Part II
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, all 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 on my 16th birthday, the day I wore my first manly toga. 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 he might have had something for dinner the night before 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 does not stop gesticulating and if he hits me in the head one more time, I am 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 gauge 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.
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.
Tune in next week for Part III.