Empire (76 page)

Trajan took the secretary’s notes on the case and read them, then passed the notes to Hadrian. He looked at Lucius Pinarius.

“It would appear, citizen, that your claim of paternity for this boy is flimsy at best. You won’t reveal the identity of the mother, for one thing. Why not?”

“My relationship with the boy’s mother was irregular, Caesar.”

“In other words, a cause for scandal.”

“Had it not been kept secret, it would have caused a scandal, yes,” said Lucius. “That is why I wish her identity to remain a secret, even though she is no longer alive. But I swear by the gods that she was a freeborn woman, and thus so was our child.”

“You’re certain the boy was your offspring, and not that of another man?”

“I am, Caesar.”

Hadrian looked up from the notes. “If this account is correct, the boy was abandoned shortly after birth in the vicinity of Alba. He was harvested
by a scavenger and sold as a slave, then passed though several hands before he was acquired by his current master. You’ve clearly documented all the steps you took to track him down, yet how can you be certain this individual is in fact the boy you seek?”

“By an unusual physical characteristic.”

Hadrian glanced again at the notes. “Ah, yes, I see: his webbed toes.” He looked at the boy and smiled. “His face is perfect, yet the gods have given him a hidden flaw. It’s like a poem by Theocritus.”

Trajan laughed and shook his head. “Little Greek! Was there ever a pretty boy who did not suggest to you a poem by someone or other? But what of the boy’s current owner? Show him in.”

The man who entered was dressed not in a toga but in a brightly colored tunic. That he was not a Roman citizen became evident when he spoke with a cosmopolitan Greek accent. “My name is Acacius, Caesar. I live in Neapolis. This boy is my property.”

Trajan looked at the man’s feet. “Your sandals are covered with dust.”

“Marble dust, Caesar. I’m a sculptor. I acquired this boy because his previous owner noticed that he had a skill for shaping things with his hands, and offered to sell him to me. I’ve had him for five years. His talent is considerable. No, more than considerable: he has a gift from the gods. Thanks to the education I’ve given him, he’s become a very skilled artisan, and I think he might eventually become a true artist, maybe even a great one. The slave represents a substantial investment of my time and money, Caesar, and if he’s as gifted as I think, I stand to make a great deal of money from his skills in the future. I don’t want to give him up.”

Trajan rubbed his chin. “I see. You may all withdraw from the room while Caesar deliberates.”

“But, Caesar,” said Lucius, “I feel I’ve hardly had a chance to plead my case—”

“The facts are all in the notes, are they not? You may withdraw.”

After the litigants were gone, Trajan ordered a slave to bring wine. “To settle this matter, I think we will need the inspiration of Bacchus,” he said, then threw back his head and emptied his cup. “Well, cousin, what do you think? Is Lucius Pinarius a devoted father who’s performed a labor worthy of Hercules in tracking down his long-lost son? Or he is simply a lusty old goat trying to get his hands on another man’s slave?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Hadrian.

“Oh, the two of you!” said Plotina. “Must you always view the world through the lens of your own proclivities? Not
every
fifty-year-old man wants to sleep with pretty boys.”

Trajan sipped from his second cup of wine, and smirked. “Plotina, dear, the man has never even been married. Do you seriously think he has no interest in boys?” He suddenly laughed out loud, so long and hard that he had to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m remembering something one of my servants once said. This was back when my father was governor of Syria and I was serving under him as a tribune. I was retiring to my quarters one evening after a particularly stressful day, and the man asked me if he could bring me anything. I said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind if you could bring me a couple of fifteen-year-old Syrian boys.’ And the servant relied, with a completely straight face, ‘Certainly, Master; but if I can’t find two fifteen-year-olds, shall I bring you one thirty-year-old?’ What a wit that fellow had!”

Even Plotina laughed. She had long ago accepted her husband’s proclivities and tended to be amused by them. She was glad that he had a sense of humor and could laugh at himself. Young Hadrian, on the other hand, took such matters very seriously. He was wont to declaim about the philosophical and mystical properties of desire, while Trajan simply wanted to have a good time.

