Seventh Dimension - The King - Book 2, A Young Adult Fantasy

by Lorilyn Roberts

  A steady breeze off the Mediterranean kept temperatures comfortable. The crowds grew as the hour of racing approached. So did my anticipation. I joined my team in the processional walk. I would only compete in the first race with two horses.

  Some of the participants wore exquisite costumes that honored the Hellenistic gods. Performers, including clowns and mimes, entertained the kids. Belly dancers impressed the rest. I strained to catch a glimpse. The boundary of family entertainment was broad.

  The crowds entered through a separate entrance. I spotted a family waiting in line. I waved at the young boy and he waved back. I stepped away from my team and approached them. “May I give your children a gift?” I asked the father in Greek.

  The father smiled. “They would love that. Thank you.”

  I squatted down to eye level and handed the boy a carved wooden chariot and gladiator.

  He examined the toy. “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel.” I was surprised that the youngster spoke Aramaic.

  “Thank you, Daniel,” he replied.

  I gave the girl, who was around nine, a carved wooden horse that matched what I gave her younger brother. She stroked the horse gently with her fingers and smiled. Then she leaned over and clasped her arm tightly around my neck. “I hope you win,” she whispered.

  “Thank you.” I hadn’t heard Aramaic since I arrived in Caesarea. The words were sweet to my ears. I went back to my spot in line, waving once more as the family disappeared from view.

  As the contestants entered the hippodrome, several important magistrates greeted us. High-ranking officials sat in their decorated boxed seats. The gladiators made one trip around the track, waving to the crowds. It was another chance for the odds makers to get one last look at all the horses and charioteers.

  After finishing the processional, we traipsed to the stables. We would re enter the arena through the side entrance when the announcer shouted our names, along with each team’s sponsor.

  Cynisca came up to me enthusiastically. “Are you excited?”

  “What?” I asked. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Are you excited?” she repeated.

  “Yes.” The clamor of the crowds made it difficult to talk. I stood outside the entrance waiting, but I didn’t have to wait long.

  The announcer thundered my name above the roars and my knees buckled.

  “Daniel, son of Aviv, gladiator from Jerusalem, making his debut appearance.”

  This was my moment. I bounded out and bowed promptly. I noticed that all the VIP boxes were full. Pontius Pilate sat in the imperial box, waiting to drop the handkerchief.

  I waved at the crowds and the packed arena responded with cheers and applause. The whole experience was exciting—intoxicating and unforgettable. I sensed an immediate connection with the fans. Had they ever witnessed a Jew race in the hippodrome? I would do my best to whet their appetite for more.

  As I returned to the stables, I caught a glimpse of the gambling tables. The counter was swarming with action. Bulging bags of shekels were exchanging hands, reminding me of the sounds made by a dinging slot machine.

  I didn’t know how the wagers were made, but I had added some unexpected buzz. A well-built Jewish man like me could fetch a nice prize for those who had extra wealth to play the odds.

  Businessmen eyed me. They had a lot to gain—or lose. I read their minds—something I had avoided for months, but the temptation was irresistible. How good was I? Could I beat the Naser brothers?

  Cynisca waved me over to the side and escorted me further away from eavesdroppers. “I heard several politicians gambling on you. Jews are respected for their work ethic and brains. Don’t disappoint them.”

  I nodded. Then she pushed me away. “Now, go. Get to your spot. Hurry.”

  My two horses and chariot were already in the stall. I stepped up on the chariot and examined my surroundings. Everything appeared in order. I didn’t want the race to start and find out I had been sabotaged.

  I seized the reins with both hands, holding the whip in my mouth. My hands were so sweaty I wiped them on my racing garb. I switched the reins to my left hand and put the whip in my right.

  This was entertainment at its best. The common folk lived week to week for the diversion it created from Roman oppression. High taxes and hard labor broke the back of the middle and lower classes. If blood was drawn or death occurred, the popularity ratings for that week’s races skyrocketed.

  After introducing everyone, the roar of the fans intensified. The gates would open when Pontius Pilate dropped the handkerchief. I was in the outside lane.

  The raucous crowds clamored for the races to begin. The trumpet sounded. Pontius Pilate stood in the box holding the handkerchief. My moment had come.

  I started to wrap the reins around my waist, as was the custom in Roman racing. That allowed the gladiator to hold the whip with his hand, but since I didn’t need to slap my horses with the whip except once at the start, I changed my mind. Why not just hold the reins instead? I could clench the whip with my teeth.

  Leaning forward I braced for the gate to open. Despite the cool breeze blowing off the Mediterranean, sweat beaded up on my face and neck. The crowds stood, all eyes fixed on Pontius Pilate.

  The trumpet blew and the prefect dropped the handkerchief. The horses lunged out of the starting gates. I slapped the whip on Mosi’s rump and we were off. The horses’ powerful hindquarters rose and fell as I held the reins and let them gallop. I wouldn’t need to slap the horses again.

  My job was to keep them away from danger, which lurked even before the first turn. With so many chariots on the first lap, the greatest worry was bumping into another racer.

