represented a true portion of the Godhead, much after the
style of those black stone images popularly venerated in Normandy and
other parts of Europe to-day. The temple itself was of great renown;
its celebrity was gained from the fact that it represented the greatest
natural force of all time, and its magnificence was in proportion to
its renown. Gold, silver, and precious stones had poured into it, not
only from the countryside and from Judea, but from kings, satraps,
and vassals all over the Eastern provinces. Solomon’s temple, though
nominally the last word in barbaric ostentation, was easily surpassed
in taste, richness, and splendour at Emesa. Herodian paints vividly the
sensuous beauty of the worship, the vestments, the music, the dances, the
sacrifices, and the mysteries, till one has only to substitute Jehovah
for Baal, and one has a familiar scene; rather more splendid, rather
more cosmopolitan than the Jerusalem mysteries, but equally designed to
entrance the beholder and to mystify the devout. But whereas Baal drew
all men within his warm, natural, fecund embrace, Jehovah was at best
a local deity whom no one—save those urged on by tribal necessities—had
ever thought it worth while to propitiate, let alone to serve, at least
if we can form any idea of his importance from the Semitic literature and
philosophy when compared with that of the Western Empire.

Into all this power and sensuous beauty Bassianus stepped proudly, as
supreme lord, knowing how well it became his own splendid magnificence.
He must have been warned that it was but a means to an end, that here he
had no abiding city; but unfortunately he had a strong strain of mystical
devotion in his blood, and immediately became an enthusiast for his
deity. From the first moment that he appears upon the scene the boy is
always the same, impulsive, enthusiastic, mystical, continually dominated
by that effete neuroticism which still trades under the name of religion.
Thus Bassianus gloried in the beauty, which to his mind expressed,
however inadequately, the potency of his ineffable deity. Here was a God
who was able to make men happy, and had taken him into a very specially
protective embrace; a God who was evidently supreme, only, and alone, the
God of the Universe. Further, Bassianus gloried in his own beauty, the
perfection with which he had learnt to dance that indolent measure to the
kiss of flutes, robed in garments the like of which he had not imagined
during his residence in the city of the Caesars.

Now, it will be remembered that Caracalla’s soldiers were wintering,
half-fed, loveless, and discontented in that place, and, as is not
uncommon with simple men of that profession, they were easily attracted
by the mysterious and the unusual. Soon they heard of this wonderful boy,
in whose face was the enigmatic beauty shared by Gods and women; and
further, it was rumoured that, unlike most religious functionaries, this
priest was more ready to give than to receive. They came in scores to
watch and worship, and found, when they came, that he possessed the charm
of the dissolute and the wayward, heightened by the divine. On his head
was a diadem set with precious stones, whose iridescence sparkled like a
luminous aureole about his brow. His frail tunic was of clinging purple
silk diapered with gold, the sleeves were wide, after the Phoenician
fashion, and fell to his feet, and he was shod with fine gilded leather
reaching to his thighs. Many of those who gazed upon him must have seen
and remarked his beauty in the great City of the Empire, whilst those
who ascended to the temple and beheld its rites believed each day more
strongly (assisted, of course, by Maesa’s well-spent incentive) that they
beheld the child of destiny. Never had his beauty appealed as now; never
had the soldiery felt the need of a deliverer as much as at present.
Still the numbers—attracted by rumour—grew greater till the lad, feeling
the return of Rome to himself, ceased to dance, and strolled amongst his
beloved soldiers, surveying them with the bold feminine eyes they loved.
Amongst the troops was a certain Eutychianus, called by Xiphilinus,
Comazon, because he took part in mimes and farces. He was a soldier of
some age and renown who had served in Thrace under the Emperor Commodus,
and was a man of growing influence and ability. Publius Valerius Comazon
Eutychianus was the full name of the man, who was highly honoured for his
part in the subsequent proceedings. It is impossible to believe that this
man was merely an actor, indeed it is most probable that the abridger
of Dion has thought fit to introduce a bit of gratuitously impossible
information when he remarks that Eutychianus was only a freed man of the
Emperor and an actor. During the reign of Elagabalus he was once Consul
and twice City Praefect, and was again appointed to this same office
under the Emperor Alexander.

This man and the tutor Gannys seem to have been the means of forcing home
on the neglected legionaries two most important items of information.
Through them the soldiers were reminded that Bassianus was their murdered
comrade’s son and heir, issue of the Emperor and his equally popular
cousin Soaemias—that fiery-eyed woman of superb bearing, before whom
fire had been carried as before an Empress, and yet one whose favours
had ever been for the strong, whose predilections were for the military.
Here they found her again, passionate as ever, banished on account of
her relationship to their dead leader, and banished by the man they now
knew to be his murderer. And further, they found her rich. Sedulously
she caused the rumour of her generosity to circulate, until all men
knew about the lumps of gold she was ready to give to any one who would
place her Antonine on the throne of his father. It may have been that
more than one in that camp could have traced a resemblance to himself
in the young priest’s features, but none did, the lumps of gold had a
language all their own, a persuasive power so potent that not only was
Bassianus recognised with a frenzy of loyalty, but his less attractive
cousin Alexianus was accepted as his half-brother, a youth whose imperial
paternity was at least as possible as his own.

Now the question was, could anything be done to put these protestations
of loyalty to some practical use? Bassianus was certainly accepted by the
legionaries early in the year 218 as the legitimate bastard and heir of
Caracalla; the true Augustus, deprived of his throne and heritage by the
hated Moor,—the man who had killed their idol, and was now oppressing
them (which was perhaps more to the point) with the multitude of his
civilian parsimonies.

Already Maesa’s plans (or were they those of Julia Pia?) were taking
shape in a manner almost too good to be true, when, to the help of
the youth and his relatives, came the divine portents, which were the
accustomed foreshadowings of important events. The great God veiled his
face. Elagabal signified his displeasure at the rule of the murderer by
an eclipse, and following on the eclipse came a comet, a daystar from
on high (another frequently recurring sign of the rise of a redeemer
and of the rejuvenation of the world). These signs and portents were
doubtless adequately explained to the soldiers, and seem to have decided
them to redeem their promises. Within four days, according to Wirth, it
was decided that Bassianus should repair to the camp with his treasure,
and be proclaimed Emperor by the whole army in that province. Of course,
all this took time. Authorities differ, not only as to the method
adopted, but also as to the month in which the proclamation took place.
Dion states definitely that Bassianus was proclaimed Emperor at dawn on
16th May 218. Wirth, criticising Dion, decides that the proclamation
took place almost immediately after the eclipse, which we know from
Oppolzer took place on 12th April. He quotes Dion’s own words that the
proclamation took place ὑπὸ τὰς ἠμέρας ἐκείνας of the eclipse; therefore
16th May is obviously a scribe’s error for 16th April, as the phrase is
quite incapable of bearing the meaning within thirty-four days. Further,
Wirth goes on to explain that haste was an obvious necessity, as no
troops would ever be left in winter quarters till the middle of May. The
middle of April, in that province, was more than late enough to account
for Dion’s statement that the troops had been unduly delayed in winter
quarters that year. Undoubtedly, Wirth’s suggestion as to an earlier date
of proclamation than that stated in the present text of Dion is the most
likely; the difficulty lies in the fact that from 16th April to 8th June,
the date of the battle, there is a period of seven weeks in which the
active Maesa apparently did nothing; but more of this later. To continue
with the story. When the preparations were ready, and the portents of the
eclipse had decided the superstitious, Dion says that Bassianus, Maesa,
and the family of the Bassiani, with wagons bearing their treasure, the
ransom of the Empire, left the city, and took up their quarters within
the camp on the night of 15th April (or 15th May) 218. Herodian says
that only Bassianus and Eutychianus went, and by stealth, as Maesa was
ignorant of the final plans, though both agree that at dawn on the next
day the High Priest, Bassianus, was brought out, shown to the soldiers,
habited in the clothes that Caracalla had worn, and then, Macrinus having
been deposed, Bassianus was elected Emperor in his stead, under the title
of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Antonini Filius, Severi Nepos, Augustus,
Pius, Felix. Herodian adds that the camp was at once fortified, both to
protect the young Emperor—who, like his putative father, preferred the
camp to the palace—and also to withstand the punitive expedition which
Macrinus was bound to send as soon as he heard of the revolt and mutiny.
The news would take at least a couple of days to reach Antioch, if not
considerably longer, considering that the soldiers had taken care to
keep the proceedings within the camp. In due course Macrinus heard of
their audacity. He was astonished and disgusted, and frankly said so.
The account which he sent to the Senate was not pleasant reading for any
of those it concerned; but except by means of the pen, the nominally
deposed Emperor did not think that much need be done. Still, that a
mere boy, with a handful of women, should have seduced the defenders of
a province was preposterous. Something must be done to show the soldiery
that, though Caracalla might have stood such freedom of choice (which
by the way he never did), he, Macrinus, was now master of the Empire,
and incidentally their master as well. It was a veritable storm in a
tea-cup, of course, but really upsetting to the man who thought that his
troubles were now over, that rest remained for the elect of the Gods. The
remarkable thing about Macrinus is, that he seems to have been absolutely
in the dark as to the state of public opinion, and the extent of the plot
for replacing the Antonine House on the throne. As we read the history
of Bassianus’ phenomenal rise to power, there is a ring of the English
Restoration. It is impossible to account for his universal success except
on the grounds that the government officials everywhere as well as the
soldiers recognised in him a legitimate sovereign and an obvious ruler.
From the moment at which he set up his standard there seems to have
been no sort of adequate opposition either from the civil or military
government of Macrinus; while, on the other hand, Bassianus obviously had
a party organised in every city and province, which was sedulously kept
informed of his progress from day to day. Not only _a_ party, but _the_
party, as there is no instance—except at Alexandria, where the Antonines
were scarcely popular—of Bassianus’ legates being received otherwise than
with open arms. None of which facts argue well for the position of the
Moor in the state. Macrinus was inclined to overestimate his popularity,
and he certainly underestimated the influence of youths and women.
Perhaps he had no experience of female tactics, and the persistency
with which they prosecute their own designs; he obviously thought a
sententious letter to the Senate, full of smug platitudes, abuse of the
army and the house of Antonine, was what that august assembly wanted.
So far he had not missed his mark; but when he went on to inform them
that they would never have any desire to wish him any hurt, one of the
Senators, Fulvius Diogenianus by name (who was obviously better informed
than the majority as to the likelihood of their having to put up with
Macrinus much longer), answered immediately and with surprising candour,
“But that is what we are all longing for”; whereupon the Senate sent
word to the army that their general and Emperor was not to be trusted on
several counts.

Macrinus, however, was not entirely idle; he had at least begun to think.
True, he had, for himself, preferred the pen to the sword, and then found
that the pen was a double-edged weapon like the sword, only rather more
dangerous, because it constituted documentary evidence. Still, he would
not let others err in the same way. He sent for his Praetorian Praefect,
Ulpius Julianus, to attend at his silken couch and talk business. The
result of this conference was that Macrinus resolved to strike fear, by
proxy of course, into the hearts of that “child and idiot,” his two
women, and the legion who supported him; and where, he argued, would the
revolt be when their hopes, centred in a child, too young to know even
the rudiments of politics, were suddenly blighted? Of course, he would
like news, and yes, he thought he had better say it, the boy’s head in a
charger—stone-dead hath no fellow. It would put the Emperor quite at his
ease once again to know that his rival was dead. It was perhaps foolish
to be concerned about so effete a crew, nothing could come of it all; but
still he would feel relieved if Julian would go at once to Emesa.

We are not told how long Julian took in his preparations, or on the
journey. From Macrinus’ attitude of disregard, probably he was not
specially pressed, though from his selection of troops Julian must have
thought the rising more important than Macrinus had pretended in his
letter to the Senate. Julian’s chief anxiety was to secure loyalty to
Macrinus amongst the men he took for the suppression of this revolt.
Certain incautious speculations amongst the men led to the execution of
several before the expedition started. From his position as Praetorian
Praefect, Julian would take a fair contingent; his dignity demanded it,
and probably his knowledge of the state of politics would tell him that
a strong movement was necessary at the outset. Apparently about three
legions went in all. Julian added to his forces a large number of Moors,
unless Herodian means that he took the Moorish cohorts of the Praetorian
Guard as main body, and added other men to these; in any case, it seems
obvious that, even if the government had not got wind of what was going
forward, the army had, and in consequence the Moors, as Macrinus’ own
countrymen, were considered the most trustworthy soldiers for the work,
besides which they were never over-particular in their methods. There
is evidence that, no matter how much he might belittle the movement in
public, Macrinus knew that the “Idiot” and his two women were likely to
have a full dog’s chance, and get a good run for their money.

The journey from Antioch to Emesa is, as we have said, a matter of 125
miles. The report of the meeting _inside the camp_ had to reach Macrinus;
he had to get his mind attuned to the extraordinary circumstances; then
appoint Julian, who had to make his inquisition and other preparations,
and then get to Emesa. Conjecturally, he could not have arrived with an
effective force much before the 28th of April, or settled down to attack
the fortified camp outside the city till that day. On the first day, Dion
tells us that Julian all but took the camp in a long day’s fight; but
it was heavy work, and, contrary to Macrinus’ expectation, the arrival
of Julian had not struck fear into the heart of the “effeminate and
debauched Syrian lad,” who was still with his soldiers, and showed no
intention of giving way even when the sun began to decline in the west.

[Illustration: Coin of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla) (British
Museum).

Coin of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Elagabalus) (British Museum).

Coin of Macrinus recording Victoria Parthica, A.D. 218. (From a woodcut.)

Coin of Diadumenianus as Emperor, A.D. 218 (British Museum).

_Face page 60._]

Unfortunately for Julian—and incidentally for his master also, as things
turned out—the Praefect thought that “the night cometh in which no man
can work,” and gave his Moors leave to retire to their lines at sunset.
With them went certain of the Emesan legionaries, displaying a hardihood
truly heroic, unless they were fairly sure of their ground. All that
night they worked, spreading their evangel, talking, persuading, and
promising on behalf of Antonine and his gold; talking until even the
besieging Moors knew full well that those walls held not only the son of
Caracalla, but the limitless wealth which he was ready to give to all
those who would assist him in reaching the throne of his father and their
hero. It was enough. When morning broke, the vision of his Augustitude
was seen above the walls of the camp, dressed in garments which they
could recognize from their colour and shape as having belonged to
Caracalla, and surrounded by his money bags. There he stood, boldly and
proudly, certainly in imminent danger of death from the besiegers, but
without fear, while all around him rose a great shout, “Behold the image
of your benefactor! can you fight against him and us, who stand by him
for his father’s sake?” Now, the resemblance, as shown on the coins given
by Cohen (_vide_ coin 8, p. 324, and coin 1, p. 243, vol. iv.), is quite
remarkable; whether it was merely a family likeness or entirely paternal,
it was quite good enough for men who at some little distance were already
convinced, and entirely anxious to share in the largess that they had
seen was already the prize of others.

There was no further fighting, for all Julian’s orders. The soldiers
threw down their arms and refused battle against the popular idol. True,
there was still a question of heads, but the head of the “Idiot” was not
thought about in the old connection; it was too valuable where it was.
It was the officers of Macrinus who suffered at the hands of those who
were candidates for their offices, and to whom the position and property
of the defunct had been promised by the new Emperor. The last to fall
was Julian. That trusty favourite of the deposed Emperor had managed to
escape when he saw the way that the tide was flowing, but for a general
commanding-in-chief to escape is not easy, and there were doubtless many
aspirants for his responsibility and position. Herodian tells a dismal
tale of the Praefect found in hiding, where he was given a short shrift,
because his head was wanted for a use other than that of commanding the
Praetorian Guards. The ingeniousness of the conquerors had designed it as
an evangel, or announcement of good tidings to Macrinus, impersonating
the head he wanted, that of Bassianus the Impostor.

But to return to Macrinus. Julian departed on his mission, the Emperor
seems to have got more and more worried; people must have told him things
which he had never heard before, and he appears to have worked himself
into a fever of excitement, a simple longing to do something, no matter
what, to get on the move, to propitiate somebody, chiefly the soldiers
whom he had neglected, and well, perhaps, just a bit persecuted. It had
all been for their good, of course, but now he had to think of his own
good; and so he set out towards Emesa. Not that he had any intention
of endangering his precious person by going anywhere in that vicinity
himself; but there was the second Parthian Legion, enrolled by Severus,
and very loyal to the house of Antonine, which was wintering at Apamea,
about half-way between Antioch and Emesa. Perhaps it would be as well
to modify that precious title of his by gifts, largesses, and other
privileges, especially in the case of this particular legion of Albano,
as it was called, a legion which was so near the danger zone, and whose
defection might simply mean flight for Macrinus. Gold had worked miracles
at Emesa, but Macrinus was not so foolish as to expect miracles, he only
wanted mercenary service; neither did he want any more talk of bribes,
which every one would accept very readily, and would as readily repudiate
the responsibility thereby incurred. But surely what had paid at Emesa
ought to pay at Apamea too. If a boy Emperor Bassianus was popular there,
why not set up a child yet younger than the impostor; in fact, why not
make his own son, Diadumenianus, Associate Emperor with himself? The
boy was quite ten years of age, and would make a fitting set-off to the
“Idiot” of fourteen, whose youthful pretensions he had just derided so
conclusively before the Senate. Besides which, it would be an additional
security for his family if anything untoward should happen, and would
furnish the occasion for a largess, which Macrinus was wanting. It would
be an occasion at which no one could cavil, no one pretend to sneer.
Neither would it be a craven act, such as the late dealings with Parthia
had been stigmatised. It was quite a budget that the ponderous lawyer had
thought out in so short a space of time. Travelling, he knew not quite
whither, had sharpened his wits wonderfully, and he did more than plan;
he executed his design without delay. The legions rejoiced once more in
their demoralising privileges, and in more than they could have hoped
for in the way of extra pay. Dion tells us that on the day when Macrinus
declared his son Antonine and Augustus (with no senatorial patent, of
course) he promised to each legionary 5000 drachmae, of which 1000 were
to be paid down. Further, in the letter to the Senate which announced
his son’s elevation, he promised to each Roman citizen a congiary of 150
drachmae. Obviously Macrinus was changing his views; in his last letter
he had played up to the Senate and despised the army; he was now playing
up to the army, and showing the Senate and sovereign people of Rome that
he estimated their worth at just one thirty-third of the amount at which
he valued a base soldier—a man who would continually suffer himself to be
bribed, to the enormous hurt of the state, as he had so recently enforced
upon the senatorial attention.

Macrinus was certainly not clever, his acrobatic feats were never
graceful, never gained him much applause even from the gallery. The
occasion of this congiary and donative was certainly a good bid for
general popularity; rejoicings went on apace; the obedient Senate,
having taken their bribe, poured contumely upon the house of Antonine
with a hearty goodwill, and declared its members enemies to the state and
commonwealth of Rome. But somehow no one was quite satisfied, certainly
not Macrinus; the news he was expecting did not come; the head he wanted
had not yet been sent.

There is a certain difficulty about the date of Diadumenianus’ elevation.
Neither Dion nor Herodian state definitely when it was effected. Mommsen
postulates that it must be late in May on account of the scarcity of
evidence on the point. There are several known coins which call him
Emperor, one struck at Antioch, another at Thyatira in 218; a third
obviously earlier in the same year omits the title. Certainly the writer
of Macrinus’ letters to the Senate places it after the proclamation of
Bassianus, and leads one to suppose that it took place as given above, at
Apamea, and was the means adopted to conciliate the legionaries.

Meanwhile at Emesa busy brains had been busily at work. A gentle reminder
of his perilous position was on the way to Macrinus. By way of showing
him that Julian had forced a battle, and was sending the spoil to grace
the festivities arranged for the Child Emperor’s elevation, Eutychianus
Comazon, the soldier whose persuasive power and influence had been of
such use to Maesa, bethought himself of a pleasant surprise. He took the
Praefect’s head and wrapped it in linen cloths, tied it with many and
elaborate cords, then, taking Julian’s own signet, he sealed the bundle
carefully and sent it by the hands of a trusty and cunning soldier. “From
the victorious Praefect Julian to his august Emperor, with greeting. The
head and source of our offence, according to the commandment.” Judge
of the fright and disgust which arose in the breast of that Moor on
discovering, when the bundle was opened, not the features of his despised
enemy, but the death-mask of his trusty and well-beloved lieutenant, the
man who had saved him from Caracalla’s vengeance at the outset of his
own plot. Merely that, and no further news to hand, because the bearer
of the tidings had departed without waiting for a reward. Bit by bit the
news trickled through: at least four legions had deserted, and, greatest
blow of all, the very Moors in whom he had trusted. The hated Antonine
was triumphant and in the ascendant. It was enough to wake even the
comatose parody of the great Marcus Aurelius. After waiting to recover
his senses, he took to his heels and ran—discretion being the better
part of valour—not, however, as Herodian suggests, with characteristic
untruth, towards Emesa, but back to Antioch, as Dion discreetly remarks,
with Bassianus and his paltry, though rapidly augmenting, forces soon
to follow. The boy and idiot was ready to fight the Praetorian Guards,
ready even to face the brunt of opposition from the conciliated legion at
Apamea if necessary.

Bassianus’ army must have been enthusiastically loyal and keen. It was a
motley crew of men, with new officers and a disorganised commissariat;
certainly it had no adequate head. Indeed, had Macrinus taken the bull
by the horns at once, he was bound to have cut up Antonine’s forces and
silenced the revolt; but he escaped, hoping to fight another day, and
Bassianus instead came to Apamea. Here Severus’ legion of Albano was in
no mood to offer opposition to the heir of Severus, and promptly took
the suggested oaths, which added yet more strength to the rush that
was about to be made on Antioch, where Macrinus was sheltering himself
and shivering with apprehension, having left the field clear to his
adversary, and given him just what he wanted, time for accession of
strength.

To return for a moment to the length of time during which this campaign
lasted. If we accept Dion’s date of 16th May for the proclamation, there
will only be three weeks left before the battle, in which time much has
to happen. First, The news has to be brought to Macrinus 125 miles away.
Second, Macrinus has to appoint Julian, who has carefully to choose his
men, to reach Emesa, and lose his head in the effort to take Antonine. In
the meantime Macrinus has written to the Senate to announce the revolt,
and get that body’s condemnation of the Antonine house. He has then gone
to Apamea with the court and baggage, declared his son Emperor, and, as
he thought, pacified the legion and organised festivities, during which
festivities he receives ocular demonstration of the failure of Julian’s
attempt. He then writes to the Senate a hurried letter announcing his
son’s accession, and receives an answer to his first letter condemning
the house of Antonine. He then retires to Antioch, and here there seems
to be a lull, during which time the patrolling parties, for whom Macrinus
has sent, come in to Bassianus’ standard, not Macrinus’. Herodian says
that this happened in driblets, but that these amounted to such a number
before the 1st of June, that Antonine’s generals advised him to tempt a
battle. All this, especially the wait for gradual accessions of strength,
would have been impossible to fit into less than a fortnight.

But there is further evidence. According to Henzen, the Collegio Fratrum
Arvalium were concerned on 30th May with the “precatio cooptionis
Antonini,” to be admitted a member of the College. If the proclamation
had only taken place on 16th May, the Brothers could not have known
about it and arranged a meeting by 30th May, especially when we consider
that (according to Dion) Macrinus’ letters to the Senate had caused that
august body to declare war on the family of Antonine after that time. Had
Bassianus been proclaimed on 16th April and the Brothers heard of his
phenomenal success, they would naturally hasten to be on the safe side
by 30th May. Within a month from that date they would have heard of the
defeat of Macrinus, so that in all probability the meeting which admitted
Bassianus and sent Primus Cornelianus to announce his admission was held
about 28th June. On 14th July there is the record of a third meeting,
which merely takes further vows for Antonine’s safety, as the Emperor,
who has been already admitted a member. Dion’s date is, therefore, simply
impossible. Neither Macrinus nor Antonine could have accomplished what
they did in a fortnight, even three weeks. Rome could not possibly have
heard and answered under five weeks, even by express post. Bassianus
could not possibly have got together forces enough to assure success
under that period. We must therefore conclude that Dion’s date, 16th May,
is a mere slip for 16th April, as Wirth has postulated.

This is very forcibly brought home to us when we realise (as Herodian
tells us) that when Bassianus did move on Antioch, it was with forces
scarcely inferior in number to those with Macrinus, and by so doing
he managed to frighten the Moor out of his lair, because there was a
fear that Antioch might fall and he would be caught like a rat in a
trap. Thus was Macrinus forced out to meet the child. Again the ancient
Procurator-Fiscal made an error of judgment by taking command himself.
He would have done better to stay in the city and give the command to a
trained general; but not a bit of it, he was too anxious, too worried to
trust any one. When he heard that Antonine was nearing Immae or Emma, not
twenty miles from Antioch, he went out suddenly, resolved to trust to his
Moors and Praetorians for the result.

In this battle the valour of both armies seems to have been indifferent.
Herodian tells us that the soldiers of Antonine fought like lions,
fearing the results of doing anything else; preferring to die like men
than to be hanged like dogs; a report of valour which was probably picked
up from that army itself. But the stars in their courses seem to have
fought against Sisera in the person of Macrinus, while Deborah and her
leman Barak, otherwise Maesa and her similarly related Gannys (neither
of whom had ever seen red blood before save in the circus) managed so
to shut up the forces of Macrinus in the narrowness of the village,
that their numbers and superior agility, divested as they were of their
cuirasses and bucklers for that end, were of small effect. Nevertheless,
the issue of the battle would have been not a little doubtful if Macrinus
had not given it away by his cowardice. The guards made so vigorous a
stand, that Antonine’s army turned to fly. It was then that Maesa and
Soaemias showed their bravery, according to both Dion and Herodian,
for, having leapt from their chariots, they rushed into the midst of
the failing troops, and with tears and entreaties urged them to return.
The palm of victory seems, however, to lie with the boy Emperor. Both
Dion and Herodian tell us of his bravery and the mighty fury which
(like a divine inspiration) breathed from him, when, sword in hand, he
galloped through the failing ranks and cut down all those who showed an
inclination to turn from the fight. It was a good beginning, and shows
that the boy was not entirely what his biographers have painted him—the
craven, miserable, religious sensualist known to common report. He showed
in this battle that he could glory in his manhood, could forget that
salvation was by faith and prayer alone; could forget that only the
Gods can settle the great issues. It was thus that Antonine carried his
successful arms right into the opposing camp, hoping to find the Moor;
but to the disgust of all that host, the Emperor had vanished; being
tired, he had gone home. His Praetorians had sought for some time for the
ensigns that announced the presence of the Emperor, but they had sought
in vain, and deserters had told Antonine the story.

Antonine now made a proposition to the opposing host, namely, that they
should turn and become his guards, should retain the privileges granted
by Caracalla, and above all, should fight no more for the craven. Nothing
loath, they did as they were bidden, and by nightfall on 8th June 218
the proclaimed Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was the acknowledged
head of the greater part of the army, and ruler of the Roman world which
acknowledged Antioch as its capital. Maesa’s bold attempt had succeeded
beyond all her hopes. The one source of trouble was that Macrinus was
still at large.

The Antonine policy had never been that of Macrinus. They had always
eradicated the source of their offence as far as they were able, and
to that end Marcus Aurelius sent messengers to take the ex-Emperor’s
person. From the battle-field that caitiff had gone, first to Antioch,
sending heralds on ahead to announce their master’s victory and the
destruction of the Antonine host, lest the populace should seize the city
for Antonine and kill him, or, as Xiphilinus puts it, in order to induce
them to receive him into their city at all. Had there been time, we
might have had another medal, in correspondence with the Parthian fraud,
announcing the victory of Macrinus at Immae; but stragglers began to come
in, and with them the news that Antonine would arrive shortly at the head
of the whole army, an announcement which caused bloodshed and strife in
the city, and decided Macrinus to reconstruct his plans. He would not
stay, he decided, where he was not wanted; he would make his way to Rome,
in the hope that his kindness to the Senate would at least secure them
as a bodyguard—though what use some 600 portly and middle-aged gentlemen
were going to be to him against the legions of a military empire was a
question that had not yet occurred to his distracted mind; but at any
rate Antioch was no place for him or his son. The latter he entrusted
to Epagathos, one of the few men on whom he could rely, with orders to
take him to the King of Parthia for safe keeping; whilst he himself,
having cut off his hair and beard, and laid aside the purple and imperial
ornaments for his successor’s use, set out for the capital city by the
route used for the ordinary post. It is a most significant fact that
this man, the acknowledged Emperor, should on the very day of the battle
itself have distrusted all his own lieutenants, governors, and civil
officials to such an extent that he felt the only safe mode of progress
was, disguised as a countryman, to travel by the public carriage. It
presupposes that by this time all men were merely waiting for his fall,
which was anticipated everywhere as a foregone conclusion, the inevitable
result of a weak usurper’s unsuccessful attempt.

It is incredible that all the government servants and other accredited
agents of Macrinus would have dared to give credit immediately to the
ambassadors of an unknown pretender, and only in Alexandria (where the
name of Antonine had acquired an unenviable notoriety and there was a
personal friend of Macrinus as governor) were Antonine’s ambassadors put
to death as upstart traitors. True, there have been fugitive kings before
and since, but never after one battle and to make way for an utterly
unknown child, who by some miracle has got the whole functionaries of
imperial government, both civil and military, into his own hands in less
than a couple of hours, without even the use of the field telegraph.

From Antioch, Macrinus went on horseback to Aegae in Cilicia, and thence
by the public post through Cappadocia, Galatia, and Bithynia, with great
expedition, giving out that he was a messenger from the Emperor Macrinus.
He intended to cross into Europe by way of Eribolus, and thus to avoid
Nicomedia, where the Governor Caecilius Aristo was seeking his life
to take it from him, in favour of the new Emperor. The distance that
Macrinus travelled was, so we learn from the _Itinera Hierosolymitana_,
750 Roman miles, covering in his haste, so Friedländer thinks, about
130 Roman miles per diem, which would bring him to Eribolus (barring
accidents, of course) about 15th June. Thence, we are told, he took
shipping and attempted to reach Byzantium; but the battle was not to the
strong; the attempt was rendered abortive by the avenging deity in the
shape of a great north-west wind, which threw him back upon the coast
near Chalcedon. There the well-informed agents of the Emperor Antoninus
came up with him, and discovered his whereabouts by means of Macrinus’
imperial procurator, to whom, being short of funds, the Moor had
foolishly sent in his extremity.

The discovery was tragic; the lord of the world, the man whose sceptre
threatened the Gods and commanded the sun, was discovered by his pursuers
hidden in a small house on the outskirts of Chalcedon, trembling with a
fever and fright, brought on by the fatigues and emotions of his hurried
journey. He was promptly put into a chariot and taken back towards
Antioch by his captor Aurelius Celsus. By the time the party reached
Cappadocia news was brought that Epagathos had failed in his mission, and
that Diadumenianus was killed, which so utterly upset the poor gentleman
that he deliberately threw himself from his chariot, in the hope of
ending his disappointed existence and escaping a worse fate. In so doing
he broke his collar-bone instead of his neck. There was certainly no luck
for Macrinus till he reached Archelais, about 75 miles from the frontier
of Cappadocia, when, presumably acting under fresh orders, the Centurion
ordered him to be put to death, a merciful release from the sufferings
which his stupidity and incapacity had brought upon him. The date is not
known, though it was in all probability some time before the end of the
month of June. Dion allots fourteen months less three days to his tenure
of power, counting to the day of the battle.

As far as we know, he left neither friends, enemies, monuments (except
the arch at Tana in Algeria, erected by his compatriots), children, nor
evils to live after him. Certainly he meant well, and acted in a manner
more futile and less imperial than any of his predecessors. There was
no attempt of any sort made to revive his memory; no resuscitation of
any party in favour of his rule; no enthusiasm or even loyalty betrayed
towards him from the moment that Antonine claimed the throne. Antonine’s
campaign, on the contrary, was one triumphal procession, feebly resisted
by a counter-march on the part of the reigning Emperor; after which time,
and without even waiting to hear of their Emperor’s death or abdication,
the whole governmental world settles down without the least suspicion of
disloyalty under the headship of Antonine. Nothing is disorganised. In
less than half a day everything is absolutely at his disposal throughout
the empire, and no further question is asked as to where the late Emperor
may be. Travel quickly as he will, Macrinus was not able to take from
men’s minds what must have been a foregone conclusion, namely, that he
was doomed, and another was reigning in his stead. It was an obvious
case of a usurper about whom no one cares sufficiently to make further
inquiries.

The Roman world had wearied of Macrinus and his pretensions, just as it
had wearied of Claudius; both were fantastic, vacillating, abstracted,
and cowardly tyrants, declaring themselves to be of the opinion of those
who were right, and announcing that they would give judgment in favour of
those whose reasons appeared the best. Slipshod and tattered they both
went through life; Emperors whom no one obeyed and at whom every one
jeered; men who, when they heard that conspirators were abroad, were not
indignant, but merely frightened. Perhaps it was the purple which had
driven so many Emperors mad, that made Macrinus an idiot; certainly he
acted like one, and made way for yet another Phaeton for the universe:
a prince for whose sovereignty the world was too small, as Tiberius had
remarked of his nephew Caius, nicknamed Caligula, the man without whom
neither Nero, Domitian, Commodus, Caracalla, or Elagabalus could have
existed. The lives of all are horrible, yet analyse the horrible and you
find the sublime. The valleys have their imbeciles, from the mountains
poets and madmen come. Elagabalus was both, sceptred at that, and with a
sceptre that could lash the earth, threaten the sky, beckon planets, and
ravish the divinity of the divine.




CHAPTER IV

THE WINTER AT NICOMEDIA


Saluted by the whole army on the evening of 8th June 218, the young
Emperor, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, set out to cover the 20 odd miles
which separated Immae from Antioch, the Eastern capital. Next morning, we
are told by Dion, he entered the city amidst the customary rejoicings.
It had been a principle with the late Caracalla to give conquered
cities over to the rapacity of the soldiers, and here the conquering
host imagined, nay, strongly urged, that this laudable custom should be
revived, but the present Antonine saw no reason for any such proceeding.
With a singular lack of subservience, which is, we are told, the first
mark of a born sovereign, he informed them that a regular toll would be
taken from the citizens instead, and each man paid a sum of 500 drachmae
from the imperial exchequer; he thus satisfied their natural expectation
of reward, and promised the population that no pillage would take place;
that, on the other hand, the ordinary contributions to the exchequer (the
marks of settled government in times of peace) were sufficient, while
pillage would suggest the wars and disturbances which were now over.

It was certainly a bold act, this crossing the will of the soldiers at
the very outset, too bold for either a woman or a boy of fourteen to have
devised; but Antonine intended to make that city his temporary capital,
and had in consequence more than soldiers to conciliate.

As to the question of principal adviser and chief minister, we have a
most difficult matter to face from the outset. Lampridius asserts that
Soaemias was in the position of absolute director of the Emperor and his
government, an assertion utterly ludicrous to any one who understands
that lady’s character, as Lampridius himself has expounded it. Soaemias
would have been, psychologically speaking, quite incapable of directing
any operations other than those of the nuptial couch; though she may have
thought out some of the details of costume, etiquette, and precedence
which later fell to her share as president of the Senate on the Quirinal;
besides which, her name always follows that of Maesa on inscriptions
and records where the two names appear together. Herodian, on the other
hand, states that Maesa was the ruling spirit, which is much more
likely. Maesa’s character is very different, if less attractive; crafty,
cunning, able, and persistent, she had not schemed, fought, and expended
her treasure except for her own ultimate good, and to her the ultimate
good was the possession of power and authority. Besides which, she was
fully _au fait_ with all governmental procedure in Rome, and was, in
consequence, the fit and proper person to direct the immediate policy.

But there was much to temper her power. There was an element which even
she, far-sighted as she was, had forgotten, and left out of count,
namely, the Emperor himself. From the moment of his elevation he showed
that he had a mind and will of his own; probably he had possessed them
all along, but his grandmother had never thought that they would get in
_her_ way till she was brought face to face with them.

By nature Bassianus was gentle and affectionate, with no other passions
than an innocent fanaticism for the cult of the only God, and a
hereditary temperament, which we know to-day is less of a vice than a
perversion; a temperament which Suetonius assures us he shared with
the majority of his predecessors, and Dion says was common amongst the
Syrian clergy. Caracalla had, innate in his being, jealousy, hatred,
and revenge. Bassianus hated no one; he was, in fact, only too prone to
love his fellows, but, like Caracalla, he had a strong and imperious
will. He had no sooner grasped the limitless possibilities of the
imperial position than vertigo seems to have overtaken him. But fancy
the position! On a peak piercing the heavens, shadowing the earth, a
precipice on either side, the young Emperors of Old Rome stood. Did they
look below, they could scarce see the world. From above, delirium came;
while the horizon, though it hemmed the limits of their vision, could not
mark the frontiers of their dream. In addition, there was the exaltation
that altitudes produce.

The Emperor was alone; henceforward his will was unopposed. His
grandmother tried to make herself felt; on each occasion she had to give
way, to retire beaten, till one can well imagine that lady’s despair
at the unforeseen development,—almost anticipate the final resolve of
that crafty old sinner, to rid herself of the grandson whom she had
set up, fondly imagining him her mere puppet. Still, advisers were
necessary. From what we can see of the available men (and a man would
certainly be Antonine’s choice) there is but one for whom consistently
through his life the Emperor had respect, namely, Eutychianus. He had,
so Dion states, conceived the plot of the proclamation, and carried
it out by himself, while the women were still unconscious of what was
going forward. He was immediately made Praetorian Praefect, later he was
Consul, and twice City Praefect, which frequent recurrence of office,
being unusual in one person, is put down by Dion as a gross breach of
the constitution—where no constitution existed except the imperial
will. The sneer of Xiphilinus at his buffooneries is obviously an
untruth, considering the fact that we know of him as a soldier as far
back as Commodus’ reign. If he had been a mere nonentity or a worthless
person, it is incredible that, in the proscriptions and murders that
followed that of Antonine, Eutychianus should have been reappointed to
the office of Praefect of Rome for at least the ensuing year. Taking
all the evidence into consideration, it is probable that from the
outset the soldier Eutychianus was chief minister and director of the
government, and as such supported Antonine against his grandmother. To
him therefore, as well as to Maesa, may be attributed much of the sane
common-sense work that was done; work which, especially in the dealings
with the soldiers, shows a man’s hand, a soldier’s touch, indeed that of
a soldier who knows, by reason of his position, just how far he can go.

The first recorded act of the new government was to announce to the
Roman Fathers the restoration of the house of Antonine. Now the Senate
of the Roman people was in no very pleasant position, considering the
possibilities and the knowledge that the imperial house had not a few
grudges to settle with their august assembly. Rome, as we know from the
record of the Arval Brothers’ meeting held on 30th May, was expecting
some announcement almost daily, either of the accession or extirpation
of the late imperial connection. The last communication from the East
had been signed by Macrinus. It was a distracted and illiterate epistle
announcing the elevation of his small son to the empire, and the speedy
fall of the pseudo-Antonine. In all probability the news which had
reached the Arval Brothers was common property, and the Senate was not
so sure of the result of the revolt as Macrinus would have liked them to
be. The main cause for anxiety was their answer, which was probably still
on its way to Macrinus: a dutiful response to his demand—made about 20th
April—that the Antonine family should be proscribed and declared enemies
to the state. With their usual subservience, the Conscript Fathers had
decreed as desired, had even gone out of their way to level invectives
and ordures against the memory of the house of Severus, and this with a
hearty goodwill that showed their genuineness.

Now, if these tactless epistles, as the Fathers feared, had reached
Antioch either just before or just after the new monarch’s arrival,
they were likely to cause an infinity of trouble, especially if they
fell into the wrong hands, which, as luck would have it, they promptly
did. This circumstance quite decided Elagabalus on the amount of
respect which it was necessary to pay to the “Slaves in Togas” either
in his own or in any other state. Judge of their apprehensions when
an answer to their obedient proscriptions was brought into the Senate
House, within the first fortnight of July, if not earlier, by a herald
declaring his mission from the august Emperor, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus,
Antoninus’ son, Severus’ grandson, Pius and Happy, Tribune and Proconsul,
without so much as by your leave or with your leave from the assembled
Fathers. (Dion omits the title of Consul, despite the fact that there
are inscriptions which call Antonine Consul at that date.) Think how
willingly now the Fathers would have given their right hands to repair
the egregious mistake they had just made. They had been too precipitate,
too hurried altogether, and they knew from past experience that the house
of Antonine did not visit such mistakes in a chastened spirit.