“So,” said Trajan, “what do we know about this Lucius Pinarius?”

Hadrian was reading the notes. “According to this, the fellow once fought a lion before Domitian. Can you imagine that? There’s no note about what happened to the lion, but Pinarius obviously survived.”

“A lot of people got on the wrong side of Domitian,” said Plotina. “Even senators ended up in the arena as a punishment. That it happened to Pinarius is no mark against him. That he survived may indicate the favor of the gods.”

“His father was closely tied to Nero,” noted Hadrian. “The elder Pinarius performed auguries in furtherance of some of Nero’s more disreputable schemes.”

“Nero had many sycophants, some more willing and culpable than others,” said Plotina. “A son shouldn’t be held accountable for his father’s mistakes.”

“But look at this!” said Hadrian. “This should have been at the beginning of the notes, not at the end. The fellow has character references from Dio of Prusa and the philosopher Epictetus. Both have written glowing testimonials to his virtue and honesty.”

“
That’s
where I met him!” said Trajan, slapping his knee. “On the day we entered Roma, and you sent me to say hello to those two in the Forum. Lucius Pinarius was with them. Ah, well, if Dio and Epictetus speak well of him, I think that settles the matter, don’t you, Plotina?”

Trajan called for the litigants to return.

“Lucius Pinarius, Acacius of Neapolis, this is my decision: this boy will be recognized as Pinarius’s son. Though the boy was raised as a slave, he shall be considered as born free; he is not a freedman, but under the law was born and has always been a free person and the son of citizens. However, in consideration of the uncertainties involved in this case, no fault whatsoever shall accrue to you, Acacius, and in recognition of your lost investment, Lucius Pinarius will pay to you a sum adequate to purchase a similarly educated slave to replace the boy.”

The sculptor protested. “Caesar, the boy is irreplaceable. I shall never find another boy as talented.”

“If you think talent is too rare, complain to the gods, not to me,” said Trajan.

“But, Caesar—”

“My judgment is final. Be gone!”

The unhappy sculptor withdrew. Lucius and the boy stood before the emperor.

Trajan leaned forward and smiled. “What are you called, boy?”

“My various masters have called me various names,” said the boy, daring to look the emperor in the eye. “My master Acacius called me Pygmalion.”

“Did he? And do you know the tale of Pygmalion?”

“He was a Greek sculptor who made a statue so beautiful he fell in love with it. Venus brought the statue to life, and Pygmalion married her.”

“A Greek tale with a rare happy ending,” noted Hadrian.

“And what will you call the boy, Lucius Pinarius?” asked Trajan. “Will you give him your own first name?”

“No. If I may, Caesar, in your honor and with your permission, I will give him the name Marcus.”

“My own first name,” said Trajan, smiling broadly. “Caesar is pleased.”

Lucius turned to the boy. “Then from this moment forward, my son, you shall be Marcus Pinarius.” Saying the name aloud for the first time, Lucius was overwhelmed by the reality of the moment. At fifteen, his son had not only been found and restored to him but was of age to put on the toga of manhood. On a sudden impulse, Lucius did something he had never dared to hope would be possible. With the emperor himself as witness, he took off the necklace he was wearing and placed it over his son’s head. As countless generations of Pinarii had done before him, Lucius passed the fascinum to his heir. Father and son embraced.

Trajan caught only a brief glimpse of the golden amulet. Puzzled, he crooked a finger to summon Hadrian and whispered in his ear, “Is that a cross? And is a cross not a Christian symbol?”

Hadrian frowned. “Our intelligence said nothing to indicate Pinarius might be a Christian. If he were, would that have influenced Caesar’s verdict?”

Trajan held out his cup to be refilled. He allowed his gaze to linger on the cupbearer, who happened to be attractive, though not as beautiful as young Marcus Pinarius.

“Does Caesar wish to retract his judgment and question Pinarius about his religious beliefs?” asked Hadrian.

“Certainly not,” said Trajan, sipping his wine. “You know the official policy: ask not, tell not!”

