Читать книгу: «Solar Wind. Book one», страница 6

Sabina's letter

“… You did a little reckless, in my opinion, rekindled the decrepit Servianus with conversations about the heir. What's the point? We've talked about it. Your successor should be Marcus Verissimus, as you call him…

In the meantime, Servianus goes to the homes of patricians and convinces that everything was decided. He is so pleased, this old peacock, that it becomes funny in the eyes of many when he solemnly starts praising you. It is as if the times of the Republic have come to life at the same time as Cato the Elder and Scipio…

By the way, his grandson Fusсus behaves defiantly. In the Circus, on horse races, he went up to Marcus and began to laugh at him, to claim that the emperor had turned his back on him, and left his graces to others. I think you'd be more likely to know about the conversations that go on around Fusсus. He bragged about making up your horoscope and supposedly showing the date of your death. I don't remember exactly, but it's heard that the moon in Aquarius will get into the quart to Saturn, which will be devastating for you. I don't understand anything about it, but you love horoscopes, and you probably know what you're talking about. So, Fusсus says you'll live sixty-one years and ten months, and death will be in November ides.”⁴⁷

Hadrian at first just ran through the eyes of this letter, which seemed to him a set of empty city gossip. He was never particularly impressed with Sabina's mind, considering her an ordinary woman, undistinguished, though moderately educated. Despite the story with Antinous and the almost complete break, Sabina sometimes under the mood allowed herself to share impressions about the high life of the court in his absence. Now, apparently, she had such a desire.

He reread the letter more slowly. Gradually the meaning of the last lines began to reach him, and deaf fury took hold of his heart. Servianus and Fuscus. It was he who chose them among the rest, trusted them, and the confidence of the emperor was serious, they cannot be scattered as cheap copper asses⁴⁸ on the morning exit to customers. Trust was a great jewel to be cherished more simply than diamonds from thieves.

Servianus and Fuscus were the last of his close relatives, no others left. But what a folly, to walk among the senators and spread about his imperial plans! What a stupid thing to do! No, they had not passed the test, and it did not matter who sent it down—gods or emperor!

In addition to the horoscope, there must be something that irrevocably convinces in the correctness of the final choice. For Hadrian, it was always a test to which he subjected his entourage, various tests, invented by himself. Some of them passed with ease, as for example, Marcus. A boy who did not see life and, seemingly, was much inferior to experienced Servianus and ambitious Fuscus. But he withstood them when he walked around Rome with the merry and embattled priests of the Salii, though he was very young, did not yield to carnal temptations when he, Hadrian, sent young slaves to him.

Of course, he still had a lot of work to do to achieve perfection like that of Hadrian himself. But he had the makings and had the main thing—effort, tact and restraint, as if Verissimus had already studied the fashionable philosophy of stoics. However, Marcus was still engaged with grammars, he did not even approach rhetoric.

Benedicta, this girl slave, confessed to Hadrian that Marcus still could not restrain himself at the very end of the love game, but it meant nothing. It was fixable. He would take him in hand and completely inseparably will him his own emotions.

And Servianus? And Fuscus? Oh Gods, how ordinary they are, as near as primitive as sharks among a pack of predatory sharks! But the rank of the great pontiff, princeps, Augustus, above all earthly, above the base passions, above the amphibian’s creatures? The Emperor was a living god who would cross into heaven with death and join the Assembly of other gods. And how could Fuscus become a god after all, after saying such words about him, Hadrian?

The Emperor felt his nose swell, held his hand over his arms above his upper lip, and saw that his fingers were painted red. Here again. All because he was worried, angry, he was bleeding again. When he subdued the rebellious Jews, shed rivers of their blood, he felt good, not a single bleed, not a single seizure. It was as if the gods, always hungry for sacrifice, needed any blood, and instead of his own, he gave them someone else's.

Now, after returning to Athens, his wife's letter was found, and everything turned out to be different. Taking a handkerchief and putting it to his nose, Hadrian lay down on the bed, threw his head.

