by David Blixt
“Seneca,” supplied Clemens wryly. He knew his father.
Gaudentius heaved a huge sigh. “Well, let's get started.”
“Actually, Quintus,” said Sabinus, “I think Clemens and I will go on alone. Tomorrow I'll walk the length of the site with you, along with all the other artisans and engineers. But today I want to see it all for myself. So for this first visit, I'll just take my son.”
Gaudentius looked put out. “As you wish, cousin.”
Sabinus and Clemens said farewell, then began walking towards the first palace of the Golden House, the one closest to the Palatine Hill, right next to where Nero's Lake was being built.
“What did I do to deserve this rare honour?” asked Clemens.
“Consider it repayment for being forced to spend so much time with your female cousins,” answered Sabinus. They had visited the house of Cerialis at least once a week, and Clemens was the god of the little girls' idolatry.
“I knew that suffering would lead to some reward. Which is not true of all suffering, whatever Seneca says.”
Sabinus grinned. “I actually wanted to offer cousin Gaudentius a different quote. 'To strive with equals is dangerous, with a superior, mad, and with an inferior, degrading.' But I thought best not to accuse him of madness.”
“And you, father? With whom are you striving?”
The gods, thought Sabinus ruefully.
Fortunately they had reached the first palace, so Sabinus was saved from answering as together they entered a world of excess: gold-leaf, azurite and malachite tiles, Tyrian-dyed cloth, pearl-studs, veined marble pillars, stuccoed ceilings, veneers of ivory, frescoed and mosaiced walls. And everywhere there were statues of gold, bronze, or marble, gorgeously painted to resemble living flesh.
The most striking was the statue of Nero as Mithras. Its size proclaimed the subject was more than any mere mortal – only gods could have statues larger than life. Created by Zenodorus, it cast Nero as the eastern god, complete with floppy cap and Oriental eyes.
It was his son who expressed their shared thought. “In a grove of awfulness, this is awesomely awful.”
Agreeing, Sabinus kept his voice low. “'All art is an imitation of nature.' Yet this is a colossal monument to bad taste.”
“That's not a bad name for it,” mused Clemens. “The Colossus.”
Sabinus froze, feeling an icy chill across his neck despite the summer heat. In Colossus' shade, far beneath… Was this the Colossus the Pythia had mentioned?
Newly filled with superstition, Sabinus had an irrational fear that Nero's statue might hear them. “Caesar is an artist. He surrounds himself with the finest things.”
His son made a strangled sound. “Since when are the Ahenobarbi artists?”
A crass statement, but typically Roman. A man was judged by the quality of his ancestors, and the Ahenobarbi were an odd lot. Legend said the divine twins Castor and Pollux had marked the Ahenobarbi with red hair six hundred years earlier. To maintain that colour over centuries, the family had married close cousins and adopted red-headed children. The results were – peculiar. The last few generations were noted for both their cruelty and their love of racing. These two traits had collided when Nero's father trampled a child in the road with his chariot.
“Caesar is hailed as a genius by men who know. Who are we to judge?”
Clemens pulled a face. “If I had thirty legions behind me, I could be a genius, too.”
In spite of himself, Sabinus laughed. “Very well, genius. I'm told each of the three hundred rooms has a different theme.”
“Three hundred rooms!?”
“Yes, three hundred. Can you come up with that many themes?”
“Are there three hundred themes in all the world?” Clemens' brow furrowed as they strolled out through the pillared walkway towards the next palace. “Naturally, there will be one for every country Rome has conquered – Africa, Greece, Aegypt, Hispania, Gaul, Britannia…”
“And Judea, I'm sure,” said Sabinus ruefully. “What about literature?”
“A room for each of the books of the Cypria, Iliad, Odyssey, and Aenead. That's eleven, twenty-four, twenty-two, and twelve.”
“Sixty-nine right there,” said Sabinus, pleased. So he does pay attention to his tutors.
“I'm sure there'll be several dedicated to Seneca,” said Clemens, acknowledging his father's personal passion. “He was Nero's teacher, after all.”