Marcus Pinarius woke with a shiver and a start. The first dim light of morning seeped though the shutters. In the distance, a cock crowed.

A hand touched his face. He drew back with a jerk, then saw his father standing over him.

“You were dreaming, my son,” said Lucius Pinarius.

“Was I?”

“I heard you whimpering, even from my room. Was it the same dream?”

Marcus blinked. “Yes. I think so. It’s already faded away. . . .”

For years, even before his father had found him, Marcus had been haunted by a recurring dream. In the dream he was shivering and frightened and naked, and the place in which he cowered was dank and dark and cold. A giant hand reached for him and grabbed him, and he gave a cry—and at that point in the dream he always woke up. He never saw the giant who caught hold of him. He never knew what happened next.

What did it mean? Did the dream recall a genuine memory, or was it a fantasy from his imagination? The dream always exerted such a powerful spell that after waking, it took Marcus a moment to remember who and what he was: not a child any longer, and not a helpless slave, but a man of twenty-eight, living with his father in their house on the Palatine Hill.

“Are you really my father?” he whispered.

Lucius sighed. “I am. By the shade of the blessed Apollonius of Tyana, I swear it. Never doubt it, my son.”

“But who was my mother?” whispered Marcus.

After much deliberation, and despite the boy’s desperate desire to know his origin, Lucius had made up his mind never to reveal to him the secret of his birth. The truth was simply too dangerous, and not only because Lucius himself had committed a capital crime each time he made love to Cornelia. How could it possibly benefit young Marcus to know that his mother had been a Vestal, that she had broken her sacred vow of chastity, that she had been buried alive, and that his own conception had been the result of a sacrilegious crime? Surely such knowledge could only plague him with more nightmares. Lucius would tell his son only that his mother had been a woman of patrician rank with whom Lucius had carried on an illicit and impossible liaison, whose family would never forgive her lapse, and who had died years ago. “I loved her deeply, and still miss her every day,” he would add, for this was the truth. At the age of sixty-six, Lucius was determined to go to his grave without revealing to anyone the fact that Cornelia Cossa was the mother of his child.

“I, too, woke from a familiar dream,” he said, ignoring his son’s question.

“You were visited again by Apollonius?” said Marcus.

“Yes.”

“He visits you often in your dreams.”

“More often now than when he was alive!” said Lucius with a laugh. “I only wish he had returned to Roma before he died, so that you could have been blessed with the chance to meet him.”

“I have been blessed by having a father who knew him,” said Marcus. He flashed a weak smile. The dreadful spell cast by the nightmare was fading.

“Of course, there are those who question whether Apollonius actually died, at least in the usual sense,” said Lucius, “since no corpse was ever discovered.”

“Tell me the story,” said Marcus, closing his eyes. His father had told him the tale many times before, but Marcus was always glad to hear it. It would help him to forget his bad dream.

“This occurred a few years ago on the island of Crete, where the Teacher
had acquired a great following. He arrived late one night at the temple of the Minoan goddess Dictynna, which stands on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea. The wealthy people of Crete deposit their treasures in the temple for safekeeping. At night the doors are locked and fierce dogs stand guard. But when the Teacher approached, the dogs wagged their tales and licked his hands, and the doors of the temple sprang open. When the priests found him sleeping inside the next morning, they accused him of drugging the dogs and using magic to open the doors. They put him in chains and confined him in an iron cage suspended from a precipice overhanging the sea, with crashing waves below. But late that night, unfettered and free, again the Teacher approached the entrance to the temple, and this time there was a great crowd gathered in anticipation of his appearance. Again the dogs grew tame and fawned on him, and again the locked doors sprang open. He stepped inside. The doors shut after him, and from within there came the sound of women singing. ‘Hurry, hurry, upward, upward!’ they sang. ‘Fly away from this place and ascend to the heavens!’ When the doors opened, no singers were to be seen—and neither was the Teacher. Apollonius has never again been seen on this earth, except in the dreams of those who knew him.”