He suddenly remembered Ceionius Commodus. Cheerful, executive, brave young man, though weak in intellect. How quickly and deftly he dealt with the snake, there, in the cave under Betar! And he was not afraid of this Jewish god with a funny name, not in the example of the former viceroy Tineius Rufus, who was shaking with fear. Among other things, Ceionius did not have such ambitions, burning the soul, as Fuscus, which was an undoubted plus. He would be quite a harmless ruler, which the Senate would undoubtedly like.

As for Marcus, Marcus Verissimus…

The emperor pondered. He would bide his time, because he had high hopes and, if the stars unfolded in the sky favorably, he would still be waiting for the purple cloak of the princeps. If not, he would become a good assistant to Ceionius Commodus, and then to his young son Lucius.

After reading the letter, Hadrian instructed the secretary Heliodorus to summon Ceionius from Rome.

“My dear Ceionius,” he said, approaching the guest, “I have decided to appoint you as consul for the following year, along with Sexton Vettulenus.”

“I am grateful, great Caesar,” said Ceionius in surprise, who did not expect Hadrian to extend his favor to him. The emperor, like every ruler, had long formed a circle of close people, favorites, who received unlimited favors. Getting into their number seemed impossible, especially for young Nobilis. It was only to wait patiently for the hour when the empire would be led by their peers and attract peers to rule the great country.

“But why do I deserve such mercy?” he asked.

“I come from the public interest and believe that you are worthy of the consular rank. You performed well in Judea. Also, the best opinion of you is prefect Regin and many senators. And this is only the first step.”

“What's the second one consul?”

“You'll know everything, Ceionius, when the time comes. But I have one condition. I want your daughter Fabia to be engaged to Marcus Verus. He has a great inheritance from Annius, from his father and great-grandfather, and it will be a good marriage. Let your two glorious families be born, so that the glory of Rome will not fade with our death. We're all mortal, aren't we?”

He looked into the cheerful, expressionless eyes of Ceionius and thought that he had made a good choice. The Commodus would be the façade of the upcoming reign, festive, brilliant, admirable, and Marcus would be the real ruler behind him.

The Circus Maximus

A few months after the beginning of the consulate of Ceionius Commodus, when spring was already well, and the bright sun warmed the Italian land not yet hot, but palpable warmth, Rome, after a cold and windy winter, started living a normal life. Festivities flowed endlessly dedicated to the gods, a variety of games and festivals. Huge population of the city- nobility, freedmen, slaves, all indulged in unrestrained entertainment, which abundantly regaled eternal Rome.

At the opening of the horse racing season, Marcus and his mother, as well as their relative, Faustina Sr., invited the new consul Ceionius Commodus in May. It happened after Marcus's engagement to his daughter Fabia, and after the Latin Festival, during which Marcus was appointed prefect of the city—this post was honorable and did not give any special advantages, but it allowed Ceionius to distinguish a new relative.

The engagement itself was carried out in a solemn atmosphere, in the presence of relatives on both sides. Marcus then first saw Fabia, a small, anemic, quiet girl who didn't seem to understand what was going on. Probably, she was just torn away from the dolls, because she was a few years younger than Marcus, who in February turned fifteen.

Marcus's great-grandfather Catilius Regin, solemn in white toga, came forward and addressed Ceionius Commodus with the traditional question, “Do you promise, Ceionius, to give Fabia to Marcus for marriage.” Marcus noticed how his mother's eyes were moistened—Domitia was standing next to her great-grandfather.

“I promise!” replied Commodus, and Marcus put on an iron ring, simple, unadorned on the girl's hand, simultaneously noticing that her palm was as cold as ice. He did not know either Fabia or her father, but the custom allowed him to wait a few years before the wedding, and therefore Marcus treated the event quite calmly. If it was Hadrian's will, that was the way it would be.

Sitting in a Great Circus near his mother, Marcus saw on a vast human sea surrounding him. The first rows were entirely white, for at the races from noble people were required to be only in toga. Today Marcus was also in white, because a year ago he had already received a toga of masculinity. Above them, on the higher tiers sat commoners in a bright and colorful outfit. This human sea was noisy, rustle, buzzing, waiting for the beginning of races, and a beautiful sunny day, which promised to be hot, was in full swing. Upstairs, on specially stretched cables, as hard-working ants crawled slaves, unwrapping fabric, which should create a shadow from the scorching rays of the celestial luminary.

