Colosseum

by Simone Sarasso

  Domitian is left alone with his horrible smile.

  Julia with her dangerous doubts.

  Verus and Priscus, caked in blood, have no idea the wind has just changed direction.

  The tempest is at the gates.

  The sun burns away any residual hope.

  The people of Rome, drunk on nothingness, go on celebrating the glory.

  Naumachia

  […] suddenly filled this same theater with water and brought in horses and bulls and some other domesticated animals that had been taught to behave in the liquid element just as on land. He also brought in people on ships […].

  CASSIUS DIO, Historia romana, 66, 25

  Rome, AD 80, August

  THE TIME IS RIPE.

  After the endless blood, the deaths of the weak, the fierce and the innocent, the magic moment has arrived.

  Emperor Titus has just finished speaking to Daimon and Ircius, and the eyes of the two lanistasglint brightly in the gloom. Perhaps Ircius’s are a little bit too moist, but who would notice such a detail in the belly of the beast?

  Beneath the Amphitheater, every rock casts spiky shadows in the torchlight. A few sunbeams filter through the air vents, but not enough: artificial lighting is needed to illuminate the night of the soul.

  Titus smiles placidly: “We are agreed, then?”

  “Of course, Caesar. As you command,” respond Ircius and Daimon, almost in unison.

  Titus turns suddenly serious and glances up at the sky through one of the grates, pretending to guess what hour it is.

  “Then get going. The tunnels have to be emptied.”

  A bow is worth a thousand answers. Daimon and Ircius leave through the service tunnel that will take them back outside, where the baying of the mob has reached its usual, staggering roar.

  The crowd does not know what is in store: it is the surprise Titus has had up his sleeve for so long, the forbidden dream, his masterpiece. The monarch is the first to get outside; he scales the hidden stair to the Emperor’s box, where Julia and Domitian are waiting to welcome him back, sunk up to their necks in an embarrassed silence. Titus takes his daughter’s hand and settles into his seat.

  “You will see,” he whispers to her. “You will see.”

  The girl smiles. Domitian grins and bears it.

  The stadium basement is cleared slowly and carefully: first the gladiators are brought out, including Verus and Priscus, incredulous at being granted their “freedom” again after such a short rest. They take up their respective positions, far from the games enclosure, now emptier than the stomach of a starving man. Daimon’s warriors seat themselves next to their master, high up next to the galleries in a niche out of sight of the horny noblewomen, but with an excellent view of the arena.

  Verus and his companions join Ircius on an equally well hidden balcony, on the opposite side of the ellipse, very close by to the quarters used by the classiarii of the Misene Fleet. Verus’s old, wise friend Marcius runs over to embrace him. The Briton congratulates him on the outstanding job he has done with the velarium. The sailor shrugs, his usual air of wisdom mixed with arrogance.

  “That would be all we need, to make asses out of ourselves on inauguration day. After all those months of hard work…”

  Verus laughs, and Ircius blesses his good cheer with a benevolent glance: “What happens now? Why have they made us come all the way up here?”

  Marcius does not know. Nobody knows what is about to happen. It is Titus’s damned gift. But it is hard to slip anything past the old sea dog, who must have guessed that he is standing on the edge of a precipice with a yawning chasm before him. He treats that hasty blockhead of a Briton to a little suspense.

  “Give your eyes a rub, boy. You will not see anything like this again for many, many a year…” announces Marcius.

  Verus returns to his place, alongside his companions. Ircius is calling him back: it is about to begin.

  The crowd hushes as the announcer, having reached the center of the arena, pronounces a single word: “NAUMACHIA!”

  He shouts it so loudly that even Jupiter himself can hear. It is a miracle the heavenly father does not peep out from behind the clouds to get a better look.

  The crowd barely murmurs, ears cocked to pick up the slightest vibration.

  The moment the messenger has left the circle of sand, the gates are barred shut. The mechanical sound of turning cogs echoes through the four corners of the Eternal City. The grind of heavy bricks on twisted metal rails, thick doors of wood and lead jolting open like loaded springs.

