Empire (48 page)

“Aren’t there caves at the summit of Vesuvius?” said Lucius. “I know there’s a circular valley with steep sides at the top. The rebel slave Spartacus camped there with his army of gladiators.”

Epaphroditus cocked his head. “You’ve been reading Titus Livius.”

Lucius nodded. “I take down the scrolls I inherited from my father and dip into his history every so often.”

Epictetus continued. “To the locals, Vesuvius is best known for the vineyards and gardens on the slopes. The soil is amazingly fertile. But yes, Spartacus did hide his army there, in the early days of the great slave revolt. It’s a substantial mountain, visible for miles around and far out to sea, but not too difficult to scale because the slope is so gradual. At the top there’s a kind of hollowed-out depression, a desolate, rocky, flat place surrounded by steep, craggy walls—a perfect place for Spartacus to make his camp, since it’s hidden from sight and the walls form a kind of natural parapet all around. It occurs to me that the summit of Vesuvius is not unlike the new amphitheater over there, if you imagine the amphitheater set atop a great mountain with the slopes coming up to its rim—though of course the crater atop Vesuvius is much larger. Among the rocks there are fissures that appear to have been singed by flame, as if they once spat fire. You see that sort of phenomenon still active in places all around Campania, but on Vesuvius the fuel long ago gave out and the fissures closed up.”

“Unless they’ve opened up again because these Titans are breaking out,” said Martial.

Epaphroditus shook his head. “I wouldn’t put too much store in these supposed sightings of Titans. It’s my opinion, and I suspect Pliny would agree, that the Titans have long been extinct. Certainly, they once existed: occasionally, excavating deep holes for foundations or canals, people find bones so enormous they can only have belonged to the Titans. But the fact that one finds only bones would indicate that such beings must be extinct.”

“I should think that makes their appearance now all the more disturbing,” said Lucius. “Epictetus just told us that people have reported seeing these giant creatures—in the cities, in the woods, even in the sky. All these rumblings in the earth may be the portents of some terrible event.”

Epaphroditus gave him a quizzical look. Lucius knew what he was thinking. Despite his disavowal of any interest in augury, Lucius had just expressed a belief in divination. Without realizing it, he had slipped a hand inside his toga and was touching the fascinum of his ancestors. He often wore the talisman, though never outside his clothes, where it could be seen.

There was a sudden gust of wind. It was not the mild westerly breeze that had provided some relief from the heat earlier in the day but a stronger, warmer wind from the south. The light changed as well. Though there
was not a cloud in the sky, the sun abruptly grew dim, then dimmer still. The sky grew dark. The five friends stopped talking and exchanged uncertain glances.

An eerie silence descended. The laborers at the amphitheater stopped working. The whole city was suddenly quiet.

Epaphroditus began to cough. So did Lucius. He moved to cover his mouth and found himself looking at the back of his hands. They appeared to be covered with a fine white powder, like marble dust. He looked up and blinked; the same white powder clotted his eyelashes. He puckered and spat, tasting ashes in his mouth. Pale dust fell from the sky, not in drifts but evenly and steadily, everywhere at once, like snow falling in the mountains.

Without a word, all of them rose from their chairs and made their way to the shelter of the portico that bordered the garden on three sides. As they watched, the dust continued to descend. The light of the sun was reduced to a faint glow. The fall of dust was so thick that they could no longer see the amphitheater.

“What is it?” whispered Lucius.

“I have no idea,” said Epaphroditus. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s like something from a nightmare,” said Dio.

From somewhere beyond the garden walls, a voice cried out, “It’s the end of the world!”

The shrill cry of panic ignited others. From the neighbors all around they heard shouts of alarm. The cries sounded strangely muted and faraway.

The fall of ash grew so heavy that they could see nothing at all beyond the garden. It was as if the world around them had utterly vanished. At the center of garden, dust piled high atop the wavy hair of the statue of Melancomas, frosting his ears and covering his muscular shoulders and arms with a thick mantle of white.

“What a year, what a terrible, terrible year!” said Epaphroditus. “First, the fiery eruption of Vesuvius and the complete loss of Pompeii and Herculaneum—whole cities buried as if they never existed.”

