Empire

AD 80

“What a year, what a terrible, terrible year!” said Epaphroditus. “First, the fiery eruption of Vesuvius and the complete loss of Pompeii and Herculaneum – whole cities buried as if they never existed.”

A year to the day after the fall of ash on Roma, Epaphroditus was again playing host to Lucius and the others in his garden.

“And then, the outbreak of plague here in Roma – the plague that claimed your mother, Lucius. Chrysanthe was such a lovely woman. She died before her time.”

Lucius nodded, acknowledging his friend’s words of condolence. His mother’s death had been quick, but not painless. Chrysanthe had suffered a great deal, racked by fever and coughing up blood. Lucius had been with her at the end, along with his three sisters. He was not close to his siblings. It was the first time in years that they had all been together.

“That plague,” Epaphroditus continued, “was caused, so everyone assumes, by that bizarre dust that fell on us after Vesuvius erupted. There must have been something toxic in that dust. Remember, for a couple of days, until word of the disaster at Pompeii arrived, we had no idea what the dust was or where it came from. People thought the firmament itself was crumbling, signalling the end of the universe. Who could imagine that a volcano could throw up so much debris? They say the ash from Vesuvius fell as far away as Africa, Egypt, and even Syria.

“Then, yet another disaster. While the emperor was down in Campania, comforting the survivors, that terrible fire broke out in Roma – three days and nights of conflagration that seemed to strike precisely those areas that were not burned during the Great Fire under Nero. The devastation extended from the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline – just repaired after the arson of Vitellius! – all the way to Theatre of Pompeius on the Field of Mars and Agrippa’s lovely temple called the Pantheon, which was totally gutted.”

Lucius Pinarius nodded sombrely. “Cities lost, plague and fire in Roma – truly, it’s been a terrible year. And yet here are the five of us, all alive and well.”

“The six of us, if you count Melancomas.” Dio cast an appreciative glance at the statue.

“Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone,” said Epaphroditus.

“Terrible disasters,” agreed Martial, “but no one can fault the emperor. Titus made quick restitution to the citizens in Campania and began rebuilding the remaining cities around the bay, then turned to restoring the burned areas of Roma – and without raising taxes, mind you, or making special appeals to the wealthy. He did it all himself, even stripping his own properties of ornaments to redecorate the temples and public buildings, like a true father of the Roman state. To combat the plague, Titus did all that any man could, seeking counsel from the priests and offering the appropriate sacrifices to the gods.”

“The emperor’s leadership in these times of crisis cannot be faulted,” said Epaphroditus. “Still, people are badly shaken and fearful of the future.”

“Which is why the opening of the amphitheatre could not have come at a more propitious time,” said Martial.

They turned their gaze to the massive structure across the way. The last of the scaffolds had been removed. The curved travertine walls gleamed in the morning sunlight; the niches formed by the multiple arches were filled with brightly painted statues of gods and heroes. Colourful pennants streamed from poles affixed to the rim. The open space between the amphitheatre and the new baths was thronged with people on holiday. This was the opening day of Vespasian’s great dream, the Flavian Amphitheatre.

“Are we ready to set out?” said Lucius.

“I think so,” said Epaphroditus. “Should I bring along a slave?”

“Of course,” said Martial. “We’ll be there all day. The slave can fetch food for us. Alas, if only he could go to the latrina for us as well! But there are still some tasks that cannot be delegated to a slave.”

“Where will we put him?” said Epaphroditus.

“I imagine it’s like the theatre,” said Martial. “There’s bound to be a section at the back of the tier for everyone’s slaves.”

“You have the tokens?” said Epaphroditus.

Martial held up three tiny clay tablets upon which were stamped numerals and letters. “For yours truly – the poet charged with witnessing the inaugural games and composing an official tribute in verse – three excellent seats in the lowest tier. We’re right next to the imperial box, just behind the Vestal virgins. Take good care of your ticket. You’ll want it for a souvenir.”

“Only three?” said Lucius.

“I’m not going,” said Epictetus.

“Nor am i,” said Dio.

“But why not?”

“Lucius, I haven’t attended a gladiator show since I became a freedman,” said Epictetus. “I certainly don’t intend to see this one simply because it promises to be bigger and bloodier than any that’s come before.”

“And you, Dio?”

“Perhaps you’ve never noticed, Lucius, but philosophers are seldom seen at gladiator shows, unless they wish to stand up and address the crowd about the evils of such spectacles. I don’t think even our free-speech-loving emperor would welcome such an interruption on this occasion.”

“But the gladiators won’t even appear until later in the day,” said Martial. “Before that there’ll be a whole programme of spectacles-”

“I am well aware of the typical entertainment offered at such events,” said Dio. “There will be the public punishment of criminals by various ingenious means, intended, ostensibly, for the edification of the crowd. But take a look at the faces in the stands; are the spectators uplifted by the moral lesson, or titillated by the humiliation and destruction of another mortal? And there will undoubtedly be animal exhibitions; these, too, are educational, or so we are told, since they give us a chance to see exotic creatures from far away places. But the animals are never simply paraded for our perusal; they’re made to fight one another, or hunted down by armed men and killed. Yes, yes, Lucius, I know: you’re a hunter yourself, so you appreciate an exhibition of fine marksmanship. But again, is it the hunter’s skills the spectators applaud, or the sight of an animal being wounded and slaughtered? And all that bloodshed is merely prelude to the gladiator matches, where human beings are forced to fight for their lives for the amusement of strangers. Since at least the time of Cicero there have been those of us who object to the spectacles of the arena, which debase rather than elevate their audience. The fact that such games have now been given a grander venue than ever before may be cause for the poet to celebrate, but not the philosopher.”

