Solar Wind. Book one
Catillius Regin slyly squinted.
“I want to talk to Senator Servianus here at the villa. As I was informed by the faithful people, Servianus was at the emperor's reception. He asked for individual senators, people from his party who make up my opposition.”
Domitia was surprised.
“Are they dissatisfied with something?”
“Rome is a big city, and I am its prefect. In my power is concentrated huge sums of money that give me the opportunity to influence the right people, make serious decisions, convince unreliable senators. This, as it turns out, they do not have enough. So, they pester me with petty Senate inspections, slow down my orders or completely ignore them. Now Servianus asks for them! You see, they need running water in Roman homes. This will not happen!”
“Why do you need Faustina? I always felt she wasn't very good at politics. Titus's wife is a little frivolous, windy, and she does not have a state mind.”
Regin looked closely at Domitia.
“I know that. Gossip came to me that her hobbies are not entirely appropriate for the venerable matron. These baths… At the time of my youth, most love relationships were tied up in them, but now Hadrian had forbidden joint washing.”
“It's like it's stopping someone!” Domitia smirked.
“So, why do I need Faustina? In the Senate, there are some hesitating people, like a swamp. Such people have always been there. They do not know who to join and do not want to rush with a choice. Faustina's husband Antoninus has a certain influence among this group and I need him to take my side—everyone knows that Antoninus loves his wife and listens to her.”
Domitia Lucilla, with her hair tied up in a high hairstyle, looked young enough. In the morning, the slaves performed cosmetic procedures with her, placing whitening ointments on her face, painting her eyelashes, making her lips bright. Her tunic and the top handkerchief, which she covered her head with, generously sprinkled incense, and now Marcus's mother stood before Regin blossoming, fragrant, alluring.
He repeatedly had the idea to find her a husband from a noble family, to connect the two patrician branches, to further strengthen their influence. But Domitia resisted. She was a wealthy, well-off woman and didn't need anything. Her factory brought a good income and Regin, being the prefect of the city, knew the exact sums coming from the sale of bricks with the label “Domitia Lucilla” printed on top.
“Wouldn't it be easier to agree on everything with Faustina in private?” Domitia broke her silence. “She is a relative; she'll understand!”
Regin chewed his lips, thought, answered.
“We must demonstrate our strength to Servianus, this pompous peacock who made his way to the consuls thanks to Domitian. I have always had a low opinion of him, although some have kept saying about his mind, about some outstanding abilities. Let him know in advance that Antoninus will be on our side, then, perhaps, we do not have to resort to pressure in the Senate, to organize a war there. Our Hadrian doesn't like strife. He wants to enjoy the peace in Tibur, tired of travel and public affairs.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a slave who had come from the depths of the atrium.
“Domina,31 guests have arrived for you, Senator Lucius Julius Servianus and matron Annia Galeria Faustina.”
“Take them to the triclinium and tell the chefs it's time to have lunch.” Domitia in hesitation turned to Regin, “I think we will invite the boys later. Let them play some more!”
“Good!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed.
The brazier has already warmed up. The flames, dancing inside, burned the sooty walls, raised stinging tongues to the sky. Marcus approached the iron that was burning, feeling the enveloping heat, the smell of a burning tree. The sides of the roaster have acquired a crimson tint; charcoal coals high, almost to the knees, threw out the tongues of flame. Gaius stood beside it pale, silent, but full of determination.
Oh, that's pride!
Surprise mixed with reproach stirred in Marcus's soul. Previously, he did not pay attention to whether it was good or bad to be proud. Probably, for the state is good, because the Romans are not used to losing in the dispute, which means that pride pushed them to be better than others, to become stronger. The best should be villages, cities, their country. The plank had been rising all the time, forcing them to improve in this effort. But the greater perfection achieved, the more sacrifices were made.
“Don't, Gaius!” he said conciliatorily. “I don't need your oath on fire. If you think you're right, then you're right.”
“No!” Victorinus turned impulsively to him. “You don't believe me, and I'll prove it.”
He reached out to the fire, but he was hesitant to take the last step. He was slow, looked like one bewitched at the high flame. “Here's a fool!” thought Marcus. He moved decisively to his friend, and with force grasping his shoulders, dragged away from the dangerous place.
