Hadrian had arrived at the end of the eulogy and was reciting all the late emperor’s titles, including Dacicus, conqueror of Dacia, Germanicus, conqueror of Germania, and of course Parthicus. “But of all the titles bestowed on him by the grateful people and Senate of Roma, the one of which he was most proud was the one which had never been bestowed before: Optimus, best of all emperors.”
Sensing that the speech was at an end, the crowd reacted with loud cheering. It was impossible to tell whether the cries of “Hail, Caesar!” were for Trajan or for Hadrian. It was Suetonius who stepped forward and acclaimed the new emperor by name: “Hail, Hadrian! Long may he reign!”
This cry was taken up by others. Hadrian, who looked as uncomfortable as ever receiving their accolades, but who had witnessed Suetonius’s initiative, cast a grateful nod in the archivist’s direction.
During a lull in the cheering, Favonius, who by the glint in his eye thought he had come up with something clever, stepped forward and shouted, “Hail, Hadrian! May he be luckier than Augustus! May he be better than Trajan!”
Suetonius pursed his lips at such a bold proclamation. “Luckier than the Luckiest? Better than the Best? Hear, hear!” He loudly repeated the phrase, and so did many others.
“May he be luckier than Augustus!” people shouted. “May he be better than Trajan!”
Marcus gazed at the new emperor, who appeared to be genuinely touched by the outpouring of goodwill. But even amid the jubilation, Marcus saw Hadrian touch his face. To others, the emperor might appear to be stroking his beard, as thoughtful philosophers do, but Marcus knew the man was thinking of the scars hidden beneath.
When Marcus and Apollodora arrived home that evening, Hilarion met them at the door with tears in his eyes. Marcus rushed to his father’s room.
Lucius Pinarius had grown so thin in recent months that his body seemed hardly to press on the bed at all. His arms were folded across his chest. His eyes were closed. There was a smile on his face.
“It happened while he was asleep,” said Hilarion. “I came to look in on him. I knew, the moment I stepped into the room. I held a mirror before his nostrils and saw there was no breath.”
Marcus touched the fascinum at his breast. He gazed around the room, wondering if his father’s spirit lingered or if it had already flitted off to join Apollonius and merge with the Divine Singularity. He looked at his father’s face and began to weep.
He would never hear his father’s voice again. He would never know the name of his mother.
AD 120
On a brisk autumn day, Marcus and Apollodorus found themselves engaged in one of the most challenging enterprises they had ever faced. They were moving the Colossus.
Originally, the towering statue of Nero stood in the courtyard of the Golden House. It was left in place when the courtyard was demolished by Vespasian, who remodelled the features so that the sun god Sol no longer resembled Nero. For decades the statue stood with its back to the Flavian Amphitheatre, dominating the southern end of the ancient Forum and gazing over the rooftops of temples and offices of state towards the Capitoline Hill.
Hadrian had decided to build a vast new temple on the site. To make room for it, the Colossus would have to be moved. The project was especially important to the emperor because he was designing the new temple himself. Apollodorus had not even been allowed to see the plans.
“Your task is merely to relocate the Colossus,” Hadrian told Apollodorus one sunny day as they surveyed the site. “I want the statue to be placed much closer to the amphitheatre. Here, I’ll show you the spot.”
When Apollodorus saw the location, he expressed reservations. “The area around the amphitheatre is already congested on game days. Putting the Colossus here will make the problem worse. And there’s a question of proportion: having the statue so close to the amphitheatre throws both structures out of scale. The viewer who sees them from a distance will find the contrast quite displeasing. Rather than clutter up this area – ”
“On the contrary,” Hadrian had snapped, “this open area is exactly the right spot to accommodate the statue. In fact, I see room for two such statues.”
“Two, Caesar?”
“I intend to construct a new statue as a companion to the Colossus, equally as tall.”
“But where will you put such a thing?”
“Right over there, in a spot equidistant between the amphitheatre, the Colossus of Sol, and my new Temple of Venus and Roma. I think it must be a statue of Luna, so the two statues together will pay homage to the sun and moon. Does that not please your sense of balance?”
Apollodorus frowned. “In a religious sense, perhaps. But aesthetically-”
“I want you to design this new statue, Apollodorus. The style should match that of Sol, of course, but I’ll be interested to see what innovations you come up with. I realize that such a project is as much an engineering challenge as an artistic one. We mustn’t have the goddess losing an arm or tumbling into rubble when there’s an earthquake, as happened to the Colossus of Rhodes. The statue Nero built has stood the test of time, so as you move it, I suggest you take the opportunity to study the way it was cast and assembled, and learn whatever secrets you can about its construction.”
The prospect of such a commission – the creation of a statue equal in size to the Colossus – silenced all Apollodorus’s objections. Until that point, he had considered his work on Trajan’s Column the crowning achievement of his career, but the Luna Colossus would eclipse all his other accomplishments. This was Apollodorus’s opportunity to create a work of art that would endure for eternity.
In the meantime, the challenge was to move the Colossus of Sol.
The distance to be traversed was not great, only a few hundred feet, and the ground was flat and paved the entire way. The area had been cleared of spectators. First, the Colossus was hoisted by three cranes, just high enough for a conveyance on rollers to be placed underneath. The upright statue was gently lowered onto the conveyance. The ropes were left attached and were pulled taut by teams of men on all sides, to keep the statue steady as it was moved.
A team of twenty-four elephants was harnessed to the conveyance. At Apollodorus’s signal, the elephant trainer drove the team forward. The rollers creaked under the strain. The taut ropes sang as if plucked. The elephants brandished their tusks and trumpeted.
Marcus watched the procedure with a tremor of anxiety. The near-disaster that had occurred when the statue of Trajan was set atop his Column was still vivid in his memory. This project was, if anything, even more ambitious, and the possibility of disaster, given the proximity of the amphitheatre, was even greater. Despite careful planning and scrupulous attention to detail, unknown factors were in play, chief among them the uneven distribution of weight within the Colossus and the volatile temperament of elephants.
“ Merely to relocate the Colossus!” said a voice behind him. It was Apollodorus, who stood with his arms crossed, gazing up intently at the statue as it lumbered forward.
“What’s that?” said Marcus.
“The emperor’s instructions to me: ‘your task is merely to relocate the Colossus.’ Ha! Compared to this, designing a new temple would be child’s play. He’s probably up there right now, sketching gourds to plop down on top of his temple.”
Marcus glanced at the Palatine Hill. On a balcony high up in the House of the People, Hadrian and some of his courtiers stood watching their progress.
“I overheard a joke told by one of the workmen today,” said Apollodorus, never taking his eyes off the statue.
“How did it go?” said Marcus.
“The fellow said, ‘What will they call it if the Colossus goes tumbling into the Flavian Amphitheatre?”