Текст книги "Empire"

Автор книги: Steven Saylor

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

A. D 91

“Did you enjoy your stay in the country?”

“I did, Hilarion.”

“Good hunting?”

“Typical for this time of year. Not much to shoot at but deer and rabbits. Still, beautiful countryside.”

“And did you enjoy sleeping late this morning?”

“I did indeed. I was up at dawn every day in the country, but the journey home tired me out. Fortunately, here in the city a man can sleep until noon and miss nothing.”

“And your visit to the baths this afternoon?”

“Very pleasant. I prefer the afternoon to the morning, especially at the Baths of Titus. It’s less crowded, more relaxed. I actually spent an hour playing some silly board game with a complete stranger in one of the galleries, then took a final hot plunge. I feel quite clean and revived, ready for the rest of the day.”

“There’s not much of the day left, alas. The sun sets quite early. But we may still have an hour of sunlight in the study. I was hoping you might join me in reviewing the accounts from the granary outside Alexandria. There are a few discrepancies to which I’d like to draw your attention-”

“Not now, Hilarion.”

“It won’t take long.”

“I’m off.”

“To where, may I ask?”

“You may not.”

“Perhaps this evening, by lamplight?” With a forlorn expression, Hilarion held up a scroll.

“Probably not, Hilarion. I may not be back until quite late.”

“I see.” Hilarion looked at Lucius’s garments. The master of the house was not wearing a toga, but a brightly coloured tunic short enough to show off his athletic legs and cinched with a leather belt with silver inlays around his waist, still trim at forty-four thanks to his recent regimen of riding and hunting all day and eating only what he could catch. Hilarion shook his head. It was obvious that the master of the house was going to see her – the woman whose existence Lucius had never acknowledged and whose identity Hilarion, very wisely, had never attempted to discover. Hilarion sometimes felt sorry for the old master’s son. He himself was only a freedman, yet he had found a suitable woman to marry and together they had made some wonderful children.

As Lucius made ready to leave the house – alone, as he always did when he was going to meet his secret lover – he whistled the tune of an old hunting song. Hilarion went about his business.

It was a brisk autumn afternoon. Lucius took a round-about route, occasionally glancing over his shoulder and doubling back. Long ago he had adopted such habits to make sure he was not being followed when he set out for the little house on the Esquiline.

As usually happened when he returned to Roma after an extended stay in the country, he found the city disgustingly dirty and noisy and smelly, full of unhappy and dangerous-looking people – and that was just in the Forum. Once he entered the Subura, he actually felt more relaxed, because, although the streets were more crowded and the people were dirtier, there were not quite so many statues of Domitian everywhere. That was the most unnerving thing about the first day or two back in Roma – the ubiquity of Domitian, Master and God, always watching him.

But even the inescapable images of the emperor could not dampen Lucius’s mood on this day. Perhaps it was the nip of autumn in the brisk air that made Lucius feel half his age. Or perhaps it was the fact that he had not seen Cornelia in so very long – more than two months – and at last they had both found time to meet. He had received her cryptic message at the baths that afternoon, delivered as always by a street urchin selected at random who could not possibly know the identity of the woman who hired him or the meaning of the words he was told to repeat: “Today. An hour before sunset.”

Shops in the better parts of town would already be closed, but many establishments in the Subura stayed open until it was dark, and Lucius had found that the quality of their foodstuffs was often as good as anything to be found in shops on the Aventine that charged four or five times as much. He bought some flatbread with a thick crust, a hard, smoked cheese, a little jar of his favourite garum, and a few other items. There would be wine and olives in the little house on the Esquiline, but no fresh food, and if experience was any guide, they would both have a ravenous appetite later. He left the Subura and ascended the hill, carrying a cloth bag with his provisions and whistling a happy tune.

He stopped whistling when he saw the Praetorians who loitered around the little reservoir called the Lake of Orpheus. The soldiers were armed and in uniform but appeared to be off duty. One of them had climbed amid the bronze statues in the fountain and was leaning against a deer that stood enraptured, ears pricked up to listen to Orpheus play his lyre.

What were Praetorians doing in this mostly residential area, with its mix of elegant homes, like that of Epaphroditus, and more modest but still respectable dwellings, like the little house Lucius kept? The sight of armed men was disturbing. He almost turned back, then thought of Cornelia, patiently waiting for him. He continued up a winding, narrow street. After a sharp turn, he saw the front of his house.

The door was wide open.

He turned around. The soldiers he had seen at the Lake of Orpheus had followed him. The foremost of them looked him in the eye. The man’s expression was dispassionate but determined. With a nod and a slight gesture of his hand, the Praetorian made it clear that Lucius was to enter the house.