Sabinus frowned. “Before Nero forced him to commit suicide. Seneca, Corbulo – it doesn't seem to work out well, being Nero's favourite, does it?”
“Why should it? He's both faces of Janus at once. What a part of him loves, another part hates with equal passion. And why? Because the blood of Antony and Augustus still wage war within him.”
This was not just poetry, but a strongly-held scientific belief. Scholars, philosophers, and doctors proclaimed that the blood of Caesar's heirs was diseased, at war with itself. The cause was the mingling of the blood of Augustus Caesar and Mark Antony, still struggling for dominance even in the veins of their heirs.
But it was the poetry that appealed to Clemens, who adopted an oddly false voice. “'Onward, damned shade, and goad thy sinful house to madness. Let there be rivalry in guilt of every kind; let the sword be drawn on this side and on that; let their passions know no bounds, no shame; let blind fury prick on their souls.'”
Shocked, Sabinus' face broke into a grin. His son had just quoted Seneca – one of his plays, in fact. Thyestes, the story of Agamemnon's father Atreus, who brought down a curse on their whole family. Suspecting his wife of infidelity with his brother Thyestes, King Atreus had his nephews murdered and served to their father at a banquet. This had provoked the fury of the Furies, for killing a family member – the words Clemens had spoken belonged to the Furies. Thus the house of Atreus was cursed, until Orestes was pardoned by the gods for the killing of his mother, who had in turn killed Agamemnon.
But it wasn't the murderous acts of Greek kings that had Sabinus glowing with pleasure. It was the quote itself. “When did you learn that?”
Clemens looked embarrassed, like a child caught breaking precious glass vessels. “I – I slipped away from the tutors last week, and went to see the play.”
A dangerous admission. Plays had been banned by the Senate, actors drummed out of Italia. Nero had enjoyed the theatre too much, and urged actors and patrons to riot for his own amusement.
Yet theatre was too much a part of Roman life for it to disappear. Thus a growing industry of secret theatres and underworld actors had been earning a fair amount of coin – the danger made it all the more exciting.
Seeing his father's smile turn down at the corners, Clemens hurried on. “Afterwards I snuck into your tablinum and borrowed a copy of it to read.”
And read it so closely that he memorized it, thought Sabinus, impressed. Despite his furrowed brow, the sun was coming up inside his mind. Why had he never thought of it before? Seneca, the great philosopher and moralist, was also a playwright. A bloody one, at that – the better to keep Nero's attention. His plays were rife with reason being defeated by passion, leading to a cloud of evil that erupted and spread disaster across the land. The perfect thing to appeal to a young man. “Is it still playing?”
Feeling sure there was a reproof coming his way, it was Clemens' turn to be startled. “I – I think so.”
“Then arrange for it to come to us tomorrow night.”
Clemens' jaw dropped. “You want to see it?”
“With you, very much.”
“But – it's illegal!”
Sabinus enjoyed his son's shock. Yes, I am such the rebellious soul. “So?”
Clemens' face broke into a grin that warmed his father's heart. “I wanted to ask you about it, but thought I shouldn't.”
“Why? Because you skipped your lesson and risked arrest?”
“No,” said Clemens gravely. “Because of Delphi. I didn't know what she said to you. The play starts with the Furies, and there's a c
urse laid on Atreus.” Clemens gave a weak laugh. “I hope the Oracle didn't tell you to commit incest.” That had been the prophecy given to Thyestes, that if he impregnated his own daughter, the son born of that union would take revenge upon Atreus. So eager for revenge, Thyestes made it come true.
Sabinus winced. “No, nothing like that.” Was that why Clemens had quoted the piece? To start a conversation about Delphi? Did he suspect that a piece of the prophecy was about him?
Rather than pursue that vein just now, he returned the topic to ticking off the various themes for Nero's three hundred rooms of art. As they talked, they had to wend their way through 'natural' delights – fake pastoral settings, with trees transplanted from actual forests to simulate wooded groves, and water diverted from the Tiber to create waterfalls. All this on the ground where once the insulae of common people had stood, where Romans from all walks of life had lived and worked. All had gone in the Great Fire, clearing space for this amazing, monstrous folly.
