by Barbara Wood
When Amelia finished the story, little Lucius scrambled to his feet and, putting his arms around her, said, “Does Jesus love me, too, Mother?”
“Children, go play,” Cornelia snapped suddenly, complaining it was too hot to have children around. Her sister and brothers’ wives, bored with the stories and the heat, gathered up their babies and drifted toward the house where splashing fountains offered relief. But Cornelia remained beneath the sycamore, ordering one slave to bring more cool wine and another to apply more vigor to the ostrich fan he was wafting. Rocking the cradle where her baby fussed in his damp cloths, she said, “I had a dream last night. Something is wrong in the city.”
She had her mother’s instant attention. Dreams were important. Their messages were not to be ignored.
“It was nothing specific,” Cornelia said, squinting at the garden wall, as if she could see beyond it, over the miles and hills to where Rome baked in the July heat. “I just wish Papa would join us.”
“He has many duties.”
“Duties!” Cornelia said sulkily. “He’s in Rome with his mistress. You did know that, didn’t you, Mother, that Papa has a mistress?”
Amelia had suspected as much. Cornelius had a healthy sexual appetite, and since he had not visited her bed in years, she assumed he was finding release elsewhere. She resumed carding the wool.
“How can you tolerate it?”
Amelia stared at her daughter. Cornelia was acting the injured party, as though her father were being unfaithful to her. “What your father does is his own business.”
“You know who it is, don’t you? It’s Lucilla. He took her to Egypt with him. Did you know that?”
Amelia did not want to speak of it, for it was in bad taste to do so and besides, it was none of her daughter’s business.
Cornelia looked at her mother and said with a frown, “You’re putting on weight.”
Amelia looked down at herself. It was true, she was plump. But what woman wasn’t after ten pregnancies? “It happens as one gets older, Cornelia,” she said, wondering at the unexpected criticism.
“Still, it isn’t becoming.” Cornelia gestured impatiently to the wet nurse to take the fretting infant away. “And this new religion. Worshipping a dead Jew. It’s unseemly.”
Amelia put her carding down. “Cornelia, why are you so angry with me?”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“Well something has put you in a bad humor.”
Cornelia, seventeen years old and hating the monotony of country life, brushed a bee from her arm. “Papa’s mistress. You drove him to it.”
“That is between your father and me.”
“Then why do you wear that necklace? It isn’t right that you should flaunt it.”
Amelia curbed her impatience. “It was a gift from your father.”
“Really, Mother, I am not a child. I know why he gave it to you. All of Rome knows why. It’s unbecoming that you should wear it so.”
Amelia ran her hand over the carded wool, feeling the rich lanolin on her fingertips. The subject of what happened six years ago had never come up between her and her youngest daughter. She had hoped it never would. “Cornelia, dear,” she began.
“Don’t try to defend yourself,” Cornelia said as she felt for an errant curl on her damp neck and forcefully tucked it back up into her chignon. “You drove Papa away from you,” she said petulantly. “He’s only a man. With your infidelity, you drove him to another woman.”
“Cornelia!”
“It’s true. Papa would never commit adultery otherwise.”
Amelia stared at her daughter in frank shock.
“And he is still seeing her,” Cornelia continued peevishly. “And it’s all your fault.”
“What your father does in his private time—”
“It isn’t just that. It’s that boy, Lucius.” The orphan whom Cornelius had adopted.
Amelia looked over to where Lucius was playing fetch with Fido. “What about him?”
“He calls you Mother.”
“I am his mother, legally anyway,” Amelia said, and a terrible foreboding began to steal over her. “And he is a blood relative,” she continued, her throat tightening with a chilling presentiment. “His parents were Vitellii.”
“Oh Mother, how can you be so blind?”
Suddenly, there it was, out in the open. What Amelia had unconsciously known for a while but which she had been fooling herself into ignoring: she had told herself that the boy’s resemblance to Cornelius was due to his Vitellius blood. But now she saw it clearly, what Cornelia was about to reveal: that Lucius was Cornelius’s son.
