God's Gold (24 page)

Back on the tree-lined Lungotevere Pierleoni that snakes around the River Tiber, I made my way to the exact spot where the triumph bestowed on the emperor Vespasian and his son Titus started out—the Circus Flaminius. But all I could see were elegant eighteenth-century apartment blocks, paint-chipped palaces, coffee stops, and urchins kicking a half-deflated ball across the narrow lanes. The site of the Circus, from where the triumph was sent on its way into the heart of the city to the acclamation of thousands of people, is today completely replaced by later architecture.

The Circus may have had a built-up core, but it was predominantly an open space ringed by funerary monuments and temples. Although a considerable amount of the arena still stood in the twelfth century, by the sixteenth century the Mattei Palace and urban sprawl had consumed it. Only the memory of the rope makers who plied their trade from dingy medieval arcades on the north side of the Circus's shops lives on today in the names of the Via dei Funari and the sixteenth-century Church of Santa Caterina dei Funari.

After the physical exertion of tramping around Trastevere, one of the most remarkable revelations in the quest for the lost Temple treasure of Jerusalem became apparent. Although I was aware that Rome's present-day Great Synagogue stood, out of respect for the city's Jewish ancestry, on the banks of the Tiber within the ancient foreigners' quarter,
as I looked around and checked my maps, I realized that it was built on the exact spot of the Circus Flaminius.

This surprising revelation was full of profound implications and symbolic overtones. The four walls of the synagogue, the former Circus, marked the scene of Judaism's greatest humiliation—the beginning of the end—the start of the Triumph that culminated in the “imprisonment” of the Temple treasure from Jerusalem and the decapitation of the leader of the Jewish revolt.

The modern “temple” is a 150-foot-high monument spanning an area of 36,305 square feet and was built between 1901 and 1904 in an eclectic style of Roman, Greek, and Assyrian-Babylonian with the intention of sympathetically blending in with the existing city architecture—a modern variety of sensitive acculturation.

In a twist of fate unappreciated by the Jews of present-day Rome whom I met, modern Judaism has quite literally supplanted the memory of Rome's subjugation two thousand years ago by refounding itself in the Circus Flaminius. The religious ritual of the Jewish community has rooted itself in the profane soil and has purified the past. Alongside the archaeological strata dating back to the time of the arena's foundation in 220 BC is a second superimposed level, invisible to the eye and only felt: the emotional. Perhaps more than anywhere else on earth, Rome's Great Synagogue stands as a symbol of endurance against the odds, against warfare and genocide. Not in their worst nightmares could Vespasian and Titus have imagined that their conquest of Israel would have unfolded with such historical circularity, with the vanquished becoming the conquerors and a two-thousand-year-old wrong being righted.

When this realization dawned, a surge of invigorating thoughts and questions swept through my mind. During my search for the Temple treasure I had the good fortune to visit Rome on several occasions, always coming back to the Great Synagogue in search of answers. This spot is endlessly intriguing. On a former visit in May 2004, lost in reflection, my face must have mirrored my turbulent feelings because it was at this time that I was almost arrested.

At the front of the synagogue, this part of the Field of Mars was un
der siege by hundreds of people, just as it would have been in AD 71. A ferocious security operation was under way. Scores of Jews in their Sunday best patiently queued to pass through the first of two security cordons, while television cameras surveyed the scene. What was going on? Rome's carabinieri, out in droves, was unimpressed by my impassioned request for entry and swatted me away like the unwanted foreigner I was. Ducking alongside streets I decided upon an oblique attack from the flanks, assuming the lost tourist persona. Unfortunately, the Israeli security monitoring entry to the synagogue was quick to pounce, charmlessly repelling my advances. My photography of the synagogue was apparently a security risk; I was invited to either have my camera confiscated and be introduced to the carabinieri or to scram. Finally, I played the Jewish card, explaining in Hebrew my lifelong desire to explore Rome's Jewish ghetto. The guards relented and I surged through the crowd—a popped cork—into the narrow lanes of the medieval ghetto. Though this is no longer really a ghetto, because the city's 27,000 Roman Jews—among a total population of 3.5 million Romans—are happily integrated into the fabric of society, the overwhelming tapestry of history and pain lives on in this special place.

 

M
y research in London had been intensive and systematic, but nothing had hinted that so much of the atmosphere and architecture extant on the day of the triumph could be resurrected. This was no mere aura or whisper of memory: I had stumbled across a two thousand-year-old bridge of continuity linking the word of Josephus with the standing archaeology.

