Empire

A.D. 125

The city was abuzz with excitement at the emperor’s long-awaited return to Roma. What had begun as a trip to the northern provinces had turned into a grand tour that spanned the empire, taking him from Britannia down to the Pillars of Hercules and Mauretania – where he put down a bloody revolt – then across the Mediterranean Sea to Asia Minor, and then to Greece, where Hadrian showered favours on the city of Athens, restoring it as a great seat of learning by endowing it with a new library as well as a forum and an arch and restoring the Temple of Olympian Zeus.

Now, at last, Hadrian was back in Roma, and on this day he was to visit the house of Marcus Pinarius.

The household was in a frenzy of last-minute preparations. Everything had to be made perfect. Marcus thought how very different this visit felt from the first time Hadrian had visited the house, some twelve years ago, when Marcus’s father had hosted a dinner party to honour Marcus for his work on Trajan’s Column. Hadrian had been an honoured guest on that occasion, but today, one would have thought that a god was about to come calling. Apollodora was driving the slaves to tidy every corner, prune every bush in the garden, and polish every marble surface to a lustrous shine. Marcus knew what she was thinking: if only they could make the right impression on the emperor, perhaps he might yet relent in his banishment of her father, who continued to languish in Damascus.

“You will bring up the subject, won’t you?” Apollodora asked him, for the tenth time that day.

“I’ll try, wife. If the right moment arises-”

Amyntas came running. “Master, they’re coming up the street! They’ll be at the door any moment!”

“Calm yourself, Amyntas. Take a deep breath. When you answer the door-”

“I, Master? I’ m to answer the door?”

Marcus smiled. Who else in the household was more suitable to greet the emperor than the handsomest of his young slaves? “Yes, Amyntas, you.

“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.”

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.

The chamber where Hadrian received him was tastefully appointed with Greek furnishings brought back from his travels; the room had the intimate atmosphere of a private home rather than of a regal reception hall. The slave who escorted Marcus showed him to a couch and brought him a cup of wine. A number of guests were already present, and more continued to arrive. Antinous was there, Marcus noticed; the empress Sabina was not. Some of the guests were senators and magistrates, but more were writers and philosophers. The mood was like that of a literary gathering. Almost all the men sported facial hair, though few could grow a beard as handsome as that of the emperor.

Eventually Hadrian rose and called forth the scholar Phlegon of Tralles, a small, nondescript man whom Hadrian introduced as the author of a new work titled The Book of Marvels. Phlegon stood before the company and read a number of excerpts, all of which he claimed had been verified by scrupulous research, having to do with wondrous things – sightings of live centaurs, appearances by ghosts, incidents of males giving birth, and stories about men and women who had changed their gender. He concluded with several accounts about the discovery of gigantic teeth and bones, the existence of which appeared to prove that huge creatures, now extinct, had once lived upon the earth.

“‘A tooth the size of man’s leg was uncovered by an earthquake in Sicily and shown to the emperor Tiberius,’” Phlegon read. “‘Tiberius called on a geometrician named Pulcher, who concluded that the creature who possessed such a tooth would have been as large as a ship – far larger than any creature known to exist today. Bones of gigantic size were found in a cave in Dalmatia, and equally enormous bones have been excavated in Rhodes, Athens, and Egypt. Some say these objects must be made of a stone which happens to look like bone, or are deliberate hoaxes, but I say we should not disbelieve this remarkable evidence. Rather, consider that in the beginning, when nature was in her prime, she reared everything near to the gods, but just as time is running down, so also living things have become smaller and smaller in stature.’”

Phlegon bowed. Marcus saw that Hadrian was beaming like a proud author. He remembered Suetonius’s claim that the emperor was the true author of the work and joined the others in applauding.

After this bit of amusement, Hadrian moved on to more-serious matters.

“Our attention has been called to the recent death of a citizen, a case of murder, it would appear. A slave is suspected of killing his master.”

There were mutterings of disdain from some of the guests, especially the senators.

Hadrian raised his hand. “As outrageous as such a crime may be, I bring up the matter because I see here an opportunity to reform certain laws handed down to us by our ancestors, specifically those harsh measures which demand the examination, by torture, of all the slaves in a household where such a crime occurs, and, if one of their number is found guilty, the execution of every slave. Marcus Pinarius – ”

Marcus blinked and looked up, surprised at being called on.

“I asked you here today, Pinarius, because your grandfather once made an impassioned speech to the Senate on this very topic, in the reign of Nero. You are aware of that occasion, I presume?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Yes, Caesar, my father told me something about it.”