“Stop it! You're acting like a boy. We're adults! Our great emperor said that next year I will get a toga virilis.”
Fuscianus and Baebius Longus joined Marcus with apparent relief. They put their arms around the two boys’ shoulders, and led them to the drawn triangle, near which lay small balls.
The game wasn't over yet.
In the triclinium, Senator Titus's wife Antonina Faustina, whom everyone called Faustina the Elder, so as not to confuse her with her daughter Faustina the Younger, sank on a bed near Regin and Lucius Servianus. Lucilla's Domitia was near, slightly to the right. Actually, etiquette didn't allow women to lie next to men—it wasn't very decent. They used to sit on chairs. But the republican times have sunk into oblivion, and in the coming era of the princeps old social traditions were pushed back in favor of women's freedoms.
Faustina passed thirty-five. Her pleasant face was distinguished by a smooth matte skin color. Black hair was styled into a tall tower. She decorated her head, fingers, wrists, and neck with a variety of rings, bracelets, and chains of gold and silver. Her hair was crowned by a diamond tiara—Faustina loved expensive trinkets.
She seemed a kind, compliant matron, with a calm disposition. However, the pleasant expression of her face was at times spoiled by the barely visible arrogance shown in the overly raised thin eyebrow as she listened to someone, or in a sharp lip bend that looked like a scornful grin.
In front of each of the guests was put a small table with a bronze countertop on wooden carved legs, on which the servants brought all sorts of food made by the skillful chef Domitia. In large cups wine was poured, as usual, diluted. At the exit in the triclinium arranged citharode, playing an unfamiliar melody and quietly singing songs in Greek. To these melancholic sounds, they began their conversation.
They started with Tetrapharmakon, Hadrian's favorite dish. It consisted of pheasant, ham, pork udder and crispy pie—Domitia gave special instruction to the chef, knowing that Faustina liked this dish.
“You, dear Domitia, have a wonderful cook!” Faustina praised. She took more pieces of food and ate with appetite, rinsing her fingers after each dish in the scented water served by the slave in a small cup. She loved to eat well, which was evident in the second chin that appeared and the figure that began to grow fat.
“I'm always happy to please guests, especially in such a simple matter as food,” Domitia glanced at Regin and Servianus. They also ate, paying tribute to the hospitality of the hostess, but without much appetite. In old age, food does not give such pleasure as before, when women and feasts are carried away. And now what is left for them, old people? Only thermals, hot and cool baths, life-giving springs in Baiae,32 and of course politics.
They had not yet begun the important conversation for which they have gathered.
In fact, the issue of water supply to the homes of individual senators supporting Servianus was a secondary matter. The main thing was another thing—to establish who was more influential, who was more powerful, to whom would Hadrian listen.
“So, Regin, you think that the esteemed patricians are not worthy of the same grace, the same amenities as other families,” Servianus began suddenly, looking at Faustina. “Aren't they the same as Valerius, Julius or Marcius?”
Regin chuckled. “The ball is thrown!” a comparison with the trigon came to him, a game he had just watched. “We'll have to get it back.”
“Oh gods, no Lucius!” He uttered the words emphatically calmly, smiling kindly. “I've always stood for justice. But let me tell you, not all the honorable husbands of the Senate have water going to their city houses, and I don't understand why it is? After all, almost everyone lives in villas where there is water, as here at Domitia and in my neighborhood.”
“This water is needed in the insulae,33 which are owned by senators. For example, Valerius Homullus,” here Servianus pauses with value, “especially needs such improvement, because he has three insulae, in which many residents of the city are rented apartments.”
Again, the ball is in my direction! thought Regin and grinned sarcastically.
“Hm, a private improvement at the expense of Rome's budget? I don't know if our great emperor would like it.”
“Perhaps you, Servianus, missed my ball!”
He, stretching the hard wrinkles of the face smile, portraying a prudent, good host. The prefect of Rome Regin wanted to show Faustina that he was guarding the city’s interests and would not allow funds to be squandered in favor of some Homullus. He thought that Titus Antoninus, known for his modesty and commitment to the laws, would appreciate such efforts, and Faustina would undoubtedly pass this conversation on to her husband.
But she reacted unexpectedly.
