Empire (74 page)

Walking a little behind them was Trajan’s cousin and ward, Hadrian, who was in his early twenties and also of Spanish birth. Like Trajan, Hadrian was tall and powerfully built. He was handsomer than Trajan, but his clean-shaven cheeks were covered with acne scars. Faced with the cheering crowd, he comported himself much more stiffly than the genial Trajan. The cousins were said to be very close; it was young Hadrian, serving under Trajan on the German frontier, who had delivered to him the news of his acclamation as emperor.

In the heart of the Forum, the entire membership of the Senate gathered in groups to greet the new emperor, beginning with the foremost magistrates and senior members. Lucius and his friends happened to be standing in the crowd nearby. As Trajan began to approach the receiving line, Hadrian, looking in the direction of Lucius and his party, whispered in Trajan’s ear. The emperor nodded, turned, and walked directly to them.

Trajan raised his hand in greeting. “Dio of Prusa! Epictetus of Nicopolis! Have you come to welcome this humble citizen to Roma?” His accent was decidedly provincial.

Lucius was startled by Trajan’s approach. He was even more surprised by the casual ease with which his philosopher friends responded.

“Caesar has come home, and his people rejoice,” said Epictetus.

“The House of the People has been empty too long,” said Dio. “Caesar and his wife will fill it with light and happiness.”

Trajan laughed. Seen close at hand, he was even larger than Lucius had thought. His face was homely but pleasant, dominated by a long nose and topped by a thick mop of graying hair.

“Since we haven’t met before, you must wonder how I recognized you. Thank my cousin over there. Young Hadrian is quite the scholar—I call him the Little Greek. He’s too shy to come meet you, but he insisted that I do so. Many a night, in my tent, Hadrian has read your works aloud to me, Dio. I laugh, I cry—if you can imagine tears from a big fellow like me.
Your discourses about Melancomas—delightful! And you, Epictetus—my wife speaks very highly of you, though I think she leans toward the Epicureans rather than you Stoics. I leave the philosophy to Plotina, and believe whatever she tells me to. Much simpler that way. And your companions?” He indicated Lucius and Martial, who stood to one side.

“This is our host in the city,” said Dio, “Lucius Pinarius. And this is Martial, the famous poet.”

Martial eagerly stepped forward. “Welcome, Caesar! The day of your arrival is finally here. Now every citizen and richly clad foreign delegate steps forth to exclaim as one, with joy, ‘He comes!’ ” He made a small bow.

Trajan looked down his nose for a moment. He worked his large jaw back and forth, then nodded to the philosophers. “Well, I must go say hello to some senators now.” He turned around and headed to the receiving line.

“Astounding!” said Lucius. “He greeted you two even ahead of the magistrates.”

“A good sign, I think,” said Dio. “The new emperor may not be a lover of philosophy, but he acknowledges the contribution of philosophers. I have high hopes for this man.”

“Did you hear his accent?” said Martial, making a face. “He sounded like a Spanish fishmonger.”

“One might almost wish to remain here in Roma, to see what sort of tone Trajan sets for the social life of the city,” said Epictetus.

Martial grunted. “Not me! I can’t wait to get out of this stinking dung heap.”

After Trajan had received the personal greetings of every senator, embracing and kissing many of them, he and Plotina ascended to the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline for a formal ceremony, then returned to the Forum and made their way through the crowd to the grand entrance of the imperial palace. On the steps, Trajan made a brief speech, mostly in praise of Nerva. Like Nerva, he made a vow to kill no senators. He then invited Plotina to say a few words. She made a show of surprise at this and demurred, whereupon a cry went up for her to speak. Without too much prompting, she acquiesced.

“Nerva called this place the House of the People,” said Plotina, “and so we shall call it, for that way, every day, we shall be reminded of who put
us here and for whom we toil—the people of Roma. Not long ago, people dreaded to enter this house, and some who entered were never seen again. It is my hope that we can make this a place where every citizen feels safe and welcome. I am a simple woman, the wife of a soldier, a daughter of the house of Pompeius. To reside in the House of the People, with your blessings, is the greatest honor of my life. Your respect is the greatest prize I can imagine. I shall strive to earn it and to keep it.”

