What did it mean? Did the dream recall a genuine memory, or was it a fantasy from his imagination? The dream always exerted such a powerful spell that after waking, it took Marcus a moment to remember who and what he was: not a child any longer, and not a helpless slave, but a man of twenty-eight, living with his father in their house on the Palatine Hill.
“Are you really my father?” he whispered.
Lucius sighed. “I am. By the shade of the blessed Apollonius of Tyana, I swear it. Never doubt it, my son.”
“But who was my mother?” whispered Marcus.
After much deliberation, and despite the boy’s desperate desire to know his origin, Lucius had made up his mind never to reveal to him the secret of his birth. The truth was simply too dangerous, and not only because Lucius himself had committed a capital crime each time he made love to Cornelia. How could it possibly benefit young Marcus to know that his mother had been a Vestal, that she had broken her sacred vow of chastity, that she had been buried alive, and that his own conception had been the result of a sacrilegious crime? Surely such knowledge could only plague him with more nightmares. Lucius would tell his son only that his mother had been a woman of patrician rank with whom Lucius had carried on an illicit and impossible liaison, whose family would never forgive her lapse, and who had died years ago. “I loved her deeply, and still miss her every day,” he would add, for this was the truth. At the age of sixty-six, Lucius was determined to go to his grave without revealing to anyone the fact that Cornelia Cossa was the mother of his child.
“I, too, woke from a familiar dream,” he said, ignoring his son’s question.
“You were visited again by Apollonius?” said Marcus.
“Yes.”
“He visits you often in your dreams.”
“More often now than when he was alive!” said Lucius with a laugh. “I only wish he had returned to Roma before he died, so that you could have been blessed with the chance to meet him.”
“I have been blessed by having a father who knew him,” said Marcus. He flashed a weak smile. The dreadful spell cast by the nightmare was fading.
“Of course, there are those who question whether Apollonius actually died, at least in the usual sense,” said Lucius, “since no corpse was ever discovered.”
“Tell me the story,” said Marcus, closing his eyes. His father had told him the tale many times before, but Marcus was always glad to hear it. It would help him to forget his bad dream.
“This occurred a few years ago on the island of Crete, where the Teacher had acquired a great following. He arrived late one night at the temple of the Minoan goddess Dictynna, which stands on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea. The wealthy people of Crete deposit their treasures in the temple for safe keeping. At night the doors are locked and fierce dogs stand guard. But when the Teacher approached, the dogs wagged their tales and licked his hands, and the doors of the temple sprang open. When the priests found him sleeping inside the next morning, they accused him of drugging the dogs and using magic to open the doors. They put him in chains and confined him in an iron cage suspended from a precipice overhanging the sea, with crashing waves below. But late that night, unfettered and free, again the Teacher approached the entrance to the temple, and this time there was a great crowd gathered in anticipation of his appearance. Again the dogs grew tame and fawned on him, and again the locked doors sprang open. He stepped inside. The doors shut after him, and from within there came the sound of women singing. ‘Hurry, hurry, upwards, upwards!’ they sang. ‘Fly away from this place and ascend to the heavens!’ When the doors opened, no singers were to be seen – and neither was the Teacher. Apollonius has never again been seen on this earth, except in the dreams of those who knew him.”
“Do you think he’ll ever visit me in my dreams, father?”
“I don’t know, my son.”
“What did he say to you this time?”
“He talked to me about the immortality of the soul. He said, ‘Here is the proof, presented to you from beyond the grave, which I couldn’t offer to you when I was a living man. The fact that I endure, and visit you in your dreams, shows you I have survived beyond my mortal life. Your soul is no less immortal than mine – but it is a fallacy to speak of ‘your’ soul and ‘my’ soul, for the soul is no one’s possession; it emanates from and returns to the Divine Singularity, and the body it inhabits is mere gross matter, which decays and vanishes. When the body dies, the soul rejoices; like a swift horse freed from its traces, it leaps upwards and mingles with the air, loathing the spell of harsh and painful servitude it has endured.’”
“You should write all this down, father.”
Lucius shook his head. “I’m not sure that I should. Because in the next breath, the Teacher told me that all he had just said was of no real value to a living man. ‘But of what use can this knowledge be to you while you live?’ he said. ‘The truth will be known to you soon enough, and you shall have no need for words to explain it or to convince you; you shall experience it for yourself. As long as you live, and move among other living beings, these things will be mysteries to you, like shadows cast on a wall by a light you cannot see.’”
Lucius looked down at his son, who gazed back at him with trusting green eyes – the eyes of his mother. Marcus sometimes still looked like a boy to him, though the world by every measure considered him a man.
“Come,” Lucius said. “Wash your face and dress yourself. Hilarion will have woken the kitchen slaves by now, and our breakfast will be waiting. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
Later that morning, holding a hammer in one hand and a chisel in the other, Marcus stepped back and read aloud the inscription on the massive marble pedestal to which he had been putting some finishing touches: “‘The Senate and People of Roma Dedicate this Monument to the Emperor Caesar Nerva Trajan Augustus Germanicus Dacicus, Son of the Divine Nerva, Pontifex Maximus, in His Seventeenth Year in the Office of Tribune, Six Times Acclaimed as Imperator, Six Times Consul, Father of His Country.’”
He stepped farther back from the immense pedestal and gazed up. The towering column was surrounded by scaffolding, but in his mind’s eye Marcus could see the structure as it would appear when it was completed and the scaffolds were removed. Never before had there existed a monument like this one, and Marcus was immensely proud to have had a hand in creating it.
The column rose 100 feet – if one included the pedestal and the statue that would top the column, the total height would reach 125 feet – and was made of eighteen colossal marble drums stacked one atop another. Within the hollow column was a spiral staircase of 185 steps, lit by narrow slits in the drums. Wrapped around the column in an ascending spiral was a series of relief sculptures depicting Trajan’s conquest of Dacia. These sculptures were the reason for the scaffolds that surrounded the column; the hundreds of images that circled the drums were still being finished and painted.
The height of the column corresponded to the height of the hillside that had been excavated to make room for it; the volume of earth that had been removed by human labour – mostly Dacian slave labour – was staggering. Where before a spur of the Quirinal Hill had blocked the way between the city’s center and the Field of Mars, there was now a new forum bearing Trajan’s name, the centerpiece of which was the enormous column that pierced the sky above Marcus’s head.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Standing beside him was the man who had designed not just the column but the entire forum complex. People called Apollodorus of Damascus a second Vitruvius, comparing him to the great architect and engineer who had served Julius Caesar. Trajan had met Apollodorus during his service in Syria, had realized his genius, and had kept him busy ever since.