Nest of Vipers (17 page)

'Not quite every event,' I said, staring at the stage again. 'We haven't seen the
pantomimus
yet. So why don't you shut up – it's about to begin.'

'She won't be here. She's not even in Rome.'

'I said shut up.'

'These seats are terrible – we can barely see the stage.'

'We're here to see the audience, idiot.'

'All I can see are the backs of heads.'

'She's a freedwoman. If she's here, she'll be sitting in the seats directly in front of us slaves.'

'At least give me a better idea of what she looks like.'

What could I tell him? I had no concept of what Martina's appearance might be. In the many decades I had known her, she was either a ravishing beauty or a hideous crone. She was both, yet neither. She could change before my eyes. Sometimes the look of her shimmered like the haze on a distant road, making her features melt and fade. Sometimes, if I looked at her closely, she seemed to have no face at all. The only way to get a clear picture of Martina's appearance was by squinting at her from the corner of my eye, and even then this was unreliable. She was a sorceress, as ageless as my
domina
and me. She was an unknowable creature of our peripheral vision.

'Martina has a hump on her back.' This deformity was the only thing I could guarantee in her.

In truth I was beginning to despair. I feared I'd been wrong in imagining what would lure her back to Rome. In my heart I dreaded that with so much of the Imperial family's blood on her hands, Martina's desire for self-preservation might outweigh her love of entertainments.

'We were lucky not to be killed at that terrible feast,' Lygdus whined anew, 'and then we had to endure the games themselves and all that noise and smell, and then you made me attend the chariot races.'

'I didn't make you attend anything.' I pointed at the steps that would take him down and out of the Theatre of Pompey. 'That's the way out. Go.'

But he stayed where he was, settling in for a session of complaints. 'I should return to Castor,' he said, 'and beg him to let me wash his feet again. Week after week he's tried to get me to tell him the secrets I've learned about you – and week after week I lie that I've discovered nothing.'

I felt very uncomfortable. The fear of Castor exposing me was real. Lygdus held power over me and I had allowed this in the spirit of friendship. Still, I longed to corrupt him with crime so that he would become as guilty as I was and be as keen to hide it. But without Martina's magic I was stymied.

'My time spent with you has not served me well,' said Lygdus, resorting to his most well-worn phrase.

'It's starting.'

Far below us on the stage the musicians' warm-up notes ceased, and the audience took their lead. A hush of expectation fell across the huge open-air space.

'I'm bored already.' Lygdus's voice carried like a bird's cry.

I would have hit him but several freedwomen turned around to glare. I searched their faces. None were Martina. 'It's his first time at the
musica muta
,' I whispered to them in apology. Looks of superiority crossed the freedwomen's faces and they turned around again.

On the distant stage a single flautist among the musicians began to play the notes of a haunting tune. Then the eight men of the chorus came on from their side entrance and the crowd made polite applause. The men wore half-masks, obscuring their eyes and heads but leaving their mouths exposed. When they were arranged in their places, one of the chorus men produced a
scabellum
– a wooden clapper board – and held it high in the air.

The flautist stopped. The chorus spoke in one voice: 'Presenting Echo and Narcissus!'

The freedwomen swooned in front of us.

'That old story?' said Lygdus.

The chorus man with the clapper board began a rhythmic beat, keeping time like a water clock, opening and closing the arms.

The star
pantomimus
leaped onto the stage from the entrance at the opposite side and the crowd burst into cheers. His entire head was covered by a blank mask that removed all hint of his features. And yet it seemed that he owned the most desired face in the world, so expressive was his body in conveying exquisite beauty and grace. His limbs and torso suggested youth – perhaps he was no more than fifteen. His limbs were lean, yet muscular. His feet were brown and bare. His
tunica
was yellow, feather-light and brief, floating around his hips as he danced.

