A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (26 page)

In the morning, we were both summoned.
Crassus would hear no complaint from either of us. He advised Curio that while it may have been different with Piso, though he doubted it, under his roof, it was the practice to engage in sex solely with consenting partners. Children under twelve and individuals unaware they were engaging in sexual activity were not to be approached. He enjoined me from disturbing the sleep of the
familia
. And that was all.

•••

The average Roman, I have found, has a strong stomach and a hard heart. By day he is robbed and bullied, hounded by hunger; he takes advantage lest he be taken advantage of. By night he cowers, shut in his tiny rooms at sunset, a prisoner deafened by the wagon wheels of commerce until the dawn makes the treacherous streets safe again. He wilts in summer’s heat and shivers in winter’s rain. He watches unending yet unequal streams of misguided country cousins and newly-minted slaves trickle into the city each day, one lot to seek their fortune, the other to see its end. He lives in overcrowded apartment buildings, beset by poverty, crime and disease. But this is his Rome, the greatest achievement in the history of mankind! How is it that his senses can deceive him so?

Rome is a hollow place, and the people are cruel. I have seen it all firsthand, from their conquering armies to their stolen culture, from their marvelous engineering to their addiction to superstition and fear. But I had never yet seen anything like this. Why do I post this footnote to my tale? For it is nothing more than that. One Roman may be kind, a dozen forgiving, perhaps, but put them together by the thousands and they become the slaverin
g Beast, their better selves subsumed by the riotous appetite of the mob. In all my time in Rome, never before had I seen compassion from the masses, and I believe that because we would soon be on our way to war, where mercy is unwise and kindness has no place, it is incumbent upon me to admit that once before I left this city, never to return, I was witness to its existence, however fleeting.

It was the festival of the Veneralia, honoring Venus Verticordia, the changer of hearts. Apparently, by purifying themselves in the men’s baths
while wearing nothing but a myrtle wreath while drinking a concoction of crushed poppy flowers, milk and honey, a woman’s prayers would be heard by Virile Fortune. Satisfied by their offerings and ministrations, this forgiving god would then agree to conceal any physical blemish or abnormality from sight. I think it more likely that the potion itself obliterated any perceived unsightliness, or at least the minding of it. You may imagine that on this annual day of devotion, congregations of naked, drugged, bathing females were followed about by throngs of young men and boys eager to make new friends.

Not so
this year, not on this day. For this was the five-day dedication of the Theater of Pompeius. The general, having finally returned to the city to accept his consulship, was resplendent in the gold wreath and embroidered toga that this gift to the people entitled him to wear. To celebrate, he had conceived of entertainments that designed to put his name on the lips of every Roman for months to come, for eternity if Pompeius’ prayers were answered. You, who find these scrolls, will know if Magnus got his wish.

The first four days of games were conducted in the Circus Maximus, a more appropriate setting
than the theater for the hunting and slaughter of five hundred Gaetulian lions, all male, some as long as ten feet from nose to tail and weighing five hundred pounds. At least Livia was allowed to remain at the clinic, claiming her stomach was in a delicate enough condition without such entertainment, even though she expected to see no customers. Low barriers of shrubbery meandered throughout the track, simulating the wilds of the north African plain. Having been starved in their cages, the black-maned cats were released in the Circus, angry and bewildered, at the rate of about twenty an hour. There they were speared, beleaguered by darts and shot through with arrows until the day’s light faded with the roaring of the crowd. For variety, when it appeared the people might grow bored, four hundred and ten panthers, seen by many spectators for the first time in their lives, were put on display, then butchered.

How it was that tens of t
housands of everyday citizens—tradesmen, husbands and wives, families out for a picnic, munching on snacks and sipping drinks—how was it that these Romans could watch the staged executions, hour after hour, their eyes never tiring of the bloodletting? I could not find a way to comprehend this. That is, until
dominus
explained it to me. Here, he told me, a spectacle is made of the art of the symbolic. Each ferocious beast represents the wild and untamed world threatening the peace and prosperity thriving within our borders. The hunter, armored and armed, is Rome. At the end of the day, as the bloody corpses of our “enemies” were dragged from the field, every citizen, regardless of station, could feel vicariously the exhilaration of victory, could walk hand-in-hand with his children back home to a meager supper, proud that Rome had once again metaphorically triumphed over an uncivilized world.

Remarkable.

We came to the fifth and final day of the festivities. The highlight of the inauguration was to be presented within the theater itself. Faintly nauseous, my heart thumping in my stomach from having had to endure these allegorical massacres, I followed
dominus
and
domina
up to the Campus Martius. I prayed silently to no god in particular that the smaller venue might actually afford the kind of theater an enlightened Greek was accustomed to attend. Thirty years in Rome, and I had yet to learn my lesson.

Until now, there had been no permanent theater in the great city; such a thing would be considered vulgar. The people loved a good show, but censors and senators, arthritic in both limb and righteousness, found them unhealthy and indecent for the general welfare. They were outlawed within the city walls. This from an aristocracy who bred gladiators to shed their bright blood and fed criminals to wild beasts for the amusement of the cheering crowd.

Romans, and actors in particular, being nothing if not resourceful, were not to be denied. Thespians and the backers seeking to supply what was already in great demand resorted to building temporary stages for their performances of Greek favorites, mime and ribald comedies rich with sexual innuendo. These wooden structures were only meant to last a matter of weeks before being dismantled, if they did not collapse before then. Soon they would spread again like weeds in some other part of the city.

Pompeius had constructed something else entirely. Its massive square blocks of tuff and travertine, supported by giant concrete vaults, its gardens, temples and amphitheater, these had never been seen before, nor is their equal ever likely to rise above any city’s outline.

