“What exactly were you deliberating today, husband?” asked Mother, picking at her food. I could almost see her ears pricking up.
“Claudius is pushing his Ostia harbor project,” he said. “He is, of course, meeting resistance. It is a worthy goal, to improve the facilities for the transport of grain to Rome, so naturally he is criticized for it. Now, if he had decided to make a law dictating only red leashes for dogs, everyone would have applauded.”
“Where does Statilius Taurus stand?” Mother asked.
Crispus shrugged. “My fellow consul, as is his nature, tries to float downstream with whichever current buoys him up.”
“Sometimes that is the only way,” said Mother.
“That depends on what your goal is,” said Crispus, reaching for a hard-cooked egg in sour sauce. “To survive, or to achieve?”
“Both,” said Mother.
“But discussing the harbor and grain transport can hardly be very captivating to young Lucius here,” he said, leaning on his elbows and turning to me. I was pushing my boiled endive and cabbage leaves around on my plate. They were limp and unappetizing. “Is it?”
“I do not lie awake thinking of them,” I said, and Crispus laughed.
“So what do you lie awake thinking of?”
I hated to say in front of Mother. “I think of music. I would like to learn to play an instrument.”
Mother made a dismissive noise.
“I would also like to practice chariot racing.”
“A fine ambition!” said Crispus. “Tomorrow the Senate does not meet, so I shall take you to the Circus Maximus.” He held up his hand when Mother made a sour face. “Yes, I will, and as consul of Rome, no one dare forbid me, not even my wife, the highest censor there is. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes!” I had waited so long for this.
• • •
Setting out with Crispus was always an adventure. He said this should be a boys’ outing only (Mother pouted) and I asked if Anicetus and Beryllus could come, too. Most consuls would not want to be seen with Greek freedman tutors, but Crispus was different. Most consuls would also want to be surrounded by other high-ranking officials and march into the stadium with them. But not Crispus. We were accompanied only by bundles of food, seat cushions, and sun hats. He gave us all bags of money so we could bet.
“It’s my gift. I am celebrating—well, something! There is always something to be celebrated if you look for it.” He grinned as he handed us the bags.
There is always something to be celebrated if you look for it seemed a good motto to adopt for life.
“Now, I think it would be only fair, since there are four of us, if we each bet on different teams. That way one of us is sure to win.” He looked as eager as a little boy himself and I thought how young he looked, even though he was elderly. He had unruly hair and restless movements and a face that seemed youthful from a distance and only revealed its lines and sags at close range. He must harbor youth somewhere within him, bottled in his inner core like a fire.
I wondered what dictated who stayed young and who did not, and whether I could know in advance which category I would fall into. Was there anything I could do to change it?
After crossing the Tiber, we were still a long way from the Circus when we could hear the hum of a crowd that grew louder and louder the closer we got to the area. First it was the murmur of bees, then the buzz of wasps, then the roar of a waterfall, and finally what I imagined an earthquake would sound like. Then we rounded a corner and suddenly were caught in the midst of the surging crowd. Crispus took one of my hands and Anicetus the other, and we clumsily waded through the people and finally into the stone seats reserved for senators, closest to the track.
Crispus made a show of arranging his toga with its senatorial stripe before being seated. “In case anyone tries to evict us, since this is for senators only, I shall remind them that a consul has special privileges and can bring all the guests he likes. And that one of his guests happens to be a descendant of the divine Augustus. That should shut them up.” He looked mischievous as he said this, just loudly enough that everyone around us could hear him.
Because Crispus was who he was, we were able to take seats in the first row, with the best view. He had selected the section at the first turn, near the Triumphal arch, where the most dangerous and demanding stint of the races occurred. Although I had seen the Circus at a far distance from the balcony of the palace, its true size was overwhelming once I was in it. The temple and elaborate roofed royal enclosure was far away on our left, back near the starting line. The Egyptian obelisk Augustus had erected in the middle looked short and stunted against the high banks of seats.
The crowds were filling all the seats now; the noise built to a roar. Beside and behind us, senators and guests were hurriedly staking out their places.
“My esteemed colleague,” a raspy voice said over my shoulder. I turned to see a man who looked for all the world like a pig—pink and hairy, with shiny skin.
“Statilius Taurus,” said Crispus. “Greetings. Who do you support?”
“The Blues,” said the porcine man.
“Lucius, may I introduce my fellow consul?” Crispus said to me. “Statilius, this is Lucius Ahenobarbus, Agrippina’s son.”
“Agrippina and I are great friends,” said Statilius. They were? He nodded at me. “Who are you supporting?”
“The Greens,” I said.
“The Reds,” said Anicetus.
“The Whites,” said Beryllus.
“That way one of you is guaranteed to go home happy,” said Statilius.
Trumpets blared—or tried to. The crowd was so loud they could barely be heard. A procession was starting at the far end, much like the one in the arena—images of gods, marching officials, display carts. Then came the chariots! There were twelve of them, three of each color.
“This first race of the day is the most prestigious,” said Crispus, speaking directly in my ear, and even then I could barely hear him. “It’s traditionally for four-horse chariots.”
