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This one to the left is of the very colorful market we went to on the Sunday after they arrived. It was given to them as a jet-lag day, and so we decided to spend it in Florence. Most of them wanted to do some shopping at the market. We explored a little bit of Florence.
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This is one of my favorite sculptures in Florence. It is a pretty gruesome representation of Perseus cutting off the head of Medusa. It was made by Benevuto Cellini, considered by some to also be the founder of the autobiographical style. He was quite an interesting character, always challenging people who offended him to fights, or backstabbing companions to get a commission. The only thing redeeming about it is that the man is outrageously funny. And he was good at what he did. This is his most famous work.
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This is the back of the house we were doing the feature on. It was used for several hundred years after it's abandonment around the 15th century as a sort of weigh station for pilgrims, until this Canadian couple came in and renovated it. The road on the front side of the house is an ancient road from the Roman times. It's just gravel and dirt now, but you can see the large stones that used to give it form. This house was around 1000 years old. The picture below it is another angle of the house that show's its positioning among the hills somewhat. The "garden" they're standing in grows all sorts of herbs naturally. When we arrived, I took one look at the place and thought, "They flew all the way here to film a bunch of weeds?" Apparantly, and I'm not taking sides on this argument, but the lady says that she believes a garden should be left alone, that it should grow naturally.
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This house is used as a spiritual retreat center for people from all over the world. A plethura of seemingly incongruous religious icons dot the land and house; though the people who run it are primarily Catholic. The inspiration for all of this is St. Francis of Assissi, who very likely walked the road in front of it, towards his monastery up the mountain.
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In the 110 Tuscan heat, this is what we spent all of our time doing: creating shade. That is Russ, the sound guy on the left. Linda to his right. Barry, the director, is just visible beneath the umbrella, which is being held by Giulia. We rotated this chore.
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This last picture is a shot we were taking of John, the man of the house we were filming, riding his scooter away from the house and towards the small, medieval town of Sansepolcro, where he went to mass everyday.
Tomorrow I'll post some more photos.
5 comments:
I knew at the time that the experience would be funny if the cat survived, so let me tell you right up front that he's fine. Getting him out wasn't easy, though, and the process included numerous home remedies, a plumber, two cops, an emergency overnight veterinary clinic, a case of mistaken identity, five hours of panic, and fifteen minutes of fame.
First, some background. My husband, Rich, and I had just returned from a five-day spring-break vacation in the Cayman Islands, where I had been sick as a dog the whole time, trying to convince myself that if I had to feel lousy, it was better to do it in paradise. We had arrived home at 9 p.m., a day and a half later than we had planned because of airline problems. I still had illness-related vertigo and because of the flight delays had not been able to prepare the class I was supposed to teach at 8:40 the next morning. I sat down at my desk to think about William Carlos Williams, and around ten o'clock I heard Rich hollering something indecipherable from the kitchen. As I raced out to see what was wrong, I saw Rich frantically rooting around under the kitchen sink, and Rudy — or, rather, Rudy's headless body — scrambling around in the sink, his claws clicking in panic on the metal. Rich had just ground up the skin of some smoked salmon in the garbage disposal, and when he left the room, Rudy (whom we always did call a pinhead) had gone in after it.
It is very disturbing to see the headless body of your cat in the sink. This is an animal that I have slept with nightly for ten years, who burrows under the covers and purrs against my side, and who now looked like a desperate, fur-covered turkey carcass, set to defrost in the sink while it's still alive and kicking. It was also disturbing to see Rich, Mr. Calm-in-an-Emergency, at his wits end, trying to soothe Rudy, trying to undo the garbage disposal, failing at both, and basically freaking out. Adding to the chaos was Rudy's twin brother Lowell, also upset, racing around in circles, jumping onto the kitchen counter and alternately licking Rudy's butt for comfort and biting it out of fear. Clearly, I had to do something.
First we tried to ease Rudy out of the disposal by lubricating his head and neck. We tried Johnson's baby shampoo (kept on hand for my nieces' visits) and butter-flavored Crisco: both failed, and a now-greasy Rudy kept struggling. Rich then decided to take apart the garbage disposal, which was a good idea, but he couldn't do it. Turns out, the thing is constructed like a metal onion: you peel off one layer and another one appears, with Rudy's head still buried deep inside, stuck in a hard plastic collar. My job during this process was to sit on the kitchen counter petting Rudy, trying to calm him, with the room spinning (vertigo), Lowell howling (he's part Siamese), and Rich clattering around with tools.
