He dipped the stick in again and let the bright stream drip.
“Now the actual tasting. You must note your first impression of the honey as it touches your tongue. Next, the full taste. And finally, just as important, the aftertaste. What lingers in the mouth. Now, for each person it will be different, but there are some general observations. The flower honeys have a strong taste and perfume, and a strong aftertaste, and are runny. The tree honeys are softer in taste and aftertaste, and stickier.”
He walked down the long table. “Since no one eats honey by itself, spread it on bread or pour it on the cheese. Then allow a few moments to pass before trying a different one. Here are the types, labeled: fir, pine, chestnut, thyme, sage, clover.” To demonstrate, he dipped a stick into the fir honey jar and held it up, gazing at the color, a dark brown. Then he spread it on a piece of bread to taste. After a moment, he pronounced it sublime. “You must do your own testing now.” He stepped back.
I was expected to go first, so I selected the jar with the pine honey. It took a long time to drip from its stick, as it was thick. Its color was a pleasing dark bronze, and it seemed a promising choice. But it was oddly bland once I tasted it. I said so.
“The pine honey is the least sweet of honeys,” the official said, as if anyone who did not know this was deficient. “That is why it stays liquid longer than the sweeter honeys.”
The table was open for the rest of the company. I stepped back and let them crowd around.
“That was rather cheeky of him,” said Phaon, spooning honey off his plate, joining me. “Who wants honey that is not sweet?”
“There are wine snobs and art snobs, but I never suspected there were honey snobs,” said Tigellinus. He smacked his lips as he munched on a piece of honey-smeared bread. “This is delicious, though.”
“What kind are you trying?” I asked.
“The sage,” he said. “It comes from Crete. Or so the expert says.”
“There are snobs in every field,” I said. “They consider themselves our guides. And perhaps they are. Mountain honey and forest honey—who knew?”
“Who needs to know?” asked Nymphidius. “I plead ignorance. I never felt a lack in my life not knowing the difference between clover honey and sage honey.” He cocked his head, looking down at the honey-covered cheese curds. “This one is very good. That’s all I know.”
“Which one is it?” asked Epaphroditus.
“I don’t remember!” He laughed.
“I understand you have visited the Temple of Zeus,” Epaphroditus said to me, attempting to steer the ship of conversation onto a more stately course.
“Yes, I did,” I answered, confirming it.
“So now you won’t have an unhappy death!” Nymphidius was not to be dissuaded from his antics. “We should all go!” He spun around.
“You have it wrong,” said Phaon. “The maxim is Count no man happy until his death.”
Tigellinus joined in. “And what did the face of Zeus look like?” he asked. “Any resemblance to Caligula?”
“No, he didn’t succeed in having his head swapped for Zeus’s,” I said. “The face didn’t look a thing like Caligula.”
“Or me?” said Nymphidius, posing. He must have been drinking before he got here. “You know, he’s my father.”
“I know you claim so,” said Epaphroditus.
“So did my mother,” Nymphidias said.
“Ah, yes, I see the likeness. Little ears. Triangular face. Shifty eyes . . .” said Phaon. “I am sorry your sire was killed, but the Zeus statue was spared, and that probably pleased Zeus. And it is better to be on the right side of the king of Mount Olympus than the emperor of Rome.”
Caligula had wanted to move the statue to Rome, but experts said it could not withstand the journey, so he ordered the head to be remodeled in his own likeness. Luckily for Rome and for the statue, he was assassinated soon after giving the order.
“He must have been struck by a thunderbolt first,” said Nymphidius, still laughing. “Zeus is like that.”
LXII
The air crackled with anticipation and excitement. In only two weeks the games would begin, and athletes from all over the Greek world were pouring in, setting up their tents, then rushing to practice in the gymnasium, the open-air palaestra, the stadium, and the chariot racetrack. Not only did they want to familiarize themselves with the venues, but for the first time they had a chance to size up their opponents.
High-ranking personages from many countries converged on Olympia, eager to see if their athletes would bring home honors for their towns. If they did so, rich patrons would gladly pay to erect the customary statues in their recognition, so that their victory should never be forgotten. Some of the monuments dated back five hundred years. Already the poets, artists, and sculptors had arrived, advertising their wares, promising odes and paintings of the winners for a bargain price.
The day was a fair one, and I was tingling with anticipation as I dressed. Here in Olympia I had flung off my Roman persona almost in entirety and embraced my true self. I had let my hair grow long, so it fell to my shoulders, an unruly cascade, like the locks of Apollo. It had stayed the blond of my youth, not darkening as happens to most people. It was also wavy, and I no longer made any attempt to tame it.
The toga was gone, replaced by loose and flowered tunics. I often added a neck scarf of a bright color, useful for wiping away sweat in the baking heat. Until I ventured outdoors, I remained barefoot.
Statilia came in just as I was tying the neck scarf.
“Oh my,” she said. “Saffron today! Are you sure it goes with the pattern on the tunic?”