“We love you, Plotina!” shouted someone in the crowd. “Never change!”

Plotina laughed. “I don’t intend to. The way I go into this house is the way I hope to be carried out of it.”

This prompted a huge cheer, and with that, Trajan and Plotina gave a final wave and disappeared into the palace.

“What a charming couple,” said Dio.

“What a couple of actors!” said Martial. “Really, they should start a mime troupe.”

“They seem delightful,” said Lucius.

Martial grunted. “Pinarius, the man was downright rude to you. He didn’t say a word when Dio introduced you.”

“That’s quite alright by me,” said Lucius. “I should prefer to remain beneath the emperor’s notice.”

“I’m off,” said Martial. “I need a drink, and someone to drink with, and I know I won’t find that at your house, Pinarius. It was good to finally see you all again.”

After a round of farewells, Martial took his leave, as did Dio, who wished to spend the rest of the afternoon at the baths, relaxing and writing his impressions of the day’s events. Lucius made his way home, walking slowly to accommodate the lame Epictetus.

Back in Lucius’s garden, Epictetus joined him in drinking a cup of spiced water. He grimaced and rubbed his leg.

“If it would help,” said Lucius, “I could have one of the slaves give you a massage.”

“No, please don’t bother. Actually, I’ve been waiting all day to have a moment alone with you.”

“Is there something we need to talk about?” said Lucius. Epictetus had seemed quiet and moody all day. The expression on his face was grave.

“You know that Epaphroditus left his estate to me.”

“Yes, for the establishment of your school. A worthy cause.”

“His wealth has been put to good use. But among the many objects I inherited, there were some of no monetary value. Among them was this.” Epictetus pulled forth a rusty circle of iron.

“What on earth is that?” exclaimed Lucius.

“This note was attached to it.” Epictetus handed him a scrap of parchment.

This manacle circled the wrist of a man from Tyana, but could not restrain him. It should be given to the man who appeared beside him that day.

Lucius picked up the manacle and laughed aloud at the wonder of receiving such a memento. “One of the shackles cast off by Apollonius at his final appearance before Domitian! How remarkable, that Epaphroditus managed to get his hands on it. How thoughtful, that he should have intended it for me.”

Epictetus nodded but did not smile.

“There’s something else?” said Lucius.

“Yes. Epaphroditus’s estate included a great many documents, as you might imagine—many capsae full of scrolls and scraps of parchment, some dating back to the days of Nero, some more recent. I’ve slowly been sorting through them, as time allows. Just before I left for Roma, I came across a document that will be of particular interest to you.”

“Yes?”

“It’s a letter written in Epaphroditus’s own hand—or a draft of a letter, as it appears to be unfinished and has no salutation or signature. At first, I had no idea for whom it was intended, but as I reread it, and saw the documents attached to it, I realized it had to be you. Why Epaphroditus never finished the letter, and why he never sent it, I don’t know. Perhaps he intended to wait until Domitian was dead. Perhaps he changed his mind about telling you. I myself have debated whether I should give you the letter. You seem to have attained an enviable state of contentment, Lucius. Why should I give you news that may only disturb your tranquility? But I give it to you, nonetheless.”

Epictetus handed him a small scroll. Lucius unrolled it and peered at Epaphroditus’s familiar handwriting.

There are two things I have never told you.

The first of these is about the one you call Teacher. When I approached the two of you that day, just before the trial, I made a pretense of not knowing him. This was at his request. Forgive me for deceiving you. The Teacher’s ideas are honest and simple, but the dangers of this world require him to be secretive sometimes, even devious. Perhaps you have realized that many of his exploits, which some attribute to magic, are realized through his remarkable ability to control the perceptions of others. I suspect he does this by using the power of suggestion, though how this works I do not know; I do know that it works more readily and more deeply with some people than with others. I seem to be immune to it, but our so-called Dominus is highly susceptible—as are you, my friend. The Teacher’s disappearance that day was effected partly by the use of a device which was secreted on your person by me, without your knowledge, which you handed to the Teacher just before he used it. If you think back, you may recall other occasions when you thought you saw or heard something miraculous, when in fact your senses perceived an illusion planted in your mind by the Teacher. Who is to say this ability of his is not a gift from the Divine Singularity, which he has used not for malicious purposes but wisely, for the benefit of us all?

