The Roman. Caroline Storer

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СКАЧАТЬ will be ready in a moment, Diogenes,” she murmured standing up. Then in a sudden surge of rebellion, against Quintus and his orders, she said, “But we are not leaving for Herculaneum just yet. I want to go to the Circus Maximus first.”

      * * *

      “Mar-sall-as! Mar-sall-as!” The name rang around the vast arena, bouncing off the sides in a cacophony of noise, so deafening that Justina had to put her fingers in her ears to block it out. There must have been nearly one hundred thousand people in the arena, and it seemed that all of them were chanted his name over and over again, shouting and screaming in mass hysteria, as their hero rode his victory lap. Justina, caught up in it all, watched spell-bound as her eyes followed his every move as he rode around the arena acknowledging the approval of the crowd.

      He had just won his race – yet again – and had been “crowned” with his palm branch and wreath, whilst the four horses he drove were adorned with palm branches attached to their harnesses. The horses seemed to know that they were being worshipped and pranced and preened as they trotted around the arena absorbing the accolades meted out on both man and beast.

      Justina could see that Marsallas was revered with some sort of cult status, and she would have had to be blind not to see the covert looks all the women gave him. It was obvious that he could have any of the women here with a snap of his fingers, but as he waved to the crowd, his stance strong and proud as he stood in his chariot guiding his horses, Justina could see that his face was grim, and she wondered why he wasn’t revelling in his victory…

      They had not long arrived, and had just taken their seats so she and Diogenes had missed most of the race, but now as she looked around at the crowds she could tell that they were obviously enjoying themselves. Eventually the crowd quietened as Marsallas finished his victory lap and rode out of the arena and everyone took their seats. The intense rays of the afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, and Justina wiped the sweat from her brow. How on earth did people manage to stay here all day in this heat she wondered?

      She leant across and asked a young couple who sat next to them how the races were run, explaining that she was a visitor to Rome, and once they realised she was a novice to the games needed no further invitation, being more than happy to explain the “rules” to her. She was told that there were four teams – factions – the Blues, Greens, Whites and Reds, and obviously, from the colour of his tunic Marsallas rode for the Blues. Apart from his tunic the only other adornments he wore were fasciae – padded bonds that were wrapped around his torso and thighs for protection, a thick leather helmet that protected his head and a falx – a curved knife to cut the reins that were wrapped around his hands in case of an accident if he was dragged around the arena.

      Apparently, she had missed the elaborate opening ceremony that consisted of a procession led by the dignitaries who were sponsoring the games, followed by the charioteers and teams, musicians, dancers and priests carrying the statutes of the gods and goddesses who watched over the races. Once the procession had finished the charioteers drew lots for their position in the starting gates, and once the horses were ready, a white cloth – mappa – was dropped by the sponsor of the games. At the signal, the gates were sprung, and up to twelve teams of horses thundered onto the track and the spectators followed the race by watching the bronze dolphin counters being pulled down on the spina – located on the central barrier after each lap passed.

      “Is Marsallas competing again?” She asked the young woman.

      The woman nodded, “Yes. He rides at least three races a day on average, sometimes up to five.”

      “Five!” Justina exclaimed.

      “Aye. He is fabulously rich you know, he earns a fortune – some say he has amassed over twenty million sesterces in the last six years or so he has raced! He has never been injured either, it is a miracle really.”

      At Justina’s shocked expression, the woman giggled, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Rich, handsome, and unmarried, it is a shame I am a married woman if you know what I mean. He can have any woman he wants, rich or poor, slave or patrician. And frequently does, if the gossips are to be believed!”

      Justina felt a surge of jealousy flow through her at the woman's words, but never had the chance to reply, even if she wanted to, as the crowd surged to its feet once more, the trumpeters announcing that another race was about to start. As she craned her neck towards the starting gates she could see that Marsallas was once again racing, as he stood proud and erect in his chariot. He must be exhausted she thought, a worried frown on her face, but the race started, and the thunder of the horse’s hooves, as well as the roar of the crowd took over, cutting off her wayward thoughts.

      As she watched entranced, she could see that Marsallas was a master tactician and knew exactly what he was doing as he rode at breakneck speed around the area. He used his body weight, his reins tied around his torso, to lean from side to side to direct his horses’ movements, keeping his hand free for the whip he carried. She could see that there were other chariots sporting the blue colours, and it seemed as if they all worked as a team, the other charioteers using various tactics to break the concentration of their opponents, which then allowed their team mates to gain the coveted inside of the track, maximising their chances of winning.

      Marsallas controlled his horses with what seemed to be the minimum amount of effort, almost with an arrogance that bordered on dangerous, as if he didn’t care whether he won or not. Whether he lived or died-

      The crowd gasped, as one of the opposing charioteers – a White – was forced against the inside wall of the arena. His chariot broke apart as it smashed into the stone wall and he was thrown from it. Justina could hardly bear to watch, as the poor man was dragged around the ring, still holding onto the horses’ reigns, until, finally he was able to bring the horses to a stop. She let out a sigh of relief when she saw that he seemed to be unharmed as he stood up and ran out of the way of the oncoming chariots that had already raced around the track, and were now on their way to the finishing line.

      Her eyes focussed back on Marsallas’s chariot, and she could see that he was once again in the lead, having held his team of horses back until the last minute to keep them from exhaustion, before allowing them full reign, and letting them race as fast as they wanted to. She marvelled at his skill, as he rode around the arena at break neck speed, seemingly totally unconcerned by the danger he must face every time he raced, and Justina was amazed that he had never been injured. She watched, with a sense of relief, when he passed the finishing line, again the winner, before once again acknowledging the adoration of the crowd as he undertook his victory lap.

      Once the race finished Justina let out a huge sigh, relieved that he had escaped injury, and sat back down heavily onto the wooden seat feeling totally exhausted. She smiled wryly to herself, thinking that if Marsallas knew of her concern for him, he would have reacted with scorn, no doubt throwing it back in her face.

      She recalled how different it had once been between them. There had been no bitterness, no hatred, no anger between them.

      And then, as if the past had suddenly come right back to haunt her, she remembered how it had all started…

       CHAPTER THREE

       Herculaneum – AD 73- six years earlier…

      Justina sighed, stood up and wiped the sand off her hands on the coarse linen of her stola, a frown on her face as she stared down at the sand sculpture. She tilted her head slightly, it wasn’t her best effort she thought, СКАЧАТЬ