Chapter XIV

 

 

It is said that Marcus Aurelius sent Verus to Antioch, that he might commit his debaucheries away from the eyes of the citizens of Rome, that by his travels he might learn economy, that he might be reformed through the experience of war, and – he might come to realize that he was an emperor.

– The Augustan History

 

Antioch

 

 

"His Excellency Senator Marcus Annius Libo, Proconsul of the province of Syria!"

The court herald bows importantly and withdraws from the centre of the crowded audience hall. Libo enters. The Governor of Syria is on form as he greets Antioch’s finest citizens, the senior army staff officers, the courtiers and the courtesans. Libo has a special smile for each, and that aura that attaches itself to people who know with certainty that all eyes are focussed on them.

The move from Rome to the provincial capital is a natural fit for Libo. Antioch's love for Rome and her loyalty to the Empire are never much more than a fashion. For the city has another lover—it will forever be most deeply and permanently in love with itself. A proud city, a vice certain to lead to clashes with the administration in Rome, whose own pride never takes second place. Libo is like the city, cocky and unconventional.

The Antiochene love of satire is abiding, relentlessly poking fun at a Roman regime not noted for its sense of humour. Which probably explains why the city adopted Lucian as one of its own. Though it often acts as a second capital to the Empire, Antioch is permanently associated in Roman minds with disrespect and dubious loyalty. Over the years the city rises and falls in Roman estimation, one moment rewarded for fawning assertions of abiding devotion and the next punished for sniggering infidelity.

Lucian watches Libo hand-clasp his way through the throng, then sidles in his direction with a courtier’s practised chic. The Governor’s greeting is warm. In the months since Lucian’s return to Antioch they have become fast friends. "My dear Lucianus. I trust you and your companions are satisfied with the new accommodations. We had to make adjustments with the Emperor’s entourage being so large."

"Completely, Governor. I am comfortably housed in what is in my opinion the most pleasant wing of your palace."

"What of this handmaiden you’ve brought us?"

The word is that Lucian’s instincts, as usual, have been solid as an aureus. "Thecla joined the imperial entourage in Smyrna. With the help of the celebrated Madame Aspasia and the Cyprian School for Ladies, she has blossomed into a proper little courtier."

"Furius Victorinus, Prefect of the Praetorium," the Herald intones solemnly.

"Thank goodness we got this prefect and not the other one." Libo gestures in Victorinus’ direction.

"Publius Mummius Sisenna Rutilianus, noble Senator of Rome, Proconsul of Asia …"

Libo raises his glass high to avoid being jostled by an elderly senator pushing his way toward them through the crowd. The Governor nods deferentially while the newcomer regards both men with an expression of barely-suppressed hostility. Like Libo he is dressed in a senator’s tunic, but he is also sporting a toga. This complicated and heavy garment is, in Lucian’s experience, almost universally loathed by the Roman elite. They are obliged by tradition and by law to wear them in Rome, but most gratefully jettison them the moment they are safely beyond the precincts of the city. Togas are rarely seen in the heat of Antioch. Yet here is a toga, right before his eyes, draped over this smouldering cinder of a man.

"Senator Marcus Pontius Laelianus." Libo performs the introduction. "One of the great citizens and military leaders of Rome."

"Gaius Lucianus." Lucian introduces himself.

"Gaius Lucianus is one of the prodigious literary figures of our age," Libo prompts. Lucian can’t decide whether to be flattered or to seek safety.

"A Greek?" The Senator’s tone suggests that Greek is not necessarily a good thing.

"I am Syrian," Lucian replies tactfully.

"A local fellow. Good." Laelianus retorts impatiently. "Perhaps you can tell my why all anybody does in this infernal city is discuss philosophy, attend theatrical performances, or be in raptures about the latest pantomimes?" He spits the last word.

Lucian stiffens. "It is an ancient culture, Senator. You must make ..." he wavers, searching for the least provocative word, "… allowances. Roman discipline does not translate easily among eastern peoples."