“I realize you never knew your grandfather, but you should be proud of what he said. Fortunately, his words were recorded and preserved in the Senate archives. I read them for the first time last night. Phlegon, would you be so kind as to read aloud the section I’ve marked?”

Phlegon took the scroll and stood before them again. “‘These slaves must be known not only to fellow slaves in other households, but to shopkeepers and artisans and all sorts of citizens who have dealings with them. Some are errand boys and messengers, some are seamstresses and hairdressers, some are cooks and cleaners, some are bookkeepers and scribes, highly educated and valuable slaves deserving a degree of respect. Some are near the age of death. Some are newborn, just beginning life. Some are in the prime of life, at the peak of their usefulness and value. Some are pregnant and about to bring forth new life. These victims of the law are not a faceless crowd but are human beings known to their neighbours, and so we cannot be surprised if there are murmurs throughout the city that the law is too harsh.’”

Hadrian nodded and took back the scroll. “I think those words are quite remarkable, considering the occasion and atmosphere in which they were delivered. Your grandfather spoke of those doomed slaves as if they were human beings, not mere property; as if their suffering mattered. At the time, your grandfather’s sentiments were rebuked and ridiculed; but with the passing of the generations, and the general progress of mankind, I think we are able to see that your grandfather was not only brave and compassionate, but wise. As the Divine Trajan often told me, if the emperor can see a just way to reduce the suffering of those under his care, even the most wretched, he is obligated to do so. In the case at hand, I think we have an opportunity to do exactly that. Therefore, I am proclaiming a number of edicts involving the punishment of slaves.

“First, if a master is murdered in his house, no slaves shall be examined under torture except those who were near enough to have knowledge of the murder. This reform has been a long time coming.”

There was a murmur of approval. A number of people nodded deferentially to Marcus, in honour of his far-sighted grandfather.

“Further,” said Hadrian, “a master may no longer kill a slave at will. Instead, the execution of a slave must be decided by a court. Further, no master may sell a slave, male or female, to a sexual procurer or a trainer of gladiators, unless the master can make a case that the slave is fit for nothing else. Further, I intend to abolish the existing houses of hard labour to which some masters consign their unwanted slaves for a fee, and where even some wretched freedmen end up, so desperate are they to work off their debts. I have visited those workhouses, which are places of unimaginable suffering, and I intend to shut them down.”

The emperor’s pronouncements were met with silence. Hadrian looked around the room. “Does anyone wish to comment on these ideas?”

A white-haired, clean-shaven senator stepped forward. “Caesar, today you have introduced us to a work called The Book of Marvels. But more marvellous than anything in that book are these radical ideas you put before us. I drew a breath when I heard about a tooth from a creature the size of a ship – but my jaw dropped to hear that a Roman citizen shall no longer have the power to discipline his slaves as he sees fit. I fear that Caesar’s new laws are likely to be very unpopular, and not just with the rich, who own many slaves. Consider the common man, who owns only a handful of slaves. Unless his authority over those slaves is absolute – yes, even to the point of death – how can that man possibly feel safe inside his home at night? Our forefathers created these laws for a reason, and the Divine Augustus restated them anew. I fear these pronouncements will stir considerable discontent, and such disorder that the magistrates will be unable to contain it.”

Hadrian raised his hand for silence. “If disorder breaks out, then I will hold the magistrates responsible. It is their duty to contain such outbreaks, whatever the cause, and to see that laws are respected – all laws, including these. If the magistrates cannot do the job, then others who are more capable shall be appointed to take their place.”

The senator bowed his head and stepped back. No one else dared to comment.

“If there’s no other business this morning, then I’m ready for my lunch,” said Hadrian.

As the various courses were served, the emperor called Marcus to his side.

“What do you think of my ideas, Pygmalion?”

“I’m not a statesman, Caesar.”

“Perhaps not, but your grandfather was. Who knew? I had to check twice to be sure that the Pinarius who gave that speech before Nero and the Senate was indeed your grandfather. That took nerve. You can be proud of the blood in your veins, Pinarius.”

“I am, Caesar. Thank you for inviting me here today, to hear the words of my grandfather.”

“Yes, I thought you might enjoy that. How goes work on the statue?”

“It proceeds well, Caesar, and quickly. Very soon I’ll be ready to unveil it for you.”

“Very good!” Hadrian looked at Antinous, who was sitting next to Phlegon, scrolling through The Book of Marvels. “I can hardly wait to see it.”

