“Is it time to pick the draft order?” I wanted to put harshness in my voice but I detected only whine. Why am I the only one who is antsy to know the order of the draft?
“Fine, Decimus, fine, let’s do it now.” The easily irritable Bassus retorted dryly.
Calvus stood up, took one last swig of his watered wine, grimaced and dropped his clay cup noisily on the table. Then he moved towards the nearest wall and beckoned us to follow him.
Attalus, Bassus, Calvus and I were at the Hungry Rooster Inn, a tavern on the Esquilinus side of the Subura. We had decided to spend the evening at the tavern and leave for Circus Maximus by the seventh hour of the night. You must arrive by the crack of dawn to find a seat at the Circus on a race day.
We would not had waited for tonight to draft our fantasy teams had the race cards been distributed earlier than this afternoon. Not that we absolutely need the race cards. We know who the best charioteers are. We know how many races they had won with two-horse drawn chariots and with four-horse drawn chariots. We know the horses and their pedigrees. And yet, race cards advertising drivers and horses and listing who is racing when and against whom are an indispensable memory tool.
We had a choice of drafting in the afternoon, sleep for a couple of hours, get up grumpy and probably stay grumpy for the rest of day. Clearly, spending the evening at the Hungry Rooster Inn was a more appealing option.
“May my new tali bring me luck.” said Bassus while opening the small wooden box where his knuckle-bone dice were kept.
“I do not like to use new tali” complained Attalus.
“These are the only ones we have” I replied as we approached the wall.
Dice are thrown in the reverse order of the standing of the last race. Bassus will start with Attalus, who won the previous time, casting the dice last. While Bassus was shaking the dice in his hands, I thought I saw him whisper a quick prayer. Our eyes darted after the dice as they hit the wall and rolled back.
“Dog throw.” said the laconic Calvus calmly.
Sure enough, dice were showing four ones. Too bad for Bassus. Good, I said under my breath. I will not be the last one to pick. Calvus was next.
“Venus throw” exclaimed Attalus who was the closest to the wall as the dice cast by Calvus came to rest showing I, III, IV and VI.
Lucky Calvus. Venus throw is the best possible throw. Unless Fortune smiles upon me, Calvus will be the first one to pick.
I was next. I thought of calling upon Neptunus Equester to whom the races are dedicated. Not remembering when I made a sacrifice in his name, I decided against it. I threw the dice. My eyes darted after them.
“Stesichorus” I yelled excitedly when I saw two Is and two VIs. Most likely stesichorus will give me the second draft pick.
I noticed that a tavern girl had approached us and was standing behind me. With a voice that would make any guy feel strong, invincible and horny she asked: “Who is winning?”
Brilliant question, right to the point. Pay attention. Wherever there are dice, there is gambling. Wherever there is gambling, there is money. Whoever is winning has what she is after. How can the winner resist his vanity and not reply to her?
“We are not playing for money.” I indicated solemnly after half-turning to face her. She was no more than twenty years of age. She looked older when I noticed her earlier across the poorly lit room.
I added “We are picking the order for our serpentine draft.”
“Sure, now you are going to tell me that this is some kind of a religious service”
“No, no…. ah, forget it” How do you explain a snake draft? In any case, she was not interested. Not seeing any coins on the ground, she had reached a quick and I must sadly add, accurate opinion of us and had left. By the time I had turned my attention back to my friends, Attalus has thrown the dice. As I had hoped, he will pick after me.
On the way back to our table, even before we sat down and had a chance to take our styli and wax tablets out of our satchels, Calvus uttered a single word.
“Diocles”
Darn Calvus. Diocles is the best charioteers there is, head and shoulder above anyone else.
I wish Scorpus were alive“ I yearned with melancholy for the greatest charioteer of my youth.
“But he is not“ said Calvus while giving a quick shoulder shrug.
“Nor is Thallus“ added Bassus.
I must think fast. I have the second pick. Who should I choose? A chariot faction or another charioteer? Our fantasy teams consisted of eight charioteers and one of the four chariot teams. No other charioteer stands out as Diocles. He will do well for his team. I concluded that I should pick his team.
“Red team“ I said while sending quick looks around to see if any of my competitors had any reaction to my choice. Everyone was busy writing on their wax tablets although I thought I saw Bassus swear silently.
