Complete Short Stories (51 page)

Poor sport; but now
came Julius’s turn to be disarmed, and a ruffian from the Sabine Hills had the chance to murder him. Julius showed no dismay. Though mother-naked, he met the rush, flung back his head and dealt a violent kick at the Sabine’s wrist. Away flew the sword; Julius tackled low, got hold of the shield, and drove its sharp boss through his enemy’s temple. He rose, walked up to the guards, and remarking
carelessly: ‘I’ll fight without these,’ handed over the arms. ‘Next customer!’

The crowd cheered his bravado. He now confronted a tough cut-throat from Naples, cleverly working him round to face the midday sun; then, stooping, he threw a handful of sand in his eyes and took a running kick at his genitals. In no time at all he’d won a third victory.

‘Next customer!’

Terrific applause; and the
lady below me screamed at her husband: ‘Oh, Tullius, if only you had that bandit’s physique, what a happy woman I should be!’

‘And if only I had his kick,’ growled Tullius, ‘I’d soon cure your itch!’

Julius had little trouble with the miserable Tuscan dandy, convicted of raping his niece. No gladiator, this one! Julius went up, saying: ‘Your sword, lad!’, calmly borrowed it and cut off his head
at a stroke.

‘Next customer!’

His new opponent was a fellow-bandit, formerly his lieutenant, who’d betrayed him to the authorities in the vain hope of winning a pardon. While tussling for the sword, Julius was gashed and stabbed in three places; but then used it mercilessly, lopping off the traitor’s ears, nose and hands before dispatching him. The crowd stood up, roaring delightedly, and appealed
for pardon; but this was a ‘No-reprieve’ show. So Julius committed suicide. He didn’t seem to mind, now that suitable vengeance had been taken.

‘Congratulations!’ I said to the philosopher. ‘Beginner’s luck. Best show this year; and in the Interval, too! The regular fights will seem flat after this… Of course, if Hermes were on, that would be another kettle of fish! A wonderful gladiator; but
he’s in hospital just now – jabbed in the thigh by a net-and-trident expert. An all-round man is Hermes: trident, spear, sword, on horseback, or on foot. Fills all the tiers. Well, what about getting along? The next numbers will only be a negro tight-rope walker, a dwarf riding a goat over a row of obstacles, and a duel between two delinquent housewives armed with cleavers.’

The philosopher’s
face had turned green, and he’d shut his eyes tight so as not to see the remaining criminals done in.

I nudged him again: ‘Coming?’

‘Where can I vomit?’ he gasped.

‘You talk of manliness,’ I said, leading him out, ‘and yet you want to vomit! How was that for a display of manliness? If a bandit can prove himself a hero, what do you think the rest of us are like?’

He kept silent until we’d left
the Colosseum and his nausea had passed. Then he answered: ‘The heroism of a Sicilian bandit gives me no clue to the spirit of ordinary Roman citizens – wine sellers, actors, or saddle-masters. Have you yourself taken part in a war? No? Or faced a storm at sea? No? Do you box, even with soft gloves?’

I shook my head.

‘What are your sports?’

‘None, now. At the Baths, I sometimes raise a sweat
by joining in an aimless medicine-ball scrimmage. I used to wrestle, but not after I put my thumb out. And no self-respecting Roman boxes; we leave that to gladiators – cauliflower ears and broken noses have no attraction for pretty ladies. Gladiators don’t care; they cheerfully use spiked knuckledusters. The other day I saw Hermes taking on an enormous black bear – killed it, too, with a left to
the muzzle and a right to the jaw.’

‘Then you expect slaves, criminals, and the desperately poor to display courage on your behalf?’

‘Put it that way, if you like. I won’t argue against a philosopher.’

‘Is it true,’ he asked, ‘that at the Colosseum batches of Jewish mystics are daily thrown to hungry lions?’

‘Yes, I believe so: in the early morning when the gates first open. They’re let down
in cages, by a crane. Few people attend, because there’s nothing to bet on. And it’s a pretty tame spectacle. These Christians, as they’re called, show no fight when released from the cage; just kneel down, pray and sing. Curious, isn’t it? But they can’t be altogether Jewish: I hear they eat pork freely.’

As we mixed with the crowd streaming towards the Great Circus, a couple of policemen frog-marched
a bedraggled fellow to the lock-up.

‘Betting?’ I asked.

They nodded and went on.

The philosopher exclaimed: ‘Yet at the wineshop I heard one of those young noblemen openly backing Scorpus for ten thousand gold pieces to six! Is there one law for the poor, and another for the rich?’

