Colosseum (23 page)

“Well, how do you feel then? How do you feel standing here, my young warrior?”

Sometimes instinct can play dirty, butting in without asking permission first. Verus blurts out: “Lighter, my lord. Relieved, I mean…”

The lanistaraises an eyebrow. He does not get it.

“What do you mean?”

And for the first time in his life, the youth manages to find a way of finishing a triple backflip without landing on his ass: “I would surely not have been able to take in the magnificence that you have contemplated with your own eyes, master. I would have risked not fully appreciating it. By leaving me here you prevented me from embarrassing us with my ignorance, and for that I will never be grateful enough…”

Verus hints at a bow.

The curtain falls. The audience gives a standing ovation.

Ircius is stunned and slaps his fighting slave lightly on the back, wondering where the fuck he learned to speak like some senator's high-class whore. It really is true what they say, the finest blooms grow out of dung.

The Emperor's domestic servant leads the two guests towards the
triclinium
, the most important room of the evening.

Even before they enter they can hear music. A symphony of flutes, drums, and tambourines that speaks of the Orient and of distant friends.

Verus is not used to music; no prisoner is. On the streets of the Eternal City it is not unusual to hear wind instruments or the strumming of harps: the more imaginative beggars have learnt to attract the attention of passers-by with simple, captivating melodies. Some dark-skinned flutists tame broad-necked snakes so that they rise out of baskets at the sound of Indian music. Splendid, plump-lipped girls swing their hips voluptuously and jingle their silver anklets in order to scrape together a few coins.

But inside the
ludus
the harmony is that of wood and iron. The rhythmic beating of training weapons against the pole, or against the swollen cartilage of the gladiators.

Verus is overwhelmed by the wave of sounds and smells. He feels tears prick his eyes without knowing why. This is how the other half of the world lives. The upper crust, people who do not risk their lives for a bowl of barley and beans. There it is, the dream they call Rome.

The hall they enter is incredible, a triumph of purple fabrics and foodstuffs. At the center of the room is an endless table heaped with delicacies. Around it, distributed in a horse-shoe shape, are the
triclinia
, a dozen or so. They are decorated with soft, wine-colored cushions squeezed beneath flabby backsides and bejeweled noblewomen.

The Palace is surely a different world to that of the street. Mostly, it seems to be a question of body weight. The dynamics of desire differ according to whether your stomach is full or empty. In the outside world people love and hate, and they fuck just the same as they do in the houses of the rich. In fact maybe more, because the poor are keen to enjoy the few pleasures open to them. But it is not often that those used to life on the street fall in love with a fat girl—around here they would say
shapely
—for the simple reason that no one in the normal world has the time, money or means to put on weight. Conversely, the rich find plumpness arousing. They prefer ample women to the emaciated creatures that haunt the city's second-rate brothels. And they are right: the more voluptuous the woman, the more fertile she is likely to be, everyone knows that. More curves mean more offspring and hence more honor. It does not take a genius to work it out.

Still, for Verus it is a shock to see them all together: the sheer quantity of firm flesh surrounding the Emperor would be enough to crush a titan. The noblewomen slurp greedily from their cups, staining their chins and clothes with the
mulsum
, a mixture of wine and honey that tends to be the beverage of choice at upper-class gatherings. But more than anything it is their perfume that makes the young Briton's head spin: although the ladies of Rome perspire just like common women, they have cosmetics and scented waters at their disposal to mask the odor, with fragrances ranging from orange tree flowers, to mimosa and countless other essences.

Another surprise for Verus are the women's hair-buns: fashion dictates that hair should be worn pinned up, a fad that transforms skulls into volcanoes, mountains, obelisks. Hairpieces and wigs are crimped, pumped up and interwoven with curlers and wooden eggs, covered with clips of gold, silver and bronze.

Everywhere there is the spectacle of rouge and sparkling metal.

