Empire r-2, page 66
part #2 of Rome Series
The actual construction of the dome was still a long way off. On this day, Marcus was inspecting recent work on the thick, load-bearing walls when he heard a familiar cry and looked up to see his son’s blonde curls glinting in the sunlight.
At the age of eight, Lucius was now old enough to visit his father’s worksites, as long as he was always supervised. Marcus was surprised to see that Lucius was accompanied not by one of the slaves who usually chaperoned him but by Amyntas, who had rapidly risen in the ranks of the household and was usually occupied with more-important duties.
Marcus greeted the boy by lifting him in the air – not as easy a task as it once had been – then saw the reason why Amyntas had come. In the slave’s hand was a scroll, and even at a distance Marcus could spot the imperial seal pressed into the wax.
Hadrian was again off travelling. He frequently corresponded with Marcus, but those letters were usually bundled with other imperial documents and delivered by couriers to the palace, where Marcus sent a slave to fetch them. A letter that had come not to the palace but directly to Marcus’s house was unusual.
While Amyntas took Lucius to look at the walls, Marcus broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. Previous letters had come from Sicily, Carthage, the interior African city of Lambaesis, Athens, Ephesus, and Antioch. The heading of this letter showed that it had been posted from the desert trading city of Palmyra. Recalling its close proximity to Damascus, Marcus felt a twinge of hope. Apollodorus in his latest letter had expressed his intention to do his best to gain an audience with Hadrian, should the emperor’s travels bring him anywhere near Damascus.
The letter was written not in Hadrian’s usual first person, full of learned asides and literary allusions, but in a very stiff and formal third person. From the first words, Marcus knew the letter contained bad news:
Caesar wishes to inform Marcus Pinarius personally of an unfortunate event, so that he will hear of it first from Caesar and not from some other source. Caesar will state the fact plainly: the father-in-law of Marcus Pinarius, Apollodorus of Damascus, has been executed for plotting against the life of the emperor. Because of irrefutable evidence supplied to Caesar, Caesar had no other recourse. This action was carried out swiftly and with respect to the person’s status as a citizen.
Marcus knew what that meant: Apollodorus had been beheaded and not killed in some more disgraceful way, like crucifixion.
Marcus Pinarius need fear no recrimination against himself. Although Caesar is aware of the natural bond of affection between Marcus Pinarius and his father-in-law, Caesar is of the belief that Marcus Pinarius played no part whatsoever in the plot, is certain of Marcus Pinarius’s loyalty to the emperor, and desires Marcus Pinarius to continue his valuable work on the Temple of Venus and Roma and on the Pantheon. It is the wish of Caesar that this unfortunate event shall have no effect on the amity between himself and Marcus Pinarius. We shall not speak of it again.
Stunned, Marcus put down the letter. Could it be true that Apollodorus had conspired against the emperor? Had the bitterness of so many years of exile driven him to involve himself in some desperate plot? Hadrian’s journeys exposed him not just to those who sought favours from the emperor but to those in each region who craved revenge, and in the vicinity of Damascus, where so many had been subjected to so much suffering under Roman rule, there must be many such persons. Had Apollodorus conspired with other malcontents and been discovered by Hadrian’s agents? Or had he been the victim of rumors and lies? Hadrian spoke of “irrefutable evidence,” but that phrase was invariably used when a declared enemy of the state was put to death.
Marcus would probably never know the truth. The emperor was above being questioned. Apollodorus was beyond giving answers.
Marcus saw something from the corner of his eye. It took him a moment to realize that it was a man in a toga. Only when the man spoke did he recognize Gaius Suetonius.
