The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  Just behind him were the White and the Red. The White tried to maneuver closer to the rail but did not have the speed and fell in just behind the Red. As they entered the straightaway, they crowded together, jostling. Then the Red moved up, almost beside the Green.

  “The Red is going to hook the spokes!” cried Lateranus. “Look!”

  “He can’t! Demetrius is too clever to let him,” Caedicia said. As she spoke, Demetrius put more distance between himself and the Red.

  “Look out, White, he is coming for you!” Poppaea yelled. Everyone was yelling, and the stands were roaring.

  The Red swerved left to try to hook the spokes of his rival White but failed when he fell behind. The Green, Demetrius, was still ahead of them both.

  “What’s happened to Flamma?” asked Scaevinus. “I had bet on him!”

  The Blue was far behind, although he was now on the rail, having it all to himself.

  Now the second turn came up, and once again Demetrius navigated it superbly, the dust flying out from the right wheel of his chariot, leaving the others literally in his dust.

  “It must be hell on his wheel,” said Lateranus. “It may not hold up until the end of the race.”

  “The turns put an immense strain on that outer wheel,” said Vestinus. “I heard some were putting an iron band on their rim to strengthen it.”

  “That would add weight and slow him down,” yelled Piso.

  After five circuits, the order stayed the same: Demetrius the Green in the lead, the White and the Red running almost neck and neck, and Flamma the Blue behind.

  But at the eleventh turn things changed. Demetrius slowed his team as he rounded the metae and lost ground.

  “It’s that wheel, I tell you! It is disintegrating!” cried Lateranus.

  The Green fans in the stands shrieked, wept, tore their garments. A wail rose from the stands.

  The Red came up behind him once they were on the straightaway. But Demetrius had recovered his speed and maintained his lead, although it was shrinking. Again on the turn he had to slow, but the wheel held. Back on the straightaway he sped up. But the others were closer now.

  “He’s going to lose!” cried Poppaea.

  “Go, Red!” yelled Faenius, joining in at last.

  The next-to-last turn was coming up, and suddenly the Red steered around Demetrius and made the turn ahead of him on the outside, pulling into the lead. Was it my imagination (and my poor eyesight), or was Demetrius’s wheel wobbling? But on the last straightaway it stopped, and he came neck and neck with the Red.

  One turn left. Suddenly, Flamma swept past on the outside, rounding the turn and then swinging to the inside, cutting them both off. The Red plowed into a meta, wrecking his chariot and going flying, landing on the track, crawling to the side to avoid being run over. Demetrius adroitly steered to the right and avoided the meta but lost his speed. The White trailed behind.

  Flamma the Blue crossed the finish line to tumultuous applause and cries. Whether you supported him or not, it was a superlative show of charioteering, his victory “snatched at the post,” as the saying had it.

  “Two of his horses are not centenarii for nothing,” said Vestinus drily. “I should have known to bet on him.” He snorted. “But I got a tip from my uncle’s stableboy that one of the horses had sprained his leg. Bah!”

  “There are more races, Vestinus,” I said. “Plenty of time to recoup your loss.”

  “Who else is racing today?” asked Poppaea.

  We sat back down, exhausted from the strain. “It’s all on the betting forms,” I said, handing her one, engraved on ivory.

  She looked it over and shrugged. “The names don’t mean anything to me.”

  Lateranus took it and pored over it. “Oh, yes, there’s the one from Sicily, what’s his name . . . Decimus . . . and the driver from Athens, said to be very good, but has never raced here . . . and that Arab, who uses only Libyans.” He shook his head. “They are beautiful, they are fast, but that breed is too small. Against a horse with a longer stride, they can’t win.”

  “Oh, look!” said Caedilia. “There’s a team from Galatia. Don’t they put iron shoes on their horses’ hooves?”

  “What?” Piso said. “How ridiculous. Think of the weight.”

  “Those horses have soft feet, living in wet country. Without the shoes, their hooves would shred and peel.”

  “Like Demetrius’s chariot wheel?” said Vestinus with a laugh.

  “It held up,” said Lateranus. “But one more turn would have done it in.”

  “We have more good races to look forward to, then. The day is just beginning,” said Poppaea.

  “Indeed,” I assured her.

  XXIV

  Tigellinus appeared at the doorway to the imperial box. I rose to meet him. He nodded to me but gave one of his dazzling smiles to the company.

  “I must leave you for a bit,” I said. “Tigellinus has arranged for me to look in at the race stables.”

  “May I accompany you, Caesar?” asked Lateranus.

  Knowing how he loved horses and racing, it hurt to say no.

  “We visit only by special permission, and only for the emperor. The horses are easily spooked before a race,” said Tigellinus.

  Before anyone else could ask, we left the box and made our way out down the aisle of the stands. As I passed, people rose and cheered, showering me with petals, reaching out to touch the hem of my toga. “Caesar, Caesar!” they bayed, like packs of scavenging dogs. Some of them were disheveled from ripping at their clothes at the last race; others were drunk. Still others were nuzzling and embracing, not caring who saw them. The races offered the ultimate in freedom of all sorts.

