Stagecraft
The Emperor loved nothing more than a fine performance. He even knew how to put one on himself. This was why he’d gotten into the business of governing in the first place. His title had made him known throughout the Empire, and he used his fame to achieve his childhood dream, which was to become the most beloved actor of all time.
Success was immediate and absolute. From all over, people came and packed the Colosseum to watch him masquerade as characters from myth. His genius was undeniable; the crowds adored him more than ever. The critics, too, agreed: “The greatest artist of his generation— or any other,” was their unanimous assessment. The Emperor had their reviews plastered to the pillars and the walls of public baths in every city.
But he was sensitive and had a short fuse. He spared no one who slighted his gifts. Those who’d forgotten to read the reviews would have their eyes gouged out with a stylus. Those who’d missed a performance, no matter the reason, would be flogged until they passed out in the Forum. Fearing for their sight and skin — but also because they craved distraction — the people began buying their tickets the moment they went on sale. But capacity was limited, and not everyone who’d purchased a seat could secure one on show night. The ones who didn’t would find themselves inside, in any case, crucified by the guards by way of warming up the audience.
After a while, a few brazen Senators expressed their growing concerns to the Emperor in private. If the executions continued at this rate, it would spell the Empire’s extinction. Some of the statesmen repeated these warnings even as they hung from their own crosses, birds already picking at the gaping spear wounds in their sides. In life and in death they had a point, and before long there were fewer citizens than could fill the Colosseum.
Believing themselves safe, the dwindling ones who remained grew complacent. They no longer responded to the Emperor’s lengthy monologues with enough enthusiasm — an offense, in his eyes, more deserving of punishment than nonattendance. The nobles, who had been among his most devoted admirers, were nailed and hoisted at night by the slaves who’d scrubbed their feet and made their breakfasts in the morning.
The last of the Empire’s citizens were sentenced not for lack of excitement but because not even their wildest acclaim could match that of a full house. Yet it was for them that the Emperor gave the most commanding performance of his career. From nightfall until daybreak on the feast of Saturnalia, in nothing but a gilded mask and bearskin cloak, he paraded from one end of the stage to the other, gesturing fiercely, defeating invisible gods, and proclaiming his status as the brightest — the only — star in the heavens. Suffocating in the air on wooden beams, the condemned never once looked away from the star. Their last breaths praised his talents and mercy for letting them die entertained.
