Empire - Saylor Steven - Страница 137
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“Trajan let him speak that way to his own cousin?”
“The emperor gives Apollodorus a very long leash, as you know, at least in matters to do with art and architecture. He trusts his judgement implicitly, whereas Hadrian, when all is said and done, is still the Little Greek, an over-educated dabbler who would do better to concentrate on his military career and leave art to the hirelings who create it for the pleasure of their betters. Hadrian was crushed. He gathered up his precious drawings and stalked off, practically in tears. Oh dear, but now we’ve come full circle, and there they are, still staring at that statue and not saying a word to each other.”
Marcus tried to think of a new topic for discussion. “What word, Hadrian, about this expedition being mounted by the emperor against Parthia?”
The question seemed to draw Hadrian out of a trance. He smiled. “I’m to go with him. It seems I’ll finally see the cities of the East – perhaps even Ctesiphon.”
He alluded to the capital of Parthia. Not content with the conquest of Dacia, Trajan had been seized by an even grander conceit – to fulfill the repeatedly thwarted Roman ambition that went back to the days of Julius Caesar, to follow in the footsteps of Alexander the Great and expand Roma’s empire eastward into the realms of ancient Persia.
Lucius Pinarius, who had joined his guests in the garden, cleared his throat. “Of course, there’s no real strategic purpose for inciting such a war, except that the Parthians present the only empire in the world to rival that of Roma.”
“I should think there’s every reason to conquer them,” said Favonius. “Or rather, the only reason there ever is for a war – wealth to plunder. The Dacians were the last neighbour left on the edges of the empire who actually possessed anything worth taking. Beyond our provinces on the northern coast of Africa lies a trackless desert; beyond Egypt lies a land of savage troglodytes and impassable jungles; the northern part of the island of Britannia is a frigid wasteland; and the realms beyond Germania and Dacia seem to be completely uncivilized, inhabited by such foul barbarians that they’re not even worth taking as slaves. There is India, of course, and beyond that the kingdom of Serica, the land of silk, which surely must be wealthy, but the world beyond the Indus River is so remote that hardly any Roman has ever traveled there, except for a few intrepid merchants. Within our reach, only Parthia and its satellite kingdoms remain to be conquered – and the wealth of its empire must be staggering.”
“As will be the challenge of taking it,” said Hadrian. “Even the Flavians at their most ambitious never dreamed of such a thing. But Caesar is ready for the challenge.”
“You won’t be going, will you, Marcus?” said Lucius, with a slight quaver in his voice.
“No, father. The emperor has decided that Apollodorus and I should remain here in Roma.”
Apollodorus nodded. “I’m compiling a handbook of designs for siege engines and such for the emperor to take with him, and training some of my best engineers for the expedition. But there’s still a great deal of work to be done on Caesar’s grand building projects here in the city, and whom could he possibly leave in charge but myself? Naturally, he looks to someone with experience, someone who knows how to get things done in strict accordance with his own high standards.” His boasting seemed to Marcus a deliberate attempt to needle Hadrian. After another swallow of wine, Apollodorus spoke to Hadrian directly. “But while Pygmalion and I stay here in the city to finish the projects, I’m sure you’ll manage to kill a Parthian or two, Little Greek! And like every conqueror, you’ll find it’s easier to demolish buildings and strip their ornaments than to put one up in the first place.”
Hadrian blushed furiously. Apollodorus laughed and held out his cup for more wine. Did he not realize how deeply he had offended Hadrian? Did he not care?
Lucius stepped forward. “Caesar shows great trust to keep you here in Roma, Apollodorus. And you must have great trust in Marcus, to keep him here with you.”
“No one else has the skill to finish the interior decorations of the Greek wing of the library, for one thing,” said Apollodorus, looking askance at Hadrian.
“I’m gratified to hear you say that,” said Lucius, “because, as our evening together draws to a close, I wish to remind you of the reason for this occasion: to honour my son for all he’s accomplished in recent months. I ask you to drink a toast. Raise your cups, please. To Marcus Pinarius – the best son a man could ever hope for.”
“To Marcus Pinarius!” said the rest, except for Apollodorus, who shouted, sounding quite drunk, “To Pygmalion!”
As soon as the toast was finished, Hilarion entered and spoke in Lucius’s ear. Lucius hurried to Apollodorus. “Your daughter is in the vestibule,” he said quietly. “Hilarion invited her to the garden, but she wouldn’t come. Apparently she’s quite upset. Your wife has taken a turn for the worse.”
Apollodorus, looking suddenly sober, drew a deep breath and left them without a word.
The guests began to amble out of the garden, until no one was left except Marcus and Hadrian, who stood gazing at the statue of Melancomas and rubbing his chin. Marcus interpreted the gesture to mean that Hadrian was brooding or lost in thought, then realized that the man was once again touching the acne scars that disfigured his otherwise handsome face.
While the guests said their farewells to his father, Marcus proceeded to the vestibule, where Apollodorus was having a hushed conversation with his daughter. Marcus had met Apollodora when he first began working for her father. She had been a mere child then. He had not seen her since.
As Hilarion opened the door for Apollodorus and his daughter to make their exit, Apollodora looked back at Marcus for a moment. He was startled to see what a beauty she had grown into, with her lustrous dark hair, shimmering skin, and enormous eyes.
Later, when he went to bed, Marcus fell asleep thinking about her.
Lucius Pinarius claimed that wine disturbed sleep, and that this was yet another reason to avoid it; perhaps it was the wine that caused Marcus’s strange dreams that night.
His pleasant thoughts about Apollodorus’s daughter vanished as he fell asleep. He was back in Dacia. A village was in flames. As if he were a bird, he followed a boy with unkempt hair and ragged clothes who ran through the narrow streets. Laughing and making obscene noises, Roman soldiers pursued him. The boy tripped over a dead body, threaded his way through jumbled ruins, leaped over raging flames. Suddenly he reached a dead end. He was trapped. He screamed, but there were plenty of other people screaming in the village; he was just one more.
Suddenly, Marcus became the boy. The soldiers converged on him. He was tiny, and they were huge, looming above him in darkness so that he could not see their faces. A giant hand reached for him…
Marcus had experienced this dream before, or dreams much like it. Always, this was the point at which he would awaken, shivering and covered with sweat. But this time he seemed to fall even deeper into the dream. The leering soldiers vanished, as did the ruins of the village. All was suffused with a golden light. Hovering before him was a beautiful, naked youth. He reminded Marcus of the statue of Melancomas, but this being was so radiantly beautiful that he seemed more than human. Was he a god? The youth regarded him with an expression of such tenderness and compassion that Marcus was suddenly close to tears.
The youth reached towards him. He whispered, “Do not fear. I will save you.”
Then Marcus woke.
His room was lit by the first faint glow of dawn. He reached for the coverlet he had thrown off during his nightmare and pulled it to his chin. The warmth comforted him, but it was the lingering impression of the dream that filled him with an exquisite sense of well-being. He had never experienced such a feeling before, a certainty that somewhere in the universe there existed a power that was perfect and loving, that would shield him from all evil in the world.
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