I whirled around; she was teasing.
“And if it doesn’t?” I asked.
“No matter,” she said. “You are the emperor.”
We both burst out laughing.
“It’s a good thing your contest is the chariot race and not the nude stadium races,” she said. “Tunics can cover many faults.”
I knew precisely what she meant, but I pretended otherwise. Let her come out and say it, if she dared. “I won’t be wearing a tunic, but the customary long chiton,” I said.
“Even better,” she said.
“So, the more covered, the better?” I asked.
“Well, you are not exactly Apollo—except in the face and hair, of course. And in your music.”
“In other words, I am fat.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You didn’t need to say it, after everything else you said.”
She laughed. “What was the motto at Delphi? Know thyself?”
“It’s true I am heavier than I was,” I admitted. “But I am not fat.”
She encircled me with her arms. “I can still get them around you, so I suppose you are right.”
“I prefer the word ‘husky,’” I said, and again we laughed. She kissed me and we laughed again.
Just then Epaphroditus was announced, and I sighed. “An emperor can have flowered tunics but not privacy.” I let her go and said, “Enter.”
He came in, a great bear of a man, always seeming larger than he really was. His dark eyebrows drawn, he said, “Caesar, a contingent of senators are here. They have just arrived and beg leave to see you.”
Senators! All the way from Rome? I was surprised but pleased. “I will receive them in the atrium.” I smoothed my hair and adjusted the scarf, then strode out.
A group of some fifteen men were standing in the atrium. They all wore togas. As I entered the room, a slave announced, “The emperor!” and they turned to greet me. They looked thunderstruck. I realized they had not seen me since my hair had grown, and I had embraced a different wardrobe. And—I had forgotten to put on sandals in my haste to greet them, and was still barefoot.
“Welcome to Olympia!” I said, spreading my arms wide. “Welcome to the
games!”
“Caesar,” they murmured in unison, staring. Finally one said, “You are—looking well.”
“I am well. I am in the home of the gods,” I said. “And you honor me by coming. It is a long journey, and I am touched. I compete on the third day, in the chariot race. The entire games last only five days. Five days, but it takes years to prepare.”
One senator said softly, “The games are legendary, but I have never had a chance to attend them. We are grateful to you for providing us the opportunity.”
I walked around them, looking for one I recognized. There were many new men in the Senate now, and I knew few of them. “Your arrival is timely. We can arrange for a tour of the historic site before the events begin,” I said.
“Caesar, we—Aulus Largus, Sextus Scaurus, and I, Titus Vetus—would speak to you privately first,” a tall man with ginger hair said.
“Of course,” said Epaphroditus, standing by. “I shall arrange it. As for the rest of you, please wait here and take refreshments. The emperor and a games official will then take you to see Olympia shortly.” Smoothly, he gestured for stools to be brought and for a slave to bring refreshments. Then we followed him into a private room.
He drew the curtains—already the hot sun was heating the air in the small room—and said, “I will have refreshments brought here as well, and then you can speak freely.” There were comfortable padded benches for us, and I motioned the three men to sit.
“Speak, please,” I told them. But they only stared silently. “Do not be shy,” I said. “You asked for a private audience, and you have it. You did not come all this way to be mute.”
The ginger-haired man, Titus, who had initiated the parlay, finally said, “We of course have come to see our Caesar compete, but matters in Rome also drove us here.”
“What matters?” I asked. Before he could answer, the slave appeared with his tray of olives, melon, and cheese, and set it down. Silence reigned until he left.
Aulus, a young man with a severe haircut, said, “We in the Senate are anxious for you to return,” he said. “There is . . . there is a feeling of unrest.”
“A feeling? Please be more specific,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said. “It is just something in the air.”
“I think what Aulus means is that the emperor’s absence gives an opportunity for certain elements to grow,” said Sextus, a stocky older man with a fringe of gray hair around his otherwise bald head. “I have heard grumbling about Rome being neglected and murmurs about the length of the Greece trip.”
“How long do you intend to stay away, Caesar?” asked Titus.
“Until I have completed the historic circuit of games,” I said. “After Olympia, I will go to Corinth for the Isthmian Games.”
“And they are when?” asked Sextus.
“In November,” I said.
They looked dismayed. “Another few months?” Titus finally said. “You have already been away a year!”
“Is not Helios managing affairs? He sends me regular reports.” Helios had been more than diligent; he had been resourceful and efficient.
“There is no substitute for the emperor,” said Aulus. “The very presence of the emperor is in itself a stay against mischief.”
So how did my presence prevent the Piso conspiracy? It was not a convincing argument. “I will return, and not so long from now. You may rest in that assurance.”
“Caesar, we are here in Olympia, where the shadow of Zeus presides,” said Aulus. “We feel his presence here even if we do not see him, because his great temple and statue are a visual reminder of him. People need to see things to believe in them. Only the Jews seem to believe in a god they cannot see; no one else has been able to manage it. A Caesar far from Rome, invisible to the people, does not rule it. Not for long.” When I did not immediately answer, he said, “Forgive me for the blunt words, Caesar, but we did not travel hundreds of miles to tell anything less than the truth.”
