Tribune of Rome

CHAPTER VII

At dawn the ancient doorkeeper opened up and admitted the crowd of clients waiting outside to pay their morning respects to their patron. Gaius sat on a stool near the hearth and greeted each of his forty or more clients in order of precedence. Vespasian and Sabinus sat on either side of him and were introduced only to those deemed worthy enough. A young secretary stood behind them taking notes on a wax tablet of any verbal requests, and receiving written petitions from those clients who had problems that they thought could be resolved by their patron.

Those for whom Gaius had some use that day were asked to wait by his study for a private interview. The rest were all given something to eat and drink and then they waited in respectful silence near the door for their patron’s departure. Each held a small purse of coins that, as it was a race day, had been given to them to gamble with. Once the greeting was over Gaius disappeared into his study and dealt with the return favours that he needed from those indebted to him. Vespasian was impressed by the quiet dignity with which both clients and patron conducted themselves as they exploited to the full this symbiotic relationship.

Business concluded, Gaius waddled out of his study and caught sight of Vespasian. ‘Dear boy, be so good as to fetch your parents. It’s time we were leaving; the crowds will be horrendous.’

Once all were assembled in the atrium Gaius made an offering to his household gods, mumbled a prayer, and then made his way outside followed by his family and then his clients. To Vespasian’s surprise, waiting to escort the large party through Rome to the circus were Magnus and six of his crossroads brothers, all sporting sturdy staffs.

‘What are these men doing here, Gaius?’ Vespasia asked. ‘They threatened us yesterday and showed no respect to their betters. I meant to have a word with you about them last night.’

‘Good morning, madam, please accept my apologies for yesterday-’ Magnus began.

‘Have some manners whipped into this man, Gaius,’ Vespasia demanded.

‘Calm my dear,’ Gaius soothed, ‘Magnus is-’

‘Magnus!’ Vespasia exclaimed. ‘That’s a very big name for such a little crook.’

‘My grandfather fought for Pompeius Magnus at Pharsalus. He named-’

‘I’ve no interest in your sordid little family’s history.’

Gaius stepped between them. ‘Vespasia, please. Magnus is a trusted friend of mine and a great source of information. For my sake, won’t you overlook this misjudgement on his part and let us be on our way to the circus? He and his comrades will prove their worth by beating a path through the crowds.’

Vespasia paused and looked down her nose at Magnus and his men who bowed their heads in abject apology.

‘Very well, brother, for your sake I shall,’ she replied loftily.

Magnus nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to Gaius. ‘I assume that you are heading to your normal place, the senators’ seats to the left of the imperial box.’

‘Indeed we are, my good man; I’ve had five slaves there reserving seats since before dawn.’

Gaius headed off down the Quirinal Hill surrounded by his family, clients and bodyguards. As they descended Vespasian saw many similar parties of important-looking men escorted by crowds of hangers-on; the more important the man, the bigger the crowd. All were heading in the same direction: to the games.

Nearer the circus the crowds did indeed become horrendous, as Gaius had predicted. Magnus and his brothers sweated as they pushed through the hordes of race-goers all sporting the colours of their favourite team, Red, Green, White or Blue. They cheered passing groups of the same faction and hissed and jeered supporters of the opposition. They chanted songs praising their teams at the tops of their voices whilst waving the coloured flags that proclaimed their allegiance. Here and there scuffles would break out as the press of the crowd forced two rival groups into each other, but in general the mood was good-natured, mainly because it was too early in the morning for anyone yet to have drunk too much.

They passed groups of racing horses and wagonloads of chariots and equipment being transported from the four teams’ stables on the Campus Martius outside the northern walls of the city to their race-day bases.

‘They’ll be bringing horses in and out all day,’ Gaius shouted above the din. ‘With twelve races of twelve chariots each, most of which will be four-horse, they’ll get through a lot of animals.’

‘Five hundred and seventy-six,’ Vespasian said without thinking.

Sabinus scoffed but dared not criticise his brother’s calculation in case it was right.

‘And at least another two hundred spares,’ Gaius said, raising an eyebrow at the speed of his nephew’s arithmetic. ‘Plus the mounts of the hortatores, the riders who lead each of the chariot teams around.’

Vespasian savoured the atmosphere. His mind filled with the images of the city that they had passed on their mile-long journey: the arches on the Sacred Way; the temple of Jupiter, resplendent in the early-morning sun, perched on the Capitoline Hill above the Forum Romanum; the Senate House and next to it the Rostra, adorned with the rams of Carthaginian ships captured in the battles of Mylae and Cape Ecnomus in Rome’s first struggle with its ancient foe long, long ago. He had seen the new forum of Augustus, the forum of Caesar and other public buildings both religious and civic, buildings he had only heard of, never seen, and had been struck dumb by their size, splendour and beauty.

