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.

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.