A total of nine aqueducts brought water to Rome in Nero’s day. Under Nero, a single aqueduct, the Claudia, built by Claudius and modified by Nero, served both the Caelian and the Aventine hills. “The result,” wrote Sextus Julius Frontinus, water commissioner under the emperor Nerva thirty years later, “was that whenever any repairs caused interruptions, these densely inhabited hills suffered a drought.”2 Storms, wear and tear, and shoddy workmanship made repairs to the water supply system by the two water gangs an ongoing task. Repairs were also necessary in country areas through which the system’s subterranean tunnels passed, with damage caused by tree roots, illegal buildings, and even tombs built over the tunnels. Damage also occurred when greedy landowners bored into the tunnels to steal water. Because water consumption was at its height in summer, all but emergency repairs to aqueducts were carried out during the spring and autumn months, when disruption to the supply might not prove such an inconvenience to consumers.
The water commissioner of Rome was a very senior position; Frontinus had been a consul and governor of Britain prior to his appointment. Like the grain commissioner and streets commissioner, the water commissioner was paid to apply at least three months of his time every year to his official duties. But through laziness or graft, many water commissioners neglected the administration of the water gangs and failed to police the supply regulations. The business of stealing water was a profitable one for some. After Frontinus became water commissioner, he conducted a detailed survey of the water supply system one July: “There are extensive areas in various places where secret pipes run under the pavements all over the city. I discovered that these pipes were furnishing water by special branches to all those engaged in business in those localities, through which the pipes ran, being bored for that purpose here and there by the so-called ‘puncturers.’”3
These puncturers were water contractors and corrupt water gang overseers who piped away large volumes of water without paying the state a license fee, selling it at great profit. Frontinus also discovered another cagey practice. Each new water licensee was entitled to insert a single outlet into the distribution pipe that passed his property. In the case of an existing license that had been surrendered because of the death or changed circumstances of the licensee, the outlet created by the previous licensee was supposed to be sealed. But this frequently did not happen, so that the new licensee retained the old outlet and created a new one as his license permitted, and took twice as much water as he was entitled to.
By prosecuting water thieves and plugging illegal pipes, Frontinus would stamp out the practice of puncturing. He would be so successful in restoring the overall volume of water reaching the legitimate outlets in Rome that he would divert one of the sources, at today’s Frascati in the Roman Hills, to local consumption, while still delivering more water to the capital than before. Unfortunately for Rome, the water-theft industry flourished under the noses of water commissioners previous to Frontinus, including Publius Marius. Frontinus did not accuse his predecessors of being in the pay of the puncturers. But it was not impossible that some were corrupt. Frontinus did accuse his predecessors of laziness and indolence and for neglecting their duties while taking their salaries and using their state-assigned lictors, clerks, and other assistants for personal tasks.
The Senate produced page after page of regulations for water distribution, even specifying the size of nozzle by which water could be extracted from a pipe. But not a single bylaw was written to regulate the use of water to fight the fires that frequently broke out in the city. House fires were common, which is not surprising, considering that cooking and heating in Rome required the use of an open flame. But major blazes that ravaged significant buildings or entire regions of the city had occurred in almost every decade of the first century to date.
Fire had caused extensive damage at Rome in AD 6. An AD 12 fire had severely damaged the Basilica Julia on the Forum Romanum; the basilica was home to Rome’s law courts. Two years later, the Basilica Aemilia, just across the Forum, also sustained serious fire damage. In AD 22, on the Campus Martius, the massive Theater of Pompey, site of Julius Caesar’s assassination in 44 BC, had been totally gutted by fire. Tiberius, who paid for the theater’s restoration, had commended his Praetorian prefect Sejanus for prompt action, which had confined the fire to the theater, and the Senate had subsequently installed a statue of Sejanus in the restored building. This was before Sejanus’ spectacular fall from grace.
