The Splendor Before the Dark
Page 18
“Perhaps we should build one very posh one, that has heating, marble seats, and even some artwork. Suitable for the New Rome!” said Celer.
“Of course, they don’t all have to be like that. Just a few for show,” said Severus.
More expenses! But if it had to be, it had to be. And if we could build structures that exalted the necessary into a luxury, would that be brilliant? I began to warm to the idea.
“Unroll the city map and let us see where we might put them. You are right, we must hurry while there is still space. Do you have the sewer plans?” I asked.
Before we were finished, I had elevated the idea and called for Luna marble, sponges from the Red Sea, mosaic floors. Why do things halfway?
* * *
• • •
When I consulted with Phaon, he was not impressed. In fact, as he totted up the costs for this sudden expenditure, he shook his head. “Regular marble will do as well as Luna. No one’s bum can tell the difference. And Red Sea sponges, to be used and thrown down the sewer?” He snorted. “And mosaics! Who will be looking at them?”
“People sitting and staring at them, that’s who,” I said. “People linger there and would enjoy seeing them.”
“What they enjoy more is gossiping with the other people in there. Really, you hear the most scandalous things—” He stopped. “I mean, ordinary people do—you wouldn’t know—and besides, the floor will get dirty, and the mosaics will be scratched and muddy.”
I sighed. “You have a point. But I think we should have one showcase latrine, in that spot near the Julius Caesar Forum.”
“All right, one. But by forgoing the trappings for the rest of the latrines, you have just saved yourself . . . um . . . several million sesterces.” He smiled for the first time.
“That makes me feel virtuous,” I said. Actually it just made me feel relieved to have lessened the financial burden of the rebuilding.
“Besides, Caesar, it is better to build modestly for such things. You don’t want your name forever linked with fancy latrines, do you?”
XXIII
Latrines aside, I watched proudly as the new Rome rose around me, like a flower opening, spreading its petals wide, seeking the sun. October thirteenth loomed ahead. I would be ready for it.
The night before, sitting alone as evening fell and slaves tiptoed in to light the oil lamps, I could not help but go back in time to the same evening ten years ago. Then I was not ready for it; I was a frightened sixteen-year-old trailing in my mother’s poisonous wake, seeing the future only as an abyss I must plunge into. A deep dark well that might drown me.
Now, from my safe vantage point, I could know that I had not only survived but achieved victories, political and personal. The empire was flourishing, and after the uprising in Britain and the settlement in Armenia, we were at peace. When the Armenian king arrived in Rome to be awarded his crown by me, I would close the doors of the Temple of Janus, signaling that Rome was at peace everywhere in the world. It had been closed only six times in the entire history of Rome.
I had kept my inaugural promise to the Senate to honor their ancient privileges, to keep personal and state business separate, to bring no civil wars. I was at peace with everyone, except one obstructionist Stoic senator named Thrasea Paetus, who delighted in baiting me. I had a wife I loved, and hope of an heir soon. I had fought the Fire in Rome, propitiated the gods, and punished the criminals.
But of course there had been losses, mistakes. I was estranged from Seneca. The unnatural deaths of my first wife, Octavia, and my mother weighed heavily on me, even as they had brought me freedom. That I was three persons in one—the daylight emperor, the artist, and the dark actor—with only one other person safe to reveal the third Nero to, was painful. And my only child, my daughter, Claudia, had died as an infant.
Life is a mixture, Homer said. Zeus stands with two jars at his side; one contains good and the other ill. As mortals line up, he fills their jugs with either all bad or a mix of good and bad. No one gets only the good. But some get only the bad. So be satisfied if you get the blend.
Rome had burned—that was bad. But it was being re-created in a fuller form, and that was good. I was able to bring good out of the bad. And for that I counted myself blessed by fortune, for that opportunity.
In spite of the glowing lamps, the room was dim. This time ten years ago Claudius was at his dinner, about to be fed the poisonous mushrooms by Mother. I had watched, helpless to do anything about it. Watched while he chewed, contented. First contentment, then a blurring, then oblivion. And Nero the emperor was born.
Gloomy thoughts that did not bear too-close scrutiny. Nero, however you got here, you are emperor now. You have been for a decade. Remember the words of your hero Paris: The golden gifts of the gods must not be despised, even if they were not what you would have chosen to begin with. You were given the gift. Do not despise it.
“I want you to wear your most lovely gown,” I told Poppaea. “For the inauguration of the new Circus Maximus.”
“Of course,” she said. “I realize all eyes will be on us.”
If only you knew, I thought.
* * *
• • •
The sun shone brightly on the afternoon of October thirteenth, as it had ten years ago. The Circus was filled to capacity, hundreds of thousands of spectators in the stone and wooden seats. In the rebuilding, I had ordered the Caesar’s old water channel to be filled in, increasing the seating area. The floor of the arena was spread with fresh fine sand, clean and raked. The chariots that would race today would be running on a virgin track.
