Empire - Saylor Steven (читать полные книги онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗
From the reception room they were shown through a series of equally opulent but increasingly smaller chambers, until Lucius found himself walking in single file behind Catullus, with a Praetorian directly behind him, through a narrow hallway faced with dark green marble on all sides; even the low ceiling was made of the same marble. If any daylight remained, it could not penetrate here; the way was lit only by feeble lamps set far apart in the walls. Lucius had the sense of having gone underground, though they had descended no steps. He felt as if he were entering the tomb of some ancient king. The air grew stale and thin. He found it difficult to breathe.
Lucius was shown to a small side chamber, faced all around with the same dark green marble and lit by a single lamp, and was left alone to change his clothes. The garment laid out for him was a robe with long sleeves, not unlike the one Catullus was wearing, but solid black; even the embroidery around the hems was black. Reluctantly, Lucius took off his bright tunic, laid it aside, and picked up the robe. Then he gave a start and let out a stifled cry.
From nowhere, a boy had appeared. He was wearing black and had black hair, and his skin had been painted black as well. In the dimness of the room, Lucius had not seen the boy until he suddenly stepped forward, like an apparition from a nightmare.
“I am to be your cup-bearer tonight, Master,” said the boy, taking the robe from Lucius. “Allow me to help you dress, Master.”
Dumbfounded, Lucius allowed the boy to help him put on the black robe. Then the boy took him by the hand and pushed against a spot on the marble wall. A door opened as if by magic, and the boy led him through.
Lucius found himself in a room without colour. Every surface was black. The floor and the walls were of solid black marble. The small tables set about the room were made of black metal, as were the lamps, which emitted only the faintest light. The four dining couches gathered in a square were made of ebony and strewn with black pillows. One of the couches was larger and more ornate than the others.
Lucius detected a movement from the corner of his eye. He thought he had seen a door open in one of the black marble walls, but since no light was admitted from whatever room lay beyond, he was not sure until a figure entered, dressed like himself in black and led by a boy painted black. It was Catullus. Without a word, the man stood before the dining couch opposite the larger couch. He made a gesture to indicate that Lucius should stand before the couch to his right.
Another figure emerged from the doorway, led by another boy. Lucius let out a gasp that echoed sharply in the small room.
It was Cornelia.
She was dressed in a linen gown and a suffibulum headdress, much like the vestments she normally wore, except that these were solid black.
Their eyes met. The fear on her face mirrored his own. She raised a hand towards him; her fingers trembled. The gesture was a plea for help. Neither of them spoke, conscious of the blind Catullus, who indicated with a nod that Cornelia should stand before the couch to his left.
By the dim light, Lucius saw an upright stone marker leaning against the wall behind Cornelia’s couch. Letters were engraved on the stone, but he could not make them out. He looked over his shoulder and saw that a similar stone marker was behind his own couch. The decorative engraving and the general shape were those of a grave marker. Chiselled into the stone was his own name.
Lucius saw spots before his eyes. The room seemed to sway and pitch. He thought he might fall, and looked for a way to steady himself. The cup-bearer sensed his distress and took his hand. Lucius leaned against the boy, feeling faint and dizzy.
He was in such distress that he did not realize Domitian had entered the room until he saw the emperor half sitting, half reclining on the couch of honour. At first glance, the emperor appeared to be dressed in black, like everyone else, but on closer inspection Lucius saw that Domitian’s robes were of a purple so dark as to be very nearly black, decorated with embroidery in the darkest possible shade of red. On his head he wore a black laurel wreath. The lamps cast their light in such a way that his eyes were hidden by deep shadows and could not be seen.
Attending the emperor was the small-headed creature who accompanied him at the games. The creature’s face was oddly shaped and his features were wizened. Even seeing him so closely, Lucius could not tell if he was a child or a dwarf. Like the other cup-bearers, he was painted entirely black.
Lucius realized that Catullus was reclining as well, and so was Cornelia, and everyone in the room was staring at him. Had he lost consciousness for a moment? His cup-bearer hissed at him. The boy tugged his hand, urging him to sit.
Lucius lowered himself onto the couch. The cup-bearer made a great fuss of fluffing pillows and arranging them for his comfort. A first course of black olives was served, along with crusts of a moist, black bread sprinkled with black poppy seeds. Wine was poured for him. In the cup, the wine looked pitch-black.
Meanwhile, in the space between the four couches, a group of young male dancers, painted black like the serving boys and wearing very little, performed a dance. The music was funereal, all shrill pipes and rattles. Lucius had no idea where it came from. The musicians were nowhere to be seen.
The dance seemed interminable. Lucius saw that Catullus was eating, but he himself had no appetite, and neither, he noticed, did Cornelia. Amid so much darkness, her face looked very pale. Nor did Domitian eat. He watched the dancers.
At last, with a wild trilling of pipes and a final flourish of rattles, the performance ended and the dancers dispersed. They seemed to vanish into the walls.
“An interesting fact, about funerals,” said Domitian. He stared straight ahead. “In the old days, all funerals were performed at night, even those of great men. Nowadays, only the poor are buried at night, because they can afford no funeral procession. Funeral processions, in my view, are overrated, if only because they are all alike. First come the musicians, alerting everyone to the coming event, then the mourning women, usually hired, then the players and buffoons who imitate the deceased. Then come the slaves he freed, showing gratitude with tears and laments for their late master, and then the players who wear the wax masks of his ancestors, as if the dead have come back to life to welcome their descendant into their ranks. And then comes the dead man himself, carried on a bier on the shoulders of his nearest relatives, so that everyone can have a final look before he’s laid on a pyre and burned. People throw all sorts of things on the fire – the dead man’s clothes, his favourite foods, his most beloved books. Someone makes a speech. And when it’s all over, the ashes are scooped up and put in a stone sarcophagus.
“Another interesting fact: in the old days, our ancestors didn’t burn the bodies of the dead, but buried them intact. I’m told that the Christians favour this type of burial even today; they place some value on the corpse itself, expecting it to come back to life. But who would wish to come back to life after the body has begun to rot, especially to find oneself trapped in a stone box or buried underground? Like most of the far-fetched ideas of the Christians, this one seems rather poorly thought out. We Romans no longer practice burial – except in the very special case of the inhumation of a Vestal guilty of breaking her vow of chastity. But in that event, the burial is not of a dead body, but of a body while it still breathes.”
Catullus nodded. “That is the ancient penalty. But I recall that Caesar in his wisdom allowed a less severe punishment when the Oculata sisters and Varronilla were condemned a few years ago.”