"Don’t tell me about culture. When I was governor here ten years ago actors were not permitted to set foot inside a respectable public building. Watching the antics of an effeminate creature performing rude songs while imitating the passions of prehistoric strumpets, to the accompaniment of twanging strings, screaming pipes, and clattering heels is not proper amusement for a Roman gentleman, much less a soldier.

"I’d like to translate a kick in the backside of the whelp that has his generals sitting here on their arses, or worse still in Daaaphnee," he scolds, mimicking a sheep. Lucian makes a mental note not to recount the beauties of Daphne to Senator Laelianus. "I, by contrast, have been hard at work beating this rabble army into shape."

"The Senator," Libo says dryly, "came ahead of the imperial party. He has special responsibility for legionary training."

"Just so! They are now in the best shape they’re going to achieve, short of a real blooding. But are we challenging the enemy that has invaded and dishonoured Rome? Is the Parthian King quivering, fearing for the future of his throne?" He glares intently, daring a response. Like a pair of truant schoolboys apprehended by a cruel headmaster, they wisely hold their tongues. "Pah! We sit around in Daaaphnee like bloody tourists and watch pantomimes!"

"They certainly needed the time for training, Senator." Libo’s approach evidently is to soothe. "It is well known that there is no one in the Empire better to instruct them than your good self."

"Yes, yes," he says, brushing this off. "I prefer my wine watered Governor, thank you."

Flattery having failed, Libo opts for distraction. He waves to Furius Victorinus, who pushes through the crowd to join them. Libo makes the introductions. Laelianus resumes his rant.

"The legions of Syria go into battle on a litter, it is said. The only time that particular adage did not hold true was when I was governor here." He looks meaningfully at Victorinus. "Well, I have returned. Had to flog a few of them, but those lazy wretches are ready to eat Parthians for their dinner. It’s time to move. Statius bloody Priscus is in the north and will soon march on Artaxata." His expression darkens. "Priscus will have Rome’s glory while we sit in Syria being courtly."

"Will he defeat them?" Victorinus asks quietly.

"Priscus is of an upstart family of no consequence. A new man," Laelianus muses. "Nevertheless, he is a competent general. He will defeat them all right. He has the northern legions." He drains his goblet and thrusts it at a passing servant, knocking him into a potted palm tree. "I am old," he says proudly. "I am of a great lineage. I would prefer to die in battle rather than be entertained to death!" He bows and strides stiffly toward some equally grim looking staff officers.

"Not a patron of the arts," Lucian says, as he watches him go.

"A Catonian to be sure," Victorinus agrees. "Now, gentlemen." Taking Lucian by the elbow Victorinus leads them to the relative privacy of a nearby balcony. "What from Claudius?"

Libo nods reassuringly to Lucian. "The Prefect is fully briefed on our situation."

The timely intervention of a servant boy carrying a large pitcher allows Lucian to compose his thoughts. He does not know Victorinus, but Libo vouches for him … The boy’s pitcher contains a mixture of red wine and honey. "Try the mulsum, Prefect," Lucian says, as the boy fills his glass with the amber coloured drink. “A local specialty.”

"Like Senator Laelianus," Lucian continues, "Claudius is very concerned about our delay here. And, although I was sent here principally to give the Emperor another set of eyes, Claudius wants me to start prodding."

Libo’s expression turns dark. "I am the Emperor’s eyes, and to be frank I don’t like what I’m seeing. But what is to be done? Verus is also an emperor. I do not normally doubt Marcus’ judgement, but in this case Laelianus is right. Verus has excellent generals, but he won’t let them loose. He’s got some half-baked negotiations underway."

"Negotiations?" Victorinus expresses surprise. "With whom?"

"The Parthians."

"Rome will not negotiate over Armenia. Not now. The destruction of the IX^th Legion was an enormous blow to our prestige. They attack Syria and send a pair of equally ill-prepared legions packing. No," he says firmly, "Roman honour demands vengeance."