The outer walls of the circus were now in sight. Four storeys high, they rose majestically above the swarms of people pushing and shoving their way through their arches and into the belly of the building. Once in they would make their way through the colonnaded interior, filled with vendors of hot food, cushions, wine and other necessities, then up one of the many sets of marble steps that led into the huge stadium seating nearly a quarter of a million people.

To his right Vespasian could see the temporary camps of the racing factions set up in the Forum Boarium in front of the narrow, straight end of the circus, through which all the competitors would enter. Thuggish-looking guards, who made Magnus and his friends look like acolytes at a religious ceremony, kept this area secured from the riff-raff keen on getting a sneak preview of the teams being readied for the day.

They passed underneath an arch into the heaving bowels of the circus and Gaius’ party started to diminish as his clients paid their respects to their patron and wished him good fortune, before leaving to try their luck gaining access through one of the many public entrances. Magnus’ job became increasingly difficult in amongst the colonnaded passageways, beating a path through the tightly packed mass of humanity, occasionally pausing to give way to another party of higher status, then following on in their wake. Slowly they made their way to the entrances reserved for senators and their guests.

Gaius called out greetings to acquaintances as they passed close in the heaving melee: ‘Good day to you, Lucius, may the gods smile on you and give you good fortune… Postumus, I hope your Whites fare better today. I shall be backing them in the second race…’ all the time giving Vespasian and Sabinus a brief resume of who they were and how influential they may or may not be.

Close by a fight broke out as one of the entrances was closed, being full to capacity, leaving hundreds of people stranded outside and forced to try to get in through another gate – all of which were already choked with eager race-goers desperate for a seat inside. Screams and shouts filled the air as skulls and bones were cracked by club-wielding marshals, who, intent on pulling shut the gates, fiercely pushed back the disappointed many who had arrived too late to get in.

Eventually Magnus and his brothers forced their way through to the far less congested senators’ entrance.

‘I shall leave you here, sir,’ Magnus said as he and his fellows turned to go. ‘May fortune favour you and your companions.’

‘And you and yours, Magnus,’ Gaius replied, slipping him a weighty purse. ‘Use this well, although I have no doubt that you will just bet on your beloved Greens without any thought of who’s driving and how their current form is.’

‘Well, sir, once a Green always a Green,’ Magnus said seriously as he left.

Gaius smiled and pulled out a wooden ticket from within the folds of his toga and showed it to the marshal on the gate, who bowed and let the party through into the long passageway that led up to the stadium.

Nothing could have prepared Vespasian for the sight that greeted him as he came out of the tunnel into the sun-filled circus. Over two hundred thousand people, a quarter of Rome’s population, were crammed into the huge seating areas that surrounded the track, a hundred paces wide, a third of a mile long. Down its middle, slightly offset to one side and closer to one end of the arena than the other, ran the spina : a long, low barrier eight paces wide with turning posts at each end, around which the races were run. Between the turning posts the spina was ornamented with an obelisk brought back by Augustus from Egypt as well as huge statues of the gods, which were spaced far enough apart so as not to obscure the view of the other side of the track. Above the seating areas long colonnaded walkways ran the length of the stadium in which thousands more people not lucky enough to get a seat would spend the day standing, thankful that they had got in at all. Behind the colonnades on either side could be seen the rich buildings and luxurious gardens on the Palatine and Aventine, for the Circus Maximus was set in the valley dividing the two hills.

The cheers of the crowd echoed around the stadium as they enjoyed the antics of a group of desultores, acrobatic riders dressed in loincloths and strange conical hats, who, before the racing started, hurtled around the track at full gallop leaping from one horse to another in rhythm. They cracked their long whips every time they landed on a new mount to the raucous appreciation of the crowd. For their finale they stood on the backs of their horses and in unison did a backwards somersault to land astride their mounts again; the crowd was ecstatic.

‘I can see my boys down there,’ Gaius shouted over the roar. ‘Follow me.’ He led them off down the steps between two areas of seats at a pace that belied his bulk. Halfway down he turned right along a narrow walkway passing between rows of seated senators who were all enjoying the spectacle as much as the masses that surrounded them, cheering the riders as they left the arena to be replaced by a small army of slaves with brushes who began to smooth the sand in preparation for the first race.

‘Well done, boys,’ Gaius cried to five angelic-looking house slaves sitting in a line at the end of a row. ‘Excellent seats indeed.’ He gave them each a silver coin. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves, my dears. I expect you back at the house after the end of the last race.’

