THE SARCOPHAGUS
by Ilaria
Rome, 1st May 2004
The rain started to fall as soon as I stepped out the Stazione Termini, obliging me to a double struggle to keep my umbrella in the right position over my head despite the blowing wind, and to protect as best as I could the large sketch book I was carrying tucked under my left arm.
Luckily, I had not to cover much ground and, a few minutes later, once I had crossed the square in front of Diocletian’s Baths, I walked up the steps of Palazzo Massimo Alle Terme.
The Palazzo Massimo is not among Rome’s most famous and well-visited museums, nor is it one of the largest. I had discovered it quite by chance, because it was included in the ArcheoCard, a special ticket that allowed tourists to visit several places at a reduced fee. But once I stepped inside, I fell in love with the place.
Among the various exhibits, the museum hosts the frescoes taken from the Villa of Livia, Emperor Augustus’ wife and from the Villa of Julia, Augustus’ daughter. They are arranged in several little rooms, trying to recreate their original settings.
There are also several mosaics, showing the progress of this technique along a span of two or three centuries, and a collection of every day objects and jewels that is simply stunning. Also, for those like me who like ancient coins, there is one of the most amazing collections you can ever find. I don’t know how many hours I have spent drooling over those little masterpieces of gold, silver, bronze and copper, admiring then and dreaming about the people who had touched them in ancient times.
Finally Palazzo Massimo has an impressive selection of statues and marble decorations and, amongst them, the piece that had singularly captured my imagination since my first visit. It is the front side of a funerary monument- a sarcophagus, the final resting place of an unknown Roman general who died at the end of Emperor Marcus Aurelius’ reign, in 180AD. It is about a hundred and eighty metres long and a hundred and twenty metres high. The sarcophagus is fashioned all in marble and beautifully sculpted with scenes from a battle and from the general’s own life.
This is not a famous piece and, in truth, it is exhibited in a way that does not enhance its beauty, but it captured my imagination the first time I saw it- so much that I decided to give life and colour to those sculpted figures by drawing them on my album and then painting them on watercolour.
That was the reason I was visiting Palazzo Massimo that May morning, taking advantage of the vacation day to continue my drawing work and possibly complete it.
As I stepped inside the museum, the attendant at the ticket box greeted me with a smile.
"Good day, signorina. How are you?"
"Fine, Alfredo, even if today is too damp for my tastes." He was a white-haired man with a jovial face and kind brown eyes.
"True. It does not feel like May. Last year we were already sweating by now…"
He watched as I put the umbrella away, then tilted his chin to indicate the album.
"So, how is the drawing going?"
"It is almost done."
"I hope you will show it to me when it is complete."
"Of course." "
"Then I wish you good work. Today the museum will be all yours. My colleagues are on vacation and I doubt there will be many visitors with so few halls open."
I nodded and after saluting him again, I entered the museum and quickly found my way around to the little hall hosting the sarcophagus itself.
Once there, I took off my jacket and put it over the back of the chair that Alfredo had put at my disposal ever since I have started to make regular visits to the museum. I dragged it closer to the sarcophagus, sat on it, and opened the album.
The work was indeed almost complete.
The images on the sarcophagus were divided into two sections. In the upper smaller one, there were scenes from the general’s life outside the battle field, scenes of everyday life and figures of people who must have been important to the man. In fact, almost in the exact centre of this upper section there was a woman with a child. These two central figures were surrounded by other people who seemed to be protecting them. I had always imagined that they were the general’s wife and son.
The other larger section showed scenes from a battlefield, where the general was depicted as fighting on horseback, leading his legion to victory in Germania – or so the museum curator had told me. The battle looked to have been very bloody, with fallen men and horses as well as figures of Germans and images of captured barbarians, their hands tied, on both the sides.
Several times I checked the images on my album against those on the sarcophagus and smiled, pleased with myself. The likeness was very good, especially for an amateur like me. There was only one major point needing to be resolved.
The sarcophagus had been damaged. The general was easily recognizable because of his crested helmet and because his image was positioned exactly in the centre of the whole sculpture, just under those of his wife and son- but his face had been wiped away. And it was the only one that had suffered this fate, for all the others were still whole.
I stared at the blank spot I had left where the general’s face should have been and wondered what to do. Should I simply leave it as it was, thus perfectly recreating the images on the sarcophagus? Or should I try to give him a face, and truly bring life to the static scene? And what would he have looked like anyway?
