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Solar Wind. Book one
Oleg Krasin


He grew up during the time of two emperors who were people, and then became Gods. He taught rhetoric and philosophy, not martial art. He was preparing to rule Rome in civilian life, but he had to fight.

MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS

The emperor-philosopher, for a moment, thanks to him, the world was governed by the best and greatest man of his age.





Oleg Krasin

Solar Wind. Book one





Book I



IN THE SHADOWS

OF THE TWO GODS



Until, then, kings are philosophers,

or philosophers are kings… nor the human race;

nor will our ideal polity ever come into being.

Plato[1 - Plato is an ancient Greek philosopher who lived in the IV-III century B.C.], “The Republic”



God is easier to meet here than man.

Petronius Arbiter[2 - Guy Petronius Arbiter (14-66) is a Roman writer, author of the satirical novel «Satyricon».] about Rome,

“Satyricon”




Part One. HADRIAN


The astrologer in purple



Emperor Hadrian[3 - Publius Aelius Trajan Hadrian (76-138) was a Roman emperor in 138.] always believed in horoscopes.

In his luxurious residence in Tibur, built upon his final return to Rome, he indulged in reflections on the winding ways of fate, fascinated by what had occurred in the world since the long twenty years after the death of Emperor Trajan.

Hadrian took in his hands the sheets of parchment that described what was to happen to him. He read once more the lines foretold, and surprised by coincidences.

In the clear lines connecting the twelve houses of the zodiac, he found not only aesthetic pleasure, as in the strict architecture of Athens or geometrically reconciled pyramids of the Pharaohs, but also a deep well of knowledge. As if the horoscope was a material and visible expression of a comprehensive logos.[4 - Logos (from Greek «word», «thought») – the World mind.]



The place looked after by Hadrian was not new. Before he was chosen by Octavian Augustus to live there, Horatius and Catullus lived there, and before them other rich patricians. The vast imperial lands, surrounded by yellow-green olive groves and pines with thick crowns, had all the whimsical fantasies of Hadrian. There were halls and theaters, luxurious thermal parks, libraries, porticoes and temples, decorative gardens. In his villa, Hadrian had spent a great deal of time collecting and displaying pictures, statues, vases collected from all over the territory of Rome and now enjoyed their views, sitting on a chair or reclining on the bed.

Sometimes he sat alone all evening with a cup of Falernian wine in his hand, holding a copy of the horoscope of those close to him, pondering about their fates, the contours of which fell behind the lines connecting the trajectory of the planets.

Although the Roman spirit was accustomed to addressing the gods directly—as it was thought, the face of the latter can be seen—predictions of astrologers often looked like an empty amusement for the jaded minds of aristocrats. But Hadrian knew his horoscopes were not lying.

He himself was a devoted, longtime connoisseur of astrology. He was in general very ambitious, and everyone in Rome knew that the best poet, writer, artist, musician playing in cithara, and singer was undoubtedly Hadrian. It was possible, of course, to challenge this opinion, but behind the mask of a charming and open man was a vengeful and brutal character.

According to the story going around Rome, Trajan[5 - Marcus Ulpius Nerva Trajan (53-117) was a Roman emperor in 117. Adopted the future emperor Adriana under the influence of his wife Pompey Dam.] discussed with his architect, Apollodorus of Damascus,[6 - Apollodorus of Damascus (d. 129) is an architect of the Roman Emperor Trajan's era.] a new building. Hadrian, who indulged in painting, decided to submit his advice, as he thought it was sensible enough. But Apollodorus hostility smiled at him, rudely cut him off—a man of little sense in architecture.

After becoming Caesar, Hadrian sent Apollodorus the schematics for the Temple of Venus to show that he, Hadrian, could do it without his help, this daring and unequipped architect. Apollodorus here did not show due respect. He ridiculed the emperor, talking about statues being designed too high: “If the goddesses have to get out of their place and get out—they have nothing to do, they will beat the lie about low ceilings.” This humiliation the proud Hadrian could not let Apollodorus get away with it. He executed the man.

Undoubtedly, it is difficult to claim that the commander of the thirty legions is uninformed in any area.



Once upon a time, Hadrian made a horoscope of Marcus Annius Verus, then a boy, a distant relative of his wife Empress Sabina.[7 - Vibia Sabina (85-137) was the wife of Emperor Adrian.] The horoscope predicted Marcus would lead a dignified life and an important post in the hierarchy of power, the post of ruler of the state. Hadrian thought that from this boy it was possible to grow the real ruler of Rome, to nurture it, to shape, as one shapes a beautiful statue from a shapeless block of marble.

Hadrian himself had no children from his wife, and this circumstance forced him to look around, thinking about the choice of a possible successor.

At first, Marcus was drawn by Sabina. For a time, they lived as friendly couple, enjoying life in harmony with each other. Then he appeared, Antinous,[8 - Antinous (111-130) is a lover and constant companion of the Roman Emperor Adriana, deified after death.] a beautiful Greek youth with marble white skin, black curly hair, and a direct profile, soft, feminine and inseparable. Hadrian saw him naked, bathing in a mountain spring, and fell in love, then confirmed the opinion of Cicero that the love of a man to another of his sex is a natural consequence of nudity.

So, his relationship with Sabina came to naught.

Sabina did not understand that the love of Antinous was the gift of the gods to an aging emperor, for she made him happy and young, and the absence of love made him miserable, albeit wise. Only who needs wisdom without Antinous?

The wife turned into an evil fury. She slandered him on every street corner. He was informed that she had sworn her infertility, blaming Hadrian. “How can one give birth from such a monster?” she asked, tragically wringing her hands like a cheap actor in a Rusticus theater. Of course, he, Hadrian, knew that the whole thing was her fault: he had married a rotten fruit, a dead land in which no matter how much seed he threw—nothing would grow.

He only succumbed to the persuasion of Trajan's wife Plotina, who wanted to strengthen his influence with the help of Sabina, because she was a distant relative of the emperor Trajan. And, in fairness, it was worth saying that thanks to her, Sabina, Hadrian became Augustus.

But it's in the past. Sympathy, affection, friendship. All in the past! The world was changed by this adorable young man Antinous, years with which were similar to a wonderful dream sent by the goddess of the night Nix, a dream that brings oblivion. Indeed, Hadrian then often felt himself an Odyssey, strewn with sweet-sounding sirens, a traveler who had forgotten his native Ithaca.

It is a pity that his voyage with Antinous on the sea of life turned out to be so short-lived and fleeting. His beloved perished in the waves of the Nile forever. After that the heart of Hadrian froze in sorrow, like a mourning statue above the marble tomb of a dear man. He ordered the memory of the young man to be honored. There were cities named in his honor, statues towering over the squares and streets of the empire. But cities and statues could not obscure the emptiness in his heart.

One such statue stood here in Tibur. Hadrian created the Temple of Antinous and put his sculpture inside. Sometimes he approached it, touching the hand made of cold stone. The inscription “Be immortal as Ra[9 - Ra is the Egyptian god of the sun.]” was carved on the foundation of the monument. He would cover his eyes, silent, recalling…



But Antinous appeared after the emperor's meeting with Marcus. First, there was Marcus.

The boy was six years old when, in between his far and long journeys, Hadrian saw him. A small, thin, big eyed boy, dressed in a white tunic.

Nearby stood his mother, Domitia Lucilla—a venerable Roman matron, who lost her husband early and did not remarry. She owned a large brick factory on the outskirts of Rome. His great-grandfather, Catilius Severus Regin, a well-known senator who held an important position as prefect of Rome, was also there.

They wanted the emperor to distinguish him, because Marcus was, after all, a distant relative of Caesar through Sabine. Hadrian was then in a good mood without the whims and irritations that had become commonplace in recent times, without a shadow of melancholic sadness at the sight of someone else's youth, which seemed irretrievably lost by himself. And he didn't resist. Distinguish little Verus? Why not!

Hadrian gave him a white rider toga[10 - Toga is the outerwear worn by men in ancient Rome] with a narrow red stripe and a ring that the boy could not yet wear on his finger because of its large size. This did not seem surprising because there were other boys of tender age, who were already distinguished by emperors. Another mercy aroused surprise—Hadrian the next year introduced Marcus to the priestly college of the Salii,[11 - Salire (Latin) – jumping, dancing.] these jumpers, keeping the morale in the people. There were twelve of them, and they worshipped Mars, a god who, for the Romans who were used to fighting, was not the last in the divine pantheon.

Probably, the tedious rites associated with walking the streets, dancing, shouting, the noise of the city crowd, did not fit at all for a seven-year-old boy. And yet the boy was given a great honor, about which he did not suspect and did not fully understand its meaning, but his loved ones knew and understood—venerable mother and stern great-grandfather.

Then, another close emperor, his secretary, Gaius Avidius Heliodorus, a Syrian-born man from the city of Kirra, a swarthy man with almond-shaped brown eyes, sympathetically told Hadrian how he watched a strange procession on one of the streets of the city: eleven adult men and a boy walking nearby.

“He was serious, this little Marcus,” Heliodorus said, bowing respectfully before Caesar. “He was walking with a tense frown, as he held a shield in his left hand, and in his right a little twig. Of course, the shield was smaller, not like that of grown men—it was made special—but he faithfully beat it with a wooden stick, and also sang along with all the old battle songs “Help, Lara, us!” and “Be enough, evil Mars!”

“Well, you heard them,” he added.

Tricky Heliodorus did not explain that the meaning of these songs no one remembered, and because of the outsider's eye they seemed a set of incoherent sounds. But Marcus, as the attentive secretary noted, had a good memory, and he confidently sang along with his ringing boyish voice, focused on jumping in the streets to the cheerful and loud cries of the priests.

An integral part of the ritual was the evening meal, accompanied by libations, with loud cries of diverging priests. It was said that Emperor Claudius had somehow specially dressed as a Salii to participate in such drinking in the temple of Mars on Palatine Hill.

The Salii feasted widely, on a grand scale. It used to be the case, and so it was under Marcus. The boy did not seem surprised, as if he had gotten used to the ugly antics of drunken priests from the cradle.

One of the priests, a certain Victor Galerius Fabian, fell under the table, and could hardly be hoisted into place by his fellow feasters. Hadrian knew about this case from the frumentarii[12 - Frumentarii (Latin) were individuals who ran public bread shops and collected different information for the emperor.] who reported all the incidents in the empire. He asked, smiling affectionately in a beard that had not yet grayed:

“What did you see, little Verus?”

And Marcus unsophisticated told the emperor about these feasts. Hadrian looked intently into the boy's lively eyes, which did not lie, he saw it, and he liked the honesty of little Annius. That's probably why he nicknamed him “Verissimus.”[13 - Verissimus (Latin) is the truest, true.]

However, this acquaintance with the promising little rider was interrupted for a long time—the emperor was delayed by other countries, distant cities, strangers, and new impressions.

Hadrian, of course, heard a variety of rumors, gossip from Rome, including about Marcus Verus. All the same Heliodorus told how the young Marcus, along with other priests, threw wreaths on a pillow with the image of Mars, and if the priests' wreaths fell somewhere, then Marcus definitely fell on the head of the war god.

“Perhaps our priests' hands were shaking after the wine was drunk,” the emperor observed sarcastically.

But this event once again confirmed Hadrian's conviction in the benefits of horoscopes—because the horoscope left no doubt about the purpose of Marcus, he was expected to be granted honorable and important appointments, and, of course, the highest office in Rome.



“So, the gods favor our Marcus, our Verissimus?” Hadrian asked, stroking the silky skin of the greyhound he had taken with him to hunt. They were in Greece, near Athens. From the imperial palace the rocky bare mountains could be seen, the tops of which clung to lonely clouds.

“Yes, Emperor!” Heliodorus nodded his head. “Everyone took what had happened as a sign sent by the gods.”

“Perhaps, perhaps!” Hadrian muttered thoughtfully, and then quoted with pathos, “The throne and the power over the country are set by this fortune-teller.”[14 - Annius "Annales,” book 1., (translated by S.A. Osherov), Chrystomatia on early Roman literature, Moscow, 2nd edition, publishing house "Greek-Latin Cabinet of J.A. Shichalina," 2000, p.35]

He cast a fleeting glance at the secretary.

Heliodorus drew his attention to his face, smiled encouragingly, and knowing Hadrian's vanity, decided to play along.

“Caesar, these lines from Virgil?

“No, Heliodorus. How can you not study Annius, his Annales? Every citizen of Rome should know the poem by heart. It is about the iron character of the Romans and their indestructible greatness. Today, call reader Philip! In the evening I intend to listen to an excerpt about the dispute with King Pyrrhus, in which the speech of Appius Claudius the Blind is heard. It is there in those verses,” he said. “You can join in.”

“I'll take it for honor, Caesar!”

“Let you know that I put Ennius above Virgil, who also has talent, but is undisputed, for Virgil took a lot from Annius, his style, his expressions, his words. And Ennius plays “The Abduction of the Sabines”? That's what happens when a man is guided by a great genius.”[15 - Genius is the spirit of the patron saint of men.]

The emperor spoke with enthusiasm. The red toga slid off his shoulder, and the edge of the white tunic appeared, on which the attentive secretary saw a drop of dried blood. Only yesterday there was a lot of bleeding coming from Hadrian's nose, which could hardly be stopped, but today he felt noticeably better. The bleeding frightened him, and over time only intensified.



Returning in the spring in Tibur, Hadrian seriously thought about a successor. It was necessary to rush with this because the bleeding did not stop.

And yet… the horoscope said one thing, but Hadrian's will could do another thing, he was very conceited, proud, and if the horoscope said “yes,” he could say no, not caring about the planetary prophecies, the opinions of the priests or those of the boy's relatives.

Oddly enough, he often wanted to go against the horoscope or general judgments to show everyone that nothing is just given. Let them suffer, let them doubt their hopes, because when they do not come true, they beat more painfully on the heart than direct deception. He, although he leaves a bitter residue in the soul, but not so destructive.

Here, for example, Sabina expected something completely different from him, but her expectations did not materialize, and she was showered in her eyes, as old buildings were crumbled from time to time. Apparently, because the wrinkles crossed her face, it seemed to Hadrian an ugly crack on the old walls. It jarred him, a lover of all graceful things, for old age is ugly in all manifestations.

Now Hadrian himself decided on whether to appoint Marcus Annius Verus as his heir or not. Behind him was the final word, as for the formidable and all-seeing Jupiter. In fact, he, Hadrian, was a god still living among the living. But one day his time would come and then his soul from the flames of the funeral fire would soar to the sky with the freedom of an eagle.[16 - During the burial of the Roman emperors in the sky released an eagle, considered a bird of Jupiter.]




How to strengthen the dynasty




“Oh, he's a monster, I assure you! A real monster!”

Empress Sabine angrily squeezed bloodless thin lips, frowned her eyebrows, and tried to give her face a neutral, detached expression, but she did not always succeed. And now she couldn't cope with herself. Evil tears rolled into her eyes, and dry, heart-weeping sobs came up to her throat.

She reclined on the bed—under her back the slaves slipped a few pillows for convenience—talking to her longtime friend, Marcus's mother, Domitia Lucilla. The bed was small, with elegantly curved wooden legs, decorated with bronze. Domitia was lying opposite exactly the same. The space between them was occupied by a small table on which there was a tray of fruit and a jug of wine.

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's[17 - Marcus Porсius Cato the Elder (234-149 BC) is a well-known Roman politician and writer.] 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 stola[18 - Stola (Latin) – in the ancient Romans women's clothing in the form of tunics, which was worn on top of the bottom tunics and reached the ankles. The stola was a symbol of a legal marriage, and was the clothes worn by the family Romans.] 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 say, until nature makes them more grown-up.

“Be healthy, Antinous!” Marcus replied with the usual Roman greeting. Not knowing how to behave with Hadrian's favorite, he was embarrassed and stepped back a step. But Antinous laughed, “Don't be afraid of me, Verissimus!”

“Why should I be afraid of him?” the boy, who knew nothing about adult relationships, thought with surprise. Then, of course, he found out what the matter was, but back then he didn't know anything about it. “I'm a Roman citizen, and he's just a freedman.”

In little Marcus, his mother has already brought up a sense of pride in belonging to the great Roman people. How could it be otherwise?

Rome was a huge, majestic city-state, extending to the West and East, North and South, covering the entire Mediterranean Sea. This vast civilization lived by the strict, logical laws established by the Roman mind. The Romans believed that inside man lives a genius who guides and protects everyone. The genius of Rome had guarded the city all these years, almost a thousand years.

How many bitter, tragic moments were there when the fate of the Roman people hung in the balance. Sabinians, Carthage, Gauls, Parthians, Germans. But Rome survived, it rose, developed, brought peace and culture to other nations and therefore a proud formula “Civis Romanus sum!”[19 - I'm a Roman citizen! (Latin)] meant much more than belonging to a powerful state. It meant living in a civilized world.

Marcus saw Antinous several more times, and then learned that the young man had drowned in the Nile, while Hadrian traveled near the town of Canopus. The emperor's grief was inconsolable. The city of Antinople arose in Egypt, and in the sky rose a bright star and the emperor's confidants assured that the noble soul of Antinous had ascended to the sky.

He drowned, but was resurrected as the Egyptian god Osiris. And so, in the same Egypt, and then in Greece, there were cults of Antinous; he became a deity, perishing and reborn.

Meanwhile, Sabina started talking about Marcus's coming to grow up.

He should get the toga of the young man, because he was already fourteen years old. This was an important step in Marcus's public position. The toga symbolized not only the transition from one state to another—from boy to man—but also a sharp turn in the material situation. Marcus became an heir, could get and use property as an adult. Of course, Sabina said, Marcus would have to make an exception, because such a toga young men usually put on at the age of sixteen. But little Marcus had also become a priest-Salii at seven, and he was generally very developed.

The Empress cheered up, laughing loudly, looking at the corner in which Marcus was sitting at the table. Such mood swings, from sullen gloom to hysteria, and from her unrestrained to fun, became quite frequent for her. Domitia, as she could adjust to her Augustus friend, smiled too, though Sabina's hints were not always clear.

What was she talking about? The fact that Marcus received the priestly rank undeservedly or about something else? Maybe she expected from the family of Annius not just gratitude, hot expressions of gratitude, but veneration of her as a patron saint, almost a goddess.