At last the imperial message was laid before the house. It was as though
the Gods had been for once propitious to human stupidity. The letter
contained gracious words, “dropping as the gentle dew from heaven.” Was
it a mere ruse, such as former Antonines had played, or was it in reality
the herald of a new world to come? Surely yes, for it promised amnesty,
on the word of the Emperor, to the Senate and people of Rome, for all
words, acts, and proscriptions formerly promulgated against the divine
Caesar, by command of the usurping murderer Macrinus; to whom the same
Senate and people were commanded to give neither help nor assistance,
but rather to condemn and execrate, in the precise terms they had so
recently applied to the divine Emperor now happily reigning. For was he
not an enemy to the state who had not only murdered his master, whom he
had been appointed to guard, but also in that he, who was neither Senator
nor otherwise worthy, had pretended to Empire, being a mere slave and
gladiator, whom Caracalla had raised to the rank of Praetorian Praefect?

There was some more biting sarcasm on the ease with which that august
body had accepted the pretensions of the ex-slave without question, and
had been persuaded to confirm him in the position of his murdered master.
For himself, Antonine makes the mere announcement of his succession,
much as Macrinus had done on the occasion of his son’s elevation, with
the obvious implication that the Fathers will confirm the accomplished
facts with as little delay as is compatible with the usual decencies. He
tells them that to err is human, but Antonine, _mirabile dictu_, will
forgive, on the conditions mentioned, of course; which conditions taken
as fulfilled, the Emperor continues with an explanation of the happy
auguries for the commencement of his reign. He was come, he said, a
second Augustus; like Augustus he was eighteen years of age (an obvious
lie, and they knew it, but an Emperor of fourteen did not sound well);
like Augustus his reign started with a victory which revenged the murder
of his father, and the success, with which both he and Augustus had
met, was a good omen for the people, who might expect great things from
a prince who proposed to unite the wisdom of Augustus with that of the
philosopher Marcus Aurelius, and to rule after these truly admirable
examples. Another letter to the soldiers was delivered at the same time,
which contained extracts from Macrinus’ correspondence with Marius
Maximus, Praefect of the City. In this the vacillating duplicity of the
late Macrinus and his opinion of the army generally was made the most
of, his innate civilian distrust of the military held up to ridicule and
scorn.

To crown these admirable productions of literary persuasiveness was a
promise to the soldiers of their immediate return to the privileges and
conditions existent under Caracalla in the case of each and several of
the Emperor’s beloved comrades. They were certainly admirable letters,
designed to rejoice the hearts of both guards and people, and to leave
the Senate in pleasurable anticipation of favours to come, if they took
immediate advantage of the opportunity now given them to change their
minds,—otherwise—well, the more stringent methods of Augustus might have
to be employed, and orders were sent to Pollio, Consul Suffectus, to
this effect. Undoubtedly the Fathers made up their minds with admirable
promptitude—they do not seem to have made a single inquiry as to the
fate of the Moor who was nominally reigning Emperor. Never was their
voice more willingly given; public thanksgivings were decreed for the
restoration of the house of Antonine, and the acts of an Emperor who
had treated them as so much garden refuse were lauded most fulsomely.
Proscription was the lot of the “Tyrant and Murderer,” who had usurped
the imperial styles, titles, and addresses; in fact anything that lay in
their power to oblige with they were most happy to offer; more than he
had ever thought of asking the Fathers hastened to lay at the feet of the
child whose origin, whose sentiments, whose feminine beauty, whose very
female relatives breathed divinity from every pore.

There is no better example of the vast comprehensiveness of mind
possessed by bodies of men fulfilling the functions which Aristotle
calls the “collective wisdom of the many,” than this instance of the
wonderful facility with which they are able to see all points of view
in succession, especially the more advantageous. Only a few short weeks
back the infallible wisdom had decreed that the new deities were enemies
to the state. Now they knew that the existence of these very enemies was
only another way of stating the life and being of the state itself.
Their one regret was that they had not known it sooner; as it was, they
were forced to admit that, if the well-bred can contradict other people,
the wise must contradict themselves.

Of course the young Emperor was pleased with the transports of loyalty
with which Rome greeted his accession; Maesa and Soaemias at the joint
title of Augusta which the Emperor and Senate conferred upon them; but
for precaution’s sake, Pollio might as well keep the soldiers on the _qui
vive_, as a sort of reminder to the Conscript Fathers that it would be
as well to take no more comprehensive views of the circumstances just
at present, especially as the Emperor had no intention of proceeding to
Rome just yet. But it was not wise to talk, and the Fathers knew it; they
were content, for the present, to praise the Gods for their safety, and
to register any decrees which august personages might see fit to send for
their confirmation, otherwise they decided to keep their mouths tightly
closed as to the inner thoughts of the heart.

The announcement of his succession having been posted to Rome, and agents
dispatched to secure the person of the ex-Emperor, Antonine seems to
have turned his attention to rewards and the management of the army. As
was quite natural, the first offices were bestowed on Eutychianus, the
man whom we have just mentioned. In all probability it was to him that
the success at Immae was actually due; he was the soldier, the trained
leader, while Gannys, the boy’s tutor, to whom Xiphilinus ascribes the
victory, was admittedly an effete and uxorious leman of both Soaemias and
Maesa, who could never have been a real leader of men, even though he
were personally popular with the troops, as the Valesian Fragment states.
It is obvious that the work and abilities of the two men (Eutychianus
and Gannys) have got muddled. Xiphilinus (78.31.1) ascribes the plot to
Eutychianus; later (79.6), still presumably quoting Dion, he states that
Gannys was solely responsible for the whole plot. Dion (Frag. Vales.)
states that Eutychianus had contrived the whole revolution. Clearly
some scribe has erred in the insertion of names, or Xiphilinus is not
a trustworthy abbreviator. If we can judge by results, we see that
Eutychianus was immediately appointed Praefect of the Praetorian Guard
in the room of Ulpius Julianus, deceased, while Gannys, the personal
favourite of the Emperor and his women, got no sort of distinction.
Eutychianus’ elevation was not altogether popular. Xiphilinus considered
that he had no right to the post (though he had just remarked that
he alone set the Emperor on the throne), and that the frequency with
which he was reappointed was actually a constitutional scandal; but he
certainly did good and useful work throughout his tenure of office.

The first move was to rectify the error of Macrinus in keeping troops
out in the field unnecessarily. The new government sent back to their
quarters all the soldiers gathered for the Parthian war by Caracalla,
and that with expedition. There are various inscriptions at Lambesa, in
Pannonia, and other places which testify to this, while at Moguntiacum
in Upper Germany there is a record of the arrival of a legion as early
as 23rd July 218, and which, by the way, gives the Emperor the title of
Consul, as well as the other imperial addresses which Dion has mentioned
that he assumed as of right.

This dismissal of the soldiers was a prudent measure. It not only pleased
them, and gave them something to do besides stirring up strife, but
also made it possible to preserve discipline without resorting to the
enormous gifts which had impoverished the government heretofore. This
may certainly be traced to Eutychianus’ influence rather than to that of
Maesa, who would probably have preferred to keep the soldiers a little
longer, in order to see how things settled down; whereas the troops must
have been sent back to their quarters the very week of the battle, and
before Macrinus’ death, in order to have arrived in Upper Germany by
23rd July. This action, to whomsoever attributable, shows the perfect
confidence of the new government in its own stability from the very
outset. It was also a bold measure, and a measure which could only have
been taken by a general who knew his troops, who to keep and with whom to
dispense, because trouble was sure to arise through ambition and similar
causes.

Dion tells us of at least two notables who thought themselves _capax
imperii_, because they imagined that the state was disturbed, the
occasion propitious. One was Verus, or Severus, tribune of the third
Gallic, another Gellius Maximus, tribune of the fourth Scythian Legion;
both were Senators who aspired to empire and found futurity. The same
historian mentions three others, insignificant persons; one the son of
a centurion in the third Gallic Legion (which legion, by the way, on
account of these two bids for notoriety, was practically disbanded,
the men being transferred to the third Augustan Legion). Another was a
clothier; the third a mere private person, whose temerity led him to
an attempt, the object of which was to subvert the fleet stationed at
Cyzicus during the winter of 218-219, presumably for the protection of
the Emperor when he arrived at Nicomedia. The attempts of these persons
met with the reward due to folly, and did but strengthen the position
of the Emperor by giving him an excuse to put to death others, whose
complicity or sympathy pointed them out as perilous to the state. They
were all friends of Macrinus, says Wotton, who were making difficulties
for the new government. All authorities state very clearly that there
was no man who suffered for any assistance given to Macrinus; neither
was there any inquisition made after enemies or neutrals. The heads
of the opposition party were merely put to death when they refused to
acknowledge the _fait accompli_; when they did so they were confirmed in
their offices as a matter of course. The number put to death, besides
the five aspirants to the imperial position, is placed by Dion at
eight—no enormous holocaust, when one thinks of the legions of imperial
servants confirmed in their offices. The names include Julianus Nestor,
Captain of the Guards to the late Emperor; Fabius Agrippinus, Governor
of Syria; Pica Caerianus, Governor of Arabia; Aelius Decius Triccianus,
a man of mean origin, whose death the 2nd Parthian Legion demanded on
account of his cruelty towards them; Castinus, a friend and officer of
Macrinus; Claudius Attalus, Lieutenant-Governor of Cyprus, a man who
had been expelled from the Senate by Severus and stupidly readmitted by
Caracalla. It was not clear on what count this man actually suffered, and
in consequence the story of an enmity between him and Eutychianus, during
the campaign in Thrace—when he is said to have cashiered the new Praefect
of the Praetorian Guards—is regarded as sufficient reason for saying that
Eutychianus demanded his death.

During this same winter there was another pretender to kingship, helped
by another governor friend of Macrinus, a certain Senator Valerianus
Paetus. This man’s crime lay in the fact that, after the imperial custom,
he had coined gold pieces bearing his own image and superscription, and
distributed these amongst the people of Cappadocia and Galatia, which
was considered tantamount to a declaration of imperial proclamation. His
defence, when apprehended, was that the medals were actually intended
for the adornment of his mistresses. The court found, however, that no
sane man could reasonably possess this luxury in sufficient numbers to
justify the coining of the amount of medals discovered; besides which,
his accomplice Sylla, Governor of Cappadocia, who had just before been
tampering with the loyalty of the Gallic Legions, on their way through
Bithynia, was mixed up in the plot quite inextricably. So the judgment
given was, “guilty of usurping imperial functions, and aspiring to
empire”; rather a larger count, all considered, than the kindred count
of “coining,” which merited death in this enlightened and humane country
up to the year of grace 1832. Throughout the trials we are given to
infer that the usual course of judicial procedure was adhered to; the
condemnation was after trial and just cause found; while those who know
anything of Roman legal procedure are aware that every chance was given
to the accused, and that the burden of proof lay on the accuser.

But to return to the chronological arrangement of the events during this
sojourn in the East. As we have said, on 9th June 218 Antonine entered
Antioch amidst the applause of the world. As far as we can judge from
Herodian’s statement, he must have stayed there for some months. The
pressure of immediate government business would be enormous, the various
legates had to be sent forth, the submission of governors received, and
the army question settled, along with other outstanding difficulties,
and in consequence the season was far advanced, says Herodian, when the
imperial family reached Nicomedia, too late for them to attempt the
crossing into Europe. Besides the business delays, much time must have
been wasted by the Emperor’s determination to take the image of the Great
God with him, and wherever he should reign, there to set up the temple of
that supreme ineffable Deity.

Duruy states that during his residence at Antioch, or on the journey
across Asia Minor, the Emperor reconsecrated to Elagabal the temple of
Faustina which Marcus Aurelius had erected on Mount Taurus. If this be
so, it could only have been as a temporary resting-place. The Deity, we
are assured, had no settled home after leaving Emesa until the great
temple or Eliogabalium was erected on the Palatine. There was one person
to whom these delays appeared as highly unnecessary, namely, the Dowager
Empress Julia Maesa.

In the full flush of her newly acquired position, she had every
intention of wintering in the capital. It was much more to her liking
than the provincial life to which the late Emperor had relegated her.
In consequence of this intention, we are led to infer that the lady
gave orders. Here the Emperor showed his paternity. Maesa may not have
fully credited her own assertion before, henceforward she was called
upon to believe it whether she would or no. Her grandson, perhaps merely
self-willed, perhaps wishing to settle business, certainly intending
to stay in the voluptuous East, told the lady to be quiet, and revoked
the orders. She tried reasoning, but was told that it wearied his
youthful augustitude. She persisted further, and then thought that she
had triumphed, because the Emperor, with true Antonine guile, packed
up and commanded the Court to set out for Rome. Not that he had the
slightest intention of facing the Tramontana, possibly even snow, but
it looked gracious, and many things might be done _en route_. For many
reasons the journey was slow and difficult; the dignity of the God had
to be considered; the procession across Asia would take some weeks. We
have no idea as to the route taken, though Roerth has informed us of
an inscription from Prusias, where, he says, the Emperor stayed; if
so, it was probably his last halting-place before Nicomedia, where he
had decided to winter instead of trusting himself on the billows of a
wintry sea. It was here that Antonine’s imperial life actually began;
here, under the eastern sky and surrounded by the pomp and colour of the
Orient, that the Emperor shaped his reign, and developed the two main
features of his life—his religion and his psychology.

Before discussing either of these, however, it will be well to sum
up what we know of the work done during this winter spent in Asia
Minor. According to Hydatius’ statement, drawn from the _Consularia
Constantinopolitana_, Antonine ordered the records of indebtedness to
the fiscus to be burnt, which burning took thirty days. If the story be
true, it was either a foolish waste of indebtedness to the government,
or an acknowledgment of the hopelessness of collecting the debts, though
how the new government could have grasped this fact so quickly is not
recorded; in any case, it was a real bid for popularity.

Much time would also be spent in the legal proceedings which settled
the fate of the various pretenders, malcontents, and traitors. Again,
the consideration of grants to legions, fitting rewards for assistance
given in time of need, in fact the thousand and one things which occupy
the official mind in the ordinary course of events, let alone on the
restoration of a house banished and proscribed by imperial predecessors,
had all to be discussed and would certainly take time. Cohen tell us of
one of these measures, of which we know nothing save from the coins of
218, some of which bear the legend “Annona Augusti,” which he says is a
reference to some measure relative to the grain supply, instituted for
the benefit of the people.

There was certainly enough to occupy every one’s attention, but it does
not quite account for the whole Court staying at Nicomedia until May 219.
Cohen has, however, discovered a fact that no historians mention, namely
that during this period the Emperor was unwell, as some of the coins of
219 bear the legend “Salus Augusti,” “Salus Antonini Augusti,” which are
supposed to announce his recovery. If this illness had happened after he
arrived in Rome, we should probably have heard about it, besides which it
might have been a bar to his matrimony; if in Nicomedia, as Cohen thinks,
it accounts for the length of the stay.

Business apart, of which they say little or nothing (facts have to be
culled from coins, inscriptions, reports, etc., not from the pages
of paid traducers), the historians now begin their tirades against
the Emperor’s conduct and religion. The obvious inference is that the
self-willed boy was already beginning to get on somebody’s nerves; on
whose more likely than on Maesa’s and his sensitive aunt Julia Mamaea,
who so ardently desired her own son to occupy his room. Maesa must have
learned by now, from her own sense of the fitting and the insistent
representations of Mamaea, that she would have been much better advised,
even from her own point of view, if she had set up her younger grandson
instead of this headstrong youth who was flouting her at every turn. Of
course, it was a question whether Alexianus’ elevation would even have
been possible, while an elder and a more charming son of Caracalla was
known to the soldiers, nevertheless Maesa ruminated and left records
which her scribes have copied.

“One of the blackest of his crimes,” to quote Xiphilinus, the monk of
Trebizond, the abbreviator of Dion Cassius, “was the worship of his
God, which he introduced into Rome (though it was a foreign God), whom
he revered more religiously than any other, so far as to set him above
Jupiter, and to get himself declared his priest by decree of the Senate.
He was so extravagant as to be circumcised and abstained from hogs’
flesh. He appeared often in public in the habit resembling that of the
priests of Syria, which caused him to be named the Assyrian. Is it
necessary to mention those whom he put to death without reason? since he
did not spare his best friends, whose wise and wholesome remonstrances he
could not bear.” These are the sum total of the great crimes which during
this period Xiphilinus brings against the Emperor, to which Herodian adds
the accusation of a disordered life. Let us examine the statements in
order.

“The blackest of his crimes was the worship of his God and the
introduction of a foreign God into Rome.” To Xiphilinus the ecclesiastic,
in all probability the worship of any God except his own was a foul and
insolent crime, best dealt with by the holy office of the Inquisition, or
whatever took the place of that most useful body (for general purposes
of extermination) at the period. But at the moment the knowledge and
worship of Xiphilinus’ God was, for all practical purposes, confined in
Rome to washerwomen or to people of their mental calibre. Xiphilinus’
idea that Rome had no foreign Gods is equally ecclesiastical, since
only the wilfully blind did not know that Rome was comprehensively,
sceptically polytheist, and that she admitted and was deeply attached
to many similarly monotheistic Eastern cults, notably those of Mithra
and Isis. Why then decry the worship of Elagabal alone? One can see no
reason except the exclusiveness of that worship, the vast monotheistic
ideal to which the Emperor had attached himself, and which he was minded
to spread throughout the length and breadth of the empire, by every
fair means in his power. It was this idea, later centred in Mithraism,
which was the most determined opponent of the similarly monotheistic
ideal of Xiphilinus, and, as its strongest opponent, called forth the
monk’s hatred. Rome, however, had a different reason for disliking
Elagabal. It was because he, like Jehovah, dethroned all other deities.
Rome would willingly have accepted the Syrian Deity amongst the lupanar
of divinities whose residence was the Pantheon and whose rites were
obscene; but such was not Antonine’s scheme, even _primus inter pares_
was impossible. Elagabal was over all supreme; even Jupiter Capitolinus,
Jehovah, and Vesta must serve the one God. But Rome, whose atriums
dripped not blood but metaphysics, knew too well the futility of all
Gods to wish for any exclusive cult; such must fall to the washerwomen,
because they were unwanted, unlearned, barbaric, and out of date. But
the Emperor persisted, which annoyed his grandmother and other people
hugely (she seems to have been generally annoyed, however, so this may
be taken as said on other occasions). She had told the boy at Emesa
that religion was only a means to the end, and he, with his usual
contrariness, had flouted her opinion, backed up by his mother, and
persisted in making it the main end of his life. In so doing he went
clean contrary to the _Zeitgeist_, and eventually suffered for his
folly in not hanging up the fishing-net when once the fish was landed.
Xiphilinus makes another egregious mistake in declaring that Antonine
caused the Senate to declare him priest of Elagabal, since it was the
possession of that hereditary rank or office which had paved the way
to empire at all. Again, we are asked to believe that to this period
belong his circumcision and resolve to abstain from hogs’ flesh, whereas
Cheyne considers that these two religious peculiarities were common to
all Syrian religious, as well as to the Egyptian and Semitic peoples,
and dated with him in all probability from the usual age at which
circumcision was performed, the age of puberty, which corresponded with
his assumption of the priesthood in 217 or early 218. Lampridius, on the
other hand, dates the commencement of these observances as part of the
fanaticism of the later period in Rome; when the Emperor formulated his
scheme for one universal church, which was to include the distinctive
rites of all religions, an inference which is not by any means necessary.
Antonine’s religion was undoubtedly exclusive and fanatical, though even
here it was not peculiar, as the Christian history gives us far more
pitiable records of these vices. Antonine’s religion was never cruel, it
never persecuted, whereas from the moment that Christianity attained the
ascendancy she has considered persecution her especial rôle. There may
be joy in heaven over the sinner that repents; in Christendom the joy is
at his downfall. We can fancy the difference with which the monk would
have treated this Emperor’s memory had he been successful, had he even
had the foresight to affiliate his church with the kindred worship of
Jerusalem, to call his Deity Jehovah in the later adaptation of the term,
and had then died as other martyrs had done, a victim to the conviction
that in him resided the fulness of the godhead bodily, and further, in
the prosecution of a scheme for monotheistic worship, such as no Emperor
had ever yet formulated. It is a thousand pities for his reputation that
he did not see ahead. In that case, though he would not have formed a
fourth part of the ineffable Trinity, his life would at least have become
blameless, not only by the baptism of blood, but also in the pages of
ecclesiastical historians. We might then have seen St. Antoninus “Athleta
Christi,” a holy martyr worshipped throughout the length and breadth of
Christendom, as the upholder of monotheism against the forces of his
polytheistic surroundings.

In connection with this question, one act of pride is recorded of the
sojourn of Nicomedia, an act which well shows the temper of the boy,
namely, his assumption of the latinized name of his God, Elagabalus
(though, apparently, this was not done for official purposes, as it never
occurs on the coins or inscriptions of his reign). Earlier Emperors had
been deified at their death; latterly it had been customary to accord
divine honours during the lifetime of the monarch. Elagabalus did not
believe that, a senatorial patent aiding, he could become a new God. He
did believe, unfortunately, like so many prophets and other religious
maniacs, that he could associate himself with his God as his earthly
emanation or expression; and henceforward, says Lampridius, none might
address him officially except on the knee. It was a weird fancy, but no
uncommon delusion, and the world has connived at his conceit by giving
him that title when all others are forgotten save amongst numismatists.
That Antonine intended others to regard him in this light, and was
thus a constant menace to Christ, is certain from the fact (recorded
by Herodian) that he sent to the imperial city during this winter his
portrait, painted in the full splendour of his Aaronic vestments, with
the command that it should be placed in the Senate House, immediately
above the statue of Victory, and that each Senator on entering should
offer incense and an oblation to Deus Solus in the image of his High
Priest on earth. Herodian records another effort, made during this
winter, to introduce the worship of Deus Solus into the minds of
men. This was an order sent to magistrates officiating at the public
sacrifices that this name should take the first and most important place;
an order which, we are told, even Montanist Christians were able to obey,
especially as there were no penalties attaching to the refusal.

It had obviously been a gross error of judgment on Maesa’s part to
introduce a boy of such a temperament to a religion of any sort, much
more so to have made him the directing force thereof; but it was done,
and with it went the clothes she now hated so cordially. At Emesa,
Antonine had accustomed himself to the clinging softness of the silken
raiment worn by that priesthood; now he declined to lay it aside. He
hated wool and refused to wear it, neither did linen take his fancy. Silk
and cloth of gold encrusted with jewels was his ostentatious conceit,
and he was going to wear what his soul delighted in, now that he was
free to indulge his proclivities, but what had been entirely proper and
fitting at Emesa would not do for the War Lord of the Roman Empire. One
knows that circumstances alter cases, and can fancy the state of Maesa’s
mind when she contemplated the wide-eyed astonishment which would greet
the painted priest as he made his entry into Rome the conservative. The
Emperor thought he knew better than his elders; he had found the secret
of popularity with the army, and thought that similar attractions would
bring the city captive to his feet. Money, beauty, and voluptuousness,
says Capitolinus, had brought him to the throne of the world, and he had
artistic taste enough to realise that his beauty, height, and grace were
enhanced when he was robed in the silken garments of his choice. He did
not realise that the clothes were too rich for a soldier; that bracelets,
necklaces, and tiaras were the means by which priests rule women, not
soldiers the hearts of men; that now he must put away childish things,
since he had begun to be a man, the leader of armies. Again Maesa was
right, but she was overruled, and made more entries against the day when
the sum of this grandson’s iniquities against her should be so complete
that she might put another in his room. It is only fair to state,
however, that Dion totally disagrees with this other “eye-witness” when
he remarks, that Antonine always wore the Toga Praetexta at the games and
shows, thus restricting the use of the Syrian clothes to religious and
family appearances.

But, to proceed to Xiphilinus’ third charge, that of putting men,
even his best friends, to death without reason. This almost certainly
refers to the death of Gannys, his mother’s and grandmother’s obliging
servant, and the Emperor’s tutor, to whom, Herodian tells us, he was
much attached. Forquet de Dorne says that this man considered himself
authorised to remonstrate continually with the Emperor on his conduct,
just as though his relations’ grumblings did not weary him sufficiently.
Further, Wotton tells us that a marriage had been arranged between him
and one of the imperial ladies, and that there was an idea of declaring
him Caesar. Probably these two circumstances led to the tragedy or
accident which resulted in Gannys’ death, and which, we are told,
Antonine always bitterly regretted.

The tutor was nagging and pedagogic. Further, a plot was unmasked. Gannys
did not realise that the Antonine temper, when developed, was not a thing
to play with. The Emperor forgot himself, and in a fit of mad anger
rushed at his tormentor with his sword or knife drawn, struck, and even
wounded him. As was only natural, Gannys drew to defend himself, and the
guards, fearing for Antonine’s life, interposed, and the unfortunate
man was no more. Gannys’ fault lay in neglecting the boy’s training for
amorous converse with his female relations; putting off his duty of
moulding the plastic character until all was set, hard as bronze, in a
misshapen and distorted mould. He had put everything off till a time
when reformation was impossible, and the reckoning must be paid by the
defaulter. There is no other murder or act of cruelty, either recorded
or hinted at by any one of the men who were paid to ruin his reputation.
The worst that they can say is, that his character was debased, and small
wonder.

As we read this Emperor’s life, we are bound to admit that his nature
was debased; but we are struck, not so much by this fact, as by the
necessary conclusion that he could never have had the opportunity of
being anything else. His faults are admittedly the faults of children,
magnified by the fact that he was a child suddenly placed in the
unfortunate position where all restraint from outside was impossible, and
where his wayward petulancy forbade any to tempt the trial. To him the
possession of supreme power meant the holding of limitless privileges,
with practically no training for the responsibilities involved. The whole
position calls for our pity rather than our censure, if we realise that
his only training was neurotic or religious, and phallic at that. All
things considered, it is a marvel that no deeds of murder, rapine, envy,
hatred, or malice have been laid to his charge, even by his enemies; such
as have been laid to the charge not only of his predecessors, but even
at the door of those whom the world honours as the righteous, the salt
of the earth. No history is immaculate. If it were, it would relate to a
better world; unable to be immaculate, history is usually stupid, more
usually false. Concerning Elagabalus, it has contrived to be absurd, by
means of the impossibility of the statements for which it attempts to
offer neither proof nor likelihood.

It is during this period at Nicomedia, we are told by the historians
of the reign, that his popularity disappears—a statement which, on the
evidence of the medals and inscriptions, as well as from what we know of
his extraordinary generosity, is and must be utterly false. A further
statement that the soldiers already regretted their action in deposing
Macrinus is equally absurd, as they had no sort of reason to do this,
and, being largely returned to their quarters, would know little or
nothing of any scandals of which they had fully approved a few months
previously. The impression left by the adjectives used on inscriptions,
medals and coins is, that the Emperor was wildly popular, not only with
the military, but also with the civil population. The titles are fulsome,
the use of superlatives unparalleled. The frequent use of the adjective
_indulgentissimus_ tells its own story, explains what Rome thought
of his character. There is not the smallest doubt that his generous
prodigalities endeared him to the whole population as few, if any, of the
Emperors were ever endeared, and the adjectives are indicative of the
popular sentiment. Another reason for the popularity of the Emperor was
the Pax Romana which he brought to the whole world. That such was popular
and advantageous is abundantly testified by the inscriptions and many
coins still known to us.

The fatal influences of peace were as yet unrecognized, and a happy
scepticism tranquillised the mind, gave free play to the senses. Life
was nonchalant, though the world still had its one great passion—Rome,
its greatness and renown. The wheels of empire were well oiled; they
now ran with wonderful smoothness, even in provinces which the rigidity
of the Republic had alienated. It was a time when, even in far-distant
Dacia, the lover quoted Horace to his maid under the light of the moon,
a time when the toga protected the world. Life was sweet, because of the
abundance of its pleasant things. The treasure of the world was such as
has never been realised since, the resources of wealth wonderful. During
three hundred years, from Augustus to Diocletian, no new tax was created,
and at the beginning of the third century the contributions of the
citizens, fixed two centuries earlier, had become so nominal, with the
growing power of money, that their weight was almost infinitesimal. The
Roman world owed all to its Imperium; small wonder that its people adored
the youth who personified its all with such grace and liberality.




CHAPTER V

EARLY GOVERNMENT IN ROME

_The Government in Rome to the Year 221 A.D._


To write the history of the years from 219 to 221 (as we have it in
the Scriptores) is a task which can only be undertaken adequately in a
language not understanded of the people. Not that these years differed
materially from those which had gone before, or those that followed.
“Every altar in Old Rome had its Clodius”—so Juvenal has told us—“and
even in Clodius’ absence there were always those breaths of sapphic song
that blew through Mitylene. Rome was certainly old, but Rome was not
good—not, at least, in the sense in which we use the word to-day. Of
this no one who has even sauntered through the catacombs of the classics
preserves so much as a lingering doubt. This is because the Roman
world was beautiful, ornate, unutilitarian; a world into which trams,
advertisements, and telegraph poles had not yet come; a world that still
had illusions, myths, and mysteries, one in which religion and poetry
went hand in hand, a world without newspapers, hypocrisy, and cant,”
a world into which this boy Emperor, his mind attuned to the whole
surroundings, entered proudly during either June or July in the year of
grace 219.

The date of the imperial family’s departure from Nicomedia is uncertain,
on the information at present available; and we can only approximate to
the date of their arrival in the city by means of a comparison between
the statement of Eutropius that he reigned two years and eight months
there, and the statement of Dion that he reigned in all three years nine
months and four days, neither of which is definitely certain, as they
do not agree with other authorities. If the date, if even the month, of
Antonine’s death were capable of definite interpretation, the date of his
arrival would be clear. As it is, most authorities have placed his entry
into the city within the first fortnight of July; Wirth suggests, on the
foregoing data, 11th July, to be precise. There are, however, various
circumstances which incline us to an earlier period, most probably during
the month of June.

It seems incredible that, unless the illness already alluded to was of
a most serious nature, the Emperor, with Macrinus’ failure before his
eyes, should have stayed away from Rome for more than a year. It will
be remembered that the Emperor Caracalla had been absent for some years
before his death, warring against the Parthians; that Macrinus had spent
the whole of his fourteen months’ precarious tenure of the imperial
power in or about Antioch the voluptuous; and that the restored house of
Antonine had ruled with undisputed sway from 8th June 218.

Rome had, therefore, been for about five years without her Court and
her God, the personification of her greatness. All that time Rome had
clamoured and grown weary, waiting for her essential life to vivify
her magnificence. That Antonine was wanted and wildly popular there
can be no doubt, both from the statements of Lampridius and those of
Eutropius, which record the spontaneity with which both Senate and
people condemned the usurping house, and rejoiced at the restoration, as
also from the record of the warmth with which Antonine was welcomed on
his arrival. In fact, all men seem to have been pleased; the army with
their Antonine; the Senate with their Aurelius; the people with their
Augustus, or their Nero, as the case might be. Save for her strength,
Rome had nothing of her own. Her religion, literature, art, philosophy,
luxury, and corruption were all from abroad. Greece gave her artists; in
Africa, Gaul, and Spain were her agriculturists; in Asia her artisans.
Rome consumed, she did not produce; except for herself and her greatness,
she was sterile. She was bound to desire the fount of her greatness, the
embodiment of her power in her midst.

This is, of course, supposition of a merely circumstantial kind, but
there is more than supposition that the family arrived earlier than July.
There is the record of the Emperor’s first marriage, which must have
taken place early in that month. This is commemorated by Alexandrian
coins dated LΒ, _i.e._ prior to 28th August 219. The marriage took place
in Rome, and the news of its accomplishment would take at least three
or four weeks to reach Egypt, after which new coin dies would have to
be cut, and the money, ordinary debased coins in common usage, issued.
The latest possible date, therefore, at which the marriage could have
taken place, to find coins in circulation recording the event, before
28th August, was the second week in July. This leaves neither time to
the Emperor for the choice of his consort after his arrival—which would,
after all, have been only a natural wish on his part—nor, which is more
important, time to make the necessary preparations for what Herodian
tells us were the most stupendous celebrations that Rome the magnificent
had yet witnessed. Wirth’s date is just possible, especially if Maesa
had chosen the wife and had made the preparations beforehand; otherwise,
knowing Maesa’s propensity for management, we must suppose an earlier
date of arrival, especially as no two of the biographers agree as to the
length of the reign, which is variously stated as having lasted from six
years (Herodian) to thirty months (Victor).

Unfortunately, the one known inscription is mutilated. It is set up to
the Sun in honour of the return of somebody and Totius Domus Divinae. It
was found in 1885 under the Via Tasso on a pedestal, and bears only the
date of its erection, 29th September 219, not the date of the return of
the house. It seems therefore safest, in order to allow time before 21st
July for the marriage and festivities, to conjecture a start made either
late in April or early in May, which, after a journey of 1600 miles,
would bring the family to Rome some time in the early part of June. It
is, of course, conjectural, but allows time for the known events.

Once in Rome, we hear little good of the Emperor’s life, conduct,
administration, or abilities. Unfortunately, we have to deal in the main
with Constantine’s friend, Aelius Lampridius, a man whose biography is a
cheap glorification of Alexander, combined with ignorant and perpetual
abuse of Antonine’s religion and psychology. All his statements in the
way of fact could be compressed into half a page of any ordinary book
of reference, and even these he manages to arrange so badly, or to draw
from such conflicting sources, that they comprise simply a mass of futile
contradictions.

The entry into the city is the record of a scandal which only Herodian
perpetuates. This writer, as we have remarked, is nowhere famed for his
accuracy; he tells us that the cortège was a rabble of women, eunuchs,
and priests of the Sun who surrounded the Emperor. The boy was dressed in
the silken robes worn by the priests of Syria. On his head was a jewelled
tiara of Persian design, whilst his body was laden with rings, necklaces
of pearls, bracelets, and other signs of vulgar ostentation; his cheeks
were painted, his eyebrows darkened; in fact he was the very picture
of an Egyptian or Assyrian courtesan. To finish with, we have a bit of
morality, which tells us how he not only spoilt his real beauty by such
extravagances, but made himself ridiculous in the eyes of gods and men by
these borrowed plumes.

[Illustration: Coin of A.D. 219 commemorating the arrival of Elagabalus
in Rome (British Museum).

Liberalitas II. Coin struck in A.D. 219 for the Emperor’s marriage with
Julia Cornelia Paula. (From the collection of Sir James S. Hay, K.C.M.G.)

Coin struck in A.D. 219 concerning the grain supply (British Museum).

Coin struck in A.D. 219 to commemorate the Emperor’s recovery (British
Museum).

_Face page 110._]

This is all very circumstantial, obviously the work of an eye-witness,
but it is not supported by the evidence of any coin struck to commemorate
the event. The _Adventus Augusti_ shows the Emperor riding into the city
laurelled and habited in military accoutrements. Nor is the scandal
mentioned by either Lampridius or Dion; which means that, at least as far
as Lampridius goes, his source, Marius Maximus, the then City Praefect,
who would certainly be an eye-witness, had not noticed anything unusual.
This, one imagines, he would have been only too anxious to do, since he
appears to have vacated this office immediately afterwards in favour of
the Emperor’s friend Eutychianus, which circumstance was not likely to be
specially pleasing to Marius, and ought to have encouraged him to keep
his eyes open for indecencies. Dion, too, as we have said, is silent, and
he has lost no other chance of recording Antonine’s frailties. Surely,
then, it is at least allowable to relegate this record of inexcusable
folly to the limbo of other picturesque lies, and proceed to sift the
similar accumulation which Lampridius has collected for our amusement.

Undoubtedly, the first act was to make an alliance with the daughter of
the well-known jurist, Julius Paulus, and to celebrate the event with a
colossal magnificence. All the authors, with the exception of Lampridius,
who ignores the marriage entirely, furnish picturesque details. They
describe the games, in which only one elephant and, to balance him,
fifty-one tigers were killed (the numbers are peculiar, but incapable
of verification); the general distribution of wheat, the unusual
magnificence of the whole scene, and the congiary in which even the wives
of Senators took part. The sums of money given are most noticeable; every
one in Rome received 150 drachmae per head, except the soldiers, who only
got 100, or very slightly more—a diminution of the promised privileges
formerly granted by Caracalla, which could scarcely have been pleasing
to the Lords of Rome, especially if, as Lampridius says, the Emperor had
already begun to lose his popularity with the army. It almost presupposes
a change of idea in the body politic, and argues that the new government
was bent on the same reforms which had ruined Macrinus, a circumstance
which would not turn out advantageously for all concerned. Certainly it
was neither wise nor conducive to peace thus to reduce the donative on
such an occasion; but of this more must be said later.

Directly after the festivities in honour of the arrival, and, as has
been suggested, of the marriage as well, because we can only trace one
congiary and one set of rejoicings during this year—which circumstance
rather leads one to suppose that the extraordinary generosity cited
did duty for the two occasions—the Emperor set to work to provide a
shelter for his God. In point of fact, he provided two. The first and
most magnificent, was on the Palatine; the other, almost as vast and
beautiful, was a sort of summer resting-place in the suburbs. Wissowa
considers that this second was in the eastern part of the city, near
the site of Sta. Croce, near also to the Porta Praenestina, and that it
was built on a tract of land known as “Ad Spem Veterem”; in other words,
in the garden belonging to Varius Marcellus, the Empress Soaemias’ late
husband, and, therefore, imperial property.

Concerning the position of the first temple, we have more certain
evidence. Baumeister has identified certain ruins on the Palatine as the
Eliogabalium, and though his conclusions are not generally accepted, all
the Greek authors agree as to the Palatine being the centre of the cult.
Victor tells us that the God was established in “Palatii penetralibus,”
and Sextus Rufus corroborates Lampridius’ statement that it was on the
site of a temple of Orcus (Pluto) on the Circus Maximus side of the
Palatine Hill.

Some idea of its general magnificence may be gathered from a coin struck
in the year 222, which is described by Studniczka. “The temple,” he
says, “rises to a great height in a glorious symmetry of columns, and
is partly covered by the figure of the Emperor and his attendant. Below
the group appears the entrance to the temple courtyard, which is crowned
with statues.” On either side of the entrance are wing-halls, singularly
reminiscent of the Bramante porticoes at St. Peter’s, eagles taking the
place of statues as acroteria.

We must not suppose, despite Xiphilinus’ statement, that the cult of this
Sun God was first heard of in Rome at this period. All the imperial money
coined at Emesa had borne his temple, stone, and eagle on the obverse
for many years past, besides which the worship of Mithra, the Persian Sun
God, is considered by Cumont to have been the most popular religion in
Rome at this time. Septimius Severus had built a temple on the Palatine
in his honour, doubtless with the help and counsel of the family of
Elagabal worshippers, and there seem to have been many others in the
city; a fact which would tend to pave the way for Antonine’s scheme. This
however could not develop itself until the temple was completed, which
from the evidence that can be gathered from coins and inscriptions does
not seem to have been an accomplished fact until the late autumn of the
next year, 220.

No sooner was the temple finished than the scheme for the unifying
of churches, which the Emperor had himself conceived, and intended
to promote with the full strength of imperial command, was put into
operation. As we have said, Antonine had no more idea of making Elagabal
a mere rival to the Roman Deities than Constantine had of putting
Christ into that unenviable position. He intended that the Lord should
swallow up all other Deities, should make captive all the gods of old
Rome. To do this it was necessary, first, to impress the world with the
splendour, the beauty, the power, and the magnificence of that being who
had so miraculously delivered the family of Bassianus from Phoenician
obscurity, and brought them into the fierce light of the Roman noonday;
secondly, he had to make some alliance with the head and centre of the
old Roman worship of Vesta, the one religion which symbolised Rome, its
perpetuity, and its undying fame; thirdly, he had to acquire all the
objects of sacred devotion, and transfer them to Elagabal’s temple, as
well to attract worshippers as to stimulate devotion.

