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!'
The moment spoiling fast, some of the fighters began hurriedly reciting the famous words as they extended their right hands, with other men catching up halfway. Rather than being a proud, courageous salute of centuries' tradition, the oath became unintelligible to the mob.
'Hail, Tiberius, from men about to die!'