“We, my dear Domitia, will look after his bride,” Sabine continued, having fun. “Certainly, from a good family, I have one in mind.”

“And who?” Domitia Lucilla asked with inner anxiety.

“You need to be related to the Ceionius. They have a daughter, Fabia, a little younger than Marcus. The family is famous, from the old Etruscan nobility. From it came a few consuls and legats, by the way, they are very favored by the emperor.”

“Why to the Ceionius?”

Sabine's cheerful face instantly became sullen.

“I suspect that he had a connection with one of the women of the house of the Ceionius. Oh, gods, that's disgusting, disgusting! They have the eldest son of Lucius Ceionius Commodus, he was appointed a pretor, and now is in one of our armies on the Rhine. Now, I've been told its supposedly Hadrian's son. What dirt!”

“I heard too,” Domitia confessed, “but I can't believe it, dear Sabina. It's a rumor. The emperor has many detractors, ready to spread gossip on any occasion.”

“You're too lenient toward him, sweetheart!” Sabine gushed. “So, about Fabia. We will strengthen the alliance between your two families, unite the wealth, which will be good support for Marcus in the future. I'll tell you a secret, I have great views of your boy—he'll make a great ruler of Rome. I have to think about strengthening the dynasty all the time, if others don't think about it at all.”

She hinted at Hadrian with a scornful, barely noticeable grimace on her face, then continued. “Since we have no children, the emperor will have to adopt someone who is close enough to our family, as was the case with Trajan and Hadrian himself.”

The Domitia flinched face. Although in her heart she cherished hopes that her son would take a worthy position in society, corresponding to the rank and merits of the Annius family, but the emperor? Oh, Jupiter! That's something she had never considered. Sabina, pleased with the effect, added.

“I, and this is another of the secrets, spied the horoscope compiled by Adrian on Marcus. The stars agree that he will become the ruler of Rome. Maybe not tomorrow or a year, but it will happen. You know how Hadrian believes horoscopes…”

“The whole of Rome has heard about it.”

“I'm sure he's already chosen Marcus. All that's left is to find him a wife.”

“But he is still so young, he does not know life…” muttered Domitia, whose mother's heart did not want to let go of her son too soon.

“Stop, Domitia! We've all been through this. What time did you get married?”

“At sixteen.”

“And I was fifteen. You know that marriages are not made out of love, but out of expediency. We all sacrifice ourselves to marriage, but then…”

Sabina led her eyes in the direction of the slaves and made a sign with her hand. They stopped waving, slowly moved to the far edge of the huge hall. Sabina and her friend got off the bed.

“Marcus,” Sabine said to the boy, “we go to the thermae. Don't you want to come with us? It's so hot today!”

Marcus broke away from reading, hesitantly looking at his mother. She made a permitting gesture with her hand, and they all went to the entrance to the imperial baths. In a large room lined with black-and-white floor slabs, columns of Corinthian pink marble towered around the perimeter, and in the niches the sculptures of Venus and Cupid, who took frivolous poses, took refuge. In the center was a pool in which the blue water splashed.

“Hadrian banned the joint washing of women and men,” Sabine remarked, smiling playfully. “But we're all here. Aren’t we?”

She threw off the tunic, exposing the taut, slender body of the nulliparous woman and began to slowly descend the steps into the water. She felt Marcus studying her, and therefore she was in no hurry. Domitia also followed her example, however, not too much embarrassed—they used to bathe with their son at home.

“Come on, Marcus. Come join us!” Sabina called, turning to him in the water so that he could see her all, from the breasts to the tips of feet. “Don't stand like a statue!”

Marcus undressed and, turning to give clothes to the slave, noticed two African slaves standing nearby. Those with their hands folded on their stomachs, looked indifferently in front of them, like two living idols motionlessly frozen on the order of the lady.




Dog philosophy




The villa of his parents, where Marcus lived, was located on Caelius near Regin's house. It was one of the seven hills of the city, which had long been favored by the Roman nobility. The area became fashionable among patricians because of the picturesque and sparsely populated area. There was no crowding nor the crowds of the big city, here they did not hear the noise and cries of the crowd, nor the disgusting smells of Roman streets.

From the height of the hill, Marcus had more than once seen the splendor of the world capital, seeing the giant Flavius Amphitheatre, the beginning of the forum resting on the Capitol, the new thermae of Trajan. The view of Rome, mighty, beautiful, irresistibly stretching upwards, as a living organism grows—conquering the peaks and forever crashing into his memory. He would remember many times his Caelius, mighty oaks crowding on the slopes, air full of the bloom of spring and youth, warm sun overhead.

Marcus’s great-grandfather Regin told him that one of the famous Roman generals, the winner of Hannibal Scipio Africanus with his cohorts, stayed on Caelian Hill. Here he marched triumphant, proud of his victories in the glory of Rome, dragged after the carts with gold and prisoners of the captured lands. Great-grandfather tried to instill in Marcus a deep pride for Rome, and what best makes one proud than the victory of ancestors?

Oh, this hill of Caelian Marcus would always remember.

Much connected him to this hill. Here, in his parents' villa, he grew up under the care of his mother. Father, Annius Verus, after whom Marcus took his name, died early, and he remembered him vaguely. Actually, there were only two fragments of memories remaining; the father in iron armor and purple cloak beside his mother, holding her hand, and the second…

Father walks in the garden near the villa. He's in a white toga. It is early morning and sunlight, like a waterfall flowing from a clear blue sky, completely fills the garden. From the humid ground slowly rises the milky mist, absorbing brown trunks, green branches, leaves and gradually concealing the father. His white toga merges with white smoke, as if the figure of Marcus Annius Verus is removed deep into the garden. Marcus seems to see that he sees a colorful picture, which is filled with milk. It is as if the spirits of the garden seek to hide his father to spite him. The fog is stronger and higher. He sees his father’s waist, his chest, and his head, but then he completely disappears behind a dense shroud …



However, Marcus felt implicit gratitude to his parents for his masculinity, for the fact that he loved his mother, did not offend her. Perhaps that is why she did not marry, although the women of her circle, remaining widows, did not remain faithful to the dead for long. And some divorced their living husbands, remarrying three or four times. Such actions in Rome were not condemned, but rather were usual.

Here on the Caelian Hill, as his great-grandfather did not recognize the benefits of public school, Marcus's homeschooling began.

Music was taught to him by the Greek Citharode[20 - Citharode was a classical Greek professional performer (singer) of the cithara.] Andron, with whom Marcus also learned geometry. Musician-geometer, what could have been weirder? But amazing people often met a curious boy. Or maybe he saw the unusual in the fact that the others considered the matter ordinary?

And Marcus studied painting from another strange man, also a Greek, Diognetus.

“Keep your hand softer, don't strain the brush!” Marcus was taught. “Art is like nature, vague strokes replace clear lines, empty space filled with inner air. This is where the mystery is born. Look at the sculptures covered with toga, tables or cloaks. Behind the soft folds is human flesh, the living soul, though wrapped in marble. This secret of revival is incomprehensible and eternal, but we Greeks still prefer the naked body, with the beauty of which nothing can be compared.”

“Didn't the poet Lucian condemn the call?” Marcus, who studied Lucian's grammar satire, asked.

“Nudity does not hide anything, and this is its appeal,” Diognetus concluded.

Marcus looked at the Greek mentor, absorbed, listened, watched. Diognetus taught him a lot. He was not like the grammar teachers of Alexander of Cotiaeum or Titus Prokul. They forced their pupils to read literature, memorize passages from Latin and Greek authors, to make speeches published by them, and then to disassemble. For example, Marcus had to come up with the text of Cato's speech to the Senate. Or an obituary for the Spartan king Leonid, who died in battle with the Persians.

Grammar exercises awakened the imagination, seemed to Marcus interesting, but Diognetus ridiculed them.

This tall, with a large forehead, sinewy artist, in general turned out to be a great skeptic. Marcus suspected that in Greece Diognetus attended a school of cynics[21 - Cynic (from the Greek dog) is one of the Greek philosophical schools, followers of Socrates, who preached simplicity, escape from conventions.] and therefore wore a long uncombed beard, a simple squalid cloak. Laughing, he said of himself that he lived like a dog and that he was free from possessing useless things. “I am a true dog,” he grinned.

From him, Marcus learned that only strong personalities, heroes who were not afraid of anything but the gods could trust people. That's why the less you trust, the stronger you become. That's the paradox. Especially it is impossible to rely on magicians, on all sorts of fortune-tellers and broadcasters, who are the real charlatans, because they have appropriated the right of predictions belonging only to the Parks.[22 - Parks are the Roman goddesses of fate.] “Their spells are a pittance,” Diognetus said of them harshly and mockingly, “they should be driven away like dirty and smelly dogs, plagued sick.”

Learning about Marcus's long-standing addiction to quail breeding, the free artist-philosopher ruthlessly ridiculed this boyish fascination. The harmless birds made him laugh contemptuously. “Philosophers,” he said morally, “don't breed birds, they eat them.”

Yes, Diognetus taught him a lot besides painting. Because of him, Marcus began to eat only bread and sleep on the floor, on hard skins, because his teacher went through it, and so were real Hellenics brought up.

Perhaps the fascination with cynics had gone too far. Like all boys his age, Marcus was too trusting and malleable to someone else's influence. He turned into soft clay in the hands of a Greek sculptor. It would be nice if these hands were worthy, noble, but not the hands of a cynic philosopher.

No, the strict and attentive Domitia Lucilla did not want her child to become a dog. Into a senator, consul, worthy son of Rome—yes. But into a dog—absolutely not! Diognetus's influence on Marcus seemed too aggressive, premature, and ultimately unnecessary.

She turned to Regin, who recognized her arguments quite fairly, and the artist-philosopher was dismissed from training. However, Marcus took the news quite calmly. By that time, he had already gained a youthful fascination with poverty, when the real world, nature looks like the antipode of patrician life and its inherent luxury, when it seems that rational simplicity is a certain meaning, and material poverty does not mean spiritual poverty.

However, the philosophy of the dog Diognetus was not in vain. Somewhere in the back of his mind this philosophy firmly sat, languished, raising difficult questions. She, this philosophy, could be an antidote to the life surrounding him. Just as King Bosporus Mithridates took poison in small doses not to be poisoned, Diognetus's views could relieve the feeling of the hardships and injustices of being.

But not now—the mother decided. Someday in the future, perhaps he would remember the words of the rebel.




Tiburtine Temptations




Bored, Hadrian sometimes sent for Marcus. When this happened, the young man would be brought to a villa near the Tempe Valley in Tibur. Of course, he would always travel with Domitia Lucilla. Masculinity was already awakening in the young man: the first hairs had begun to appear on his face, so far, a barely noticeable fluff, but quite visible on the cheeks. The voice began to grow rougher, and youthful alto sonority gave way to adult male bass. Hands and feet began to pour force, to strengthen, to develop. He cast curious glances in the direction of young girls—slaves and freedwomen, which did not hide from the watchful eye of Hadrian, but caught the secretive interest of Marcus to boy-slaves, and there were many of them in Tibur.



“You are not so simple my Verissimus,” Hadrian said, looking intently at Marcus, “What do you feel when you look at them?”

“What am I looking at?” Marcus didn't understand.

“On the young flesh, on the girls, on the boys. Don't you want to be the owner of these bodies? Take them, to own them? I see your passions raging, but you're secretive, Marcus Annius Verus. Don't hold back, let yourself go. Let go!”

Hadrian pronounced the last words in almost a whisper, leaning toward Marcus's ear, and Marcus smelled the incense that rubbed the emperor’s body, the scent of Paestum roses. Something tickled his ear. Oh, yes, it was Hadrian's beard! Marcus wanted to withdraw, but dared not, because no one knows what can infuriate the ruler of Rome. What if he decided that he smelled bad from his mouth and Marcus was squeamish? Or something like that? Hadrian's mind was unpredictable.

But Hadrian pulled himself away, and Marcus peered into his serious face, blazing with a secret fire in his eyes. These were the eyes of a man tired of life, tired from a lot of seeing, a lot of surviving, a man exhausted by nosebleeds, eyes talking about the inner heat that had not yet been extinguished.

The emperor sat down on a chair, stroking a graying beard, thick, curled into small rings.

Domitia Lucilla told Marcus about that beard. Allegedly, Caesar's face in his youth was spoiled by ugly scars and warts, and to hide his ugliness he grew his facial hair, although before him no ruler of Rome was bearded. He himself declared himself a supporter of Hellenism, an ancient Greek culture, and all the great Greeks, as it was known, were famous for their facial hair. With the exception of Alexander, the Great, perhaps. But Homer, but Thucydides, but Aristotle?

“What am I talking about? About passions.” Hadrian continues. “Let it be known to you, but I have a passion too. One, for life…”

The emperor fell silent, waiting for Marcus's clarifying question, and he did not make himself wait.

“What passion, Caesar?”

“Curiosity, my friend, I am curious, and this is my disease. Because of her, I lost my Antinous.” He blinked his eyes quickly, as if trying to drive away the tears that came running. “I was in Egypt and believed the fortune-telling that the soul of Antinous, so beloved by me, would not leave his body before me. She would ascend to the sky a wonderful star for only a moment, and then would return to earth and breathe life back into it. And my boy, my Antinous, believed it, too.”

Hadrian fell silent as if he found it difficult to speak, as if he were being suffocated by the sobs he had once forcibly restrained in order not to show weakness, and now the moment had finally come. But the emperor did not sob, after a certain pause he continued with a shuddering voice.

“In the evening, Antinous entered the waves of the Nile, and we stood on the shore, raising our heads to the sky. And we saw him, my Antinous. There, in the distant depths of heaven, a new star shone. There was a sign of the gods, the revelation of Jupiter!”

Hadrian looked up to the ceiling lined with colored mosaics depicting the assembly of the all-powerful deities of Rome. There was Jupiter, Juno, Mars, Hercules, and other, less powerful and significant deities. They strolled along the celestial ceiling, treading on the clouds with their heels, as if on the ground.

“What happened next?”

“He didn't come back,” the emperor said dryly, stretching his legs, showing beautiful sandals with golden laces, manicured feet.

Despite his dramatic story, he looked relaxed, lazy, but his eyes continued to blaze with secret fire, sometimes hiding behind centuries, which, like curtains in the theater, covered the turbulent life behind the scenes.

“What does your mother, the venerable Domitia Lucilla, do?” he asked.

“She walks around the portico and then goes to the library.”

“I have all the books in the world.” Hadrian doesn't miss the opportunity to smugly brag. “She'll have something to read. However, she can take my slave. I have good readers. They say you're about to turn fourteen soon?”

“That's right, Caesar!”

“It's time to put on the toga of an adult male. I think it's time! I watched your horoscope and the stars told me it was time. We're going to celebrate this in the next Liberalia spree.”[23 - Celebrations in honor of Bacchus and Ceres on March 17. On this day, the young men wore toga virilis.]

The thought of the toga virilis[24 - Toga virilis is a toga of maturity worn by the Romans when they came of age at the age of sixteen.] hadn’t occurred to Marcus. Usually boys wore it at sixteen, or even later. But the emperor already distinguished him from the rest, so why not become an adult earlier? His mother and great-grandfather would be proud of him.

“I'll talk to Domitia about it,” Hadrian continued. “I hope you don't mind. Now, let's go and visit the thermals. They are my pride. There you will see incredible sea monsters in marble columns and bas-reliefs with newts and nereids.”

He rose, making an inviting hand, and they went to the baths, following the wide slab paths, in the shade of graceful porticos, accompanied by sharp cries of peacocks, which walked importantly on the grass.



In the evening, after a hearty lunch, Marcus retired to his room, the air of which had before refreshed with saffron and cinnamon, and lay down on the bed.

Thoughts, impressions overwhelmed him, because he had never been so close to the emperor. And now he spent his hours with him, listening to amazing stories about Greece, Egypt, Antiochus. Caesar was a great connoisseur of the arts and customs of these countries. Someday, Marcus would be able to sit on a speed galley and go on a journey to see the whole world civilized by the Romans.

It would be his own wanderings and his own impressions. And he too would talk about them, and listeners would also listen to him with burning eyes.

“Are you still awake, Marcus?”

On the doorstep of the room there was the slender figure of his mother. They often did so; Domitia Lucilla came to him before going to bed, sat down by her son's legs, asked about what he cared about, shared herself. These trust filled conversations became a habit for them and may seem strange only to the perverted mind.

Now they were eager to discuss the news related to Marcus's receipt of the toga virilis. For them it was an unexpected mercy of Caesar, although Domitia suspected that it was not without the favorable influence of Sabina. Despite the fact that the couple would quarrel, and for several years the couple did not live under the same roof, Adrian still listened to his wife.

“The emperor likes you very much,” Domitia Lucilla said. “It gives our family the right to hope for future graces. Oh, gods, we must not lose our luck!”

“I swear to Jupiter, I will try, Mother!” Marcus promised embarrassingly, recalling Hadrian's burning eyes.

The obligation given to him by his mother imposed on him a special vow of obedience, but it had clear boundaries. What if Hadrian wanted to see him as Antinous, not a Greek young man, but a Roman? However, Antinous was not as noble as Marcus, and the connection of patrician with the freedman was never forbidden. But Marcus's was different business.

Won't he dishonor the family, disgrace her with his close relationship with Caesar?

He did not convey his anxieties and doubts to his mother. Why bother her? Why put before her and great-grandfather Regin the difficult choice? Although for Regin, probably, there was no dilemma in such a delicate and important issue. Marcus felt that his great-grandfather was ready for anything because of the power, even to sacrifice his grandson or, at least, part of his body.

Moonlight already made its way into the narrow window holes when Domitia Lucilla left her son. She carried away an oil lamp and her wandering light, moving along the corridor further and further, plunging the room into darkness. Only the aroma of Paestum roses still hung in the air—in Hadrian's Palace it was added everywhere, even in oil lamps.

Warm, not yet cooled air penetrated into the room, blowing Marcus, promising him sweet dreams. But he was not sleeping, he was thinking about his talk was his mother. Nearby on the table there was a tray of fruit, he stretched, took the dates, ate.

Suddenly, he felt that apart from the night breeze in the room someone else stood there, someone alive. Were there thieves? But the villa was guarded by the Pretorians. The emperor? Marcus helplessly squeezed into the bed, feeling like he was being thrown into the heat.



