Empire - Saylor Steven - Страница 146

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Still, Marcus was acutely aware that he served at Hadrian’s pleasure. In a state ruled absolutely by one man, no matter how enlightened that man might be, every other man was at his mercy. Marcus felt a sudden rush of anxiety, thinking how far he had risen in life and how much he had to lose. He calmed himself by touching the fascinum at his breast and thinking of the nameless god who visited him in dreams.

His distracted gaze fell on the Colossus beside the amphitheatre, dazzling under the sunlight. He glanced again at the drawing of the Luna statue in Apollodorus’s letter, and then at the nearby spot the statue was intended to occupy. Try as he might, he could not envision the Luna statue looming over him; he saw only empty sky. The masterpiece that was to be Apollodorus’s crowning achievement, his monument for the ages – would it ever be built?

Apollodora began to weep. Tears ran down her cheeks. Little Lucius began to cry as well, filling that air with loud wailing.

Marcus looked on, feeling helpless to comfort either of them. He whispered a prayer. “God of the dream who protects me, give me a great work to do, and give me an emperor who will let me do it!”

The city was abuzz with excitement at the emperor’s long-awaited return to Roma. What had begun as a trip to the northern provinces had turned into a grand tour that spanned the empire, taking him from Britannia down to the Pillars of Hercules and Mauretania – where he put down a bloody revolt – then across the Mediterranean Sea to Asia Minor, and then to Greece, where Hadrian showered favours on the city of Athens, restoring it as a great seat of learning by endowing it with a new library as well as a forum and an arch and restoring the Temple of Olympian Zeus.

Now, at last, Hadrian was back in Roma, and on this day he was to visit the house of Marcus Pinarius.

The household was in a frenzy of last-minute preparations. Everything had to be made perfect. Marcus thought how very different this visit felt from the first time Hadrian had visited the house, some twelve years ago, when Marcus’s father had hosted a dinner party to honour Marcus for his work on Trajan’s Column. Hadrian had been an honoured guest on that occasion, but today, one would have thought that a god was about to come calling. Apollodora was driving the slaves to tidy every corner, prune every bush in the garden, and polish every marble surface to a lustrous shine. Marcus knew what she was thinking: if only they could make the right impression on the emperor, perhaps he might yet relent in his banishment of her father, who continued to languish in Damascus.

“You will bring up the subject, won’t you?” Apollodora asked him, for the tenth time that day.

“I’ll try, wife. If the right moment arises-”

Amyntas came running. “Master, they’re coming up the street! They’ll be at the door any moment!”

“Calm yourself, Amyntas. Take a deep breath. When you answer the door-”

“I, Master? I’ m to answer the door?”

Marcus smiled. Who else in the household was more suitable to greet the emperor than the handsomest of his young slaves? “Yes, Amyntas, you.

“But I’m so nervous, Master. Look how my hands tremble.”

“The emperor will find your demeanour charming. Now go – I hear a knock at the door.”

The retinue of some twenty people filed through the vestibule and the atrium, then into the formal reception room, where refreshments awaited them. Hadrian, resplendent in a purple toga, accepted Marcus’s formal greeting, then drew him aside.

“Let’s retire to your garden, Marcus Pinarius. Just the two of us.”

Marcus walked beside the emperor. “You look well, Caesar,” he said. It was true. Though close to fifty, with touches of grey in his hair and beard, Hadrian was as trim and muscular as ever, and his mood was buoyant. His years of travel had agreed with him.

“Ah, there it is!” he said as he stepped into the garden. Marcus remembered the awed expression on Hadrian’s face when he first laid eyes on the statue of Melancomas. The emperor seemed less impressed now. He cocked his head and looked the statue up and down with an expression more wistful than astonished.

“Caesar must have seen many beautiful works of art during his travels,” Marcus said.

“Oh, yes. Amazing things. Amazing experiences. My induction into the Mysteries of Eleusis was the most remarkable of those experiences, though I can say nothing specific about that, of course. My travels have opened my eyes. I received a very good education when I was young. My teachers did their best to enlighten me. But books and words can relate only so much. Actual experience is the key. Oh, before I forget, Epictetus asked me to give you his regards. I believe that he and your father were very close.”

“Yes, Caesar. How is he?”

“As brilliant as ever, and still teaching at his school in Nicopolis. I hope that my wits will remain as quick when I’m in my seventies.”

“I think Epictetus must be the very last of my father’s circle who’s still alive,” said Marcus thoughtfully. Hadrian was in such high spirits that Marcus wondered if this might be a good time to bring up the matter of his father-in-law. He was clearing his throat to speak when Hadrian returned his attention to the statue of Melancomas.

“Do you recall, Pinarius, what we said about this statue, that evening many years ago? I said, ‘If only, someday, I could meet a youth as beautiful as this.’ To which you responded, ‘If only, someday, I could create a statue as beautiful as this.”

Marcus smiled, remembering. “Yes, and Favonius said, ‘May each of you be granted his desire – and be happy with it!’”

“The scurra! I had forgotten he was here that night, but yes, you’re right, I remember now. Well, Favonius was a wise man after all. You know, seeing it again after all this time, the Melancomas statue doesn’t impress me as much as it once did. And you, Marcus, as an artist, with many more years of experience now: what do you think of it?”

Marcus tried to look at the familiar statue with fresh eyes. “Perhaps the shoulders are a bit too wide, and the hips too narrow; but of course the sculptor had a duty to record the actual proportions of the living model. The workmanship itself seems quite flawless to me.”

“Does it? Here, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Hadrian summoned a secretary who stood at the garden’s edge and spoke in his ear. The man hurried to the reception room to fetch someone. Marcus noticed that Apollodora was peeking at them from behind a corner, looking anxious. As he wondered again if he should mention his father-in-law, Hadrian’s young friend stepped into the garden and joined them.

Marcus was stunned. The youth who stood before him was the very incarnation of the god from his dreams.

Hadrian laughed. “That’s a typical reaction of those meeting Antinous for the first time But really, try not to gape, Pygmalion. That’s what they used to call you, isn’t it? Just as they used to call me the Little Greek?”

Marcus closed his mouth. The resemblance was too uncanny to be accidental. He touched the fascinum at his breast. “Forgive me, Caesar. It’s only… that is, it’s hard to explain…”

“Then don’t try. Not with words, anyway.” Hadrian shifted from speaking Latin to Greek. “Here, Antinous, what do you make of this statue?”

The youth likewise answered in Greek, with a Bithynian accent. “It’s very beautiful. Who is it?”

“This is Melancomas, a famous wrestler.”

“Is he still alive?”

Hadrian laughed. “Melancomas and the emperor Titus were lovers fifty years ago.”

“So?” Antinous cocked his head. “He could be a handsome man in his seventies today.”

Hadrian’s smile faded. “No, Melancomas died young. But here, I want you to stand next to the statue. I want to see the two of you side by side. This is something I’ve been curious to see since I first met you. Take off your clothes, Antinous. There’s no need to be modest before Pygmalion; he’s an artist.”

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