"Tell that to Verus. I certainly have," says Libo.

"My spies inform me that in Palestine, Nabataea, Arabia, and Egypt, people are growing restive," Lucian says. "Is Roman power waning? Marcus Aurelius is a great philosopher, but weak, they say. Parthian agents are actively encouraging this kind of talk, and there is no shortage of adventurers ready to fall victim to their own dreams."

"How serious is this?" Victorinus asked.

"It’s as serious as the Parthian gold that lies behind it," Libo says through a mouthful of pastry. "Mark me. If Rome lets this go unanswered, it will lose the East."

The Praetorian Prefect accepts a dainty from a tray offered by a voluptuous slave girl, chewing thoughtfully as he watches her retreating form. He rounds on Lucian. "Where is Malorix?"

Lucian covers his surprise with difficulty. "Come, come, Lucianus," Victorinus says. "Claudius and I are thick as thieves. The danger in Pannonia grows daily. Latest reports say the Jazyges and the Quadi are preparing to attack. We need Malorix there."

"Where is he?"

"Armenia. But I’ve not heard from him in many weeks."

"Well find him and get him out. We have no need of him wandering around Armenia. Statius Priscus will soon settle affairs there." He looks hard at Lucian as if to ensure that he was understood. "We have work to do, gentlemen. Emperor Verus is easily distracted. We must help him to see his duty.

"By the way Libo, that serving slave. Is she one of yours?"

"Indeed."

"Send her by my apartments later, will you?" Libo bows his accord. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have other ears to bend."

They watch Victorinus disappear into the throng. "It's all taking too long, Lucian," Libo resumes. "I left Rome for Brundisium with Verus last May. The feasting began almost immediately as he had to be entertained at the summer homes of all his friends and every important official along the way. We got as far as Canusium and to no one's surprise he was struck ill. Simple overindulgence. I had to come ahead to take up my duties here. When the journey finally resumed so did revelry. After a tour of cities he reached Smyrna only to be bewitched by some courtesan.”

"You say the lady is from Smyrna?"

"A cross between Penelope and Helen of Troy,” Libo says confidingly, “You will be struck dumb, I promise it. But listen to me," he says hurriedly as sounds in the foyer signal the approach of the Emperor's party. "Now that Verus has deigned to join us he must be made to see the urgency of the situation. He is a cultured man. Likes actors and has surrounded himself with a gaggle of them. See if you can distract Verus from Smyrna’s finest and get him to see sense."

The lictors enter, fasces in hand. Behind them floats the imperial image bearer, followed by six Praetorians, eyes roving menacingly over the assemblage. A group of gaily dressed young courtiers follow, laughing self-consciously and waving to the crowd.

"These are the Emperor’s freedmen," Libo comments. "Leeches if you want my opinion but be certain to stay on good terms with them. They are shallow, but dangerous if they think you may be a threat."

The herald emerges from the annex leading to the imperial apartments and strides stiffly to the centre of the room. "Imperator Caesar Lucius Aurelius Verus Augustus, Emperor of Rome!"

The leading senators and officers throng to the centre of the room and, with a nod to Lucian, Libo joins them. Attendants and slaves come through the archway followed by the Emperor himself, hemmed by a gaggle of elaborately dressed young officers. The Emperor is incandescent in a tunic of rich, white satin with gilded borders, and a purple robe held at the shoulder by a golden clasp. Deeply tanned, he exudes youth, despite sporting a serious-looking beard in the current Roman fashion. His hair is tightly curled. Lucian notices it sparkles courtesy of the gold dust sprinkled throughout. Conjoined with a striking profile and noticeably high forehead, the effect is powerful. It says here is a man unlike other men.

As the dignitaries queue to meet the master of Rome, Lucian’s regard is drawn to the woman by his side. Recognition brings with it a momentary sensation of falling and an oddly familiar pain rising just below his breastbone. The sensation descends to his belly where it sits like an anchor stone. The face, eyes, mouth, hair, every feature familiar.