In the barely discernible moonlight, he saw a white figure approaching him—large, shapeless, like a huge snowball rolling down a mountain. Once in Rome snow fell, which was a rarity, and Marcus and his friends lowered from the Caelian Hill such ice balls. The snowball was getting closer and almost rolling to the bed, it suddenly split, turning into two, clearly distinguishable people.

No, it was not the emperor!

“Who are you?” he asked barely audibly.

“We are slaves in the villa,” one of the figures replied in a girl's voice. “I'm Benedicta. Theodotus is with me.”

“What do you need?”

“We were sent by a great Caesar. He told us to fulfill all your wishes, master.”

“My desires?” Marcus hesitated.

“Of course!” Benedicta laughed with a soft cooing laugh.

Theodotus at this time lit the lamp and put it on a table next to the fruit. Marcus saw a very young, twelve-year-old black boy dressed in a tunic. Benedicta turned out to be a nice girl, also young and slender. She was a little older than Marcus. He also noticed in one of the walls opposite a subtle light beating from an inconspicuous crack. Or from a hole. Someone was watching them. It was Hadrian understood Marcus.

Marcus immediately recalled the words spoken to him in the morning by Caesar about possession, about passion. Hadrian ordered him to let himself go, with his head immersed into the river of desires. But did he really want Marcus to lose his virginity in Tibur? What if it was a test? Perhaps Hadrian wants to make sure that Marcus was able to own himself in difficult moments when he was subjected to temptations that not every mortal can withstand? After all, Hadrian was almost a god, who could control passions. Even his connection with Antinous did not look mad against the background of the orderly and leisurely life that this art lover led.

Antinous could have just been a decoration, an expensive ring on the finger, which could be used for bragging to friends, as if a perfect work of art.

Meanwhile, Marcus felt the girl's fingers on his body. Her hand caressed, stroked his neck, his chest; she fell to her knees. Theodotus on the side step climbed on the bed and lay down next to him. He started kissing Marcus, cuddling him harder and harder. But Marcus instinctively distanced himself from them, from the boy and from Benedicta.

“We went to the thermae, master,” Benedicta said, thinking that Marcus was confused by the smell that usually comes from slaves—the stink of an unwashed body. “We poured odorous reed water on ourselves.”

“No, no!” Marcus muttered, resisting temptation.

He did not know why, why he had to fight, because his body had already surrendered, he felt it.

In his head there were images of Antinous, Psyche, Venus, whose naked sculptures were exhibited in the villa. In the afternoon, Marcus walked with the emperor past them, stopped, considered. Hadrian was silent and did not comment, sometimes looking closely at the young man. There were also busts of Cupids with The Amours. Naked and chubby boys buzzed cheerfully in copper pipes, calling the god Eros; Priapus with protruding phallus, which is a symbol of eternal fertility and the prevention of misfortune.

Meanwhile, Marcus observed that Benedicta has stopped touching him between his legs. She took out her wet arm from under his tunic and wiped it. She clearly did not know what to do next, whether to continue her caresses or, together with Theodotus, leave the master devastated by new sensations. The gap in the wall flashed with a bright reflection, disappeared, and the girl, as if receiving an inaudible order from Hadrian decided to leave the room. She called her little companion.

The lights go out, the curtain falls, the actors go away.

Marcus, leaned back, lay on the bed, feeling his face burning with hot fire and his body melting in a sweet languor. He handled himself. That's what he thought. He withstood the test prepared by Hadrian. But was it really true, did Caesar think so? Marcus didn't know.




Belated difference




Even before coming to Tibur, Hadrian thought about who to appoint as consuls in the new year.[25 - AD 134.] He sorted through the candidates of patricians, pondered, stroking his stalwart Molossian dog, who ran around the hall, knocking on the tiles with long claws. Hadrian left his beloved greyhound in Greece—he had many dogs at every estate. He liked dogs more than people, because compared to them they demanded nothing but their master's love.

Sometimes he wondered how glorious it would be if dogs surrounded him instead of people. Faithful, unpretentious, inexpensive, big savings for the budget of the country.

This dog's name was Gilax, which in Greek meant “barking”—the nickname Hadrian borrowed from Virgil, although he did not really like this epic poet. He took Gilax with him to hunt, at a time when others preferred to use the Molossian breed only for protection, as guard dogs. However, it was convenient to have a hunter and guard in one person.

The emperor decided on the first consul at once. Titus Vibius Varus from the venerable senatorial family had coped well with the management of Cilicia, where Caesar appointed him governor a few years ago. Now, his skills would come in handy in Rome. Good officials have always been invaluable, under any emperor.

The second candidate caused more difficulty. Which senators to choose? Who should be assigned an important post? Hadrian in the choice did not hold back anything. He recalled a time when his mad predecessor Caligula introduced a horse into the Senate building, wanting to humiliate the venerable and noble elders. But that was not Hadrian's way.

He preferred to cooperate with the Senate rather than quarrel. And although he suspected a hidden opposition inside the patricians, the discontent had been largely squashed when it had first arisen. At the very beginning of his reign, he had destroyed the conspirators, for a bad quarrel is still better than a good war.

After much deliberation, he settled on the ninety-year-old Lucius Julius Servianus.

He, though deep in age, was a mobile man, had a bright mind and a good memory. In addition, he had a lot of experience; he was appointed consul for the third time, was at Domitian, under Nerve, and now he has been under him, Hadrian. In addition to his age, Servianus also had a no less solid appearance. A huge bald head with a big forehead testified to the mind of the owner, and the wide, developed jaws spoke of the firmness of character.



Servianus took office in January, and in the summer the emperor thought he had done the right thing by appointing an elder to the site. With such a reliable person, a zealot of the foundations, but at the same time, with shaky health, there was nothing to fear for power. In addition, Servianus was a relative—Emperor Trajan married him to Pauline, the older sister of Hadrian. Almost twenty years of age difference between the spouses did not confuse anyone, although the young groom was then fifty.

He accepted Servianus.

“Welcome to you, my dear Lucius!”

Hadrian spread his arms wide and cordially and hugged the old consul.

“Thank the gods, Caesar! You look good. I've been told about your illnesses, but I didn't really believe it. I keep remembering that hunt where you hit a lion running right at us with a spear.”

The Emperor frowned for a moment—his court medic Hermogenes chatted too much—but still managed to keep a friendly expression on his face.

“I have ailments, Servianus. They pass quickly thanks to the gods, and of course Asclepius.[26 - In ancient Greek mythology, the God of medicine and healing.] Illnesses bypass me. And yet, I'm about to be sixty, the stars advise me to choose an heir. Sabina and I have no children, it's time to choose a worthy patrician, who will continue to rule the state with honor.”

“Haven't you decided on a successor yet?” Servianus decided to clarify cautiously. “I heard about the young Marcus Annius. His great-grandfather, Annius Verus, a famous man, was, like me, a three-time consul. Of course, Marcus is a worthy candidate…”

Hadrian covered his purple toga harder, fearing that the interlocutor would see blood stains somewhere. Narcissistic, insidious, charming, intelligent, and artistic—he possessed all the qualities to become great. Life often seemed to him a game, a funny charade, which could be thrown to the opponent. Then step aside and watch him decide it.

He recently planted such a riddle on the young Marcus Verus, about which Servianus spoke. He sent young slaves to him and watched from the shelter. The young man's behavior, frankly, caused him different, contradictory thoughts.

Marcus was steadfast before the temptation, he did not give up, and if not for the betrayal of the body, perhaps, would have handled himself. But still, Augustus, the highest person of the state, must fully own his emotions. The emperor can't scream when it hurts terribly, can't cry when sad. Caesar must be like him, Hadrian, who harbored the pain of the loss of Antinous and did not show it.

He, Hadrian, knew that a lot of his opponents from the Senate and ordinary onlookers would enjoy his torment. They wanted revenge, they wanted satisfaction, because they were forced to obey orders that may seem unfair and cruel. But what did the crowd know? What did the Roman people know, mired in pleasure? And how not to enjoy the grief of Caesar, who brought grief down on the heads of others?

They did not understand that he was causing suffering not out of the whim of a capricious ruler, such as Domitian or Caligula. His steady hand expressed the will of the state, the cruel necessity that saved everyone in the end.

“But we haven't sat down yet. Please!” Hadrian invited Servianus to get down on his elbow, as they put it when they offered to lie on the bed. “I think it's sigma[27 - Sigma – a bed in the form of a Greek letter ?.] will be convenient. So, about Marcus. Yes, you're right, I difference him. But fame and nobility are not evidence that the boy will cope. The stars who patronize Rome suggest something else.”

“Who do you mean, great Caesar?”

Servianus's massive face froze. He decided that he would now hear the great mystery of the emperor Hadrian's plans, of which he had never spoken to anyone, would take shape.

The thoughts that hit Servianus made him nervous.

He, a well-known senator, was a close relative of the emperor, and the choice could fall on him. His grandson, Gnaeus Pedanius Fuscus, could also be a worthy successor, as Marcus was still young, he had a fragile soul. In addition, Pedanius was the only male offspring, in one way or another associated with the family of Hadrian.

After all, who was Marcus? Just a distant relative of Empress Sabina, in the intricacies of kinship, no one could understand. And among other things, Servianus was informed by close friends as at one of the feasts in a narrow circle, Hadrian asked about possible successors, asking to identify ten suitable candidates. But at the same time, Caesar made an important remark—he offered to name only nine out of ten, for the name of the tenth is known to him. This was Lucius Servianus.

Just like that! The emperor chose him! Of course, time had passed and he, Lucius Julius Urs Servianus, was not ready to shoulder the heavy burden of managing a huge empire. But here's Pedanius! He could.

The large, meaty face of Lucius Servianus turned red with excitement.

Hadrian took a cup of wine from the slave, drank, turned his eyes to the interlocutor. It was as if he was playing with the consul in games known to him.

“I'm thinking about your grandson,” Hadrian said. “He is young, but he has already shown himself on the good side. Not held large positions to hone the skill of management, but this case is fixable. What do you think, Lucius?”

“I fully approve of your choice, great emperor! Totally! My grandson and your nephew, the best candidate when it comes to successor. But we all hope to see you for more than one year. The gods will send you longevity!”

“Thank you!” Hadrian nodded with satisfaction. “Tell your nephew that I'm always happy to see him here in Tibur. Let Pedanius come without ceremony, as a person close to me. We will have something to talk about, walking in a graceful shadow. So,” he continued, changing the subject, “what do they say about me in Rome?”

“Everyone's talking about your recent joke, Caesar.”

“Which one? I have a lot of them. Did you know that I published my poems on behalf of Flegont freedman? The whole of Rome admired the former slave, and it was me, Emperor Hadrian. Of course, there were also scolds, I think, envious. I remember them. Then I had to tell the public about the real author.”

“I imagine the face of the critics,” Servianus gushed. “No, Caesar, I haven't read your poems. Unfortunately, I have little interest in literature.”

“It would be necessary!” discontentedly indicated Hadrian to the ninety-year-old interlocutor. “So, what's the joke?”

“They say that a supplicant, old and gray-haired, came to you, begging for tax relief because of crop failure, and you refused him. Then he dyed his hair…”

“I remember,” Hadrian smiled.

“Yes, he dyed his hair red and, thinking that it would be unrecognizable, reappeared. But you said you'd turned him down before.”

“Yes, yes, it's a nice joke!”

Servianus switched to a business tone.

“Caesar, a few senators are venerable and honored men I have known for a long time who want to take water from the aqueduct to their new homes. This requires the permission of the prefect, but Regin poses them all sorts of obstacles.”

Hadrian's eyes covered themselves, as if from exhaustion. He was bored. He did not like such economic disputes, where everyone fought for their benefit, everyone had a strong argument for winning the dispute. Only sufficient arguments or motive to choose someone’s side he did not have. Today, he was not like his other predecessors, whose main motive was wives and lovers, or the pursuit of pleasures. Or money, like emperor Vespasian.

He had nothing left! Just boredom. Anything that could have prompted him to choose one side or the other had gone irretrievably and nothing else was interesting. It was as if part of the soul had died with Antinous's death. And maybe the whole soul?

“Servianus,” he interrupted the old consul, “I always support the law, and the Senate is our only interpreter. As it decides, so it should be executed.”

The old consul, who listened carefully to the emperor, began to ponder who from the Senate could be relied upon to assist with this sensitive issue, as Regin also had strong support among senators. Alas, it would be difficult to win without Hadrian's direct!

“I don't care much about these issues, dear Lucius,” Hadrian continued. “I need a huge scale. I am attracted to something new, grandiose, unprecedented, like the singing colossus of Memnon in Egypt, or the temple of Athena Pallas in Greece. That's why I planned to build my tomb in such a size and in such a way that no emperor has ever built before. I have always said, better movement than contemplation, better life than sleep. Do you realize Servianus, who is the greatest emperor in the history of Rome?”

“Of course, you, Caesar. There's no doubt about that!”




Playing trigon




After Diognetus and Andron, Marcus's training did not stall, but on the contrary, was continued by Regin with all the diligence and consistency inherent in the Romans. However, after thinking about it, Marcus's great-grandfather decided to make some changes.

Until now, the grandson studied alone, which was useful—the teacher could pay attention only to one student and only teach him and educate him. But on the other hand, such artificial isolation led to the isolation of the young man from his peers, and this, in turn, could influence the character of the future senator and consul—above Regin did not look. In addition, Marcus should have instilled an adversarial spirit from a young age.

Therefore, in order to keep company, Marcus invited a few more young men from well-known families, two from senators and from riders.



Today, they played trigon.

Although this game seemed simple and straightforward, many famous people fought in it, for example, the philosopher Seneca, art lover Maecenas, and even the emperors Caesar and Octavian Augustus. Marcus led his friends to the peristyle,[28 - Peristyle (Greek) garden, surrounded on four sides covered with colonnade.] surrounded by porticos, where slaves in a vacant space had already drawn a triangle. The rules required three men to stand in the corners and quickly throw the ball at each other. At the same time, it was necessary to grab it with one hand equally well, both right and left, and then, slung in the other hand, to send to the opponent. Those who could not manage it, who dropped the ball to the ground, were called pejoratives such as savage or yokel.

Marcus played with Gaius Victorinus and Seius Fusсianus. Baebius Longus counted the dropped balls, and the fourth—Kalen, with them was not.

Cheerful and carefree, they laughed loudly, shouted, and argued. Sweat appeared on their faces, hands, bodies, and dark spots appeared on white tunics. Despite the approaching autumn, hot weather had just recently been established, which was not surprising for Rome, where warm days could last until November.

The slaves standing nearby gave the young men towels to wipe, and they had to stop the game for a while. Marcus knew his opponents well—Victorinus and Fuscianus. Both were from the Nobilis, whose ancestors repeatedly sat in the curule chair, became consuls and praetors and censors. Both lived on the Caelian Hill, not far from him.

The game was tenacious, protracted.

Fusсianus did not pose any threat to Marcus. Dense physique, clumsy, slow, he threw the ball in the direction of Marcus not as quickly as Victorinus, and catching it was not difficult. But despite his slowness, Fuscianus himself still successfully handled catching the balls launched in his direction by Marcus or Gaius Victorinus.

Of course, the great danger in the game was Victorinus. He had a quick reaction, mobility, as a bird sharply turned his head from side to side. He was an experienced opponent. But as happens even with such strong players, Gaius had a weakness, which Marcus noticed during the game—he was inattentive, carried away, and this inattention failed him.

“He's going to quit now!” thought Marcus, as Gaius led his eyes in his direction. The Victorinus did not know how to watch the face in such tense moments, which was very important. It's like a game of nuts that Marcus once watched by slaves, one hiding a few nuts in his fist, trying to keep his face unflappable, while others tried to guess their number. Showy indifference was one of the keys to success in that game. But not only that. As Marcus noted, composure often helped to prevail in other games. And if in games, why not in life?



Victorinus threw the ball in the direction of Marcus and he caught it, but at the same time Fuscianus threw to him and Gaius could not react quickly. The ball fell to the ground, rolled to the feet of Baebius Longus.

“Dropped it, dropped it!” Longus shouted. “How embarrassing you are, Gaius! A yokel! Missed so many goals!”

Indeed, Gaius was much inferior to Marcus and Seius in the number of goals conceded. He reminded Marcus of a crow, the same black hair, the same choppy bird movements. Tall and wiry, Gaius had small eyes close to his nose and a large nose that looked like a curved beak. Perhaps he should have been born among the family of Valerius, one of which was nicknamed Raven.

“I swear by Hercules, you don't think wrong!” Victorinus retorted, biting his lower lip with annoyance. “I missed less than Marcus.”

“Not less, but more!” Baebius Longus stomped his foot.

“Of course, more!” Fuscianus supported him.

“I think so well.” Victorinus did not retreat. “I can swear by all the gods that I am right, and you are wrong.”

“Do you want to swear? Really, Gaius?” Marcus came up to him and looked into his eyes.

“Yes, I'm ready!”

“If you swear, it's like Mucius Scaevola,[29 - Mucius Scaevola (Latin "Lefty") put his hand on the fire of the roaster to show Etruscan king Porsenna the courage of the Roman people.] as otherwise, we won't believe your oath. Hey, Cleont,” he ordered the slave, “bring the brazier!”

Hearing this sentence, Victorinus turned pale, but the young stubbornness made him stand his ground.

“Bring it to me!” he supported Marcus.

Alarmed by these preparations, Fuscianus and Longus came closer, they wanted to calm the debaters.

“Okay, Marcus,” Longus said conciliatorily, “let him swear by Hercules. That's enough!”

Marcus turned away, stepped aside. His big eyes darkened, and his face became sullen.

“I don't like liars!” he said passionately. “Everyone should be responsible for their words, as the teacher Diognetus said.”

“But, Marcus, listen,” Ceius Fuscianus tried to stand up for his friend, “Gaius just wants to swear, to turn to the gods. He didn't commit a crime.”

Ever since childhood, his father took Fuscianus to the courts, so that his son would listen, watch how justice was carried out. The eloquence of judicial lawyers, of which there were many in Rome, made a proper impression on the boy. And now, as a lawyer, he was putting his foot to the side, taking a steady position; he raised his right hand and began gesticulating with it.

