For a while, Lucius had received more business than he could handle, as his studio turned out one statue after another—so many, so fast, that he frequently ran out of marble. Eventually marble became as scarce as gold, as quarries all over the empire, one after another, were stricken by the plague. Usually, the lowly slaves in the quarries were easily replaced, but when they died by the hundreds and thousands, even the quarries were depopulated.
When Lucius crossed the city nowadays, he averted his eyes from those statues, which had appeared all over Rome in the first stages of the plague, or at least from the ones for which he was responsible. In the mounting rush, and with so much money pouring in, he had allowed his standards to slip. One statue of a senator was simply copied from the last—the same stance, hands, gestures—with only the facial features given any distinction, as his sculptors worked from wax masks of the dead. Some of the workmanship was appalling. Lucius was simply responding to the demands of his clients, he tried to tell himself, performing a public duty—but he knew that it was really greed that had gotten the better of him, along with the perverse satisfaction of being so much in demand, never mind that a plague was the cause.
It was not only the quarries that had come to a standstill. All over Italy and in every sort of endeavor there had been a sudden and severe loss of manpower. With no slaves to harvest them, crops rotted in the field. With no slaves to load the ships, cargoes sat on piers. Trade slowed to a trickle, and now one heard rumors of famine, growing closer and closer to Rome.
As Lucius gazed at the pit of plastered corpses, something Marcus once said echoed in his head. “Consider all the mortals that populated the earth before us, generation upon generation, extending back through countless centuries. All are dead, all turned to dust—so many, one wonders how the earth has room to hold them all.”
Lucius called to his bearers. “Let’s be off again. Quickly!”
No sooner had he escaped the stench of the pit than he saw ahead of him an unearthly sight.
In recent days, the remaining artisans in his workshop had been toiling day and night to satisfy an order that had come directly from Marcus, who specified a great many statues to be fashioned not from marble (a good thing, as there was none), but from old-fashioned terracotta, which was much lighter and more easily moved. These statues were to represent many different gods and goddesses, each made to human scale and depicted reclining on one elbow, as if settled on a dining couch. For Marcus, Lucius had insisted on the highest standards, despite the rush, and had overseen much of the production himself, even doing some of the painting. In the end he had been rather proud of those statues. Properly painted, terra-cotta could pass for marble, unless one thumped it with a finger. His overflowing workshop had come to resemble a house party crammed with too many guests.
Now he saw how the statues had been put to use. Overnight, scores of dining couches had been taken outdoors and arranged as if for a very large banquet. These couches were so elegant they could only have come from the imperial palace, and almost certainly from storage, since Lucius had never seen Marcus use furniture so fine. Upon these exquisitely carved and upholstered couches the reclining statues of the gods had been placed, so that it appeared as if the gods themselves had gathered for a banquet. Before each deity had been placed round tables piled high with offerings—not the coarse food of mortals, but precious incense and flowers and other aromatic substances, for everyone knew that gods lived from intangible stuff: sweet smells and smoke and the praise of mortals.
Lucius ordered the bearers to stop. He had never seen anything like it. Nor had anyone else. Having failed to end the plague with all ordinary appeals to the gods, Marcus, as Pontifex Maximus, had searched the state archives for ancient purificatory rites, and had discovered this one, which called for statues of all the gods to be placed in prominent locations all around the city, making all of Rome into a banqueting hall for the immortals. Priests would chant, people would gather and pray, and surely the well-fed gods would show their favor.
Even exotic deities had been included. Lucius himself had put the final touches to the rather fine statue of Isis that he saw reclining on a couch nearby. Her inclusion at the feast was probably due to influence of the Egyptian priest Harnouphis, who had risen to a privileged place in the imperial household. Isis was also quite popular with the citizens, to judge by the many offerings and tokens that had been piled up around her. Among the flowers and bits of cinnamon Lucius saw crude clay effigies, representations of the still-living children for whom their parents asked divine protection from the plague.
Isis would not be lonely at the banquet. Nearby Lucius saw statues of Apollo, Latona, Diana, Mercury, Hercules, and Neptune.
He called to the bearers, and hurried on.
The streets became narrower as he drew closer to his house. On doorways to either side he saw the charms that had been nailed onto many of the doors. These charms took various forms, depending on which wonder-worker had sold them to the occupants. Some doors had several such charms, from several sources. Most were made of thin, cheap metal etched with designs or letters, some more sophisticated than others. Of late, on many doors, Lucius had noticed circular tin disks, elaborately stippled around the edges, etched with letters of some foreign alphabet, and painted with a head of Medusa. Supposedly the words of the spell along with the Gorgon’s glare would prevent the plague from entering. Were any of these charms efficacious? Lucius had no reason to think so, since people all up and down the street, whether they used the charms or not, continued to fall ill and die.
The Gorgon disks, he knew, came from a particular wonder-worker—or more likely, charlatan—named Alexander, who was new in the city. Lucius’s brother had encountered him in the East. According to Kaeso, the man had preyed on soldiers, selling them charms that would supposedly keep them safe in battle—charms that Kaeso himself had seen on many a dead body on the battlefield. Alexander had a traveling workshop that produced amulets to ward off every evil and to cure every illness.
