“Amyntas!” Marcus shouted. “Amyntas, look after Lucius! He doesn’t belong over there. It’s too dangerous.”
Suetonius smiled. “Boys! Always getting into trouble, eh? A pity our emperor hasn’t got one; that might keep him out of trouble. Oh, but I forget; Caesar does have a boy to look after. Takes him everywhere – so my correspondents along his travel route tell me. I hear he’s headed for Jerusalem next – or what they used to call Jerusalem. Hadrian plans to rebuild the city Vespasian destroyed and give it a rather pretty new name: Aelia Capitolina, named for his ancestors, the Aelii. I suspect he’ll put a statue of himself next to Jupiter and see if he can’t convince those stubborn Jews to burn a bit of incense on the altar. Then he’s to press on to Alexandria for his first look at Egypt. He and Antinous will play Caesar and Cleopatra, languidly cruising up the Nile past hippopotami and crocodiles. Do you suppose the Egyptians will put some sort of animal head on Hadrian’s statue and declare him a god?”
The man chattered on and on. Marcus did not hear a word.
AD 132
Hadrian was back in Roma.
After years of travel, the emperor’s return to the capital was to be marked with celebrations and banquets. But his very first excursion, bright and early on the morning after his first night back in the imperial palace, was an unannounced visit to the site of the Temple of Venus and Roma, to see what progress had been made in his absence. When the emperor was informed that Marcus Pinarius was not present, being occupied that morning at his workshop, Hadrian and his retinue headed directly to the Aventine Hill.
Marcus and his assistants were busy piecing together some sections of the gigantic bronze statue of Venus that was to be installed in the temple. When Amyntas came running in to announce that the emperor was in the vestibule, Marcus told everyone to cease working and stay exactly where they were. He put down his tools and dusted off his tunic. Amyntas, checking Marcus’s appearance, flicked some bits of metal from his beard.
Impeccably dressed as always, the emperor made a cursory examination of the statue, then suggested that the workmen might be allowed a rest, so that he and Marcus could speak in private.
“I’ve just come from the temple,” said Hadrian. “I’m pleased with the progress. You’ve done well, Pinarius.”
“Thank you, Caesar. I’m but one of the many artisans and engineers who are privileged each day to carry out the emperor’s grand vision.”
“You needn’t be so modest, Pinarius. I’ve spent a lifetime dealing with architects and artists all over the world. You may be the most talented of all.”
Now that Apollodorus is dead, Marcus thought. Then he thought of the other death that had occurred in the course of Hadrian’s journeys. During the trip up the Nile, Antinous had drowned.
It seemed to Marcus that the emperor had aged considerably since he had last seen him. There was more silver in his hair and his beard was now almost entirely grey. His face was more wrinkled. He spoke more slowly and with a quaver in his voice. His eyes were dull. Some essential spark had gone out of him.
Hadrian strolled around the studio, touching the various implements. “You spent so many hours with him here, in this room – alone with him, looking at him, observing him. More than anyone else on earth, except myself, you must remember what he looked like.”
“Caesar speaks of Antinous,” said Marcus quietly. “When I learned of his death, I wept.” It was true. Marcus had grieved, not so much for the youth himself, whose personality had remained a mystery to him, but for the loss of so much beauty. In his mind, there was still some mysterious link between the Bithynian youth and the god who visited him in dreams. The death of Antinous had struck him as more than the death of a single mortal; his passing was emblematic of the death of all things.
“Do you know the circumstances of his death?” said Hadrian in a whisper.
“I know only what everyone knows, that Antinous drowned in the Nile.”
“Egypt cast a spell over us – the heat, the buzzing insects, the oozing mud, the endlessly flowing river, the temples filled with strange symbols and animal-headed gods, the gigantic monuments from some unimaginably distant past. As we journeyed farther and farther up the Nile, we were gripped by some nameless, ancient dread.
“As I had explored the Mysteries of Eleusis, so I was initiated in the secret rites of the Egyptians. When the priests looked into my future, they saw something terrible. They declared that my life was over, that I would die in a matter of days, unless… unless another life was sacrificed in my place.
“I didn’t want to believe them. But when I cast my horoscope, adjusting the reading for the greater influence of the southern stars, I saw they were right. I was in great danger. Death was very near.”
Marcus drew a breath. “So Antinous…”
“He sacrificed himself in my place. I never asked him to do it. I was restless that night. I heard him leave the cabin. I heard the soft sound of a splash. I was half asleep and thought I was dreaming…”
Marcus remembered the story Antinous had once told him, in this very room, about the time Hadrian and the boy hunted a lion. If Caesar hadn’t killed the lion, it would surely have torn me to pieces. Caesar saved my life. I can never repay him for that.
The boy had been able to repay him, after all.
“What Antinous did was not the act of a mere mortal,” said Hadrian. “I always sensed there was something divine in him. I think you sensed that, too, Pinarius. But I never truly understood the nature of his divinity until he left this world. In his honour I built a city on the Nile, where I consecrated a temple and appointed priests to worship him. In Ephesus and Athens, on the way back to Roma, I built more temples in honour of the god Antinous.”
Marcus had heard about the emperor’s activities on behalf of the new god. The grandiosity of Hadrian’s grief was the talk of Roma; some dared to ridicule it, but others were in awe of it. Marcus had heard it compared it to the madness of Alexander the Great after the death of Alexander’s lover, Hephaestion, but it was hard for Marcus to look at the aging, paunchy Hadrian and see any resemblance to the dashing, doomed figure of Alexander.
“There will be no temple to Antinous here in Roma,” said Hadrian. “Just as worship of the emperor is not required of citizens within Italy, so I will not ask the people of Roma to worship the youth who was my consort. But I plan to build a tomb for Antinous near the town of Tibur, east of the city. I also plan to build a residence there, a place where I can retreat from the world.” Hadrian closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them. “Naturally, Pinarius, I want you to be part of those projects.”
“Of course, Caesar. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Hadrian stepped closer. He gazed steadily into Marcus’s eyes. “What I really want, dear Pygmalion, is for you to sculpt Antinous.”
Marcus stared back at him. Had grief erased the emperor’s memory?
Hadrian smiled wanly. “I understand your hesitation, Pinarius. Let me explain. Temples have been erected. Temples must have statues, so artists in Egypt and Greece have sculpted images of the Divine Antinous. At best, these statues have been – what word can I use? – acceptable. But none has captured the divine essence of Antinous. I’m convinced that only you – because you alone sculpted him in life – can possibly do that. I want you to make a statue of Antinous. We’ll collaborate on this project, you and I, working from memory.”
Marcus felt many things at once – doubt, dread, and a twinge of anger, but also a thrill of excitement such as he had not experienced in a long time.
Hadrian looked at him with a plaintive expression. “I don’t suppose… when I told you to destroy the statue…”
“I did as I was ordered, Caesar. I burned my sketches. I destroyed the models. I broke the arms and legs from the statue, smashed the torso, pulverized the hands and feet – ”
Hadrian winced and shut his eyes.
“But…” Marcus hesitated for a long moment, then decided to tell the truth. “I kept the head.”
Hadrian’s eyes grew wide.
“It was the most beautiful thing I ever made, or ever could hope to make,” said Marcus. “I couldn’t bear to
