by Kyle Onstott
Off again, with thanks to Gaius Lentullus for an hour that must have used up a year’s income, to the palace of the Gracchi, who were notorious throughout Rome for their penny-pinching traits. Here the tunics were of a rich emerald green and the couches were laid on the marble terrace at the back of the palace. Pasties of nightingales’ brains topped with pistache were served, and as the terrace overlooked a water pleasance they were entertained with the Ixion—a huge Persian water wheel with alternating boy and girl slaves bound to its rim. As it turned, plunging them into the water, they held their breath, rising on the other side with gracefully outstretched arms, the water dripping from their naked bodies. On one revolution, the complicated machinery became stuck for several minutes and the luckless boy who was immersed in the water was drowned when he surfaced. Otherwise the entertainment was most successful.
Now, out in the bright light of the sun, Antoninus discovered even less to interest him in the galaxy of Roman maidens. The white lead that covered their faces began to streak with sweat and he saw several adolescent blemishes coming to the surface under the paint. It was warm and the girls were sweating, staining their tunics under their arms. Soaemias still looked as cool as when she had started and her skin glowed smoothly with only the slightest touch of paint. Her vivacity had not diminished, her verve was unquenchable. She had expressed a desire for one of the male slaves who had been tied to the Ixion and when he was presented to her, dripping wet and still gasping for breath, she bade him crouch down beside her couch and with one hand twisted in his wet curls, she continued to fondle Aegenax with the other.
Antoninus had been amazed at the prodigality of the Gracchi until he discovered that one of the aspirants for his bed was a daughter of the house—a languid sixteen-year-old with lank blond bait and the suspicion of a cast in one eye. As far as he was concerned, they had wasted their money—he wouldn’t have the anaemic little bitch even though they served flamingo’s brains, which were far scarcer and much more expensive than the nightingale variety. The whole affair was becoming boring. He poked first at Hierocles beside him and was grateful for his healthy maleness, then at Soaemias and marveled at her seductive beauty and charm.
Into the litters again and on to the house of the widow of Pomponianus Bassus. Annia Faustina was a great friend of his grandmother. He had always liked her. Something about her reminded him of his mother. She had not wept many tears over the death of old Pomponianus and when they arrived at her house, she was at the portals to greet them, smiling a most lively welcome.
She knelt before Caesar, her gown of turquoise green matching the jewels in her coronet.
“Great Caesar,” she began, “what a joy to welcome you to my humble home which is no longer humble now that Caesar honors it.”
Antoninus lifted her up. She smelled like his mother, faintly of sandalwood—a clean, spicy smell. Although she was older than Soaemias, her cheeks were full, round and pink; her skin white and fine; her bosom as artfully curved and her figure as amply voluptuous as that of his mother.
“I love your coronet, Annia Faustina.” Antoninus’s eyes had been caught by the jewels.
“Then it is yours,” Annia Faustina laughed, unpinned it from her hair and set it jauntily on Antoninus’s head. “I’ve crowned Caesar. But come . . .”
She led them into the atrium where slaves were waiting with turquoise green tunics for the guests, but she personally handed Antoninus’s to him and he could not help but notice that it was sewn all over with pale green pearls and Persian turquoises. Nor was the one proffered to Hierocles any less splendid. Annia Faustina had already made a most favorable impression.
“Dear Annia Faustina,” Antoninus could always be charming when he desired, “decorum requires that we are separated while I change my dress . . . or does it?” He questioned.
She bowed her head. “Great Caesar,” she fluttered her eyelids modestly.
He lifted her chin with one hand and pushed the coronet back on his head with the other. Strangely enough the touch of her skin did not repulse him.
“Such an honor, Great Caesar.”
He waggled a warning finger. “Antoninus,” he said.
“Antoninus,” she laid her hand lightly against his cheek. “Dear boy, of course decorum demands that I be not present while you change your dress. I must remember that I am a Roman matron and grieving widow. Therefore I must be more careful than usual to avoid even the slightest breath of scandal but, alas, what is a poor lone woman to do should her beloved Emperor command her?”
“Then I do command you, Annia Faustina,” he lowered his voice, “But that strict decorum may be preserved. Hierocles and I shall retire behind a screen and thus we shall not be deprived of your company during the interval.”
They departed down the hall in a flutter of silk and while they were waiting for the screen to be set up, Antoninus felt the need to relieve himself. A whispered word to a slave and the man pointed to a door, through which Antoninus pulled Hierocles. Once inside the closet, he turned to Hierocles.
“I shall marry Annia Faustina,” he announced conclusively.
“Annia Faustina!” Hierocles stared at him. “She’s old enough to be your mother.”
“All the better! She probably knows how to arouse me whereas these other untouched virgins would have to be taught and you know, and I know, Hierocles that I am not one to teach them. For a boy who has never bedded a girl, and a girl who has never bedded a boy, to be on the nuptial couch together . . . ay, Hierocles, it’s frightening.”
“A case of who does what and where and to whom!” Hierocles laughed. “But don’t ask me. I’ve had no experience along those lines. This is one time when you cannot come to me for advice. I’ve bedded no more virgins than you.”
