Empire (81 page)

A few hours later, under a cloudless sky and a bright sun, Marcus awaited the arrival of the triumphal procession. Apollodorus, greeted by an acquaintance, had drawn a little distance away, taking Apollodora with him, so that Marcus stood unaccompanied in the crowd.

Long before the parade arrived at the Column, he heard the thunderous reactions of the multitude along the route that wound through the city. The sound of cheering grew nearer, until at last the vanguard of trumpeters came into sight.

They were followed by the magistrates and senators in their red-bordered togas, some chatting casually, as if unimpressed by all the pomp, while others carried themselves with all the dignity of their offices. Then came the white bulls on their way to be sacrificed at the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline, followed by countless carts and wagons loaded high with the spoils of war, paintings and models of captured cities including Ctesiphon, Babylon, and Susa, and a great many captives in rags and chains, including some of the petty monarchs who had been deposed by Trajan.

At last, preceded by lictors brandishing fasces wreathed with laurel, the triumphal chariot arrived. Trajan had been famed for making his first entrance as emperor into the city on foot; on this day his effigy rode alongside Hadrian in the chariot. The effigy was made of wax, modeled and colored to look astonishingly lifelike. There was no need to make it larger than life, for Trajan in the flesh had towered above other men.

“Inevitably, the question arises: which of those two in the chariot is stiffer?” said a voice in Marcus’s ear. He turned to see Favonius.

With the scurra was Suetonius. The director of the imperial archives raised an eyebrow. “I think our new emperor looks unusually relaxed and animated,” he quipped. “Look there, how Hadrian smiles and salutes the crowd—no, wait, I’m looking the effigy of Trajan!”

“I don’t think Hadrian likes to be stared at,” said Marcus, who had to admit that the new emperor looked distinctly uncomfortable standing next to the smiling waxen image of his predecessor.

“They say Vespasian found his triumph so tedious that he was bored to tears,” said Suetonius. “There’s a letter of his in the archives where he writes, ‘What an old fool I was to demand such a grueling honor!’ ”

“Who can tell what our new emperor is thinking, with that beard concealing his face?” said Favonius. “The beard has everyone talking. Suetonius, have we ever before had an emperor with a beard?”

Suetonius considered. “One sees images of Nero wearing a partial beard, with his cheeks and chin clean-shaven. But a full beard? No. Hadrian is the first.”

“Do you suppose he wants to remind us that he fancies himself a philosopher?” said Favonius. “Or is he affecting the unkempt look of the common soldiers who never shave while on campaign, as can be seen by all those images of bearded Romans killing Dacians on the Column over there?”

“His facial hair looks impeccably groomed to me,” said Marcus. “Not every man can grow such a fine beard. I think the emperor looks quite handsome this way.” It seemed to him that Hadrian’s motivation was obvious: a beard was a way to cover the acne scars about which he was so self-conscious. As Trajan’s protégé, Hadrian felt obliged to maintain the clean-shaven look favored by countless generations of the Roman elite. But now he was emperor and would do as he pleased—even grow a beard.

“This time next year,” said Favonius, “I predict a majority of senators and practically every courtier in the House of the People will have a beard. Even the old eunuchs left over from the days of Titus will be sporting beards, if they have to paste them on!”

“Indeed, the only men without beards will be the young ones who want to attract Caesar’s attention,” said Suetonius.

The chariot drew alongside the base of the Column and came to a halt. Hadrian stepped from the car, bearing a funerary urn.

“So he’s actually going to do it!” said Favonius. “Hadrian is going to deposit the old man’s ashes in the base of his Column.”

“That’s the plan,” said Marcus, who had been responsible for preparing the small vault that would receive the urn.

“It required an act of the Senate to make such a thing legal,” noted Suetonius. “Until now, the remains of all the emperors have been interred in sarcophagi outside the old city walls. But Hadrian was determined that Trajan’s Column should also serve as Trajan’s tomb.”

Favonius gazed up at the Column. “In his final resting place, Trajan shall remain upright and erect for all time. I envy the old fellow!”