"He was probably bearded. Everyone else in the sarcophagus is and it was the fashion of that period."
I did not realize that I had talked aloud, until a voice replied to me. "He was indeed bearded, although he kept it short and not long and wild like the men you can see on the sarcophagus."
I almost jumped on my chair and turned around in surprise, for I had not heard nor seen anyone enter the small room. My mouth opened wide when I saw who it was. There was a man standing behind my back.
A tall, strapping man dressed in what I could only describe as a…tunic, a Roman - style wine-red tunic that fell to his knees and was held in place by a high leather belt. He wore a pair of intricately tied sandals and nothing else. My eyes stared at his body and then stopped at his face. It was full of character and personality: high forehead, straight nose, a little bow-like mouth. His hair was dark and shortly cropped, with a bang that made him look like the statues of the Roman emperors I could see in the other rooms. His jaws was covered by a neatly trimmed beard that was slightly fairer than his hair, and his eyes – oh his eyes! – were blue-green.
I blinked several times, before finally realizing he was not a trick of my mind but that he was really standing in front of me. But who he was? Was he one of those "actors" that strutted around in unlikely costumes near the Colosseum and other monuments, ready to pose –for money, of course – for the tourists? I gave him another look as he stood silently before me. He did not look at all alike those men. First of all, he was at ease in his tunic, showing none of the discomfort the other men often have when going around wearing "skirts". He also had the body type to fill that tunic very well. He was tanned and sturdy, with strong, impressive legs, but his muscles were not exaggerated and unnatural like those of body-builders. There was something about him that screamed of authority, gravity and even…even nobility- such a foreign concept, not only for the guys near the Colosseum, but also for the majority of the men and woman I had met in my life. I never remember having thought a person was noble before - not in the blood, but in the soul.
And yet this unknown, strangely-clothed man had that quality without any doubt.
Finally, after several long moment spent with my mouth hanging open, I managed to stop staring him and clear my voice deciding it was time to greet him and to apologize for my less-than- polite behaviour.
"Good morning, sir. Forgive me, but I did not hear you approach, and I was more than a little surprised to discover I was not alone."
"You must not apologize. I should have somehow alerted you of my presence instead of startling you with my voice. I beg your forgiveness."
I nodded and accepted his apology, but in truth I would have nodded to everything he might say, for his voice enchanted me. He spoke in my language, but it was heavily accented and I could not place its origins. His tone was low, deep, rumbling…a baritone such as I had never heard before, as totally captivating as his personality and his mesmerizing blue-green eyes.
Realizing I was staring at him again, I tried to concentrate on something else. I looked down at my open sketch pad and my eyes fell on the blank spot that was the general’s face: I remembered what the man had said regarding the missing beard. He had said it had been short and well trimmed—like his own?
"How do you know his beard was short?"
"Because the riders around him are Auxilia- auxiliary troops, mainly composed by Germans living inside the Empire, who were just a step away from being as barbarian as the tribes they fought. The General himself had to be a Roman citizen and would never wear such unkempt beard. Although…" and his eyes took a distant look, "…a thick beard was good to keep your face warm during the winter months when the chilly wind whipped the camp and managed to enter inside the tents and the barracks…"
"I see." I murmured. I had always liked to hear and learn about the Ancient Rome civilization, especially from people whom, like this man, have the gift to explain things in such a way almost as if they had witnessed them and are able to make the past live again.
Almost without noticing, I reached out with my hand and touched the sarcophagus, feeling under my fingers the cool, smoothed area that had been the general’s face, imagining the texture of his beard and the imprint of his features.
I felt the man’s eyes on me and suddenly realized I had been doing something forbidden by the museum’s rules. I retracted my hand, searching for an apology, but I saw no reproach on his handsome face.
Yes, he was handsome.
The handsomest man I have ever seen, with a body solid like an oak and a face that, while not being beautiful in the classical way, was nevertheless more attractive than all the pretty boys the movie makers are so fond of.
An impertinent thought crossed my mind. What would he be like in bed? A real, demanding stallion, or so his body screamed to my senses. But also a considerate and gentle lover, because the blue- green eyes that stared so kindly at me where whispering that to my heart.