The boys left, leaving five plump cushions and a large bag containing enough food and drink to last the party for the day.

‘It was rumoured that the Emperor himself may be attending today,’ Gaius said as they took their seats. ‘Which is very rare, as Tiberius hates appearing in public and doesn’t take any interest in racing. Perhaps he just wants to remind the public what he looks like.’

‘Where will he sit?’ Vespasian enquired.

‘Why, there, in the imperial box,’ his uncle replied, pointing to a richly decorated enclosure in line with the turning post at the wide end of the track, twenty paces to their right and slightly below them. A marble roof, supported by painted pillars, jutted out from the main body of the stadium, shading an area furnished with chairs, couches and soft rugs. ‘We shall have an excellent view of him, but more to the point he will be able to see us, if he so wishes.

‘Now, down to the business of placing our bets on the first race.’ Gaius paused and adjusted his cushion so that it supported the entirety of his ample behind; once satisfied he continued: ‘You will notice that there are lots of slaves with leather bags tied around their waists going around the crowd; they’re the runners for the bookmakers stationed around the track above and below us.

‘Before each race the teams are announced and paraded once around the track so the crowd can inspect them. Each of the four Colours usually enters three teams in a race, so you have no more than twelve to choose from. Now, you can bet on anything you like, the winner, first and second, on someone not finishing or even all three teams of one Colour not finishing – whatever you want. Once you’ve decided on your bet you attract the attention of some of these slaves and they will tell you the odds that their masters are offering; you choose the best and give him your money and in return he will give you a receipt pre-signed by his master. If you win the slave will return and give you your winnings once you’ve produced the receipt.’

There was a stirring in the crowd and a group of twenty men, half carrying large horns that curled around their bodies, the others long straight trumpets, marched on to the roof of the imperial box. On a signal from their leader they raised their instruments to their lips and sounded a deep sonorous fanfare that seemed to go on for an age. The crowd hushed and a man in shining military uniform came to the front of the imperial box.

‘That’s Sejanus, prefect of the Praetorians,’ Gaius whispered, ‘an adder in the long grass if ever there was one.’

Sejanus raised his arms. ‘People of Rome,’ he shouted. His voice was strong and carried all the way around the enormous structure. ‘We are blessed today with the presence of our glorious Emperor, here to support the Consul, Marcus Asinius Agrippa, by whose generosity these games are being held. Hail Tiberius Caesar Augustus.’

A tall, broad-shouldered man with thinning grey hair, which he wore short at the front and longer at the back so it covered the nape of his neck, strode out to the front of the imperial box with the confidence of a man used to supreme power. The crowd stood as one and bellowed a series of mighty shouts of ‘Hail, Tiberius’. Vespasian wholeheartedly joined in the chorus as he got his first view of the most powerful man in the world. Dressed in purple tunic and toga, Tiberius held out his hands in acknowledgement of the ovation and then gestured to a man behind him to step forward.

‘That’s Asinius Agrippa,’ Gaius shouted above the din, ‘one of the richest men in Rome. He’s sponsoring these games to ingratiate himself with the Emperor. Rumour has it that he’s after the governorship of Syria when his term of office as consul finishes at the end of the year. The money he has spent on these games will seem like small change compared to what he’ll cream off there, should Tiberius grant it.’

Asinius raised his arms and the large gates at each end of the arena opened. Out marched about a hundred slaves carrying buckets filled with coins of all denominations, which they hurled to all corners of the delirious crowd.

‘I see what you mean, Uncle,’ Vespasian shouted, catching a sestertius out of the metal rain, ‘but surely this is excessive.’

‘Of course it is, but it keeps the people happy and perhaps Tiberius will remember it when he comes to appointing the new governors.’

Around him Vespasian noticed that more than a few of the senators were making no attempt to pick up any of the coins that fell amongst them and had sat down with seriously disgruntled expressions on their faces. With such a lavish display of largesse Asinius had evidently managed to offend many of his peers. Asinius himself seemed oblivious of this and, basking in the reflected glory of his Emperor and the adulation of the crowd, gave another signal. The horns and trumpets rang out again and the crowd quietened and sat back down. The gates, to Vespasian’s right, opened revealing the twelve four-horse chariots that would contest the first race.

The three chariots of the Red team entered first. All the horses had dyed red plumes of feathers on their heads and their tails were tied up with red ribbons. The small, light chariots, made of strong red fabric stretched over a wooden frame, had long, slightly upwardly curving poles ending in a carved ram’s head. Although harnessed four abreast only the two inner horses were yoked to the pole at their withers, the outer two being attached to the chariot by traces. Two small eight-spoked wheels with iron tyres gave the vehicles a low centre of gravity making them easier to control. The charioteers all sported bright red sleeveless tunics and had a lacing of leather straps around their torsos to protect their ribs in a crash. To prevent them being dragged to their deaths they wore in their straps a curved dagger that they would use, should they fall off, to cut the reins that were wrapped around their waists. Leather wrappings around their legs, a hardened leather helmet and long four-lash whips completed their uniform.

