The Socrates Express

Marcus no doubt missed Rome. Especially his wife, Faustina, loving, if not always faithful. The past decade had not been easy, marred not only by those nettlesome Germanic tribes but also an abortive revolt by the scheming Cassius. Then there were his children. Faustina bore at least thirteen. Fewer than half survived childhood.

Marcus was a rarity: a philosopher-king. What was it that drove the most powerful man in the world to study philosophy? As emperor, he could do, or not do, as he pleased. Why take time from his busy schedule to read the classics and ponder life’s imponderables?

Marcus’s early years offer a few clues. He had that rarest of childhoods: a happy one. Bookish, he’d rather read than go to the circus. This tendency put him in a distinct minority of Roman schoolchildren.

Later, enamored of the Greek way of life, he’d sleep on the hard ground covered only in a pallium, a philosopher’s threadbare cloak, until his mother scolded him and insisted he give up “this nonsense” and sleep in a proper bed.

The Romans viewed Greek philosophy the way most of us view opera: something worthy and beautiful, and we really should go more often, but it’s so darned difficult to follow and, besides, who has time? Romans liked the idea of philosophy more than actual philosophy. This made Marcus, an actual philosopher, highly suspect. Even as emperor, people snickered behind his back.

Marcus was an accidental emperor. He never wanted the job. It was his predecessor, Hadrian, who set events in motion that led to Marcus being crowned emperor in AD 161. He was forty years old.

Marcus enjoyed a honeymoon period. For six months. Then came a deadly flood, the plague, and the invasions. Aside from these wars, Marcus had relatively little blood on his hands. It’s living proof that absolute power does not always corrupt absolutely. Marcus routinely handed down lenient sentences for deserters and other lawbreakers. When the empire faced a financial crisis he auctioned off imperial goodies—robes, goblets, statues, and paintings—rather than raise taxes. And in an act I find particularly touching, he decreed that all tightrope walkers, often young boys, should henceforth perform over thick, spongy mattresses.

Marcus displayed great courage in battle but, as biographer Frank McLynn says, his most courageous feat was “his constant strivings to curb his natural pessimism.” I can relate. I, too, wrestle with the forces of negativity, always scheming to recruit me to their side. For we wannabe optimists, a half-empty glass is better than no glass at all, or one that has shattered into a hundred slivers and pierced a major artery. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Marcus had trouble sleeping. He suffered from indeterminate chest and stomach pains. His physician, an arrogant but accomplished man named Galen, had prescribed theriac (possibly laced with opium) to help him sleep.