His gaze was almost penetrating and, afraid that he might read my erotic musings, and also needing to fill the silence stretching between us, I returned to concentrate on the sarcophagus and commented: "It is so strange how the general’s face is the only part of this bas-relief to have been damaged. There are more protruding sculptures, and yet they are perfect."
The man’s mouth curved in a sad smile. "It was done on purpose."
"What?" I asked, not understanding.
"Do you know what the damnatio memoriae was in Ancient Rome?"
I nodded. "Yes, I know. It was the punishment inflicted posthumously by the Senate to those emperors considered guilty of crimes against the Roman people. It consisted in the destruction of all their statues, in the removal of their names from monuments, inscriptions, coins and so on. They wanted to erase the memory of those emperors. Caligula, Nero, Domitian were punished in this way, and so were Commodus and Caracalla - although they were later rehabilitated."
A muscle twitched in his jaw at the mention of the last two emperors, then he nodded curtly.
"So you are saying this general was sentenced to damnatio memoriae?" I tried to control my voice and not betray the disappointment I was feeling. I had worked so hard over that drawing, I had wondered so much about that unknown man…only to discover that he had been a hideous criminal?
"No. He never committed crimes again the populace. He was an honourable, honest man who spent his entire life serving the empire and its inhabitants. He died for Rome and his sacrifice and actions would have echoed in eternity…if the men who came after him had not decided to erase his memory. Those men were afraid of the general’s name and of how he was revered by the mob. So they decided to kill his memory. They destroyed his statues and his temple and erased any reference to him in the official documents and in the chronicles. And with nobody remembering him, the Saviour of Rome was soon forgotten, his name lost in the mists of time."
"Oh." I was just barely able to utter, so mesmerized had I been by his voice, so caught by his bitter tone. For ancient man it was important to leave a trace of himself after his death- a son to perpetuate his line and honour his tomb, a road bearing his name or an inscription inviting people passing by to read of his achievements. That’s why the damnatio memoriae was such a hard punishment, and why it was so sad that such a man as the Saviour of Rome had been treated in that way.
Shaking my head, I looked the man straight in the eyes and asked, "Can you tell me more about him? About this Saviour of Rome?"
His gaze seemed to brighten. "Are you really interested?"
"Of course! Knowing more about him will help me when I paint my drawing. The shades of the colours that I choose are affected by emotion…at least for me." I smiled and he replied with a grin of his own. It was a beautiful smile, one that reached his eyes and made him look younger than the thirty-something years I thought him to be.
He then turned serious and, looking at the sarcophagus, he began to talk. "The general was born in Hispania, and whilst he was serving in the army as tribune, he was noticed by Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who took him under his wing. The general was not an ambitious man and sought glory only for Rome; it was this attitude that attracted Caesar. The general fought and won many battles for his lord, in Armenia, in Dacia and most of all in Germania, as it is shows in this sculpture. His Caesar kept an eye on him and the two of them grew closer along the years. Marcus Aurelius became like a father to the general- but the younger man never understood he too had become a son for the emperor himself until the last day of Caesar’s life. That day – a cool, March morning - Marcus Aurelius called the general into his tent in Vindobona and informed him that he wanted him to succeed him on the throne. Caesar did not want his son Commodus to rule because he knew he was not a moral man."
"And he was right," I blurted, remembering some of the excesses of Commodus’ reign. He had been a disgrace and it was not by chance that many scholars indicate that his age was the beginning of the downfall of the Roman empire.
The man did not seem to have heard me for he continued: "The general did not want the honour Marcus Aurelius was bestowing on him. He just wanted to go home to his wife and son, and never again raise a weapon. However, he could not say ‘No’ to his lord; he loved him too much. So he said ‘Yes’ and that night he went to sleep, knowing that from the next day his life would change forever, for Caesar would adopt him. But it did not happen. That night Commodus discovered his father’s plan and killed him."
"Oh. I always thought Marcus Aurelius died of the plague..."
He shook his head and looked briefly at me. "No. There was no plague in Vindobona. Commodus spread that rumour. Marcus Aurelius was strangled." There was a hard edge in his voice as he returned to stare at the sarcophagus.
"I see."
"When the general was informed, he immediately understood what had happened and refused to take the hand Commodus was offering him. It would have been the betrayal of everything he believed in. He left the tent and rushed to his own, thinking he would have time to ask advice for how better to confront the situation- but he was wrong. Commodus had him arrested in the middle of the night and he was sentenced to death, his family condemned to the same fate."