For the accomplishment of the first of these objects he ordained the
most magnificent worship that had as yet been devised. He, as High
Priest, used to descend daily from the palace in order to sacrifice vast
quantities of oxen and sheep upon innumerable altars laden with spices
and odours. The libations were more ample and more costly than any that
had yet been heard of. Herodian further tells us how the rare and costly
wines mingling with the blood of the victims made great streams in every
direction; but even this waste was insufficient: with Davidic persistency
the Emperor danced, encircling the altars, followed by the Syrians, men
and women, who formed his court, while the display and waste of energy
was accompanied by the clashing of cymbals and other instruments of
music which had been brought from the God’s home in the East. At these
orgies the Senate sat in a great semicircle, and were, fortunately, mere
spectators of the show. It was the generals of armies, the governors of
provinces, and court officials of all sorts who were less fortunate.
These worthies Antonine habited in a replica of his own trailing
garments, and ordered to perform menial offices about the altars of God,
a proceeding which caused them to gnash with their teeth and run about
the city declaring very plainly (to one another, of course) that they
infinitely preferred the tents of ungodliness to all and sundry offices
of divine religion, especially in its Semitic forms. From the very outset
Elagabal was unpopular with the upper classes. They had cause to dislike
this insensate show. With the populace it was probably different, at
least for a time. One can imagine their joy at beholding, tier upon tier,
the Conscript Fathers assembled each morning as most unwilling spectators
of a show which they abominated.

As we have already pointed out, other Eastern cults were making
considerable headway in Rome amongst all classes, and had attracted not
a few of that august body. We have mentioned the worship of the Sun God
Mithra, which, with other similar religions, had constantly increased in
importance since the year 204 B.C., the date of its introduction into the
city.

Now the Eastern cults were popular because they supplied a felt want,
namely, a personal spiritual religion, whereas the religion of Rome,
though fine, virile and strong, was purely political. The God of Rome was
Rome, and concerned itself solely with patriotism. With the individual,
with his happiness or aspirations, it concerned itself not at all. It
was the prosperity of the Empire, its peace and immortality, for which
sacrifices were made and libations offered. The antique virtues, courage
in war, moderation in peace, and honour at all times, were civic, not
personal. It was the state that had a soul, not the individual. Man was
ephemeral, it was the nation that endured.[57] Naturally, this was
unsatisfying to the uneducated; their Rome was the abridgment of every
superstition, their Pantheon an abattoir of the Gods who presided over
death and whose worship was gore.

Added to this had come the worship of Isis, the secrets of Mithra, of
which the chief note was one of mysticism. There was something terrifying
and yet alluring about the abluent functions, the initiations, the
secrets that it was death to divulge. Now, the rites that Antonine
introduced were entirely blatant, Semitic, Syrian. They contained,
as far as we can judge, nothing specially mysterious, either in the
way of initiation or progression, little which could even attract the
curiosity of the devout. All that Elagabal could appeal to was the public
curiosity; his worship was, in fact, designed to appeal to such and
nothing more, _at the outset_; even with such an end in view it might
have become popular had it not been that Antonine made this all-embracing
deity too easy of access, in consequence of which he became too cheap.
The Emperor seems to have recognised this early, and to have evolved a
scheme for uniting the already popular mysteries of all other Gods with
his own; to which resolve we may attribute the stories of his initiation
into the priesthood of Cybele and the rest; he thought that it would
enhance his God’s attractiveness and assure his popularity in the eyes of
the mob.

As far as we can judge from the evidence of coins and medals, there was
little or no parade of Antonine’s religious ideals or his comprehensive
cult until the later part of the year 220, until, in fact, the temple
was ready and the necessary adjuncts to hand. With its opening came the
transference thither of the most venerable objects of Roman superstition:
all the sacred stones, even the Palladium from the temple of Minerva, the
sacred fire which was the symbol of Rome’s existence, even the shields
which had fallen from heaven, and to which the oracles had attached the
very destinies of the city itself. But of this more in its proper place.

Certainly, for all his attempts, Elagabal did not become a popular
divinity. Men began to fear his propensity for swallowing other cults.
His rapacity in absorbing the deities of centuries made the superstitious
uneasy for the continued existence of Gods whom, they believed vaguely,
they might some day need, and who would then have lost their power and
authority. But there was yet another reason for Elagabal’s unpopularity,
namely, the Emperor’s attempt to unite the Hebraic and Christian
mysteries with those of his own God.

Neither Christian nor Hebrew was ever popular in old Rome. Their
characters, their rites, and their machinations were sincerely
disapproved of both by the rulers and the governed; they were generally
known as robbers, thieves, liars, lawbreakers, cannibals even, men who
were lacking in every virtue that Rome held dear; men who set up their
own specimen of a creed to the exclusion of all others, the which was,
generally speaking, subversive of government, law and order. They were
men entirely displeasing to the high Gods, and therefore to be spared
only when the master of Rome refused consent to kill.

Now, Antonine clearly protected these atheistic vagabonds, citizens of
no state, troublers of every nation; nay more, he attempted to tolerate
their blasphemies by uniting them with his own religion. As we have
said, Rome was probably familiar with Elagabal through the Syrian house
and Emesan coins, but with the other Judean religion they had not a
few disagreements, and had certainly no wish to amalgamate it with the
venerated cults of the city, as Antonine seemed bent on doing. It was
certainly a bad day for the house of Severus when the Emperor decided to
mix himself up with the hated Judaism.

We must here leave for a moment the history of Antonine’s religious
changes and aspirations to recount the secular work accomplished between
the summer of the year 219 and the autumn or winter of the year 220,
it may be even up to the early weeks of the year 221, when the Emperor
made that vital mistake in policy which threw him into the hands of his
family, to his undoing.

Amongst the “facts” recorded by Lampridius concerning this period, we
have two mutually exclusive statements concerning the admission of the
Emperor’s mother and grandmother to the Senate, and their governmental
position in the State. The first (in Sec. 4) states that at the very
first meeting of that august assembly Antonine sent for his mother; that
on her arrival he called her to take a place alongside the Consuls; and
that with them she signed decrees, Senatus Consulta, and other documents,
an enormity which no other woman had ever perpetrated, and which was
certainly never heard of again. He finishes with the remark that she
obtained the title of Clarissima, the only woman who has ever had this
honour conferred upon her—altogether a most circumstantial account.

A few sections farther on (Sec. 12) he recounts how Antonine always took
his grandmother Varia with him whenever he went to the camp or to the
Senate, in order to give him the authority and dignity which he lacked,
adding, that before her no woman had been admitted into the Senate either
to give her opinion or append her signature. It is significant, by the
way, that Varia never was and never could have been Maesa’s name—so much
for Lampridius’ ignorance of the family history.

Now, either Antonine took one, both, or neither; Lampridius says
both—each to the exclusion of the other, as each was first, each the only
woman, but Soaemias was alone Clarissima. Cannot one see the jealous
wrath of the grandmother, the real politician, at the promotion of her
absolutely incapable daughter over her head by means of that coveted
title (a title, by the way, which would have bored Soaemias’ temperament
inexpressibly), while she was relegated to an inferior position?

The only conclusion to be drawn is that which is recorded by _all_ the
inscriptions, namely, that Maesa was the predominant factor, since her
name always occurs first where she and Soaemias are mentioned together.
Maesa, in all probability, did slip into the Senate; she would have
appreciated the dignity of the position enormously, and the fact would
give a basis to some story or other that had got about. Antonine would
certainly have had no objection; the Senate was no longer the government
properly so called; Maesa could do no harm there, and it would be a sop
to her for the small power she was exercising in the actual development
of events.

Soaemias, we can quite believe, was president of the assembly on the
Quirinal which Lampridius sneers at as a foundation of Antonine’s, and
yet tells us had existed before his time. It was called the Senaculum
or Conventus Matronarum. Friedländer says that it was an ancient and
honourable assembly as early as the year 394 B.C., when its members voted
their jewels to help raise the tithe in connection with the spoils of
Veii. Seneca refers to it in his treatise _De matrimoniis_ as a regular
assembly. Again, in the year 209 B.C., the matrons met, in consequence of
omens, to decide on expiation; even in imperial times Suetonius says that
the Assembly met to reprove Agrippina for her vagaries; and Hieronymus
counts amongst the distractions of Roman life the daily attendance at
the Matronarum Senatus. What, therefore, this petulant and carping
critic can find to grumble about in this permanent assembly meeting to
carry out the provisions of the Lex Appia, one simply cannot imagine,
unless it be that, having been prejudiced in early youth, he declined
to listen to any arguments for the furthering of either women’s rights
or duties in the State. At any rate, it is scarcely fair to stigmatise
as an immoral and reprehensible act, the Emperor’s grant to this Senate
of women of the power to make necessary edicts on points which are now
very ably supervised by the Lord Chamberlain’s department. The points
discussed were those relating to the length of a train or the Court
uniform of a guardsman; the precedence due to rank; who must wait for
another’s salutation; to whom a carriage; to whom a saddle-horse; to
whom a public conveyance; to whom a mere donkey-cart was a fitting means
of progression; who might use mules; or for whom oxen were considered
sufficiently rapid; for whom the saddle might be inlaid with ivory; for
whom with bone; for whom with silver; or even when pointing out what
persons might fittingly wear gold and jewelled buckles on their shoes
without the imputation of plutocratic ostentation.

To-day, despite the fact that we have progressed by eighteen centuries,
it is generally believed in governmental circles that such matters are
possibly best settled by women, and such useful, not to say necessary
functions concerning the polite amenities of civilised existence would
be most readily conceded by authority to their sex, if only such would
content and assuage that feline animosity which has of late disturbed
social gatherings, even the intercourse between authorities in the state
and ladies seeking a useful outlet for their superfluous energies. Alas,
the world is grown older, and the female mind now knows itself capable of
regulating both the social and political worlds, and has no intention of
satisfying its aspirations, like Soaemias, with the social side of life,
as long as mere man opposes her entrance into the political sphere.

Surely, everything considered, this cavilling at what was an ancient,
and still would be a useful, body, is only another proof of the spirit
in which the biographers have poured abuse on a boy who was so obviously
striving to satisfy his relatives by giving them an outlet for their
energies, while keeping the essential powers of government in his own
hands. Of course he failed, mainly because his grandmother was not
satisfied with her function in the state, she wanted to filch from
Antonine what was _his_ right, and what she wanted she determined to get
at all costs. Whether she really aspired to the Senate and got there is
another question. It is distinctly stated that under Alexander Severus
no woman ever sat in that assembly; further, that decrees were passed
forbidding their presence there for ever. Now, Maesa was almost sole
ruler during the early years of that reign, and one can never believe
that she deprived herself of one jot or tittle of a power which she had
once acquired. There is one occasion, and one occasion only, on which we
may well imagine, as the writers state, that the women were all present,
officially, in the Senate, namely, at the meeting when Alexander was
adopted. At other times, we can believe that they were there, just as
the queen consort is present in the House of Peers, but without any real
political significance.

To this period Lampridius assigns the winter spent at Nicomedia, which
is a very fair example of this biographer’s egregious carelessness and
stupidity. Considering that both Dion and Herodian are perfectly explicit
as to the actual date, it is monstrous that he should have put this
period just a year later than it actually occurred, nor, as we have said,
is it in this matter alone that he leads us to mistrust his accuracy,
where either fact or fiction are at stake.

Lampridius, with a great show of moralising, and having already stated
that the Emperor had lost his popularity shortly after Macrinus’ death,
re-ascribes its loss to this current year, namely, from the summer of
219 to the autumn of 220, and this without showing cause, reason, or
mismanagement which would justify the statement, if we except the vague
statement that he neglected public business for religion, though, as far
as we can see, the Emperor did not begin to neglect the State for the
Church until his temple was opened. After that time we can well believe
that all his energies were centred on his cult, an error which, like that
made by certain Stuart sovereigns of this enlightened country, equally
lost, the one his head, and the other his crown. No act of cruelty is
cited, no accusation of glaring or vital mistakes made, until the very
end of the year 220.

Arrived at that period, there is much to be said—the mismanagement of
affairs grows apace. First, there is his religion, which he makes a
definite eyesore; second, he is accused of selling honours, dignities,
and power, both with his own hands and by those of his favourites; third,
he appoints Senators without any reference to either their age, good
sense, or nobility; fourth, he sells the offices of praefect, tribune,
ambassador, and general, even those about the palace itself.

Now, all this may be perfectly true. Antonine must have wanted money,
but, as we have remarked before, he had a passion for giving, not for
receiving. The most likely supposition is therefore, that he gave offices
indiscriminately to those who pleased him, and that his favourites, often
debased and unworthy people, sold what they could get hold of to the
highest bidder. The accusation is vitiated by the fact that no names are
mentioned, no instances given, except those of the two chariot drivers,
Protogenes and Gordius, intimates of the Emperor and supervisors of his
sports. It is quite possible that he admired and liked these men for
their proficiency in sport, and that unwholesome minds saw more in the
friendship than was warranted. Of Protogenes we hear no more. Cordus or
Gordius—probably the same person as the above—was made Praefect of the
Watch during the next year; perhaps he was useful, perhaps he was not;
any way he was dismissed in the autumn of 221.

Amongst the last events of this 220th year of our salvation, or early in
the year 221, occurred the divorce of the august Julia Cornelia Paula,
Empress. We know that it was late in the year, as there are coins in
existence struck at Alexandria after 29th August which bear her name, and
others struck at Tripolis in Phoenicia after October 220 (Eckhel). In
all probability this lady was in no way averse to retiring into opulent
privacy, a woman with both a past and a future.

Certainly her husband had neglected her scandalously if even a tithe of
Lampridius’ stories of his infidelities are true, and, from what we can
learn of his psychological state, a certain number are obviously so.
Modern investigation of such psychopathic conditions inclines us to admit
that the boy was a sort of nymphomaniac, if not entirely homosexual, at
least heterosexual, with a strong homosexual instinct, and it would be
unnatural for any woman to appreciate this temperament in a husband,
especially when she knew, as she must have known, since he was perfectly
frank about it, that he was already allied, by a species of matrimony,
with the chariot driver Hierocles—calling himself wife and Empress—and
that he was not attached to this man alone but to many others, for whom
inquisition had been made throughout the Empire, on account of their
looks and ability to satiate his mania more satisfactorily.

This is, of course, Lampridius’ version of the Emperor’s character, and
the same sources have been used by both Dion and Herodian with similar
though varying degrees of grossness in expression. Undoubtedly the boy
was by nature abnormal, as were almost all the Emperors of Old Rome.
Antonine had his moments when he imitated a virgin at bay, others when he
was a wife, still others when he expected to be a mother, others when he
carded wool, others when he played the pandore (an instrument of music
with three strings invented by the Assyrians, according to Pollux, or,
as Isidore remarks, attributed to the God Pan himself). Again, he would
play the hydraulic organ of the period, and loved to dress himself in the
clothes of women, even in the customary undress uniform of the courtesan,
adopting the positions, voice, and manner of the most expert.

Undoubtedly these pastimes were most reprehensible and unpleasant, to
be condemned one and all; though somehow to-day we are not altogether
inclined to regard proficiency in music amongst men as quite so
censurable and disgusting an art as the other foibles—to give them no
worse a name—which Lampridius so justly censures. Unfortunately, many of
these seem to have come quite naturally to the Emperor on account of his
untrained and unrestrained nature, though Forquet de Dorne thinks that
it was not so much evil propensities as his innate desire to please,
combined with his genuine efforts to spend all his energies for other
people, which have been misinterpreted by the evil-minded, especially as
this was not the only side to the boy’s character, as the biographers
would have us believe. And this because we are told, amongst the list of
his enormities, that he loved driving chariots both in the palace and in
the circus, habited in a green tunic, and that he was most dextrous in
the sport.

To-day, racing is considered as the sport of kings; certainly it is
not the obvious outcome of an effeminate or degraded mind; rather the
reverse: it is a virile occupation, calling forth nerve, pluck, courage,
and other manly qualities. In third-century Rome it was much the same,
but for purposes of disgusting posterity Lampridius affected not to think
so. He pointed out that it was a calling proper only to coachmen and
lackeys, though he must have known, if he had thought about it at all,
that his readers would listen with their tongues in their cheeks when
he tried to maintain that the courage, nerve, and pluck which the boy
showed in this sport were evidences of the same degeneracy which he was
decrying when he recounted the carding of wool and the other feminine
occupations. Hosts of men, kings, and emperors of all ages have indulged
in the intoxication of horse-racing. The mere fact of Lampridius putting
this story, with its palpably stupid and far-fetched moral, alongside the
really serious scandals would be enough to make critics distrust, not
only his information, but even his ability to understand and use such
when he had got it.

To sum up, therefore, our investigations of the months between June
219 and November 220, we must admit that no gross act of folly had as
yet been committed. The Emperor had spent his time in building his
temples, and in restoring the Flavian amphitheatre—which had been burnt
down on 23rd August 217,—in finishing the baths of Caracalla, and in
erecting his own splendid bathing establishments in the palace and on the
Aventine. He had refounded the Senaculum, and built a hall for its use;
he was attending to business, helped by his fellow-consul, Eutychianus,
and was giving righteous judgment, as all biographers admit, when he
attended the courts or the Senate. He was, moreover, most popular,
liberal, and generous, though devoted to the pleasures of the table, and
unfortunately hermaphroditic in tendency, which hereditary taint was
certainly mitigated by the fact that he was devoted to outdoor exercises,
especially those that demanded courage, nerve, and strength of will.
Underneath all this there is a predominating religious feeling, and the
simply monotheistic obsession which drove him to his doom.

The year 221 is the time of Antonine’s utter failure. As far as we can
judge from numismatic evidence, one of his first acts was to divorce,
as we have said, the Empress Julia Paula, probably in pursuance of his
scheme for religious unity. He had conceived a notion of rendering his
God absolutely supreme by means of an alliance with the worship of Vesta.
Now this Goddess and her Sacred Stone or Phallus, called the Palladium,
her shields or bucklers, had been sent to Troy direct from heaven.
Aeneas had brought them to Latium, and they were the head and centre of
Roman greatness. Pallas, or Vesta, was too powerful to be absorbed in
the ordinary way. Antonine therefore considered that his God, being
unmarried, might well acquire possession of Vesta by a matrimonial
alliance. As Pontifex Maximus, he was head of the Vesta worship, and
had a perfect right to enter her shrine when and how he pleased, a
circumstance which Lampridius entirely ignored when he said that the
Emperor forced his way into the temple illegally. Antonine certainly did
go to her shrine at this time, and took the sacred fire, carrying it
to the Eliogabalium. Lampridius asserts that the high priestess, being
jealous of the loss of her charge, tried to palm off a false vessel upon
him, but that the Emperor saw the deceit and broke the jar in contempt
for the foolish fraud. He also transferred the sacred stone at the same
time, and in pursuance of his plan, celebrated the nuptials on which he
had set his heart. This was bad enough for Roman susceptibilities, but
he went one worse. Being himself free, he decided to marry one of the
Sacred Vestals from the shrine of his God’s new wife. He certainly seems
to have been vitally attracted by the charms of Aquilia Severa, a woman
no longer in the first flush of youth, to judge by her effigy, but one
whom his religious as well as his personal predilections pointed out as a
fitting consort. Pallas and Elagabal were united in a heavenly union like
so many others amongst Syrian and Egyptian deities; why, then, should
not Antonine, the chief priest of the Sun, and Aquilia, an important
priestess of Minerva, unite in a fruitful union which would produce a
demi-god meet for the Empire?

The theory had its points. Unfortunately, Rome did not see them. She
stood obviously aghast, thoroughly disliking the notion. Then, as now,
Rome disliked the public repudiation of vows; it was an unforgivable
scandal. As Clement VII. remarked some years later to Henry Tudor, with
an equally genuine fervour, “Pray, please yourself by all means, but
don’t let me know.” That was and always will be the true Roman attitude.
Concubinage amongst these ladies was perfectly natural, but matrimony
never; it offended the susceptibilities, and hence the subsequent
trouble. Antonine does not seem to have grasped this fact, and, if any
one told him, he was too much enamoured of his scheme to resign it
without an effort. But even the Senate seems to have protested, and
a plot, in which Pomponius Bassus and Silius Messala were implicated
(probably inspired by that upright lady Julia Mamaea), was set on foot.
It was an attempt to substitute some other personage for the youth who
knew so little of Roman feeling as to commit this act of sacrilege.
These two men were well-known busybodies, who had already dethroned one
Emperor, and were obviously anxious for further employment in the same
direction. Unfortunately for them, the plan was discovered, and their
secret court, held to consider the Emperor’s actions, raided. They were
immediately arraigned before the Senate, and condemned for the crime of
_lèse-majesté_, or treason, probably both, thus meeting the fate they had
so richly deserved; but of these two men we shall have occasion to speak
later on.

There is still another thing to notice in connection with this dual
marriage (that of the two Gods and of the High Priest and the Vestal),
namely, the erection of a shrine in the Forum to celebrate the event, the
which was probably built, according to Commendatore Boni, somewhere in
the summer of the year 221. Certain pieces of a capital discovered near
that place between the years 1870-1872, display the God Elagabal between
Minerva and Urania, his second wife, which leads one to the conclusion
that the union with Vesta, though no longer of earthly, was at least
considered as one of spiritual duration.

But to proceed. By the spring of 221 Antonine must have discovered for
himself, even if his friends had not told him, that his religious ideals
were far from popular. The very fact of the plot was enough to show him
how public opinion was trending, added to which general pressure seems
to have been put upon the Emperor to rectify the two glaring mistakes
which he had just made, through his perverse religiosity. We know from
both Dion and Herodian that neither marriage lasted any length of time.
Numismatic evidence of his third wedding is dated prior to 28th August
221, which presupposes that Aquilia Severa had returned to her nunnery,
while the celebration of the nuptials between the Sun and Moon implies,
what we know to be a fact, that Minerva had returned to the seclusion
from which she ought never to have been taken. It must have been a great
blow to the boy, thus to relinquish his hold on one of the chief parts
of his scheme, but he had seen that it would do Elagabal no good to
slight the religion with which the destinies of Rome were inextricably
mixed up, and that he had merely thrown open the way to his grandmother’s
machinations. Again, as Borghesi has pointed out, probably Eutychianus
was back at his side as City Praefect, in which position that officer
would be better able to judge of the feeling which Antonine’s action
had created, than as Consul. The result was that the Emperor published
a statement, by no means conciliatory in character, which announced,
that his God liked not so martial a wife, in consequence of which he
had decided to return her to her own shrine, and send for Astarte from
Carthage instead. Tanit of the Carthaginians, Juno Coelestis or Magna
Mater as she was called in Italy, where she had grown in importance from
the third century B.C., when she was first introduced, was probably a
Phoenician Goddess with a cosmopolitan tendency. Cumont tells us that
this maiden divinity was identified with Diana, Cybele, and sometimes
with Venus. Generally she was called a moon goddess, certainly she
possessed a twofold nature—as queen of the heavens she directed the moon
and stars, and sent down life-giving rains on the earth, and as the
personification of the productive force of nature, she was the patroness
of fertility. Latterly in Rome she had been identified with the cult of
Mithra, which had taken such a hold on the popular mind and was now at
the summit of its power. Undoubtedly the introduction of this Goddess
into their midst, especially since it could hurt no local superstition,
would be a popular move, and Elagabal would gain the reflected glory;
at least amongst the ignorant and religious-minded to whom such arrant
nonsense would be sure to appeal. From the Emperor’s own point of view
the marriage was fitting, since the queen of the heavens was, not only
second in authority to the Sun, but was also rich, and with her came
the whole of her treasure, according to Herodian. This statement,
however, Dion denies flatly, asserting that the Emperor refused to take
anything from her temple except two golden lions, presumably as a sort
of protection for the journey, while he himself provided her dowry by a
general impost on the whole Empire; so much for rival eye-witnesses.

About this same time, certainly (as we have said) before 28th August,
Antonine married again, presumably at the instigation of his grandmother,
and to gain the allegiance of the patrician classes. The bride was widow
of that busybody Pomponius Bassus, lately deceased. The alliance, like
that of the God, was sure to be popular with all classes, and the lady,
though by no means in her first youth (from the portraits on her medals
she leaves one with the impression of being about forty-five years of
age) was of Imperial Antonine lineage. Undoubtedly the Emperor soon tired
of her charms, which were scarcely likely to please a boy of eighteen,
and in consequence we are told he did not keep her long. She was a
friend of his grandmother, a well-known and ambitious woman, who was
quite pleased to dry her eyes at once and fall in with Maesa’s plan of
appointing a sort of nuptial guardian for the boy, which would naturally
be a great asset in the struggle that his grandmother and aunt had fully
decided upon, from the moment when he made his mistake in underestimating
the popular antipathy towards his unfortunate religious scheme.

Both Maesa and Mamaea were now working together, for both were
determined to consolidate in their hands the power that was Antonine’s
by right. From this moment there is one continuous policy of corruption,
vilification, and grab, while the women, their greedy claws ever
stretching out, filch from the boy his popularity, his friends, and his
reputation. Herodian tells us of the money spent to corrupt the guards.
Every word of the biographies tells the same story. Even when they had
encompassed his death and put another in his room they could not leave
his memory in peace. The trump card in this game was played by Maesa’s
diplomacy; she knew that the only way to win the boy was to attach
herself to his religious ideals, and she therefore seems to have fallen
in with his scheme for the union of Elagabal and Urania. She sympathised
with his endeavour to make his God popular; indeed, was not Elagabal her
God also, hers by right of her position as the eldest of his hereditary
house of priests? Very insidiously she wormed her way into his boyish
confidence, lulled his mind to rest, and then suggested her great plan,
the appointment of Alexianus to help him in the government, to assist in
the secular affairs which so sadly hampered the Emperor’s spiritual and
sacerdotal functions.




CHAPTER VI

ANTONINE’S DEALINGS WITH ALEXANDER


Lampridius has given us, in his life of Alexander Severus, a mass of
undigested information concerning the character and daily life of
Mamaea’s son. The narrative is as much concerned to prove the virtues
of Alexander as it is to represent the degradation of his predecessor.
Somehow the panegyric misses fire; Lampridius has produced a spasmodic
and unenlightened discourse on trivialities, together with a haphazard
essay on his hero’s moral qualities. He assures us that Alexander had
a regal presence, great flashing eyes, a penetrating gaze, a manly
appearance, and the stature and health of a soldier. Now, the practice
of idealising the appearance of royalty is not unknown, even in these
days. Unfortunately, this description is in no way borne out by the
portraits still extant. Alexander, in the Vatican bust, has certainly
the appearance of strength, but it is such as is possessed by a lusty
coal-heaver, with a bull neck and a thick skull; the undecided features
of the face, the weak mouth and chin, the low forehead, half hidden by
the hair, all betoken mild-mannered vacuity rather than manliness, while
the eyes, so far from flashing, seem, in the phrase of Duruy, to “stare
without seeing.” It is the figure neither of a Roman nor of a ruler of
men, but just that possessed by the family to which he belonged, though
cast in an effete and much-used mould; it is the face of a half-caste
Phoenician, such as he chanced to be. Alexander was an absolutely perfect
tool for the purposes of his grandmother’s scheme, and, in consequence,
Lampridius records the series of omens portending his royal nativity. The
entire menagerie of Egypt seemed to proclaim him king. Surely, argued
Maesa, such evidences of suitability would convince the truly religious
Antonine; and so, primed with her proofs, the lady repaired to carry out
her scheme. But, as we have said, the Emperor was used to her wiles;
she had tried cajoling him before and had failed; this time it was on
the score of religion, on the necessity that he should devote his full
energies to the furthering of his great and all-embracing scheme, that
she attacked him. It is a pitiful sight for us, who know the results,
to watch the guile of the serpent prostituting innocence for its own
gain. Maesa must at this time have been close on fifty years of age,
and we are assured on all hands that she was in close alliance with her
daughter Mamaea, who had long since conceived a holy horror, not only
of the sins of her nephew, but also for the person of the sinner. So
strongly was she convinced of her righteousness, that she had already
thought it her bounden duty, as well as her special privilege, to attempt
the corruption of the guards, and to support the plots, all and sundry,
which disaffected functionaries might attempt against the person of the
Emperor.

Now, venality is a vice not confined to the modern world; then, as
now, it was possible to find men who considered that their usefulness
was underestimated, and that their position inadequately represented
their merits. The record of at least three such personages and their
attempts has come down to us: the first was that instituted by Pomponius
Bassus and his colleague Silius Messala, who had adopted Mamaea’s line
of argument as to the inadvisability of allowing Antonine’s mistaken
religious policy to continue; the second, that of Seius Carus, who in
221 attempted the corruption of the Alban Legion in either his own or
Alexianus’ interest—and in both of these plots we are led to infer that
Julia Mamaea had a considerable finger.

The question of Seius Carus is one of considerable interest from this
point of view. The gentleman was wealthy and of the patrician order,
which facts did not prevent him, according to Dion, from spending his
money freely amongst the soldiery, obviously with an ulterior motive.
Unfortunately for him, he hit upon the wrong legion, the body which was
now quartered near Rome and had joined Antonine so readily at Apamea in
218. In the year 220 this legion had set up an inscription to Antonine’s
Victoria Aeterna, which monument had expressed the greatest possible
devotion to the reigning Emperor, and gave the lie direct to those
stories of Dion and Lampridius, which assert that, as early as the winter
of 218, the soldiers cordially hated Antonine, and placed all their hopes
on Alexianus. Lampridius gives a very poor reason for this—because,
forsooth, they could not stand the thought that he was as ready as they
themselves were to receive pleasure through all the cavities of his
body. Dion relates Seius’ trial, but ignoring the fact of the plot,
which he had just mentioned, he informs us that the gentleman suffered
for a crime which was absolutely unknown to the imperial, as indeed to
any other legal system, unless it be the ecclesiastical—“on account of
his worth and abilities.” Unfortunately, Dion does not point out why the
millions of other men in the Empire, equally worthy and equally able,
were allowed a greater longevity, though it is certainly a point which
might be considered with some show of interest. But to return to the
imperial ladies. As we have said, they were spending much time searching
out disaffected subjects, and repeating stories not conducive either
to peace or tranquillity; further, they were making use of Antonine’s
most foolish resolve to cut down military expenditure at the price of
a possible unpopularity, by giving a decided preference to the civil
element in the population, a proceeding which, as we have remarked on
more than one occasion, was not only foolish but under the circumstances
criminally wrong. Despite the manifold and splendid qualities which
soldiers possessed, it must be confessed that they were as eager for gain
as the average Hebrew grocer, and almost as ready to accept coins from
no matter what tainted source they might come. “Money,” as Vespasian had
said, “has no smell,” a sentiment with which most men were in entire
agreement.

This is a very fair view of the state of politics about the month of
June, in the year of our Lord 221, at which time the Dowager-Empress
propounded her scheme; an attempt, she said, to transfer the odium of
Antonine’s neglect in secular matters to other shoulders, and so to
set the boy free to carry out his great policy for the advancement
of religious unity throughout the world. Maesa certainly agreed with
her grandson’s point of view, or said she did, which came to the same
thing. The work which he had proposed was great and important, and it
had been neglected for the good of the state. Now, to neglect the great
God angered him to whom the family owed their position. To neglect the
affairs of state angered the people, and gave rise to disturbances; of
this Antonine had had recent examples. Surely it would be advisable to
appoint a coadjutor in the affairs of state, and, for obvious reasons,
one of his own family, some one who would naturally have no other desire
than to serve Antonine; there was a relative ready and willing. Why did
he not adopt Alexianus? Perhaps the boy was insignificant! Well, so much
the better; but at any rate he might be used to advantage. All this was
most plausible, and may have blinded the Emperor for the moment, but we
can easily understand, from what we know of Antonine’s nature, that even
if he saw through the very specious pleas here put forward, he would
quite enjoy meeting his grandmother on her own ground. He had done it
before, and had played the game successfully.

But the suggestion seems to have really appealed to his sense of the
fitting; he _was_ hard pressed; he was more anxious for the fate of his
God than for the fate of the Empire (a crime for which other sovereigns
have suffered similar fates at the hands of infuriated populaces),
besides which, Dion tells us that Antonine loved his cousin, stupid and
namby-pamby as he undoubtedly was.

And there was yet another side to the suggestion which commended itself
to the Emperor’s favourable consideration. In his present position
Alexianus was a distinct menace to the government. Since Antonine’s
mistake about Vesta and Severa, his cousin had been used as a lever
wherewith to raise popular indignation. There had been two plots, as we
have pointed out, to dethrone Antonine; and, presumably, as Julia Mamaea
was behind both, to replace him by Alexianus. Why not take the boy into
his own keeping, adopt him as Maesa suggested, and, by taking their
tool from their hands in response to their own appeal, neutralise the
influence of both aunt and grandmother at one swoop? He could then train
him in his own way. Alexianus was young—Herodian says about twelve years
old—and ought, if he were a natural child, to be easily won by kindness,
friendship, and joy. This information of Herodian’s as to age is, for a
wonder, corroborated by several reliable sources; not that Herodian knew
he was right even in this case, because he puts the adoption in the year
220 instead of 221, which would have made Alexianus about eleven instead
of over twelve years old, as he states.

[Illustration: Thyatira Coin of Elagabalus (British Museum).

Coin struck to commemorate Alexianus’ adoption, A.D. 221 (British Museum).

Coin struck to commemorate Alexander as Pont. Max., A.D. 221 (British
Museum).

_Face page 142._]

This is the only rational view to take of the Emperor’s apparent
gullibility, as Antonine was far too quick-witted not to have scented
trouble in any scheme, however specious, to which his aunt was party. He
had already heard of her dealings with the soldiers, and of the money
that she was spending with a purpose: obviously he saw in the adoption a
loophole for his own escape, and at the same time for her undoing. His
friends may have warned him to look out for rocks ahead. They knew that
the boy was dealing with two able and crafty women made desperate by
their continual disappointments; if so, he must have refused to listen to
them, for some time early in July Antonine took his cousin Alexianus to
the Senate, and there, in the presence of the women, this boy of sixteen
summers went through the ceremony of adopting the child of twelve. He
then solemnly declared his intention of training his son himself, fitting
him for the business of Empire early, in order that he might be free from
solicitudes about a successor. Now, this was by no means Mamaea’s plan,
and caused endless friction in the working.

Antonine obviously thought that some explanation of his decision was
needed, and had the audacity to tell the assembled fathers that he was
acting on the commands of the great God, who had designated Alexianus as
the successor to the name and Empire of Severus,—this on the basis of a
bastardy almost as probable as his own.

The name Alexander, which was then imposed upon Alexianus, is accounted
for both by Lampridius and Dion by two equally untrue and mutually
contradictory stories. Lampridius says that the boy was born in the
temple of Alexander at Arca, on the birthday of Alexander of Macedon,
18th June 208; as a matter of fact he was not born until the 1st October
of that year, and it was highly improbable that a woman in the social
position of Mamaea would allow an accident of the kind to happen in so
public and unprepared a position. Dion accounts for the new name by
relating the miraculous return from the dead of the Macedonian king, and
his spectral journey through Thrace, where he buried a wooden horse which
has not since been found,—neither has the consonance of the story been
established, for that matter. The real reason for the change of name was
perfectly simple; it was in memory of the devotion which Caracalla, his
putative father, had always testified towards King Alexander of Macedon.

The ages of the two principal figures in this ceremony form the peg on
which Lampridius hangs not a few jeers. Perhaps it was absurd, but far
more unnatural things had been extolled: witness Septimius’ adoption
of the defunct Marcus Aurelius as his father, which was certainly an
even less possible performance in the natural order of generation. If
Lampridius jeered later, no one did so at the time; in fact, we are led
to infer that all men were pleased. The soldiers, because Mamaea had
made it worth their while to adopt that attitude; the Senate, because
they expected consideration from a little milksop brought up entirely at
his mother’s apron-strings; the people, because it was the occasion for
Antonine’s fourth congiary. Singularly enough, there is again no mention
made of a donative, or distribution of money to the soldiers, which seems
unfortunate.

It is difficult to ascertain the exact date of the adoption. Herodian’s
statement of the year 220 is easily refuted, both by epigraphic and
numismatic evidence. These give, as near as possible, 10th July in the
year 221, by means of the following deductions:—(1st) The fasti of a
priestly college, probably the Sodales Antoniniani, dated either 2nd or
10th July in that year, describe Alexianus as “Marcus Aurelius Alexander
Nobilissimus Caesar,” and either Imperii _consors_ or _heres_, on which
discrepancy of words hangs a future tale; (2nd) the earliest Alexandrian
coins which call Alexianus Caesar are dated LΕ, or subsequent to 29th
August 221; (3rd) there is an inscription found amongst those of the 7th
Cohort of the Vigiles, which was set up on 1st June of that year, and
commemorates the Imperatores Antoninus et Alexander. The earliest date is
therefore 1st June, the latest the end of July or beginning of August.
The probabilities lie between the two, as the early police inscription
has been accounted for on the grounds that, along with her money, Mamaea
had circulated a report of the adoption before it took place. The
numismatic evidence points to a middle date, because, as far as we can
judge, the Alexandrian mint was most expedite in issuing its coins, and
here, if the adoption took place early in June, they would seem to have
allowed a month or so to elapse between the time they got the news and
the first issue of the coins. Other mints also issued their first coins,
calling Alexander Caesar, towards the end of 221.

The one official decree is that of the Sodales. It is defective in its
designation, and has caused much disagreement both as to Alexander’s
position once he was adopted, as well as about the date of the ceremony
itself. At any rate, until more definite information comes to hand, we
are forced to be content with the generally received date, somewhere
about 10th July. The next question is as to the position of Alexander
after that date, in the year 221. Certainly Maesa and Mamaea intended
to have him “Imperii consors.” As far as we can judge, both from the
statement in the Senate and from his subsequent proceedings in the state,
Antonine’s intention was to adopt an “Imperii heres”; now, this was a
very different matter, and entirely nullified the major part of the
plan of the schemers. Antonine certainly did defeat their plot in part
by refusing to give Alexander any governmental powers. This is certain
from the fact that on no coin does Alexander appear with the imperial
insignia (the laurel wreath) before the month of March 222, though the
titles which he received at his adoption—Augustus, Imperator, and
Caesar—are frequently used before that date, because Antonine never had
the least objection to other people using titles, so long as he kept the
power. Maesa and Mamaea must have been wild with rage at having gained so
little; they had shaken hands repeatedly, and congratulated themselves so
often because Samson had at last delivered himself bound into their hands
and henceforth they were in permanent possession of the administration,
that it must have been a very disagreeable awakening when they found that
their plan had not succeeded.

If we can believe anything that Lampridius says, we would judge that
Maesa was now genuinely frightened. She thought that Antonine’s religious
mistake had created a real wave of bad feeling in the city, and that,
if anything should happen to the reigning Emperor, her position would
be gone for good and all. Now, the last thing that she had a mind to do
was to return to provincial obscurity. With a patience and determination
worthy of a better cause, she set to work to gain for herself, and
incidentally for Alexander also, what had not accrued when the adoption
took place. As far as we can judge from the coins, Maesa had only
managed at that time to obtain his association with Antonine as Pontifex
Maximus, thereby lessening the Emperor’s authority over the Roman cults,
for which he had shown so little respect. One thing was, however,
satisfactory: Alexander was “out”; people knew about him in Rome; he was
the heir designate, and, as such, a most useful lever in the hands of the
unscrupulous.

It was certainly not long before Antonine found that his success had not
been as unqualified as he had imagined. Alexander was Caesar by decree of
the Senate; Severus by some utterly unconstitutional decree of the army;
Antonini filius and Severi Nepos; but here it began and ended. The boy
was utterly unresponsive to the affection that Antonine was anxious to
lavish upon him; utterly incapable, so the Emperor said, of any sort of
training for the position he was destined to occupy. Undoubtedly a great
mistake had been made, the boy was a born prig, and the Emperor had given
his case away by adopting him at all, by putting him into a position in
which his popularity was bound to increase amongst those who did not know
him personally. In fact, Antonine arrived at the conclusion before the
wine harvest that he had played his aunt’s game and not his own, and in
consequence he became moody and uncomfortable.

Lampridius’ contrast of the two characters is, as we have said, a
caricature drawn for the laudation of the younger, the reprobation of
the elder. If only a part is true, it must have been very annoying for
the Emperor of seventeen to be saddled, through his own stupidity, with
a nincompoop of twelve, a boy who quoted proverbs to a purpose, and
the maxims of a detestable crowd of female relatives at every turn. Of
course, Lampridius’ likeness of his little hero is stocked with fulsome
adulation. One would think, on reading it, that there was at least one
person in the world who did not deceive himself when he said that he was
without sin, and therefore ready to cast the first stone. The account of
his first meeting with the Senate is simply ludicrous; no child, however
disgusting, could have displayed the unction and greasiness which is
recorded as having slipped off his tongue. Were he one-half as nasty as
Lampridius asserts, we can well imagine that the whole devil in Antonine
was striving to get hold of his cousin’s prejudices, trying to persuade
him to run, dance, play, to wake him up from the self-satisfaction which
so ill became his years. All of this, we are told, Antonine did, under
the generic terms of corrupting his morals, which is after all the sum
total of Antonine’s enormities.

