Читать книгу Solar Wind. Book one - Олег Красин - Страница 8

“Oh, Marcus! Oh, my Marcus!”

The female voice was so familiar and pleasant, ring out from the dark. Out of the dark? No, the bedroom was illuminated by the scant light of two braziers standing at the edges of the lodge, in the corner on the table oil lamp lit, throwing uneven light on the walls. Through the narrow small windows in the room penetrated the night March air, wet, cold, but Marcus was hot. He was not in a tunic, he was naked. And he was not alone, with his back to him on all fours was a woman, also naked. She clung to the slabs of the floor, and he clearly could see her hair scattered on her shoulders, narrow back and round buttocks, smooth skin, shiny as silk.

She was silent, as if praying to all the gods in the world.

Marcus felt excited, he came down from the high bed, crawled up to the woman from behind. Oh, it was a brain-burning desire! It touched the woman, penetrated her body and began to move faster and faster. It seemed to him that he was about to explode with furious convulsions of pleasure.

It must be Benedicta, he believed. She came to him in the evening and stayed. But how? Was she sent from Tibur by Emperor Hadrian, who was in Syria? That was impossible! It was impossible!

“Marcus, what are you doing?” suddenly a stern, imperious voice sounds.

The woman turned her head. Oh, gods, it was Empress Sabine! He recognized her thin lips, her strict dark eyes. Recognized the diamond necklace around his neck. She was like that in the pool when he saw her naked with her mother—strict and domineering.

“Marcus, what are you doing?” voice again, it was not Sabine, it's his mother Domitia Lucilla. He was with his mother! A cold sweat broke over Marcus—this dream, a terrible dream that made the soul shudder, he must one day stop.

Marcus opened his eyes and found himself in an empty dark bedroom. On the sides of the bed were braziers, spreading even heat around the room. The lamp on the table did not burn—before going to bed it was extinguished by a slave Antiochus, a big, lazy man. He was now sprawled near the door and snoring desperately loudly. Antiochus would not let anyone in to him, neither Benedicta nor his mother.

Thoughts gradually filled his head. There were a few days left until the Ides of March. After them there would be a fun celebration which was called Liberalia, and he would put on the white toga of an adult citizen, finally becoming an adult and making his own decisions, to do responsible actions. Not all solutions, of course, full adulthood would come only in twenty first year. But Baebius Longus and Fuscianus would envy him, not to mention Victorinus. They’d be adults in three years.

And yet what was the meaning of this dream? So wrong, disgusting and nasty. First Sabine, then his mother. Marcus tossed and turned, he was hot, he could not sleep, and he remembered the artist Diognetus. He, like Hadrian, taught himself to subordinate his feelings to himself, to manage them, to be able to look at himself from the outside. Well, he looked: a young man who had mastered the empress, and then his mother!

His face burned with shame, and he thought about how good it was that it was night, dark, and everyone was asleep. No need to explain why he wasn’t asleep, why his cheeks and forehead were red. He suddenly remembered that his mother has a book by Artemidorus from Ephesus, which she often looked into because it was called “Dream interpretation.” Mother discussed her dreams with him, with friends, with Regin, because dreams, as well as signs, the Romans used to unconditionally believe.

It was necessary to look into it, he decided, to make sure that nothing bad would happen.

In the morning, not enough sleep, sluggish, Marcus went to the tablinum, where along with important family documents were kept scrolls of books. That's how he found the dream book. What he needed was described by Artemidorus in the first part. He did not look for Sabina, but about his mother… Possess a mother from behind was not good, he read, which meant that the dreamer would turn away their mother, or reject their motherland, or would fail.

All of these, he was not categorically satisfied with; he did not want him to turn away from his mother, did not want to lose his homeland or something else, no less important. He was still a young man, although on the threshold of adulthood, it was too early for him to be alone.

But what about sleep?

There were not many people in the house, although the slaves had already gotten up and were making noise everywhere, carrying water, talking loudly. In the kitchen, the chef prepared breakfast and from there came the smell of charcoal. Marcus watched as this little curly Egyptian cooked pork porridge.

Marcus wanted to see his mother. For some reason, after a dream and prediction of a dream book, he had a fear that something would happen to his mother, and she would leave him. A stupid, strange thought that disturbed his heart.

In addition to the slaves, Marcus heard the voices of customers, coming to see Domitia Lucilla, get her benevolent look, and even better a few sesterces, which could be put into business.

Marcus suspected that many of them were rogues and not at all as unhappy, deceived by life, as they wanted to appear before his mother. They tried to cause pity with worn tunics, or a large family that was hard to feed, or other troubles sent by the gods. These worthless people would stand along the corridor and escort the hostess of the house—the generous owner of the brick factory, with the eyes of devoted dogs, a little sad and mournful.

