Vox Meditantis

Baiae (Bay of Naples), Roman Empire – leading up to 10th July 138 AD

You ask when I sleep now? The question itself reveals how much has changed. Time was, I could answer with the precision of a sundial—to bed at the tenth hour, risen before cockcrow to attend the endless demands of empire. Now, as I lie upon this couch in my villa at Baiae, watching the moonlight dance across the waters of the bay, I find that sleep has become as elusive as the barbarians beyond my Wall.

The physicians tell me it is the dropsy, this swelling in my limbs, this weight upon my chest that makes breathing a conscious effort rather than the natural rhythm it once was. They speak in hushed tones of humours unbalanced, of blood grown thick and sluggish. What they do not say—what they dare not say to Caesar—is that death has sent his heralds ahead, and they wear the livery of insomnia.

It is past midnight now. I can tell by the position of the constellation Perseus above the cypress trees. In my younger days, I would have been abed for hours, my body recovering from a day spent reviewing legions, receiving embassies, or walking the growing walls of some new city I had commissioned. My sleep then was the deep slumber of a man whose conscience was clear and whose body was strong. I would rise at the fourth hour before dawn, when the villa was still cloaked in darkness save for the oil lamps of the servants beginning their daily preparations.

How different it is now. Yesterday—or was it the day before? The pain makes time fluid—I dozed fitfully through the morning hours, when the sun was warming the marble floors and the sounds of the port below drifted up through the open windows. I woke to find Antoninus at my bedside, my adopted son and heir apparent, his face bearing that careful expression of concern that I have come to know so well. He had been waiting to discuss the grain shipments from Egypt, a matter that in healthier days would have been resolved before breakfast.

“The hour grows late, Father,” he had said gently, though the sun stood high above us.

Father. How strange that word sounds when applied to me. I who never sired children of my blood, yet who must ensure the succession passes smoothly to this good man. I wonder sometimes if he lies awake at night, as I do, contemplating the weight that will soon rest upon his shoulders. Does he, like me, count the hours until sleep might come, knowing that each dawn brings him closer to the purple?

The pain in my chest flares again, sharp as a gladius thrust. I shift upon the cushions, seeking some position that might grant relief. My slave Euphorus stirs in the shadows—faithful man, he keeps vigil though I have told him repeatedly to seek his own rest. He approaches now, soft-footed as a cat, offering wine mixed with the poppy extract the physicians prescribed.

“Caesar need not suffer needlessly,” he murmurs, holding the cup with hands that have served me these twenty years.

But I wave him away. The poppy brings strange dreams, visions that blur the line between memory and fantasy. Last time I accepted the draught, I dreamt I was walking again through the markets of Alexandria, young and strong, negotiating with merchants for the marble that would become the Pantheon. In the dream, I could smell the spices and hear the multilingual chatter of that great crossroads of civilisation. When I woke, the loss was sharper than any physical pain.

Instead, I ask him to help me to the window. The effort of standing sends blood pounding in my ears, but I am determined to look out once more upon the bay. The water is calm tonight, reflecting the stars like scattered diamonds upon dark silk. How many times have I gazed upon this same view, in health and now in sickness? Baiae has always been my refuge, a place where emperors might pretend, for a few precious weeks, to be merely mortal men seeking the healing properties of the thermal springs.

I think of the many sleepless nights I have known in this room, though their character has changed so dramatically. Once, I lay awake planning—the route of a new aqueduct, the placement of veteran colonies, the words I would speak to the Senate upon my return to Rome. My mind would work through problems of engineering and administration until the pre-dawn light began to creep across the sky, and I would rise energised, ready to transform thoughts into action.

There was that night, perhaps fifteen years past, when I could not sleep for excitement about the great library I planned for Athens. I spent those dark hours composing the letter to the city’s archons, describing my vision for a centre of learning that would rival even the lost library of Alexandria. By dawn, I had mentally furnished every reading room and calculated the cost of copying manuscripts from across the known world.

Or that evening after I had returned from Britannia, my mind still full of mist-shrouded highlands and painted warriors. I had lain here working through the engineering challenges of the Wall, visualising how it would snake across the northern landscape, a stone declaration that here stood the edge of civilisation. I remember rising before cockcrow to dictate orders to my secretaries, the construction plans flowing from my lips as naturally as poetry.

How vital I felt then, how certain of my purpose. I was Hadrian the builder, the traveller, the emperor who would perfect what Augustus had begun. Sleep was merely an interruption to the great work, a necessary pause before resuming the endless task of holding an empire together through will and wisdom.

Now, sleep has become the prize, not the interruption. These past weeks, I find myself envying the freedman who tends the gardens, who can lay his head upon his simple pallet and sink into dreamless oblivion. What luxury it must be to sleep the sleep of those who need not worry about the grain supply of Rome or the movement of barbarian tribes beyond the Rhine.

The irony is not lost upon me. I, who once commanded the schedules of millions—when the legions would march, when the Senate would convene, when festivals would be celebrated from Hadrian’s Wall to the deserts of Syria—I can no longer command my own body to rest when I wish it. Death, it seems, recognises no earthly authority.

