The Hadrian Enigma - A Forbidden History

by George Gardiner

  If you fail to meet this deadline I will re-open the charge against you of the offence of laesa-majestas against the empress, a treason and capital offence. Your lives may be forfeit. The investigation starts immediately. That means now gentlemen!”

  Hadrian dropped his cloak to the floor and parted the nets to look closely at his deceased companion on the bed. The group sensed he was forcefully suppressing a hidden torment deep within.

  “However, there are two people you cannot interview. They are myself, your Caesar, and Caesar’s wife, Vibia Sabina Augusta.

  You are permitted to interrogate any member of the Court, Guard, or Sabina’s retinue as you see fit, but neither I nor the empress. Sabina is above your station and commission. Besides, you already have that history with her which is impolitic, as you both know. To date we have been lenient about that matter, but be warned.”

  All five of the group bowed in acknowledgement, possibly with discomfort. Suetonius and Clarus both knew what Hadrian was referring to, so both stomachs churned.

  A gleam appeared at one eye. A tear was forming. He grew haggard.

  “Clarus and Suetonius, you will want to know why I depend on you after all these years. It is because I trust you, and I trust your forensic skills. Especially, Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus, I trust your capacity for explorative detail, just as you have done in your Lives of the Caesars. You appear to seek no favors from anyone, while both of you nowadays are independent from the factions of influence of Court. This may be an essential factor in enquiring into the death of my companion. I rely on you and that independence.”

  Suetonius coughed modestly at this unexpected flattery and its generosity, with its unofficial title of “Special Inspector”. A hundred thousand sesterces would also be a timely contribution to his ramshackle finances, he thought, despite the two-day timeframe and its threat of a fatal indictment. Nevertheless he gathered his wits sufficiently to submit a request of his own.

  “My Lord Caesar,” Suetonius braved, “may we have access to the body for a physician to inspect to determine the nature or time of death?”

  Hadrian’s face fell.

  “No, not at all!” he declared.

  This is a man who knows death very intimately. Yet the notion of an autopsy of his beloved repelled him.

  “It is enough we burn the dead, isn’t it? In this case I will invite Egyptians to embalm Antinous in their special way so his body and name survive forever. He will live as a pharaoh does, or as King Alexander of Macedon survives in his sarcophagus at Alexandria. The priest Pachrates of Memphis awaits me outside accompanied by the leading master in the land of this art. Antinous will remain incorrupt for all eternity. I command it!”

  The emperor was adamant and dismissive, so one prefers not to exceed the limits of protocol in furthering such enquiries, Suetonius contemplated. Pity though. What a wasted opportunity. But Hadrian was understandably emotional, which is an unexpected novelty in a supreme ruler.

  Suetonius also wondered if Caesar had some other motive perhaps. Was there something he did not wish to share about the lad’s demise?

  Another notion entered the Special Inspector’s mind. He took the liberty to interject before the group of five was dismissed beyond recall.

  “My Lord, if I may? Do you recommend an avenue of approach, or propose key witnesses who should be the subject of interview?”

  Suetonius sensed Geta the Dacian freeze at his enquiry.

  Hadrian turned slowly toward his former secretary as his brow darkened. It was an expression Suetonius had not seen in the emperor’s eyes for almost a decade, and one he would rather not perceive too often aimed in his direction. Had he over-stepped the mark?

  “Special Inspector Suetonius, I said you will not interview Caesar himself,” Hadrian spat in a whisper. “Nevertheless I rely on your good services as my investigator and feel obliged to offer what little guidance I can to your commission.

  Geta here, my worthy factotum, is an intimate of this Household and party to its inner workings. Perhaps Geta will possess perceptions of which I am not familiar? Likewise my Chief Secretary, Julius Vestinus here, or my Chamberlain Alcibiades outside, will have an understanding of those who may be persons-of-interest to you? Others come to mind too.

  My friend Arrian of Bithynia could possess details of value? He knew my companion well. You are fortunate that almost anyone who has been involved with my Antinous travels in this Imperial Progress along the Nile. But for myself I would like to know more about Antinous’s own personal household.

