Colosseum by Simone Sarasso Page B

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.
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œBecause they are beautiful, my lord? To add prestige to your magnificent