In the Great Circus, where horse races were held, more than a hundred thousand spectators were placed. It was located in the valley between Aventine and Palatine, had three tiers of seats and was surrounded by a high wall. For a few dozen, if not a hundred years, the building of the Circus has changed more than once. It was rebuilt by Octavian and restored by Trajan after the fire. Emperor Claudius ordered marble laid in the horse stalls. The distance-limiting pointers, around which the charioteers made their turn in the four-horses-race, turned from stone to gold.

Horse races have long aroused the interest of the city's residents.

They saw frantically galloping horses with sweat-sloping sides, which were skillfully driven by muscular, strong men. They were captured by the accompanying passion and risk, sometimes deadly, as the charioteers often flew on turns right under the hooves of other people's horses. Finally, the strongest impression was made by the charioteers themselves, who could in certain circumstances become heroes of Rome, and they were them when they received the wreath of the winner and left the Circus at the gate, similar to the triumphal arch. All this led the audience to go wild.

Men rated the thoroughbred horses based on quickness, admired the ability of riders to deftly manage with heavy quadrigas. And women kept their eyes on the charioteers, who risked everything to become winners and earn a triumphal wreath. Their blood, their death, their victory was so exciting and exhilarating that many of the matrons and unmarried women were inclined to have an affair with these intrepid, daring people.

Cheering for the people’s favorites was easy, it was only necessary to choose one of the colors of the tunics of the rider, in which they carried on quadrigas past the stands. At first there were two colors: red and white. Then green and blue were added. Fans divided Rome into factions, forcing citizens to argue to hoarseness and often leading to clashes.

Emperors also did not shy away from horse races. They say Nero was a supporter of the Greens, and Octavian liked white.

A traditional ceremony had already taken place, which was led by the consul Ceionius. He marched in a purple toga embroidered with palm branches, above his head, a state slave carried a golden oak wreath. Around him were numerous clients and relatives, in the middle of which Marcus noticed his future wife, Fabia, and her younger brother, Lucius. They were used to such ceremonies and kept quiet and were not as frightened by large crowds of children shyly clinging to their parents. The procession was called pomp, and according to the established custom took place before each race.

But here the tedious pomp ended, Ceionius took his place over the gates, releasing quadrigas. Meanwhile, special wagons drove through the arena, from where slaves poured water from barrels and scattered everywhere sand, so that the eyes and nostrils of horses were not clogged during the race. Marcus noticed that the water was not simple, but saffron. The water gave pleasure to the floral sweet smell of the senators sitting in the front seats, almost short of reaching the upper rows. Really, why would they? Plebs will cost!

Everyone was waiting for the sign of Ceionius, allowing chariots to take their seats at the start, but the consul somehow hesitated, causing a disgruntled murmur of the crowd.

“I heard that Geminas—favorite of Ceionius is participating in the races,” said Faustina of the mother of Marcus Domitia. He is from the Green Party.”

Faustina the eldest was excited today; she looked with interest at the rows, where the audience of her circle—notable patricians, their wives, people who once held the posts of magistrates and former consuls.⁴⁹ Sometimes she nodded to acquaintances, sometimes, for the most part men, shot flirtatiously smiles. Today, Faustina was alone. Her husband Titus Antoninus did not like mass spectacles. A devotee of calm and silence, he retired to Lanuvia, where he had a large farm estate, to indulge there the joys of village life.

Soon, all found out the reason for the hitch with the start of the race. Vibia Sabina appeared in the imperial box and the whole Circus stood up to greet her.

“I didn't know Sabine was going to be there,” Faustina said. “They said she's been unwell lately.”

“Yes, she has terrible headaches,” Domitia confirmed. “We don't see each other very often now, but thank the gods, it still gives us protection at court.”

Marcus looked at the imperial lodge and saw Hadrian's lonely wife. From afar he could not see her face, but from the figure of Sabina, as it seemed to him, there was a deep sadness. She was alone, without Hadrian, cold and motionless, like the celestial Juno in the temple, for which there are no human squabbles, hopes, and experiences. Only clouds, only the sky, only the sun. And he, Marcus, was sitting among people, alive, noisy, and restless. It's easy to get lost in this gathering, but it didn't feel lonely. They act as one—the crowd and he, and Sabina apart from them.