But here Mamaea stepped in. She had spoilt her son’s youth, as many
another parent has done both before and since, and was not going to
stand by and see her work dissipated, blown to the winds. Not that she
need have feared. The Bassiani developed young; Alexander’s character
was moulded, and he had no desire to change, to live his life as a man,
instead of as a vegetable, or enjoy the gifts which the gods had given
to men. Antonine had thought that something might be done for the cousin
he pitied, by turning him loose; he found it was no good, and soon lost
patience. He then realised the trend of affairs; he saw the growing
influence of the women, the stupidity of the boy, and chafed more each
day under both. The nonconformist conscience, which was Alexander’s chief
attraction, and is still his only title to fame, annoyed the Emperor
continually. Friction arose at every turn. It was Antonine striving to
minimise the influence of the women, and the women striving to destroy
the influence of Antonine, together with his crew of wretched favourites.
Neither did the elderly Annia Faustina tend to mend matters. She as well
as Alexander had been a mistake, and so the Emperor resolved to get rid
of both his troubles at one swoop. To do this, however, he had to quarrel
openly with his relatives, and by a _coup d’état_ regain paramount
authority in the state. The question was, would he be strong enough?
Would a boy of seventeen, surrounded by friends who, however agreeable as
sportsmen, however able in the histrionic art were anything but trained
politicians, have much chance of regaining what statecraft, diplomacy,
and guile had filched from him at a moment when he was comparatively
helpless?

His first act was to follow the same tactics that he had adopted on
10th July. He sent to the Senate ordering the fathers to withdraw the
title of Caesar which he had conferred on Alexander and which they had
confirmed. That august assembly, we are told, preserved a discreet
silence, not quite knowing whom to please, or which way the strongest
cat was going to jump. Here, after all that the author has said about
Alexander’s popularity and the general hatred testified towards Antonine,
occurs a strange statement. Lampridius says they were silent because,
“according to certain persons, Alexander was popular with the army.”
This, as we see, is a much-qualified expression of opinion when compared
with those in the foregoing sections, and put in conjunction with the
Senate’s reluctance to commit itself one way or another, it is certainly
significant, and points to the fact that the real hatred towards the
Emperor had yet to be worked up, like the similar hatred towards the
aristocracy in this country. Another significant fact concerning the
Emperor’s honest and straightforward intentions towards his cousin is,
that right up to the last he seems to have had command of the boy’s
person, and never took any decisive measure, either openly or secretly—in
the usual Antonine fashion—for removing him to another sphere of
usefulness in realms celestial, despite the plots formed against his own
life, of which, before now, he had had ample proof.

It is probable that about this time Antonine made several official
appointments which were considered thoroughly bad by the older
politicians. Names are not mentioned, but we can well believe that the
Emperor had grown suspicious of his old advisers ever since he had seen
them paying court to the young Caesar and his mother. We are told that
he put men into offices, especially those about the palace, who, from a
personal and too intimate relation, he felt he could rely on. As ever,
such appointments are a gross mistake. As mere friends such men would
have tended to his undoing; as officials they tended to revolution.

Following up his command to the Senate, Antonine sent messengers to the
army. These demanded that the soldiery should relieve Alexander of the
title of Severus, or Caesar, or whatever designation they had taken upon
themselves to confer on the boy, while the same messengers were ordered
to deface the statues and inscriptions in the camp, as the custom was to
treat those of dethroned tyrants. Now, this was unwise, without so much
as by your leave, or with your leave, because the property belonged to
the regiments, and not to the Emperor.

Next in order comes the record of an attempt made by Antonine to
assassinate his cousin. It is a story which requires careful examination,
because Herodian never mentions it at all, and Dion only refers to it
casually in the following words: “Much as Sardanapalus loved his cousin,
when he began to suspect everybody and learnt that the general feeling
was veering towards Alexander, he dared to change his resolution, and
did all in his power to get rid of him. He tried one day to have him
assassinated, and not only did not succeed, but nearly lost his own
life in the attempt.” Lampridius is, of course, much more explicit.
This we might expect, because he lived so much later and had a century
of vilification to work upon as well as Dion’s official story. From him
we learn that Antonine sent men to assassinate Alexander, and also sent
letters to the boy’s governors (all of whom, be it remembered, were of
Mamaea’s appointment and consequently were working for her, not for
Antonine) with promises of wealth and honours if they would only kill
their charge in any way they thought best, either in the bath, by poison,
or the sword.

This policy of bovine artfulness accomplished, Antonine went to his
gardens in the suburbs (_ad spem veterem_) for an afternoon’s exercise
in chariot-driving, certainly without any sufficient guard. At this
juncture Lampridius stops his fantastic story of the most futile
attempt at assassination ever recorded, in order to utter a few
sententious platitudes, which, however, cut both ways. He remarks with a
verisimilitude of sincerity, that “the wicked can do nothing against the
innocent.” Now this is a maxim which is not always regarded as a truism,
even on the Stock Exchange, but it was a convenient way of accounting for
the incomprehensible ending to this absurd allegation.

Lampridius then continues that the promulgation of these orders, as
carried to the soldiers, did not increase the popularity of the Emperor,
at any rate amongst that party who were in Mamaea’s pay; besides which,
fratricide was by no means a popular, even when it was a fashionable
crime. The result of these two supposed epistles when communicated to the
soldiers (by whom or why is unfortunately not mentioned) was to rouse
them to the highest pitch of anger. Quite spontaneously they ran, some to
the palace, where Alexander was living with his mother, and some to the
gardens, where, also by some unexplained power of divination, they knew
they would find Antonine; their intention being to carry out Mamaea’s
wishes on the person of the Emperor without further delay. Soaemias,
we are told, followed them on foot with the design of warning her son
concerning the danger that threatened him. Antonine was preparing for a
chariot race when he heard the noise approaching, and being frightened,
says Lampridius, he hid in the doorway of his bedroom, behind the
curtain; surely not a very safe place to hide when thoroughly frightened
by an angry mob, and quite unlike his usual procedure in times of
danger. Next he sent his praefect Antiochianus to find out the reason
of the tumult. This man easily managed to dissuade the soldiers from
their murderous designs, and recalled them to their oaths, because, as
Lampridius naïvely remarks, they were too few in number; the greater part
having refused to leave their standard, which Aristomachus had kept out
of the treasonable attempt.

At last Antonine’s eyes were fully opened to his danger. He now knew how
far Mamaea’s money and persuasions had gone, and whither the influence of
Maesa was tending. There had been a military rising; not strong enough
to effect its purpose, it is true, but still able to cause confusion,
strife, and divided allegiance in the city, and set people’s tongues
wagging.

The Emperor seems to have made up his mind at once as to his line of
conduct. With a courage almost unprecedented in a boy of his age, he went
straight to the camp, resolved to show himself in their midst and settle
this matter, once and for all, with the Praetorians. It was undoubtedly
one of the finest acts of courage in his life, this going alone and
unprotected into the midst of a camp which was supposed to be in mutiny;
a camp where he had just learnt that at least a section of the men were
in his aunt’s pay, and to which, if Lampridius’ statement is correct, his
aunt, cousin, and grandmother had just retired for safety. Surely to go
there utterly unprotected was simply courting the assassination he had
so narrowly avoided, was making death absolutely certain, unless he knew
that the number of the disaffected was very small, and that Lampridius’
statement about the imperial family and their journey thither was pure
fiction. There is not much doubt, however, despite the biographer, that
they were still in the palace, and would rather have died than go to the
camp, lest the Emperor should learn of their part in the conspiracy.

There is yet another discrepancy between the account of Dion and that
of Lampridius; the latter says that Alexander was in the camp for
safety, the former is equally sure that Antonine took him with him when
he went to find out the reason of the disturbance. Be this as it may,
Dion states that the arrival of the Emperor put a stop to the trouble,
and that there was a conference, at which Alexander’s name was never
mentioned. The subject of complaint and mutiny was, that certain freedmen
had been appointed to offices for which, in all probability, there had
been candidates better qualified than the Emperor’s friends. With a
considerable amount of good sense, Antonine acceded to the soldiers’
demands; he dismissed four out of the five persons mentioned, amongst
whom were Gordius, from the praefecture of the night watch, Murissimus,
from an unknown office, and two other friends, “who, mad as he was, made
him madder.” Hierocles’ name was also mentioned, but the Emperor refused
to listen to it; “he would die,” he said, “rather than give up Hierocles,
whatever they might think of his usefulness,” and this was all. Antonine
had recognised a grievance and remedied it; after which, in all
probability, the affair was dealt with by the regimental court-martial as
usual.

A comparison between Dion’s account of this “terrible uproar” and
Lampridius’ account of the futility of the whole proceeding leaves one
with the impression that once again Mamaea had failed in a dastardly
attempt on Antonine’s life. It is unthinkable that any assassin, however
stupid, would have warned the friends of his enemy concerning his
proposed attempt, as both Herodian and Lampridius testify that Antonine
did. Herodian, speaking generally of Antonine’s plots against Alexander,
says that “the Emperor was of so shallow and wicked a character that
he announced openly and without precaution what was in his mind, and
did the same without any concealment.” Lampridius says that he had the
foolishness to write to the boy’s guardians and tell them to do the deed.

As to the whole arrangement being a plot of Mamaea’s, there is much more
to be said. It would certainly not be to her advantage if Alexander’s
adoption was annulled: that project must be stopped at all costs;
why, therefore, should she not circulate the report that Antonine
was plotting a definite act against his cousin on a certain day? She
chose a day when, as she knew, the Emperor would be in a quiet spot and
defenceless. She could pay for a military rising, which, being quite a
usual occurrence, would account for everything, and then her troubles
would be over, her position secure for her lifetime. Unfortunately for
her, Soaemias heard of the plan and went to warn her son. When she got
to the gardens, she found that Mamaea’s money had not bought sufficient
people, and that the attempt was frustrated. If there had been any real
attempt made by an unpopular Emperor against a popular associate, some
definite arrangement would have been come to as regards the protection of
the person threatened, but, as far as we can see, things went on just as
usual. The Emperor still had command of the boy’s person, after as before
the rising, and the family still lived on in the palace, trying to brazen
out their treachery, facts which give the lie to Lampridius’ remark that
special regulations were made to keep the boys apart, as well as for
Alexander’s safety.

There is a phrase in Dion which is fairly conclusive as to the attitude
which his family were adopting towards Antonine at this period. It reads:
“this time” (in the camp conference, where it will be remembered that
the soldiers never mentioned putting their Emperor to death at all) “he
obtained mercy, though with difficulty, because his grandmother hated
him on account of his conduct, and because, not being even the son of
Antonine (Caracalla), her inclination was veering towards Alexander,
as if he had been in reality the issue of that prince.” This is a very
fair indication of the stories by means of which these women were
trying to ruin the boy; stories inspired by hatred. It seems that they
were perfectly willing to do anything, to say anything, to contradict
anything, they had formerly said, to spend anything, if only they could
collect a faction strong enough to support their schemes of replacing
Antonine by Alexander. Here is a good attempt to crush his popularity by
denying what they had formerly stated so enthusiastically—the bastardy of
Varius—and affirming instead that of Alexianus as being the only genuine
example; in fact, they were limiting the performances of Caracalla to
the unattractive sister, and denying Soaemias’ position. If they could
do that, they were more than capable of working up fury by reports of a
definite attempt on the only genuine bastard’s life, and thus justify
their attempt in the Gardens of Hope. The net result of this plot, by
whomsoever instituted, was the retirement of Alexander from public
notice. Herodian states that he was deprived of his honours. This,
however, cannot mean what the mendacious author seems to imply; namely,
that Antonine took from him his titles of Caesar and Imperator, as both
these occur on the Monza military diploma issued on 7th January 222, and
on the majority of the coins issued up to the death of Antonine in the
spring of that year. Mere empty titles were, however, of little or no use
to the imperial ladies.

Defeated as they had been in one scheme, their ingenuity turned to yet
another means of destroying the Emperor’s authority. The attempt above
mentioned cannot be dated precisely, but we may infer from Lampridius’
arrangement of his matter, that it was between the wine harvest and the
1st of January, on which date Mamaea made her last and successful attempt
to get her son into a definite political position. During the interval,
both Dion and Lampridius assure us, with tears in their eyes, that the
Emperor made daily attempts on the life of his cousin: a life so useful,
so necessary to the state.

To circumvent these Mamaea refused to allow Alexander to eat anything
from the imperial kitchens and set up a kitchen and establishment of
her own in the palace, an arrangement which would scarcely have been
sanctioned by Antonine if he had had any definite murderous object in
view, because it would have interfered too materially with such plans.
But there was obviously some gross negligence afoot. Any resolute ruler,
given a couple of days (even without Locusta’s famous stew of poison and
mushrooms, which Nero, in allusion to Claudius’ apotheosis, called the
food of the Gods), would have given the lie to that pious generalisation
of Lampridius about the impotence of the wicked, and done it in much the
same manner that Nero, Domitian, Commodus, and Caracalla had done; not
to mention others whose names it would be invidious to bring forward,
but who still firmly believe that the wicked, when suitably backed, have
a certain power in this world of woe, the wicked naturally being those
whom we personally dislike. Antonine seems to have been quite indifferent
as to what was going on; he knew that his position was precarious; Syrian
divines had told him that his doom was near; in consequence of which he
prepared several devices for a unique and splendid suicide; and lived
his life, a life in which the spintries—a form of amusement with which
Tiberius had refreshed an equally worried frame—figured largely, along
with other equally reprehensible enjoyments.

Of the actual politics we know little or nothing from the time of this
so-called revolution, until by some means or other, unknown to the
Emperor, Maesa got Alexander designated Consul for the year of grace
222. Here Antonine struck. He refused point blank to go to the Senate
to be invested with the dignity unless some one else were designated
instead of his cousin. He saw the game as clearly as you and I can see
it, and resolved to create a deadlock in the constitution. There should
be an Emperor, but no Consuls, unless, of course, the women and Senate
were prepared to give way. He was _not_ going to give official position
and authority to enemies whose object he knew only too well. Up to
this juncture he had succeeded in nullifying their machinations; did
they think he was going to give away his whole position now? Not he,
and so on, and so on. Here was a real difficulty—Rome without Consuls
was unthinkable. Antonine without supremacy was almost as impossible
a suggestion; still the women resolved to hold on, and try whether
patience and diplomacy would not appeal to his sentimental nature, and
thus overcome the last bit of opposition. After all, he was young, and
affection with children is so much more powerful than reason.

This time Maesa herself does not seem to have tried to influence the
boy. If we can believe Lampridius’ statements, that crafty old sinner
had already managed to worm herself back into the friendship of the boy
and his mother, by putting the odium of recent troubles entirely on to
the shoulders of her daughter Mamaea. In consequence, it was with a bold
carriage that she appeared in public with the Emperor, and in private
used her influence with Julia Soaemias, begging her to make it clear
to the dear boy that his refusal to take the consulship would be his
own undoing. Rome would never endure such a breach of the usual order.
The obvious thing would have been for Antonine to go away, but he seems
to have thought, right up to midday on 1st January, that the Senate
and his relations would give way first. Then, suddenly yielding to his
mother’s entreaties, he consented to the plan, and, going to the Senate,
he associated Alexander with himself in the consular dignity, thereby
signing his own death warrant.

January 1, 222, was the beginning of the end. It is very pitiful to see
the multitudinous wiles by means of which, all through his reign, craft
circumvented what the Emperor obviously knew was his correct and proper
course. Sometimes, as we see, it was his zeal for religion to which they
appealed, sometimes his love for his mother. In each case the result
was the same, the Emperor did what his political instinct told him was
unwise, in response to what he considered a higher motive. The adoption
had not carried with it the authority which the women desired; the office
of Consul was, therefore, vitally necessary for Alexander’s promotion.
Antonine was bound to refuse his consent to the plan; he was permanent
Consul if he liked, and would associate no one with himself of whom he
disapproved. What did it matter to him if people talked of the discord;
had they not done so ever since Maesa and Mamaea started out on their
electioneering campaign? The truth would certainly be better for him than
his relations’ lies; for himself, he was not afraid of danger, though
Soaemias, the well-meaning and artless, was, and for her sake Antonine
gave himself up, an unwilling victim, into the hands of his enemies.
It was shortly after midday when he went to the Curia accompanied by
the self-satisfied little enormity, and there, in the presence of his
grandmother, he consented to give the women all that official power and
authority which they had hitherto struggled vainly to obtain.

Henceforward, both Dion and Lampridius tell us that the Emperor sought
his cousin’s life to take it from him. Not that the continual reiteration
of the accusation, when contrasted with the utter futility of Antonine’s
masterful inaction, is in any way convincing; this we have already
pointed out, and can add nothing to the discussion here.

Lampridius recounts one quite amusing action, which, if it were true,
would give a certain probability to his stories. Antonine, having
resolved to kill Alexander, because the tension of this continual running
fight had become too great for his nerves, determined to dissolve the
Senate first; fearing that, should they be sitting when Alexander died,
they might elect some one else instead of the murderer. The chief reason
for doubting this story is that no Antonine had ever yet had the smallest
occasion to fear anything untoward from the action of that august
assembly, and it is most improbable that this Antonine was going to begin
now. Emperors had always taken the Senate’s concurrence in their actions
for granted, and had invariably met with entire subservience.

But to proceed with the beautifully circumstantial details, which,
as usual, Lampridius makes as glaringly mendacious as they are
circumstantial. The Senators, he says, were told to leave the city at
once; those who had neither carriages nor servants were told to run; some
hired porters; others were lucky and got carriages. One only, a Consular,
by name Sabinus, the personage to whom Ulpian had dedicated his works,
and who, being Severa’s father, one would have thought might reasonably
have remained, did not go sufficiently rapidly for the Emperor’s liking;
in fact, he stayed in the city in defiance of the order, and must have
walked abroad very openly, for the Emperor saw him, and whispered to a
centurion, “Kill that man!” Now, the centurion was deaf, and thought the
order was “Chase that man,” which order he promptly executed. Thus the
infirmity of a “mere common centurion” saved Sabinus’ life, and gave the
world the works of Ulpian with the dedication above mentioned. Now, if,
as seems the case, Ulpian’s dedication of his works to this Consular is
dependent on Sabinus being the man saved from Antonine’s rapacity and
cruelty, the whole story is a lie, along with the palpable untruth about
the dedication. Ulpian never mentioned this gentleman, either by name,
implication, or in any other fashion, which is just a bit awkward for
Aelius Lampridius, who might at least have taken the trouble to consult
the title-page of Ulpian’s works or have asked somebody else to do the
job for him, if he was too tired with his former efforts at inventing
fiction. The name is certainly mentioned in the commentaries which Ulpian
wrote on the famous jurist of Tiberius’ period, but that is naturally
another story altogether.

There is yet another effort made to drag Ulpian into this same chapter,
namely, when Lampridius says that part of Antonine’s scheme for the
murder of Alexander was to deprive him of his tutors, one of whom he
banished (Ulpian), while Silvinus, the distinguished orator, whom the
Emperor himself had recommended, was put to death. Both of these men
suffered because they were great and good men. Now, Ulpian we know,
Julius Paulus we know also (though quite why he was left by Alexander’s
side when good men were banished we are not told; unless it be that, for
the moment, he was hiding his light under a bushel); but who on earth
was Silvinus? His name is not given amongst that exhaustive list of
nonentities marshalled out by Lampridius (_Alex. Sev. vita_, xxxii.) as
the men who had failed to teach Alexander Latin, after an effort which
lasted from his earliest babyhood up to the time of his death; neither
is he mentioned in any other place, either by this author or in any
other record of Antonine’s cruelties; on which account we feel inclined
to relegate him, with other doubtful blessings, to the special limbo
reserved for all similarly inspired terminological inexactitudes, and
proceed to recount the rapidity with which Mamaea found means to make up
for lost time in acquiring her authority.

Needless to say, even here Lampridius’ fabrications are as difficult
to reconcile with Dion and Herodian’s stories as those two authors are
impossible to square with one another. Of course the two last were both
eye-witnesses of the scenes they recount, and tell us so, with some
pride, a circumstance which in no way hinders them from seeing things
double, and calling them different aspects of the same truth, after the
manner of theologians when they are in a conciliatory frame of mind.

For the murder of Antonine Lampridius assigns no adequate reason, giving
instead two suppositions of his own—first, that the Praetorians feared
Antonine’s vengeance on account of the attack which they had made on him
some months previously, and for which he had then and there forgiven
them; but, says Lampridius, despite this forgiveness, the soldiers
killed him in cold blood. Second, that on account of the hatred he had
testified towards them (presumably in not seeing to their donatives),
they resolved to rid the Republic of this pest, and began by putting to
death, first, the friends of the Emperor by various foul and indecent
means, and then, having got these out of the way, they openly attacked
Antonine in the latrinae, and killed him.

Dion’s account is more circumstantial, and brings Alexander and Mamaea
into the horrid scene. His story is that the two Consuls, during
a meeting of the Praetorians, summoned on account of one of the
multitudinous plots against Alexander, went into the camp, that their
two mothers followed, fighting one another more openly than usual, each
imploring the soldiers to kill her sister’s son. We are then told that
Antonine, quite contrary to his custom, got frightened, rushed from
the scene and disappeared into a chest. This was apparently a foolish
and obvious hiding-place, whence he was soon dragged in order to have
his head cut off, while his mother held him in her arms. Naturally, as
the operation of killing one without the other in such a position was
difficult, Soaemias perished along with her son.

Herodian, always the most circumstantial and picturesque liar,
substitutes for the story of the sudden dissolution of the Senate, a
report which he says Antonine caused to be circulated. It was to the
effect that Alexander was ill, so ill that he was likely to die at any
moment. By this means Antonine hoped to keep the boy shut up in the
palace until the soldiers and citizens had forgotten him, when he would
be able to put him out of the way quietly. Of course this would have been
an admirable plan if the boy had had no fond mother or grandmother to
look after his interests, but was rather futile when one considers that
these ladies, after striving to rule for four years, had at last got
the power into their own hands by appointing Alexander Consul. It was
extremely improbable, therefore, that both Maesa and Mamaea were going
to keep their mouths closed and say nothing when, in the full flush of
their triumph, they saw their puppet, and with him their own power, being
put _hors de combat_ in a slow and lingering manner. As usual, Herodian
never thought of these things, and ascribed the whole action to the
Praetorians. These turbulent guardsmen, when they began to miss the young
Consul, decided to mutiny again, the present form being a refusal to turn
out the palace guard until Alexander should reappear in the temples.

On the face of things, this was a most irrational proceeding. If the
Praetorians wanted to save Alexander and suspected that foul play was
about to be perpetrated in the palace, surely they would have gone to
their posts as usual, and then used their official position to rescue the
boy, instead of shutting themselves up in their camp, and leaving him
to his fate quite unprotected. This apparently did not occur, either to
the soldiers or Herodian, who announces that when the guards refused to
come to the palace, Antonine (instead of finishing the work and showing
the dead body in the temples) was simply penetrated with the usual
fear—always imputed and never lived up to, unfortunately for Herodian.
In order to demonstrate to the soldiers just how frightened he was, the
Emperor did the one thing that no terrified person could possibly have
done, he set out in a litter for the camp—utterly unprotected, of course,
because he had no guards. The litter is fully described, namely, the
state litter, sparkling with gold and precious stones. With Antonine
went Alexander, presumably, as the story develops, in order to foster
the hatred which the soldiers felt towards the Emperor, and raise to a
frenzy the love they bore Alexander. It was as usual a journey in which
the Emperor courted death; in fact, the number of times that Antonine
imperilled his precious life is simply astounding to any one who studies
these delightful romances. But to proceed. When the litter arrived, the
gates of the camp were opened, and the Consuls were conducted to the
chapel, which occupied a central position in the enclosure. This leads
one to suppose, considering also the magnificence of the carriage, that
the visit was one of an official nature, in which the two Consuls were
bound to go together. The chapel also was an ominous place, as it was
here that Caracalla had played the farce of regretting his part in,
if not of exculpating himself from, the murder of his brother Geta.
Of course, things happened just as was expected; the visit did foster
loyalty to Alexander, who was received as a deliverer with acclamation,
and raised to fever pitch all the evil passions against Antonine, who was
received with perfect coldness. Despite this inauspicious reception,
the Emperor elected to stay the night in the camp chapel, the better to
meditate on his wrongs, which was obviously an unlikely proceeding on the
part of the young Sybarite.

Next morning he held a court-martial to try the soldiers who had made
themselves conspicuous by the warmth of their reception of Alexander.
Herodian and the Emperor seem to have quite forgotten that the guards
were mutinying, as we hear no more of that story, though obviously they
ought to have been tried for that offence first. At any rate, Antonine,
still penetrated with terror, condemned these men to death as seditious
persons. The soldiers, transported with rage at his treatment of their
companions, and filled with hatred of the Emperor, conceived the notion
of succouring their imprisoned brethren by upsetting the dishonoured
Emperor. Time and pretext were admirable; they killed Antonine and with
him Soaemias, who was present, both as his mother and as Empress; they
then included in the massacre all those of the cortège who were in the
camp, and known to be Antonine’s ministers or accomplices in his crimes.
They then gave the bodies to the mob, to be dragged about the streets
of Rome, finally throwing that of the Emperor into the Tiber from the
Aemilian Bridge. All this was presumably done under the eyes of, and with
the consent of Eutychianus, the Emperor’s friend and chief minister, who
was, it will be remembered, in command of the Praetorians at the time.

A careful comparison of these three stories reveals the fact that none of
the eye-witnesses saw the same things, and none ascribe the deed to the
same motive. All agree, however, in shifting the responsibility from the
shoulders of the former conspirators on to those of the Praetorians. No
one except Dion Cassius mentions either Maesa or Mamaea, and he merely
says that Mamaea and Soaemias both urged murder each of her sister’s son.
No mention is made of Antonine’s supposed plot against his cousin; in
fact, all reference to plots against Alexander, Maesa, and Mamaea is here
carefully eliminated, surely with an object; since it has been the great
reason given heretofore for the Emperor’s unpopularity, and precarious
position. But let us attempt to reconstruct the events of this memorable
day. From Herodian we learn that the state litter was used; that in it
travelled the two Consuls, accompanied by at least the Empress mother;
Fulvius Diogenianus, the Praefect of Rome; Aurelius Eubulus, who, as
chancellor of the exchequer, had made himself extremely unpopular by
robbing hen-roosts (Dion), and was in consequence torn to pieces by the
mob; Hierocles, the Emperor’s friend and husband (who had recently been
designated Caesar, presumably as a sort of set-off to Alexander), and two
out of the three Praetorian praefects.

Dion and Lampridius both suggest that the Emperor tried to escape.
Herodian, with the fullest account, makes no mention of this fact;
neither Lampridius nor Dion agree, however, as to the mode of Antonine’s
proposed escape. The incident of the latrinae, mentioned by Lampridius,
suggests a murder similar in circumstance to that of Caracalla. What
would have been easier than for one of Mamaea’s party to seize the boy,
alone and unprotected in the latrinae? The Emperor once gone, the obvious
thing would be for the conspirators to remove as quickly as possible
all those persons who might make things difficult for his successor.
Of these, Soaemias would certainly be the most troublesome. Hot and
passionate, devoted to her son and to his memory, if she had lived,
Rome would have resounded with the noise of the crime. It was obviously
necessary to close her mouth with expedition. Why Eutychianus did not
suffer the same fate is quite incomprehensible. The only theory that has
been suggested is that neither Maesa nor Mamaea felt themselves capable
of undertaking the whole administration alone; they felt that they must
have at least one man who knew the ropes at their back.

To account for the treatment of Antonine’s body at the hands of the mob
is certainly difficult. We know that he had done nothing which could have
rendered him obnoxious to the populace. To ascribe it to intolerance
of his psychopathic condition shows, not only ignorance of Roman
susceptibilities, but also a foolish ante-dating of popular prejudice.
We certainly have no record of this Emperor’s sepulchre; and to dismiss
as mere fable the one point on which the authors all agree is equally
impossible. The probable solution lies in the fact that Mamaea’s money,
which had caused the murder, invented this scheme for disgracing her
nephew’s memory, and thus averted trouble from herself. It would raise
a popular tumult, or at any rate a disgust for the idol of the masses,
if they could have Antonine’s body dragged through the city publicly, as
the perpetrator of unmentionable crimes, concerning which the populace
knew nothing. Suffice it to say that it did the work. Antonine had the
stigma of all crimes imputed to his memory; and Alexander the good arose
superior to all human frailties. Then and not till then, Rome began to
be shocked. Men whose fortunes Antonine had made by his liberality, the
Senate, whom he had snubbed so unmercifully, the army to whose donatives
he had not attended properly, all these found it advisable to adopt
the views of the new administration; their education in ingratitude
was complete. Instead of the generous, fearless, affectionate boy whom
the populace had known, there emerged the sceptred butcher ill with
satyriasis; the taciturn tyrant, hideous and debauched, the unclean
priest, devising in the crypts of a palace infamies so monstrous that
to describe them new words had to be coined. It was Mamaea’s work, and
for 1800 years no one has had the audacity to look below the surface and
unmask the deception.




CHAPTER VII

SUPPLEMENTARY MATTER CONCERNING THE YEARS 221-222

_Antonine’s Government from 221 to 222 A.D._


The events of the years 221 and until March 222 are mainly a record of
internecine fights and struggles; the Emperor was trying to retain his
position in the state, the women leaving no stone unturned to possess
themselves of power in Alexander’s name. We have traced the events which
led to the adoption of Alexander, and noticed the small amount of power
which his position as heir to the Empire actually put into the hands
of Maesa and Mamaea. We have seen further how the repudiation of the
adoption by Antonine lessened even this modicum of power, and how the
successful attempt to make Alexander Consul gained for their puppet the
official position from which the terms of his adoption had excluded him.
Once that position was secured, we have watched the successful plot
against the Emperor’s life, which placed Maesa and Mamaea in actual
command of the state under the merely nominal headship of Alexander. It
only remains for us to follow the governmental acts of these last months
of Antonine’s life, as far as the authorities will allow.

The first recorded action after the adoption of Alexander was one of
religion. The ostensible object of the ceremony on 10th July, or rather
earlier, had been to free the chief priest of Elagabal from his secular
duties, in order that he might further the worship of the Great God.
To this end, Antonine instituted a magnificent religious procession
through the city, taking his God from the temple on the Palatine to that
in the suburbs. Herodian, with his usual inaccuracy, announces that
this ceremony took place each year at midsummer. Now, the temple on the
Palatine was not finished by midsummer of the year 220, judging from
the coins which celebrate the expansion of the cult, and that near the
Porta Praenestina was even later in its completion. The inference is,
therefore, that the procession could not possibly have taken place in the
year 220 at midsummer. Further evidence is, however, forthcoming; Cohen
mentions certain Roman coins struck in honour of the procession; they
show the God on a car, and date from the latter part of the year 221, by
which time the suburban temple was finished and the procession certainly
took place.

[Illustration: Jovi Ultiori. The Eliogabalium as reconsecrated to
Jupiter, A.D. 224. (From a woodcut.)

Coin struck to commemorate the Procession of Elagabal, A.D. 221 (British
Museum).

Coin of A.D. 221 representing the Eliogabalium. (From a photogravure.)

_Face page 174._]

Before midsummer in the year 222, according to Dion, Antonine was dead.
He did not therefore conduct the Elagabal procession, and as the authors
inform us that Alexander sent the God back to Emesa with considerable
expedition, after reconsecrating the temple to Jupiter, it is very
unlikely that Alexander continued the public parade of an unpopular
worship, even though the God was still in Rome at the time mentioned.

Despite Herodian’s statement that Alexander, as well as Antonine, was
a priest of the Sun, it is fairly certain that the former was never
actually associated with his cousin in that priesthood, and was not in
the least likely to begin the worship after Antonine’s death. The obvious
inference is that, as usual, Herodian was speaking without his book;
_each_ year meant that there was one procession, and one only, namely at
midsummer in the year 221.

The correct interpretation of this function belongs to specialists in
Semitic mythology. There are points about it, however, which incline
one to the idea that its institution in Rome was due to the marriage
of Elagabal and Juno Coelestis. Its real significance lies in the
fact that it took place at midsummer. Ramsay tells us of many such
processions in the East, notably those held during the month Tammuz,
which (owing to the variations of the local Syrian calendars) fell in
various places at different times between June and September. Now, these
processions celebrated the nuptials of the divine pair Ishtar-Tammuz or
Aphrodite-Adonis. The worship of this pair centred at Bylus, not 100
miles from Emesa, and from this shrine, in all probability, Antonine
got his idea of the great procession, made memorable by the coins
struck during the year 221, and also by the inscription to Hercules,
erected either in the latter part of the year 221 or early in 222
(Domaszewski) by the Centurion Masculinus Valens, the standard-bearer
Aurelius Fabianus, and the adjutant Valerius Ferminus, all of the Tenth
Antonine Cohort of the Praetorian Guard. This inscription records their
having taken part in the sacred procession, which seems to have been
of a military as well as of a religious character. The magnificence
was extraordinary. The chariot on which the God was transported was
richly covered with gold and precious stones; great umbrellas were at
each corner. It was drawn by six white horses (the coins give them all
abreast), and the reins were so arranged as to make it appear that the
God himself was driving, while the horses were actually guided by the
Emperor, running backwards, and supported on either side by guards lest
anything untoward should happen. Statues of the Gods, costly offerings,
and the insignia of imperial power were carried, while the Equestrian
order and the Praetorian Guards followed.

The streets were strewn thick with yellow sand, powdered with gold
dust, and the whole route was lined by the populace, carrying torches
and strewing flowers in the path of God. Precisely the same thing may
be seen to-day following the same route and at the same time of the
year. The procession of the Corpus Domini is still a popular function
even in modern Rome, though its termination is no longer the occasion
for temporal blessings such as Antonine’s liberality provided. Herodian
mentions this liberality, and condemns it as a sort of diabolical plot
for the extermination of the citizens. He says that when the festival
was over, Antonine used to mount on towers especially constructed for
the purpose, and distribute to the crowd vases of gold and silver,
clothes and stuffs of all sorts, fat oxen and other animals, clean and
unclean, except pigs, which were forbidden to him by his Phoenician (not
Jewish) custom. Presumably the distribution was by tickets, exchangeable
for these gifts, of which he says each was at liberty to take what he
could seize. In the scramble, many citizens perished either by crushing
one another, or by throwing themselves, in their eagerness, on the
lances of the soldiers. The consequence was that the festival became a
misfortune to many families. But surely to make Antonine responsible for
the greediness of the crowd is as absurd as to record the fiction that
he smothered people with flowers, or took luncheon in the circus when he
was interested in the games, and then evince such harmless amusements as
proofs of cruelty.

As we recorded in the last chapter, it was certainly not long before
Antonine discovered that he had made a vital mistake in adopting his
cousin. We are led to infer that the boys had not seen much of one
another for some time previously, as Mamaea had kept them apart, fearing
her son’s contamination. Now that Alexander was actually in the palace
and in daily contact with the Emperor, incompatibility of temper was the
natural result, though in several places we are informed that Antonine
loved his cousin at least up to 1st January, which interesting fact may
be doubted on psychological as well as on the historical grounds already
recorded. His second mistake had been in marrying his grandmother’s
elderly friend Annia Faustina.

By the autumn of 221 the Emperor had resolved (as we have already
pointed out) to rid himself of both encumbrances at once. For Antonine,
divorces, like marriages, were made in heaven, an opinion which he had
no desire to hide from men. He therefore divorced Annia Faustina without
intending to live a single life, even for a time, because he had grown
weary, was tired of this struggle with his relations. Moreover, he
wanted friends; the _coup d’état_ by which he had freed himself from
the irksomeness of Alexander’s sonship, or had at least tried to do so,
and by which he had at the same time got rid of his third wife, had
naturally caused a break with his family; after which the Emperor seems
to have considered himself at perfect liberty to make any appointments
he chose, and to mismanage the state much as a Claudius or a Macrinus
might have done. It was a period, according to Lampridius, when Antonine
was specially drawn to members of the theatrical profession. Now such
persons are admirable in their proper place, but are not much sought
after in governmental positions. Unfortunately, the Emperor did not
know this fact, and, considering himself emancipated, did as Nero,
Titus, Domitian, or Caracalla would have done: he appointed his friends
everywhere. The biographers, of course, assume that the men appointed
were of loose character, as well as of base origin, without supplying a
tittle of evidence either as to who the men were or what they did when
in responsible positions. The supposition is that they were appointed on
account of abnormalities; the result, as chronicled, is that the state
did not suffer from their mismanagement.

We can quite see the point of view of a boy feverishly anxious to regain
the power and authority which he had lost, and imagining that the one
way to do this was to put his own friends into office, whether they were
barbers, runners, cooks, or locksmiths. Lampridius tells us that men
from each of these trades were appointed as procurators of the 20th,
though how many such appointments Antonine made it is impossible to
discover. In the autumn of this year (221) the soldiers asked for the
dismissal of four such favourites, of whom the Chariot-Driver Gordius,
Praefect of the Night Watch, was one; Claudius Censor, Praefect of the
Sustenances, another. In the same passage Lampridius reiterates the old
lie about Eutychianus Comazon, who had been reappointed Praefect of the
Praetorian Guard about January 222. He again calls Eutychianus an actor,
who changed his offices as quickly as he would have changed his parts
on the stage, and records that it was the height of folly to put him in
command of the guards. In all probability it was annoying to Mamaea,
as she might not be able to bribe the guards as freely as heretofore.
Now, we have already seen that Eutychianus Comazon was a soldier as far
back as the year 182; that he had held this same office (Praefect of the
Praetorium) in 218; that he had been Praefect of the City in 219, Consul
in 220; again Praefect of the City in 221, and that, when in the murders
and proscriptions which followed that of Antonine, the then Praefect of
Rome Fulvius Diogenianus had met his end, Comazon was reappointed to the
city praefecture for the third time, and now by Maesa and Mamaea. It is,
therefore, pure stupidity to condemn Antonine for appointing this actor
(!) to a post in 222 which he had already held with honour, and which he
was to hold again with renown. If none of Antonine’s appointments were
worse than this of Eutychianus Comazon, it is small wonder that the state
suffered in no wise from the mismanagement. A further charge brought
against the administration is, that the Emperor appointed freedmen to the
posts of Governors of Provinces, Ambassadors, Proconsuls, and military
leaders, thus debasing all these offices by conferring them upon the
ignoble and dissolute.

Here is another wilful bit of misrepresentation. A short perusal of
Petronius on the position of freedmen will disabuse any one’s mind of the
idea that they were either ignoble or essentially dissolute. Patricians
they were not, though they aped the manners and extravagances of that
class, much as the plutocracy of to-day ape the aristocracy of yesterday,
both in their wealth and their exclusiveness. Money in Old Rome carried
much the same kudos as it carries in England to-day. The democracy could
and did rise when they had acquired wealth; they were then just as
vulgar, just as ostentatious, just as snobbish as their successors the
plutocrats of this latter-day world; they had the privileges that wealth
confers and none of the responsibilities which aristocracy involves, and
were, equally with the modern plutocrats, without traditions or heredity
to guide them. But this was their misfortune, not their fault. On the
other hand, there was, as a general rule, plenty of ability amongst the
men who had risen. They were clear-headed, far-sighted politicians;
men who, being free from traditions, were best able to cut away the
overgrowth of centuries, because their respect for archaeological
institutions had not degenerated them into mere fossilized curiosities of
an antediluvian age. Certainly they were not all ignoble, if they were
plebeian in origin, and it is mere supposition to say that they were all
dissolute; so indecent a suggestion could only emanate from those who
hoped to gain in comparison.