Marcus went even further, to where oaks, pines, and myrtles grew, in the shadow of the thick foliage. He leaned his back against the oak tree, feeling the power of the tree, the humming of the trunk, as if he was chasing excited blood through the veins. The foliage above his head rustled restlessly, as if wanting to hide the feelings raging in Marcus's soul.

He did not want to harm Victorinus, though he understood that the flaming roaster would cripple his hand. But deep-down Marcus, as inside the roaster, blazed destructive passions, which still had to be curbed. It is hard to take yourself in hand; it is difficult to control every step when the intention to force, humiliate, and crush drives one crazy.

How to learn to own yourself, if the innocent lying of Victorinus, his friend, a good Gaius, in general, caused in him such cruel and brutal desires? Isn't that what Emperor Hadrian warned him about, saying that Caesar should not be a slave to pernicious passions. He whispered in his ear, tickling his beard, “Let yourself go! Let yourself go!”

But Hadrian, a paradoxical man, meant the opposite by this: you need to let go of yourself so as not to plunge into passions, but to rise above them, subject them to reason. Hadrian as if to say that this is how Caesar should rule, supporting the stoics, who saw in uncontrollable passions only a source of evil.

Meanwhile, two slaves dragged a low iron roaster and, kneeling, began to fan the fire.



“The boys play for a long time,” said Domitia Lucilla.

She stood with Regin under the canopy of a small portico and looked into the garden, where the tunics of the young men were white. Behind the backs of Domitia and Regin along the marble columns froze silent and significant busts of seven Greek sages, so revered Roman nobility. Bearded philosophers Thales of Miletus, Solon, Pittacus and others listened carefully, as if they wanted to understand the essence of their conversation and give the right advice.

Regin, the man of stinging warehouse, with stiff, imperious wrinkles on his face, looked at the garden with faded watery eyes. Autumn had already come into its own, covering the trees in gold leaves, bending branches to the ground with the gravity of the fruit. Slaves brought meat, fruits, and vegetables to the city every day, which had been matured in the estates of patricians and rich freedmen.

Summer was over, and the holidays followed one after another. It seemed that until recently everyone was singing hymns to the goddess of fertility Ceres, and the Plebeian Games were ahead. To win over the people, Regin added to the money of other organizers and their funds.

“It's good to be outdoors,” he remarked, in a squeaky voice. “This is how the ancients were advised, for mobile activities develop the body and mind. Are they fighting in a trigon?”

“Yes,” Domitia replied with a subtle grin. Regin, as an old warrior, saw the flashes of war in everything, and even here he could not resist comparing the harmless trigon with the battle.

“I used to be good at it, now I can't. Speed is not enough.”

“But in the affairs of the state, you have time,” flattered Domitia, who tried once again to please the domineering and ambitious relative.

Regin often visited the Domitia Lucilla, the benefit of their villa was located close, and they could always go to each other without resorting to palanquin,[30 - Palanquin is a bed with curtains carried by slaves in their arms.] and even more so to the wagon.

“That's right!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed sympathetically, stretching his wrinkled lips into a smile. “Have you complied with my request?”

“Yes, I invited Faustina, but I don't understand why? She is Marcus's aunt and sister of my late husband, and she and I see each other so often on family holidays.”

Catillius Regin slyly squinted.

“I want to talk to Senator Servianus here at the villa. As I was informed by the faithful people, Servianus was at the emperor's reception. He asked for individual senators, people from his party who make up my opposition.”

Domitia was surprised.

“Are they dissatisfied with something?”

“Rome is a big city, and I am its prefect. In my power is concentrated huge sums of money that give me the opportunity to influence the right people, make serious decisions, convince unreliable senators. This, as it turns out, they do not have enough. So, they pester me with petty Senate inspections, slow down my orders or completely ignore them. Now Servianus asks for them! You see, they need running water in Roman homes. This will not happen!”

“Why do you need Faustina? I always felt she wasn't very good at politics. Titus's wife is a little frivolous, windy, and she does not have a state mind.”

Regin looked closely at Domitia.

“I know that. Gossip came to me that her hobbies are not entirely appropriate for the venerable matron. These baths… At the time of my youth, most love relationships were tied up in them, but now Hadrian had forbidden joint washing.”

“It's like it's stopping someone!” Domitia smirked.

“So, why do I need Faustina? In the Senate, there are some hesitating people, like a swamp. Such people have always been there. They do not know who to join and do not want to rush with a choice. Faustina's husband Antoninus has a certain influence among this group and I need him to take my side—everyone knows that Antoninus loves his wife and listens to her.”

Domitia Lucilla, with her hair tied up in a high hairstyle, looked young enough. In the morning, the slaves performed cosmetic procedures with her, placing whitening ointments on her face, painting her eyelashes, making her lips bright. Her tunic and the top handkerchief, which she covered her head with, generously sprinkled incense, and now Marcus's mother stood before Regin blossoming, fragrant, alluring.

He repeatedly had the idea to find her a husband from a noble family, to connect the two patrician branches, to further strengthen their influence. But Domitia resisted. She was a wealthy, well-off woman and didn't need anything. Her factory brought a good income and Regin, being the prefect of the city, knew the exact sums coming from the sale of bricks with the label “Domitia Lucilla” printed on top.

“Wouldn't it be easier to agree on everything with Faustina in private?” Domitia broke her silence. “She is a relative; she'll understand!”

Regin chewed his lips, thought, answered.

“We must demonstrate our strength to Servianus, this pompous peacock who made his way to the consuls thanks to Domitian. I have always had a low opinion of him, although some have kept saying about his mind, about some outstanding abilities. Let him know in advance that Antoninus will be on our side, then, perhaps, we do not have to resort to pressure in the Senate, to organize a war there. Our Hadrian doesn't like strife. He wants to enjoy the peace in Tibur, tired of travel and public affairs.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a slave who had come from the depths of the atrium.

“Domina,[31 - Domina (Latin) – Madam.] guests have arrived for you, Senator Lucius Julius Servianus and matron Annia Galeria Faustina.”

“Take them to the triclinium and tell the chefs it's time to have lunch.” Domitia in hesitation turned to Regin, “I think we will invite the boys later. Let them play some more!”

“Good!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed.



The brazier has already warmed up. The flames, dancing inside, burned the sooty walls, raised stinging tongues to the sky. Marcus approached the iron that was burning, feeling the enveloping heat, the smell of a burning tree. The sides of the roaster have acquired a crimson tint; charcoal coals high, almost to the knees, threw out the tongues of flame. Gaius stood beside it pale, silent, but full of determination.

Oh, that's pride!

Surprise mixed with reproach stirred in Marcus's soul. Previously, he did not pay attention to whether it was good or bad to be proud. Probably, for the state is good, because the Romans are not used to losing in the dispute, which means that pride pushed them to be better than others, to become stronger. The best should be villages, cities, their country. The plank had been rising all the time, forcing them to improve in this effort. But the greater perfection achieved, the more sacrifices were made.

“Don't, Gaius!” he said conciliatorily. “I don't need your oath on fire. If you think you're right, then you're right.”

“No!” Victorinus turned impulsively to him. “You don't believe me, and I'll prove it.”

He reached out to the fire, but he was hesitant to take the last step. He was slow, looked like one bewitched at the high flame. “Here's a fool!” thought Marcus. He moved decisively to his friend, and with force grasping his shoulders, dragged away from the dangerous place.

“Stop it! You're acting like a boy. We're adults! Our great emperor said that next year I will get a toga virilis.”

Fuscianus and Baebius Longus joined Marcus with apparent relief. They put their arms around the two boys’ shoulders, and led them to the drawn triangle, near which lay small balls.

The game wasn't over yet.



In the triclinium, Senator Titus's wife Antonina Faustina, whom everyone called Faustina the Elder, so as not to confuse her with her daughter Faustina the Younger, sank on a bed near Regin and Lucius Servianus. Lucilla's Domitia was near, slightly to the right. Actually, etiquette didn't allow women to lie next to men—it wasn't very decent. They used to sit on chairs. But the republican times have sunk into oblivion, and in the coming era of the princeps old social traditions were pushed back in favor of women's freedoms.

Faustina passed thirty-five. Her pleasant face was distinguished by a smooth matte skin color. Black hair was styled into a tall tower. She decorated her head, fingers, wrists, and neck with a variety of rings, bracelets, and chains of gold and silver. Her hair was crowned by a diamond tiara—Faustina loved expensive trinkets.

She seemed a kind, compliant matron, with a calm disposition. However, the pleasant expression of her face was at times spoiled by the barely visible arrogance shown in the overly raised thin eyebrow as she listened to someone, or in a sharp lip bend that looked like a scornful grin.

In front of each of the guests was put a small table with a bronze countertop on wooden carved legs, on which the servants brought all sorts of food made by the skillful chef Domitia. In large cups wine was poured, as usual, diluted. At the exit in the triclinium arranged citharode, playing an unfamiliar melody and quietly singing songs in Greek. To these melancholic sounds, they began their conversation.

They started with Tetrapharmakon, Hadrian's favorite dish. It consisted of pheasant, ham, pork udder and crispy pie—Domitia gave special instruction to the chef, knowing that Faustina liked this dish.

“You, dear Domitia, have a wonderful cook!” Faustina praised. She took more pieces of food and ate with appetite, rinsing her fingers after each dish in the scented water served by the slave in a small cup. She loved to eat well, which was evident in the second chin that appeared and the figure that began to grow fat.

“I'm always happy to please guests, especially in such a simple matter as food,” Domitia glanced at Regin and Servianus. They also ate, paying tribute to the hospitality of the hostess, but without much appetite. In old age, food does not give such pleasure as before, when women and feasts are carried away. And now what is left for them, old people? Only thermals, hot and cool baths, life-giving springs in Baiae,[32 - Baiae is a resort in ancient Rome.] and of course politics.

They had not yet begun the important conversation for which they have gathered.

In fact, the issue of water supply to the homes of individual senators supporting Servianus was a secondary matter. The main thing was another thing—to establish who was more influential, who was more powerful, to whom would Hadrian listen.

“So, Regin, you think that the esteemed patricians are not worthy of the same grace, the same amenities as other families,” Servianus began suddenly, looking at Faustina. “Aren't they the same as Valerius, Julius or Marcius?”

Regin chuckled. “The ball is thrown!” a comparison with the trigon came to him, a game he had just watched. “We'll have to get it back.”

“Oh gods, no Lucius!” He uttered the words emphatically calmly, smiling kindly. “I've always stood for justice. But let me tell you, not all the honorable husbands of the Senate have water going to their city houses, and I don't understand why it is? After all, almost everyone lives in villas where there is water, as here at Domitia and in my neighborhood.”

“This water is needed in the insulae,[33 - Insula is a high-rise building in Rome.] which are owned by senators. For example, Valerius Homullus,” here Servianus pauses with value, “especially needs such improvement, because he has three insulae, in which many residents of the city are rented apartments.”

Again, the ball is in my direction! thought Regin and grinned sarcastically.

“Hm, a private improvement at the expense of Rome's budget? I don't know if our great emperor would like it.”

“Perhaps you, Servianus, missed my ball!”

He, stretching the hard wrinkles of the face smile, portraying a prudent, good host. The prefect of Rome Regin wanted to show Faustina that he was guarding the city’s interests and would not allow funds to be squandered in favor of some Homullus. He thought that Titus Antoninus, known for his modesty and commitment to the laws, would appreciate such efforts, and Faustina would undoubtedly pass this conversation on to her husband.

But she reacted unexpectedly.

“Can't you make a small exception for someone?” she asked, raising her eyebrows arrogantly and mockingly, and Regin felt as if the ball had been thrown at him from the wrong side. The left hand did not have time to react, the ball fell to the ground and rolled towards Servianus.

“I think it's time to taste the fruit,” suddenly intervened Domitia on the right of the hostess, recalling that Faustina once shared with her impressions of those people who often visited their house. Homullus's surname was one of the first. Narrow-minded man, as Regin believed, Servianus was smart enough to set a dangerous trap, as Regin believed.

In the voice of Marcus's mother through nervousness, it was felt by all present and satisfied with himself Lucius Servianus, whose meaty face melted into a smile, deciding to amplify the effect.

“As for the princeps,” he called Hadrian one of his many titles, “I don't think there will be any difficulty with his approval. I was at his reception recently, and he deigned to inform me that he had almost settled on the heir nomination. You know, his health leaves much to be desired lately. But now Caesar has gone back to Syria. The war in Judea continues, and he wants to personally check how things are going. Unfortunately, we have lost many warriors from the Spanish and Deiotariana legions. Now one of your relatives Sextus Julius Sever commands there.”

Servianus took a glass of wine, took a sip, looking contentedly at the interlocutors. He was pleased that he amazed everyone with his knowledge; he was pleased that the rest were freezing, waiting for him to continue.

Regin sat with an impenetrable face, staring at his opponent with faded eyes. Faustina, looking eagerly at Servianus, did not notice how from the corner of her mouth flowed red drops of wine, similar to blood. It looked like she bit her lip with annoyance. One of the serving Greek slaves, who accompanied her from the house, hurriedly leaned over and wiped the mistress's chin.

“Don't get in the way, Galeria!” Faustina irritably pushed her hand away. “So, what did our emperor, the honorable Lucius say?”

“Augustus chose my grandson Pedanius Fuсk as his successor and this question was solved,” Servianus said with notes of celebration in his voice, gazing victoriously at Regin's frozen face. “My Fuсus will be the next Caesar!”

“Congratulations!” Domitia was the first to recover. “Congratulations, Senator!”



When Servianus left the villa of Annius, the prefect Regin warmly parted with him. The question of bringing the influential senator Antoninus to his side had now fallen away by itself. What was the point of confronting the future relative of Caesar? Only a madman could afford that.

“Be healthy, my dear Faustina! It was good to see you!” Domitia said goodbye to Marcus’s aunt. “I'll be here for lunch soon, hopefully before festival of the Saturnalia.”[34 - Saturnalia is a holiday in honor of the god Saturn in December.]

“Oh, Saturnalia! Gods, how fast time flies!”

“Oh yes! ‘Time takes everything away,’”—Domitia Lucilla quoted Virgil, showing her education.

This, however, irritated Faustina, who scornfully raised the corners of her mouth, imitating a smile, and thought, “Gods, how unnatural and arrogant, this Domitia.” She, Faustina, of course, would tell her husband everything, laugh at the pomposity of these old people, and discuss that goose Domitia Lucilla. Only depicting a noble matron! Girlfriends told Faustina that Domitia had often visited the disgraced Empress Sabina, and she, everyone knew, secretly amused herself with black Nubian slaves.

However, it was time. And Antoninus's wife stepped to the luxurious palanquin, standing at the gates of the villa surrounded by slave-guards, with mixed feelings.

Meanwhile, Regin, who had lost all interest in Faustina, was thinking about his position on the sidelines. It, of course, was complicated. Although the game was not finished, as it seemed to him. It was not over yet.

Everyone knew that the emperor was an unpredictable man and his decisions were often strange and unexpected. Why was Hadrian for this Pedanius Fusсus? Nothing outstanding, narcissistic, absurd, as reported to him, Regin. What were the emperor's political calculations? What was he hoping for? What did he want?

No one knew that.

One thing was certain: Caesar's health was fading, time was rushing a choice, and haste made mistakes. He, Regin, was sure—the choice of Pedanius Fuscus was a mistake, the wrong step, threatening to turn into trouble! But there was still time to fix this, the game was not finished, and fallen balls would not be counted by Servianus!




Adult citizen toga




“Oh, Marcus! Oh, my Marcus!”

The female voice was so familiar and pleasant, ring out from the dark. Out of the dark? No, the bedroom was illuminated by the scant light of two braziers standing at the edges of the lodge, in the corner on the table oil lamp lit, throwing uneven light on the walls. Through the narrow small windows in the room penetrated the night March air, wet, cold, but Marcus was hot. He was not in a tunic, he was naked. And he was not alone, with his back to him on all fours was a woman, also naked. She clung to the slabs of the floor, and he clearly could see her hair scattered on her shoulders, narrow back and round buttocks, smooth skin, shiny as silk.

She was silent, as if praying to all the gods in the world.

Marcus felt excited, he came down from the high bed, crawled up to the woman from behind. Oh, it was a brain-burning desire! It touched the woman, penetrated her body and began to move faster and faster. It seemed to him that he was about to explode with furious convulsions of pleasure.

It must be Benedicta, he believed. She came to him in the evening and stayed. But how? Was she sent from Tibur by Emperor Hadrian, who was in Syria? That was impossible! It was impossible!

“Marcus, what are you doing?” suddenly a stern, imperious voice sounds.

The woman turned her head. Oh, gods, it was Empress Sabine! He recognized her thin lips, her strict dark eyes. Recognized the diamond necklace around his neck. She was like that in the pool when he saw her naked with her mother—strict and domineering.

“Marcus, what are you doing?” voice again, it was not Sabine, it's his mother Domitia Lucilla. He was with his mother! A cold sweat broke over Marcus—this dream, a terrible dream that made the soul shudder, he must one day stop.

Marcus opened his eyes and found himself in an empty dark bedroom. On the sides of the bed were braziers, spreading even heat around the room. The lamp on the table did not burn—before going to bed it was extinguished by a slave Antiochus, a big, lazy man. He was now sprawled near the door and snoring desperately loudly. Antiochus would not let anyone in to him, neither Benedicta nor his mother.

Thoughts gradually filled his head. There were a few days left until the Ides of March. After them there would be a fun celebration which was called Liberalia, and he would put on the white toga of an adult citizen, finally becoming an adult and making his own decisions, to do responsible actions. Not all solutions, of course, full adulthood would come only in twenty first year. But Baebius Longus and Fuscianus would envy him, not to mention Victorinus. They’d be adults in three years.



And yet what was the meaning of this dream? So wrong, disgusting and nasty. First Sabine, then his mother. Marcus tossed and turned, he was hot, he could not sleep, and he remembered the artist Diognetus. He, like Hadrian, taught himself to subordinate his feelings to himself, to manage them, to be able to look at himself from the outside. Well, he looked: a young man who had mastered the empress, and then his mother!

