by Ben Pastor
“I did. My informants were told Onofrius never made it on that day.”
“But were there merchants from Egypt visiting the shrine?”
“As always. If it is as it was in my times, the compound serves as an exchange, a meeting place, and I’m sure prostitutes still hang out around it. Egyptian merchants make the Iseum their home away from home.”
Aelius kept his suspicions about the Jewish merchant in mind. “Was Baruch ben Matthias one of them, do we know?”
Paratus wagged his head, a motion midway between assent and incredulity. “Yes, but he is not from Alexandria.”
“Damn it, Paratus, he sailed from there!”
“You need proofs, Aelius Spartianus. All we can say for now is that someone surprised Onofrius while he walked to the shrine. It probably happened in an alley or doorway, else someone would have reported the attack. We can’t even be sure whether they directly stabbed him from behind, or he tried to escape, and was killed as he fled.” Again that temperate head-shaking, and collegial tolerance. “I appreciate how tempted you are to connect his death to the others—even to the attempt against you. But if matters stand as we think, even if they stand as we think, and he betrayed you to persons unknown, he could have attracted attention to himself by flashing money. Poverty and desperation aren’t just an Egyptian reality these days. If ben Matthias is behind any of this, he will show his hand again. Against you, if he’s given the chance, or me, or the spice merchant he cleverly told you of. But don’t forget that my vineyard was ruined well before his coming.”
“Well, that consoles me.” Aelius was already on the door when he turned back. “Ah, I nearly forgot. The city prefect is back. He’d already heard of the fire that got out of hand at the Varian racetrack, and gave me a hard time about it. Claims I’m using Caesar’s name to violate the law, which is an exaggeration, and wants to be kept abreast of any future break-ins on my part, as he called them.”
2 September, Saturday (4 Thoth)
Discouraging as it was to view the incomprehensible characters on the toppled obelisk, Aelius rode to the Varian Gardens on Monday. Afterward he followed the lofty arcades of the aqueduct to the Via Labicana, to reexamine the first suburban miles as far as the turnoff to the kennel. There was a remote possibility that Antinous had been buried on the grounds of the imperial estate of Two Laurels, so he negotiated with the guardian a guided tour of its vast park. Mausoleums of flint and white marble, the latest dating from Aurelian’s reign, had been built without any order across the expanse of meadows and groves. Several dated back to the deified Hadrian’s years, three of them—their inscriptions carved in soft stone and washed out by rain—shaped like small pyramids on square plinths.
“But I don’t know why you look for him here, Excellency,” the puzzled guardian told him as he escorted him out of the gate. “My wife’s folks are from that province, and they can tell you the deified Antinous is buried in Egypt.”
It was more or less coming full circle. Aelius returned to his flat on the Caelian Hill wanting to see no one, not even Paratus. He dismissed his bodyguard. For two days he secluded himself, neither answering letters nor reading or writing. Even on the day of the Great Games, when the entire City celebrated with processions and horse races, he stayed indoors. With his feet in the water he sat at the small poolside of the ground-floor baths, where outside light and sounds came damped through the narrow windows and thick walls. If he closed his eyes, he felt the ache on his neck and saw Egypt. The windswept Antinoan ledge and Hadrian’s road, marked by soldiers’ tombs. The tree shading Anubina’s blue house. Crocodiles sunning themselves with their mouths open, ready to slash across the lazy broth of river water to feed. Between that place and the rest of the world lay buried Antinous, and the warning of danger against Rome.
On the third day, without telling anybody, he left by the Ostia Gate.
5 September, Nones, Thursday (7 Thoth)
The Pietas Augustorum Nostrorum had made port near the salt warehouses only a few minutes, earlier. It was a stocky vessel, lying to in the dirty water of Trajan’s harbor under a crown of seagulls. All passengers were still on board, and even merchandise had not yet begun to emerge from the hold. Aelius met the master of the ship at the foot of the gangway, and after exchanging a few words, walked up to the bulwarks.
