EROMENOS: a novel of Antinous and Hadrian

by McDonald, Melanie

  As one might expect, Marcellus also became fascinated with the embalming ritual the Egyptians practice, a desiccation procedure, and expressed a hope that he might someday be allowed to observe such a ceremony.

  I meant to share with him what I saw in these various Egyptian rituals and ceremonies, and also what I learned about the cat and lion deities worshipped here, which constitute quite a pantheon among themselves: Sekhmet and Bastet, daughter and eye of Re, are givers of healing and power; Edjo and Pakhet guard entrances, south and east; Qadeshis is a goddess offering sacred and sexual ecstasy; Shu rules over air; Tefnut over moisture; Aker over earth, guarding the east and west horizons of the underworld; Mehet is responsible for the flooding of the Nile; Nefertem of the primeval lotus blossom symbolizes new life and recreation, and Bes, of course, presides over birth.

  Studying the beliefs of these people, I recall once more those deepest cave-fears, those which haunt one forever—and here at last, find a voice from the fire to illuminate the cave, to speak out over the bones:

  Be still, Antinous, and listen.

  ONE MAY THINK one has grasped the concept of Empire. But not until we arrived in this alien land and encountered these strangers, who believe that our emperor, like their pharaohs before him, is a god incarnate, did I begin to comprehend the truth of it. The well-being of entire races, countless souls in provinces numerous as butterflies in a meadow, depends on the understanding and judicious use of power by the one man who wields it over all.

  No military conqueror or expansionist, Hadrian has chosen to fortify the empire’s borders, improve relations with allied kingdoms, restore and expand public services, and commission new works of art for the cultural enhancement of the empire. It was his idea that slaves must no longer be sold as gladiators to the combat schools, since unlike freedmen they have no choice in the matter. He also means to outlaw the mutilations practiced by those who circumcise their infants, though this act is practiced as a ritual of devotion by the Jewish community, and his ban may cause further revolts.

  Hadrian is a staunch proponent of the Roman Peace, and the coins of our realm are inscribed with his philosophy: Humanitas, Libertas, Felicitas.

  Yet how can one who has absolute power, who has always had power, ever begin to imagine being one who has no power? I wonder.

  Meanwhile, I have grown disenchanted to the point of disgust with Commodus, the heir-apparent, whose extravagance here with his entourage strikes me as obscene, seeing how these people suffer from the drought, estranged from their Nile who has withheld her brown, stinking love for two seasons now.

  How can anyone look into their faces, eyes engorged with hunger and fear as they stagger through the eternal red dust alongside their camels and bony oxen, and not realize how these people are suffering. The peasants in the furrows work and starve, no better off than slaves, so that the grain harvested from this land may pour into the coffers of Rome. Meanwhile, our imperial retinue is plied with dates and pomegranates.

  The Egyptians’ pyramids, monuments inscribed with the tongue of the dead, built to commemorate kings gone for ages before Rome existed, serve as a mirror and metaphor for society: Glorification of the elect few, raised to a pinnacle above and supported by a base of countless souls existing in misery.

  Yet Commodus chats on, oblivious, about flower gardens, peacocks and scarabs, what subtle new colors the dye maker has promised for the fall. Just like Marcus back in Rome, he protects his complexion from the vicious sun with a flour mask, his face a cake studded with raisin eyes and nostrils and a red currant mouth.

  Some wag of the court—probably Favorinus—has dubbed Commodus the Western favorite, myself the Eastern favorite, and these nicknames are now all the fashion; I fear, although we sojourn in the east, the west may triumph, ascendant. Pancrates, obsequious pander of a poet, also seized the chance to further laurel Hadrian by promising an epic in verse to commemorate this last lion hunt, equating it with Herakles’ slaying of the Nemean lion. I suppose it never occurred to either of them to wonder, or care, whether I might wish not to be memorialized as the one who could not save himself, equated with that hero’s companion, Hylas, drowned when adoring water nymphs pulled him down into a spring.