‘You’ve missed the point. The law forbids casual betting. If caught, you’re fined four times the value of your
stake, or else go to gaol. But everyone’s encouraged to bet on the chariots and the gladiators. I’m sorry now that you missed seeing a Colosseum fight. We should have stayed. It can be great fun – if it’s not rigged… Say you bet on a targeteer who’s meeting a gladiator with a large shield. Say you stake a month’s wages; say they fight good and hard – without any need for the whipper to warm them
up by lashing their legs. The crowd yells: “At him, the Blue!”, “Murder him, the Green!” (We have Blue and Green factions here, too.)
Soon it’s: “Burn him, roast him, flay him, gut him, pickle him!” Or: “Hey, mind out, Green!” Then at last: “Good lad, that got him!” – and you watch the targeteer’s sword sink up to the hilt in Green’s belly… You feel fine, see? It’s as though you’d killed him yourself.
The Blue targeteer’s brought home your bacon. A grand instance of Roman sport – manliness and money, hand in hand.’

‘Well,’ said the philosopher, irritably twitching his grey cloak, ‘you Romans have indeed mastered the art of making poor wretches commit mutual murder for your sakes! And do you have even one native Roman out of every ten soldiers enrolled in your legions – apart from senior officers?’

‘I doubt it. That’s what the poet Virgil, or maybe it was Cicero, calls being a master race,’ I answered cheerfully.

II

As we walked towards the Great Circus, I pointed up at a gilt statuary group on a massive marble pedestal.

‘The Sun-god?’ The philosopher asked.

I grinned. ‘Don’t his nose and chin remind you of someone?’

‘Yes, indeed! What a strange resemblance to your friend Scorpus!’

‘It
is
Scorpus!’

The philosopher stopped dead. ‘Once,’ he said severely, ‘it was considered a sin to honour even kings with statues. Yet today one may mistake the gilded statue of an ex-slave for a divine image!’

‘Why not? The Blue faction set up that group to celebrate Scorpus’s thousandth victory. If every god treated his worshippers as generously as Scorpus has treated the Blues, religion
wouldn’t be in such a poor way.’

He asked me to explain the factions in easy language. A difficult task for a professional like me…

‘Well,’ I said, ‘each faction is known by a colour, one of those that everyone’s wearing – Green, Blue, White and Red. The four racing stables are managed by millionaire syndicates. Green has White as its partner; Blue has Red. You’ll have noticed that Green and
Blue favours predominate. But don’t despise the minor colours: White and Red charioteers come in handy by opening up for their partners, or baulking the enemy.’

‘Do these colours mean anything in particular?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard.’

‘Yet I seem to be the only person here not wearing a favour!’

‘It’s quite a story,’ I told him. ‘A few generations back, we Romans fought one Civil War after
another: all for political reasons. They lasted till the Republic broke down and Augustus made himself Emperor. Since then, discounting a spot of trouble at Nero’s death, we’ve had continuous peace – and no politics! So Rome’s grown incredibly rich. Rich in slaves, rich in
trade. This is the “Good Life” of our ancestors’ dreams. Free citizens need to work only till noon. What’s more, they can
take every other day off, buy all they need, and still have money to jingle… Here’s a novel problem: How to spend their leisure time? Every blessed afternoon, every other morning as well! I’m fortunate to be in show business; keeps me occupied.’

‘
I
should buy books,’ said the philosopher eagerly.

‘Books? But then you’re Greek. We Romans don’t read unless we’re sick. Elsewhere, idle men finding
themselves without jobs or money nurse political grievances; here they’re denied even that comfort. And the Emperor can’t set them all to work raising colossal pyramids – which, for all I know, may have been how the Pharaohs solved Egypt’s leisure problem. He’d run a risk of assassination. Instead, he subsidizes free gladiator shows and chariot races, and lets faction politics replace party politics.
Only a fool would want a change in government when the factions supply a simple means of turning his spare cash into a fortune.’

‘How so?’

‘By betting, of course! Anyone can join either the Blues or the Greens; and though both factions are equally crooked, the betting works well enough.’

‘I should find it demoralizing to be a perpetual spectator!’

‘There the Emperor agrees with you. He’s just
proclaimed a four-yearly “Roman Games” on the Olympic model; doubtless hoping that we’ll all turn enthusiastic athletes. But even if the factions take over, which seems improbable, I can’t see a future in athletics. Apart from popular music and dancing at the Theatre, Rome cares for little except sex, gladiators, racing and betting: we don’t pretend to be Greek idealists.’