The new imperial box, the pulvinar, was grander and better-appointed than its predecessor; it was perched midway up in the stands on the Palatine side for the best view of both the start and the finish lines. At the finish was the judges’ box directly across from us, over the spina—the backbone—that divided the track into its two halves. It was laden with ornamental statues, as well as an obelisk, and at each end were crossbars with seven lap markers, for the chariots had to make seven circuits of the track, making a total of fourteen turns at each end of the spina, for a total distance of some three miles. It was these hazardous turns that put drivers most at risk, and they called for the utmost skill.
A herald would announce my entrance, but it was I who must host the games. Lesser games could be hosted by magistrates or wealthy patrons, but for this rededication of the Circus, only the emperor could preside. The faint scent of religious rites still clung to the Circus and the games, hence the shrines to Consus, Murcia, and Ceres that were present, and the formal procession of the gods before the races.
I had invited several senators, ones I knew best and often dined with—Piso and his wife, Atria; Scaevinus and his wife, Caedicia; Lateranus; consul Vestinus and his wife, Statilia—to join me in the box. Faenius would stand guard, along with his company soldiers Subrius Flavus and Sulpicius Asper.
Because this bordered on a sacred occasion, I was wearing a purple toga, and my guests were formally dressed. We settled into our padded seats and watched the last of the empty places in the stands fill, until the stadium was a mosaic of colors, the spectators wearing tunics or ribbons in the color of the team they supported—red, green, white, or blue.
The roof of the pulvinar over us provided welcome shade, as slaves offered food and drink.
“I say,” said Piso, holding up his goblet and twirling it around, “is this a new vintage?”
Surely Poppaea hadn’t insisted they serve the wine from her Vesuvian vines?
She held out her hand to take the goblet and have a sip. She smiled. “Yes. It’s from my own vineyard near my villa, on the slopes of Vesuvius. Do you like it?” She handed it back to him.
“Oh, it is delicious!”
Well said, actor, I thought. Very convincing.
Vestinus likewise took a sip and said, “A dog m
ust have pissed on these particular grapes.”
Everyone was silent, but I laughed. Vestinus was a rotund, droll man who did not suffer fools or hypocrisy but nonetheless was quite popular. Until he laughed at you.
Once I laughed, the others followed suit. “We have other varieties,” I said, indicating that the other goblets should be filled with those. “Dear Poppaea, perhaps you should stick to what you do best.”
“Cosmetics?” said Statilia, Vestinus’s wife. She meant it as a barb, but Poppaea did not catch it.
“Oh, yes,” Poppaea said, “my face cream is renowned. I could make a fortune if I sold it, but as empress it would hardly be seemly. But then, of course, you have no need of such.” Perhaps she had caught the barb after all.
Statilia was a mature woman who made no effort to disguise it. But she did not need to. Her slightly jaded features bespoke experience and secret knowledge; her low gravelly voice beckoned you to find out what it was. “No, I do not,” she said, looking levelly at Poppaea. It was clear she pitied those who did.
“Is anyone famous driving today?” asked Scaevinus.
“Many,” I said.
“Who?”
I named Demetrius, the lead charioteer from the Greens, whose inside horse had won over a hundred races, earning him the title of centenarius, and his counterpart, Flamma, from the Blues, who had two such horses on his team. “And others. Check the betting forms. Old Fortunatus is making another comeback.”
“They would have to have a special race for great-grandfathers, then,” said Lateranus, shifting to get his huge frame comfortable in his chair. That was always a problem for him. “He must be ninety years old.”
“No, closer to forty. Charioteers don’t live long,” said Piso.
“Remember that handsome one, Orestes?” said Atria. She had a little girl’s voice, whispery and tentative.
“Yes. Won the Circus ten times with a six-horse team. He was killed when he was only twenty-two, but he had won two hundred and forty-two races by then,” said Lateranus. He, like most racing fans, knew all the statistics.
“A short life but a happy one,” said Vestinus, finishing his wine and holding his goblet out for more. “Personally I’d rather have a long and only semihappy one.”
“Count no man happy until he is dead,” said Statilia. “Who said that?”
“Solon of Athens,” I said. “He said it, to Croesus.”
“Let’s not talk of death,” said Caedicia. “It is bad luck, especially today.” She was a sturdy, matronly-looking woman who wore a severe, middle-parted hairstyle.
“You are right,” said Scaevinus. “Let us not talk of death.”
All the while Faenius and his cohorts Subrius and Sulpicius stood in the back, not joining in, just standing. Protocol would not allow them to indicate their presence, but I was tired of protocol.
“What do you think, Faenius?” I asked.
He looked startled. “About what, Caesar?”
“About the charioteers. Which faction do you favor? Greens, Blues, Reds, or Whites?”
“I—I—the Reds.”
Vestinus booed. “The Reds? How could you?”
I turned to the other two soldiers. “And you?”
A statue could not have looked more startled to be brought to life.
“I am with Faenius in whatever he chooses,” said Subrius.
“Likewise,” said Sulpicius curtly.
“How boring,” said Vestinus. “Are you all duplicates of one another? Do you like the same wines, the same women, and the same music?”
“I don’t like music,” said Sulpicius.
Vestinus laughed. “I won’t ask whether you like women or wine, then. The answer is probably not. Ascetics usually don’t.”
