“Oh, this isn’t the show,” said Martial. “This is just a trifle to keep the crowd amused while they file into their seats. Numa’s balls, look how high they’ve strung that tightrope! Can you imagine walking across that thing with another fellow on your shoulders? It always gives me the shivers when they perform without a net.”

“Why are the seats in front of us empty?”

“Because the Vestals haven’t yet arrived. They’re often the last to show up at any public event, even after the emperor. Ah, but here he comes now.”

Titus and his retinue began to file into the imperial box. The emperor was forty but looked younger, thanks to his genial expression and a full head of hair not yet touched by grey. He had married early and been widowed, then remarried and almost as quickly divorced his second wife, whose family was too closely associated with the Pisonian conspiracy against Nero. He had not remarried since. For female consorts he was flanked on one side by his grown daughter, Julia, and on the other by his younger sister, Flavia Domitilla. Several of his favourite eunuchs also attended him, beautiful and exquisitely dressed creatures who at a glance seemed neither female nor male; they exemplified what Dio called the Persian ideal of beauty.

The last members of the imperial family to enter the box were the emperor’s younger brother, Domitian, with his wife and their seven-year-old son. At twenty-eight, Domitian looked almost as old as Titus, thanks to his dour expression and the fact that he had lost much of his hair; gone was the glorious chestnut mane that had made him so conspicuous amid the Flavian entourage during the last days of Vitellius. While Titus smiled and waved enthusiastically to the crowd, Domitian hung back, looking glum. The brothers were known to have a stormy relationship. After Vespasian died, Domitian had publicly complained that their father’s will specified that the brothers should rule jointly, but that the document had been deliberately altered; the implication was that Titus himself had tampered with it. Some people believed Domitian, but most did not. For one thing, Vespasian had always favoured his elder son; for another, he had expressed the opinion that one of the reasons why Caligula and Nero had come to a bad end was the fact that they rose to power at too young an age. Domitian was twelve years younger than Titus and clearly lacked his brother’s experience.

No one was quite sure of the proper etiquette in the new amphitheatre. As the emperor continued to wave, many in the crowd rose to their feet and waved back. Some cheered and applauded. Others remained seated. Epaphroditus was among those who stood and clapped his hands. “Now there you see the head of an emperor,” he said to his companions. They looked at him quizzically. “Have I never told you the story of Agrippina and the physiognomist?”

“I think I should have remembered that,” said Martial. “It sounds quite naughty.”

“It’s not that kind of story. Long ago, when Nero was a boy and his mother was desperate to make him Claudius’s heir, Agrippina called on an Egyptian physiognomist to examine the head of Claudius’s son, Britannicus. Do you know, Lucius, I think it was your father who suggested the examination.”

Lucius shrugged. “I’ve never heard the story.”

“Perhaps because it had a rather embarrassing outcome. The Egyptian was unable to draw any conclusions from Britannicus’s head, but since Britannicus’s constant companion happened to be present, the man took a look at his head, as well. That boy was none other than Vespasian’s son Titus. The physiognomist declared he had never seen a head more fit to rule over other men. People forgot about that incident for a long time, but as you can see, the Egyptian turned out to be right.”

“Where was Domitian when this examination took place?” said Lucius.

“Oh, he was a baby. He’d only just been born.”

“What could be easier to read than a baby’s head, since it has no hair?” said Martial. “Although Domitian probably had more hair then than he does now!”

There was a stirring in the crowd around them. The Vestal virgins had arrived and were taking their seats in the front row. No one had been sure whether to stand for the emperor, but everyone did so for the Vestals. They walked with such grace and poise that their linen mantles seemed to float atop their heads.

As the six women passed by, Lucius looked at their faces. He had seen the Vestals at public events but had never been this close to them before. The badge of their office was the vitta, a red-and-white band worn across their foreheads. Their closely shorn hair was hidden by a distinctive headdress called a suffibulum, and their linen gowns obscured the shapes of their bodies, so that all one could really see of them were their unadorned faces. They were of various ages, some old and wrinkled but some no more than girls. Vestals began their mandatory thirty years of service between the ages of six and ten, and most remained Vestals until they died. It seemed to Lucius they kept their eyes straight ahead and deliberately avoided making eye contact – until one of them turned her head as she passed and looked straight at him.

The Vestal was beautiful. The fact that every feature except her face was hidden only accentuated her beauty. Two green eyes flashed beneath delicate eyebrows of dark blonde. Her full lips favoured him with a faint smile. Lucius felt a quiver run down his spine, like a trickle of warm water.

“Her name is Cornelia Cossa,” whispered Epaphroditus in his ear.

“How old is she?”

“Let me think. She was only six when she was inducted into the sisterhood in the eighth year of Nero’s reign; that would make her twenty-four.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Everyone says so.”

The acrobats and jugglers dispersed. The official ceremonies commenced with a series of religious rites. An augury was taken, and the auspices were declared highly favourable. The priests of Mars paraded around the arena, chanting and burning incense. An altar was erected in the centre of the arena. The priests sacrificed a sheep to the war god and dedicated the amphitheatre in his honour. The blood of the sacrificed animal was sprinkled in all directions onto the sand of the arena.

A proclamation by the emperor was read aloud, in which he paid homage to his father, whose military success, architectural genius, and love of the city had given birth to the amphitheatre; the structure in which they had all gathered was the Divine Vespasian’s posthumous gift to the people of Roma. Jewish warriors – filthy, naked, and shackled with chains – were driven at sword point around the arena by armed legionaries as a reminder of the great victory that had brought peace to the eastern provinces of the empire and secured the treasure that had paid for the amphitheatre, the new baths, and many other improvements all over the city. Vespasian had joined the gods, but his legacy in stone, the Flavian Amphitheatre, would endure for all time.

The proclamation went on for some time. Lucius’s mind began to wander. He noticed that Martial had pulled out a stylus and a wax tablet and was busy scribbling. He assumed that his friend was taking down the words of the proclamation, but the notes he was able to read had nothing to do with what they were hearing. Martial saw him scanning his notes.

“Random impressions,” he whispered. “You never know what might become a poem. Look at all these people. How many races and nationalities do you think are represented here today?’

Lucius looked around them. “I have no idea.”

“Nor do I, but it seems to me the whole world is here, in microcosm. Look at those black-skinned Ethiopians over there. And that group over there – what sort of people have blonde hair and wear it twisted into knots like that?”

“Sicambri, I think they’re called. A Germanic tribe that lives at the mouth of the Rhine River.”