A cockfight announcement,
posted on a building, caught the philosopher’s eye – one of the entries was a Myconian bird. He insisted on going inside. Look-outs stood by the door of this miniature Colosseum, where one may bet only in hazel-nuts. The audience wore patched and dirty cloaks; yet the stakes were heavy. Neither the stink and vermin of the cockpit, nor its obscene wall-paintings troubled the philosopher. He
forced me to sit through three fights until the Myconian cock was put in, for the main, by a bald compatriot of his.

Though a small bird, ye Gods!, what a game one… The tall Tanagran, matched against him, mauled his head to a gory mess; but he kept his stubby crest erect and fought like Jove’s eagle. Pretty soon he had the Tanagran guessing, and took his revenge. Up in the air he flew and, with
a single backward thrust, too quick to follow, drove a sharp spur clean through his opponent’s skull. ‘Great Heavens, what timing!’ exulted the philosopher. He made as much fuss of that cock as if it had saved all Greece from disaster!

I teased him: ‘So you’re a convert to the Roman view of sport? Just now
you griped because we like watching gladiators commit mutual murder for our amusement.’

He had his answer ready: ‘Who needs to train cocks at a gladiatorial school? Who forces them to fight desperately, like your doomed ruffians, by way of avoiding jail or the galleys? Who stands behind them with a whip? Cocks battle to the death of their own free will, because such is their nature – and in the barnyard as readily as in the pit.’

‘Don’t under-estimate our gladiators,’ said I. ‘Hermes,
for instance, leader of the Blue troop at the Colosseum: he’s a born killer. Enjoys every minute of life, except when he’s in hospital.’

We pushed our way into the Great Circus through Titus’s Arch, and found Opimus, the stout Blue faction-chief, fuming outside his office. ‘You’re late, Glabrio!’ he bellowed. ‘Hurry off and check the harness. Hurry! There’s only a quarter of an hour left.’

‘Checked it before lunch, Sir. Scorpus was with me. Ask him! Zeno’s been keeping an eye on it meanwhile.’

‘Zeno! What do I care about
him
?’ Opimus stormed. ‘How can I tell he’s not been got at? Zeno’s a Red, and no employee of mine. Don’t you know that a million in gold hangs on this race? Check everything again! And hurry, I say!’

I went to the Harness Room, a stable-guard at my side, unlocked
the door, and checked again. The gold-plated chariot, inlaid with lapis lazuli and turquoise, was not my concern – not even the harness rings. But the traces, yes! I paid them out slowly – thirty flawless yards of new bull’s hide, tough and supple, every inch of it; the splices sewn and oversewn with fox-gut! Then the reins: also brand-new. Harness: sound, though too lavishly decorated. I hate
seeing good leather spoiled by plaques and jewels and amulets; however, if the crowd admires that sort of nonsense… Finally, the bronze bits. I’m expected to wash these before each race, for fear someone may have doped them, and to use water from a sealed jar. The stable-guard keeps a beady eye on me.

‘All correct, Sir!’ I told Opimus.

The grooms wheeled out Scorpus’s chariot, fastened the yoke,
and threw the harness over the waiting stallions. First the team, a matched pair of Thessalian duns, on either side of the shaft. Then the two bay tracers: this course is always taken counter-sunwise, so the tracers are made fast to rail-rings on the off-side. A posse of stable-guards watched sullenly. No one in the Circus trusts anyone.

Now cock your ear for a stable secret! We Blues pamper
our stallions on barley mash doctored with raw, chopped horseflesh – which makes cannibals of them! Remember how King Diomedes, whom Hercules slew, fed his mares on human flesh? I once laughed at that as a poetic fable; now I know that horses are gluttons for meat. The Greens haven’t yet discovered
why Scorpus, apart from his wonderful driving, gets an extra half-length out of his team in every
lap. They’ve tried most known stimulants on their beasts, even peppered oysters! But raw meat’s the answer, either beef or horseflesh.

Scorpus emerges from his dressing-room – in a sky-blue silk tunic, with long strips of buckskin swathed around his legs, crash-helmet, dagger and whip. His nose and chin jut magisterially. ‘All set?’ he asks Opimus.

‘All set, champion. How do you feel?’

‘As
I look.’

I prod the philosopher out of his dreams. ‘Aren’t you betting?’

‘I never laid a bet in my life – not even on the cocks.’

‘What? You’re still a virgin? Lend me your luck, in Heaven’s name: lay a maiden bet for me! I’ll give you half the winnings, I swear.’