His face burned with shame, and he thought about how good it was that it was night, dark, and everyone was asleep. No need to explain why he wasn’t asleep, why his cheeks and forehead were red. He suddenly remembered that his mother has a book by Artemidorus from Ephesus, which she often looked into because it was called “Dream interpretation.” Mother discussed her dreams with him, with friends, with Regin, because dreams, as well as signs, the Romans used to unconditionally believe.

It was necessary to look into it, he decided, to make sure that nothing bad would happen.



In the morning, not enough sleep, sluggish, Marcus went to the tablinum, where along with important family documents were kept scrolls of books. That's how he found the dream book. What he needed was described by Artemidorus in the first part. He did not look for Sabina, but about his mother… Possess a mother from behind was not good, he read, which meant that the dreamer would turn away their mother, or reject their motherland, or would fail.

All of these, he was not categorically satisfied with; he did not want him to turn away from his mother, did not want to lose his homeland or something else, no less important. He was still a young man, although on the threshold of adulthood, it was too early for him to be alone.

But what about sleep?

There were not many people in the house, although the slaves had already gotten up and were making noise everywhere, carrying water, talking loudly. In the kitchen, the chef prepared breakfast and from there came the smell of charcoal. Marcus watched as this little curly Egyptian cooked pork porridge.

Marcus wanted to see his mother. For some reason, after a dream and prediction of a dream book, he had a fear that something would happen to his mother, and she would leave him. A stupid, strange thought that disturbed his heart.

In addition to the slaves, Marcus heard the voices of customers, coming to see Domitia Lucilla, get her benevolent look, and even better a few sesterces, which could be put into business.

Marcus suspected that many of them were rogues and not at all as unhappy, deceived by life, as they wanted to appear before his mother. They tried to cause pity with worn tunics, or a large family that was hard to feed, or other troubles sent by the gods. These worthless people would stand along the corridor and escort the hostess of the house—the generous owner of the brick factory, with the eyes of devoted dogs, a little sad and mournful.

He, Marcus, thought that clientele were useless and lazy parasites,[35 - Parasite (Greek) is a slacker. In Rome, poor citizens entertained the hosts at the table.] which would be nice to get rid of and he would probably do it in due course.

In order not to meet them, Marcus bypassed the atrium, triclinium, walking through the corridors to his mother's room. At the entrance, he held his breath—now he would see her, alive, healthy, still affectionate. She must be busy with the morning toilet.

He was looking into the room and saw the truth! Domitia Lucilla sat in front of a large silver mirror that reflected her face and shoulders quite well. Near it were three slaves—Didona, Melissa and Feoksena, young Egyptian girls. One held a round silver mirror in front of the lady, another curled her hair with hot tongs, and the third dealt with the face of Domitia. Feoksena rubbed into the forehead, cheeks, and neck of his mother an ointment derived from the litter of crocodiles, which bleached the skin, and prepared paint from burnt date bones to paint the eyelashes of the mistress.

“Marcus, why are you standing on the doorstep? Come in!” his mother observed. “Do you want something?”

The son blushed, remembering his prior night's sleep.

“I wanted to wish you a good morning, Mum. How did you sleep?”

“I slept wonderfully!”

Domitia did not turn her head, but Marcus noticed that she smiles faintly. Mother was in a good mood today.

“Have customers gathered?” she asked casually.

“As always!” Marcus shrugged. “They came again for the innings.”

“Well, who doesn't like sesterces—we have a lot of them. Speaking of money…”

The Domitia fell silent as Feoksena began rubbing the ointment, making circular movements with her palms across the mother's face. When she finished, Domitia continued.

“Perhaps your sister Cornificia is ripe for marriage. I found her a beautiful fiancе from a good Ummidius family—Gaius. The wedding must be next year when she grows up a little bit. I wanted to ask you about the will. We need to think about how to provide it with the means.”

“If she gets married, then I will give her the inheritance left from my father,” Marcus said judiciously, “I'll have enough of my great-grandfather's possessions. And you can bequeath your fortune to her, too, without mentioning me. Then Cornificia won't look poorer than Ummidius. I hear the Quadratus are a rich surname.

“Okay, I'll think about it,” Domitia agreed. “Do you know who I called to our family celebration on the occasion of your acceptance of toga virilis?”

“Emperor Hadrian?” Marcus joked.

But mother didn’t accept the joke.

“No,” she replied earnestly, “Hadrian is now in Syria, suppressing the Rebellion of the Jews. I invited Empress Sabine, who gives us the highest patronage, your aunt Faustina with Antoninus, Regin, and second great-grandfather, Annius Verus. Perhaps there will be more of my relatives from Narbonne Gaul. You've heard about them.”

“So much? I thought we were going to do a modest rite.”

“Oh, Marcus, it's already much more modest than I expected. But in Rome now cool, many of the respected people get sick or sit at home, warming their asses with the braziers, or have gone to warmer lands where they have villas.”

The slaves at this time finished the morning preparations and moved aside. A gray-haired slave appeared on the threshold of the room, looking after the house, his name was Decimus. Lucilla got him at one time from her deceased husband, and she kept him for herself, however, believing that she was not mistaken. Decimus was intelligent, partly educated—knew Latin writing, and by nature was quite calm.

“Domina, the customers have come together and want to pay their respects to you. In addition, the chef informed me that breakfast is already cooked.”

“It's beautiful!” Domitia responded, and Marcus pointed out, “Take the money for distribution! After breakfast, I'll go to your other aunt Annia, Ummidius Quadratus wife. We will talk to her about the marriage of our children in the near future.”

“Not so near future,” Marcus retorted. “As Cornficia grows up, a lot can change.”

“These things are not done hastily. You'll learn that. I mean, you'll understand how important it was to prepare yourself thoroughly for events like this in your life. And time? It flies fast. ‘Time takes away everything!’” she quoted her beloved Virgil, and turned to Decimus, “Let the nomenclator[36 - The Nomenclator (Latin) is a slave or freedman who during the walk called the names of the oncoming people.] be ready, he will go with me.”

“Why do you need a nomenclator, Mom?” Marcus was surprised. “Today it is cool, and it is unlikely that you will push the curtains of the palanquin to see those who come to meet.”

“You know your mother is naturally curious.”



Rome loved holidays, solemn processions, triumphs. There were many of them, for different tastes and frets, and almost all of them were connected with the Gods. Every step of the citizens of Rome from birth to death, accompanied by them, guarded, helped the genius living inside each person.

In March, only one holiday was celebrated by all—The Liberalia. It was important because the young men on this day removed the toga praetexta and dressed in toga virilis, as if replacing children's life with adulthood. However, it was seen as a simple matter, as if with a change of clothes, it was easy to change not the status, but the internal perception of the world. Marcus, brought up in conversations with Greek teachers, whose attitude was deeper and wider than the Romans, seemed strange.

His fellow tribesmen against the background of the Greeks looked more pragmatic, purposeful and material, which had its advantages in the conquest of other peoples. But these down-to-earth people were not known for the exuberant flight of poetic fantasy, which owned the people who gave such great poets as Homer. The Romans were infinitely far from the thoughtful reasoning of Aristotle and Plato, who created the philosophy of their civilization.

Liberalia were not only associated with the ritual of transition of young men into adulthood. For many, Lieber sounded almost like the word freedom,[37 - Libertas (Latin) – Freedom] though Lieber and Libera were just a married couple—a symbol of fertility and its strength. Therefore, the Romans loved this holiday, which allowed them to make funny obscenities and be slightly dissolved, for a short time avoiding the rigors and rituals of ordinary life. And, moreover, the importance of Liber was that he helped a man free himself from the seed during love games, and his wife Libera did the same for women.[38 - It was believed that women also secreted seed.]

Walking through the city with a large heavy Antiochus, Marcus looked at these cheerful crowds of people, slightly drunk, screaming, stretched on the face masks of wood bark and leaves, waving small phalluses made of flowers. Almost all of them without exception sang comic scraping songs and Marcus, unwittingly picked up by this whirlpool of fun, also sang along.

He sometimes liked to wander around Rome on such holidays, wrapping up, if it was winter or early spring, in a warm cloak, throwing a hood over his head. He liked to breathe the air of a free city and feel like a citizen of a universe named Rome. He liked to observe, because a leisurely, thoughtful contemplation was taught by Diognetus, but he had also been instructed that contemplation should be meaningful, leading to the right thoughts.

These drunk people in painted masks. Why did he look at them, what he wants to see, see under masks? Wouldn't it be better to give up thinking and get into a full-flowing human river, bubbling on narrow city streets and spilling wide, on the outskirts, like a spring Tiber during floods?

Wouldn't it be better to boldly approach a young freed woman with an indiscreet offer? Or embarrass the venerable matron with a cheeky look? And then brag about your courage in front of the Victorinus or Fuscianus? Because Baebius Longus and another friend of the plebeians Calenus, already boasted wins over women. Not over slaves, with which you can do anything, but over the free Romans.

A 14-year-old boy entering adulthood. Isn't that why he should celebrate such an important event? Adulthood was not only to change one set of clothes for another, to switch from a white toga with a red stripe to a fully white one. Adulthood was the ability to do things that were previously forbidden, it was to deny all prohibitions.

He thought like this, and suddenly his thoughts were embarrassing. The heady feeling of freedom, the permission of anything to the soul, gave courage to the depths of the heart, led to recklessness. He and Antiochus went further to the Aventine hill, where there was a temple of the goddess of fertility Ceres. That's where the sanctuary of Liber and Libera was.

Narrow streets, high bulk of brick insulae, from the entrance to which carries the smells of cooking food, urine and sewage. The walls of the houses were painted with all sorts of words, for the most part obscene, to which everyone was accustomed here. “Semporius yesterday inserted Sext's widow,” “Nicanor beats Checher's wife,” “Flor is a real stallion; he is not enough for five women,” “Girls, I traded you for men's ass.”

This was not the first time Marcus has read such coarse inscriptions coming from the depths of people's self-awareness. Of course, the simplicity of street humor was not in any comparison with the exquisite jokes of lawyers, philosophers or rhetoricians. She was closer to the Atellan farce and the mime, to the actors who played them, for example, to the well-known Marullus. Nevertheless, Marcus was never confused by the frank images inspired by Eros, crammed defiantly with huge phalluses.

He noticed that at the entrance to the houses on small chairs sat caretakers from retired military, in the past options[39 - Option (Latin Optio) is a centurion assistant.] or decurions.[40 - Decurion (Latin Decurio) is the leader of the ten-man cavalry unit in the Legion.] They collected rent for the owners, kept order. Usually these former fighters played with weighty sticks in their hands and looked unkindly at passers-by. But today they were disassembled by fun, and they did not look like sullen supervisors.

Noticing Marcus, one of these caretakers rose from his chair, and scornfully ignored the massive, clumsy Antiochus, who had warily stepped from behind the young patrician, saying, smiling:

“Dominus, does a woman want to.”

“Do prostitutes work during the day?” Marcus wondered, having heard about the experience of adult buddies.

“They always work, young dominus,” replied the caretaker, continuing to smile unpleasantly.

“Or maybe so I celebrate my new age?” returned to Marcus bold thoughts, which arose when he looked at the girls and women singing in the streets, at their pink cheeks and cheerful eyes, at their alluring bodies.

“We're going to the Libera sanctuary,” Antiochus interjected. In the cool air his voice sounded cracked, revealing a Greek accent. “The dominus doesn't have time now.”

“I think it will be up to the young master himself,” the caretaker said brazenly.

As he spoke, a mature, kind woman with fiery red-painted hair, a typical lupa,[41 - Lupa (Latin) is a wolf, harlot] peeked out of the entrance of the insulae. Prostitutes were often painted in such defiantly bright colors, walked red or blue-headed.

“You have a place in the Lupanar,” Antiochus observed, “you violate the law of Augustus, which prohibits the accepting of customers at home.”

“What are you, the lictor? Something unnoticed by your fasces,”[42 - Fasces is a bundle of bandaged bars, symbolizing official power.] echidna throws a woman, quickly looking around Marcus. “Augustus has long been a god, and the gods do not always descend to such little things. Oh, what a lovely boy! Come on, come on with me!” she invited Marcus.

But words were not limited. She grabbed it, and Marcus unwittingly noticed her old skin, dirty nails on her hands, felt the unpleasant smell of an unwashed body. He became disgusted, the desire to go did not arise, but the legs themselves obediently led after the woman on shabby wooden stairs, on the floors, at the ends of which there are large vats for sewage. Residents poured their excrement there every morning. This smell was disgusting, sickening, but Marcus, as if fascinated by something, went after the old prostitute. Behind puffed heavy Antiochus.

The woman, meanwhile, having received a client, and even such a sweet, clean boy, went a quick step and spoke loudly, she was in a good mood. It turned out that she was from Bithynia, from where was born Hadrian’s favorite Antinous. No, she didn't know Antinous, and in the town of Claudiopolis, where he was born, she was not, but she heard about him. Hadrian had raised many monuments to this unfortunate young man. Died in the color of years! What a grief for his mother!

She herself, and her name was Demetra, three boys and all attached—traded in the shops of their fathers. She tried for them, she collected a small capital, forced them to go to school. True, their teacher was strict, he beat them with a whip mercilessly for every fault. But they grew up obedient and attentive to her, to their mother, to the glory of the gods!

They didn't get to the top floor, where the prices for the rent weren't as big as the bottom. Demetra rented a room for two thousand sesterces a year. The situation in it, although not shone luxury, but seemed quite tolerable. Apparently, its owner enjoyed success with men, especially in his younger years.

In the corner was a large bed, which could fit a few adults, perhaps three or four. That's what Marcus thought. A couple of trunks set against the wall. The table on which there were two clay jugs, and a chair stood near the window. From there was a coolness—on the upper floors there was no glazing, there were only wooden shutters, out of shape from the damp and barely covered. They hardly let the daylight pass, and therefore the room was gloomy.

In such darkness it was difficult to see the drawings on the walls covered with ochre, but Marcus still considered the erotic scenes that Demetra ordered the artists tailored to her craft. On them men with huge phalluses, exceeding the size of their hands, copulating with women in various poses.

“Now, now, sweetheart!” Demetra said, deftly removing Marcus's warm heavy cloak, then the tunic. She, accustomed to all the whims of men, did not pay attention to the slave standing there. Who knows, maybe he was there to make sure that no one harmed his master? Or maybe the young master would want them to have her together, at the same time? She, of course, was ready for anything, but it would cost more.

However, Antiochus, as if understanding her thoughts, turned away and left the room.

“Oh, how white, tender your skin is!” Demetra examined his body, bringing her face closer to him, almost too close, drawing her fingertips on his back, shoulders, chest. Marcus tickled, and he felt a slight excitement. There was no heat in the room, and the roasting pan in the corner was out and it was cool.

“Now we'll see what you have here!” Demetra said with a laugh, lowering her hand below.

And now the dream repeated itself. In front of him on her knees there was a woman, he copulates with her and he was not disgusted by the smell of this body, nor the kind of flabby, saggy skin of the prostitute. Perhaps now she would turn her head, and he would see the face of Empress Sabina. Or his mother’s. No, it shouldn't happen again! The woman turned her head, and he saw Demetra. Of course! It was Demetra, there could be no other.

He was covered with intense excitement, he convulsively jerked, beating on her body and almost lost his head, falling against her back. “Thank the gods, it's a prostitute!”—swept through his head, which was so clear, empty and lonely that it seemed as if he was hovering above the ground in the blue over the mountain ranges of the Alps or over the vast expanses of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

No, it didn't happen! No Demetra, no body, no horrible, shameful coitus. It never happened. “It's a dream,” he decided. “I swear to Venus, I am a virgin and will remain for him until the wedding! Until the gods find me a wife.”

The woman, meanwhile, was already dressed, and now she quickly and deftly helped to dress Marcus. She took his money and looked affectionately into his eyes.

“Come to me again, my boy. I'm Demetra from the fifth district of Hill Caelian. Remember that?”




The Jewish War




Emperor Hadrian spent the whole spring and summer in the East, mostly in Athens.

Galatia and Cilicia, Egypt and Judea. He didn't like Asia very much. Screaming, self-serving, impudent peoples, people in whom it was difficult to find the inherent Hellenic susceptibility to the sublime and graceful, irritated Caesar.

Being in the Arabian sands or mountains of Cappadocia, in the sun-dried city of Alexandria, among the olive groves of Phoenicia, he often turned his gaze towards Greece, where the clouds flowing through the blue sky. There, above the top of Olympus, where the majestic gods lived, these clouds were showered with warm rain, mitigating the harshness of the celestials. There was ready to be shed and his heart, the heart of the Emperor of Rome, if he was on the ancient land of Hellas.

But circumstances prevented the reunion of Hadrian's soul with the divine and unique Greek aura. All the fault was Judea, unruly and persistent in their delusions, which from the point of view of Rome were seen as barbaric and demanding eradication.

It all started two, maybe three years ago. In his quest to impose Greek culture on the Jews, Hadrian may have gone too far. He passed a law banning castration, unwittingly affecting Jews who were no longer allowed to circumcise. Unfortunately, this was one of the most important rites of their religion.

Then he, Hadrian, decided to rename Jerusalem, the holiest city for every Jew, to Aelia Capitolina, because it seemed that its importance after the defeat of the Titus rebellion in these lands significantly decreased. The city, as it seemed to Hadrian, had already lost the original importance of the religious center of all Judea and on the Temple Mount he intended to build the sanctuary of Jupiter Capitol.

The members of Hadrian's council also did not object to such measures, neither the prefect of Rome Regin, nor the prefect of the Pretoria Turbo, nor the immediate entourage of the emperor, which included the famous lawyers Publius Celsus, Salvius Julianus, Neracius Priscus. Even his secretary, Avidius Heliodorus, a native of Syria, who was of close origin to the peoples of Asia and he found no arguments against. Maybe he lied since the Syrians have always acted as antagonists of the Jews.

Therefore, having received approval from all sides, on the wave of fame and success of his brilliant reign, Hadrian did not think about the consequences.

But how can one predict what comes to the minds of fanatics of faith? After all, the divine Titus almost sixty years ago seemed to have destroyed the sprouts of resistance forever. However, the deafly hidden and dangerous discontent lurking in the bowels of the people of Judea had to sooner or later break out, like lava from Vesuvius.

