Empire - Saylor Steven (читать полные книги онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗
Physically, the new emperor was the opposite of the statuesque Otho. He was grotesquely obese. Apparently he had not always been unattractive; rumour had it that the young Vitellius had been one of Tiberius’s spintriae at Capri, where his services to the debauched emperor had advanced his father’s career. Titus found it hard to imagine Vitellius as a pleasingly plump boy when gazing at the man in his late fifties.
The death of Otho had left Sporus without a role in the imperial household. As she had done in the confusion after Nero’s death and under Galba, Sporus again looked to Epaphroditus for protection. That was how Lucius and Sporus had been thrown together. Lucius was already residing with Epaphroditus, seldom stirring beyond his suite of rooms, trying to draw as little attention as possible to himself or to the personal fortune he had inherited from his father. There was plenty of space in Epaphroditus’s apartments to accommodate both Lucius and Sporus, but the two wards inevitably found themselves spending time together. They were about the same age: Lucius was twenty-two and Sporus a bit younger. Otherwise they had little in common, yet they never quarreled and often talked for hours, sharing gossip, laughing at each other’s jokes, and reminiscing about the dead – not only Lucius’s father and Otho, but all the others who had passed into oblivion in the tumult that had begun with Nero’s death.
So far, Lucius had remained beneath the new emperor’s notice, and so had Sporus. Epaphroditus told them that this was a good thing, but inevitably they grew restless shut up in Epaphroditus’s apartments.
Now change was again in the air. According to Epaphroditus, Vitellius might not be emperor much longer. The general Vespasian, vastly enriched by his war against the Jews and anticipating even greater riches from the sack of their capital, Jerusalem, had been proclaimed emperor by his troops in the East and by the legions on the Danube. While Vespasian and his son Titus remained in the East, commanders loyal to him were marching on Italy. Another struggle for control of the empire was imminent. The mood in the city had become increasingly unsettled and anxious. There was a sense that anything might happen, and fear of a bloodbath. Astrologers had predicted the end of Vitellius. Vitellius’s response, besides ordering every astrologer in Roma to be killed on the spot, was to throw one lavish party after another.
There were even rumours that Nero had not died after all – that he had staged his death as a hoax – and the heir of Augustus would return at any moment at the head of a Parthian army. Sporus and Epaphroditus knew better, of course, though neither of them would tell Lucius exactly what had transpired in the last moments of Nero’s life, which has also been the last moments of his father’s life. “The emperor chose the moment and the method of his death, and he died with dignity,” was all that Epaphroditus would say, “and so did your father, who bravely decided to follow him into death.”
Lying back on the couch, Lucius gazed up at the painting of the broad-shouldered Jupiter and the slender but elegantly muscled Ganymede, who looked a bit too mature and developed to be carrying a boy’s hoop.
“I can see why Ganymede is a smooth as a baby,” said Lucius, “but you’d think a brawny fellow like Jupiter would be shown with a bit more hair on his chest, wouldn’t you? Yet the painters never seem to show hair on a man’s chest, and neither do the sculptors. Is it true that Otho didn’t have a hair on his body?”
Sporus laughed. “True: Otho had not a hair on his body. Or on his head. When he took off that hairpiece-”
“Otho wore a hairpiece? You never told me that!”
“He made me take a vow to tell no one, even if he should die in battle. Well, he didn’t die in battle, did he? He chose to abandon me by his own hand! So I’ll tell you anyway. Yes, Otho wore a hairpiece. It was a very good one, I must admit. It fooled you, obviously!” Sporus laughed. “As for the rest of him, even I have more hair on my body than Otho did. He went to great lengths to remove every strand. He shaved here, plucked there, and in certain delicate areas he used a wax poultice to depilate himself. He was so vain about his physique, you see. When he was naked, he wanted nothing to obscure the sight of all those muscles. And of course he liked the touch of silk against his hairless flesh. What a wardrobe the man had! This robe I’m wearing belonged to Otho…” Sporus’s voice trailed off.
Lucius thought of another thing that Epaphroditus had said: “That is the look of Sporus remembering those who have died and left her behind.”
There was a quiet knock at the door. Epictetus entered.
For a long time, Lucius had been confused by the lame slave’s furtive, almost cringing demeanour whenever he was in Sporus’s presence. Epaphroditus treated Epictetus with respect, acknowledging and even deferring to his young slave’s immense erudition, and allowed Epictetus considerable freedom to do and say whatever he pleased. Epictetus was no cowed underling, yet around Sporus he behaved awkwardly and averted his eyes; even his limp became more pronounced. Eventually, Lucius realized that the slave was in love with Sporus and painfully aware that his love could never be requited. Sporus had been the consort of two of the most powerful men on earth; she could hardly be expected to take notice of a lame slave who hid his homely face behind a shaggy beard. To be sure, Epictetus was clever; Epaphroditus declared that he had never known any man who was better read or more thoroughly versed in philosophy, which was quite remarkable considering that Epictetus was the same age as Lucius. But what good was all his learning to Epictetus when the object of his affection was more interested in muscular legs and depilating poultices than in Stoic discourse?
“There’s a visitor in the vestibule,” said Epictetus, glancing at Sporus and then at the floor.
“Epaphroditus is out for the afternoon,” said Lucius. “The visitor will have to come back later.”
“I failed to make myself clear,” said Epictetus, daring to look up again. “The visitor is here to see Sporus.”
Sporus sat upright. “Me? No one ever comes to see me any more. A friend of Otho’s, perhaps?”
“No. He comes from the emperor Vitellius,” said Epictetus. “His calls himself Asiaticus.”
Sporus raised an eyebrow. “Not a big, muscular fellow, rakishly handsome? Struts like a gladiator but grins like a spintria?”
Epictetus frowned. “That might describe him.”
“Who is this Asiaticus?” asked Lucius. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t know him,” said Sporus, “but it looks as if I soon shall. Really, Lucius, you don’t know the stories about Vitellius and Asiaticus?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What a sheltered existence your father imposed on you, sparing your delicate ears from the gossip of the court. Nero loved telling tales about Vitellius and his stud horse. The relationship between those two made Nero’s bedroom antics seem quite tame.”
“My ears are open,” said Lucius, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin on his fists.
“Quickly, then: Asiaticus was born a slave, no different from any other slave, until in adolescence a certain appendage became rather prominent. When Vitellius saw the boy standing naked on the auction block one day, he didn’t buy him for his brains. Like a racing master who’d acquired a new stud, Vitellius took him home and tried him out right away. Vitellius was happy with his purchase.
“But as you know, in these relationships it’s not always clear who is the master and who the slave, and desire isn’t always mutual. Asiaticus grew tired of Vitellius, and who could blame him? They say Vitellius is actually rather skilled at lovemaking, but really, can you imagine having that mass of quivering flesh on top of you? Or under you, I should imagine, since I suspect that to be his preferred position. Anyway, at some point, young Asiaticus had quite enough and ran off. Vitellius wept and tore out his hair! He was heartbroken. Then, one day, Vitellius was down in Puteoli and who should he come across at a little stand on the waterfront, flirting with the sailors and selling cheap wine hardly better than vinegar, but Asiaticus. Vitellius burst into tears and moved to embrace him, but Asiaticus was off like an arrow. Vitellius’s men gave chase, knocking down half the market stalls along the waterfront, and finally caught Asiaticus and brought him back in irons. A happy ending – the lovers were reunited!”
