Rome, Home and History

Lysicles

Mordanticus is gone. Over the course of the summer, while I was away in Tibur, he sold his house and his slaves, packed up his most valuable belongings, and, with Glaucia and Praeconina in tow, fled from Rome.

“Where did he go?” I asked Decentius. “Nobody knows,” he replied. “But it was done quickly and without announcement. We learned of it on the day he didn’t show up to work.”

I considered this intently, before finally asking: “Was it treachery?” Decentius shook his head, “It does not appear so. He conducted very specific and methodical transactions, and seems to have had a plan, which he obviously kept quite private. I believe he feared for his life in the aftermath of what transpired regarding your letters.”

“Surely he does not think I would seek to kill him!”

Decentius smiled at me, “Surely? How sure are you? Despite your astonishing intellect, Antinous, you still, for some unfathomable reason, have trouble understanding how powerful you have become by virtue of your proximity to Hadrian. Can you not see how easily you might have destroyed Mordanticus? How, with but a casual utterance against him, you could have shattered – intentionally or not – his entire life? In many ways, you are now a giant who walks amid the scurrying ants of Rome. And if you are thoughtful enough to take pains to avoid stepping on them, they shall indeed be grateful. But they can never assume it, nor count on it. From his perspective, Mordanticus likely believed that, at some point in your stay at Tibur, you would have eventually disclosed to Hadrian your displeasure at having had your letters withheld. And he no doubt barely slept at night, wondering if, at any moment, he should find himself at the wrong end of a Praetorian sword.”

I got up from the hay and reached for my loincloth. I was glad that Decentius had waited until our pleasures were done before broaching the topic of Mordanticus. Had he done it prior to our sex, I don’t think I would have enjoyed it quite so much. What happiness it was to be back in his arms; in the reassuring swirl of his musky scent.

“Out of curiosity,” said Decentius, “why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?” I asked. He laughed, amused by my intensity. “Why didn’t you report him to Hadrian?” It was certainly an understandable question. Indeed, I myself had grappled with it on occasion while in Tibur. “I do not wish to treat Hadrian as anything other than a mortal who is level as a mortal with me. And he with this intention concurs. Were I to approach him on a mission of invoking his official powers, it would instantly destroy all upon which our unique friendship is built. Hadrian holds me in high regard because he knows that I am blind to his title. I take pains to ensure that my conversations with him, if and when they concern the exercise of power, are not conducted in such a way as to see me benefit from that power. They are theoretical and philosophical. They are exploratory and experimental. They are, to the best of my abilities, dispassionate and objective. If that I ever looked on him as my Emperor, he would cease to be seen as my friend, and this, I believe, is as frightening to him as it is to me. It is unthinkable to me that I would utilize my position to bring down upon the heads of those around me either benefit or hardship. Such is neither my role nor my place, and I will not betray my commitment to its ideal.”

Decentius nodded slowly. “I believe you,” he said, “and admire you for it.” I smiled at him, and replied, “It is good to be back in your company, Decentius. I missed you dearly.”

“Has Hadrian still not touched you?” he asked. I shook my head. He considered that before smirking: “More for me, then.” And I laughed. I looked around at the stables; at the horses I had come to know and love; at one of the few places in mighty Rome in which I consistently feel at ease and, to some extent, at home.

I thought of Rome, and my place in it. I thought of history, and my place in that too. And then I looked at Decentius before me – at the relaxed strength of his naked repose – and understood both Rome and history to be nothing. All that mattered to me was the warmth of living people intertwined. And the more warmth we could find, sourced from the greatest number of sparkling souls, the more wealthy we were in life.

Do not laugh at me, Lysicles; at my simple and obvious formulations. Such thoughts are hardly new and certainly not revolutionary. But they are good to affirm from time to time, if for no other reason than to be reminded of life’s tumultuous and capricious beauty.

Wherever has landed Mordanticus, may he finally find his peace. A.