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And Marcus, as an obedient son, heeded his mother's request.

Taking with him a large, slow Antiochus, his constant companion, he went to visit his future relatives. He did not count on having a conversation with Fabia, because she was in her mother's room. Probably, they were engaged in a purely feminine occupation—weaving wool cloth or spinning yarn. Or maybe they studied philosophy, as now noble Romans do it. But the visit to Ceionius meant an expression of reverence on the part of the Annius family, and, specifically, Marcus. Responsibility here fell on his shoulders because he was the youngest member of their family. Although Marcus did not yet have the proper political experience, he felt that such an act would be true, and he would grow up in the eyes of Emperor Hadrian.

“It's the right thing to do,” Marcus thought. “I'm doing the right thing! It is not for nothing that Caesar called me Verissimus.”

They descended down the narrow streets, down into the valley between the hills, built up by the insulas so closely that it seemed impossible to breathe here because of the unimaginable crowding. Only fountains, hitting at many intersections, somewhat enlivened the general view and slightly refreshed the air. Near each fountain there was a small statue of the patron or patron of the street, and maybe the whole area.

Marcus looked up. Sky blue almost did not peek through the narrow slots between the roofs, but the hot air reached here, down to the sidewalks paved with hewn stones.

It was noisy outside. Some of the insulas heard loud voices of women who traded with sellers in all sorts of things. The not lubricated wheels of the carts transporting the forest for construction creaked. The slaves and the freedmen, who were making their way through their business, were elbowing. They said loudly, “Salve!” 51 greeting acquaintances and clapping each other's shoulders. And the cry of street dogs twirling underfoot completed this cacophony.

At one of the turns, Marcus and his slave suddenly encountered Ceionius on a stretcher, which was carried by strong Germans. Mindful of the case of Rufus, Ceionius had now picked up the porters of former German barbarian warriors, hard and strong. Despite the slaves, Ceionius was accompanied by six lictors from among the freedmen, each of whom was carrying a fascia on his shoulders. 52

The yellow fabric of his palanquin was painted with red roses, which indicated the peculiar taste of the owner—like other superficial people, Ceionius loved to create the appearance of a lover of everything extravagant. He lay down, opening the curtain, and lazily looked at the city bustle. Noticing Marcus, Commodus perked up, leaning out of the stretcher.

“Marcus! Where are you going?”

“To you, dear Ceionius.” Marcus tried to speak with dignity, as befits an adult man. “My mother rightly reproached me for not keeping my promises and not visiting with you since we met at the Circus.”

“Oh, gods, don't measles yourself, we're all like that! Today we say one thing, and tomorrow we forget what we said. Get in my palanquin, I'm just being taken home.”

Marcus climbed into his stretcher and lay down next to Ceionius. He felt a strong fragrance emanating from Commodus, abundantly grated with fragrant incense. Inside the palanquin smelled of roses, frankincense, and musk. On the feet of the consul were not red senator's shoes but sandals, which are usually used to go home. Their gilded straps wrapped the tight calves of Ceionius's legs—he was lying on his side, and his long toga lifted up a little.

“I heard,” Ceionius continued lazily, “that Servianus Fiscus’s grandson had shown inappropriate behavior towards you, and that he had been unruly.”

“Yes, he was defiant.”

“It’s a pity that I was not around, I would find how to respond to the rude. We generally need to stick together; I'm talking about our families. If the gods and the great emperor Hadrian so wish, fate will henceforth lead us along the same road.”

“I would like to live up to Augustus' hopes,” murmured Marcus, feeling the fragrant smell of Ceionius, the heat of his body, as they lay almost cuddled because of the small size of the palanquin. He continued in an embarrassed tone, “But I'd rather have a quiet lifestyle. I'd be more like to do philosophy than public affairs.”

“Oh, how are you right, my dear Marcus!” Ceionius laughed.

He turned his face to Marcus, and he saw close to himself brown with the yellowness eyes of the new favorite Hadrian. They exuded undisguised curiosity, mockery, and something else that Marcus couldn’t make out, perhaps lust. No wonder there were rumors that Ceionius was known as Hadrian's lover.

“I would also like to live a simple life,” Commodus continued, looking at the young companion. “As Martial wrote, whom I love, ‘May fate not give me a higher share or a lower one, but lead my life in a modest middle way.’ 53 Alas, you have to do your duty, if you want to fate. After all, this is evidenced by the philosophy of the Stoics, which I am taught by the Greek Apollonius. You'll see him soon, by the way.”

Suddenly, from the street, fenced off from the interlocutors by the curtains of palanquin, there was a slurred noise, a loud talk, and then a cry.

“What's going on?” Ceionius was surprised.

He threw back the canopy, and Marcus saw a crowd of excited people surrounding them with stretchers on all sides. People were screaming and waving their arms furiously. The tunic species could be determined that most of them were freedmen, but there were also slaves with collars like animals, which had the usual inscription, “Hold me until I ran away.” Marcus himself did not hang such collars on his slaves. So, Antiochus, walking next to the stretcher, looked like an urban commoner, and not like a slave, only the fur of his tunic was rougher.

Now, in this incomprehensible confusion, Antiochus approached the palanquin and closed it wide with his back from the angry crowd.

“What do they want?” a surprised Marcus asked Commodus.

“I don't know,” the consul replied, lowering his legs down and getting up from the stretcher. “Don't worry about anything, thank the gods, you are under my protection!”

But the crowd was pushing harder. They shouted furiously, pushed the lictors and porters, pushed them closer to the palanquin. Marcus has never seen so much hatred on faces, so much rage, never seen such crazy eyes, it was as if these people had been drugged or had been robbed of their minds by evil sorcerers.

“Bread, bread!” the crowd shouted furiously.

“They demand bread,” Ceionius said with concern. “But after all, we already held the distribution last month, they were given out to everyone according to the lists and there were no complaints. I swear to Jupiter!”

One, the most energetic and ferocious of the protesters, a man of short stature but dense and strong, almost came close to the stretcher. He, like everyone shouted loudly, demanding bread, but Marcus paid attention to his sullen, focused face, to his threatening gestures. With such an expression, people do not ask for bread, with such an expression they are plotting something terrible.