“It sounds like he must have given the situation a great deal of thought, even before he became emperor.”
“I suspect he did. You know Hadrian, never at a loss for an opinion, whatever the subject.”
Marcus frowned. “So here we are, about to celebrate a triumph for the very conquests Hadrian is about to give up.”
Apollodorus laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it? But you and I have done our job. We’ve decorated the city just as splendidly as if Hadrian intended to hold those provinces for a thousand years.”
The first rays of the sun struck the top of the Column. The statue of Trajan seemed to burst into golden flames.
“Time to go home and change into our best togas,” said Apollodorus.
Marcus nodded and yawned. He closed his eyes.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep when you get home, Pygmalion, or you’ll miss the triumph. And don’t do the other thing, either – unless you and Apollodora intend to make a baby this time!” Apollodorus laughed heartily and slapped Marcus on the back, startling him into wakefulness even as he was about to fall asleep on his feet. “Will your father be coming?”
Marcus felt a twinge of anxiety at the mention of his father and was abruptly wide awake. “No, he won’t be able to come. He hasn’t been well lately.”
In fact, Lucius Pinarius, who was now seventy, had been bedridden for a month, troubled by light-headedness and a weakness in his legs. Hilarion, who had also grown quite frail in recent years, was always at his old master’s side, often reading aloud to him the letters Lucius had received from Apollonius of Tyana, who continued to visit Lucius regularly in his dreams. By his bedside, as a reminder that death was nothing to fear, Lucius kept the iron manacle that had been cast off by Apollonius. Just as Apollonius had been able to cast off his shackles, so Lucius anticipated the moment when his soul would cast off its earthly frame to rise up and merge with the Divine Singularity.
A few hours later, under a cloudless sky and a bright sun, Marcus awaited the arrival of the triumphal procession. Apollodorus, greeted by an acquaintance, had drawn a little distance away, taking Apollodora with him, so that Marcus stood unaccompanied in the crowd.
Long before the parade arrived at the Column, he heard the thunderous reactions of the multitude along the route that wound through the city. The sound of cheering grew nearer, until at last the vanguard of trumpeters came into sight.
They were followed by the magistrates and senators in their red-bordered togas, some chatting casually, as if unimpressed by all the pomp, while others carried themselves with all the dignity of their offices. Then came the white bulls on their way to be sacrificed at the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline, followed by countless carts and wagons loaded high with the spoils of war, paintings and models of captured cities including Ctesiphon, Babylon, and Susa, and a great many captives in rags and chains, including some of the petty monarchs who had been deposed by Trajan.
At last, preceded by lictors brandishing fasces wreathed with laurel, the triumphal chariot arrived. Trajan had been famed for making his first entrance as emperor into the city on foot; on this day his effigy rode alongside Hadrian in the chariot. The effigy was made of wax, modelled and coloured to look astonishingly lifelike. There was no need to make it larger than life, for Trajan in the flesh had towered above other men.
“Inevitably, the question arises: which of those two in the chariot is suffer?” said a voice in Marcus’s ear. He turned to see Favonius.
With the scurra was Suetonius. The director of the imperial archives raised an eyebrow. “I think our new emperor looks unusually relaxed and animated,” he quipped. “Look there, how Hadrian smiles and salutes the crowd – no, wait, I’m looking the effigy of Trajan!”
“I don’t think Hadrian likes to be stared at,” said Marcus, who had to admit that the new emperor looked distinctly uncomfortable standing next to the smiling waxen image of his predecessor.
“They say Vespasian found his triumph so tedious that he was bored to tears,” said Suetonius. “There’s a letter of his in the archives where he writes, ‘What an old fool I was to demand such a gruelling honour!’”
“Who can tell what our new emperor is thinking, with that beard concealing his face?” said Favonius. “The beard has everyone talking. Suetonius, have we ever before had an emperor with a beard?”
Suetonius considered. “One sees images of Nero wearing a partial beard, with his cheeks and chin clean-shaven. But a full beard? No. Hadrian is the first.”
“Do you suppose he wants to remind us that he fancies himself a philosopher?” said Favonius. “Or is he affecting the unkempt look of the common soldiers who never shave while on campaign, as can be seen by all those images of bearded Romans killing Dacians on the Column over there?”
“His facial hair looks impeccably groomed to me,” said Marcus. “Not every man can grow such a fine beard. I think the emperor looks quite handsome this way.” It seemed to him that Hadrian’s motivation was obvious: a beard was a way to cover the acne scars about which he was so self-conscious. As Trajan’s protege, Hadrian felt obliged to maintain the clean-shaven look favoured by countless generations of the Roman elite. But now he was emperor and would do as he pleased – even grow a beard.
“This time next year,” said Favonius, “I predict a majority of senators and practically every courtier in the House of the People will have a beard. Even the old eunuchs left over from the days of Titus will be sporting beards, if they have to paste them on!”
“Indeed, the only men without beards will be the young ones who want to attract Caesar’s attention,” said Suetonius.
The chariot drew alongside the base of the Column and came to a halt. Hadrian stepped from the car, bearing a funerary urn.
“So he’s actually going to do it!” said Favonius. “Hadrian is going to deposit the old man’s ashes in the base of his Column.”
“That’s the plan,” said Marcus, who had been responsible for preparing the small vault that would receive the urn.
“It required an act of the Senate to make such a thing legal,” noted Suetonius. “Until now, the remains of all the emperors have been interred in sarcophagi outside the old city walls. But Hadrian was determined that Trajan’s Column should also serve as Trajan’s tomb.”
Favonius gazed up at the Column. “In his final resting place, Trajan shall remain upright and erect for all time. I envy the old fellow!”
Joined by Plotina, Hadrian deposited the urn in the chamber. Then Hadrian delivered a eulogy reciting Trajan’s accomplishments, not only as a builder and a military man but as a friend of the people and the Senate of Roma. Trajan had kept his vow to kill no senators during his reign – a vow that Hadrian repeated – and one of his proudest achievements was his expansion of Nerva’s welfare system for orphans and the children of the poor, which Hadrian promised to continue.
“But of course,” said Hadrian, “on this day, we celebrate his triumphs in the field, and in particular the conquests for which the Senate saw fit to vote him the title Parthicus. We celebrate his victories over many foes, and his capture of many cities: Nisibis and Batnae, Adenystrae and Babylon, Artaxata and Edessa…”
Hadrian continued in this singsong vein. His rhetorical style was surprisingly dull. Perhaps he was tired, or nervous, for he frequently reached up to tug at his beard, and every so often Marcus heard a hint of his old Spanish accent.
Favonius sighed. “He’s merely reciting a catalog and leaving out the juicy details; that’s like serving bones with no meat! Do you know the story of Trajan’s encounter with King Abgarus of Osroene?”
Marcus shrugged. He was about to tell the scurra to hush, when Suetonius leaned in. “I’ve heard one version, but I should love to hear yours, Favonius.”