The astrologer in purple
Emperor Hadrian3 always believed in horoscopes.
In his luxurious residence in Tibur, built upon his final return to Rome, he indulged in reflections on the winding ways of fate, fascinated by what had occurred in the world since the long twenty years after the death of Emperor Trajan.
Hadrian took in his hands the sheets of parchment that described what was to happen to him. He read once more the lines foretold, and surprised by coincidences.
In the clear lines connecting the twelve houses of the zodiac, he found not only aesthetic pleasure, as in the strict architecture of Athens or geometrically reconciled pyramids of the Pharaohs, but also a deep well of knowledge. As if the horoscope was a material and visible expression of a comprehensive logos.4
The place looked after by Hadrian was not new. Before he was chosen by Octavian Augustus to live there, Horatius and Catullus lived there, and before them other rich patricians. The vast imperial lands, surrounded by yellow-green olive groves and pines with thick crowns, had all the whimsical fantasies of Hadrian. There were halls and theaters, luxurious thermal parks, libraries, porticoes and temples, decorative gardens. In his villa, Hadrian had spent a great deal of time collecting and displaying pictures, statues, vases collected from all over the territory of Rome and now enjoyed their views, sitting on a chair or reclining on the bed.
Sometimes he sat alone all evening with a cup of Falernian wine in his hand, holding a copy of the horoscope of those close to him, pondering about their fates, the contours of which fell behind the lines connecting the trajectory of the planets.
Although the Roman spirit was accustomed to addressing the gods directly—as it was thought, the face of the latter can be seen—predictions of astrologers often looked like an empty amusement for the jaded minds of aristocrats. But Hadrian knew his horoscopes were not lying.
He himself was a devoted, longtime connoisseur of astrology. He was in general very ambitious, and everyone in Rome knew that the best poet, writer, artist, musician playing in cithara, and singer was undoubtedly Hadrian. It was possible, of course, to challenge this opinion, but behind the mask of a charming and open man was a vengeful and brutal character.
According to the story going around Rome, Trajan5 discussed with his architect, Apollodorus of Damascus,6 a new building. Hadrian, who indulged in painting, decided to submit his advice, as he thought it was sensible enough. But Apollodorus hostility smiled at him, rudely cut him off—a man of little sense in architecture.
After becoming Caesar, Hadrian sent Apollodorus the schematics for the Temple of Venus to show that he, Hadrian, could do it without his help, this daring and unequipped architect. Apollodorus here did not show due respect. He ridiculed the emperor, talking about statues being designed too high: “If the goddesses have to get out of their place and get out—they have nothing to do, they will beat the lie about low ceilings.” This humiliation the proud Hadrian could not let Apollodorus get away with it. He executed the man.
Undoubtedly, it is difficult to claim that the commander of the thirty legions is uninformed in any area.
Once upon a time, Hadrian made a horoscope of Marcus Annius Verus, then a boy, a distant relative of his wife Empress Sabina.7 The horoscope predicted Marcus would lead a dignified life and an important post in the hierarchy of power, the post of ruler of the state. Hadrian thought that from this boy it was possible to grow the real ruler of Rome, to nurture it, to shape, as one shapes a beautiful statue from a shapeless block of marble.
Hadrian himself had no children from his wife, and this circumstance forced him to look around, thinking about the choice of a possible successor.
At first, Marcus was drawn by Sabina. For a time, they lived as friendly couple, enjoying life in harmony with each other. Then he appeared, Antinous,8 a beautiful Greek youth with marble white skin, black curly hair, and a direct profile, soft, feminine and inseparable. Hadrian saw him naked, bathing in a mountain spring, and fell in love, then confirmed the opinion of Cicero that the love of a man to another of his sex is a natural consequence of nudity.
So, his relationship with Sabina came to naught.
Sabina did not understand that the love of Antinous was the gift of the gods to an aging emperor, for she made him happy and young, and the absence of love made him miserable, albeit wise. Only who needs wisdom without Antinous?
The wife turned into an evil fury. She slandered him on every street corner. He was informed that she had sworn her infertility, blaming Hadrian. “How can one give birth from such a monster?” she asked, tragically wringing her hands like a cheap actor in a Rusticus theater. Of course, he, Hadrian, knew that the whole thing was her fault: he had married a rotten fruit, a dead land in which no matter how much seed he threw—nothing would grow.