These were not free, of course. Alexander must have made a good living from selling them, though one would never know it to look at him, as he shambled about the city in worn shoes and tattered clothes, haranguing anyone who would stop to listen. “The humblest servant of the gods I am,” he would say, “just doing what I can to help my fellow mortals.”
As the bearers rounded a corner, Lucius saw the wonder-worker himself. In an open area surrounded by shops and shadowed by a few tall trees, a considerable crowd had gathered. One seldom saw such large gatherings since the coming of the plague. Alexander was not alone in addressing the crowd. A rival wonder-worker was competing for attention. Unlike Alexander, this man was dressed in the multicolored robes and high headdress of a Chaldean magus, trained to read the stars. He, too, had charms to sell. His servants were moving through the crowd, displaying little figurines that depicted various demigods and mortals, like Castor and Pollux, who had been placed by the gods among the stars. “The Gemini look down from the heavens and weep to see such suffering!” the magus cried. “Place one of these figures in every room of your home, to look after you and each of your loved ones! If you have slaves, protect them as well.”
“What absolute nonsense!” shouted Alexander. “You are a Chaldean, Julianus. You know nothing at all about talismans and amulets. Stick to reading the stars! Or better yet, give that up as well, since your powers are obviously useless. Did your insight into celestial mechanics foretell the plague? Did you warn the people of what was to come? I think not! Tell us when the plague will be over, if you are able, but leave the care of the people to me!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” shouted Julianus. “My charms have successfully warded off the plague in a third of the city, while everyone knows that the houses displaying your amulets are the ones hardest hit.”
“Then why do you see so many of my Medusa charms, all over the city?”
“Because, you fool, there is no one left a
live in those houses to take them down!”
Some in the crowd laughed, but only a few. Public laughter had become a rare thing in Rome.
With more and more people gathering to watch them, the two wonder-workers hurled ever more vicious and outrageous insults at each other. “Why, they’re nothing more than actors,” muttered Lucius to himself. “Look at those two, all puffed up by the attentions of their audience.” There was something not quite right about the situation. Were they in fact actors, working from a script? Were they colluding with each other, and only pretending to argue?
Lucius knew of only one charm that had demonstrated any power over the plague, and that was the amulet passed down by his ancestors. Through his tunic, he clutched the golden fascinum nestled in the cleft of his chest, securely attached to its necklace. Silently, he thanked the god Fascinus—and then snatched his hand away, fearful that some malevolent power might sense his thoughts and set about inflicting the plague upon his household, deliberately trying to thwart the protection of the fascinum.
Where is Galen when you most need him? he thought. All other physicians had been powerless to cure or stop the plague, but if any man could do so, it would be Galen—who might, in fact, arrive in Rome any day now. The physician’s most recent letter from Pergamum brought news that the two emperors had summoned him back to Rome, not to care for the imperial household, but to accompany Verus and his legions north, where Germanic barbarians were causing trouble along the border. Another war was looming, and the Roman legions, already suffering from the plague, would have need of the very best physicians. Galen should have been flattered by the summons, Lucius thought, but in his letter he expressed only dismay. Whatever his own wishes, after his hasty exit from Rome, Galen did not dare to ignore a direct summons from the emperors.
“On, on!” cried Lucius to his bearers, but as they made their way through the spectators, the crowd grew thicker, and their progress was slow. No sooner had they passed the quarreling wonder-workers than they came upon another crowd, this one gathered to watch something in a fig tree.
The tree was in full leaf, so that hardly a branch could be seen, only a canopy of green. From the tree’s uppermost reaches, a human head emerged from the shimmering green leaves. No body could be seen, only the head, but that was not the strangest thing, for the face and the bald pate were a vivid shade of red. Amid so much crimson, the wide, unblinking eyes were strikingly white. People were staring up at the head in awe. As Lucius drew nearer, he realized the head was speaking.
“This is the end!” cried the head, in a deep, sonorous voice, speaking with such a strange accent it might have been comic had the words not been so dire. “The gods have not just turned their backs on us—they have turned against us! The plague will grow worse and worse, until every mortal in Rome is too weak to stand, and then what will become of those few survivors? Do you want to know more? The end was foretold by an oracle that dwells on the most distant mountain beyond the most distant sea ever sailed by mortal men. I sailed that sea! I climbed that mountain! I heard the oracle speak and wrote down every word—a poem of nine hundred and ninety-nine lines—though at the time I could hardly imagine what it meant. I journeyed many years to come back to Rome, and the moment I arrived, the words of the oracle began to come true. But … there is one small sliver of hope, one faint ray that lights the dark portals of days to come. Do you want to know more? Shall I speak? Shall I recite the oracle’s prophecy?”
The spellbound crowd shouted as one. “Yes! Speak!”
“A man in a yellow cap moves among you, with a bronze bowl for collecting alms. When the bowl is full, I shall speak again. Throw coins into the bowl! Make the music of silver upon bronze. I long to speak, to tell you all I know. Give alms! Give alms!”
From his high seat on the litter, Lucius scanned the crowd and spotted the yellow cap in their midst. He heard the clattering of coins tossed into the bowl.
