by Randy Singer
Just when I thought the crowd might explode with ecstasy, one of the slaves handed Calpurnia a long-handled knife. She grasped it with both hands and raised it over her head, prompting a full-throated bellow from the onlookers. The drums beat faster, the dancers kept pace, and the crowd pulsed with anticipation of what would happen next.
Calpurnia stepped behind the heifer, holding the knife aloft, staring at it as if it held some kind of enchanting power, and then swung it around with a violent double-fisted stroke that sliced the underside of the great heifer’s neck.
The drums stopped, the crowd hushed, and the heifer crumpled to its knees. Blood poured through a hole cut in the platform directly above Flavia’s head, drenching her in a crimson shower that matted her hair and covered her face and body. She knelt there as the blood cascaded over her, her palms upturned, blood soaking every inch of the once-white robe that now clung to her body like a second layer of skin.
After a minute, she wiped the blood from her eyes and opened them, a contrast of almond and white against the crimson face. She brushed her hair back, wiped her eyes a second time, and stood to face the crowd, holding her arms aloft. The Forum erupted in cheers, even louder than before. Tellus had been appeased; Mother Earth would yield her offspring; Rome would enjoy its bounty.
Still dripping with blood, Flavia walked over and knelt in front of Sejanus. The crowd quieted again as he placed a hand on her head and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Flavia bowed her head and closed her eyes, soaking in the blessing from the second-most-powerful man in all of Rome.
“Welcome back,” Seneca said to me.
We left before the second part of the ritual, where the baby calf would be extracted and burned. The ashes would be saved by the Vestals and sprinkled on a bonfire during the Festival of Parilia.
We elbowed our way through the crowd until we found enough privacy to talk.
“She saw us in the crowd,” Seneca said. “We are supposed to meet in the Forum later, but I thought it would be important for her to know we were at the sacrifice.”
I was still getting used to being treated as a peer by Seneca. In a few hours he and I would be meeting with one of the Vestal Virgins. A man of my station and age would never have such opportunity apart from the influence of my friend and former teacher.
But I also knew that I could be honest with the man.
“The Greek gods are less bloodthirsty,” I said.
“I know,” Seneca replied without looking at me. “And the Greeks are not ruling the world.”
CHAPTER 8
I had missed the Roman Forum during my time in Greece, even the self-important politicians and greedy businessmen who scurried around at the epicenter of the civilized world. It was a place to see and be seen. I soaked in the energy as Seneca and I waited for our meeting with Flavia under the Arch of Augustus.
A few minutes after we arrived, I saw her entourage proceed up the Via Sacra. She rode in a litter bedecked with silver and jewels, reflecting the sun, carried by four hairy, barrel-chested Ethiopians. Lictors preceded her, clearing the way with shouts and an occasional use of the rod.
People stood aside as Flavia passed, and some onlookers burst into spontaneous applause. Fortune smiled on anyone who came close to a Vestal—her very presence was so powerful that if her shadow fortuitously fell across the path of a condemned prisoner, he was automatically freed.
There were only six active Vestals in Rome, but eighteen women served at the temple of Vesta. The youngest six were students; the next six, including Flavia, were in active service. The six oldest taught the students and presided over the most important ceremonies. Thus, a senior Vestal like Calpurnia slit the throat of the heifer, but a younger Vestal like Flavia ended up taking the blood bath.
All Vestals were selected by the emperor himself for thirty years of service. It was the grandest of all beauty contests. Patrician families from all over the empire brought their young girls, between the ages of six and ten, to the House of Vestal. According to law, the girls had to be free of physical and mental defect and the daughters of Roman citizens. According to custom, the girls also had to be beautiful and blazingly smart.
The Vestal matron filtered hundreds of candidates, narrowing the field to about a dozen. Then the emperor appraised the candidates. It was one of the most harrowing mornings known to our culture, as the young girls responded to the rapid-fire questions of the emperor, withering under the scrutiny of his personal inspection, until he decided on the most worthy candidates.
