Colosseum (7 page)

Too much luxury all around for it to be a prison, that much is certain. And yet the door is barred and there is no way out.

Verus has no idea what happened after he passed out. He only knows he is near the port. The two-hundred and fifty ships of the Imperial fleet lying at anchor down in the bay leave him in no doubt. Outside the window was all the hubbub of loading, unloading and good intentions, a procession of
hastati
and landing craft, provisions leaving and precious objects arriving.

It is hunting season and Rome thirsts for blood.

When the bolt slides open, Verus starts and puts himself instinctively on the defensive. But there is no brute behind the thick wooden door of the gilded cell, nor a hard-faced guard, but a red-cheeked maidservant. She is small but self-assured, a brisk-mannered girl with hands reddened by too many mornings spent at the washbasin, and the neat haste of someone who has not a moment to lose between sunrise and sunset.

“Come,” she says. “The master is waiting for you.”

She uses the Latin word
dominus
, which means everything and nothing. It describes a man with money to spend and servants to command of course, but it does not tell you what kind of property he is absolute master of. As far as Verus knows, even Demetrius—may his black soul roast in the underworld—made certain people address him that way. Yet he was the first to kneel down and use the very same term every time he happened to find himself in front of a servant of the Empire.

Verus begins to walk and the servant leads the way. Unwittingly, the petite girl swings her hips as she moves. But even though it is a sight deserving of a closer look, it is another miracle that leaves the young man open-mouthed with wonder. The master's home is breathtaking. The first marvels for which Verus is unprepared are the colors. The youth's life, ever since he came into the world, has always been played out in dull monochrome. One shade at a time, and nothing extraordinary: the green of the grass that freshens the soul, the brown of tree trunks and mud, the gray of furnace smoke and iron on the anvil, the color of stones broken beneath the sun, slaves' favorite skin dye.

Here though, one shade alone is not enough even for a single wall or column: yellow, orange and the color of the sea intermingle in every direction. The pillars are cherry-red, the capitals blindingly white, with sculpted leaves painted a liquid green, making them look soft and damned near real. Not to mention the floor: a triumph of ocher, white, and myriad veins of crimson.

The Briton just about manages to focus as he walks quickly along behind the maidservant, while beneath his feet unfolds the story of Aeneas, who left Troy and found himself in Rome, despite having no wish to go there, a destiny as big as a house strapped to his back, a dying father and a knuckle-headed son in tow.

The long service corridor runs past the servants' quarters, where troops of domestics are busying themselves with plates and dishes. Verus has lost all notion of time, but it must be almost lunchtime because the servants are also engaged in grilling large fish and chopping up the accompanying vegetables. As he passes, a jug slips from an absent minded boy's hand and smashes on the floor, inundating the air with the rich smell of Greek wine, dense with honey and cloves.

The mixture of smells makes the Briton's stomach rumble—he cannot remember when he last ate. But as they enter the hall, which leads up to the floor the nobles live on, the scents evaporate. The steepness of the stairs brings Verus's nose very close to the servant's rather attractive behind, but he is still too overcome with amazement to notice.

At the threshold of the
tablinum
, the space where the master of the house receives his own clients and dedicates a few hours to writing, the maidservant takes her leave without much ceremony, puffing, “Here he is—” in the general direction of her master, offering a hurried bow and slipping away again downstairs, looking frantically for something to be getting on with. With Janus as her witness, there really is never enough time.

Indeed, Verus has not had enough time to dwell on the
dominus
, but he certainly did not expect someone of his own age.

Pliny the Younger smiles, but his eyes are tired: “How are you feeling today?”

The Briton is taken aback: every other interlocutor has always given his ass a kicking before saying anything to him. He is certainly not used to these dulcet tones. So he drops to his knees and mumbles: “Master.” You can never go far wrong calling things by their proper name.

Pliny smiles and gestures for him to stand up. His heart is filled with pain—news of his uncle's death was brought to him no more than twelve hours ago—but he still finds time to attend to the lowly.