The Jews were just waiting for their messiah, predicted in the Old Testament, and such a messiah appeared. Hadrian was informed that his name was Varkoheba,[43 - Simon Bar-Kohba was the leader of the Jewish uprising in AD 131-135.] which meant “Son of the Star,” and Varkoheba called himself the prince of Israel. However, the governor of Tineius Rufus reported that the messiah has another nickname—Ben-Koziwa, the son of lies. But there was little trust in Rufus.

Prefect of the Pretoria Turbo, to which the service of the frumentarii[44 - The frumentarii, at first petty-officers connected with the conveyance of military dispatches. Many of them were then attached to the imperial service as a sort of secret police.] was subordinate, the collectors of human secrets, reported that the viceroy did not behave quite well, and the cup of patience of the Jews was overflowed with Rufus’ harassment of a newlywed. It was as if he had corrupted a few women.

This Rufus had yet to be dealt with.



Now, after four years of bloody war, in which the Romans lost many experienced warriors, several legions, Hadrian sat in front of the city of Betar on a white horse in armor, a purple cloak—a symbol of imperial power, fluttered behind his back. He didn't usually have a helmet, because he never covered his head, neither in winter nor in summer. He was surrounded by a small retinue.

The Augustus sun burned brightly in the sky, warming the air, gray stones, distant mountains. There was a severe heat, which happened in these places in early Augustus, and Hadrian felt her suffocating, squeezing his lungs. He was afraid that his nose would start to bleed.

Covering his eyes with his palm from the blinding light, he looked at the last stronghold of the Jewish resistance, the fortress of Betar. In front of him was an impressive sight worthy of the artist's brush; in the middle of small hills, scorched by the southern sun, gray-yellow stones, faded green trees, lay a Jewish fortress, which survived a long siege, but was eventually captured thanks to the unexpected help of the Samaritans. When the Roman legions, exhausted by the long and barren siege, were about to retreat, the Samaritans came to the rescue and helped to find out the secret passage into the fortress.

Hadrian carefully considered the high gloomy walls, partially punctured by battering rams and destroyed by powerful catapults, a long ditch stretching along them, filled with the corpses of legionnaires. They lay in the sun-shining armor, and the red cloaks covered many, as if preparing for a funeral fire. Black smoke of fires, engaged in several places, rose into the sky above the fortress.

Roman troops entered Betar only a few hours ago on the ninth day of the Ava[45 - AD August 4, 135.] on the Jewish calendar. Loud wails of murdered male-defenders were heard from the city and their bodies, similar to dead birds falling from the ruined nests, were strewn from the city. There were laments of women who were dragged by the victors. Behind the walls of the city rattled deaf blows, as if someone was banging on a huge drum.

Terrified residents appeared from the broken gates, with men, women, children, exhausted and dirty, with difficulty moving their legs. They were led by guards, separated by each cohort. Soon the Jews would be turned into slaves, into a living commodity. Rich prey!

It had been hard lately. The state needed almost five hundred thousand slaves annually, but the conquests ended, and the pirates captured at sea could not cover all the needs. The last emperor to satisfy the needs of the state was Trajan, who captured a large extraction in Dacia. And now, he, Hadrian, would help Rome.

Among other things, he would also teach the Jews a lesson, an order had already been given to wipe out almost a thousand settlements in Judea, about fifty fortresses. Many would be executed and crucified. He would pour blood on this scorched, stingy earth, paint its sky in red in accordance with his preferences, as an artist who creates an epic canvas. Blood and earth, what could be more epic? His work would be no worse than The AeneidVirgil—just as majestic and memorable.

Meanwhile, the crowd of captive Jews was approaching. They were being pushed viciously, driven by guards, which was causing screams and noise. Jews were being taken to the markets of Terebinth, in Gaza City, some of them would be sent to Egypt. There were so many of them, captured today and captured earlier, that the prices of slaves had already fallen and equaled the cost of horses.

“Where is the new Jewish ruler, this despicable dog?” Hadrian asked his confidants. “I want to see him.”

“Caesar, my men are looking for Varcoheba!” the viceroy, Tineius Rufus, sitting on a horse just behind the emperor, cast his voice. He was in gilded lats, which gleamed in the sun, discharged like a peacock. The conversation allowed him to move forward a little bit, so as not to force Caesar to turn around.

“I wish this robber to be punished!” Hadrian said firmly, turning his eyes to Rufus. “You've served me well, Quint! It remains for you to be commended for your devotion.”

A benevolent smile touched his lips; however, it quickly melted in the graying beard and Tineius Rufus was lost in guesses how he would be thanked by the emperor. Would he give new lands? Money? Or would he let him go next to him during a triumph in the capital??

He felt the excitement, a certain rise, because, after all, they had achieved victory in this grueling and bloody battle, in a long war. He had to retreat a lot and surrender to the Jews one fortress after another, but now in the end, Rome won! Of course, it was not a very good impression that overshadows the upcoming triumph. The Jews accused him, Tineius Rufus, in their troubles, as if he had ploughed their holy Temple Mount in Jerusalem and was going to put there a temple to Jupiter Capitol together with a huge statue of Emperor Hadrian. However, he, Tineius Rufus only followed the instructions of the princeps. Have discipline and diligence ever been blamed?

Still the Jews spoke of his voluptuousness, compared with the lascivious Assyrian Holofernes molested by the beautiful Judith. No, he, Tineius Rufus, was no more lustful than all the other men in power.

But Caesar's smile… Rufus didn't think it was kind.



Two horsemen left the gates of the ruined fortress at that time and rushed to the emperor at full speed. The commander of the legions, Julius Severus, and the legate, Titus Matenianus, who recently received triumphant clothes for the victory.

As the Governor of Rufus seemed to be ineffective in the military field, Hadrian had to bring to the war Julius Severus as the most experienced of the generals. He was summoned from Britain, and thanks to his tactics, first managed to oust the rebels from major cities, and then disperse them through the mountains and caves.

“Great Caesar, we brought the head of Varkoheba,” exclaimed Julius Severus, and raised the blood-stained bag with a theatrical gesture, in getting it from the saddle. Then he uncovered it. On the ground rolled the severed head of a black-haired bearded man, whose eyes were gouged out, his mouth tightly compressed.

Hadrian bent down in the saddle, looking at all that was left of the defeated enemy.

“So you are, prince of Israel,” he said calmly enough, as if he did not want to express much interest. On the other hand, why should he show it? Hadrian saw many defeated enemies, crucified on crosses, with severed heads, with fractured limbs, because under Emperor Trajan had to fight everywhere.

“Where is the body of the rebel himself?” someone asked behind the Princep’s back.

It was relatively not old, he was not yet thirty-five, the Senate envoy Lucius Ceionius Commodus. The Senate reported that it would not mind if Hadrian, in honor of the victory over Judea, declared his triumph and celebrated the event in Rome.

Hadrian was looking at Ceionius.

He had long known his family from Tibur, where villa Ceionius was relatively close to the residence of the princeps. He also knew Commodus's mother Plavtia, who was a hot thing. She had gone through three husbands. The first, the father of Ceionius, Hadrian knew quite well, and he respected him. Thanks to his father a few years ago, his son was given the post of pretor, a post insignificant, but responsible in terms of the beginning of his career. Then, after the death of his father, the young Lucius began to entrust more important affairs.

This had already been facilitated by Plavtia, a seductive woman who tried to charm him, Hadrian. He was then young, strong, charming, entering the court of Trajan and with his mother Ceionius they could have a love affair, all contributed to this. But the Emperor's wife Plotina already picked him as Vibia Sabina's bride, and he could not embark on the waves of love joys with the married matron. Although, evil tongues claimed that Ceionius Commodus was his son.

Hadrian looked again at the young man who, under certain circumstances, could have been his son. Curly hair, high height, amiable smile, pleasant speech of an educated man who knows Hellenic and Roman literature. Everything about him was like Hadrian. This Ceionius was also a connoisseur of cooking, it was he who invented Tetrapharmakon—a dish so loved by the emperor.

But a low forehead, a cheerful emptiness in the eyes and primitive reasoning. No, this Ceionius Commodus was superficial, did not have the depth of reason and the breadth of views inherent in him, Hadrian.

“Yes, where is his body, Severus?” the emperor supported Lucius Ceionius. “Of course, there is enough head, but still, I would like to look at it completely.”

“Great Caesar, we found a body in one of the caves, not far from here. The rebel tried to hide with his companions, but he was discovered by us. Some of them we killed, the rest captured. They say that among the prisoners was a Jewish interpreter of the laws of Judaism, a priest. His name is Akiva. Spies say that he is one of the instigators of the uprising against Rome.”

“Akiva?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes,” the legate Matenianus confirmed. “The spies told us that this Akiva had been proclaimed the messiah king of Varkoheba. He also set out on the road in Judea and preached enmity to Rome, called for rebellion, collected money.”

“The Jews in this war have given us fierce resistance,” Hadrian said wistfully. “Even the divine Titus did not have to face such a pervasive and desperate struggle. Samaria, Galilee, Golan and Ashkelon. Only in Caesarea was the fire of rebellion weak. They say it's thanks to the Christians whom Varkoheba forced to give up his faith and join the rebels. What happened, what happened to these people?”

“I've already reported to the princeps that fanatics like Akiva contributed to the war,” intervened in the conversation of governor Rufus. He was hot, his face glistened with sweat. “Religion is what motivated the Jews to revolt.”

Hadrian this time looked distasteful of his governor and turned to the commander Severus.

“Apparently, the Jews felt insignificant punishment to which they were subjected to the divine Titus and the price must now be much greater. As Virgil wrote, ‘You can't get used to wars like this!’[46 - Virgil, The Aeneid, book 6, Publishing House of Fiction, Moscow, 1971, p.240] Jews must be scattered around the world, and then their harmful religion will disappear.”

“The laws of Rome,” thought Hadrian, “were wiser than the Jews, and our legions were stronger than their detachments. And in general, the people of Rome could become greater and mightier, because he learned from others. We absorbed the culture of Greece and Egypt, joined their gods and were protected in all designs and deeds. Zeus and Hera, Jupiter and Juno, Cybele and Myrtle. What can compare to their power? What can a Jewish god? After all, he is alone, just like Christians. And that's because they're weak.”

“Where's the cave? I want to see a defeated enemy,” Hadrian said, and then he touched the horse.

“Caesar, there are still enemies roaming. Our legionnaires didn't catch everyone. It's not safe!” the Severus retorted.

“Nothing,” Hadrian looked back at the retinue, “I'm accompanied by experienced warriors. Here, for example, is our Rufus. He's brave enough to hit the pathetic Jews if they get caught on the road. Isn't that true, governor?”

“Of course, emperor!” Tineius Rufus, who did not expect Hadrian to address him, mingled.

“If you show your back to the Jews for three years, then it is necessary once to see the enemy face,” Hadrian added, his eyes flashing. “Especially after the defeat of the enemy, when nothing is in danger. Don't you think, dear Quintus?”

“I…” the governor began, but the exasperated emperor did not listen to him, he went forward and next to him attached legates Severus with Matenianus to show the way.

“I think you've fallen out of favor, Tineius,” remarked the passing Ceionius Commodus, who did not like the governor for his arrogance.

Once in Rome, the arrogant Rufus, who was transported in palanquin through the narrow streets of the city, ordered the slaves—high and strong Cappadocian, that they did not give way to anyone. And when they came to meet the stretcher with Commodus, they rudely pushed his slaves aside. Ceionius noticed how the curtain on the palanquin moved, the cold, arrogant face of the Syrian governor looked out from behind it.

Now this face was different; Rufus lost his self-confidence and turned into a pathetic subject from whom everyone turned their backs.



The cave where Hadrian entered, accompanied by legats, retinue, and guards was remarkably quiet. Screams and scolding, the wails of the vanquished, black smoke in the sky and the smell of burning, all of it remained there, behind the walls. Here it was cool, the damp walls were unevenly illuminated by burning torches, but it was light enough to cover the whole cave.

The Emperor noticed several corpses of Jews lying on the side. In the far half-dark corner, apart from all, lay another body. He came closer. A retinue crowded behind; in a small space under the low arches was heard the noisy breathing of people.

On the stones lay a decapitated man in a dirty, blood-stained tunic. He was of short stature, raised fabric exposed short hairy legs with bare feet. There were no shoes on the former prince of Israel. Perhaps, the thieves have already visited and brought out everything that has turned under his arm.

“This is Varkoheba, great Caesar,” said Julius Severus, his voice sounding blankly under the arches of the cave.

The wind blew from behind, shadows swirling from the flame of torches.

“Who goes there?” Hadrian asked, but there was no answer.

Pushing the crowd, a tall centurion from the Fifth Macedonian Legion stepped forward. He led behind him a frail, ragged old man with gray side curls (https://translate.academic.ru/side%20curls/ru/en/) and a disheveled beard. His hands were tied with a leather belt, which usually belted the tunic.

“Caesar, I have ordered to bring Akiva, a priest of the Jews. We've already talked about it,” Matenianus explained.

“Oh, yes, this rebel!”

The Emperor looked curiously at the face of a man exhausted by the long siege stained with mud and soot, and stingingly asked:

“What old man, your god, your Yahweh, has not helped you?”

But Akiva did not answer, he looked down under his feet, and his lips moved as if uttering the words of prayer. Or maybe he prayed to his god, whose name Jews could not say out loud. But Hadrian could speak because he was not a Jew.

Having lost interest in Akiva, Hadrian returned to the murdered Varkoheba. Looking closely, he saw something unusual on the rebel's body, where the neck was supposed to be, something was moving, it seemed that the dead man's shoulders were rising, as if the leader of the rebels had not yet died, and just put his head to the body as it comes to life. For a moment, Hadrian was terrified.

“Fire here!” he shouted.

The legionnaire ran up with a torch, and now everyone saw that the shoulders of Varkoheba were enveloped by a large viper, as light yellow, in dark spots, as the surrounding walls and stones under their feet.

“Look!” Severus exclaimed. “He is the messenger of their god. The Jewish god himself killed him, punishing him for deceit and treachery.”

The old man muttered something barely audible.

“What are you saying?” Hadrian turned to him and said, “Translate someone.”

One of the Syrians who guarding the emperor reported, “He says that God did not kill Varcoheba, he came for his soul, as a righteous man's soul, to place it in the treasury of the throne of glory.”

Hadrian frowned.

“Does God want to take this man’s soul to heaven? Then chop off the head of this snake! Rufus,” he found with his eyes among the retinue the figure of the viceroy, “Rufus, come here! You trust the great honor of defeating the messenger of the Jewish god.”

Before Rufus immediately parted, and he had to come forward. Near Varcoheba’s body, the governor stopped, hesitantly drew a sword from its scabbard, and began fussily poking at the head of the viper. The snake hissed menacingly, sliding from the body of the murdered, but the governor still could not get into her small flat head with a forked tongue. It seemed that horror shackled him, it was one thing to anger your gods, whom you can cajole by making a rich sacrifice to them, and another thing was a stranger, an unknown god. He, Tineius Rufus, did not know what sacrifices this Yahweh received. And would he accept from him?

“How long are you going to practice, Quintus? We're tired,” sneered Hadrian, who was amused by the squirming figure of the viceroy standing on half-bent legs.

The old man again muttered something in a stubborn, loud voice, and without waiting for the emperor's question, the Syrian translated it.

“He says that God will punish the one who will kill this snake.”

The remark of the recalcitrant rebel angered Hadrian, and he, a mighty, like the majestic monumental sculpture of Trajan, standing on the Forum, hung over the puny old man.

“I alone can punish here and no one else! Remember!”

In the cave there was silence, which was broken only by Rufus's grunt. Ceionius Commodus, who had been on the sidelines all this time, decided to intervene.

“Great Caesar, let me fight the Jewish messenger!”

Grim, with angrily sparkling eyes, Hadrian waved his hand and Commodus, coming up to the snake, deftly cut off her head. After this scene, the emperor addressed Akiva.

“You will be executed, old man, by a terrible execution.”

“Talking to God is not afraid of cruelty,” he replied detachedly.

“Proud! You don't have to talk to the gods, you have to ask the gods and listen to what they're talking about.”

Hadrian wrapped himself in his purple cloak, as if an unbearable, deadly cold pierced his body and went to the exit from the musty cave, to the hot sun, to the fresh air, even if it was saturated with the smoke of war, to those pleasant and elegant things that were waiting for him to return to Athens.

On the way out he stopped for a moment, saying without turning around.

“Send the legions to the Dead Sea, where the last rebels remain. And from this Jew, remove the skin from the living!”




Sabina's letter




“… You did a little reckless, in my opinion, rekindled the decrepit Servianus with conversations about the heir. What's the point? We've talked about it. Your successor should be Marcus Verissimus, as you call him…

In the meantime, Servianus goes to the homes of patricians and convinces that everything was decided. He is so pleased, this old peacock, that it becomes funny in the eyes of many when he solemnly starts praising you. It is as if the times of the Republic have come to life at the same time as Cato the Elder and Scipio…

By the way, his grandson Fusсus behaves defiantly. In the Circus, on horse races, he went up to Marcus and began to laugh at him, to claim that the emperor had turned his back on him, and left his graces to others. I think you'd be more likely to know about the conversations that go on around Fusсus. He bragged about making up your horoscope and supposedly showing the date of your death. I don't remember exactly, but it's heard that the moon in Aquarius will get into the quart to Saturn, which will be devastating for you. I don't understand anything about it, but you love horoscopes, and you probably know what you're talking about. So, Fusсus says you'll live sixty-one years and ten months, and death will be in November ides.”[47 - November 13, 137]

Hadrian at first just ran through the eyes of this letter, which seemed to him a set of empty city gossip. He was never particularly impressed with Sabina's mind, considering her an ordinary woman, undistinguished, though moderately educated. Despite the story with Antinous and the almost complete break, Sabina sometimes under the mood allowed herself to share impressions about the high life of the court in his absence. Now, apparently, she had such a desire.

He reread the letter more slowly. Gradually the meaning of the last lines began to reach him, and deaf fury took hold of his heart. Servianus and Fuscus. It was he who chose them among the rest, trusted them, and the confidence of the emperor was serious, they cannot be scattered as cheap copper asses[48 - There's a copper coin in Rome.] on the morning exit to customers. Trust was a great jewel to be cherished more simply than diamonds from thieves.

Servianus and Fuscus were the last of his close relatives, no others left. But what a folly, to walk among the senators and spread about his imperial plans! What a stupid thing to do! No, they had not passed the test, and it did not matter who sent it down—gods or emperor!

