Empire - Saylor Steven (книги без сокращений TXT) 📗
For the rest of the evening Apollodorus continued to dominate the conversation, fulsomely praising the emperor – Marcus almost preferred the old days when his father-in-law had aimed an occasional barb at Hadrian – and then praising his own accomplishments, his enthusiasm fuelled by his continuous consumption of wine. Marcus was indulgent. If any man deserved to boast a bit and drink to his heart’s content, it was Apollodorus, who had achieved something truly remarkable that day with the successful relocation of the Colossus.
At length, though Marcus and Apollodora offered him a bed for the night, Apollodorus departed for his house. He said he wanted to work on the sketches for the Luna statue in his private study. Marcus suspected he would fall into a drunken sleep before he picked up a stylus.
The house seemed very quiet after Apollodorus had left. Marcus took a stroll under starlight in the garden and paused to gaze at the statue of Melancomas. He was a lucky man to own such a thing. The emperor himself occasionally dropped by, just to sit alone in the garden and admire it. The statue almost, but not quite, captured the image of the divine being who visited Marcus in his dreams.
Occasionally Marcus considered sculpting his dream-god. So far, the demands of his work had prevented him from doing so – or so he told himself. In truth, Marcus was afraid to make the attempt, fearful that he would will fall short of capturing the perfection of the divine youth. Perhaps one day he would be ready.
Apollodora joined him in the garden. She put her hand in his. “Husband, I have something to tell you.”
He looked in her eyes and let out a gasp. “But why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I wanted you to know before anyone else, including my father. I decided to wait until he left. We’ll tell him tomorrow.”
“A child? Our child! You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.
He gazed at Apollodora’s face under the starlight. He hoped the child would have her lustrous black hair and dark eyes. He touched the fascinum and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to the youth who came to him in dreams.
AD 121
Marcus strolled through the ancient Forum, past the Temple of Castor and the House of the Vestals, happily whistling a marching tune he had learned in the Dacian campaigns.
It was a beautiful morning in late Aprilis, made all the more beautiful by the fact that his son had been born, healthy and whole, the preceding day. The infant appeared to take more after his father than his mother, having golden hair and bright blue eyes that the midwife predicted would change to green over time. Marcus named the boy Lucius. His only regret was that his father had not lived to see the grandson named for him.
Life was good. Marcus was happily occupied with his work, which at the moment meant collaborating with Apollodorus on designs for the Luna statue. He had never seen Apollodorus so excited by a project. Marcus was headed for the site now, to check some measurements. As he approached the Flavian Amphitheatre and saw the Colossus looming beside it, he could see the Luna statue in his mind’s eye, and the vision gave him a thrill of delight.
His route took him past the site where the Colossus had previously stood, where work was now in progress on the foundations of the Temple of Venus and Roma. What the finished temple would look like remained a secret. So far, Hadrian had insisted on overseeing all aspects of the project, excluding Apollodorus completely and forbidding the builders to show the plans to anyone not directly involved in the project. The emperor was determined to prove that he could conceive and create a masterpiece entirely on his own, with no help from anyone. Apollodorus was curious, of course, but had resisted any urge to pry into the matter; his energies were focused entirely on the Luna commission. Judging by the scale of the foundations, the temple was going to be enormous. Such a huge construction, commanding the prime location once occupied by the vestibule of the Golden House, would make the temple a landmark, whatever its appearance.
Marcus arrived at the site for the Luna statue, pulled out a ball of twine, a compass, a wax tablet, and a stylus, and took the measurements he needed. For a while he simply stood on the spot, basking in the knowledge that one day Apollodorus’s crowning achievement would rise up for all the world to wonder at, and that he would be able to show it to little Lucius and say, “I had a hand in building that.”
He walked past the Flavian Amphitheatre and on to the great bath complex that had been built by Apollodorus for Trajan. Like all Trajan’s projects, the baths had been constructed on a vast scale and decorated with exquisite taste. Paintings and sculptures adorned the public areas, and the pools were surrounded by colourful mosaics. Along with the bathing facilities and the courtyards for gymnastic exercises, there were a great many rooms where one could have one’s hair cut or one’s nails groomed, enjoy a cup of wine or a light meal, read a scroll from the library, or simply sit and talk with friends. There were also a great many dimly-lit nooks and crannies where patrons could enjoy moments of intimacy, sometimes with prostitutes and sometimes with each other. Virtually every aspect of life was carried on at the baths. The scurra Favonius had once told Marcus that an ideal existence would be one in which a man was born, lived, procreated, and died at the baths, never leaving.
Marcus stripped and checked his clothing and shoes in the changing room. The floor, heated by piped hot water, was delightfully warm. The walls were heated as well. Carrying a drying cloth over his shoulder, he headed for the nearest hot plunge. The room was dim and steamy. Before his eyes could adjust, a familiar voice called his name. His father-in-law had arrived ahead of him.
“How is my new grandson this morning?” asked Apollodorus as Marcus stepped into the pool beside him. The water was so hot that he had to lower himself into it very gradually.
“As loud as he was yesterday,” said Marcus, smiling broadly. “The midwife says he has a very powerful set of lungs.”
“Good, good!” said Apollodorus.
“Congratulations on the birth of your son, Marcus Pinarius.”
Marcus looked around, surprised to hear the voice of the emperor, whom he had not seen amid the rising vapours. Hadrian was nearby, immersed to his chest and leaning back against the side of the pool. A handsome young slave sat cross-legged behind him, using a set of tongs to curl the emperor’s steam-dampened hair. Also in the room were a number of other retainers, whom Marcus took to be secretaries and bodyguards.
“Thank you, Caesar.”
“Please accept my congratulations as well, Marcus Pinarius,” said the man next to Hadrian, who turned out to be Suetonius, formerly of the imperial archives but now elevated to the post of private secretary to the emperor.
“Thank you, Suetonius.”
“And I congratulate you, as well.” The speaker was obscured behind a veil of mist – only a blur of frizzled red hair was visible – but Marcus recognized the voice. Thanks to his friendship with Suetonius, and his own dogged efforts to ingratiate himself, Favonius had managed to attract the favour of the emperor. “I offer congratulations not merely on the birth of your son, but also on that splendid beard you’ve grown. Your handsome face is like a painting framed with gold.”
“Beards are the fashion,” said Marcus, self-consciously touching the wiry blonde hair that covered his jaw; he was still not used to it. “Father-in-law, when you sent me that message this morning asking me to meet you here, you didn’t mention that Caesar would be present.”
“What difference would that have made?” said Favonius. “Would you have worn something else?” He laughed at his own joke.