“But Annia Faustina would know. She’s been married.”
“I doubt if old Pomponianus taught her much, burdened as he was with that fat belly of his.”
“Who cares about old Pomponianus? Annia Faustina has always had the reputation for having the most gorgeous male slaves in Rome. Remember the one who brought us here!”
They went out. Annia Faustina was sitting in an arm-chair, facing a screen made of cedar wood. She smiled gaily and waved her hand to the screen. They disappeared behind it and the slave who was awaiting them, handed them the jeweled tunics. Antoninus took a second look—the fellow was indeed handsome.
“What’s the name of your slave, Annia Faustina?” he asked from behind the screen.
“Electrus. His family have been slaves of ours since the time of my great grandfather, the divine Marcus Aurelius. He’s indispensable to me but if you care for him, he’s yours, Antoninus,” she laughed with that same lilting laughter that Soaemias possessed. “Anything in my house is yours. Anything that I have, dear Antoninus, is yours. I owe it to you for not having confiscated my wretched husband’s estate when you had every right.”
“Did you say I might have anything in your house, Annia Faustina?”
“Anything. Is there something in particular which has struck your fancy?”
“Indeed there is.”
“And what might that be?” Annia Faustina looked up as the Antonine stepped from behind the screen. He was indeed beautiful—not virile or handsome as a man should be but beautiful as a girl with his clear skin, his large, luminous eyes. It was the face of Venus on the body of Apollo. The blue-green of the tunic was most becoming and now, with the excitement of his recent discovery, he had lost the customary air of bored lassitude. His feet danced across the marble floor and he stopped before her chair, dropped to his knees and flung his arms around her.
“You, dear Annia Faustina. I want you. I want to marry you.”
Annia looked down at the boy’s head pillowed in her lap. He was handsome, yes, none in Rome was handsomer—unless it was his friend Hierocles. And he was charming, witty, agreeable, amusing and young—so young. But even more than all that, he was Caesar, Emperor, Augustus. All Rome revolved around him. His wife
would be the Augusta—the real Augusta, taking precedence over old Julia Maesa who had always claimed the title, albeit wrongly; over Soaemias, over every woman in all Empire. Of course, she was well acquainted with Antoninus’s peculiar desires but many women had husbands with the same proclivities. There was scarcely a Roman husband who did not have a concubinus as well as a wife. And perhaps with Antoninus bedded beside her he might forsake his precious Hierocles, and if not—well, it would not be difficult, in fact, not difficult at all to share this wonderful Hierocles with him. She looked up at Hierocles as he stepped from behind the screen. Her quick inventory of him decided her. She would be Augusta of Rome; this pretty boy would be her husband in name and this broad-shouldered giant with the curly yellow hair would be her husband in fact. Augusta of Rome! However, she must not appear too anxious.
“But, dear boy, there is a slight difference in our ages. I must be all of ten years older than you.”
“Twenty or even more,” Hierocles thought though he did not speak.
Antoninus brushed the matter away with a wave of his hand.
“What difference do a few years make? I have been married twice before and neither of my wives was capable of being an Augusta, but you, dear Annia Faustina, you would be truly imperial. How much better the purple would look on you than on any of those little empty-heads who even now await to ogle me and try to impress me with their charms? Oh, let me announce it, dear Annia, let me, and we’ll see all those anxious Roman matrons fainting on all sides. Oh, what a delightfully wicked surprise! Every one of them is hoping to push her gangly, long-legged daughter into my bed and now, I can consign them all to the other side of the Styx with the announcement that I shall wed my own dearly beloved Annia Faustina. Dear Annia, do let me shock them!”
She looked up at Hierocles. Antoninus’s choice had indeed pleased him, for he realized that faint though the chance might be, it might just happen that some pretty young thing, entwining her arms around the impressionable Antoninus might manage to snare him and his affections. The aging Annia would never be anything but mother to him. Hierocles was quick to understand her appeal to Antoninus for he saw her resemblance to Soaemias.
“You will be good for my little Antonine, Annia Faustina,” he answered her look. “And Rome will approve, for you are of the old imperial family. Yes, Annia Faustina, allow Antoninus to make the announcement.”
She rose from her chair and embraced them, one in each arm. Again Antoninus smelled the spicy, clean scent of sandalwood. The pressure of her fat breasts through the thin silk of their tunics did not seem any more revolting than when his mother embraced him. He felt supremely comfortable with Annia Faustina; it was almost as though he were seeking security in her ample arms. She kissed him on the cheek, then turned and kissed Hierocles. Her lips lingered a fraction of a moment longer.
“I feel that I am marrying not one but two husbands—both of them Caesars.”
“And you will not mind that I continue to keep Hierocles with me?” Antoninus asked anxiously.
“With us, dear boy, with us!”
With Annia Faustina between them, they walked the dark corridor to the triclinium which was hung with green silk. The slaves who were to wait on them, were standing behind the couches, each with skin dyed the same shade as their tunics. Even the light, entering through the windows glazed with thin green cloth was the same watery shade.