There was one obvious reason why Maesa and her party should object to
any and every appointment made by Antonine. Men thus appointed would not
be her nominees, and she could not therefore demand the fees payable on
such occasions. This mention of fees brings one to the second part of the
charge against the Emperor, namely, that he sold offices either himself
or through his favourites. It would certainly be more satisfactory if
we knew something as to what he sold, to whom he sold it, or for how
much he sold it. Lampridius is careful not to mention such trivial and
minor details, he just brings the accusation, without either proof or
real likelihood to support it. The main contention seems to be that
the practice is immoral; if so, immorality is as rife to-day as in
third-century Rome. Sovereigns, ministers, cabinets, universities,
churches, in fact every species of authority confers its own offices,
decorations, titles, and sinecures, for all of which fees are still
chargeable, even exacted. This practice of royalties may account for the
charge, as it is unlikely, psychologically speaking, that Antonine would
ever have sought to profit pecuniarily from his friends, and certainly he
would not have appointed enemies, even for money’s sake; he had learnt
too much about the ways of such people in the bosom of his own family.
We have remarked in other places on Antonine’s penchant for giving, and
can well believe that the boy bestowed favours broadcast; that he sought
to fill offices as they fell vacant, by the appointment of friends,
especially with men who had endeared themselves to him, men from whom he
expected loyalty in return for his devotion and generosity. Poor child,
he had yet to learn that sycophants are ever to be bought by the highest
bidder. Lampridius relates the trouble and increase of difficulty which,
by their disloyalty, venality, and unbridled gossip, these men brought
upon their benefactor in return for his trust. Fortunately for all
parties concerned, they met their deaths (doubtless unwilling victims)
along with the master whom they had betrayed. They thought they had
secured themselves, but found they would have done better to secure him,
which is not an unusual position with traitors.

Amongst the number of appointments made for his own pleasure during this
period we must include the return of Aquilia Severa to the position
of wife and Empress. Dion relates that, between the divorce of Annia
Faustina and the return of the nun to connubial felicity, Antonine took
two women to wife; but adds sapiently that even he does not know who they
were, or when the marriages took place. Now, as the time between the
divorce of Annia and the Emperor’s death cannot greatly have exceeded
three months, and as he was obviously desirous of returning to Aquilia
Severa from the first, the story of the two odd wives may be dismissed
as not proven, another of those terminological inexactitudes which seem
to be inseparable from the political amenities of every age; added to
which we must remember that Antonine was still so passionately devoted to
Hierocles that he would willingly have died rather than be parted from
him.

The return of the nun was the crowning point in Antonine’s folly.
Undoubtedly he was getting more and more worried, was feverishly anxious
to repair the damage to his shattered power, was ready to catch at any
straw that would give him encouragement and help. In his extremity he
turned to the one woman for whom he had ever cared,—if we except his
mother, who, poor woman, was of an artfulness so bovine that her support
was a much more useful asset in his enemies’ game than to his own
position. For Antonine, unfortunately, Aquilia Severa was also worse than
useless; she may have cared for him, but her return spelt his ruin and
destruction.

Not that Antonine was by any means at the end of his resources as yet. If
he hesitated, no one knew it. Like Caligula, he must have spent nearly
£400,000,000 of our money, and was radiant because he had achieved the
impossible. But he was worried, and, again like Caligula, in the nick
of time he remembered the sure and certain way to glory. As an Antonine
at the head of a conquering army he would again advance against the
Marcomanni, the men inhabiting Bavaria and Bohemia, whom Commodus had
reduced.

Now, the oracles had predicted that an Antonine should finish this war,
a circumstance which commended itself to the Emperor from more points of
view than one. Like every religious person in the Empire Antonine was
superstitious. Zonaras recounts that the boy wore 600 amulets; but, as
he was not there to see, and the contemporary authors do not mention the
fact, we can dismiss this with similarly exaggerated stories. Not that
the use of these aids to piety or tickets to heaven is even now extinct;
the idea may still be found set forth, with both precision and logic, in
any manual of prayers under the heading “Brown Scapular,” or “St. Simon
Stock.” More ridiculous and more wicked were the figments of imagination,
by means of which men tried to dissuade Antonine from undertaking this
war. They told him that these Marcomanni had been conquered by means of
enchantments and magic ceremonies, the sole property of Chaldeans and
other soothsayers. Remove these enchantments, and those same enemies of
the Empire would break out into open rebellion once more. Antonine,
therefore, sought to know the enchantments and how to destroy them, so
that a pretext might be found for recommencing the war, which he, as an
Antonine, was eager to finish, lest that honour should fall to another.
Here even Lampridius is sympathetic; he says that a war would have
enabled the Emperor to merit the name of Antonine, which he, along with
nearly all the others, had sullied; but the opportunity was not given
him; death came too soon to enable him to make the preparations.

Lampridius now enters upon a few more pious reflections, and in the
course of his argument a few more terminological inexactitudes concerning
the Emperor’s name and family history. He states that Antonine had not
only usurped that august name, but had profaned it, until it became
a name of public ridicule; that he was called nothing but Varius and
Heliogabalus. These remarks are both unnecessary and untrue. The Emperor
was never called either Varius or Heliogabalus. The name of his God,
which he assumed at Nicomedia, was never in any sort of way an official
title; neither does Varius appear on any known coin, inscription, or
document. This Emperor is frequently cited as Priest of Elagabal, Priest
of the Most High God, which title was, by the way, often obliterated on
the monuments instead of the name Antonine, when Alexander defaced, or
partly defaced, these after his cousin’s death.

Like the name Jahwe, the El of the Hebrews, this name Elagabal, the El of
the Emesans, was in all probability considered too holy for common use,
at least during the Emperor’s lifetime. After his death, it was applied
to him as a sort of nickname, just as Caligula or Caracalla had been
applied to former Emperors, or even like the term “Romanist” was applied
more recently to the last Stuart King of this country.[58]

To this latter period of the reign we may ascribe a certain amount
of Antonine’s activity in building. Lampridius mentions at least two
monuments of importance, the first a gigantic column which he purposed to
erect, a staircase inside, round which should be engraved or chiselled,
not the history of the Emperor’s deeds, not even the history of the
family exploits, but a record of the miracles which God had wrought, and
for which men gave thanks. Antonine was murdered before the project could
be fulfilled, and Rome lost the finest of those most beautiful relics of
antiquity—the columns which still grace her forums and market-places. The
second was a high tower which he built in accordance with the prophecy
of certain Syrian priests, that his death as well as his life should be
violent. All traces of this tower and its location have disappeared; so
have the sheets of gold covered with jewels, with which he paved the
court below, in pursuance of his desire to perish magnificently. The idea
of this extravagance was that of a splendid suicide, to be accomplished
by throwing himself from the summit of the tower on to the sparkling
beauty beneath, thus finding sensuousness even in death. Antonine had
read Iambulus; he knew the history of the men in the Fortunate Isles,
who, when they were overtaken by the ennui of sheer happiness, lay on
perfumed grass which had the faculty of producing a voluptuous death.
His conception was not so easy, but what it lost in ease it gained in
splendour.

In addition to these works, mention must be made of the completion of the
Antonine baths, now known as those of Caracalla, the Thermae Varianae
on the Aventine, which are variously named by Pauly as Thermae Syrae or
Surae, and the hall built for the Senaculum on the Quirinal. These are
authentic works, and there are many other instances cited by Lampridius
of this Emperor’s passion for building. We hear of houses, baths, huge
salt-water lakes, built in the mountains and fastnesses of the country
districts. All these were erected, so the story goes, but for a moment,
as temporary shelters for the monarch when travelling, and were destroyed
when once he had reached his next habitation. Even Lampridius states that
such records are obviously false, the inventions of those who wished
to malign Antonine, once Alexander was possessed of the supreme power,
sycophants Lampridius calls them, who makes such a poor show himself when
occupying that unenviable position at Constantine’s bidding.

There is yet another point which must be examined in connection with
the murder of this Emperor, namely the so-called disaffection of the
soldiers. Time and again, throughout the history of the reign, we learn
from coins and inscriptions that Antonine was popular with all ranks
of the army. On the other hand, we have the repeated assurance of all
authors, both Greek and Latin, that the Emperor was continually losing
his popularity.

More reliance could be placed on the written testimony if the authors
agreed as to when this popularity was lost. As a matter of fact,
Lampridius ascribes the beginning, progress, and culmination of this
dislike to each separate year; on the later occasions, seemingly, because
he had forgotten that he had already stated definitely that the affection
for the Emperor was a thing of the past. Nevertheless, the story cannot
be entirely dismissed as a mere fable, since there were two military
risings or disturbances, in the second of which the Emperor lost his life.

The question must occur as to whether these are traceable to actual
disaffection or to some conspiracy. The side-lights which all authors
throw on the progress of events leave no doubt in our minds that the two
risings were definite conspiracies, worked up by interested persons,—such
wholly unsuccessful plots as those of Seius Carus and Pomponius Bassus
may be left out of consideration here, as they were at once discovered
and as easily frustrated. The fact remains, however, that Antonine
was killed, most probably in the Praetorian camp, and that his body,
having been dragged about the city, was thrown into the Tiber, near the
Aemilian Bridge, or else cast down a drain which ran into the river, in
order to show contempt for his sacred person. Again, there was no effort
made to punish the wrong-doers. The Praetorians themselves, when they
knew of the murder, made no outcry, which circumstances tend to show a
certain amount of acquiescence on the part of the soldiers and people.
How, then, had Antonine alienated in 222 the men who in 220 testified
such devotion to his person and rule?

A considerable amount of disaffection can be traced to the foolish
neglect which the Emperor showed towards his troops. He was their
nominee; to them he owed his throne. He had promised them the money,
privileges, and affection which had been his father’s special care. Once
in sure possession of the Empire, this policy was changed. The first
congiary in 218 was undoubtedly accompanied by a donative of satisfying
amplitude. At the second (on the occasion of his first marriage) we are
told that the Emperor gave more to the humblest citizen of Rome, more to
the wives of the Senators, than he bestowed on the men who had placed
him on the throne a year previously. There is no record of any other
liberality until the early part of the year 221, on the occasion of the
dual marriage, his own with Aquilia Severa and that of his God with
Vesta, the Madonna of Old Rome. On this occasion no mention is made of
any money distributed to the military forces. The same may be said for
the fourth liberality, given in July 221, to celebrate the adoption of
Alexander.

These official liberalities were by no means the only distributions
by which Antonine endeared himself to the civilian populace. On the
occasion of his taking the Consulate, he went out of his way to bestow
magnificent gifts on the populace. After the great summer procession in
221 he distributed a vast number of costly presents amongst the crowd. He
instituted two lotteries, one for the comedians, one for the citizens.
He gave to his friends and to the poor more than they could carry away,
but on all of these occasions we are expressly told that he limited his
generosity to the civil population.

Obviously Antonine was tired of the army. And, being Emperor, he decided
to give to whomsoever he pleased, to neglect whom he would. It was not
immoral, at least in our judgment, it was stupid, which is far worse,
and, as every one has discovered for himself, stupidity brings greater
penalties than immorality.

Of the fourth and fifth congiaries, concerning which Mediobarbus speaks,
we can say nothing, as in the opinion of competent numismatists (Cohen
and Eckhel) they do not belong to this reign at all; there certainly
are coins bearing the inscription “Marcus Aurelius Antoninus,” and on
the obverse “Liberalitas V. VI.”; but science and discrimination now
assign these to the reign of Caracalla, not to that of the Emperor under
discussion.

There is certainly one point of view from which this neglect of the
soldiers appeared immoral, namely, the military. Promises had been made
and, as is usual with promises, they had been broken. Mamaea took
advantage of this circumstance, and small wonder if, her secret, though
regular, distributions aiding, the lords of Rome felt that their position
was ignominious when they saw others, actors, sycophants, loafers,
procurers, strumpets, and the like, receiving what they felt was theirs
by right; small wonder if they listened to and profited by her promises
of the substantial gratitude which would follow the substitution of
Alexander for the ungrateful civilian who now held the purse-strings.

It must be confessed that Mamaea’s money and promises were of little
effect while Antonine lived. The Emperor was certainly well served.
Each plot was easily frustrated; never would sufficient men turn out
in rebellion. When he died, those whom she had paid most liberally
convinced the rest of their proper attitude, and the first liberality
of Alexander’s reign was a sufficient _pourboire_ to close most mouths.
Those who created disturbances followed their master to the grave, or
rather the cloaca.

The exact time of Antonine’s murder is, as we have said, most uncertain.
Dion ascribes to him a tenure of power lasting 3 years 9 months and 4
days from the day of the battle in which he gained supreme command—8th
June 218. This fixes the day of his death as 11th March 222. It is
a statement with which the editors of the _Prosopographia_, Groebe,
Salzer, and Rubensohn, all agree. The _Liber generationis_[59] gives
6 years 8 months and 28 days, and is supported by the _Chronicle_ of
354, which gives equally explicitly 6 years 8 months and 18 days. The
discrepancy is at first sight most disconcerting, especially as the two
latter statements are both—at least nominally—official. The coins limit
the reign to four years at the outside, in consequence of which some
explanation has to be found for the extraordinary addition of three
years in both the _Chronicle_ and the _Liber generationis_. Mommsen has
suggested that a deflection of the two first strokes of III in the number
of the years has created the error in both these documents. Later writers
have accounted for the difference between Dion’s VIIII months and the
VIII of the Latin sources, as due to the omission of one stroke in the
latter, the confusion in the number of days by the fact that an X has
been omitted in the _Chronicle_. Mommsen’s emendation seems perfectly
plausible, but the absurd quibbles used to bring into agreement what was
in all probability for some time a moot point can be passed over without
much mention.

Rubensohn has a much more reasonable conclusion, namely, that the times
given in the _Chronicle_ and _Liber generationis_ refer not to the date
of the battle at all, but to the date of the proclamation or to the
date of Julianus’ defeat, some time during the early days of May 218.
Lampridius, of course, chips in with another discordant note, namely,
that “A.D. pridie nonas Martias” the Senate received their new Emperor
Alexander with acclamations, but for present purposes he may be left
out of count, as we have no confirmation of this very late statement.
Eutropius’ statement of 2 years and 8 months refers only to the
residence in Rome, and Victor’s 30 months is utterly out of the question,
as is also Lampridius’ statement that this monster occupied the throne
for nearly three years. Still more disconcerting than the wild statements
of the biographers is the fact that right up to 8th December 222 certain
rescripts are dated with the names of both Antonine and Alexander,
“Conss.”; two only, one in March and one in October, appear with
Alexander as sole Consul, and this inscription occurs on a rescript dated
“III non. Febr.,” when, if any other evidence is to be accepted, Antonine
was still alive. It was on this count that Stobbe based his assertion
that Antonine was killed, or at least put out of the government, as
early as 5th or 6th January, and that Mamaea used her new power as soon
as ever Alexander was officially recognised as Consul. It is certainly
a theory for which something may be said, but would entirely dispose of
the circumstantial accounts which the historians have left of the boy’s
murder. If this supposition is true, then Mamaea possessed herself of
the Emperor’s person by means of a riot in the camp, immediately after
Alexander became Consul, deprived him of his friends and support, and
thus gradually accustomed the populace to his absence, before she killed
him. This would certainly account for the placidity with which Rome
received news of his death at some later period, but would not account
for the discrepancy of the coins and rescripts, the first of which make
Alexander sole Emperor by the early summer, the second, which call
Antonine Consul, presume that he was still alive as late as December in
the same year (222).

From a numismatic point of view there have been further difficulties
raised as to the length of the reign, on account of Antonine having
reached his fourth Consulate and fifth tribunician year, but these have
been raised by persons who have neglected Eckhel and have not always
verified their references. The regular coins tell us that Antonine
had reached his fourth Consulate and fifth year of tribunician power
when he died. Certain writers, notably Valsecchius and Pagi, have
postulated that the Emperors always renewed the tribunician powers on the
anniversary of their succession, others, such as Stobbe, that the date
of the tribunician power would always be put on each coin when that of
the Consulship was given. Neither of these contentions can be admitted
for an instant, as Eckhel has proved most conclusively, and as can be
further demonstrated from the very coins these writers cite as proofs of
their several contentions. Valsecchius’ theory was that Antonine thought
he began to reign on the murder of his father Caracalla, and dated his
tribunician year in consequence from 8th April 217. This would make him
in his second tribunician year by 8th June 218, and the coins should
appear as “T.P. II Cos.” Unfortunately for the theory, there is not a
single example of this aberration, as Turre pointed out some centuries
ago. Pagi, on the other hand, thought that Antonine dated his reign from
16th March 218, and renewed his tribunician powers every year on that
date; he accepted Dion’s date, 11th March, for Antonine’s decease,
and, in consequence, postulated that coins struck with the legend “T PV
Cos IIII” were struck in anticipation of the event of 16th March 222.
Against this Eckhel urges that the whole theory is utterly unnecessary,
because it throws all the rest of the coins out of date in order to make
a setting for nine, which are in reality perfectly regular.

The truth obviously lies in Eckhel’s theory, which has been rejected by
Stobbe because it is so simple and obvious, namely, that Antonine renewed
both consular and tribunician powers on the same day, 1st January, a
contention which the Fasti Romani amply corroborate. Naturally, as we
know from Dion, the first year began on 8th June, when Antonine’s name
was substituted for that of Macrinus. On 1st January 219 Antonine took
his second Consulship and second tribunician powers. On 1st January 220
the Emperor became Consul for the third time, Tribune of the People third
time. On 1st January 221 Gratus and Seleucus were Consuls, Antonine
Tribune of the People fourth time; 1st January 222 Antonine and Alexander
Coss. IIII and I, Antonine Tribune of the People fifth time. All is duly
set out on the coins in regular order.

The basis for other theories was found by fertile brains when Cohen
listed a few irregularities in the dating, notably three coins dated
T.P. Cos. II, which just inverted Valsecchius’ theory, and, said Stobbe,
showed that the Emperor had renewed his Consulate on 1st January, and had
not yet renewed his powers as Tribune of the People. It was undoubtedly
plausible, but Stobbe omitted to notice another coin whose date is T.P.
Cos. IIII, which, on his own theory of the number invariably affixed to
T.P. as well as to Cos., would signify that the Emperor had never renewed
his tribunician powers at all, or else had renewed his consular powers
four times in one year, both of which ideas are demonstrably absurd.
Along with his supposition that the number would always be affixed to
T.P. whenever it also followed Cos., Stobbe formulated another theory
partly based on the idea which had been enunciated by Pagi concerning the
date of the coins marked T.P. V Cos. IIII, and supported his contention
from an example listed by Cohen as T.P. IIII, Cos. IIII. It was to the
effect that as the Emperors Septimius Severus, Caracalla, Geta, and
Alexander Severus had renewed their tribunician powers about the middle
of January, Antonine had done the same, and that the paucity of the coins
marked T.P. V Cos. IIII is due to the fact that he was murdered very
shortly after, if not before the issue was completed, and the tribunicial
renewal had taken place. Stobbe’s proof lay in the fact that Cohen had
listed these three coins as above (T.P. IIII Cos. IIII), which, this
critic affirmed, were issued after January 1st and before the tribunicial
renewal,—about the middle of the month.

[Illustration: Coin of A.D. 220, misread by Cohen as T.P. III Cos. IIII
(British Museum).

Coin of A.D. 221, misread by Cohen as T.P. IIII Cos. IIII (British
Museum).

Coin of A.D. 222 (British Museum).

_Face page 196._]

But it was mere theory on both counts. As Egbert showed later, the
tribunicial renewal in the case of Septimius, Caracalla, and Geta was
not early in January at all; it was on the 10th of December. Macrinus’
renewal was early in January, so was Alexander’s, but this was not
conclusive evidence that Antonine renewed his powers on the same date.
There certainly are coins, three of them, listed by Cohen, two in France
at the Bib. Nat., and one in the British Museum marked T.P. IIII Cos.
IIII. This was clear proof, said Stobbe, that the tribunician powers were
renewed after the consular powers, and that T.P. V Cos. IIII were later
in the same year (222) than T.P. IIII Cos. IIII. The French coins I have
not seen, but I have had the privilege of examining that in the British
Museum (Cohen, vol. iv. p. 342, No. 197), and find that Cohen has misread
the number affixed to the Cos.; it is listed as T.P. IIII Cos. IIII, but
is in reality T.P. IIII Cos. III P.P. (_i.e._ the year 221). The first P
has been read into the number,—which same inscription is most probably
on the French coins as well as on that in the British Museum, since it
appears gratuitous to impute a mistake to contemporaries by way of making
copy for later critics. I have noted yet another mistake, namely, two
coins listed by Cohen as irregularities; they are dated, T.P. III Cos.
IIII (p. 344, Nos. 210, 211). On these another admirable theory has been
based, namely, that Antonine was going to take the Consulate, had his
coins struck, and then backed out at the beginning of 221, thus before
he had renewed his powers as tribune. Again very pretty, but the British
Museum has the coins, and they are not dated T.P. III Cos. IIII at all;
they are quite ordinary—T.P. III Cos. III, or of the year 220, and there
is no need to transpose the numbers, which is an alternative theory to
that stated above.

The evidence from the coins is quite conclusive. The Emperor renewed his
dual powers either on the same day, 1st January, or on a day immediately
succeeding. As Eckhel pointed out in 1792 there is no coin which, if the
date be correctly read, gives any countenance to any other theory, while
all such are unnecessary and at variance with known facts.

Lampridius gives us a certain amount of evidence that the Emperor
took an interest in the affairs of state all through his life, both
by his account of Antonine’s sagacity as a judge, and his desire to
appoint fourteen praefects of the city, under the headship of the
Imperial Praefectus Urbis or Urbi. Naturally, the desire is attributed
to base motives, namely, in order to benefit unworthy persons. The
scheme, Lampridius tells us, was actually carried into operation during
Alexander’s reign, and is then applauded as useful and necessary, an
obvious bit of special pleading on one side or the other.

It is with a singularly unanimous voice that the authors announce the
general execration against the memory of Antonine, and the joy shown by
the populace in dragging his dead body about the city. All are certain
that the Senate made a general order to deface the name of Antonine
on all monuments and documents through the Empire, as soon as that
dishonoured Emperor was safely out of the way.

The unanimity is wonderful; all the more wonderful because so utterly
unusual. Unfortunately, it is in no way borne out by the inscriptions.
We have mentioned the rescripts which for the most part bear Antonine’s
name throughout the whole year 222. This circumstance is hardly in
consonance with the senatorial action in ordering all mention of the
dishonoured Emperor to be expunged (_i.e._ while they themselves continue
to use his name publicly and officially). Again, there is an inscription
C.I.L. VI. 3015, set up in July 222, which commemorates both Consuls as
though alive; and another, though probably a forgery of Ligorius, No.
570, in which the two names appear on 13th April of the same year. Surely
this would have been impossible if Antonine were dead and the Senate had
ordered his name to be erased everywhere. This order, however, cannot be
taken literally; an examination of the existing inscriptions gives quite
other results.

The name of Antonine is erased, but only in 40 known cases, while in
certain places the name Alexander is substituted for that of Antonine,
which, if usual, is rather a cheap way of getting the honour and renown
belonging to another. A few African inscriptions blot out the Emperor’s
claim to be grandson of Severus, and a few in different parts of the
Empire blot out the title Priest of Elagabal, witness the inscription at
Walwick Chesters. In 52 cases the names, styles, and titles of Antonine
are left intact, which makes it improbable that there was any great
campaign against his memory, such as Lampridius would have us believe
that every one in the Empire was only too anxious to institute.

Dion and Lampridius both tell us that Antonine was called Tiberinus
and Tractitius after his death, in reference to the shameful treatment
which his body was supposed to have met with after his murder, and the
final act of throwing it into the river in order that it should never be
buried. Sardanapalus is another epithet applied to him by Dion and his
copier Zonaras, who also call him Pseudo-Antonine, in reference to his
grandmother’s statement made “through hatred” in 221, that not he but
Alexander was the only legitimate bastard; such and the like were the
taunting adjectives by means of which the biographers sought to defame
the boy’s memory.

Here, for all practical purposes, Lampridius’ account of the Emperor’s
life ceases. There are still seventeen chapters of mere biographical
scandal, some of it illuminating, some hypocritically obscene.
Nevertheless, it has been possible to abstract from these sections a
certain amount of information descriptive of the boy’s extravagances and
their setting, his psychology and its result, his religious ambitions,
and with them the reasons for his downfall.

These are all obvious traits in Antonine’s character, and can be
discerned despite the mass of exaggerations and hostility with which the
pages abound. To criticise these statements in any sort of detail is,
however, obviously impossible on the information at present available,
and furthermore, we are scarcely competent to judge the period from our
modern standpoint of prejudice.

There is no period of history which fully corresponds to these last
years of imperial greatness; few men who embody the spirit which breathed
life into all that splendour, and even fewer in the modern world who
understand the revived paganism of the Renaissance. Here too there was a
difference. In old Rome it has been said that a sin was a prayer; under
Leo X. it was, rather, a taxable luxury. Sinning is still a luxury, but
no longer taxable; the Reformation has set us free from such extortion
and restraint, and supplied us with hypocrisy and cant to take its place.

From Suetonius we gather that the Roman world sinned and sparkled;
we still sin, but are perforce to yawn in the process. The world of
Suetonius was the world _où on s’en fichait_. Our world is the world _où
on s’ennuie_. Hence our inability to grasp the spirit of philosophical
paganism, a spirit whose morality does not consist in improper thoughts
about other people, but in a mind set free from terror of the Gods, not
very much caring what other people do so long as they do not interfere
with us.

It is thus that we must view Elagabalus. To look at him through any
other spectacles is to examine the restless, frivolous, perhaps debased
dragon-fly as though he were a vampire, and then, imagination aiding,
describe him as a stampeding unicorn with a taste for _marrons glacés_.

It is absurd, purely grotesque, this caricature we have of Antonine;
perhaps that is why the world has left him alone, that they may gaze the
longer on a mask that allures. If these criticisms have done anything to
remove part of the accretions with which the world has daubed his figure
at the bidding of his relations, the trouble is amply repaid. Naturally,
this monograph is not the last word; it is, on the other hand, the first,
put forward in the hope that it may at least commend itself as a point of
view. Neither is it a compromise with the proprieties, which are, after
all, in the modern world, little else save a compromise with either our
neighbours or the police; what one expects from them, certainly not how
much they may expect from oneself, or even from Elagabalus.




CHAPTER VIII

THE WIVES OF THE EMPEROR


This Antonine has been accused of building the Cloaca Maxima, into
which, a century later, all Rome rolled, largely on the grounds that he
divorced at least three wives, and was himself wife of the Chariot Driver
Hierocles, amongst others of his unusually numerous acquaintance.

The imputation of excavating in Rome cannot be attributed to Elagabalus
alone. Augustus had done a little digging there, but hypocritically, as
he did everything else, devising ethical laws as a cloak for turpitudes
of his own; Caligula had done the same, so had Nero, Hadrian, and
Caracalla. Maecenas divorced himself and remarried twenty times, as
both ceremonies were less expensive than they are to-day. Suetonius
said of Caligula that it was uncertain which was the vilest, the unions
he contracted, their brevity, or their cause. With such examples, it
was inevitable that ordinary people should unite but to part, and that
insensibly the law should annul as a caprice, a clause that defined
marriage as the inseparable life.

Under the Caesars, marriage became a temporary arrangement abandoned
and re-established at will. Seneca said that women of rank counted
their years by their husbands; Juvenal, that it was in such fashion
they counted their days. Paul, in a letter whose verbosity apes
philosophical phraseology, regarded the privileges of divorce as inherent
in the patriarchal theories of family life. Tertullian added, somewhat
sapiently, that divorce was the result of matrimony.

Divorce, however, was never obligatory, matrimony was. According to the
Lex Papia Poppoea, whoso at twenty-five was unmarried; whoso, divorced
or widowed, did not remarry; whoso, though married, was childless became
_ipso facto_ a public enemy.

To this law, as was obviously necessary, only a technical attention was
paid. Men married just enough to gain a position or inherit a legacy; the
next day they got a divorce. At the moment of need a child was adopted;
the moment passed, the child was disowned. As with men, so with women.
The Univira became the many-husbanded wife, occasionally a matron with
no husband at all; one who, to escape the consequences of the Lex Papia
Poppoea, hired a man to lend her his name, and who, with an establishment
of her own, was free to do as she liked; to imitate men at their worst;
to fight like them and with them for power; to dabble in the bloody drama
of state; to climb on the throne and kill there or be killed. The Empire
had liberated women from domestic tyranny, just as it had liberated men
from that of the state.

Such was the position of matrimony when, early in July 219, the Emperor
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus took to wife the Lady Julia Cornelia Paula,
of the well-known though by no means patrician family of Cornelia. Her
father was Julius Paulus, probably one of the most famous jurisconsults
and lawyers Rome has ever known. As father-in-law to an Emperor, his
position was doubtless, like that of Sylla, the father-in-law of
Caesar, somewhat heady. Unfortunately it impaired his usefulness to a
considerable degree. We learn from the editors of the _Prosopographia_
that there are only five decrees on subjects of jurisprudence which can
be definitely assigned to this reign, and from Lampridius that Paulus
was appointed to the presumably lucrative, though certainly uninspiring
office of usher to the young Alexander, on whose bovine intelligence he
could unfortunately make no impression. It is doubtless wrong to promote
relations to Court sinecures when they can be better and more usefully
employed in arduous work for the state, but it is a position to which
even the best of us aspire when fatigued with either a misspent or a
full-spent life.

According to Barrachinus, the family of Cornelia came from Padua;
Bertrand says they were from Tyro; and in Pignorius’ estimation they may
even have seen light in Rome. Julius and his daughter are the only two of
the family who have come into prominence. Unfortunately, we do not know
the date of the birth or death of either, nor the year in which Julius
began to climb; suffice it to say, that he had published many volumes
before the death of Septimius Severus, in whose council, according to
Digest xxix., he had a place. His first office seems to have been that
of Praetor, and thence by regular stages he climbed to that of Praefect
of Rome, finishing with the height of all ambition, the Praefecture of
the Praetorium, and as such he was a Senator of the Empire. Tristran—who
knew about as much of the lady personally as you or I can—has remarked
that Julia was beautiful. His taste is certainly not a modern one, as
her effigy represents her with a sharp beaky face, and a long scraggy
neck. This author, with some show of fairness, attempts to justify his
statement by a truism, namely, that the Emperor was such a connoisseur of
beauty that he would never have chosen a lady who had not this necessary
qualification. Precisely, but did Antonine choose the lady at all? The
probabilities are that she was well over thirty at the time of the
marriage, and that the Emperor had neither seen nor heard of her before
she was presented to him by his relations, on his arrival in Rome; in
fact, that this marriage was a political move by means of which the
official classes were closely allied with the imperial house.

We have already described the pomp and circumstance with which this
wedding was celebrated, the games, with their lavish waste of animal
life, amongst the rarest of known beasts, the congiary and donative. As
this is the sole mention of such splendour on the occasion of Antonine’s
committing matrimony, which holy estate he is said to have attempted six
times in two and a half years, it inclines us to the opinion that this
was his first experiment in that direction, especially as the evidence
of coins and medals is perfectly conclusive on this point. Tristran and
Serviez, however, place Annia Faustina as first wife, on Dion’s faulty
arrangement of the events at Nicomedia.

Cornelia Paula was, as we have said, a lady of some renown and position.
Serviez tells us that it was generally believed she had been married
before; was already, in fact, a mother of children; and Tristran adds,
enceinte by some one else at the time of the marriage. The Emperor’s
pretext for marrying her seems to lend support to this contention. It
was that he wished the sooner to provide an heir for the Empire, though,
as Dion says, he was not as yet a man himself. Since Cornelia had no
children by Antonine, and the reason of her divorce, as given publicly,
was a secret blemish in her body, which was only discovered after
about eighteen months of married concord, the presumptive evidence is
against Serviez’ theory; in fact, it presupposes sterility rather than
some corporal deformity, or even over-fruitfulness; and it, of course,
gives the lie to the gratuitous assumption of Tristran that the lady
was enceinte when Antonine married her. What amount of genuine feeling
existed between Julia Paula and her husband we cannot even surmise. From
a psychological point of view, one would be inclined to predicate very
little. The Emperor was too much wedded to his friends, was too feminine
in character to appreciate a wife, other than, as Lampridius says, “a
strumpet who could increase his knowledge of her art.” The family of
Julius Paulus rose to the height of power as soon as a daughter of his
house became Empress. Lampridius is not by any means definite as to the
date of Julius Paulus’ domination in the state; though it seems natural
to suppose that, when Eutychianus Comazon vacated the Praefectship of the
Praetorium in order to become Praefect of Rome (July 219), the Emperor’s
father-in-law was appointed in his room, and vacated this office either
at the time of his daughter’s divorce, or more probably at an earlier
date, _i.e._ when his official year expired in July 220.

The precise date of the divorce is unknown. As we have said, there are
coins struck at Alexandria with Julia’s effigy and inscription, after
29th August 220, and others at Tripolis in Phoenicia, after October in
that year. The most likely supposition is that Antonine divorced her
somewhere in the beginning of 221, after he had made up his mind to take
to wife the Vestal, Aquilia Severa, in accordance with his religious
scheme or ideal.

Julia Cornelia Paula is the only wife of Antonine mentioned in
inscriptions, and, as we hear nothing of her in any other way, it is
improbable that she had much importance at Court. Possibly she was found
to be of no use either to Antonine, Maesa, Soaemias, or Mamaea, each in
their separate ways, and as such was relegated to unimportant obscurity,
neglected as a cypher. Her coin types are equally unimportant. They make
reference to the Concordia which was supposed to exist between the
pair, and introduce the deities protective of matrimony. Her portraits
vary from those of a woman of sixty odd years to the representation of
a woman about thirty years old, which latter age is almost confirmed by
her so-called bust in the Borghese collection at the Louvre; but no known
author can really do more than guess at what this lady was as careful to
conceal as her less fortunate sisters.

Lampridius tries to leave one with the impression, that on the divorce
of this Augusta (the Senate had accorded the title at the time of the
marriage) Julius Paulus was banished. Unfortunately, he mentions him a
little later on as being tutor to Alexander (in the beginning of the
year 222). The inference is, of course, that Lampridius took the two
impressions from conflicting sources. In all probability the great
jurisconsult, having exchanged his position as Praefect of the Praetorium
for a Court sinecure as Alexander’s tutor, did not re-emerge into public
life until his thick-headed pupil was safely seated on the throne. Quite
what office he then occupied Pauly has not determined. It may have been
once again the Praefecture of the Praetorium, a position second only to
that of the Emperor himself, and one which carried with it practical
sovereignty, in the Tudor sense, only excepting the one element which
went to solidify Elizabethan greatness, the assumption of the powers,
dignities, and privileges of the ecclesiastical headship.

Julia Cornelia Paula, shorn of her title and position some time during
the winter of 220-221, retired into opulent privacy. No sane person
would, at that time, have pitied Julia’s lot, unless it were because she
was no longer enjoying the position of Empress. Even in mediaeval times,
when divorce was an ecclesiastical privilege, and in consequence most
costly, it was not regarded as an unmixed evil. Of course, it was rare,
and, being ecclesiastical, carried a certain stigma with it. Furthermore,
as we have said, it was a privilege for which there was not the same need
as in times of women’s greater freedom. No one who, like the mediaeval
husband, had canonical permission to beat his wife when she annoyed him,
stood in vital need of dissolving the bond, (_vide_ Beaumanoir, lvii.:
“Tout mari peut battre sa femme pourvu que ce soit modérément, et sans
que mort s’ensuive”). During the epoch in question, it was the most usual
and ordinary circumstance of daily life. It was continued interest in,
not satiety with, the charms of your spouse that created wonder in old
Rome; suffice it to say, that Julia retired, a woman with a past, and the
knowledge, that if she had her wits about her, there was a considerable
future to look forward to. No one expressed regret at her going, so in
all probability Maesa was agreeable, though we can scarcely think that
the old lady knew of the scheme which her grandson was concocting when
she allowed the mistake to be made without an effort to stop his headlong
swoop to ruin; a flight which would certainly involve the whole family on
its way, unless they could dissociate themselves from the new religious
policy which dictated it.

Probably along with predilection Antonine had seen and admired a lady,
whom Dion describes, or makes Antonine describe, as Chief Priestess of
Vesta. With this designation Preuner emphatically disagrees, accounting
for the ἀρχιέρεια on the grounds that she officiated in the chief worship
of Rome, not that she herself was the chief priestess. It was in the
early months of the year 221 that Antonine, having seconded Julia Paula,
took from her nunnery the Vestal Aquilia Severa, thereby thoroughly
shocking the susceptible. We have already discussed the reasons for this
act of folly. From a religious point of view there was much to be said by
the Emperor, and undoubtedly he said it. From an aesthetic standpoint it
was a mistake. There are still in existence a certain number of coins and
medals which bear her effigy; these give her the appearance of a sinister
and rather evil-looking woman, utterly unlike the helpless Neophyte,
young and beautiful, whom various writers have depicted in their efforts
to excite our pity for the poor nun forcibly ravished by an unattractive
and debauched Emperor.

The whole modern opinion of the community of Vesta is founded on a
mistaken view of their position and usefulness. Our ideas of Vestals
are largely derived from the conceptions which Egyptian anchorites
bequeathed to the esoteric religious communities which flourished during
the middle ages. The truth lies in the fact that the Roman Vestals have
but one point of contact with the successors of the anchorites, namely,
their reputation for chastity, which was, however, grafted on to an
entirely different religious foundation. The Vestals were a community
of high-born Roman ladies, whose duty it was to tend and preserve the
sacred fire which symbolised Rome’s existence, and, while they worshipped
the Phallus, to keep themselves unspotted from the world, not otherwise
from its contact. In the performance of their public functions they were
admirable and most punctilious, but they were not cloistered virgins,
as we know the race to-day. They were women of the world, with a value
enhanced by an often (according to Suetonius) supposititious virginity;
women who, clad in the white linen garments of a blameless life, their
hair arranged in the six braids which symbolised chastity, were the chief
figures at all public functions, the leaders of feeling at the games
and gladiatorial shows, and the arbiters of public opinion in all that
touched religion and morals, at a time when religion and morals meant
courage, bravery, patriotism, and hardihood.

It would be as absurd to impute to these women Christian ideas of
religion and morals as it would be to transfer the same neuroticism to
the Spartan communities of a still earlier age. The ideal was not then
suffering for suffering’s sake, not even suffering to appease an offended
deity, but suffering for the sake of virility, patriotism, and strength.

As we have said, Roman religion was in the third century what it always
had been, purely political. It was the prosperity of the Empire,
its peace and immortality, for which sacrifices were made; with the
individual, his happiness and prosperity, it concerned itself not at
all. The antique virtues were civic, not personal. It was the State which
had a soul, not the individual. Man was ephemeral. It was the nation
that endured, and to secure that permanence each citizen laboured. As
for the citizen, death was near, and so he hastened to live; before the
roses could fade, he wreathed himself with them; immortality was, for
him, in his descendants, the continuation of his name, the respect for
his ashes. Any other form of futurity was a speculation. In anterior
epochs, fright had peopled Tartarus, but fright had gone; the Elysian
fields were too vague, too wearisome to contemplate. “After death,” said
Cicero, “there is nothing”; and philosophy agreed with him. Of such and
kindred religious theories the Roman statesmanship—realising the danger
of independent religions—had constituted her Emperor supreme governor. As
Pontifex Maximus he held much the same position as that which our Tudor
Sovereigns created for themselves as heads of the Church in England. The
Emperor was supreme over religious dogma and practice, whenever occasion
necessitated control.

The old faiths were crumbling, but none the less Rome was the abridgment
of every superstition. The Gods of the conquered had always formed part
of her spoils; to please them was easy—from Jehovah to the unknown Gods
beyond the Rhine their worship was gore. That the upper classes had no
faith goes without saying, but of the philosophical atheism of the upper
classes the people knew nothing; they clung piously to a faith which had
a theological justification for every sin; and turned with equal avidity
to the Mithraic, Egyptian, and even to the Nazarene religion with which
Constantine finally replaced the ancient worship, as long as they were
all the same thing under a different name; the religion of the Empire
with local or foreign mysteries thrown in; the accustomed traditions,
miracles, feasts, and nature worship, unfortunately, as men found after
Constantine, grown contentious and continually more expensive to maintain.

The Vestals were still the guardians and types of the older theories they
professed; they were the link between philosophy and superstition, and
as such they played their part admirably: in private much the same as
other women, in public exact. Occasionally there was a public scandal,
but very rarely. Domitian had recalled the archaic law and had buried one
defaulter alive. Claudius, referring to Messalina, had told them that
the fate which made him the husband of impure women had destined him to
punish such. The lady whom Caracalla buried alive protested, not against
the imputation of a broken vow, but because the vow had not been broken
satisfactorily enough for her liking.

Apparently Antonine was quite without Roman prejudice in this, or indeed
in any other matter. He liked the lady; whether from a religious or an
aesthetic point of view is uncertain. If it were the latter, and her
portraits do her justice, Antonine’s reputation as a judge of female
beauty is irretrievably gone. She was frankly old and ugly. Nevertheless
he wanted to marry her, and what he wanted he usually got. Whether or
not Aquilia Severa wanted him is unknown, at any rate she was perfectly
willing to exchange supposititious virginity for the imperial marriage
bed on more than one occasion. Rome, as we have pointed out, was shocked,
frankly disgusted. The Emperor had the report, probably through the
Senate, and thereupon pointed out to that august body the essential piety
of the proceeding: a Vestal and the Chief Priest of the Holy God were
bound to produce children entirely divine.