“Well, that’s another way to rob fools of their money!” he muttered to himself, though in fact he, too, was rather curious to hear what the man would say next. Then there was a commotion of some sort, and a surge of movement in the crowd, and loud cries of alarm. A group of armed Praetorians forced their way through the spectators, heading for the fig tree.
“Out of there!” cried the officer in charge. “Get out of that tree, you scoundrel!”
The eyes opened wide—a flash of white surrounded by the red face—and then the whole head vanished into the canopy of fig leaves. There followed the sounds of breaking branches and squeals of protest, and then the man was forcibly pulled from the tree. Praetorians gripped him by the arms. Lucius saw that the man was dressed in a dark robe with long sleeves. His hands had been darkened somehow. The intention was obvious: to hide his body from sight while his head appeared to float above the leaves—a simple but remarkably effective bit of stagecraft. Even Lucius had felt a shiver of the uncanny, watching him. The man’s deep voice had also cast a spell, but now he was squeaking like a mouse, begging the guards to let him go.
“You there!” shouted Lucius. “Officer in charge! What’s the man done?”
The Praetorian looked up, ready to bark an order, but then he saw Lucius’s toga. “Good day, Senator. We are arresting this foreigner and his compatriot for falsely collecting alms. They’re no better than thieves. They’ve been putting on this little play all over the city. This time we caught them in the act.”
“But if they’re merely actors, and this is a show, where’s the crime?”
“Senator, surely you know that all performances of any sort must be approved in advance by the magistrates. And these fellows are no common street mimes. Did you not hear them? They’re uttering blasphemy, even as the emperors are doing everything they can to placate the gods. It’s sedition. When the city prefect hears his case, this scoundrel will be lucky to keep his head on his shoulders, painted red or otherwise.”
“Ah, well, then … yes, I see,” said Lucius. “But unless he’s a Roman citizen, he’s not likely to be granted the mercy of beheading. More likely, he’ll be crucified.”
The man—street mime, actor, or whatever he was—overheard, and began wailing in terror.
The Praetorians went about their business, the crowd dispersed, and the litter-bearers were able to move forward again.
What a sad, sordid place Rome has become, thought Lucius, full of frightened people, and the tricksters who prey on people’s fear. Would the banquet set out for the gods make a difference? No one doubted that Marcus was doing all he could to save the city and its people. Lucius clutched the fascinum and whispered a prayer, asking the gods to help Marcus and to show mercy on Rome.
On a sudden impulse, Lucius gave new instructions to the bearers. More than one of them groaned aloud at the order, for they were very near his house but now would have to make a detour. It was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of one’s domestic slaves, especially since the plague had made finding reliable servants harder than ever, but Lucius knew the side trip was worthwhile as soon as its objective came into view.
He called the men to a halt and stepped from the litter, for the only way to view the great arch of Marcus and Verus was on foot, making a slow circle all the way around it. The arch had been completed just in time for the triumph. On its facade were numerous sculptural reliefs depicting both Verus’s victories on the battlefield and the bounty and peace of Rome under Marcus’s steady hand, but by far the finest and most striking part of the monument were the two gilded equestrian statues atop the arch. Lucius’s father might have created greater works of art—his many images of Antinous, or the fantastic quadriga atop Hadrian’s mausoleum—but on his own, since he had been in sole charge of the workshop, these were Lucius’s masterpieces. His Marcus, seated so serenely yet so commandingly on his steed, was nearly as grand as Hadrian in his chariot, and his Verus, likewise mounted on a charger, was almost as handsome as Antinous. To see these two statues shining golden in the lowering sun gave him
a moment of respite, a brief, bright memory of the order and beauty that had existed in Rome only a short while ago, and might yet exist again, especially with two such fine emperors to lead her out of darkness.
* * *
When Lucius at last arrived home, he ordered a ration of wine for the bearers, which earned him a cheer louder than their previous groans. He made his way through the house, to the garden.
Pinaria looked up from her sewing. His daughter was still not married, alas, and was not soon likely to be, given the dearth of suitors caused by the plague. Young Gaius looked up from the board game he was playing with his uncle Kaeso and gave his father a smile. Kaeso, too, looked up, but did not smile. With his creased brow and grave expression, how old he looked for a young man of twenty-seven! In all the months he had been back from the wars with Verus in the East, Kaeso had not smiled even once. Nor had he spoken much. Kaeso mostly brooded. From the few comments he had made, it seemed the experience of war had not been a good thing for Kaeso. He would only allude vaguely to things he had seen and places he had been, never giving details.
At least the silly board game he was playing with Gaius—some nonsense to do with throwing dice and avoiding the jaws of a Nile crocodile while rescuing a kidnapped princess—seemed to be providing Kaeso with a bit of distraction.
Absent from the garden was Lucius’s wife, who had died not from the plague but suddenly and without much suffering a few months before the plague arrived. How singular and without parallel had seemed Lucius’s grief in the days after Paulina died, until so many others began to die. How he still missed her, every time he stepped into this garden! How he still missed his father, who also had died of natural causes, long before the plague.
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