  Once outside, we hurried past the arched sides of the Circus stands and on to the area where the chariots and horses were awaiting their turn to race, in the exercise track by the stables. The gate was firmly secured and only after convincing the guard that I was truly the emperor were we allowed to pass.

  We walked out into the grassy paddock, where many teams were assembling themselves.

  Tigellinus touched my arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Long ago, when I was still a virginal boy, he had dragged me to a brothel to educate me. Then, it had been he who had insisted I had to go through with it. Now it was the opposite. I felt as strangely excited and nervous now as I was then. But I was more sure of what I wanted to do. “Yes,” I said. I had waited for this for years. Now there was no Burrus to say it wasn’t seemly, no Seneca to lecture, no Mother to scold. I was indeed free, as free as those patrons in the stands, to do as I pleased.

  “Very well.” We continued walking. “Lanatus brought the team up two days ago so they could be rested before the race. He has exercised them lightly this morning. The chariot was delivered on time. So was the costume. So, all is in readiness.”

  I had made decisions about the construction of the chariot, but only with the advice of master chariot designers. It would be as light as possible, with a flexible low floor, wheels of composite wood layers on a wide axle base, and one with the iron rim we had talked about in the box. They—and I as well—felt that as a novice I would put more strain on the right wheel in the turns than a professional.

  “And it would never do for Caesar’s wheel to fall apart in his first public race in the Circus Maximus,” said the designer. “You will have many more races, but this first one must be a success.”

  By that he didn’t mean winning; he meant just finishing with honor.

  “Lanatus is over on the other side of the paddock,” said Tigellinus, and we made our way there. The grass felt springy under my shoes, and the air was pungent with the smell of horse—horse hair, horse breath, horse droppings. Swarming all around us were the army of professionals who managed the races: the aurigatores, charioteer assistants; the conditores, chariot wheel
greasers; the sparsores, chariot cleaners; the armentarii, grooms; the moratores, who led the horses at the end of the race. There were also veterinarians for the horses and physicians for the charioteers, saddlers, water boys, and trainers. The buzz of voices, the clang of metal, thrummed through the air.

  “This is more complex than the government of the empire,” I said.

  “Oh, there are more workers than these. There are procurators dromi to smooth the sand before the races, erectores to move the eggs and dolphins as each turn is finished—you didn’t think they moved by themselves, did you?—grooms who talk to the horses as they are being led, and—”

  Just then we reached Lanatus, who was leaning against a fence, affecting a relaxed pose. But his rapid blinking betrayed his nervousness. “They are waiting for you, Caesar.” He gestured toward my four horses.

  They had been groomed and their tails tied up, so they could not tangle in the reins. They sensed something in the air, and they pawed the ground nervously.

  “I thought the exercise earlier would calm them down,” said Lanatus, “but I see they are still on edge. But it wouldn’t do to exercise them again. It’s too close to the race.”

  I patted the withers of the Iberian. His coat was sleek and warm, the hairs bristly. “I am counting on you,” I told him. He had learned to respond to my voice, and he leaned toward me now, his breath hot and moist. “When I say turn, turn,” I said. “When I say slow, go slow. When I say fast, go fast. You know that, don’t you?”

  In response, he blew out a blast of air from his quivering nostrils and nibbled at my hand.

  I likewise patted my other three, their contrasting coats making them easy to tell apart—the gray Mycenaean, the chestnut Sicilian, the black Cappadocian. “They say a team should match and we’ll make a motley assembly, but I think you are beautiful. You are from all parts of the empire, and the empire is a rainbow of colors.” Suddenly I was seized with a spasm of nerves and turned away. “How much longer?” I asked the men. “What is scheduled before me? Should I get dressed now?”

  “There are two more races ahead of you. That will take about an hour, with all the cleanup. And yes, you might as well get dressed now. The clothes are in the private changing room over here.” Lanatus led me to the room and left me. On a bench I saw the package of clothes, and I opened it slowly. There was the leather helmet, the leather belt, the leg wrappings, the knife, and the racing tunic, made of golden cloth. My colors. Sol’s colors. I drew them out and, setting aside my toga and regular tunic, put them on. The emperor was suspended; the celestial charioteer took his place.

  * * *

  • • •

  All was in readiness. I stood beside the chariot, inspecting it. The smell of new wood and paint clung to it, a dry sweet scent. I ran my hand over the iron rim on the right wheel. It was as thin as it could be and still provide protection.

  Lanatus held out a cup. “Drink this, and become a true charioteer.”

  I sniffed it. It had a sour smell. But I knew full well what it was—the charioteer’s drink of dried and burned boar’s dung, dissolved in vinegar. It was supposed to confer healing power if I was injured in the race, and also keep horses from trampling me if I fell. I drank it slowly, wincing at the acid taste.

  “There, now!” Lanatus took the cup.

  “Who am I racing against?” I asked. “And do they know I am in the race?”

  “All veteran racers from the clubs, but no celebrities,” said Tigellinus. “It was not fixed that way, that was just the way the seventh race of the day was slated.”