He passed through the vestibule and entered into the room beyond. Someone was sitting on the couch where he had expected to find Cornelia. The room was dim; it took his eyes a moment to adjust. The man on the couch was dressed like a member of the imperial court, in a lavishly embroidered robe with long sleeves. He wore a necklace with large pieces of carnelian and a ring of the same red stone on one finger. He turned to face Lucius, but there was a disconcerting blankness about his eyes, which seemed to fix on nothing. His face was gaunt. His skin was pale and mottled.

“Are you Lucius Pinarius?” the man said.

“I am.”

“My name is also Lucius. I am Lucius Valerius Catullus Messalinus. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do I hear a quaver in your voice, Lucius Pinarius?”

There appeared to be no one in the room but the two of them. From a shadow on the wall Lucius could see that one of the Praetorians had followed him into the house and was standing in the vestibule.

“Your presence honours me, Catullus.”

Catullus laughed. “How polite you are, Pinarius! Decorum would have me now say something complimentary about your home, but alas, I cannot see it. My other senses are quite sensitive, however. Do I smell, very faintly, a woman’s perfume in this room? Or do I only imagine it?”

“There’s no woman here, Catullus.”

“No? And yet, I can almost feel her presence.”

In the silence that followed, the items in the cloth bag made a slight rustling sound.

“What’s that you carry?” said Catullus.

“Only a bit of food. May I offer you some, Catullus?”

Catullus laughed. “Oh, no, I never eat anything not prepared by my own cook, or that of the emperor, and tasted first by a slave. Such essential precautions are one of the drawbacks of my station in life. I would advise you not to eat any of that food, either.”

“Why not?”

“Why spoil your appetite, when shortly you shall be dining in the House of the Flavians?”

“I will?” Lucius’s voice cracked like that of a boy.

“That’s why I’m here, Lucius Pinarius. To deliver an invitation from our Master and God. You are invited to dine with him. A sedan is waiting outside.”

Lucius swallowed. “I’m not properly dressed. I’ll need to go home first, to change into my best toga-”

“No need. The emperor will provide your clothing.”

“He will?”

“This is to be a special dinner, requiring special dress. You need bring nothing. Shall we be off?”

Lucius looked around the room. Where was Cornelia? Had she arrived before him, seen the Praetorians, and left? Had she not come at all? Or – he could hardly bear the thought – had she been here when Catullus arrived?

Catullus called to the Praetorian, who assisted him as they stepped outside the house. Lucius pulled the door closed and produced his key.

“What are you doing?” said Catullus.

“Locking the door.”

Catullus shrugged. “If you wish.”

It seemed to Lucius that his meaning was clear: there was little need to lock a house to which a man would never return.

He was carried through the streets in a sedan that seated only himself. He made no attempt to converse with Catullus, who had his own sedan and was carried sometimes alongside him, sometimes in front, depending on the width of the street. Lucius found himself thinking of stories he had heard regarding the cruel games Domitian played with his victims, disarming them with gifts and tokens of friendship before subjecting them to hideous tortures. His favourite interrogation technique was to burn the genitals of his victims. His favourite punishment, short of death, was to cut off their hands.

The shortest route to the palace would have taken them close by the Flavian Amphitheatre and the Colossus. Instead, they went through the Forum, passing by the House of the Vestals and the Temple of Vesta. Was this done deliberately to unnerve him? Surely it was, for when they at last ascended the Palatine, the bearers passed directly by Lucius’s house. Catullus had to know exactly where they were; as they passed by the house, his sedan fell back alongside that of Lucius, and Catullus turned turn his head to Lucius and smiled, as if to taunt him with a final glimpse of his home.

The sedans deposited them at one of the entrances to the imperial palace. The reception chamber to which they were led, with its soaring ceiling, was grander than any room Lucius had ever seen before. Even the most ornately decorated temples could not compare with the opulence of the place, which was perhaps best seen at this hour of the day. The last of the fading sunlight from the high windows still lit the far corners, revealing the sheer scale and the astounding attention to detail, while a multitude of newly lit lamps gave a lustrous gleam to the polished surfaces of marble and bronze and caused the monumental statue of Domitian at the centre of the chamber, covered with silver and gold, to sparkle with points of fiery light.

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.”

“I have been having second thoughts about that decision,” said Domitian. “It is seldom advisable to abandon the wisdom of our ancestors. It was King Numa, the successor to Romulus, who founded the order of Vestals in Roma. The punishment he decreed for an errant Vestal was death by stoning.”

“Is that a fact?” Catullus chewed an olive and spat the pit into the waiting palm of his cup-bearer. “I never knew that.”

“It was a later king, Tarquinius Priscus, who devised the penalty of death by inhumation. His argument was religious. ‘Let no mortal kill a priestess of Vesta,’ he declared. ‘Let that decision be left to Vesta herself.’ So the Vestal is alive when she’s placed in that little vault underground, and then the vault is sealed and the opening is covered over with dirt. No man commits the act of killing her, and she is given nothing with which she might commit the act herself. Time and the judgement of Vesta take care of her. I have been thinking that Tarquinius Priscus showed great wisdom in this matter, even exceeding that of Numa.”

