Seize the Day, page 9
Next day they all went to the Circus to see the gladiators practice. There not being a special holiday, the place was only half full and accordingly, the show was more an exhibition than a fight to the death. There were judges who would decide the winner of any competition, so the place quickly heated up with furious betting.
In the first match, a secutor armed with a short sword faced an almost naked retiarius armed with a trident and a net. The sword man had a helmet and armor protecting both his arms. Traditionally he was to pursue his opponent, get in close to use his short sword. The net man would try to snare him in his web and finish him off with his trident.
“Bet on the net,” Caio advised.
“Why? Because he’s black and the other’s white?” Marcus asked a little suspiciously. The Nubian merely grinned with the flash of his white teeth illuminating his dark face. After a moment’s hesitation, Marcus found a professional bettor and wagered a whole denarius on the net at advantageous odds.
Both fighters were well trained with their weapons and it looked to be an even fight. They circled each other warily, then suddenly charged or counter-charged. Back and forth the contest surged, across the whole of the arena to the roar of the crowd which was finally getting into it. Several times it looked as if one had the other pinned but each time the opponent escaped. As the fight dragged on undecided, the spectators lost interest and their noises abated. In near silence the combatants fought on.
“If I had my pilum here, I’d nail them both,” the Belgian claimed with a superior sneer.
“Yes, I could take them on with my gladius any day,” Tiros chimed in.
“And I would bet against both of you,” Decurion Castor said with great conviction, “and win too.”
Both gladiators were now tiring and the watchers tensed, anticipating an impending conclusion. The secutor stumbled as he charged in, and the retiarius caught him with his net and with astonishing swiftness, dragged him down onto the ground, helplessly entangled. He set the point of the trident against his opponent’s throat and waited for the judges to award him the contest. Now had it been a serious fight before a full arena, the secutor would likely be dead to satisfy the bloodlust of the crowd, but today he could walk away with only his pride injured.
Marcus collected his winnings and grinned back at Caio. “I told you so,” the black man said with obvious racial pride.
After every event, a Roman housewife in the row in front of them extended her thumb down, demanding the mercy blow for the defeated. Her face was contorted into an ugly mask of hate and fury as she vented all her frustration in this one gesture of power she had in life. Marcus shuddered. She was somebody’s wife and mother. All around people were indulging their passions. It was easy when someone else was doing the fighting and the dying. These people would likely sacrifice a soldier’s life with equal ease. These were the ones he was paid to protect. Marcus chewed on these sobering thoughts, but it did not stop him from betting. He won three more times, but stopped when he lost the next bet. Except for the betting, the contests were not very exciting without the flow of blood.
But the Belgian, who won a handsome amount, was of a different opinion. “Now that’s what I call entertainment. Trust a Roman to do it right.” Then as a dig at Septimus, he added, “Sure beats Greek theatre any day.”
Septimus, of course, could not let that pass. “The Circus is vulgar!” he said with measured contempt.
“I saw you enjoying it!” Tiros jumped on the comment.
“Yes, I admit it. And that’s what makes it so vulgar,” Septimus reasoned. “I enjoyed it without wanting to. But that only proves that the impresario knows his profession.”
“Proves my point!” the Belgian declared triumphantly. “It takes Roman expertise to organize a real extravaganza.”
As they left their seats to clamber down the worn stone steps, they passed a group of well dressed patrician ladies who were eager to spend private time with the victorious gladiators. In excited voices the women compared the champions who provoked their interest and curiosity. To them the risk of death was an irresistible aphrodisiac.
As they passed, Caio ogled the women, making a few suggestive gestures with his hands. Tiros smirked loudly. He sniffed at the cloud of expensive perfume. “We chose the wrong profession my friends. We should have been gladiators and have all these fine ladies seeking us out.”
“You fool! Did you not listen?” The Belgian turned on him. “Did they not say ‘we who are about to die salute you.’ Are you so anxious to spill your life blood onto the sand of the arena?”
