The Water Thief

by Ben Pastor

  Those he had met tonight (Nilus So-and-So, Lotus Something—the names taken by second and third generation Egyptians who had never even traveled to Egypt, but fiercely stuck to tradition) maintained that Antinous was buried in Hadrian’s estate at Tibur. Had they been there? No, but their elders had, and had seen the obelisk marking the grave. The priest with the shiny egg head, talkative over the meal once all ceremonies had been attended to, disagreed. Of course he would: For him, Antinous was buried in Antinoopolis. Only an old man knew Cleopatra Minor’s version, having years earlier been shown the Boy’s tomb near Naples, but near Naples led nowhere.

  Chants and recitations aside, there was no interrogating the dead, no embalming them into eternal life. For a moment Aelius was tempted to ask for help from—he couldn’t imagine whom. Gods, the One God, his men’s Mithras, Osiris, he believed in none of those. Only in the civic duty of devout observance, according to Roman custom, which for him was a sufficient object of faith.

  Past the arch, graves clustered on both sides of the ancient road furrowing the valley. Soter had chosen to be buried at the fourth mile of it, while Philo had gone to his rest in Vatican Field. His brother knew nothing of the cloth merchant’s recent correspondence, but he did confirm that Soter and Serenus Dio had been friends in Egypt before the Rebellion.

  I’d give anything to know whether Serenus wrote about his find to Soter. And if so, what is it that Soter could tell me, that someone had to cut his throat for it? Was it because he spoke the old language, and could help me to read the monuments?

  All seemed completely disjointed and unsolvable tonight, a hopeless jumble. If he looked up, more confusion: crowds of stars shone but for those nearest the half moon, put out like wicks by its halo. Recognizable to him were only the Swan, spanning endless wings overhead, and the Eagle, tilted as if gathering energy to dive; in its talons, a cluster of dim lights, one of which bore the name of Antinous—the “new star” the wily Egyptian priests told a skeptical Hadrian to have appeared at the Boy’s death.

  Then, from somewhere on the hill, behind the house, there came to Aelius the call and stepping together of the night patrol, a familiar and comforting sound in the great strangeness of the Roman dark.

  7 August, Monday (14 Mesore)

  Reading pass in hand, he was back at the Ulpian Library well before the baths’ opening time.

  It took him until midday to discover, filed alongside real estate matters and bills personally paid by the deified Hadrian, a lengthy report by the constructor who had refitted the republican tomb for its temporary imperial guest. The report had been sent to the emperor’s successor one hundred and sixty-six years earlier, one month after Hadrian’s demise, and a full eight years after the Boy’s.

  The description of the monument was attentive, even tedious in its details. Aelius skipped measurements and finicky commentaries on the thickness and breadth of cornices and marble slabs, in order to find what he sought.

  The interior of the monument, excellent Lord, had been left untouched since its construction for Cicero’s daughter two centuries ago. Because it has been a long time since anyone brought offerings to Tullia’s Manes inside it, the door had been sealed by the city of Puteoli’s administrators to ensure safekeeping of the urn. What I plan to do, following the orders that originate in your filial piety, is the following:

  Since there is a simple niche in the chamber’s wall, and this containing the aforementioned urn, I will remove the same, and entrust it to the fathers of the city until such time as Your Excellency will decide where to remove it to.

  Other than Tullia’s bronze statue, a libation table, altar, and a semicircular seat (all in excellent marble), there are no fittings in the chamber. This appears to me to be both a shame and an opportunity. A shame because I cannot imagine your father’s ashes to rest in such unadorned surroundings, even miserly by modern standards, and inadequate for an emperor’s role in life and death. An opportunity, because it will allow me—if and when I receive your command—to decorate it as it becomes the late Prince of Rome.