The chariots made a long, slow circuit of the track, their drivers waving to the tumultuous cheers of their partisans. Each man wore a tunic of the appropriate color so we could distinguish them easily from afar. Finally they entered the starting stalls, and, upon the dropping of a white cloth by the head official, in the box at the starting line, they broke out and the race began.
I had seen the races at Caligula’s track and so I knew they had to make seven circuits of the arena—that meant fourteen turns around the turning posts, chariots skidding and trying to force others against the wall. Turn too sharply and the chariot might overturn; turn too slowly and be left behind. Let your opponents get too close to you and you will be forced to either fall back or outrace them in a confined space; see your opponent rounding the turn ahead of you, you could try to overtake him on the outside but that called for extraordinary speed as you would have more ground to cover. I felt myself trembling with suspense as they headed for that first turn, directly across from us. One of the Blues was ahead, followed closely by a Red, and as they approached the turn, the Blue came too close to the post, hit it, and flew through the air, landing in the pathway of oncoming chariots. Some jumped the wreckage, throwing their charioteers out; others went around it. The Red chariot was far in the lead now, due to the pileup. Four slaves rushed out with a litter to remove the driver of the Blues; others grabbed the horses’ reins and cleared the track of animals and chariot debris. In the end the Red chariot won, with no more suspense after that first turn. No one could catch him, even if their horses might have been faster on a flat track.
“Why, Lucius, you are shaking,” said Crispus, his hands on my shoulders.
Unaware, I had been straining every muscle as I watched; now the tension drained away and I felt limp. “I felt as if I were in a chariot myself,” I said.
“You must relax. If you go on this way, we will have to carry you out on a litter when the races are over.”
Just then a senator arrived, and he tried to sit beside Statilius, but there was no room, so he asked if there was any space by us. We had to push close together but managed to accommodate him. “You’ve missed the first one, Gaius, although it wasn’t exactly gripping,” said Crispus.
It wasn’t? My heart was still pounding.
“I heard. Crash at the first turn, which pretty much decided all the rest of it.” He had a melodious voice and, as I looked more closely, I realized how handsome he was. He had features like the ones Augustus had appropriated for his statues—the real Augustus was not the Alexander-like figure of his coins and portraits. But the memory of the real one was fast disappearing. Thus art triumphed over reality.
“Gaius Silius,” said Crispus, “this is my stepson, Lucius Ahenobarbus . . .”
Another race followed, this one dull—the chariots were slow, one of the horses pulled up lame, and the drivers did not show much emotion. Perhaps they were holding back after the casualties of the previous race.
The third race was a fast one, with horses from Africa and Spain, and a Blue winner. The next featured six-horse chariots, which made for a fine show, although there were fewer chariots and overall it was slower.
“The more horses there are,” explained Crispus, “the slower the race will be. The combined power is cumulative, but the speed is determined by the slowest horse—the faster ones cannot be added to it.”
Before the fourth race, a leathery-faced Praetorian Guard paced in front of our section, greeting the senators by name. He walked stiffly and seemed to have trouble turning his neck.
“Crispus Passienus.” He nodded toward us. “Might I ask if you have any extra room?”
He could see for himself we did not. We were already jammed together, so tightly that I could feel each breath Crispus or Anicetus drew. But Crispus said, “Oh, yes.”
Why? Did the man wield hidden power? Later I was to learn he was not just a Praetorian Guard, he was prefect—head—of the Praetorians.
“For you, Rufrius Crispinus, there is always room,” continued Crispus.
Rufrius laughed. “Not for me. I will be pacing outside the seating area. For my wife.” And at his elbow stood a woman beyond mortal beauty.
Her hair was of an amber color, tumbling curls of it. Her skin was luminescent. Her lips, full and curved, were the delicate blush inside a seashell.
Instantly we made room for her. She settled herself next to me.
“Poppaea,” he said. “My wife.” He had already said that. Did she render even her husband clumsily grasping for words? So one would never be accustomed to the presence of a goddess?
Now I was trembling in earnest. I prayed she would not notice. I steeled myself, told myself to stop.
She was quiet. She said nothing. Was that preferable to speaking? Which would have been more unnerving?
Another race was under way, and blessedly, I could turn my attention to that—or try to.
At the end, she finally spoke. “I am disappointed,” she said. “My team did not win.”
“Which team do you support?” asked Crispus.
“The Greens.”
Oh, the same as me! “I do, too. Perhaps in this next race—”
That afternoon I entered into paradise—gazing straight ahead at the most skilled chariot racers and sleek horses in the empire, and out of the corner of my eyes at a woman who was the personification of beauty. I barely dared to move, lest it all vanish and I find it was only a dream.
Not until we were out of the crowds and well on our way back home did Crispus say, “I need not ask if you enjoyed it, Lucius. Now, do you think you have recovered yet?”
“Yes,” I lied, knowing that if recovering meant I would be the same, the answer was no; I would never be the same again after what I had seen. “The horses—” It seemed safest to speak of them.