“That not,” Tiros replied. “But I would gladly spill seed willingly met.” It was a pleasant fantasy; such highborn ladies were out of reach of a simple legionnaire.
Afterward the troop separated. Septimus and Marcus again combed the bazaar in hope of picking up some useful bargains with Marcus’ winnings. With his good-luck medallion sunk, Marcus was looking for a charm or amulet to replace it. He went from one stall to another looking for a certain something but nothing caught his eye. What he saw were too large, too bulky, too garish, just . . . too this or too that. He was waiting for some hint of sympathy, some emanation of a power to compel Lady Luck. But nothing resonated with him. They were cheap trinkets, baubles.
Too late he realized the value of the medallion he had lost and had mostly taken for granted. He fervently wished he had it back. He needed something like it, with an inscription, for now he was convinced there was power in writing, otherwise why would so many wise men bother with it? He found one brass piece with letters stamped into it. “What does it say?” he handed it to Septimus.
“It says, happy anniversary to my dearest Lydia,” Septimus read then laughed.
Disgusted, Marcus threw the piece back. “Come, let's go!”
“And where to now?” Septimus was still chuckling.
“I've got to find a temple and make a sacrifice.” Then he added irritably, “I need divine protection until I can get my luck back.”
“All right,” Septimus gave in resignedly. “But then let's visit the Jupiter temple, the grandest in the city.” After all it was celebrated throughout the Empire.
“But that is way up on top of the mountain!”
“The view from there should be exceptionally good.”
So they started, finding their way easily, for the temple mountain was always visible. If they were not so used to marching they would have been winded by the climb. They were leaving the last houses when Marcus suddenly realized how hungry he was. It was surprising how simple sightseeing depleted one. There was nothing nearby, just a food cart by the side of the road. The two friends approached, cheered by the sight of flat bread, cheese and olives displayed on the cart. With a large leaf, the vendor was chasing away the flies.
“That will be two sesterces each,” the vendor said.
“What!? We’re honest soldiers, not tourists! You want my entire daily allowance for this food?” Septimus was livid. “Here then, take it back!”
“All right, have it for one then, though my children will starve.”
“One for both,” Septimus bargained. “Just remember that I stand guard so you can sleep safe and sound in your bed beside your wife.”
“I am patriotic, so I will only charge you one and a half, for both.” Then he leered at them. “And I am not married.”
“All the better, for then you can sleep with your mistress without cheating on a wife you don’t have. You lucky man. Here take one sesterce, we have to get to the temple yet. And will pray for you.”
The man gave in; it had been a slow day and he would likely have to take some of the food home with him. Marcus and Septimus ate at the side of the road under a gnarled olive tree.
On top, the temple itself did not look all that imposing but the view of the city, the harbor and the surrounding countryside was breathtaking. Even Septimus was impressed. “A high place. A holy place,” he muttered.
“But you don’t believe in the gods,” Marcus reminded him.
“No, I don’t believe any god, but perhaps I believe all gods.” Septimus looked into the distance, his face puzzled.
Marcus shrugged his shoulders then hurried up the steps into the temple. Inside it was cool and dim. Above the altar, a gilded statue of Jupiter loomed out of the semidarkness. A priest hurried to meet them, but slowed when he noticed they were but common legionnaires. Not much could be expected from them. Marcus asked for a chicken sacrifice but when he was told it cost two denari, he settled on a dove for one. The priest got the bird and slit its throat, allowing the blood to drain into the bronze dish on the altar. Afterward, he examined the bird’s entrails and prophesied good weather.
“We’re soldiers, not the navy,” Septimus pointed out.
“Well the weather is the same for all, but what were you looking for?”
“My friend here has lost his luck.”
“Ahhhh.” The priest returned to the bird and poked about in its innards. He straightened and said to the point, “Be of good cheer, you shall find your luck.”