At that point, the candidates would stand in a line with their parents behind them. The emperor would approach the winners one by one and extend his hand. “I take you, amata, my beloved, to be a Vestal priestess, who will carry out the sacred rites on behalf of the Roman people.”
Then he would lead the winners away from their parents. Many times the young girls’ lips would tremble, their eyes welling with tears. They were not allowed to look back. Their heads would be shaved, and they would move into the temple of Vesta. Their parents would leave the temple with heavy hearts but with the pride of knowing their daughter was a chosen one.
Amata. Loved by the Pontifex Maximus.
Flavia had been the very first Vestal chosen by Tiberius Caesar, who was rumored to have an exquisite eye for potential beauty. Even at a young age, Flavia could turn heads, and she was known to have a true zest for life.
I felt a little overwhelmed by the grandeur of the approaching dignitary. “Are you sure it is all right for me to be here?” I asked.
Seneca didn’t bother looking my way. “You’ve been trained by the best Greek rhetoricians,” he said, staring straight ahead as if transfixed by the Vestal. “Not to mention the most brilliant Roman tutors. Just do your best not to outshine your teacher.”
I tried to convince myself that Seneca was right. I had been trained for this. All of that practice by the Aegean Sea, the dissecting and analysis of the great philosophers and orators, even the physical discipline from gymnastics—it would all pay off. I had mastered my subjects. I was more than ready for this moment.
But I had not yet mastered all the social graces required at this level of Roman society, nor had I perfected the art of self-deception. So the closer Flavia got, the more I felt my mouth drying up. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst through my toga. At least I had Seneca with me. The man was never at a loss for words.
I couldn’t help but stare when Flavia’s procession stopped in front of us. She alighted from the litter in her sparkling white robe and long palla that was secured by a brooch and draped over her left shoulder. Her hair was fixed in the style of Vestals—separated into six braids and woven on top of her head to form a sort of crown. I had heard the style required waist-length hair.
Flavia shooed away her lictors, and they formed a semicircle around the Arch of Augustus to give us space.
I was immediately drawn to the woman. She had large brown eyes, full lips, and a beautiful smile that came quickly and naturally. She seemed so relaxed for someone of her station. I sensed that I was in the presence of greatness, though she was only two years older than me.
She smiled at Seneca as he greeted her with a customary kiss on the hand, and I followed his lead. “Some say you are the next Cicero,” she told him.
Seneca tried to shrug it off. “Some people will say anything to curry favor.”
She grinned because he had fallen for her trap. “In my circles, comparisons to Cicero, the champion of the Republic and the critic of all things imperial, are not necessarily compliments.”
“The man did have a bit of a populist flair,” Seneca said as if it were a crime.
He quickly introduced me and told Flavia how I had studied under the Greeks at the School of Molon. Her face lit up. “I love the Greeks,” she said. “They’re idealists. They build cultures and philosophies. We build roads.”
She moved a half step closer and reached out to touch my arm. “Tell me about the School of Molo
n. One of the problems with being a Vestal is that we cannot travel much.”
At that moment, all my rhetorical training betrayed me. My tongue no longer seemed to fit my mouth, and I stumbled through my first few sentences. Even so, I was amazed at how Flavia listened, soaking it all in, barely blinking, making me feel like the most important man on earth. She had an almost-irresistible charm and a disarming personality. When she spoke, she displayed a quick wit and a convincing tone that had me smiling and nodding.
After fifteen minutes of casual conversation with Seneca and me, Flavia lowered her voice and turned serious. I was ready to do whatever she requested. “Have you been to the games lately?” she asked Seneca.
He frowned. “The games are Rome at her worst. The lowest and basest instincts of our citizens all compressed into ten hours of slaughter.”