  His young fellow-Bithynian Lysias, for example? Or the woman, Thais of Cyrene? I am sure Julia Balbilla too, the travelling companion of my wife, will have an opinion worth hearing. Explore broadly, Special Inspector. But return in no more than two days at one hour before sunrise, or forfeit your sesterces. Then Turbo’s agents will seek you out. There is no where in the Empire to hide from my chief-of-security Turbo.”

  Suetonius sensed it was Macedo’s turn to stiffen.

  “Enough!” Hadrian called. “Away with you! I must have privacy.”

  His voice cracked with bottomless despair as he dismissed the group. He turned to the divan and, with a bodily surge forward, tore apart the watered nets, tugged off his cloak and tunic, and fell naked onto the bed beside the cadaver. Sobs welled up from deep within him in an intensity which compelled the five to urgently withdraw.

  As they were shuffling backwards in deference to his might-and-majesty, the emperor grasped the flaccid figure and lay gently kissing Antinous’s gray lips. Again, his pitiful moans began to arise within the chamber. The Nubian silently continued the rhythmic fanning and spraying.

  The five drew back bowing continuously as they retreated. The Imperial audience had concluded. They had received their commission. It was time to act, there was no time to waste. One hundred thousand sesterces were at stake as well as Caesar’s patronage. Otherwise two heads were at risk.

  In the vestibule between the bedchamber and the reception room where others of Caesar’s retinue waited, Clarus halted the group.

  “He weeps as does a woman,” he whispered gruffly, “and this in a man who commands Legions from Britain to Parthia. What to make of it all?”

  Vestinus spoke.

  “Whatever your sentiments, it is our duty to fulfill his instruction,” he murmured. “You don’t have long to complete this work, my friends.”

  Suetonius responded conspiratorially but firmly.

  “Vestinus, I will need your best scribes skilled in speed notation in both Latin and Greek. They will be assigned to us for the duration. Bring papyrus, wax pads, and writing styluses. We must record everything in detail as we proceed for comparative analysis.

  Macedo, I will need your most intelligent agents for investigative work, and access to troops, horses, couriers, and services when required.

  Vestinus, tell Chamberlain Alcibiades I will require immediate access to workspace within the Imperial complex with living quarters attached. It must be well provisioned for a team of investigators for several days. Intelligent slaves to service this team would be useful, too.

  Clarus, you and I must determine a list of associates of the deceased to be interviewed. Who to interrogate, in what order, and who to ignore in such a brief time span.”

  Praetorian commander Macedo volunteered the style of services a security specialist would likely consider necessary.

  “Will you require torturers? I have three public slaves skilled at the arena at Leptis Magna. They work as a team. They possess extensive experience in all manner of interrogations and terminations. They come highly recommended.”

  “Thank you for your kind thoughts Lucius Macedo,” Suetonius opined as sweetly as he could muster, “but not only would the sight of instruments of torture put the fear of Hades into our subjects and freeze their tongues with fright, but almost all will be citizens of Rome and so legally beyond such persuasion. Besides, as we well know, if you break a few bones and knock out a few
teeth you can easily persuade people to confess to being Jupiter Himself.”

  Tribune Macedo was responsible for policing and security issues for the Egypt tour. He linked into the Empire-wide network of spies and informers maintained by his superior, Prefect Marcius Turbo at Rome. Turbo has proven to be a master of the espionage and political manipulation arts, Suetonius recalled, and his informers reached far across the Empire on behalf of his ruler, Hadrian.

  A very useful thought popped into Suetonius’s mind.

  “Vestinus and Macedo, we should have a personal attendant for our more human enquiries as well. Someone who knows something of the local culture and languages, because we don’t do we?

  There is a young lass called Surisca who is on the staff at the House of the Blue Lotuses across the river at Hermopolis. She’s no slave; she’s a Syri from Antioch who has fluent Greek, Aramaic, some Latin, and the local Egyptian dialect too. She is very familiar with Egyptian customs and ways, very familiar indeed, which might be a useful skill for us.

  Have someone hire her fulltime for several days. Pay any price, don’t bargain. Deliver her to the quarters you will be providing. And soon! Tell her to dress for public wear, not her professional duties. And you might arrange it tonight, as a priority, if the moon is bright enough to permit travel on the river.”