“Where?” Marcus wanted to know.
The priest was nonplused for a moment, but replied, “The bird did not tell me.” He then disappeared into the shadows, with the bird ready for the cooking pot.
“You should have asked the chicken,” Septimus commented with a straight face. “I bet he would have known.”
Marcus was irked by his friend’s good humor. All good and well for him, but Marcus was no closer to finding his luck. He took a small consolation in the fact that he had sought divine advice, so that the divine could not reproach him on that account. But his need continued to oppress him all the way back down into the city, for a soldier without luck really had nothing.
“You make your own luck,” Septimus broke into his brooding.
“How?” Marcus demanded, filled with a great sense of bitterness. The gods were playing with him and he did not have his luck to protect him.
“By believing in yourself,” his friend replied. That sounded suspiciously religious, and Marcus squinted at his friend; was he really serious?
They returned to the barracks to platefuls of lentils and beer. All around the mess hall soldiers were gambling, leading to explosive outbursts as the wagers increased. Morosely Marcus watched the action, feeling quite naked without his luck.
That was the trouble. If one had it, one was hardly aware of it, but let it desert one, then one’s whole life turned on it. How did the marching song go? “My one foot is luck . . . The other is daring . . . But when my luck goes missing . . . Daring turns to pissing . . . Don't bet on me . . .”
Damn! Luck was taking over all his thoughts, the lack of it ruining his life. Well, maybe tomorrow.
Chapter 5
The ship stopped in Utica and the galley slaves disembarked and overnighted in a shore facility. It was strange to be on land again, moving erect, trying to walk again, having seemingly forgotten how in such a short time. Of course all twenty of them had to move together, fettered as they were, the length of chain clanking with each step. They were given sweet carrots with their meal and even some bath oils. There was the added luxury of stretching out full length on a luxurious mat of straw. Little things of comfort one had taken for granted before.
Meanwhile a crew of slaves cleaned the interior of the ship thoroughly so when the galley slaves would re-embark, the smell of the place would be almost bearable. The next day they headed north to Syracuse and then on to Messina according to plan. Close to the shore of Sicily the winds became more variable, and they had to row for long stretches, but only at half speed to allow the heavily-laden merchant vessels to keep up. They disembarked in Messina and stayed on shore for five days waiting for a new convoy to form up.
Each chain was inspected; an officious little man from central procurement poked ribs, tested limbs, looked at teeth and felt calluses, judging the condition of each slave and the reserves he yet had. A few of the very weakest or those obviously sick were exchanged with new men. The chain’s overseer often begged for fresh muscle; the procurer gleefully refused, but he could be bribed. Oh yes, bribes were welcome, so much so as to lead Senator Claudius to quip, “Our navy needs waterways to use, fair winds to drive the sails, sailors to man the ships, but above all, bribes to ease their way.” Marcus thought of pretending to be sick but was afraid that he would be sold to a merchant Captain who cared only for profit and not for the care of his crew, slave or free. In the navy, they were at least concerned about the condition of the slaves, as it directly affected the ship’s performance. At times it was sheer delight to overhear the Captain chew Bruno out, blaming him for another sick man at the oars. “It’s your responsibility to keep them healthy and on the oars. A slave who does not row is merely excess weight to slow us down.” Bruno would cringe under the reprimand but would not dare to make excuses. “Even for a big fish there is always a bigger fish waiting to bite it.” Marcus smiled to himself with great satisfaction, relishing one such exchange. He could make his good humor last for several days.
Finding himself on shore, Marcus tried to move and exercise as much as his chain allowed. At times, his neighbors, link one and three, complained about this and wanted him to stop. But he kept exercising anyway, moving, pulling on his chain, working his muscles. He was not going to become one of those wretches who after a stint of sea duty could barely straighten up.