As I tried to make my way once more toward the Great Synagogue, the waiters from La Taverna del Ghetto had explained that my trip had coincided with the centenary celebrations of this House of God's foundation. Hence the security and television coverage to welcome Israel's religious and political leaders, two archbishops representing the pope, and Prime Minister Berlusconi.

My ham-fisted attempts to avoid officialdom were doomed to fail. But edging my way east down the Via del Portico D'Ottavia, past the
phalanx of machine gun–toting carabinieri, I was confronted by the last thing I had expected to see: part of the first monumental Roman arched gateway through which the imperial triumphs passed, the Porticus of Octavia itself, still standing. Originally this covered
porticus
had been a dominant landmark, elegantly marching 165 feet eastward and 460 feet north toward Balbus's Roman theater. The full range and visual impact, of course, is lost today because only the gateway survives, having been incorporated in the eighth century AD into the atrium of a church, today surviving as the Church of Sant'Angelo in Pescheria (“in the fish market”).

The double-sided columnar porch is monumental, impressively crafted of Corinthian columns of Italian marble from Luna and Greek Pentelic marble architraves offset against thousands of red clay bricks. When you walk between the double gateway, sculpted dolphins and tridents overhead remind the viewer of Rome's naval prowess. Though impressive enough today, the gateway was an artistic wonder in Roman times. After the Porticus of Octavia (sister of the emperor Augustus) had replaced that of Metellus around 27–25 BC, Augustus tacked on schools, meeting rooms, and a library housing a stunning display of Greek statuary and paintings. Pride of place was given to a bronze composition by Lysippos of Alexander the Great on horseback alongside his twenty-five cavalry companions who died in the battle of the Granicus in 334 BC. Not surprisingly, this statuary was not an original Roman commission, but part of the spoils of war seized by Metellus from the Sanctuary of Dion in northern Greece.

Absorbed by the moment and the fascination of coming across such an important part of the triumphal experience, I jumped abruptly when an austere voice behind me interrupted my reflection as I scribbled.

“Journalists not possible. What do you write?” proclaimed an armed policeman in shining uniform.

After explaining that I was a tourist keeping a diary for my own amusement, two carabinieri frog-marched me beyond the security cordon. Rather than incensed, however, I was entirely sympathetic to the police's harsh tactics. After all, the safety of Prime Minister Berlusconi
and the pope's personal representatives, Cardinal Camillo Ruini (papal vicar of Rome) and Cardinal Walter Kasper (head of the Vatican's Commission for Religious Relations), depended on the keen eye of the security forces. Even on such a relatively low-key political occasion, for reaching out to Rome's Jewish community to foster interfaith harmony, some Catholics would denounce John Paul II as the “antipope.”

Outside the security cordon a middle-aged woman dressed in ghetto black scowled down at me with a mix of pity and pedagogic impatience. She stood on the top step of the Jewish bookshop Menorah: Libreria Ebraica. Rather than engage in conversation, and keen to conceal my embarrassment at being ejected, I pointed to a poster showing a photo of the menorah from the Temple in Jerusalem being carried along the streets of Rome in AD 71, as depicted on the Arch of Titus on the high point of the Forum.

“Any idea where I can find that?” I asked, playing the lighthearted joker.

“Everyone knows where it is,” sneered the shopkeeper. “All the Jewish community knows that the menorah fell into the Tiber and was recovered by the Christians who took it to the Vatican, where it remains to this day.”

Once I had tracked down the Circus Flaminius and been stunned by its geographical symbolism, and then stumbled across the Porticus of Octavia, the rest of the triumphal route fell into place neatly. Just as Josephus asserted, the procession did indeed pass “through the theaters, that they might be more easily seen by the multitude,” namely the Circus Flaminius followed by the Theater of Marcellus and, lastly, the theatrical wonder of the age, the Circus Maximus.

Marcellus's theater enjoyed continuous entertainment since the reign of Julius Caesar. Named after Marcus Claudius Marcellus by Augustus, in honor of his deceased nephew, this stadium was the most important of Rome's three contemporary entertainment facilities and, with its two superimposed arcades of travertine stone fronted by semicircular columns, this structure became the model for contemporary theaters throughout the western empire, including the Colosseum. A capacity crowd of 20,500 would have watched the passage of the Temple treasures of Jerusalem in the Triumph of AD 71 between the theater and the temples of Apollo and Bellona.

Here the gods of war within the Field of Mars were especially vigilant. The crowded presence of so many powerful monuments dedicated to warfare would have magnified the sense of might expressed by thousands of soldiers parading in polished breastplates, jangling swords, and shields recalling the sound of steel on a battlefield. First, the triumphal soldiers would have acknowledged the Temple of Bellona, a warrior
mother-goddess who personified the battle frenzy that made victory in Israel possible.