A year to the day after the fall of ash on Roma, Epaphroditus was again playing host to Lucius and the others in his garden.

“And then, the outbreak of plague here in Roma—the plague that claimed your mother, Lucius. Chrysanthe was such a lovely woman. She died before her time.”

Lucius nodded, acknowledging his friend’s words of condolence. His mother’s death had been quick, but not painless. Chrysanthe had suffered a great deal, racked by fever and coughing up blood. Lucius had been with her at the end, along with his three sisters. He was not close to his siblings. It was the first time in years that they had all been together.

“That plague,” Epaphroditus continued, “was caused, so everyone assumes, by that bizarre dust that fell on us after Vesuvius erupted. There must have been something toxic in that dust. Remember, for a couple of days, until word of the disaster at Pompeii arrived, we had no idea what the dust was or where it came from. People thought the firmament itself was crumbling, signaling the end of the universe. Who could imagine that a volcano could throw up so much debris? They say the ash from Vesuvius fell as far away as Africa, Egypt, and even Syria.

“Then, yet another disaster. While the emperor was down in Campania, comforting the survivors, that terrible fire broke out in Roma—three days and nights of conflagration that seemed to strike precisely those areas that were
not
burned during the Great Fire under Nero. The devastation extended from the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline—just repaired after the arson of Vitellius!—all the way to Theater of Pompeius on the Field of Mars and Agrippa’s lovely temple called the Pantheon, which was totally gutted.”

Lucius Pinarius nodded somberly. “Cities lost, plague and fire in Roma—truly, it’s been a terrible year. And yet here are the five of us, all alive and well.”

“The six of us, if you count Melancomas.” Dio cast an appreciative glance at the statue.

“Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone,” said Epaphroditus.

“Terrible disasters,” agreed Martial, “but no one can fault the emperor. Titus made quick restitution to the citizens in Campania and began rebuilding the remaining cities around the bay, then turned to restoring the
burned areas of Roma—and without raising taxes, mind you, or making special appeals to the wealthy. He did it all himself, even stripping his own properties of ornaments to redecorate the temples and public buildings, like a true father of the Roman state. To combat the plague, Titus did all that any man could, seeking counsel from the priests and offering the appropriate sacrifices to the gods.”

“The emperor’s leadership in these times of crisis cannot be faulted,” said Epaphroditus. “Still, people are badly shaken and fearful of the future.”

“Which is why the opening of the amphitheater could not have come at a more propitious time,” said Martial.

They turned their gaze to the massive structure across the way. The last of the scaffolds had been removed. The curved travertine walls gleamed in the morning sunlight; the niches formed by the multiple arches were filled with brightly painted statues of gods and heroes. Colorful pennants streamed from poles affixed to the rim. The open space between the amphitheater and the new baths was thronged with people on holiday. This was the opening day of Vespasian’s great dream, the Flavian Amphitheater.

“Are we ready to set out?” said Lucius.

“I think so,” said Epaphroditus. “Should I bring along a slave?”

“Of course,” said Martial. “We’ll be there all day. The slave can fetch food for us. Alas, if only he could go to the latrina for us as well! But there are still some tasks that cannot be delegated to a slave.”

“Where will we put him?” said Epaphroditus.

“I imagine it’s like the theater,” said Martial. “There’s bound to be a section at the back of the tier for everyone’s slaves.”

“You have the tokens?” said Epaphroditus.

Martial held up three tiny clay tablets upon which were stamped numerals and letters. “For yours truly—the poet charged with witnessing the inaugural games and composing an official tribute in verse—three excellent seats in the lowest tier. We’re right next to the imperial box, just behind the Vestal virgins. Take good care of your ticket. You’ll want it for a souvenir.”

“Only three?” said Lucius.

“I’m not going,” said Epictetus.

“Nor am I,” said Dio.

“But why not?”

“Lucius, I haven’t attended a gladiator show since I became a freedman,” said Epictetus. “I certainly don’t intend to see this one simply because it promises to be bigger and bloodier than any that’s come before.”

“And you, Dio?”

