EROMENOS: a novel of Antinous and Hadrian (12 page)

A
MYRRA HAD NOTICED
a couple of dark hairs that now shadowed my upper lip upon our return to Rome. She made a gift to me in secret: a pair of tweezers.

“Just—like that,” she said, and demonstrated by tugging a stray hair from her own brow. “Pluck, pluck for luck, Antinous. Remember, you are suffering for beauty.”

She handed the implement over to me and held up a mirror so I could look into it. I caught up a filament of hair in the tweezers’ tapered jaws and pulled. That first sting surprised me, but I began to tweeze above my lip and along my chin almost daily to preserve the nudity of youth—a vain attempt to forestall the inevitable.

To immortalize my youthful beauty, Hadrian had engaged a couple of artists and sculptors to capture my likeness for a few works of art he planned to install at his Tibur villa. I soon grew accustomed to their constant scrutiny. Even when I wasn’t sitting for a portrait, as often as not some man sat off to one side of me during a banquet or some other gathering, sketching my features, his own brow beetled with concentration.

For as long as I had known Hadrian he had been designing and overseeing the restoration and expansion of his country villa at Tibur, east of the great city, situated so that the sun always appeared to set on Rome. The original house, acquired as part of his wife’s inheritance, dated back to the Republic. That venerable structure was first refurbished, and then encompassed in its entirety within the newer, grander main structure. He also built a villa in miniature upon an island within the grounds, for use as his private retreat.

I always enjoyed walking the grounds there, trying to envision the planned Academy in its completion, wreathed with art, or the dome of the tower intended to house an observatory for his perusal of the stars. Plotina always had enjoyed strolling there, as had Matidia, Hadrian’s mother-in-law. Sabina herself seldom visited.

Once I suggested to him that he might commemorate his travels by construction of temples or other monuments evocative of the great cities under his command.

“You might place a miniature Parthenon on that hill,” I said, nodding toward the swell of ground that rose beneath a grove of oaks, “to recall the Acropolis. And perhaps a long reflecting pool near the spring to represent the Nile.” I knew how he looked forward to traveling in Egypt, and in particular to a visit to Alexandria.

“A child’s notion,” he said, but smiled. “Some statuary might be appropriate, at that—cats, crocodiles, the eye of Horus.”

When next he met with the architects, builders and stonemasons, I noticed he had followed some of my suggestions, but I said nothing. I understood him better by then, and I needed no recognition from them.

The last time we visited the villa, I discovered a favorite mosaic among all the new works, a Centaur hurling a stone at a striped, snarling tiger.

Upon its completion, Hadrian’s villa compound will rival any imperial palace for splendor, for it will boast almost a thousand rooms, and even an underground passageway for servants and service wagons. There the emperor and company might enjoy the countryside undisturbed, far from the demands of Rome and the baleful eyes of the Senate. The senators’ refusal to acknowledge Hadrian’s superiority as ruler galls him, although he never has spoken of it to me. The villa will provide a respite from his lack of popularity with certain patricians in the city and at court.

T
HOSE AT COURT
who gave me credit for good behavior in those days did not perceive a shameful truth I understood about myself. My apparent detachment masked a fierce attachment to my own concerns (which included anything that might concern my emperor and lover). It also masqueraded adequately enough as compassion and affection, and made it easier to avoid those power games which preoccupy so many minds at court, causing it at times to resemble a nest of adders.

I felt no curiosity or interest in gossip about events which seemed to intrigue others. I simply could not care less who slept with whom, or who despised this or that one. What I did find fascinating: the intrigue process itself.

Once an accusation got into the air, say, that a certain man neglected his aged parents, or slept with another’s wife, the accused was judged in the court of gossip and hearsay, and most often found guilty, convicted by everyone around him without a shred of empirical proof having been offered. Watching this process unfold over and over again throughout various scandals at court made me realize why our laws have come about—not only to prosecute the guilty, once they are determined based on factual evidence, but also, to protect the innocent from foes and false friends happy to seize any excuse to bring about their ruin.

