Empire (58 page)

Lucius descended the Stairs of Cacus and crossed the marketplace and the Forum. He walked along the huge, cordoned-off area where a saddle of land connecting the Quirinal Hill to the Capitoline was being excavated to make room for a grand new forum that would facilitate passage from the center of the city to the Field of Mars. The amount of earth being removed was staggering; the buildings that would fill such a space would have to be constructed on a truly monumental scale. This new forum was without doubt the most ambitious of the emperor’s building projects, but it was only one of many. Structures could be seen going up all over the city, and a great many older buildings, still damaged from the fires under Nero and Titus, were at last being restored. Everywhere he went in Roma, Lucius saw cranes and scaffolding and heard foremen shouting orders to their work gangs. The incessant banging of hammers echoed from all directions.

Everywhere, too, he saw the image of the emperor. Monumental statues of Domitian had been placed at every important intersection and in every public square. The statues were of bronze, decorated with gold and silver, and invariably portrayed the emperor in the ornate armor of a triumphing general. Walking across the city, a man was never out of sight of a statue of the emperor; from certain spots, one could see two or even three
of them in the distance. There was no place in Roma where a citizen could escape the stern gaze of Domitian.

Along with his statues, Domitian erected commemorative arches all over the city, little replicas of the vast Arch of Titus in the Forum ornamented in the same excessively decorated style. On many of these arches, some brave, seditious wit had scrawled a graffito that consisted of a single word, ARCI—which, when said aloud, could be taken either as the Latin word for “arches” or the Greek word,
arkei,
meaning “enough!”

Almost as ubiquitous as the statues and the arches, and built on a massive scale, were the altars to Vulcan that Domitian had erected all over the city. The altars had been pledged by Nero, who as Pontifex Maximus had promised that propitiations to Vulcan would prevent a reoccurrence of the Great Fire. Nero had poured his energies into the building of the Golden House instead, and in the chaos that followed his death the plans for the altars had been lost. Vespasian had never seen fit to revive the project, and the result, many thought, had been the extensive fire that damaged the city, especially the Field of Mars, under Titus. Titus renewed the vow to build the altars, but he died before he could commence construction. It was Domitian who at last built the altars. They were enormous, carved from solid blocks of travertine more than twenty feet wide. On the days that animals were sacrificed to Vulcan, huge plumes of smoke could be seen all over the city as the priests appealed to the god to prevent another conflagration.

The devastation of the Field of Mars had allowed Domitian to rebuild the area to his liking. As Lucius crossed the flat expanse, he saw the new temples that dominated the skyline, along with a vast stadium for athletic contests and a grand theater called the Odeum, intended for musical performances, not for plays. Domitian had banned the public presentation of plays altogether.

As Lucius began to ascend the Hill of Gardens, he saw that a number of other people were walking in the same direction. He noticed more people, and yet more, all converging on the same spot, the street that ran in front of Nero’s family cemetery, which was surrounded by a stone wall. Many in the crowd were dressed in black, as if in mourning. Some carried garlands of flowers.

Most of these people were his age or older—in other words, old enough to remember the days of Nero. Having raised no children, Lucius sometimes forgot that a whole generation had come up behind him that knew only the Flavians. But the predominance of people in their forties or older made the scattered younger faces in the crowd stand out all the more. The older people tended to look serious and somber, while the younger ones exuded a buoyant air of celebration.

Seeing his perplexed expression, a smiling young girl seized his arm. Her clothes were worn but she looked freshly scrubbed, as if she had just come from the baths. She had shimmering red hair and carried a garland of daffodils, violets, and poppies. “Smile, friend!” she said. “Have you not heard the good news?”

“What news?”

“He’s coming back!”

“Who?”

“The Divine Nero, of course.”

Lucius cocked his head. “I don’t recall the Senate voting divine honors to that particular emperor.”

“What does it matter, whether or not a bunch of old fools vote to call a god a god? Nothing the Senate says can change the truth that Nero is a living god.”

“
Was
a living god, you mean?”

“No!” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s coming back, from the East, where he’s been living all this time. He’ll be here any day now, to reclaim his rightful place as emperor. He shall rebuild the Golden House, and bring about a new Golden Age.”

