What the boy really loved was hunting. One day, when the subject happened to come up – Marcus was talking about all the famous statues that had been made of the hunter Actaeon – Antinous became more animated than Marcus had ever seen him.
“I was very nearly killed by a lion once,” he said.
“Really?”
“Caesar and I were hunting together, on horseback. We trapped a lion against a cliff face. Caesar wanted me to have the kill, so I threw my spear first. But I only wounded the beast. The lion was furious. It roared and crouched, and whipped its tail, and then it sprang at me. My heart stopped. I thought I was dead. But while the lion was in mid-air, Caesar’s spear struck the beast and pierced its heart. It fell to the ground, dead. 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.”
“That’s a remarkable story,” said Marcus, seeing a glint in the youth’s eyes that he was determined to capture. He seized a piece of charcoal and some parchment and began sketching furiously.
“I think someone is making a poem about it,” Antinous said blandly, in his charming Bithynian accent, as if having one’s activities recorded in verse were an everyday occurrence. There were probably a great many things Antinous took for granted, Marcus thought. What must it be like to go through life looking like that, attracting the admiration of every person you met?
After his initial awe, Marcus had come to realize that Antinous was not his dream-god. For one thing, despite Marcus’s overwhelming first impression, he began to see that the youth was not exactly identical to the dream-god, or at least not all the time. There was something quicksilver about his appearance, as there was about every human face; it changed depending on his mood, the angle, the light. Sometimes Antinous did not resemble the dream-god at all, and Marcus could not imagine how he had ever thought he did; then, in the next instant, Antinous would turn his face just so, and he was the dream-god come to life. It was this elusive nature of the youth’s appearance that Marcus was striving to capture, a challenge he found all-consuming. If Antinous was not a god, he was surely the vessel of a god, possessing some degree of divine power. Marcus would do his best to capture that divinity in marble.
Uncharacteristically, Hadrian had refrained from taking any part in the process, not even dropping by to look at Marcus’s sketches or clay models. He declared his intention to wait until the statue was finished before he laid eyes on it. Marcus was touched by the emperor’s trust, and the privacy of the process had allowed him to invest himself completely in his work.
Antinous had just left for the day when Marcus heard a knock on the door. A small vestibule separated the studio from the entrance, and it was here that he admitted an unexpected caller: Gaius Suetonius.
“Marcus Pinarius! I haven’t see you in ages,” said Suetonius. “I pass by the site of the new temple occasionally, but I no longer see you there.”
“My duties at the temple have been suspended for a while. I come here to the workshop every day.”
“Hiding out, eh? I thought I’d never find this place, tucked away among the granaries and storehouses. Working on something for the emperor, are you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, come, Pinarius, everyone knows what you’re up to. You’re making a statue of that Bithynian boy.”
Marcus frowned. “How did you know?”
“Favonius told me. I’m no longer privy to imperial comings and goings, but Favonius keeps me informed. He says everyone is talking about this statue of yours, just as everyone is talking about Hadrian and his new favourite.”
“What do they say?”
“Some people claim to be scandalized by Hadrian’s lack of propriety, elevating a foreign youth of no standing to a place of honour in his household. Sabina’s faction certainly isn’t happy; Caesar has less time for the empress than ever. But others are pleased to see the emperor so content. A happy Caesar is a benevolent Caesar. So, can I have a look at the statue to see what all the fuss is about?”
Marcus shook his head. “No one is allowed to see the statue, I’m afraid.”
“No? Perhaps you could let me see a preliminary sketch? I’ve never even seen this boy. I’m curious to know what he looks like.”
“Not possible. Even Caesar hasn’t see my work yet, and no one can be allowed to see it before Caesar.”
Suetonius made a sour face. “Ah, well, one Bithynian youth looks like another, I imagine. They’re all available to a Roman with money, or so it seemed when I was stationed there in the imperial service. You couldn’t set foot in the baths without those boys practically throwing themselves at you.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Marcus. “I’ve never been to Bithynia.”
There was an awkward silence, broken by Suetonius. “I’ve been hard at work, too.”
“Have you?”
“Toiling away on my collection of imperial biographies. I’ve been writing about Domitian lately – that could put anyone in a bad mood. I was wondering, did your father ever talk about those days? In particular, did he ever mention a ‘black room’? Apparently there was a chamber in the imperial palace to which Domitian invited certain guests when he wanted to frighten them half to death.”
“No, I don’t remember any stories about a black room.”
“Ah, well, plenty of others have stories to tell. I have to say, some of the tales I’ve collected about the emperors almost defy belief. They’re quite shocking, and all the more so because they’re true. I rather hate to end my collection with Domitian – such a grim fellow – but one can’t yet write this sort of biography about Trajan or Nerva, the emperor’s father and grandfather by adoption. One never knows what might cause offense. Even the most flattering account might somehow provoke the emperor’s displeasure.”
“Caesar is letting you write whatever you want about the previous dynasties?”
“Amazing, isn’t it? Everyone in a position of authority assures me that I may proceed as I wish. My biggest worry is what the emperor will say about my prose. Hadrian fancies himself a writer, you know. Architect, emperor, author, literary critic – is there nothing the man can’t do? His own specialty is collecting odd bits of information and compiling catalogues of marvellous facts. His book will be forthcoming any day now. Of course he can’t publish such a thing under his own name, so he’s having his creature Phlegon put his name on the book. Trivial, time-wasting miscellany – just the sort of thing everyone’s reading nowadays.”
“Not a work of true merit, like your imperial biographies?”
“Exactly. Perhaps you’d like to read what I’ve written so far. I could profit from the reactions of a fellow like yourself, a man of learning and experience but with no literary pretensions or axes to grind. Shall I have a copy sent to you?”
“Yes, please do,” said Marcus, just to get rid of the man. He was eager to return to the studio, where he could be alone to contemplate his progress on the statue of Antinous.
A few days later, while he was preparing to leave home for the workshop, an imperial messenger arrived with a request for Marcus to come to the House of the People.
“Do you know why I’m being summoned?” said Marcus.
“I’m afraid not,” said the messenger.
Marcus was perturbed. His work on the statue had progressed to a stage that was particularly pleasurable to him – smoothing and polishing the stone and making very small adjustments. Now he would lose the best part of the day, when the light was brightest, and he would have to go through the bother of changing his simple tunic for a toga.
The summons also made him uneasy. If Hadrian was curious about progress on the statue, why did he not simply come to see it? Could it be that Suetonius’s visit to the workshop had been observed and reported to the emperor? Surely Hadrian knew Marcus well enough by now to trust that he would never show the statue to anyone ahead of himself. While he dressed, Marcus decided that he was being unduly anxious. Probably there was some architectural detail about the temple that Hadrian wanted to discuss.