"Oh my!" I gasped. He swallowed hard and his right hand rose to touch the sculptures of the woman and child in the upper section of the sarcophagus. He used just his fingers pads; it looked like a caress.
"The general was able to escape his assassins, and although wounded, he managed to gallop home, hoping to arrive in time to save his family. But," and at this his voice became a mere whisper, "he was too late. When he arrived they were already dead, burnt and crucified, and he could only bury them."
He hung his head for few seconds, then raised it again. "He wanted nothing more but to die and join them in Elysium, but it was not to be. He was found by some slave traders, dragged away, and when he recovered from the infection that had almost killed him, he found himself in chains- a gladiator destined for the arena."
My mouth opened, but no sound left it. A gladiator! Poor man, what must he have suffered!
"The general hated to fight in the arena, but his instinct for survival was too strong for him to let himself be killed. He became famous under the name of Spaniard and, after a while, he ended up in Rome to fight in the Colosseum. Once he was there, he was able to obtain his revenge against Commodus. He won the love of the crowd and to restore his hold over it, Commodus was forced to combat against him. They fought each other in front of fifty thousand people and despite Commodus mortal wounding before the match, he was nevertheless able to kill his enemy before collapsing and dying himself."
"But Commodus was killed by a wrestler called Narcissus! I read it in the books!"
"No, he was killed by the Saviour of Rome, but the records of that event were erased by Commodus’ successors. You see, Marcus Aurelius’ wishes had not simply called for the general to succeed him. He had wanted the empire to return to be a republic and before dying, the general made these wishes known. But the Senate was not able to recover power and the Empire fell prey to a long civil war. Pertinax, Didius Julianus, Pescennius Niger and Septimius Severus all fought for the Purple and the last one was the final victor. To legitimate his position, Severus claimed to be Marcus Aurelius’ adopted son –and decided to deify his "brother" Commodus – but this notion was against what the general had claimed to be his lord’s last wishes. And thus, to avoid repercussions Septimius Severus ordered the general’s name to be erased from History." He stopped talking and silence fell over us, broken only by my hurried breath as I tried to control my emotions.
I have a great deal of empathy and I am easily moved to tears, especially when I hear stories like the one he had just told me. I could not help but put myself in the general’s place and imagine everything that had happened to him. Poor man! He had worked so hard, given everything he had for Rome, and what had been his reward? Pain, humiliation, violence, denigration, slavery and death...The sheer unfairness of it almost broke my heart, and I turned my head away, for I did not want this man to see the tears on my cheeks.
Little by little, I reined in my turbulent emotions and a question popped up in my mind, making me frown. If what the man had said was true, that Septimius Severus had had every reference to the general destroyed, how was it possible he knew so many details about the Saviour Of Rome? The breath caught in my throat as a suspicion crossed my mind. That man was dressed with a costume…what he was really an actor and he had invented that story just to con some money out of me?
I whirled around, bracing myself to see a smug smile on his face, but found my eyes staring at the vacuum.
He was no longer at my side.
I turned my head around. Nothing.
I walked to the door and looked in the nearby room. Nothing.
He had gone in the same way he had arrived…as silent, and quick, and suddenly as a phantom.
A phantom? I shook my head and blinked, trying to clear my mind. What had happened in that room? Was it possible I had imagined everything? I checked my wrist watch. Three hours had passed since my arrival to Palazzo Massimo. Was it possible I had fallen asleep and dreamed? No, I told myself. I had not fallen asleep. That man had been there.
Without thinking twice, I bolted from the room and ran through the other exhibition areas, my steps echoing in the deserted halls, until I reached the entry.
Alfredo was writing, but raised his head at the sound of my hurried breath.
"Is there something wrong, signorina?" he enquired, rising to his feet.
"No…it’s just… Has that other visitor already left?"
"What other visitor? Today you are the only one."
"Then it must be one of your colleagues. That explain how he can know so many things…" I nodded eagerly, trying to convince myself.
"What colleagues? Signorina, nobody else is here today, just you and I." Alfredo looked at me, clearly puzzled by my behaviour.
"It is not possible! I saw him! I talked to him!" I was getting hysterical, I know, but I simply could not accept that I had been hallucinating.