“Can't you make a small exception for someone?” she asked, raising her eyebrows arrogantly and mockingly, and Regin felt as if the ball had been thrown at him from the wrong side. The left hand did not have time to react, the ball fell to the ground and rolled towards Servianus.
“I think it's time to taste the fruit,” suddenly intervened Domitia on the right of the hostess, recalling that Faustina once shared with her impressions of those people who often visited their house. Homullus's surname was one of the first. Narrow-minded man, as Regin believed, Servianus was smart enough to set a dangerous trap, as Regin believed.
In the voice of Marcus's mother through nervousness, it was felt by all present and satisfied with himself Lucius Servianus, whose meaty face melted into a smile, deciding to amplify the effect.
“As for the princeps,” he called Hadrian one of his many titles, “I don't think there will be any difficulty with his approval. I was at his reception recently, and he deigned to inform me that he had almost settled on the heir nomination. You know, his health leaves much to be desired lately. But now Caesar has gone back to Syria. The war in Judea continues, and he wants to personally check how things are going. Unfortunately, we have lost many warriors from the Spanish and Deiotariana legions. Now one of your relatives Sextus Julius Sever commands there.”
Servianus took a glass of wine, took a sip, looking contentedly at the interlocutors. He was pleased that he amazed everyone with his knowledge; he was pleased that the rest were freezing, waiting for him to continue.
Regin sat with an impenetrable face, staring at his opponent with faded eyes. Faustina, looking eagerly at Servianus, did not notice how from the corner of her mouth flowed red drops of wine, similar to blood. It looked like she bit her lip with annoyance. One of the serving Greek slaves, who accompanied her from the house, hurriedly leaned over and wiped the mistress's chin.
“Don't get in the way, Galeria!” Faustina irritably pushed her hand away. “So, what did our emperor, the honorable Lucius say?”
“Augustus chose my grandson Pedanius Fuсk as his successor and this question was solved,” Servianus said with notes of celebration in his voice, gazing victoriously at Regin's frozen face. “My Fuсus will be the next Caesar!”
“Congratulations!” Domitia was the first to recover. “Congratulations, Senator!”
When Servianus left the villa of Annius, the prefect Regin warmly parted with him. The question of bringing the influential senator Antoninus to his side had now fallen away by itself. What was the point of confronting the future relative of Caesar? Only a madman could afford that.
“Be healthy, my dear Faustina! It was good to see you!” Domitia said goodbye to Marcus’s aunt. “I'll be here for lunch soon, hopefully before festival of the Saturnalia.”34
“Oh, Saturnalia! Gods, how fast time flies!”
“Oh yes! ‘Time takes everything away,’”—Domitia Lucilla quoted Virgil, showing her education.
This, however, irritated Faustina, who scornfully raised the corners of her mouth, imitating a smile, and thought, “Gods, how unnatural and arrogant, this Domitia.” She, Faustina, of course, would tell her husband everything, laugh at the pomposity of these old people, and discuss that goose Domitia Lucilla. Only depicting a noble matron! Girlfriends told Faustina that Domitia had often visited the disgraced Empress Sabina, and she, everyone knew, secretly amused herself with black Nubian slaves.
However, it was time. And Antoninus's wife stepped to the luxurious palanquin, standing at the gates of the villa surrounded by slave-guards, with mixed feelings.
Meanwhile, Regin, who had lost all interest in Faustina, was thinking about his position on the sidelines. It, of course, was complicated. Although the game was not finished, as it seemed to him. It was not over yet.
Everyone knew that the emperor was an unpredictable man and his decisions were often strange and unexpected. Why was Hadrian for this Pedanius Fusсus? Nothing outstanding, narcissistic, absurd, as reported to him, Regin. What were the emperor's political calculations? What was he hoping for? What did he want?
No one knew that.
One thing was certain: Caesar's health was fading, time was rushing a choice, and haste made mistakes. He, Regin, was sure—the choice of Pedanius Fuscus was a mistake, the wrong step, threatening to turn into trouble! But there was still time to fix this, the game was not finished, and fallen balls would not be counted by Servianus!
Adult citizen toga
“Oh, Marcus! Oh, my Marcus!”