In AD 26, on the Caelian Hill, which had once been renowned for abundant oak trees but was subsequently covered with buildings, a massive fire destroyed every single closely packed structure. Sponsored by a donation of 100 million sesterces from the emperor Tiberius, new buildings were quickly erected to replace the old on the Caelian Hill that year. They were erected on top of the blackened rubble littering the hill, so that it was said the Caelian actually increased in height as a result of the fire.
In AD 36, a blaze erupted in the northeast corner of the Circus Maximus. Driven by a powerful wind, this fire quickly spread across the Triumphal Way to the Aventine Hill. There too, just as on the Caelian Hill a decade earlier, every single house, tenement building, bathhouse, and shop on the slopes was razed, although several temples appear to have been spared serious damage. And there on the Aventine, too, buildings swiftly rose anew in the wake of the disaster.
Until Augustus took the throne, Rome had no organized firefighting service. In those days, property owners throughout Rome had employed night watchmen who patrolled city blocks with a bell, and should they detect a fire, they rang their bell to warn sleeping residents so that people could at least escape with their lives. In AD 6, following the serious blaze that year, Augustus introduced the Cohortes Vigiles—literally, cohorts that stay awake, or the Night Watch as they would later be styled. Recruited from freedmen and commanded by their own prefect, these “vigiles” were paramilitaries who took over the guarding of Rome in the hours of darkness from the Cohortes Urbanus, or City Cohorts—called the City Guard by later authors.
The vigiles were lightly armed and served as night police. They had even carried out the arrest of Tiberius’ overly ambitious Praetorian prefect Sejanus in AD 31. But their main role was that of firemen after dark, and like owls, they led a nocturnal life, sleeping during daylight. Augustus initially introduced the vigiles on a temporary, trial basis, but they had proved so popular that he retained them, paying them from his own purse. The vigiles were organized in seven cohorts, each of a thousand men. Every cohort was expected to guard two city precincts, and every cohort occupied a barrack house in its area of responsibility. The vigiles’ firefighting equipment consisted of bronze or leather buckets, which they had to dip into the water basins and reservoirs in their vicinity, or into the Tiber. And there would have been an ax and a ladder or two at each vigile barrack house. But there were no fire hoses, no pumps, not even water wagons.
There was no provision for tapping into the water supply for firefighting purposes. Rome had no fire regulations and no building code. The city’s fifty-five miles of streets were narrow and frequently winding. On only two streets in “old Rome,” the part of the city enclosed by the Servian Walls, could two carts pass abreast: the Via Sacra and the Via Nova. Most other streets were only wide enough for a single cart. The back streets of Rome were merely pedestrian lanes—narrow, dark even at midday, and frequently unpaved, which made them muddy when it rained. On the urban hillsides, streets zigzagged seemingly without rhyme or reason.
Many landowners, to maximize rental space, built out over the street at second-floor level and higher. Four-story private residential buildings were the norm in Rome, with five and six stories not unknown. Several centuries after this, the city’s tallest apartment block would rise an impressive seven floors and be spoken of with awe around the empire. As a result of this unbridled upper-floor construction, buildings on one side of narrow streets in some residential quarters almost touched buildings on the other. In these circumst
ances, the vigiles had little hope of dousing a major fire or preventing it from spreading once it took hold. Their one asset was their numbers; the seven thousand men of the Cohortes Vigiles had, between them, the ability to swiftly warn residents and help them evacuate fire-threatened buildings and areas.
In fact, the one common feature of all the fires in Rome since the introduction of the vigiles was the fact that Rome’s historians of the time made no mention of lives lost in building fires. Those same historians would chronicle the great loss of life in other disasters around the empire during this period. As lifesavers, then, the vigiles had proven to be a successful innovation. As property savers, however, they were less successful.
Some would say that now, twenty-eight years since the last major fire in the city, Rome was overdue for a significant outbreak.
VII
THE SINGING EMPEROR
Breaking the journey at the villas of court favorites en route, Nero and his massive entourage moved across the Campanian landscape like a creeping flood. So it was that the imperial caravan arrived at Neapolis on the Bay of Naples in time for the town’s annual contests in poetry and song.