“Pinarius! I haven’t see you in a Titan’s age. Only yesterday, I was revising a passage about Marcus Agrippa, and I thought to myself: I must drop by to see what you’re up to here at Agrippa’s ruined temple. Those walls look awfully thick – must be quite a heavy roof you’re planning to put on top! You know, I never heard a word from you when I sent you my work in progress, all those years ago. Oh, that’s alright, not everyone’s a literary critic, and thank the gods for that. But now – good news! I’ve finally finished the work, and I have an army of scribes busy making copies. Shall I send you one? It’s not a bad read, if I say so myself. I promise you won’t be bored. Indeed, you may think I’ve written a book of marvels, like our friend Phlegon, it’s so full of outrageous anecdotes. Amazing, what some of those emperors got up to! Even I was surprised at the details I discovered, and I spent years combing through the imperial archives. There’s one story about Caligula – truly, it defies belief…”
Marcus didn’t hear. He was wondering how he was going to tell Apollodora the news.
He was suddenly distracted by a glint of sunlight on his son’s blonde curls. Lucius had wandered into an area where loose bricks had been piled in high stacks.
“Amyntas!” Marcus shouted. “Amyntas, look after Lucius! He doesn’t belong over there. It’s too dangerous.”
Suetonius smiled. “Boys! Always getting into trouble, eh? A pity our emperor hasn’t got one; that might keep him out of trouble. Oh, but I forget; Caesar does have a boy to look after. Takes him everywhere – so my correspondents along his travel route tell me. I hear he’s headed for Jerusalem next – or what they used to call Jerusalem. Hadrian plans to rebuild the city Vespasian destroyed and give it a rather pretty new name: Aelia Capitolina, named for his ancestors, the Aelii. I suspect he’ll put a statue of himself next to Jupiter and see if he can’t convince those stubborn Jews to burn a bit of incense on the altar. Then he’s to press on to Alexandria for his first look at Egypt. He and Antinous will play Caesar and Cleopatra, languidly cruising up the Nile past hippopotami and crocodiles. Do you suppose the Egyptians will put some sort of animal head on Hadrian’s statue and declare him a god?”
The man chattered on and on. Marcus did not hear a word.
AD 132
Hadrian was back in Roma.
After years of travel, the emperor’s return to the capital was to be marked with celebrations and banquets. But his very first excursion, bright and early on the morning after his first night back in the imperial palace, was an unannounced visit to the site of the Temple of Venus and Roma, to see what progress had been made in his absence. When the emperor was informed that Marcus Pinarius was not present, being occupied that morning at his workshop, Hadrian and his retinue headed directly to the Aventine Hill.
Marcus and his assistants were busy piecing together some sections of the gigantic bronze statue of Venus that was to be installed in the temple. When Amyntas came running in to announce that the emperor was in the vestibule, Marcus told everyone to cease working and stay exactly where they were. He put down his tools and dusted off his tunic. Amyntas, checking Marcus’s appearance, flicked some bits of metal from his beard.
Impeccably dressed as always, the emperor made a cursory examination of the statue, then suggested that the workmen might be allowed a rest, so that he and Marcus could speak in private.
“I’ve just come from the temple,” said Hadrian. “I’m pleased with the progress. You’ve done well, Pinarius.”
“Thank you, Caesar. I’m but one of the many artisans and engineers who are privileged each day to carry out the emperor’s grand vision.”
“You needn’t be so modest, Pinarius. I’ve spent a lifetime dealing with architects and artists all over the world. You may be the most talented of all.”
Now that Apollodorus is dead, Marcus thought. Then he thought of the other death that had occurred in the course of Hadrian’s journeys. During the trip up the Nile, Antinous had drowned.
It seemed to Marcus that the emperor had aged considerably since he had last seen him. There was more silver in his hair and his beard was now almost entirely grey. His face was more wrinkled. He spoke more slowly and with a quaver in his voice. His eyes were dull. Some essential spark had gone out of him.
Hadrian strolled around the studio, touching the various implements. “You spent so many hours with him here, in this room – alone with him, looking at him, observing him. More than anyone else on earth, except myself, you must remember what he looked like.”
