When it was over, the applause was deafening. People leapt to their feet. Was I really better than the preceding singers? How could I know, not actually hearing myself? Now the rhythmic clapping of the Augustiani provided its own percussive music.
The three judges rushed forward to award me the wreath. The imperishable wreath of artistry.
I retired to dinner with my friends—for some had come to Naples to hear me, and of course Poppaea was there—and relaxed at last. Then we returned to the theater to hear the other contests. As soon as I entered, people began chanting and calling on me to perform again. But really, I just wanted to hear the others, be an attendee now. They kept up their noise and finally I stood up and said in Greek, “After I’ve had a drink or two I will give you some songs to make your ears ring!”
How could I refuse them? Otherwise they would complain the next morning that the emperor was standoffish and selfish. So I drank two or three cups of wine, and then took to the stage again. This time I did not have to be careful of my phrasing or my timbre; the wine allowed me to enjoy myself and sing however I pleased.
It seemed to please the listeners as well, for once again the response was loud and emphatic. They demanded more and more and, buoyed by the wine and my success, I sang on and on, until the moon shone down into the theater. Then I held up my cithara and said, “Good friends, my cithara and I need to rest, and the night is calling you to other entertainment, to taverns or to—?” I winked. They all laughed and began to file out, the theater emptying at last.
It took me a little while to gather up all my belongings—the cithara case, the handkerchief for wiping sweaty hands, the jug of sweet wine to soothe the throat—and most precious of all, the wreath of laurel. Yes, its actual leaves would fade, but its glory would not. As I was walking out, I felt the ground quiver, a feeling I recognized from Pompeii. A tremor, a shiver, a shudder.
“Run!” I called to Poppaea and my friends who were waiting. “Run!” I took her hand and sprinted toward the exit, my friends close on my heels. As we reached the outside, a mighty rumble rang out behind us. “Don’t look! Don’t look!” I cried, pulling them along farther. We rushed out into the flat open space around the theater, in time to see the walls sway and buckle and the entire theater come crashing down. The stones tumbled like a child’s blocks, the smaller ones flying even to where we stood, panting.
“Take cover!” I shouted, seeking the trees ringing the open pavement. The branches would shield us from the worst of the flying debris. The collapse continued, columns tilting, roof beams falling, until a heap of stones, surrounded by a halo of dust, illuminated by moonlight, was all that remained of the theater.
We were stunned, as survivors always are immediately afterward. Then Spiculus said, “It’s an evil omen.” Lucan nodded.
“No,” I said. “Can’t you see? It is a favorable omen. The gods spared us, and the entire audience. They kept us safe, holding back the earthquake just by a few moments.”
“If they are so benevolent,” said Petronius, “why do they send earthquakes at all?”
“We need to thank them, not question them,” said Poppaea, squeezing my hand.
I would; I did. I composed a poem about it, and later the Senate voted a thanksgiving for our safety. Once again, our safety.
LXXV
Grateful for my deliverance from the sudden destruction of the theater, and also that I had reclaimed my music vocation, I returned to Rome now eager to pursue the other calling I had neglected: chariot racing.
I had never lost my fervent interest in it; I still attended the races in the Circus Maximus and followed the careers of the charioteers, their horses, and the racing factions. But I had not driven myself in a long time.
Tigellinus grinned when I asked him to initiate me again.
“You don’t need initiating,” he said. “You are not a neophyte, just out of practice.”
“As Praetorian prefect, you don’t have time to instruct students,” I admitted. But I knew he would be keenly involved in my progress and we would bond again as we had way back. Our incessant duties had kept us at a distance from one another. I had missed him, even though I saw him every day.
“I’ll find a good charioteer to brush you up.” He thought for a moment. “Why don’t we go out to the horse farms and select your team? That way you can learn on the team you will be competing with.”
“You’re an old horse trader from Sicily,” I said. “So I will defer to your expertise. But I will accompany you.”
• • •
We went to a horse farm run by a friend of his, Menenius Lanatus—a fellow Sicilian. It lay some ten miles outside Rome, and it was a pleasant ride there in the May sunshine. Huge barns stretched across the fields, circling the training yard with its paddock, with a practice racetrack running alongside the stables. Inside the paddock a number of horses, mainly chestnuts and bays, were being led.
Lanatus welcomed us. “So you’re here to put together a team,” he said. “Only the best for my old friend Tigellinus!” He shot a look at us, then cocked his head. “And who is this?” As if he did not know.
“Guess,” said Tigellinus.
He scrutinized me. “Can it be—is it Apollo himself, come to select a new team of horses to pull his sun chariot?”
Tigellinus roared. “You old ass. The emperor will never buy horses from such a charlatan.”
Now Lanatus laughed, too. “I’m no charlatan, just mocking the fawners. I am sure he gets enough of that. It gets tiresome, doesn’t it?” He looked familiarly at me.
“How would you know?” said Tigellinus.
“People fawn over me because of my horses. The best in the land. Oh, you would be surprised—or maybe you wouldn’t—at what people will do to procure the horse of their dreams.”
“We are here to get four such horses,” I said.