It was a veritably Tudor argument, than which nothing more specious,
for the allaying of prejudice, could have been produced by Henry, the
Eighth of that name. Unfortunately, Rome in the third century enjoyed
considerably more of that Tory virtue, and was less bored with a religion
which affected no one personally, than England was in the sixteenth
century. Rome continued to object to the Emperor shocking her prejudices.
England changed her mind, and with it her prejudices, at the bidding of
her sovereigns, and, sacerdotal extermination aiding, she forgot in a
generation what it had taken her a thousand years to learn.

Needless to say, this union of the Emperor was productive of nothing
either human or divine, concerning which, or as a sort of mild reflection
thereupon, Lampridius utters his psychologically illuminating remark
concerning the use this Emperor had for wives and women generally.

The history of Severa’s family is obscure. Her father was the notable
jurist Aquilius Sabinus, who had been Praefect of Rome both in 214 and
216. He was the firm friend of Silius Messala, the kingmaker, and
possibly as a Senator, was one of that gentleman’s judges when he was
condemned for treason against his sovereign. We hear further of a son,
one Fabius Sabinus, who, on account of his wisdom and learning, has
come down to history as the Cato of his age. The daughter must have
partaken of the family ability. Her father’s senatorial rank would, in
all probability, have opened to her the doors of that most exclusive of
corporations to which she belonged, but his position could scarcely have
raised her eyes to the imperial purple.

[Illustration: Coin of Julia Cornelia Paula Augusta (British Museum).

Coin of Julia Cornelia Paula Augusta, A.D. 220-21 (British Museum).

Coin of Julia Aquilia Severa Augusta, A.D. 220-21 (British Museum).

Coin of Annia Faustina Augusta, A.D. 221-22 (British Museum).

Coin of Julia Aquilia Severa Augusta, A.D. 221-22 (British Museum).

_Face page 216._]

We can form no absolute judgment from the records at our disposal,
as to the precise date at which this lady exchanged the practices of
open celibacy for those of problematical matrimony. The most likely
suggestion is that it was early in the spring of the year 221, at a
time contemporaneous with the alliance celebrated between Elagabal and
Minerva. The Alexandrian coins bearing her name are dated LΔ, subsequent
to 29th August 220, while the coins “Aequitas Publica”—which also bear
her name—were issued early in 221, obviously for the third distribution
of money which was held in honour of the double marriage. No games or
excitements such as celebrated Antonine’s first alliance were at this
time attempted; the Emperor had quite enough to do in allaying the
trouble caused by the marriage itself, and in considering projects for
the furthering of his religious schemes. Of the lady’s position and
influence we know nothing, though we can quite believe that she was no
friend of the elderly Maesa, or the cross-grained mother of Alexianus,
both of whom wished her so ill. Serviez is by no means complimentary to
Severa, on account of the avidity with which she changed her position. He
calls her ambition unbounded, though it is very doubtful whether, placed
in a similar position, any one of us would have refused the flattery, and
undoubted compliment made to our superlative worth.

The title of Augusta, of which Julia Cornelia Paula had been relieved,
was conferred on Aquilia, and doubtless the Emperor looked forward to
some considerable degree of felicity in the company of a woman of whose
marriage every one disapproved.

As we know, Antonine found out quite soon that he had made a vital
mistake; that he had attacked the one superstition that Rome would not
allow to be touched, and, with extreme reluctance, he sent both the
Goddess and her Vestal back to their appropriate dwellings. Antonine has
been censured right royally both for his marriage and for the consequent
divorce. Now, if the marriage were wrong, as all the authors say, surely
the divorce was right; certainly Rome thought so, since his compliance
with national wishes seems to have won men over, and appeased their
minds, thus restoring the Emperor to his popularity. Why then did he
further alienate them by remarrying Severa in the early part of the next
year, as Dion and the coins relate? It is a mystery.

Antonine does not seem to have done anything at all for the family
of this wife; there is no record of any offices held by them, or
official appointments given, taken, or received by men of their name.
Of course, they may have got jobs which came under the generic term of
“appointment of unfit persons”; if so, we have no record of what they
got, while the duration of the marriage was so abbreviated that there
was scarcely time for any scandal to develop. The date of the divorce,
like all the dates of the reign, can only be fixed approximately. It
was not before the early spring and not later than the end of June, by
which time Julia Maesa had regained her power (what she had of it) over
the mind of Antonine, that she persuaded him to return both Minerva and
her personification to their respective homes, to send for Astarte, for
Elagabal, to marry Annia Faustina himself, and, above all, to adopt
Alexianus; which latter ceremony took place some time before 10th July
221. We can well imagine the boy’s disgust at the failure of his plans
and at the early loss of a friend in Aquilia, who, as both Dion and
Herodian tell us, was Empress for only a little time.

One of the greatest obstacles which the imperial family had met with was
their lack of connection with the Roman nobility. No doubt this could
easily have been remedied. Maesa might have tried to make her first
alliance in this direction; she seems to have imagined, however, that
such persons were extinct. They had died twice, we are told, at Pharsalus
and Philippi, and those who had not died then had suffered for real or
imaginary crimes under succeeding Emperors. The absolutely necessary
step, therefore, which Maesa had to take in this policy of alliance was
to find the most influential marriageable woman in Rome and put her
into the place that Aquilia Severa was holding to the jeopardy of all
concerned. The lady appeared as if by a miracle. Amongst other persons
who disapproved of Antonine’s proceedings were the two Senators Silius
Messala and Pomponius Bassus, of whom mention has already been made, as
having been concerned in a plot for dethroning the Emperor. Both had
been men of importance for years. Pomponius Bassus had been Consul under
Septimius Severus and Governor of Mysia under Caracalla. In fact, so
important were they in their own estimation, that nothing set bounds to
their ambition. Already between them they had contrived the deposition of
the Emperor Julianus, and the election of Septimius, and, like the great
Earl of Warwick of fifteenth-century fame, they were by no means averse
to putting their heads together once again, in order to rid the state of
whomsoever they thought _incapax imperii_.

Now, this was just the work that Mamaea wanted. For other reasons, Maesa
was not averse to the plot. The gentlemen held a secret court to examine
into the Emperor’s actions, and presumably they found him _incapax_, so
set to work to corrupt the guards in the usual fashion.

Unfortunately for Antonine, that infamous system of informers which had
flourished and been of such vital use under former Emperors (under his
father Caracalla, to go no further back for an example) was considered
by his own government as harsh and objectionable, an utterly intolerable
practice in a good and settled state. Antonine had, therefore, refused to
allow delators to assist the government. This being the case, he ought
to have apprehended all known traitors himself. Messala and Bassus were
known for such; they had always been dangerous persons. Nevertheless,
Antonine left them at large. True, as Lampridius tells us, he did send
for Silius Messala and probably also Pomponius Bassus to come to him
at Nicomedia, because he considered it safer to keep these gentlemen
with him in the East than to allow their tongues to wag freely in Rome,
before such time as he had dictated his own terms of government to the
Senate and people. When they returned to Rome, these men obviously
plotted freely in the accustomed way until they approached too many
soldiers, after which time they were condemned by the Senate, and sent
to other spheres of usefulness, or, as they themselves would have put
it, to an endless nothingness, where an absence of all energy could do
neither good nor evil. It is quite impossible to fix the exact date of
this execution. There is a tendency to assign it to the early part of
the reign, _i.e._, about the beginning of the year 219, whilst the Court
resided at Nicomedia; this, on the very frail evidence that their names
appear amongst Dion’s list of those who were executed during the reign,
which list was published amongst the acts of the first winter. No cause
has been shown, however, for any plot to dethrone and murder the Emperor
at that date; indeed, until the religious mistake in 221, any such plot
would have been utterly impossible, though there is plenty of evidence
concerning the various attempts of the years 221 and 222, of which almost
certainly this conspiracy was one. The execution was obviously connected,
in Dion’s mind, with Antonine’s third marriage. He says that the real
reason, as every one knew, was because the Emperor wanted to play David
to Bassus’ Uriah, with Annia Faustina taking the hackneyed part of
Bathsheba.

But it is a stupid story. Antonine was married to a woman of his own
choosing, and certainly did not want the friend of his grandmother, even
though to please that relation he did take Annia almost as soon as her
husband was dead. This is again the only possible explanation of Dion’s
phrase that “This inhuman monster (_i.e._ Antonine) would not allow
Annia Faustina to spoil her beauty by weeping for her departed husband,”
a story either adapted from the similar lie related of Caracalla and
his mother, or designed to do honour to the work of the unconscionable
traitor Pomponius. It is quite true that Maesa found ample means of
drying any tears that the usual decencies extracted from the Lady Annia;
but, as things turned out, no one seemed more anxious than this scion of
the imperial house of Commodus to marry the present Antonine, despite all
his relations’ epithets, and, through these, what later commentators have
found to say against the boy.

Annia Faustina was the only wife of Antonine who did not assume the
title of Julia; this, presumably, because she was the only lady who had
a name of her own by birth. Her genealogy is obscure, at least on her
mother’s side. Everybody is agreed that she was great-granddaughter of
the Emperor Marcus Aurelius through his fourth daughter Arria Fadilla.
This lady married a certain Cn. Claudius Severus, whose son Ti. Claudius
Severus was Annia’s father. Authorities disagree as to the wife of
Titus. Pauly does not mention any marriage, presumably on the grounds
that all are conjectural; Ramsay, from an inscription found in Phrygia,
postulates that he married a second cousin, one of the Cornificia family.
Tristran asserts that it was yet another cousin, Aurelia Sabina. Eckhel’s
genealogy is too obscure to be of much use, though he also traces the
descent of Titus’ wife to Lucilla, yet another relation. The main
contention is, however, the same in all cases: Annia was descended on
both sides from the imperial house of Commodus, unless the amours of the
younger wife of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius made it more probable that
some lusty soldier or gladiator, rather than her philosophical husband,
had been responsible for the accidents of her children’s birth. Be that
as it may, Arria Fadilla had passed with the rest of the family as an
imperial child, and her descendants enjoyed her worship and renown.

As usual, we are told that Annia was young and beautiful, neither of
which statements is borne out by the coins extant; to judge from these
one would postulate that she was between forty and forty-five years of
age at the time of her marriage with Antonine. Eckhel states definitely
that she was thirty-eight years old at that period. Pauly ventures on
neither the date of her birth nor death. It is, therefore, most unwise
to assert, as the biographers do, what neither portraits nor authorities
will in any way corroborate.

As with her age, so with her life: Annia’s words, deeds and political
aspirations are quite unknown to us. Obviously, coming at the political
juncture of Antonine’s mistake, and bringing the alliance with the old
nobility that Maesa wanted by way of support, Annia was the friend
of the Alexander party in the state. As such, she must have been an
extraordinary annoyance to the Emperor and his friends. Certainly,
from Lampridius’ accounts, the boy-husband was moody, distrustful, and
generally miserable during the whole of this period, which does not
presuppose connubial felicity.

There is no mention of Annia having taken any special part either for
or against her husband in the network of treasonable attempts which his
family were continually trying. We do not even know how the marriage was
dissolved. The natural presumption is that he divorced Annia, as he had
divorced Cornelia and Aquilia, though it is allowable in the absence
of the usual gibe at his inconstancy, or any suggestion of foul play,
to suppose that she died—allowable, but not very probable. Antonine
obviously took her as part of his grandmother’s scheme, and got rid of
her when he tried to get rid of Alexander, by repudiating the adoption.
Dion relates that he then took two nameless women to wife, finally
returning to Aquilia Severa. The first part of the statement is obviously
a fiction. All Antonine, or any one of his temperament, wanted from a
wife was friendship and affection; this he certainly had in Aquilia, whom
he only divorced as a precautionary measure, and whom he certainly took
back just as soon as he could get rid of Annia.

Of course, to divorce Annia, a really important imperial lady, was a
disagreeable step; it would alienate the whole of the upper classes,
unless he could show reason for the change. Annia, by the extreme
eagerness with which she had jumped at the chance of being Empress, was
certainly not going to be party to the divorce—not that her consent was
necessary in such times of freedom, when divorce was of daily occurrence,
even in the best-regulated families. Cicero divorced his wife, we are
told, because she did not idolise him; Caesar his, on the pretext that
she ought to be above suspicion. Certainly no actual misconduct was
necessary, unless the whim of the moment be regarded as such. Antonine
exercised this right to act on his whim, or rather on his knowledge that
the lady was an unnecessary burden, but it cost him dear, the lady was
not born to take such snubs in a chastened spirit, even if her imperial
relations liked to adopt that attitude, which is, to say the least of it,
an unlikely supposition.

The odd ladies may be ignored. Dion says they were wives, not concubines.
But time did not permit of so many weddings and divorces; while the
Emperor’s inclination, continually veering back to Aquilia, would not
have let him try so many others. Dion tells us that Antonine remarried
this Vestal before the last and fatal plot was set on foot; a statement
which is corroborated by certain Alexandrian coins struck after 29th
August 221. It was a proceeding, as far as we can judge, more mad than
his first mistake. Admitting that Antonine knew that his first error, in
taking the nun to wife, had angered the people, it is impossible for us
to imagine why he took her again, thus once more upsetting the city. It
was the most unaccountable blunder, and one which would finally alienate
those whom he had so lately tried to propitiate. There may have been
goodness in the act, kindness towards the woman, who had given up so much
for his sake. There is goodness everywhere, often the basis of evil is in
that virtue; certainly much madness may be traced to it.

In reading the account of this epoch, one feels as though one were
assisting at the spectacle of a gigantic asylum where the inmates were
omnipotent. From this disease of madness Rome might have recovered, had
not her delirium, which was fine, turned to softening of the brain. Until
a century later, there was hope, because the guilt was conscious; it was
only when guilt became ignorance, that Rome disappeared.




PART II




CHAPTER IX

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE EMPEROR ELAGABALUS


“I would never have written the life of Antoninus Impurissimus,” said
Lampridius, “were it not that he had predecessors.” Even in Latin
the task was difficult. In English it would be impossible, at least
Lampridius’ life. There are subjects that permit of a hint, particularly
if it be masked to the teeth, but there are others that no art can drape,
not even the free use of Latin substantives. Our task therefore is to
deal, rather with their sins of omission, than with the biographers’
offences against all canons of good taste in recording the inexpressible.
In his work on the Caesars, Suetonius displayed the eccentricities
simply, without adding any descriptive placards; therein lay Suetonius’
advantage; he was able to describe; nowadays a writer may not, at least
not the character we possess of Elagabalus. It is not that he was
depraved, for all his house was; it is, that, like many moderns, he made
depravity a pursuit, and the aegis of the purple has carried the stories
beyond the limits of the imaginable, let alone beyond the limits of the
real. Were we to accept unexamined, the testimony of his traducers of
the Christian era, we would gather that “at the feet of that painted boy
Elephantis and Parrhasius could have sat and learned a lesson,” that
“apart from that phase of his sovereignty, he was a little Sardanapalus,
an Asiatic Mignon, who found himself great.” Of course it would have
been curious to see him in that wonderful palace, clothed like a Persian
queen, insisting that he should be addressed as Imperatrix, and quite
living up to the title. It would not only have been interesting, it would
have given one an insight into how much Rome saw and how much she could
stand.

Lampridius himself drew breath once, to remark that he could not
vouch for the truth of the stories he was committing to paper, but he
was employed to show the contrast between Constantine’s “execrable
superstition,” as Tacitus describes it, and those of the ancient world,
so went on to record things even more impossible. Perhaps his remark
was unnecessary. His record has defeated its own end. He has come
down to posterity as the biographer whose contradictory collection of
scandalous enumerations becomes monotonous rather than amusing as he
gets deeper into the mire. For ages the world has secretly revelled over
these records, making no sort of effort to get at the truth, perhaps
because, in secret, men like to believe that their predecessors were more
inhumanly wicked than they are themselves. Not that, in the light of
modern science, any physician would consider Elagabalus inhumanly wicked,
any more than he would be inclined to apply the term to a man born blind,
or with the taint of leprosy in his system; in fact even wickedness
itself has been described as “a myth invented by good people to account
for the curious attractiveness of those whom they dislike.” The greater
part of the dislike which men have exhibited towards this Emperor and
his faults comes from the fact that he was psycho-sexually abnormal, and
was possessed of a genius for the aesthetic and the religious that his
historians wished to decry. He was evidently abnormal, even in an age
that produced abnormalities like Nero, Tiberius, Commodus, and Hadrian;
further, he was frankly abnormal, and to-day we know better than to be
frank about anything.

Since the world began, no one has been wholly wicked, no one wholly good.
The truth about Elagabalus must lie between the two extremes, admitting,
however, a congenital twist towards the evil tendencies of his age.
He had habits which are regarded by scientists less as vices than as
perversions, but which, at the time, were accepted as a matter of course.
Men were then regarded as virtuous when they were brave, when they were
honest, when they were just; and this boy did, despite his hereditary
taint, show more than dashes of these virtues. The idea of using the
expression “virtuous” in its later sense, occurred, if at all, in jest
merely, as a synonym for a eunuch. It was the matron and the vestal who
were supposed to be virtuous, and their virtue was often supposititious.

The ceremonies connected with the Phallus, and those observed in
the rituals of the city were of a nature that only the infirm could
withstand. Indeed, the symbol of human life was then omnipresent.
Iamblichus, the philosopher, has much to say on the subject; so have
Arnobius and Lactantius. If Juvenal, Martial, and Petronius are more
reticent, it is because they are not Fathers of the Church nor yet
antiquarians. The symbol was on the coins, over the bakers’ ovens; as a
preservative against envy it hung from the necks of children; the vestals
worshipped it; at weddings it was used in a manner which need not be
described. It was a religious emblem, and as such formed the chief symbol
in the training of the boy who was now ruler of the world. By birth a
Syrian, by profession High Priest of the Sun, whose devotees worshipped
the Phallus as his symbol, was it likely that he, the chief exponent,
should remain cold, should take no interest in what was an all-absorbing
topic? Besides which, the family was corrupted by the presence of a
living fire in their veins, engendered by the perpetual heat of the sun.
Consider the history of his relations, and no one will wonder that he
was by nature voluptuous. But it was not his voluptuousness that the
world objected to; it was the abnormal condition of his mind; because in
the body of the man resided the soul with all the natural passions of a
woman. He was what the world knew as a Psycho-sexual Hermaphrodite.

In form he was attractive and exceedingly graceful; his hair, which was
very fair, glistened like gold in the sun; he was slender and possessed
of glorious blue eyes, which in turn were endowed with the power of
attracting all beholders to his worship; and he knew his power over men;
he had first realised it when the legionaries flocked to the temple at
Emesa attracted by the reports of this Prince Charming. He was then just
at the age of incipient manhood, and his woman’s instinct taught him, as
no outside force could have done, that virility and strength were the
finest things in the world; his religion, surroundings, and education
told him nothing about the restraint of, what was to him, a perfectly
natural, perhaps even an hereditary passion, the exercise of which so
endeared him to the soldiers that they forthwith placed him upon the
throne of the world. As Emperor he had every desire, and was under no
compulsion to abstain from gratifying the craving to study and exaggerate
that swift, vivid, violent age, when what Mill in his Essay on Liberty
desired was enjoyed by the Augustitudes, “There was no check on the
growth of personality, no grinding down of men to meet the average.”
Not that any one has ever accused Elagabalus of being average. In no
particular can he be considered mediocre. Perhaps his life and habits
were not those to which the virile Roman world was addicted, despite the
fact that Hadrian had deified, in Antinous, not a lad, but a lust, whose
worship, a half-century later, Tertullian noted was still popular; since
which time Christian diatribes of all kinds have been levelled against
the pagans of the decadence, merely because their atriums dropped, not
blood, but metaphysics.

Were it permitted to examine Elagabalus’ extravagances in print, we
should at once realise that they are those common (in a greater or less
degree) to all animals at the age of puberty, where instinct has not
associated the developing powers with any one special person or thing,
but that they are, in this instance, exaggerated by the traits of his
heredity and surroundings. What character should we expect to-day from
a child of nature if he were free with an unbounded liberty, and rich
beyond the efforts of imagination, to say nothing of the possession of
a congenitally perverted instinct? The more one sifts the records, the
clearer it appears that Elagabalus’ actions are those of an incredibly
generous person, instinctively trusting, open-hearted and affectionate,
a mighty contrast, both in his pleasures and his punishments, to the
persons who preceded him, and to his successors, who mistook new
superstitions for progress in the development of the world. The example
he set in tolerance of opinions not his own, and his reluctance, to
punish those who opposed him, must have led men to expect great things
from his manhood. Alone of all the Emperors he stands out with the proud
boast that no murder for political or avaricious purposes can be laid
to his charge. There were a few executions, amongst the adherents of
Macrinus, rendered necessary by attempts to take the crown from the new
Emperor; but despite the fact of serious provocation, his amnesty to the
Senate and to Rome, for their participation in the usurpation of Macrinus
and his son, was scrupulously kept. In religious matters—his special
domain—no one can say that he was apathetic, and yet there is no instance
of persecution recorded, even by Fathers of the Church. His whole life
was devoted to the introduction of a fantastic eastern monotheism,
designed to extinguish the polytheistic atheism which permeated Roman
society. Undoubtedly opposition and bitterness would have been raised
if the Emperor had not shown a moderation foreign to his years, unless
he had exercised a restraining influence over a mob which was still
thirsting for the blood of the Judaisers, as later records demonstrate.
In one particular, however, we are told that Elagabalus was fierce,
namely, in the contradiction of his pleasures, none of which can in
fairness be said to have affected the outside world. He might have been
led; certainly he could not be driven; what Antonine could? His tutor
Gannys found this out too late, and suffered for his mistake.

With a singular lack of consistency, Lampridius ascribes all Elagabalus’
moderation to his grandmother Maesa, all his excesses to his own fault,
whereas psychologists can demonstrate from a mass of similar cases that
both his virtues and excesses are those usually exhibited by one of his
temperament, and at any rate his relations were responsible for his lack
of early training and non-association with sane, healthy-minded persons.

Undoubtedly Maesa’s influence, in the executive government, was an
aggravating factor; but considering the state of autonomy which the
machine had then reached, and the large influence exerted by favourites,
it cannot be said that she was supreme; indeed, on more than one
occasion, we see the boy of fourteen years opposing her influence most
strenuously, especially after she had hoodwinked him into appointing
Alexianus as his coadjutor in the Empire. It was pitiable, then, to see
the old lady’s efforts to retain her position; this, however, she only
managed to do by persuading the troops to mutiny and slay her grandson.
There is not much to be said for either party, but Elagabalus obviously
found relations a tedious pack of people, and their influence, like
drugs, best taken in small quantities.

Quite a cursory study of authorities on psychology, such as Krafft-Ebing,
Bloch, Forel, Moll, etc., will show us that characters like Elagabalus
have occasionally appeared, and are still known in history. They are
almost curiosities of nature, and are rarely if ever responsible for
their own instincts, neither are they cruel nor evil by nature.

To-day we are inclined to regard the romantic friendships exhibited
in the stories of David and Jonathan, Herakles and Hylas, Apollo and
Hyacinth, to mention no others, as the outcome of somewhat similar
natures, and we decry some of the noblest patriots, tyrannicides,
lawgivers, and heroes, in the early ages of Greece, because they
regarded the bond of male friendship as higher and nobler than what they
called the sensual love for women, or because they received friends
and comrades with peculiar honour on account of their staunchness in
friendship. Nevertheless, psychologists have noted that this tendency
towards the more elevated forms of homosexual feeling is still to be
found, more or less developed, amongst religious leaders and other
persons with strong ethical instincts. It is only therefore when this
tendency occurs in slightly abnormal minds that we excite our passions
against men whom our imagination alone has branded as debased criminals,
men for whom the only fitting reward is an application of the stake and
faggot, without further inquiry.

To the vulgar-minded, all persons who present deformities, whether
physical or mental, are subjects of derision and hatred; to those who
realise something of the disabilities under which these unfortunates are
labouring, they are the objects of either active or passive sympathy,—in
the abstract, of course; should the insane, the leprous, or even the man
of genius get in our way we, as normal persons, feel ourselves justified
in ridding the world of its nuisance. It is thus that the instinct of
fear, rather than that of justice, spurs us on to use the collective
strength of the average, to exaggerate the abnormalities of the few;
but it is not a high or noble instinct, this fear which has led men for
many centuries through a mire of cruelty, superstition, and deceit; and
it is under this lack of justice that the memory of Elagabalus has long
suffered. No credit has been given him for the quality of mercy which he
displayed, though an absurd charge of cruelty has been preferred, on
the ground that he occasionally took luncheon in the circus during the
progress of the games; his biographer gratuitously assuming that it was
only done when there were criminals to be executed. Another absurd charge
of cruelty has been raised on account of Antonine’s passion for flowers,
of which, says Lampridius, such masses fell from panels in the ceiling
that many were smothered; an obvious exaggeration, unless the guests
were paralytics or suicidal lunatics, and, as even the author’s account
mentions no compulsion put on these gentlemen thus to die, he would seem
to invite a verdict of death by misadventure, rather than by design,
however aesthetic.

There was nothing sinister about Elagabalus’ feasts, nothing after the
style of Domitian’s little supper parties, where all was melanic, walls,
ceilings, linen, slaves; parties to which every one worth knowing was
ultimately bidden, and, as usual in state functions, every one that was
bidden came, only to find a broken column inscribed with a too familiar
name behind his allotted couch, and Domitian talking very wittily about
the proscriptions and headsmen he had arranged for each.

Caligula and Vitellius had been famous as hosts, but the feasts that
Elagabalus gave outranked theirs for sheer splendour. His guests
certainly suffered from his passion for teasing, and to dine with the
Emperor in such a mood was no sybaritic enjoyment. He might serve you
with wax game and sweets of crystal, the counterparts of what he was
eating himself, and expect evident signs of enjoyment as you endeavoured
to masticate the representation; he would seat you on air cushions, and
have them deflated surreptitiously, thoroughly enjoying your discomfort;
but when that was over you would be served with camels’ heels, platters
of nightingales’ tongues, ostriches’ brains (six hundred at a time),
prepared with that garum sauce which the Sybarites invented, and of
which the secret is lost. Therewith were peas and grains of gold, beans
and amber, quail powdered with pearl dust, lentils and rubies, spiders
in jelly, fig-peckers served in pastry. The guests that wine overcame
were carried to bedrooms; when they awoke, there, staring at them, were
tigers and leopards—tame, of course, but some of the guests were stupid
enough not to know it, and died of fright. It might not be pleasant to be
promised adorable sirens, and to find oneself shut up for the night with
an elderly Ethiopian, but it was not essentially cruel or debased, at
least not from the humorist point of view, as was proved by the laughter
of the Emperor at the sight of your disgusted face when he let you out in
the morning. Unless you were fond of the water, it could not have been a
pleasant experience to take the part of a water Ixion—tied to a revolving
wheel—for the Emperor’s lust of the eye; but if you submitted to these
things, you were sure of a reward more liberal than any you had expected.
Lampridius reports that no guests left the Emperor’s presence with empty
hands. After dinner he would give you the gold and silver plate from
which you had eaten, or cause you to draw lots for prizes which varied
from a dead dog to the half of his daily revenue. Elagabalus saw no
virtue in sending men away in the style of Domitian with their heads
under their arms,—it was too conventionally the pose of the Christian
martyr.

The description applied to Caesar’s sexual condition can with equal
justice be applied to this youth of seventeen. He was a woman for all
men, and a man for all women, at least if one can judge by the number
of wives he married during his short reign of less than four years. The
number was six, according to Dion Cassius. Three of them were well-known
women, one a Vestal, by whom he designed to produce a demi-god. The
others are only referred to, their names are quite unknown. By none of
them, however, had he any issue, which perhaps is as well, since he
frequently remarked that should he have children, he would bring them
up to his way of living, in his outlook on life, and the world could
scarcely have stood a successor of his abnormal temperament. How far his
marriages were true matrimony we do not know, but the fact of his going
through the ceremony presupposes that the statements of Lampridius and
Zonaras to the effect that he was initiated a priest of Cybele (in the
full sense) are exaggerations, and also that the operation which would
have made him a woman to outward appearance as well as in sentiment
and affections, never took place; indeed, this is impossible on both
physiological and psychological grounds.

Despite these marriages, the one romance of this boy’s life was with the
fair-haired chariot-driver Hierocles. His identity is somewhat involved,
though Dion Cassius states that he was a Carian slave, by profession a
chariot-driver. This lad found his fortune by a mere accident. One day
he was thrown from his chariot, right against the imperial pulvinar,
and lost his helmet. Elagabalus was there and at once noted the perfect
profile and curly hair of the athlete. He had him transferred to the
palace, where on account of a similarity of taste the intimacy soon
ripened into love, and that again, according to Xiphilinus, into a
contract of marriage.

Hierocles must have been the best, and certainly was the most powerful,
of that army of sycophants and courtesans which had always thronged the
Roman Court. We have no complaints against his exercise of authority,
though Lampridius says that his power exceeded that of the Emperor
himself. His banishment was demanded, with that of others, in the first
mutiny, but he was immediately allowed to return, despite the fact that
Elagabalus meditated conferring the imperial title upon him. He was a
good son, and in his prosperity was in no way ashamed of his mother.
He openly purchased her from her owners, and sent a company of the
Praetorian Guard to bring her to Rome, there placing her amongst the
women whose husbands had been Consuls. He appears to have been proud
not only of his position, but also of the Emperor’s love for him, as
the story of the Smyrnian Zoticus related by Xiphilinus and Zonaras
well illustrates. They relate how he gave the youth a drug which made
him useless to the Emperor during the first night, and thus procured
his expulsion from the palace, though probably the story of Zoticus’
disgrace, on account of his treachery and venality (Lampridius’ version)
contains as much truth as any other. Certainly Hierocles had no just
cause for fear; Elagabalus’ affection was too feminine, too deep-rooted,
to do more than tease the man from whose hands, like many another woman
in history, he was more than willing to take ill-usage and stripes, if
only they were signs of jealousy or proofs of affection.

Of course there were others. The Elagabalus of whom Lampridius treats was
a second Messalina in the variety of his tastes, and in the frequency of
his visits to the various lupanars of the city, and like this Empress he
measured his attractiveness by the amount of gold he could carry home
after such expeditions. He cultivated the class of person who could
discourse on the spintries with which Tiberius had refreshed his jaded
mind and enfeebled frame, and made much of the man who could invent new
sauces or other species of Sybaritic enjoyment. All such he treated with
consideration, teased them and excited them, it is true, but pampered and
fed them (sometimes, exclusively on their own inventions, till they could
produce something more palatable), and loaded them with gifts, honours,
offices, dignities, until they learnt that the condition of perfection is
idleness, the aim of perfection is youth. We can well imagine the fury of
the legitimate office seekers when they saw these children of pleasure
preferred before them.

In a discussion on his psychology mention must be made of Elagabalus’
love of colour. To the Roman, white in its cleanliness and simplicity
was the acme of an aesthetic taste, though the profusion of purple
borderings, the mingling of scarlet and gold, showed his kinship with
the children of the south. Syria, and the East generally, loved that
mass of brilliancy which relieves the aridity of the land; Elagabalus,
posing as the aesthete of his time, annoyed the Roman world by his love
of purple and shaded silk garments, by his passion for green, in all its
known shades, and for feasts in which everything was in the deep azure of
a cloudless sky. To-day we still cultivate colour schemes without much
hostile comment, as it takes the philosopher to discover their puerility,
the prurient-minded their wickedness and degeneracy.

We are told that the blatant discussions of his amusements made
right-minded men blush, causing ultimate nausea for his tastes and
opinions. But it could only have been the few he had the opportunity
of disgusting; the majority had heard the same before and showed no
desire to be shocked. Other Emperors had been as outspoken, be it said
to their reprobation as well as to his, but other Emperors had not been
so good-hearted, so filled with the charity that thinketh no wrong.
When they had scented opposition they had removed the cause forthwith;
Elagabalus let it grow and strengthen till it swallowed him up.

It may be that, as Lampridius says, his effeminacy disgusted the virile
Roman world. It was a vice as reprehensible then as now. The genius of
the Greek and Roman friendships was all against the weak softness of the
Semitic races. Greek love had been regulated “to strengthen hardihood,
to breed a contempt for death, to overcome the sweet desire for life, to
humanise cruelty, to which powers almost as much veneration is due as to
the cult of the Immortal Gods,” says Valerius Maximus, in his treatise
_De amicitiae vinculo_. It would have been small wonder if the whole mass
of healthy-minded individuals had turned from Lampridius’ picture of this
little painted quean of seventeen years, who never showed in himself
any traits of manliness, except when he was on the seat of judgment.
If he had been portrayed as wholly woman, or wholly man, we could have
understood him, but for this strange admixture even the physicians are
at a loss to account, almost to understand. He had his good qualities
and had them in plenty, but overshadowing them all, like a terrible
blight, there was this organic affliction of the senses, passions, and
general outlook. Unfortunately, this blight of femininity still exists
in the world to a certain extent, especially amongst religious persons.
Gulick holds that the reason why only 7 per cent of young men attend the
Christian churches is because the qualities demanded are feminine not
virile, such as passive love, passive suffering, rest, prayer, trust;
whereas Confucianism and Mahommedanism attract men because the demand is
for virile qualities, and the place for women is small. Such faiths make
even more than individual demands on the virtues of courage, endurance,
self-control, bravery, loyalty, and enthusiasm. Gulick says also, that
the able-bodied boy who lacks the courage to fight is generally a
milksop, or a sneak, without any high sense of honour.

In this epitome of the qualities demanded of men we see the true grounds
on which the world has instinctively condemned Elagabalus, though
probably without quite knowing why they did so. It is because they have
been told that he possessed the virtues, along with the mind, of the
woman, and a voluptuous woman at that, and had nothing of what the world
expects to find in the male animal. His reign was short, so he left no
traces of his mind on the Empire, and what little he did effect was
reversed by his successor. His reign of prodigal extravagance caused not
one single new impost; his government of the city and provinces alike was
one of peace and harmony. That infamous system of informers under which
the aristocracy and plutocracy of Rome had suffered so direly up to the
death of Caracalla was never re-established by Elagabalus; despite the
fact that his rule had been subverted, on more than one occasion, by the
existing aristocrats. The people was sovereign, and it was important
that that sovereign should be amused, flattered, and fed. All was done
that had been done before by the demi-gods, and all was done with an
exaggeration unparalleled. His games in the circus were such that even
Lampridius admits the people considered him a worthy Emperor, because
he was endowed with a sense of the grandeur of the imperial position,
and expressed it by his marvellous prodigalities. They made him what he
was, and has ever remained in history, the Emperor of extravagance. In
him the glow of the purple reached its apogee. Rome had been watching
a crescendo that had mounted with the ages. Its culmination was in
this hermaphrodite. But the tension had been too great, even for the
solidarity of Imperial Rome; it was as though the mainspring had snapped,
and the age of anarchy, both military and religious, did the rest:
undermining the State, till the Emperors, whose sceptre had lashed both
gods and sky, became little better than a procession of bandits, coloured
and ornate it is true, but utterly lacking in that strength and virility
which is the essential of real government throughout the world.

Thus did Rome make way for Attila, the scourge whom God sent for the
final extinction of art and philosophy, and incidentally for the
refurbishing of the world under its mediaeval guise.




CHAPTER X

THE EXTRAVAGANCES OF THE EMPEROR ELAGABALUS


The Rome of Elagabalus was a dream aflame with gold, “a city of triumphal
arches, enchanted temples, royal dwellings, vast porticoes, and wide,
hospitable streets; a Rome purely Greek in conception and design. On its
heart, from the Circus Maximus to the Forum’s edge, the remains of the
gigantic Palace of Nero still shone, fronted by a stretch of columns
a mile in length; a palace so wonderful that even the cellars were
frescoed. In the baths of porphyry and verd-antique you had waters cold
or sulphurous at will, and these Elagabalus threw open to all whose forms
pleased him, men and women alike” (a custom of mixed bathing which had
been abolished by Hadrian and was again proscribed by Alexander Severus).
“The dining-halls had ivory ceilings, from which flowers fell, and
wainscots that changed at every service. The walls were alive with the
glisten of gems, with marbles rarer than jewels. In one hall was a dome
of sapphire, a floor of malachite, crystal columns and red gold walls;
about the palace were green savannahs, forest reaches, the call of the
bird and deer; before it was a lake, eight acres of which Vespasian had
drained and replaced by an amphitheatre, which is still the wonder of the
world.”

Into this profusion of aesthetic loveliness the youth of fourteen
summers stepped proudly, realising how fitting a background it made
to his glorious beauty. It was Nero’s creation, and here was a young
Nero (in face and manner) suddenly reappeared to enjoy what he had been
prematurely forced to leave.

In spite of everything, Nero was still the idol of the masses. For
years fresh roses had lain on his tomb, the memory of his festivals was
unforgettable, regret for him refused to be stilled; he was more than a
god, he was a tradition, and his second advent was confidently expected.
The Egyptians had proclaimed that the soul has its avatars; the Romans
had sneered in their philosophical fashion at all ideas of soul migration
till Elagabalus sauntered from that distant Emesa, an Antonine at the
head of an adoring army; then they began to think that the Egyptians were
wiser than they looked, for in the blue eyes of the young Emperor the
spirit of Nero’s magnificence shone.

All men were charmed; the Senate with their Aurelius, the people with
their Nero, the army with their Antonine. Certainly in profusion
Elagabalus was destined to rival his prototype. His prodigalities were
more excessive, his mignons more blatant, his wives more numerous,
and his processions more splendid. Only in cruelty (at which none can
cavil) did the resemblance fail. Nero had regretted his ability to
write when first a death-warrant was presented for his signature; he
appended his name and soon found the taste for blood. Elagabalus wept
at the sight of suffering, poverty and misery to the end of his life;
and as he never avoided seeing it, he must have wept often. In fact, a
favourite pastime, according to Herodian, was wandering disguised through
the purlieus of the city; sometimes he would serve as potboy in the
taverns, or as barber’s assistant in the slums, as itinerant vendor of
vegetables and perfumes about the streets; which antics assume a most
reprehensible flavour in the mouth of the historians after the Emperor
had conceived the notion of taking the world into his confidence and had
ordered paintings of himself in the plebeian garbs above mentioned. Any
way, Elagabalus tried to alleviate distress, which was more practical
than tears, though an unusual extravagance amongst the Emperors of the
decadence.

From his infancy the boy had gloried in extravagance. Even as a private
citizen we are told that he refused to stir without a procession of sixty
chariots following, a foible which had caused Maesa to gnash her teeth
instead of adopting measures which would prevent the recurrence of such
ostentation. He had never even thought of austerity, simplicity, and
poverty as necessary evils, let alone as Christian virtues, to be borne
with fortitude and temperance. Once when a friend asked him whether
he was not afraid that his prodigalities would land him in ultimate
necessity, he replied with an astounding self-complacency, “What can be
better for me than to be heir to myself.” Like many a modern child,
he objected to woollen garments, and his parents were foolish enough
to give way to his whimsies; he disliked the feel of wool, he said.
Another prejudice was against linen that had been washed. So dainty was
he that he never used the same garments, the same jewels, the same woman
twice (unless it were his wife), says Lampridius. But in Rome wool was
necessary; Rome was never healthy. Maesa knew it by experience, but
was more than willing to tempt providence by returning thither. The
Tramontana visited it then as now; fever too, and sudden death. Wool was
certainly necessary; besides, it was the accustomed dress of the country,
and Rome was intensely conservative, she would not endure an Emperor who
came dressed as an Eastern barbarian; the boy of thirteen years must
adopt the clothes, habits, and customs of his adopted country, of his
reputed father; thus the grandmother argued till Elagabalus was bored
with the discussion, and told the lady so. He was devising, moreover,
he announced, garments more splendid and more bizarre than any Rome had
found outside the temple at Jerusalem. His fancy was a frail tunic of
purple silk diapered with gold, or that even more resplendent vestment
which was woven throughout of fine gold and encrusted with gems. Alone
of the garments he had seen, this enhanced his beauty and gave dignity
to his movements. The sleeves were long and full, reaching to his heels,
open to show the rounded softness of his girlish arms; gilded leather
covered his feet and reached to his thighs; it was softer than wool and
certainly showed his form to better advantage. Sometimes after supper he
would appear in public dressed in the stiff dalmatic of a young deacon,
calling himself Fabius Gurgis, and Scipio, because the parents of these
youths had formerly shown them to the people in this costume in order to
correct their bad manners.