He, Marcus, thought that clientele were useless and lazy parasites,35 which would be nice to get rid of and he would probably do it in due course.

In order not to meet them, Marcus bypassed the atrium, triclinium, walking through the corridors to his mother's room. At the entrance, he held his breath—now he would see her, alive, healthy, still affectionate. She must be busy with the morning toilet.

He was looking into the room and saw the truth! Domitia Lucilla sat in front of a large silver mirror that reflected her face and shoulders quite well. Near it were three slaves—Didona, Melissa and Feoksena, young Egyptian girls. One held a round silver mirror in front of the lady, another curled her hair with hot tongs, and the third dealt with the face of Domitia. Feoksena rubbed into the forehead, cheeks, and neck of his mother an ointment derived from the litter of crocodiles, which bleached the skin, and prepared paint from burnt date bones to paint the eyelashes of the mistress.

“Marcus, why are you standing on the doorstep? Come in!” his mother observed. “Do you want something?”

The son blushed, remembering his prior night's sleep.

“I wanted to wish you a good morning, Mum. How did you sleep?”

“I slept wonderfully!”

Domitia did not turn her head, but Marcus noticed that she smiles faintly. Mother was in a good mood today.

“Have customers gathered?” she asked casually.

“As always!” Marcus shrugged. “They came again for the innings.”

“Well, who doesn't like sesterces—we have a lot of them. Speaking of money…”

The Domitia fell silent as Feoksena began rubbing the ointment, making circular movements with her palms across the mother's face. When she finished, Domitia continued.

“Perhaps your sister Cornificia is ripe for marriage. I found her a beautiful fiancé from a good Ummidius family—Gaius. The wedding must be next year when she grows up a little bit. I wanted to ask you about the will. We need to think about how to provide it with the means.”

“If she gets married, then I will give her the inheritance left from my father,” Marcus said judiciously, “I'll have enough of my great-grandfather's possessions. And you can bequeath your fortune to her, too, without mentioning me. Then Cornificia won't look poorer than Ummidius. I hear the Quadratus are a rich surname.

“Okay, I'll think about it,” Domitia agreed. “Do you know who I called to our family celebration on the occasion of your acceptance of toga virilis?”

“Emperor Hadrian?” Marcus joked.

But mother didn’t accept the joke.

“No,” she replied earnestly, “Hadrian is now in Syria, suppressing the Rebellion of the Jews. I invited Empress Sabine, who gives us the highest patronage, your aunt Faustina with Antoninus, Regin, and second great-grandfather, Annius Verus. Perhaps there will be more of my relatives from Narbonne Gaul. You've heard about them.”

“So much? I thought we were going to do a modest rite.”

“Oh, Marcus, it's already much more modest than I expected. But in Rome now cool, many of the respected people get sick or sit at home, warming their asses with the braziers, or have gone to warmer lands where they have villas.”

The slaves at this time finished the morning preparations and moved aside. A gray-haired slave appeared on the threshold of the room, looking after the house, his name was Decimus. Lucilla got him at one time from her deceased husband, and she kept him for herself, however, believing that she was not mistaken. Decimus was intelligent, partly educated—knew Latin writing, and by nature was quite calm.

“Domina, the customers have come together and want to pay their respects to you. In addition, the chef informed me that breakfast is already cooked.”

“It's beautiful!” Domitia responded, and Marcus pointed out, “Take the money for distribution! After breakfast, I'll go to your other aunt Annia, Ummidius Quadratus wife. We will talk to her about the marriage of our children in the near future.”

“Not so near future,” Marcus retorted. “As Cornficia grows up, a lot can change.”

“These things are not done hastily. You'll learn that. I mean, you'll understand how important it was to prepare yourself thoroughly for events like this in your life. And time? It flies fast. ‘Time takes away everything!’” she quoted her beloved Virgil, and turned to Decimus, “Let the nomenclator36 be ready, he will go with me.”

“Why do you need a nomenclator, Mom?” Marcus was surprised. “Today it is cool, and it is unlikely that you will push the curtains of the palanquin to see those who come to meet.”

“You know your mother is naturally curious.”

Rome loved holidays, solemn processions, triumphs. There were many of them, for different tastes and frets, and almost all of them were connected with the Gods. Every step of the citizens of Rome from birth to death, accompanied by them, guarded, helped the genius living inside each person.

In March, only one holiday was celebrated by all—The Liberalia. It was important because the young men on this day removed the toga praetexta and dressed in toga virilis, as if replacing children's life with adulthood. However, it was seen as a simple matter, as if with a change of clothes, it was easy to change not the status, but the internal perception of the world. Marcus, brought up in conversations with Greek teachers, whose attitude was deeper and wider than the Romans, seemed strange.