  Sealed compartments.

  The belly of the behemoth is transformed; no one can see it but all can hear the rumble that rises from the center of the Earth. Ropes and pulleys come to life, knowingly maneuvered by assistants positioned at strategic points around the structure. The corridors become one, joined by moving walls, while the air grates slide shut like neglected pores.

  The rooms where Verus and Priscus waited impatiently to take the field are stained an inky black, denied even the weakest breath of air. The convicts’ cells are sealed as well, by now emptied of flesh, leaving only the stink of those who no longer exist, hanging stubbornly in place.

  The giant’s guts are finally cleared, now crisscrossed by channels the height of a mid-sized man, all of them leading to a circular atrium where other tubes of stone, lead and travertine begin. These lead upwards, into the realm of silence and perpetual surprise.

  The audience is thrilled, shaking with curiosity as they await the clatter of opening sluices. They prick up their ears to hear the approaching wave, still far off.

  It begins very quietly. From elsewhere.

  The water wells up from springs with fairy-tale names—Curtius and Ceruleus—a liquid diamond that races across the stone of Claudius’s aqueduct, devouring incredible distances as though they were nothing more than pine nuts, thundering down towards Rome from the Aniene Valley. The journey is infinite, unimaginable: forty-six miles atop the high arches. The transparent liquid dashes headlong through the man-made canal. The water enters the city at the quarter known as ad spem veterem, even to those who do not speak a word of Latin. It is the place where the ancient Temple of Hope once stood, and which now holds the Porta Maggiore, the great gate built by Claudius to carry his blessed aqua. Powerful vaults stand out against the blue sky, watering the Eternal City with the juices of the Aniene. At the end of the aqueduct the water empties into a pool known as the Piscina Limaria, where it is cleansed of the worst of the impurities that have contaminated it during the journey. Then one last plunge into the castellum, where it is mixed with the crystal-clear nectar of the Anio Novus, at which point it is ready to slake Rome’s thirst.

  All this happens above ground, but under the earth Titus has made arrangements to appropriate Claudius’s freshwater sea for himself. The theft has been perpetrated by patiently digging tunnels, sealed shut by moving walls that can be swung open, sucking the life out of the precious artificial river. The titanic job was planned down the finest detail and then the pickaxes did the rest.

  And, as the belly of the Flavian Amphitheater changes its shape to the clang of barred sluices and sealed passageways, the wonder within the wonder takes place, the illusionist’s master stroke: the marble and travertine channel connecting the basement of the monster to the aqueduct is thrown open, filled by a frothing mass of pure water.

  The rumble brings to mind the noise of the ground when it breaks apart; an earthquake, the fire that burns beneath the mountains.

  The crowd on the terraces can hear the wave arriving. They feel it on their skin, on the soles of their feet. The voice of the crashing breakers swells, roaring like a hundred hungry beasts. The crowd waits breathlessly. They sense the mounting thunder, cubit upon cubit, the threat drawing ever closer as the sand of the arena is shaken by the vibrations and all around are gasps, shivers and nervous gla
nces. The women scream from up in the back row, men’s foreheads are pearled with sweat.

  A single heart is cool and filled with gratitude, during the endless wait: that of the master of the world. With that sense of showmanship that makes him what he is, Titus rises to his feet in the exact moment that fifty square portals, each the size of a couple of shields held side by side, swing open in unison. The crowd no longer knows where to look: some choose not to take their eyes off the smiling face of the Emperor, arm held high, index finger pointed towards the center of the sandy ellipse. Others, captivated by the rumble that has been amplified yet further by the opening of the hatches—positioned all around the circle of the arena—stare down at the dark fissures, shouting continuously. The fury of the waves knows no mercy, their roar swelling along with the excitement of the crowd, until the marvel reaches its inevitable conclusion and the water surges out onto the sand. The effect of the jets is sensational, transforming the arena into a fountain, fifty mouths vomiting forth liquid in unison, spraying onto the sand.