“Your turn, Attalus“I suggested, knowing that even in the first round Attalus will take his own sweet time.
Two hours later our draft was completed and teams were transcribed from the wax tablets to four small pieces of parchment. Everyone gave me 20 sesterces to keep, not a large amount of money and yet a considerable sum for Attalus who, working as a tutor, was paid poorly. The winner will get 60 sesterces; the runner up will get his money back.
Clamor of voices and of shuffling feet coming from the street told us that it was time to pay the bill and leave. A tavern slave filled half of a wine-skin with wine; we will fill it up with water from one of the many fountains along the way.
We stopped at the door and helped Attalus drape his toga over his shoulders to ensure that he is not excluded from the Circus. Only citizens were allowed. Attalus was a freedman.
The First Race
The alley outside the tavern was lit as daytime by the many torches carried by the throng on their way to Circus Maximus. Despite the heat and smoke rising from the torches the night was pleasant as generally the weather was in Rome around this time of the year.
This brings me to today. The calendar posted in the Forum indicated that it was the fifth day before the ides of Julius. After waiting nearly half a month for today’s races, we anxiously joined the crowd. To reach Circus Maximus we must traverse the labyrinth of narrow alleys that is the Subura, cross the Forum Romanum, go down the Velabrum and cut a corner of the Forum Boarium. Once at the gates of the north end of the Circus, we go around its western façade. Our preference is to sit on the west side to avoid having the afternoon sun shine in our faces.
Pace was slow at the beginning and then it gradually picked up along the way due to the excitement of watching the races mixed with fear of not finding seats until it became a mad rush with everyone pushing and shoving their way. The near end of the Circus was normally inundated with people even before dawn. Everyone wanted to be close to the finish line. The middle portion on both sides of the podium was usually filled with slaves who have spent the night at the Circus to save seats for their masters. We are known to have pushed aside a puny slave in our younger days, but recently most slaves were bodyguards with gladiator physiques. So, we rushed along the western side, scrambled up the stairs under a gate near the far end of the spine, elbowed our way through the corridors and begun a frenzied search for room wide enough for four people. I habitually looked for a female body to sit beside. If I must spend an entire day stuck shoulder, hip and thigh to another human body, that body might as well be a female one. Since that opportunity seldom comes, my next choice was to sit next to anyone who went to the baths the day before and did not reek of Cloaca Maxima. We found seats in a row above a group of rowdy fans of the White faction, next to a tall and lanky fellow who kept poking with his knees the back of the guy in front. Wanting to be neighborly, I turned my head to face him and flashing a 32-tooth grin I said to him: “Citizen, it is going to be a nice day”.
His head straight up, eyes fixed across the Circus, palm of his hands on slightly spread knees, my neighbor scowled and said nothing.
“Futui him.“ If he is sorry now that we sat next to him, he will be sorrier later on when I jab him in the ribs as I score the races on my wax tablet. Could it be that after spending the night at the tavern we smelled like four jars of Falernian wine? No, not Falernian. Falernian is a good wine. We probably stunk as four newly emptied jars of cheap muck.
Sun was not up yet. The sky has begun turning pale blue behind Caelius. The mass of people, dressed in white togas or white stolas, was fast filling up the last available seats around the curved ends of the Circus. To a distant observer from the top of Mons Aventinus, the Circus might have appeared as a white flower spreading its petals to the rising sun.
This time of a day at the races was the most boring. There is nothing to do but wait, first for the consul and his retinue of hundreds to arrive followed by the priests at the head of a procession of slaves carrying incense burning urns and statues of gods and goddesses and then for the chariot teams to present themselves and lastly for the musicians to take their place on the towers flanking the cages. Did I say “lastly”? That was wrong. The last to arrive was invariably the emperor who would leisurely saunter to the podium from his palace behind the Circus. Then and only then the races could start. Each new arrival was greeted by a tremendous applause, with everyone standing on their feet. I have seen it all a hundred of times ever since my father took me to my first race in the month of Martius of my 16th year, the day I wore my first toga virilis. When the consul arrived, while everyone was standing turned sideway and clapping in his direction, the hip of the guy above me nearly pushed me down the stands. The guy was short and had a mid-drift wider than the seat. I took a sideway glance. My head was on the level his large round behind. I feared that the night before he might have had something for dinner that gave him gas.
