by Morgan Wade
He couldn’t have known that Patrick Constantine would also be attending, in an official capacity.
FOURTEEN
“I beseech you, oh Isis and Ceres, all you holy ghosts of the Greens, to invoke your magic, weave your spell, speak your true names. I beseech you to thwart the Blues, bind their legs, benumb their arms, strain their sinews, addle their heads, hobble their horses, break their wheels, whip sand in their eyes, muddy the earth at their hooves, and shatter their chariots at the metae. Make this the last race Nicostratus ever contests. Let’s go you Greens!”
Tertius pulled several handfuls of grain from a leather pouch and hurled them towards the track over the heads of the spectators in front. Several of those seated below craned their necks to see who was pelting them with barley.
Marcus pulled Tertius’ tunic and whispered up to him.
“Sit down!”
The expressions on the furrowed faces looking back from the lower tier were familiarly dark. Marcus had been anxious all day. There was ferment in the thick, miasmatic air. Anything could happen.
“You’re making enemies.”
Tertius made a tempting target encased in a brilliant green toga, interwoven with twigs, leaves, and moss, and a pouch of grain bulging at his waist. His face was daubed with streaks of green and brown dyes and an absurd, makeshift sheaf of wheat stalks crowned his head. He was bedecked in the typical fashion of a Green team zealot on race day.
“Do you honestly think that hocus pocus works?” Marcus asked when his friend finally sat down.
Tertius sniffed.
“You’ll thank me when those beautiful Greens come thundering across the finish line and you get your cut.”
“You’re part of his syndicate?” Secundus asked.
“Tertius still owes me from cards this week and last. This is the only way I can collect. He claims to have an insider tip. I get two thirds of the take.”
“How much invested?”
“Fifty denarii.”
Their colleagues whistled.
“I don’t know why you’re all so shocked,” Tertius said, “you’re all betting on the Greens aren’t you? Primus?”
“Of course. Green until I die. But only four denarii. I make sure I eat this week.”
Gnaeus, just returned from the food stalls with a fist full of dried herring and a pot of garum to dip them in, grunted as he took his seat again.
“The wise money is on Blue. You’re all fools. Especially you Tertius. Nico hasn’t lost a race all week, and by Mithras, he’ll win again today.”
“Curses on Nicostratus!”
Tertius pelted Gnaeus with barley and a short, explosive Baetican phrase.
Primus, Secundus, and Tertius, uniformly jovial at work and at the caupona and just about any time Marcus had ever been in their company, were overtaken by a singular type of madness at the track, a delirium that infected the greater portion of the city on race days.
“What kind of despicable traitor rides for the Greens for two years and then switches factions, just like that?” Secundus asked.
“A Pannonian,” replied the Gaul, “and a damn fine rider at that. The whelp is a natural Blue.”
“The jingling of a big bag of silver woke him up. Bought by the emperor.”
“Caracallus shouldn’t interfere with the races,” Marcus ventured. “It’s not sporting.”
“I didn’t know you cared,” Gnaeus said, between mouthfuls of herring, “I didn’t know you wagered.”
“I don’t, usually.”
Xander leaned forward from his seat one row behind Marcus.
“A wise policy Briton,” he said. “Ab educatore, ne in circo spectator Prasianus aut Venetianus neve parmularius aut scutarius fierem, ut labores sustinerem, paucis indigerem, ipse operi manus admoverem, rerum alienarum non essem curiosus nec facile delationem admitterem.”
When no-one responded to his offered bait, as was typical, the ancient Greek continued of his own accord.
“Marcus Aurelius,” he said tersely, “one of your own.”
No response.
“In his meditations.”
The conversation a row below had already moved on to discussing the relative fitness of the stallion quartets assembling ahead of their chariots at the carceres. But Marcus was listening. A picture of his forlorn grandfather’s face presented itself to his mind’s eye. Once more, he chided himself for forgetting his parting gift. I must remember to send for it.