  The shouts of the dazed mob fill the air, their spontaneous applause an immeasurable release for the Primus, now in radiant mood. He stands in the Emperor’s box, arms outstretched.

  “It is only the beginning…” he whispers under his breath, but in the meantime he basks in the glory.

  And he is absolutely right: the water level is rising before their very eyes, the oval where ferocious beasts, Christians and convicts have been losing their lives all morning transformed in no time at all into a gigantic reservoir. The thirsty sand gulps down every drop until finally, sated, it accepts its fate, placidly allowing itself to be submerged.

  The water rises, merciless and powerful, until it is lapping at the first row of seats. Only at that point are the doors closed again, granting the masses the time to gaze upon the spectacle laid out before them.

  Up at the top of the Amphitheater, blinking back tears of sincere emotion, Marcius lets out an exclamation, unable to hold it back: “The sea itself!”

  Verus hears him and feels the urge to hug his friend, but he stays rooted to the spot, afraid of ruining the magic.

  Vestal virgins and senators lean out over the balustrade: the water is close, so close that with a single bound they could dive straight in. The colossal pool would be a man and a half deep, if one were to stand on the shoulders of the other.

  The light breeze blowing from the west is like a gift from Aeolus, rippling across the glinting surface where the reflection of Apollo’s sun stares back at the crowd.

  But the Emperor is right: this is only the beginning.

  A gate opens to allow a small boat brimming with flowers to pass beneath it, a couple of plump slaves at the oars. The announcer, standing knee deep in sweet-smelling petunias, reads out the proclamation in his hands: “Titus Caesar Augustus, Lord of Rome, of the land and the seas, is pleased to offer his people the spectacle of naval warfare. Today, in the Amphitheater that confers everlasting glory on his name, the proud Corinthian fleet and the invincible armada of Corcyra will face each other in a fight to the death!”

  Fifty thousand gasps of genuine amazement.

  Naumachia.

  A marvelous word that flies from mouth to mouth.

  “But first, O subjects of the Empire, feast your eyes on the triumph of the sea gods!”

  Thunderous applause and more anticipation, as the two slaves maneuver the announcer and their petal-stuffed craft back into the gate from whence they emerged.

  The entrance to the titanic bathtub stays open and every eye in Rome is locked to it, brimming with expectation. And what emerges next from the aperture is unprecedented in its magnificence. An authentic, floating miracle.

  The first noses to appear belong to the sons of Africa. Gray nostrils held just above the surface, kindly yet murderous eyes crowned with bony brows that look to have been freshly chiseled in Phidias’s workshop: hippopotamuses. The view from above is really quite something. The pachyderms swim in two neat lines of thirteen, and head in unison for opposite sides of the arena, tracing circles in the water.

  They do not lose their cool even when the rapturous crowd showers them with savage shouting, and at a command from one of the trainers up on the terraces, they roll onto their backs.

  All together.

  The applause drowns out the sound of the splash as the trick is repeated.

  Again.

  The crowd’s attention quivers like the skin of a drum beaten to infinity. All eyes are wide open, now.

  A row of alligators crosses the threshold of the enormous pool and shouts of fear and wonder slip through the women’s gallery.

  Blood will be spilt. Everyone thinks so. But they are wrong. Very wrong.

  The green sons of the river number no more than a dozen; even in deep water, it would not be a fair fight. There is no other animal on Earth as dangerous as a hippopotamus. The river horse is a crazed, raging beast that can charge with the power of a hundred bulls and does not stop to think twice. That is why the Romans’ hearts are in their mouths at the sight of such placidity.

  The way the crocodiles paddle meekly around the pachyderms is testament to the unimaginable work of their trainers. Ancient scales brush against hard, ashen skin in a sinuous, gray-green ballet, a broken promise of death.