The braziers, standing in every corner, acquit their task well. The mosaic depicts a mountain of discarded food: leftovers of meat and fish, nibbled fruit, even wine stains and broken cups. It represents the underworld of this other realm, while the roof gives the impression of a sky filled with burning stars, the home of the gods and those hungry for hope.

The center of the room is the beating heart of the party: debauchery and full stomachs, a foretaste of the sex that will follow when wine and blood have had a chance to ferment together.

Emperor Titus is in comfortable attire: a black evening tunic, untied and spacious like those of Jupiter's priests. The petite Julia is next to him, eyes tinted a bewitching black, ankles and wrists painted in desert style, an intricate pattern of arabesques that will have vanished come tomorrow morning, like tears and laughter.

Alongside her, and completing the sumptuous imperial picture, is a strikingly handsome son of the She-wolf: tall and well-built, bold, wavy blond hair, the hint of a beard and eyes as blue as lapis lazuli. He is dressed in military clothing and has the air of one who knows his stuff.

Julia does not take her eyes off him. He is clearly on close terms both with the girl and her noble father, but no one calls him by his name.

When Verus and Ircius approach however, the Emperor's daughter pulls back the hand that was about to brush that of the blond man and treats him to a broad smile. She seems happy to see the Briton.

After having respectfully greeted the master of the Ludus Argentum, she moves towards Verus. “I was expecting you,” she purrs in his ear. “I was so eager to have you here!”

Verus flinches less at her words than at the sudden flurry of waiters arriving with huge quantities of trays. With the nonchalance of a cat, Julia leaves a scratch on his shoulder before vanishing into the crowd.

Verus's pulse quickens as the head waiter shouts: “Stuffed sow's teats with sea urchins!”

The Emperor commends his guests to take their places, and Verus is thrust onto his
triclinium
by a noblewoman the shape of a demijohn. As the servants pass round platters towering with pork filled with seafood to each of the guests, the potbellied strumpet fondles Verus's buttocks, using the lack of room as an excuse. The gladiator hears the woman gurgle quietly to her friend nearby: “Like Tuscia marble!”
a propos
of his firm backside.

The room shook with merriment.

The dinner itself is dull but the food very tasty, a universe of flavors unknown to Verus, who scans the room for Ircius and spots him next to the sovereign, apparently reeling off figures as the Emperor nods in approval.

“A demonstration, of course!” he hears him say, smiling. “That is what we are here for!”

Julia is not there, or if she is Verus cannot see her. Right now she is deep in conversation with the blond man—evidently a smooth talker—but they are nowhere near the imperial table, but in some discreet corner.

Someone far more conspicuous is the man in his forties, black hair and gray-flecked beard, who approaches barefoot and tipsy, bearing a bundle of documents, accompanied by lively music and rounds of applause, including some from the Emperor himself. The man thanks his sovereign with a bow, and gestures for silence with his right hand. He is promptly imitated by Titus, who is quite clearly a great admirer.

At this point the little man clears his voice and points at a particular noblewoman, who smiles back at him from the audience. He moves toward her, brushing lightly against her face with his fingertips, and then attacks.

“Why do I not kiss you, m'lady Fileni? You are bald!”

The woman instinctively scratches the skin beneath her wig.

The small man continues: “Why do I not kiss you, m'lady? You are a redhead!”

No mistake. The hair beneath her armpits proves it.

“Why do I not kiss you, m'lady? You are boss-eyed!”

He is right again.

By now the woman is acutely embarrassed, but the grand finale is nigh.

“Kissing you, m'lady, is like sucking a cock.”

The noblewoman turns purple as the man's eyes bore into her.

Then suddenly laughter envelops everything. It rises from the depths of Titus's belly and snakes rapidly around the hall, infecting harlots and senators, lords and freedmen.

The poor Fileni cannot escape so she sits there, laughing along with the others, her makeup smeared around her eyes.

The Emperor shouts above the laughter: “I give you Marcus Valerius Martialis, the great Martial!”

