Petronius was working on something very different, a long work in which his narrator recounted a series of erotic misadventures and comical disasters, all related, to heighten the irony, in the most elegant and rarefied prose. Knowing how Nero relied on Petronius for advice on all matters to do with good taste, Titus asked him if he was responsible for staging the spectacles they were about to witness.
Petronius narrowed his eyes. “I contributed very little. Caesar devised most of the entertainments. The emperor threw himself into this project as he enters into all his endeavours, with extraordinary energy and enthusiasm. But what about you, Seneca – what are you working on these days, when you’re not out mining gold to build the emperor’s new house?”
Seneca smiled. “I’ve finally finished the play about Pasiphae.” He noted the blank look on Lucius’s face. “Do you know the tale, young Pinarius?”
“I’m afraid not,” admitted Lucius. Titus winced. His son’s education reflected on himself.
“Pasiphae was the wife of King Minos of Crete,” said Seneca. “She was cursed by Neptune to crave intercourse with a bull.”
“What woman has not?” said Petronius. Chrysanthe blushed, Lucius giggled nervously, and Titus himself was startled by the comment, but the others seemed to find it quite amusing.
“Just so,” conceded Seneca with a wry smile, “but Pasiphae did something about it. She ordered the inventor Daedalus to construct an effigy of a heifer so realistic that even a bull would find it convincing, then she concealed herself inside the mock heifer and seduced the bull into gratifying her. Nine months later, Pasiphae gave birth to a child with a bull’s head – the minotaur.”
“Who but Seneca would bring such material to the stage?” said Petronius. It was impossible to tell whether his tone was respectful or sardonic. “Has the emperor read it yet?”
“The emperor is always my first reader, and invariably the most astute. I’m happy to say that Caesar seemed quite fascinated by the tragedy of Pasiphae. Ah, here he is now!”
They rose to their feet as Nero entered the box with Poppaea beside him. People in the crowd saw him enter, and a thrill ran up and down the stands. But the response was mixed. Just as earlier Titus had heard shouts of “Hail Caesar!” in the streets, so many in the crowd now shouted accolades, but there was a low grumbling as well, and scattered hisses.
Nero escorted Poppaea to her seat, then stepped forward and raised his hands. With his fair hair and purple-and-gold robes, he was visible and instantly recognizable to everyone in the circus. The crowd fell silent. For a moment, it appeared that Nero might address the crowd. Indeed, Nero had wanted to deliver the opening speech, but Seneca had persuaded him not to do so: there were simply too many problems that might arise when an emperor directly addressed such a large and unpredictable gathering.
Instead, Nero gestured to a public crier, who stepped forward. With his powerful, trained voice, the man was able to make himself heard from end to end of the circus. While he spoke, Titus could see that Nero moved his lips along with the crier, like a proud author in the theatre mouthing lines spoken by an actor.
“Senators and people of Roma, you are here today at Caesar’s invitation. Welcome! But if you have come expecting a mere entertainment, you may be surprised at what you are about to witness. Today you will not see charioteers race. You will not see gladiators fight to the death. You will not see wild animals hunted. You will not see captives of war made to reenact a famous battle for your amusement. You will not see actors perform a comedy or a drama. What you will see is an act of justice, carried out under the open sky so that all the gods and the people of Roma may witness the proceedings.
“The criminals you will see punished today are guilty of arson and murder. They have conspired against the Roman state. They have plotted the destruction of the Roman people. Even those not directly guilty of setting fires must be punished. Their notorious hatred of the gods, of mankind, and of life itself makes them a menace to us all.
“Because of the fire, many of you are still without proper homes. Because of the fire, many of you lost your most cherished possessions. Because of the fire, many of you lost loved ones, whose cries of anguish still ring in your ears. Our city – the most beloved by the gods of all cities on earth – has been devastated. The gods themselves weep at the destruction of Roma and the suffering of the Roman people.
“Thanks to the vigilance of your emperor, the arsonists who perpetrated this misery have been apprehended. They call themselves Christians. The name comes from Christus, the founder of their sect, a criminal who suffered the extreme penalty at the hands of Pontius Pilatus, one of our procurators in Judaea during the reign of Tiberius. Thanks to Pilatus, the insidious superstition propagated by this Christus was checked – but only for a short while, because it quickly broke out again, not only in Judaea, the first source of this evil, but in many places across the empire, even here in Roma. Lurking among us, the followers of Christus have plotted our destruction.
“Thanks to Caesar’s vigilance, the Christians were apprehended. Under interrogation, they revealed their accomplices and confessed their crime. More than confessed it, they proclaimed it, without remorse. The Christians are proud of what they did. They are gratified by your suffering!”
The crowd erupted in boos and jeers.
Initially, Titus had been dubious when the mass arrest of Christians began; they struck him as an ineffectual group of lay-abouts. But when he remembered the jubilant reactions of the Christians watching the flames, it was not hard to imagine that some of them had deliberately started the fire. Such a crime was almost unthinkable, but the fanaticism of all the Jewish sects was well known, and the unyielding atheism of the Christians and their loathing of all things Roman was particularly virulent. That their abhorrence of the gods had led them to such a monstrous crime was shocking, but perhaps not surprising.
The jeering of the crowd continued until Nero himself gestured for silence. The crier continued.
“But what punishment, you may ask, could possibly fit so terrible a crime? For offenses so hideous, so foul, so wicked, what retribution can possibly be adequate? That is what we are here to see.
“Senators and people of Roma, this is a holy day. We call on the gods to pay witness to what happens in this place. What we do, we do in honour of the gods, and in gratitude for the favour they have shown us.”
The crier stepped back. Lucan stepped forward. From the folds of his trabea he produced a beautiful ivory lituus. While the young poet took the auspices, Titus felt a twinge of envy, wishing he had been chosen for the honour. But as high as Titus had risen in the emperor’s favour, he knew he could not compete with Lucan, with whom Nero felt a special intimacy because they were so close in age and shared such a deep love of poetry.
The auspices were favourable. The emperor pulled a white mantle over his head to assume his role as Pontifex Maximus, stepped forward, and raised his hand. Every head in the circus was bowed as Nero uttered the invocation to Jupiter, Best and Greatest of the Gods.
The spectacle commenced.
At gladiator games and other public events, the punishment of criminals was often part of the programme, but usually only a very small part, worked into the proceedings by making the condemned fight against gladiators or act as bait for wild animals. On this occasion, the punishment of criminals, because there were so many of them, and because their crime was so great, would make up the entire programme. The stagers, with Nero guiding them, had faced great challenges both logistical and artistic. How could so many criminals of all ages be made to suffer and die in ways that were not only sure and efficient but also meaningful and satisfying to those who were watching?
From a cell beneath the newly erected stands a large number of men, women, and children were driven to the racetrack. They were dressed in rags. Most looked confused and frightened, but some had the same serene, glassy-eyed stare as Titus had seen on the faces of the Christians watching the fire. They seemed oblivious of what was about to happen, or perhaps they even looked forward to it.