But he saw her a year ago, when she was swimming naked with Domitia. She had not yet an old body, she had elastic breasts, a flat, taut belly and there were two Nubian slaves, always ready to serve. She was still alive, not of marble as she was now.

“Is it really power which makes people so cold and lonely? No, it's not for me! I don't want to be like her,” Marcus thought, “I don't want to sit alone in the imperial box, when there are so many earthly joys and pleasures around. And all life lies ahead.”

“As I heard, Sabine didn't like the emperor's choice very much,” Faustina continued. “I'm talking about Commodus. We all hoped that Hadrian would stop at our Marcus, but for some reason, he appointed Ceionius to his son. She didn't tell you the reason?”

“No, my darling!” Domitia replied. “But it's Augustus's decision. We're going to have to be content with Marcus being part of the Ceionius family. After getting engaged, he often invites Marcus to himself, wants to get to know each other closer.”

“Closer?” Faustina snorted derisively. “I'm afraid that this dandy and reveler Commodus can pass on bad habits to Marcus. Ceionius always has Ovid lying on the bed with his “Science of Love,”⁵⁰ and he often quotes him to the place and out of place.”

“Commodus probably wants to impress. But how do you know everything?”

Faustina grinned pointedly. “I've been to his house. But there's nothing between us.”

“Knowing you, I would be surprised,” Domitia could not resist the stinging remark.

“No, I was with another man. What's the big deal? You can't blame me for bad behavior. My Titus has one boredom. Only talk about the harvest, and the price of grain, and about the drought. But I'm not old enough to lock up with him in Lanuvia.”

“But what about Titus, will he ever know?”

“He's already guessing. But it's forgiving. He is so generous, my Antoninus, that's why I don't divorce him like some matrons who have swapped several husbands. Have you heard of Calpurnia? She already has a fifth husband. But I haven't told you yet about Ceionius. So, his wife Avidia on her reproaches of infidelity, he says that the wife is a symbol of dignity, not an object for pleasure.”

“Pretty stupid excuse,” Domitia shrugged. “If I were Avidia, I would definitely divorce.”

“You're too strict a rule, so men bypass you.”

At this time, Ceionius from his seat finally threw a white handkerchief into the arena, and the races began. Six chariots, raising the sand, rushed in a circle around a long wall, with sculptures placed on it. The audience began to shout furiously, cheering the brave riders. Faustina also screamed, pointing her hand at the charioteer in a blue tunic. It was her quadriga, which was run by slave Agaclytus.

Heading the race was Green. As Marcus understood from Faustina's explanations, it was Geminas, a man who belonged to Ceionius. Commodus himself also shouted loudly from his seat, as well as his children sitting next to him—Fabia and Lucius. Unsatisfied wife Avidia screamed furiously, and her cry seemed to Marcus to look like a tantrum.

The conversation between his aunt and mother, which he unwittingly witnessed, made him look at the woman. She was short in stature with a pretty face. A scarf is put on her head, her hands are hung with gold bracelets, glistening dimly in the sun. She showed Ceionius on a charioteer in green and said something loudly.

For a while, Geminas led the race. They swept a few laps, and already six balls removed a special slave, indicating that the final seventh round remained. Suddenly, Agaclytus' horses raced like madmen, and he almost overtook the leader. The fans seemed to go crazy. Faustina jumped up. Clutching Marcus's shoulder painfully, so as not to fall, she wailed, stomping her feet and swearing rudely, like some proletarian from the poor quarters of Rome.

“Go ahead, go, go Agaсlet!” she screamed loudly. “Go! Go! Oh, lazy cattle!”

Having visited horse racing before, Marcus was not surprised by the behavior of his aunt, such she was, his relative was passionate, wayward, and frivolous.

Meanwhile, Agaclytus matched Geminas, and they rushed side by side, grinning their teeth, standing out with white stripes on their dusty gray faces, furiously quilting their whips on the backs of horses. There was a final turn before the finish line.