Joined by Plotina, Hadrian deposited the urn in the chamber. Then Hadrian delivered a eulogy reciting Trajan’s accomplishments, not only as a builder and a military man but as a friend of the people and the Senate of Roma. Trajan had kept his vow to kill no senators during his reign—a vow that Hadrian repeated—and one of his proudest achievements was his expansion of Nerva’s welfare system for orphans and the children of the poor, which Hadrian promised to continue.

“But of course,” said Hadrian, “on this day, we celebrate his triumphs in the field, and in particular the conquests for which the Senate saw fit to vote him the title Parthicus. We celebrate his victories over many foes, and
his capture of many cities: Nisibis and Batnae, Adenystrae and Babylon, Artaxata and Edessa. . . .”

Hadrian continued in this singsong vein. His rhetorical style was surprisingly dull. Perhaps he was tired, or nervous, for he frequently reached up to tug at his beard, and every so often Marcus heard a hint of his old Spanish accent.

Favonius sighed. “He’s merely reciting a catalog and leaving out the juicy details; that’s like serving bones with no meat! Do you know the story of Trajan’s encounter with King Abgarus of Osroene?”

Marcus shrugged. He was about to tell the scurra to hush, when Suetonius leaned in. “I’ve heard one version, but I should love to hear yours, Favonius.”

The scurra’s eyes lit up. “Well, I’m not sure where Osroene is, but it sounds terribly exotic—”

“It was one of those little kingdoms in the ancient land of Mesopotamia,” said Suetonius. “The capital was Edessa, which is not far from the upper reaches of the Euphrates.”

“Geography was never my strong point,” admitted Favonius. “Anyway, King Abgarus was frightened to death of both the Romans and the Parthians, like a chicken caught between a fox and a wolf, and whenever one or the other tried to approach him for talks, he scuttled off in a panic. So, for the longest time, while Trajan was in the vicinity and trying to meet with him, Abgarus ignored every summons and stayed out of sight, hoping the Romans would simply go away. But when someone told him about Trajan’s love of boys, Abgarus heaved a sigh of relief—for the most beautiful boy in all the East, by general consensus, happened to be his own son, Prince Arbandes. Trajan had finally given up on meeting the king and was moving on, leaving behind one of his generals with instructions to sack Edessa, when Abgarus and his royal entourage sped after Trajan and caught up with him at the border. That night, beside the road, Abgarus put up a huge tent and threw a sumptuous banquet for Trajan—and whom did he seat on the pillow next to Caesar but young Prince Arbandes. Trajan was utterly smitten; rumor has it he wrote a coded letter to Hadrian in which he proclaimed, ‘I have met the most beautiful boy ever born!’ To cap the evening, Abgarus had his son perform some barbaric dance for Trajan’s amusement. What happened after the banquet we can only imagine, but
apparently Arbandes’s dancing-boy diplomacy was effective, because Trajan spared the city of Edessa and let Abgarus keep his throne as a Roman puppet.”

Suetonius frowned. “But wasn’t that Abgarus we saw earlier in chains, trudging along with the other monarchs deposed by Trajan?”

“Ah, yes, the king’s fortunes later took a turn for the worse. After Trajan conquered Babylonia and was sailing down the Euphrates to have a look at the Persian Gulf, word arrived that a revolt had broken out in Osroene. King Abgarus blamed Parthian instigators and Jewish insurgents, but when Trajan’s general Lusius Quietus and his bareheaded Berber cavalry arrived to put down the revolt, Edessa was sacked and Abgarus was deposed. Thus we saw Abgarus paraded before us in chains today.”

“What happened to Prince Arbandes?” said Marcus.

“That’s a good question,” said Favonius. “He wasn’t among the prisoners—a pretty puppy would have stood out among those mangy old dogs! Given Trajan’s laudable practice of educating his boys after he was done with them, I’m betting Arbandes was given a tutor and sent off to some academy in Greece. Or perhaps he’ll perform his savage dance for Hadrian at tonight’s banquet!”