“Written in Greek. They were notes to himself. He didn’t intend to publish them. Most scholars aren’t even aware that the journal exists.”
An argument arose between Simon and Tertius on whether the grey Barbary stallion from Mauritania racing for the Greens should be yoked to the all-important centre-right position, or if he would be better setting the pace on the inside, traced on the outer left.
“A lot of personal observations. Not overly rigorous.”
Secundus mocked Primus and Anthony for their insistence that the Egyptian should drive the Green team, not Felix, the Galatian, who was suited up and was at that moment checking the harnesses and other gear.
“Mostly derivative of Greek thinking, of course.”
As with most of Xander’s speeches, this one started strong, waned quickly, and then, as it was steadily abandoned by listeners, it died from neglect. It was clear that his words were being whisked away by the breeze sighing through their section of the cavea and he was no longer reaching his younger associates. He capitulated and ceased talking.
Marcus turned to ask Xander if he had a copy of the Emperor’s journal and whether he might be able to borrow it. But the crowd roared, the heavy doors of the carceres burst open, chariots and horses rumbled out; the race had begun. Almost immediately, the overeager horses of the first Green chariot charged into the alba linea, and stumbled against that heavy, chalked rope that staggered the starting line. The Green chariot was upset and the driver thrown to the dirt track.
“Oh by Isis and all that is worth living for! That was a foul by Nicostratus was it not!”
Gnaeus sucked another dried herring into his mouth.
“He didn’t touch him,” he said, “that was just poor driving. Nico, as brilliant as he is, couldn’t have orchestrated a take-out like that on the start.”
“The alba linea was too close, too close!”
“Nonsense. Bad driving.”
The rest of the teams, one Green, two Blue, one Red and one White, successfully bypassed the fallen chariot and rattled down the eleven hundred feet of the straightaway. The tempo was furious as the tethered beasts strained at their harnesses, wild-eyed and snorting, and their young, willowy drivers leaned back from their riding platforms as far as they dared, a web of leather leads lashed about their forearms. The pell-mell rush, the frenzied limbs of horses and men, the smell of sweat and desperation, and the verbal violence in the stands; Marcus had been to a few pony races back in Verulamium, nothing like this.
By the time the three ovoid stones had gone up on the spina and the race was at its midpoint, the lead Blue and Green chariots were two abreast, having opened up a sizeable lead on the other two teams. Red retired partway through the second lap. Shouts of encouragement and abuse, cheers and imprecations rained down on the competitors from the enthralled multitude in the cavea, now on their feet. Felix, the Galatian driver of the Green team, made a bold move to cut inside of the Blues at the meta secunda, taking advantage of the narrow gap uncharacteristically allowed by Nicostratus. It was a risky manoeuvre; he missed shattering his chariot against the columns and statuary at the end of the spina by no more than a cubit. Nicostratus was forced to take a wide approach to the corner or risk injuring his horses in the machinery of the Green chariot and Felix emerged from that meta with a slight lead going into the fourth lap.
“Blessed be! Praises to Ceres! Praises to Isis!”
Tertius was again on his feet hurling barley.
Nicostratus was far from out of the race. On the back
stretch, he quickly re-gained the ground, galloped alongside and whipped at the Green team horses, hoping to strike an exposed eye. The second Blue team had also crept up to the front-runners and was attempting to help Nicostratus box in the Greens and drive them into the spina.
As they converged on the corner of the meta prima and prepared for their turn onto the back stretch for the last half of the fourth lap, the thudding left wheel on Nicostratus’ chariot broke, crumpling along a portion of its circumference, causing the platform to buck wildly. Nicostratus had been leaning back at an impossible angle, reining in his team to manage the corner and when the chariot jolted, he lost his balance and fell from his vehicle onto the unforgiving track. He could not cut himself free before tumbling out and the horses dragged him and his disabled chariot another ten paces. The second Blue team swerved abruptly to avoid trampling the unconscious racing star, but then ended up colliding with the spina, causing them to lurch from the inside to the outside of the track, stopping in a tangled mess at the track’s stone edge.
