The King's Gambit(15)

Macro nodded. “We learn to hit very hard, very young, in this part of Rome.”

An hour later, I was on the Campus Martius. Except for walking about the city, I had not exercised for weeks. I have never made a cult of physical activity, but dining with the likes of Sergius Paulus and Hortensius Hortalus made me feel like a fat Oriental potentate. Someone like, now that I thought of it, Mithridates of Pontus.

At the side of the field, near the shrine of Pollentia where the running-track began, I paid an urchin a quadrans to watch my toga and sandals. Stripped to my tunic, I started to run. Before I had gone a quarter-circuit I knew how out of practice I was, and made one of my customary vows to go there every day and run for an hour until I had worn away the effects of soft living. Running is marvelously effective for ordering one’s thoughts, though, and since some god had seen fit to put Mithridates in my mind, I reviewed what I knew of him. There was always some rogue of that name troubling the eastern world, kings of Parthia or Pontus. The one giving us so much trouble that year was the King of Pontus, the sixth Pontine king of that name. He was something of a marvel, because he had been no more than eleven years old when he inherited the throne from his father (Mithridates V, naturally), had been a prize troublemaker for every minute of his reign and was still alive at sixty. Romans of his disposition seldom survived for a decade.

While still of tender years he had clapped his mother in prison for trying to seize power, then eliminated his brother (another Mithridates, too inconsequential to rate a number). Over the next half-century he had repeatedly invaded, often successfully, the small but rich kingdoms that make up that part of the world. This brought him into conflict with Rome, since we had possessions in his path, and alliances with some of his rival kings. He tried to expel all Romans from Asia, but was defeated by Sulla and Fimbria. Some years later our General Licinius Murena took it into his head to invade Pontus and was soundly drubbed for his pains. There was a spell of peace, then the Consul Aurelius Cotta tried his luck and was beaten. Most recently, Lucius Licinius Lucullus was having a go at Mithridates, and enjoying some success. If Mithridates had a philosophy, it seemed to be that any enemy he could not defeat in battle he would outlive.

He was said to be a huge man, a champion with all weapons, the fastest foot-racer in the world, a superb horseman, a poet and more. It was said that he could speak twenty-two languages and that he could outeat, outdrink and outfornicate any ordinary human being. But then, it is always the Roman tendency to ascribe heroic qualities to someone who has repeatedly bested us. We did the same, briefly, for Hannibal, Jugurtha and even Spartacus. It would be too humiliating to admit that our most successful foe was probably some disgusting little Asiatic hunchback with a squint and a hanging lower lip.

Puffing and sweating, I went to the javelin range and took a weapon from the rack. Casting the javelin was the only martial exercise in which I excelled, and it behooved me to be good at something, since service with the legions was a requirement for anyone running for office.

Standing at the stone marker, I cast at the nearest target. The javelin spun properly, arched upward prettily and plunged downward, skewering the target dead center. I worked my way out to more distant targets, trotting out onto the field from time to time to gather up my javelins. After one such trip, I glanced up to admire the full splendor of the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline, looming above the ominous crag of the Tarpeian Rock. It was then that I noticed someone was watching me.

Below the temple, below the rock, below the tumbling vista of tenements and palaces, right at the edge of the field, stood a veiled lady, attended by a serving-girl. The day was cloudy, but the lady wore a wide hat of plaited straw. She was being careful of her complexion or her identity or both. Since she stood near the javelin-rack, I would have to approach her, a not-unpleasant prospect except for my disheveled and sweaty condition.

"Good day, my lady,” I said as I began to replace the javelins. Except for a few runners around the periphery of the field, the Campus Martius was almost deserted. It was always thronged in the spring.

“Greeting,” she said formally. “I was admiring your skill. So few wellborn men bother with martial exercise anymore, it is good to see someone keeping up the tradition.”

Were I a vain man, I would have been flattered to know that she could discern my innate nobility even though I was dressed in my tunic with no mark of rank. However, even in my young and innocent days I was not stupid.

“Have we met, my lady? I confess, your veils defeat me.”

She swept the veil aside, smiling. Her face was definitely that of a highborn Roman lady, with the slightly tilted eyes that spoke of Etruscan ancestry. The tilted eyes bore the only cosmetics she used. Indeed, she needed none. She was, I think, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. So she seemed to me that day, anyway.