They lost count in their tally after adding the twelve labours of Hercules, the number of Jupiter's bastard children, and all the famous battles of antiquity. Entering the next palace, father and son instead made it a game to identify the stories depicted by the statues they passed.
“That's Icarus, just before plummeting to earth.”
“There's Cupid being caught by Psyche.”
“Surely that's Diana discovered at her bath.”
Their eyes fell upon one grotesque statue depicting a full size man, entangled in the coils of gigantic serpents. Beneath him were his sons, men on a creepily smaller scale. “Who do you suppose that is?”
After staring for several moments, Clemens snapped his fingers. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”
“What?”
“ 'I do not trust the Greeks, even if they bear gifts.' It's Laocoon, the priest of Troy, punished by Athena for warning them about the Trojan Horse.”
“Ah.” Sabinus studied the odd statue. The torment on the father's face told of his suffering. But there was also a quality of peace. He had done his duty, tried to save his city, and now accepted the price.
Clemens said, “It's unfair his sons are made to suffer for his sins.”
“Was it a sin?” challenged Sabinus. “He meant to save the Trojans, and the gods punished him.”
Shrugging, Clemens walked on. “He knew the consequences for his actions. But, like Thyestes, his children paid for his sins. He should have told his sons to run.”
* * *
Not far away, on the western end of the Velabrum close to the Tiber, Perel and Abigail walked with covered heads to a Jewish woodworker's shop. Both carried dishes for the evening meal. Trailing behind them was Seth, his head also covered, his eyes looking about for any unusual signs. Tomorrow was a special market day, and the various sellers were preparing their stalls and shops. It was unfortunate for Linus that this market day fell on the Shabbat. But he employed a Roman and a pair of Latinized Spaniards to sell his fine furniture, while he spent the day in prayer.
Of course, they did not call it a prayer session. Officially, this was a funeral club. While Jews were officially still allowed to worship, congregations of Jews were looked on with suspicion. Nero had been successful in convincing some Romans that Hebrews had started the Great Fire.
So prayer groups were dangerous. Funeral clubs, on the other hand, were common and entirely proper. They had started nearly a hundred years ago, as soldiers pooled their money among their mess-mates to ensure a decent burial if they died in battle. These days anyone could belong to a funeral club, whose sole purpose was to collect funds from each member to pay for the cost of his or her funeral. Slaves and servants were encouraged to belong to such a group, as it saved their masters from paying for their burial. And it meant a little control over the disposition of one's body, an assurance that one's religious views would be honoured.
Thus most Jews in Rome had transformed their religious observances into funeral clubs, making their stand-offish god a little more acceptable to the Roman mos maiorum, the way things had always been done.
It was nearly sunset on the dia Veneria, the day of Venus. From now until the sun went down on the day of Saturn, it was the Lord's day, and they would give it to Him, honouring him with prayer, song, and readings from the Torah.
But this particular Hebrew funeral club would also read from their own private text, a text not shared with any outsider. Not yet. That was a point of contention, and would be argued over, as it was every week. Marcus, who had transcribed it, would ask why they could not go out and spread the story. Seth would growl and say it was too soon, too dangerous – had Marcus forgotten Nero Caesar? Others would agree with him, but the idealists would side with Marcus. If the story were only known to other Jews in Rome, surely they would see that the Mahsiah had already come!
Linus would take no side, and by deferring he was in effect agreeing with Seth. Abigail would only speak when asked, and say it was up to the Lord to provide a sign. Which successfully ended the debate each week. They would wait for a sign from Yahweh.
Considered too young, Perel was not asked her opinion, which bothered her immensely. After all, the words they were arguing over had been her father's. Had he died so they might be hidden? What were they waiting for?
Reaching the door to Linus' shop, Seth knocked and they were admitted. If they had been in Jerusalem, there would have been a curtain across the door which would be thrown open the moment the sun set, allowing the entrance of the Lord. But in Rome it was too dangerous. Ever since the war began, feelings had been running hot against Roman Jews. Best not let the gentiles in the street see them at their prayers.