Only the Green team emerged from the meta prima unscathed. Half a lap back, the Whites had been able to weave slowly through the hazards successfully, but by the time they reached the back stretch, they found themselves at least three quarters of a lap behind. Suddenly, the way seemed clear for the Greens.
Gnaeus exploded.
“Treachery!”
“No treachery,” Tertius said breathlessly, “divine intervention.”
As Felix pulled his chariot competently around the meta secundus and on to the lower straightaway, slowing his pace to conserve the energy of his four stallions, a half dozen officials flooded the track waving big yellow and black flags. They waved the Galatian over to the side of the track, signaling to him to slow his speed, and eventually he rolled to a stop. The White team caught up and was directed to do the same.
Tertius now stood erect. His grain pouch was empty.
“What is going on? What are they doing?”
“Never in all my years at the races have I seen them stop a race for something like this.”
Across from Marcus and his colleagues, nearest the exclusive, reserved seats with the best sightlines, where the governor, quaestors, praetors, and other magistrates and dignitaries all sat, a herald flanked by city officials was on the track holding a large, brass cone to his lips. He addressed the crowd in that section, but his words did not extend to the cheaper seats.
“What’s he saying?”
Gnaeus heaved himself forward in his seat, his dewy eyes sparkling.
“I’m sure he’s explaining that the Greens have been found guilty of foul play. And that the race needs to be re-run.”
Marcus was skeptical.
“A city herald? Why him? Why not a race official?”
Tertius tore at the moss and twigs fixed to his robe.
“But they can’t stop the race now! That’s preposterous! Unprecedented! This is a Blue trick. They’ve paid off the race officials!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
The crowd within earshot of the herald had suddenly gone quiet.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with the race,” Marcus said. He stiffened in his seat. His earlier apprehension had found its object. Whatever had been brewing was now bubbling over.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, if they were stopping the race due to a Green foul, you’d be hearing a big protest from that side. Listen. Nothing.”
“And look! The crowds! They’re starting to leave!”
“It looks like the race won’t be re-run today.”
Finally, the herald had finished his address to the folks in the choice seats and had come around to give his announcement to those in Marcus’ section.
“Your attention please!” the man hollered into the megaphone. “We have received news by dispatch that on the morning of the seventh day of the Ludi Romani, a horde of barbarians invaded Rome, and caused considerable damage to the city of the Emperor.”
A collective gasp went up from Marcus’ section. They were expecting a ruling on the fourth lap.
“Does this mean they’re not going to let the race finish?”
“Tertius, be quiet.”
“We don’t know exactly from whence they came,” the herald continued, “they may have attacked the Emporium and burned it to the ground.”
“They may have also destroyed Trajan’s Forum.”
Marcus’ side of the circus was now silent too.
“We don’t know how many savages there are. We don’t know their intentions. The Praetorian Guard captured no prisoners. The attackers immolated themselves.”
Disapproval rippled through the cavea.
“More attacks may be imminent, here or in Rome. Today’s races are postponed indefinitely. We ask that you go home, peacefully and in an orderly manner. Messengers in the city squares will keep you apprised of the situation and give you further instruction.”
All wore the same, blank, stunned look. No-one knew how to respond to such an unexpected intrusion into race day. Lacking any other course of action, the crowd obediently queued up for the exits from the circus. As he stood, digesting the announcement, Marcus was surprised to find himself thinking on Aurelius’ journal again.
“Xander, do you have a copy of the Emperor’s journal?” he whispered up to the old Greek, who was just ahead of him in line.
Xander laughed.
“Jupiter no! There are maybe five or six copies in the whole world.”
“Then, how do you know so much about it.”
“I studied a copy when I was in Alexandria for a spell. The library had a copy, not sure if they still do. It may have been destroyed in the purge.”
“What purge?”