  There followed a comprehensive description of the betterments the constructor planned to bring to the interior, which Aelius decided to have copied for possible future use, but was not important now. The second-last sentence, however, was intriguing and as far as this turn in the investigation, definitive:

  Thus there will remain one body, one man ensconced in this chamber, and, given the exceptionality of the case, in order that an imperial tomb not be surrounded by other burials as if it were one of many, I will raze to the ground the monuments of family freedmen that through the centuries proliferated around it. All appropriate care will be taken that those still containing human remains be closed first by priests, the caskets removed and placed elsewhere according to law, piety, and tradition.

  In this manner, your father’s monument shall stand alone at the center of a cultivated area planted with laurel and oaks, as it is fitting, and become fully visible to all passing along Cicero’s estate on their way to and from the city of Puteoli.

  No other burials around the temporary grave. One body, one man buried in it: the emperor himself. This seemed to confirm that Antinous lay elsewhere. It saved Aelius a trip to Campania, but also revealed another dead end in his pursuit of the Boy’s resting place.

  8 August, Tuesday (15 Mesore)

  Aelius had seen blind soldiers before. Of all injuries, loss of sight had always seemed to him the hardest to bear, as it forces a man used to doing for himself, going freely, and acting on his own, to depend on someone else for the simple task of looking before crossing the street. Of Aviola Paratus, he knew that infirmity had not come by accident or in battle. It had been purposely inflicted on him while a prisoner, after Numerian’s unlucky Persian campaign twenty years earlier. The Persians, Tralles had informed him, had massacred Paratus’s unit, executing the commanding officers who’d survived the slaughter, and blinded the junior ranks, leaving them to die, or—by chance—grope their miserable way back across God knows what hardships and endless roads. As such, Paratus, even before Aelius met him, was supposed to represent all that stoicism and old-fashioned hardihood represented. What stores of bitterness must by necessity lie at the bottom, it remained to be seen.

  The man he actually encountered, by a shady al fresco table of the well-appointed tavern at The Glory of our Lord Aurelian’s, looked the part perfectly, except for the complete lack of any apparent bitterness. Shorn but for the stubble army emperors had made popular, with his hair nearly shaven and like a gray skullcap no longer than the face stubble, he was lean and wiry but solidly connected, longlimbed, sinewy, as if fashioned out of aged wood. The long, northern skull was at once delicate and firm, with horizontal lines creasing the brow, signs of thoughtfulness, it seemed, rather than of care, and a firm mouth that seemed about to smile, ironic and sensitive. Behind him, at the back of the tavern, rolling vineyards crowded with grapes all but covered the reddish earth. Whitewashed outbuildings, straight fences, absence of weeds—all bespoke familiar army discipline.

  Paratus greeted him first, and as Aelius afterward sought his hand, Paratus clasped it hard and held it.

  “You have no idea, Commander, of what it means for me to be considered once more of use to my country.”

  Aelius kept silent. Such words were expected. A bit rhetorical, perhaps, but then he recalled how at least twice, in Armenia and midway through the Rebellion, he had felt rather used by his country, and not so well reconciled to the idea of being little more than meat stacked against the enemy. Now this blind man’s words shamed him.

  “Your letter reached me in good time,” he resolved to say, “so I thought we should meet.”

  How much he should add next, was for Aelius another reason for hesitation. As far as he knew, Tralles had only informed Paratus of his research on Antinous’s death. A man who has served in intelligence-gathering might by habit keep abreast of what else there might be (Aelius’s informal checking on the Christian
trials, his looking into Serenus Dio’s death), and draw conclusions from what he hears. Paratus stood unaffectedly, and even when Aelius invited him to sit down, he waited until he heard that his guest preceded him.

  “I have taken the liberty,” Paratus was telling him now, his hand groping for a scroll he had in front of him, “of drawing up a short list of sites you might wish to visit while in and around Rome, in connection with the deified Hadrian.”

  Aelius received the text. Scanning it, he saw how distances from Rome and between locations had been indicated, as had the roads along which the various places lay.