  Vestinus and the others looked askance at the biographer in that querulous way people do, ever so politely, when they have a query they’re reluctant to articulate to a person’s face. But the Chief Secretary realized how Caesar’s instruction was immutable, and Suetonius was to receive whatever he requested. Clarus simply smiled wanly at his client’s audacity.

  The Special Inspector turned to Geta who had followed the other four from the chamber.

  “Geta of Dacia, you will already know much more about this affair than we ourselves will have the opportunity to explore. You are close to the Imperial Household. You are cognizant of the details of Lord Caesar’s relationship with Antinous of Bithynia. You observe the daily interactions of the Household, and must be aware of the political ebb and flow of things?”

  “Yes, yes, Special Inspector,” he replied in gravel-accented Latin.

  Suetonius recalled how Geta’s abduction from Dacia as a child after Trajan’s victory almost twenty-five years earlier remained evident in his pronunciation. The Dacian spoke in the short, terse statements of his native tongue, a primitive barbarian language of the Getae peoples, which gave his spoken words a fierce strength and surprising power. Suetonius continued.

  “Geta, my good fellow, perhaps Clarus, Vestinus, and I should sit with you to explore your views of Antinous’s place in the Household, once the basic arrangements are in order with our colleagues? Is that possible?”

  The biographer-cum-investigator tried to be as unthreatening as possible. He used his most persuasive bargainer’s smile which risked displaying his three missing lower teeth.

  Hadrian conceded Geta would be a storehouse of gossip from inside the Imperial Household who would already know things which could take months of enquiry to discern. He will know who is friend to whom, who is doing what with who, and who seeks benefit, lust, influence, or sheer revenge.

  He might also know something of Antinous’s own activities or ambitions in the hothouse of Court intrigue and ever-shifting amorous dalliances.

  “I am at your disposal,” Geta offered with a faintly sly glance. Something about the gesture communicated uncertainty within Suetonius.

  “I suppose our first chore, gentlemen, will be to construct a consistent pattern of enquiry with our subjects?” Suetonius offered. “You know, an interrogative grid we apply to each interview for a parallel comparison of actions, timescales, and opinions of this matter.”

  Clarus, ever the pragmatist, interjected. “But what particular matter, Suetonius? A river accident? A suicide? A murder? Or some other phenomenon?”

  Vestinus, Macedo, and Geta looked to the biographer.

  “All four, my good Clarus,” he responded. “At heart Caesar wants us to identify why his companion died, not simply merely how or by what method. Why is more demanding than how, is it not? Of course the who will be an important facet of the why, agreed?”

  The five nodded affirmatively at Suetonius, but with expressions of uncertainty.

  “And Macedo might do us the favor of delivering to us the fishermen who discovered the body of the Bithynian. Preferably undamaged, all in one piece, please Lucius. Their testimony might be of greater use that way.”

  Tribune Macedo grimaced weakly, saluted the group in his brisk military fashion, and they entered the reception chamber where the other members of the Court patiently awaited Hadrian’s pleasure.

  But Suetonius still had Geta the Dacian on his mind. Geta was something of a mystery to him, despite his role at Hadrian’s side over many years.

  The Special Inspector recalled how ten years earlier he had reason to take testimony from a commander of cavalry in the Balkans – the Roman officer Tiberius Claudius Maximus – who knew a great deal about Geta’s early years.

  This officer who, in Trajan’s campaign against the murderous Decebelus, king of Dacia, fifteen years even earlier, had been an explorator of cavalry auxiliaries, was obliged to provide an archive record of how Geta had been captured. During that Dacian campaign, Maximus had witnessed the Decebelus’s death. He then delivered the king’s son as a war hostage into Rome’s protection under Hadrian’s personal aegis.

  Tiberius Claudius Maximus’s recollections were a dark tale which conveyed a great deal about the character of the young Dacian. It was a chilling story which had remained in Suetonius’s memory ever since.

  Those events of twenty-five years ago now returned to haunt him.

  CHAPTER 3

  “By the great god Zalmoxis, may blessing be upon you! Wait for me in the god’s Underworld, woman. I am soon to join you,’ the warrior king whispered into her ear.”

  Maximus was detailing the events which occurred during the campaign at Dacia.