Resplendent in an embroidered white tunic, Theo recognized him first, and made a dainty gesture of greeting. Soon—the required thanksgiving prayer having been disposed of by the efficient captain—they stood side by side on the oscillating deck.
“What a gloriously sunny day to arrive,” Theo beamed, his eyes on the bustling activity ashore. “We had a fabulous voyage, good weather all the way. I find you well, and am glad to see you: Are you here for someone?”
“I am here for you.”
“Well, I am flattered. I wasn’t aware you knew of my arrival. Boys, my luggage is on top, and be careful with it—yes, that way. At any rate, since I planned to look you up in Rome, Thermuthis told me to bring you her greetings. Oh, yes. Yes, contagion has reached Antinoopolis. That is partly the reason why I am here. We’re all in God’s hands, Commander.”
Aelius nodded distractedly. “Are measures being taken against the disease?”
“Measures may be too strong a word, because there’s nothing official about them. Anyone with an ounce of brain took to the high ground three weeks ago!’
“I see. Do you know anything about the seamstress at the south gate?”
“The one who used to be Thermuthis’s whore?” Theo inhaled the brackish air full force, blinking, in the sun. “On the day I left she delivered the two pairs of tunics I’d ordered from her. Nice, uh? This is one of them. She then closed shop, probably headed inland.”
It was the best news Aelius could hope for at this time. When Theo added, smiling, “But you’re not here to ask about a seamstress.” Aelius only answered, “More in a moment. You heard about Soter’s death.”
The merchant’s jovial face took on a look of compunction. “Poor fellow. Yes, I have. The hands of God, as I was saying. In fact, I know he would want me to, so—since I have come this far—I plan to look after his boy.”
“Cleopatra Minor? He’s off to Naples. And I don’t think he’s your type.”
“Why not? How would you know?”
Aelius would add nothing. If Theo drew whatever conclusion from his silence, he chose to pass it under silence. After his luggage, sailors had begun lifting packets and jars of spices from the hold, so he stepped closer to keep a wary eye on their work. “Speaking of boys, have you found the grave yet?”
“No. And I don’t expect to have much luck at it, since I lost the man who was to translate the text of Antinous’s obelisk.”
“Oh, right. Did you find out more about the unfortunate Egyptian tour?”
Aelius’s mention of Marcius Turbo started off the spice merchant. “What stupid nonsense! None of it is true Antinous would have never disregarded the emperor’s orders, and this is pure fabrication. Turbo was hugely disappointed that his son Lucius was not the favorite he hoped him to become. Why do you think the other hangers-on had brought their young sons on the barge? Failure on their part to understand how things stood between the emperor and Antinous doomed their attempts from the start. Half of them had been Trajan’s big boys, and as for Suetonius, he saw muck everywhere. Put no trust in these letters of disgruntled courtiers. Propriety was the rule of the game in that imperial household, as it is these days. Antinous would have never been referred to as beloved by the empress had his behavior been embarrassing or offensive to her through licentiousness or overt display of physical intimacy with her husband.”
The outburst was unexpected, and Aelius found it curious. “But the texts—”
“The texts be damned. They all derive from a nontext, which is gossip. Boys, you just will have to be careful with my things! Look, Commander, do you really think Hadrian just ‘happened.’ to meet Antinous during his travels?”
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“Well, there’s a story about the male brothel at—”
“Balderdash! The Boy had been selected since birth, the horoscopes pointed him out clearly; the Boy knew from the start what his role by the emperor was going to be, and how it would not be mere ill luck that should pluck him off at a young age, but the culmination of a long-determined set of events, in which he participated with full consciousness.”
“Such as?”
“How should I know? Fate, the stars! The story is much more beautiful than what envious tattletales make of it, even if I may have been wrong about his long hair at the time of death. But—wait a minute—do you mean you have Antinous’s obelisk, and his grave is not thereabouts?”
After two days of pondering it, Aelius was sick of revisiting the question. “It’s a long story. The short answer is yes.”
