The Storm of Heaven (42 page)

No longer. Now he listened, with perfect attention, to anyone he dealt with. Each man, each woman, each delegation found his complete awareness upon them. Many found it flattering, as he intended. Some became alarmed and those he discarded, for they were weak. A few found his dedication and loyalty seductive and trusted him too much. Those were useful fools.

He passed through the shadow of a bronze four-horsed chariot as he entered the Colosseum itself. A hum of subdued activity met him and the old Roman weaved his way between scaffolds and ladders filling a huge barrel vault. Rickety wooden structures obscured stuccoed walls, ornamented with luxurious paintings and statuary. Slaves on their hands and knees, scrubbing with sponges and cloths, hid the vast, unbroken sweep of green marble floor. Women were carefully reapplying plaster and paint to the lower walls, covering up centuries of graffiti.

Gaius Julius passed through the apse, marveling at the effort invested in restoring the building. The hall narrowed to a doorway twenty feet high, surrounded by golden acanthus, holly and laurel. Heavy bronze statues of Hercules and Perseus flanked the entrance to the arena. They were draped in canvas to protect them from the painters working on the architrave above the door. Students in baggy tunics crouched on the scaffolding, faces intent as they touched up the bright colors on the faces of the gods with tiny horsehair brushes.

Gaius Julius stepped out into blazing sunlight again, shading his eyes against the glare. A particular heat beat against his face, radiating from a vast expanse of white and gray marble seating. The old Roman cast about, shading his eyes against the glare, looking for the man he had come to see.

The floor of the arena was surrounded by a flagstone walkway, separated from the main floor by wooden posts fifteen feet high. When the games were under way, the posts supported a fence keeping the wild beasts and criminals from reaching the actual wall of the amphitheater. That wall was twenty feet high, smooth faced with marble blocks, and pierced with doors at irregular intervals. Above its outward-leaning lip of burnished stone was the first rank of seats. These were reserved for the senators, the Vestals, and on the southern side of the arena, the Imperial box.

Two huge ranks of seats rose up behind the first tier. These rows were reserved for the tribes of the city, for the equestrians and the patricians. A pediment filled with statues of the gods followed, making a clear division between the upper classes in the lower seats, and the final two upper decks, one of marble and one of wood. The wooden seats on the topmost tier sat within a colonnaded portico circling the uppermost reaches of the arena. A series of wooden pillars, painted and plastered to look like marble, supported the portico roof. One hundred and fifty feet separated Gaius and the roof. Rising above the portico were tall masts. On a day when the
munera
or
venationes
would be celebrated, if it was not too windy or rainy, the masts held great canvas sails that swung out over the arena to shade the seats below.

Gaius Julius scowled in irritation.
Where was this Ovinius?
He paced to the right along the flagstone walkway. The cleaning activity was duplicated, on a vastly larger scale, inside the arena. Gangs of slaves, buckets and mops in hand, were cleaning the marble seating benches. Others labored on the ornamented stairways leading up out of the bowels of the building and into the tiers.

The old Roman passed a stairway whose carved panels had been completely removed from their concrete supports. A dozen workmen were easing a newly carved panel into place with the help of a crane and pulley. It showed a long-bodied dog tearing at the neck of an equally long-bodied deer. Gaius Julius frowned, seeing that the replacement panel did not match the quality, even worn with age, of the original.

A shame,
he thought,
but this is not my project! There are still not enough hours for such small details.

That was another lesson he had taken to heart. In his old life, he had tried to manage and order every last tiny detail of his affairs. This project was far too big, though it made him uneasy to entrust strangers with such responsibility.

No matter!
he scolded himself.
These are professionals, let them execute their art, old man!

The uppermost deck bustled with activity. Gaius could make out small figures in blue tunics climbing about on the wooden masts. Some of them were in the process of swinging in the boom-like extensions. The canvas awnings were nowhere to be seen. Gaius presumed they were being cleaned.

A booming shout rolled across the arena floor. "Master Gaius!" Gaius Julius turned and raised his hand in greeting, for here was the man he had come to see, striding across the expanse of wooden panels flooring the arena.