These are difficult days, people are dying by the wagonload on a whim of the gods. The least that can be expected from those in a position of power is a little understanding.

The commander's nephew seats himself behind the beautiful desk of dark wood and invites the Briton to sit down on an ornate bench with lion's paws carved into the ebony. Verus feels uncomfortable and his curious eyes glance over the splendor of the carved wood.

“Do you know why they make them like that? With those elaborate decorations, I mean?”

Verus does not know, but during the last two years he has learnt that, nine times out of ten, silence is the rudest answer of all.

“Because they are beautiful, my lord? To add prestige to your magnificent home?”

Pliny shakes his head. Then he stands up and takes another stool from a chest, similar to that upon which Verus's servile backside rests for the first time, and places it on the floor.

Then he puts his right foot on it and shows the Briton that the three legs are not perfectly level: “It rocks,” he says firmly. “The ones without carvings rock back and forth. Is it worth making a saving if it means you are uncomfortable? Sit on this and you feel as though you are at sea.”

Verus shows his array of shiny teeth, without much conviction. He is not accustomed to the possessions of the wealthy. But he is grateful to this strange young man, and can barely wait to thank him.

“You saved my life, master. I am in your debt.”

Pliny tries to smile but his heart is too heavy: “That is true, but do not trouble yourself…What is your name?”

“Verus,” answers the Briton without hesitation.

“Verus…in these dark days we have all lost somebody. My uncle died attempting to save innocent survivors from the villas of Stabiae, and it is my intention to honor his memory by looking after whosoever finds himself in difficulty following these tragic events.”

“They certainly like to embellish their words, these nobles…” The impertinent thought enters the Briton's mind like a
mogilus
into the backside of an adulterer caught in the act, and he curses himself for his own ingratitude.

“You have nothing to feel indebted for, I only do my duty…But there again, you have not told me who you are yet. Where did you come from? What happened to you?”

There it is, the damned crossroads. The unexpected twist, the opportunity of a lifetime.

Not only has the awkward son of the Island escaped death, but now he is also being offered the chance to be born again. The chance to lie about his station in life, to bow down low in thanks, and then to run far away—perhaps across the sea, all the way home.

But what home?

The Island is far away, Verus, and your heart has turned cold. The name gifted to you when you were born is dead and buried.

All or nothing.

Once again.

All or nothing.

The young Briton takes a deep breath, finally daring to look his savior in the eye—he has not done so since entering the room—and tells the truth. The whole truth: “I am a slave, my lord.”

He lets the words hang in the air, and then settle on the ground with all their weight.

Pliny's gaze is relaxed. He is young but wise, and appreciates the value of a man's heart: “To whom do you belong, then?”

Verus feels the burden on his chest slowly crumble away: “I belonged to Demetrius the builder. But he died in the fire, I imagine you already know. I have no idea how many of my companions in the quarry made it.”

Bitterness flashes in Pliny's eyes. Death has suddenly struck again, the echo of the monster's bile that does not stop burning him.

“Yes, the quarry was buried under ash and boulders, like Herculaneum and Pompeii. No one survived. I am sorry—but it is a miracle that you are all in one piece…”

Verus takes the news like an expert pugilist. He has lost so much in his life that, by now, he has accepted that fate has only defeat in store for him.

He says nothing but stares stiffly at a floor as sparkling as a polished jewel.

Pliny folds his arms. He takes no pleasure in saying what he is about to say, but he cannot avoid it. And time is short; with so much to do he cannot allow himself to spend the morning consoling servants. Even so, his kind heart tightens a little when he begins to speak.

“Verus, I cannot free you, you know that. I am not your master…”

The Briton feels emboldened. Sincerity must be worth something around here: “But you could be, my lord. I would serve you with integrity, I know many trades, believe me. I would be ever faithful and grateful to you…”

Pliny stops him: “This too would be impossible. The villa already has all the servants it needs, and it would vex those I already have if I were to send you to the kitchen or to take care of the gardens. Furthermore, this place will shortly begin to seem more like a sanatorium than a Roman nobleman's house. It is my intention to help the wounded and survivors, placing the space from which my family benefits at their disposition. Even if I wanted to keep you with me, it would not be just. Thank the gods that you are as healthy as a horse. Your place is elsewhere.”