  The lead horse set the pace. I maneuvered my chariot around those chariots closest to me, even though it cost me valuable time

  The horses came out of the first turn and the stadium vibrated. Dust filled the track making it difficult to see.

  Suddenly the rider on the chariot in front of me fell. I snapped the reins to the left and swerved. Could the chariots behind me avoid running over him? Officials dispatched the medics to retrieve the fallen gladiator. The unmanned chariot overturned. I passed it as the hapless horses kept going. I forged ahead.

  The crowds stomped and screamed. The excitement escalated. Blood spilt made the fans thirsty for more.

  Before the second dangerous turn, I pulled up alongside three others. Two of the racers were nearer the spina and galloped ahead. One tried to force the other into the center. The columns and statues created deadly obstacles.

  The team to my right edged perilously close. I cracked the whip. The horses responded. Clenching the whip between my teeth, I held the reins with both hands. I used every ounce of strength I possessed to guide the horses away from the reckless charioteer who wanted to bump me.

  The other chariots to my left lurched forward. The leader was still undetermined. I rushed to fill the gap.

  We careened around the third turn. The charioteer to my right pressed in on me. The horses felt it and sped up. My heart thumped louder.

  We were on the far side of the track when two chariots slammed into each other. One of the gladiators had slashed his competitor with the whip. The second one retaliated. The chariots sped down the raceway out of control and overturned. I galloped over bloodied arms and legs. Horses’ cries and the screech of splitting metal filled the stadium.

  Soon the first dolphin fell. Six chariots remained with six more laps to go.

  Two chariots passed me. I couldn’t tell where I was. If three were in front, that meant two were behind me.

  The second dolphin fell. Five more laps to go. I heard another chariot crash—must have been behind me. I didn’t see anything straight ahead.

  I soon passed the wreckage of two overturned chariots. The medics had already carted off the bodies. Did that mean three other chariots were still in the race? I couldn’t be sure.

  Another dolphin dropped, four more laps to go. Dust an
d carnage covered large portions of the track. Medics ran out to retrieve the injured or dead, time permitting. Maybe I could win by attrition.

  I urged my horses to go faster but avoided the use of the whip. They obeyed. My confidence grew. I approached another chariot. The gladiator charged into my path, resisting my encroachment. The determination to win had now turned to viciousness. I would wait. We rounded the curve. I was too close. If he wrecked, I would hit him. I backed off. I tried to ease to the middle. The charioteers closed the narrowing gap. Tariq and Nidal ferociously held their positions. The hysteria reminded me of a soccer game. I saw my opportunity to take the lead dwindling. I was so close with only three other charioteers in the race.

  Another dolphin fell. Three more laps to go.

  One of the Naser brothers exited the track by the stables. Something must have happened.

  The dust had settled with fewer horses. I must avoid the carnage to finish. I stayed as close to the spina as I dared. Two charioteers were still in the race.

  Two more laps to go.

  I urged my horses to charge. They responded. I passed another chariot. I was second gaining on the leader.

  Another dolphin fell. One more lap to go.

  The roaring crowds wanted a climactic finish. My horses tasted victory—and they were hungry. I slapped my reins but didn’t strike the animals with the whip. They seemed to whip themselves.

  We rounded the final bend. I was side by side with the only charioteer left. His eyes met mine. He whipped his horses. I urged mine to surge ahead.

  We gained. The out-of-control crowd stood and cheered as the finish line approached. In a last-second display of determined strength, we edged out the leader.

  The dolphin fell. We’d won!

  The crowd went crazy. I waved at the cheering fans and looked for Cynisca but didn’t see her. A mob had congregated around the judges’ tables. The betting arena was thick with patrons. No one seemed happy.

  Why wasn’t anyone congratulating me? The slaves who took care of the horses approached.

  “Didn’t I win?” I asked.

  “Your win is being contested by the Naser brothers.”

  “Why?”

  “They say you cheated.”

  Anger welled up. I bolted over to the judge’s area, dodging fans and others in my way. An angry protest had grown and harsh voices shouted over one another.

  I saw Cynisca. She was talking to an official. I ran up to her.

  The VIP said, “We need to let the judges decide if he meant to cheat. Since it’s his first race, they may let him off with just a fine, calling it a foul. You need to make sure your team knows the rules.”

  “Caesar! My team knows the rules.”

  The man crossed his arms. “You may but your gladiator doesn’t.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “What did I do wrong? I won—didn’t I?”

  Cynisca glared at me. “One of the Naser brothers claims you cheated and has asked that your win be stripped.”

  I stared at Cynisca. “What did I do?”

  “Why did you not wrap the reins around your waist as you did in practice?”

  That was the infraction? “Attaching the reins to the waist makes it easier to slap the horses with the whip. I don’t have to do that.”

  “But it’s the tradition in Roman racing to tie them around your waist.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Cynisca shrugged. “It shouldn’t make any, but I sure wished you’d done it the way you were trained. Why would you change things on your first race without asking?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I just decided to hold the reins. Maybe I was nervous, I don’t know.”

  Dominus approached us with great difficulty in the crowds. It was the first time I had seen him today. He looked angrier than a savage shark. He yelled at Cynisca, “Why didn’t you train Daniel properly?”