“Caesar speaks of Antinous,” said Marcus quietly. “When I learned of his death, I wept.” It was true. Marcus had grieved, not so much for the youth himself, whose personality had remained a mystery to him, but for the loss of so much beauty. In his mind, there was still some mysterious link between the Bithynian youth and the god who visited him in dreams. The death of Antinous had struck him as more than the death of a single mortal; his passing was emblematic of the death of all things.
“Do you know the circumstances of his death?” said Hadrian in a whisper.
“I know only what everyone knows, that Antinous drowned in the Nile.”
“Egypt cast a spell over us – the heat, the buzzing insects, the oozing mud, the endlessly flowing river, the temples filled with strange symbols and animal-headed gods, the gigantic monuments from some unimaginably distant past. As we journeyed farther and farther up the Nile, we were gripped by some nameless, ancient dread.
“As I had explored the Mysteries of Eleusis, so I was initiated in the secret rites of the Egyptians. When the priests looked into my future, they saw something terrible. They declared that my life was over, that I would die in a matter of days, unless… unless another life was sacrificed in my place.
“I didn’t want to believe them. But when I cast my horoscope, adjusting the reading for the greater influence of the southern stars, I saw they were right. I was in great danger. Death was very near.”
Marcus drew a breath. “So Antinous…”
“He sacrificed himself in my place. I never asked him to do it. I was restless that night. I heard him leave the cabin. I heard the soft sound of a splash. I was half asleep and thought I was dreaming…”
Marcus remembered the story Antinous had once told him, in this very room, about the time Hadrian and the boy hunted a lion. If Caesar hadn’t killed the lion, it would surely have torn me to pieces. Caesar saved my life. I can never repay him for that.
The boy had been able to repay him, after all.
“What Antinous did was not the act of a mere mortal,” said Hadrian. “I always sensed there was something divine in him. I think you sensed that, too, Pinarius. But I never truly understood the nature of his divinity until he left this world. In his honour I built a city on the Nile, where I consecrated a temple and appointed priests to worship him. In Ephesus and Athens, on the way back to Roma, I built more temples in honour of the god Antinous.”
Marcus had heard about the emperor’s activities on behalf of the new god. The grandiosity of Hadrian’s grief was the talk of Roma; some dared to ridicule it, but others were in awe of it. Marcus had heard it compared it to the madness of Alexander the Great after the death of Alexander’s lover, Hephaestion, but it was hard for Marcus to look at the aging, paunchy Hadrian and see any resemblance to the dashing, doomed figure of Alexander.
“There will be no temple to Antinous here in Roma,” said Hadrian. “Just as worship of the emperor is not required of citizens within Italy, so I will not ask the people of Roma to worship the youth who was my consort. But I plan to build a tomb for Antinous near the town of Tibur, east of the city. I also plan to build a residence there, a place where I can retreat from the world.” Hadrian closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them. “Naturally, Pinarius, I want you to be part of those projects.”
“Of course, Caesar. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Hadrian stepped closer. He gazed steadily into Marcus’s eyes. “What I really want, dear Pygmalion, is for you to sculpt Antinous.”
Marcus stared back at him. Had grief erased the emperor’s memory?
Hadrian smiled wanly. “I understand your hesitation, Pinarius. Let me explain. Temples have been erected. Temples must have statues, so artists in Egypt and Greece have sculpted images of the Divine Antinous. At best, these statues have been – what word can I use? – acceptable. But none has captured the divine essence of Antinous. I’m convinced that only you – because you alone sculpted him in life – can possibly do that. I want you to make a statue of Antinous. We’ll collaborate on this project, you and I, working from memory.”
Marcus felt many things at once – doubt, dread, and a twinge of anger, but also a thrill of excitement such as he had not experienced in a long time.
Hadrian looked at him with a plaintive expression. “I don’t suppose… when I told you to destroy the statue…”
“I did as I was ordered, Caesar. I burned my sketches. I destroyed the models. I broke the arms and legs from the statue, smashed the torso, pulverized the hands and feet – ”
Hadrian winced and shut his eyes.