The first course was taken away. Each of the guests was given a plate of mushrooms and other fungi, all black thanks to the sauce in which they had been simmered. Again, only Catullus showed any signs of appetite. He ate with relish, sucking the sauce from his fingertips.

“As I recall,” he said, “when Caesar judged the men who violated Varronilla and the Oculatae, he showed great leniency.”

“Yes, I allowed them to live. I have been reconsidering the wisdom of that decision, too. It might have been wiser, I think, to enforce the traditional punishment for the seducer of a Vestal, as a deterrent to others who might be tempted to commit such a crime in the future. As Pontifex Maximus, I must do all I can to preserve the sanctity of those who keep Vesta’s fire. Do you not agree, Virgo Maxima?”

For the first time, Domitian acknowledged Cornelia’s presence. In a very faint voice, she replied, “Yes, Dominus.”

“Tonight, you may address me as Pontifex Maximus,” he said.

“Yes, Pontifex Maximus.”

“That’s better. Would you not agree, Virgo Maxima, that the traditional penalty makes for a powerful deterrent? The man is stripped naked, hung on a cross, and publicly beaten with rods, while the violated Vestal watches, until he is dead. I’m told that can take quite a while, depending on the man’s general health. A man with a weak heart might die after the first blow. Others remain alive for hours. The beating can become quite tedious to administer, not to say tiring. Sometimes the lictors charged with the beating become so exhausted that new lictors have to be brought in to continue the punishment.”

It seemed to Lucius that the plate of delicacies held before him by his cup-bearer contained not fungi but a mixture of viscera and organs, swimming in a nameless fluid. He began to feel nauseated.

Black figs were served next, to all except Domitian. The servers brought him a single apple, together with a silver knife. Domitian set about peeling the apple very slowly and methodically, cutting away thin strips of the skin. He handed these to the small-headed attendant, who gobbled them up as a dog might eat scraps from its master’s table. When Domitian bit into the apple, the noise was startling, like the cracking of bones.

Lucius again saw spots before his eyes. He heard a low noise. It was Domitian, whispering to the small-headed creature, who whispered back. The two of them laughed.

“We were wondering how it is, Catullus, that a man who is blind can burn with lust for another. Beauty inspires passion, but how can beauty be perceived without sight?”

Catullus turned his face to Cornelia. “A blind man may possess memories of beauty. A blind man has imagination.”

“Ah, but beauty fades, Catullus; it is as short-lived as it is intoxicating. Your memories are surely out-of-date.” Domitian stared at Cornelia, who lowered her face. “Beauty exists only in the moment. That is why I asked Earinus to entertain us tonight. Although you cannot see him, Catullus, I assure you that he is beautiful.”

The eunuch entered the room, dressed in black. He was small and delicate and moved with such grace that he seemed to float across the floor. His pale hair, the subject of poets, was startlingly bright in the dark room; it seemed to glow with a light of its own. His skin was creamy white.

In the shadowy room, Earinus seemed to be an ethereal being from a realm of dreams. He stood in the centre of the room and began to sing. The notes were pure and sweet, but also unsettling; his voice had an uncanny quality, impossible to categorize. The song, like the singer, seemed to emerge from some realm beyond ordinary experience.

What has death to frighten man,

If souls can die as bodies can?

When mortal frame shall be disbanded,

This lump of flesh from life unhanded,

From grief and pain we shall be free -

We shall not feel, for we shall not be.

But suppose that after meeting Fate

The soul still feels in its divided state.

Whats that to us? For we are only we

While body and soul in one frame agree.

And if our atoms should revolve by chance

And our cast-off matter rejoin the dance

What gain to us would all this bring?

This new-made man would be a new-made thing.

We, dead and gone, would play no part

In all the pleasures, nor feel the smart

Which to that new man shall accrue

Whom of our matter Time moulds anew.

Take heart then, listen and hear:

What is there left in death to fear?

After the pause of life has come between,

All ’s just the same had we never been.

The last note of the song was followed by a long silence. Watching the eunuch and listening to him, Lucius thought of Sporus. A tear ran down his cheek. Before he could wipe it away, he realized that Domitian had risen from his couch and was walking slowly to him.

The emperor’s eyes emerged from the shadows and glittered, reflecting the lamplight. His unblinking gaze was fixed on Lucius’s face. As a hunter, Lucius had often wondered at the tendency of certain prey, such as rabbits, to freeze rather than to flee when observed by the hunter. Now he understood. He felt as the rabbit must feel, unable to move a muscle, frantically willing himself to vanish into the darkness around him. It was as if he had turned to stone. Even his heart seemed to stop beating.