“Perhaps you’ve never noticed, Lucius, but philosophers are seldom seen at gladiator shows, unless they wish to stand up and address the crowd about the evils of such spectacles. I don’t think even our free-speech-loving emperor would welcome such an interruption on this occasion.”

“But the gladiators won’t even appear until later in the day,” said Martial. “Before that there’ll be a whole program of spectacles—”

“I am well aware of the typical entertainment offered at such events,” said Dio. “There will be the public punishment of criminals by various ingenious means, intended, ostensibly, for the edification of the crowd. But take a look at the faces in the stands; are the spectators uplifted by the moral lesson, or titillated by the humiliation and destruction of another mortal? And there will undoubtedly be animal exhibitions; these, too, are educational, or so we are told, since they give us a chance to see exotic creatures from faraway places. But the animals are never simply paraded for our perusal; they’re made to fight one another, or hunted down by armed men and killed. Yes, yes, Lucius, I know: you’re a hunter yourself, so you appreciate an exhibition of fine marksmanship. But again, is it the hunter’s skills the spectators applaud, or the sight of an animal being wounded and slaughtered? And all that bloodshed is merely prelude to the gladiator matches, where human beings are forced to fight for their lives for the amusement of strangers. Since at least the time of Cicero there have been those of us who object to the spectacles of the arena, which debase rather than elevate their audience. The fact that such games have now been given a grander venue than ever before may be cause for the poet to celebrate, but not the philosopher.”

“But don’t you want to see the building?” said Lucius.

“You yourself have called it a monstrosity.”

“I’m not in love with it, as Epaphroditus is. The thing is too big and too garish for my taste. Still, there’s never been a place like it, and this is the opening day. All of Roma will be there.”

“All the more reason for a philosopher to stay away,” said Dio. “It’s one
thing when a city holds its gladiator shows at some rustic spot outside the gates, in a natural setting where there’s no pretense about what’s taking place—men sitting in the dirt, watching other men kill each other. But to take these blood sports and display them in a palatial setting, surrounded by beautiful statues and fine architecture, as if killing were simply another artistic endeavor to be appreciated and enjoyed by sophisticated people—that in itself is offensive. No man who considers himself a philosopher can lend his presence to such an event. Epictetus and I will find something better to do. You’re welcome to join us, Lucius.”

“Ha!” Martial waved back the philosophers and put his arm about Lucius’s shoulder. “You won’t lure Pinarius away from the most exciting event of the year to go sit on a hilltop and listen to you grumble about your bunions and how they must have been sent by the gods to test your endurance!” He pressed one of the tokens into Lucius’s hand. “Now take that, my friend, and hold on to it tightly, and don’t let any philosopher talk you out of using it. Come along, then, everyone who’s coming.”

They parted ways in the street outside the house. Lucius watched the philosophers walk up the hill. Epictetus used his crutch. Dio took small steps and walked slowly to match the younger man’s pace. Lucius felt an urge to join them, but Martial grabbed his toga and pulled him in the opposite direction.

The open space around the Flavian Amphitheater was thronged with people. A small crowd had gathered to watch a mime troupe perform a parody about a brawny gladiator and a senator’s wife who lusted after him behind her husband’s back. Street vendors moved through the crowd, offering good-luck charms, freshly cooked bits of meat and fish on skewers, little clay lamps with images of gladiators, and tickets for excellent seats so crudely stamped that they had to be counterfeit.

Long lines began to form at the entrances, radiating outward from the amphitheater, but there was no waiting at the gate to which Martial led them. The finely dressed men and women going in were clearly of a higher class than the citizens in ragged tunics queuing up at the other gates.

Once through the entrance, they found themselves in a finely appointed vestibule with a marble floor and elegant furniture. The railings had ivory fittings and the walls were exquisitely painted with pictures of gods and heroes.

“It reminds me of the Golden House,” said Epaphroditus. “See that mosaic of Diana in front of the steps? I’m almost certain that was lifted stone by stone from the anteroom to Nero’s bedchamber.”

“It makes sense that the Flavians would have stripped the Golden House to decorate their amphitheater,” said Lucius. “But surely the entire structure isn’t decorated this elaborately.”