Flavia nodded, and concern wrinkled her brow. “I’m sick of the bloodshed, Seneca, and I suspected you might share my feelings. As one of Rome’s brightest minds, you may be able to help me.”
Seneca was wise enough not to answer immediately. He understood the importance of the games to Rome’s political system. Tiberius was said to be an emperor of “bread and circuses.” He kept the masses happy by supplying free bread for hundreds of thousands and free entertainment that featured the most vicious and bloody games the empire had ever seen. Plus, the executions that occurred during the lunchtime intermissions served as a vivid reminder that crossing Rome meant a painful and scandalous death.
“I’ve heard that Tiberius is not really a supporter of the games,” Flavia continued. “I sit in the box with Sejanus, who can barely stand them himself. And the bloodshed is only getting worse. More men die with each spectacle, and the crowds become bored if the blood doesn’t flow faster and faster. Your opinions are highly regarded both here and on the island of Capri. I would consider a letter from you to Tiberius about the games a personal favor. I have asked a few other influential citizens, including three senators, to do the same.” She fixed Seneca with her stare, and I marveled at her intensity.
I knew my mentor well enough to know that he was conflicted. He espoused Stoicism but lived as a man of luxury. He preached detachment but craved approval. Seneca needed popularity the way grapes needed rain, and nothing could destroy his popularity more quickly than taking a stand against the games.
“I think you overestimate my stature with Tiberius,” Seneca said in a halfhearted attempt at humility. “And I am not sure he dislikes the games as much as you think. But I’m willing to help however I can. Give me a few days, and perhaps I will have something worthy of your request.”
Flavia broke into a smile, thanked Seneca profusely, and kissed him on both cheeks. She did the same to me, and I watched slack-jawed as she walked away, mission accomplished. She thanked us again and waved as she climbed into her litter.
As Seneca and I watched her go, I realized that Flavia had done what great orators before her could not—she had rendered Seneca dumbstruck without even trying.
“I never liked the games anyway,” Seneca said, still staring after the Vestal’s entourage.
“Funny,” I replied. “You never mentioned that to me.”
CHAPTER 9
After our meeting with Flavia, Seneca asked me to try my hand at drafting a letter for him to the emperor, and I attacked the job with great vigor. I knew that a man like Tiberius would not be repulsed by bloodshed. He had commanded legions in Germania, Pannonia, and Illyricum and had undoubtedly sentenced thousands of prisoners to the cross. On the battlefield, he had seen blood flow like the Tiber. He had tied deserters to horses facing opposite directions, whipped the horses, and watched the men get ripped in half. Surely the deaths of a few thousand gladiators and criminals wouldn’t bother him.
But I had an approach that just might work.
Tiberius was exceedingly paranoid. A fisherman had once climbed the rocks of Capri to present a gift of fresh fish to the emperor. Alarmed that the fisherman had made it past his guards, Tiberius ordered the man’s face scrubbed with the fish.
Later, the fisherman was purported to have said, “I’m glad I didn’t bring him crabs!”
When word got back to Tiberius, he had the man brought before him a second time.
“Scrub his face with crabs!” the emperor commanded.
Such was the character of the man who ruled Rome, the intended recipient of our letter. He wielded great power but secretly believed that half of Rome was conspiring to kill him. He suspected a dagger under every toga.
He was also a man obsessed with his legacy. Rulers were judged by what they built and whom they conquered. Both required a strong economy. So that was where I began.
I spent three days compiling data. I attended gladiator training camps and talked to the lanistae—the managers—letting them know I was working for Flavia, though I didn’t tell them the nature of my assignment. I checked death records. I pulled together programs of past fights. I talked to friends who were avid fans and closely followed the games. I was building my case, and I wanted to make Seneca proud. I had been his star pupil once. Now he was my benefactor, and we both had a lot on the line.
I started the letter with the customary language honoring Caesar and then turned my attention to Spartacus’s revolt. Gladiators had killed their own trainers and battled Rome’s legions for three years. Crassus had crucified six thousand of them.