“But don’t you want to see the building?” said Lucius.

“You yourself have called it a monstrosity.”

“I’m not in love with it, as Epaphroditus is. The thing is too big and too garish for my taste. Still, there’s never been a place like it, and this is the opening day. All of Roma will be there.”

“All the more reason for a philosopher to stay away,” said Dio. “It’s one thing when a city holds its gladiator shows at some rustic spot outside the gates, in a natural setting where there’s no pretense about what’s taking place – men sitting in the dirt, watching other men kill each other. But to take these blood sports and display them in a palatial setting, surrounded by beautiful statues and fine architecture, as if killing were simply another artistic endeavour to be appreciated and enjoyed by sophisticated people – that in itself is offensive. No man who considers himself a philosopher can lend his presence to such an event. Epictetus and I will find something better to do. You’re welcome to join us, Lucius.”

“Ha!” Martial waved back the philosophers and put his arm about Lucius’s shoulder. “You won’t lure Pinarius away from the most exciting event of the year to go sit on a hilltop and listen to you grumble about your bunions and how they must have been sent by the gods to test your endurance!” He pressed one of the tokens into Lucius’s hand. “Now take that, my friend, and hold on to it tightly, and don’t let any philosopher talk you out of using it. Come along, then, everyone who’s coming.”

They parted ways in the street outside the house. Lucius watched the philosophers walk up the hill. Epictetus used his crutch. Dio took small steps and walked slowly to match the younger man’s pace. Lucius felt an urge to join them, but Martial grabbed his toga and pulled him in the opposite direction.

The open space around the Flavian Amphitheatre was thronged with people. A small crowd had gathered to watch a mime troupe perform a parody about a brawny gladiator and a senator’s wife who lusted after him behind her husband’s back. Street vendors moved through the crowd, offering good-luck charms, freshly cooked bits of meat and fish on skewers, little clay lamps with images of gladiators, and tickets for excellent seats so crudely stamped that they had to be counterfeit.

Long lines began to form at the entrances, radiating outwards from the amphitheatre, but there was no waiting at the gate to which Martial led them. The finely dressed men and women going in were clearly of a higher class than the citizens in ragged tunics queuing up at the other gates.

Once through the entrance, they found themselves in a finely appointed vestibule with a marble floor and elegant furniture. The railings had ivory fittings and the walls were exquisitely painted with pictures of gods and heroes.

“It reminds me of the Golden House,” said Epaphroditus. “See that mosaic of Diana in front of the steps? I’m almost certain that was lifted stone by stone from the anteroom to Nero’s bed chamber.”

“It makes sense that the Flavians would have stripped the Golden House to decorate their amphitheatre,” said Lucius. “But surely the entire structure isn’t decorated this elaborately.”

“Of course not,” said Martial. “This is the section for important people – magistrates, visiting dignitaries, Vestal virgins, and friends of the emperor, such as yours truly. Only the best for my companions! And look, just as I promised, there’s a splendid buffet laid out for us right here in the vestibule, and free wine. What a privileged existence is the life of the poet!”

They mingled in the vestibule for a while, eating and drinking, until a horn sounded and a crier came through the room, calling for all to find their seats. The men in togas and the women in elegant stolas began to drift to a marble stairway that led up to bright daylight. Lucius and his friends followed the crowd.

Epaphroditus had described the scale of the amphitheatre and the way it was laid out; Epictetus had compared it to the circular valley, now vanished, at the summit of Vesuvius. But no amount of mere description could have prepared Lucius for what he beheld from the top of the steps. For a moment his mind could not take it in; as the sound of fifty thousand people created a single dull roar, so the sight of so many people in one place registered as a kind of blur, an undifferentiated mass of humanity in which no individuals could be perceived. But, little by little, as he stood on the landing, he began to regain his bearings, and his mind began to perceive what was near and what was far.

Lucius had never experienced anything like that first moment inside the Flavian Amphitheatre. That instant alone, so disorienting that it was almost frightening, yet so unique and thrilling, was worth the excursion. Dio and Epictetus were fools, he thought, to deprive themselves of such an experience, which was surely to be had in no other place on earth.

He realized that he was standing not in full sunlight but in brightly filtered shade, and looked up to see awnings like sails that extended from the uppermost parapet all around the building. As he peered upwards, squinting, he saw that men were working the complicated rigging, adjusting the angle of the awnings to block the sunlight.

Martial pulled at his toga. “Stop gawking like a bumpkin. You’re holding up the crowd. Come along.”

They found their seats. The great bowl of the amphitheatre encircled them. Below, jugglers, tumblers, and acrobats of both sexes, wearing scanty but brightly coloured costumes, were already in the arena. Some were so close that Lucius could see their faces. Others were small in the distance. The scale of the place confounded him. Somewhere nearby, a water organ was playing a lively tune.

“Have we missed the beginning of the show?”

