The Death of Antinous || bxb ✔︎

ALEA IACTA EST

123 AD

All who met Antinous said he was destined to become a muse and a great lover. At twelve years old he ran swift-footed over the arid hills of Bithynia, his limbs long and graceful, skin bronze from the sun with downy hair that had not yet coarsened. The smile on his full lips betrayed the mischief in his heart, while lashes thick as a Persian's veiled dark and knowing eyes. 

If mortal men noticed Antinous, so might the gods. His mother did all she could to discourage vanity and hide him from their gaze. She removed the mirrors from their home, dressed him in plain tunics and kept his mane of glorious curls neatly cropped.

Antinous didn't know why she bothered. He was too busy with the business of boyhood to notice or care about his beauty. He dreamed not of being a lover or a muse, but of being a soldier. With his companions he spent hours reenacting the Battle of Issus and the Siege of Tyre, slicing his wooden sword through the air triumphantly.

He whittled it himself from a piece of driftwood he found on the shores of the Propontis, along with a shield, in which he carved a Macedonian star, just like the one wielded by Alexander the Great. Antinous the Great, he would whisper to himself when he was alone.

He disobeyed his mother and donned his wooden sword and shield during the Roman Emperor Hadrian's visit to Claudiopolis. His father allowed it. Hating the Romans was the only thing they agreed upon.

Hadrian spent much of his regime touring his empire. He had crossed the Mediterranean to Mauretania, then Cyrene and wintered in Nikomedia by the sea before visiting Claudiopolis. The imperial retinue arrived at dawn, galloping through the city in a burst of gold and red, like Phaethon who stole Helios' chariot and set the world on fire.

His mother had sewn a new tunic for Antinous to wear and mended his broken sandals, which he was quickly outgrowing. He wished he could have new sandals with iron studs on the soles, and a trimmed tunic, like those worn by soldiers. He doubted the gods were fussed by mortal fashions.

His family chose to stand in the back. He rose up on his toes, feet covered in dust, as the Roman procession passed. He caught glimpses of their festooned horses, heard the clomping of their hooves but was too small to see over the crowd before him.

He assumed none could see him either.

There was a great cheer and everyone waved.

"Is it the emperor? Where is he? What does he look like? I can't see!" he complained, pressing forward.

His father delivered a heavy blow with the back of his hand. "Get back."

Holding his cheek, Antinous took his place behind him.

The procession culminated in a festival. An ox was sacrificed and a great feast prepared, with games, songs, plays and poetry.

Antinous was too far away from the festivities to enjoy them. The smell of cooked meat rose in the air and his stomach growled. He wasn't old enough to participate in the games and couldn't hear the actors and poets over the noisy crowd. Restless, he kicked the dirt beneath his sandals.

When his father's head was turned he inched away and snuck into an alley.

He dragged his sword along the wall, the wooden tip skipping over the surface of the rough limestone. Past the city walls and into the countryside, the sound of the lyre played sweetly behind him, growing fainter and fainter until it was indistinguishable from the wind.

What he did not know was that someone was following him.

He entered the wheat fields and swatted at the stalks with his sword to clear a path. They made a satisfying snap beneath his feet when he stepped on them. Snap, snap, snap. His broken sandal had come undone again. He stopped walking and bent down to retie a loosened strap.