"Not Penelope, Libo," he breathes to no one in particular. "Panthea."

 

* * * * *

 

Attendants scurry to produce ornate golden thrones and Panthea is seated next to the Emperor with great ceremony. Lucian witnesses the observance of imperial protocol as if from a trance, as she nods demurely to city notables conveyed before the Emperor by his governor. For his part Libo is in the full flight of courtly eloquence, offering each individual’s full names and titles, along with a remark or anecdote about their family or their achievements. Libo knows those who pay for gladiatorial matches or games, those who endow the temples, and the selfless ones who pay for the sewers, roads, and aqueducts.

Panthea wears a simple white stola tightly bound at the torso, waist, and hips. Her hair is as he remembers it, a raven’s lustrous blue-black, now adorned with golden hairpins. She laughs at intervals, revealing her familiar, extraordinary smile. Her skin is pale as is expected of courtesans, women who eschew the faintest hint of sunshine and the outdoor living associated with the plebeian multitudes. Her arms are bare save a cascade of small golden bracelets clinging to one slender wrist. Clutched in one hand a small scroll. She appears to be discussing some matter of import with one of her attendants, in the intervals between greeting the wealthy and notable of Antioch.

Lucian’s supreme confidence, anticipation of the evening ahead and its sumptuous banquet has been supplanted by an eruption of emotions, the bursting inward of the doorway to an ancient tomb. "It was over long ago," he mumbles, struggling to think of some comforting lines of Stoic philosophy. Then he laughs despite himself. "By the gods, I’m in trouble if I’m looking to those liars for help."

As if to amplify his distress, Libo comes clucking over and escorts him directly to the head of the greeting line. "And this is Gaius Lucianus of Samosata, a rhetor, barrister, and philosopher of renown in our corner of the Empire."

"My lord Caesar." Lucian bows stiffly, willing himself not to faint.

“A rhetor!” the Emperor exclaims. “Will you declaim for us? Nothing dull I trust."

Momentarily, Panthea offers no hint of recognition. Then to Lucian’s immense relief she smiles and turns to her imperial consort. "My lord, Lucian is well known to those of us from Smyrna. His ideas are never dull."

Lucian tightens involuntarily. She used his familiar name. Was that sarcasm or a genuine compliment? That had always been a problem with Panthea, he could never tell. "My lord, it would be sacrilege to dispute with a gift of the gods." His courtly instincts reassert themselves. When in doubt, flatter.

"Well said,” Verus says, with evident pleasure. “You are acquainted?"

"We are old friends." Panthea offers up one of her more dazzling smiles. "Not so many years ago Lucian was quite in demand on the social circuit in Smyrna. A rhetor of incomparable talent. Although," she grins impudently at Verus, "not always the most popular among the critics."

"Suffice it to say," Lucian answers the unspoken question, "the art of rhetoric has grown rather limited in this great age in which we live."

"How so?" Verus affects interest in what is to Lucian a tired old topic.

"The practitioners declaim on a limited number of set themes. The entire focus has become the way a thing is said, not the thing itself. It has become Atticus-ed. It is almost as tiresome as religion."

"You find religion tiresome?"

Panthea laughs. "Highness, the subject is our Lucian’s primary source of comic relief."

"Shall we say the topic has its lighter side?” Lucian adds.

"You do not then, I take it, follow the traditional gods?"

"Follow them?" Panthea says archly. "He positively skewers them!"

"This is so? I should like to read some of your work."

"I can share with you The Assembly of the Gods," Panthea offers with a wink. "I have my own personal copy."

"I would welcome that," Verus says, studying Lucian with evident interest. Abruptly, he turns his attention to the next in line. Obeisance declared, Lucian bows and withdraws.