Pressing her hand to her necklace, drawing comfort from the feel of the blue crystal beneath her fingers, she recited a silent prayer: God give me strength…
“We will speak no more of it,” she said in a tight voice, reaching for more wool.
“And it doesn’t bother you that Lucius is Lucilla’s son? That everyone in Rome knows that Papa adopted his mistress’s bastard and that he is still seeing her?”
“That is enough!” Amelia said. And as she met her daughter’s challenging glare, she noticed for the first time that the strong resemblance Cornelia bore to her father wasn’t a natural one. Amelia recalled a time when Cornelia had had softer features, a more forgiving face. But as the years went by she had developed the habit of pinching her nostrils and firming her lips as though in constant disapproval, the way Cornelius did. The result was to shape her face to look like his. “Cornelia, what did I do to make you despise me so?”
The girl averted her eyes. “You cheated on Papa.”
“After he threw away my baby.” There. It was out in the open.
“He did the right thing! It was deformed! You must have done something wrong!”
Amelia was stunned to see her daughter on the verge of tears. And just as Cornelia blurted, “It’s all your fault. The baby—everything!” a slave came running from the house, shouting, “Lady! Lady! The city is on fire!”
They watched the fire for six days, receiving reports from runners who brought daily updates. The villa was in an uproar, its daily schedule brought to a halt as the family and slaves climbed to the roof and saw the red sky in the distance. Rome, burning…
Was it the end of the world? Amelia wondered. Was this what Rachel and her friends had been prophesying? Is Jesus about to enter Rome?
Cornelius sent word that he was all right. He had ridden to Antium to give the news to the emperor. But it was her friends Amelia was worried about: Phoebe, who was old and infirm, Japheth who, being mute, could not call for help, and Gaspar, with one arm. How were these to escape the flames?
They would later learn that the fire began in the circus, where it adjoined the Palatine and Caeline Hills. Breaking out in shops selling flammable goods and fanned by the wind, the conflagration instantly grew as there were no walled mansions or temples to stop it. The fire swept first across the level spaces, then it climbed the hills, outstripping every effort to stop it. The ancient city’s narrow winding streets and irregular blocks made its progress swift and easy. But the worst horror was the panic among its citizens as the avenues and alleys were clogged with people trying to flee. Eyewitnesses brought reports of utter chaos among the population as those intent upon their own survival trampled the helpless. When people ran blindly down smoke-filled streets, shrieking, they would find a wall of flames before them or outflanking them. When they escaped to a neighboring quarter, the fire followed—like a beast with a will. Finally, the terrified populace crowded onto the country roads and poured into the fields and farms.
There were bizarre reports of menacing gangs preventing firefighters from dousing the flames. Torches were openly thrown by men declaring that they acted under orders. And then there was the obscene and unhampered plundering. People lying in the streets, still alive, were stripped of clothing and jewelry. Men trying to save their homes were bludgeoned as vandals rushed in to loot.
When N
ero returned to the still-burning city, making certain everyone knew that he had left the safety of Antium, thus risking his own life because he loved his people so, he threw open the Campus Martius, Agrippa’s public buildings, even his own gardens for the relief of the homeless masses. He had food brought from neighboring towns, and the price of corn was reduced. Yet these measures earned him no praise. For a rumor began to spread that while the city was burning Nero had performed for his inner circle, singing of the destruction of Troy. And an even worse rumor: that Nero himself, desiring to build a new city, had ordered the fire started.
By the sixth day the raging flames met only bare ground and open sky, and the fire finally died out at the foot of the Esquiline Hill. Of Rome’s fourteen districts only four remained intact. Three were leveled completely to the ground, the others were reduced to scorched ruins. To count the mansions, blocks, and temples destroyed was impossible. And the number of homeless people, orphaned children, widowed spouses was beyond count.
