He heard a low murmur run though the crowd, a rush of indrawn breath like wind passing though tall grass. This was followed by a cheer that started at one end of the circus, then gradually rose to a roar. From the stands above came the deafening noise of spectators stamping their feet in excitement.
Titus stepped to the doorway and peered outside. At the far end of the circus, a lone charioteer had driven onto the track. He was dressed in the leather racing outfit and helmet of the green faction favoured by the emperor. The charioteer was driving his white steeds at a slow canter as he waved to the crowd.
There were charioteers whose popularity rivalled that of the most famous gladiators, but what charioteer could be so high in the emperor’s esteem that Nero would select him to play this majestic, even godlike role? As the charioteer drove past each human torch, he raised his arm, pointed an accusing finger at the prisoner, and the torch burst into flames. The effect was uncanny, as if the charioteer had the power to cast thunderbolts.
As more torches were lit, the arena grew brighter, and Titus at last saw what the crowd in the stands had already perceived: the charioteer was Nero.
As the emperor continued his slow progress, he drew nearer and nearer to the doorway where Titus stood, and to the pole on which Kaeso had been hoisted. With a gesture from Nero, the torch next to Kaeso was set alight. Kaeso would be next.
Suddenly, Titus felt hands on him. The guards had seen that he was at the opening and were pulling him back. Summoning all his strength, Titus managed to break free. He ran onto the track.
He slipped on a slick, wet spot and tumbled forward. Scrambling to his feet, he touched something and screamed in revulsion. It was a mangled human ear. He staggered to his feet and looked at himself. Wherever his naked flesh had touched the ground he was covered in a gritty paste of sand and blood. He heard the guards shouting behind him and ran.
How different it was, to be here on the arena floor, rather than in the imperial box! He had watched the day’s proceedings from the stands with a mixture of grim determination and exalted privilege, comfortably remote from what was taking place in the arena below. Now he found himself in a bizarre landscape of towering crucifixes and human torches, surrounded by flames and carnage. The blood, urine, and faeces of dogs and humans littered the sand. Everywhere he looked he saw fingers and toes and other scraps of flesh left behind by the ravenous hounds. A nauseating stench filled his nostrils, and hot smoke burned his lungs. Above the roar of the crowd he heard the screams of those set alight, the crackling of burning bodies, and the moans of the crucified.
With the guards at his heels, Titus rushed headlong towards Nero. He reached the chariot and threw himself on the ground.
Basking in the approval of the crowd, his eyes glittering in the firelight, Nero registered no surprise at Titus’s sudden appearance. He grinned broadly, then threw back his head and laughed. He pulled at the reins to stop the horses and waved at the guards to draw back. He stepped from the chariot, strode to the spot where Titus lay gasping on the sand, and stooped over to pat him on the head.
“Never fear, Senator Pinarius,” he said. “Caesar will save you!”
Weeping with relief, Titus clutched Nero’s spindly legs. “Thank you! Thank you, Caesar!”
The spectators assumed this exchange was part of the entertainment. They applauded and roared with laughter at Nero’s satirical demonstration of clemency amid such overwhelming carnage.
“Nero is merciful! Merciful Nero!” someone shouted, and the crowd took up the chant: “Nero is merciful! Merciful Nero! Nero is merciful! Merciful Nero!” The chant mingled with the shrieking of the human torches.
Titus trembled so violently that he thought he might fly to pieces. He wept uncontrollably. He had no choice but to remain on his knees. He could not stand.
Nero shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Poor Pinarius! Did you not realize your predicament was all a practical joke?”
Titus stared up at him, baffled.
“A practical joke, Pinarius! That ridiculous family heirloom you insist on wearing gave me the idea. Where is it, by the way? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it.”
Titus pointed mutely to Kaeso, trapped in the basket atop the nearby pole.
Nero nodded. “I see. You gave it to your twin. How appropriate! Petronius always said it was in very poor taste for you to wear something that looked like a crucifix, since everyone knows you have a Christian brother. How amusing, I thought, if Pinarius should find himself among the Christians.”
“You… you planned for this to happen?”
“Well, not all of it. I had no idea you’d run out to greet me like this. But how perfect! Truly, this is one of those rare, fortuitous moments that sometimes happen in the theatre, when everything comes together as if by magic.”
“But I could have been killed. I could have been burned alive!”
“Oh, no, you were never in danger. I instructed the guards to lay in wait and apprehend you outside the latrina – you had to go there sooner or later – but not to harm you. Well, no more than they had to, to convince you to go with them. You’ve had quite a scare, haven’t you? But inducing terror is one of the functions of the theatre; Aristotle himself says so. Terror, and pity – which you will feel soon enough. Was it not delicious, to feel the hot breath of Pluto on you, and then, when all hope was lost, to escape unscathed? I fear your arsonist brother shall have a different fate.”
Cupping Titus’s chin, Nero directed his gaze to Kaeso. With his other arm, Nero mimed the act of hurling a thunderbolt. The pole on which Kaeso was trapped burst into flames.
Titus was unable to look away. He watched – horrified, spellbound, stupefied.
Never before had he felt the presence of the gods as powerfully as he did in that moment. What he felt was beyond words, almost too intense to bear. This was the place, unlike any other, where the characters in a tragedy arrived; this was the moment of utmost revelation, so terrible that a mere mortal could barely endure it. What Titus felt was wonderful and horrible, bursting with meaning and yet utterly absurd. It was Nero who had brought him to this moment – Nero, who loomed above him, smiling, serene, godlike. To have devised this moment, Nero was without question the greatest of all the poets or playwrights who had ever lived among humankind. Titus felt again, now magnified beyond measure, the awe he had experienced when he heard Nero sing of burning Troy. Truly, Nero was divine. Who but a god could have brought Titus to this supreme moment?
Nero gazed down at him and nodded knowingly. “And when this is done, Pinarius – when the smoke clears and the embers die down – we shall retrieve that amulet of yours from your brother’s ashes, and you must wear it every day. Yes, every hour of every day, so that you may never forget this moment.”
AD 68
“You are a man now, my son. You are the heir of the Pinarii. Sometimes the passing of the fascinum has taken place at the death of its wearer, sometimes while the wearer is still alive. It is my decision to pass it to you now. From this moment, the fascinum of our ancestors belongs to you.”
Titus Pinarius was repeating a ceremony that had been enacted by countless generations of the Pinarii since a time before history. He lifted the necklace with the fascinum over his head and placed it around the neck of his son. Titus was fifty. Lucius was twenty-one.
But the mood in the household was not jubilant. Chrysanthe averted her eyes. Their three daughters wept. Hilarion lowered his face, and the other slaves followed his example. Even the wax masks of the ancestors, brought into the garden to witness the ceremony, seemed melancholy.
The garden itself was full of colour and fragrance, surrounding them with roses and flowering vines. Like every other part of their splendid new home on the Palatine, the garden was remarkably spacious and exquisitely maintained, a place of beauty and elegance, especially on a warm day in the month of Junius.