From Epaphroditus’s garden, the enormous scale of the Flavian Amphitheatre was somewhat deceptive, due to its proximity to the giant statue of Nero: seeing the huge amphitheatre next to the Colossus played tricks with the viewer’s grasp of perspective. The towering statue was no longer enclosed by a courtyard; Vespasian had demolished the grand entrance of the Golden House but left the statue intact. For a while the Colossus had been surrounded by scaffolds, and from Epaphroditus’s garden one could hear the sound of artisans wielding hammers and chisels and crowbars. When the scaffolding came down, the face of the Colossus no longer resembled that of Nero; henceforth it would simply be the sun god, Sol.
“Monstrosity?” said Epaphroditus. “I think the Flavian Amphitheatre is not only an amazing feat of engineering, but also quite beautiful to look at. I’ll admit I was dubious when the foundation was laid and one began to realize just how big it would be. But once it began to take shape, and the decorations and architectural details were filled in, I thought to myself: I shall never tire of looking at that. It’s been a joy, sitting here in the garden day by day, season after season, watching the thing go up. I haven’t even minded the noise, though I suppose there’ll be even more noise once the thing opens in a year or so. Imagine the roar of fifty thousand spectators! It’s quite impressive on the inside, as well. One of the architects is an old friend of mine and let me have a look. You feel as if you’re in a gigantic bowl, with all those rows upon rows of seats rising around you. There’s never been anything like it.”
Lucius was not convinced. “How will so many people get in and out without waiting for hours on end? And once they’re inside, how will they avoid being crushed to death?”
“The engineers have planned for that. The place has eighty entrances – vomitoria, they’re called – and each has a number; people will enter and exit by the vomitorium specified on their ticket. The stairways, corridors, and landings are architectural marvels in themselves. Since it was built on the site of Nero’s lake, the area was already plumbed, so there’s no lack of running water. The place has over a hundred drinking fountains, and the two largest latrinae I’ve ever seen.”
“Marvellous! Fifty thousand Romans can all take a piss at the same time.”
Epaphroditus ignored him. “The arena is immense, able to accommodate whole armies of gladiators. Or navies; using the plumbing that maintained Nero’s artificial lake, the arena can be flooded and drained at will. The challenge will be staging spectacles large enough to fill the space.”
Lucius and Epaphroditus sat in silence for a while, watching the slaves and artisans scurry like insects inside the massive network of scaffolding that surrounded the amphitheatre. More construction was going on at a vast bathing complex not far from the amphitheatre, and on a huge triumphal arch that would serve as a ceremonial gateway between the amphitheatre and the Forum. The gigantic stone plaques being installed on the arch could be seen even from Epaphroditus’s garden; the images celebrated the victory of Vespasian and Titus over the rebellious Jews and the sack of Jerusalem. The Jewish slaves working on the arch wore ragged loincloths and glistened with sweat.
The sun had moved, and with it the patch of shade. Lucius moved his chair and Epaphroditus nodded to the serving girl, who brought more wine. The breeze had died. The day was growing quite hot.
“These antisocial ideas, Lucius – where do they come from?” Epaphroditus shook his head. “I worry that someone in our little circle of friends has been a bad influence on you. But which one? The Stoic, the poet, or the sophist?”
Lucius smiled. “You certainly can’t blame Epictetus. How could a Stoic ever be a bad influence? I can’t say the same about Martial or Dio. Ah, but here they all are, arriving together.”
A slave showed the three newcomers into the garden. Chairs were rearranged to take advantage of the shade. More cups and more wine were brought.
Epictetus was no longer a slave. Epaphroditus had freed him some years ago, and the two had become close friends. His limp had grown more pronounced; he never went anywhere now without a crutch to lean on. In all the years he had known him, Lucius had never once heard the man complain about his infirmity. Epictetus was a living example of the Stoic philosophy he embraced, which placed great value on the dignity of the self and a graceful acquiescence to those things over which the self had no control. In the years since his manumission, he had gained a considerable reputation as a teacher. Epictetus looked the part: his long beard was flecked with the first touches of grey and he wore the customary garment of philosophers, the Greek cloak called a himation.
