The hour was early. The city had not yet begun to stir, but Apollodorus and Marcus and their workers had already been up for hours, labouring by torchlight to ready the triumphal route. The procession was only a few hours away.
They stood near the Column, surveying the brightly coloured streamers that had been affixed to the viewing stands. In the utterly still air the streamers hung as limp as shrouds, but with the slightest breeze they would snap to life, their undulations adding excitement and colour to the acclamations of the crowd.
Marcus threw back his head, opened his mouth wide, and yawned.
“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” said Apollodorus.
“Last night? It’s not dawn yet. This is still yesterday.”
Apollodorus laughed. “You’re babbling, Pygmalion. Did you go to bed early, as I told you to?”
“Yes, but…” Marcus was about to say, My wife went to bed with me, which meant I got no sleep at all, but since his wife was Apollodorus’s daughter, he restrained himself. Apollodorus nevertheless read his thought – the two had worked together for so long that each usually knew what the other was thinking – and smiled indulgently. The relationship between Apollodora and Marcus had grown gradually, with a long courtship that had given both of their fathers a chance to get used to the idea. Apollodorus was aware of Marcus’s irregular origins, but marriage into such an ancient patrician family was a great honour for the daughter of a Damascene Greek; for Lucius Pinarius, the match had seemed far below his son’s station, but Marcus clearly loved the girl, and when Lucius asked himself, “What would Apollonius of Tyana do?” – always his test for making a difficult decision – he enthusiastically approved the union.
The marriage was a happy one. So far, there had been no children – but not for lack of trying, as Marcus made clear with another yawn and a dreamy smile.
“I never thought I’d see this day,” declared Apollodorus, gazing at the cleaners who were sweeping the empty square soon to be thronged with people.
“The day we’d celebrate a triumph over the Parthians?” said Marcus.
“No, the day Hadrian would ride through the streets of Roma as Caesar. He still seems a boy to me. I suppose I thought Trajan would live forever.”
“So did Trajan, apparently,” said Marcus. “Even towards the end, when he was paralyzed and puffed up like an Arabian adder, they say he refused to make a will. Some say he wanted to die without naming a successor, in imitation of Alexander the Great. How did Hadrian become emperor?”
“It was all Plotina’s doing,” said Apollodorus. “Not that Hadrian wasn’t the obvious choice. But it was Plotina who assured his legitimacy. She told everyone that her husband had adopted Hadrian with his very last breath, and she rallied her loyal courtiers to support Hadrian at every turn. Some say Plotina must be in love with Hadrian, and the two were carrying on an affair behind Trajan’s back.”
“Is that likely?”
Apollodorus laughed. “Knowing Hadrian, what do you think? I suspect Plotina’s affection for him is more of the maternal variety, don’t you? Oh, I’m sure she’s infatuated with him, and has been for a very long time, in the way an older woman may be smitten by a younger man. But that doesn’t mean their relationship is carnal.”
“I suppose Hadrian will be heading off to war as soon as this triumph is over,” said Marcus.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve heard that a great many of the newly conquered cities are in revolt. Insurgencies threaten to undo all those lightning-quick conquests made by Trajan. Hadrian will have to go back and reconquer everything to keep it from being lost.”
“Or maybe not,” said Apollodorus. “I was talking to him yesterday – you understand this is absolutely confidential, son-in-law?” When he was serious, Apollodorus tended to address Marcus as son-in-law, rather than as Pygmalion. “Hadrian says the new provinces in the East are untenable. He says Trajan overreached. Not only are the conquered territories in revolt, but the Jews are making trouble again – they’ve staged bloody riots in Alexandria and Cyrene and there’s open warfare on the island of Cyprus. Tens of thousands have died. According to Hadrian, suppressing the Jews is far more important than holding on to Ctesiphon. So, instead of pouring soldiers and treasure into a perpetual war to hold the new Eastern provinces, he wants to cede the more troublesome areas to potentates beholden to Roma, creating a string of client states along a more defensible Eastern frontier.”
“It sounds like he must have given the situation a great deal of thought, even before he became emperor.”
“I suspect he did. You know Hadrian, never at a loss for an opinion, whatever the subject.”
Marcus frowned. “So here we are, about to celebrate a triumph for the very conquests Hadrian is about to give up.”
Apollodorus laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it? But you and I have done our job. We’ve decorated the city just as splendidly as if Hadrian intended to hold those provinces for a thousand years.”
The first rays of the sun struck the top of the Column. The statue of Trajan seemed to burst into golden flames.
“Time to go home and change into our best togas,” said Apollodorus.
Marcus nodded and yawned. He closed his eyes.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep when you get home, Pygmalion, or you’ll miss the triumph. And don’t do the other thing, either – unless you and Apollodora intend to make a baby this time!” Apollodorus laughed heartily and slapped Marcus on the back, startling him into wakefulness even as he was about to fall asleep on his feet. “Will your father be coming?”
Marcus felt a twinge of anxiety at the mention of his father and was abruptly wide awake. “No, he won’t be able to come. He hasn’t been well lately.”
In fact, Lucius Pinarius, who was now seventy, had been bedridden for a month, troubled by light-headedness and a weakness in his legs. Hilarion, who had also grown quite frail in recent years, was always at his old master’s side, often reading aloud to him the letters Lucius had received from Apollonius of Tyana, who continued to visit Lucius regularly in his dreams. By his bedside, as a reminder that death was nothing to fear, Lucius kept the iron manacle that had been cast off by Apollonius. Just as Apollonius had been able to cast off his shackles, so Lucius anticipated the moment when his soul would cast off its earthly frame to rise up and merge with the Divine Singularity.
A few hours later, under a cloudless sky and a bright sun, Marcus awaited the arrival of the triumphal procession. Apollodorus, greeted by an acquaintance, had drawn a little distance away, taking Apollodora with him, so that Marcus stood unaccompanied in the crowd.
Long before the parade arrived at the Column, he heard the thunderous reactions of the multitude along the route that wound through the city. The sound of cheering grew nearer, until at last the vanguard of trumpeters came into sight.
They were followed by the magistrates and senators in their red-bordered togas, some chatting casually, as if unimpressed by all the pomp, while others carried themselves with all the dignity of their offices. Then came the white bulls on their way to be sacrificed at the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline, followed by countless carts and wagons loaded high with the spoils of war, paintings and models of captured cities including Ctesiphon, Babylon, and Susa, and a great many captives in rags and chains, including some of the petty monarchs who had been deposed by Trajan.