I hope this knowledge does nothing to damage your respect for the man or for his precepts. Yet, as I begin to think that I have not much longer to live, I feel compelled to confess to you what I know.

The second thing I want to tell you is of a more intimate nature. It is about the woman whom you loved in secret for so many years.

Not long before her tragic end, she asked me to visit her during her incarceration. She knew I was your friend, and she wanted to entrust a secret to me.

She was the mother of your child.

You may recall a period of several months when she was away from Roma. Her sisters in Alba knew of her condition and helped
to conceal it. That was where she delivered the child. It was a boy. The unwanted baby was “exposed,” as they call this ancient and all-too-common custom—taken to a desolate spot and abandoned to die, unless the gods or some passing mortal should take pity on it.

She kept this a secret from you. For that she felt guilty. Also, she was profoundly struck by the idea that she should die in the same way she condemned her own child to die—abandoned and left to starve. I think this was why she faced her fate so calmly. She believed her end was a punishment from Vesta, and that our so-called Dominus was merely a tool of the goddess.

She left it to me to decide whether or not to tell you this after she was gone. I could not bear to do so, nor did I see any reason to. Until now. For her story so disturbed my own peace of mind that I undertook to discover, if I could, the fate of her child—your son. Our so-called Dominus often holds court at his retreat outside Alba, where I am obliged to follow. I have used my position to obtain information from the local people and from the sisters who concealed the birth.

In recent days, I have found reasons to suspect that the exposed child was rescued—“harvested” (as they say) by a professional scavenger of exposed children and raised as a slave. (I am told such slaves are commonly called “foster children” and that this lucrative practice is widespread.) I have sought to find this boy—a task made possible, perhaps, by a characteristic which distinguished him as a baby: the second and third toes of his right foot are joined to the outermost knuckle. As yet I have not succeeded, but I am hopeful that your son may yet live and that I can locate him—though whether such a discovery would bring you joy or sadness, I do not know.

In the event that this letter should reach you after my death, I attach some of the information which I have thus far uncovered.

If anything should

The letter ended with an unfinished sentence.

Lucius put down the scroll. The revelation about Apollonius did not disturb him; he knew that the Teacher was a master of illusion, and he felt privileged to have served him in any capacity, with or without his own full
knowledge. But the news about Cornelia and the child struck him like a thunderbolt. In retrospect, the reason for her withdrawal to Alba seemed painfully obvious. Why had he not guessed that she was pregnant? Why had she not told him?

He understood, at last, why she had mouthed “Forgive me” as she descended to her tomb. She was talking about the child.

The love he had felt for Cornelia, which he had so assiduously sought to bury along with everything else from the dead past, suddenly welled up inside him. The knowledge that he had a son changed his perception of the world in an instant.

No matter how long it took or how difficult the task, Lucius was determined to find the child.

“When Vespasian saw that the treasury was empty, he filled it up again by looting Jerusalem,” said Trajan. “For us, the obvious solution is the conquest of Dacia. The loot of Sarmizegetusa would be enormous. Imagine what I could build with all that gold!”

The emperor was holding a private conference in one of the more modest reception rooms in the House of the People. He sat alone on the dais. Plotina and Hadrian were seated in their own chairs nearby, one to each side of him. With his marriage to Trajan’s grandniece Sabina, Hadrian was now an in-law of the emperor as well as his cousin, and Trajan frequently included him in his deliberations. Plotina’s participation in all important discussions was taken for granted.

“The gold mines of Dacia and the hoard of King Decebalus are legendary,” said Hadrian. He spoke slowly and carefully, not out of caution but because he was making a concerted effort to get rid of his provincial accent, which a year ago had been even more pronounced than Trajan’s. More than once he had overheard a veteran courtier making fun of the emperor’s Spanish accent. Trajan seemed to have no interest in changing his speech, but Hadrian was determined to speak Latin like a born Roman, and was taking lessons to learn to do so.