Empire (46 page)

“Granted, Lucius, you may feel no particular affinity for augury, but consider the benefits. The priesthood would give you a vocation, a focus for your talents, a connection with others of your class—”

“Fortunately, I need none of those things.” Lucius flashed a wry smile. “The last time I sat here in your garden, Epaphroditus, you put forth very similar arguments, only then the subject was family and marriage. You said I should finally take a wife and make some sons—to enjoy the tax exemptions, if for no other reason. But I have no worries about money; my father left me a very wealthy man. Yes, I could fritter away my time in the so-called service of the state, either as a priest or a magistrate—but why should I bother? And I could marry a fine patrician girl and produce some fine patrician sons—but again, why bother? The state is the emperor; the emperor is the state. The rest of us are like grains of sand on a beach: interchangeable, indistinguishable, inconsequential. A Roman citizen has no importance whatsoever, no matter how much some of us would like to pretend otherwise.”

Epaphroditus drew a sharp breath. He looked around the garden to make sure there were no slaves to overhear. “Lucius, you must be more careful about what you say, even to me. That kind of talk is not only defeatist, but dangerously close to sedition.”

Lucius shrugged. “You prove my point. If a citizen has no more freedom of speech than a slave, why serve the state?”

“How old did you say you were, Lucius? Thirty-two?” Epaphroditus shook his head. “A dangerous age for a man—old enough to feel that he should be in charge of his destiny and to chafe against the constraints of
living under an absolute ruler, but perhaps not yet old enough to discern the fine line that a man must tread if he’s to survive the whims of Fortune.”

“By which you mean the whims of the imperial family?”

“Roma could have fallen into worse hands than those of the Flavians.”

Epaphroditus expressed the prevailing consensus. Vespasian had been a competent and levelheaded ruler, his reign made smoother by a vast infusion of wealth provided by the sack of Jerusalem, which had filled the Roman treasury with gold; the enslavement of the Jewish insurgents had provided thousands of slaves to build Roma’s roads and grand new monuments. Nero and his immediate successors had failed largely because they ran out of money. Vespasian had never had to worry about that.

Increasingly confident as his reign progressed, Vespasian gradually abandoned the fiction, steadfastly maintained by the dynasty of Augustus, that the emperor and Senate were equal partners, with the emperor merely the first among citizens. By the time of his death from natural causes, there was no doubt that Vespasian was absolute ruler of the state. He became so confident of his popularity that he put a stop to the practice, begun by Claudius, of searching every person admitted to the imperial presence for weapons. He also abandoned Claudius’s practice of staffing the bureaucracy with imperial freedman, making state service a professional career open to citizens of merit, or at least ambition.

In the last ten years there had been a radical shift in the way people thought about the “good old days” of the long-ago Republic. Where once people sentimentalized the Republic and senators spoke wistfully of its return, it was more common now for people to refer to the era of Caesar and Pompeius as the “bad old days,” when unbridled competition between ruthless warlords resulted in bloody civil war. The Year of Four Emperors that followed Nero had been a throwback to the end of the Republic, a reminder of the chaos that could reign when there was no clear successor to command the legions and run the empire. How much better it was to bow to an emperor whose legitimacy was beyond question and to enjoy the stability of a ruling dynasty.

If Vespasian had a vice, it was greed. The emperor and his favorites had shamelessly exploited their positions to accrue enormous wealth, treating the Roman state as a moneymaking scheme for insiders. Vespasian
famously put a tax on the city’s latrinae, claiming a share of the money made by the sale of urine to fullers, who used it to clean wool. Thus the saying, “Even when you piss, the emperor takes a percentage.”

A year after Vespasian’s death, people still wondered at his dying words: “Oh, damn! I think I’m becoming a god.” The Senate duly voted to honor him in death as the Divine Vespasian.

His elder son, Titus, succeeded him. He had served under Vespasian in Judaea, taking part in the plunder of Jerusalem and the enslavement of the Jews. Titus had been an active partner in his father’s reign—his father’s henchman, some called him, since as prefect of the Praetorian Guards he ruthlessly protected his father’s interests. But as emperor, Titus had so far displayed an even milder temperament than his father’s. With the transition of power, the new dynasty was firmly established, making it clear that Roma was destined to be ruled by hereditary kings, even if no one called them that.