The female voice was so familiar and pleasant, ring out from the dark. Out of the dark? No, the bedroom was illuminated by the scant light of two braziers standing at the edges of the lodge, in the corner on the table oil lamp lit, throwing uneven light on the walls. Through the narrow small windows in the room penetrated the night March air, wet, cold, but Marcus was hot. He was not in a tunic, he was naked. And he was not alone, with his back to him on all fours was a woman, also naked. She clung to the slabs of the floor, and he clearly could see her hair scattered on her shoulders, narrow back and round buttocks, smooth skin, shiny as silk.
She was silent, as if praying to all the gods in the world.
Marcus felt excited, he came down from the high bed, crawled up to the woman from behind. Oh, it was a brain-burning desire! It touched the woman, penetrated her body and began to move faster and faster. It seemed to him that he was about to explode with furious convulsions of pleasure.
It must be Benedicta, he believed. She came to him in the evening and stayed. But how? Was she sent from Tibur by Emperor Hadrian, who was in Syria? That was impossible! It was impossible!
“Marcus, what are you doing?” suddenly a stern, imperious voice sounds.
The woman turned her head. Oh, gods, it was Empress Sabine! He recognized her thin lips, her strict dark eyes. Recognized the diamond necklace around his neck. She was like that in the pool when he saw her naked with her mother—strict and domineering.
“Marcus, what are you doing?” voice again, it was not Sabine, it's his mother Domitia Lucilla. He was with his mother! A cold sweat broke over Marcus—this dream, a terrible dream that made the soul shudder, he must one day stop.
Marcus opened his eyes and found himself in an empty dark bedroom. On the sides of the bed were braziers, spreading even heat around the room. The lamp on the table did not burn—before going to bed it was extinguished by a slave Antiochus, a big, lazy man. He was now sprawled near the door and snoring desperately loudly. Antiochus would not let anyone in to him, neither Benedicta nor his mother.
Thoughts gradually filled his head. There were a few days left until the Ides of March. After them there would be a fun celebration which was called Liberalia, and he would put on the white toga of an adult citizen, finally becoming an adult and making his own decisions, to do responsible actions. Not all solutions, of course, full adulthood would come only in twenty first year. But Baebius Longus and Fuscianus would envy him, not to mention Victorinus. They’d be adults in three years.
And yet what was the meaning of this dream? So wrong, disgusting and nasty. First Sabine, then his mother. Marcus tossed and turned, he was hot, he could not sleep, and he remembered the artist Diognetus. He, like Hadrian, taught himself to subordinate his feelings to himself, to manage them, to be able to look at himself from the outside. Well, he looked: a young man who had mastered the empress, and then his mother!
His face burned with shame, and he thought about how good it was that it was night, dark, and everyone was asleep. No need to explain why he wasn’t asleep, why his cheeks and forehead were red. He suddenly remembered that his mother has a book by Artemidorus from Ephesus, which she often looked into because it was called “Dream interpretation.” Mother discussed her dreams with him, with friends, with Regin, because dreams, as well as signs, the Romans used to unconditionally believe.
It was necessary to look into it, he decided, to make sure that nothing bad would happen.
In the morning, not enough sleep, sluggish, Marcus went to the tablinum, where along with important family documents were kept scrolls of books. That's how he found the dream book. What he needed was described by Artemidorus in the first part. He did not look for Sabina, but about his mother… Possess a mother from behind was not good, he read, which meant that the dreamer would turn away their mother, or reject their motherland, or would fail.
All of these, he was not categorically satisfied with; he did not want him to turn away from his mother, did not want to lose his homeland or something else, no less important. He was still a young man, although on the threshold of adulthood, it was too early for him to be alone.
But what about sleep?
There were not many people in the house, although the slaves had already gotten up and were making noise everywhere, carrying water, talking loudly. In the kitchen, the chef prepared breakfast and from there came the smell of charcoal. Marcus watched as this little curly Egyptian cooked pork porridge.
Marcus wanted to see his mother. For some reason, after a dream and prediction of a dream book, he had a fear that something would happen to his mother, and she would leave him. A stupid, strange thought that disturbed his heart.
In addition to the slaves, Marcus heard the voices of customers, coming to see Domitia Lucilla, get her benevolent look, and even better a few sesterces, which could be put into business.
