Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 35 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

The tattered remains of the bandage hung from his left forearm. The gash looked very real. Stephanus saw Lucius looking at it and grinned. “I inflicted the wound myself, using a boar’s tusk. There’s no substitute for authenticity.”

What had Flavia said about Stephanus? He’s a brave man, and not squeamish.

Blinking and bleary-eyed, Lucius looked over his shoulder. A bloody heap draped in imperial purple lay in the centre of the room. Courtiers with knives stood in a circle, gasping for breath and gazing numbly at their handiwork. Blood and gore were smeared all over the floor.

“Is he really…?”

“The tyrant is dead,” said Stephanus. He proudly held up the dagger in his right hand. Sunlight glinted on the blood. Then he showed Lucius his left hand, in which he clutched a chain with an amulet. “I think this belongs to you, Lucius Pinarius.”

Lucius took back the fascinum, covered with blood.

AD 99

The philosophers had returned to Roma.

Three years had passed since the death of Domitian. On a morning in early September – no longer called Germanicus – Lucius played host in his garden to two guests who had long been absent from Roma.

“It’s a shame that neither of you intends to move back to the city,” said Lucius, sipping a cup of water spiced with dried apple peel, cinnamon, and cloves. Wine had been poured for his guests, but Lucius, as always, abstained.

“There is no city like Roma,” said Epictetus, who had arrived the preceding night. “But my life now is the school I’ve founded in Nicopolis. The students are so bright and eager. They inspire me as much as I inspire them. And there’s something to be said for living in an environment where Greek is spoken from dawn to dusk, without a word of Latin being uttered. I feel more at home there than I’ve ever felt anywhere else.”

“And you, Dio? How can you leave Roma now that you’ve returned?” Looking at the sophist, Lucius was pointedly reminded of the passage of time. Dio was now in his sixties and looked much older than when Lucius had last seen him. Of course, Lucius, at fifty-two, probably looked much older to Dio.

“I was delighted when Nerva became emperor and lifted my banishment,” said Dio. “Roma I longed to see again, but I was even more pleased by the fact that I could at last return to Prusa. With so many changes afoot, I feel that my place is in my native land, looking after the interests of my fellow Bithynians. And it’s so lovely and quiet in Prusa. I think my long absence from Roma has cured me of it. I couldn’t ask for more comfortable accommodations than those you’ve provided, Lucius, but out there in the streets of Roma, how noisy it is, and how crowded!”

“And how smelly! Don’t forget the smells,” said Lucius’s third guest. It had occurred to Lucius that his visit from the two philosophers was the perfect opportunity to effect a reconciliation with Martial, though “reconciliation” was perhaps too strong a word. Lucius and the poet had never had a falling-out; they had simply grown distant in recent years. Determined to set aside any bitterness he felt about Martial’s relationship with Domitian, Lucius had invited the poet to gather with their mutual friends.

“Ah, but you have a good reason to live in Roma,” said Dio, “to enjoy all the accolades you’re receiving on the publication of your collected poems, which was long overdue. At last your genius is being recognized beyond the – how shall I say it? – the elite circles where it was previously enjoyed.”

“Fah!” said Martial. He, too, had aged considerably in recent years. Though he was a bit younger than Dio, he looked older, probably due to the over-indulgent style of living he had enjoyed at the court of Domitian. “Accolades? What do I care for accolades? Accolades will not pay my rent, which has just gone up, by the way. Why is it that every time there’s a change of emperor, the cost of living goes up? I’m leaving Roma as soon as I can settle my affairs. And why not? I’ve had all the boys in this city worth having, or at least all the ones in my price range. I’m retiring to Spain, the land of my birth, where both the rents and the boys are said to be very cheap.”

“Our new emperor was also born in Spain,” noted Lucius. “They say Trajan is the first emperor to be foreign-born.”

“And why not?” said Dio. “Having seen a great deal of the empire and the lands beyond in recent years, I think it will be a good thing for Roma to have a emperor who was born outside Italy. Though I must say I was greatly saddened by the death of Nerva. He was a good man, and a true lover of philosophy. How delighted I was when I heard that he took a vow to kill no senators. And I was even more delighted when I heard his declaration that Domitian’s so-called House of the Flavians would henceforth be known as the House of the People. That sort of thing sets a tone, if nothing else. To be sure, Nerva was old and frail, and the demands of his office were probably too much for him. We can only hope that his successor will be half as good a man.”