Encircling his curls (but in the palace only) was a diadem of heavy gold,
studded with jewels; not the simple golden circlet known to the Roman
world, but one after a Persian design, first introduced by Caracalla,
rich, splendid, and brilliant with the numbers of rubies, sapphires,
and emeralds which he thought became him. Unfortunately, his taste
for precious stones did not stop here. Lampridius and Herodian pour
deserved scorn on the numerous bracelets, rings and necklaces, all as
rich and costly as could be made, with which he decked his person; but,
perhaps unnecessarily, on his shoe-buckles, whose stones, engraved cameo
and intaglio, were the wonder of the beholder, and their cry has been
increased to a howl by later commentators, who seem to consider it a
species of indecency that the Emperor’s shoes should be of fine leather,
his stones priceless, while theirs were of ill-dressed cowhide, held
together with buckles of paste.

Of course, it is not a pleasant taste, this overlaying of the body with
an inordinate display of wealth, even when done merely for the honour of
one’s God, as Elagabalus protested. Unfortunately, it is still known both
in the Plutocratic and Sacerdotal worlds. Certain minds still revolt,
still see its snobbery, vanity and degeneracy, are even foolish enough
to imagine that the personal vanity of such functionaries will one day
renounce what is their main means of attraction.

Elagabalus’ love of extravagance comes out most strongly in his ritual
of worship. Never in the history of Rome had such daily waste of life
and liquor, such profusion of colour and gold, flowers, music, and
movement displayed the honour of God or man. The Emperor’s one idea was
to eclipse all that his predecessors had imagined. It was a stupendous
task to surpass Nero in fantasy, Otho and Vitellius in greediness; but he
had read Suetonius, and not an eccentricity of the Caesars had escaped
his notice. He knew, too, where to exceed them, and still lives on the
reputation of a work accomplished.

The hecatombs of oxen and innumerable quantities of sheep which came
daily to the temple of the Only God required a perfect army of butchers
that their slaughter might do homage to the Deity while daylight lasted.
These, with the spices, wine, and flowers, were but part payment of the
interest which the high priest felt his family owed to Elagabal for the
past and present successes of his house, while his most beloved title was
that which styled him “Invictus Sacerdos, Dei Soli.” There is a great
variety in his medals, both in those coined by the Senate and in those
struck by himself, whereon this priesthood of his is described. Chief
Priest and Invincible Priest of Elagabal, or the Sun, are commonly to
be met with round his image, which stands in a sacrificing posture, with
a censer in his hand, over an altar. It was in this supreme ineffable
spirit that the Emperor put his trust, to him he ascribed his health,
wealth, and security, together with that of his whole catholic church
militant here on earth.

On his arrival in Rome in the year A.D. 219, Elagabalus thought well
to carry through the laudable custom (for the poor) of bestowing the
usual congiary on the people. If Mediobarbus were to be trusted, he gave
six such during his short reign of approximately four years, besides
the soldiers’ donatives (which to his cost and undoing he foolishly
neglected as time went on). To-day such liberalities on the part of a
sovereign take the form of free meals and a limited supply of beer, but
are amiable and satisfying methods of spending the public money in an
ingratiating fashion. What Elagabalus gave was from the private funds
of his house, and was given in a manner quite his own. Formerly it had
been usual to distribute gold and silver (Nero had added eccentric gifts,
of course) on such occasions, but Elagabalus signalised his assumption
of the Consulship by the distribution of fat oxen, camels, eunuchs,
slaves, caparisoned saddle-horses, closed sedans and carriages, hoping,
as he remarked, that all men would remember these were the gifts of the
Emperor; as though any were likely to forget when they found themselves
saddled with a dromedary, and expected to conduct it safely to their own
backyard through the crowded lanes of the city. Such gifts were often
more trouble than they were worth, and the scramble at the distribution
much what it would be now, at least, according to Lampridius’ description
of those yearly distributions which followed the translation of the Great
God to his temple in the suburbs.

At times Elagabalus gave money; witness the congiary and donative to
celebrate his marriage with Cornelia Paula, when, as Herodian tells
us, not only the people, but also the Senators, Equites, and even the
Senators’ wives partook of the liberality, receiving 150 denares each,
the soldiers 250, on account, presumably, of their superior usefulness.

Had this boy’s megalomania stopped short at donatives and congiaries, we
should know little but good of him; unfortunately, he considered that to
love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance, and spent his money
as best pleased his fancy at the moment, which was always with a taste
for resplendency.

We can imagine the beauty of his reclining couches, solid silver, richly
chased, the cushions upholstered in purple woven with pure gold. Entire
services in silver for table use, very massive; even the saucepans were
in the same metal, and elegantly fashioned vases or cups containing 100
lbs. weight of precious metal apiece, with the most obvious indecencies
engraved or repousséd on the sides; the strange part of it all being that
he took delight, not so much in the possession of all this splendour as
in the giving of it to his friends, so much so that the silversmiths
could scarce keep pace with his generosity. It is a good feeling that of
giving generously, better to give than to receive, and what Elagabalus
got in return cost the giver so little pain.

To food and drink the Emperor was as much addicted as the traditional
city alderman, though his imagination certainly surpassed that of the
retired tradesman, at least in quality and design. His chief authority
was Apicius, the renowned author of a book entitled _De re coquinaria_,
but he had other models almost as famous, if not as long-lived, in
the Emperors Otho and Vitellius, and managed to outdo them all in
extravagance. Lampridius states that no feast cost Elagabalus less than
100,000 sesterces, and often reached the stupendous figure of 300,000,
_tout compris_. The number of dishes has been reached, if not surpassed,
by modern luxury, but to Lampridius twenty-two courses sounded absurd;
not so, however, the ablutions and courtesans who always attended and
utilised the intervals in an unbecoming manner. Occasionally these
intervals were of some length, caused by the removal of whole services
of plate to the possession of some guest who had said the right thing
at the psychological moment. Another means of delay was found in the
practice, which Elagabalus instituted, of taking each course in the house
of a different friend, an arrangement which necessitated the transference
of the whole party in their gold and ivory chariots from the Capitol to
the Palatine, thence to the Coelian Hill, and again to another friend
who might live beyond the walls, or yet to another in Trastevere. This,
with the usual impedimenta, arriving at the house of each, for the dishes
in their order, took time, and in such a fashion we can well believe
the chronicler who states that a single feast was scarce finished in
the daytime, especially as the intervals for customary enjoyments were
arranged with due regard for the utmost desires of the guests.

It is charming to imagine a feast such as is recorded of Maecenas, where
“in ungirdled tunics the guests lay on silver beds, the head and neck
encircled with amaranthe—whose perfume, in opening the pores, neutralises
the fumes of wine—fanned by boys, whose curly hair they used as napkins.
Under the supervision of butlers the courses were served on silver
platters, so large that they covered the tables. Sows’ breasts with
Lybian truffles; dormice baked in poppies and honey; peacocks’ tongues
flavoured with cinnamon; oysters stewed in garum—a sort of anchovy
sauce made of the intestines of fish—flamingoes’ and ostriches’ brains,
followed by the brains of thrushes, parroquets, pheasants, and peacocks,
also a yellow pig cooked after the Trojan fashion, from which, when
carved, hot sausages fell and live thrushes flew; sea-wolves from the
Baltic, sturgeons from Rhodes, fig-peckers from Samos, African snails and
the rest.” A full list of the dainties set forth would weary the amateur,
might even make him envious of the times that are now long dead, times
when the ceaseless round of beef and mutton would have been considered
monotonous or bad art, and year in year out plain boiled greens were
unknown; times when the Emperor served, as we have recorded, grains of
gold with his peas, rubies with lentils, beans and amber, for the mere
pleasure of sight; though his salads of mullets’ fins with cress, balm
mint, and fenugreek, we should probably have found no greater delicacy
than the undercooked vegetables of this twentieth century of our
salvation and discomfort.

As with food, so with wine, Elagabalus was a glutton. Mulsum, that cup
composed of white wine, roses, nard, absinthe and honey, was _vieux
jeu_. The delicate wines of Greece were always palatable; so was the
crusty Falernian of the year 632 A.U.C., to those who were of an age to
appreciate its worth. The young gourmet thought otherwise, and rendered
them noisome by the addition of crushed pine kernels and fir cones. It
was a youthful taste, such as we still distrust, but scarcely immoral
in the generally accepted sense of the term. As regards a tendency to
over-indulgence in good liquor, we have no data; there is a passage in
Lampridius (though evidently faulty) which asserts that the Emperor used
to mix wine with the baths and then invite the guests to drink, the basin
from which he had drunk being easily distinguishable by the fall in its
level; an utter impossibility, and not even clever as a bit of scandal.
Another extravagance culled from the same biographer tells how this child
realised the summer by feasts at which all was of one colour, food as
well as fittings, and how he would order all the dishes of a certain day
to be composed of a single sort of flesh: it might be pheasant under
twenty different garbs, fowls served on the same scale, even fish, if
the Court happened to be at a distance from the sea. At another time you
would be served with a vegetarian diet, or occasionally with nothing but
pork, which sounds inconsistent when we consider that the same author has
sneered copiously at the Emperor’s adoption of the Jewish superstition
in this matter. He further tells us that it was not magnificent enough
for this child’s fancy to recline on silver beds, with covers fashioned
in cloth of gold; his cushions were of hare’s fur, or down from under
the partridge’s wing, whilst the whole was strewn thick with flowers and
perfumes, those of important guests with saffron and gold dust. Wherever
he went were flowers strewing the way—lilies, violets, roses, and
narcissus.

No mention of psychological extravagance would be complete without a
certain disquisition on the use of perfumes. Here, as everywhere else,
Lampridius tells us that Elagabalus contrived to outdo his predecessors.
The use he made of unguents was little short of dissolute. As usual, the
biographer would have us believe that the failing was an idiosyncrasy
peculiar to the Emperor, whose life he was decrying. He had obviously
not heard of the soporific nastiness of Solomon’s beloved, a lady who
is represented to us by the writer of the Canticles as a cluster of
camphire, a mountain of myrrh, a hill of frankincense, spikenard and
cinnamon, additions which would not only have made her sticky, but
noisome to boot. Mahommed and his pavement of musk was beyond Lampridius’
ken, but he had certainly heard of the perfumes which scented the temple
at Jerusalem, and it would have been no new sight for him to have watched
Elagabalus pour tons of aromatics upon the new altars erected to the
ancient gods.

Even to-day we know something about the odour of sanctity and
occasionally inhale its delights by stealth, because, despite undoubted
legal prohibition, the clergy have persuaded us that the Gods still love
the smell of incense. Our point is, however, that everything sacred and
profane stank horribly at the period. Thank heaven, the personal use of
_mille fleurs_ which then obsessed the world has now given place to a
smell of the open. But there was nothing unusual during the third century
in the fact that Elagabalus burnt Indian aromatics instead of coal in
his dining-rooms, balm instead of petroleum in his lamps, and heated
his stoves and bathrooms with odours instead of the more commonplace
materials. What is repulsive is the depraved use which the world made of
perfume. The tunics of men, their baths, beds, horses, rooms, streets,
servants, even their food smelt. Caligula had wasted a fortune on
perfumes. Nero had waded in them. Myrrh, aloes, and cassia, saffron and
cinnamon, not to mention others equally objectionable and even more
costly; these all made life heavy and cloying, turned conceptions of
wrong into right, made the unholy adorable, stained the thoughts and
depraved the mind, just as M. Huysmans (in _À Rebours_) describes what he
succeeded in doing during his stay at Fontenay.

Not that Rome was as objectionable as Athens. There, we are told that
both men and women painted their faces with white lead, their eyelids
with kohl, and their nails with henna; and in order to draw attention
to the depravity, they perfumed their hair with marjoram, rubbed their
arms with mint, their legs with ivy, and the soles of their feet with
baccaris. In Greece this idea of attention to personal beauty was a
perfect cult—the latest recipes for artificial adornments were engraved
on tablets and exhibited in the temples of Aesculapius, and, this done,
the state imposed a fine for a slatternly appearance; but for all that
it was decadent and nasty. People, of course, still spend money on their
personal appearance, but patchouli, thank heaven! has gone, even from
Piccadilly.

The Emperor’s fondness for fish was tempered by its rarity. He would
never eat of its living things whilst he sojourned near the sea; he would
have them transported to the immense salt-water tanks he had constructed
amongst the mountains and in the interior of the country, both for their
preservation and his own amusement. We are told that he invented a method
of fishing in which oxen figured, a conceit which later years has not
revived.

First in history he conceived of sausages made from lampreys’ roes,
soft-shelled oysters, lobsters, and crayfish, and fed the country
peasants on the same. Indeed, his generosity here, as in Rome, was
unbounded, the chroniclers relating how he would throw from the windows
as many dishes as he offered to his own guests then at table. There was
nothing of our niggardly idea of charity here, no notion that any crusts
were good enough for the hungry. His dogs were fed on foie-gras, his
horses on grapes, his lions on pheasants and parroquets—an unnecessary
and unpleasant waste when one knows how much these beasts would have
preferred a more ordinary fare.

His fish sauce was a triumph of the culinary art, which is utterly lost.
It was a transparent bluish-green, the counterpart of sea water, in which
the fish looked alive and natural, utterly unlike the ragged ugliness
which is now presented for our consumption. So famous were his dishes
that the pastrycooks and dairymen of the day were wont to reproduce them
in their own particular wares, selling the same as imperial affectations.

The menus also were his own conception, embroidered on the tablecloth—not
the mere list of dishes, but pictures drawn with the needle of the
dishes themselves—which, of course, necessitated a change of cloth with
each service. He first, we are told, made the public feasts, as well as
private dinners, great and magnificent. Formerly these feasts had been of
a military simplicity. Elagabalus could not see why even political guests
should not enjoy themselves when they came to dine with him, and served
them with hydrogarum, the then last word in Sybaritic enjoyment. His
successor Alexander thought differently, and reverted to the old order, a
proceeding which pleased no one save the flatulent.

Elagabalus was, unfortunately, tainted with what is perhaps natural in
young people, though in elderly plutocrats is an acquired vice, that of
overt snobbery. It is recorded by more than one of his guests that he
would often ask them to price his dishes, in order to hear an excessive
value suggested, remarking that great cost gave a good appetite,
especially when one knew that dishes were scarce and out of season. Of
course, it was bad form, even in a boy, but how much else that happens is
the same? There are other things in plenty to cavil at.

It was not by food alone that Elagabalus drained the treasury; he had
other ways of flattering the sovereign people of Rome. The spectacles
which he gave in the amphitheatre were unique. Fancy 80,000 people on
ascending galleries, protected from the sun by a canopy of spangled
silk, an arena three acres in extent, carpeted with sand, vermilion, and
borax, in that arena were naval displays on lakes of wine, and the death
of whole menageries of Egyptian beasts (in one show, Herodian tells us,
fifty-one tigers alone were killed). There were chariot races, in which
not only horses, but also stags, lions, tigers, dogs, and even women
figured, till the spectators showed a colossal delight. The magnificence
of the spectacle almost surpasses belief: from below came the blare of a
thousand brass instruments, and from above the caresses of flutes, while
the air, sweet with flowers and perfume (for the Emperor had provided
saffron even for the cloaks of the crowd), was alive with multicoloured
motes. The terraces were parterres of blending hues, when into that
splendour a hundred lions, their tasselled tails sweeping the sand,
entered obliquely, and anon a rush of wild elephants, attacked on either
side; another moment of sheer delight, in which the hunters were tossed
upon the terraces, tossed back again by the spectators, and trampled
to death. By way of interlude, the ring was peopled with acrobats, who
flew up in the air like birds, and formed pyramids together, much in the
fashion that we know them to-day. There was a troop of tamed lions, their
manes gilded, that walked on tight-ropes, wrote obscenities in Greek,
and danced to cymbals, which one of them played; a chase of ostriches
and feats of horsemanship on zebras from Madagascar. The interlude at
an end, the sand was re-raked. Then, preceded by the pomp of lictors,
interminable files of gladiators entered, while the eyes of the women
lighted and glowed; artistic death was their chiefest joy, for there
was no cowardice in the arena. The gladiators fought for applause, for
liberty, for death—fought manfully, skilfully, terribly too, and received
the point of the sword or the palm of victory with an equally unmoved
expression, an unchanged face. It was a magnificent conception on which
the Romans, or, more exactly, the Etruscans, their predecessors, had
devised to train their children for war and allay the fear of blood.
It had been serviceable indeed, and though the need of it had gone,
the spectacle endured, and, enduring, constituted the chief delight
of the Vestals and of Rome. By its means a bankrupt became Consul, an
Emperor beloved. It had stayed revolutions, because it was felt to be
the tax of the proletariat on the rich. Silver and bread were for the
individual, but these things were for the crowd. When evening descended,
so did torches and the Emperor to take chief part in the ballet which he
considered as the culminating point in the performance.

In a robe, immaterial as a moonbeam, his eyelids darkened with antimony,
his face painted in imitation of the courtesans who sat on high chairs
and ogled passers-by in the Suburra, he entered the arena, and there,
to the incitement of crotals, he danced with his Syrians before the
multitude, a protecting claque of 80,000 persons toasting the performer
with the magnificent cry, “Io Triumphe!” whatever they thought of its
indecency. Lampridius tells us of his importing from Egypt those little
serpents, known under the name of “good genius,” and letting them loose
amongst the audience, among whom many were bitten, many killed, in the
stampede. It was quite a likely prank to play—is even heard of to-day—but
one cannot imagine that Elagabalus wanted to disperse the audience, as
his biographer suggests, before they had witnessed the magnificence which
he had prepared for their delectation. It would have been too foolish,
especially if he wanted an appreciative reception for his own turn.

So much for his public appearances. Many of his private pleasures are
quite repeatable, though all are extravagant, such as his chariot races
in the palace and in the Gardens of Hope, his teams of great dogs to
draw him from place to place, his naked women for the same purpose, or
when he himself, in the attributes and customary undress of Bacchus,
was drawn by lions, tigers, and the female sex. In driving, Elagabalus
had a splendid nerve, as we learn from the record of his chariot races
with camels and elephants even over the Vatican and its tombs. He
seems to have imagined that others were possessed of the same daring
and hardihood. Witness his requests to guests that they should drive
chariots, to which were harnessed four wild stags, through the porticoes
in front of his dining-rooms, which porticoes were strewn thick with
gold and silver dust, because he could not get electrum. Many found
the task most unpleasant, especially if they were portly, or Senators
whose pomposity ought to have put such antics out of the question; but
Elagabalus was no respecter of persons, unless, of course, they were
young, beautiful, and full of lust; to such he was ever considerate,
whether they were men or women. One day, because they pleased him, he
presented to the courtesans and procurers of the city the whole supply of
corn for a year’s provision, and promised a like amount to those dwelling
outside the walls. On another he collected the _cocottes_ of the theatres
and circuses, and, having harangued them as “companions in arms,”
presented them with a soldier’s donative of three pieces of gold, saying,
“Tell no one that Antonine has given you this.”

Elagabalus is the originator of lotteries, which have since become a
source of profit to European states. There was one for the people, one
for the comedians. Of course, he provided the prizes, and there does not
seem to have been any purchase of tickets. These were singular, as were
all his other gifts, and varied from 1 lb. of beef to 100 pieces of gold
or 1000 of silver.

In summer he had the audacity to erect a snow mountain in his orchard, in
order that cool airs might relieve the oppressiveness of Sol in Leone.
Even in the relief of natural functions he was magnificent, using only
vases of gold, onyx, and myrrhin. Whether this last is a metal or sort of
agate has been disputed, but Pliny had no doubt as to its extreme worth.
He tells us that a drinking cup was sold for 70,000 sesterces, and a
sacrificial capis for 1,000,000, to his own knowledge.

The progresses of Elagabalus were a sight that made even the citizens of
Rome stare open-mouthed. Nero had taken a train of 500 carriages, and
the boy Emperor was not to be outdone. He ordered a following of 600 at
a time, saying that the King of Persia had a train of 10,000 camels, and
for himself, his numerous courtesans, procurers, and the rest, whom he
had bought and freed, all richly habited, could not be accommodated with
less, wherein he showed a certain chivalry, as also in the case of the
very famous _cocotte_, whom he had bought for 100,000 sesterces, and then
relegated to perpetual virginity.

The Syrian astrologers had told Elagabalus that he would meet with a
violent death, which information seems in no way to have disturbed his
equanimity; it merely added to his extravagances, in that he built a
tower, from which he designed to throw himself, when his hour was come,
on to a pavement of gold encrusted with gems, in order that men might
say, “qualis artifex periit.” To make assurance doubly sure, he carried
with him little cases fashioned in emeralds and rubies, containing deadly
poisons, also cords of purple silk, with which he might strangle himself
if he were in any real trouble, though the adulation of the people made
it doubtful if such could ever happen. Was it a wonderful thing that the
people loved him—the originator of lotteries where no one but the Emperor
was the loser, the distributor of an incessant shower of tickets that
were exchangeable, not for bread or trivial sums, but for gems, pictures,
slaves, fortunes, ships, villas, and estates? Such a one was bound to be
adored; indeed, his lavishness deified him in the eyes of the sovereign
people of Rome.

There is one record of wanton waste which Lampridius has laid to his
charge, namely, that of sinking laden ships in the harbours in order to
show men at what a price he valued his wealth, that it could pay any
compensation, could stand any strain. It is a foolish and criminal fault
for a statesman to squander the wealth of his country, but an accusation
which is still levelled against the statesmen of our own time, and that
not infrequently. They may not attempt to realise the greatness of their
country by collecting cobwebs by the ton, as Elagabalus once managed to
do, saying that he wished thus to realise the greatness of Rome, but they
are perfectly capable of ordering equally unproductive labour and paying
for it at an enormous price, which is, ethically speaking, much the same
thing. The psychology of extravagance has not yet been examined, so we
are still free to condemn what we do not fully understand. Megalomania
we all know something about and can all condemn as experts. It was
Elagabalus’ success, as it has tended to the progress of other equally
well-known persons.




CHAPTER XI

THE RELIGION OF THE EMPEROR ELAGABALUS


One of the main causes of complaint against the Emperor Marcus Aurelius
Antoninus was his religion. Lampridius and Xiphilinus are unanimous
in their condemnation of its tendencies and beliefs. Into these it is
unnecessary to enter at greater length than has been done in preceding
chapters. If there is one point on which all his biographers are fully
agreed, it is that the Emperor was pre-eminently religious. God took the
first place in his calculations and designs.

Had he been a private person, no one could have objected to this
tendency. In general, piety towards the Gods has been commended
throughout the world’s history. It is only when a man occupies a public
position and subordinates his civil to his religious duties that the
world is apt to look askance at the latter. This is the position of
Elagabalus, at least in part; he is accused of neglecting the business
of the state for the sake of his conscience. Other sovereigns have been
likewise accused, and have likewise suffered at the hands of a world even
more vitally religious than were the Senate and people of third-century
Rome. Similar instances may be found not far from home which have perhaps
even less justification, when we consider that the cause of offence here
was ceremonies, not vital creeds.

A word may also be said concerning the objects which Antonine’s
biographers had in view when they condemned what we should—at first
sight—have expected them to have praised in the Emperor’s life.

As we have already pointed out, Constantine’s determination to impose
Christianity on the empire led to grave opposition, chiefly from the
adherents of the similarly monotheistic cult of Mithra, a cult which
was certainly identified with that of Elagabal, the only God. It was—if
on that account alone—obviously necessary that, not only the opposing
religion, but also the chief exponent of that worship, should come in for
severe censure at the hands of the fourth-century monotheism.

As one reads the story of Antonine’s life, one is struck not so much
by the record of his perverse sexualities, about which no one can have
known anything definite, and which, even if the reports be true, we are
bound to regard as congenital, in the light of modern research, as we
are by the record of his religious fanaticism. This trait is, and in all
probability justly, considered to be reprehensible. It is not, however,
restricted to the Emperor in question; probably everybody has come across
it, in one form or another, during the course of his life; some have even
suffered under its potency. Antonine was, as we have said, in a peculiar
position; he was young, powerful, and extremely religious; he ascribed
the success of his house to the favour of his God, and desired to make
some return in the shape of coercing men to that God’s worship. To this
Emperor the possession of supreme power meant limitless possibilities
for the effecting of his scheme. Further, as we have seen, he came of
a religious stock, or rather of a family whose traditions were bound
up with a very definite form of religious worship, which is generally
considered as the same thing.

The origin of religion is a much-disputed point. Some men have considered
that the source of all religion is fright; others prefer love; both of
which appeal to the superstitious instinct inherent in man. It may be
that these instincts breed reverence, fear, or love for forces outside
man’s control, and incomprehensible to him; in any case, these forces
were the first things to be deified in the history of religions, and took
their precedence in the natural order of their mystery or usefulness,
becoming a sort of aristocracy of talent, with a supreme head, the God of
Gods.

In process of time the older religions of Greece and Rome gave way to
philosophies; and the thinkers having reasoned away the potency of their
deities, fought against what they considered a decadent and sentimental,
not to say a baseless tradition, with all the aids that experience
gave them. Then it was that the signs, portents, and miracles which
had bolstered up the faith of the ignorant, which had kept fright and
superstition alive, even the very prophecies and revelations which were
the sacerdotal proofs of inherent genuineness became either natural
phenomena or debasing charlatanry, amongst men who knew their origin and
history, or had learned from Archimedes the principles of mathematics.

Nevertheless, in imperial Rome the atmosphere was charged with the
marvellous, very much as it was in Northern Europe until the time of
the Renaissance. The world was filled with prodigies, strange Gods, and
credulous crowds. The occult sciences, astrology, magic and divinations,
all had their adepts, and commanded the respect which kindred practices
command amongst the credulous to-day.

But the philosophy of the older religions was undoubtedly hard and
cold. Courage, moderation, and honour were qualities that enforced the
permanence of the state, not of the individual. Men laboured not for
hope of reward, but for the sake of duty; they knew that vice was part
of the universal order of things, perhaps an error of the understanding,
certainly an error which it was idle to blame, yet righteous to rectify.
But the older religions as they had developed during the latter days of
the republic were far from satisfying the whole aspirations of man.

The mind of man is not his only function, he has physical parts and
passions as well, such as fright, superstition, attractions, antipathies,
and sex. Some men were incapable of thought, few were single in aim,
and there was a craving, it may be quite irrational, but still human,
which longed to create, or at least to imagine, something higher than
self, something mightier than mind, something to which the irrational
and traditional side of man could appeal; and so, as one God died, a
newer and more mystical personage took his place. Jupiter had ceased to
dominate the world with a visible potency, Mithra, more mystical, more
sentimental, took his place as a power, so intimately connected with
man’s physical parts and passions, that the world of philosophy, which
dealt with the body through the mind, could scarcely touch the fringes of
his garment.

There was, therefore, in Rome at the beginning of the third century A.D.
a party of men strongly attached, for sentimental or neurotic reasons, to
one or other of the recently imported Eastern creeds; but there was also
a large party of conservatives whose atheism was as cool and detached
as that of Horace; and a still larger party of ordinary people whose
attachment to the old practices of Roman Polytheism expressed all that
they considered either necessary or expedient, from the point of view
of ordinary piety. But in each case the religion was subordinated to a
paramount political, not to an essentially religious life, which life
was evolving, as we learn from nearly all authors, towards degeneration,
despite the fact that culture and literature was still based upon the
philosophy of intellectual freedom.

Unfortunately, the very rule which had made for political greatness was
now robbing men of every liberating interest, was leaving society sterile
and empty. As a consequence of this, each generation was becoming less
wishful to think, and less capable of thought; not that the intellect of
Rome had by any means descended to that ultimate plane of intelligence
from which it was ready to enslave itself under the retrograde tendencies
of Eastern theistic beliefs. Rome, the mistress of the world, had seen
good in all Gods; she had acknowledged and included in her worship the
philosophies and deities of all nations, tribes, and tongues; every
force, natural, physical, and political, was represented at her altars.
Rome was comprehensively, sceptically Polytheist, when to her palaces
flocked the engineers, astronomers, and philosophers of that vast empire.
It was only to the common people, possessed as they were by beliefs in
non-human powers, in beings that beset life with malignity, that the
restoration of cults and ritual commended itself, and even they were
eclectic in their tastes and fancies.

Despite pulpit learning, we know that Rome was no more attracted by those
doctrines of the universal socialistic brotherhood which had emanated
from Nazareth, than she was by the system of the ecstatic visionary from
Tarsus, who was destined—by a more systematic and regular development
of his revelations—to capture the freedom of the earlier intellectual
religions, as soon as the world’s hoary wisdom, having lost its virility,
was involved in the dotage of an unreasoning antiquity.

In the long run we know that the mob triumphed, and that every religion
of the West was orientalised, every superstition and neurotic tendency
developed, and philosophy was brought to its knees utterly debased, until
its function was merely to be the apologist of all that superstition
taught or did. For the present, rational thinking men were alive. When
they died, exclusive monotheism came, carrying before it, like a flood,
the greatness of the former world. But the issue was still uncertain. Had
Elagabalus lived; had the beauty and impressiveness of his Semitic ritual
made its way; had time been given for men to grasp his idea of one vast,
beneficent, divine power, into the empire of whose central authority men
might escape from the thousand and one petty marauders of the spirit
world, they might have been attracted to the worship of life and light
instead of enmeshed by the seductive force of obscure and impossible
dogmas, tempted by the bait of an elusive socialism and a problematical
futurity.

It was not that Rome, atheist or religious, objected to the worship of
Baal. She had her own and a round dozen other Jupiters, as men conceived
him to be, and was quite ready to include him amongst the number. The
trouble was that rational thinking men could not bring their minds to
conceive of any supreme potency in the world, outside man himself; while
religious persons had each his own particular conceit in the way of
deities, all of which the new Emperor, with more zeal than discretion,
proceeded to make subject to his own Lord’s will.

But there was obviously more than mere amalgamation in Antonine’s scheme.
We have already pointed out the Emperor’s position of supremacy over the
old cults, and discussed the disintegrating tendency of the mystical and
independent monotheisms, which was already apparent even in the city
itself. The danger which these new religions imported into political life
lay in the establishment of an imperium over the souls of men, which,
based on superstitious terrors rather than on any appeal to reason or
logic, claimed an authority over the mind equal to that of the State over
the persons of its subjects.

The main attraction of these forms of faith lay in their ability to
supply men with a personal and spiritual religion, which, being free
from State intervention, was able to incite its adherents to rebellion,
against any policy of which its priesthood disapproved, on spiritual or
even on financial grounds. Statesmen had long recognised the danger,
and were obviously attempting to cope with the new forces. Antonine’s
proposal was one for the extension of his jurisdiction (as Pontifex
Maximus) to the new monotheisms, by the amalgamation of these with
the older worships over which his authority as Pontifex Maximus was
unchallenged. If he had succeeded he would have exerted his headship of
religion in much the same fashion as Elizabeth Tudor—claiming a similar
headship—exerted hers in the sixteenth century. This policy meant the
appointment of State officials endowed with the wealth, titles, and
a portion of the vesture of those old prelates, who had by their
traditions and claims to magical powers, coerced, and indeed still coerce
the minds of the credulous to the disintegration of the State. Antonine
foreshadowed what Tudor greatness effected; namely, the erection of a
State church, whose business it was to replace an independent priesthood
which fostered fanaticism, by a race of civil servants who would restrain
and modify superstition, turning all dangerous and harmful elements in
the religious life into useful and philanthropic energies, concerning
whose profit it would take an anchorite to disagree.

We have traced the steps by which Antonine proceeded to carry out his
policy of amalgamation. The erection of that superb and gigantic temple
in the XIth region; the summer residence for his God near the Porta
Praenestina; and the procession, in which all men and most of the Gods
took part, have been catalogued already. It was, however, this very
amalgamation to which Rome, atheist and religious, objected. Antonine
could have done what pleased him in the way of introducing a new worship;
he might have caused all men to assist at his ceremonies, and no one
would have objected; but to desecrate the older religions, and deprive
them of their treasured possessions, was an offence against all canons of
Roman taste.

There can be little doubt that one by one the temples were despoiled of
their chief objects of veneration in order that these might contribute
to Baal’s glory, and attract more worshippers to his shrine. It was in
this way that the Emperor designed to extinguish all the other cults in
the city, and so leave his God supreme; but persecution would have been
preferable to contempt. Elagabal’s temple was indeed a perfect museum of
ecclesiastical relics, all _ad majorem dei gloriam_; still it did not
attract, because it was contrary to the whole spirit of the time; no one
demanded a monotheistic creed, and, though all the worships of the city
should be comprehended in that of Elagabal, men could not raise devotion
towards an amalgamation which, they felt, was neither good deity nor good
philosophy.

Undoubtedly the Emperor was most eager. Why he did not persecute in
order to attain his end was a mystery, until men understood something of
his psychology. He would go (according to Lampridius) to any lengths of
personal inconvenience in order that he might further his plan, but would
put no one else to unnecessary discomfort or loss. We are told that his
desire to obtain the sacred objects from the temple of Cybele led him
to sacrifice fat bulls to that Goddess, with his own hands, and, when
that was not enough (as the priests proved difficult), that he submitted
himself to their ordination (a ceremony which included castration) in
order that he might possess himself of their sacred stone.

Lampridius has been understood to assert this castration, using the words
“_genitalia devinxit_,” but, as Professor Robinson Ellis has pointed
out to me, _devinxit_ usually means no more than “tied up.” Aurelius
Victor, being later, is naturally more explicit. He says “_abscissis
genitalibus_,” but despite his fourth-century statement, there is
considerable ground for doubt as to whether the operation actually took
place, chiefly on account of the records which his biographers have left
concerning the Emperor’s later proclivities—matrimony and the like—in
which he is supposed to have indulged until the last moment of his
life. And it would certainly have been a miserable ending to a life of
pleasure, as he understood the meaning of the word. If it is true, it
certainly proves a zeal for the Kingdom of Heaven’s sake which we are
scarcely capable of understanding.

Towards idols made with hands Antonine had no attraction. It was the
acquisition of stones with a claim to divinity on which he had set his
mind, even (according to a most faulty passage in Lampridius) to the
Laodicean statue of Diana, which Orestes with his own hands had placed in
its proper sanctuary. These he made, one and all, servants of the only
God—some chamberlains, some domestics. Early Christianity had much the
same idea as Antonine concerning the position of the older Gods, but,
with a singular lack of perspicacity, it turned them into demons,—where
they did not become saints,—and by so doing created a power of evil out
of what had formerly been a powerful beneficence.

Undoubtedly, one of the Emperor’s chief mistakes was his attempt to
amalgamate the kindred worship of Jerusalem, in its various forms, with
that of the Roman deities, and even though his circumcision almost
certainly belongs to the period when he became High Priest of Elagabal
(the period when he attained to puberty), the connection of this
ceremony with the kindred Jewish observance was sufficient, in the Roman
mind, to brand Antonine as a Hebrew innovator. The same odium would not,
however, have been attached to him when it was reported that he had
submitted to the triune baptism practised by various of the Christian
sects; since this practice was well known to the Romans on account of
its inclusion amongst the ceremonies at the Mithraic initiations. The
ceremony, therefore, would only become unpopular when men realised that
it was an outward and visible sign of their Emperor’s inclusion of the
Nazarene sect in his grand reunion of churches.

Much has been said by persons, whose business it was to find causes of
complaint, against the foolish and blasphemous proposal of the marriage
for his God. To our modern notions it was a scheme quite unworthy of the
great work the Emperor was inaugurating. In the third century modern
notions of religion were as yet unborn. There was at the time many a
divine pair, both in Rome and in the provinces, who attracted attention.
The proposal was, therefore, neither unusual nor sacrilegious. It was
certainly inadvisable to subordinate the chief cult of Rome in the
drastic fashion which Antonine employed, and the Emperor paid for his
temerity; but when he proposed Urania as consort, no one objected, and it
was only the return of the Vestal to connubial felicity that re-aroused
the annoyance which his compliance with Roman sentiment had pacified. The
idea of matrimony amongst the Gods was quite usual, so much so, that
the expressions of the biographers betray wilful ignorance, not only of
contemporary religion, but also of the Emperor’s scheme and purpose.

Concerning the magnificence of the worship all authorities tell us
something, and from them we can gather that, accustomed as the Romans
were to a severe and simple ritual, the Syrian worship, whether on
the Palatine or in the temple at Jerusalem, was a thing for fools to
gaze at and wise men to scorn. A few grains of incense, a few drops of
wine in libation, a perfect pentameter verse, and the dignified Roman
passed on. Here there was one long succession of butchery, hecatombs of
oxen, and runlets of the finest wines, which, together with clouds of
incense, served to increase the feeling of nausea caused by the smell
of the victims. Nor was this all. Round and round the countless altars
the wonderful painted boy, in whose eyes fanaticism and mystery glowed,
led men and women through the latest and most approved terpsichorean
measures, to the accompaniment of a band whose noise recalls that of
Nebuchadnezzar; if there be any truth in either record, as we have it.
The psalms and hymns which formed part of the worship were equally
unusual in the city of the Caesars; their only place was in the Eastern
religions which gave them birth, because such a display of barbaric
worship had long been superseded amongst the intellectual and progressive
peoples of the West. Such useless waste of life, such prodigality of
movement, music, and colour, was but little in accord with the Western
philosophy of religion, and it was with a sigh for his sanity that wise
men escaped from the orgy in which their Emperor was taking chief part.

It was all so freakish that men might have looked and listened quietly,
if the High Priest—in accordance with his scheme of reform—had not
desired the assistance of his great officers of state; naturally, these
men objected all the more strongly because they were perforce to profess
interest in their new duties, and joyfully spread disaffection, once they
were amongst the conspirators and out of the Emperor’s hearing.

Lampridius’ legend of Antonine’s human sacrifices must be dealt with as
another calumny. He says that the Emperor used to sacrifice young boys of
the best families, preferring those whose parents were alive, and, being
present, would be most grieved at the deed. In this case the refutation
is scarcely needed, since the author asserts that such was the custom
of the Syrian worship, whereas it is now certain that Rome had caused
the cessation of human sacrifices long before the second century amongst
all Semitic peoples. It is in all probability the same legend which was
attached to the early Christian mysteries, and with even less reason, for
while the Christian worship was in secret, and so might lend itself to
the supposition of nefarious practices, that of the Sun God was public
and blatantly open before the world, following a well-known and approved
ritual.

No, Antonine may have been mad, but there was a certain method in his
madness, and this form of lunacy would only have alienated the very
people he was striving so hard to win. It was in the method he failed,
not in the conception, for monotheism was continually gaining ground;
Paganism was obviously falling asleep quite gently; Isis was giving way
to Mary, apotheosis to canonisation, and saints succeeding divinities.
Antonine, with the true Eastern conception of religion, strove to impress
men with his vivid monotheism by means of the magnificence of the
worship, the prodigal expenditure of a gorgeous pageant. This he gave the
world right royally, but it was precisely this that the austere Roman
could not understand was meant to be connected with the simple philosophy
of his Western religion. Antonine thought to make his God great by means
of a pompous show. He succeeded in presenting him as a low comedian in
the last act of a puerile melodrama; unfortunately not the first, or
last, deity who has been thus presented before the eyes of an astonished
world.

It had long been a Roman custom to commemorate the greatest of her
victories by the erection of gigantic columns in the forums of the city;
Antonine proposed to build the most magnificent that had yet greeted
human eyes. It was to be a memorial to the triumph of the Lord over the
deities of chance and circumstance. Its summit, which he designed should
be reached by a stairway inside, was to support the great meteorite.
Death intervened to spoil the plan and to deprive Rome of a monument
surpassing in grandeur any that the city should ever see. Such were
the methods by which the boy strove to win acceptance for Elagabal, and
through him for the great monotheistic principle in religion. It must be
clearly understood that the religion of Emesa was in no sense idolatrous.
It is true that the city possessed a huge black meteorite, which it
venerated exceedingly, because it was a portion of the being of its God.
In shape, we are told, it was a Phallus, and as such was the symbol of
fecund life, typifying the great force of light, joy, and fruitfulness,
which men regarded as the be-all and end-all of their existence.