For a week Amelia’s heart was in her throat as she thought of her friends, and waited anxiously for word. She would have gone herself had she not had her own family to think of, for streams of refugees were now clogging the roads and begging at the villas of the rich. She would have opened her doors to them were there not an unruly element among them, brigands who, taking advantage of the disaster, took to marauding the countryside, attacking refugees and homes until finally a cohort of soldiers was dispatched to restore order.
Until she received word from Rachel herself, Amelia could do nothing but wait and worry and pray.
Cornelius finally returned to report that while their own city property had been spared, much of their hill lay in blackened ruin, and their house had suffered smoke damage. He was having a new residence built at once, he said, and in the meantime the entire family was to stay in the country, where the air and water were pure and fresh, and they were safe from the diseases that were now sweeping through the destroyed city.
It was to be nearly a year before they returned, but in the meantime Amelia received a letter from Rachel saying that her own house had been spared and that most of the house-church members, praise God, had gotten through the disaster unscathed. They were resuming their weekly Sabbath meetings and would include Amelia in their prayers. Rachel also managed to send visitors and letters from Paul, and because Cornelius was in the city for most of the time, Amelia organized a small house-church of her own and invited family and slaves to take part. Cornelia would have nothing to do with her mother’s activities and spent most of her time being fretfully pregnant with her second child, keeping to a summer pavilion adjacent to the villa, where she entertained her own friends.
In the meantime, Rome was rebuilt and many profited from it. Nero contracted with private entrepreneurs to have rubble removed and dumped in the Ostian marshes by corn ships returning down the Tiber. He decreed that a portion of every new building be made of fireproof stone from Alba. Householders were obliged to keep firefighting apparatus in their homes, such equipment being purchasable from local distributors. Rome was alive with the sound of money changing hands.
After a time, Amelia began to wonder at Cornelius’s new cheerfulness. Every time he visited the villa, he announced that they were going to become incredibly rich on the rebuilding of Rome. His ships were the ones that had gotten the contract to bring in new building materials. He had had the foresight, he bragged, to monopolize the stone market at the quarries. After a while, recalling how he had insisted that the entire family move to the country, and the haste of that move, a terrible thought began to haunt her: had Cornelius known about the fire ahead of time?
And then finally the day came when he announced that they were to return to the city. None went with a happier heart than Amelia.
“It could get stolen,” Cornelius said, frowning at the blue crystal that shone so boldly upon Amelia’s breast. “A thief could yank it from your neck. You should have left the necklace at home, Amelia.”
But she merely said what she always said. “It was your gift to me, and I shall wear it always.”
“Then at least conceal it beneath your dress.”
But she made no move to hide the blue crystal.
They were arriving in their curtained litter at the great circus on Vatican Hill. It was a big day for the emperor and all of Rome was going to be there. Amelia hadn’t really wanted to come but she knew her absence would be noticed by the imperial family. Besides, her husband was one of the sponsors of today’s events; she could hardly miss it. She had never been fond of gladiatorial combats or the contests of killing wild game. But she would get through the day: Cornelius had promised that tomorrow she could go to Rachel’s.
They had been back in Rome for less than a week and Amelia had had little time to catch up on the latest news among her Christian friends. As Cornelius had promised, their new home on the Aventine Hill was even more spacious and luxurious than their old mansion had been, and Amelia had had her hands and hours full with purchasing furniture, arranging for the painting of murals, buying new slaves. And then Cornelius had announced that Nero was offering games in thanks to the gods for the rebirth of the city.
Enormous crowds poured through the chutes and into the ascending rows, pushing, shoving, and scrambling to fill the top half of the immense number of seats looking down into the huge arena. Excitable and noisy, unhampered by education or good manners, they were squashed together, men, women, and children, crying, shouting, laughing, and sweating in their passion for diversion and entertainment. Lower down, the first rows were filled with senators, priests, magistrates, and other officials of distinction. The next rows were crammed with citizens of wealth and standing. Here was where the Vitellius clan had a private box.