  Patrician Commodus may be, but I cannot fathom how Hadrian could consider him as successor. Commodus seems not even to notice how tired and strained our emperor looks now beneath the royal headdress with its uraeus, a rearing cobra that spits at the pharaoh’s enemies. Hadrian knows these people look to him for divine assistance, yet even he cannot end the drought, or coax the Nile to flood again.

  DAYS AGO, WHEN we were allowed upon the Nile at last, we passed upriver by Heliopolis, ruins of the city of the sun, and home of the phoenix. I hoped then that my old love for Hadrian, and his for me, might rise again from the ashes. I offered to stay in the temple of Serapis for him, a practice the Egyptians claim can send healing dreams from a god or goddess through the sleep of the intermediary. He declined, saying he preferred to keep me by his side. But I cannot stay there forever.

  In another month, in this Fifteenth Year of Hadrian Caesar Our Lord, I myself shall turn nineteen. I hang suspended now between childhood and manhood, and soon must go to ground.

  Now I see all too well how my lost inheritance might have provided a softer landing, allowed for independence and a measure of dignity when my time arrives to be cast aside. My lover, wiser, foresaw this problem with clarity; this accounted in part for his fury against my uncle. Whereas I, in my prime, gave no more thought than Icarius, or Phaeton in the chariot of the sun, to the eventual reality of descent. Now comes my turn to fall.

  Every day the truth I must confront gnaws deeper into my vitals, like the fox hidden beneath the Lacedaemonian boy’s tunic: Hadrian is the master of every man’s destiny, down to the lowest slave in Rome, whereas I cannot even become the master of my own.

  Once I believed our life together represented a great love, like the heroes of old, the bonds of the Sacred Band. Instead, it is about power and control. Hadrian holds all that power, always has, and always will.

  Filled with anger, self-disgust, I torment myself. Kneel, dog. Lie down at the feet of your master. Kiss his hand and lick his heel to acknowledge your submission.

  When the time comes, when our relationship becomes inappropriate because of my facial hair, when the offering of a coin is made to Lady Juventas in thanks for my new white toga, he will discard me with no qualm, as a girl casts an outgrown doll into the river, or a peasant smashes an idol which no longer inspires awe. While back in Rome waits a whole new crop of beautiful boys to comfort him.

  As emperor, Hadrian has no choice. He must put me away or look ridiculous; and I, pathetic. But for me to choose in turn another, younger lover—my right, upon becoming a man—would appear disloyal, even traitorous.

  I cannot imagine what life might be after life in the court of Hadrian. I can summon only disjointed images: A fly buzzing over an empty cradle; sun falling on a cracked vase the color of water; an old man walking, lost in the dust of his thoughts.

  So I, a citizen, now find I have less freedom to choose an honorable life than any barbarian woman; unmanned, like a priest of Cybele, by the one I have worshipped.

  But poets and philosophers tell us love conquers all, even death—since death becomes the lover of all. Eros is not mocked; let us worship the god of love.

  HADRIAN HAS GONE to dine already. I must put this scroll aside for now and join everyone at supper, or my absence will cause speculation. My behavior this evening must be exemplary, my gaiety unforced. A final night of merriment seems fitting. Sabina and Julia Balbilla look forward to their visit to the Colossi of Memnon (one of which, it is said, serenades his mother, Eos Aurora, while her tears linger on the ground at dawn). I regret I cannot share this adventure. I would have liked to hear such singing.

  The river laps at the boat like a lazy brown dog, and rising unstifled by the heat outside Hermopolis, a lullaby. How many evenings now we ha
ve been serenaded thus, urged toward slumber by a stranger’s voice.

  I will wear a new outfit, look festive, and finish this last chapter late in the night, while my lover, sated, lies sleeping.

  WATER

  IV. WATER

  A GLORIOUS SKY, bristling with stars. Whispers have emerged among local astronomers of a strange alignment soon to take place in the heavens—a new star, hidden, in waiting, soon will make its presence known.

