Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 97
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Kaeso blushed so furiously that Scipio drew back and blinked at him in wonder, then swatted his backside again and laughed uproariously. Kaeso drew a sharp breath, then he began to laugh, too. He laughed at himself, at the absurdity of the world, at the ridiculous vanity of the Swaggering Soldier. He laughed until his sides ached and tears flowed from his eyes. He had not laughed like that in a very long time.
The splendor of the Roman Games that year was on a scale such as Roma had never witnessed before. The sacred rites atop the Capitoline exuded an air of buoyancy and optimism; men smiled as they intoned the ancient formulas to dedicate the festivities of the coming days to Jupiter, greatest of gods. The procession to the Circus Maximus became a joyous celebration, led by brightly clad charioteers on horseback, strutting boxers in scanty loincloths, and dancers twirling javelins to the music of flutes, lyres, and tambourines. Mimes in the guise of satyrs scurried in and out of the crowd, pinching bottoms and eliciting screams of laughter from the women and girls. Griffin-headed censers hung from poles were swung about, scenting the air with clouds of incense.
In the vicinity of the Circus Maximus, the perfume of the censers gave way to the aroma of meat roasting in the open air, the scent of freshly baked bread, the tangy smell of pickled fish, and the delicate odor of salted olives served in oil. No curule aedile had ever fed the citizens of Roma so well, or so copiously. There was so much food on offer, in so many places, that hardly anyone had to stand in line, and everyone could go back as many times as he wished. The Feast of Jupiter would last all day, and continue the next day as well. It was as if every man, for a couple of days, was a rich man, with a belly as full as he could want and his hours filled with leisure, secure in the blessings of Jupiter.
In the midst of the feasting, a fresh-faced youth with a powerful voice-one of Plautus’s actors-in-training-stood on a box and addressed the crowd. “Citizens! Stop stuffing your faces for an hour and come see The Swaggering Soldier! It’s a new comedy by Plautus-that’s right, the flatfooted playwright from Umbria, the one who makes you laugh until you piss! Come, see the Swaggering Soldier himself, Pyrgopolynices, as he puts the make on his concubine, the ravishing Philocomasium!”
People in the crowd began to laugh, if only at hearing the boy wrap his tongue around the absurdly convoluted Greek names.
“Come, citizens, and behold the heartsick Pleusicles, a young man desperately in love, as he does his best to rescue the soldier’s concubine! Come, see the angry old man Periplectomenus…” The boy raised his eyebrows and pressed a forefinger to lips. “And whatever you do, don’t tell Periplectomenus about the secret passageway between his house and the soldier’s, or you’ll spoil the plot! Come, see the wily slaves Palaestrio, Sceledrus, and Lurcio-they always know more than they let on!”
The boy jumped from the box, produced a pipe, and played a merry tune to lead the spectators into the Circus Maximus.
Underneath the stage, Kaeso stood not far from the trapdoor-Plautus had thought of a number of ingenious ways to use it during the play-and peered through a peephole to watch the bleachers fill up. Scipio, he noticed, was among the first to arrive, taking his place in the dignitary’s section along with a retinue of friends and colleagues. The day was mild and the sky was clear, with no sign of rain. The feast had put the audience in a happy mood, ready to be entertained. With full bellies and a warm sun, the danger was that they might fall asleep.
As it turned out, there was no chance of that. Any spectator who nodded off for even an instant would have been awakened by the roars of laughter around him. The players did an outstanding job. During rehearsals, Kaeso had never seen them attack Plautus’s lines with such vigor; the laughter of the audience inspired them to outdo themselves. On that day, as never before, Kaeso saw the living proof of a belief that Plautus, after several cups of wine, had once confided to him: “When does comedy become sublime? When there is a collaboration in equal measures between playwright, players, and spectators, all working together in harmony to delight the gods with the music of human laughter. When men laugh, the gods laugh, and for a brief time this miserable world becomes not merely bearable, but beautiful.”
The applause at the end of the play was thunderous. The audience hailed the players, especially the actor who portrayed the blustering Pyrgopolynices. Plautus ran onto the stage to take several bows. Then Scipio, laughing and genuinely taken by surprise, was swept off his feet and lifted onto the shoulders of his companions to receive the gratitude of the adoring crowd.
Kaeso remained under the stage, observing the audience through his peephole. At that moment, he wanted very much to be close to Scipio, but in such a throng even approaching him would be impossible. As he watched, Scipio dispatched a young slave, who dexterously threaded a path through the crush and made his way under the stage.
The slave found Kaeso and drew a quick breath. “My master, Publius Cornelius Scipio, says to tell you that he wishes he could congratulate you in person, but, with all the day’s events, he must hurry off. However, in three day’s time, when the Games are over and well behind him, he says he would be honored if you would join him for dinner.”
“Of course,” said Kaeso. “Of course we’ll come. Plautus will be delighted.”
The slave smiled and shook his head. “My master asks that you come alone. He says he’ll feast the playwright on another night, but once the Games are done, he looks forward to a quiet repast in the company of an old friend.”
No power on earth could have kept Kaeso from joining Scipio on the appointed night.
“What a whirlwind! I only wish my father could have been here to see it.” Scipio gazed into his cup and swirled the wine. It seemed to Kaeso that his friend had drunk very little that night. Perhaps Scipio found the success of the Games intoxicating enough.
“Your father is where Roma most needs him to be, with your uncle, commanding the legions in Spain,” said Kaeso. “Have you heard from them lately?”
Scipio frowned. “I received my father’s last letter almost two months ago. A letter from Uncle Gnaeus arrived a few days after that. Not a word since then. No news from Spain at all. Just a long silence.”
Kaeso shrugged. “Messages go astray. Your father and uncle are such busy men, I’m surprised they have time to write at all. They call Spain the viper’s nest, don’t they, because it was Hannibal’s original base of operations? Everyone agrees there’s no battleground in the war that’s more important.”
“Or more fiercely fought. They’ve been at it for years now, trying to drive out the Carthaginians. According to my father, if any man hates us more than Hannibal, it’s his brother, Hasdrubal, who commands the Carthaginians in Spain.”
Kaeso nodded, not sure what else to say. He would have liked more wine, but it was uncouth to drink more than one’s host. Scipio’s full cup seemed merely a dark mirror upon which to focus his gaze.
“In my father’s last letter,” said Scipio, “he complained of the cowardice of the locals. His Celtiberian allies deserted the Roman camp overnight. They claimed there was a tribal conclave that required their attendance at the far side of the peninsula, but it was obvious they were fleeing because word had arrived that an army of Suessitani was coming down from Gaul to reinforce the enemy.” Scipio sighed. “Father was already feeling outnumbered by the Carthaginians and the Numidians. What a cavalry those African bastards can mount-as we learned to our regret at Cannae! Numidians are born on horseback. Father says they have a very strong leader in Spain, an audacious young prince named Masinissa, hardly more than a boy, but utterly sure of himself. It’s Masinissa who worries him now, even more than Hasdrubal.” Scipio sighed again.
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