On the first day of the contests, local dignitaries flocked to the temporary wooden theater that had been erected in the town for the annual event, joining the throng of senators and Equestrians that had followed Nero down from Rome. Among these leading men who had joined the emperor’s entourage was Gaius Petronius, who had only recently served as a consul. A wealthy, elegant, and cultured man who led an extravagant, stylish life, Petronius was so admired by Nero that the emperor had recently named him his official arbiter elegantiae, or director of good taste. Petronius subsequently became known as Gaius Petronius Arbiter. To him would be credited authorship of the hedonistic and satirical Roman novel The Satyricon. Petronius, one of the night livers—who Seneca thought defied nature by living their lives during the night hours and sleeping during the day—was astute enough to appear in the emperor’s company when it mattered.
“A rabble of the townsfolk was brought together,” Tacitus scornfully wrote of this day at the theater of Neapolis. They were joined by thousands more “whom the excitement of such an event attracted from the neighboring towns and [military] colonies.”1 The audience on the tiered seating of the half-moon-shaped theater was completed by men of the emperor’s bodyguard, so that the venue, which was open to the sky, was packed.
The young Nero’s singing voice had originally been, according to his biographer Suetonius, “feeble and husky.” Once he had decided to take up singing seriously, said Suetonius, Nero “conscientiously undertook all the usual exercises for strengthening and developing the voice.”2 One such exercise involved lying on the back with a slab of lead on the chest, to develop and strengthen the diaphragm. Nero also used enemas and emetics (the latter to deliberately induce vomiting after eating). Both were recommended by Roman physicians for improving the voice and were regularly employed by orators. Julius Caesar had notably followed a prescribed course of emetics toward the end of his life. Certain foods, such as apples, considered harmful to the vocal chords, were banished from Nero’s diet.
Nero suffered from severe nervousness prior to his stage appearances, and as his debut loomed, he would have been pacing back and forth behind the stage while two attendants attempted to steady his nerves with praise and assurances that all would be well. He had good reason to be nervous, for the rules of these contests were strict. A contestant must stand while performing, would lose points for clearing his throat, for spitting, for blowing his nose, or even for using his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow—contestants were not even permitted to take a handkerchief on stage. If a contestant made a major blunder while performing, he could be disqualified.
Like the other competitors, Nero had his name inscribed on a ticket of ivory, which the judges drew to decide the order of competition. Several competitors duly performed before, to the surprise of the audience, their emperor stepped out onto the stage wearing the long, ungirdled tunic of a lyre player and gave his preliminary oration.
Then, as he was handed his lyre by the senior officer of his bodyguard, the name of the song he would sing was announced by Cluvius Rufus, a former consul and a respected historian, who was a part of the imperial entourage and had volunteered to act as the emperor’s herald. And then Nero played and sang. His performance was creditable and well received by the audience. After all the contestants had performed, there was a nerve-racking wait for Nero while the judges consulted and compared notes. Finally, the chief judge stepped out onto the stage. The winner, he announced, was Nero Caesar. A beaming Nero accepted the victor’s laurel. The emperor was so pleased with his debut that he entered another of the Neapolitan contests scheduled for the following day.
In the interim, he gave his voice a rest, but the adulation of the crowd had been so seductive that he could not keep out of the public eye. So, that evening, after bathing in the town, he and the senior members of his entourage dined very publicly in the “orchestra” area at the front of the theater. As he passed through an applauding crowd on his way to dinner, people asked him what he would sing to them next.
“When I’ve downed a drink or two, I’ll give you something to make your ears ring,” he responded in Greek, the language of the song lyrics.3
The crowd applauded even more loudly.
The following day, Nero again took his chances in the draw for places. His fellow competitors, “whom he treated as equals,” according to Suetonius, were put at ease by his grace and charm, although behind their backs, he disparaged them to his friends.4 Not surprisingly, following the performances, the judges declared Nero again the winner. What judge would dare not give the prize to his emperor, to this emperor?
