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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 - Consulars are persons who have held consuls’ positions.] 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 - The poem of the Roman poet Ovid in 3 books was considered indecent.] 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.
Stoic exercises
In the summer, the unexpected news that Empress Vibia Sabina had died suddenly swept through Rome. No one knew why. There was no news on this account, and it was left to guess. Domitia Lucilla sadly walked around the house and, looking at her, Marcus felt that difficult times were coming.
He did not know the Empress intimately, saw her only a few times—in the palace on Palatine, in the Great Circus, and she did not give the impression of a sick woman. She was about fifty, not yet the age to meet the gods. And suddenly a sudden death! Now his only patron at the court, the woman who brought Marcus closer to Hadrian, disappeared. At least that's what Domitia said.
Regin, who brought this sad news, hinted that Hadrian had poisoned her. Allegedly, she was too zealous in defending the interests of Marcus and the family of Annius, and Caesar, who decided to bet on the Ceionius, did not like it. But Marcus thought that didn't sound convincing enough to kill her. Something must be more important and significant, because a person was not so easily deprived of life.
“Marcus, you haven't been to the Ceionius’s for a long time,” the mother remarked after speaking to great-grandfather. “Now, because of the death of the esteemed Sabina, we need to be especially friendly with them. Besides, Ceionius invited you to visit his palace on the run.”
And Marcus, as an obedient son, heeded his mother's request.
Taking with him a large, slow Antiochus, his constant companion, he went to visit his future relatives. He did not count on having a conversation with Fabia, because she was in her mother's room. Probably, they were engaged in a purely feminine occupation—weaving wool cloth or spinning yarn. Or maybe they studied philosophy, as now noble Romans do it. But the visit to Ceionius meant an expression of reverence on the part of the Annius family, and, specifically, Marcus. Responsibility here fell on his shoulders because he was the youngest member of their family. Although Marcus did not yet have the proper political experience, he felt that such an act would be true, and he would grow up in the eyes of Emperor Hadrian.
“It's the right thing to do,” Marcus thought. “I'm doing the right thing! It is not for nothing that Caesar called me Verissimus.”
They descended down the narrow streets, down into the valley between the hills, built up by the insulas so closely that it seemed impossible to breathe here because of the unimaginable crowding. Only fountains, hitting at many intersections, somewhat enlivened the general view and slightly refreshed the air. Near each fountain there was a small statue of the patron or patron of the street, and maybe the whole area.
Marcus looked up. Sky blue almost did not peek through the narrow slots between the roofs, but the hot air reached here, down to the sidewalks paved with hewn stones.
It was noisy outside. Some of the insulas heard loud voices of women who traded with sellers in all sorts of things. The not lubricated wheels of the carts transporting the forest for construction creaked. The slaves and the freedmen, who were making their way through their business, were elbowing. They said loudly, “Salve!”[51 - Bless you! (Latin)] greeting acquaintances and clapping each other's shoulders. And the cry of street dogs twirling underfoot completed this cacophony.
At one of the turns, Marcus and his slave suddenly encountered Ceionius on a stretcher, which was carried by strong Germans. Mindful of the case of Rufus, Ceionius had now picked up the porters of former German barbarian warriors, hard and strong. Despite the slaves, Ceionius was accompanied by six lictors from among the freedmen, each of whom was carrying a fascia on his shoulders.[52 - Beams of knitting or birch rods stretched with belts. In Rome, the symbol of the protection of state power.]
The yellow fabric of his palanquin was painted with red roses, which indicated the peculiar taste of the owner—like other superficial people, Ceionius loved to create the appearance of a lover of everything extravagant. He lay down, opening the curtain, and lazily looked at the city bustle. Noticing Marcus, Commodus perked up, leaning out of the stretcher.
“Marcus! Where are you going?”
“To you, dear Ceionius.” Marcus tried to speak with dignity, as befits an adult man. “My mother rightly reproached me for not keeping my promises and not visiting with you since we met at the Circus.”
“Oh, gods, don't measles yourself, we're all like that! Today we say one thing, and tomorrow we forget what we said. Get in my palanquin, I'm just being taken home.”
Marcus climbed into his stretcher and lay down next to Ceionius. He felt a strong fragrance emanating from Commodus, abundantly grated with fragrant incense. Inside the palanquin smelled of roses, frankincense, and musk. On the feet of the consul were not red senator's shoes but sandals, which are usually used to go home. Their gilded straps wrapped the tight calves of Ceionius's legs—he was lying on his side, and his long toga lifted up a little.
“I heard,” Ceionius continued lazily, “that Servianus Fiscus’s grandson had shown inappropriate behavior towards you, and that he had been unruly.”
“Yes, he was defiant.”