When all our efforts failed, we sought professional help. I called our regular plumber, who actually called me back quickly, even at 11 o'clock at night (thanks, Dave). He talked Rich through further layers of disposal dismantling, but still we couldn't reach Rudy. I called the 1-800 number for Insinkerator (no response), a pest removal service that advertises 24-hour service (no response), an all-night emergency veterinary clinic (who had no experience in this matter, and so, no advice), and finally, in desperation, 911. I could see that Rudy's normally pink paw pads were turning blue. The fire department, I figured, gets cats out of trees; maybe they could get one out of a garbage disposal.
The dispatcher had other ideas and offered to send over two policemen. This suggestion gave me pause. I'm from the sixties, and even if I am currently a fine upstanding citizen, I had never considered calling the cops and asking them to come to my house, on purpose. I resisted the suggestion, but the dispatcher was adamant: "They'll help you out," he said.
The cops arrived close to midnight and turned out to be quite nice. More importantly, they were also able to think rationally, which we were not. They were, of course, quite astonished by the situation: "I've never seen anything like this," Officer Mike kept saying. (The unusual circumstances helped us get quickly on a first-name basis with our cops.) Officer Tom, who expressed immediate sympathy for our plight — "I've had cats all my life," he said, comfortingly — also had an idea. Evidently we needed a certain tool, a tiny, circular rotating saw, that could cut through the heavy plastic flange encircling Rudy's neck without hurting Rudy, and Officer Tom happened to own one. "I live just five minutes from here," he said; "I'll go get it." He soon returned, and the three of them — Rich and the two policemen — got under the sink together to cut through the garbage disposal. I sat on the counter, holding Rudy and trying not to succumb to the surreal-ness of the scene, with the weird middle-of-the-night lighting, the room's occasional spinning, Lowell's spooky sound effects, an apparently headless cat in my sink and six disembodied legs poking out from under it. One good thing came of this: the guys did manage to get the bottom off of the disposal, so we could now see Rudy's face and knew he could breathe. But they couldn't cut the flange without risking the cat. Stumped.
Officer Tom had another idea. "You know," he said, "I think the reason we can't get him out is the angle of his head and body. If we could just get the sink out and lay it on its side, Ill bet we could slip him out." That sounded like a good idea at this point. ANYTHING would have sounded like a good idea, and as it turned out, Officer Mike runs a plumbing business on weekends; he knew how to take out the sink! Again they went to work, the three pairs of legs sticking out from under the sink surrounded by an ever-increasing pile of tools and sink parts. They cut the electrical supply, capped off the plumbing lines, unfastened the metal clamps, unscrewed all the pipes, and about an hour later, voila! the sink was lifted gently out of the countertop, with one guy holding the garbage disposal (which contained Rudy's head) up close to the sink (which contained Rudy's body). We laid the sink on its side, but even at this more favorable removal angle, Rudy stayed stuck.
Officer Tom's radio beeped, calling him away on some kind of real police business. As he was leaving, though, he had another good idea: "You know," he said, "I don't think we can get him out while he's struggling so much. We need to get the cat sedated. If he were limp, we could slide him out." And off he went, regretfully, a cat lover still worried about Rudy. The remaining three of us decided that getting Rudy sedated was a good idea, but Rich and I were new to the area. We knew that the overnight emergency veterinary clinic was only a few minutes away, but we didn't know exactly how to get there. "I know where it is!" declared Officer Mike. "Follow me!" So Mike got into his patrol car, Rich got into the driver's seat of our car, and I got into the back, carrying the kitchen sink, what was left of the garbage disposal, and Rudy. It was now about 2:00 a.m. We followed Officer Mike for a few blocks when I decided to put my hand into the garbage disposal to pet Rudy's face, hoping I could comfort him. Instead, my sweet, gentle bedfellow chomped down on my finger hard, really hard, and wouldn't let go. My scream reflex kicked into gear, and I couldn't stop the noise. Rich slammed on the brakes, hollering "What? What happened? Should I stop?", checking us out in the rearview mirror. "No," I managed to get out between screams, "just keep driving. Rudy's biting me, but we've got to get to the vet. Just go!" Rich turned his attention back to the road, where Officer Mike took a turn we hadn't expected, and we followed. After a few minutes Rudy let go, and as I stopped screaming, I looked up to discover that we were wandering aimlessly through an industrial park, in and out of empty parking lots, past little streets that didn't look at all familiar. "Where's he taking us?" I asked. "We should have been there ten minutes ago!" Rich was as mystified as I was, but all we knew to do was follow the police car until, finally, he pulled into a church parking lot and we pulled up next to him. As Rich rolled down the window to ask, "Mike, where are we going?", the cop, who was not Mike, rolled down his window and asked, "Why are you following me?" Once Rich and I recovered from our shock at having tailed the wrong cop car and the policeman from his pique at being stalked, he led us quickly to the emergency vet, where Mike greeted us by holding open the door, exclaiming "Where were you guys???"