Come nightfall, the well-pleased crowd dispersed, the theater emptied, and in high spirits, Nero and his companions departed to the bath and the dinner table. The ordinary people of Neapolis and surrounding villages seemed excited and even flattered by the fact that Caesar had performed on their stage. The same could not be said for Rome’s elite. Nero’s appearance as a competitor on the public stage could be compared to a serving U.S. president competing on American Idol today. The general audience would no doubt be delighted, declaring it a refreshing departure for their country’s leader to do such a thing, while the establishment would be horror-struck, claiming that it demeaned the office of president of the United States. Similarly, the members of the Roman aristocracy were appalled that their head of state could stoop to such a thing, but none expressed such a dangerous view to Nero himself.
The social mores of Roman society were tightly observed. Even the dress code was ridiculously emphatic. The tunic of a man of Equestrian or senatorial rank had to be a particular length; for formal occasions, it must be white, with a purple border, the border being thin for the Equestrian, thicker for a senator. It must be worn belted, and it must be short-sleeved. Pliny the Elder, as one of his eccentricities, wore a long-sleeved tunic, primarily to keep his arms and hands warm in winter so that he might keep writing. Within five years, a young Roman legion commander, Alienus Caecina, would scandalize society by wearing multicolored, long-sleeved tunics of the kind favored by the Gauls, while on duty. Julius Caesar had also defied custom and worn long-sleeved tunics, but he was Caesar. Nero’s way of defying custom and social mores was by going on the stage.
That evening, as the populace of Neapolis bathed, strolled, and dined and as Nero celebrated his double victory, the city was shaken by an earthquake. Only minimal damage was done to the town, but the temporary wooden banks of seating at the theater, which, only hours before had been filled with thousands of spectators, came crashing down. Many people thought this an unlucky omen. Some would say it was proof that the gods were unhappy with Nero’s stage debut. But Nero considered the message to be just the opposite. He reminded those around him that, had the earthquake taken place during the day, a massive death toll would have resulted, and he thanked the gods for sparin
g all loss of life. He immediately began work on an “elaborate ode,” in the words of Tacitus, which praised the gods and celebrated the good luck that, he was convinced, the occasion represented.5
Within several days, the Neronian cavalcade was again on the move. Nero’s success on the Neapolitan stage had convinced him that his original plan, that of competing in the famous contests in Greece, was a valid one. He was now on his way across Italy to the Adriatic coast. From there, he would take a ship to Greece. His first stop on his route to the Adriatic would be the crossroads town of Beneventum, thirty miles northeast of Neapolis, in the Apennine Mountains.
VIII
THE GLADIATORIAL CONTEST
It being the month dedicated to Mars, and with only very few Roman cities across the empire permitted to stage chariot races, other selected cities and towns honored the war god with a munus, a gladiatorial contest. Beneventum, modern Benevento, was one such town, and when the emperor and his cavalcade reached it en route from Neapolis to the Adriatic, it was in time for the town’s gladiatorial show. Nero decided to pause a while at Beneventum to take in the show.
Beneventum’s munus was staged and paid for by a local dignitary. There was a time when any Roman standing for elected office would stage gladiatorial shows to win popular support. The Republican Senate put a damper on this practice in 58 BC by declaring that no one could run for office who had staged a munus within the past two years. The emperor Augustus decreed that the praetors of Rome could stage two official gladiatorial shows a year, and the magistrates and priests of other cities once a year. But Augustus had also staged seven or eight “extraordinary” muneri annually, in the names of family members, and later emperors including Nero authorized private citizens to conduct “extraordinary” gladiatorial shows.
Claudius had decreed that only the quaestors, Rome’s most junior judges, could stage the capital’s official gladiatorial contests. Nero had made it optional for the quaestors. At the same time, Nero had banned provincial governors from putting on shows of gladiators, to prevent them from currying popularity with provincials, and, under cover of that popularity, getting away with “irregularities” in their province.
The Great Fire of Rome: The Fall of the Emperor Nero and His City Page 7