Empire (51 page)

On the third charge, the rhinoceros demonstrated its brute strength and the sheer power of its horn. The creature landed a shuddering blow against the aurochs’s head. The bull was dazed. While it staggered and stumbled, the rhinoceros backed away just enough to reposition itself for a fresh charge, then struck the aurochs with such power that the beast was thrown clear into the air before it plummeted to the ground, landing on
its side. The aurochs beat its hooves against the ground but was unable to stand. Again the rhinoceros charged, sinking its horn into the aurochs’s vulnerable flank and throwing it into the air again. The aurochs bellowed out in pain. When it struck the ground, it thrashed it limbs for a moment, then threw back its head and expired.

The rhinoceros goaded the carcass for a while, then appeared to realize that its opponent was no longer a threat. It charged one of the attendants, who ducked behind a wooden enclosure. The rhinoceros struck the enclosure with such force that its horn became stuck in the wood.

This provoked laughter in the audience but also posed a problem for the trainers. How could the rhinoceros be pulled free? While the animal was in such a fury, no one dared get close to it. Finally, someone decided to make the best of the situation by improvising yet another combat. A bear was released and driven toward the rhinoceros.

The audience spontaneously rose to its feet in excitement. No one could imagine how this unscheduled, unprecedented combat would proceed. If the rhinoceros remained trapped and unable to move, it would be completely at the mercy of the bear, unless its armorlike flesh offered adequate protection against the bear’s sharp claws.

The bear landed a few blows against the rhinoceros’s haunches, drawing blood, but these served only to incite the beast to exert the effort necessary to free itself. To the sound of splintering wood, the rhinoceros at last extricated its horn.

Once the rhinoceros was mobile again, the bear stood no chance. Just as the aurochs had been tossed into the air, so was the bear, which landed with a gaping wound in its belly and did not get up again.

Trainers moved in to corral the rhinoceros, which was surprisingly docile once its fury was expended. The spectators remained on their feet and enthusiastically cheered the beast, which had triumphed in not one but two death matches, without even pausing to rest. One of the acrobats ran up to touch the horn for luck. The startled rhinoceros jerked its head, and the small but powerful movement knocked the man flat on his back. The audience gasped, then roared with laughter when the acrobat sprang to his feet and made his exit by executing a series of nimble cartwheels and backflips.

Passing the acrobat on his way out, a massively muscled man strode
into the arena. He wore only the briefest of loincloths and a hooded cloak made from a lion’s pelt. Clearly he was meant to be Hercules, about to perform one of his famous labors.

A bull was released into the arena. Streamers of yellow, blue, and red on its horns identified it as Cretan bull, the creature that sired the monstrous minotaur on Queen Pasiphae.

The man playing Hercules flexed and preened for the crowd, looking supremely confident even as the bull snorted and stamped its feet. When the bull charged, the man grabbed it horns and vaulted onto its back. Crouching as he held the horns, he managed to stay on the bull’s back even as it furiously bucked and kicked its hind legs. When the bull at last began to tire, the man leaped off. In a remarkable show of strength, he seized the bull by the horns, twisting them this way and that until he forced the bull to kneel before him.

The sight of a man overcoming a bull with his bare hands would have been amazing enough, but this contest was only the first stage of the spectacle. While the bull wrestler held the beast immobile in the very center of the arena, a team of men ran onto the field and fitted a harness on the bull. A rope descended from the sky. It seemed to have appeared from nowhere, but in fact it was part of a system of ropes and winches that stretched from one side of the amphitheater to the other across its highest point, from rim to rim above the canvas awnings. The hoisting mechanism had been put in place while all eyes were on Hercules wrestling the bull.

The dangling rope was hooked to the harness on the bull. The man playing Hercules mounted the beast. The rope drew taut and the bull began to rise into the air. When its hooves lost contact with the ground the bull panicked and began to buck violently, spinning wildly in midair. The rider clutched the rope with one arm and waved the other. He threw back his head with a raucous shout.

Higher and higher the bull rose. Looking upward to follow its ascent, the spectators were dazzled by the sun. The bull and its rider became a silhouette, and the thin rope seemed to vanish. The bull appeared to be running through the air, flying without wings.