The scurra was being facetious. The fate of Arbandes was of no interest to him; the boy’s history merely provided material for a salacious tale. Marcus, remembering all the suffering he had seen in Dacia, felt a stirring of pity for the dancing prince who had done everything he could to save his father’s kingdom.

Hadrian had arrived at the end of the eulogy and was reciting all the late emperor’s titles, including Dacicus, conqueror of Dacia, Germanicus, conqueror of Germania, and of course Parthicus. “But of all the titles bestowed on him by the grateful people and Senate of Roma, the one of which he was most proud was the one which had never been bestowed before: Optimus, best of all emperors.”

Sensing that the speech was at an end, the crowd reacted with loud cheering. It was impossible to tell whether the cries of “Hail, Caesar!” were for Trajan or for Hadrian. It was Suetonius who stepped forward and acclaimed the new emperor by name: “Hail, Hadrian! Long may he reign!”

This cry was taken up by others. Hadrian, who looked as uncomfortable as ever receiving their accolades, but who had witnessed Suetonius’s initiative, cast a grateful nod in the archivist’s direction.

During a lull in the cheering, Favonius, who by the glint in his eye thought he had come up with something clever, stepped forward and shouted, “Hail, Hadrian! May he be luckier than Augustus! May he be better than Trajan!”

Suetonius pursed his lips at such a bold proclamation. “Luckier than the Luckiest? Better than the Best? Hear, hear!” He loudly repeated the phrase, and so did many others.

“May he be luckier than Augustus!” people shouted. “May he be better than Trajan!”

Marcus gazed at the new emperor, who appeared to be genuinely touched by the outpouring of goodwill. But even amid the jubilation, Marcus saw Hadrian touch his face. To others, the emperor might appear to be stroking his beard, as thoughtful philosophers do, but Marcus knew the man was thinking of the scars hidden beneath.

When Marcus and Apollodora arrived home that evening, Hilarion met them at the door with tears in his eyes. Marcus rushed to his father’s room.

Lucius Pinarius had grown so thin in recent months that his body seemed hardly to press on the bed at all. His arms were folded across his chest. His eyes were closed. There was a smile on his face.

“It happened while he was asleep,” said Hilarion. “I came to look in on him. I knew, the moment I stepped into the room. I held a mirror before his nostrils and saw there was no breath.”

Marcus touched the fascinum at his breast. He gazed around the room, wondering if his father’s spirit lingered or if it had already flitted off to join Apollonius and merge with the Divine Singularity. He looked at his father’s face and began to weep.

He would never hear his father’s voice again. He would never know the name of his mother.

On a brisk autumn day, Marcus and Apollodorus found themselves engaged in one of the most challenging enterprises they had ever faced. They were moving the Colossus.

Originally, the towering statue of Nero stood in the courtyard of the Golden House. It was left in place when the courtyard was demolished by Vespasian, who remodeled the features so that the sun god Sol no longer resembled Nero. For decades the statue stood with its back to the Flavian Amphitheater, dominating the southern end of the ancient Forum and gazing over the rooftops of temples and offices of state toward the Capitoline Hill.

Hadrian had decided to build a vast new temple on the site. To make room for it, the Colossus would have to be moved. The project was especially important to the emperor because he was designing the new temple himself. Apollodorus had not even been allowed to see the plans.

“Your task is merely to relocate the Colossus,” Hadrian told Apollodorus one sunny day as they surveyed the site. “I want the statue to be placed much closer to the amphitheater. Here, I’ll show you the spot.”

When Apollodorus saw the location, he expressed reservations. “The area around the amphitheater is already congested on game days. Putting the Colossus here will make the problem worse. And there’s a question of proportion: having the statue so close to the amphitheater throws both structures out of scale. The viewer who sees them from a distance will find the contrast quite displeasing. Rather than clutter up this area—”

“On the contrary,” Hadrian had snapped, “this open area is exactly the right spot to accommodate the statue. In fact, I see room for
two
such statues.”

“Two, Caesar?”