In addition to the horoscope, there must be something that irrevocably convinces in the correctness of the final choice. For Hadrian, it was always a test to which he subjected his entourage, various tests, invented by himself. Some of them passed with ease, as for example, Marcus. A boy who did not see life and, seemingly, was much inferior to experienced Servianus and ambitious Fuscus. But he withstood them when he walked around Rome with the merry and embattled priests of the Salii, though he was very young, did not yield to carnal temptations when he, Hadrian, sent young slaves to him.

Of course, he still had a lot of work to do to achieve perfection like that of Hadrian himself. But he had the makings and had the main thing—effort, tact and restraint, as if Verissimus had already studied the fashionable philosophy of stoics. However, Marcus was still engaged with grammars, he did not even approach rhetoric.

Benedicta, this girl slave, confessed to Hadrian that Marcus still could not restrain himself at the very end of the love game, but it meant nothing. It was fixable. He would take him in hand and completely inseparably will him his own emotions.

And Servianus? And Fuscus? Oh Gods, how ordinary they are, as near as primitive as sharks among a pack of predatory sharks! But the rank of the great pontiff, princeps, Augustus, above all earthly, above the base passions, above the amphibian’s creatures? The Emperor was a living god who would cross into heaven with death and join the Assembly of other gods. And how could Fuscus become a god after all, after saying such words about him, Hadrian?

The Emperor felt his nose swell, held his hand over his arms above his upper lip, and saw that his fingers were painted red. Here again. All because he was worried, angry, he was bleeding again. When he subdued the rebellious Jews, shed rivers of their blood, he felt good, not a single bleed, not a single seizure. It was as if the gods, always hungry for sacrifice, needed any blood, and instead of his own, he gave them someone else's.

Now, after returning to Athens, his wife's letter was found, and everything turned out to be different. Taking a handkerchief and putting it to his nose, Hadrian lay down on the bed, threw his head.

He suddenly remembered Ceionius Commodus. Cheerful, executive, brave young man, though weak in intellect. How quickly and deftly he dealt with the snake, there, in the cave under Betar! And he was not afraid of this Jewish god with a funny name, not in the example of the former viceroy Tineius Rufus, who was shaking with fear. Among other things, Ceionius did not have such ambitions, burning the soul, as Fuscus, which was an undoubted plus. He would be quite a harmless ruler, which the Senate would undoubtedly like.

As for Marcus, Marcus Verissimus…

The emperor pondered. He would bide his time, because he had high hopes and, if the stars unfolded in the sky favorably, he would still be waiting for the purple cloak of the princeps. If not, he would become a good assistant to Ceionius Commodus, and then to his young son Lucius.



After reading the letter, Hadrian instructed the secretary Heliodorus to summon Ceionius from Rome.

“My dear Ceionius,” he said, approaching the guest, “I have decided to appoint you as consul for the following year, along with Sexton Vettulenus.”

“I am grateful, great Caesar,” said Ceionius in surprise, who did not expect Hadrian to extend his favor to him. The emperor, like every ruler, had long formed a circle of close people, favorites, who received unlimited favors. Getting into their number seemed impossible, especially for young Nobilis. It was only to wait patiently for the hour when the empire would be led by their peers and attract peers to rule the great country.

“But why do I deserve such mercy?” he asked.

“I come from the public interest and believe that you are worthy of the consular rank. You performed well in Judea. Also, the best opinion of you is prefect Regin and many senators. And this is only the first step.”

“What's the second one consul?”

“You'll know everything, Ceionius, when the time comes. But I have one condition. I want your daughter Fabia to be engaged to Marcus Verus. He has a great inheritance from Annius, from his father and great-grandfather, and it will be a good marriage. Let your two glorious families be born, so that the glory of Rome will not fade with our death. We're all mortal, aren't we?”

He looked into the cheerful, expressionless eyes of Ceionius and thought that he had made a good choice. The Commodus would be the fa?ade of the upcoming reign, festive, brilliant, admirable, and Marcus would be the real ruler behind him.




The Circus Maximus




A few months after the beginning of the consulate of Ceionius Commodus, when spring was already well, and the bright sun warmed the Italian land not yet hot, but palpable warmth, Rome, after a cold and windy winter, started living a normal life. Festivities flowed endlessly dedicated to the gods, a variety of games and festivals. Huge population of the city- nobility, freedmen, slaves, all indulged in unrestrained entertainment, which abundantly regaled eternal Rome.

At the opening of the horse racing season, Marcus and his mother, as well as their relative, Faustina Sr., invited the new consul Ceionius Commodus in May. It happened after Marcus's engagement to his daughter Fabia, and after the Latin Festival, during which Marcus was appointed prefect of the city—this post was honorable and did not give any special advantages, but it allowed Ceionius to distinguish a new relative.

The engagement itself was carried out in a solemn atmosphere, in the presence of relatives on both sides. Marcus then first saw Fabia, a small, anemic, quiet girl who didn't seem to understand what was going on. Probably, she was just torn away from the dolls, because she was a few years younger than Marcus, who in February turned fifteen.

Marcus's great-grandfather Catilius Regin, solemn in white toga, came forward and addressed Ceionius Commodus with the traditional question, “Do you promise, Ceionius, to give Fabia to Marcus for marriage.” Marcus noticed how his mother's eyes were moistened—Domitia was standing next to her great-grandfather.

“I promise!” replied Commodus, and Marcus put on an iron ring, simple, unadorned on the girl's hand, simultaneously noticing that her palm was as cold as ice. He did not know either Fabia or her father, but the custom allowed him to wait a few years before the wedding, and therefore Marcus treated the event quite calmly. If it was Hadrian's will, that was the way it would be.



Sitting in a Great Circus near his mother, Marcus saw on a vast human sea surrounding him. The first rows were entirely white, for at the races from noble people were required to be only in toga. Today Marcus was also in white, because a year ago he had already received a toga of masculinity. Above them, on the higher tiers sat commoners in a bright and colorful outfit. This human sea was noisy, rustle, buzzing, waiting for the beginning of races, and a beautiful sunny day, which promised to be hot, was in full swing. Upstairs, on specially stretched cables, as hard-working ants crawled slaves, unwrapping fabric, which should create a shadow from the scorching rays of the celestial luminary.

In the Great Circus, where horse races were held, more than a hundred thousand spectators were placed. It was located in the valley between Aventine and Palatine, had three tiers of seats and was surrounded by a high wall. For a few dozen, if not a hundred years, the building of the Circus has changed more than once. It was rebuilt by Octavian and restored by Trajan after the fire. Emperor Claudius ordered marble laid in the horse stalls. The distance-limiting pointers, around which the charioteers made their turn in the four-horses-race, turned from stone to gold.

Horse races have long aroused the interest of the city's residents.

They saw frantically galloping horses with sweat-sloping sides, which were skillfully driven by muscular, strong men. They were captured by the accompanying passion and risk, sometimes deadly, as the charioteers often flew on turns right under the hooves of other people's horses. Finally, the strongest impression was made by the charioteers themselves, who could in certain circumstances become heroes of Rome, and they were them when they received the wreath of the winner and left the Circus at the gate, similar to the triumphal arch. All this led the audience to go wild.

Men rated the thoroughbred horses based on quickness, admired the ability of riders to deftly manage with heavy quadrigas. And women kept their eyes on the charioteers, who risked everything to become winners and earn a triumphal wreath. Their blood, their death, their victory was so exciting and exhilarating that many of the matrons and unmarried women were inclined to have an affair with these intrepid, daring people.

Cheering for the people’s favorites was easy, it was only necessary to choose one of the colors of the tunics of the rider, in which they carried on quadrigas past the stands. At first there were two colors: red and white. Then green and blue were added. Fans divided Rome into factions, forcing citizens to argue to hoarseness and often leading to clashes.

Emperors also did not shy away from horse races. They say Nero was a supporter of the Greens, and Octavian liked white.



A traditional ceremony had already taken place, which was led by the consul Ceionius. He marched in a purple toga embroidered with palm branches, above his head, a state slave carried a golden oak wreath. Around him were numerous clients and relatives, in the middle of which Marcus noticed his future wife, Fabia, and her younger brother, Lucius. They were used to such ceremonies and kept quiet and were not as frightened by large crowds of children shyly clinging to their parents. The procession was called pomp, and according to the established custom took place before each race.

But here the tedious pomp ended, Ceionius took his place over the gates, releasing quadrigas. Meanwhile, special wagons drove through the arena, from where slaves poured water from barrels and scattered everywhere sand, so that the eyes and nostrils of horses were not clogged during the race. Marcus noticed that the water was not simple, but saffron. The water gave pleasure to the floral sweet smell of the senators sitting in the front seats, almost short of reaching the upper rows. Really, why would they? Plebs will cost!

Everyone was waiting for the sign of Ceionius, allowing chariots to take their seats at the start, but the consul somehow hesitated, causing a disgruntled murmur of the crowd.

“I heard that Geminas—favorite of Ceionius is participating in the races,” said Faustina of the mother of Marcus Domitia. He is from the Green Party.”

Faustina the eldest was excited today; she looked with interest at the rows, where the audience of her circle—notable patricians, their wives, people who once held the posts of magistrates and former consuls.[49 - Consulars are persons who have held consuls’ positions.] Sometimes she nodded to acquaintances, sometimes, for the most part men, shot flirtatiously smiles. Today, Faustina was alone. Her husband Titus Antoninus did not like mass spectacles. A devotee of calm and silence, he retired to Lanuvia, where he had a large farm estate, to indulge there the joys of village life.

Soon, all found out the reason for the hitch with the start of the race. Vibia Sabina appeared in the imperial box and the whole Circus stood up to greet her.

“I didn't know Sabine was going to be there,” Faustina said. “They said she's been unwell lately.”

“Yes, she has terrible headaches,” Domitia confirmed. “We don't see each other very often now, but thank the gods, it still gives us protection at court.”

Marcus looked at the imperial lodge and saw Hadrian's lonely wife. From afar he could not see her face, but from the figure of Sabina, as it seemed to him, there was a deep sadness. She was alone, without Hadrian, cold and motionless, like the celestial Juno in the temple, for which there are no human squabbles, hopes, and experiences. Only clouds, only the sky, only the sun. And he, Marcus, was sitting among people, alive, noisy, and restless. It's easy to get lost in this gathering, but it didn't feel lonely. They act as one—the crowd and he, and Sabina apart from them.

But he saw her a year ago, when she was swimming naked with Domitia. She had not yet an old body, she had elastic breasts, a flat, taut belly and there were two Nubian slaves, always ready to serve. She was still alive, not of marble as she was now.

“Is it really power which makes people so cold and lonely? No, it's not for me! I don't want to be like her,” Marcus thought, “I don't want to sit alone in the imperial box, when there are so many earthly joys and pleasures around. And all life lies ahead.”

“As I heard, Sabine didn't like the emperor's choice very much,” Faustina continued. “I'm talking about Commodus. We all hoped that Hadrian would stop at our Marcus, but for some reason, he appointed Ceionius to his son. She didn't tell you the reason?”

“No, my darling!” Domitia replied. “But it's Augustus's decision. We're going to have to be content with Marcus being part of the Ceionius family. After getting engaged, he often invites Marcus to himself, wants to get to know each other closer.”

“Closer?” Faustina snorted derisively. “I'm afraid that this dandy and reveler Commodus can pass on bad habits to Marcus. Ceionius always has Ovid lying on the bed with his “Science of Love,”[50 - The poem of the Roman poet Ovid in 3 books was considered indecent.] and he often quotes him to the place and out of place.”

“Commodus probably wants to impress. But how do you know everything?”

Faustina grinned pointedly. “I've been to his house. But there's nothing between us.”

“Knowing you, I would be surprised,” Domitia could not resist the stinging remark.

“No, I was with another man. What's the big deal? You can't blame me for bad behavior. My Titus has one boredom. Only talk about the harvest, and the price of grain, and about the drought. But I'm not old enough to lock up with him in Lanuvia.”

“But what about Titus, will he ever know?”

“He's already guessing. But it's forgiving. He is so generous, my Antoninus, that's why I don't divorce him like some matrons who have swapped several husbands. Have you heard of Calpurnia? She already has a fifth husband. But I haven't told you yet about Ceionius. So, his wife Avidia on her reproaches of infidelity, he says that the wife is a symbol of dignity, not an object for pleasure.”

“Pretty stupid excuse,” Domitia shrugged. “If I were Avidia, I would definitely divorce.”

“You're too strict a rule, so men bypass you.”

At this time, Ceionius from his seat finally threw a white handkerchief into the arena, and the races began. Six chariots, raising the sand, rushed in a circle around a long wall, with sculptures placed on it. The audience began to shout furiously, cheering the brave riders. Faustina also screamed, pointing her hand at the charioteer in a blue tunic. It was her quadriga, which was run by slave Agaclytus.

Heading the race was Green. As Marcus understood from Faustina's explanations, it was Geminas, a man who belonged to Ceionius. Commodus himself also shouted loudly from his seat, as well as his children sitting next to him—Fabia and Lucius. Unsatisfied wife Avidia screamed furiously, and her cry seemed to Marcus to look like a tantrum.

The conversation between his aunt and mother, which he unwittingly witnessed, made him look at the woman. She was short in stature with a pretty face. A scarf is put on her head, her hands are hung with gold bracelets, glistening dimly in the sun. She showed Ceionius on a charioteer in green and said something loudly.

For a while, Geminas led the race. They swept a few laps, and already six balls removed a special slave, indicating that the final seventh round remained. Suddenly, Agaclytus' horses raced like madmen, and he almost overtook the leader. The fans seemed to go crazy. Faustina jumped up. Clutching Marcus's shoulder painfully, so as not to fall, she wailed, stomping her feet and swearing rudely, like some proletarian from the poor quarters of Rome.

“Go ahead, go, go Agaсlet!” she screamed loudly. “Go! Go! Oh, lazy cattle!”

Having visited horse racing before, Marcus was not surprised by the behavior of his aunt, such she was, his relative was passionate, wayward, and frivolous.

Meanwhile, Agaclytus matched Geminas, and they rushed side by side, grinning their teeth, standing out with white stripes on their dusty gray faces, furiously quilting their whips on the backs of horses. There was a final turn before the finish line.

Tension among viewers had reached unprecedented levels, and even Marcus jumped up from his seat. Like everyone else, he shouted loudly, stomped, waved his arms. It was like he’d gone mad with the crowd. Where did his remarkable calmness go? Where did the philosophy go of the cynics and stoics, which he absorbed from Diognetus and Alexander of Cotiaeum?

He felt in himself something primitive, dark, eclipsing the mind, as if he captured the spirit of a predator, requiring to catch up and torment the enemy, to enjoy his blood. And he unwittingly carried his thoughts into the arena, imagining himself in a blue tunic. It was he, Marcus, rushing in the dust along the Circus, he beat the horses with force with the whip, his white teeth, ready to gnaw at the throat of the opponent.

Meanwhile, at the turn of the quadriga of the green charioteer hit the wheel of the cart Agaclytus and he flew out of it, as if a stone from the sling, rolling to the side. It was over. No, blue today didn't have a chance to celebrate triumph.



After Faustina’s races, Domitia and Marcus went to horse stalls to learn about Agaclytus’ health—such a slave, a skilled rider, was expensive. Ceionius, satisfied with the victory of his quadriga, had already come down. His arrival was announced by two heralds, whom he attached golden-winged wings on his back. This was a fashionable innovation for Rome.

“Consul Ceionius Commodus!” they proclaimed with trumpet voices, warning about the appearance of the magistrate. Such undisguised narcissism of Ceionius in many caused a smile.

“Faustina! Domitia!” the Commodus greeted both matrons at ease, lazily stretching the words. “It's good to see you both on the run I spend as a consul. I hope you liked it, despite the unfortunate loss of yours, Faustina, the quadriga.”

“Yes, it is!” Faustina said in a disgruntled voice. “However, I have long wanted to give Agaclytus to my nephew.” She turned to Marcus. “Will you accept my gift?”

“Of course, auntie!” Marcus politely bowed.

“Well, now we're going to compete with Marcus,” Ceionius laughed. “That’s funny!”

A little away from the masters stood their charioteers Geminas and Agaclytus; the charioteer of Faustina, with a grim look, rubbed the places bruised in the fall. Marcus noticed how he looked at his mother Domitia, at Faustina the Elder, and in his eyes, there was a hidden audacity with which men usually look at women.

“Agaclytus, come!” Ceionius called him.

A young, short stature Greek came up and leaned easily, depicting reverence. “I'm here, master.”

Ceionius approached him, with the look of a connoisseur groping his shoulders and arms.

“Listen, Marcus,” he said, “since Faustina has given you Agaclytus, will you give him to me? I'll pay a good price. You don't need a quadriga, and I keep the stables.”

“Don't bother, Ceionius. I have not yet issued a gift," Faustina was ahead of Marcus with the answer.

“Well, as you like, I don't really need it. My Geminas is still the best!”

Ceionius smiled, but Marcus noticed evil light in his eyes. Although Hadrian's chosen one was known as a vain man, an empty, harmless and foolish, who never crossed the road to anyone, except for Servianus and Fuscus, but he was able to be angry. And it was now becoming clear.

Meanwhile, his son Lucius approached the consul. He was about five years old, but he was already very much like his father. This ball was a large boy, low forehead, with straight eyebrows resembling an elongated thread that separates a small forehead from the rest of the face.

“Lucius, my son, say hello to Marcus and his relatives,” said Ceionius skillfully extinguished his discontent and becoming kind again.

The boy said something that was murmuring, shy.

“Oh, he's so unsociable. He should be taught to educate,” his father lamented. “Can you help us, Marcus? Come more often. By the way, a fashionable philosopher from the school of stoics Apollonius from Chalcis recently came to Rome, and I invited him to study stoicism.”

“Obviously he's going to come, Ceionius,” Domitia said. Throughout the conversation, she was silent, embarrassed for Faustina, for her obvious rudeness, and now, with her politeness, she tried to smooth the awkwardness hanging in the air.

“I'll be glad of you, Marcus!” Once again, Ceionius smiled, and left the horse stalls, accompanied by the lictors and customers, who stood with a respectful look on the sidelines all this time.