"Procurator Ovinius, I am glad to see you. I feared that you would be lost amongst all this commotion!"

Ovinius was a man of middling height, with a paunch pressing against his tunic and rapidly receding hair. He exuded an impression of bustling efficiency.

"Things are a little topsy-turvy here," guffawed the procurator. He looked around smugly. "It's been a good four centuries since the place got a really thorough cleaning. But, by the gods, she'll be in excellent shape when the games open."

"Good," Gaius Julius said. "I've a matter to discuss with you in private. Your office, perhaps?"

The procurator nodded, looking about with a trace of unease. "Of course, of course... is this a personal matter, or about the games?"

Gaius Julius did not smile but leaned close and said, "The games, good Ovinius."

The man relaxed visibly but avoided Gaius' eyes.

"Well, then, let's go below." Ovinius strode off across the arena floor. Gaius Julius followed at a more sedate pace, looking around with interest. This entire structure was new to him, built long after his death. The press of matters since his unlikely resurrection had kept him from attending the games. It was certainly Roman in scale...

Ovinius paused and stamped his foot twice on the ground. Gaius Julius also stopped, watching with interest. The paneling under their feet suddenly shook amid a grinding sound. Gaius Julius swayed a little, but caught himself, as a twenty-by-twenty section of the arena floor began to descend. Chains rattled loudly through a pair of windlasses as they descended. Gaius flipped the edge of his toga over his shoulder, watching in amusement as they dropped below the arena floor at a steady, even pace.

Huge dark brown blocks of tufa formed the walls of the shaft. Channels had been cut in the stone to allow the chains to pass. An iron grating slid past, revealing a dim corridor. The air was sharp with musk, redolent of angry beasts and fear and urine.

"Have you been below before?" Ovinius raised his voice as the windlasses clanked and rattled to a stop.

"No," Gaius Julius said, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. "I've heard tales, of course."

The lift ground to a halt, the blue square of the sky three stories above. Now they stood in a cage of iron bars with doors on either side. Ovinius strode through one, thumbs hitched into the broad leather belt at his waist.

"It's quite a commotion down here on game day," he said as they walked. "There are three thousand staff at work, plus hundreds of animals and men appearing on the floor. That's not counting the sailors, of course, but they're not below. They work above, as they like to say."

Ovinius laughed at his own wit.

"I'm surprised that you still struggle with those acres of canvas and miles of cordage. Surely one of the Imperial thaumaturges could contrive some reflecting dome or cover that holds itself up with nymphs or gryphons."

The procurator made a sour face and a sign against ill luck with his hand. "Master Gaius, remember who built this place! Old Vespasian was a tax farmer and an accountant, by Hermes! A more practical Emperor never lived. He commanded his builders to raise this whole magnificent structure without any
special
help, if you follow. He had no truck with sorcerers and that ilk. Now his son, Domitian, he added the crystal lamps for night fights. They are a bit of work! The crowds like it, I think, knowing that all the marvels and feats that they see are conjured up by men with men's hands. Not by spirits or wizards! That sort of thing just isn't Roman."

"Still, wouldn't they be better pleased to have shade during the day?"

Ovinius shrugged, saying, "No one complains. The sunny seats are cheaper."

Gaius Julius ran a hand lightly along the walls of the tunnel as they walked. A thick, sooty layer of grime turned the brown and red bricks black as night. A heavy, fetid smell filled the air and troubled breath. Ovinius seemed not to notice. A column of slaves passed them, going in the other direction, carrying a long bight of chain over their shoulders.

"We've almost a hundred lifts, ramps and doors that open in the big floor," he said. "They're all being repaired, regreased, the chains fixed, the doors varnished and replaced if need be. I hope to have every single thing in the whole of the Flavian—every door, every wall, every toilet—refurbished, repainted and replaced by the end of next month."

"Are you going to clean down here?" Gaius Julius ducked under a low lintel as the procurator turned and stepped down into a cramped room.

"No! That would take another four months to try and scrub all of this down. I mean, of course, everything the public sees will be brought up to snuff. Everything hidden that's important, like the cages, lifts and gates, will be all new."

