Empire - Saylor Steven (читать полные книги онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗
Domitian snorted. “The ‘unfortunate few’ who aren’t here today – including your friend Dio. Who are these philosophers, to think they’re so much better than everyone else? It was our father’s dream to see this amphitheatre opened. He died before that could happen, but we persevered without him. Titus put a great deal of work into these games, we all did, more care and effort than a do-nothing like your friend Dio could possibly imagine, yet the philosopher thinks himself too good to accept this generous gift to the people of Roma.”
“Some men are simply squeamish,” said Titus charitably. “Cicero had no stomach for gladiator shows. Nor did Seneca.”
“But they attended them, nonetheless,” said Domitian. “These games are as much a solemn duty as they are a celebration, brother. Those who don’t attend – indeed, who make a show of their absence – disparage the memory of our father.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, little brother. But you make an excellent point. Gladiator games began as a way to honour the dead. Our ancestors forced prisoners to fight to the death at the funeral games to mark the passing of great men. We’ve come a long way from those early days, as the building of this amphitheatre demonstrates – what would Romulus with his thatched hut make of this place? Nonetheless, the gladiator games today hearken back to the very first such games, because they honour the passing of a great man, our father. Every drop of blood spilled today will be shed in his honour.”
“And every drop of wine poured today should be drunk in his honour,” said Martial. The words were risky, breaking the somber mood created by the emperor, but the risk paid off. Titus smiled at Martial’s turn of phrase and raised his cup.
“Let us drink, then, to the Divine Vespasian,” said Titus.
Wine was poured for the guests. As Lucius raised his cup, he was suddenly conscious of the extraordinary nature of the moment. He stood in the imperial box, close enough to touch all three children of the Divine Vespasian, sharing wine with Caesar himself – and all because of his friendship with a poet!
Lucius and his friends returned to their seats.
The games resumed with a series of matches between men and beasts, culminating in the appearance of the famed Carpophorus, who was in excellent form, uncannily nimble for a man so heavily muscled and apparently able to read an animal’s thoughts as he anticipated his opponent’s every movement.
Lulled by the afternoon heat and too much wine, Lucius dozed during Carpophorus’s long performance, waking intermittently to witness the bestiarius armed with a dagger to fight a bear, armed with a club to fight a lion, and taking on not one but two bison with his bare hands. Each time he killed a beast, Carpophorus slung the carcass over his brawny shoulders and paraded around the arena to show it off. Waking and dozing and seeing nothing but Carpophorus in combat, over and over again, Lucius seemed trapped in an endlessly repeating dream of slaughter.
At last Lucius was roused by a thunderous ovation as the multitude rose to its feet to acclaim the bestiarius after his final match.
Lucius stood with the rest. He blinked, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “How many animals did the fellow kill?” he asked Martial.
“What! Weren’t you counting along with everyone else?”
“I dozed.”
“You and the emperor both, I imagine. Carpophorus took on a total of twenty animals, one after another. That must be a record. And he suffered hardly a scratch. The man’s invincible. If they want to find an even match for him, they shall have to bring in a hydra, or maybe one of those fire-breathing bulls that Jason encountered in the land of Colchis.”
The gladiator matches followed. Lucius was glad that Epictetus and Dio had not come; the contests were bloodier than any he could recall, and seemed endless, stretching on for hour after hour. Long before the final match between two of the most famous gladiators, Priscus and Verus, Lucius thought that even the most ardent lover of the games must be sated. But as Priscus and Verus engaged, Lucius looked at the imperial box and saw Domitian standing at the parapet, clutching the railing with white knuckles, watching the contest with rapt attention and responding with his whole body, jerking, scowling, grunting, clenching his teeth, and exclaiming under his breath. His little boy stood beside him, mimicking everything his father did. Meanwhile, the emperor remained seated, watching the match without emotion, occasionally casting a sardonic glance at his agitated brother and nephew.
Priscus was a gladiator of the Thracian type, wearing a broad-brimmed helmet with a grille that covered his face and a griffin ornament; greaves covered his legs up to the thighs, and he carried a small round shield and curved sword. Verus was a Murmillo, the traditional opponent of a Thracian, so called for the mormylos, a fish, that decorated his helmet; his right leg was padded with a thick gaiter and he was armed like a Roman legionary with a short sword and a tall, oblong shield.
The two fighters were so evenly matched that neither seemed able to draw blood from the other, but the gracefulness of their movements was so striking and the violence of their sudden clashes so thrilling that theirs was by far the most exciting contest of the day. Even Titus stopped chatting with his sister and daughter and sat forward in his chair, while his brother became increasingly animated. There was no doubt which gladiator Domitian favoured; he kept shouting the name of Verus, and when a senator seated nearby began to yell encouragement to the Thracian, Domitian hurled a cup at the man and told him to shut up.
Titus rolled his eyes at the sudden outburst but made light of it. “Perhaps the Murmillo should add a wine cup to his weaponry. My brother draws more blood than does Verus today.”
The senator, who was using a fold of his toga to stanch the bleeding from a cut on his forehead, flashed a crooked smile to acknowledge the emperor’s wit.
The match had many high points and suspenseful moments, eliciting gasps and shrieks and even some outbursts of weeping from the exhausted, sun-dazed spectators. A last Titus put an end to it. He rose to his feet and gave a signal to the master of the games to stop the contest. Priscus and Verus removed their helmets. Faces covered with sweat, chests heaving, they gazed up at the emperor, awaiting his judgement.
In one hand, Titus held a wooden sword, the traditional gift to a gladiator who had earned his freedom. After such a closely fought match, with no clear victor, to which gladiator would he grant the sword?
The partisans of the two gladiators began to chant their names – “Priscus! Priscus!” and, “Verus, Verus!” The two groups were so evenly dispersed throughout the stands that the names merged into a jumbled shout of two syllables.
The emperor disappeared from the imperial box. The crowd grew confused and the chanting trailed off, until a gate beneath the imperial box opened and Titus strode into the arena. His appearance on the blood-strewn sand thrilled the crowd, which gave a deafening roar as Titus approached the two waiting gladiators, holding the wooden sword before him.
Titus reached the gladiators. His back was to Lucius, who found himself wishing he could see the emperor’s expression. The crowd began to chant the names of their favourites again.
Titus stepped forward. The crowd fell silent. Titus paused. Instead of awarding the wooden sword, he raised his left arm to show that he was carrying a second sword. Stepping forward, he presented the wooden swords to both gladiators at once. Verus and Priscus were both declared victors; both were rewarded with freedom. Such a thing had never been done before.
As the grinning gladiators lifted their wooden swords high in the air, the spectators rose to their feet in the last and most thunderous ovation of the day. At first they shouted the names of the gladiators, but gradually the mingled roar resolved into a single word repeated over and over: “Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!”
