Chapter XXX
54 BCE — Spring, Antioch
Year of the consulship of
Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher
I was shaking badly as we made our way back up to our seats. Mercurius had to give me a little push from behind on the final step. The waiting crowd exploded into a roar when they saw the purple of my cloak. It was hard to say whose jaw dropped further, Cassius’ or Melyaket’s, but it was Marcus Antonius, following me up the steps who was first to laugh. “I know!” he said. “Can you believe it?”
Gabinius cornered Cassius Longinus and Petronius, insisting that the two legates meet him in the gallery after the evening meal. There were things he needed to impart to someone of intelligence before he left for Rome, or the army would be ill-prepared to meet Parthia’s defenses.
“What do I do now?” I asked, still standing. Apparently, I was doing it, for the horn blowers played another fanfare and two drivers came onto the field, this time riding in two-horse rigs. They pulled up to the starting line and waited for the signal.
“Hold up that handkerchief, you idiot,” Gabinius hissed. I did that.
“Now drop it!”
When I let it flutter out of my hand, four flag bearers on both sides of the track lowered their poles and the first race began. Each heat of this first contest was two laps, then another pair raced till their were five finalists. These five then raced against each other to discover the winner. By the start of the final race of this first contest, I was becoming quite proficient at raising and releasing my handkerchief with aplomb. Following this first event, there would be two more races, a three-horse contest, and the wild and most dangerous finale, where the drivers would ride chariots pulled by four horses.
While we watched, Mercurius pointed out a charioteer with bright red hair. His name was Varro. He was eighteen, slave to the largest stable owner in the city, and if he won the grand prize today, he’d have enough to buy his freedom. He rode for the greens, but today he was everybody’s favorite. In Aramaic, they called him The One Who Sings.
“Do you ride?” I asked Melyaket. The race was very close. Three greens and two blues were all within a chariot’s width of each with only one lap to go.
“Oh yes. Every day, if I can. My people practically give birth on horseback. And you?”
“The same. We build our schools, write treatises, prepare complex medications, all mounted.”
“I see.”
“Forgive me, Melyaket puhr Karach. I am very nervous.”
“I can imagine. Just Melyaket, please.”
“Do you own slaves, Melyaket?”
“There are none in my village. But I have seem them in Hatra. They are always from someplace else.”
“Then we are all slave fodder to someone.”
“Yes, I suppose we are,” Melyaket said. Ten horses, five teams, made the final turn and came down the long, straight run to the finish line as if they were chained together. Everyone was on their feet, including us. You could hear the cracks of the whips above the thunder of the wheels. But one whip rested in its holder. As the riders told their teams that this was the moment to reach for that last ounce of speed, we saw him, the boy Varro, leaning over the lip of his chariot. Of course, no sound came to us above the din, but the melody was not intended for our ears. Varro’s team and one other, driven by one who rode for the blues pulled away from the pack in the final seconds of the race. In the end, I could not see who had crossed the finish line first.
“Aieee!” Melyaket cried. “The red-haired boy has won! I have never seen such a thing in my life!”
“You’re quite young, aren’t you,” Gabinius said.
The judges agreed with Melyaket.
“What happens now?” I shouted.
Gabinius said, “You give him this ribbon and purse.” The ex-governor shoved the correct prizes into my hands. People were streaming onto the dirt track.
“Me?”
“Oh, here, take this.” Gabinius took a thick gold chain from around his neck and slipped it over my head. “Curse Crassus. You’ve got to wear something besides that wreath to look the part. No one has gotten a good eyeful of your master. The box is far enough away from everyone else. I’ll handle the guards and servants. Just act imperious, if that’s possible, or at least noble.”
“I’m going to be sick.” Mercurius overturned a lead-lined copper pot, dumping its former contents of minted figs and dates on the serving table. He ran up to our seats and placed the vessel by my feet.
“Stand up straight,” said Marcus Antonius.
“Alexander, you can do this,” ever-earnest Petronius said, gripping the band of iron that was my shoulder.
“Find someone else.”
“There is no one else,” Gabinius snapped.
It occurred to me that Livia might recognize me in this absurd costume as I performed this humiliating pantomime. I bent over and filled half the fruit bowl with my insides.
“This is a disaster,” Cassius said.
Mercurius stepped between us. “May I have a go, dominus? Alexander,” he whispered to me, “just pretend that you are the dominus and he is the slave. I do it all the time. Imagine it is he who has to clip your cuticles, clean between your toes, wipe your ass, remember all your friends’ names, and never get so much as a well-meant hug, not even during Saturnalia.”
I shook my head, breathing hard through my mouth.
“Then imagine you’re going to have him executed in the morning,” Gabinius said. “That ought to strike the right tone.”
The crowd had completely surrounded Varro’s chariot as he carefully directed his frothing team toward our box. Grooms muscled their way in and began wiping the two blacks down. I thought my legs might give way. If I did not find a device to latch onto and quickly, this deception would fool no one.
Varro’s eyes were the blue of the high mountain lakes north of Brixia. He fought for solemnity as he approached, but was unable to keep the smile from chipping flakes of dried dust and sweat from his grimy face. I studied his expression-he barely knew where he was, yet he was completely immersed in this moment of good fortune. Then I had it. All I had to do was run down the lane and leap into the air, just as in my dream. I walked down the center of our aisle, past the tables piled with food and drink and stood with both hands on the railing.
“That was quite a performance, young man.” My voice was authoritative and controlled.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You are Varro, correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Varro, wait one moment longer please.” Near the spina, the driver who had placed second was leading his team off the track. I called to a guard to summon the man to me. He was bearded, filthy and dejected, but he was wearing blue. His name was Galeno. When he arrived, bewildered and awestruck, I reached over the railing to grab his hand; habit appropriated his muscles and obliged him to stretch up to give it to me. I congratulated him on a race well run. Now the entire stadium had more equal reason to cheer, and they did, wildly. I wished him luck in the final race and sent him on his way. He had deserved at least that much.
“Apologies, Varro.” The boy’s dusty red hair came to the top of the railing. I was confident I could do this with no more than a sprained ankle at worst. “I have kept you and your magnificent beasts waiting long enough. Their legs will stiffen and cramp. Shall we let them walk off their win?” Before anyone could react, I hopped up on the broad bronze railing, swung my legs over the side and dropped down the few feet to the hippodrome floor. My sandals made two small clouds of dust in the midday sun (shades of my flying dream yet again). I held up my hand and Varro took it. When I stepped up to stand beside him on the platform of his chariot I draped the winner’s ribbon about his neck and displayed the bulging purse to the crowd before placing it in his hands. I told him to put the reins in his left hand, then took his right and held it aloft.