A Sad Collection

Lysicles

Shall I rejoice, or shall I weep? I write this at a table upon which sits XLI additional letters – all composed in my own hand and all addressed to you.

Do I smile at their safe return to me; at the assurance that they are not all lost? Do I celebrate their intactness as a collected testament to my enduring and serialized love for you? Or do I despair at the fact that they have never even left Rome; that you, who are pursuing your private dreams elsewhere in the world, have quite probably forgotten my face and my name under the assumption that I, callous Antinous, long ago abandoned you forever?

It is difficult to relate the details of how these epistles were returned to me, as I do not know them myself. Suffice it to say that Decentius, who is well liked among the other guards and in an excellent position to enlist their assistance, effected a bold strategy to intimidate Mordanticus into believing that I was aware of his deceit and possessed, to my advantage, the overwhelming support of the Praetorian Guard. Knowing well how fearful is Mordanticus of offending the military powers that prowl the Palatine, it is not hard to understand how quickly he probably capitulated to their demands. Further, the knowledge that I have a direct and ready access to Hadrian himself is doubtless a cause of much sudden distress for him. All of this to arrive at the report that, within but moments of their confrontation, Mordanticus handed over to Decentius the complete collection of letters, and received in return the rather terrifying suggestion that he was, on account of his proven and protracted deception, very likely being observed by the Frumentarii.

Decentius later told me, with a small and sheepish smile, that the secret police know and care nothing of Mordanticus – that he merely uttered it so as to strike into the man’s heart an appropriate and deserving fear. Yet that is small comfort to me, given that you, Lysicles, remain to these many and astonishing adventures completely oblivious.

What, therefore, shall I do with them all? How shall I discover in myself the motivation to continue writing? What is the point of it? Who benefits? To these questions I have no answer. Nor do I even have in myself the strength to begin searching for one. I shall end this here. I shall place it at the bottom of a somber and dispirited pile, roll them up together, and hide them from the world. It seems I am off again to Tibur next week, quite possibly for the entire summer. I do not expect myself to write.

Goodbye, my dearest Lysicles. If, as appears increasingly to be the case, it is fated that you shall never again know of me, perhaps I can take solace in the fact that the gods have witnessed, time and again, my enduring and faithful devotions unto you. At the very least, may they deign to smile upon me for that. A.