Tension among viewers had reached unprecedented levels, and even Marcus jumped up from his seat. Like everyone else, he shouted loudly, stomped, waved his arms. It was like he’d gone mad with the crowd. Where did his remarkable calmness go? Where did the philosophy go of the cynics and stoics, which he absorbed from Diognetus and Alexander of Cotiaeum?

He felt in himself something primitive, dark, eclipsing the mind, as if he captured the spirit of a predator, requiring to catch up and torment the enemy, to enjoy his blood. And he unwittingly carried his thoughts into the arena, imagining himself in a blue tunic. It was he, Marcus, rushing in the dust along the Circus, he beat the horses with force with the whip, his white teeth, ready to gnaw at the throat of the opponent.

Meanwhile, at the turn of the quadriga of the green charioteer hit the wheel of the cart Agaclytus and he flew out of it, as if a stone from the sling, rolling to the side. It was over. No, blue today didn't have a chance to celebrate triumph.

After Faustina’s races, Domitia and Marcus went to horse stalls to learn about Agaclytus’ health—such a slave, a skilled rider, was expensive. Ceionius, satisfied with the victory of his quadriga, had already come down. His arrival was announced by two heralds, whom he attached golden-winged wings on his back. This was a fashionable innovation for Rome.

“Consul Ceionius Commodus!” they proclaimed with trumpet voices, warning about the appearance of the magistrate. Such undisguised narcissism of Ceionius in many caused a smile.

“Faustina! Domitia!” the Commodus greeted both matrons at ease, lazily stretching the words. “It's good to see you both on the run I spend as a consul. I hope you liked it, despite the unfortunate loss of yours, Faustina, the quadriga.”

“Yes, it is!” Faustina said in a disgruntled voice. “However, I have long wanted to give Agaclytus to my nephew.” She turned to Marcus. “Will you accept my gift?”

“Of course, auntie!” Marcus politely bowed.

“Well, now we're going to compete with Marcus,” Ceionius laughed. “That’s funny!”

A little away from the masters stood their charioteers Geminas and Agaclytus; the charioteer of Faustina, with a grim look, rubbed the places bruised in the fall. Marcus noticed how he looked at his mother Domitia, at Faustina the Elder, and in his eyes, there was a hidden audacity with which men usually look at women.

“Agaclytus, come!” Ceionius called him.

A young, short stature Greek came up and leaned easily, depicting reverence. “I'm here, master.”

Ceionius approached him, with the look of a connoisseur groping his shoulders and arms.

“Listen, Marcus,” he said, “since Faustina has given you Agaclytus, will you give him to me? I'll pay a good price. You don't need a quadriga, and I keep the stables.”

“Don't bother, Ceionius. I have not yet issued a gift," Faustina was ahead of Marcus with the answer.

“Well, as you like, I don't really need it. My Geminas is still the best!”

Ceionius smiled, but Marcus noticed evil light in his eyes. Although Hadrian's chosen one was known as a vain man, an empty, harmless and foolish, who never crossed the road to anyone, except for Servianus and Fuscus, but he was able to be angry. And it was now becoming clear.

Meanwhile, his son Lucius approached the consul. He was about five years old, but he was already very much like his father. This ball was a large boy, low forehead, with straight eyebrows resembling an elongated thread that separates a small forehead from the rest of the face.

“Lucius, my son, say hello to Marcus and his relatives,” said Ceionius skillfully extinguished his discontent and becoming kind again.

The boy said something that was murmuring, shy.

“Oh, he's so unsociable. He should be taught to educate,” his father lamented. “Can you help us, Marcus? Come more often. By the way, a fashionable philosopher from the school of stoics Apollonius from Chalcis recently came to Rome, and I invited him to study stoicism.”

“Obviously he's going to come, Ceionius,” Domitia said. Throughout the conversation, she was silent, embarrassed for Faustina, for her obvious rudeness, and now, with her politeness, she tried to smooth the awkwardness hanging in the air.

“I'll be glad of you, Marcus!” Once again, Ceionius smiled, and left the horse stalls, accompanied by the lictors and customers, who stood with a respectful look on the sidelines all this time.