Empire (85 page)

“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 demeanor 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 gray 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.”

Antinous stood next to the Melancomas. He pulled off his chiton and dropped it to the ground, then undid his loincloth and let it fall.

Hadrian crossed his arms and nodded. “There, do you see, Pinarius? They’re not really comparable, are they? As beautiful as we thought the Melancomas, it pales beside Antinous.” He circled the youth and the statue, looking from one to the other. “Of course, cold marble can never compete with warm, living flesh, just as words in a book cannot match the actuality
of experience. But even if Melancomas were alive and breathing and standing next to Antinous, would there be any competition as to which was more beautiful?”

Marcus was still too stunned to think clearly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing. You’re not a poet, after all, you’re an artist. And that’s what I want from you—art. I want you to sculpt Antinous. Of course, as I said, I know that marble or bronze can never fully capture the subtlety and solidity of flesh, but you must do your best. What do you say, Pygmalion? Will you make me a statue of Antinous?”

“Of course I will, Caesar.” Marcus, dazed, saw his wife peering at him from her place of concealment. For the life of him, he could not remember what she wanted.

To carry out the emperor’s commission, Marcus set up a workshop at the foot of the Aventine Hill, not far from the river. It was a lofty space with excellent light and plenty of room. Soon the shelves were lined with scores of clay models of the youth and all the various parts of his body. Occasionally Marcus heard the sounds of workers on the waterfront, but otherwise the space was very quiet.

Marcus had never enjoyed anything as much as he enjoyed working on the statue. All his other work, even on the Temple of Venus and Roma, was suspended.

Antinous was the ideal model. He was never late, had impeccable manners, and carried himself with a composure beyond his years. He was willing to quietly hold a pose for hours, content simply to exist and be still inside his perfect body, letting whatever thoughts were behind his perfect face remain a mystery.

From the brief conversations that occasionally took place between them, Marcus learned that Hadrian had met the youth while traveling in Bithynia. Marcus noted that Dio of Prusa had been a Bithynian, but Antinous had never heard of him. Philosophy did not interest him.

Nor was he much interested in religion or science, but when the subject of astrology came up, he told Marcus that the emperor himself was an
expert astrologer. “Caesar frequently casts his own horoscope,” said Antinous. “He can’t let anyone else do it, you see, because that would give them too much knowledge. That’s why he won’t allow any astrologers in the court and studies the heavens himself. How he can remember the meanings of all those configurations of the stars is beyond me, but of course he has a very scientific mind. He casts horoscopes for the people around him, too.”

“Including you?”

Antinous frowned. “No, never for me. He seems to be superstitious about that. He says some things should remain a mystery.”

What the boy really loved was hunting. One day, when the subject happened to come up—Marcus was talking about all the famous statues that had been made of the hunter Actaeon—Antinous became more animated than Marcus had ever seen him.

“I was very nearly killed by a lion once,” he said.

“Really?”

“Caesar and I were hunting together, on horseback. We trapped a lion against a cliff face. Caesar wanted me to have the kill, so I threw my spear first. But I only wounded the beast. The lion was furious. It roared and crouched, and whipped its tail, and then it sprang at me. My heart stopped. I thought I was dead. But while the lion was in midair, Caesar’s spear struck the beast and pierced its heart. It fell to the ground, dead. If Caesar hadn’t killed the lion, it would surely have torn me to pieces. Caesar saved my life. I can never repay him for that.”

“That’s a remarkable story,” said Marcus, seeing a glint in the youth’s eyes that he was determined to capture. He seized a piece of charcoal and some parchment and began sketching furiously.

“I think someone is making a poem about it,” Antinous said blandly, in his charming Bithynian accent, as if having one’s activities recorded in verse were an everyday occurrence. There were probably a great many things Antinous took for granted, Marcus thought. What must it be like to go through life looking like that, attracting the admiration of every person you met?

After his initial awe, Marcus had come to realize that Antinous was not his dream-god. For one thing, despite Marcus’s overwhelming first impression, he began to see that the youth was not exactly identical to the
dream-god, or at least not all the time. There was something quicksilver about his appearance, as there was about every human face; it changed depending on his mood, the angle, the light. Sometimes Antinous did not resemble the dream-god at all, and Marcus could not imagine how he had ever thought he did; then, in the next instant, Antinous would turn his face just so, and he was the dream-god come to life. It was this elusive nature of the youth’s appearance that Marcus was striving to capture, a challenge he found all-consuming. If Antinous was not a god, he was surely the vessel of a god, possessing some degree of divine power. Marcus would do his best to capture that divinity in marble.

Uncharacteristically, Hadrian had refrained from taking any part in the process, not even dropping by to look at Marcus’s sketches or clay models. He declared his intention to wait until the statue was finished before he laid eyes on it. Marcus was touched by the emperor’s trust, and the privacy of the process had allowed him to invest himself completely in his work.

Antinous had just left for the day when Marcus heard a knock on the door. A small vestibule separated the studio from the entrance, and it was here that he admitted an unexpected caller: Gaius Suetonius.

“Marcus Pinarius! I haven’t see you in ages,” said Suetonius. “I pass by the site of the new temple occasionally, but I no longer see you there.”

“My duties at the temple have been suspended for a while. I come here to the workshop every day.”

“Hiding out, eh? I thought I’d never find this place, tucked away among the granaries and storehouses. Working on something for the emperor, are you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, come, Pinarius, everyone knows what you’re up to. You’re making a statue of that Bithynian boy.”

Marcus frowned. “How did you know?”

“Favonius told me. I’m no longer privy to imperial comings and goings, but Favonius keeps me informed. He says everyone is talking about this statue of yours, just as everyone is talking about Hadrian and his new favorite.”

“What do they say?”

“Some people claim to be scandalized by Hadrian’s lack of propriety, elevating a foreign youth of no standing to a place of honor in his
household. Sabina’s faction certainly isn’t happy; Caesar has less time for the empress than ever. But others are pleased to see the emperor so content. A happy Caesar is a benevolent Caesar. So, can I have a look at the statue to see what all the fuss is about?”

Marcus shook his head. “No one is allowed to see the statue, I’m afraid.”

“No? Perhaps you could let me see a preliminary sketch? I’ve never even seen this boy. I’m curious to know what he looks like.”

“Not possible. Even Caesar hasn’t see my work yet, and no one can be allowed to see it before Caesar.”

Suetonius made a sour face. “Ah, well, one Bithynian youth looks like another, I imagine. They’re all available to a Roman with money, or so it seemed when I was stationed there in the imperial service. You couldn’t set foot in the baths without those boys practically throwing themselves at you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Marcus. “I’ve never been to Bithynia.”

There was an awkward silence, broken by Suetonius. “I’ve been hard at work, too.”