In the slave hall the restriction against talking was only laxly enforced. People conversed quietly, with whoever was near, if they were lucky enough to find a topic to talk about. Marcus tried to strike up something around him, but most were mute, uninterested. They did not care what his name was, where he came from and even less why he was there. Everyone had a story to tell but nobody cared. The conversations, if any, revolved around food, the immediate routine, gossip about the guards and overseer. The habits and cycles of the local vermin were of interest. Their world had shrunk to such myopic concerns.
One grizzled slave of indeterminate age could not remember their last stopover in Utica, only that they served fresh dates there. Others could not even speak, uttering only gibberish, drooling uncontrollably, but they still could row and understand the drums. There were a few from foreign lands, whose speech was unknown. Even in the silence they remained apart, isolated from the rest. Their eyes grew dim in time and more and more vacant, as the spirit distanced itself from reality.
People developed strange quirks. There was one from Crete who would only row if he was blindfolded. He claimed that his eyes lied to him, telling him the opposite of what he felt. Watching the drummers got him completely off the beat so he had to cover his eyes to row in time with the rest. His eyes receded in their sockets, burning bright like lit coals.
There was another who took to nibbling at the wood around him. He chewed through two oars, and was beaten soundly each time, before someone thought to give him some sticks to chew on. He did not know why he was doing it, just that he had to.
But most were quiet sorts, sunken into themselves, barely able to respond to the drums. They would stand forever on a spot if someone did not tell them to move. Then one day they would be found dead, without cause or reason. Perhaps, Marcus guessed, their souls wandered too far from their bodies and could not find their way back again.
Then there were the sudden explosions, when any little thing, like a bucket not passed, or just a casual touch, set a person off in an outburst of violence, and it took a whole troop to subdue him. One German refused to calm down, and in the end Bruno had to run him through with his gladius. He was thrown unceremoniously overboard. Too bad, all agreed, for he was a good rower.
“In two or three years I’ll be just the same,” Marcus realized, scaring himself deeper into his obsessions. He became even more fastidious about himself and his surroundings; he moved constantly for exercise, practised as if driven his mind-enlarging routines. His eyes were everywhere, his ears on everything. The monkey-boys nicknamed him the Finch for the way his head snapped birdlike toward any sound to catch its meaning.
The rest of his waking hours not filled with a real focus, Marcus spent revisiting his past, searching for meaning and significance and extracting valuable lessons he had overlooked the first time. “Must remember everything,” he instructed himself over and over again. Still, he could not get over the feeling that somehow he had displeased a deity and that was the reason he was being punished so excessively. It had to be a god, he ruminated, for his wretched fate seemed to be far in excess of any human measure. He had to find the cause, appease the offended god and reclaim his life. “Think. Remember.”
*****
In Caesarea, Decurion Castor discovered an old comrade serving with the garrison. From then on the rest of the troop rarely saw him. He was not missed, for although he had been very indulgent with them on this trip, his presence was inhibiting their sense of enjoyment. They got along much better without him.
This time, following Septimus’ nose, the two brothers-in-arms ended up on the harbor front. There was a number of merchant ships loading and unloading cargo. Along a stone quay there were two navy vessels tied up. Septimus drifted that way, greatly enjoying all the activity. So different from sleepy Sagitus.
“This is the real lifeline of the Empire, for without the sea we would never have grown so big. Roads are good but they can’t carry the cargo the sea or our rivers can. Not so cheaply or effectively.”
A line of slaves was trudging down the gangplank, each with a sack on his back. An overseer called out the numbers for a clerk to jot down. Septimus, pointing at the pile of goods growing on the dock, continued, “Grain and cotton from Egypt, honey from Syria, cedar from Lebanon, ox hides from Hispania, wine and smoked meat from Gaul, copper and tin from Britannia, cheese from Belgium and marble from . . . from someplace.”
There were more ships offshore waiting their turn to be unloaded. A number of rowboats were going back and forth, and fishing boats were heading out to sea. This was a busy harbor.