It was lucky that Mike got to the vet's ahead of us, because we hadn't thought to call and warn them about what was coming. (Clearly, by this time we weren't really thinking at all.) We brought in the kitchen sink containing Rudy and the garbage disposal containing his head, and the clinic staff was ready. They took his temperature (which was down 10 degrees) and his oxygen level (which was half of normal), and the vet declared: "This cat is in serious shock. We've got to sedate him and get him out of there immediately." When I asked if it was OK to sedate a cat in shock, the vet said grimly, "We don't have a choice." With that, he injected the cat; Rudy went limp; and the vet squeezed about half a tube of K-Y jelly onto the cat's neck and pulled him free. Then the whole team jumped into "code blue" mode. (I know this from watching a lot of ER.) They laid Rudy on a cart, where one person hooked up IV fluids, another put little socks on his paws ("You'd be amazed how much heat they lose through their pads," she said), one covered him with hot water bottles and a blanket, and another took a blow-dryer to warm up Rudy's now very gunky head. The fur on his head dried in stiff little spikes, making him look rather pathetically punk as he lay there, limp and motionless. At this point they sent Rich, Mike, and me to sit in the waiting room while they tried to bring Rudy back to life. I told Mike he didn't have to stay, but he just stood there, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said again. At about 3 a.m, the vet came in to tell us that the prognosis was good for a full recovery. They needed to keep Rudy overnight to re-hydrate him and give him something for the brain swelling they assumed he had, but if all went well, we could take him home the following night. Just in time to hear the good news, Officer Tom rushed in, finished with his real police work and concerned about Rudy. I figured that once this ordeal was over and Rudy was home safely, I would have to re-think my position on the police.
Rich and I got back home about 3:30. We hadn't unpacked from our trip, I was still intermittently dizzy, and I still hadn't prepared my 8:40 class. "I need a vacation," I said, and while I called the office to leave a message canceling my class, Rich made us a pitcher of martinis.
I slept late the next day and then badgered the vet about Rudy's condition until he said that Rudy could come home later that day. I was working on the suitcases when the phone rang. "Hi, this is Steve Huskey from the Norristown Times-Herald," a voice told me. "Listen, I was just going through the police blotter from last night. Mostly it's the usual stuff breaking and entering, petty theft but there's this one item. Um, do you have a cat?" So I told Steve the whole story, which interested him. A couple hours later he called back to say that his editor was interested, too; did I have a picture of Rudy? The next day Rudy was front-page news, under the ridiculous headline "Catch of the Day Lands Cat in Hot Water."
There were some noteworthy repercussions to the newspaper article. Mr. Huskey had somehow inferred that I called 911 because I thought Rich, my husband, was going into shock, although how he concluded this from my comment that "his pads were turning blue," I don't quite understand. So the first thing I had to do was call Rich at work Rich, who had worked tirelessly to free Rudy — and swear that I had been misquoted. When I arrived at work myself, I was famous; people had been calling my secretary all morning to inquire about Rudy's health. When I called our regular vet (whom I had met only once) to make a follow-up appointment for Rudy, the receptionist asked, "Is this the famous Rudy's mother?" When I brought my car in for routine maintenance a few days later, Dave, my mechanic, said, "We read about your cat. Is he OK?" When I called a tree surgeon about my dying red oak, he asked if I knew the person on that street whose cat had been in the garbage disposal. And when I went to get my hair cut, the shampoo person told me the funny story her grandma had read in the paper, about a cat who got stuck in the garbage disposal. Even today, over a year later, people ask about Rudy, whom a 9-year-old neighbor had always called "the Adventure Cat" because he used to climb on the roof of her house and peer in the second-story window at her.
