EROMENOS: a novel of Antinous and Hadrian (17 page)

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.

H
ADRIAN 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 have 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. W
ATER

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.

W
HAT
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.

S
OMETHING 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.

H
ERE 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.

W
HEN 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.

T
HE 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.

T
HIS 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.

P
ERICLES 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

A
FTERWORD

T
HE
R
OMAN
E
MPEROR
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.

A
PPENDICES

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