Fourteen! How could he be only fourteen? So tall! He looked far older to my eyes. A thick beard covered a good part of his face. He was so, so handsome!
“Always supposing you don’t die first!” put in one of the other gladiators. “Go on, Apollodorus. Escape with her. Grab your chance!” The hair of this gladiator shone in the light of the setting sun. His eyes were bright. He spoke perfect Greek. “Take advantage of the generous offer. Run off with these women. Only death awaits you here. Go on! Go back to your parents. Or try your luck in Alexandria. Anywhere but here. Why do you want to be master of the world? You know the old rhyme? ’The city is the site of dole and dearth; the country is the very soul of mirth.’ Go back there.”
“You obviously never were a shepherd or smelled sheep shit!”
“It’s just as obvious that you know nothing about the world. Nothing of the political intrigues that control the Empire. Master of the world? You don’t even know who makes the decisions that count. I was a senator once. You know that well enough. I had a name that meant something back then. I was respected and rich. Now I’m like a slave. A mere gladiator. And all because I didn’t know how to bow my head before the power of gold and all the other filthy shit. I know what I’m talking about.”
Then he continued:
Happy the man who far from commerce thrives,
Where cruel usury exerts no sway;
The Golden Age still rules his carefree day,
His sturdy oxen plow his father’s fields,
And ocean storms betray no sailors’ lives.
“Your bitterness blinds you. You can’t see that grass and alfalfa can never match the grandeur of a city.”
“And you! You must have overlooked the cool shade of leafy beech trees. You must have been insensitive to the lush, deep grass, to the soft ears of wheat. Deaf to the song of the nightingale, blind to the lovely flowers and the ripe, luxuriant crops. In the poet’s words, ’Thin was your bull amid the bounteous pastures.’”
“Thin bulls? What are you talking about? I was forever treading on snakes, dodging poisonous plants, and scratching my legs on thistles!”
“The juice of freshly ripened grapes must have pleased you, Apollodorus.”
“Never tasted it! Never saw an oak struck by lightning, either. There was no chance there of ever becoming a real man, of leaving a lasting mark on the world.”
“But listen to what the poet is saying, boy!
Here sons of soldiers till the fertile soil.
Obedient to their austere mothers’ call,
They fell the forest, load up logs for home,
While evening’s shadows climb the mountain tops
And lowing kine draw carts across the lea.
So all enjoy sweet hours of repose.
You see? It was men like these who earned Rome its reputation. Not the ones who’ve grown up amid luxury and vice. They’re not a patch on the vigorous souls who once lived on the banks of the Tiber.”
In the genial quarrel between the two were sprinkled lines from the Roman poets. They gave us a pleasure far different from the ones afforded by the arena.
By this time we had covered a fair stretch of the way. The walls of Rome were already in sight. A dense crowd was massed around the gates. It seemed impossible to penetrate it. The gladiators had closed ranks around us. One of my maids gave women’s clothing to the Greek boy, so that he could disguise himself, saying, “If you want to come with us, better get these on you right away!”
Protected by the first shadows of the night and the confusion of the crowd, Apollodorus slipped over his cheap clothing the fine robes of an oriental princess. With an ingenuity I cannot explain, Charmian pulled out a wig from one of the bags she was carrying and rapidly fitted it on the head of the young Greek, using a veil to conceal the hairy lower half of his face.
The change of clothing only served to heighten his charms. And his own excitement produced an unfortunate result. Under the fine linens, it did not take much effort to see, bulged his erect penis. Erect from what? Panic or passion? I had never seen the like of it before as a reaction to the unexpected. Could it be that he had felt his manhood threatened by the woman’s clothing and this was a kind of masculine protest? In their nervousness my maids had noticed nothing. But I was not at all nervous. In fact, I was enjoying the ease with which our escape was proceeding. But on spying this danger of betrayal, I acted swiftly. I stood close in front of him and jammed my back against him, so that nobody else could see what I had seen. The effect was instantaneous. The body of the girlish princess, so long caressed on the balcony by his longing eyes, extinguished the erection totally. He placed his hand on my shoulder and I turned around, walking backwards. We looked each other in the eye, and his glance said to me, “Everything’s under control. Relax!”
At that moment we passed through the gate of the Flaminian Way, and I swung around to check our route. A few steps more and alleyways opened on all sides before us like a labyrinth. Without the gladiators to guide us, we would have been lost at this junction. We could not have crossed the city alone or found the road to Brundisium, for the layout of Rome had none of the planning of Alexandria, precise, harmonious, and clear-cut. The Romans had had no Dinocrates to follow the planning tradition of Hippodamus. The milk of the wolf that nursed Romulus and Remus flowed capriciously and left a record of its twisting path in the tangled alleyways of the city.
Where in Rome could one enjoy the beautiful views available in Alexandria? From the Gate of the Sun to the Gate of the Moon, the guardian deities of the entrances, passes a double line of columns. Round about the midpoint stand the houses of the populace. A little farther along lies a neighborhood named in honor of Alexander the Great. Beside it is a second settlement, magnificently laid out, another line of columns crossing the first, in a series of right angles. However hard one tries, it is impossible to encompass the beauty of the city in a single glance. And none of this includes the palaces. No Roman palace can compare to the gorgeous magnificence of those in Egypt.
But why am I describing Alexandria when we were still in Rome? Let me get back to Rome. The chatter of the gladiators continued nonstop, and we came to the run-down district of Subura, crowded with commonplace people. The rabble swarming the streets were not the only surprise; there was the overpowering stink of the place, a revolting mixture of rotting garbage, excrement, food, and cooking oils — a plague of odors that Alexandria would never have allowed. I had not traversed these streets before or if I had, I had done it fast asleep on my litter with its curtains closed, something that always makes me sleepy. But this time I was not passing in style. The waves of people crashed against us from in front, and the press of the people from behind put a strain on my kidneys. There was always somebody jabbing me with an elbow, with the pole of a litter, or a wine vase. If I hadn’t avoided it, the spike of a soldier would have stabbed my fingers. Loaded carriages charged by without the least concern for pedestrians. Groups of people cooked in the streets and ate standing, talking freely as if nobody could see or hear them, as if, instead of standing, they were lounging on well-stuffed cushions. Others were eating on the move, surrounded by smoke and sweating servants, followed by a mobile kitchen, the poor slaves tottering under enormous vessels carried on the heads, their hasty progress fanning the burning coals into life.