Capitolinus says
that, while the guests feasted, sometimes the magnificent Verus
got drunk, and was carried to bed in a coverlid, or else, the red
feather aiding, turned out and fought the watch.
It was this splendid individual to whom Marcus Aurelius entrusted
the Euphrates. They had been brought up together, sharing each
others tutors, writing themes for the same instructor, both
meanwhile adolescently enamored of the fair Faustine. It was to
Marcus she was given, the empire as a dower; and when that dower
passed into his hands, he could think of nothing more equitable
than to ask Verus to share it with him. Verus was not stupid
enough to refuse, and at the hour when the Parthians turned ugly,
he needed little urging to set out for the East, dreaming, as he
did so, of creating there an empire that should be wholly his.
At that time Faustine must have been at least twenty-eight,
possibly thirty. There were matrons who had not seen their
fifteenth year, and Faustine had been married young. Her daughter,
Lucille, was nubile. Presently Verus, or rather his lieutenants,
succeeded, and the girl was betrothed to him. There was a
festival, of course, games in abundance, and plenty of blood.
It would have been interesting to have seen her that day, the iron
ring of betrothal on her finger, her brother, Commodus, staring at
the arrangement of her hair, her mother prettily perplexed, her
father signing orders which messengers brought and despatched
while the sand took on a deeper red, and Rome shrieked its
delight.
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