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.
“Actually, our meeting here was purely by chance,” said Hadrian. “But since Apollodorus happens to be here, and I happen to be here, I think perhaps the gods have brought us together. I take this as a sign that the time has finally arrived for me to show you something, Apollodorus.”
“Whatever Caesar has to show me, I will be honoured to view,” said Apollodorus. Marcus looked at the scurra, expecting him to exploit the opportunity for a lewd comment, but Favonius held his tongue. Hadrian had a notoriously slippery sense of humour, especially when it came to himself or anything to do with his appearance. In that regard he was quite unlike Trajan, who had seemed incapable of being offended.
This was not the first time Marcus had encountered Hadrian at the baths. It was Hadrian’s practice to see and be seen at the public baths, moving among the people as if he were simply another citizen enjoying the amenities of city life. Apollodorus thought Hadrian did this to demonstrate the common touch, something that came less easily to the “Little Greek” than it had to Trajan. Behind Hadrian’s back, Favonius had once suggested to Marcus that the emperor frequented the public baths because he enjoyed looking at naked youths.
Hadrian, his forehead beaded with sweat, suggested that the party move to the cool plunge. As they all stepped from the pool and made their way to the next room, Marcus noticed that Favonius used his drying cloth to conceal as much of his plump, pink body as he could, while Hadrian remained naked and allowed the boy who had been curling his hair to carry his drying cloth. The man certainly had no need to be embarrassed about his physique. At the age of forty-five, Hadrian’s broad shoulders, burly chest, and full beard, touched here and there with silver, suggested to Marcus the image of Jupiter as portrayed by the great sculptors of the past.
As they entered the room that had the cool plunge, Hadrian noticed a grey-bearded man leaning against the protruding corner of a wall and rubbing his back against it.
“What on earth are you doing, citizen?” said Hadrian.
The man hardly looked at him; clearly, he did not recognize the emperor. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m massaging my back against this wall. I’ve got a terrible knot in my shoulder blade that won’t go away. Old war wound. This is the only thing that seems to help.”
“By Hercules, man, you look like a superannuated Ganymede performing an erotic dance! Get a slave to do that for you.”
“A slave? Ha! The only slave I own is an old woman who does my cooking, and her hands are too crippled to give anyone a decent massage.”
Hadrian pursed his lips. “A war wound, you say. You’re a veteran, then?”
“I certainly am. First Legion Minerva, Dacian campaign. Got this wound fifteen years ago.”
“In the back?”
“Not because I was running! Cursed Dacians ambushed us in the woods and attacked us from the rear. I took an arrow in the back and kept fighting until the last Dacian was dead. Sometimes it feels like that arrow is still in there.” He rubbed his back furiously against the corner.
“First Legion Minerva, you say. Yet you don’t recognize your old commander?”
The man stopped his movements. He took a closer look at Hadrian. His jaw dropped. “Caesar! Is that you? I had no idea! Sure, I recognize you now. You didn’t have the beard back then.”