yablonsky

Commodus Acta, in reaching his gray years, was far from the model of a modern Roman gentleman, bereft of a military record, political career, or any significant holdings. Indeed, he didn’t even own a single domestic slave. To the few peers who remembered his youth he was a cautionary tale to be imparted onto sons and nephews; a man of good breeding and prestigious schooling with no ambitions grand enough to honor them.
He received (in defiance of his father’s dying wishes) a not-insignificant regular allowance from his landholding, politically active younger brothers, yet deigned to take his apartments among the plebeians and provincials. He was a rake and a lout, a well known vulgarian and sloganeer, whose preferred medium was bare patches on the walls of public gymnasiums and bathhouses.
In brief, he was a scribbler.
At the very least, however, he was a motivated scribbler; he rose early and filled his itinerary for each day as much as he was able. Racing was his business, and where races were, so was he. Chariots, saddles, bareback, dogs, foot-racing, any kind. He once even covered a chicken race; a farmer there claimed he had the fastest cock on the peninsula, and he was almost right. The bird came second. So the farmer served it for dinner.
In his youth, in the hilltop villa where his parents lived, Commodus had been taught to regard downtown Rome as a trash heap; outnumbered and overworked cohorts of legionnaires ran around like enraged ants, trying to keep a lid on the passions and follies of plebs from uncivilized lands the world over. It was this attitude, in combination with his sickly childhood, that led to him ending up as something of a homebody, hardly ever traveling outside of Latium.
As cow’s excrement fell from a second-story corral down to the street, he wondered if his long-departed parents were right. As he strolled on, though, the charm of the place came more sharply into focus, as it did every morning. It was a real tight-knit sort of neighborhood: a potter and a farrier argued over where exactly the property line was while their clients stood by, embarrassed, whose wives were busy gossiping over hanging laundry. Tribes of unwatched, scarcely clothed children fought mock campaigns with wooden swords and sticks. Merchants tugged at their mules. Noble couples were carried by teams of slaves in two separate litters. Farm hands marched out to the vineyards smelling of olive oil. Across the plaza, in front of a marble bust of some well heeled, fondly-remembered old pervert, a crier broadcast his message to the passing crowds:
“Friends, Romans, Countrymen! The sporting event of the season is upon us at last! For the honor and glory of mighty Apollo, whose heavenly chariot doth set the sky alight each day, two weeks of world-class races shall likewise set the Circus Maximus
ablaze, with death-defying feats of speed, skill, and daring! Reserve your tickets now! The first thousand entrants on opening day shall receive complimentary leavened loaves and commemorative skins of wine, courtesy of our generous patron, the honorable Senator Marius Orda!”
The Latium Athletic Epistolary Service was run out of an old two-story building, whose facade was kept from rotting through and crashing down into the street by a load bearing exoskeleton of cheap plaster. Lengths of linen, splattered with tar-black paint, ran from the windows, advertising the service to sports fans, readers, and illiterates alike. Recaps, reactions, and scores. Expert picks for gamblers of all kinds. Special features. Exclusive interviews. Public symposia with LAES expert analysts and commentators. It was everything the Roman sportsman could want, all in one affordable, easy to read sheet.
Inside, ink-blotted cub scribes scratched in stereo, transcribing manuscripts in the common Greek. When they got bored or sore or frustrated they scratched on the walls, writing things like:

I JOINED THE CULT OF CYBELE AND ALL I GOT WAS CASTRATED
—
PRIORITIES:
I.) WINE
II.) SLOPPY TOP FROM THE CUTE TOWEL BOY AT THE BATHS
III.) BREAD
—
GAIUS OF CRETE STICKS HIS OWN JAVELIN UP HIS ASS

It went on like this, and suggested an ongoing project to vulgarize every unmarked surface in the building.
Upstairs, an argument was well underway between a dark, vaguely cruel-looking man in rich clothes, and Jeroboam the Editor, easily identifiable by his distinctly-un-Roman approach to personal grooming and self-adornment.
A wood-pommeled papyrus scroll went sailing across the room, almost decapitating old Commodus as he strove to make a casual, dignified entrance.
“I wrote that it was a ‘thunderous lion’s roar from Nechtan the Pict which broke the morale of the cadres of Carthage and swung the momentum of the battle’! It went to our subscribers as ‘a battle cry shortly before the match’s conclusion’! The hell is that, Jerry? I spent all that time on my manuscript so I could capture the atmosphere at the arena that day, and you’ve sucked all the feeling out of it, as usual.”
Jeroboam, swarthy and stone-faced, was unmoved: “How many times do we have to go through this? Feeling is for poetry. We seek to inform our subscribers of who won and how, not move them to tears at the valor of some fat bog-dweller!”
The dark man, arms akimbo, hunched forward in a mocking gait. “It wasn’t you, was it? You have better taste than to strike that passage. It was that wife of yours, I bet. She’s always had it out for me. Her and her opinionated pen! I ought to–”
“Finish that sentence, dear Marcus, and you may be searching for a new epistolary to write for by day’s end. And I can’t imagine anyone else in town covering your room and board so you can spend three months lusting after servant girls in Helvetia instead of writing my feature.”