The whole family had come. Filing in behind Cornelius and Amelia were Cornelia and her husband, Cornelius Minor and his wife, the twins with their spouses, and young Gaius and Lucius trailing behind. The young women already had their heads together, gossiping over who was there and with whom; who was dressed in the wrong colors this year, wearing her hair in an old-fashioned style, who was looking older, fatter, less socially acceptable. Amelia tried hard to ignore the presence of the beautiful widow, Lucilla, who sat only two boxes over, the guest of a senator. Lucilla dazzled in the sun with her dyed blond hair, stunning gown, and stole of pink silk.
In the year since the day the Great Fire had broken out, Amelia and Cornelia had not discussed Cornelius’s mistress again. Nonetheless, Amelia sensed it still between them, a pocket of chilly air that kept mother and daughter distant.
A flawless blue sky stood overhead; later, the awnings would be rolled out to protect the spectators from the sun. Cooking aromas drifted over the crowd as vendors prepared offerings that would be sold throughout the day: pork sausages and hot bread, roasted pigeons and steamed fish, warm fruit pies and honeycakes. And heard over the buzz of the arrivals was the roar of frightened and restless beasts in their cages. The mood was at fever pitch, for word had spread through the city that Nero was offering a special surprise today, one that he and his financial sponsors had managed to keep under wraps. Not a seat was left when the trumpets announced the arrival of the imperial family. Latecomers had to stand on the top tier of the stadium, and that too was packed. A riot broke out at the entrance gates to the arena, as an angry mob was told there was no more room. City guards using spears and clubs drove them off, with people being trampled in the process. A typical day at the circus.
The games opened with great pomp and fanfare and religious ceremonies, for the games had their roots in ritual propitiation of the gods centuries ago. Priests and priestesses slaughtered lambs and doves and offered them to Jupiter and Mars, Apollo and Venus. Incense floated on the air, holy water was sprinkled on the sand. Every single one of the spectators knew that there was a solemn side to the arena entertainments, that such blood sport was necessary for the health and continued prosperity of the empire.
Nero arrived, cro
ssing the sand with great ceremony, sending the mob wild. Once situated in the imperial box, he ordered the games to begin. A fanfare of trumpets introduced a rough-and-tumble pantomime show, followed by conjurers and magicians, acrobats and clowns, dancing bears and daredevil horseback riders, troupes of dancing girls in lavish costumes, marching bands and parades of elephants, giraffes, and camels. A jolly show with ostriches, held in captivity for so long that when released they literally frolicked around the arena, was a great crowd pleaser for archers suddenly appeared and chased the frightened, comical birds with arrows until they were slaughtered to the very last. Then the bloody games began: gladiatorial combats, beast hunts, mock battles, all turning the sand crimson. In between shows, slaves came out with hooks and chains to drag corpses and carcasses away and to spread fresh sand, while the spectators ate and drank and relieved themselves.
The day wore on and grew hot. The overflowing latrines began to stink and the stench of blood, no matter how covered by sand, began to fill the air. Just as the mob was growing restless, trumpets blared and Nero announced that by will of the gods, he had found the perpetrators of the fire that had destroyed their beloved city and killed and injured so many of their loved ones. Gates opened and a ragtag group of people staggered out blinking in the sunlight. Amelia looked at them in surprise. She had expected to see surly brigands, army deserters, the sort one always saw at these criminal executions. But this group seemed comprised of—
Women! Old men! Children!
“Cornelius,” Amelia said sharply, but quietly so that no one heard, “surely Nero does not believe these people are responsible for the Great Fire?”
“He has proof.”
“But look at them,” she said. “They are hardly—”
She frowned. Did she see familiar faces among them? She leaned forward and shaded her eyes. That old man…he bore a strong resemblance to Peter, the fisherman, who had been a guest at Rachel’s church-house.