“Oh, this isn’t the show,” said Martial. “This is just a trifle to keep the crowd amused while they file into their seats. Numa’s balls, look how high they’ve strung that tightrope! Can you imagine walking across that thing with another fellow on your shoulders? It always gives me the shivers when they perform without a net.”

“Why are the seats in front of us empty?”

“Because the Vestals haven’t yet arrived. They’re often the last to show up at any public event, even after the emperor. Ah, but here he comes now.”

Titus and his retinue began to file into the imperial box. The emperor was forty but looked younger, thanks to his genial expression and a full head of hair not yet touched by grey. He had married early and been widowed, then remarried and almost as quickly divorced his second wife, whose family was too closely associated with the Pisonian conspiracy against Nero. He had not remarried since. For female consorts he was flanked on one side by his grown daughter, Julia, and on the other by his younger sister, Flavia Domitilla. Several of his favourite eunuchs also attended him, beautiful and exquisitely dressed creatures who at a glance seemed neither female nor male; they exemplified what Dio called the Persian ideal of beauty.

The last members of the imperial family to enter the box were the emperor’s younger brother, Domitian, with his wife and their seven-year-old son. At twenty-eight, Domitian looked almost as old as Titus, thanks to his dour expression and the fact that he had lost much of his hair; gone was the glorious chestnut mane that had made him so conspicuous amid the Flavian entourage during the last days of Vitellius. While Titus smiled and waved enthusiastically to the crowd, Domitian hung back, looking glum. The brothers were known to have a stormy relationship. After Vespasian died, Domitian had publicly complained that their father’s will specified that the brothers should rule jointly, but that the document had been deliberately altered; the implication was that Titus himself had tampered with it. Some people believed Domitian, but most did not. For one thing, Vespasian had always favoured his elder son; for another, he had expressed the opinion that one of the reasons why Caligula and Nero had come to a bad end was the fact that they rose to power at too young an age. Domitian was twelve years younger than Titus and clearly lacked his brother’s experience.

No one was quite sure of the proper etiquette in the new amphitheatre. As the emperor continued to wave, many in the crowd rose to their feet and waved back. Some cheered and applauded. Others remained seated. Epaphroditus was among those who stood and clapped his hands. “Now there you see the head of an emperor,” he said to his companions. They looked at him quizzically. “Have I never told you the story of Agrippina and the physiognomist?”

“I think I should have remembered that,” said Martial. “It sounds quite naughty.”

“It’s not that kind of story. Long ago, when Nero was a boy and his mother was desperate to make him Claudius’s heir, Agrippina called on an Egyptian physiognomist to examine the head of Claudius’s son, Britannicus. Do you know, Lucius, I think it was your father who suggested the examination.”

Lucius shrugged. “I’ve never heard the story.”

“Perhaps because it had a rather embarrassing outcome. The Egyptian was unable to draw any conclusions from Britannicus’s head, but since Britannicus’s constant companion happened to be present, the man took a look at his head, as well. That boy was none other than Vespasian’s son Titus. The physiognomist declared he had never seen a head more fit to rule over other men. People forgot about that incident for a long time, but as you can see, the Egyptian turned out to be right.”

“Where was Domitian when this examination took place?” said Lucius.

“Oh, he was a baby. He’d only just been born.”

“What could be easier to read than a baby’s head, since it has no hair?” said Martial. “Although Domitian probably had more hair then than he does now!”

There was a stirring in the crowd around them. The Vestal virgins had arrived and were taking their seats in the front row. No one had been sure whether to stand for the emperor, but everyone did so for the Vestals. They walked with such grace and poise that their linen mantles seemed to float atop their heads.

As the six women passed by, Lucius looked at their faces. He had seen the Vestals at public events but had never been this close to them before. The badge of their office was the vitta, a red-and-white band worn across their foreheads. Their closely shorn hair was hidden by a distinctive headdress called a suffibulum, and their linen gowns obscured the shapes of their bodies, so that all one could really see of them were their unadorned faces. They were of various ages, some old and wrinkled but some no more than girls. Vestals began their mandatory thirty years of service between the ages of six and ten, and most remained Vestals until they died. It seemed to Lucius they kept their eyes straight ahead and deliberately avoided making eye contact – until one of them turned her head as she passed and looked straight at him.

The Vestal was beautiful. The fact that every feature except her face was hidden only accentuated her beauty. Two green eyes flashed beneath delicate eyebrows of dark blonde. Her full lips favoured him with a faint smile. Lucius felt a quiver run down his spine, like a trickle of warm water.

“Her name is Cornelia Cossa,” whispered Epaphroditus in his ear.

“How old is she?”

“Let me think. She was only six when she was inducted into the sisterhood in the eighth year of Nero’s reign; that would make her twenty-four.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Everyone says so.”

The acrobats and jugglers dispersed. The official ceremonies commenced with a series of religious rites. An augury was taken, and the auspices were declared highly favourable. The priests of Mars paraded around the arena, chanting and burning incense. An altar was erected in the centre of the arena. The priests sacrificed a sheep to the war god and dedicated the amphitheatre in his honour. The blood of the sacrificed animal was sprinkled in all directions onto the sand of the arena.