We sat and waited for the emperor to show up for what seemed to be an eternity.
“Why are your eyes squinting Decimus? Who are you looking at?“ Asked Bassus with a sneer while coloring his voice with a touch of ridicule.
“He is looking at the Vestals.“ said Attalus shaking his head.
I could not deny it. The Vestals were taking their seats in the front row of the podium.
“They are virgin.“ I muttered. While true, my words made no sense. Let them snicker, I thought. They will forget about it by the time the first race begins. Did I say the first race?
What a race that was! It was a single race, with one 4-hourse drawn chariot competing from each faction. One of the charioteers drafted by Bassus for his fantasy team raced for the White. All eyes were on the praetor who held a white flag in the hand of his extended right arm. Impatient to run, horses stomped the ground inside the starting cages. Trumpets blared. My body trembled. As far as I could tell, everyone in the Circus was on his toes, maybe even the emperor. Horses attacked the iron gates with their front hooves. The white flag dropped out of the praetor’s hand. Gates opened. Horses leapt out. The Blue was ahead, but soon I realized that was an optical illusion caused by the angled lines of the lanes. The moment the lanes ended it became apparent that the Green was in the lead. As the four quadrigae converged and bunched, the Green squeezed the Red chariot against the spine, while the White and the Blue pushed the Green from the right. By the first turn, the Green, White and Blue were in the front row. Taking the turn too wide, the Blue fell behind. At the end of the first lap, the Green had a horse nose advantage over the White. A cloud of dust and sand lifted by the hooves and rotating wheels whirled behind the chariots. Whips lashed at the horses. If my neighbor did not stop gesticulating and if he hit me in the head one more time, I was going to punch him in the nose. Third lap and the Green tried to hook his wheel inside the wheel of the White’s chariot in an attempt to pull White’s wheel off. The driver of the White avoided the attack with a deft rotation of the reins wrapped around his body. White fans from the row below, jumping up and down on their wooden seats, sent curses and profanities in the direction of the Green. The White and the Green were parallel now. Was it going to be the White or the Green? Bassus’ fists where clenched so tight that his palms almost bled. Fifth lap, was it going to be the Green or the White? Green’s whip hit the head of Charcoal, the all-black lead horse of the White. It appeared that the Green had attempted to gouge Charcoal’s eyes with the tip of his whip. Roar from the crowd rose to a deafening level. With its ears bent down and head lowered, Charcoal drew the White into the lead. Sixth lap and the White was half a quadriga ahead, Bassus was uncontrollable, the White or the Green? Seventh lap, the last lap and it was the White, it was the White, the White, White, WHITE.
I raised my arms and shouted “Sweet Jupiter, twenty three more races today, will my heart survive? “ Then I collapsed back to my seat. Even my dour neighbor turned to look at me and smiled.
“You can touch happiness.“ cried Attalus gleefully
“Those who gambled and won can certainly touch it“ the practical Roman in me retorted.
Bassus had moved to the lower row, talking to the White team fans, exchanging congratulations, shaking hands, replaying with words over and over every detail of the race.
Musicians have begun playing. Acrobats and jugglers performed for all on the track. People were placing bets and milling around, some going to buy food at one of the many tabernae around the Circus, some others to relieve themselves along the walls.
Bassus’ team is in the lead
The second race saw another of the drivers drafted by Bassus. This time his charioteer drove for the Blue. The race, a triple one, that is, with three chariots from each team, was exciting but it would have been non-descript if it were not for Bassus. Why is Bassus, who is the shortest of the four of us, shorter than most Romans, the one who always gets in trouble? To the joy of the guys below us, the White led most of the way. From time to time one of them would look up at Bassus surprised that Bassus did not share his sentiments. They thought that they had acquired a new friend and a new fan of the White. The Blue took the lead in the last lap. That’s when Bassus started cheering wildly. The White’s fans felt betrayed and jilted. The Blue team ended up winning. The White’s fans, eager to show on Bassus’ face displeasure over their team’s loss, stood up and surrounded him. Attalus and Calvus, pale faced, stepped back. Bassus, doing his best impersonation of his typical irrational self, was getting ready to fight.
With my most demurred posture and voice, I said “We are gambling“
My words acted as water on fire. Arms dropped, fists unclenched, shoulders drooped and faces turned in my direction.