The joker bows once more, raking in the excited applause of his audience. He grabs a cup of wine, downs the contents with a single gulp, wipes his mouth, and gives a hearty belch.

He is ready now for another shot.

“Labienus!” he begins. “Your chest and legs and arms you shave, and around your cock you trim your pubic hair, right?” The hapless Labienus tries to shrink from view, but everyone at court knows who he is. He supplies the wine, and at evenings such as this he surely makes enough money to retire on. “Everyone knows that you do this to please your lady friend,” continues Martial, pointing to where the lady in question is smiling. She is widely known as Fury, one can guess why.

Martial squares up to the dandy, skewering him with the sharp end of his punch line: “But your ass, Labienus—for whom do you shave your ass?”

Peals of laughter, the Emperor is fit to fall off his seat.

Martial's jibes continue for a good while, each time making another guest squirm with embarrassment beneath his withering attacks and outrageous wit.

He is a quick-tongued citizen, an adorable degenerate basking in the favor of the most powerful man in the world. He is one of the privileged. He lives on nothing, and that nothing suits him fine. He was offered work as a lawyer, but turned it down: this little rat is destined for greatness.

The closing shot of Martial's performance is surreal, but by this point nearly everyone in the room is drunk. The man to whom the final epigram is dedicated must surely be absent from the party—such an insult as Martial now deals could only be answered with a knife-blade.

Before he starts, Martial clears his voice for his finale.

“Glyttus, your limp member was lopped off. Ouch! But were you not a eunuch priest anyhow?”

His audience explodes, he bows, snatches the umpteenth cup of wine and downs it in a single gulp.

The poet bids his audience farewell, bites into a greasy focaccia, graciously fields another smile from his Emperor, and then quickly loses himself among the noblewomen, who fawn upon him as though he were cosmetics merchant rather than the foul-mouthed skunk of man he is.

As the hall is cleared of dining tables and the slaves busy themselves with polishing the floor ready for fresh entertainment, Martial intercepts Verus, now pressed between the favors of the portly matron, who will not let go of his alabaster thighs for an instant.

“And who the fuck are you?” the poet asks him candidly.

Verus jumps to his feet. “I could ask the same thing,” he begins, none too lucid either, and the blood rushes to his head. “I am Verus,
murmillo
of the Ludus Argentum
.
”

At this point his fleshy suitor rams a hand down between his legs and grasps his tackle. “Glory of all Rome!” she cries.

Verus leaps away like a rag ball off the foot of a street urchin.

“Forget it Demetra, it's so long since you've had one of those you wouldn't know what to do with it.”

The noble whale walks off without a word.

Martial pours himself a drink and settles onto his
triclinium
. He fills another cup and passes it to Verus.

“Women. What a fool, the man who invented them. He should have made them without tongues! If it's case of finding a ready mouth, there are plenty of freedmen available…Know what I mean, eh, my friend?”

Verus does not know.

But he takes a swig from the imperial silver all the same. With the help of the wine his courage has returned somewhat, and he turns to the funny guy Martial.

“Explain to me what you're doing here. It seems you are a freedman, so why do you let them treat you like you were still a slave? You may have your hour of snickering, but they are always deriding you. Look at them all.”

Verus points to the guests. Eve without hearing their words, it is clear that they are bad-mouthing the poet. Many are sneering in his direction, calling him an asshole. Martial seems unfazed, and calmly gulps down the expensive wine, dismissing Verus's query with a wave of the hand.

“Do you think I care? This is just comedy. My future has glory in store, young gladiator. In less than two months the games will begin. The greatest games the world has ever seen, in the greatest Amphitheater ever constructed in the whole universe, can you believe it?”

Verus nods with conviction. “Definitely. I will take part and win great honor.”

Now Martial is smiling broadly: “And I will write about it! A great story in verse, chronicling the epic deeds of the gods of the arena. A work without precedent!”

Verus clinks his cup with that of the bard, downing his drink to the very last drop.

“Then you will write about me!”

Martial darkens suddenly.