  “I would have done a better job, had I been able to survey the sites myself,” Paratus apologized, “and I fear there may exist useable shortcuts built lately, with which I am not familiar.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Aelius shook his head. “This is as careful a survey of the deified Hadrian’s works and properties as have laboriously managed to put together in weeks, and you listed some buildings I would not have thought of.”

  “The sources being what they are, it’s understandable.” Self-consciously Paratus smiled, lips tight. “It isn’t much, but I realize that if I am to convince you that I may be of use, I am to do the best I can of my memory and my policeman’s way with asking information.” A slight wind rose, and Paratus filled his lungs with it and said, “I remember your unit from the days of the Rebellion. You did wonders in the courtyard of Thoth at Hermopolis.”

  “It cost us plenty.”

  “But it won the day. There was envy for that action, as it put you in such good light with His Divinity. I believe ben Matthias swore to do you in then. You were the one to eliminate. It gave us some worry at headquarters. Luckily, it all went well.”

  “Pannonian luck.” Aelius had not known there had been envy among his colleagues for his military successes. He asked himself now whether his old friend Tralles still felt that edge, and had refused to help him because of it. For the sake of information, “Where in our province were you born?” he asked.

  “Brigetio.”

  “The army camp?”

  “No, at the south side of the civilian city, by the glassworks. But my uncle Breucus, after whom I was named, did serve in the I Legion Adiutrix. Have you been to Brigetio lately?”

  “No. I heard it’s lost some of its population after the last trouble on the frontier, and some of the estates are being abandoned.”

  “I heard the same, and I’m glad I can’t see it.” Paratus placed his hands on the table, palms flat, thumbs touching. “Speaking of more pleasant things, I am proud to inform you I began my career on the city beat of the V Cohort, Night Patrol, in the Second District, with 4,600 tenement houses, 27 storehouses, and 85 baths in my day. I did well, and was promoted to commissioner of the VI Cohort in the Great Roman Forum District, with all that matters in Rome compacted into some 14,000 square feet, plus nearly three times as many roadside shrines as the previous assignment, nearly 3,500 blocks of tenements, and 86 baths. In those days they chose us because we were tall and handsome, and only the guard—with its expensive getup—made a better show than we did on parade.”

  Aelius smiled to himself, because his father, his sisters’ husbands, all were likewise proud of their army garb to the point of vanity.

  “I used to love working at night,” Paratus added, “in the dark streets. Who would have said I’d walk in the dark ever after the Persian Campaign? But that’s how it went. Now when I’m not traveling I take care of this place, which does well because it’s the best stop out of Rome before Ad Quintanas—and my wine is better. The wife stays at Minturnae, with our two sons who are in business down there. They take after her and are settled—tame, I’d say, good at making money in their maternal grandpa’s tile factory, which has turned out a handsome profit ever since they took it over. She’s a good old girl, and knows I must be away for long stretches. Has grandchildren, now, so she doesn’t miss me much, or so she says. What about you, Commander?”

  By comparison, his life seemed quickly summarized. Aelius shrugged, relaxing in the breezy shade. “Well, I served in Armenia after Egypt, and was at Nicomedia until the spring. For the rest, as any soldier’s son, my entire life has been reckoned by army events. I turned eight on the day Sarmatians and Quadi invaded Pannonia, and remember it well; my twin sisters were born a year later, when Carus entered Mesopotamia as a victor and was then found dead in his tent. At ten, my father was away a long time when Numerian’s army rebelled after the death of Carus and eventually chose His Divinity.”

  “How about a glass of wine?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Cellar-cool wine was brought to the table. Sniffing the green breeze from the vineyard, Paratus rounded his shoulders as he drew the full glass to himself. “When your sisters were born I was with Numerian in Persia. The rumble of the Persian war horses I have in my ears to this day—the chaos of thundering hoofs when they reared in fright, as we clashed swords on shields; and then our line bulging back, breaking, the unforgettable stench of horse and man sweat as they crush against you at full speed. It took me a year to get back, feeling my way through enemy country, before I finally heard the cheers of the imperials calling out Diocletian’s name. You remember Siscia had fallen into rebel hands; it was murder trying to pass through the region.”

