Empire - Saylor Steven (читать полные книги онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗

“All happiness is fleeting,” said Martial. “Life is precarious. Everything changes. Look at the four of us, growing older year by year.”

“Yet we’ve all managed to remain unmarried,” said Epaphroditus with a laugh.

“Only that fellow never changes.” Epictetus nodded towards the statue of Melancomas. “The young boxer is as perfect now as he was the day Epaphroditus unveiled him.”

“And as empty of all desires!” Martial laughed. “Perhaps we should be envious of Melancomas here. While everything around him changes, he never ages, and he is never troubled by hunger or sorrow or longing. Perhaps Medusa wasn’t such a monster after all, when she turned men into stone. Maybe she was doing those men a favour by freeing them from suffering and decay. On the other hand, Pygmalion lusted for a statue and brought her to life, and that went rather well; according to Ovid, they lived happily ever after. So we are left with a puzzle: is it better to turn a man to stone, or bring stone to life?”

“I think you may have found a subject worthy of a poem,” said Epaphroditus.

“No, the paradox is too subtle for my audiences. Rich patrons want a quick setup, a clever allusion or two – preferably obscene – and then a smashing punch line. No, I think my Medusa-versus-Pygmalion idea would be better suited to one of those learned discourses by our friend Dio. Imagine the convoluted argument he could spin, evoking all sorts of metaphors and obscure historical references. Say, has anyone heard from Dio lately?”

“I received a new discourse,” said Epaphroditus, “only yesterday

…” His voice trailed off.

“What! And you’re only just now mentioning it? Come, read it aloud,” said Martial.

“I only had time to quickly scan it. I’m not sure…”

“Don’t tell me it’s no good,” said Martial. “Has the poor exile lost his wit, stuck in Sarmizegetusa?”

“No, it’s not that. To be candid, I’m not sure it’s safe to keep the thing. It may be… seditious.”

“Read it quickly then, and afterwards we’ll burn it.” Martial laughed.

Epaphroditus smiled uneasily. Lucius knew what he was thinking but would not say aloud: none of them completely trusted Martial any longer, because of his favoured status with the emperor. Martial hardly seemed the type to betray old friends, but Epaphroditus had learned to be cautious over the years. It was one thing to gossip about the emperor’s love life – everyone from saltmongers to senators did that – but it was something else to read aloud a work by a banished philosopher.

“I don’t mean that the discourse is overtly seditious,” said Epaphroditus. “Dio is far too subtle for that. But this work could be seen as… teasing the emperor.”

“You’ve set my curiosity ablaze,” said Martial. “What’s the subject?”

“Hair.”

“What?”

“Hair. A learned discourse on hair and its role in history and literature.”

They all laughed. Domitian was notoriously sensitive about his premature baldness. In his younger days he had been famously vain about his chestnut mane, and once, as a gift to a friend, he had even written a monograph on his secrets for hair care. After Domitian’s ascension to power, copies of the treatise proliferated overnight; every literate person in Roma had read it, but no one dared to mention it in the author’s presence. Was Dio’s encomium on hair meant to mock the balding emperor who had exiled him?

“Even the emperor cannot avoid the ravages of time,” observed Martial. He rose and circled the statue. “But our friend Melancomas shall never grow bald, or fat, or wrinkled, and if his lustrous hair should fade, it can always be repainted. How I envy his unchanging perfection! Ah, well, if our host is not going to share that new discourse from Dio, I’m off. I should get a bit of work done before the sun sets. Maybe I can make something of that notion about Pygmalion and Medusa after all. Or perhaps I’ll write a letter to Dio and give him the idea as a gift.”

“I’ll come with you.” Epictetus reached for his crutch and got to his feet with some difficulty. “I dine tonight with a prospective new patron. He wants to meet at the Baths of Titus, so I’d better be off. Are you leaving as well, Pinarius?”

Lucius began to rise, but Epaphroditus touched his arm.

“No, Lucius, stay a bit longer.”

When they were alone, Lucius looked expectantly at his host. “You look worried, Epaphroditus.”

“I am.” The older man sighed. “By all the gods, Lucius, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What are talking about, Epaphroditus?”

“I know the identity of your mystery woman.”

“How?”

“Lucius, Lucius, I’ve known you since you were a boy! Have you ever been able to keep a secret from me?”

Only about the role that Sporus played in Nero’s death, thought Lucius, but he said nothing and let Epaphroditus continue.

“Even before you spoke of her chastity, I knew who she must be. I’ve seen the two of you when you meet in public – the stiff greeting, the averted gazes, the intentional distance you keep between you. And I happen to know that she was absent from Roma during the period you spoke of. I must admit, I find it ironic that the vow she would not keep for a goddess, she will keep for a man. I won’t say her name aloud – what slaves don’t overhear, they can’t repeat – but you know whom I mean. Am I right?”

Lucius gazed at the Flavian Amphitheatre, which was surrounded by scaffolds and cranes; a new tier was being added to accommodate even more spectators. “Yes, you’re right.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “Lucius, Lucius! What a terrible risk you’re taking. When I think of my promise to your father, to look after you-”

“I’m a grown man now and responsible for myself, Epaphroditus. Your promise to my father was long ago discharged.”

“Still, the danger-”

“We were always very careful, very discreet. I’m not even seeing her any more. We love each other at a distance.”

Epaphroditus shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “You don’t understand the gravity of the situation. Events are about to take place that will affect us all.”

“Events?”

“I didn’t want to talk about this in front of… the others.”

“In front of Martial, you mean?”

“Or Epictetus, either. Or even you, for that matter.” Epaphroditus paused to collect his thoughts. To Lucius he suddenly looked quite old, and more worn with cares than Lucius had seen him in many years. “You know I still have friends in the imperial household, even after so many changes and so many years. Sometimes I hear about things before they happen. My sources demand my utmost discretion, so usually I keep what I know to myself. Yes, I keep things even from you, Lucius. But there’s no point in shielding you now, seeing the danger you’re in. Domitian is about to revive the office of censor. He intends to assume the powers of the magistracy himself, permanently.”

“Didn’t his father do the same?”

“Yes, for a limited time and for a specific purpose. Vespasian conducted a census. That is one of the traditional functions of the censor, but it is not the function which interests Domitian.”

“I don’t understand. What else does a censor do?”

“Lucius, Lucius! Did you learn nothing of history when you were growing up? I know your father supplied the very best tutors for you.”

Lucius shrugged. “Why bother to learn about the institutions of the long-dead Republic, when all power now resides in the hands of one man and the rest of us count for nothing?”

Epaphroditus stifled his exasperation. “Once upon a time, when Roma was ruled by the Senate, the censor wielded great power – in some ways he was the most powerful man in the Republic, because he was responsible for keeping the official list of citizens, and it was the citizens who elected the magistrates. People didn’t vote as individuals, but in various blocks, determined by their wealth and other indicators of status. The censor determined in which block a man voted. That was important, because the voting blocks of the elite counted for more than those of the common rabble. And the censor could strike a citizen from the rolls altogether, which meant that citizen lost his right to vote.”