Stoic exercises




In the summer, the unexpected news that Empress Vibia Sabina had died suddenly swept through Rome. No one knew why. There was no news on this account, and it was left to guess. Domitia Lucilla sadly walked around the house and, looking at her, Marcus felt that difficult times were coming.

He did not know the Empress intimately, saw her only a few times—in the palace on Palatine, in the Great Circus, and she did not give the impression of a sick woman. She was about fifty, not yet the age to meet the gods. And suddenly a sudden death! Now his only patron at the court, the woman who brought Marcus closer to Hadrian, disappeared. At least that's what Domitia said.

Regin, who brought this sad news, hinted that Hadrian had poisoned her. Allegedly, she was too zealous in defending the interests of Marcus and the family of Annius, and Caesar, who decided to bet on the Ceionius, did not like it. But Marcus thought that didn't sound convincing enough to kill her. Something must be more important and significant, because a person was not so easily deprived of life.

“Marcus, you haven't been to the Ceionius’s for a long time,” the mother remarked after speaking to great-grandfather. “Now, because of the death of the esteemed Sabina, we need to be especially friendly with them. Besides, Ceionius invited you to visit his palace on the run.”

And Marcus, as an obedient son, heeded his mother's request.

Taking with him a large, slow Antiochus, his constant companion, he went to visit his future relatives. He did not count on having a conversation with Fabia, because she was in her mother's room. Probably, they were engaged in a purely feminine occupation—weaving wool cloth or spinning yarn. Or maybe they studied philosophy, as now noble Romans do it. But the visit to Ceionius meant an expression of reverence on the part of the Annius family, and, specifically, Marcus. Responsibility here fell on his shoulders because he was the youngest member of their family. Although Marcus did not yet have the proper political experience, he felt that such an act would be true, and he would grow up in the eyes of Emperor Hadrian.

“It's the right thing to do,” Marcus thought. “I'm doing the right thing! It is not for nothing that Caesar called me Verissimus.”

They descended down the narrow streets, down into the valley between the hills, built up by the insulas so closely that it seemed impossible to breathe here because of the unimaginable crowding. Only fountains, hitting at many intersections, somewhat enlivened the general view and slightly refreshed the air. Near each fountain there was a small statue of the patron or patron of the street, and maybe the whole area.

Marcus looked up. Sky blue almost did not peek through the narrow slots between the roofs, but the hot air reached here, down to the sidewalks paved with hewn stones.

It was noisy outside. Some of the insulas heard loud voices of women who traded with sellers in all sorts of things. The not lubricated wheels of the carts transporting the forest for construction creaked. The slaves and the freedmen, who were making their way through their business, were elbowing. They said loudly, “Salve!”[51 - Bless you! (Latin)] greeting acquaintances and clapping each other's shoulders. And the cry of street dogs twirling underfoot completed this cacophony.

At one of the turns, Marcus and his slave suddenly encountered Ceionius on a stretcher, which was carried by strong Germans. Mindful of the case of Rufus, Ceionius had now picked up the porters of former German barbarian warriors, hard and strong. Despite the slaves, Ceionius was accompanied by six lictors from among the freedmen, each of whom was carrying a fascia on his shoulders.[52 - Beams of knitting or birch rods stretched with belts. In Rome, the symbol of the protection of state power.]

The yellow fabric of his palanquin was painted with red roses, which indicated the peculiar taste of the owner—like other superficial people, Ceionius loved to create the appearance of a lover of everything extravagant. He lay down, opening the curtain, and lazily looked at the city bustle. Noticing Marcus, Commodus perked up, leaning out of the stretcher.

“Marcus! Where are you going?”

“To you, dear Ceionius.” Marcus tried to speak with dignity, as befits an adult man. “My mother rightly reproached me for not keeping my promises and not visiting with you since we met at the Circus.”

“Oh, gods, don't measles yourself, we're all like that! Today we say one thing, and tomorrow we forget what we said. Get in my palanquin, I'm just being taken home.”

Marcus climbed into his stretcher and lay down next to Ceionius. He felt a strong fragrance emanating from Commodus, abundantly grated with fragrant incense. Inside the palanquin smelled of roses, frankincense, and musk. On the feet of the consul were not red senator's shoes but sandals, which are usually used to go home. Their gilded straps wrapped the tight calves of Ceionius's legs—he was lying on his side, and his long toga lifted up a little.

“I heard,” Ceionius continued lazily, “that Servianus Fiscus’s grandson had shown inappropriate behavior towards you, and that he had been unruly.”

“Yes, he was defiant.”

“It’s a pity that I was not around, I would find how to respond to the rude. We generally need to stick together; I'm talking about our families. If the gods and the great emperor Hadrian so wish, fate will henceforth lead us along the same road.”

“I would like to live up to Augustus' hopes,” murmured Marcus, feeling the fragrant smell of Ceionius, the heat of his body, as they lay almost cuddled because of the small size of the palanquin. He continued in an embarrassed tone, “But I'd rather have a quiet lifestyle. I'd be more like to do philosophy than public affairs.”

“Oh, how are you right, my dear Marcus!” Ceionius laughed.

He turned his face to Marcus, and he saw close to himself brown with the yellowness eyes of the new favorite Hadrian. They exuded undisguised curiosity, mockery, and something else that Marcus couldn’t make out, perhaps lust. No wonder there were rumors that Ceionius was known as Hadrian's lover.

“I would also like to live a simple life,” Commodus continued, looking at the young companion. “As Martial wrote, whom I love, ‘May fate not give me a higher share or a lower one, but lead my life in a modest middle way.’[53 - Martial "Golden Mean" (translated by F. Petroski), Library of World Literature, Ancient Lyrics, Art Literature Publishing, Moscow, 1968, p.470.] Alas, you have to do your duty, if you want to fate. After all, this is evidenced by the philosophy of the Stoics, which I am taught by the Greek Apollonius. You'll see him soon, by the way.”

Suddenly, from the street, fenced off from the interlocutors by the curtains of palanquin, there was a slurred noise, a loud talk, and then a cry.

“What's going on?” Ceionius was surprised.

He threw back the canopy, and Marcus saw a crowd of excited people surrounding them with stretchers on all sides. People were screaming and waving their arms furiously. The tunic species could be determined that most of them were freedmen, but there were also slaves with collars like animals, which had the usual inscription, “Hold me until I ran away.” Marcus himself did not hang such collars on his slaves. So, Antiochus, walking next to the stretcher, looked like an urban commoner, and not like a slave, only the fur of his tunic was rougher.

Now, in this incomprehensible confusion, Antiochus approached the palanquin and closed it wide with his back from the angry crowd.

“What do they want?” a surprised Marcus asked Commodus.

“I don't know,” the consul replied, lowering his legs down and getting up from the stretcher. “Don't worry about anything, thank the gods, you are under my protection!”

But the crowd was pushing harder. They shouted furiously, pushed the lictors and porters, pushed them closer to the palanquin. Marcus has never seen so much hatred on faces, so much rage, never seen such crazy eyes, it was as if these people had been drugged or had been robbed of their minds by evil sorcerers.

“Bread, bread!” the crowd shouted furiously.

“They demand bread,” Ceionius said with concern. “But after all, we already held the distribution last month, they were given out to everyone according to the lists and there were no complaints. I swear to Jupiter!”

One, the most energetic and ferocious of the protesters, a man of short stature but dense and strong, almost came close to the stretcher. He, like everyone shouted loudly, demanding bread, but Marcus paid attention to his sullen, focused face, to his threatening gestures. With such an expression, people do not ask for bread, with such an expression they are plotting something terrible.

Marcus wanted to warn Ceionius about the danger, he was screaming, pulling the toga, but the words got stuck in his throat. “Is it a scoundrel,” he thought in dismay, “this vile proletarian threatens Ceionius? Are the Roman plebs so brazen that in broad daylight they attack Rome's highest magistrate? This cannot be allowed to happen. It's impossible!”

From the anger and fury that erupted inside him, he lost control and impulsively jumped out into the road. He would show this insolent man, teach him so that he remembered for the rest of his life! He, Marcus, recently retreated in the Flavian amphitheater in front of Fusсus and showed indecision, but now he would definitely recoup.

Already jumping out, Marcus heard Antiochus warning cry, “Beware, master!” but did not have time to do anything, for the assailant, snatching a short knife, raised his hand to strike standing in front of him Ceionius. However, Antiochus fell on him with his whole body, being put under the cutting strokes of a knife and painfully shouting, moaning, but did not let the killer out of his arms.

All this happened in an instant, as it seemed to Marcus. Here they were lying with Commodus in palanquin, calmly and politely talking and suddenly—the attack, the murderer, the blood. “Our world is fast, and time is fleeting,” rushed the teachings of Diognetus through the head of a young man.

It’s not known where, but in the hands of Commodus appeared a short military sword-gladius and he, pushing the dying Antiochus aside, almost without a swing, abruptly and quickly cut off the hand of the attacker with the bloody knife. The man wheezed in pain, fell on the pavement right at the feet of the consul, and a large crowd a minute ago raging around them, bawling, threatening with assault, vanished into the city streets in no time. As if the waves of a violent ocean suddenly dissipated after a storm, calmed by the mighty Poseidon.

Again, there was a peaceful city bustle around, as if nothing had happened, as if the streets of Rome had been gripped by an obsession, sent down by the evil gods, and then destroyed by them.

Meanwhile, Ceionius crouched down with the bleeding killer. His dark skin had already turned pale, he could hardly breathe. A large pool of blood ran down near the stump of his right hand. Marcus came closer, trying not to step into it or get dirty.

“Who sent you?” Ceionius demanded an answer. Now he no longer looked like a lazy, slack, carefree reveler, an epicurean, accidentally caught in the chair of the highest magistrate. He was a collected, imperious man, a real Roman, brought up in harsh Roman traditions. “Tell me who sent it, and then I will not order your corpse be thrown to hungry dogs! It will be burned on a funeral pyre, and ashes will be scattered over the sea.”

“This,” the killer licked his dried lips, “is what Fuscus paid me.”

“Fuscus?” Ceionius asked. “One Fuscus. No one else?”

“He's alone,” muttered the mercenary, who was losing consciousness.

There could be no doubt, the ambitious grandson of Senator Servianus, who had studied emperor Hadrian's horoscope so well, removed obstacles in his way, in this case Commodus. In Rome the inexplicable favor of Hadrian to Ceionius had long been wondered about. It was rumored about that Caesar would make Ceionius his heir, pushing away from power Servianus and his grandson Fuscus.

They stepped aside.

“Throw this scoundrel off the Tarpeian Rock!” Ceionius, whose face has smoothed and again taken on a serene look, ordered. “Let's continue our journey, dear Marcus. I'll think about Fuscus and his business at my leisure, and in the meantime, we'll talk about the poet Martial.”



In the house of Ceionius they were met by a cool silence, the murmur of a fountain in peristyle, unspoken, embroidered slaves. Ceionius mentioned that it was the merit of his wife Avidia. It was she who held the whole house in her hands, for which he, Ceionius, was very grateful to her.

As expected, Marcus did not meet his fiancеe Fabia. But the consul and a future relative introduced him to the stoic philosopher Apollonius from Chalcis. This man, being tenacious and short-grown, at first glance was completely nondescript, but in fact, he had exorbitant ambitions and huge conceit. However, Marcus had the impression that these traits could be found in all little-known philosophers.

They were situated in the tablinum.[54 - The master's office in the Roman house.]

Like all Greeks, Apollonius wore a beard, long and ungroomed. He was also wearing a dirty tunic of dilapidated matter. It smelled bad, but the philosopher did not change clothes. Noticing that Marcus tries not to approach him, Apollonius smiled sarcastically and drew the attention of the young patrician to the fact that the external properties of things do not always make their essence. For example, the smell was a temporary phenomenon, and it disappeared once the tunic was washed.

“However,” Marcus retorted, “Seneca wrote that philosophy requires moderation, but moderation should not be untidy.”

“That's right!” Apollonius agreed. He had a thin, squealing voice. “And Seneca said that a person who uses pottery as silver is as great as one who uses silver as earthenware. In my case, someone who wears a dirty tunic is as worthy of respect as someone who wears a clean one. But I wanted to tell you something completely different examining my tunic, I wanted to say that anything should be considered not as a whole, but only those parts on which it breaks up.”

Marcus looked curiously at the stoic with his lively eyes. He'd never met such a person before. Diognetus? Yes, in some ways they seemed similar, these Greek philosophers. They both annoyed equally; Diognetus was over-groomed, and Apollonius was deliberately untidy and thereby aroused a burning interest.

Probably, they show me one of the philosophical tricks, decided Marcus, if you want to get someone else's attention, you have to be different, stand out from the crowd anything. Even if it will be due to a vile smell.

“There is a constant stoic exercise,” Apollonius continued, “it is to decompose things into pieces and then the essence becomes clear. Take, for example, a piece of pork. You think it's a great meal, but it's just an animal's corpse. Or the toga that's on your body right now. If you look at what it's made of, you'll see that it's actually the hair of the sheep that made the yarn. Good wine, delighting our taste, came from grape slurry. Or what many men aspire to—I'm talking about owning a woman. This is just the friction of the insides with the release of mucus. And it is accompanied by convulsions, the cause of which is unclear to us. So, we can conclude that behind the external brilliance is always hidden plainness, unsightly nudity.”

Marcus curiously listened to the reasoning of the stoic.

Indeed, the mind easily, effortlessly comprehended what was on the surface. But what lurked in the depths? Apollonius gave the key to comprehension by decomposing phenomena into components, studying them separately, and then coming closer to a true understanding of the essence of things.

The only thing that was hard to break down into particles was space. It was, as the Stoics were taught, the elementary fire, the source of the world's mind, and the mind was indivisible. The abyss of space. The Logos. Perhaps he could be interested in it, but Marcus was much more interested in studying man, because man hides in his soul something dark and unexplored, beastly. And it seemed to Marcus that the abyss itself was not a cosmos, it was separated from it, for the cosmos did not include a bottomless emptiness, because it was filled with reason. The abyss was a man with his hidden passions and vices, which led to madness.





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notes


Примечания





1


Plato is an ancient Greek philosopher who lived in the IV-III century B.C.




2


Guy Petronius Arbiter (14-66) is a Roman writer, author of the satirical novel «Satyricon».




3


Publius Aelius Trajan Hadrian (76-138) was a Roman emperor in 138.




4


Logos (from Greek «word», «thought») – the World mind.




5


Marcus Ulpius Nerva Trajan (53-117) was a Roman emperor in 117. Adopted the future emperor Adriana under the influence of his wife Pompey Dam.




6


Apollodorus of Damascus (d. 129) is an architect of the Roman Emperor Trajan's era.




7


Vibia Sabina (85-137) was the wife of Emperor Adrian.




8


Antinous (111-130) is a lover and constant companion of the Roman Emperor Adriana, deified after death.




9


Ra is the Egyptian god of the sun.




10


Toga is the outerwear worn by men in ancient Rome




11


Salire (Latin) – jumping, dancing.




12


Frumentarii (Latin) were individuals who ran public bread shops and collected different information for the emperor.




13


Verissimus (Latin) is the truest, true.




14


Annius "Annales,” book 1., (translated by S.A. Osherov), Chrystomatia on early Roman literature, Moscow, 2nd edition, publishing house "Greek-Latin Cabinet of J.A. Shichalina," 2000, p.35




15


Genius is the spirit of the patron saint of men.




16


During the burial of the Roman emperors in the sky released an eagle, considered a bird of Jupiter.




17


Marcus Porсius Cato the Elder (234-149 BC) is a well-known Roman politician and writer.




18


Stola (Latin) – in the ancient Romans women's clothing in the form of tunics, which was worn on top of the bottom tunics and reached the ankles. The stola was a symbol of a legal marriage, and was the clothes worn by the family Romans.




19


I'm a Roman citizen! (Latin)




20


Citharode was a classical Greek professional performer (singer) of the cithara.




21


Cynic (from the Greek dog) is one of the Greek philosophical schools, followers of Socrates, who preached simplicity, escape from conventions.




22


Parks are the Roman goddesses of fate.




23


Celebrations in honor of Bacchus and Ceres on March 17. On this day, the young men wore toga virilis.




24


Toga virilis is a toga of maturity worn by the Romans when they came of age at the age of sixteen.




25


AD 134.




26


In ancient Greek mythology, the God of medicine and healing.




27


Sigma – a bed in the form of a Greek letter ?.




28


Peristyle (Greek) garden, surrounded on four sides covered with colonnade.




29


Mucius Scaevola (Latin "Lefty") put his hand on the fire of the roaster to show Etruscan king Porsenna the courage of the Roman people.




30


Palanquin is a bed with curtains carried by slaves in their arms.




31


Domina (Latin) – Madam.




32


Baiae is a resort in ancient Rome.




33


Insula is a high-rise building in Rome.




34


Saturnalia is a holiday in honor of the god Saturn in December.




35


Parasite (Greek) is a slacker. In Rome, poor citizens entertained the hosts at the table.




36


The Nomenclator (Latin) is a slave or freedman who during the walk called the names of the oncoming people.




37


Libertas (Latin) – Freedom




38


It was believed that women also secreted seed.




39


Option (Latin Optio) is a centurion assistant.




40


Decurion (Latin Decurio) is the leader of the ten-man cavalry unit in the Legion.




41


Lupa (Latin) is a wolf, harlot




42


Fasces is a bundle of bandaged bars, symbolizing official power.




43


Simon Bar-Kohba was the leader of the Jewish uprising in AD 131-135.




44


The frumentarii, at first petty-officers connected with the conveyance of military dispatches. Many of them were then attached to the imperial service as a sort of secret police.




45


AD August 4, 135.




46


Virgil, The Aeneid, book 6, Publishing House of Fiction, Moscow, 1971, p.240




47


November 13, 137




48


There's a copper coin in Rome.




49


Consulars are persons who have held consuls’ positions.




50


The poem of the Roman poet Ovid in 3 books was considered indecent.




51


Bless you! (Latin)




52


Beams of knitting or birch rods stretched with belts. In Rome, the symbol of the protection of state power.




53


Martial "Golden Mean" (translated by F. Petroski), Library of World Literature, Ancient Lyrics, Art Literature Publishing, Moscow, 1968, p.470.




54


The master's office in the Roman house.



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