“At least I hope it’s small.”
“The obelisk? It’s broken, but it does seem much smaller than those set up in racetracks. Why?”
“Well, funerary obelisks are small, usually two at the sides of a tomb’s entrance, and inscribed on one side only with the name and titles of the defunct.”
“I don’t even want to start thinking about a twin of the obelisk I have. It’s small and inscribed at least on three sides, the fourth being still buried.”
“But is it readable?” Now and then reprehending the sailors, Theo watched them unload like a hawk. “If it’s simply a matter of reading it, I can do it myself.’”
Aelius was speechless. He remembered Theo being introduced to him as “widely read in the classics and in religion,” but the unaffected offer caught him totally unawares. Even asking, “You can decipher the ancient characters?” struggled to come out of him.
“Serenus Dio and I were about the last of a breed, that way.”
Theo’s knowledge of ancient Egyptian writing was known in Antinoopolis, and perhaps outside of it. Any intention Aelius had had of protecting him from danger—out of humanity, gratitude for past advice, or just for Thermuthis’s sake—paled before the renewed hope of reading Antinous’s epitaph. “The obelisk carvings seem in good state,” he hastened to say, “and the reason for my wanting to meet you here—let’s keep it simple. Let’s say that before I leave, I will tell you where to set up household ashore for the time being.”
Theo threw up his hands in astonishment. “Whatever do you mean, Commander? I have lodgings already picked and paid for near the Iseum Campense!”
“That is precisely where you are not to go. Trust me, and if you don’t, think about the way Soter ended, and see if business matters more than life. Yes, there is danger. I will have the obelisk cleaned and copies of the inscriptions delivered to you. Tell no one here or along the way where you’ll be staying. Take the minimum necessary, no servants, and wait to hear from me.”
Theo’s happiness at having safely landed seemed gone from him altogether. He visibly lost interest in the beauty of the day, the sailors’ tanned backs, and heard Aelius’s instructions with a listless downturned face, like a big scolded pupil.
I suggested that he not come directly to the City. The place I chose is not far from the road, but secluded enough. It’s the Isis’s Knot at Puilia Saxa, just inland from Ostia. I’d rather if ben Matthias did not hear where Theo quarters, at least until the obelisk is translated.”
Paratus said he fully approved. “If every time we do not meet for a few days you return with such momentous news, by all means let’s meet only once a week.” Despite the warmth of the officers’ quarters, the veteran’s window was closed, perhaps to keep him from growing nostalgic at the sound of army calls. “It is afternoon, I know, but there being ho time like the present—do we have enough daylight left to summon the crew?”
“Yes, it’s becoming hazy with the heat, but there’s plenty of time to get to the Varian Gardens.”
By the third hour, with patrolmen from the II Cohort shielding their eyes in the sun to observe the proceedings, a crew of carpenters under Aelius’s guardsmen engineers began operations outside the Varian racetrack. Blades of new grass, already sprouted amid the brambles burned weeks earlier, were chewed up by hoes and spades. In what little shade oleanders supplied, Aviola Paratus sat on a stone bench some ten paces off, while Aelius kept out of the way only enough not to impede digging. Soon, notwithstanding the soil around it had been hardened by the dry summer and fire, all three pieces of the shaft were exposed, and cleared of dirt. Lying on a wooden pallet, the obelisk appeared now nearly thirty feet long, of rose-colored granite, each face intricately carved from top to bottom on two parallel registers. Splashing from pails and wet-brushing followed, and then a couple of army stenographers began the laborious task of reproducing the pictographs.
This, Aelius thought, or that set of signs must signify Antinous’s name, or the emperor’s titles, kind words, the story of his life, prayers. If no location is given for the grave, it all stops here. If even the obelisk keeps the secret, the Boy is forever safe from men’s hands. And Rome? What makes it safer, finding or not finding the grave? All I know is that I’m hungry to know.