  Aelius nodded, as if the man facing him could see that motion of assent. It was always like this, in the army. Measuring time according to campaigns, exchange of updates on frontier towns and camps, stolid esprit de corps; no civilian ever fully understood how necessary these preliminaries were to all transactions. He took a sip of the fruity, cool drink, letting it rest in the back of his mouth before swallowing. The deified Hadrian having been a soldier, such updates might have been meaningful for him, too. How had Antinous, never in a war, reckoned his short years?

  Next, Aelius summarized the aims of his research in Italy, framing his interest in Antinous’s burial as one element in his biographical reconstruction. Listening with shoulders straight, his head slightly tilted back, Paratus was saying, yes, under his breath. “As a former policeman,” he spoke up then, “the question of the Boy’s death is intriguing for me. The leads you gathered in Egypt seem promising. I can assist you in reconstructing the scenario of his death. Have you already sought out the incident report, required by Egyptian law?”

  “Yes, but it was no use. The archives were damaged by flood years ago. I only found the nome governor’s reply to the report, and that in bad shape. The lines supposed to give details on the state of Antinous’s body are washed out.”

  “That’s too bad. It’s worth looking into the State Archives here, in case a copy was sent to Rome for safekeeping. In case it was not, we’ll go with what we have. Contemporary private correspondence of the senatorial class might be useful, since the deified Hadrian had critics in that quarter. None of it would be kept in the State Archives. However, His Divinity’s letters of presentation would open private collections to you. I can prepare a list of still extant families whose holdings could shed light on those old events.”

  It was an idea he should have thought of. Aelius could kick himself for having to be told, but was grateful for the suggestion. had he not sought a research partner from the start? As he sat there, he felt the sting of having to keep secret the rest: the three deaths, the fear that an old conspiracy might yet (or continue to?) do damage to Rome unless its identity—hidden in Antinous’s grave—was revealed. Prudence requested partial silence for now, although he felt an overbearing need to share information with a man whose suffering proved inner worth, and with whom he had so much in common.

  Paratus was saying, half-apologetically, “The Boy’s final resting place, I am afraid I cannot physically help you in finding, although I am not wholly without resources. I have a young manservant who accompanies me to the great libraries occasionally, to read texts for me. If you are prepared to do the legwork, I can supply indications. Which all comes down, as you
perceive, to my entreating you to let me be of service again. I do not expect you to answer now, but kindly think things over and send me word.”

  Aelius had already made up his mind, but dropped a noncommittal, “I will,” as he rose to his feet. Imitating him, Paratus felt around for Aelius’s proffered hand. “That’s good enough for me.” Which could have been his farewell, saving a policeman’s impeccable instinct for arguments left unsaid. “Is there anything else I should know, Commander?”

  “Nothing else.”

  A rubicund, dumb-faced stable boy led the army horse from the stable. Nimbly Aelius mounted (“The rustle of cavalry leather”—Paratus half-smiled—“a beautiful sound.”) and soon both men, one riding slowly to allow the other to walk along, came to the stony verge of the road.

  Paratus sought and found with his foot the stubby column marking the XII mile, and the end of his driveway. Again he sniffed the air, filling his lungs. The breeze had fallen. “It’s one of those afternoons that look as still as wall paintings, isn’t it? The wicker fences all tangled up with vines, and not a leaf stirring—I wager the colored ribbons hang from garden statues as if they were starched.”

  “It’s true,” Aelius said.

  “Lovely?”

  “Very.”

  “How I miss it—I’d lie if I said I didn’t. You know, I used to wonder where the birds go, in days like this. None in the sky, and every blade of grass turned just so, or standing straight. I swear, we’d see such afternoons on the campaign trail and fall for that peace and quietude, until peace would explode and then it’d all look like the wild jumble of bodies sculpted on stone coffins, or the war columns in Rome. You, too?”