Empire - Saylor Steven - Страница 135

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The statue was still two feet above the top of the column when Marcus heard a sharp noise. Somewhere, a chain had snapped.

He looked at the statue, which swayed a bit. He looked at the crane, which also seemed to sway very slightly. Then the crane began to tilt to one side.

“Numa’s balls!” cried the foreman. “The statue’s coming down, right now! Keep it steady!”

The workmen grabbed hold of the statue, but they were powerless to guide it any longer as it swung one way and then the other. With a tremendous cracking noise, part of the crane collapsed. As he strove to keep his balance and stay clear of the statue, Marcus saw in glimpses that a section of the crane was falling and men on the ground were scrambling to get out of the way. He experienced a moment of vertigo in which it seemed that the huge statue was stationary while everything else – earth, sky, and the column under his feet – was spinning off-kilter.

The statue bumped one of the workmen. The movement was relatively small, but the weight of the statue lent tremendous force to the slight contact. The workman went tumbling backwards, paddling his arms in the air. He stepped off the column and onto the topmost scaffold, but couldn’t regain his balance and kept staggering backwards. Marcus waited for the man’s safety rope to stop his fall, but the knot at his waist had been poorly tied. The man slipped free from the rope and went flying off the scaffold, somersaulting backwards. His scream pierced the air as he plummeted to the ground. There was a sickening sound of impact, then a moment of silence, then a tremendous crash as the broken section of the crane fell onto the Greek wing of the library.

Marcus experienced a moment of sheer panic. He imagined the statue swinging ever more wildly out of control, knocking off more and more of the workman, until it actually struck the column, dislodging the top drum, throwing the whole column out of balance and causing it to topple over.

But that was not what happened.

The statue twisted one way, then the other, then suddenly dropped and landed with a jarring thud atop the column. None of the workmen were harmed, and when they took a closer look, they were amazed to see that the statue had landed precisely within the chalk outline. Despite the broken crane, the outcome could not have been more perfect.

For Marcus, the earth and the sky gradually stopped spinning and all was still. He realized that he was clutching the fascinum with his right hand. His knuckles were bone white. As he slowly unclenched his fist, he stepped onto the scaffolding and took stock of the damage below.

The crane was ruined beyond repair. One end of the Greek wing of the library was destroyed, but that part of the building was unfinished and the repairs would be relatively minor. The body of the man who had fallen lay twisted on the paving stones below, surrounded by a pool of blood. As Marcus watched, Apollodorus and Hadrian approached the lifeless body. Apollodorus gazed down at the corpse for a moment, then up at Marcus. His face was ashen.

Marcus, too stunned to speak, extended his arm and turned his thumb upwards to signal that all was well atop the column. Apollodorus looked as if he might faint with relief.

Hadrian took a step back to avoid the spreading pool of blood, then stared up at Marcus, or rather, beyond him, at the towering statue of Trajan. “The nose!” he shouted.

What was Hadrian talking about? Marcus craned his neck to peer up at the statue. The gilding reflected the sunlight so brightly that he was blinded. He looked down at Hadrian and made a quizzical gesture.

Hadrian smiled broadly. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “The nose… looks… perfect!”

A month later, Lucius Pinarius hosted a small dinner party in honour of his son.

The Column would soon be officially dedicated, and in the various celebrations the emperor and his chief architect would be the focus of all attention. Before that happened, Lucius wanted to acknowledge his son’s accomplishments and tremendous hard work. The dinner party was to be a major event for the Pinarius household, which seldom saw guests outside the small circle of Lucius’s friends, most of whom were advanced in years and fellow followers of Apollonius of Tyana – not a group much given to traditional feasting, since they ate no meat and drank no wine.

No meat had been cooked or served in Lucius’s house for many years, and he could not bring himself to include any sort of flesh, fowl, or fish on the menu; his cook assured him that no one would even notice the omission among the highly spiced delicacies and sumptuous sweets that would be offered. But for a dinner party that included a member of the imperial household – Hadrian had accepted an invitation – there would have to be wine. Lucius never drank wine, but Marcus occasionally did, and Lucius had no objection to serving it to his guests. If they should be disappointed by the absence of meat, he was determined that they would have no cause to be disappointed with the wine; he had stocked a variety of what a reputable merchant assured him were the very finest vintages, both Greek and Italian.

For such an occasion, his son informed him, there must be a scurra among the guests; no memorable social occasion could take place among the elite of the city without a scurra to amuse them. Apparently there existed an entire class of such persons in the city, men who literally made their way by their wit. A scurra cadged dinner invitations to the homes of the wealthy and in return shared gossip, told jokes, injected double entendres into the conversation, flattered the host, and gently mocked the guests.

“And where on earth will I find such a person?” Lucius had asked his son, quite certain there were no scurras among the staid acolytes of the Teacher.

“Apollodorus says he’ll bring someone, a fellow named Favonius,” said Marcus. Apollodorus had also invited the director of the imperial archives, a man in his forties named Gaius Suetonius, who had learned that the elder Pinarius had known Nero and his long-vanished circle and was eager to meet him.

After many days of preparation, the appointed hour arrived. The guests appeared in quick succession and were shown to their dining couches. The house was filled with the steady hum of conversation and laughter.

The scurra showed his worth early on. Favonius had frizzled red hair, plump cheeks, and a peculiar nose that skewed to one side; from his protruding belly, it appeared that he loved food and seldom missed a meal. When it became evident that no meat would be served, Favonius pretended to pout. “I see we’re to be served a gladiators’ diet tonight: no meat, just barley and beans! Ah, well, thank the gods that gladiators are allowed to drink wine.” Both Lucius and Marcus were taken aback by the man’s rudeness, but everyone else laughed, and not another word was said all night about the lack of meat or fish; the scurra’s blatant complaint forestalled any further grumbling. Instead, the guests vied with one another to praise the cook’s skill and ingenuity.

Hadrian and Suetonius engaged Lucius in conversation. The archivist was curious to learn anything about Nero, while Hadrian wanted to know every detail of his host’s friendship with Apollonius of Tyana, Epictetus, and Dio of Prusa.

Marcus noticed that Apollodorus stayed largely out of the conversation. It seemed to him that there was some tension between the architect and Hadrian, who had always been on friendly terms.

Hadrian excused himself to go to the latrina. As soon as he was out of sight, the scurra grunted. “I do believe that fellow has lost his provincial accent entirely.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” said Lucius. “When he first came to Roma, I seem to recall that his accent was quite pronounced.”

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