Roma - Saylor Steven - Страница 93
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Amid the panic that threatened to overwhelm the city, it was Maximus who took charge. The wisdom of his scorned policy was now clear to all, and the steady hand with which he took control of the city impressed everyone. The remaining members of the Senate, a gray and toothless assembly, granted him emergency powers. No one opposed the appointment, if only because there was no one left to do so. Virtually every able-bodied member of the Senate had either died at Cannae or was fighting the Carthaginians abroad. No man of Maximus’s experience and stature was left in the city.
For much the same reason—because he was one of the few remaining magistrates—the curule aedile Tiberius Gracchus was appointed to serve as Master of the Horse, who was the right-hand man to the dictator.
First, Maximus dispatched riders to seek out the scattered survivors, hoping that more might have escaped than was previously thought. When the riders returned, bringing home a handful of men, they only confirmed the grim truth.
To raise a fresh army, Maximus decreed that underage boys would be recruited. When their numbers proved insufficient, he declared that slaves would be eligible for military service. Eight thousand were enlisted and armed. Such a thing had never been done before, but no one could suggest a better solution.
Kaeso eagerly responded to the call to arms, but in front of the recruiting officer, in public view on the Field of Mars, he suffered a bout of the falling sickness. He was carried home unconscious, and was forbidden to report again by Maximus himself, who wished to suffer no further embarrassment from a member of his family.
Amid the general hysteria two Vestals, Opimia and Floronia, were accused of breaking their vows. The news caused riots. A mob outside the House of the Vestals accused the transgressors of bringing ruin on the city. Both Vestals were quickly tried and found guilty. Opimia committed suicide. Floronia was entombed alive near the Colline Gate while the clamorous mob looked on. The men found guilty of defiling them were publicly bludgeoned to death by the Pontifex Maximus.
Each day, by the thousands, more men were confirmed dead. Great crowds of women, gathered in the Forum to receive the news, reacted with uncontrollable grief. They ripped their garments, tore out their hair, and fell to the ground wailing. Their frenzy spread across the city. In every street the sound of sobbing was heard all night long. Roma was a city on the verge of madness.
Maximus finally declared that such extreme displays of emotion offended religious decency; the cacophony of so much weeping would drive the gods out of the city. He ordered all women to be shut indoors and imposed a rule of silence. It was decreed that the period of mourning for the dead of Cannae would be limited to thirty days. After that, the city would resume business as usual.
“The show must go on!” declared Plautus, amid the din of hammering.
“So you say,” muttered Kaeso.
“So says your cousin, the dictator Maximus. So says our friend Tiberius Gracchus, who assures me that the Roman Games will proceed exactly as planned. Like everyone else, in light of the crisis, I had assumed that the plays would be cancelled. Is anyone really in the mood for a day of comedy? But the dictator believes that sticking to the regular calendar will reassure the public. Here’s hoping that Hannibal doesn’t show up just as we begin the opening scene of The Swaggering Soldier.”
From above, a carpenter dropped a hammer. It whistled past Plautus’s head, barely missing him.
“Idiot!” shouted Plautus. “That’s what I get for hiring free labor instead of renting slaves. Ah, well, perhaps standing under this scaffolding is not a good idea.”
They were in the Circus Maximus, where, in the great curve at one end of the long racetrack, a temporary stage was being constructed for the Roman Games. The curved bleachers would serve as seats for the audience, with the humblest among them crowding into the semicircle of open ground before the stage. The stage itself—an elevated wooden platform with a decorated wall to serve as a backdrop—would be thrown up quickly and even more quickly pulled down; after a single day of performances it would be dismantled overnight to clear the racetrack for the next day’s athletic competitions. Accordingly, the standards of craftsmanship were no higher than they needed to be. The ornate columns and relief sculptures of the backdrop were illusions made of wood, plaster, cloth, and paint, tawdry when seen close up, but convincing enough at a distance.
“Don’t the Greeks have permanent theaters, built of stone?” asked Kaeso.
“Yes, sometimes built into the sides of hills, with such remarkable acoustics that the actors hardly need to raise their voices to be heard in the back row. But the Greeks are a decadent, pleasure-loving people, sensual to a fault; Romans are not. So, while we love a good comedy, a play may be enjoyed only in the context of a religious festival, and the stage and all its trappings must vanish before the festival is over. It’s a stupid policy, but it keeps these mediocre carpenters employed. You seem preoccupied, boss.”
“I’m worried about my friends. There’s no word yet about cousin Quintus…or about Scipio…” Kaeso wrinkled his brow.
“No news is good news.”
“I suppose.”
“And the best news is that there’s no news of Hannibal marching on Roma. What’s keeping him, I wonder?”
“Maximus made a speech the other day. He said, ‘The hand of Jupiter himself has stayed the Carthaginian monster.’”
Plautus wrinkled his nose. “Is Ennius writing his speeches these day? The masses love that sort of religious hokum. It reassures them, like putting on a festival when the end of the world may be near.” He shook his head. “I have to wonder whether Hannibal isn’t a bit like one of his elephants—huge and destructive, but ultimately rather stupid.”
“Tiberius Gracchus speculates that Hannibal, instead of heading straight to Roma, may want to win over our enemies and lay siege to our allies, so as to secure the whole of Italy while we’re helpless to stop him.”
“But why should he bother to conquer the limbs, one by one, when he could cut off the head? Yet the days pass, and Hannibal does not arrive.”
“Nor does news of Scipio,” whispered Kaeso.
“Look, here comes Tiberius Gracchus—and he does not look happy.”
In fact, Gracchus looked very grim. Without the mischievous glint in his eyes, his face assumed a severe aspect suitable to the Master of the Horse at Roma’s darkest hour.
“Bad news?” said Plautus.
“Bad news and worse news,” said Gracchus.
Plautus sighed. “I’ll have the bad news first, then.”
“After a very long, very unpleasant discussion, the dictator and I have decided that The Swaggering Soldier is not suitable to be presented at the Roman Games.”
“What? No!” Plautus was outraged. “The comedies are cancelled then?”
“No, the plays will go on, but The Swaggering Soldier will not be among them.”
“You’re throwing it out? We have a contract, Gracchus. You signed it as curule aedile.”
“Think, Plautus! The comedy pokes fun at a pompous, philandering military man. Who’s going to laugh at that, after what happened at Cannae?”
“You thought it was funny. You thought it was about Varro!”
“Who barely escaped with his life! People are stunned by Varro’s defeat, they’re appalled by his miscalculations, they’re numb with fury—but no wants to see him made fun of, not after seventy thousand men have died.”
Plautus pinched the bridge of his nose. “All this incessant hammering is giving me a headache. Yes, I see your point. What shall we do, then?”
“You’ll substitute another play.”
“At the last moment? Impossible!”
“You must have something. Think!”
“Well…there is a script I’ve been working on. It’s not nearly as funny as The Swaggering Soldier. It’s called The Casket—a sweet little farce about a girl exposed at birth who’s eventually reunited with her parents. Under the circumstances, I suppose it would at least have the virtue of being inoffensive. But it needs work. Several scenes need to be completely rewritten.”
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