  “Diurapneus, the proud Daci Wolf, held his wife close to his chest to embrace her as tears welled to his eyes. He leaned her head back gently with one hand and drew the thin blade across her throat with the other. He turned her to one side as she emitted a rasped rattle when the crimson flood rushed.

  Diurapneus gripped her firmly as her body shuddered, her furs splashed in scarlet, her life racing to Zalmoxis. He lowered her gently, tenderly, to the earth as she quivered into her final stillness. His wife’s autumnal furs were sprinkled with the king’s tears amid splashes of blood.

  The Daci Wolf King had not shed tears for a long time. Today was a day for tears. The mother of his two children, who once he had killed three men in fierce combat to possess, had journeyed to the Underworld of Zalmoxis. Zalmoxis was the Great God of her ancestors of Getae blood. She would patiently await Diurapneus there, he knew.

  Dacia’s warrior king, honored by all as Decebelus, ‘The Heroic One’, felt less valiant as he looked towards the two small children sitting on the edge of the wagon cart. Their eyes were on their prostrate mother engulfed behind ample autumn furs and crumpled embroideries, twitching sporadically in a widening pool of gore amid mottled leaves. Their eyes, too, were on their father’s hooked hip dagger. Neither uttered a sound.

  ‘Save yourselves, Wolf Brothers! Go! It’s time for you to go!’ Diurapneus shouted at his mounted bodyguards listing anxiously about. Their stallions frisked, jostled, and hoofed at the earth as their foaming sweat flicked around.

  ‘The Iron People are upon us! The chase is over! Save yourselves so one day you can revenge me! Revenge me, the Daci Wolf, my brothers! By the god Zalmoxis, revenge me! Swear it by the Great God!’

  The Wolf Warriors, six royal bodyguards arrayed in grimy furs and slimed leathers with hair braids greased in sheep fat dyed blue, saluted their master and cried aloud from behind faces strewn with rough-stabbed tattoos. In a single voice they proclaimed their holy oath.

&nb
sp; ‘By Zalmoxis we swear!’ they shouted, their tattoos stretching in lewd display.

  The greater the number of tattoos, the larger number of heads they had taken in combat. The more refined their markings, the higher their status as Tarabostes aristocrats of the Getae people of Dacia.

  ‘By the great priest Dicineus, my father, I swear it!’ one of the refined horsemen bellowed.

  While they shouted gruff obscenities of high honor, the riders charged down the muddy trail bravely flailing bill-hooked falx swords against malevolent forces, forest ghouls, sky demons, or the abiding presence of the omniscient Evil Eye itself.

  Diurapneus searched back down the earthen track through the woodland towards distant Sarmizegethusa. Until only two days ago that rocky peak had been his capital and his fortress. Splashes of light flashed off the armor of the approaching Iron People on their chargers. Iron weaponry glinted through the forest pines. The enemy was closing in. The Daci Wolf’s audacious, duplicitous, game-plan had failed. The king of the Iron People with his iron-shielded army had prevailed. Sarmizegethusa would now be bestowed as spoils by the god of war upon the Iron People victors.

  ‘The city fort’s clans of Wolf Warriors, my children, will have thrown themselves into the Night of Zalmoxis,’ he announced exultant with pride. ‘They will laugh heartedly at their attackers!’

  He neglected to add it would be laughter laden with the maniacal exhilaration of the utterly defeated.

  ‘Come to me, my children,’ the tired warrior king called, searching his mind for an adequate response to his situation. Diurapneus was alone now with his son and daughter. The enemy horsemen would be upon them soon. Seven-year-old Prince Dromichaetes and his twin sister Princess Estia sat at the wagon’s lip unmoved by their predicament. To Diurapneus all the boy’s titles of honor and his future promise now seemed so futile.

  Prince Dromichaetes, a Tarabostes aristocrat of the Getae Peoples, was the only son of Dacia’s king of all the lands and tribes of the Daci Confederation. He was King Diurapneus’s heir to the vast forests, ranges, and plains stretching from the Carpathian Mountains to the Rivers Tyros and Danube. He was of a line of warrior kings stretching back to the god Zalmoxis himself. Dromichaetes’ very blood was sacred.