Another memory surfaces, unbidden. I am perhaps ten years old, staying at my uncle Trajan’s villa during the hot Roman summer. I had fallen ill with a fever, and my adoptive father sat beside my bed through the long nights, cooling my forehead with damp cloths and telling me stories of his campaigns in Dacia. Even then, I understood that this great man, who could make the earth tremble with his legions’ march, was powerless against the simple workings of illness.

“Rest, my boy,” he had whispered. “Rest, and let your body heal itself. Sometimes the greatest victory is knowing when not to fight.”

Perhaps that wisdom applies now. Perhaps these sleepless hours are not a defeat but a different kind of victory—time stolen from the grave to think, to remember, to prepare for what must come. For I know, though the physicians maintain their hopeful pretences, that tomorrow is the Ides of Julius. It seems fitting, somehow, that if the gods have ordained this to be my last night, it should be spent in contemplation rather than in the false peace of sleep.

I have dictated my testament, arranged for the succession, forgiven my enemies and rewarded my friends. The great works will continue—the Wall stands strong, the cities I founded will outlast their founder, and the laws I refined will guide emperors yet unborn. What more can a man do but hope that his labours have left the world a little better than he found it?

Euphorus approaches again, this time bringing a thick woollen cloak against the night air. As he drapes it around my shoulders, I notice his hands trembling slightly. He too knows what approaches, though neither of us speaks of it.

“At what hour did you retire last night, old friend?” I ask him.

He looks surprised by the question. “I… when Caesar was settled, perhaps the eleventh hour?”

“And you rose?”

“Before dawn, as always. The kitchen servants begin their work early.”

Such simple certainty in his answer. His schedule is determined by duty and the natural rhythm of service, unmarked by the weight of empire or the approach of mortality. I envy him that clarity.

“Do you sleep well?” I press.

A small smile crosses his weathered features. “These old bones know only weariness, Caesar. Sleep comes as naturally as breathing.”

As naturally as breathing. How perfect a phrase. For him, sleep is as unconscious and essential as drawing air into his lungs. For me, it has become a negotiation with forces beyond my control, a reminder that even caesars are subject to the same frailties as the humblest citizen.

The pain ebbs momentarily, and I find myself thinking of Antinous. My beautiful boy, lost to the Nile’s dark waters these six years past. How many nights did I lie awake after his death, not from physical pain but from the deeper ache of loss? I would stare at the ceiling until dawn, seeing his face in every shadow, hearing his laughter in every night sound. Grief, I learned then, is as potent a destroyer of sleep as any bodily ailment.

But tonight feels different. Tonight, the wakefulness brings not torment but a strange peace. As if my spirit, sensing its approaching liberation, has already begun to detach itself from the prison of flesh. I find myself reviewing not my failures and regrets, but the moments of beauty and triumph that have marked these seventy-six years.

The first time I saw the Pyramids, rising from the desert like monuments to eternity itself. The day the Pantheon’s dome was completed, and I stood beneath that perfect circle of sky and felt I had touched the face of the divine. The morning I walked the completed length of my Wall, from sea to sea, knowing that I had drawn a line across the world that would endure for centuries.

These memories require no sleep to visit me now. They come unbidden, as clear and vivid as if they happened yesterday rather than decades past. Perhaps this is death’s gift to the wakeful—the chance to live one’s finest moments again, polished bright by time and gratitude.

The stars are beginning to fade in the east. Dawn approaches, that daily miracle of renewal that I have witnessed perhaps twenty-eight thousand times. How many more will I see? This one, certainly. Perhaps one more, if the gods are merciful.

But if this is to be my last sleepless night, let it be counted not as suffering but as grace. For in these quiet hours, I have travelled further than all my journeys combined. I have crossed the continent of memory, visited the cities of the heart, and walked again through the empire of my accomplishments.

You ask when I sleep now? I sleep when pain grants respite, when exhaustion overcomes vigilance, when the mind can no longer bear the weight of consciousness. But perhaps true rest—the rest that matters—comes not in the hours of unconsciousness but in these moments of perfect clarity, when an emperor can lay aside his crown and simply be a man, grateful for the gift of breath, the blessing of memory, and the approaching peace of well-earned sleep.

The sun touches the horizon now, painting the bay in shades of gold and crimson. Another night of wakefulness ends, and with it, perhaps, the long vigil of an emperor’s reign. But I am not afraid. I have walked with gods and built for eternity. What more fitting end could there be than to greet the dawn one final time, awake and aware, ready at last for the deepest sleep of all?

The End

Emperor Hadrian died on 10th July 138 AD at his villa in Baiae, ending a transformative 21-year reign that had seen the Roman Empire reach its greatest territorial extent, spanning from Hadrian’s Wall in northern Britain to the deserts of Mesopotamia—approximately 5 million square kilometres governing nearly 50 million people. His death marked the peaceful transition of power to his adopted heir Antoninus Pius, continuing the Nerva-Antonine dynasty that would preside over Rome’s golden age until 180 AD. Hadrian’s architectural and administrative innovations, including the codification of Roman law and the establishment of permanent frontier fortifications, fundamentally shaped imperial governance. His legacy endures today in countless archaeological sites across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East, whilst his legal and administrative reforms influenced the development of modern European governmental systems and international law.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.