Lucius stared at her blankly. The girl was quite pretty, even if she was deluded.

She laughed and shook her head. “I see you’re a doubter. Never mind. Put this on his monument today. When he comes, he will know and be pleased with you.” She pulled a daffodil from the garland and handed it to him.

He took the flower from the girl, managed a halfhearted smile, and moved farther into the crowd. Some of the people stood idle and held on to their garlands, waiting for the sepulcher to be opened to the public. Others, who could not stay, were moving as close as they could to lay their
garlands against the high wall of stone that surrounded the gravesite. Jostled on all sides, Lucius looked around, hoping to spot Epaphroditus amid the crowd. A wooden gate in the wall opened on creaky hinges and a familiar voice called his name.

Epaphroditus gestured to him from the narrow doorway. Lucius stepped inside. Epaphroditus closed the gate behind him.

“What a crowd!” said Lucius, happy to escape the crush. “Does this happen every year?”

“Yes and no,” said Epaphroditus. “Every year people come to deliver garlands and perform ceremonies of remembrance, but I’ve never seen so many before. It’s because it’s the twentieth anniversary, I suppose.”

They were alone inside the stone enclosure. Nero’s was not the only tomb—this was the family plot of his ancestors on his father’s side—but it was by far the most impressive. The ornate sepulcher containing his ashes was sculpted from rare white porphyry. Before it stood an altar of Luna marble. The exquisite carvings of horses on all four sides were doubly appropriate, since Nero had loved to ride, and horses were a funerary symbol from the most ancient times. Flowers had been laid on the altar, where a smoldering bit of incense overpowered their fragrance with its cloying scent.

“I see you’ve already honored the dead,” said Lucius.

“I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you, Lucius. I have my own key to the gate and let myself in. I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive and I wanted to say a prayer before the gate is opened to the public. In a little while, the people out there will be allowed to pass by the sarcophagus and lay their garlands.”

“There are hundreds of people out there.”

Epaphroditus shook his head. “Like most people, they have the ability to believe two things at once. They will gladly tell you that Nero never died, yet here they are, marking the anniversary of his death and bringing garlands to his tomb. Nero is dead, yet Nero lives.”

“And he’s on his way to Roma right now. Someone just gave me the news, and told me I should make ready for his arrival.”

“A young redhead?”

“Yes, quite pretty and carrying a garland.”

“The same girl talked to me earlier. I didn’t have the heart to tell that I
was present when Nero died—much less that he died by my hand.” Epaphroditus frowned. “Curiously enough, my contacts in the imperial house tell me there actually
is
an impostor claiming to be Nero, somewhere in Syria. He’s not the first such pretender, but this one appears to have serious backing from the Parthians, who may actually give the fellow some military support and make an incursion. If that happens, Domitian is worried that this Nero pretender might cause considerable mischief in the Eastern provinces. There are still a great many people, especially in Judaea, who hate the Flavians—the ones Vespasian and Titus didn’t manage to kill or enslave. And people in that part of the world are always talking about the dead coming back to life.”

“Who is this impostor?”

“I have no idea. The people who’ve seen him say he sings like a lark and looks the very image of Nero.”

“But do these people consider that Nero would be in his fifties now?”

Epaphroditus laughed wistfully. “He would be quite fat and bald, I imagine.”

“How can people believe such a thing, so fervently?”

“Because, Lucius, without the discipline of philosophy to give rigor to their thinking, people can and will believe anything, no matter how absurd. Indeed, the more far-fetched the notion, the more likely they are to believe it. People have grown weary of Domitian. They enjoy the fantasy that Nero will return.”

“Bringing with him a new Golden Age?”

“Why not? Some of the older people out there actually remember the reign of Nero, and they’ll tell you how wonderful it was—though I suspect the nostalgia they feel is not so much for Nero as for their own lost youth. And the younger ones have the natural propensity of youth to believe that a Golden Age must have existed somewhere, at some time—most likely just before they were born—so why not in the days of Nero?”

“Does that mean that a generation from now, people will look back to a so-called Golden Age of Domitian?”