The look on Alfredo’s face changed and the confusion was replaced by interest. He left the counter, circled it, and came closer to me, his eyes shining in a strange way. "Who? Who did you see?"
"A man. Tall, robust, with dark hair and beard. Blue-green eyes. He wore strange clothes... a tunic. He looked like the guys dressed as Romans near the Colosseum, and yet he was not like them at all, for he was much more realistic than they are…He seemed to have been born to wear a tunic." I shook my head again and almost cried, "I cannot have imagined him!"
"No," Alfredo’s voice replied with quiet certainness. "You did not."
"Then you have seen him!" I exclaimed, relieved.
"No. I never had the honour of meeting him."
My eyes widened. The honour of meeting him? Who the heck was that man?!
Before I was able to formulate the question, Alfredo returned to the counter and pushed a button, electronically locking the door of the museum. Then he walked back to me and murmured, "I envy you. I have been working here for ten years, but he has never appeared to me."
To say I was puzzled would be an understatement. "Alfredo," I said after taking a deep breath. "Who is that man?"
"Did I not tell you?"
"No."
"Then follow me, I have something to show you." And without waiting for a sign of agreement, he marched away, so quickly I had almost to run to keep with him.
He led me to the lift and then to the ground floor of the museum, near the caveau hosting the coin collection. There was a closed door there, which Alfredo opened, before motioning me to go inside.
I did, and searching in the dark, I managed to switch on the light and see where he had taken me. It looked like a storage room, full of statues, piece of sculptures and other stuff. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust…except a bust resting in a corner, which was protected by a glass box.
I turned to look at Alfredo, standing near me and he murmured. "It is a unique piece kept here because we cannot risk it damage by vandals- and you know how many there are. But go closer to it…You will see why it is so precious."
I did as he asked and my eyes widened in disbelief when I observed closely the bust.
It was the man.
The same straight nose. The same short cropped hair with the "Caesar bang" on his brow. The same well trimmed beard surrounding the same, bow-shaped mouth. And the white, unseeing eyes were cut exactly as the shining blue-green ones I had admired.
The bust portrayed him dressed with an armour, its breastplate decorated with the Wolf Of Rome. The armour of a general.
The armour of THE general.
My eyes dropped to the inscription at the base of the bust. It said:
MAXIMVS DECIMVS MERIDIVS
I blinked and turned to look at Alfredo, who commented, "So you now know why I envy you so much? You are one of the lucky ones to meet him, General Maximus Decimus Meridius, the Saviour of Rome."
I shook my head. "Are you implying I saw a ghost?"
"No, not a ghost. His ghost. He has been known to roam this museum since this bust was carried here, about a century ago. That’s why it is named Palazzo Massimo- as you know Massimo is the Italian equivalent of the Latin Maximus."
He sounded matter of fact, as he was stating a known truth, but I could not believe him. Ghosts do not exist- no matter what I thought I had seen and heard.
"You are fooling me!" I exclaimed.
"No. He is not." The deep, rumbling voice came from behind our backs and we whirled around at its sound.
He was there.
Maximus Decimus Meridius, this time wearing the uniform of the bust. It consisted of a wine-red tunic, soft breeches, boots, a breastplate - those decorations shone in the dimly lit room -and a long cape hanging from his broad shoulders.
Alfredo stared at him, his eyes wide. "General…" he whispered.
"Alfredo," was the calm reply. "Thank you for having such a care of my statue. It is the only trace that I ever existed in this world." Again he looked very sad.
"No," I said, my voice becoming stronger as I got over my initial shock. "Your memory will always live with me…and with my children when I have them. I will tell them your story."
"And the same goes for me, General," added Alfredo.
He smiled then, and his teeth shone against his tanned face. "Thank you," he whispered.
Then he bowed his head, tapped his chest with his fist in salute, before disappearing among the shadows and the dust of the room.
THE END
Author’s notes: as you can see, the sarcophagus really exists and it is inside the Palazzo Massimo Alle Terme. When I first saw it, back in 2001, I was with two other Gladiator fans, and all of us were amazed by how it could have been Maximus’. The label near it said "Sarcophagus of an unknown General showed battling the Germans. Marcus Aurelius’ age, circa 180AD." Since then I thought to write a story about it…and I finally did!
Instead, as you might have guessed, I completely made up the reason why Palazzo Massimo is so called. I don’t know from where its name comes, but it was another coincidence that suited my purpose very well!