Alongside, three white marble Corinthian columns from the Temple of Apollo Medicus Sosianus (the Healer) still stand today, their capitals supporting a frieze of laurel branches strung between bulls' skulls and candelabra with tripod bases. Appropriately, the temple once displayed sculpted battle scenes and even a triumphal procession, in which captives were tied back to back.

In passing the Temple of Apollo Medicus Sosianus, Rome deliberately began the process of forgiving itself the killing fields of Palestine so that man and the military machine might move away from the stench of war and the psychological scars of the battlefield. At this point a huge bonfire would have been lit and onto it thrown the spolia opima, enemy armor captured by Rome. These spoils could not be kept as souvenirs of victory because they were impregnated with negative enemy power, a danger if brought within the city walls.

Now the triumph escaped the suburbs to be buffeted by the unwholesome smell of the Forum Holitorium, the vegetable market. Where the city usually bought its cabbages and onions, Vespasian and Titus once again made respectful offerings at the triple temple complex dedicated to Spes, Janus, and Juno Sospita to absorb these gods' personal attributes—hope, beginnings, and savior. With so much blood on their hands they needed the blessing of as many willing gods as possible. The monumental foundations and facades of these buildings still grace the hybrid architecture of the medieval Church of San Nicola in Carcere. The church has literally boxed over the temples.

 

I
f we could have frozen the action at this precise spot on that fateful day of AD 71, what would the movers and shakers of Rome—from the city poor to the senatorial elite—have been thinking and feeling? Here the triumphal parade escaped the humidity of the bottlenecked temples and theaters of the Field of Mars and prepared to surmount the dip in the road at the modern junction of the Via del Teatro Marcello and Vicus Jugarius that hugs the edge of the Capitoline Hill. This place
was immensely important in the ritual of the day because here the arcades of the Triumphal Way created a physical barrier between the Field of Mars and the Forum, between war and civilization.

To the modern eye the jubilant atmosphere would have resembled the homecoming parade of a sports team that had just won the Olympics, adrenaline inflated and on top of the world. But the Roman triumph was far more than just adulation for the victors and a holiday celebration for the people. The dozens of floats theatrically reenacting battles from the victory and the products of strange cultures in far-flung lands, mixed with the sounds of trumpet and cymbal and the sweet smell of eastern spices released from silver censers, lent a flavor of the circus and carnival to the proceedings. In the triumphal pageant, Romans also learned about the prowess of their armies and generals, foreign people, and the art, architecture, flora, and fauna of the newly conquered lands. The event was a mix of entertainment and education, the
National Geographic
played out in street theater
.

The excitement of the spectacle jumps off the pages of Josephus who, in his description of Rome in AD 71, gives the most remarkable and detailed account of a Roman triumph to survive from antiquity:

Josephus describes a lavish show that was a combination of entertainment, imperial self-glorification, and a moving image to justify the investment of millions of sesterces spent subjugating troublemakers in a far-off province. To the citizens of Rome the awesome spectacle of the triumph would have had the sensory impact of the publicity staged by the armed forces of America and the United Kingdom during the First Gulf War. Like the scenes of precision smart bombing in Iraq, beamed through televisions into millions of Western living rooms, the triumph acted as political propaganda to explain and justify the cause.

But the triumph was much more than a political statement, it was also a crucial magico-religious ceremony that goes beyond the rationale of the modern mind. Pomp, spectacle, and largesse were all well and good, but in the final analysis the ceremony of the triumph was an incredibly important rite of passage for Rome, thickly steeped in symbolism.

The ritual of the procession took a standardized route following a meticulously preplanned format. First of all came white oxen destined for sacrifice to Jupiter (these beasts had the same connotations of purity and liberation that the white dove plays today in Western consciousness). Next followed lictors in red war dress carrying fasces, the double
headed axes and traditional emblems of power in pre-Roman times from which we have inherited the term
fascist.
Magistrates and the Senate then proceeded in front of the emperor, whose two-wheeled chariot was drawn by four white horses, perhaps symbolizing the four points of the compass controlled by the empire. Chained prisoners walked with heads bowed directly in front of the chariot. Finally, soldiers wearing laurel wreaths and singing coarse songs brought up the rear.

These tunes were odd. Rather than celebrate the good deeds of their commanders, they actually derided them in the satirical style of fraternity songs. Moreover, the motley crowd supposedly out in celebration similarly hurled insults at the passing emperor. How can the triumph's contradictory combination of veneration and derision be explained?

