Marcus wiped fresh beads of sweat from his brow. “And was the doctor executed?”
“Of course not. I simply removed the offending persons from Caesar’s presence and replaced them with others. They all have strict orders to keep close watch on Caesar and prevent any further suicide attempts. Meanwhile, since his physicians have failed to cure him, Caesar has called upon a series of wonder-workers and magicians. Mostly charlatans, I have no doubt, but just lately Caesar seems a little better. He insists that he’s well enough to travel. He intends to depart for Baiae tomorrow. He says the sea air will improve his health. Before he goes, he wants to see you.”
Antoninus escorted him to the door of the bedchamber. He opened it but stayed where he was, indicating that Marcus should enter alone.
Curtains had been pulled to block the sunlight. By the glow of several lamps, Marcus saw the grotesquely swollen figure of the emperor on the bed. A statue of Antinous, not quite life-size, stood on a pedestal at the foot of the bed, looking down on the emperor.
As Antoninus had warned him, the edema made Hadrian almost unrecognizable – his cheeks and chin and even his forehead were massively swollen, while his eyes and mouth looked small and pinched. But when he spoke, his voice was the same, except that a hint of his old Spanish accent kept breaking through.
“Pygmalion! Is that you?”
“It is. Caesar wished to see me?”
“Yes. Come closer. You’re looking well, Pinarius. No, don’t bother to return the compliment. I shudder to think what I must look like. You’ll notice that Antoninus has thoughtfully removed all the mirrors from this room.” Hadrian managed a weak laugh.
Marcus was surprised to find him in such good spirits. Was this the bitter man who had been ordering executions right and left?
“I called you here, Pinarius, because I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for me over the years, and especially for your service to the worship of Antinous. The Divine Youth has no follower more devoted than you. The images you’ve created will outlast us all. The flesh is all we know in this life, but the flesh grows old and withers and rots, as I know only too well. Only perfection is immortal, and we were blessed by the god to witness perfection, and to touch it, you and I.”
Speaking wearied him. Hadrian paused to rest for a while, then went on. “Have a look at the object on the table over there, by the window. Open the curtains, if you need more light.”
On the table, Marcus saw a model of the new mausoleum. When he parted the curtains, he saw that the window framed a distant view of the building itself on the far side of the Tiber. Construction was well under way, but whatever decoration the emperor had in mind for the top of the huge circular building had remained a mystery – until now. The top of the model was fitted with a statue of Hadrian riding a chariot pulled by four horses. Marcus gaped. Judging by the scale of the model, the quadriga sculpture would be one of the largest statues ever made. Though not as tall, the sheer mass of the thing would rival the Colossus of Sol.
“What do you think, Pygmalion?”
“May I ask who made this model, Caesar?”
“I made it myself, with these swollen fingers of mine. Yes, it’s a crude thing, but I never called myself a sculptor. The details I’ll leave to a true artist – to you, Pinarius. So? What do you think?”
“Are the proportions of the statue to the mausoleum correctly rendered?”
“Closely enough.”
Marcus frowned. “The mausoleum rises to almost sixty feet. This statue is very nearly as tall as the structure upon which it stands. Is Caesar aware of just how large the full-scale piece would be?”
“I am.”
“But how is such a huge monument to be built? How is it to be transported and assembled atop the mausoleum? The enormous amount of bronze required-”
“I leave those petty details to you, Pygmalion!” Hadrian snapped. His face turned dark red and his eyes were reduced to two baleful points of light. For a moment Marcus imagined that the man’s head might actually burst, like a grape squeezed between two fingers.
Then Hadrian laughed. “Listen to me! Did you hear that accent? Thicker than Trajan’s! When I think of all those hours I spent with my elocution teachers, reading Cicero aloud until I was hoarse. Numa’s balls, I haven’t sounded so much like a Spaniard since I was a boy. That was so long ago…” He closed his eyes and drifted off.
Marcus stared at him for a long time. What would Apollonius of Tyana have made of Hadrian? Certainly he was infinitely better than Domitian, and more knowledgeable of philosophy than Trajan, but if philosophy reconciled a man to life and prepared him to face death, then in Hadrian all the lessons of philosophy came to naught. As death approached, he was more tied to the material world than ever, craving a monument larger than anyone else’s and determined to decide who would rule after him even to the second generation. Life obsessed him; death to him was unacceptable – his own death no less than the death of his beloved Antinous, whom Hadrian had sought to keep alive by populating the whole world with his image.
Perhaps no emperor could truly be a philosopher, since his duty was to care so deeply about the material world and the mortals in it, but Hadrian had come as close as anyone. Perhaps Hadrian, with all his flaws, was as good a ruler as the world could ever hope to see. Would Antoninus do a better job? Would young Marcus Aurelius, if he ever came to power?
Reflexively, Marcus reached to touch the fascinum, but it was not at his breast. The fascinum belonged to Lucius now. To the Divine Youth who looked over him, he whispered aloud, “I am a fortunate man, to have lived in such an age, and under such an emperor.”
“What’s that?” Hadrian muttered. He opened his eyes. “Are you still here, Pygmalion?”
“I am, Caesar.”
“I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve made you a senator.”
“I, Caesar?”
“Why not?”
“There are some in the Senate who’ll say that a mere sculptor has no place among them.”
“Who cares what those useless creatures think? I say you’re a senator, and so you are. You’ve served me as well as any general or magistrate – better than most. And never forget that your grandfather was elevated to the Senate by the Divine Claudius, and that his father was a senator, and that your great-great-grandfather was one of the three heirs of Julius Caesar. So from now on, you are Senator Pinarius – except when I make a slip and call you Senator Pygmalion.”
Marcus smiled. “Thank you, Caesar.”
“I’ve also named you to the priesthood of Antinous.”
“I, a priest?”
“Religious service is in your blood: you come from a long line of augurs. In essence you’re already a priest of Antinous, so you might as well enjoy the title, and the stipend, along with the duties.”
“What duties?”
“You will make more images of Antinous so as to propagate his worship.”
“I’ll do my best, Caesar.”
Hadrian closed his eyes. His breathing slowed. Marcus thought he slept, but then he began to speak, very softly. He was reciting a poem. Perhaps he had composed it himself; Marcus had never heard it before.
Sweet soul that inhabits this clay,
Soon you will flit away.
Where will you go? To what place dark and cold and stripped of grace, never again to laugh and play?
Hadrian sighed and fell asleep. Marcus quietly left the room.
The next day, the emperor and his retinue left for Baiae. Ten days later, word reached Roma that Hadrian was dead.