Small, brightly colored objects showered down on the audience from above. The little squares of parchment flitted and skipped on the air like butterflies. Blinded by the sun, no one could tell where the little tokens
came from as they descended by the thousands. As they landed amid the crowd, there were cries of joy and excitement.

“A loaf of bread! My token says I receive a free load of bread!”

“Ha! Mine’s a lot better than that. I get a silver bracelet!”

“And I get a basket of sausages and cheese. That’ll feed my family for a month!”

People began to compete for the little squares of parchment, jumping for them as they descended or scrambling for those that fell underfoot. The scene was chaotic but jubilant.

“Titus manipulates them as if they were children,” said Epaphroditus with a sigh, looking at the token in his hand, which promised a jar of garum.

“You sound wistful,” said Lucius.

“I’m thinking of the old days. What might Nero have achieved if he’d built this amphitheater instead of the Golden House, and if he’d known how to please the people? They don’t want to see an emperor play Oedipus on the stage. They want to see a bull fly through the air!”

“Speaking of the bull . . . where did it go?” said Martial.

Lucius looked up, squinting at the sunlight. The bull and its rider were nowhere to be seen. Nor was the contraption that had hoisted them into the air. Bull, rider, and rigging had all vanished somehow while everyone were distracted by the shower of tokens, creating the illusion that the bull had carried Hercules to Olympus, melting into the ether. As others in the audience began to realize what had happened, another tumultuous round of acclamations rang through the amphitheater.

Amid the jubilation, a second intermission was announced.

While Lucius and his friends stood and stretched themselves, a well-dressed messenger appeared and spoke in Martial’s ear.

Martial’s eyes grew wide. “All three of us?” he said.

The man nodded.

Martial turned to his friends. “A humble poet’s dream come true! Follow me, both of you.” Without waiting, he hurried off.

“Where is he taking us?” said Lucius to Epaphroditus.

“I imagine one of his patrons is hosting a private party during the intermission,” said Epaphroditus. “More food, more wine.”

Lucius glanced over his shoulder. Cornelia was standing and conversing with one of her fellow Vestals. She turned her face in his direction. He
tried to hang back, hoping to exchange parting glances, but Epaphroditus grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

They followed Martial and the courier through the vestibule, then past a cordon of Praetorians and down a splendidly decorated hallway that terminated in a flight of porphyry steps. The purple marble shone with veins of crimson under the filtered sunlight.

Martial skipped up the steps, following the courier. He looked back and saw that his friends were hesitating. “Don’t just stand there, you two. Come along!”

Lucius ascended the marble steps into the imperial box, his heart racing. He looked at Epaphroditus for reassurance, but the older man, normally so calm and self-possessed, appeared to be as flustered as Lucius himself.

What was Epaphroditus feeling? Once he had lived at the very center of power, but for more than ten years he had been retired from imperial service, living a modest, quiet existence, occasionally waxing nostalgic for his glory days under Nero but more often content to sit in his garden and talk about philosophy and literature with Epictetus and Dio. Nero was long gone. The Golden House had been demolished and dismantled. Epaphroditus had survived, but in the new world of the Flavians, he was a forgotten man.

They were led before the emperor, who remained seated, with his sister on one side and his daughter on the other. His brother stood nearby. The courier presented Martial and Epaphroditus, and then Lucius heard his own name spoken aloud and had the presence of mind to step forward. The emperor gave each of them a gracious nod.

Titus’s cheeks and forehead were flushed. His eyes glittered with excitement. “So, Martial, these fellows are members of your little circle, the friendly critics who have the privilege of hearing your poems even before I do.”

“Yes, Caesar. And a good thing that is, or else Caesar’s ears would be subjected to some very bad poems.”

“That other writer fellow you consort with, the one who wrote that lovely elegy for Melancomas—”

“Dio of Prusa?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Is Dio not with you?”

“Alas, Caesar, Dio is indisposed.”

“What a liar you are, Martial! I know Dio’s philosophical bent. Admit that the man is not here today because he objects to such games on principle.”

“I may have heard him utter some such nonsense.”