His fellow tribesmen against the background of the Greeks looked more pragmatic, purposeful and material, which had its advantages in the conquest of other peoples. But these down-to-earth people were not known for the exuberant flight of poetic fantasy, which owned the people who gave such great poets as Homer. The Romans were infinitely far from the thoughtful reasoning of Aristotle and Plato, who created the philosophy of their civilization.

Liberalia were not only associated with the ritual of transition of young men into adulthood. For many, Lieber sounded almost like the word freedom,37 though Lieber and Libera were just a married couple—a symbol of fertility and its strength. Therefore, the Romans loved this holiday, which allowed them to make funny obscenities and be slightly dissolved, for a short time avoiding the rigors and rituals of ordinary life. And, moreover, the importance of Liber was that he helped a man free himself from the seed during love games, and his wife Libera did the same for women.38

Walking through the city with a large heavy Antiochus, Marcus looked at these cheerful crowds of people, slightly drunk, screaming, stretched on the face masks of wood bark and leaves, waving small phalluses made of flowers. Almost all of them without exception sang comic scraping songs and Marcus, unwittingly picked up by this whirlpool of fun, also sang along.

He sometimes liked to wander around Rome on such holidays, wrapping up, if it was winter or early spring, in a warm cloak, throwing a hood over his head. He liked to breathe the air of a free city and feel like a citizen of a universe named Rome. He liked to observe, because a leisurely, thoughtful contemplation was taught by Diognetus, but he had also been instructed that contemplation should be meaningful, leading to the right thoughts.

These drunk people in painted masks. Why did he look at them, what he wants to see, see under masks? Wouldn't it be better to give up thinking and get into a full-flowing human river, bubbling on narrow city streets and spilling wide, on the outskirts, like a spring Tiber during floods?

Wouldn't it be better to boldly approach a young freed woman with an indiscreet offer? Or embarrass the venerable matron with a cheeky look? And then brag about your courage in front of the Victorinus or Fuscianus? Because Baebius Longus and another friend of the plebeians Calenus, already boasted wins over women. Not over slaves, with which you can do anything, but over the free Romans.

A 14-year-old boy entering adulthood. Isn't that why he should celebrate such an important event? Adulthood was not only to change one set of clothes for another, to switch from a white toga with a red stripe to a fully white one. Adulthood was the ability to do things that were previously forbidden, it was to deny all prohibitions.

He thought like this, and suddenly his thoughts were embarrassing. The heady feeling of freedom, the permission of anything to the soul, gave courage to the depths of the heart, led to recklessness. He and Antiochus went further to the Aventine hill, where there was a temple of the goddess of fertility Ceres. That's where the sanctuary of Liber and Libera was.

Narrow streets, high bulk of brick insulae, from the entrance to which carries the smells of cooking food, urine and sewage. The walls of the houses were painted with all sorts of words, for the most part obscene, to which everyone was accustomed here. “Semporius yesterday inserted Sext's widow,” “Nicanor beats Checher's wife,” “Flor is a real stallion; he is not enough for five women,” “Girls, I traded you for men's ass.”

This was not the first time Marcus has read such coarse inscriptions coming from the depths of people's self-awareness. Of course, the simplicity of street humor was not in any comparison with the exquisite jokes of lawyers, philosophers or rhetoricians. She was closer to the Atellan farce and the mime, to the actors who played them, for example, to the well-known Marullus. Nevertheless, Marcus was never confused by the frank images inspired by Eros, crammed defiantly with huge phalluses.

He noticed that at the entrance to the houses on small chairs sat caretakers from retired military, in the past options39 or decurions.40 They collected rent for the owners, kept order. Usually these former fighters played with weighty sticks in their hands and looked unkindly at passers-by. But today they were disassembled by fun, and they did not look like sullen supervisors.

Noticing Marcus, one of these caretakers rose from his chair, and scornfully ignored the massive, clumsy Antiochus, who had warily stepped from behind the young patrician, saying, smiling:

“Dominus, does a woman want to.”

“Do prostitutes work during the day?” Marcus wondered, having heard about the experience of adult buddies.

“They always work, young dominus,” replied the caretaker, continuing to smile unpleasantly.

“Or maybe so I celebrate my new age?” returned to Marcus bold thoughts, which arose when he looked at the girls and women singing in the streets, at their pink cheeks and cheerful eyes, at their alluring bodies.

“We're going to the Libera sanctuary,” Antiochus interjected. In the cool air his voice sounded cracked, revealing a Greek accent. “The dominus doesn't have time now.”

