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!”