Abigail kissed Linus in greeting, and Perel did the same, saying, “Shalom, Papa Linus.”
Linus winced as he always did. “I wish you would not, Perel. I am not your father. I'm not half the man he was.”
“The Romans call the Princeps Pater Patriae, father of their country. Just as you are father to us all.”
Linus appealed to her mother. “Abigail?”
Abigail smiled slightly. “She is correct. He willed it so. Papa Linus,” she added with pointed relish.
Linus rolled his eyes. “Oh, thank you. Now I feel as ancient as Methuselah. Well, come in. It is almost time. Mmm. Your bean and pea soup?”
Abigail handed her tureen over. “With extra carrots.”
Taking it, Linus sighed in contentment. “I cannot wait. Come in, come in!”
They entered, Seth closing the door behind them. Outside, the shop was entirely unremarkable – the supper would be held in the workshop's back room. The windows shuttered, there was nothing unusual, nothing to draw the eye to the carpenter's shop.
Nothing, except two chalked arcs that crossed on the left, and met on the right. Looked at in passing, anyone might have been forgiven for thinking it looked like a child's attempt at a fish. For that is what it was. The mark of a lost fisherman, who had become a fisher of men.
As they sat down to pray and eat, Perel felt a heavy sadness. These were the same faces she had seen for the last three years. Not a single new person had been added to their ranks. Her father's nets were empty. What was a fisherman without fish?
Part Three
The God of Broken Dreams
“COURAGE LEADS TO HEAVEN. FEAR LEADS TO DEATH.”
- SENECA
XI
ROMA, ITALIA
15 DECEMBER 67 AD
Fists clenched in disgust, Sabinus watched as a procession of soldiers, jugglers, dancers, athletes, and whores heralded Nero's return to Rome. The streets were packed, and children gathered on rooftops and in windows to behold the great spectacle to come. The god was celebrating a Triumph.
It was the aspiration of every legionary to march in a Triumph, a great parade celebrating a military victory, bestowed by the Senate upon victorious generals hailed imperator by their legions on the field of battle.
But that proud tradition was now soiled. For, ra
ther than claiming victory over some foreign foe, Nero Caesar was triumphing over Art. In place of honours won by them in battle, his soldiers now carried crowns, torques, medals, and flags all won by the Princeps. The number of crowns for charioteering alone numbered eighteen hundred and eight. There were trophies for running, wrestling, swimming – even for poetry recited while accompanied upon the lyre!
Moreover, Nero had arranged to enter the city on his birthday, usurping what should be a celebration of Rome's might into a celebration of Caesar's grandness. Bellona and Mars must be weeping, to see their parade turned into this artistic travesty.
Sabinus pitied these soldiers, marching along in their gleaming parade armour. Their faces reflected their humiliation. This was disgraceful, a monstrous insult. But then, Nero's return to Italia had been one insult after another. He had marched up from Brundisium entering town after town in a chariot drawn by four white horses through a breach in their defenses, the way victorious Greek soldiers of antiquity had. Which meant that each city had been forced to knock down a section of their own walls to admit him. And he had not come direct to Rome, but instead gone first to Neapolis, where years earlier he had given his first public show as an artist.
The journey culminated in this mortifying display now unfolding before their eyes.
A painted trollop in a flame-colored toga danced over and offered Sabinus a sugary confection. He declined. So did Clemens, though Tertius accepted. With a wink the trollop skipped away to continue offering her symbolic 'favours' to the masses.
“Can't be easy,” said Tertius, chewing as he watched the whore's retreating backside. “Dancing in a toga.” Nearly eighteen, he was certainly acting his age.
At fifteen, Clemens was hardly immune to the feminine allures. But he was still himself, his head filled with uncomfortable notions. “Father, when was the last real Triumph?”
“Watch your wording,” warned Sabinus. Nero's agents were surely among the crowd.
Clemens amended his question. “When was the last time a general Triumphed who was not a member of Caesar's family?”