Circa 38 AD. A crowd gathers before a small atrium in Rome, at the foot of a hill, in preparation for a showing in the final day of the Ludi Scaenici. It is dusk and the autumnal air is tinged with a slight chill. A porter accepts a quincunx from each attendee, and cracks a few jokes with his rotund companion about the excesses of Gaius, to which a man in the crowd rejoins a comment about hermaphrodism that is lost entirely on all but him.
Inside the atrium the crowd seats itself on the rows of concrete benches. The low murmur of anticipation builds as men and women file into the open space. Two boys distribute a type of honey-roasted meat for a semuncia, and the director - Sextus Luminus - steps onto the raised stage. The murmur dies down, only to start again moments later when the director makes no indication of wanting to speak. He stands there, silently, until the entire crowd is seated. A few minutes pass, and the opinion is formed generally that he emerged onto the stage too soon.
Finally, he speaks. It is an oration both terse and poignant. Silence falls. It becomes immediately apparent that the man possesses no sense of humour or wit, and the room's expectations of levity begin to fade. He finishes his brief introduction, nods solemnly, and steps off the stage.
The curtain is drawn, and a playwright is pushed forward by two large and muscular men. The playwright, his hands tied behind his back and a bundle of papers shoved ignominiously into his mouth, stands sheepishly in the front of the stage. A whip is drawn behind him, and cracked into the darkness off stage. The playwright jumps, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and begins to dance.
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