Domitian stepped closer. He stared at Lucius intently, his small mouth compressed in an unreadable expression. He stopped directly in front of Lucius and reached out to him. Frozen as he was, Lucius nevertheless feared that he would cry out if Domitian touched his face. He struggled not to flinch, and only a stifled gasp escaped his lips.

Domitian used his forefinger to wipe the moisture from Lucius’s cheek. He furrowed his brow, gazed at his finger, then turned and very gently brushed his finger against the parted lips of Earinus.

“Does it taste of salt?” he whispered.

Earinus touched his tongue to his lips. “Yes, Dominus.”

“A tear!” said Domitian. “Was it the words of the poet Lucretius that made you weep, Lucius Pinarius?”

Lucius open his mouth, afraid he had forgotten how to speak, then found his voice. “I’m not sure I heard the words, Dominus. I only know that I heard Earinus sing, and then I felt the tear on my cheek.”

Domitian slowly nodded. “I, too, wept the first time I heard Earinus sing.” He stared at Lucius for a long time, then turned to Catullus. “The dinner is over,” he said.

The emperor left the room without another word. The small-headed creature followed him, as did Earinus.

Lucius stood. He looked at Cornelia across the room and felt an urge to run to her. She raised one hand, beseeching him to keep his distance. As they stared into each other’s eyes, with all the power of his will he tried to show her what she meant to him. He had never loved her more.

The serving boy took Cornelia’s hand, gently pulled her to her feet, and led her from the room.

The room became even darker. Lucius looked around and saw that all the lamps but one had been extinguished. Catullus had vanished. Except for his cup-bearer, Lucius was alone.

The boy led him though a doorway. He was hardly aware of his surroundings, though he sensed that each turning brought him to a hallway that was larger and more brightly lit than the last. Finally he arrived at the vast reception room dominated by the statue of the emperor. He looked up at the statue’s face. The sculptor had captured the terrible power of Domitian’s gaze. Lucius shut his eyes and reached for the cup-bearer, letting the boy lead him like a blind man.

He opened his eyes only when he felt fresh air on his face and realized that they were outside, under a dark and moonless sky. A flight of steps led down to the sedan that had brought him. The boy helped him step inside. Bearers lifted him aloft. Next to him on the seat were the clothes he had changed out of earlier.

The trip to his house was short. He stepped from the sedan. The bearers turned and vanished without a word.

Lucius rapped on the door. Hilarion opened it. His knowing grin vanished when he saw the look on Lucius’s face.

“What do you see, Hilarion? No, don’t speak. You see a dead man before you.”

In the days that followed, Lucius expected Praetorians to arrive at his house at any moment to arrest him. Moving sometimes in a stupor, sometimes in a frantic rush, he put his affairs in order. He wore the fascinum always, so that he would not be without it when they came for him.

Confronted by oblivion, he tried to think about the gods and his ancestors and all the other things a man was supposed to think about in the face of death, but he drew a blank. In the end, did he believe in nothing at all? This revelation was the most disturbing aspect of the ordeal. He had left the House of the Flavians shaken, uncertain, full of dread, as would any man; but more than that, he had emerged with a sense that nothing mattered. In the black room, all illusions had been stripped away. A man and a rabbit were exactly the same, two flashes of consciousness caught for a brief instant in the cycle of life and death that had no beginning, no end, no resolution, no purpose.

In such a frame of mind, he received the news that Cornelia had been arrested. Then he heard that others had been arrested – men accused of being her lovers. That these men were innocent, Lucius had no doubt, for he was certain that he was her only lover; they were simply men who had run afoul of the emperor, and this was Domitian’s way of destroying them. Not one of them confessed, though they were interrogated under torture. Nor did Cornelia’s slaves from the House of the Vestals produce any evidence against them. The verdict against Cornelia and her alleged lovers was delivered not in Roma but at the emperor’s retreat at Alba. Cornelia was not even present at the mockery of a trial. She was condemned in absentia.

There was speculation that the guilty men would be allowed to flee into exile, as had happened after the previous trials of Vestals. But because they had not cooperated with the court – in other words, confessed – it was decreed that the men must suffer the traditional penalty. In the Forum, for all to see, they were stripped naked, tied to crosses, and beaten to death. Cornelia was compelled to be present. Lucius stayed at home. He was not sure which would have been worse, to see the men killed or to see Cornelia as she was forced to watch.

He intended to avoid the spectacle of Cornelia’s punishment as well, but on the scheduled day, well publicized by heralds and placards, he found himself unable to stay away.

Starting before dawn, thousands of people began to gather outside the House of the Vestals. No living person had ever before witnessed the traditional punishment of a Vestal. The same spectators who flocked to the Flavian Amphitheatre came to see this spectacle as well. They dressed in dark colours appropriate for a funeral. The Forum was a sea of black.