In the spacious room the hand of the Empress was felt—on a large stone floor stretched a bright woven carpet, brought from distant China through Parthia, and along the walls in the niches were busts of Greek and Roman writers; Sabina was fond literature. Here were Virgil, Homer, Catullus, Horace, but there was no Ovid, as he was never forgiven by Emperor Octavian Augustus.
It was a hot, dry summer on the street, so slaves stood near her bed and the bed of Domitia, fanning the women with large fans fashioned from long ostrich feathers. They were almost alone in the Palatine Palace, except for the slaves, but who would think of them. Hadrian spent all his time in Tibur, in his newly built huge villa and did not look into the palace.
In the far corner of the hall at the table was Marcus. He read Cato's17 book in a position assigned to him by the grammar teacher of Apollonius, who had recently begun to teach the young man.
The Empress was talking about Hadrian. He had long been the subject of her conversations, and to the curiosity or indignation of visitors, she always spoke about him badly, painting her stories in gloomy tones, attributing her barrenness to Caesar’s dirty passions and vices. Visitors invited to Sabine's palace, her clients and freedmen, for the most part, were afraid of these conversations, because the well-wisher could convey to Hadrian that someone—patrician or rider—listens favorably to all the anger that the disgraced empress thrust on Caesar.
Domitia Lucilla also listened with concern to Sabina's lengthy dialogues, but she was hesitant to interrupt it. After all, Sabina was their patron at the court, it was she who helped Marcus attain a proper place in the heart of the Roman ruler. She supported with her advice, connections, influence, the Annius family all these years, and Domitia Lucilla considered herself indebted to her.
Sabine wore a pink tunic, a rich pearl necklace around her neck. Her hands had bracelets wrapped around them like silver snakes. Fascinated by the conversation, she casually touched the pearls around her neck with her fingertips, sorting bead after bead. Domitia Lucilla was dressed more modestly—in a faded blue tunic with a long handkerchief draped over the top and almost no jewelry.
“Because of him, I remained barren,” the Empress continued. “I wanted children, but judge for yourself how to give birth from such a despot?”
“But isn't Hadrian better than Nero or Diocletian, whom the Senate refused to deify?” tactfully objected to Domitia. “He likes music, poetry, he's a famous connoisseur of the arts. It seems to me that the soul that loves the graceful is not subject to vile motives.”
“You're wrong, Domitia! A man inspired by the bare ass of young men cannot be sublime.”
Domitia looked away in embarrassment and looked at the slaves. Two swarthy black Africans continued to wave unflappably. Their skin glistened with sweat, and as if the sea waves rolled muscles on their hands. They probably didn't understand Latin. Marcus's mother calmed down a little, and Sabina chuckled:
“Do you think I'm talking about his lover Antinous, whom the gods took away from him? No? It's in the past. But the emperor likes to go to the thermae to the barbers and watch as the young men, earning a living as a prostitute, shave their ass.”
“Ass?” Domitia said in confusion. “Why is he looking?”
“He finds a strange, perverted inspiration in it, and then writes poetry. However, they do generally turn out quite decent and can be read in society.”
Sabina paused and made a sign for one of the slaves. The slave quickly came up with a tray on which there were glasses of cold wine diluted with water.
“And such a man—is my husband!” the Empress remarked, drinking wine, though without the former hysterical break. “And what have you, dear Domitia? You haven’t found a mate yet, after all, enough time has passed since Annia’s death?”
“No!” Domitia shook her head. “I don't think I need anyone. I give all my strength to the correct upbringing of my son, teach him the old Roman traditions. It's a good thing his great-grandfather Regin helps me with that.”
“But, right, are you entertained with slaves? Let's admit it!” Sabina smiled, believing that the topic with Hadrian could be closed and move on to the little things that were sweet for the woman's heart.
In response, Domitia also smiled.
“How can I not! Doctors advise sleeping with men for health and hygiene purposes.”
She looked involuntarily again at the sturdy muscular slaves, diligently doing their job. The fans moved, not ceasing, a pleasant breeze invigorating the warmed skin. After following her gaze, Sabina chuckled:
“A little later, let's go to my pool and cool down. And we'll take these with us to have fun.”
Marcus, who was fascinated by reading, did not pay attention to the conversation between his mother and the Empress. His table was near the bust of writer and stoic philosopher Lucius Seneca. The flabby, white, marble head of Nero's tutor didn't like Marcus. It was a cold lifeless face, empty eyes without pupils. He tried not to look at him, for the thought of how he could someday become the same, frozen in marble or bronze with dead empty eyes.
Over the years he had grown, transforming into an angular, clumsy boy with a long, pointed chin and curly hair. Only his eyes, the big convex eyes, the living soul, in which curiosity did not disappear, remained the same.
Fragments of words from the conversation between the mother and the empress reached him, but he did not attach special importance to them. The tangled relationship with Sabina brought their family a benefit that could be wisely applied by climbing up the imperious ladder of Rome. Priest, questor, prefect, consul. Life seemed straight, like the Appian Way near Rome, it led to the due respect, fasting, and glory of those who impeccably followed Roman laws.
Marcus was already fourteen, he had a whole life ahead of him. He believed that with due diligence and sufficient mental stress, he would achieve everything his mother and great-grandfather had prepared him for. He wouldn't let them down!
He would not let Emperor Hadrian down.
He, Marcus, saw Hadrian looking at him in their first meeting. He was six years old at the time, but he remembered Caesar's attentive affectionate gaze, his benevolent smile, his soft muffled voice, like the cautious roar of a leopard. Marcus heard a similar growl when his great-grandfather Regin took him with him to the Flavium Amphitheatre, where gladiators fought each other every day and killed thousands of wild animals. Leopards growled quietly, restrainedly, but menacingly enough to scare the enemy.
Hearing the name of Antinous, Marcus immediately remembered the young man, so beloved by Hadrian, their first meeting in the palace of the emperor. One day after returning from the East, Marcus wished to see Caesar. No one then knew what the reason for his curiosity was, no one assumed that the emperor saw in Marcus not just a boy from a noble family, but a future ruler of Rome. Perhaps this option prompted him an innate intuition? Or a long-drawn horoscope? Anyway, Marcus was brought to Palatine—Hadrian lived in this palace.
And then Marcus noticed a young man who was walking slowly in the stola18 on the hall, lazily descending to the bed near Hadrian. Antinous looked surprisingly feminine, possessed a certain melancholic beauty, and if Marcus had not guessed from some signs in front of him that this was a man, he would have mistaken him for a young blossoming girl.
“Marcus, come over, meet Antinous!” Hadrian commanded softly but commandingly.
Antinous suddenly rose from the bed, going over to Marcus and putting his arms over his shoulders. The boy felt the spicy aroma of incense, which soaked into Antinous's clothes, his skin, his hair. It was the fragrance of the East, Syria or Egypt. Marcus once smelt a similar aroma in a shop with Egyptian goods, where he often went with his mother.
“Greetings Marcus Annius Verus!” Antinous said melodiously, his voice was high, ringing, as the boys