  Such a quiet night, after Alexandria. I can hear the wild dogs barking along the banks outside Hermopolis, where the imperial flotilla lies anchored. Farther down, ibis and river horse alike doze hidden among reeds beneath the turning wheel of constellations. The moon itself is dark, an auspicious sign for my purposes.

  Here in our quarters, the only other soul awake is the guard on watch. Should he come round to check, these words are safe—he cannot read Greek. These last four nights, while the empire sleeps, I have assigned myself this confession. Any struggle must be resolved here upon these sheets, so the morrow holds nothing but acceptance, acquiescence, peace. With this lamp as witness I record my life until now. When I am finished, I must consign it all, save the final chapter, to the temple fire.

  Earth, air, fire, water—all elements must be in accord for Our Lady to accept my offering for Hadrian’s genius. That confluence of elements approaches.

  I have watched my last sunset, and await my final sunrise. This animal, my body, cannot comprehend my mind, does not anguish or fight like a bull or a kid led to slaughter. How odd, how precious, is life.

  WHAT I MUST wear tomorrow.

  Nothing elaborate, lest clothes call attention to the deed. If he becomes suspicious, he will have me followed, try to stop me. I must slip away when he is distracted. Renouncing love this way relieves him of the burden of doing so.

  I suppose I will soil myself. The body voids itself at death. We come from nothing, pray to nothing, and dying return to nothing. Thus we achieve perfection.

  SOMETHING SOFT, AND shimmering, and pure.

  The current will be merciful enough to wash any filth away. Perhaps, once arrived, I will set my garment aside on the shore, along with the ankh amulet, life-giving water sign like a man with his arms spread wide, which Hadrian gave me. I may steal one of the kerchiefs I gave him, and carry that down as well. Then he will know I carried the essence of him away with me.

  HERE ON THESE pages I have tried to write the truth. But it changes like the wind, blowing across the stone of fact, first from this direction, now from that, and no one wind is more or less real than another, no more or less true than that around which it dances and moans. I can only attest to my own version.

  I AM ALMOST nineteen. I have studied, traveled, beheld the wonders of the empire. All my lover asked in return was that I give myself to him—body, mind, and soul. For seven years I belonged to him, faithful as his favorite sight hound, obedient as his strongest boar-baiter. What other choice does any dog have. Fucker.

  The sorcerer assured me such a sacrifice will bring glory to the emperor’s genius and add decades to his life. His genius now a priest, kid, falcon, butterfly.

  WHEN THIS NEW suitor embraces her, may the Nile restore her bounty to her children once again, and they in turn lift the emperor on waves of gratitude.

  May she come back to them, may she come back, embrace everyone with swirl, eddy, cascade upon flood. Raise hands unto Isis, great goddess. Sing all her names in praise. Some perhaps may trouble even to learn this latest lover’s name, and so let it live again, conjoined with hers upon their lips.

  THE PAIN WILL not last. I do not fear it. No death could hurt like the death-in-life I am rejecting. The beast will kick by instinct—but my will is stronger. I must return to the Great Mother’s womb, let my lungs drink their fill of her. Goddess, grant your son the courage of the lion, that he may adore you forever.

  THIS IS A kinder fate, chosen by my own hand, than any my lover might mete, no matter how noble his intention. This death honors him, serves his genius, but its agency is mine. At last I reclaim my own, my birthright as a Greek and citizen of Rome, and repay Hadrian for my life.

  PERICLES SAID ACTS deserve acts in their honor, not mere words; and a final act of devotion, such as the sacrifice of those who fell for Athens, is justly measured against all of one’s other acts in a lifetime.

