No one was quite sure of the proper etiquette in the new amphitheatre. As the emperor continued to wave, many in the crowd rose to their feet and waved back. Some cheered and applauded. Others remained seated. Epaphroditus was among those who stood and clapped his hands. “Now there you see the head of an emperor,” he said to his companions. They looked at him quizzically. “Have I never told you the story of Agrippina and the physiognomist?”
“I think I should have remembered that,” said Martial. “It sounds quite naughty.”
“It’s not that kind of story. Long ago, when Nero was a boy and his mother was desperate to make him Claudius’s heir, Agrippina called on an Egyptian physiognomist to examine the head of Claudius’s son, Britannicus. Do you know, Lucius, I think it was your father who suggested the examination.”
Lucius shrugged. “I’ve never heard the story.”
“Perhaps because it had a rather embarrassing outcome. The Egyptian was unable to draw any conclusions from Britannicus’s head, but since Britannicus’s constant companion happened to be present, the man took a look at his head, as well. That boy was none other than Vespasian’s son Titus. The physiognomist declared he had never seen a head more fit to rule over other men. People forgot about that incident for a long time, but as you can see, the Egyptian turned out to be right.”
“Where was Domitian when this examination took place?” said Lucius.
“Oh, he was a baby. He’d only just been born.”
“What could be easier to read than a baby’s head, since it has no hair?” said Martial. “Although Domitian probably had more hair then than he does now!”
There was a stirring in the crowd around them. The Vestal virgins had arrived and were taking their seats in the front row. No one had been sure whether to stand for the emperor, but everyone did so for the Vestals. They walked with such grace and poise that their linen mantles seemed to float atop their heads.
As the six women passed by, Lucius looked at their faces. He had seen the Vestals at public events but had never been this close to them before. The badge of their office was the vitta, a red-and-white band worn across their foreheads. Their closely shorn hair was hidden by a distinctive headdress called a suffibulum, and their linen gowns obscured the shapes of their bodies, so that all one could really see of them were their unadorned faces. They were of various ages, some old and wrinkled but some no more than girls. Vestals began their mandatory thirty years of service between the ages of six and ten, and most remained Vestals until they died. It seemed to Lucius they kept their eyes straight ahead and deliberately avoided making eye contact – until one of them turned her head as she passed and looked straight at him.
The Vestal was beautiful. The fact that every feature except her face was hidden only accentuated her beauty. Two green eyes flashed beneath delicate eyebrows of dark blonde. Her full lips favoured him with a faint smile. Lucius felt a quiver run down his spine, like a trickle of warm water.
“Her name is Cornelia Cossa,” whispered Epaphroditus in his ear.
“How old is she?”
“Let me think. She was only six when she was inducted into the sisterhood in the eighth year of Nero’s reign; that would make her twenty-four.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Everyone says so.”
The acrobats and jugglers dispersed. The official ceremonies commenced with a series of religious rites. An augury was taken, and the auspices were declared highly favourable. The priests of Mars paraded around the arena, chanting and burning incense. An altar was erected in the centre of the arena. The priests sacrificed a sheep to the war god and dedicated the amphitheatre in his honour. The blood of the sacrificed animal was sprinkled in all directions onto the sand of the arena.
A proclamation by the emperor was read aloud, in which he paid homage to his father, whose military success, architectural genius, and love of the city had given birth to the amphitheatre; the structure in which they had all gathered was the Divine Vespasian’s posthumous gift to the people of Roma. Jewish warriors – filthy, naked, and shackled with chains – were driven at sword point around the arena by armed legionaries as a reminder of the great victory that had brought peace to the eastern provinces of the empire and secured the treasure that had paid for the amphitheatre, the new baths, and many other improvements all over the city. Vespasian had joined the gods, but his legacy in stone, the Flavian Amphitheatre, would endure for all time.
The proclamation went on for some time. Lucius’s mind began to wander. He noticed that Martial had pulled out a stylus and a wax tablet and was busy scribbling. He assumed that his friend was taking down the words of the proclamation, but the notes he was able to read had nothing to do with what they were hearing. Martial saw him scanning his notes.
“Random impressions,” he whispered. “You never know what might become a poem. Look at all these people. How many races and nationalities do you think are represented here today?’
Lucius looked around them. “I have no idea.”
“Nor do I, but it seems to me the whole world is here, in microcosm. Look at those black-skinned Ethiopians over there. And that group over there – what sort of people have blonde hair and wear it twisted into knots like that?”
“Sicambri, I think they’re called. A Germanic tribe that lives at the mouth of the Rhine River.”
“And before we took our seats, in the vestibule I saw men in Arabian headdresses, and Sabaeans from the Red Sea, who wear black from head to foot. And I smelled Cilicians.”
“Smelled them?”
“The women and boys and even the grown men of Cilicia wear a very distinctive perfume, made from a flower that grows only on the highest peaks of the Taurus Mountains. You’d know that, Pinarius, if you’d ever had a Cilician boy-”
He was interrupted by a shushing noise. One of the Vestals had turned around in her seat and was glaring at them. She was old and wrinkled, with a severe expression that intimidated even Martial. The Vestal sitting next to her also turned and looked up at them. It was Cornelia Cossa. Her calm smile and radiant beauty was in such contrast to her fellow priestess that Lucius laughed out loud, then regretted doing so at once, fearing he had offended her. But if anything, Cornelia’s smile widened a bit, and there was a twinkle in her eye as she returned her attention to the crier who was reading the proclamation.
“Did you see that?” whispered Martial. “She looked right at you.”
Lucius shrugged. “What of it?”
“She looked at you the way a woman looks at a man.”
“Martial, you are incorrigible! Go back to sniffing your Cilician boys.”
At last the various proclamations and invocations were finished. The Flavian Amphitheatre was officially opened. The spectacles began.
The first event was the scourging of the informers. Titus had promised to round up the worst offenders – liars and scoundrels who made a living off the public purse by accusing innocent men of conspiring against the emperor or defrauding the state. Such creatures had been a blight on every reign since that of Augustus. No matter how sensible and confident an emperor might be at the beginning of his reign, with each year that passed, he and his ministers invariably grew more susceptible to baseless rumours and more fearful of imaginary enemies. The hard-headed Vespasian had been no more immune to poisonous slander than had his predecessors. By the end of his reign, many a man had suffered punishment based on groundless suspicion and many an unscrupulous informer had grown rich. Titus intended to make a clean break with the past.