Epaphroditus returned to the subject of Lucius’s future. “If you have no inclination for augury or state service, perhaps it’s not too late for you to consider a military career. I don’t know anyone more skillful with a bow and arrow. Last year at your Etrurian estate I saw you bring down a charging boar with a spear. Not every man can do such a thing; that took nerves as well as skill. I suspect you could handle yourself quite well on a battlefield.”

Lucius shook his head. “I learned to use weapons because I own land in the countryside, and hunting amuses me. It also puts meat on my table. But why should I wish to kill my fellow mortals?”

“To defend Roma.”

Lucius laughed. “No one serves in the military to defend Roma: Roma is not under attack. Men join the legions to head for the outskirts of the empire and look for fresh lands to plunder. It’s all about looting, isn’t it? All the successful emperors looted something and brought the booty back to Roma.”

“For glory, then?”

“If one finds it glorious to kill strangers and rape their women and then brag about it. If I wanted to loot, I could become a magistrate and collect taxes. That would be far less dangerous for me, and would kill my
victims much more slowly; one wants to keep them alive so they can keep paying taxes.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “Our emperor collects taxes to make the state function, for the benefit of us all. Consider the grand public projects—”

“Like that monstrosity that’s ruined the view?”

Lucius referred to the massive structure that now dominated the skyline of the city from all directions, but especially as seen from Epaphroditus’s garden. The architects called it an amphitheater—two semicircular theaters put together to form a complete circle. It was by far the largest and tallest building in Roma.

In the days of the first emperors, the valley between the Caelian, Esquiline, and Palatine hills had filled up with tenements. After the Great Fire, Nero razed the charred tenements and made the area into his private hunting meadow in the heart of the Golden House, complete with a large man-made lake. Determined to get rid of the Golden House bit by bit, Vespasian started by filling in the lake and clearing the meadow. On the huge, flat site that resulted, using money looted from Jerusalem to purchase materials and twelve thousand Jewish slaves captured in the war for labor, Vespasian began constructing an immense, elaborately decorated amphitheater. The Divine Augustus had first expressed the idea of building such a structure in the middle of the city for the presentation of gladiator combats, hunting exhibitions, and other spectacles; Vespasian would make Augustus’s dream a reality. Construction went on throughout Vespasian’s reign, but he did not live to see it finished. It was left to Titus to complete the structure.

From Epaphroditus’s garden, the enormous scale of the Flavian Amphitheater was somewhat deceptive, due to its proximity to the giant statue of Nero: seeing the huge amphitheater next to the Colossus played tricks with the viewer’s grasp of perspective. The towering statue was no longer enclosed by a courtyard; Vespasian had demolished the grand entrance of the Golden House but left the statue intact. For a while the Colossus had been surrounded by scaffolds, and from Epaphroditus’s garden one could hear the sound of artisans wielding hammers and chisels and crowbars. When the scaffolding came down, the face of the Colossus no longer resembled that of Nero; henceforth it would simply be the sun god, Sol.

“Monstrosity?” said Epaphroditus. “I think the Flavian Amphitheater is not only an amazing feat of engineering, but also quite beautiful to look at. I’ll admit I was dubious when the foundation was laid and one began to realize just how big it would be. But once it began to take shape, and the decorations and architectural details were filled in, I thought to myself:
I shall never tire of looking at that.
It’s been a joy, sitting here in the garden day by day, season after season, watching the thing go up. I haven’t even minded the noise, though I suppose there’ll be even more noise once the thing opens in a year or so. Imagine the roar of fifty thousand spectators! It’s quite impressive on the inside, as well. One of the architects is an old friend of mine and let me have a look. You feel as if you’re in a gigantic bowl, with all those rows upon rows of seats rising around you. There’s never been anything like it.”

Lucius was not convinced. “How will so many people get in and out without waiting for hours on end? And once they’re inside, how will they avoid being crushed to death?”