“Ascetics make the best soldiers,” I said, defending them.
“Most soldiers don’t have a reputation for ascetic living,” said Lateranus. “Haven’t you ever seen them in town when they are on leave? Lock up your wives and daughters and hide your amphoras.”
Everyone laughed but Sulpicius and Subrius. Even Faenius managed a faint whinny.
But by then, the time had come. The herald, standing at the judges’ box, blew his trumpet and announced, “The emperor!”
At that point, I made my way—amid immense cheering—to stand beside him and cry, “We inaugurate our new stadium today. May it resound with victory and last a thousand years.”
I waited and watched the ceremonial parade, the pompa, of priests with statues of the gods, incense swirling around them. Not only were the Olympian gods honored but the deified emperors rode beside them. The steely gaze of Julius Caesar, the benign one of Augustus, and the vacant one of Claudius beamed out at the crowd. Following them, musicians and dancers pranced across the sands, some dressed as warriors, others as satyrs who wiggled their goatskin-clad rumps in rhythm. When they had finally finished their circuit around the entire track, slaves came out to rake the sand and water it to keep the dust down. At last the races would begin.
When I returned to the imperial box, the couch with the gods had been reverently placed in the back. There, with Jupiter, Juno, Venus, Apollo, and Diana, was little Claudia. I had seen the bust before, but that did not make it less painful. I would remain acutely aware of her behind me. I took my seat.
I was nervous. Very nervous, and I could not show it to anyone. I did not drink the wine, although I pretended to. I had arranged for a substitute. The guests were chattering away, eager for the first race—the most prestigious one, doubly so this important day—to begin.
“Well done, Caesar,” said Piso. “We could actually hear you from way up here. Your voice carried well.”
“That was only because the crowd was quiet. That won’t last long.” I took a drink of my pseudo-wine and tried to look relaxed.
“It’s impressive, that the Circus was rebuilt so quickly,” said Lateranus. “You promised it would be, but I did not see how it could be.”
“You get what you pay for,” said Vestinus. “And we have paid dearly for it.”
“We have gotten our money’s worth,” said Poppaea. I knew that whenever she had that edge in her voice, she was insulted.
“And what about your other . . . project?” asked Scaevinus. “The one that has taken up four regions out of the city’s fourteen—Regions Three and Ten and part of Regions Four and Two.” He did not disguise his disapproval.
Poppaea shot a look at me as if to say, I told you so. People resent it.
Just as Mother had to pretend she did not know the boat was no accident, I pretended not to grasp his meaning. “It is rising apace, and soon will be finished enough to show. You will be among the select first guests.” That usually disarmed people, to be told they were special.
But Scaevinus continued to scowl.
“I will be proud to welcome all of you as my guests for the first glimpses of the finished halls,” I said.
“And we will be honored to be there,” said Piso, ever the diplomat.
But the others were silent.
Mercifully the impending race put an end to our conversation. We moved close to the edge of the box for the best view. I brought out my emerald eyepiece, in hopes it would improve my sight, especially for the finish line.
The chariots were taking their places in the starting stalls, held back by doors that would be released when a restraining rope across them was dropped. The places were decided by lots, with the most coveted spot the left-hand one, closest to the rails, and the worst one the outside one nearest the stands. Anyone in that position would have to cut across the other three chariots in order to make the first turn ahead of them to take the lead, a dangerous move. Usually teams who drew that unlucky position had to rely on speed to eventually overtake the others, or on accidents that would eliminate some of the competition and clear the field.
The doors flung open, and the chariots burst out.
The Green had drawn the best place! The Blue the worst! We stood on tiptoe, gripping the edge of the box railing. The horses thundered down the track, maneuvering to the inside. But then they stopped. The judges had not dropped the white rope, the alba linea, that was a safeguard against false starts, strung about a third of the way down the track.
The alba linea, and how to approach it, was part of the racing strategy. Until that rope was dropped, it was risky to go top speed, for if the horses tangled in it, the chariot would be wrecked, the horses injured, possibly with broken legs. But to hold back, if the rope was then duly dropped, meant you had lost ground to the others, who, more daring, were now ahead.
The chariots wheeled around and returned to the starting gates.
“What happened? What was wrong?” asked Caedicia. She prided herself on being knowledgeable about the races. “I didn’t see anything.”
“I think the White left the gate before the rope was dropped,” said Lateranus.
“How could he? The gate wouldn’t open.”
“He pushed it and the rope slackened,” said Vestinus.
Oh, for such eyesight!
They were shut in again, and the doors closed. The handkerchief dropped again. They took off again.
They drove furiously, hurtling toward the alba linea. If it failed to drop, they would all be injured. But it dropped. And they roared across it, making for the end of the spina and the first turn around the three huge gold-covered columns, the metae, which served as bumpers to keep the chariots off the spina but often impaled them and caused as many accidents as they prevented.
As they approached the first turn, the Green, on the inside, had the advantage. Demetrius, renowned for his skill in making turns, did not disappoint. The chariot hugged the turn, his inside horse surefootedly did not break pace, and the outside horse pivoted expertly, guiding the two middle horses to turn smoothly.