The King's Gambit(11)

A slave passed out vine wreaths for us, somewhat brown and wilted at this season, and we all trooped gaily to the Circus. All thoughts of official business were forgotten for the moment, with the prospect of a day’s racing ahead of us. The whole city was flocking toward the flats by the Tiber where the wooden upper tiers of the Circus reared against the sky.

The carnival atmosphere lightened the dismal season, and the open plaza around the Circus was transformed for the day into a minor Forum with traders, tumblers and whores competing for the coins of the audience, turning the air blue with raucous shouts and songs. It is at such times, I think, that Rome turns from being mistress of the world and reverts to her true character as an Italian farm town in which the folk have left their plows for the day.

Father and I were honored by being seated next to Hor-talus, while our lower-ranking clients took the lesser seats higher in the box. Even those seats were better than any others in the vast stadium, and I saw my soldier, freedman and farmer preening themselves, the envy of all eyes, trying to act as if these privileged seats were their customary lot.

To keep the people entertained and in good humor while the first race was being readied, some swordsmen were going through their paces with wooden weapons. Those of us who were fond of gladiatorial exhibits, which is to say nine tenths of the spectators, took a keen interest in this mock fighting, for these men were to fight in the next big Games. Throughout the stands, handicappers wrote furiously in their wax tablets.

“Do you favor the Big Shields or the Small Shields, young Decius?” Hortalus asked.

"Give me a Small Shield every time,” I said. Since boyhood, I had been a keen supporter of the men who fought with the little buckler and the short, curved sword or the dagger.

“I prefer the Big Shield and the straight sword, the Sam-nite School,” Hortalus said. “Old soldier and all that. Those were the arms we fought with.” Indeed, Hortalus had distinguished himself as a soldier in his younger days, when some patricians still fought in the ranks on foot. He pointed to a big man with a shield such as the legionaries bear, which covered him from chin to knee. “That’s Mucius, a Samnite with thirty-seven victories. Next week he fights Bato. I’ll put a hundred sesterces on Mucius.”

I looked about until I saw Bato. He was a rising young fighter of the Thracian School and was fencing with his little square shield and short, curved practice-sword. I could see no signs of injury or other infirmity. “Bato has only fifteen victories to his credit,” I said. “What odds?”

“Two to one if the Thracian fights with the sword,” Hortalus said, “and three to two if he uses the spear.” The small Thracian shield gives a man more freedom to maneuver a spear than does the big scutum of the legions.

“Done,” I said, “If Bato wears thigh armor. If he wears only the greaves, in a fight with swords, then I want five to three in his favor. If he uses the spear, the bet stands as you’ve made it.”

“Done,” Hortalus said. This was a fairly simple bet. I’ve known real devotees of the fights to argue for hours over such fine points as whether their man wore simple padding for his sword arm, or bronze plate, or ring armor, or scale, or mail, or leather, or fought with the arm bare. They would quibble over the exact length and shape of sword or shield. The superstitious would shave points over such matters as the colors of his plumes, or whether he wore a Greek-style crest in a quarter-circle, a square Samnite crest or paired feather tubes in the old Italian style.

There was a flourish of trumpets and the gladiators trotted from the arena. Their places were taken by the charioteers, who made their way around the spina in a solemn circuit while the priests sacrificed a goat in the tiny temple atop the spina and examined its entrails for signs that the gods didn’t want races that day.

The priests signaled that all was propitious and Hor-talus stood, to tremendous applause. He intoned the ritual opening sentences, and it was a joy to hear him. Hortalus had the most beautiful speaking voice I ever heard. Cicero on his best day couldn’t match him.

He dropped the white handkerchief into the arena, the rope barrier fell, the horses surged forward and the first race was on. The charioteers dashed around the spina with their customary recklessness for the seven circuits. I believe a Green was victor in that first race. They showed equal elan for the rest of the twelve races that made up a regular race-day at that time. There were some spectacular crashes, although there were no deaths, for a change. The Reds won heavily that day, so my financial condition was bettered at the expense of Hortalus and his fellow Whites. Hortalus took his losses in good part, making me instantly suspicious.