  “I did,” Cynisca protested. “He changed it on his own.”

  His bulging eyes blasted fiery torpedoes at me. I didn’t want to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “You ask before you do anything different from how you’ve been trained, boy. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m facing a fine now, and they could disqualify you from further racing.”

  I hung my head, unable to think. Cynisca walked off leaving me alone. I felt dejected and humiliated. I went and sat in a corner to wait for the official’s ruling.

  The crowd had become antsy. They wanted a winner announced. I threw my helmet down on the ground and watched it roll away. What a wasted effort, all because I held the reins rather than attaching them to my waist.

  The stadium noise shot up another notch. A winner had been shouted over the commotion. I hurried over to see the decision. Cynisca shook her head.

  Who won? I walked up to the judges’ table and saw the official result. Tariq Naser, followed by several names I didn’t recognize—all of whom had either died or been knocked out of the race. They didn’t even record my name.

  The crowd had gone wild, throwing food and personal items over the seats of other patrons. Roman soldiers had gone up into the stands to bring order. Fighting had spread among the fans and the chaos swelled.

  I glanced at Pontius Pilate who stood watching. Many in the stands were chanting my name. Most fans were unhappy that Tariq stood in the spina to receive the laurel crown and not me.

  Could I do anything to quiet them? This was my fault and if anyone got hurt, I would feel responsible.

  Much to my relief, after several minutes, the Roman soldiers brought order, removing those who were inciting the others.

  Preparations were under way for the second race. The delay had given the attendants more time to clear the debris from the track.

  I walked over and sat by the entrance—wishing I could do it over again. I tried to look at the positive side. I wasn’t dead like the gladiators carted off. I’d live to race anther day.

  A few minutes later, the young girl to whom I had given the toy horse walked towards me. I was surprised she found me, but I suppose in my racing outfit, I wasn’t that hard to spot. She handed me a box.

  “What is this?” I asked her.

  “Open it,” she said. I glanced behind her, and her father and brother were watching us a short distance away. I couldn’t imagine what was in the box. I opened it and pulled out a laurel crown.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “God told me to give it to you,” she said in Aramaic.

  I turned the crown over and examined it. It looked identical to the one won by the winners.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “It’s yours,” the girl said.

  I grinned. “I need all the luck I can get. Thank you.”

  She nodded and ran back to her father and brother. I waved at them and mouthed, “Thank you.” They waved back and headed to their seats.

  What a special gift that I didn’t deserve.

  CHAPTER 37 REVENGE

  One Week Later

  Gossip about the way the officials had stripped my win made the headlines throughout Caesarea. Many thought it was unfair. Others sided with the Naser brothers. No doubt, the debacle created more interest in the races for the following week and a sympathy factor for my team. Everyone wanted to know about the Jewish gladiator who had instigated the controversy.

  When Dominus realized many fans believed I was disqualified unfairly, he eased up on the verbal thrashings.

  Cynisca had taken to repeating instructions, which created tension between us. She no longer trusted me. I’d have to earn that back. Still, I was excited to race again.

  Something else was different. The Naser brothers didn’t let me out of their sight in the hippodrome. They knew I could beat them.

  I had won the hearts of many even though Tariq had been declared the official winner. To lose the sympathy vote of the fans on a technicality had been at great cost,
probably more than the brothers had anticipated. The accusation of cheating had deepened the loyalty factor for those who supported me. I had fans who wanted me to win as payback.

  I surmised the reason the older brother had left the race was to tell the officials of my infraction, ensuring the younger brother would be declared the winner by default.

  I had to let it go and move on. I sat in the stall talking to the horses, Mosi and Oni, as the slaves prepped them for the race. Today both horses would have their mane braded with pearls.

  I stroked Mosi’s neck. “You run like you did last week and we will win. You are the fastest horse—except for Oni.” I smiled. “And the strongest.”

  The slave nodded as he brushed the horse’s mane. “You will win today. I know it.”

  I chuckled. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  Everything happened as before, with the introductions and formalities. The hippodrome was packed even more than the previous week. I would be racing fifth.

  My race time came and the crowd responded with loud cheers when the announcer shouted my name above the roars. Fans clapped. Surprised by the show of support, I didn’t want to disappoint them.

  The middle gate was a better position from which to start. I made sure to attach the reins around my waist. I checked repeatedly that the knife was secure in the sheath if I needed it.

  Once again, Pontius Pilate was the official handkerchief dropper. At the sound of the trumpet, he dropped the mappa. The gates opened and we were off.

  I held the whip in my hand but never touched the horses. They ran like the wind. I sensed the horses of the past in them, the great ones that pulled the chariots of the one true God.

  Maybe the horses’ bloodlines even went back to the horses of Elijah and Elisha. The animals ran as heavenly spirits. Their passion, power, and splendor radiated in every step they took. I looked out into the stands. Cheers and applause swept away any doubt about who was the fastest.

  The first dolphin fell. There were no horses or chariots to dodge, though I heard the splintering of wood and clashing of metal behind me. The medics descended on the track to clear the carnage. Where were the Naser brothers? I remembered the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. I shouldn’t look back.