A proclamation by the emperor was read aloud, in which he paid homage to his father, whose military success, architectural genius, and love of the city had given birth to the amphitheatre; the structure in which they had all gathered was the Divine Vespasian’s posthumous gift to the people of Roma. Jewish warriors – filthy, naked, and shackled with chains – were driven at sword point around the arena by armed legionaries as a reminder of the great victory that had brought peace to the eastern provinces of the empire and secured the treasure that had paid for the amphitheatre, the new baths, and many other improvements all over the city. Vespasian had joined the gods, but his legacy in stone, the Flavian Amphitheatre, would endure for all time.

The proclamation went on for some time. Lucius’s mind began to wander. He noticed that Martial had pulled out a stylus and a wax tablet and was busy scribbling. He assumed that his friend was taking down the words of the proclamation, but the notes he was able to read had nothing to do with what they were hearing. Martial saw him scanning his notes.

“Random impressions,” he whispered. “You never know what might become a poem. Look at all these people. How many races and nationalities do you think are represented here today?’

Lucius looked around them. “I have no idea.”

“Nor do I, but it seems to me the whole world is here, in microcosm. Look at those black-skinned Ethiopians over there. And that group over there – what sort of people have blonde hair and wear it twisted into knots like that?”

“Sicambri, I think they’re called. A Germanic tribe that lives at the mouth of the Rhine River.”

“And before we took our seats, in the vestibule I saw men in Arabian headdresses, and Sabaeans from the Red Sea, who wear black from head to foot. And I smelled Cilicians.”

“Smelled them?”

“The women and boys and even the grown men of Cilicia wear a very distinctive perfume, made from a flower that grows only on the highest peaks of the Taurus Mountains. You’d know that, Pinarius, if you’d ever had a Cilician boy-”

He was interrupted by a shushing noise. One of the Vestals had turned around in her seat and was glaring at them. She was old and wrinkled, with a severe expression that intimidated even Martial. The Vestal sitting next to her also turned and looked up at them. It was Cornelia Cossa. Her calm smile and radiant beauty was in such contrast to her fellow priestess that Lucius laughed out loud, then regretted doing so at once, fearing he had offended her. But if anything, Cornelia’s smile widened a bit, and there was a twinkle in her eye as she returned her attention to the crier who was reading the proclamation.

“Did you see that?” whispered Martial. “She looked right at you.”

Lucius shrugged. “What of it?”

“She looked at you the way a woman looks at a man.”

“Martial, you are incorrigible! Go back to sniffing your Cilician boys.”

At last the various proclamations and invocations were finished. The Flavian Amphitheatre was officially opened. The spectacles began.

The first event was the scourging of the informers. Titus had promised to round up the worst offenders – liars and scoundrels who made a living off the public purse by accusing innocent men of conspiring against the emperor or defrauding the state. Such creatures had been a blight on every reign since that of Augustus. No matter how sensible and confident an emperor might be at the beginning of his reign, with each year that passed, he and his ministers invariably grew more susceptible to baseless rumours and more fearful of imaginary enemies. The hard-headed Vespasian had been no more immune to poisonous slander than had his predecessors. By the end of his reign, many a man had suffered punishment based on groundless suspicion and many an unscrupulous informer had grown rich. Titus intended to make a clean break with the past.

The crowd murmured in anticipation as a large number of men were driven at spear point into the arena. Most wore togas and looked like respectable businessmen and property owners. They were stripped first of their togas, then of their tunics, so that they wore nothing but loincloths, like slaves, though one seldom saw slaves as fat as most of these men. In groups of ten, the men were secured by the neck with two-pronged pitchforks and forced to stand in place while they were beaten with whips and rods. The beatings were severe: bits of flesh and showers of blood were scattered across the sand. Even when the men collapsed to their knees, they were forced by the pitchforks to hold their heads up.

“Do you see who’s delivering the punishment?” said Martial. “Titus chose a corps of officers made up entirely of nomadic Gaetulians from North Africa.”

“Why the Gaetulians?” said Lucius.

“For one thing, they’re outsiders with no connection to the victims or to anyone else in the city. More importantly, they’re famous for their cruelty.”

It certainly seemed to Lucius that the Gaetulians enjoyed their work. So did the audience. Many of the victims, more used to handing out such treatment to slaves than to receiving it, reacted with a great deal of screaming and blubbering. The more undignified the victim’s behaviour, the more boisterous was the crowd’s reaction. Rather than tiring as the punishments proceeded, the Gaetulians were urged on by the cheering of the spectators and grew increasingly violent. The later victims were more severely beaten than the first ones; to even the punishment, and to the delight of the crowd, the first victims were scourged again.

Many of the informers lost consciousness or could not stand after being scourged and had to be dragged from the arena. A few of them died from the punishment. (“Not from scourging, but from shame!” whispered Martial, taking notes.) Those who survived would be sent into exile to live out their days on remote islands or, in the worst cases, would be sold into slavery at public auction.

More punishments followed. The victims were all condemned criminals, guilty of a capital offense – murder, arson, or theft of sacred treasure from a temple.

The organizers of the games outdid themselves in the creation of special tableaux for the various ordeals, staging several of them at once around the vast arena so that there was always something dramatic or suspenseful to engage the spectators. The punishments were based on myths and legends, with the victims playing parts, like actors. The fact that each victim’s suffering and death were not imaginary but real made their performances all the more riveting to watch.