Titus nodded. “Well, the world shall be deprived of Dio’s impressions of the day’s spectacles, but I do look forward to reading yours. Have the proceedings inspired you?”

“Exceedingly, Caesar. To enter the Amphitheater of the Flavians is to be transported into a world where perfect justice reigns and the gods walk among us. I wish I never had to leave.”

Titus laughed. “See if you feel the same after sitting through the next few hours. I have the best seat in the house, and my backside is already numb. Oh, I’m not complaining. The animal hunts were splendid, truly first-rate. Though on such a fine day I’d rather be out hunting, myself. Hadn’t you, Lucius Pinarius? I’m told you’re a hunter.”

Lucius was taken aback, surprised that the emperor knew anything at all about him, much less such a personal detail. Had Titus gleaned the information from one of Vespasian’s old dossiers? “Yes, Caesar, I do enjoy hunting. But there are no cameleopards or aurochs on my estate.”

“No? You really should get some. The thing with the bull—that was really quite something, wasn’t it? The engineers assured me they could pull it off, but I was biting my lip there for a while, let me tell you. What a mess if the rope had broken! But I should never have doubted my trusty engineers. Just give those fellows a winch and some rope and then get out of their way, as my father used to say. If they can hurl a missile over the walls of Jerusalem and hit the forehead of a Jewish priest on the dome of the temple, why shouldn’t they be able to make a bull fly?

“But I fear the best of the day is over, at least for me. I’d go home right now if I had the option. Nothing left but the bestiarii and the gladiators. Carpophorus is on the bill—the best bestiarius in the world, able to kill any animal he’s matched against with his bare hands if he has to. Fun to watch, but expect no surprises. And then the gladiators. Who wants to see a lot of fat, sweaty men spill each other’s blood? I saw enough gore in Jerusalem to last a lifetime, but I suppose it’s a novelty to these lay-abouts in Roma who never venture farther than the Appian Gate. Of course my
brother loves that sort of thing, don’t you, Domitian? He could watch gladiators strut and stab each other all day long. He gets quite excited by a good match. Nero was bored by gladiator shows, wasn’t he, Epaphroditus?”

Epaphroditus blinked. “I suppose he was, Caesar.”

Domitian stepped forward with his arms crossed and an unpleasant expression on his face. His young son, watching him intently, likewise crossed his arms and glowered.

“You only suppose?” said Domitian. “I thought you knew Nero quite well. With him to the bitter end, weren’t you?”

Titus had been making conversation with his guests, playing the role of the congenial emperor, which his father had perfected; his brother’s aggressive tone made everyone uncomfortable, including his family members.

“Epaphroditus is not here to be questioned,” said Domitilla. Like her brothers, she had the broad face and prominent nose typical of the Flavians; her temperament seemed closer to that of the affable Titus than to the dour Domitian.

Epaphroditus cleared his throat. “I suppose I knew Nero as well as anyone, especially in his last days. Caesar is quite correct: Nero was not much interested in blood sports.”

“Preferred plays and poetry and that sort of thing, didn’t he?” said Titus helpfully. “My versatile brother likes both gladiators
and
poetry, don’t you, Domitian? Quite a poet himself. Wrote a rather good one about the battle on the Capitoline Hill, when that fiend Vitellius set the Temple of Jupiter on fire. Domitian saw it all with his own eyes; came up with some verses so vivid I feel I was there myself—I smell the smoke and hear the screams. Just the sort of thing I want you to do, Martial, for the games today.”

“No one who sees these games will have need of my verses, Caesar, for they shall never forget them,” said Martial. “But to the unfortunate few who miss this occasion, I will strive to convey some small hint of the glorious sights and sounds I’ve witnessed, however inadequate my words may be.”

Domitian snorted. “The ‘unfortunate few’ who aren’t here today—including your friend Dio. Who are these philosophers, to think they’re so much better than everyone else? It was our father’s dream to see this
amphitheater opened. He died before that could happen, but we persevered without him. Titus put a great deal of work into these games, we all did, more care and effort than a do-nothing like your friend Dio could possibly imagine, yet the philosopher thinks himself too good to accept this generous gift to the people of Roma.”