If Juvenal, Martial, Petronius, are more
reticent, it is because they were not Fathers of the Church, nor
yet antiquarians. No one among us exacts a description of a spire.
The phallus was as common to them, commoner even. It was on the
coins, on the doors, in the gardens. As a preservative against
Envy it hung from children's necks. On sun-dials and water clocks
it marked the flight of time. The vestals worshipped it. At
weddings it was used in a manner which need not be described.
It was from such surroundings that Faustine stepped into the arms
of the severe and stately prince whom her father had chosen. That
Marcus Aurelius adored her is certain. His notebook shows it. A
more tender-hearted and perfect lover romance may show, but
history cannot. He must have been the quintessence of refinement,
a thoroughbred to his finger-tips; one for whom that purple mantle
was too gaudy, and yet who bore it, as he bore everything else, in
that self-abnegatory spirit which the higher reaches of philosophy
bring.
He was of that rare type that never complains and always consoles.
After Antonin's death, his hours ceased to be his own. On the
Euphrates there was the wildest disorder. To the north new races
were pushing nations over the Danube and the Rhine. From the
catacombs Christ was emerging; from the Nile, Serapis. The empire
was in disarray. Antonin had provided his son-in-law with a
coadjutor, Lucius Verus, the son of Hadrian's mignon, a
magnificent scoundrel; a tall, broad-shouldered athlete, with a
skin as fresh as a girl's and thick curly hair, which he covered
with a powder of gold; a viveur, whose suppers are famous still;
whose guests were given the slaves that served them, the plate off
which they had eaten, the cups from which they had drunk--cups of
gold, cups of silver, jewelled cups, cups from Alexandria,
murrhine vases filled with nard--cars and litters to go home with,
mules with silver trappings and negro muleteers.
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