At its highest point, the golden statues on the tiled roof of the temple looked down upon the performances from a height of 150 feet. But our attention must tumble to the floor of this architectural masterpiece, to the smaller arc of the orchestra just below the raised stage and directly in front of our seats. Pompeius had spent a fortune on the theater’s design and construction. His favor with the people could only soar by such a gift to the public. It should have been so, but Pompeius would find that even the bloodthirsty citizens of Rome have their limits.
(Editor’s note: illustrations of the theater may be seen in the glossary.)
There was no charge for admission, but seating was limited. Every plebeian was required to present a clay ticket stamped on one side with a likeness of the great general so kind in execution he was barely recognizable, on the reverse with an image of his pretty, young wife. (When speaking of Pompeius’ spouse, these two adjectives almost always preceded the noun.) Two weeks before the opening, within a manic 24 hours, the ticket windows were shut and locked, their stock of clay tablets depleted. 25,000 elated citizens would be privy to the final inaugural performances of the greatest theater ever built. Those unfortunates who were denied entrance crowded the street outside the curving walls for the chance of hearing, if not seeing, the spectacle.
On this morning, the plebeian crowd of ticket holders cheered, waiting as senators, patricians and knights filed past them to take their seats. The late morning sun was warm, but not oppressively so. At least not to the lower classes. Crassus and Pompeius paid the price that every senator and person of status must at public events: dressed in their formal togas, their faces were flushed, their bodies damp with perspiration. The heavy wool draping was not meant for spring or summer. But the custom was rigid. The two consuls were almost invisible, surrounded as they were by a small army of lictors, twelve guardians assigned to each, jostling to stay near their charges. These two men, who had never seen eye to eye on almost anything, waved amiably to the people, smiling at everyone, even each other. Pompeius had assigned six servants to throw coins over the heads of the lictors into the sea of waiting hands waving like kelp fronds. I had chosen a dozen for the task, but Crassus bid me instruct half their number to keep their bags tied. I saw his point.
Crassus cared as much for such entertainments as he did for Pompeius. The man might make a decent merchant, but his ability to govern inside the pomerium was universally recognized by those who mattered as staggeringly fairish. When they first shared the consulship fifteen years earlier, they could agree on almost nothing. Pompeius did not understand the workings of the senate, he had flouted the time-honored cursus honorum and many senators, including dominus, thought him unworthy of his wealth and status. But had Crassus not attended today, the people would have cried out in protest. There must be amity between the city fathers who protected and fed them. Especially these two; now that they had finally taken office, the turmoil must certainly end, mustn’t it?
Crassus held his wife’s hand, slowly making his way along the arc of the aisle to sit in the first row beside his co-consul, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus. Above the amphitheater, the vault of the sky was the unbroken blue of a wood thrush’s egg. The box of honor was festooned with white and gold banners, golden statuettes and four splendid and imposing guards, one at each corner. The colors of their uniforms matched the cushioned chairs to which dominus and domina were led, a goblet of spiced wine pressed into their hands almost before they were comfortably seated.
Senators and knights stopped to offer their congratulations before they found their own places. A purple rope designated 300 seats reserved for the conscript fathers. After them, non-senatorial patricians arrived, followed by those of the equestrian class, the knights. These nobles were only slightly less venerable than patricians and therefore markedly more arrogant. They were assigned the fourteen curving rows behind the seating reserved for the senate. As the plebs poured in, the shadow cast by the temple looming high above and directly behind us crept up the travertine rows of benches like a reticent supplicant to the goddess.
“A stunning achievement, Gnaeus,” Crassus practically shouted.
“Gratitude, Marcus. With luck, my gift to the people will divert discord and channel harmony back into our streets.” And drown you in a renewed flood of popularity. “Ciro!” he called to a servant sitting beside me in the row behind the box. “Food for our guests!” He looked over, nodded and said, “Alexander.”
“Congratulations, my lord,” I said, “on your election to consul for a second term.”
“So gratifying to see your solemn Greek face again.” He turned back to his guests. “Marcus, you honor your man, bringing him here, but I warn you, there is talk: it is said that if one wants Crassus, one need only seek out Alexander.”
“I find his counsel useful.”
“Indeed? A shame his station must bar him from our consular deliberations.”
“Indeed.” In communication, tone is everything. With the way dominus delivered that response, one could almost see the insult sailing high above the head of Magnus. If one wanted an unobstructed view, one need only have looked for the smile that played briefly upon domina’s lips.
“Have you discovered,” Pompeius continued, “some invisible thread from the East with which you bind him to your ankle? I hope for your wife’s sake you untie him at bedtime.” He turned to laugh with whoever had overheard his jest, but was disappointed to find there was no one of consequence within earshot.
“He goes where he is bid,” said my lady.
“Truly? Alexander, you are the quintessential servant. Have some wine.”
Ciro handed me a cup. I bowed my head in thanks, then toasted both Pompeius and his creation. As I drank, I looked about me. This was one of those moments, more and more infrequent over the years, where I stepped outside myself to see what had become of me. On this day, nowhere in Rome was there a more important place to be, and if that were true, then I was indeed sitting at the very center of the world.
I had lost everything, and what was taken could never be retrieved, yet fate or luck or Melyaket’s goddess had brought me to this place, basking just outside the light illuminating these demigods of Rome. I smiled, not because of what even I must admit was my good fortune. Now I had a reason to suffer my servitude. She waited for my return at the place we called home. And what passed between us was ours. We shared it. We owned it. It could not be taken from us.
I turned my attention back to the most powerful nobiles in the city. Save for his height, Marcus Crassus had the look of the ideal Roman patrician-his grey hair cropped tight, his eyes clear, his cheeks hollow, his mouth fighting against the gravity of both age and the knowledge of what life has in store for all of us. Even if you’re a demigod.
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, though younger than my master by nine years, was not faring near as well. He had gained more than a few pounds since I had last seen him on the rostra. Touring his several country estates with his wife…I beg your pardon — pretty, young wife…must have agreed with him. Unfortunately, this extra weight, packed into his round face and stubby nose had only served to further pinch his nasal speech. And it did nothing at all to diminish the inevitable, indelicate whispers of porcine disrespect.