I looked at him, at his open face, now showing consternation. “I admire you,” I said. “I, too, believe in speaking truth.” The gods knew how I had hated all the lies surrounding me as I grew up and my vow to speak truth as soon as I could escape them. “But for the moment I cannot abandon what I am doing here. What I do will bring honor to the Roman people and allow me to do something I have waited years to do. Surely the gods will protect me and Rome until I accomplish this.”
What could they do but bow to my words? But the truth of it—truth, my favorite word?—was that one could not rely on the gods to do what you wished of them or even what was right.
* * *
• • •
As promised in the early hours, the day was hot. Very hot. We hurried from one pool of shade to another as the official led us on a reverential tour of the site. Sweltering in their togas, the senators trudged along. Soon enough the majesty of the place seeped in even for them and their faces registered awe.
The first thing to behold was, of course, the Temple of Zeus, now thronged with sightseers. A long line waited for entrance, and I urged our group to return later, when they could enter more easily.
“Zeus cannot be appreciated if you are crushed together in a crowd. Wait,” I said.
The official gave a quick recitation of the size of the temple, the making of the statue, the sovereignty of Zeus over the games, as he had judged the winner of the founding Olympic chariot race between Pelops and Oinomaos for the hand of Hippodameia, daughter of Oinomaos. He went on to explain how Pelops had cheated. The senators mopped their brows.
We followed him behind the temple, where he halted in front of a huge olive tree. Luckily it threw a big shadow that we could crowd under. “This is the sacred olive tree, from which we get branches for the victory crowns, which the winners are awarded on the last day of the games. They must be cut with a sickle of gold, by a boy who has two living parents. We fashion them and display them in the temple to Hera until the ceremony, where you can see them.”
“Is that all they get?” one senator muttered under his breath. “A crown of leaves, like the sort we wear at banquets and trample underfoot afterward?”
“I think they also get a ribbon,” his companion answered him. “Maybe a palm as well.”
“Oh, how exciting!” the first senator sneered.
Then I heard my name, spoken low. “Nero has tried to bring such games to Rome, but they haven’t taken root.”
“Thank Zeus,” said another man, then laughed. “Or perhaps I should not invoke him. At least, not here.” He nodded toward the temple.
The official heard the snickers and snorts and glared at the senators. He then led us around the temple and past statue after statue commemorating victorious athletes.
Xenokles of Mainalon, winner of the wrestling competition. A group statue of two brothers and their father—Akousilaos and Damagetos and Diagoras of Rhodes, boxing and pankraton. A large stela with the list of winners of the chariot race.
Philip II of Macedonia. Yes, I knew that Alexander’s father had won the chariot race. My eye went down the long list until a name jumped out at me: Germanicus Julius Caesar. My grandfather!
I stopped dead as the group went on. My grandfather had raced in the Olympics. Why had no one ever told me? Mother! Mother must surely have known; she was his daughter and worshipped everything about him. Yet she derided me for my interest in horses and chariot racing, making my life miserable and doing everything to keep me away from the stables. Indeed, that was why I had first formed my secret bond with Tigellinus, as he was a horse breeder.
I looked carefully at the date. It was only two years before Germanicus died; he had been thirty-two then. Near my age. I stared at it. May my name join yours, Grandfather. For the first time I did not resent him, but felt a great kinship with him.
And just a few paces away there was a statue of him, standing tall a
nd victorious in bronze. How had I missed it? The limestone block beneath said that M. Antonius Peisanus attested that Germanicus Caesar had won the tethrippon at the one hundred and ninety-ninth Olympics. I was stunned and proud.
I had to hurry to catch up with the group, now standing in front of the temple to Hera, the oldest sanctuary at Olympia. It had thick golden columns, standing serenely in front of the wooded Kronos hill.
“Hippodaemia ordered this temple to pay homage to Hera,” the official intoned. “And here, in her honor, every year sixteen women weave a robe for the goddess, and host three races for unmarried women. These are run before the Olympics begin. As you know, women cannot compete in the Olympics, or even watch them. But they have their own competition here.”
“Imagine if women weren’t allowed to watch the gladiators in Rome,” one of the senators said.
“Yes, the stands would be half empty!”
“And the gladiators would have empty beds,” said another.
It was well known that highborn women found gladiators attractive and indulged their appetites with them.
“Perhaps it’s the naked men here that make it forbidden,” said the first senator. “Imagine if the gladiators fought naked.”
“Ouch!” groaned his companion.
Again the official glared. I felt I should apologize or rein in the conversation, but the Romans were hot, tired, and uninterested. It was time to end the tour.
“We are grateful for your explanations,” I said. “And now, I invite the company to retire to the baths, on the far western side of the site, by the river Kladeos.”
The Splendor Before the Dark Page 47