They didn't get to the top floor, where the prices for the rent weren't as big as the bottom. Demetra rented a room for two thousand sesterces a year. The situation in it, although not shone luxury, but seemed quite tolerable. Apparently, its owner enjoyed success with men, especially in his younger years.
In the corner was a large bed, which could fit a few adults, perhaps three or four. That's what Marcus thought. A couple of trunks set against the wall. The table on which there were two clay jugs, and a chair stood near the window. From there was a coolness—on the upper floors there was no glazing, there were only wooden shutters, out of shape from the damp and barely covered. They hardly let the daylight pass, and therefore the room was gloomy.
In such darkness it was difficult to see the drawings on the walls covered with ochre, but Marcus still considered the erotic scenes that Demetra ordered the artists tailored to her craft. On them men with huge phalluses, exceeding the size of their hands, copulating with women in various poses.
“Now, now, sweetheart!” Demetra said, deftly removing Marcus's warm heavy cloak, then the tunic. She, accustomed to all the whims of men, did not pay attention to the slave standing there. Who knows, maybe he was there to make sure that no one harmed his master? Or maybe the young master would want them to have her together, at the same time? She, of course, was ready for anything, but it would cost more.
However, Antiochus, as if understanding her thoughts, turned away and left the room.
“Oh, how white, tender your skin is!” Demetra examined his body, bringing her face closer to him, almost too close, drawing her fingertips on his back, shoulders, chest. Marcus tickled, and he felt a slight excitement. There was no heat in the room, and the roasting pan in the corner was out and it was cool.
“Now we'll see what you have here!” Demetra said with a laugh, lowering her hand below.
And now the dream repeated itself. In front of him on her knees there was a woman, he copulates with her and he was not disgusted by the smell of this body, nor the kind of flabby, saggy skin of the prostitute. Perhaps now she would turn her head, and he would see the face of Empress Sabina. Or his mother’s. No, it shouldn't happen again! The woman turned her head, and he saw Demetra. Of course! It was Demetra, there could be no other.
He was covered with intense excitement, he convulsively jerked, beating on her body and almost lost his head, falling against her back. “Thank the gods, it's a prostitute!”—swept through his head, which was so clear, empty and lonely that it seemed as if he was hovering above the ground in the blue over the mountain ranges of the Alps or over the vast expanses of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
No, it didn't happen! No Demetra, no body, no horrible, shameful coitus. It never happened. “It's a dream,” he decided. “I swear to Venus, I am a virgin and will remain for him until the wedding! Until the gods find me a wife.”
The woman, meanwhile, was already dressed, and now she quickly and deftly helped to dress Marcus. She took his money and looked affectionately into his eyes.
“Come to me again, my boy. I'm Demetra from the fifth district of Hill Caelian. Remember that?”
The Jewish War
Emperor Hadrian spent the whole spring and summer in the East, mostly in Athens.
Galatia and Cilicia, Egypt and Judea. He didn't like Asia very much. Screaming, self-serving, impudent peoples, people in whom it was difficult to find the inherent Hellenic susceptibility to the sublime and graceful, irritated Caesar.