Because the emperor was elevated to the status of a god for the day, Roman society had to set in motion a complicated web of apotropaic measures to protect itself from the potential fury of the divine pantheon. For on the very day of a Roman triumph, the victorious commander in chief was given the highest honor bestowed on a mortal by being elevated to the status of the supreme god, Jupiter. The actual term
triumph
was originally not used as a noun in the context of the Roman ritual, but as an exclamation. As Vespasian and Titus drove their chariots along the streets of Rome the call of
triumpe
was not a cheer of victory but an invocation of the god within the mortal to “reveal yourself.”

Superstition was rampant in Roman society, which, at the drop of a hat, would consult the gods and animal entrails for advice on the most beneficial course of action, from the mundane to the monumental. In conferring the title of a god on a triumphant commander, Rome was aware that it ran the serious risk of unlocking the anger of the pantheon. Hence, the lewd marching songs and public insults. But even this was not enough protection for the commander in chief, so several further layers of religious armor were created to protect the
triumphator
from the envy of the gods.

Chests swelling amid the adoration of the people, Vespasian and Titus would have been clothed in purple tunics and togas—family heirlooms reserved for state occasions. In their right hands each carried a
laurel branch that imparted the power of plant life and regeneration (for the same reason that flower petals are strewn in front of a newlywed couple today). Their left hands gripped ivory scepters surmounted by an eagle, the ultimate symbol of Roman domination. Around their necks were placed a gold bulla to deflect the evil eye. Both emperor and son would also have been painted red for purposes that are not entirely clear, but possibly to imitate blood, perhaps to incite fear (in the manner of war paint) or to imitate the brilliance of the sun. Certainly statues of Jupiter, the ultimate Roman god, were painted red in antiquity, so this symbolic act mirrored the physiology of the supreme divinity.

Beneath the triumphant chariot—also decorated with laurel branches—hung a massive erect bronze phallus fastened with bells, whose purpose was again to instill strength to the riders and to counteract any ill feeling of the gods. The giant phallus served as a kind of imperial lightning conductor against unwanted thunderbolts from the sky. The final ingredient of antigod plating was the heavy gold oak leaf crown (the
corona Etrusca
) that a state slave suspended above the head of the triumphator. Both Vespasian and Titus may also have worn iron leg chains as expressions of humility, as their personal slaves also on the chariots whispered into the victors' ears, “Look behind you and remember that you are a man.” In other words, a god for a day but, nevertheless, nothing more than a mere mortal elevated thus by the people of Rome. The gods were watching eagle-eyed and ready to pounce.

The spot where we have frozen the triumph (at the junction between the Campus Martius and the Capitoline Hill, where the Via del Teatro di Marcello and the Vicus Jugarius meet today) was by far the most sensitive point of the procession. Not because of what Vespasian and Titus or the artistic directors of the pageant were doing, but because of the sacred landscape. For here most probably stood the mighty Porta Triumphalis, the triumphal Gate that was only ever opened on the occasion of the triumph.

The gate was reached by a covered arcade, some of whose columns and arches can still be traced at the foot of the leafy Capitoline Hill, whose slopes would have offered a breathtaking view of the parade. The
porta,
however, was strangely not a true gate at all, but actually a freestanding structure that was not incorporated into a city wall. So why do ancient writers emphasize the importance of being able both to open and to close the gate during the ceremony when, on any other day, you could simply walk around it to pass between city and riverside?

The brilliant mind of Sir James George Frazer pondered this precise enigma in his epic book
The Golden Bough
and concluded that rites of passage such as in the Roman triumph were intended to free people from certain taints or hostile spirits. For Frazer, the Porta Triumphalis was almost certainly a barrier meant to protect Rome against the pursuit of the spirits of the slain. By passing through the arch, and immediately locking its doors, any taboo could be lifted. The Triumphal Gate was thus a physical barrier between Rome and the angry ghosts of the Jews of Israel. Purification was extremely important for Rome to minimize war-born posttraumatic stress disorder. As the Roman writer Festus clarified, “Laurel-wreathed soldiers followed the triumphal chariot, in order to enter the city as if purged of blood-guilt.”

Whether or not the victor swiftly left town through another gate after the triumph was immaterial because symbolism equated to reality. The Triumphal Gate, an isolated structure set outside the city walls, may sound like nothing less than pious fraud to us, but its powers were very real to Rome. Entry and closure until the celebration of the next triumph guaranteed the ongoing blessing of good fortune upon the city, by literally locking inside the bearer's newly acquired power. It was with the intent of not wasting a single drop of this energy that generals were compelled by the Senate to reside outside the sacred city boundary (typically at the Temple of Bellona or the Temple of Apollo in the Field of Mars) until the triumph started.