Lanatus whistled.
“The emperor is of a mind to put together a four-horse team, train them, and race them.”
“Who do you have in mind as your charioteer?” he asked.
“Me,” I said.
He smiled patronizingly. “I can get you a team of gentle horses,” he said.
“The emperor has driven chariots before, and acquitted himself well. Now he wants to become truly competitive,” said Tigellinus.
“There are many charioteers,” said Lanatus, “but only one emperor. Why would you want to trade places with them?”
“You, a horseman, need to ask that?” I challenged him. “Because there is nothing like it in the world! And because I have been consumed with interest in horses since boyhood. Then, I was forbidden to act on it. Now, there is no one to forbid me anything.” What a world lay in that last sentence.
“But it’s dangerous. If we should lose you, Caesar, Rome would suffer. When a charioteer is thrown and gets trampled and dies, it’s entertainment. If that happened to the emperor, it would be his people’s tragedy.”
“Oh, I see, Lanatus. You don’t wish to sell us horses. Well, Caesar, let us go on to Augurinus’s.”
Lanatus grabbed his arm. “I didn’t say that!”
“You bet you didn’t, because who in his right mind would forgo the honor of supplying the horses for the imperial chariot? Now, show us what you have. And no gentle nags, but the finest.”
“All mine are the finest!” he protested.
“I am sure some are finer than others,” I said. “How many horses do you have in your stable?”
“Oh, at least a thousand.” He led us over to a smaller paddock and asked the groom to bring out several he specified. “I’d recommend Sicilians,” he said.
“Out of loyalty?” I asked.
“No, because they are very fast.” He nodded as two dun-colored horses with black manes were led over to us. “These are five years old and have been trained for two. They are ready to g
o.” He patted their necks. “I train my horses up to a certain point and then it is up to the charioteer to complete it, so that the personal preferences of the driver are met.”
Tigellinus laughed. “There was one team in the Circus so well trained it finished the race itself when its driver fell out at the starting gate. And won, too! That wasn’t one of yours, was it?”
“No, more’s the pity.” He continued stroking the horses’ necks. “What do you think?”
“What else do you have?” I asked. “What about Iberians?”
“Ah, you know your horses. The Iberians are the fastest, but they have no endurance and they have soft hooves. They are only good for short races.”
“Couldn’t an Iberian be the pacesetter and pull the rest along? The Circus is not so long.”
He had a beautiful cream-colored animal brought out, with wide-set, intelligent eyes. “Fast as the wind,” he said. “Nothing can catch him.”
“But I wouldn’t have all Iberians. What about a Cappadocian?”
“Not as fast as the other two but with tremendous competitive spirit and will to win. Would make a good outside horse, the iguales, to pull around the turn in a four-horse team. I’d put the Iberian on the inside, giving him the funalis spot, requiring both speed and sure-footedness for the tight turns.” A sturdy black horse was led out.
“And the other two?”
“I’d recommend Mycenaeans,” said Tigellinus. “They pull well with others and are a nice balance of speed and endurance. Stay away from Libyans, unless you have a long trek in mind. They have hard hooves and great endurance, but that’s not what you need for the Circus.”
“I’d stick with the Sicilians,” said Lanatus.
“They’re fast but tend to be unpredictable,” retorted Tigellinus.
“How about one of each?” I asked.
“You’ve heard of the gods harnessing bears and lions together, but unless you are a god it is better not to have too many different breeds on one team,” said Tigellinus.
“It would be more of a challenge that way,” I said.
“Isn’t being a chariot-racing emperor challenge enough?” asked Lanatus.
• • •
In the end, after looking at many horses of each breed, I settled on the cream-colored Iberian and the dark Cappadocian, a chestnut Sicilian, and a gray Mycenaean. They looked mismatched, but I believed their strengths would complement each other. And that was all that counted.
In preparation, I went to the races nearly every day, watching intently. My beloved Greens were doing well, and one day I ordered all the sand colored green to salute them. I was excited to begin my training as soon as the horses were settled in their new stables near the Circus.
Wandering through the Forum one afternoon, paying my respects to the shrine to Caesar, passing the Curia and the Basilica Julia, I decided to visit the Temple of Vesta. This round marble building housed not only the Palladium, brought by Aeneas from Troy to Rome, but the sacred flame that symbolized the Roman state. It was cool inside, a relief from the afternoon heat, and surprisingly light because of its roof opening. Beneath that opening was the sacred flame, which flickered and jumped. A Vestal Virgin sat nearby, watching it. It must never be allowed to go out.
I sank down on a bench, staring at the flame. It looked so vulnerable, so unstable. But the empire and Rome itself were neither. They were strong and secure.
And I, their emperor, was strong once again, restored to life.
The blessed coolness in here was soothing. The Dog Star had not yet risen, but the scorching heat of midsummer was already upon us. We planned to return to Antium shortly, to flee the baking inland. We would enjoy the sea breezes in the newer part of the villa at sea level.
Suddenly the flame wavered before me; I could barely see it through a mist. Then a blanket of darkness enveloped the whole temple, dropping down, blinding me. My limbs trembled and I could not make them obey. And a chill seized me. A pervasive, jolting fear engulfed me, coming not from within but from somewhere else.