Marcus suspected that many of them were rogues and not at all as unhappy, deceived by life, as they wanted to appear before his mother. They tried to cause pity with worn tunics, or a large family that was hard to feed, or other troubles sent by the gods. These worthless people would stand along the corridor and escort the hostess of the house—the generous owner of the brick factory, with the eyes of devoted dogs, a little sad and mournful.
He, Marcus, thought that clientele were useless and lazy parasites,35 which would be nice to get rid of and he would probably do it in due course.
In order not to meet them, Marcus bypassed the atrium, triclinium, walking through the corridors to his mother's room. At the entrance, he held his breath—now he would see her, alive, healthy, still affectionate. She must be busy with the morning toilet.
He was looking into the room and saw the truth! Domitia Lucilla sat in front of a large silver mirror that reflected her face and shoulders quite well. Near it were three slaves—Didona, Melissa and Feoksena, young Egyptian girls. One held a round silver mirror in front of the lady, another curled her hair with hot tongs, and the third dealt with the face of Domitia. Feoksena rubbed into the forehead, cheeks, and neck of his mother an ointment derived from the litter of crocodiles, which bleached the skin, and prepared paint from burnt date bones to paint the eyelashes of the mistress.
“Marcus, why are you standing on the doorstep? Come in!” his mother observed. “Do you want something?”
The son blushed, remembering his prior night's sleep.
“I wanted to wish you a good morning, Mum. How did you sleep?”
“I slept wonderfully!”
Domitia did not turn her head, but Marcus noticed that she smiles faintly. Mother was in a good mood today.
“Have customers gathered?” she asked casually.
“As always!” Marcus shrugged. “They came again for the innings.”
“Well, who doesn't like sesterces—we have a lot of them. Speaking of money…”
The Domitia fell silent as Feoksena began rubbing the ointment, making circular movements with her palms across the mother's face. When she finished, Domitia continued.
“Perhaps your sister Cornificia is ripe for marriage. I found her a beautiful fiancé from a good Ummidius family—Gaius. The wedding must be next year when she grows up a little bit. I wanted to ask you about the will. We need to think about how to provide it with the means.”
“If she gets married, then I will give her the inheritance left from my father,” Marcus said judiciously, “I'll have enough of my great-grandfather's possessions. And you can bequeath your fortune to her, too, without mentioning me. Then Cornificia won't look poorer than Ummidius. I hear the Quadratus are a rich surname.
“Okay, I'll think about it,” Domitia agreed. “Do you know who I called to our family celebration on the occasion of your acceptance of toga virilis?”
“Emperor Hadrian?” Marcus joked.
But mother didn’t accept the joke.
“No,” she replied earnestly, “Hadrian is now in Syria, suppressing the Rebellion of the Jews. I invited Empress Sabine, who gives us the highest patronage, your aunt Faustina with Antoninus, Regin, and second great-grandfather, Annius Verus. Perhaps there will be more of my relatives from Narbonne Gaul. You've heard about them.”
“So much? I thought we were going to do a modest rite.”
“Oh, Marcus, it's already much more modest than I expected. But in Rome now cool, many of the respected people get sick or sit at home, warming their asses with the braziers, or have gone to warmer lands where they have villas.”
The slaves at this time finished the morning preparations and moved aside. A gray-haired slave appeared on the threshold of the room, looking after the house, his name was Decimus. Lucilla got him at one time from her deceased husband, and she kept him for herself, however, believing that she was not mistaken. Decimus was intelligent, partly educated—knew Latin writing, and by nature was quite calm.
“Domina, the customers have come together and want to pay their respects to you. In addition, the chef informed me that breakfast is already cooked.”
“It's beautiful!” Domitia responded, and Marcus pointed out, “Take the money for distribution! After breakfast, I'll go to your other aunt Annia, Ummidius Quadratus wife. We will talk to her about the marriage of our children in the near future.”
“Not so near future,” Marcus retorted. “As Cornficia grows up, a lot can change.”
“These things are not done hastily. You'll learn that. I mean, you'll understand how important it was to prepare yourself thoroughly for events like this in your life. And time? It flies fast. ‘Time takes away everything!’” she quoted her beloved Virgil, and turned to Decimus, “Let the nomenclator36 be ready, he will go with me.”