Soon the formal greeting line reaches its conclusion and a group of musicians begin to play softly. As if by a secret signal the gathering breaks into small groups. Laughter and conversation grow progressively animated as wine works its convivial magic. Lucian acquires a fresh glass and drifts distractedly among the guests dispensing his stock repertoire of wit and anecdotes. Only half listening to the conversation around him, he stands for a time picking at some honeyed fruit while being accosted by a pot-bellied vendor of fish and olive oil. Opportunity presents itself as Panthea circulates away from a group of star-struck officers.

“The incomparable lady Panthea,” he says overloud, drawing her toward open space. “Such a pleasure to meet you again after so many years." Lucian observes Panthea more carefully. She seems to sense the things he has not felt in a long time, and eyes him askance. "I’m pleased you still keep my book," he adds.

"It’s a fine story." It had been his gift to her.

She steals another glance, and her expression softens. "No, it is a great story. When I read it, it always makes me laugh."

He brightens. "I’m doubly pleased, but you must keep such information secure. Men don’t expect women to read. Spoils their dinner."

"Most of them could stand to eat a little less," she answers, gesturing with one hand at some of the paunches nearby.

"They most especially don’t expect it in a courtesan of your beauty," he continues. Some women would have blushed. Lucian knows that she will not.

“Perhaps, but since we went our separate ways I have learned that beauty is both blessing and a curse."

"How so?"

"Beauty is what brought me here, Lucian. You know that. I know that. I sit at the right hand of the Emperor. Yet my words will not be heard. I can argue platonic dialectics with the best of them, but they will not hear a woman. They pat me on the cheek and treat me like an exotic pet, or a statue by Polyclitus." She speaks without bitterness. Panthea always saw the world with absolute clarity. "Beauty, like everything in life, comes with a price. This is mine."

Lucian glimpses the precocious child whose mind he had helped to nurture. "You hoped Verus would be different?"

"He is when we are alone. When he is not Emperor."

"But he is always Emperor."

"No, not always."

Lucian is standing close to her now. The scent of her Mendesian perfume fills his nostrils with warm memories carried on waves of cassia and myrrh.

"I loved you, you know."

Panthea’s features stiffen, and he immediately regrets his self-betrayal.

“That was long ago." She glances around quickly to ensure that they were not overheard. "We cannot go back."

"I thought so too." He feels as though he has left his body and is watching the scene unfold from somewhere overhead. There he hovers, a seagull, fascinated by the inevitable fate of the ship, and the rocks upon which it is about to founder. "Indeed, I have not thought about those days for many years now. Yet seeing you again, it seems very recent to me."

"There’s no going back." She snaps the words, her expression closed. "I won’t go back."

"I remember ..."

"I told you then," she cuts him off. "I had a family. We were poor. I still have a family and they are no longer poor. Because of me."

"I’m not poor now either," he says, acting on some inexplicable urge to produce a defence. He wants to say that Claudius is not as generous as he would like, but that the income is steady. He wants to brag about his exploits as imperial spy. He wants to say that the days of relying on his wits and greasing up to the wealthy for his meals are gone. Something holds his tongue.

"I am pleased for you, for both of us. But our time has passed Lucian. I don’t …" she checks herself. "I love an emperor."

"Do you?"

She again surveys their proximity and then looks him directly in the eyes. There it is, written resolute and pure, like Attic prose.

A change comes over the hum of the throng. She looks toward Verus who has risen from his seat. Members of the royal party and special guests jockey for position to follow the Emperor into the interior of the palace, where dinner will soon commence. With a courtly bow to Lucian she turns away and the crowd parts to let her take her place at the Emperor’s side. Lucian watches her place her hand on that of Verus. His spirit shrinks as she gives Verus that special smile, that which had once been his exclusive preserve. He finds himself suddenly very old. Time has moved on, he has not. The ache, so long a stranger, has returned, like an invalid aunt that settles in without giving an inkling of when she intends to pack up and go.

The Governor of Syria leads the Emperor and his consort from the hall. Lucian follows, feeling every inch a dutiful client, in a gathering of clients.