“Trajan is a military man,” said Lucius, “and widely travelled, with experience in Syria and on the German and Dacian frontiers. Nerva chose him to please the Praetorians, who insisted that he put a capable commander in the line of succession. Since Nerva was childless, he acquiesced and picked Trajan.”

“Let’s hope that sets a precedent,” said Dio. “Succession by bloodline did not prove very successful. From Augustus we descended to Nero; from Vespasian we plummeted to Domitian. Perhaps if we can settle on some more rational method for choosing an emperor’s successor, the empire and everyone in it will be better off.”

“Just make sure all the emperors are childless,” quipped Martial, “like old Nerva – or like Trajan, for that matter. Poor Plotina! Trajan stays so busy chasing after boys, one wonders if he ever beds that horse-faced wife of his at all.”

“From what I’ve heard about her, Plotina can take care of herself,” said Lucius. “She’s said to be quite formidable.”

“Well, soon enough we shall behold the imperial couple with our own eyes,” said Martial. After more than a year of settling affairs on the German and Dacian frontiers, this was the day Trajan was to make his official entry into Roma. “I presume we’ll all go down to the Forum together later, to gawk at Trajan’s arrival along with everyone else in the city?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Dio.

“If my leg will allow it,” said Epictetus.

“Didn’t you write a poem in anticipation of the event?” said Lucius. He asked out of politeness, to allow Martial the opportunity to recite from his work, but the poet reacted with a sour expression.

“I did indeed, and I sent it to the new emperor, hoping to please him. As yet, I’ve received no reply.”

Lucius nodded. In other words, he thought, Martial had attempted to ingratiate himself with the new regime, and had been rebuffed. No wonder he was leaving Roma. “Still, I’m sure we’d all love to hear what you wrote.”

“Oh, very well,” said Martial, who needed little encouragement. He stood and cleared his throat.

Happy, happy those blessed by Fortune to behold the arrival of the new leader whose brow dazzles with the light of northern constellations!

When will the day come? When will the route be thronged with the lovely ladies of Roma perched in every tree and window along the Flaminian Way?

Come soon, longed-for day! Come clouds of distant dust, rising from the road to foretell the approach of Caesar!

Then shall every citizen and richly clad foreign delegate go forth to exclaim as one, with joy, “He comes!”

The others clapped politely as Martial took a bow. He returned to his couch and drank thirstily from his cup. “And now the day has come,” he said. “I wonder what sort of chariot Trajan will be riding. Some ornately gilded wonder, or something more austere and warlike, to emphasize his status as a military man? If he wants to look like a general, arriving on horseback would be best, I suppose. Or will he recline in a litter and be borne aloft by the prettiest boys he’s collected from the far corners of the empire?”

Lucius sighed. How vacuous and irritating Martial seemed to him. Lucius almost regretted inviting him, but Dio and Epictetus seemed genuinely to be enjoying the poet’s company. Perhaps a bit of wine was necessary to appreciate Martial’s wit.

“As you say, soon enough we’ll see for ourselves,” said Lucius. “But it’s too early yet. Hilarion will let us know when it’s time to go.”

“In the meantime, Lucius can tell us more about all the changes in Roma,” said Dio. “Simply to have had a sane man like Nerva in charge of the state must have seemed a miracle after the grim years of Domitian.”

“That’s true,” said Lucius. “After fourteen long years, I felt that I could breathe again.”

“Breathe all you want, if you can stand the smells of this city!” said Martial, wagging his finger. “Though I must admit, it became much easier to move about after they pulled down all those triumphal arches choking the streets, and got rid of the statues. There’s definitely more elbow room without a gilded Domitian on every corner. What happened to all those statues, anyway?”

“Nerva melted them down, to replenish the treasury and pay the Praetorians,” said Lucius.

“Speaking of statues,” said Dio, “our old friend here looks as magnificent now as the day we first saw him.” He gestured to the statue of Melancomas that dominated the garden. “Do the rest of you remember that occasion?”

“The day the ash of Pompeii fell on us?” said Epictetus. “Who could forget that?”