Of this theory in religion Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was high priest
and chief exponent, and even his boy’s mind could see the superiority
of life to death, of the supreme beneficent being to the lesser deities
who oppressed other peoples. Certainly he was so impressed, and resolved
to spread that worship and knowledge by means of the vast power which
resided in his childish hands from the year of grace 218.

Little, when the young Emperor undertook the task of unifying churches,
could he have imagined the magnitude of the task, or the reason of
the opposition. As we have said, this opposition came from the fact
that an entirely different system of religion held sway. To-day we
would call the Roman system natural religion and Antonine’s conception
dogmatic truth. He ascribed too much to his God, which is no uncommon
failing amongst the credulous; probably he claimed a revelation from
on high, and was inclined to consign those who disagreed with him to
that special limbo which the ignorant have reserved for all those who
make them look foolish, for all that spells truth contrary to their own
limited imaginings; if so, he would not have been unusual. The genius
of natural religion is that it is comprehensive, tolerant, righteous
and just. It has no dogma save the individual experience of each. The
genius of dogmatic religion lies in the assumption to itself of absolute
exclusiveness; it alone contains truth, and in its later editions,
finality as well. Whether Antonine’s form included this latter pretension
we do not know, certainly it claimed what no Roman thinker could accord
to any faith under the sun—the proposition that God was one and God was
supreme. The Roman had been bred on Pyrrho, Epicurus, Lucretius, and
Cicero, and was more inclined to postulate that God was the cosmic entity
of spirit, something as potent as, if not analogous to, the entity of
electricity in modern science. He had no relations with the older deities
who had made life terrible by their persecutions of the human race, and
had no desire to submit himself again to a system which would erect
fright into yet another national deity. He had long since grown weary
of trying to propitiate infinity, and now understood that he might as
well sacrifice to the animals in the Zoological Gardens, in the hope of
staying their hunger, as make oblation to the deities in the expectation
of a return in kind.

This was no new struggle that Antonine proposed to inaugurate in the city
of Rome. It is the contest between rationalism and dogma when pushed
to its logical conclusion. Doubtless there is much to be said on both
sides; certainly much has been written and more has been said during
the history of civilisation. The rationalists have set it forth as the
struggle between ignorance and reason; the dogmatists as that between
good and evil; certainly it was not a struggle on which Antonine was
either old enough or wise enough to lay down any definite line of truth
for the future guidance of the world. Unfortunately, this was just what
he attempted to do. He knew that the national deity of every nation under
heaven was fright, and forgot that its antithesis was truth. He knew that
fright was bound to predominate; that men would continue to pay their
worship as they paid their taxes, lest a worse thing should happen to
them. It had been the same in Homer’s day. Men had been brought up to
fright, and as one God died they demanded another. The Prophets had given
men Gods, laughing the while at the divinities they created, because
they believed as little in the sacerdotal fables as Tennyson did in the
phantom idylls of Arthurian romance.

The point is, that what the mass of men demand they will get. It is the
usual law of supply and demand, where the man who can increase the demand
and satisfy it to any extent is the successful founder of a new religion.
This is undoubtedly the business of the sacerdotal caste in every
generation, and their success is assured as long as they are capable
of increasing the supply, while they whet the demand. They fail when
some one else appeals to popular imagination as more mysterious, or more
spiritual.

Now, Antonine seemed to think that mere dictation of what was to himself
obvious should be enough to give his God a start, and, that done, all men
would discover the vital attraction for themselves. Perhaps he was right;
stranger things had happened before his day, and were to happen not long
afterwards; we can never know, as the system had no more time for a fair
trial than had that of Constantine’s successor Julian.

For the moment Rome was bored with all Gods; they had found them so
cruel, vindictive, and malignant that the citizens had got irritated and
sceptical, had left their deities feeling that already for too long time
had blood and treasure been spent without avail. Now at last, men said,
“dread has vanished and in its place is the ideal.” Evemerus had asserted
that the Gods were just ordinary bullies who would cringe if men stood up
to them, and even the lower classes had agreed with him.

This, Antonine felt, was a deplorable state of affairs—rank atheism if
not something worse. He knew the potency of his God, and desired, by
gentle means, to set it forth to others that they too might believe.
Unfortunately, no one desired belief, and he had to fight against
rationalism as well as convention. The Romans were not yet tired of their
chase after impossible delights; when they were, another dogma presented
itself, and as often as not it was accepted, as being the line of least
resistance.

If Antonine had given them what Julian did, his success would have been
assured. Such was philosophy, freedom, and beauty under the guise of
a God whose existence he admitted, but whose intervention he denied.
Antonine was not Julian; he was an Eastern monotheist, far nearer to the
worship and doctrines of Jehovah than to those of any Western mode of
thought. He could not understand the deification of attributes, because
he wanted something more tangible, real, and superstitious, something
that appealed to his neurotic nature and erotic passions.

Thus it is that his vain efforts to unite all worship, all religions in
that dedicated to Deus Solus are derided, as well by the monotheistic
Hebrew as by the tritheistic Christian. His fault lay in the fact that
he was too young for the work, too unaccustomed to the circuitous and
mole-like burrowings by which a religion captures society. But the scheme
in itself showed purpose and a precocious propensity for the mysterious,
unnatural and unhealthy in a child of his age.

Had Antonine been born in the twentieth instead of the third century
of this era, had he enjoyed the advantages of a modern education, he
would have learned that religion and unusual propensities are the last
things a gentleman is expected to parade before the world. Further, he
would have certainly emerged from the training—which though drastic
is certainly most salutary—with his waywardness curbed, his mind and
will strengthened, his lithe and graceful body healthy and fit to bear
the fatigues and responsibilities which life was going to lay upon his
splendid shoulders. Unfortunately for him, he was a Syrian with wonderful
eyes and a mystical temperament, and was born at a time when the
monarch’s wayward will was a law unto himself and all the world besides;
yet despite these drawbacks, with so many of the elements of success to
hand, he might have triumphed, if the usual conspirators had not been at
work. “Rome was still mistress of the world though she was growing very
old. A few more years and the Earth’s new children fell upon her; then
the universe was startled by the uproar of her agony. Then and not till
then, where the thunderbolt had gleamed did the emaciated figure of the
crucifix appear, and upon the shoulders of a prelate descended the purple
which had dazzled the world.”




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FOOTNOTES


[1] _Die S.H.A. Sechs litterar-geschichtliche Untersuchungen_, Leipzig,
1892.

[2] See Peter, _Hist. Crit._ cap. ii.; Bernhardy, _Proemii de S.H.A._

[3] _Observationum S.H.A._, Breslau, 1838.

[4] _Andeutungen zur Texteskritik_, 1842.

[5] Czwalina, _De epistularum auctorumque quae a S.H.A. proferuntur_,
Bonn, 1870.

[6] “Über die S.H.A.,” _Rhein. Mus._ vol. vii.

[7] Peter, _Hist. Crit. S.H.A._, Leipzig, 1860.

[8] Peter, _Jahresbericht_, 1865-82, “S.H.A.”

[9] _Ibid._

[10] “Der Geschichtschreiber Marius Maximus,” _Untersuch._ vol. iii.,
Leipzig, 1870.

[11] Ruebel, _De fontibus quatuor priorum S.H.A._, Bonn, 1872;
Dreinhoefer, _De auctoribus vitarum quae feruntur Spartiani_, etc.,
Halle, 1873; Plew, _Marius Maximus, als direkt und indirekt Quelle der
S.H.A._, 1873.

[12] _De Aelio Cordo rerum Augustarum scriptore commentatio_, Muenster,
1885.

[13] Haupt, _Philologus_, xliv. 575.

[14] Dio, lxxx. 1.

[15] _Gli Scrittori della Storia Augusta_, 1881.

[16] _De Herodiano rer. Rom. scriptore_, 1881.

[17] Giambelli and Plew, _opp. citt._

[18] _Op. cit._ p. 82.

[19] _Marius Maximus als direkt und indirekt Quelle der S.H.A._,
Strassburg, 1878.

[20] Boehme, _Dexippi fragmenta_, 1882, pp. 10-11.

[21] _Die S.H.A._, pp. 49, 102.

[22] _De epistularum auctorumque quae a S.H.A. proferuntur_, Bonn, 1870.

[23] “Die ‘Vita’ des Avidius Cassius,” _Rhein. Mus._ vol. xliii., 1888.

[24] Dessau, “Über Zeit und Persönlichkeit der S.H.A.,” _Hermes_, xxiv.
337-92, 1899.

[25] “Die S.H.A.,” _Hermes_, xxv. 228-92.

[26] “Die Entstehungszeit der S.H.A.” _Neue Jahrbuch Phil._ vol. cxli.

[27] “Die Sammlung der S.H.A.,” _Rhein. Mus._ vol. xlv.

[28] Seeck, _op. cit._

[29] _Carinus_, xviii. 3.

[30] T. Pollio, _Trig. Tyr._ v. 3, etc.

[31] Klebs, “Die Sammlung der S.H.A.,” _Rhein. Mus._, vol. xlv., 1890.

[32] _Ibid._ vol. xlvii.

[33] “Die S.H.A.,” _Sitzungsber. der philos.-philol. Klasse der Bayer.
Akad._, 1891.

[34] _Op. cit._ p. 479.

[35] “Über die S.H.A.,” _Hermes_, vol. xxvii., 1892.

[36] “Zur Echtheitsfrage der S.H.A.,” _Rhein. Mus._ vol. 49.

[37] “Studies in S.H.A.,” _Amer. Journ. Phil._ vol. xx., Baltimore, 1899.

[38] _Der historische Wert der_ Vita Commodi.

[39] _Beiträge zur Kritik der Überlieferung der Zeit von Commodus zu
Caracalla_, 1903.

[40] _Leben des Kaisers Hadrian_, Leipzig.

[41] _Kaiserhaus der Antonin_, Leipzig.

[42] _Kaiser Hadrian und der letzte grosse Historiker von Rom_, 1905.

[43] Quoting Diadumenianus, ix. 2.

[44] _Op. cit._ pp. 145 ff.

[45] _Berlin. phil. Wochenschriften_, xxii. p. 489, xxv. p. 1471.

[46] _Studi sugli S.H.A._, Messina, 1899.

[47] _Elagabalo_, Feltre, 1905.

[48] _Études sur hist. Aug., 1904_, Paris.

[49] _Vide_ cap. vi. _Vita Alex. Sev._

[50] _Life of Gibbon._

[51] _Les Empereurs syriens._

[52] _De M.A.A.E. trib. pot._, Florence, 1711.

[53] Bishop of Adria.

[54] Tristran Sieur de St-Amant, _Commentaires historiques_, Paris, 1635.

[55] C. Saumaise, _S.H.A._ vi., _Notae et emendationes_, Paris, 1620.

[56] _Vide_ Suetonius, _Lives of the Emperors_.

[57] As Tiberius, “Principes mortales, rem publicam aeternam esse”
(_Ann._ iii. 6).

[58] The change of the name to its Greek and commonly received form is
100 years later than Elagabalus, in fact it occurs first in Lampridius,
and was seemingly born of the necessity, which had been suggested to
Constantine, of connecting the old worship of the only God with that of
Mithra the Persian Sun deity.

[59] The number of years in the _Liber generationis_ is, however,
debatable, since Rubensohn gives three years in his edition.

[60] S.H.A. = Scriptores Historiae Augustae.




INDEX


    Aegae in Cilicia, Macrinus retires to, 73

    Aemilian Bridge, Antonine’s body thrown from, 169, 189

    Aeneas, 129

    Aesculapius, 258

    African inscriptions erase _Severi Nepos_, 199

    Agrippina, 121

    Alexander of Macedon, his connection with Alexander Severus, 144

    Alexander Severus, or Alexianus, 8, 14, 18, 22, 38, 40, 54,
    123; description and career to Antonine’s death, 136-72; not
    priest of Elagabal, 174; liberality at his adoption, 189;
    date of accession, 193; date of tribunicial renewal, 196;
    substitutes his name for that of Antonine, 199; stupidity, 205;
    abolishes mixed bathing, 245; on public feasts, 259

    Alexandria, Bassianus’ legates badly received at, 57, 73

    Ammianus Marcellinus, on the birthplace of Bassianus, 35

    Annia Faustina, marriage with Antonine, 134; divorce mooted,
    150; divorced, 178; compared with Bathsheba, 221; her
    genealogy, 222; age and position, 223; reasons against the
    divorce, 224

    Antinous and Hadrian, 231

    Antioch, Origen goes to, 20; Macrinus at, 25, 41, 48; news of
    rising reaches, 56; distance between Antioch to Emesa, 60;
    coin of Diadumenianus, Emperor, 65; Macrinus retires to, 68;
    Macrinus leaves for Rome, 72; Antonine arrives at, 77

    Antiochianus, 154

    Antoninus Pius, 5; first Roman coins of Emesa, 26

    Antony, 26

    Apamea, 26, 34, 63; Macrinus goes to, and declares
    Diadumenianus Caesar at, 67; Antonine at, 139

    Aphrodite-Adonis, compared with Elagabal-Urania, 175

    Apicius, 253

    Apollo and his loves, 234

    Apollonius of Tyana, 31

    Appia, Lex, 121

    Aquilia Severa, matrimony with Emperor discussed, 130; duration
    of marriage, 132; return to Emperor, 183; position discussed,
    189, 208, 211; appearance, 214; date of marriage, 216; date of
    divorce, 218; returns as Empress, 224

    Arca, Alexander’s birthplace, 144

    Archelais, death-place of Macrinus, 74

    Archimedes, 270

    Aristomachus, the standard-bearer, 154

    Aristotle, quoted, 85

    Arnobius, on Phallic worship, 230

    Arria Fadilla, grandmother of Annia Faustina, 222

    Arrianus, Herodian, 9

    Artabanus, 22, 43; Diadumenianus sent to, 72

    Arvalium, Collegio Fratrum, meet to elect Elagabalus, 68;
    temporizing policy, 81

    “Assyrian, the,” Xiphilinus’ name for Antonine, 95

    Attila, 244

    Augustan Legion, absorbs 3rd Gallic Legion on account of this
    latter’s revolt, 89

    Augustus, 23, 26; compared with Antonine, 84; influence in
    Rome, 104, 203

    Aurelia Sabina, mother of Annia Faustina, 222

    Aurelius Celsus, captor of Macrinus, 74

    Aurelius Eubulus, Chancellor of Exchequer, 170

    Aurelius Fabianus, 176

    Avitus, Julius, husband of Julia Maesa, 32


    Barak compared with Gannys, 70

    Barrachinus on Gens Cornelia, 205

    Bassianus, Julius, 27

    Bathsheba, compared with Annia Faustina, 221

    Baumeister, on site of Eliogabalium, 113

    Bayle, dictionary of, 31

    Becker, 4

    Belos, oracles, at Apamea, 26

    Bertrand, on Gens Cornelia, 205

    Bloch cited, 234

    Boehme on Dexippus, 9

    Boni, Commendatore, on Elagabal shrine, 132

    Bonus Accursius, 4, 8

    Borghese, 133

    Borghese Collection, 209

    Bylus, centre of worship of Aphrodite-Adonis, 175

    Bithynia, Macrinus’ flight through, 73

    Byzantium, 74


    Caecilius Aristo, Governor of Nicomedia, 73

    Caesar, Julius, on divorce, 224; his sexual condition, 238

    Caius Caligula, 23, 76, 186; prodigalities, 184; marriages,
    203; as a host, 236; his perfumes, 257

    Capitolinus, 3, 101

    Cappadocia, Macrinus flies through, 73

    Caracalla, 5; birth of, 29; and Soaemias, 33-36; and Julia
    Mamaea, 38; in Mesopotamia, 41; his murder, 43; soldiers
    compare him with Macrinus, 47; Bassianus accepted as heir of,
    54; conquered cities, 61, 76, 77; Antonine promises Caracalla’s
    privileges to soldiers, 84; baths of, finished, 129; his
    paternity denied for Antonine and affirmed for Alexander,
    158; liberalities, 190; date of tribunicial renewal, 196;
    Caracalla’s influence on morals, 203; Vestals, 214; uses
    Pomponius Bassus, 219; his severity to his mother, 221; his
    system of informers not re-established, 243; introduces Persian
    tiara, 249

    Casaubon, 4

    Cassius, Avidius, 10

    Castinus, 90

    Chalcedon, Macrinus taken at, 74

    Charrae, 42

    Cheyne quoted, 97

    Christ, Pauline theories concerning, 19; and Apollonius, 31;
    menaced by Antonine’s claim, 99, 114

    Christian religion, persecuting tendencies, 1, 98; unpopular
    in Rome, 118; amalgamated with that of Elagabal, 278; human
    sacrifices, 280

    Chronicle, Imperial, on length of reign, 13, 191

    Cicero, 26, 213; on immortality, 224; on divorce, 283

    Claudius Attalus, 90

    Claudius Censor, dismissed from office, 179

    Claudius, Emperor, 159, 178; compared with Macrinus, 76; and
    Vestals, 214

    Clement VII., 131

    Clodius, 106

    Cn. Claudius Severus, grandfather of Annia Faustina, 222

    Cohen, 21, 61; on Antonine’s illness, 94; on the date of the
    procession, 174; on number of liberalities, 190; on irregular
    coins, 195

    Commodus, 5, 26, 76, 159, 184, 229

    Constantine, Emperor, orders life of Elagabalus, 3, 11;
    reasons for this order, 17; and Christ, 114, 187; and the new
    Monotheism, 214, 228; opposed by Mithras, 268; mentioned, 285

    Constantius, 10

    _Consularia Constantinopolitana_, 93

    Cordus, Aelius Junius, 6

    Cornelia, family discussed, 205

    Cornificia family, ancestors of Annia Faustina, 222

    Corpus Domini procession, compared with Elagabal procession, 176

    Croce, Church of Sta., site of summer temple, 113

    Cumont, 114; quoted, 133

    Cybele, Antonine priest of, 117; identified with Urania, 133;
    priests castrated, 238; Elagabalus ordained to this priesthood,
    276

    Cyzicus, port of Nicomedia, 89

    Czwalina, 4, 9


    Dacia, 104

    David, compared with Antonine, 221; and Jonathan, 234

    Deborah, 70

    Dessau, attacks authenticity of Scriptores, 10; attacks
    Wölfflin, 13

    Dexippus, 9

    Diana, identified with Urania, 133; the Laodicean statue of, 277

    Digest xxix., 206

    Diocletian, 12, 105

    Dion Cassius, character of his work and his appointments, 7;
    Maesa’s influence on, 8; quoted, 19, 27, 28, 31; on Sextus
    Varius Marcellus, 33; on date of Bassianus’ birth, 35; on
    Gessianus Marcianus, 38; on the date of the proclamation, 55;
    on the journey to the camp, 56; on battle of Immae, 70; on
    Antonine’s entry into Antioch, 77; on Antonine’s Consulate,
    82; on pretenders, 88; on length of reign, 107; on Antonine’s
    character, 126; on duration of second marriage, 132; on
    Urania’s dowry, 134; on Seius Carus, 139; on Antonine’s love
    of Alexander, 142; on Alexander’s name, 144; on plot against
    Alexander, 152; discrepancies with Lampridius’ stories, 155;
    on Maesa’s hatred of Antonine, 157; on other plots to destroy
    Alexander, 162; on Antonine’s murder, 166; eliminates Maesa
    and Mamaea from the murder, 170; on date of murder, 191; on
    duration of Aquilia’s marriage, 218; on executions, 220; on
    Annia Faustina’s marriage, 221; on the nameless wives, 224; on
    Hierocles, 238, 239

    Dirksen, 4

    Divorce considered, 204; mediaeval privilege, 210

    Dodwell, 4

    Domaszewski quoted, 34, 175

    Domitian, 23, 76, 159, 178; and Vestals, 214; and feasts, 236

    Drake, on Caracalla’s life, 13

    Dreinhoefer, 6

    Duruy, 21, 92; on Alexander Severus, 138


    Eckhel, 21, 26; on the number of Soaemia’s children, 34;
    on date of Cornelia Paula’s divorce, 126; on number of
    liberalities, 190; on the tribunicial renewal, 194; on Annia
    Faustina’s genealogy, 222; on her age, 223

    Egbert, on tribunicial renewals, 196

    Elah-Gebal, monarchy, 25; Bassianus becomes High Priest of, 50;
    portents of, 54; accompanies the Emperor, 91; occupies Temple
    of Faustina on Mount Taurus, 92; his worship decreed to be
    first, 100; position in Rome, 114; shrine in Forum, 132; second
    marriage, 133; and Alexander’s adoption, 143; procession, 174;
    return to Emesa, 174; analogy with use of name Jehovah, 185;
    regarded as another Jupiter, 189, 273; amalgamation unpopular,
    275; worship not idolatrous, 287

    Elephantis and Parrhasius, compared with Elagabalus, 228

    Eliogabalium, site of, 92, 112; sacred fire taken to, 130; date
    of completion, 174; relics taken to, 275, 276

    Elizabeth, Queen, compared with Julia Pia, 31; her
    ecclesiastical headship same as that of Emperor, 274

    Ellis, Prof. Robinson, quoted, 276

    Emesa, 25, 26, 100, 113, 231, 246; reputed birthplace of
    Bassianus, 36; Maesa and family return to, 45-6; Julian’s
    battle at, 60; the god returns to, 174

    Epagathos, Diadumenianus entrusted to, 72

    Epicurus, 283

    Eribolus, Macrinus embarks from, 73

    Eusebius, 20

    Eutropius, 11, 19; on length of reign in Rome, 107, 192; on
    entry into the city, 108

    Eutychianus persuades the soldiers, 52; takes Bassianus to
    the camp, 56; sends Julianus’ head to Apamea, 65; position in
    State discussed, 80; compared with Gannys, 86; City Praefect,
    111; Consul, 129; City Praefect, second time, 133; Praetorian
    Praefect, 169; spared from the murders, 171; epitome of
    offices, 179; and Julius Paulus, 208

    Evemerus quoted, 285


    Fabius Agrippinus, 90

    Fabius Gurgis, 249

    Fasti Romani (Clinton), on tribunicial renewal, 195

    Faustina, 28

    Flavian amphitheatre restored by Antonine, 128

    Forel cited, 234

    Forquet de Dorne, 21; on Macrinus, 48; on Gannys, 101; on
    Antonine’s nature, 127

    Friedländer, on distance of Macrinus’ flight, 73; on Senaculum,
    121

    Froelich, 26

    Fulvius Diogenianus, on Macrinus, 58; Praefect of Rome, 170


    Galatia, Macrinus flies through, 73

    Galen, 31

    Gallicanus, 3

    Gallic Legion, 3rd, disloyal to Antonine and disbanded, 89

    Gannys, 53; compared with Gideon, 70; compared with
    Eutychianus, 86; murder of, 101; reasons for his death, 233

    Gellius Maximus, a pretender, 89

    Geta, 168, 196

    Giambelli, on Dion Cassius, 8; on sources of Dion and Herodian,
    9

    Gordius or Cordus, 125, 156; dismissed from office, 179

    Gratus, Consul A.D. 221, 195

    Groebe, on date of Antonine’s murder, 191

    Gulick, on Christian tendencies, 242


    Hadrian, 5, 229; influence on morals, 203; and Antinous, 231;
    abolishes mixed bathing, 245

    Haupt, on Greek sources of Scriptores, 7

    Hebrew religion, unpopularity of, 118; barbaric, 279

    Heer, 6, 13; on Commodus, 15

    Heliogabalus, Lampridius’ name for the Emperor, 185

    Henzen, on the Arval Brothers, 68

    Herakles, his friendships, 234

    Hercules, inscription to, 175

    Herod, kingship compared with that of Emesan dynasty, 26

    Herodian, 6, 8, 19, 32, 42; on date of Bassianus’ birth, 35;
    on the worship at Emesa, 50; on the journey to the camp,
    56; on the battle of Immae, 70; on Maesa’s position, 78;
    on length of Antonine’s stay in Antioch, 91; Elagabalus’
    portrait sent to Senate, 99; on entry into the city, 110; on
    Antonine’s character, 126; on duration of second marriage,
    132; on Urania’s dowry, 134; on corruption of the guards,
    135; on Alexander’s age, 142; on date of adoption, 145; does
    not mention Antonine’s plot against Alexander, 152; on the
    disowning of Alexander, 158; on Antonine’s murder, 166; on the
    cortège to the camp, 170; on the liberalities, 176; on duration
    of Aquilia’s marriage, 218; on Elagabalus’ pastimes, 247; on
    his ostentation, 249

    Hierocles, marriage with Elagabalus, 126, 203; dismissal
    demanded and refused, 156; killed with Antonine, 170; origin
    and character, 239

    Homs or Hems, modern name of Emesa, 24

    Horace, his atheism, 271

    Huysmans, quoted, 257

    Hyacinth and Apollo, 234

    Hydatius, 93

    Hylas and Herakles, 234


    Iamblichus, 26, 27

    Iamblichus, the philosopher, on Phallicism, 230

    Iambulus, 187

    Immae or Emma, battle of, 69

    Ishtar-Tammuz, parallel procession to that of Elagabal, 175

    Isidore, 127

    Isis, 2, 96; popularity in Rome, 117; gives way to Mary, 281

    _Itinera Hierosolymitana_, 73


    Jehovah, compared with Baal, 50, 96; analogy with use of name
    Elagabal, 185; character of worship, 213; amalgamated with
    Elagabal, 277; akin to Elagabal, 286

    Jerome, on Senaculum, 121

    John of Antioch, 20

    Jonathan and David, 234

    Jordanis, 20

    Julia Cornelia Paula, marriage with Antonine, 111; divorced,
    126, 129; history, 205; reasons for the marriage, 206; age,
    209; date of divorce, 209

    Julia Domna Pia, 20, 27; married to Septimius Severus, 29; her
    titles, 30; compared with Mamaea, 39, 40; Secretary of State,
    41; after Caracalla’s death, 43; her suicide, 45

    Julianus, on birthplace of Bassianus, 35

    Julianus, Emperor, 5; deposed by Pomponius Bassus, 219

    Julianus, Ulpius, sent by Macrinus to Emesa, 58; defeat of,
    60-62

    Julius Paulus, 21, 31, 111, 164; history, 205; and Eutychianus,
    208; banishment discussed, 209

    Jupiter Capitolinus, to serve Elagabal, 97; Eliogabalium
    reconsecrated to, 174; gives place to Mithra, 271

    Juvenal, 106; on morals, 204


    Klebs, 10, 11

    Kornemann, on lives from Hadrian to Alexander Severus, 6, 14

    Krafft-Ebing, cited, 234

    Kreutzer, on Herodian, 8


    Lactantius, cited, 230

    Lambesa in Pannonia, 88

    Lampridius, 3, 6, 16, 18, 19; on name “Varius,” 36; on
    Soaemias, 78; on the period of fanaticism, 98; on the entry
    into the city, 108; on Maesa and Soaemias in Senate, 119; on
    Senaculum, 121; on Antonine’s neglect of state for religion,
    124; on Antonine’s infidelities, 126; on Alexander, 138; on
    Alexander’s name, 144; on the reasons for Senate’s reticence,
    150; on plot against Alexander, 152; on Antonine’s danger,
    154; discrepancies, 155; on possible date of disowning, 159;
    on Sabinus, Ulpian, and Silvinus, 163; reasons for Antonine’s
    murder, 165; on unfit appointments, 179; on Antonine’s desire
    for conquest, 185; on the Emperor’s name and history, 185;
    on buildings erected, 186; on date of Alexander’s accession,
    192; on Antonine’s sagacity, 198; on Julius Paulus, 205; on
    Antonine’s wives generally, 208; on Julius Paulus’ banishment,
    209; on Antonine’s use for wives, 215; on Antonine’s moods
    when married to Annia, 223; impossibility of his stories, 227;
    ascribes Elagabalus’ moderation to Maesa, 233; on his passion
    for flowers, 236; on his castration, 238, 276; on Zoticus, 240;
    on Elagabalus’ effeminacy, 241; on his fastidiousness, 248; on
    his jewellery, 249; on cost of his feasts, 253; on his pranks,
    262; on his wanton waste, 265; condemns Antonine’s religion,
    267; on Diana’s statue, 277; on Elagabalus’ human sacrifices,
    280

    Lanciani, concerning Julius Avitus’ house on Aesquiline, 32

    Lécrivain, 16

    Leptis Magna, birthplace of Septimius Severus, 27

    _Liber Generationis_, on length of Antonine’s reign, 191

    Ligorius, 199

    Locusta, 159

    Lollius Urbicus, confounded with Marius Maximus, 15, 19

    Lucilla, reputed mother of Annia Faustina, 222

    Lupus, nickname of Bassianus, 35

    Lyons, birthplace of Caracalla, 29


    Macrinus, 6, 7, 17, 22, 32, 41, 43, 81, 112, 178; becomes
    Emperor, 44; usurpation and fall, 46-76; date of tribunicial
    renewal, 197

    Maecenas, 203

    Maesa, Julia, 7, 18, 27; comes to Rome, 31; her family, 33, 40;
    returns to Emesa, 45-6; makes Bassianus high priest, 49; goes
    to the camp, 56; compared with Deborah, 70; position in state,
    78; Augusta, 86; desires to go to Rome, 92; arranges Antonine’s
    first marriage, 109; in Senate, 120; and Annia Faustina, 134;
    starts Alexander plot, 138; her scheme, 141; partial failure of
    plot, 147; hatred of Antonine, 157; has Alexander designated
    Consul, 160; agreeable to Julia Paula’s divorce, 210; no friend
    of Severa’s, 217; scheme for her divorce, 218; plan of alliance
    with Roman nobility, 218; influence on government, 233; and
    Elagabalus’ youth, 247

    Mamaea, instigator of Antonine’s murder, 18; and Origen, 20;
    position and character, 38, 40; helps in first plot, 131; and
    Annia Faustina, 135; starts Alexander plot, 138; corrupts
    police, 145; partial failure of plot, 147; Mamaea’s guardians
    for Alexander, 152; part in the plot against Antonine’s life,
    156; takes precautions for Alexander’s safety, 159; part in
    Antonine’s murder, 166; her probable plan for the murder, 171;
    subsequent vilification of Antonine, 172; helps Pomponius
    Bassus’ plot, 219

    Marcia, first wife of Septimius Severus, 27, 29

    Marcianus, Gessianus, 38

    Marcomanni, Antonine’s desire to conquer, 184

    Marcus Aurelius, 84, 144, 246; relationship with Annia
    Faustina, 222

    Marcus, Emperor, 5

    Marius Maximus, author of _De vitis imperatorum_, 5;
    credibility as a source, 6; confounded with Lollius Urbicus,
    15, 19; Macrinus’ correspondence with cited, 84; on Antonine’s
    entry into city, 111

    Martialis, the murderer of Caracalla, 42

    Masculinus Valens, 176

    Mediobarbus, on liberalities, 190, 251

    Messalina, compared with Elagabalus, 240

    Mithra, 2; the most determined opponent of Jehovah, 96;
    popularity in Rome, 114, 117; identified with Urania, 133; and
    with Elagabal worship, 268; takes the place of Jupiter, 271

    Moguntiacum, 88

    Moll, cited, 234

    Mommsen, defends Scriptores, 10; on the date of Diadumenianus’
    elevation, 65; on length of Antonine’s reign, 192

    Monza diploma, on Alexander’s position, 158

    Morison, Cotter, cited, 20

    Mueller, 5, 6, 8

    Murissimus, 156


    Nero, 23, 76, 159, 178; influence on morals, 203; abnormal,
    229; palace described, 245; ever popular, 246; exceeded by
    Elagabalus in extravagance, 250; his use of perfumes, 257

    Nerva, 5

    Nestor, Julianus, 90

    Nicomedia, Antonine winters at, 93; length of stay discussed,
    94; Antonine assumes the name Elagabalus at, 99; Elagabalus’
    popularity disappears, 103; departure from, 107

    Niebuhr, 20

    Niehues, 6


    Oppolzer, on the date of the eclipse, 55

    Orcus (Pluto), temple of, site of Eliogabalium, 113

    Origen, his journey to Court, 19

    Orosius, 20

    Otho, 23, 250; compared with Elagabalus, 253


    Padua, a reputed birthplace of Gens Cornelia, 205

    Paetus, Valerianus, 90

    Pagi, on tribunicial renewal, 194

    Palladium, removed to Eliogabalium, 118; history of, 129

    Papia Poppoea, Lex, cited, 204

    Papinian, 21, 31

    Parthian campaign, 41, 107

    Parthian Legion, at Apamea, 60; attempted corruption by Seius
    Carus, 63, 139

    Parthian medal, 22

    Pasciucco, on Lampridius, 15

    Pauly, on the buildings of the reign, 187; on genealogy of
    Annia Faustina, 222; on her age, 223

    Pertinax, 5, 30

    Peter, Hermann, 3, 27; on Dexippus, 9; on Lollius Urbicus, 15

    Petronius, on freedmen, 180; quoted, 230

    Philostratus, 31

    Pica Caerianus, 90

    Pignorius, on Gens Cornelia, 205

    Plautianus, 41

    Plew, 6

    Pliny, on value of myrrhin, 264

    Pollio, Consul Suffectus, 85

    Pollio, Trebellius, 3, 11

    Pollux, 127

    Pomponius Bassus, 134, 139, 188; plot in connection with
    Aquilia Severa’s marriage, 131; Consul and Governor of Mysia,
    his offices, 219; date of death, 221

    Porta Praenestina, 113, 275

    Praefecti Urbis, mooted by Antonine, appointed by Alexander, 198

    Preuner, on Aquilia’s position, 211

    Primus Cornelianus, 68

    Procession of the God, probable date, 174; origin of, 175

    Prosopographia, on date of Antonine’s murder, 191; on
    jurisprudence of the reign, 205

    Protogenes, 125

    Prusias, 93


    Ramsay, on the procession, 175; on genealogy of Annia Faustina,
    222

    Renaissance, compared with Roman spirit of atheism, 201, 270

    Rescripts, bear Antonine’s name after supposed death, 199

    Richter, 4

    Roerth, on the journey across Asia, 93

    Roman religion, described, 116; its civic nature and the
    Emperor’s position, 213; genesis of, 269; alien to natural
    religion, 282

    Rubensohn, on date of Antonine’s murder, 191

    Ruebel, 6


    Sabinus Aquilius, Severa’s father, banished, 163; confused by
    Lampridius with Sabinus Tiberius, jurist, 164; position, 215

    Sabinus, Fabius, brother of Aquilia Severa, 216

    Salzer, on date of Antonine’s murder, 191

    Samsigeramus, 26

    Sardanapalus, Dion’s name for Antonine, 152, 200

    Saumaise, 22

    Schulz, 6, 15; on Antonine House, 16

    Scythian Legion, quartered at Emesa under Commodus, 26

    Seeck, 11, 13

    Seius Carus, 139, 188

    Seleucid monarchy, 26

    Seleucus, Consul A.D. 221, 195

    Senaculum, Soaemias president of, 34, 78, 121; hall built for,
    187

    Senate, subservience of, 14; Macrinus’ letters to, 56;
    desire to be rid of Macrinus, 58; informed of Diadumenianus’
    elevation, 64; Antonine’s letters and amnesty to, 82; registers
    Antonine’s decrees, 85; did not declare Antonine priest of
    Elagabal, 95, 97; at Elagabal worship, 116; attitude towards
    Aquilia Severa’s wedding, 131; tries traitors, 131; adoption
    of Alexander before, 143; ordered to disown Alexander, 150;
    Alexander recognised Consul before, 161; dissolved, 163;
    orders the erasure of Antonine’s name, 198; creates Julia
    Paula Augusta, 209; and marriage of Aquilia Severa, 215; and
    Pomponius Bassus, 220

    Seneca, 121, 204

    Septimius Severus, 27, 31, 38, 144; honours Macrinus, 41;
    builds Mithraic temple, 114; date of tribunicial renewal, 196;
    employs Julius Paulus, 206; uses Pomponius Bassus, 219

    Serapion, 42

    Serviez, on the order of Antonine’s wives, 207; on Aquilia
    Severa, 217

    Severus or Verus, a pretender, 88

    Sextus Rufus, 20; on site of Eliogabalium, 113

    Sextus Varius Marcellus, husband of Soaemias, 34, 113

    Silius Messala, plot in connection with Aquilia Severa’s
    marriage, 131, 139, 216, 219

    Silvinus, Alexander’s tutor, killed, 164

    Soaemias, character, 33; compared with Mamaea, 39, 40; and the
    legionaries, 53; at battle of Immae, 70; position in state, 78;
    Augusta, 86; position in the Senate, 120; tries to frustrate
    plot against Antonine, 153; persuades Antonine to admit
    Alexander Consul, 161; murder of, 166; reasons for her murder,
    171

    Sodales Antoniniani, on date of adoption, 145

    Sohemais, 25

    Solomon’s temple compared with Emesan temple, 50

    “Spartianus,” Aelius, 3, 11

    Spem Veterem gardens, 113, 153, 158, 262

    Spintries, 160, 240

    Stobbe, on date of Antonine’s murder, 193; on tribunicial
    renewal, 194

    Strabo, 25

    Studniczka, on Eliogabalium, 113

    Suburra, district of Rome, 262

    Suetonius, 13, 23, 79, 227, 250; on Senaculum, 121; on Vestals,
    131, 212; on life generally, 20; on Caligula, 203

    Summer temple, site of, 112; date of completion, 174

    Sylla, Governor of Cappadocia, a traitor, 90; compared with
    Julius Paulus, 205


    Tacitus, on Christianity, 228

    Tammuz, month of processions, 175

    Tana, in Algeria, arch to Macrinus at, 75

    Taurus, Mount, temple of Faustina on, 92

    Tertullian, on Antinous, 231

    Tertullian, on Julia Domna, 30; on divorce, 204

    Theodosius, 10

    Thermae Caracallae, 187; Varianae or Surae, 187

    Thrace, Eutychianus fights under Commodus in, 53; Alexander’s
    spectral journey, 144

    Thyatira, coin of Diadumenianus, 65

    Tiberinus and Tractitius, nicknames of Antonine given by Dion
    and Lampridius, 200

    Tiberius, Emperor, 117, 160, 164, 229

    Titus, 23, 178

    Titus Claudius Severus, father of Annia Faustina, 222

    Trajan, 5

    Triccianus, Aelius Decius, 90

    Tripolis, coins struck at, 208

    Tristran, as critic, 22; on Macrinus, 47; on Julia Paula, 206;
    on the order of the wives, 207; on Annia Faustina’s genealogy,
    222

    Tropea, 15

    Turre, 22; tribunicial renewal, 194

    Tyro, a reputed birthplace of Gens Cornelia, 205


    Ulpian, 21, 31; dedication of works, 163

    Urania, Astarte, Tanit, Juno Coelestis, shrine in Forum, 132;
    marriage with Elagabal, 133; amalgamated to the worship of
    Elagabal, 278


    Valerius Ferminus, 176

    Valerius Maximus quoted, 242

    Valsecchius, 22; on tribunicial renewal, 194

    Velletri, home of Soaemias and her husband, 34

    Vespasian, 26, 141

    Vespasian amphitheatre, 246

    Vesta, Minerva, or Pallas, to serve Elagabal, 97; alliance of
    Elagabal with, 114; story of the marriage with Elagabal, 129;
    shrine in Forum, 132, 189; amalgamated with Elagabal, 278

    Vestals, community discussed, 211; supporters of civic
    religion, 214; arbiters of public feeling, 261

    Victor, Aurelius, on site of Eliogabalium, 11, 19, 27, 113; on
    length of reign, 193; on Antonine’s castration, 276

    Victoria Aeterna inscription, 139

    Vigiles inscription, 145

    Virgil, 23

    Vitellius, 23, 236, 250, 253

    Vopiscus, 3, 11, 13


    Walwick Chesters inscription, title of _Sac. Elag._ erased, 199

    Wirth, on the date of the proclamation, 55; on date of battle
    of Immae, 69; on arrival in Rome, 107

    Wissowa, on site of summer temple, 112

    Wölfflin, on Vopiscus, 3, 11; on Mommsen, 12

    Wotton, quoted, 89; on Gannys, 102


    Xiphilinus, 7, 52, 113; on Eutychianus, 80; on Antonine, 95;
    on Antonine’s marriage with Hierocles, 239; on Zoticus, 239;
    condemns Antonine’s religion, 267


    Zoticus, his story, 239

    Zonaras, 19; on Antonine’s amulets, 184; on nicknames of the
    Emperor, 200; on Elagabalus’ castration, 238; on Zoticus, 239

    Zosimus, 19

THE END

_Printed by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh._