Читать книгу Solar Wind. Book one - Олег Красин - Страница 3

“Oh, he's a monster, I assure you! A real monster!”

Empress Sabine angrily squeezed bloodless thin lips, frowned her eyebrows, and tried to give her face a neutral, detached expression, but she did not always succeed. And now she couldn't cope with herself. Evil tears rolled into her eyes, and dry, heart-weeping sobs came up to her throat.

She reclined on the bed—under her back the slaves slipped a few pillows for convenience—talking to her longtime friend, Marcus's mother, Domitia Lucilla. The bed was small, with elegantly curved wooden legs, decorated with bronze. Domitia was lying opposite exactly the same. The space between them was occupied by a small table on which there was a tray of fruit and a jug of wine.

In the spacious room the hand of the Empress was felt—on a large stone floor stretched a bright woven carpet, brought from distant China through Parthia, and along the walls in the niches were busts of Greek and Roman writers; Sabina was fond literature. Here were Virgil, Homer, Catullus, Horace, but there was no Ovid, as he was never forgiven by Emperor Octavian Augustus.

It was a hot, dry summer on the street, so slaves stood near her bed and the bed of Domitia, fanning the women with large fans fashioned from long ostrich feathers. They were almost alone in the Palatine Palace, except for the slaves, but who would think of them. Hadrian spent all his time in Tibur, in his newly built huge villa and did not look into the palace.

In the far corner of the hall at the table was Marcus. He read Cato's17 book in a position assigned to him by the grammar teacher of Apollonius, who had recently begun to teach the young man.

The Empress was talking about Hadrian. He had long been the subject of her conversations, and to the curiosity or indignation of visitors, she always spoke about him badly, painting her stories in gloomy tones, attributing her barrenness to Caesar’s dirty passions and vices. Visitors invited to Sabine's palace, her clients and freedmen, for the most part, were afraid of these conversations, because the well-wisher could convey to Hadrian that someone—patrician or rider—listens favorably to all the anger that the disgraced empress thrust on Caesar.

Domitia Lucilla also listened with concern to Sabina's lengthy dialogues, but she was hesitant to interrupt it. After all, Sabina was their patron at the court, it was she who helped Marcus attain a proper place in the heart of the Roman ruler. She supported with her advice, connections, influence, the Annius family all these years, and Domitia Lucilla considered herself indebted to her.

Sabine wore a pink tunic, a rich pearl necklace around her neck. Her hands had bracelets wrapped around them like silver snakes. Fascinated by the conversation, she casually touched the pearls around her neck with her fingertips, sorting bead after bead. Domitia Lucilla was dressed more modestly—in a faded blue tunic with a long handkerchief draped over the top and almost no jewelry.

“Because of him, I remained barren,” the Empress continued. “I wanted children, but judge for yourself how to give birth from such a despot?”

“But isn't Hadrian better than Nero or Diocletian, whom the Senate refused to deify?” tactfully objected to Domitia. “He likes music, poetry, he's a famous connoisseur of the arts. It seems to me that the soul that loves the graceful is not subject to vile motives.”

“You're wrong, Domitia! A man inspired by the bare ass of young men cannot be sublime.”

Domitia looked away in embarrassment and looked at the slaves. Two swarthy black Africans continued to wave unflappably. Their skin glistened with sweat, and as if the sea waves rolled muscles on their hands. They probably didn't understand Latin. Marcus's mother calmed down a little, and Sabina chuckled:

“Do you think I'm talking about his lover Antinous, whom the gods took away from him? No? It's in the past. But the emperor likes to go to the thermae to the barbers and watch as the young men, earning a living as a prostitute, shave their ass.”

“Ass?” Domitia said in confusion. “Why is he looking?”

“He finds a strange, perverted inspiration in it, and then writes poetry. However, they do generally turn out quite decent and can be read in society.”

Sabina paused and made a sign for one of the slaves. The slave quickly came up with a tray on which there were glasses of cold wine diluted with water.

“And such a man—is my husband!” the Empress remarked, drinking wine, though without the former hysterical break. “And what have you, dear Domitia? You haven’t found a mate yet, after all, enough time has passed since Annia’s death?”

“No!” Domitia shook her head. “I don't think I need anyone. I give all my strength to the correct upbringing of my son, teach him the old Roman traditions. It's a good thing his great-grandfather Regin helps me with that.”

“But, right, are you entertained with slaves? Let's admit it!” Sabina smiled, believing that the topic with Hadrian could be closed and move on to the little things that were sweet for the woman's heart.

In response, Domitia also smiled.

“How can I not! Doctors advise sleeping with men for health and hygiene purposes.”

She looked involuntarily again at the sturdy muscular slaves, diligently doing their job. The fans moved, not ceasing, a pleasant breeze invigorating the warmed skin. After following her gaze, Sabina chuckled:

“A little later, let's go to my pool and cool down. And we'll take these with us to have fun.”

Marcus, who was fascinated by reading, did not pay attention to the conversation between his mother and the Empress. His table was near the bust of writer and stoic philosopher Lucius Seneca. The flabby, white, marble head of Nero's tutor didn't like Marcus. It was a cold lifeless face, empty eyes without pupils. He tried not to look at him, for the thought of how he could someday become the same, frozen in marble or bronze with dead empty eyes.

Over the years he had grown, transforming into an angular, clumsy boy with a long, pointed chin and curly hair. Only his eyes, the big convex eyes, the living soul, in which curiosity did not disappear, remained the same.

Fragments of words from the conversation between the mother and the empress reached him, but he did not attach special importance to them. The tangled relationship with Sabina brought their family a benefit that could be wisely applied by climbing up the imperious ladder of Rome. Priest, questor, prefect, consul. Life seemed straight, like the Appian Way near Rome, it led to the due respect, fasting, and glory of those who impeccably followed Roman laws.

Marcus was already fourteen, he had a whole life ahead of him. He believed that with due diligence and sufficient mental stress, he would achieve everything his mother and great-grandfather had prepared him for. He wouldn't let them down!

He would not let Emperor Hadrian down.

He, Marcus, saw Hadrian looking at him in their first meeting. He was six years old at the time, but he remembered Caesar's attentive affectionate gaze, his benevolent smile, his soft muffled voice, like the cautious roar of a leopard. Marcus heard a similar growl when his great-grandfather Regin took him with him to the Flavium Amphitheatre, where gladiators fought each other every day and killed thousands of wild animals. Leopards growled quietly, restrainedly, but menacingly enough to scare the enemy.

Hearing the name of Antinous, Marcus immediately remembered the young man, so beloved by Hadrian, their first meeting in the palace of the emperor. One day after returning from the East, Marcus wished to see Caesar. No one then knew what the reason for his curiosity was, no one assumed that the emperor saw in Marcus not just a boy from a noble family, but a future ruler of Rome. Perhaps this option prompted him an innate intuition? Or a long-drawn horoscope? Anyway, Marcus was brought to Palatine—Hadrian lived in this palace.

And then Marcus noticed a young man who was walking slowly in the stola18 on the hall, lazily descending to the bed near Hadrian. Antinous looked surprisingly feminine, possessed a certain melancholic beauty, and if Marcus had not guessed from some signs in front of him that this was a man, he would have mistaken him for a young blossoming girl.

“Marcus, come over, meet Antinous!” Hadrian commanded softly but commandingly.

Antinous suddenly rose from the bed, going over to Marcus and putting his arms over his shoulders. The boy felt the spicy aroma of incense, which soaked into Antinous's clothes, his skin, his hair. It was the fragrance of the East, Syria or Egypt. Marcus once smelt a similar aroma in a shop with Egyptian goods, where he often went with his mother.

“Greetings Marcus Annius Verus!” Antinous said melodiously, his voice was high, ringing, as the boys say, until nature makes them more grown-up.

“Be healthy, Antinous!” Marcus replied with the usual Roman greeting. Not knowing how to behave with Hadrian's favorite, he was embarrassed and stepped back a step. But Antinous laughed, “Don't be afraid of me, Verissimus!”

“Why should I be afraid of him?” the boy, who knew nothing about adult relationships, thought with surprise. Then, of course, he found out what the matter was, but back then he didn't know anything about it. “I'm a Roman citizen, and he's just a freedman.”

In little Marcus, his mother has already brought up a sense of pride in belonging to the great Roman people. How could it be otherwise?

Rome was a huge, majestic city-state, extending to the West and East, North and South, covering the entire Mediterranean Sea. This vast civilization lived by the strict, logical laws established by the Roman mind. The Romans believed that inside man lives a genius who guides and protects everyone. The genius of Rome had guarded the city all these years, almost a thousand years.

How many bitter, tragic moments were there when the fate of the Roman people hung in the balance. Sabinians, Carthage, Gauls, Parthians, Germans. But Rome survived, it rose, developed, brought peace and culture to other nations and therefore a proud formula “Civis Romanus sum!”19 meant much more than belonging to a powerful state. It meant living in a civilized world.

Marcus saw Antinous several more times, and then learned that the young man had drowned in the Nile, while Hadrian traveled near the town of Canopus. The emperor's grief was inconsolable. The city of Antinople arose in Egypt, and in the sky rose a bright star and the emperor's confidants assured that the noble soul of Antinous had ascended to the sky.

He drowned, but was resurrected as the Egyptian god Osiris. And so, in the same Egypt, and then in Greece, there were cults of Antinous; he became a deity, perishing and reborn.

Meanwhile, Sabina started talking about Marcus's coming to grow up.

He should get the toga of the young man, because he was already fourteen years old. This was an important step in Marcus's public position. The toga symbolized not only the transition from one state to another—from boy to man—but also a sharp turn in the material situation. Marcus became an heir, could get and use property as an adult. Of course, Sabina said, Marcus would have to make an exception, because such a toga young men usually put on at the age of sixteen. But little Marcus had also become a priest-Salii at seven, and he was generally very developed.

The Empress cheered up, laughing loudly, looking at the corner in which Marcus was sitting at the table. Such mood swings, from sullen gloom to hysteria, and from her unrestrained to fun, became quite frequent for her. Domitia, as she could adjust to her Augustus friend, smiled too, though Sabina's hints were not always clear.

What was she talking about? The fact that Marcus received the priestly rank undeservedly or about something else? Maybe she expected from the family of Annius not just gratitude, hot expressions of gratitude, but veneration of her as a patron saint, almost a goddess.

“We, my dear Domitia, will look after his bride,” Sabine continued, having fun. “Certainly, from a good family, I have one in mind.”

“And who?” Domitia Lucilla asked with inner anxiety.

“You need to be related to the Ceionius. They have a daughter, Fabia, a little younger than Marcus. The family is famous, from the old Etruscan nobility. From it came a few consuls and legats, by the way, they are very favored by the emperor.”

“Why to the Ceionius?”

Sabine's cheerful face instantly became sullen.

“I suspect that he had a connection with one of the women of the house of the Ceionius. Oh, gods, that's disgusting, disgusting! They have the eldest son of Lucius Ceionius Commodus, he was appointed a pretor, and now is in one of our armies on the Rhine. Now, I've been told its supposedly Hadrian's son. What dirt!”

“I heard too,” Domitia confessed, “but I can't believe it, dear Sabina. It's a rumor. The emperor has many detractors, ready to spread gossip on any occasion.”

“You're too lenient toward him, sweetheart!” Sabine gushed. “So, about Fabia. We will strengthen the alliance between your two families, unite the wealth, which will be good support for Marcus in the future. I'll tell you a secret, I have great views of your boy—he'll make a great ruler of Rome. I have to think about strengthening the dynasty all the time, if others don't think about it at all.”

She hinted at Hadrian with a scornful, barely noticeable grimace on her face, then continued. “Since we have no children, the emperor will have to adopt someone who is close enough to our family, as was the case with Trajan and Hadrian himself.”

The Domitia flinched face. Although in her heart she cherished hopes that her son would take a worthy position in society, corresponding to the rank and merits of the Annius family, but the emperor? Oh, Jupiter! That's something she had never considered. Sabina, pleased with the effect, added.

“I, and this is another of the secrets, spied the horoscope compiled by Adrian on Marcus. The stars agree that he will become the ruler of Rome. Maybe not tomorrow or a year, but it will happen. You know how Hadrian believes horoscopes…”

“The whole of Rome has heard about it.”

“I'm sure he's already chosen Marcus. All that's left is to find him a wife.”

“But he is still so young, he does not know life…” muttered Domitia, whose mother's heart did not want to let go of her son too soon.

“Stop, Domitia! We've all been through this. What time did you get married?”

“At sixteen.”

“And I was fifteen. You know that marriages are not made out of love, but out of expediency. We all sacrifice ourselves to marriage, but then…”

Sabina led her eyes in the direction of the slaves and made a sign with her hand. They stopped waving, slowly moved to the far edge of the huge hall. Sabina and her friend got off the bed.

“Marcus,” Sabine said to the boy, “we go to the thermae. Don't you want to come with us? It's so hot today!”

Marcus broke away from reading, hesitantly looking at his mother. She made a permitting gesture with her hand, and they all went to the entrance to the imperial baths. In a large room lined with black-and-white floor slabs, columns of Corinthian pink marble towered around the perimeter, and in the niches the sculptures of Venus and Cupid, who took frivolous poses, took refuge. In the center was a pool in which the blue water splashed.

“Hadrian banned the joint washing of women and men,” Sabine remarked, smiling playfully. “But we're all here. Aren’t we?”

She threw off the tunic, exposing the taut, slender body of the nulliparous woman and began to slowly descend the steps into the water. She felt Marcus studying her, and therefore she was in no hurry. Domitia also followed her example, however, not too much embarrassed—they used to bathe with their son at home.

“Come on, Marcus. Come join us!” Sabina called, turning to him in the water so that he could see her all, from the breasts to the tips of feet. “Don't stand like a statue!”

Marcus undressed and, turning to give clothes to the slave, noticed two African slaves standing nearby. Those with their hands folded on their stomachs, looked indifferently in front of them, like two living idols motionlessly frozen on the order of the lady.