Crispus explained the differences between those from Africa and those from Spain, saying that the African ones were stronger, the Spanish ones lighter and faster. He then ventured into the people we had met, noting that Gaius Silius was reputed to be “the handsomest man in Rome” but he wore it well, and that Rufrius was known for his old-fashioned manners and was recently married to the young Poppaea, the daughter of another Poppaea, reputedly “the most beautiful woman in Rome.”
“The young Poppaea may surpass her mother,” said Crispus. “Then what a Greek drama would unfold. It’s an old theme—the beautiful mother loses her place to her daughter. I hope no one gets killed!” He was laughing, making light of it.
“I cannot imagine that her mother is more beautiful than she,” I said. “Tell me about the family.”
“They are from Pompeii; the daughter is fourteen. Her husband, as you saw, is much older.”
“Menelaus!” I cried. It all came clear now—I had seen Helen of Troy, and I understood the Trojan War, and young Paris and how he had stolen her from old Menelaus.
Crispus shook his head. “Do not let your imagination run wild,” he said. “Rufrius is not Menelaus, and there are no heroes walking the earth who are like those in The Iliad; there never were, except in the mind of Homer. If you look for them in those around you, you will forever be disappointed.”
XV
Time passed. I grew. I flourished in my schooling—history, rhetoric, oratory, poetry—in my music, and in my athletics. Especially in the latter—as every day passed to make me taller or stronger, I got better.
Apollonius never wavered in his dedication to training me. He faithfully kept all our appointments, and if I could not get away because of sudden demands by Mother, I would manage to get word to him so he would not wait for me.
He had developed an ingenious device for measuring my speed for running events, to see how much I was improving. He had me run my best down the field, while he let water run through a funnel into a bowl. When I crossed the finish line, he stopped the trickle of water and set aside the amount in the bowl, transferring it to a vial. The next time I ran, he would use only that saved water in the funnel—if I finished before it had all run through, then I was faster than the last time. On the other hand, if the water had finished before I did, I was slower. The biggest challenge was keeping the water in a closely stoppered bottle for the next time, making sure none of it evaporated.
Although I was a respectably good runner, I was a better wrestler. Apollonius said that was because my balance was so good and I was blessed with superlative timing.
“Now, if you also had the muscles of a muleteer, you would be as great a wrestler as the legendary Milo of Croton.” He laughed.
Milo, many times an Olympic champion, was so spectacular that some believed he had to be the son of Zeus—no mortal could achieve his feats.
“I don’t fancy carrying a bull around,” I said. Milo was claimed to have carried an adult bull on his shoulders. “But Anicetus told me he was also a musician and a poet, and he studied with Pythagoras. For that, I envy him.”
“You are wise,” said Apollonius.
“Marcus? Wise?” Crispus had found us. He often came to watch us train, and he kept my secret about my name.
“When it comes to wrestling,” I said. “But I admit I know little of the Senate or suchlike.”
“Oh, neither do I!” Crispus’s tenure as consul was over. But in truth he was still very much a presence in the Senate. Nonetheless, he showed great interest in my athletic training, encouraging it and coming to watch me train and compete in small local meets, without revealing our true relationship. “It is much more interesting to learn about Milo of Croton than about who is voting for what.” He turned to Apollonius. “When is the next meet?”
“There is a race at the next full moon. Stadion, double stadion, wrestling.”
Crispus whistled. “Better train harder, then.”
He was leaning up against the fence separating the palaestra from the lawn. As I looked at him, I realized he was using the fence for support, and his arms were drooping. “You are working too hard,” I said. “You need a rest.”
Instead of his usual wide grin, his smile was a wan imitation of it. “You are right,” he said. “I am run-down.” Trying to make light of it, he said, “No running in the competition for me.” As the sun hit his face, I saw with dismay it had a greenish cast.
• • •
Crispus declined bit by bit. His strength never returned; it ebbed away in spite of the directions Mother gave to his physician and the cooks. After a month he was unable to rise from his bed, and his eyesight began to fail.
Mother was distraught; I was frightened. Crispus could not leave us; he could not desert us! He was my protector, my friend, my teacher. I could not imagine life without him. I also imagined that if I wished it hard enough, I could reverse whatever it was that was eating away at his vitality.
I forgot my lessons; I forgot my training. I did not dare to leave the villa, as if my presence there could prevent any ill fortune. I took to roaming parts I seldom ventured into, shadowy rooms and empty corridors, dank storerooms. It was there, one afternoon, that I saw the figure of a woman bent over a workbench, arranging bottles and vials.
I did not recognize her. If she was a member of the household, she must be new. I stepped into the room. “Hello,” I said.
She turned to answer me. Something flitted across my memory. I had seen her before. “Hello,” she said cheerfully.
“Are you new?” I asked cautiously.
“I am here to help the lady Agrippina, with the illness of her dear husband.”
The voice. The voice. Where had I heard it?
“She called for you?”
“Yes. I am often called to help when physicians have come to the end of their knowledge.”
“And is that—is that what is happening here?”