“It seems a lifetime ago,” said Dio. “And yet, Melancomas never ages. What a remarkable work of art. Incomparable! It was good and right that Epaphroditus left most of his estate to you, Epictetus, but I’m glad he left the Melancomas to you, Lucius. It looks splendid here in your garden.”

Lucius nodded. “I think of Epaphroditus every time I look at the statue, and I look at the statue every day.”

“A toast to Epaphroditus!” Martial lifted his cup.

“A toast!” said the others in unison. Lucius quaffed his brew of spiced water and the others drank their wine.

“I don’t know how you can stand to drink that,” said Martial. “I suppose you abstain from wine to follow the example of your old teacher?”

“I do,” said Lucius. “I strive to follow his example in all things, to the extent to which I am able.”

“Where is Apollonius these days?” said Dio.

“The last I heard, he was back in his native Tyana,” said Lucius. “But he’s always travelling. I hoped he would return to Roma to enjoy the brief reign of his friend Nerva, but he’s never come back.”

Epictetus smiled. “In Ephesus, they tell the most remarkable story about Apollonius. Have you all heard it?”

“Of course,” said Dio, and Lucius nodded, but Martial shrugged and said, “Enlighten me, Epictetus.”

The Stoic smiled, glad to have a pair of fresh ears for the tale. “On the day Domitian was assassinated by his courtiers, Apollonius happened to be in Ephesus, hundreds of miles from Roma, speaking to a huge crowd. Suddenly, in the middle of his talk, he fell silent and began to stagger and clutch the air, staring into the distance. ‘Good for you, Stephanus!’ he shouted. ‘Hurrah, Stephanus! Do it! Smite the bloodthirsty wretch! That’s it! That’s it! The deed is done! You have struck, you have wounded, you have slain the tyrant!’ There were so many witnesses, there’s no doubt whatsoever that this happened – and it occurred at the very hour that Domitian was killed. At the time, no one had any idea what Apollonius was talking about, but once the news from Roma arrived, it became clear that Apollonius had witnessed the killing as it happened. Truly, the man possesses a remarkable gift for seeing far-off events. Now, wherever he travels, he attracts more followers than ever. I can assure you that everyone in Nicopolis knows the story.”

“They talk of it in Prusa, as well,” said Dio. “Apollonius’s fame has spread all over the empire, thanks to that incident. Do you suppose the tale is true, Lucius?”

“I think it must be,” said Lucius, with a wry smile. He remembered the coded letter he had written to the Teacher ten days before the assassination, thinking it would be his last, in which he told Apollonius not only the day foretold for the death of Domitian but the hour, and the name of the man who would kill him. It amused him to think that at the very moment he was grappling with Catullus on the balcony, and Stephanus was stabbing Domitian, Apollonius was hundreds of miles away in Ephesus, shouting encouragement.

Hilarion appeared. The time had come for them to head down to the Forum.

Lucius could not recall ever having seen a more jubilant crowd in the Forum. The new emperor’s anticipated arrival had been the talk of Roma for months. People were giddy with excitement, and everyone in the city seemed to be present, even old people who usually avoided such crowds and children held high on their elders’ shoulders. The roofs of the buildings sagged under the weight of spectators. At temples and altars, people formed long queues to pray for the well-being of the new emperor, and the air was thick with incense. The atmosphere was not of religious awe, as attended certain festivals, or of the patriotic fervour displayed during triumphal processions, or of the frenzied bloodlust evoked by shows in the amphitheatre. The feeling was lighter, yet equally intense. The atmosphere was one of joy, of release – of hope, thought Lucius, finally putting his finger on it.

As it turned out, Martial was mistaken on all counts about Trajan’s mode of transportation. The new emperor did not arrive in a chariot, or on horseback, or in a litter. Trajan entered the city on foot, and he wore not a general’s regalia, as Domitian had done on public occasions, but a toga.

The sight of the new emperor simply walking into the city, like any common citizen, evoked spontaneous cheers and applause. Even on foot, Trajan was easy to spot at a distance because of his height. Walking alongside him was his wife, Plotina, who graciously smiled and waved to the crowd. In their forties, the imperial couple were both quite plain, but physically robust. Their relaxed manner seemed completely unpretentious.

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 greying 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 towards 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.