I don't know what the moral of this story is, but I do know that this "adventure" cost me $1100 in emergency vet bills, follow-up vet care, new sink, new plumbing, new electrical wiring, and new garbage disposal, one with a cover. The vet can no longer say he's seen everything but the kitchen sink. I wanted to thank Officers Tom and Mike by giving them gift certificates to the local hardware store, but was told that they couldn't accept gifts, that I would put them in a bad position if I tried. So I wrote a letter to the Police Chief praising their good deeds and sent individual thank-you notes to Tom and Mike, complete with pictures of Rudy, so they could see what he looks like with his head on. And Rudy, whom we originally got for free (or so we thought), still sleeps with me under the covers on cold nights and unaccountably, he still sometimes prowls the sink, hoping for fish.
Fizzle score n seven years ago our fatha brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, n dedicated ta tha proposizzles that all men is created equal.
Now we is engaged in a bootylicious civil W-to-tha-izzar, test'n whetha that nation, or any nation, so conceived, n so dedicizzle can long endure. We is met here on a bootylicious battlefield of tizzle war. We have come ta dedicate a portion of it as a final perpetratin' place fo` those who here gave they lives that that nation mizzay live. It is altogetha fitt'n n propa thizzat we should do this.
But in a bitch sense we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow this ground n shit. The brave miznen, liv'n n dead, who struggled, here, have consecrated it far above our poor motherfucka ta add or detract. The world will shawty note, nor long rememba, what we say here, but can poser forget whizzay they did here . Boom bam as I step in the jam, God damn. It is fo` us, tha liv'n, brotha ta be dedicated here ta tha unfinished wizzy which they have, thus fizzy so nobly carried on , niggaz, better recognize. It is shot calla fo` us ta be hizzle dedicated ta tha bootylicious task remain'n before us -- tizzle from these honored dead we takes increazed devotion ta thiznat cause fo` which they hizzle gave tha last fiznull measure of devotion -- tizzy we hizzle highly resolve thizzay these dead shall not have died in vain; tizzy this nation shizzall have a new birth of freedom; n thiznat this government of tha people, by tha people, fo` tha people, shiznall not perish fizzy tha earth.
i'm quite confused.
There was a time when the people of my village were safe. It was a long time in the past but the old ones spoke of it. It was hard to believe there had been a time when the wolf had not ruled my people. Since I was but a child, I had heard the stories of life before the wolf had come. They were like fairy tales in my village, told and retold but rarely believed.
But, alas, the wolf had come. And the stories of life before he came became just stories, told often and told well but hard to believe for those of us who had been born after the wolf arrived. The wolf ruled the village with an iron fist and there was no way a story could change that.
I was born on the third day of the sixth month during the 20th year of the wolf's reign over our village. It was said my mother screamed out in horror when she was told I was a girl. I was her first baby and she knew what that meant. The wolf ran the village and the wolf made the rules we lived by. And one of his first rules was if the first child of a village couple was a girl child, that girl child became his property on her 18th birthday.
The wolf was not just a wolf. If he was, perhaps the village men would have risen up and struck him down. But even if they had tried, it would have been hopeless. The wolf was more of a cross between a wolf and a man but he had the strength, it seemed, of a hundred men. No one ever spoke of trying to overpower the wolf or put an end to his reign over the village. It was said to even think those thoughts would bring about your instant death.
I had known since I was old enough to walk what my fate would be. No one knew exactly what happened to the women sent to the wolf but it had been decreed long before and no one was about to stop sending the first born girl children to the wolf.
He lived in a very large, very dark castle on the top of the hill that overlooked the village. Day and night, it was impossible to ignore it as it stood its solitary vigil over us all. I continued to live as any child would as I was not going to let the castle on the hill rob me of my entire life. So I grew up a carefree girl, filled with very little in the way of dreams for my fate had been foretold.
The day of my 18th birthday started like almost every other day of my life except this one I was awakened by the sad sound of my mother crying. I quickly got out of my bed and went to her, trying to comfort her. I put my arms tightly around her and held her close. But none of my words and none of my touches could stop her tears. She knew this was the last day she would ever see me.
He would come for me at noon. He always came for the girl at noon. And over time, a ritual had developed. If he had decried it or if it had become something to soften the loss, the taking of the girl had become somewhat of a festival.
The women of the village arrived at our home shortly after sunrise. The morning was spent preparing me. I was bathed and perfumed and a gown that was specially made for the occasion lain out and prepared. It was cut from the finest silk, in glaringly bright white. The neckline was low, cutting across the tops of my breasts, and adorned with hand-embroidered red roses. A crown of red roses, strewn together with white silk ribbons, was made to rest on top of my head.