“Vae! The massacre at Alexandria. You’ve not heard of it?”
“No, sorry, news doesn’t travel quickly to Verulamium.”
“Ah, yes of course, no matter.”
Xander, pleased to find a willing listener, went on to share everything he knew about what happened at Alexandria. He explained that Caracallus was furious with the scholars of Alexandria that they should question his authority. The Alexandrians had satirized the emperor for how he took to the throne, by murdering his brother. He’d already gone so far as to burn the books of the Aristotelians studying in that city, due to his conviction that Aristotle was responsible for the death of Alexander. He paid the city an imperial visit, proclaiming to be the reincarnation of the great Macedonian, declaring his intention to bestow many honours on the city. A delegation of the best and brightest Alexandrians, many of whom Xander claimed as old friends and colleagues, met the emperor at the city’s outskirts and he had them all slaughtered. Then he had the city looted and burned.
“Whether that particular copy of the emperor’s journal survived or not is anybody’s guess.”
The herald had raised the brass cone to his mouth again.
“That is all. Please leave the circus immediately. Thank you.”
FIFTEEN
Sebastian was breathless when he arrived at the street corner, pushing damp hanks of hair from his face. Mark, Nasir and Sura looked up from their lunches of spicy Thai noodles in Styrofoam bowls, the takeout that Mark had brought. He’d become so familiar with the Parthians that he now spent an occasional lunch hour with them, bringing along a picnic.
“We must leave,” Sebastian said to them, “please follow me.”
Nasir and Sura put aside their meals and began to pack up their belongings, bundling clothing and keepsakes into their blankets. Mark still had chopsticks at his lips, watching in amazement. He turned to Sebastian.
“You might as well come too,” he said.
Mark got to his feet leisurely, slurping more noodles into his mouth, watching him from the corner of his eye. Sebastian threw one of Sura’s half-finished bundles to the ground. He propped a crutch roughly under her arm and prodded her forward.
“Leave it! There isn’t time!”
; “She’s not a mule!” Mark tugged at Sebastian’s shirt. The young activist halted. His thin, contorted face relaxed.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. But we must hurry. Mark could you please help Sura? I’ll pick up this extra bag. Leave everything else. Come. I know a place we can go.”
Mark gave Sura his arm, Nasir hoisted their bundles and Sebastian led them away. They reached Corner Convenience at the next intersection and he ushered them through the heavy glass doors. The man at the counter, his hair shiny black and neatly parted, lowered his newspaper. He took a pen from the collection in the breast pocket of his striped, button-down shirt, yellowed at the armpits, and used it to smooth the thin, dark moustache tracing his upper lip. Glancing at the group over his reading glasses he gave Sebastian a quick, non-committal nod and raised his paper.
Sebastian shepherded them through the shop to the magazine section.
“This will be fine. Pick a magazine. Peruse.”
Mark stifled a laugh seeing Sura pick up Maximum Fitness. Nasir held Martha Stewart Living.
Sebastian helped Sura onto the cracked cushion of a steel, vinyl backed chair.
“Put your blanket at your knees,” he continued, placing and draping the blanket himself, to obscure her stump, “try to look natural.”
“What’s going on Sebastian?”
Sebastian took Mark to the front counter and scanned the street from the large, plate glass window.
“Rick Reid.”
“Who?”
“The Reverend Rick Reid. Senior pastor of Super Shepherd Ministries and newest congressional candidate for this district.”
“The man from the giant church?”
Mark recalled an article from the paper titled Place of Worshopping about a local pastor and his cathedral that occupied one hundred and fifty suburban acres.
“Yes, the billionaire Baptist. Ever since he decided to run for congress he’s been making noise about cleaning up the streets in his district. These streets. He’s on the radio or on TV every week, calling out the mayor, calling out the police, demanding something be done to make this neighbourhood safer, more Christian. The drug addicts, the prostitutes, the small time crooks, the mentally ill, the homeless, they all need to be swept from downtown.”