“But…” Marcus hesitated for a long moment, then decided to tell the truth. “I kept the head.”
Hadrian’s eyes grew wide.
“It was the most beautiful thing I ever made, or ever could hope to make,” said Marcus. “I couldn’t bear to destroy it.”
“Where is it?”
Marcus walked to a cluttered corner of the workshop. Hadrian followed him. Marcus cleared away a pile of implements and tattered scrolls to reveal a small cabinet covered with dust. The iron latch was rusty. Marcus had not opened the cabinet in years. It would have been too painful to look at the object it contained.
He managed to open the latch. He reached into the cabinet. He stood and held aloft the head of Antinous.
Hadrian gasped. He took the head from Marcus and held it in his hands. He touched his lips to the marble. His eyes filled with tears.
In the days and months that followed, the emperor spent every spare moment with Marcus in the workshop, surrounded first by drawings and small clay figurines, then by life-size models. Together they strove to recreate, to Hadrian’s satisfaction, the true image of Antinous. Marcus drew and moulded, and Hadrian gave his critiques, circling the life-size models, touching them and closing his eyes as if to summon up tactile memories, telling Marcus to make the chest larger, or the nose slightly longer, or the curvature of the calves more pronounced.
Having sculpted Antinous from life, Marcus trusted his memories of the youth’s appearance; sometimes Hadrian’s suggestions struck him as dubious, but Marcus did as he was told. Hadrian was pleased, and sometimes so shaken by the verisimilitude of the image that he wept. Strangely, to Marcus, their collaborative creation seemed to resemble more closely the god of his dreams than his recollection of the living Antinous.
At last came the day of the unveiling.
The statue would present no surprises to Hadrian, since he had overseen its creation from conception. Nonetheless, Marcus wished to make a formal unveiling, more for the benefit of his son than for the emperor. But young Lucius was late. Hadrian arrived ahead of the boy, but he did not seem to mind waiting. He strolled about the workshop, fiddling with various objects and taking deep breaths.
“Caesar has much on his mind today,” observed Marcus. The two of them had grown increasingly comfortable in each other’s presence. Hadrian now regularly unburdened himself to Marcus.
“The Jewish revolt,” said Hadrian. It was the problem that most preoccupied him these days. “It’s like the hydra: cut off one head and two more take its place. People continue to die by the tens of thousands. As long as a significant number of Jews persist in their belief that this fire-brand Simon Bar Kochba is their long-awaited Messiah, there seems to be no way to suppress the revolt, short of complete extermination, of the sort that Trajan practised in Dacia. But that’s not possible in the case of the Jews; they’re scattered all over the empire. The only long-term solution is to somehow assimilate these people, whether they wish to be assimilated or not. Towards that end, I’ve enacted a ban on their practice of amputating their foreskins. For reasons which defy comprehension, they attach some religious significance to this barbaric procedure. It’s yet another way by which they deliberately set themselves apart. For their own good and to put an end to these insurrections, they must put aside their primitive religion and embrace the true gods, like the rest of the world.”
“I understand you’ve renamed the province,” said Marcus.
“The region that was Judaea is now to be called Syria Palestina, just as Jerusalem is now Aelia Capitolina. These things make a difference – names and symbols and such.”
“And Caesar’s problems with the Christians?” said Marcus. This was another concern occasionally mentioned by the emperor.
Hadrian scoffed. “My travails with the Christians are as nothing compared to the trouble stirred up by the Jews. Some of my advisers lump the two groups together, but such thinking is ignorant and out of date; a great many Christians are not and never were Jews. Like the Jews, their atheism sets them apart from their neighbours, but unlike the Jews, they seem to be quite meek; meekness is actually a part of their teachings. As long as their numbers remain small and they keep their heads down, I think Trajan’s policy of ‘ask not, tell not’ is best.”