My long brown curls were washed and brushed until they shined. The curls were tight and bounced prettily against my shoulders, which the dress left provocatively bare.
The dress itself was rather simple. The sleeves fell open at the wrists and the edging again was embroidered with red roses. The dress was gathered with one red silk ribbon below my breasts then the skirt fell fluidly and fully to the ground. Beautiful white silk slippers were made to fit my feet perfectly.
A red stain was applied to my pale pink lips, making them stand out against my fair skin. My curls were artfully arranged before the crown was set upon my head. Ribbons of silk fell from it to wander and twirl about my curls. The women then led me to the village square, where I stood, alone in my beautiful gown, waiting for him.
As the village church bell rang out the twelve sorrowful tones of the hour, he came into the village. He did not show himself: no one in the village had actually laid eyes on the Wolf for as long as could be remembered. Instead, he arrived inside a coach which pulled before the platform. There was a man driving the coach but he did not speak nor look anywhere but ahead. It was said he was a mute but no one knew for sure.
A small window opened in the coach and a loud low voice was heard.
"Send the girl," was all he said. A hand touched my back but I did not need to be forced. I walked with my head high to the coach, opened the door and stepped inside.
It was very dark inside the coach and I could make nothing out of the Wolf, if it was indeed him inside. He was buried deep in a corner and wearing a cloak that fell over his eyes. Even when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was still an enigma.
The coach moved out of the village and began the climb up the long road that led to the Wolf's castle. Nothing more was said, either by him or by me, as we made our way to his home. When the coach came to a stop, the coachman climbed down and opened the door for me, extending his arm. The Wolf did not move. I took the coachman's arm and climbed from the coach. He led me to the door, which opened as we approached. He stopped at the doorway but indicated I should continue on inside.
Whether the castle was magical or not, I could not tell you but somehow as soon as I stepped inside the door, I knew exactly where I was supposed to go. I walked down a very long hallway until I had passed three doors on my left. At the fourth door, I turned and entered the room.
It was a very dark and cold room with nothing to offer in the way of comfort. But in the center of the room was a tall platform. I moved towards it and stood facing it. It was as I stood there that the Wolf entered the room.
I could see him now and he was definitely a wolf. He walked on two legs but his face and body looked wolfen. He stood well over 8 feet tall, I estimated, as he crossed to me where I stood before the platform.
"What are you?" he asked me.
I did not understand the question and opened my mouth to ask him what he meant but instead I said "I am your bitch, Master."
"And what do you wish of me?" he asked.
Again, I did not understand and wished to ask for clarification but when I opened my mouth, I said "To be mounted by you, Master."
He did not seem at all surprised by my answers and responded "So be it" as he lifted me quite easily and set me on the platform. He pushed my beautiful silk gown up around my waist and spread my legs with his clawed hands. It was then I looked up and saw his wolf boner; it was hard and long and thick. I cried out in terror "Master!"
His long claws tenderly caressed the skin of my inner thighs as he asked softly once more "What do you wish of me?"
And despite the size of his enormous purple headed pleasure rod and the fear in me, I heard myself saying "I want you to mount me, Master!"
"So be it!" he howled with animal fury as he entered me with one quick thrust, tearing thru my maidenhead and burying his wolf cock deep inside my human pudding of passion. I began to cry out in ecstasy, not understanding this wonderful feeling he was causing to build up inside me but knowing I had never felt anything so incredibly beautiful before. Tears welled in my eyes as the pleasure grew higher and wider until it became as wild and untamable as my Master. I rode a wave, a surge of energy, unlike anything I had ever felt before or since. It was magic, it had to be. And just when I thought that I would die, the feeling being far too intense for me to handle, it felt as if an explosion went off inside of me just as the Wolf came, spilling his seed inside my womb. And as his seed continued to spill, filling me, I lost consciousness.
I vaguely remembered being carried by the Wolf down a long cold passageway but I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I felt very safe and warm with him so I was not concerned. I buried my face against his hairy chest and let him carry me. When I finally came completely to my senses, I saw that he was setting me down upon a low lying bed. I looked up at him with a question in my eyes, not understanding. But I soon lost sight of him as women, dozens of them, of all ages began to crush in upon us. They were all murmuring and screeching and talking at the same time. I could not make out what they were saying until suddenly he growled loudly and low in his throat. The women immediately became silent and backed away, letting him pass. He turned and was gone.