By my calculations, there were at least sixteen thousand gladiators training in Rome as I drafted the letter. That nearly equaled the combined forces of three Roman legions and far outnumbered the imperial troops in Rome. Most of the gladiators were slaves or prisoners of war—enemies of Rome. If Spartacus could mount a rebellion with a few thousand, what could his counterpart do today? And Spartacus had been far outside Rome. Now the gladiators trained in the very shadow of the emperor’s palace.
But that wasn’t all. The average life span of a gladiator was twenty-two years. Three-quarters of them died before completing ten fights. One out of every six fights resulted in death. I estimated that about eight thousand gladiators died each year throughout the empire at a total cost of more than sixty million sestertii to purchase and train their replacements. The games, I argued, were robbing the empire of the capacity to expand and build.
And if eight thousand died this year, it would take ten thousand the next to satisfy the bloodlust of the spectators. It was an enormous expense and a lurking danger to Rome. Why not curtail the games? Why not emphasize the chariot races and other competitions that did not result in death?
For three days I slaved over the letter, writing and rewriting until my eyes grew bleary. During that time, I might have managed a total of ten hours of sleep. It would all be worth it if Seneca read the letter, nodded, and signed it proudly.
When I finally had the opportunity to present it to him, he perused it thoughtfully, and I held my breath. This was, after all, correspondence that would go directly to the emperor! Seneca finished, frowned, and didn’t say a word for an unbearable few seconds.
He finally looked up. “What did you learn in Greece about the most effective form of advocacy?” he asked.
We were friends now, but he was still the teacher. I responded confidently, though his frown had already dampened my spirit.
“Ethos, pathos, and logos,” I said. “Aristotle. The best advocate is one who combines his personal credibility, an emotional tug, and solid logic.”
As the words left my mouth, I knew what Seneca would say. My letter was long on logic and short on emotion. Yet it was intended to be. Classical forms of persuasion wouldn’t work on a man like Tiberius. He was unemotional, skeptical, suspicious. He would see through emotional ploys and react negatively. I had considered all of that as I had labored over every word.
Yet Seneca said nothing of the sort.
“You have always been good at the books, Theophilus. But in real life, people are persuaded by stories. Facts get stuck in the head, shielded by our biases and
struck down by the swords of our preconceptions. Stories go straight to the heart. Tiberius has not been to the games for a very long time. We must remind him of what it feels like there—how it debases the human spirit and shrinks the soul.”
Seneca told me to meet him at the Fordicidia games. Like every other patrician trying to find his place in Roman society, I had already planned on attending. The games were Rome’s premier social event. There the elite families of the senators mingled with their friends, contracts and alliances were formed, promotions and positions were cemented. If the Forum was the nerve center of the Roman Empire, the games—at least for now, at least until Tiberius could be convinced to decree otherwise—were its blood-pumping heart.
Because I had left Rome before I was old enough to attend, I had never been to the games myself.
“You may want to eat something before you attend,” Seneca warned. “You’ll lose your appetite by lunch.”
CHAPTER 10
The Circus Maximus was the largest arena in the world. Over 2,000 feet long and 387 feet wide, it had a seating capacity that exceeded 150,000. At the height of the games, during a close chariot race or when two gladiators were evenly matched, the roar of the crowd would thunder through the seven hills of Rome, clawing out to the surrounding city and echoing back on itself. Seasoned spectators claimed that the noise made their ears ring for minutes afterward, as if the waves of the Mediterranean were crashing in their heads. The arena, they said, literally shook with the noise.
The Circus was located below the imperial residence on the Palatine Hill and was connected to the palace by an underground tunnel that opened to the emperor’s luxurious, shaded box. The sprawling palace, full of arches and frescoes and colored marble, formed a stunning backdrop to the arena. The shadow of the emperor’s house loomed over the festivities like a father hovering over his children at play.