Thank the gods.

Verus would like to sigh but he lacks the courage.

“Still…” Pliny has already thought of something. “I cannot offer you a future, but perhaps if I can put you on the right track, you will do alright just the same. Follow me—we have work to do!” And, before even finishing what he had to say, the young man of illustrious birth begins to walk towards the outside of the villa, with Verus hurrying along behind him. The two follow the road that leads to the gate and then down from the headland, reaching the port via a cobbled path.

Many people greet Pliny warmly as they pass by, or offer him their condolences for the sorry fate that has befallen his uncle. At last they reach the entrance to the citadel.

Two crewmen, or
classiarii
, stand guard in shining breastplates. They give a formal salute and welcome Pliny and Verus into the base of the Classis Misenensis, the senior Imperial fleet. The young nobleman asks for a certain Marcius, who arrives at a quick pace and greets the young Pliny without ceremony. The two men seem to have known each other a long time, and the old soldier has the air of a sea-wolf.

They both avoid mentioning his uncle. In every part of the citadel, the young nobleman sees downcast eyes filled with pain. As often happens in the army, the sailors of Rome revered their commander. Maybe because Gaius Plinius Secundus was a man of science, even before he was a warrior. And he loved human beings more than he did honor, hard work, respect and all the other crap that is needed to keep a pack of low-lifes in line and ready for battle.

Soldiers can sense some things. They grow fond of their master, just as dogs do.

Marcius is friendly but direct: “Who have you brought me, my lord? A budding sailor?”

Pliny would like to nod, but instead he merely shrugs: “I doubt that Rome is so short of men that it must accept just anybody…This youth comes from Britannia, the sea he carries in his heart is not that which bore you, my friend.”

Verus gives a start. How on Earth did the young master guess where he was from after such a brief exchange? This guy is really something.

“I've seen plenty of his kind,” says Marcius with a knowing nod. “First time out they puke their guts out, but they toughen up soon enough—just need to persevere.”

“Well,” replies Pliny with a smile, “if anyone vomits on one of your ships, I assure you this lad here will clean it up in a flash. Give him a mop and the entire ship will gleam like snow in the sun. Marcius, I present you Verus, the most willing slave in all of Misenum. He has recently lost his job—but I am sure you will be able to find plenty for him to do. He is all yours…”

Pliny does not wait for the sailor's reply. He slaps the Briton firmly on the shoulders and walks away with his eyes to the floor, to avoid running the gauntlet of mournful looks on his way back.

Once more Verus is left alone, on the peaceful, ash-covered seashore, amid the steadily bobbing fleet of gleaming hulls.

Marcius scans the Briton, his eyes barely level with the boy's chest.

“The boss says you're good with puke, right?”

Verus cannot help but grin.

Marcius smiles too, before pointing to a hut filled with flies and an unmistakable stench.

“Then you should have no problems with the latrines. Welcome aboard, bastard.”

The future stinks of shit and saltwater.

All things said and done, thought Verus, my lot could have been worse.

But as usual, he had gotten the wrong idea.

The whole of the first week he is filled with visions of the sea. He has breathed it, touched it, feared it like a curse—given that he had never learnt to swim—and has begun to respect it. But all these hopes were in vain: the Briton who imagined he was to become a sailor has wound up as a cabin boy stuck on dry land.

Marcius is a tough man, but he has gradually grown fond of the lad: he tasks him from sunrise to sunset, when Verus pretends to be worn out, but the truth is that the work here is nothing compared to the toil at the quarry. Or, for that matter, the drudgery at the furnace in the employ of that madman Cormac—may the gods take care of his wretched soul.