  Therefore,

  Imperator Caesar Trajan Hadrian Augustus

  Ruler of the civilized world and guardian of the Roman peace

  —lover master father brother slave—

  I who am about to die salute you, and offer up this vow of sacrifice:

  I will go down to the temple, cremate this offering, recite a prayer

  I will go down to the river, anointed with attar, step into the water

  I will go down to the bed of the Nile, embrace both Isis and Osiris

  I will go down to the House of Death, walk in the Elysian Fields

  I will go down

  I will

  I

  AFTERWORD

  THE ROMAN EMPEROR Hadrian, devastated by the loss of his lover Antinous in 130 CE, would comment only, “He fell into the Nile.” Rumor abounded due to the emperor’s grief, which many contemporaries deemed excessive, and also due to the circumstances surrounding the youth’s demise. Historians of the day noted that Hadrian “cried like a woman” over the death of his beloved.

  Hadrian had Antinous deified, an honor reserved for members of the imperial family, and after his beloved’s apotheosis appointed a temple and devised rites for the cult of Antinous. He also commissioned the building of a Greek city, Antinöopolis, along the bank of the Nile, near the site where the body was found. After recovery, the body was embalmed according to Egyptian custom, although the final burial site of Antinous is unknown. Some speculate that he was interred on the grounds of Hadrian’s villa at Tibur.

  Hadrian commissioned numerous likenesses of Antinous by various sculptors and painters, carrying his favorites along during his travels. Hadrian survived the youth he loved until his own death of natural causes at age sixty-two in 138 CE.

  Remnants of the Antinous cult remained extant all over the Roman Empire for several hundred years after his death—far longer than Hadrian’s own official cult survived—although later historians, in particular those affiliated with the early Christian church, vilified him. St. Athanasius, writing in 350 CE, described him as a “shameless and scandalous boy,” “Hadrian’s minion,” and “wretch,” and the “sordid and loathsome instrument of his master’s lust.”

  Numerous sculptures and other art works portraying Antinous, the youth who became a god, still may be found in museums around the world, including the Vatican.

  APPENDICES

  Appendix I: Dialogue of Hadrian and Epictetus (Questions and Answers)

  “What is gold?”

  “The purchase of death.”

  “What is silver?”

  “The place of envy.”

  “What is iron?”

  “The implement of all arts.”

  “What is that which man is not able to see?”

  “Another heart.”

  “By what thing do men err?”

  “Cupidity.”

  “What is liberty?”

  “Innocence.”

  “What is the best, and indeed, the worst?”

  “A word.”

  “What is a man?”

  “Similar to a bath: The first room is the tepidarium, the warm bath, in which infants are born thoroughly anointed; the second room, the sudatorium, the sweat-room, is boyhood; the third room is the assa, the dry-room, the preference of youth; the fourth room, the frigidarium, the cold bath, is appropriate to old age, in which sense comes to all.”

  “What is a man?”

  “Similar to a fruit: Fruits that hang on trees, thus even are our bodies: when ripe they fall, or else they become embittered.”

  “What is a man?”

  “As a lamp placed in the win
d.”

  “What is a man?”

  “A stranger of place, the image of law, a tale of calamity, a slave of death, the delay of life; that with which Fortune would frequently make its own game.”

  “What is heaven?”

  “The summit of boundlessness.”

  “What is heaven?”

  “The atmosphere of the world.”

  “What are stars?”

  “The destiny of humans.”

  “What are stars?”

  “The omens of navigators.”

  “What is the sea?”

  “The way of doubt.”

  “What is a boat?”

  “A wandering house.”

  “What is sleep?”

  “An image of death.”

  “What is love?”

  “The annoyance of heart’s leisure, shamefulness in boys, reddening in virgins, fury in women, ardor in youth, laughter in age, it is worthlessness in the mocking of fault.”

  “What is god?”

  “That which maintains all things.”

  “What is a sacrifice?”

  “A lessening.”

  “What is without fellowship?”

  “Kingship.”

  “What is a king?”

  “A piece of the gods.”

  “What is Rome?”

  “The fount of authority of the sphere of the earth, mother of nations, possessor of things, the common-dwelling of the Romans, consecration of eternal peace.”

  “What is that which is pleasing to some and displeasing to others?”

  “Life.”

  “What is the best life?”

  “The shortest one.”