“I think it will be up to the young master himself,” the caretaker said brazenly.

As he spoke, a mature, kind woman with fiery red-painted hair, a typical lupa,41 peeked out of the entrance of the insulae. Prostitutes were often painted in such defiantly bright colors, walked red or blue-headed.

“You have a place in the Lupanar,” Antiochus observed, “you violate the law of Augustus, which prohibits the accepting of customers at home.”

“What are you, the lictor? Something unnoticed by your fasces,”42 echidna throws a woman, quickly looking around Marcus. “Augustus has long been a god, and the gods do not always descend to such little things. Oh, what a lovely boy! Come on, come on with me!” she invited Marcus.

But words were not limited. She grabbed it, and Marcus unwittingly noticed her old skin, dirty nails on her hands, felt the unpleasant smell of an unwashed body. He became disgusted, the desire to go did not arise, but the legs themselves obediently led after the woman on shabby wooden stairs, on the floors, at the ends of which there are large vats for sewage. Residents poured their excrement there every morning. This smell was disgusting, sickening, but Marcus, as if fascinated by something, went after the old prostitute. Behind puffed heavy Antiochus.

The woman, meanwhile, having received a client, and even such a sweet, clean boy, went a quick step and spoke loudly, she was in a good mood. It turned out that she was from Bithynia, from where was born Hadrian’s favorite Antinous. No, she didn't know Antinous, and in the town of Claudiopolis, where he was born, she was not, but she heard about him. Hadrian had raised many monuments to this unfortunate young man. Died in the color of years! What a grief for his mother!

She herself, and her name was Demetra, three boys and all attached—traded in the shops of their fathers. She tried for them, she collected a small capital, forced them to go to school. True, their teacher was strict, he beat them with a whip mercilessly for every fault. But they grew up obedient and attentive to her, to their mother, to the glory of the gods!

They didn't get to the top floor, where the prices for the rent weren't as big as the bottom. Demetra rented a room for two thousand sesterces a year. The situation in it, although not shone luxury, but seemed quite tolerable. Apparently, its owner enjoyed success with men, especially in his younger years.

In the corner was a large bed, which could fit a few adults, perhaps three or four. That's what Marcus thought. A couple of trunks set against the wall. The table on which there were two clay jugs, and a chair stood near the window. From there was a coolness—on the upper floors there was no glazing, there were only wooden shutters, out of shape from the damp and barely covered. They hardly let the daylight pass, and therefore the room was gloomy.

In such darkness it was difficult to see the drawings on the walls covered with ochre, but Marcus still considered the erotic scenes that Demetra ordered the artists tailored to her craft. On them men with huge phalluses, exceeding the size of their hands, copulating with women in various poses.

“Now, now, sweetheart!” Demetra said, deftly removing Marcus's warm heavy cloak, then the tunic. She, accustomed to all the whims of men, did not pay attention to the slave standing there. Who knows, maybe he was there to make sure that no one harmed his master? Or maybe the young master would want them to have her together, at the same time? She, of course, was ready for anything, but it would cost more.

However, Antiochus, as if understanding her thoughts, turned away and left the room.

“Oh, how white, tender your skin is!” Demetra examined his body, bringing her face closer to him, almost too close, drawing her fingertips on his back, shoulders, chest. Marcus tickled, and he felt a slight excitement. There was no heat in the room, and the roasting pan in the corner was out and it was cool.

“Now we'll see what you have here!” Demetra said with a laugh, lowering her hand below.

And now the dream repeated itself. In front of him on her knees there was a woman, he copulates with her and he was not disgusted by the smell of this body, nor the kind of flabby, saggy skin of the prostitute. Perhaps now she would turn her head, and he would see the face of Empress Sabina. Or his mother’s. No, it shouldn't happen again! The woman turned her head, and he saw Demetra. Of course! It was Demetra, there could be no other.

He was covered with intense excitement, he convulsively jerked, beating on her body and almost lost his head, falling against her back. “Thank the gods, it's a prostitute!”—swept through his head, which was so clear, empty and lonely that it seemed as if he was hovering above the ground in the blue over the mountain ranges of the Alps or over the vast expanses of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

No, it didn't happen! No Demetra, no body, no horrible, shameful coitus. It never happened. “It's a dream,” he decided. “I swear to Venus, I am a virgin and will remain for him until the wedding! Until the gods find me a wife.”

The woman, meanwhile, was already dressed, and now she quickly and deftly helped to dress Marcus. She took his money and looked affectionately into his eyes.

“Come to me again, my boy. I'm Demetra from the fifth district of Hill Caelian. Remember that?”