In one of the tableaux, the naked victim was chained to an elaborate stage set made to appear as a craggy cliff. A crier proclaimed that the victim was a murderer who had killed his own father. The audience booed and hurled curses at him. He was a muscular man of middle age with a bristling beard, a suitable candidate to play Prometheus, the Titan who gave fire to mankind in defiance of Jupiter. To remind the audience of the story, dancers dressed in animal skins circled the shackled Titan, waved torches, and chanted a primitive song of thanksgiving. The song was suddenly drowned out by a stage device hidden inside the rock face, which loudly reproduced the sound of thunder. At this sign of Jupiter’s wrath, the worshippers of Prometheus dispersed in panic. As soon as they were out of the way, two bears were unleashed. The animals headed straight for the bound Prometheus, who began to scream and struggle frantically against his chains.

“Bears?” Epaphroditus wrinkled his nose. “Everyone knows Prometheus was tormented by vultures. Every day they tore out his entrails, and every night he was miraculously healed, so that the ordeal was endlessly repeated.”

Martial laughed. “The trainer who can induce vultures to attack on command will be able to name any price! I suspect we’ll see a lot of bears today. The emperor’s beast trainer tells me that bears are by far the best choice when it comes to attacking human victims. Hounds are too common, elephants too squeamish, lions and tigers too unpredictable. Bears, on the other hand, are not only terrifying but extremely reliable. These come from Caledonia, the northernmost part of the island of Britannia.”

The bears who converged on the helpless Prometheus lived up to their trainer’s expectations. They concentrated their furious attack on the man’s midsection, ripping out his entrails just as the vultures were said to have done in the ancient story. Martial voiced the opinion that the bears had been trained especially to attack that part of the man’s body; Epaphroditus suspected that honey had been smeared on the man’s belly. The victim’s screams were bloodcurdling.

At length the bears’ trainer appeared and shooed them away. The stage set was wheeled about in a circle so that the gory sight of the disembowelled Prometheus could be seen by everyone in the stands. Then the dancers reappeared, pirouetting and lamenting before Prometheus, waving their torches so that they produced a great deal of smoke. Only after they ran off did Lucius realize that the purpose of their dance and the smoke was to distract the audience from a bit of stagecraft being performed on the victim. As if by magic, his entrails had been stuffed back inside him and his belly had been stitched up. Even the blood on his legs had been wiped clean. The man was extremely pale, but apparently conscious; his lips moved and his eyelids flickered. Just as the punishment of Prometheus was said to be repeated in an endless cycle, so this victim had been made ready for yet another assault by the bears. Again they came loping towards him. The man opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Instead of struggling against his chains, he twitched and convulsed as the bears proceeded to disembowel him again. Eventually even the twitching stopped.

The dancers reappeared. They cast aside their torches, flinging them onto the stage set. The mock cliff went up in flames, consuming the body of the victim with it. The dancers circled the bonfire, joined hands, and sang a song of jubilation, praising the wisdom and justice of Jupiter.

Lucius found himself wondering what Epictetus and Dio would have made of the tableau. The victim was not just a murderer but the very worst sort of murderer, a parricide. Surely he deserved to be punished, and why should his death not be used to educate the public? The tableau taught a double lesson. First, while men might sympathize with a rebel like Prometheus, the authority of the king of the gods – and by extension the authority of the emperor – must be respected, and would always triumph in the end. Second, on a more basic level, no man should dare to kill his own father, for fear of suffering such a terrible fate. Lucius suspected that his philosopher friends would be unmoved by such arguments. He himself was left feeling more queasy than uplifted by the spectacle.

There were a great many other such tableaux. As Martial had predicted, bears featured prominently in most of them. A temple thief was made to reenact the role of the robber Laureolus, made famous by the ancient plays of Ennius and Naevius; he was nailed to a cross and then subjected to the attack of the bears. A freedman who had killed his former master was made to put on a Greek chlamys and go walking though a stage forest populated by cavorting satyrs and nymphs, like Orpheus lost in the woods; when one of the satyrs played a shrill tune on his pipes, the trees dispersed and the man was subject to an attack by bears. An arsonist was made to strap on wings in imitation of Daedalus, ascend a high platform, and then leap off; the wings actually carried him aloft for a short distance, a remarkable sight, until he plunged into an enclosure full of bears and was torn to pieces.

“A bit repetitious, isn’t it, ending all the tableaux with bears?” said Epaphroditus.

“Ah, but those are Lucanian bears, not Caledonian,” said Martial. “Good Italian beasts, not exotic stock from beyond the sea. See how the people cheer them on? Poor Daedalus never stood a chance.”

After the punishments, there was an intermission. Acrobats once again ran onto the sand floor of the arena. Lucius and his friends went to the vestibule for refreshments and then to relieve themselves at the nearest latrina, where the quality of the bronze and marble fixtures was the finest Lucius had ever seen in a public facility. Martial joked that he felt unworthy to relive himself amid such splendour.

While his friends lingered in the vestibule, Lucius returned to his seat. Down in the arena, the lifeless body of an acrobat was being carried off.

“What that’s about?” he wondered aloud.