  “All veterans but no famous ones,” I said, not believing for a moment that Tigellinus had not arranged it. “That way if I lose, it is no disgrace because they are veterans, and not novices like me, but also an honor to be in competition with them at my level.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, as if this was the first time he had considered it from this perspective.

  “Has it been announced that I am competing?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Would you like it to be?”

  “No,” I said. “If the people recognize me, that is well enough. If they don’t, then I have the rare pleasure of not being judged as the emperor. But it is only fair to tell the other charioteers in my race.” They would recognize me at close quarters in any case. “Oh, Jupiter, let them not hold back to let me win. Jupiter, Jupiter, hear me and grant this!”

  “Charioteers are professionals and respect others likewise as professionals. Not that some don’t accept bribes to throw a race, but it would be helpful if we tell them they will be rewarded for running their best race and ignoring you,” said Lanatus. “I’ll speak to them.”

  He turned and left us alone. I stood by the chariot, gripping its side. Tigellinus looked at me. “It’s here. The hour is here at last. Do your best.” He patted my arm. “Just as you did at Vorax’s all those years ago.”

  I got into the chariot, feeling the flexible floor bend under my feet. I put on my helmet and gathered the reins. The two middle horses were yoked to the shaft, but the two outer ones ran on traces and had to be guided separately. I wrapped the lines of the yoked horses around my waist to secure them, and thrust the knife into my belt. The knife was necessary so if the chariot crashed and I needed to get free I could slash the reins to do so. Otherwise I would be dragged to my death, horribly mangled.

  But in truth, how quickly could I react? Each rein was a strong piece of leather. How long would it take to cut through them? I gathered the slack lengths of the trace lines up in my right hand, leaving my left to hold the whip. I would not use the whip to make them run faster but lay it on their shoulders to guide them; I had trained them to respond to the touch as well as my voice.

  I looked across their curved backs, shining and freshly groomed. Their tails were tied and knotted; their manes were woven with pearls, carnelian, and malachite; they had breastplates of amulets, and I had put Germanicus’s ring on the Iberian’s for good luck. Finally, around each of their necks was a gold ribbon, my racing color.

  The stable handler charged with leading us to the starting stalls took the bridle of the inside horse, and we moved slowly toward the gates. Four other chariots followed. Before we reached the stalls where we would be enclosed, I motioned for us to stop. I wanted to speak to my fellow competitors and charioteers.

  The Red chariot had a team of all chestnut horses, and the charioteer was a young man. His heavy helmet obscured his hair so I could not see what color it was, but his eyes were dark. He had a thick mouth that did not smile.

  The Green chariot had a tall driver with bushy light hair that spilled out from his decorated helmet. He must be a Gaul, or from somewhere even farther north. Could he be a Briton? His left arm had blue tattoos of triangles, circles, and dots. His team was mixed: two horses were very large with long slender legs, the other two were smaller and looked strong, and these were hitched to the shaft to provide the pulling power.

  The Blue driver was ostentatiously dressed, with a leather helmet embossed with Etruscan designs and a tunic bordered with curling fringes. His horses were nondescript, though—one even looked ungroomed, with tufts of hair sticking up all over his rump and back.

  The charioteer in the White vehicle was older, his weatherbeaten face betraying him as a veteran of many races. He must be a cautious driver, then, because, as Piso had said, a successful driver usually did not live long; to be successful a driver had to be aggressive. Surely I could beat him.

  I wheeled my chariot around to face them. They were all staring at me, and not just because I had halted the progress into the stalls.

  “Yes, I am the emperor,” I began.

  Immediately the Blue driver snatched off his helmet. The others started to follow suit, but I said, “Please. That is what I wish to tell you. You must not pay attention to me or race any differently than you would. That is the greatest homage
you can pay me—to treat me as your equal, no more, no less.”

  I feared it would prove impossible, but perhaps not. “Now let us draw the lots, and take whatever we are assigned.”

  The White driver just grinned; was it a friendly grin or an adversarial one? The other three stared blankly, and the Blue driver put his helmet back on.

  The judge brought out a device that had hollow arms, each one numbered, suspended over another box containing five color tokens. Then with a swift motion, he turned them upside down. The clunk of the wooden balls dropping from the first box into the second, rolling along the arms, then the low sound as they hit the end of their channel told us fate had spoken and assigned us our places.

  The judge carried the box around to show us where we each went.

  The coveted number one spot went to the White; the number two to me; number three to the Blue; number four, Green; and number five, the worst spot, to the Red. Now we entered our assigned stalls.

  The stalls were wide enough to accommodate the chariots, but the horses did not like being pinned so tightly. On each side of the stall were posts with heads of Mercury, god of speed. I would need his help today.

  The trumpet sounded, warning us. Then the doors of the stalls opened, and the track was before us.

  It was immense, looking completely different when I was down on it than it had looked from the stands. The brown sand spread out on all sides. But I had no time to think of this, for we all sprang forward and the race was on.

  My horses were fast, and I saw that we were keeping abreast of the two chariots on either side. But looming ahead was the deadly alba linea. Should I urge the horses on, or be more cautious? They were already at a full gallop; we had trained them to go from a standing start to a full gallop quickly, omitting the paces in between.