At last, Marcus was ready for the emperor’s visit to the workshop.

Apollodora was with him, overseeing the slaves as they cleaned and tidied the place and decorated it especially for the occasion. Marcus had assured her that such preparations were unnecessary. “It’s a workshop: it’s supposed to be cluttered and covered in marble dust. The emperor knows that.” But Apollodora had insisted that all must be perfect. If Hadrian was pleased – and of course he would be – this could at last be Marcus’s opportunity to ask for a special favour: the return of his father-in-law from exile.

Apollodora had insisted on bringing along four-year-old Lucius as well, saying that the boy should be there to see his father’s proud moment. No doubt she also thought that the sight of Lucius might move the emperor to be merciful to the boy’s grandfather.

As the hour for the visit drew near, Marcus was increasingly fretful. Not only would Hadrian be judging his work, but Marcus would have to put the delicate matter of his father-in-law to the emperor, with his wife’s happiness hanging on the outcome. Marcus stood before the statue a final time, studying the sensual curves of the naked body, the tilt of the head, the faraway look, and the elusive smile. Without a doubt, this was the finest and most beautiful thing Marcus had ever created. He reached for a sailcloth and threw it over the statue.

There was a sound from the vestibule. Amyntas came running. “Master-”

“Yes, I know, the emperor is here.”

“He’s left his retinue in the street. Only Antinous is with him.”

“Well? Show them in!”

The emperor and Antinous entered. Marcus stood next to the draped statue. Apollodora stood nearby, with little Lucius beside her.

No one said a word. Hadrian smiled and gave a slight gesture with his hand, to indicate that Marcus should proceed.

Marcus pulled aside the sailcloth. The statue was unveiled.

Hadrian approached the statue. He slowly circled it, looking it up and down. His face was expressionless.

Antinous was smiling; he seemed pleased with his image. Of course, the statue offered no surprise to him, since he had seen it at every stage of its creation.

In his mind, Marcus rehearsed the little speech he had prepared: Caesar, you recently saw fit to praise the plea my grandfather made, asking for clemency to be shown to even the lowliest of men. I also have a plea to make, which only Caesar can grant. I ask that you show mercy and forgive ness to -

“A mistake,” said Hadrian. He had concluded his full circuit of the statue and stood in front of it, staring at it. There was no expression on his face.

Marcus blinked. The utterance was so abrupt that he was not sure he had heard it correctly. “A mistake, Caesar? If some tiny flaw remains, an area where I failed to smooth the marble sufficiently…” said Marcus, though he knew every inch of the statue was perfect.

“No. The entire idea was a mistake.” Hadrian’s tone was frigid. He averted his eyes from both Marcus and the statue. “The fault is mine, Marcus Pinarius, not yours. I should never have expected that you, or anyone else, could do the thing I desired. I understand that now.”

“Caesar, if the pose of the statue is not to your liking, or if the tilt of the head-”

“Nothing about the statue is to my liking. By Hercules, look at Antinous! And then look at this… this travesty.”

Trembling, Apollodora stepped forward. “Caesar, it’s a true likeness.”

“What would you know? You might as well be blind. And so might you, Marcus. You possess a certain skill, yes. This is the image you intended to shape, I’m sure. But you have no eyes to see. This… thing

… is not Antinous, not even a vague approximation. Am I the only one who can see him?”

Hadrian turned his back on the statue, as if disgusted by it.

Apollodora looked desperately at Marcus. “Husband, do it!” she whispered.

“Now is not the time,” he said through clenched teeth.

But Apollodora had staked so much on this meeting that she could not let the chance go by. She rushed to Hadrian, even as he was departing, and dropped to her knees. “Caesar, we have a favour to ask. My father, in Damascus – he longs to return to Roma. If you could forgive him – we beg you!

Hadrian shuddered. He waved his hand dismissively, turned away from her, and walked on.

Following him, Antinous looked over his shoulder and cast a parting glance at the statue. To Marcus, the face of the youth and the face of the statue were mirror images, perfectly alike in every way.

At the doorway to the vestibule, Hadrian stopped and collected himself. He kept his eyes averted. His voice was strained but calm. “You will return to work on the temple, Marcus Pinarius. There is still much you can accomplish there. But you will destroy this abomination, and everything to do with it. Do you understand? As soon as I’m gone, you will destroy every model and burn every drawing. You will break this statue into pieces. You will grind the pieces to dust. No one must ever see it.”