“It’s a pity that I was not around, I would find how to respond to the rude. We generally need to stick together; I'm talking about our families. If the gods and the great emperor Hadrian so wish, fate will henceforth lead us along the same road.”
“I would like to live up to Augustus' hopes,” murmured Marcus, feeling the fragrant smell of Ceionius, the heat of his body, as they lay almost cuddled because of the small size of the palanquin. He continued in an embarrassed tone, “But I'd rather have a quiet lifestyle. I'd be more like to do philosophy than public affairs.”
“Oh, how are you right, my dear Marcus!” Ceionius laughed.
He turned his face to Marcus, and he saw close to himself brown with the yellowness eyes of the new favorite Hadrian. They exuded undisguised curiosity, mockery, and something else that Marcus couldn’t make out, perhaps lust. No wonder there were rumors that Ceionius was known as Hadrian's lover.
“I would also like to live a simple life,” Commodus continued, looking at the young companion. “As Martial wrote, whom I love, ‘May fate not give me a higher share or a lower one, but lead my life in a modest middle way.’[53 - Martial "Golden Mean" (translated by F. Petroski), Library of World Literature, Ancient Lyrics, Art Literature Publishing, Moscow, 1968, p.470.] Alas, you have to do your duty, if you want to fate. After all, this is evidenced by the philosophy of the Stoics, which I am taught by the Greek Apollonius. You'll see him soon, by the way.”
Suddenly, from the street, fenced off from the interlocutors by the curtains of palanquin, there was a slurred noise, a loud talk, and then a cry.
“What's going on?” Ceionius was surprised.
He threw back the canopy, and Marcus saw a crowd of excited people surrounding them with stretchers on all sides. People were screaming and waving their arms furiously. The tunic species could be determined that most of them were freedmen, but there were also slaves with collars like animals, which had the usual inscription, “Hold me until I ran away.” Marcus himself did not hang such collars on his slaves. So, Antiochus, walking next to the stretcher, looked like an urban commoner, and not like a slave, only the fur of his tunic was rougher.
Now, in this incomprehensible confusion, Antiochus approached the palanquin and closed it wide with his back from the angry crowd.
“What do they want?” a surprised Marcus asked Commodus.
“I don't know,” the consul replied, lowering his legs down and getting up from the stretcher. “Don't worry about anything, thank the gods, you are under my protection!”
But the crowd was pushing harder. They shouted furiously, pushed the lictors and porters, pushed them closer to the palanquin. Marcus has never seen so much hatred on faces, so much rage, never seen such crazy eyes, it was as if these people had been drugged or had been robbed of their minds by evil sorcerers.
“Bread, bread!” the crowd shouted furiously.
“They demand bread,” Ceionius said with concern. “But after all, we already held the distribution last month, they were given out to everyone according to the lists and there were no complaints. I swear to Jupiter!”
One, the most energetic and ferocious of the protesters, a man of short stature but dense and strong, almost came close to the stretcher. He, like everyone shouted loudly, demanding bread, but Marcus paid attention to his sullen, focused face, to his threatening gestures. With such an expression, people do not ask for bread, with such an expression they are plotting something terrible.
Marcus wanted to warn Ceionius about the danger, he was screaming, pulling the toga, but the words got stuck in his throat. “Is it a scoundrel,” he thought in dismay, “this vile proletarian threatens Ceionius? Are the Roman plebs so brazen that in broad daylight they attack Rome's highest magistrate? This cannot be allowed to happen. It's impossible!”
From the anger and fury that erupted inside him, he lost control and impulsively jumped out into the road. He would show this insolent man, teach him so that he remembered for the rest of his life! He, Marcus, recently retreated in the Flavian amphitheater in front of Fusсus and showed indecision, but now he would definitely recoup.
Already jumping out, Marcus heard Antiochus warning cry, “Beware, master!” but did not have time to do anything, for the assailant, snatching a short knife, raised his hand to strike standing in front of him Ceionius. However, Antiochus fell on him with his whole body, being put under the cutting strokes of a knife and painfully shouting, moaning, but did not let the killer out of his arms.
All this happened in an instant, as it seemed to Marcus. Here they were lying with Commodus in palanquin, calmly and politely talking and suddenly—the attack, the murderer, the blood. “Our world is fast, and time is fleeting,” rushed the teachings of Diognetus through the head of a young man.
It’s not known where, but in the hands of Commodus appeared a short military sword-gladius and he, pushing the dying Antiochus aside, almost without a swing, abruptly and quickly cut off the hand of the attacker with the bloody knife. The man wheezed in pain, fell on the pavement right at the feet of the consul, and a large crowd a minute ago raging around them, bawling, threatening with assault, vanished into the city streets in no time. As if the waves of a violent ocean suddenly dissipated after a storm, calmed by the mighty Poseidon.