  The choreography has the feel of a curved blade, run softly over the amber skin of a helpless slave. The prehistoric union of stone bodies, down in there the primordial soup, moves one senator to tears. The vestal virgin at his side tries to comfort him, but the beauty is too much and the warm, saltwater tribute continues to flow down his face.

  At a sudden clash of cymbals, some of the hippopotamuses roll onto their backs. At this point the alligators clamber onto their bellies and remain there patiently for a few moments that seem like infinity, before slipping back into the water up to their nostrils.

  Rapture. Pure rapture.

  The water is crowned with peace and wonder. Only then do the horses enter.

  Splendid Iberian stallions, the blinding white of the snows of Mount Olympus, cut through the water with all the grace of the beasts of Neptune. In place of a saddle they bear wooden frames of lightest rosewood: sputtering Catherine wheels spread smoke and flame across the water, spinning furiously in the breeze.

  The equilibrium is perfect: the horses deftly execute the moves to which they have dedicated months of hard work, carefully and to the letter, without once knocking into the other floating animals. They arrange themselves along the shortest route across the pool and swim towards one another. Having reached the center of the ellipse they stop, nose to nose, dip their manes into the water and re-emerge, drenched in droplets.

  They shake themselves off in synchrony and extinguish the flames carried on their backs. The smoke is transformed into tranquil mist, teasing the surface of the water.

  Verus and Priscus watch the spectacle from on high, their hearts finally floating after so much pain, their eyes filled with universal grace.

  But the moving picture that pulses where once there was the arena is about to be enriched by still another touch of the artist’s brush. The maddest and most daring, as beautiful as it is unthinkable: a herd of pitch black bulls crosses the watery threshold. They paddle and float as if born and suckled there among the waves, glossy and glinting with oils, red ribbons tied around their shiny, sharpened horns. They swim with amazing speed, completing circles around the horses, hippopotamuses and crocodiles.

  None of them try to devour one other, the vaguest predatory instinct of each swept away by pure concentration. The animals have emptied their hearts of rage, their trainers having bent their will as though it were wood. Warmth and patience have allowed the toughest of fibers to adapt to the change.

  The choreographed ballet is almost at its peak, the sound of a harp accompanying the carousel of circling animals until, at the hei
ght of the prodigious whirl, a flute launches the most piercing of notes into the Roman sky, followed by the concentrated roll of dozens of tambourines.

  It is the climax.

  A flock of peacocks fills the air over the great pond and sets off the greatest applause the She-wolf has ever known. The whirr of feathers and their winged vault through the crystal sky are nothing next to the landing. Every bird perches on the back of a bull, holds out its right foot and takes a bow, with the reverence of actor at the close of the perfect comedy. As one, their iridescent wheels are thrown open.

  Their reflection on the artificial sea multiplies the splendor, adding tone to the shades and heightening the enchantment.

  The roar from the crowd fills every last cubit of air.

  The Amphitheater shudders. The name of Titus rings out from every direction.

  Now that is real greatness, damn it.

  The Emperor rises to embrace the entire world.

  His daughter and even Domitian cannot feign indifference to what they have just witnessed. They stand up together, each slipping an arm around the other to face the crowd.

  Rome has never been so beautiful.

  Every misfortune is forgotten in an orgy of pure art; the plague and the fire seem like faint memories before the stupefying enchantment of such triumph.

  The infinite applause goes on so long that it starts to feel as though it has always been there. Only when the last pair of hands has ceased to clap and the last eye has been properly dried can the show go on.

  Titus smiles again, now back in his seat, and pronounces aloud the magic word: “Naumachia.”

  And so begins the mother of all battles.

  The atmosphere has been muted by the music and the wind. Today, nature is on the side of the Empire.

  Everything in its place.

  Servants with burning torches in their hands hurry onto the terraces. They wear dark tunics, an omen of the storm to come. A mystical change takes place; for every torch there is a drum, the incessant beating of toughened clubs quiets the last of the voices.