“That’s hard to imagine!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Lucius. “On the walk here, I saw the hand of the emperor everywhere. His statues, his temples and altars and arches—”

“Arkei!”
said Epaphroditus. “People have had enough of Domitian looking over their shoulders.”

“Do you think so? He pleased the people greatly when he added that tier to the Flavian Amphitheater. You admired the monstrosity before, Epaphroditus, and now there’s more of it to love than ever. No one in Roma need go without a seat.”

“But he banned the public performance of plays,” said Epaphroditus.

“Every actor must suffer for the sin of Paris! But do the people mind? I think not. Why should they wish to see stodgy old dramas and stale comedies when Domitian gives them games instead, and not just games, but the most spectacular ever staged. His marvels eclipse even those his brother presented. He floods the amphitheater and stages full-scale naval battles, with convicts and slaves fighting for their lives and drowning before our eyes. What play could possibly match such a spectacle? He gives the people freakish delights, like the gladiator shows he holds at night where naked women and dwarves are forced to fight one another by torchlight. What comedy could make people laugh half that much? And from the sky above, figs, dates, and plums rain down on the audience. The spectators think they’ve died and awoken in Elysium.”

“And all the while the emperor sits in his box,” said Epaphroditus, “accompanied by that creature with a too-small head. Is it a child? A dwarf? Is it even human? The two of them whisper to each other and giggle.” He shuddered. “Nero loved beauty and perfection, and his taste in all things was impeccable. Domitian loves excess—too much decoration, too much ornament—and he surrounds himself with human oddities. His behavior at the games is appalling. Do you remember the day the sky turned black and a tremendous storm blew up? The wind and rain were so fierce that the awnings were useless, and people began to leave the amphitheater. Domitian ordered his soldiers to block the exits. People weren’t even allowed to take shelter in the stairwells and passages. All Roma sat there and endured the deluge. And when a roar of complaint filled the amphitheater, the emperor angrily demanded silence—and got it, after enough of the offenders had been thrown into the arena to join the convicts about to be gored by a herd of rampaging aurochs.”

Lucius nodded. “What a bizarre moment that was, sitting in the pouring
rain with fifty thousand others, and no one saying a word, while thunder rumbled and lightning tore the sky and men screamed and died down in the arena. Say what you like, it was unforgettable, a day like no other—just what people crave when they go to the amphitheater. The games are more popular than ever.”

“Because Domitian has reduced the Roman people to the level of dogs. They remain faithful even when their master beats them, as long as he also feeds them.”

“He has the loyalty of the legions as well,” said Lucius, “and that’s where true power lies. It was only when Nero lost control of the legions that he came undone. Nero never led the legions into battle, as Domitian has. And those legions are as loyal to Domitian as they were to his father and his brother. He pays the soldiers well and exempts the veterans from paying taxes.”

“But his wars in Germania and Dacia have ended in stalemates, at best. The death of his general Fuscus and the loss of an eagle standard to the Dacians was a catastrophe.”

“Which Domitian turned to his advantage,” said Lucius. “Just when the threat from Germania had grown stale, the Dacians became the new enemy for Romans to fear and despise. And despite his limited success, he still staged triumphs for himself, parading through the Forum as a conqueror.”

“Though no one is quite sure what he’s conquered. Did you hear the rumor about the supposed captives who were paraded in chains in the German triumph? A source in the imperial household told me they were actually the biggest and brawniest slaves from the palace, dressed in leather pants and blond wigs to look like Germans.”

“That’s the problem with Domitian, isn’t it?” said Lucius. “We never know what’s real and what’s not. All the city is a stage. Everything that happens is a spectacle put on by the emperor. One wonders if he himself knows any longer what’s real.”

“He now signs official letters with the title Dominus and Deus,” said Epaphroditus. “That makes him the first emperor since Caligula to demand to be addressed as the people’s master, and also the first since Caligula to consider himself a living god. He renames months in his honor. We celebrate his birthday not in October but in Domitianus, which is
preceded not by September but by Germanicus, in honor of his German triumphs. He goes everywhere accompanied by a huge bodyguard of lictors and wears the costume of a triumphing general on formal occasions, even when he addresses the Senate and should be dressed in a toga, as the first among equals. The laurel wreath hides his baldness.”