“But I’m so nervous, Master. Look how my hands tremble.”
“The emperor will find your demeanour charming. Now go – I hear a knock at the door.”
The retinue of some twenty people filed through the vestibule and the atrium, then into the formal reception room, where refreshments awaited them. Hadrian, resplendent in a purple toga, accepted Marcus’s formal greeting, then drew him aside.
“Let’s retire to your garden, Marcus Pinarius. Just the two of us.”
Marcus walked beside the emperor. “You look well, Caesar,” he said. It was true. Though close to fifty, with touches of grey in his hair and beard, Hadrian was as trim and muscular as ever, and his mood was buoyant. His years of travel had agreed with him.
“Ah, there it is!” he said as he stepped into the garden. Marcus remembered the awed expression on Hadrian’s face when he first laid eyes on the statue of Melancomas. The emperor seemed less impressed now. He cocked his head and looked the statue up and down with an expression more wistful than astonished.
“Caesar must have seen many beautiful works of art during his travels,” Marcus said.
“Oh, yes. Amazing things. Amazing experiences. My induction into the Mysteries of Eleusis was the most remarkable of those experiences, though I can say nothing specific about that, of course. My travels have opened my eyes. I received a very good education when I was young. My teachers did their best to enlighten me. But books and words can relate only so much. Actual experience is the key. Oh, before I forget, Epictetus asked me to give you his regards. I believe that he and your father were very close.”
“Yes, Caesar. How is he?”
“As brilliant as ever, and still teaching at his school in Nicopolis. I hope that my wits will remain as quick when I’m in my seventies.”
“I think Epictetus must be the very last of my father’s circle who’s still alive,” said Marcus thoughtfully. Hadrian was in such high spirits that Marcus wondered if this might be a good time to bring up the matter of his father-in-law. He was clearing his throat to speak when Hadrian returned his attention to the statue of Melancomas.
“Do you recall, Pinarius, what we said about this statue, that evening many years ago? I said, ‘If only, someday, I could meet a youth as beautiful as this.’ To which you responded, ‘If only, someday, I could create a statue as beautiful as this.”
Marcus smiled, remembering. “Yes, and Favonius said, ‘May each of you be granted his desire – and be happy with it!’”
“The scurra! I had forgotten he was here that night, but yes, you’re right, I remember now. Well, Favonius was a wise man after all. You know, seeing it again after all this time, the Melancomas statue doesn’t impress me as much as it once did. And you, Marcus, as an artist, with many more years of experience now: what do you think of it?”
Marcus tried to look at the familiar statue with fresh eyes. “Perhaps the shoulders are a bit too wide, and the hips too narrow; but of course the sculptor had a duty to record the actual proportions of the living model. The workmanship itself seems quite flawless to me.”
“Does it? Here, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Hadrian summoned a secretary who stood at the garden’s edge and spoke in his ear. The man hurried to the reception room to fetch someone. Marcus noticed that Apollodora was peeking at them from behind a corner, looking anxious. As he wondered again if he should mention his father-in-law, Hadrian’s young friend stepped into the garden and joined them.
Marcus was stunned. The youth who stood before him was the very incarnation of the god from his dreams.
Hadrian laughed. “That’s a typical reaction of those meeting Antinous for the first time But really, try not to gape, Pygmalion. That’s what they used to call you, isn’t it? Just as they used to call me the Little Greek?”
Marcus closed his mouth. The resemblance was too uncanny to be accidental. He touched the fascinum at his breast. “Forgive me, Caesar. It’s only… that is, it’s hard to explain…”
“Then don’t try. Not with words, anyway.” Hadrian shifted from speaking Latin to Greek. “Here, Antinous, what do you make of this statue?”
The youth likewise answered in Greek, with a Bithynian accent. “It’s very beautiful. Who is it?”
“This is Melancomas, a famous wrestler.”
“Is he still alive?”
Hadrian laughed. “Melancomas and the emperor Titus were lovers fifty years ago.”
“So?” Antinous cocked his head. “He could be a handsome man in his seventies today.”
Hadrian’s smile faded. “No, Melancomas died young. But here, I want you to stand next to the statue. I want to see the two of you side by side. This is something I’ve been curious to see since I first met you. Take off your clothes, Antinous. There’s no need to be modest before Pygmalion; he’s an artist.”
Antinous stood next to the Melancomas. He pulled off his chiton and dropped it to the ground, then undid his loincloth and let it fall.
Hadrian crossed his arms and nodded. “There, do you see, Pinarius? They’re not really comparable, are they? As beautiful as we thought the Melancomas, it pales beside Antinous.” He circled the youth and the statue, looking from one to the other. “Of course, cold marble can never compete with warm, living flesh, just as words in a book cannot match the actuality of experience. But even if Melancomas were alive and breathing and standing next to Antinous, would there be any competition as to which was more beautiful?”
Marcus was still too stunned to think clearly. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then say nothing. You’re not a poet, after all, you’re an artist. And that’s what I want from you – art. I want you to sculpt Antinous. Of course, as I said, I know that marble or bronze can never fully capture the subtlety and solidity of flesh, but you must do your best. What do you say, Pygmalion? Will you make me a statue of Antinous?”
“Of course I will, Caesar.” Marcus, dazed, saw his wife peering at him from her place of concealment. For the life of him, he could not remember what she wanted.
To carry out the emperor’s commission, Marcus set up a workshop at the foot of the Aventine Hill, not far from the river. It was a lofty space with excellent light and plenty of room. Soon the shelves were lined with scores of clay models of the youth and all the various parts of his body. Occasionally Marcus heard the sounds of workers on the waterfront, but otherwise the space was very quiet.
Marcus had never enjoyed anything as much as he enjoyed working on the statue. All his other work, even on the Temple of Venus and Roma, was suspended.
Antinous was the ideal model. He was never late, had impeccable manners, and carried himself with a composure beyond his years. He was willing to quietly hold a pose for hours, content simply to exist and be still inside his perfect body, letting whatever thoughts were behind his perfect face remain a mystery.
From the brief conversations that occasionally took place between them, Marcus learned that Hadrian had met the youth while travelling in Bithynia. Marcus noted that Dio of Prusa had been a Bithynian, but Antinous had never heard of him. Philosophy did not interest him.
Nor was he much interested in religion or science, but when the subject of astrology came up, he told Marcus that the emperor himself was an expert astrologer. “Caesar frequently casts his own horoscope,” said Antinous. “He can’t let anyone else do it, you see, because that would give them too much knowledge. That’s why he won’t allow any astrologers in the court and studies the heavens himself. How he can remember the meanings of all those configurations of the stars is beyond me, but of course he has a very scientific mind. He casts horoscopes for the people around him, too.”
“Including you?”
Antinous frowned. “No, never for me. He seems to be superstitious about that. He says some things should remain a mystery.”