The acknowledgement the
pantomimus
gave the crowd was heartfelt, given with the simplest gestures to make him seem humble and moved. There wasn't a theatregoer in Rome who disliked the
musica muta.
Its players were adored celebrities. They expressed actions, feelings and passions more beautifully and intelligently than was possible with the spoken word. They never uttered a sound. Instead their audiences projected the most alluring words imaginable upon them, wholly within the mind. The great stars of Augustus's day – Bathyllus, Pylades, Hylas – had all retired, but a new generation of mimes competed in their wake, fighting for the fame and wealth that came to the very best of them. Yet they were not without controversy. Women were feared susceptible to the sensual dances and mythological themes – not that it stopped them attending. Some mimes had been known to perform at private dinner parties and intimate engagements hosted by patrician wives. Some were even said to perform naked.

As the
pantomimus
finished his gestures of thanks, the rest of the musicians joined the flautist in resuming the opening tune, filling the theatre with a lush, evocative score. The chorus began to recite the
canticum
– the text of the play. 'When Narcissus, the son of Cephisus, reached his sixteenth year,' they announced, 'he seemed both man and boy.'

The mime began to dance as the mythical youth.

'Many boys and many girls fell deeply in love with him,' said the chorus, 'but his beautiful body held a pride so strong that none of his suitors dared touch him.'

The commotion at the side of the auditorium caught Lygdus's attention before it caught mine. He made a little cry.

'See, you're enjoying it now,' I said, my eyes on the stage.

Lygdus pointed. 'Guards.'

A dozen Praetorians were flooding the stage from the wings.

'This isn't in the play,' I said.

A hobnailed boot connected with the backside of the dancing
pantomimus
and sent him sprawling, mask first, on the hard marble floor. He grazed the skin from his knees. Several of the musicians cried out. The guards turned their attention to them and plucked the instruments from their hands.

'Don't break it!' one of them cried. The guard who had the musician's cithara gave a questioning look to a superior officer. I felt sick when I saw who it was.

'Sejanus!' Lygdus said. 'What's happening? What's going on?'

Sejanus nodded and the guard with the cithara dropped the instrument to the ground with a clatter. The other guards did the same. By now the chorus had stopped the
canticum
and joined the bewildered musicians staring at the pile of instruments. All of them took off their masks except one – the man who held the clapper. The humiliated
pantomimus
remained where he had fallen, his own mask still in place. He didn't move.

Sejanus walked to the front of the stage and, ignoring the mime, took a long, solemn look at the faces of the bewildered audience. It took a moment for fear to strike some of them, but when it did they began to cover themselves under veils and shawls. Sejanus smiled. 'Yes, hide yourselves if you like,' he addressed them, 'hide your shame.'

There were howls from some of the senators' seats.

'The shame is yours! You have interrupted the
musica muta
, Prefect!' one senator shouted. 'What is the meaning of it?'

'Explain yourself, man!' demanded another.

Sejanus cleared his throat, his smile vanishing. 'Performances of the
musica muta
are now banned from the
Ludi
.'

A terrible quiet fell upon everyone, on and off the stage.

'Banned,' Sejanus repeated.

People began to look at each other in fright, but the senator who had first spoken stood up in his seat so the audience could see who he was. Lygdus and I craned our heads to look. 'It's Silius,' I said. 'Sosia's husband. He's a friend of Agrippina's.'

Dignified and impressive, Silius addressed Sejanus without deference. 'A ban of this nature would surely come from a senatorial decree, Prefect?' he called out. 'Yet I can't remember any such decree being passed. How could that be?'

Sejanus kept his eyes upon Silius for what seemed like minutes before he deigned to respond. 'Also forbidden is the attendance of senators at private homes that host the
musica muta
. Senators are similarly forbidden from visiting the homes of artists who make a living from these entertainments. Walking down the street with these artists, or engaging with them in any other way, is also forbidden.'

The stunned audience was deathly still but Silius remained standing. 'The Emperor chooses not to discuss these measures with his senators at all?'

Sejanus said nothing.

'On what grounds have these bans been made?' Silius demanded.