I found it fascinating as well to see how those who think of themselves as good citizens, having decided that another has transgressed and violated some social boundary, feel free therefore to transgress against him, to violate with impunity that individual’s own boundaries in ways heretofore undreamed of—making nasty comments, observations, and jokes at his expense, and often in a manner calculated to further insult him by intimating he can’t possibly understand he is the butt of their humor. His right to privacy and decency are somehow revoked, though no evidence to prove his guilt has been found, and very well never may be. Yet he shall remain guilty in public memory.

At such times, I kept apart from the crowd as much as possible; held my tongue; remained polite especially toward those who scorned and stung me, and willingly played the fool to please any who wished to outsmart me. No man is offended by the impression that you think him the wiser of the two of you, since, in secret, he inevitably believes this to be true.

Many assumed that because I was young and naïve, I must be so to the point of stupidity. I never exerted myself to correct this false impression, for seldom is one hurt more by such underestimation than by an accurate or exaggerated assessment—as long as one is careful not to return this favor to one’s detractors.

And I never lied. But truth, from different angles, may vary.

Some at court sought to undermine me, mistaken in their idea that I possessed any real power by association with Hadrian, while others sought to use me to draw closer to him. Both sorts thought to use me to relay their messages.

“Please tell Hadrian this” or “Hadrian might be interested to know that” flew in one of my ears and out the other. I said nothing, hostile or otherwise, to those who would make me their errand-boy, but simply declined to relay such messages unless I perceived any information therein which might be of use to him.

Others sought to get me drunk, hoping I might reveal Hadrian’s secrets to them. In vino veritas, per Pliny. The truth is, I can hold my wine, and take care to water it well besides, so that particular strategy, found to be ineffectual, soon fell into disuse.

For the most part, I found it prudent to keep exchanges pared to the lightest oiling of pleasantries required to skim the surface of court relations. I became adept at mouthing platitudes in lieu of providing information, rather like an oracle: What benefits one province benefits all. A stout wind fills all sails, and the rising tide bears all boats upon its shoulder.

As a rule, when entering the palace and other imperial or public buildings, I stayed well away from balconies, ledges, and steep stairwells, in order to prevent any danger to Hadrian, or myself, of falling or being shoved down, as well as to avoid confronting that part of myself which always felt tempted to jump, or push.

T
HERE AT COURT
in Rome again I found my old nemesis, Marcus. I believed he still hated me for knowing what he had been, a bully who elbowed his way through the schoolyard. A cruel boy, and greedy, the sort who steals the coins from the tongues of dead men. I thought I must stay on guard, never find myself alone with him. I did not know, indeed none of the court yet realized, how ill he was already, beset by a wasting disease, which in time left him coughing up blood, staining with deeper crimson the scarlet of his hand cloths.

Wandering about the city one afternoon in late spring, heading in the direction of the Forum, I came upon Marcus while he, too, strolled about at leisure. His face was covered by a sun mask, a mixture of flour, egg white, and olive oil. One of his attendants shaded him with a fringe-trimmed parasol.

Catching sight of me, he put up a hand and stopped his own procession.

“Antinous, what are you thinking. You must protect your skin when you go out. Where’s your mask? You should at least be wearing a hat,” he said, chiding my carelessness. I resented such invasive concern for my complexion as much as I resented his usual tone of superiority.

“Thank you, Marcus,” I said, “but I have never minded a little sun.”

He squinted at me, shading his eyes with one palm, and sighed for effect.

“Fine. Please yourself then, country mouse, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Some day you may regret soaking up all that sunshine.”

He nodded to his attendant, and they proceeded in the other direction.

L
UCIUS
C
OMMODUS STILL
remained among my enemies at court. He preferred to attack one in public, in front of a crowd, hoping to get others to join him and gang up on the intended victim.