“The poor fellow was walking across a tightrope when he lost his balance and fell.” The voice came from the row in front of him. All the Vestals had left for the intermission except one. She turned in her seat and looked straight at him.

Lucius stared back at Cornelia. He could think of nothing to say.

The Vestal finally broke the silence. “He was hardly more than a child. I think they should use nets, don’t you?”

“I believe they practise with nets,” Lucius said. “But they never perform with them. That would eliminate the suspense.”

“It would still display their skill. I for one have no desire to see a tightrope walker die. What’s the point? Such a death is simply an accident, not a punishment or the outcome of a ritual combat. They’re acrobats, not murderers or gladiators. What’s your name?”

The question was so abrupt, he simply stared at her.

“It’s not a difficult question, surely.” She laughed. There was nothing malicious in her laugh. The sound of it gave him pleasure.

“Lucius Pinarius,” he said. “My father was Titus Pinarius.”

“Ah, yes, I know the name, though there don’t seem to be a great many of you about these days.”

“There was a time when the Pinarii were quite prominent,” said Lucius. “More than one Pinaria was a Vestal. One was rather famous. But that was a long time ago.”

She nodded. “That’s right, the Vestal Pinaria was among those trapped atop the Capitoline Hill when the Gauls sacked the city. We still talk about her, and pass down the story to the new sisters. That’s why your name is so familiar.” She looked him up and down. “You’re not wearing a senator’s toga. Not a politician, then. Nor are you a military man, I think. How did you merit such a choice seat on opening day?”

“You’re awfully forthright,” said Lucius.

“When you’re a Vestal, there’s really no point in being circumspect. I say what I mean and I ask what I want to know. Perhaps it’s different for other women.”

“I don’t know a lot about women,” he admitted.

“Now who’s being forthright?”

“Here come my friends,” he said. “One of them is a poet. The emperor likes his work; that’s why we have such good seats. Martial will write verses to celebrate the inaugural games.”

“Ah, I wondered who that fellow was, constantly chattering and scribbling on his wax tablet.”

“I’ll introduce you, if you like.” Lucius stood to let Martial pass. When he looked back, Cornelia had turned away. The other Vestals had returned to their seats.

The programme recommenced with a series of animal exhibitions. First, a brightly decorated elephant with a trainer on its back ascended a ramp to a platform, then walked down a tightrope. While the spectators were still crying out in amazement, the elephant sauntered towards the imperial box, emitted a trumpet-like cry from its trunk, then folded its forelegs and dropped forward, making a very dignified bow to the emperor. The spectators responded with the first standing ovation of the day.

Hunting exhibitions followed. All manner of creatures were released, chased, and slain – boars, gazelles, antelopes, ostriches, the huge wild bulls of the Germanic lands called aurochs, and even the spindly-legged, long-necked creatures from farthest Africa called cameleopards, because they had a face like a camel and spots like a leopard. The hunters stalked their prey on foot and on horseback, using various weapons – bows and arrows, spears, knives, nets, and even nooses. Lucius, who enjoyed hunting boars and stags on his country estates, watched the exhibitions with interest and a bit of envy, especially when the hunters pursued the rarer or more dangerous animals, since he himself would probably never have the opportunity to bring down a cameleopard or an aurochs. As the slaughter continued, attendants with wheelbarrows and rakes covered the pools of blood with fresh sand.

There were also exhibitions in which animals were pitted against each another. The audience thrilled to see a leopard stalk and fell a cameleopard by leaping onto its huge neck. “Like a siege tower brought down by a catapult,” muttered Martial, searching for a metaphor.

A tigress had less luck pursuing an ostrich. The absurdity of a bird unable to fly was obvious, but the creature could run with amazing speed. The tigress eventually gave up the chase and crouched, panting, on the sand. The spectators laughed and shouted mockery at the feline, disgusted by a cat unable to catch a flightless bird. But when the tigress’s mate was unleashed, the same spectators fell silent and watched in fascination as the two cats appeared to use a coordinated strategy to trap the ostrich. The bird ran this way and that as the cats closed in.

“My old friend Pliny, not long before Vesuvius put an end to him, wrote that the ostrich hides its head in a bush when attacked and thinks its whole body is concealed,” said Martial. “See how the attendants have placed bits of shrubbery all around the arena, so that the bird may demonstrate its foolish behaviour?”

But the ostrich did not hide its head. Eventually, in desperation, it used its long, powerful legs to kick furiously at the nearest tiger. This gained the ostrich a brief respite, but the bird was quickly exhausted, while the tigers seemed to find fresh strength. The ostrich at last resorted to lying flat on the ground with its long neck and head pressed against the earth. In the rippling haze of heat that rose from the sand, the bird looked like a lifeless mound of earth, and for a while the cats were confounded. They circled the prostrate, motionless bird, sniffing the air and growling. At last the tigress began to paw at the ostrich, which gave a twitch, whereupon the feline pounced and seized the ostrich’s long neck in its powerful jaws. The two cats hissed at each other and fought over the carcass for a while, much to the amusement of the audience, then settled down to share the feast. When they were done, attendants plucked the huge feathers from the dead bird and handed them out as souvenirs to the nearest spectators, who used them to decorate their clothing or fan themselves.