Some say it was to impress Julia, Caesar’s daughter, whose marriage of the past four years had helped bind one general to the other. But she, being of refined sensibilities, would rarely attend. Others, like my lord, contend it was to regain his popularity, frittered away in the years since his military victories, replaced by nothing more spectacular than marrying a girl less than half his age. Whatever the reason, Pompeius’ pride was bruised by the inattention. As a Roman, he should have known that the people’s memory is as short as the hairs on his shaven chin. Pompeius was like a man who, before he leaves on a long journey, lights the lamps in all his rooms and is surprised to return to a darkened house. Romans, like oil lamps, need constant attention and frequent replenishment.

We already know where it stands, adjacent to the Circus Flaminius up on the Campus Martius where I exercised and learned the art of the dagger. Building the first permanent theatrical edifice of stone outside the
pomerium
, Pompeius circumvented the censors’ squinting probity. I will be brief, but you must see this monument to one man’s insecurity in your mind’s eye to better visualize the acts of inhumane cruelty which I shall shortly relate.

The word ‘theater’ barely does the vast complex justice. First, imagine a rectangle 650 feet by 450 feet. Attached to the western wall of the theater itself, this was the Portico of Pompeius, a colonnaded garden lined with plane trees, statues and fountains. Visitors could stroll among its shaded lanes during intermissions, make offerings in any of several adjoining temples, purchase food in shops or seek shelter in the columned arcade should it rain. In the center of the Portico’s western wall, opposite the great theater, Pompeius built a
curia
where the senate might gravitate to debate, another incentive for moral lenience. The conscript fathers succumbed to the beauty and comfort of the meeting house on many occasions, but only one proved memorable. Within its marbled walls, just shy of eleven years from the celebration of the theater’s opening, Julius Caesar would be assassinated at the foot of a larger-than-life statue of Pompeius himself. Neither Crassus nor I were present for the turmoil that followed, for we had escaped the Rome of his dominion and my confinement, each in our separate ways.

Let us continue east into the theater itself. Walking through the rows of red and gold columns that formed the back of the
proscenium, we will find ourselves on the 300-foot wide stage. To reach its edge, nearest the audience, we must travel another 60 feet. There we could look up at the great semi-circle of the amphitheater, where Pompeius once again side-stepped censure. Above the highest tiers of seating rose a lavish temple to Venus Victrix, Pompeius’ personal deity. This was not a theater, he insisted, but a monument to the goddess. The semi-circle of rows rising to the heavens were not seats; they were steps leading to her home. No one complained in a voice loud enough to overcome the sound of construction, or the cheering of the people once it had opened.

At its highest point, the golden statues on the tiled roof of the temple looked down upon the performances from a height of 150 feet. But our attention must tumble to the floor of this architectural masterpiece, to the smaller arc of the orchestra just below the raised stage and directly in front of our seats. Pompeius had spent a fortune on the theater’s design and construction. His favor with the people could only soar by such a gift to the public. It should
have been so, but Pompeius would find that even the bloodthirsty citizens of Rome have their limits.

(Editor’s note:  illustrations of the theater may be seen
in the glossary
.)

There was no charge for admission, but seating was limited. Every plebeian was required to present a clay ticket stamped on one side with a likeness of the great general so kind in execution he was barely recognizable, on the reverse with an image of his pretty, young wife. (When speaking of Pompeius’ spouse, these two adjectives almost always preceded the noun.) Two weeks before the opening, within a manic 24 hours, the ticket windows were shut and locked, their stock of clay tablets depleted. 25,000 elated citizens would be privy to the final inaugural performances of the greatest theater ever built. Those unfortunates who were denied entrance crowded the street outside the curving walls for the chance of hearing, if not seeing, the spectacle.

On this morning, the
plebeian crowd of ticket holders cheered, waiting as senators, patricians and knights filed past them to take their seats. The late morning sun was warm, but not oppressively so. At least not to the lower classes. Crassus and Pompeius paid the price that every senator and person of status must at public events:  dressed in their formal togas, their faces were flushed, their bodies damp with perspiration. The heavy wool draping was not meant for spring or summer. But the custom was rigid. The two consuls were almost invisible, surrounded as they were by a small army of
lictors,
twelve guardians assigned to each, jostling to stay near their charges. These two men, who had never seen eye to eye on almost anything, waved amiably to the people, smiling at everyone, even each other. Pompeius had assigned six servants to throw coins over the heads of the
lictors
into the sea of waiting hands waving like kelp fronds. I had chosen a dozen for the task, but Crassus bid me instruct half their number to keep their bags tied. I saw his point.

Crassus cared as much for such entertainments as he did for Pompeius. The man might make a decent merchant, but his ability to govern inside the
pomerium
was universally recognized by those who mattered as staggeringly fairish. When they first shared the consulship fifteen years earlier, they could agree on almost nothing. Pompeius did not understand the workings of the senate, he had flouted the time-honored
cursus honorum
and many senators, including
dominus
, thought him unworthy of his wealth and status. But had Crassus not attended today, the people would have cried out in protest. There must be amity between the city fathers who protected and fed them. Especially these two; now that they had finally taken office, the turmoil must certainly end, mustn’t it?

Crassus held his wife’s hand, slowly making his way along the arc of the aisle to sit in the first row beside his co-consul, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. Above the amphitheater, the vault of the sky was the unbroken blue of a wood thrush’s egg. The box of honor was festooned with white and gold banners, golden statuettes and four splendid and imposing guards
, one at each corner. The colors of their uniforms matched the cushioned chairs to which
dominus
and
domina
were led, a goblet of spiced wine pressed into their hands almost before they were comfortably seated.