“It would be necessary!” discontentedly indicated Hadrian to the ninety-year-old interlocutor. “So, what's the joke?”

“They say that a supplicant, old and gray-haired, came to you, begging for tax relief because of crop failure, and you refused him. Then he dyed his hair…”

“I remember,” Hadrian smiled.

“Yes, he dyed his hair red and, thinking that it would be unrecognizable, reappeared. But you said you'd turned him down before.”

“Yes, yes, it's a nice joke!”

Servianus switched to a business tone.

“Caesar, a few senators are venerable and honored men I have known for a long time who want to take water from the aqueduct to their new homes. This requires the permission of the prefect, but Regin poses them all sorts of obstacles.”

Hadrian's eyes covered themselves, as if from exhaustion. He was bored. He did not like such economic disputes, where everyone fought for their benefit, everyone had a strong argument for winning the dispute. Only sufficient arguments or motive to choose someone’s side he did not have. Today, he was not like his other predecessors, whose main motive was wives and lovers, or the pursuit of pleasures. Or money, like emperor Vespasian.

He had nothing left! Just boredom. Anything that could have prompted him to choose one side or the other had gone irretrievably and nothing else was interesting. It was as if part of the soul had died with Antinous's death. And maybe the whole soul?

“Servianus,” he interrupted the old consul, “I always support the law, and the Senate is our only interpreter. As it decides, so it should be executed.”

The old consul, who listened carefully to the emperor, began to ponder who from the Senate could be relied upon to assist with this sensitive issue, as Regin also had strong support among senators. Alas, it would be difficult to win without Hadrian's direct!

“I don't care much about these issues, dear Lucius,” Hadrian continued. “I need a huge scale. I am attracted to something new, grandiose, unprecedented, like the singing colossus of Memnon in Egypt, or the temple of Athena Pallas in Greece. That's why I planned to build my tomb in such a size and in such a way that no emperor has ever built before. I have always said, better movement than contemplation, better life than sleep. Do you realize Servianus, who is the greatest emperor in the history of Rome?”

“Of course, you, Caesar. There's no doubt about that!”

After Diognetus and Andron, Marcus's training did not stall, but on the contrary, was continued by Regin with all the diligence and consistency inherent in the Romans. However, after thinking about it, Marcus's great-grandfather decided to make some changes.

Until now, the grandson studied alone, which was useful—the teacher could pay attention only to one student and only teach him and educate him. But on the other hand, such artificial isolation led to the isolation of the young man from his peers, and this, in turn, could influence the character of the future senator and consul—above Regin did not look. In addition, Marcus should have instilled an adversarial spirit from a young age.

Therefore, in order to keep company, Marcus invited a few more young men from well-known families, two from senators and from riders.

Today, they played trigon.

Although this game seemed simple and straightforward, many famous people fought in it, for example, the philosopher Seneca, art lover Maecenas, and even the emperors Caesar and Octavian Augustus. Marcus led his friends to the peristyle,28 surrounded by porticos, where slaves in a vacant space had already drawn a triangle. The rules required three men to stand in the corners and quickly throw the ball at each other. At the same time, it was necessary to grab it with one hand equally well, both right and left, and then, slung in the other hand, to send to the opponent. Those who could not manage it, who dropped the ball to the ground, were called pejoratives such as savage or yokel.

Marcus played with Gaius Victorinus and Seius Fusсianus. Baebius Longus counted the dropped balls, and the fourth—Kalen, with them was not.

Cheerful and carefree, they laughed loudly, shouted, and argued. Sweat appeared on their faces, hands, bodies, and dark spots appeared on white tunics. Despite the approaching autumn, hot weather had just recently been established, which was not surprising for Rome, where warm days could last until November.

The slaves standing nearby gave the young men towels to wipe, and they had to stop the game for a while. Marcus knew his opponents well—Victorinus and Fuscianus. Both were from the Nobilis, whose ancestors repeatedly sat in the curule chair, became consuls and praetors and censors. Both lived on the Caelian Hill, not far from him.

The game was tenacious, protracted.

Fusсianus did not pose any threat to Marcus. Dense physique, clumsy, slow, he threw the ball in the direction of Marcus not as quickly as Victorinus, and catching it was not difficult. But despite his slowness, Fuscianus himself still successfully handled catching the balls launched in his direction by Marcus or Gaius Victorinus.

Of course, the great danger in the game was Victorinus. He had a quick reaction, mobility, as a bird sharply turned his head from side to side. He was an experienced opponent. But as happens even with such strong players, Gaius had a weakness, which Marcus noticed during the game—he was inattentive, carried away, and this inattention failed him.

“He's going to quit now!” thought Marcus, as Gaius led his eyes in his direction. The Victorinus did not know how to watch the face in such tense moments, which was very important. It's like a game of nuts that Marcus once watched by slaves, one hiding a few nuts in his fist, trying to keep his face unflappable, while others tried to guess their number. Showy indifference was one of the keys to success in that game. But not only that. As Marcus noted, composure often helped to prevail in other games. And if in games, why not in life?

Victorinus threw the ball in the direction of Marcus and he caught it, but at the same time Fuscianus threw to him and Gaius could not react quickly. The ball fell to the ground, rolled to the feet of Baebius Longus.

“Dropped it, dropped it!” Longus shouted. “How embarrassing you are, Gaius! A yokel! Missed so many goals!”

Indeed, Gaius was much inferior to Marcus and Seius in the number of goals conceded. He reminded Marcus of a crow, the same black hair, the same choppy bird movements. Tall and wiry, Gaius had small eyes close to his nose and a large nose that looked like a curved beak. Perhaps he should have been born among the family of Valerius, one of which was nicknamed Raven.

“I swear by Hercules, you don't think wrong!” Victorinus retorted, biting his lower lip with annoyance. “I missed less than Marcus.”

“Not less, but more!” Baebius Longus stomped his foot.

“Of course, more!” Fuscianus supported him.

“I think so well.” Victorinus did not retreat. “I can swear by all the gods that I am right, and you are wrong.”

“Do you want to swear? Really, Gaius?” Marcus came up to him and looked into his eyes.

“Yes, I'm ready!”

“If you swear, it's like Mucius Scaevola,29 as otherwise, we won't believe your oath. Hey, Cleont,” he ordered the slave, “bring the brazier!”

Hearing this sentence, Victorinus turned pale, but the young stubbornness made him stand his ground.

“Bring it to me!” he supported Marcus.

Alarmed by these preparations, Fuscianus and Longus came closer, they wanted to calm the debaters.