Dio of Prusa also wore a beard and a himation. He was a Greek sophist, a writer who popularized philosophical ideas with clever essays and discourses. At forty, he was a few years older than Epictetus.
The third visitor, about the same age as Dio, was also a writer, though of a very different sort. The Spanish- born Martial was a poet. Among the most fervent admirers of his work was the new emperor. Martial was clean- shaven and immaculately groomed, and dressed formally in a toga, as befitted a poet paying a visit to an important patron of the arts.
After they each had a cup of wine and exchanged casual conversation about the weather – could anyone recall a month of Augustus so hot? – Epaphroditus got to his feet and stood before the object that he had invited them to see. A new statue had been installed in the garden, occupying a spot at the very centre, with the Flavian Amphitheatre as a backdrop. The statue was covered by a large sheet of canvas.
“First,” said Epaphroditus, “let me say that obtaining this statue was not easy. The new amphitheatre has claimed the best available work of every sculptor from the Pillars of Hercules to Lake Maotis. Count all those niches and archways in the amphitheatre facade, and imagine a statue in every available spot – that’s a great many statues. But this is the one I wanted, and I got it. I won’t tell you how much I paid for it, but when you see it, I think you’ll agree it was worth whatever I paid, and more.”
“Please, keep us in suspense no longer!” Martial laughed. “Let us see this masterpiece in marble.”
Epaphroditus nodded to two slaves waiting nearby. They pulled the billowing canvas up and away from the statue.
“Extraordinary!” whispered Epictetus.
“Splendid!” said Martial.
“Do you recognize the subject?” asked Epaphroditus.
“It’s Melancomas, of course,” said Dio. “Was it done from life?”
“Yes. Melancomas modeled for the sculptor just a few months before he died. This is the original, not a copy. The hands that molded this marble were guided by eyes that beheld Melancomas in the flesh. The statue and the man himself occupied the same room in the same moment. The painting was also done from life, so the delicate colours of the flesh and the hair are as accurate as possible. What you see before you may be the most true-to-life image of Melancomas that exists. You can understand why I was so excited to obtain this piece.”
During his brief but remarkable career, the Greek boxer Melancomas had become the most famous athlete in the world. The life-size statue depicted a naked youth with his broad shoulders thrown back, his brawny chest lifted, and one muscular leg firmly planted before the other. His shapely arms were extended before him. Wavy blond tresses framed his strikingly handsome face, which expressed serene concentration as he used one hand to wind a leather strap around the other. The statue was so realistically rendered and coloured that it seemed almost to breathe. Epaphroditus had chosen to install it not on a pedestal but at ground level, so that instead of looming above them, Melancomas seemed to be standing among them. The effect was uncanny.
Melancomas had become famous for his unique fighting technique: he hardly touched his opponents, and on a few occasions won matches without landing a single blow. Using remarkable dexterity and stamina, he could duck punches and dance around his opponents until they fell from exhaustion. His bouts became legendary. Men came from great distances to see him compete. There had never been another boxer like him.
An equal claim to fame had been his extraordinary beauty. Some said that Melancomas’s face was the reason why so few blows were ever landed against him: seeing such perfection, no man had the heart to spoil it. Five years ago, when Titus, then thirty-three, presided at the Augustan Games in Neapolis, he took Melancomas for a lover. When the boxer died suddenly and unexpectedly, Titus had grieved, and so had many others.
“You wrote an elegy for Melancomas, did you not, Dio?” said Epaphroditus.
The sophist needed no further encouragement to quote from his work. He rose from his chair and stood before the statue. “‘When Melancomas was naked, nobody would look at anything else; the human eye was drawn to his perfection as iron is drawn to the lodestone. When we count the vast number of his admirers, and when we consider that there have been many famous men and many beautiful men, but none was ever more famous for being beautiful, then we see that Melancomas was blessed with a beauty that we may truly call divine.’”
Dio inclined his head. The others rewarded him with applause. “I saw Melancomas myself on a few