Once, after a banquet, when the wine-stoked discussion turned to the frequent topic of the ideal relationship and whether or not it must include spiritual love, respect, and physical love, Commodus, seeing an opportunity to remind me and everyone else of my inferior status, hastened to stick his barb in while feigning a post-dinner languidness, lolling about on his couch.

“Relationships between members of different classes can never include real love. Wouldn’t you all agree?” He waved away a platter of fruit proffered by a servant girl as if swatting at a fly.

“How can there be true respect between men who cannot fully grasp each other’s milieu? Love without respect is a lame horse, and of course, one mustn’t ride it. Wouldn’t you agree, Antinous?”

“What you say is true, Commodus,” I said. I lifted the apple I had taken from the platter, inspected it, feigning carelessness of my own. “Yet respect without love may well be a dead horse, and one cannot ride it, either. Love and respect belong in tandem, alive and well and pulling in harness together, don’t you agree?”

I held the apple up to my mouth and crunched it between my teeth.

Hadrian laughed at this response and slapped me on the shoulder. Then he turned to Commodus and slapped him on his.

“Commodus, old friend,” he said, “One must always take care not to place bets on the wrong horse.”

Commodus gave a weak laugh and glared at me before turning away to seek fresh conversation elsewhere.

Hadrian, of course, felt gratified by our squabbling, pleased as any harlot who pits her would-be lovers against one another for a show to amuse herself and her friends before deigning at last to give one the nod. Later that night, as if to rub salt into the stripes where Commodus had lacerated my pride, Hadrian told me he planned to invite him on the trip to Alexandria.

“He most likely will become my heir,” he said. “Plotina and I discussed it more than once, and I believe she would agree with my decision.”

“I’m sure she would,” I said, and then pulled the blanket over my head, not wishing to discuss Commodus any longer, and burrowed deeper into the bedclothes.

I
MISS SEVERAL
of my friends from the court of Rome, including a court physician, Marcellus Sidetes, of whom I’ve grown quite fond, now that I understand his character. Although brilliant, he mistakes the exercising of a needle-sharp tongue for wit, and then seems puzzled when those punctured by his jabs dislike and avoid his company. And such jabs are the worse for being astute and true—no man enjoys having his faults, character flaws, and shortcomings pointed out, most often having become all too aware of them already via self-examination.

My grandmother, when I was small, used to say, “You catch more flies with a drop of honey than with a jar of vinegar.” I always thought that truth self-evident, but have come to realize that for some, like Marcellus, it is not clear at all.

Once I realized no malice lay behind Marcellus’ remarks, I vowed to get past that sharpness, befriend and learn from him. When he found my interest in his field to be sincere, Marcellus talked with me at length of modern medical practice, and lamented the burning of the library in Alexandria, which had destroyed, among countless other precious documents, many important medical treatises.

I learned that he, too, is a writer. He is working on a poem of some length on medical remedies,
Chironides
, which he hopes may find a place in Hadrian’s library someday. He also is writing a treatise regarding werewolves, their diagnosis and treatment. I persuaded him to allow me to read a little of his work about this malady, which I found fascinating. The affliction known as lycanthropy, or cynanthropy, causes its victims to go out by night during the month of February, hanging about tombs and behaving like dogs or wolves until morning returns, leaving them hollow-eyed, dry-tongued, listless, and thirsty.

“One must recognize that lycanthropy is a form of melancholia,” Marcellus wrote, and he outlined a particular regimen of treatment he believed might prove successful, including the use of opium to help the afflicted ones sleep.

Marcellus also discussed with me the success rates for various experimental procedures being tried on injured gladiators, and confessed that he wonders whether dissection ought to be allowed on the human body (only after the owner is deceased, he emphasized—unlike Herophilus and Erasistratus, doctors of old who once practiced their anatomical experiments on criminals, still alive, in Alexandria).