To see an animal hunted, whether by a man or by another animal, thrilled the audience. But far more exciting was the spectacle of seeing one fearsome beast pitted against another in equal combat. For the inaugural games, the emperor had arranged a pairing that had never been seen before. First a wild aurochs was released into the arena. The gigantic bull had huge horns and a fiery temper, as was demonstrated when trainers behind wooden enclosures taunted the creature by throwing red balls at it. The aurochs charged at the cloth balls and managed to spear one of them on his right horn. The clinging ball angered the creature even more. He snorted and tossed his head furiously until the ball went flying into the stands. Spectators leaped to their feet, shoving and struggling against one another to claim it.

Next, a creature that many of those present had never seen before was released into the arena. This was the rare rhinoceros, a beast whose iron-coloured flesh appeared to be made of plated armour and whose enormous nose terminated in a formidable pair of horns, one large and one small. As fearsome as the aurochs might be, it was clearly a relative of the domesticated bull familiar even to the city-dwellers of Roma, and was a creature of grace and beauty, but the rhinoceros was like no other animal, an exotic being from the ends of the earth.

By taunting both animals with balls, prods, and torches, driving them closer and closer together, the trainers eventually induced them to fight. Their methods of combat were so similar that one seemed to be the distorted mirror image of the other. They stood their ground, stamped their feet, shook their haunches, lowered their heads, and finally charged. On the first clash, they only grazed each other, as if each were merely testing his opponent. They drew apart, faced each other, then charged again. This time the aurochs delivered a glancing blow against the rhinoceros, which snorted in pain. The wagering in the stands, which had been heavily against the aurochs, was suddenly reversed.

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 towards 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 armour-like 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 labours.

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 its 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 centre 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 amphitheatre 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 upwards 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-coloured 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 amphitheatre 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 amphitheatre.

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 centre 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 Amphitheatre 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 layabouts 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 maybe.”

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 amphitheatre 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.”

“Some men are simply squeamish,” said Titus charitably. “Cicero had no stomach for gladiator shows. Nor did Seneca.”

“But they attended them, nonetheless,” said Domitian. “These games are as much a solemn duty as they are a celebration, brother. Those who don’t attend – indeed, who make a show of their absence – disparage the memory of our father.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, little brother. But you make an excellent point. Gladiator games began as a way to honour the dead. Our ancestors forced prisoners to fight to the death at the funeral games to mark the passing of great men. We’ve come a long way from those early days, as the building of this amphitheatre demonstrates – what would Romulus with his thatched hut make of this place? Nonetheless, the gladiator games today hearken back to the very first such games, because they honour the passing of a great man, our father. Every drop of blood spilled today will be shed in his honour.”

“And every drop of wine poured today should be drunk in his honour,” said Martial. The words were risky, breaking the somber mood created by the emperor, but the risk paid off. Titus smiled at Martial’s turn of phrase and raised his cup.

“Let us drink, then, to the Divine Vespasian,” said Titus.

Wine was poured for the guests. As Lucius raised his cup, he was suddenly conscious of the extraordinary nature of the moment. He stood in the imperial box, close enough to touch all three children of the Divine Vespasian, sharing wine with Caesar himself – and all because of his friendship with a poet!

Lucius and his friends returned to their seats.

The games resumed with a series of matches between men and beasts, culminating in the appearance of the famed Carpophorus, who was in excellent form, uncannily nimble for a man so heavily muscled and apparently able to read an animal’s thoughts as he anticipated his opponent’s every movement.

Lulled by the afternoon heat and too much wine, Lucius dozed during Carpophorus’s long performance, waking intermittently to witness the bestiarius armed with a dagger to fight a bear, armed with a club to fight a lion, and taking on not one but two bison with his bare hands. Each time he killed a beast, Carpophorus slung the carcass over his brawny shoulders and paraded around the arena to show it off. Waking and dozing and seeing nothing but Carpophorus in combat, over and over again, Lucius seemed trapped in an endlessly repeating dream of slaughter.

At last Lucius was roused by a thunderous ovation as the multitude rose to its feet to acclaim the bestiarius after his final match.

Lucius stood with the rest. He blinked, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “How many animals did the fellow kill?” he asked Martial.

“What! Weren’t you counting along with everyone else?”

“I dozed.”

“You and the emperor both, I imagine. Carpophorus took on a total of twenty animals, one after another. That must be a record. And he suffered hardly a scratch. The man’s invincible. If they want to find an even match for him, they shall have to bring in a hydra, or maybe one of those fire-breathing bulls that Jason encountered in the land of Colchis.”

The gladiator matches followed. Lucius was glad that Epictetus and Dio had not come; the contests were bloodier than any he could recall, and seemed endless, stretching on for hour after hour. Long before the final match between two of the most famous gladiators, Priscus and Verus, Lucius thought that even the most ardent lover of the games must be sated. But as Priscus and Verus engaged, Lucius looked at the imperial box and saw Domitian standing at the parapet, clutching the railing with white knuckles, watching the contest with rapt attention and responding with his whole body, jerking, scowling, grunting, clenching his teeth, and exclaiming under his breath. His little boy stood beside him, mimicking everything his father did. Meanwhile, the emperor remained seated, watching the match without emotion, occasionally casting a sardonic glance at his agitated brother and nephew.