Antoninus walked to the couch reserved for him. A green-skinned slave with green eyes and a wig of seaweed helped him to his couch. Antoninus drew Annia Faustina down beside him. Gently he implanted a kiss on her lips, then raised himself on one elbow and lifted his other hand.
There was complete silence in the watery green room, a silence as complete as though they were all under water, seated at the court of Neptune.
The silence endured for a long moment as Antoninus surveyed the expectant faces.
“Your new Augusta,” he announced. “Caesar honors the Lady Annia Faustina by selecting her as his wife.”
27
His marriage with Annia Faustina was his own idea and as such it received all his attention. It must be the biggest, most splendid, and spectacular event that Rome had ever witnessed, and he planned it in great detail even to the embroidered designs on his wife’s stola. With so much activity and so many things to take up his mind, he became careless with the doses in the daily cup of mulsum and Alexander soon showed some signs of improvement. He was able to be up and even managed to keep some food on his stomach.
Mamaea and Julia Maesa were overjoyed, not only at Alexander’s recovery but also over the fact that, as Annia Faustina was a very close friend, it would mean a third favorable influence over the Antonine. As for Annia Faustina, she was impressed with becoming Rome’s Augusta; titivated over such a young and handsome husband; and anticipatory over the joys of sharing her husband’s husband with him. If Antoninus would not give up Hierocles—and Annia Faustina hardly wanted that—there was no reason why three could not share the nuptial couch as well as two.
The wedding started off with a procession to the principal shrines of Rome—first, to satisfy Antoninus, to the Temple of Elah-ga-baal, then to the Temple of Capitoline Jove to satisfy the Romans, followed by the Temple of Vesta for the womenfolk, and lastly to the Temple of Isis for the many Romans who had turned to the Egyptian goddess. Antoninus would gladly have sacrificed at the temples of the Christians and that of Mithras, but as neither religion had a temple worthy of the name, that was impossible.
Followed then a banquet at the Golden House, and for once the entertainment was neither licentious nor salacious. A Roman poet read a long and detailed panegyric about Antoninus and Annia; in which he compared them to Zeus and Hera, Jupiter and Juno, Mars and Venus and practically the entire population of Olympus—with the exception of Priapus but he did manage to work the latter in during the stanzas on the blessing of the nuptial bed. By the time the brief ceremony was over and the various priests had invoked their various gods, the barley cakes had been broken and the solemn vows made, the lamps were lighted in the palace and another procession formed to escort Antoninus and Annia to the wedding chamber, Hymen was invoked and another sacrifice offered.
At length they were left alone with the red-draped bed, which had been the subject of so many bawdy jokes. Cleander came in to disrobe Antoninus and Annia Faustina’s female slave removed her jewels and garments. Antoninus wanted to look but he did not dare. He dismissed the slaves, ordered them to extinguish all the lamps before they left and in the ensuring semidarkness he sought the bed and the arms of Annia Faustina.
An hour passed. Nothing happened that would insure an Antonine heir. Annia Faustina had exerted all her charms, employed all her wiles and completed her entire repertory with most discouraging results. Antoninus remained as limp as a rag. She admitted defeat. It was useless to proceed any further. Antoninus was weeping, whether from disappointment, disgust, or chagrin, she did not know. Neither did he. Certainly no wedding night could have been more of a farce—a too willing bride, and a bridegroom who was both reluctant and impotent. Something must be done to redeem it.
Hierocles! Annia felt she knew the answer. Yes, Hierocles! The poor fellow was sleeping alone for the first time since he had come to the Golden House and doubtless he was wide awake too. She raised herself on one elbow and with her free hand smoothed the brow of the fretful Antoninus.
“Dear boy, do not make yourself ill. It is nothing unusual, I assure you. The excitement of the day and the wine has completely unnerved you, and I know what difficulties you are having. It is not easy to change one’s life in an instant. Your are so accustomed to your darling Hierocles it is no wonder you miss him. Why don’t you send a slave to fetch him? With him here with us, you would feel more comfortable.”
“Hierocles!” Antoninus stopped his sobbing, “Hierocles sleeping alone!”
He suffered Annia Faustina’s damp kiss on his mouth and then sat up in bed. He would send no slave to fetch H
ierocles; he must see for himself if anyone was with him. He’d surprise him, for certainly Hierocles would not except to see him this night. Yes, he’d surprise him and if there was anyone bedded with him it would be the luckless fellow’s last night.
“I’ll not send a slave to fetch him, I’ll go myself.” He jumped from the bed, anxious for an excuse to quit it and in his bare feet ran across the chill marble floors. When he flung the doors open he saw that the guards were being changed—it was the middle of the night.
They were surprised to see Caesar in his long nightgown of white silk but he did not acknowledge them. One thought and one thought only impelled him to run the length of the corridor and demand immediate entrance from the guards at the door of his own apartments. He entered. The room was dark. He tiptoed carefully to his own bed, making no noise with his bare feet. When he reached it an exploratory hand fumbled among the covers, encountered only one figure among the crumpled sheets. He was content. Hierocles was faithful to him. He was indeed sleeping alone.