“The engineers have planned for that. The place has eighty entrances—vomitoria, they’re called—and each has a number; people will enter and exit by the vomitorium specified on their ticket. The stairways, corridors, and landings are architectural marvels in themselves. Since it was built on the site of Nero’s lake, the area was already plumbed, so there’s no lack of running water. The place has over a hundred drinking fountains, and the two largest latrinae I’ve ever seen.”

“Marvelous! Fifty thousand Romans can all take a piss at the same time.”

Epaphroditus ignored him. “The arena is immense, able to accommodate whole armies of gladiators. Or navies; using the plumbing that maintained Nero’s artificial lake, the arena can be flooded and drained at will. The challenge will be staging spectacles large enough to fill the space.”

Lucius and Epaphroditus sat in silence for a while, watching the slaves and artisans scurry like insects inside the massive network of scaffolding that surrounded the amphitheater. More construction was going on at a vast bathing complex not far from the amphitheater, and on a huge triumphal arch that would serve as a ceremonial gateway between the amphitheater and the Forum. The gigantic stone plaques being installed on the
arch could be seen even from Epaphroditus’s garden; the images celebrated the victory of Vespasian and Titus over the rebellious Jews and the sack of Jerusalem. The Jewish slaves working on the arch wore ragged loincloths and glistened with sweat.

The sun had moved, and with it the patch of shade. Lucius moved his chair and Epaphroditus nodded to the serving girl, who brought more wine. The breeze had died. The day was growing quite hot.

“These antisocial ideas, Lucius—where do they come from?” Epaphroditus shook his head. “I worry that someone in our little circle of friends has been a bad influence on you. But which one? The Stoic, the poet, or the sophist?”

Lucius smiled. “You certainly can’t blame Epictetus. How could a Stoic ever be a bad influence? I can’t say the same about Martial or Dio. Ah, but here they all are, arriving together.”

A slave showed the three newcomers into the garden. Chairs were rearranged to take advantage of the shade. More cups and more wine were brought.

Epictetus was no longer a slave. Epaphroditus had freed him some years ago, and the two had become close friends. His limp had grown more pronounced; he never went anywhere now without a crutch to lean on. In all the years he had known him, Lucius had never once heard the man complain about his infirmity. Epictetus was a living example of the Stoic philosophy he embraced, which placed great value on the dignity of the self and a graceful acquiescence to those things over which the self had no control. In the years since his manumission, he had gained a considerable reputation as a teacher. Epictetus looked the part: his long beard was flecked with the first touches of gray and he wore the customary garment of philosophers, the Greek cloak called a himation.

Dio of Prusa also wore a beard and a himation. He was a Greek sophist, a writer who popularized philosophical ideas with clever essays and discourses. At forty, he was a few years older than Epictetus.

The third visitor, about the same age as Dio, was also a writer, though of a very different sort. The Spanish-born Martial was a poet. Among the most fervent admirers of his work was the new emperor. Martial was clean-shaven and immaculately groomed, and dressed formally in a toga, as befitted a poet paying a visit to an important patron of the arts.

After they each had a cup of wine and exchanged casual conversation about the weather—could anyone recall a month of Augustus so hot?—Epaphroditus got to his feet and stood before the object that he had invited them to see. A new statue had been installed in the garden, occupying a spot at the very center, with the Flavian Amphitheater as a backdrop. The statue was covered by a large sheet of canvas.

“First,” said Epaphroditus, “let me say that obtaining this statue was not easy. The new amphitheater has claimed the best available work of every sculptor from the Pillars of Hercules to Lake Maotis. Count all those niches and archways in the amphitheater facade, and imagine a statue in every available spot—that’s a great many statues. But this is the one I wanted, and I got it. I won’t tell you how much I paid for it, but when you see it, I think you’ll agree it was worth whatever I paid, and more.”

“Please, keep us in suspense no longer!” Martial laughed. “Let us see this masterpiece in marble.”

Epaphroditus nodded to two slaves waiting nearby. They pulled the billowing canvas up and away from the statue.

“Extraordinary!” whispered Epictetus.

“Splendid!” said Martial.