stilled saws. That was the affair of my chief slave of accounts, Demosthenes, who had used my wealth to make a fortune so vast, numbers could not describe it accurately.
My responsibility to emperor and self was that what happened
on the arena sand did not turn a crowd into a mob. So the opponent, had to be good enough, but not so good that I would pay with my blood.
An aedile, wishing to be named praetor, in which office he would have a whole province to tax, wanted to sponsor games with my appearance to win political favour of the mobs.
The young aedile met me formally at a newly built replica of a wooden arena, placed in the middle of the lands his family wanted to trade. His purple patrician piping was loud and so wide on his toga, it almost made sounds.
He ignored my slave, Demosthenes, in grey-stained tunic with ink-blackened fingers and hair so untonsored it looked as though it had never suffered comb or oil.
Ironically, it was Demosthenes who determined any financial aspect of the match and Demosthenes who, while still a slave, was rich enough many times over to buy all the patrician family's holdings.
Yet it was on me, in my white toga with thin equestrian-rank piping, that the concern was focused. Equestrian rank required only wealth. Patrician required bloodlines, granted only to those with the brilliance to select the right womb to be born from. Still, freedmen were becoming equestrians nowadays, as I had become, and their sons could marry into the right blood and rise to the rights of the oldest of Roman families. I dismissed conversation about the land and went right into this small arena. The wood smelled of fresh sap - probably built by the carpenters just before they were sold off. His mother, her grey hair piled like a pyramid above her head, her face an old pedestal with heavy cosmetics to distinguish the triumph of time over flesh, sat with her jewelled hands resting on her formal white stola. Behind her was the lanista, a trainer of gladiators. He hoped that his secutor would be acceptable to me. For then he would be paid many times over the cost of the training and purchase.
There were many formal greetings from the son, the mother, and the lanista. 'Greetings, Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus, most Roman of them all.'
'Most Roman of them all,' I said to the people, without mentioning their names or looking at them. Down there in the sand beneath me was my proposed match.
He was a beautiful young boy with sharp muscles and clean features. Yet back in Rome, features would be meaningless, especially since this was a secutor who would wear a helmet. I never liked large arenas because one is never fully in control of so large a mob, and only the most gross movements are noticeable. A really fine match that would be appreciated in Pompeii would bore the Roman mob, and a bored mob could threaten the city. Many a riot had given courage to an assassin's hand, and every emperor knew this. I had Domitian's valued trust, and I was not about to squander it for three latifundia.
'With water rights,' said the mother of the aedile, who was directing his career as she had directed his father's. My slaves dismissed this as a relatively minor addition to the contract, although they knew quite well it was crucial. They had not become wealthy making me poor. I pretended to heed their comments.
'He looks very agile and skilled,' I said, pointing to the young secutor who was showing his moves to us in the aedile's small private arena. A thrust here, a parry there. At first basic strokes, then becoming more elaborate with thrusts off blocks and double blocks and thrusts. His feet skipped lightly over the sand. His body was not oiled, and I saw no sweat. He could go a long time. I mentioned this also.
'Should he but break skin, I would personally have him strangled,' said the lanista, like most, always in need of money.
"There will be much blood and elephants before your match. I have already paid for this. The mob will
My responsibility to emperor and self was that what happened
on the arena sand did not turn a crowd into a mob. So the opponent, had to be good enough, but not so good that I would pay with my blood.
An aedile, wishing to be named praetor, in which office he would have a whole province to tax, wanted to sponsor games with my appearance to win political favour of the mobs.
The young aedile met me formally at a newly built replica of a wooden arena, placed in the middle of the lands his family wanted to trade. His purple patrician piping was loud and so wide on his toga, it almost made sounds.
He ignored my slave, Demosthenes, in grey-stained tunic with ink-blackened fingers and hair so untonsored it looked as though it had never suffered comb or oil.
Ironically, it was Demosthenes who determined any financial aspect of the match and Demosthenes who, while still a slave, was rich enough many times over to buy all the patrician family's holdings.
Yet it was on me, in my white toga with thin equestrian-rank piping, that the concern was focused. Equestrian rank required only wealth. Patrician required bloodlines, granted only to those with the brilliance to select the right womb to be born from. Still, freedmen were becoming equestrians nowadays, as I had become, and their sons could marry into the right blood and rise to the rights of the oldest of Roman families. I dismissed conversation about the land and went right into this small arena. The wood smelled of fresh sap - probably built by the carpenters just before they were sold off. His mother, her grey hair piled like a pyramid above her head, her face an old pedestal with heavy cosmetics to distinguish the triumph of time over flesh, sat with her jewelled hands resting on her formal white stola. Behind her was the lanista, a trainer of gladiators. He hoped that his secutor would be acceptable to me. For then he would be paid many times over the cost of the training and purchase.
There were many formal greetings from the son, the mother, and the lanista. 'Greetings, Lucius Aurelius Eugenianus, most Roman of them all.'
'Most Roman of them all,' I said to the people, without mentioning their names or looking at them. Down there in the sand beneath me was my proposed match.
He was a beautiful young boy with sharp muscles and clean features. Yet back in Rome, features would be meaningless, especially since this was a secutor who would wear a helmet. I never liked large arenas because one is never fully in control of so large a mob, and only the most gross movements are noticeable. A really fine match that would be appreciated in Pompeii would bore the Roman mob, and a bored mob could threaten the city. Many a riot had given courage to an assassin's hand, and every emperor knew this. I had Domitian's valued trust, and I was not about to squander it for three latifundia.
'With water rights,' said the mother of the aedile, who was directing his career as she had directed his father's. My slaves dismissed this as a relatively minor addition to the contract, although they knew quite well it was crucial. They had not become wealthy making me poor. I pretended to heed their comments.
'He looks very agile and skilled,' I said, pointing to the young secutor who was showing his moves to us in the aedile's small private arena. A thrust here, a parry there. At first basic strokes, then becoming more elaborate with thrusts off blocks and double blocks and thrusts. His feet skipped lightly over the sand. His body was not oiled, and I saw no sweat. He could go a long time. I mentioned this also.
'Should he but break skin, I would personally have him strangled,' said the lanista, like most, always in need of money.
"There will be much blood and elephants before your match. I have already paid for this. The mob will
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