A dull, dry clack of wood on varnished wood resounded through the room as Commodus placed the thrown scroll on a nearby table. “I see I’m interrupting a lover’s quarrel. I’ll just be on my way, then.”
Marcus, the tanned Roman with the expensive tailoring, came vaulting across the room, his face lit up with sudden joy. “Commie! You old bastard, how the hell are you?”
“Better than you it seems.”
“This stubborn ox is trampling my garden as usual. I don’t know why I bother. Help me out here—you’re the real man of letters out of all of us.”
“Oh, I’m not brave enough for editorial debates.”
“Then why exactly are you here? Unless you’re turning in your contribution to this month’s missive early, for a change?” Jeroboam, born unflappable, leaned a fuzzy cheek on a clenched fist and regarded Commodus with a look of sardonic detachment.
“Still running down some leads, Jerry. You’ll have it when it’s ready.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“I’m heading out to the track for alternates. Just wanted to stop by and let you know.”
“Mind if I tag along?” asked Marcus. “It has been far too long since we worked together.”
That time apart was intentional, of course, but not that he knew; Marcus Hispanicus lacked his mentor and onetime partner’s social finesse, for time in the Legion makes men straightforward to the point of obliviousness.
“Will I be receiving an invoice for your quality time, dear Marcus?”
“If you’re going be so stingy about paying me, perhaps I’ll just walk on down to the legion recruiting office and tell them I would like to re-enlist. Maybe they’ll ship me off to Palestine. I can crucify a few of your relatives.”
Marcus was confronted with a spear-like finger from the desk. “Do not! Joke about that, don’t–” Jeroboam’s eyes picked out old Commodus, embarrassed and looking rather mortified, standing at the margins of his office. He sighed. “I can see I’ve been outflanked here. Commie? Objections?”
Commodus wasn’t brave enough to submit any, at least not this early in the morning. “Well, it’s an awfully big festival. The extra pair of hands may be of assistance.”
“Alright then, go. But I’m expecting front-page material here.”
Marcus covered the retreat by stealing a wasp-gnawed fig off his boss’ desk and taking off down the stairs, howling an oft-repeated oath to Mars he had no intention of honoring. The reunion began in earnest, in the back of their hired cart drawn by a dour little Phyrigian displeased to be chauffeuring Romans about but in no position to turn down paying work.
“So it sounds like your Helvetian expedition was a bust, eh?” asked Commie.
“Yeah those nancy-boys from up north can’t fight worth a damn. Should have listened to my gut and gotten Jerry to put me up in Britannia. The Celts understand violence, if little else.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Paler and paler every time I see her. Used to get darker than me in the summers. Now she’s a real Roman lady, whiter than the marble in the villa her husband keeps her locked up in. Enough about me. Who do you like for the big one? Greens or Blues? I figure I’ll gamble a little while I’m in town.”
“I didn’t think you knew anything about chariots, dear Marcus.”
“I don’t. S’why I’m asking you.”
The day’s business took the pair out of the city and into the alpine meadows where the Etruscans had raced horses centuries before. The dirt circuit had no name and was known simply as the old short track, as similar old short tracks all through the civilized world were known. A stone stable left over from those early days formed the anchor around which a broader market and facility for the racehorse trade had sprung up. Sloped over the top of the old stables was a rickety stand where city dwellers drawn by the promise of fresh air and cheap entertainment could sun themselves and take in a view of the action.
“We needn’t bother with that. View’s better over here anyway.”
“I don’t see any chariots.”
“Not worth it for a crowd this small. All the horses you’ll see here are independently owned, hoping to get picked up by one of the big touring teams. This is an audition, of sorts. The Blues and Greens always race on the first day of Apollo’s Festival. If anything goes wrong with one of their horses between now and race day they’ll have a sense of what their local alternatives are like.”
“Ah. So the fellow in the blue tunic up there, is he a scout or some such?”
“Good eye. Yeah, that’s their chief scout for the capital region. Absolutely incorrigible drunk, but he’s picked six championship-winning horses and twice as many champion drivers. The Greens’ main scout likes to stay at ground level, if I recall correctly. Perhaps we’ll spot him venturing out for a piss and corner him for a comment. That’s the Whites’ main horse buyer there: further up the stand, the fat one. The skinny one there with the curls is in scouting for the Reds, got the job because he’s fucking the team’s owner. Rich old fool thinks his lover has satyr-blood, can talk to the horses. Course, the Reds haven’t won a damn thing in a decade or so. Just because a horse is talkative doesn’t make it fast.”
The old man went on like this, scarcely stopping for breath. Within minutes he’d produced a skin of wine and the two passed it back and forth, imbibing big slugs of rich red ichor. The horses started to run, and the afternoon slipped away into the orange glow of the evening.
