Empire - Saylor Steven (книги без сокращений TXT) 📗
Lucius laughed. “No one serves in the military to defend Roma: Roma is not under attack. Men join the legions to head for the outskirts of the empire and look for fresh lands to plunder. It’s all about looting, isn’t it? All the successful emperors looted something and brought the booty back to Roma.”
“For glory, then?”
“If one finds it glorious to kill strangers and rape their women and then brag about it. If I wanted to loot, I could become a magistrate and collect taxes. That would be far less dangerous for me, and would kill my victims much more slowly; one wants to keep them alive so they can keep paying taxes.”
Epaphroditus shook his head. “Our emperor collects taxes to make the state function, for the benefit of us all. Consider the grand public projects-”
“Like that monstrosity that’s ruined the view?”
Lucius referred to the massive structure that now dominated the skyline of the city from all directions, but especially as seen from Epaphroditus’s garden. The architects called it an amphitheatre – two semicircular theatres put together to form a complete circle. It was by far the largest and tallest building in Roma.
In the days of the first emperors, the valley between the Caelian, Esquiline, and Palatine hills had filled up with tenements. After the Great Fire, Nero razed the charred tenements and made the area into his private hunting meadow in the heart of the Golden House, complete with a large man-made lake. Determined to get rid of the Golden House bit by bit, Vespasian started by filling in the lake and clearing the meadow. On the huge, flat site that resulted, using money looted from Jerusalem to purchase materials and 12,000 Jewish slaves captured in the war for labour, Vespasian began constructing an immense, elaborately decorated amphitheatre. The Divine Augustus had first expressed the idea of building such a structure in the middle of the city for the presentation of gladiator combats, hunting exhibitions, and other spectacles; Vespasian would make Augustus’s dream a reality. Construction went on throughout Vespasian’s reign, but he did not live to see it finished. It was left to Titus to complete the structure.
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.
