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.