On the stage at Sejanus's feet the fallen
pantomimus
made an almost imperceptible movement with his fingers. His first digit and his thumb curled together to make an O, visible to no one but himself and the few patrician men of the front row whose eyes would not meet Sejanus's. The
pantomimus
snaked his other hand along the marble with his index finger pointing. It met the little O and the outstretched finger crept snugly inside the hole in a low and crude gesture that was unmistakable to those few who could see it. A patrician man laughed before clapping his hand across his mouth.

Sejanus planted his boot on the
pantomimus
's fingers. 'The bans are made on the grounds of obscenity,' he declared, grinding the digits into the stage.

Because, as slaves, our seats were the very worst in the Theatre of Pompey, being in the final tier and only available when unwanted by the freedwomen who occupied the rows in front, Lygdus and I were among the last to leave the cancelled performance. Sejanus left his guards in place to ensure an orderly exit of the crowd and instructed that the artists of the
musica muta
be forced to remain on stage until every member of the audience had gone, slaves included. The message was clear: the artists, whether celebrities or not, were now deemed lower than slaves.

As the ranks of Roman society filed past the stage, first one, then another of the bravest fans whispered words of sympathy to the
pantomimus
, who stood dignified and erect, his broken hand oozing blood at his side. Without Sejanus present, the Praetorians acted as if nothing was amiss – even they believed the bans were excessive. With the guards' indifference the words of condolence grew more passionate and the
pantomimus
made a signal to one of the chorus men standing behind him. The one holding the clapper board – the only one still wearing a half-mask – stepped forward and loosened the strings of the
pantomimus
's full head mask, lifting it from him and revealing a face that was every bit as beautiful as the face of mythical Narcissus. The pantomimus remained where he stood, letting his beauty be seen by all. Some of the departing women began to weep at the sight of him and, on the stage, the musicians joined in.

When it came the slaves' turn to file past the stage and leave, the
pantomimus
would have been forgiven had he turned around or averted his eyes. Every slave already understood and was offended by the insult that had been given to him in being forced to remain until we had gone. The star of the
musica muta
was as loved by Rome's lowest as he was by those of the very highest rank. No one wished to see him debased. But the mime stayed in place and bestowed a smile of immeasurable love and warmth upon us slaves. Hearts soared.

Lygdus began to sob. 'It's so unfair,' he said. 'The dancing was beautiful, and the music too. Why deny us this? What point does it serve?'

He'd certainly changed his tune. 'It's obvious,' I replied as we filed past. 'Tiberius is threatened by their popularity.'

'But he lets the gladiators fight, and they're even bigger celebrities.'

'How many are still alive after the
Ludi
?' I asked. 'They're no threat when they're dead – but great actors live on for years.'

'He fears anyone who might be more loved than he is,' said Lygdus in disgust, seeing the truth now.

I nodded, but my eyes were on the men of the chorus.

'If that's his problem, then good luck, Rome,' said Lygdus. 'Who
isn't
more loved? He'll be banning every one of us.'

'It may come to that,' I said. The lone chorus man who had retained his mask was now loosening it from his face.

'Well, it's terrible,' said Lygdus. 'Rome is becoming a joyless place.'

'Perhaps there is still a little joy left,' I said.

'No, there's nothing,' said Lygdus, wiping tears from his eyes.

The chorus man let the mask hang from his fingers as his eyes met mine in the line of slaves.

'No really,' I insisted. 'I think you might find that joy is still
ours
– yours and mine, Lygdus – though we'd be wise to keep quiet about it.'

'What are you talking about?' he said.

I pointed to the man who had removed his mask. Under his stage robes was the ill-concealed mound of a hump on his back. He was not a man at all.

'I give you Martina,' I smiled at the astonished eunuch.

Every seat in the arena was filled except the most important. In the hot summer sun, the golden seat shone from the middle of the Emperor's box like an empty cup or an unworn crown. Every person could see it – the throne was made all the more conspicuous by its vacancy. The assembled gladiators standing in their ranks on the sandy arena floor looked in confusion at the space where the Emperor should have been.

A trainer screamed at them from the perimeter. 'Just make the oath anyway!'