It was as he faded from my sight that my jumbled brain finally figured out what the women had been saying when he silenced them: "Master, please mount me!"
Welcome to the Circus Maximus.
Allow me to be annoyingly pedantic. And, I fear, some of what I'm about to say may be incorrect, so I apologize for any amount of authority in the tone, if, that is, it detectable at all. The truth is, one can never be too sure about these things.
The Circus Maximus is one of, I believe, the more interesting historical sites of Rome. Many of the early scholars on ancient Rome misread certain key historical texts, and erroneously assumed that where these texts said most of the early Christians were killed in the "Arena", what they meant was "Colosseum." Though there is still much scholarly debate about this, from what I gather as an amateur historian is that the argument is tilting more and more towards the Circus Maximus. The Colosseum was for more professional sports; killing Christians was no sport at all. For mass killings they needed larger areas. Using their line of reason, it was probably much more fun to watch a lion chase a man over the large distance offered by the Circus Maximus, than to watch one go round in tight circles at the Colosseum. This is what my professional historian teachers have told me, at least. What is unfortunate about the Circus Maximus is apparant in the picture: there is nothing left. Nothing. Not even a stone. There aren't even any markers indicating the historical importance of the place; if indeed my teachers' arguments can be trusted, this is a travesty. What can be seen in the distance are the ruins of the Palantine hill, the hill upon which Romulus famously (though mythically) established Rome. It is also where we get the word "Palace." Beyond that is the Capitoline hill, where we get another important word, "Capitol."
In 1749, Pope Benedetto XIV ("Benedetto" literally means "well read"; for all intents and purposes, we shall now refer to him as "Pope Wellread the 14th") declared the Colosseum a religious monument. The Colosseum still stands today because of this assumption that Christians were killed in there, maimed, crucified, burned, fed to lions, and all sorts of other generally unpleasant things. There is a fair chance that they were, especially in the middle years of the Roman Empire (ho-hum estimation: 150-250) but the most revered group of these early martyrs, died in the Circus Maximus, which is not standing. The Circus Maximus was about 2000 feet long and about 400 feet wide. It could seat a quarter of a million spectators: 5 times as many as the Colosseum. I imagine it was pretty spectacular.
When (and if) Nero famously burned Rome to the ground, he did not play the violin, since the violin would not be invented for another 1500 years, but he very well may have played the lyre. One way or the other, some believe his intention was to clear out a section of Rome, where he wanted to build his "Domus Aurea," or, "Golden Palace." The area of Rome burned? Mostly right where the Colosseum stands today. The fire started just a little ways behind where I stood when I took this picture to the right. This is no coincidence. Nero succeeded in building his Golden Palace. A few years later, under the emperor Vespasian, the Golden Palace was largely demolished. On top of it, the Colosseum was constructed. But the Golden Palace, in its day, was one of the most decadent buildings of the ancient world, something sure to be costly and sure to generate a fair amount of unrest in a populace whose homes had just been burned. In order to save himself a little bit from an angry mob, he declared quite simple that it was the Christians who set fire to Rome. It was a brilliant political move, almost as brilliant as when, some 200 odd years later, another emperor, Constantine, would declare Christianity the official state religion. At the time, the Christians were a small, growing religious group who operated in secrecy and who were led by two names I'm sure we all know: Peter and Paul. After Nero used them as a scapegoat, the Christians were rounded up. Here is a passage from the Roman historian Tacitus:
Consequently, to get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus, and a most mischievous superstition, thus checked for the moment, again broke out not only in Judaea, the first source of the evil, but even in Rome, where all things hideous and shameful from every part of the world find their centre and become popular. Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind. Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired
The place where much of this happened, it would appear, is in the Circus Maximus. The fire was in 64AD; the Colosseum would not be built for another decade, would not be completed for another 2.
Fleeing the city, Peter had his famous "Quo Vadis" vision in which Jesus appeared to him as he walked along the Appian Way (which is what I drive along when coming into the city in my roommate's car), heading towards Rome. Peter asked him "Where are you going?" to which Jesus replied something along the lines of, "To be crucified again." Peter, ashamed of himself, turned and walked back to Rome, to be crucified upside down.
I believe most of the Christians were killed on the other side of the Tiber, near where St. Peter's stands. But the possibility that much of it happened here, in Rome's first and largest circus, cannot be ruled out. Even if these assumptions are incorrect, there must've been a helluva lot of amazing chariot races.
This is where I go to read books in the afternoon.
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