Empire - Saylor Steven (читать полные книги онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗
“Unless they’ve opened up again because these Titans are breaking out,” said Martial.
Epaphroditus shook his head. “I wouldn’t put too much store in these supposed sightings of Titans. It’s my opinion, and I suspect Pliny would agree, that the Titans have long been extinct. Certainly, they once existed: occasionally, excavating deep holes for foundations or canals, people find bones so enormous they can only have belonged to the Titans. But the fact that one finds only bones would indicate that such beings must be extinct.”
“I should think that makes their appearance now all the more disturbing,” said Lucius. “Epictetus just told us that people have reported seeing these giant creatures – in the cities, in the woods, even in the sky. All these rumblings in the earth may be the portents of some terrible event.”
Epaphroditus gave him a quizzical look. Lucius knew what he was thinking. Despite his disavowal of any interest in augury, Lucius had just expressed a belief in divination. Without realizing it, he had slipped a hand inside his toga and was touching the fascinum of his ancestors. He often wore the talisman, though never outside his clothes, where it could be seen.
There was a sudden gust of wind. It was not the mild westerly breeze that had provided some relief from the heat earlier in the day but a stronger, warmer wind from the south. The light changed as well. Though there was not a cloud in the sky, the sun abruptly grew dim, then dimmer still. The sky grew dark. The five friends stopped talking and exchanged uncertain glances.
An eerie silence descended. The labourers at the amphitheatre stopped working. The whole city was suddenly quiet.
Epaphroditus began to cough. So did Lucius. He moved to cover his mouth and found himself looking at the back of his hands. They appeared to be covered with a fine white powder, like marble dust. He looked up and blinked; the same white powder clotted his eyelashes. He puckered and spat, tasting ashes in his mouth. Pale dust fell from the sky, not in drifts but evenly and steadily, everywhere at once, like snow falling in the mountains.
Without a word, all of them rose from their chairs and made their way to the shelter of the portico that bordered the garden on three sides. As they watched, the dust continued to descend. The light of the sun was reduced to a faint glow. The fall of dust was so thick that they could no longer see the amphitheatre.
“What is it?” whispered Lucius.
“I have no idea,” said Epaphroditus. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s like something from a nightmare,” said Dio.
From somewhere beyond the garden walls, a voice cried out, “It’s the end of the world!”
The shrill cry of panic ignited others. From the neighbours all around they heard shouts of alarm. The cries sounded strangely muted and far away.
The fall of ash grew so heavy that they could see nothing at all beyond the garden. It was as if the world around them had utterly vanished. At the centre of garden, dust piled high atop the wavy hair of the statue of Melancomas, frosting his ears and covering his muscular shoulders and arms with a thick mantle of white.
AD 80
“What a year, what a terrible, terrible year!” said Epaphroditus. “First, the fiery eruption of Vesuvius and the complete loss of Pompeii and Herculaneum – whole cities buried as if they never existed.”
A year to the day after the fall of ash on Roma, Epaphroditus was again playing host to Lucius and the others in his garden.
“And then, the outbreak of plague here in Roma – the plague that claimed your mother, Lucius. Chrysanthe was such a lovely woman. She died before her time.”
Lucius nodded, acknowledging his friend’s words of condolence. His mother’s death had been quick, but not painless. Chrysanthe had suffered a great deal, racked by fever and coughing up blood. Lucius had been with her at the end, along with his three sisters. He was not close to his siblings. It was the first time in years that they had all been together.
“That plague,” Epaphroditus continued, “was caused, so everyone assumes, by that bizarre dust that fell on us after Vesuvius erupted. There must have been something toxic in that dust. Remember, for a couple of days, until word of the disaster at Pompeii arrived, we had no idea what the dust was or where it came from. People thought the firmament itself was crumbling, signalling the end of the universe. Who could imagine that a volcano could throw up so much debris? They say the ash from Vesuvius fell as far away as Africa, Egypt, and even Syria.
“Then, yet another disaster. While the emperor was down in Campania, comforting the survivors, that terrible fire broke out in Roma – three days and nights of conflagration that seemed to strike precisely those areas that were not burned during the Great Fire under Nero. The devastation extended from the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline – just repaired after the arson of Vitellius! – all the way to Theatre of Pompeius on the Field of Mars and Agrippa’s lovely temple called the Pantheon, which was totally gutted.”
Lucius Pinarius nodded sombrely. “Cities lost, plague and fire in Roma – truly, it’s been a terrible year. And yet here are the five of us, all alive and well.”
“The six of us, if you count Melancomas.” Dio cast an appreciative glance at the statue.
“Melancomas will be here long after the rest of us are gone,” said Epaphroditus.
“Terrible disasters,” agreed Martial, “but no one can fault the emperor. Titus made quick restitution to the citizens in Campania and began rebuilding the remaining cities around the bay, then turned to restoring the burned areas of Roma – and without raising taxes, mind you, or making special appeals to the wealthy. He did it all himself, even stripping his own properties of ornaments to redecorate the temples and public buildings, like a true father of the Roman state. To combat the plague, Titus did all that any man could, seeking counsel from the priests and offering the appropriate sacrifices to the gods.”
“The emperor’s leadership in these times of crisis cannot be faulted,” said Epaphroditus. “Still, people are badly shaken and fearful of the future.”
“Which is why the opening of the amphitheatre could not have come at a more propitious time,” said Martial.
They turned their gaze to the massive structure across the way. The last of the scaffolds had been removed. The curved travertine walls gleamed in the morning sunlight; the niches formed by the multiple arches were filled with brightly painted statues of gods and heroes. Colourful pennants streamed from poles affixed to the rim. The open space between the amphitheatre and the new baths was thronged with people on holiday. This was the opening day of Vespasian’s great dream, the Flavian Amphitheatre.
“Are we ready to set out?” said Lucius.
“I think so,” said Epaphroditus. “Should I bring along a slave?”
“Of course,” said Martial. “We’ll be there all day. The slave can fetch food for us. Alas, if only he could go to the latrina for us as well! But there are still some tasks that cannot be delegated to a slave.”
“Where will we put him?” said Epaphroditus.
“I imagine it’s like the theatre,” said Martial. “There’s bound to be a section at the back of the tier for everyone’s slaves.”
“You have the tokens?” said Epaphroditus.
Martial held up three tiny clay tablets upon which were stamped numerals and letters. “For yours truly – the poet charged with witnessing the inaugural games and composing an official tribute in verse – three excellent seats in the lowest tier. We’re right next to the imperial box, just behind the Vestal virgins. Take good care of your ticket. You’ll want it for a souvenir.”
“Only three?” said Lucius.
“I’m not going,” said Epictetus.