Ovinius' office was small, crowded with wicker shelves and a wooden table covered with papyrus and parchment rolls. A large copper plate bolted to the wall held etched plans of a dozen floors. Smoke from an ill-trimmed lamp coiled in the groined ceiling. The procurator sat heavily, his chair creaking under him. Gaius Julius took the other seat, brushing walnut shells and bread crusts from cracked leather.

"So, what is this business of yours?" Ovinius was still nervous.

Gaius Julius settled in the chair, looked around the room, then finally spoke. "I sent you a small note telling you that we had a business acquaintance in common. You'll remember him, a large gentleman named Syphax. A man of many varied interests."

Ovinius nodded, clearly unhappy. "I know him too well," he mumbled. "What do you want? Are you collecting for him?"

"Not at all," Gaius said in a breezy tone. "I made his acquaintance while providing entertainment for the workers on the Via Appia project. He knows so many people... we were discussing the amphitheater and your name, somehow, came up. I understand that you might, in the past, have borrowed some
small
sums from the good Syphax."

Ovinius looked sick, but he nodded.

"Well, you shouldn't worry about these things. Syphax is a businessman and he expressed concern and sorrow for your situation. His words moved me, I must say, and—in the interests of showing my generosity—I have undertaken to pay the interest on these
loans
of yours."

Gaius Julius smiled, examining his fingernails. Since his rebirth they had failed to grow, which was still disconcerting. He worried, when he had time, about the remains of his hair. Would it all just fall out, leaving him as bald as an egg?

"What do you want, then?" The procurator's voice was filled with even greater fear than before. Syphax, at least, was a blunt man in his business dealings. A fellow knew what to expect!

"These funeral games—when the Emperor commands!—are my concern. I'm sure you understand my feelings. A great tragedy has afflicted the Empire, and the festival to placate the spirits of the dead must be exemplary. My thoughts are close to yours; you want the Flavian to look fresh, as glorious as when Domitian first threw open the doors. I am close, very close, to being named the
editore
of these games."

Ovinius raised an eyebrow. This was business talk and he recovered his composure. "A juicy plum, indeed. Have you the coin to bear such a weight? The cost will be enormous!"

Gaius Julius waved the thought away. "Nonsense. The Emperor and the treasury will cover it. I, however, will be placed in the unenviable situation of having to provide the most spectacular entertainments seen since the Thousand Year games. Everything must be new, exciting, novel. Romans are the most entertained people in the world—you know how they respond to the same old tired spectacle."

"I do!" Ovinius laughed. "Stones and rocks and burning pitch thrown into the arena. Gladiators torn apart or stoned to death, emperors and senators abused! The people love their circuses dearly... I thought there would be riots when the Lord and God announced the games would be closed."

"Indeed," Gaius Julius said in a smug tone. "You agree, then, it is of the first importance to make sure these games are memorable and like nothing ever seen before."

Ovinius nodded eagerly. The matter of his debts seemed to have fallen by the wayside.

"It strikes me," the old Roman said, "that part of the problem is that the gladiators, the most popular part of the show, are too well known. Oh, women swoon and shriek over them, throwing tokens and falling out of their gowns to gain the eye of their favorites. Everyone counts the number of victories, the kills, the reprieves... but everyone, and I do mean
everyone
has seen the
retiarius
fight the Thracian, the Gaul against the Samnite. Where is the novelty in that?"

"So true," Ovinius agreed. "But that is traditional! If you try and change things, the people will be angry!"

"Not necessarily. Consider the popularity of the races. Fifty thousand people cram themselves into the Flavian on a regular basis. Two hundred and fifty thousand attend the Circus Maximus. Everyone agrees that the races are better than the gladiators. Why?"

Ovinius frowned and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. "Well... you follow your faction, Blue, Green, Yellow or White. There are as many races as fights... Huh. I don't really know. More men die in the amphitheater, unless there are some good crashes in the turns. Hey, you get to sit with your family all together, rather than the women being sent up to the top deck."