Gregarious swifts made noisy rounds overhead as shadows began to lengthen. The angle of light helped the copy work by making hollow lines and figures more evident, but at the broken edges pictographs remained difficult to identify, so it was tedious going. Sunset arrived before the stenographers were half-done.
Although Paratus offered to stay the night, Aelius would not hear of it. Everyone was dismissed from the place except two Cohort patrolmen and a picket of his own guards. During the day, the curious had been kept away by the police. Now the night patrol took their place, and there was no telling what the occasional traveler might think of armed men guarding an abandoned racetrack outside the walls.
As he’d done many times out on campaign, Aelius laid an army blanket on the ground and took his watch turn like the others. In between, he sat up and counted the stars.
6 September, Friday (8 Thoth)
On Friday, between sunup and midday, the copying was completed. Only now, with the rolls of precious material in hand, did Aelius let go enough to inform Paratus he was going home to sleep for a few hours.
“Excited as I was, I haven’t been able to close an eye all night. Do me the favor of staying here while they fill in the hole and haul the shaft closer to the wall,’’ he said. “There are clouds gathering, and it might rain before long. Anyway, it is not advisable to try to patch the obelisk up without expert help, and before we know whether the text was copied correctly.”
Bareheaded in the glare that precedes a summer storm, Paratus smiled his angerless smile. “I trust you call on a blind man’s ability to command respect. Of course I will stay, and make sure none of us comes knocking on your bedroom door.”
Theo had taken Aelius’s advice to heart, and had scarcely moved from his destined room. At the soldier’s arrival, though, he came downstairs and joined him in the reception hall, where a striped cat was the only other guest. A surprisingly fine rain had been falling for the past hour, so that the scent of revived herbs and flowers filled the garden window.
“There is much to read,” the spice merchant commented after viewing the copy work. “But not all of it will be immediately relevant to your goals, if finding the grave is paramount. It was carved by non-Egyptians, too. So, give me an hour to search the inscription for geographic hints, and then come back to see what I found out.”
Aelius had no intention of leaving the premises. He walked to the next room, where he paced for a while and then found the couch along the wall irresistible in the soothing patter of rain. He was soundly asleep with the cat in the hollow of his arm when Theo came to shake him some time later.
“Yes, yes. I have your translation,” he said, chewing on a sprig of fresh mint. “There’s also one of your strapping guardsmen to see you. Do they ever take their eyes off you?”
Alone, Aelius had been many times, despite the close quarters of a soldier’s life. He’d
always made sure there was a chance for him to walk away from others, and spend what time was possible on his own. To gather his thoughts, or—as he said—to air his own differences. It had helped him during the Armenian campaign, even though leaving the group increased risk, in order to think things over and make decisions. It had served him well often, being alone.
This afternoon, heading out into the countryside after leaving Theo, he had the sensation of being detached from everyone, adrift and without the practical means of reaching out for support. The structure he’d been building during the past weeks (no, for the past several months, since he’d set foot in cruel Egypt again), had collapsed under him not piecemeal but all at once, and with no hope of being caught by a safety net below. His mistake, like an unbearable light let into a room believed orderly, showed not only dust here and there, or small imperfections: The room itself had caved in, and nothing inside seemed at the moment salvageable.
It may be significant, too, that it should all hit him at a crossroads, a haunted place if ever there was one. His own predicament mirrored that unmarked intersection, creating four different directions, each one as likely or unlikely as the next. In his outer reality, he faced one of those lesser roads, well-built but not paved, of white dirt beaten down so thoroughly as to resemble cement. Only rain or a windstorm would prove it not to be such, and the washed sky gaped pitilessly clear just now. Distant graves marked the road farther ahead; it led to some village no doubt, where people he’d never met or would never meet spent their entire lives, in ignorance of what his error meant, hence caring nothing about it. Or him.
Behind, the same road—but it was not the same, as the intersection ended it and made it new. Other graves, farms, and farther back the sprawl of estates and houses proliferating like a live belt outside Rome’s walls. Crowded Rome itself was for him the symbol of his loneliness.