“Why did not you say so? “
Everyone at the Circus understands gambling. Everyone gambles at the Circus!
“He has almost all of our money after only two races“ I added as precaution pointing to Bassus. That put smiles on the faces of the troublemakers. One of them even congratulated Bassus by patting him on the back. We all relaxed and sat down.
Idiots, I thought. The White is the worst team. Why would anyone be a fan of the White team?
All the commotion made me loose track of the results. I could not talk to my companions; their memory may suddenly spring selective. I did not want to talk to the troublemakers from the row below. Nor to the sour-face next to me. I ended up getting the results from the Fat Butt.
After two races, Bassus was running away in our fantasy contest. His team had XXXIII points, X points for each of his drivers winning their races, III points for winning a single race, II points for snatching the victory in the last lap, V points for his team winning one race and III for his team arriving second in the other race. Attalus’ team was second with XVI points, followed by Calvus’ team with X points while my team had a big fat zero.
The sky was cloudless. Morning was developing into a nice and warm day. By the sixth race, the perennially aloof Calvus started showing signs of anxiety. Diocles has not appeared yet. Calvus was having a miserable day. Midmorning sun was beating on his bold head and he was without his first round pick.
All Hades broke loose in the 7th race. It was a single race involving one chariot from each faction. After three laps, the Blue team’s 2-horse biga was leading, running along the spine, flanked to the outside by the Green. The Red and the White followed, their horse heads bobbing and hovering over the back of the chariots ahead. Attalus, whose charioteer was racing for the lead team, was ecstatic. At the end of the spine close to where we sat, left horse of the leading chariot, the inside horse, the one that is trained to take tight turns around the spine, brushed the end of the spine at the foot of the metae, panicked, jumped to his right and hit its companion. The right horse fell knocking down with him both front chariots. The two chariots that were in the rear tumbled on top. Four chariots, four drivers and eight horses were shipwrecked on top of each other. Drivers took their knives out and frantically cut the reins wrapped around their waists to free themselves. A few horses stayed down, a few stood up and unbridled, run crazily around the track. Slaves rushed out to help the drivers, harness the horses and clean up the chaos.
It was the Blue’s charioteer, the one drafted by Attalus who lay motionless on the ground. Was the charioteer dead or injured? It did not matter. In either case, dead or injured, it was minus XXV point for Attalus' team. As far as I could tell, slaves finished off maimed charioteers in the back of the Circus. Nobody has any need for a crippled charioteer. Bad luck for Attalus.
“Attalus, you must have displeased gods“ I said laughing.
The moment I said it, I realized that I made a mistake. Indeed my words opened a Cloaca Maxima gate. Words that came out of Attalus’ mouth would have made a pirate blush. No doubt in my mind, Attalus will continue to bellyache for the rest of the day. I wondered if all Greeks are as annoying and impractical as Attalus was before Fortuna crossed our paths and we showed him the wisdom of Roman ways by exposing him to the chariot races and gladiator games.
I continued to record the score, let’s see, three horses down, plenty of free meat for those who line up for it tonight, minus XIV for each injured horse for Attalus, Bassus and my team and minus VI for a fallen chariot for everyone.
After seven races, our fantasy contest was close with Bassus’ team in the lead with IXXX points, two points more than Calvus’ team, my team was a distant third with XIII points and Attalus’ team was hopelessly in the rear with minus XX points.
Diocles arrives
A burst of hooting and hollering from the spectators made me look up. One of the horses running around the track had trampled a slave. Lazy slave. With one less slave to clean and one more body to carry off, I expected the crowd to turn irritated.
Chariots competing in the 8th race lined up in the cages before the slaves had finished pouring sand and leveling the track. Whether the presiding magistrate decided to appease the impatient mob or whether it was planned, although it did not show on the race card, Diocles, with his lead horse Pompeianus, stood conspicuously on his quadriga in the second cage. I watched, palms of my open hands holding my chin up, fingers spread across my cheeks. As more and more people realized that Diocles was going to race next, Circus Maximus quieted down for the first time today. Spectators were in a quasi religious hushed trance. When the white flag dropped and the gates opened, Circus Maximus exploded. Clamor coming out of the Circus, louder than one hundred of Jupiter’s thunders, could have been heard throughout the entire city of Rome. Two chariots from each faction competed in a double race. There is nothing more thrilling in the world than watch eight quadrigae barrel down the track and make tight turns around the metae. Diocles, in his typical fashion, prodding the horses with the reins, not relying on the whip, came from behind in the last lap and won the race without needing much help from his team’s secondary chariot.