Heralds around the stadium, struggling to make themselves heard, called out the names of the drivers and horses of each of the three teams. They were greeted with cheers from the Red factions in the crowd and hisses from the rest. Next in came the Blues.

‘Driving the first Blue chariot,’ the heralds bellowed, ‘is Euprepes, son of Telesphoros. It is pulled by Argutus on the outside, Diresor and Dignus in the middle and Linon on the inside.’

The Blues in the crowd cheered their approval.

Gaius leaned over to Titus. ‘That’s the team I fancy to win; Euprepes has won over seven hundred races, two hundred of them at least for the Blues, and three times with this team of Iberian stallions already this year; and Linon is the steadiest of inside horses on the turns.’

‘In that case I shall take your advice, my friend, and have ten denarii on the Blue first team,’ Titus replied, signalling to a couple of passing bookmakers’ slaves.

‘Father, that is a lot of money to throw away on a bet,’ Vespasian said, frowning. Innately careful with money, he found it hard to enter into the spirit of the day.

‘Don’t be so parsimonious, little brother,’ Sabinus scoffed as the heralds started to announce the White teams. ‘We’re here to gamble, not save. I’ll have ten denarii on the Blue first team too.’

‘Dear gods,’ Gaius said, looking worried, ‘it had better win or I shall be in big trouble. That’s the last tip I’ll give today, my nerves won’t stand it.’

Vespasia gave a half-smile. ‘I should hope so, Gaius, I’m not sure that I approve of all this gambling.’ Then, turning to the bookmakers’ slaves, she asked, ‘What are the odds for the White third team?’

‘My master will give you twelve to one on Gentius, or five for a White to win,’ replied the first.

‘Mine is offering fifteen, or six for a White win,’ said the second.

‘In which case I’ll have two denarii at fifteen to one on Gentius.’

‘Mother!’ Vespasian exclaimed, outraged.

‘Oh, don’t be such a prude, it’s only a bit of fun,’ she said, handing over the two coins and receiving a receipt in exchange. ‘Perhaps you should try placing a bet, you might find that you enjoy the race more with money resting on it.’

‘I don’t need to bet on a race to enjoy it,’ Vespasian replied huffily.

Titus, Sabinus and Gaius managed to get three to one on Euprepes off the first bookmaker’s slave, which Gaius reckoned to be reasonable odds for the favourite.

The heralds had just finished announcing the Green teams when there was a stirring in the imperial box. Tiberius got to his feet and greeted with apparent affection a tall elegant woman draped in a black palla that covered her hair and fell down in folds to below her knees. Under this could be seen a deep red stola that reached her ankles; she looked every inch a respectable and powerful Roman matron of the old school.

‘That’s Antonia,’ Gaius said quite excitedly, ‘Tiberius’ sister-in-law. Tiberius made her eldest son, Germanicus, his heir as part of the deal that he struck with Augustus when he was adopted by him. Germanicus, however, died six years ago and then Drusus, Tiberius’ natural son who was married to Antonia’s daughter, Livilla, died four years later, so now the succession isn’t clear at all,’ he said, looking at Vespasian, who didn’t think that it ever did seem clear. ‘Anyway, Antonia’s other son Claudius is such a booby the talk is that the purple will skip a generation and go to Tiberius’ grandson Gemellus or one of Germanicus’ children.’ He looked around nervously and whispered: ‘There’s even talk that the old Republic might be reinstated.’

Vespasian looked over at the lady with interest as Gaius carried on his lecture. She seemed to be right at the heart of imperial politics.

‘As chance would have it, I was able to perform a couple of considerable favours for her when I was Governor of Aquitania and am now very much in her favour. With luck I shall be able to introduce you boys to her.’ He looked at Vespasian, expecting an enthusiastic response, only to find his nephew staring, slack-jawed, at the imperial box.

‘Dear boy, whatever’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Sabinus, picking up on his brother’s state of shock, followed his gaze and laughed. ‘No, Uncle, that’s not a ghost, that’s a girl. There’s a huge difference.’

‘Well, I’m no expert on either, as you know.’

Vespasian could barely believe his eyes; in the imperial box helping Antonia to her seat was the girl in the litter who had looked at him with such intensity, only yesterday, on the Via Nomentana. She was the slave of the most powerful woman in Rome.