Then it passed. I stood up, feeling limp. Whatever the mysterious force that had flooded the temple, it had passed on. But all my peace of mind, so slowly and painfully restored over the past few months, was swept away. This was an omen, striking at the very heart of the essence of Rome. But an omen of what?
• • •
For the next few days I was skittish, expecting something to happen. But gradually my vigilance subsided, although I did mention my apprehensions to Tigellinus without actually confessing the incident in the temple.
“Have you heard anything, any rumors, any disquiet, in the city?” I asked him. We were sitting on the balcony of the palace, where any stray breezes would be funneled. Slaves had brought pitchers of pressed melon juice and we held cooled goblets in our hands.
He took a long swallow and squinted. Very few men look attractive when squinting, but he did, which was probably why he did it often. “No,” he said. “But this is an uncomfortable season for the people. The insulae must be stifling. They have no balconies to sit on and cannot retreat to a villa in Antium like their emperor.”
“They have the races,” I said. “They can spend their time outside for those. And speaking of races—”
“No, you can’t race in the Circus Maximus,” he said, reading my mind. “You don’t belong to a faction. You should try the smaller tracks in Rome; there is plenty of competition there. When you are ready, that is.”
“My grandfather was a renowned charioteer,” I said. “I have it in me.”
Tigellinus grunted. “Yes, I know. I knew him, remember? When I was in your father’s household. I saw him race. You are not there yet. You still need a good deal more training before you are ready to compete.” He held out his goblet to be refilled, and instantly a slave did so. Muscles bulging as he bent his elbow and brought the goblet to his lips, he downed the liquid quickly, then wiped his lips. “We should provide a treat for the people; take their minds off the heat and the bugs. We should entertain them—‘The emperor invites the people of Rome to party with him.’”
“What—into the palace?”
He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head, tipping his chair. “No. But you will be the host nonetheless. In name. I shall be the actual host.” He turned and looked at me, his eyes dancing mischievously. “Leave it to me. I shall provide an entertainment never to be forgotten.”
• • •
What is this all about?” asked Poppaea as we were dressing for the grand event ten days later. “I don’t know what to wear!”
“Tigellinus has kept it a secret, and I must say, I do not think his lips could be sealed as tightly with Arabian glue. No word has leaked out of the particulars, but the people have been invited to come to the Lake of Agrippa in midday, prepared to stay. It seems that I, the emperor, am hosting something. What, I do not know.”
“You give him too much power,” she said.
“He obeys me,” I said.
“So far. But a servant can turn quickly into a master.”
“Ah, that’s why we have two Praetorian prefects,” I reminded her. “It’s a check to the power of each.”
“But Faenius Rufus is practically invisible. I don’t see much checking going on.”
“Stop worrying,” I said. “Let us go to our party and be as surprised as all the rest.”
• • •
The Lake of Agrippa had been dug some eighty years before, as part of his baths and other public buildings in the Campus Martius; it was fed by an aqueduct and surrounded by a wooded park. Our litter deposited us by one bank, and when we stepped out I protested that they had taken us to the wrong location. None of this looked remotely familiar. But walking closer I saw that it was the original lake, now transformed. The banks were lined with temporary pavilions and taverns, and in the middle of the lake
a large flat pleasure vessel floated on huge empty wine casks.
Just then screeching in the trees nearby revealed fighting monkeys, and a brightly colored bird preened and called. What were these exotic animals doing here?
“Hail, Caesar!” Tigellinus emerged from one of the pavilions, hitching up his tunic. He strode over to us and said, “Would you care to partake, before being rowed to your vessel?”
Oh. The pavilions were brothels. “I see you already have,” I said.
“A good host always tastes his own wine and food before offering them to guests, so I was following that principle here. These pretend brothels are stocked with real prostitutes and others who just want to be a prostitute for a day. You know, it’s a common fantasy that women have, and in this entertainment we strive to answer all secret wishes. The services are all free, of course.”
“To the guests, you mean. I assume we are paying for them?”
“Of course. Come, the boat is docking.” He motioned for us to follow him as he walked down to the water’s edge.
The heavy raft was towed by two little barges gleaming with gold and ivory fittings. The rowers were pretty boys, pueri delicati, the sort Tiberius liked, and they towed our clumsy barge out to the middle of the lake.
Tigellinus had created a pleasure garden on the deck of the boat. A sandalwood screen arched over us, shading us delicately from the sun, dappling us with playful shadows. Pots of cascading flowers waved their petals in the breeze. Soft patterned rugs and silken saffron pillows invited lounging. Perfumed incense smoked from braziers, and murrhine cups, each worth a fortune, were handed round as if they were clay, filled with wine Tigellinus claimed was a hundred years old.
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Petronius. “More like twenty, I’d wager.”
“You’ll lose,” said Tigellinus. “I can prove it.”
Poppaea lounged with her cup, draping herself over one of the pillows. “Faenius Rufus,” she said, spotting our elusive prefect. “We were just talking about you. Where have you been hiding yourself?”