Diocles raced six more times, including the 24th and last race, winning them all. Points accumulated by Diocles in our fantasy game gave Calvus the win. I ended up second thanks to the wisdom given to me by Minerva for picking Diocles' Red faction. I gave the winnings to Calvus.
Ovation from the last race has not died down yet and my heart was still pounding fast in my heaving chest when Diocles returned from the stables. Dressed in a blood-red tunic, he drove a red and gold colored biga drawn by horses draped in red. His entire team, stable handlers, groomers, chariot builders, horse trainers and owners, all dressed in red tunics, followed him on foot.
At the entrance the praetor handed him a palm branch and the victory wreath. Diocles placed the wreath over his head and rested it on his broad shoulders. Two slaves sent by the presiding magistrate waited under the podium. A silver vase full to the brim with gold coins stood on top of a small pedestal next to them. Diocles, at the head of his entourage moved down the track in the direction of the Triumphal Arch. Under the podium he picked up the silver vase with both hands and lifted it over his head. Then, smile beaming from his handsome face, he turned from side to side to show the vase off to the adoring crowd. The exhilarated spectators, shouting praises and adulations to Diocles, spun madly over their heads their togas or tunics or towels or handkerchiefs or, a few, even their loincloths. Imagine the scene if you can, although I doubt that a mere human can conjure a mental picture of a quarter of the city’s population in a state of euphoria squeezed in a small valley between Mons Aventinus and the Palatine Hill.
I looked at my friends. Calvus, wearing an expression of muted satisfaction on his face, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Attalus and Bassus were caught by the excitement. I was happy in my exhaustion. My mind drifted to the next race. I was certain that I will draft Diocles if I have the first pick. When I dream, I do not dream of money; I dream of first round picks. As my hand extended toward the satchel to reach the race card my countenance changed. I stripped my toga off and bunched and twisted it into a fold. Then I spun it in circles over my head while bellowing on the top of my lungs in the direction of Diocles.
Soon thereafter the Red’s victory procession reached the steps at the foot of the Triumphal Arch. Diocles drove his horses up the steps, entered the middle gate and disappeared from my view. Spectators sitting around the top of the curves adjacent the Arch leaped to the top of the stands to catch one last glimpse of him. A moment later the lucky ones who have reached the top wall and had a view of the street below begun yelling and gesticulating with both arms. Diocles must have come into their view.
Afternoon was waning. I imagined that Diocles, bathed by the setting burnished yellow sun on the road leading to the Palatine Hill, must have seemed made of gold. A moment later another loud roar came from those perched on the wall. Diocles had turned around, looked up and waved at them marking, with that last wave, the end of a glorious day at the races.
Author’s note / Sources
Inscription on Diocles’ memorial records his 1,462 victories with 4-horse chariots. Diocles, who raced in the 2nd century C.E., begun his career with the White team and finished his career with the Red team. In late republican and early Imperial times, races were held by four chariot factions or teams. They were known by the colors of the tunics worn by the charioteers. The four colors were red, white, green and blue. “Passions aroused in favor of one or other of these colors could divide families and wreck friendships” wrote F.R. Cowell in his “Life in Ancient Rome” (1961). In addition to the superbly written book by Cowell, my principal sources were two nineteenth century tomes: William Smith’s “Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities” and E. Guhl and W. Koner’s “Everyday Life of the Greeks and Romans”. Organization of Roman racing that assisted me in devising the fantasy rules was obtained from “Sport in Greece and Rome” by H.A. Harris (1972). Decimus’ sentiments towards Attalus and the Greeks were drawn from “The Roman Mind” by M.L. Clark (1956).
Readers curious about Circus Maximus can view a faithful 3D representation at "http://penelope.uchicago.edu/~grout/encyclopaedia_romana/circusmaximus/circus.html"
This short story was inspired by Steven Saylor’s Roma Sub Rosa novels and my love for fantasy games.
One last note: From Decimus we know that the race was held on the 10th of July. What year was it? Clues to answering that question will be given in “Fantasy Gladiator Games”, coming shortly.