Priscus was a gladiator of the Thracian type, wearing a broad-brimmed helmet with a grille that covered his face and a griffin ornament; greaves covered his legs up to the thighs, and he carried a small round shield and curved sword. Verus was a Murmillo, the traditional opponent of a Thracian, so called for the mormylos, a fish, that decorated his helmet; his right leg was padded with a thick gaiter and he was armed like a Roman legionary with a short sword and a tall, oblong shield.

The two fighters were so evenly matched that neither seemed able to draw blood from the other, but the gracefulness of their movements was so striking and the violence of their sudden clashes so thrilling that theirs was by far the most exciting contest of the day. Even Titus stopped chatting with his sister and daughter and sat forward in his chair, while his brother became increasingly animated. There was no doubt which gladiator Domitian favoured; he kept shouting the name of Verus, and when a senator seated nearby began to yell encouragement to the Thracian, Domitian hurled a cup at the man and told him to shut up.

Titus rolled his eyes at the sudden outburst but made light of it. “Perhaps the Murmillo should add a wine cup to his weaponry. My brother draws more blood than does Verus today.”

The senator, who was using a fold of his toga to stanch the bleeding from a cut on his forehead, flashed a crooked smile to acknowledge the emperor’s wit.

The match had many high points and suspenseful moments, eliciting gasps and shrieks and even some outbursts of weeping from the exhausted, sun-dazed spectators. A last Titus put an end to it. He rose to his feet and gave a signal to the master of the games to stop the contest. Priscus and Verus removed their helmets. Faces covered with sweat, chests heaving, they gazed up at the emperor, awaiting his judgement.

In one hand, Titus held a wooden sword, the traditional gift to a gladiator who had earned his freedom. After such a closely fought match, with no clear victor, to which gladiator would he grant the sword?

The partisans of the two gladiators began to chant their names – “Priscus! Priscus!” and, “Verus, Verus!” The two groups were so evenly dispersed throughout the stands that the names merged into a jumbled shout of two syllables.

The emperor disappeared from the imperial box. The crowd grew confused and the chanting trailed off, until a gate beneath the imperial box opened and Titus strode into the arena. His appearance on the blood-strewn sand thrilled the crowd, which gave a deafening roar as Titus approached the two waiting gladiators, holding the wooden sword before him.

Titus reached the gladiators. His back was to Lucius, who found himself wishing he could see the emperor’s expression. The crowd began to chant the names of their favourites again.

Titus stepped forward. The crowd fell silent. Titus paused. Instead of awarding the wooden sword, he raised his left arm to show that he was carrying a second sword. Stepping forward, he presented the wooden swords to both gladiators at once. Verus and Priscus were both declared victors; both were rewarded with freedom. Such a thing had never been done before.

As the grinning gladiators lifted their wooden swords high in the air, the spectators rose to their feet in the last and most thunderous ovation of the day. At first they shouted the names of the gladiators, but gradually the mingled roar resolved into a single word repeated over and over: “Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!”

Lucius scanned the vast bowl of the amphitheatre. He had never seen so many people in one place, or so vast an outpouring of emotion. At the very centre of it all was the emperor.

Titus was still a young man. With luck, he might reign for many years, until Lucius himself was old. He had certainly made an auspicious beginning. All the disasters and trials of the last year – the destruction of Pompeii, the plague in Roma, the fire that had devastated the city – were eclipsed by the stunning success of the inaugural games. Titus had not merely distracted the citizens, he had inspired them with a sense of unity and restored confidence. More feasting and plays and spectacles would follow in the days ahead, at venues all over the city, but it was hard to imagine anything that could match the splendour of the opening day of the Flavian Amphitheatre.

The two gladiators made their exit. The emperor gave a final salute to the people and left the arena. The imperial box was empty. The arena was deserted. There were no more acrobats, no more contests, no more spectacles to behold.

As he gazed at the thousands of spectators around him, it occurred to Lucius that the crowd itself was the true spectacle. Seated in a circle, with everyone visible to everyone else, the spectators had spent as much time watching one another as they had watching the games. The sound of the gathering, whether a murmur or a roar, was intoxicating; the acoustics of the place could capture a whisper or a laugh from across the way or amplify the roar of the crowd to superhuman volume. Already the great amphitheatre had taken on a life of it own: from that day forward, this would be the gathering place for all Roma, rich and poor, great and small, the living embodiment of the spirit of the city and the will of its people. The world outside the amphitheatre might pose dangers beyond human control – plague, earthquake, fire, flood, all the perils of war – but within the protective shell of the amphitheatre existed a cosmos in miniature where the people of Roma were like gods, gazing down at the little world of the arena where mortals and beasts lived and died at their whim.

Perhaps Epictetus and Dio should have come, Lucius thought; how else could they understand the collective grandeur experienced by the spectators? And who but his philosopher friends could help Lucius make sense of the curious feeling of detachment that cast a cold shadow over his enjoyment of that moment, that drained the experience of its glamour and made it seem hollow and empty? Amid the blur of so many faces and the dull, throbbing roar of so many voices, Lucius suddenly felt more alone than he had ever felt before in his life.

But he was not alone. Amid the vast crowd, two eyes looked back at him. Surrounded by her fellow Vestals, close enough to touch if had dared to do so, Cornelia was smiling at him. She said nothing, nor did she need to. Lucius knew he would see her again.