The announcement was made, at last, that the light was getting too low to keep running. The horses needed some rest, and the local shepherds were protesting that they needed to graze their flocks for awhile before the dark really set in and the wolves and foxes started to circle. The laypeople in the crowd booed and threw their garbage at the master of ceremonies, but the racing types just shrugged and made ready to leave.
“Uh, sirs,” the two friends found themselves interrupted by a small, scrawny, sad eyed boy in the characteristic purple-fringed white tunic issued to all hospitality and customer service slaves in the Circus Maximus complex. “Begging your pardon for the interruption, I’m looking for Commodus Acta.”
Commie and Marcus pushed themselves off the wooden fence against which they’d been leaning. “You’ve found him.”
“I come on behalf of my Lord, the honorable Publius Orda. He saw you among the crowd and bid me to bring you to his tent.”
Commodus sighed. Another reunion in which he had no interest. Publius was an old schoolmate, though, and he’d found an influential niche for himself in the race business. Could give the front-page type of material Jerry was asking for.
“Tell him I’ll be along shortly.” Commodus produced a drachma from his sleeve and pressed it into the boy’s grubby hand.
“Very kind of you, my lord,” said the boy, in a hurry to disappear before the old man thought better of his generous tip.
“Hey, wait up a second, here,” ordered Marcus “Kid. Who do you got for the provincial title next month: Nechtan the Pict or Vrancx the Gaul?”
“Well I’m hardly versed in such matters, I–”
Marcus conjured a second drachma into existence.
“Vrancx. Easy.”
“Really? Pleb money seems to be on the big Pict. I’ve seen him work up close. He’s like an Ox.”
“Yeah, but none of his fights have gone longer than five minutes.”
“So?”
A sudden look of mischief and opportunity illuminated the slave boy’s sad eyes. “Well I don’t know if I should–”
“I know the game. Here.” Another drachma “Now spill it. Everything you know.”
“Well ever since he became number one contender, Nechtan’s been getting everything he wants out at the Ludus, and he’s got an appetite. I heard Lord Casca the other day talking about how much the women and fatted calves are costing him. He was already one of the biggest gladiators I’ve seen. It’s how he finished those others so quickly. The extra weight is gonna slow him down, and Vrancx is slippery. Plus it’s a midday fight. Apollo will brighten the sun for the next few weeks in recognition of his festival, which will make Nechtan tire even quicker. If Vrancx can stretch the fight past, say, ten minutes, I don’t see any way he can lose.”
Marcus smiled and rubbed his chin. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out. Maybe go bet those drachmas on the champ.”
“Oh no, sir. Workers aren’t allowed to gamble. It’d be dishonest. But thank you, my lord, truly.”
“Just call me Marc, kid. You hear any more stuff like that over the coming weeks, you come find me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
The slave boy gave an enthusiastic nod of his head and ran off to see to his other duties. Marcus Hispanicus readjusted his fine, red-trimmed robes, made sure he still had his wineskin and coin purse (one can never be too careful about that when dealing with the plebs), and walked towards the disapproving gaze of his friend.
“Best advice you ever gave me was tipping the slave boys. They know everything and they’re dying to tell someone,” smirked Marcus.
“I never told you to press them for information like that. You could get him in a lot of trouble.”
“Aw, Commie, do you feel neglected? Had I slipped him another drachma and kept him around a little longer, you two could have traded fashion tips.”
Commodus scrunched his face up at that. His rough-hewn beige tunic was, in fact, similar in proportion to the slave boy’s; he’d sworn off dyed fabrics after a little inclement weather at his graduation party left him dyed green for a month and a half.
The older Orda brother, Marius, was a long-tenured senator, and therefore, by Commie’s own standards, a pig. Though even a dedicated political cynic like himself had to admit Orda did a better job hiding it than most: one mistress at a time; not a serious lush by senatorial standards; shipped his idiot sons off to Egypt to fail at being merchants rather than pissing and moaning until they got a military commission. Better than most—didn’t make him “good,” though.
Publius though, Publius was another matter. The two had been schoolmates. While big brother Mari forged his career in politics, control of the family holdings was passed to Publius.
“Does he own one of the race teams?”
“Worse—he owns the sportsbook at the Circus Maximus.”
The pair passed figures dressed in rich, deep purples and polished, reflective blacks. Praetorians. Four in all. Two with sword and shield, one bearing the grape and coin sigil of the House of Orda, and another with his crested helmet tucked under his arm. This was the captain: broad chested, broad-chinned, and cruelly handsome. He stepped in front of Marcus.
“Hey, what gives?” asked Marcus.
“I was told to admit this one. Nobody said anything about you.”
“You think you could keep me out? I was splitting Gauls twice your size while you were learning to polish your helmet.”
“And you were doing it for what, thirty denarii a week? That doesn’t make you tough, or even brave. It just makes you a sucker.”
“What did you just–”
“Just leave it, Marcus,” said Commodus.
Inside a tent, pitched in rich, dark, insulating fabrics, an incense burner smoked at full chat.
Publius Orda had his back to the door-flap, was naked from the waist up and hid his loins with a stained wrap of expensive purple cotton. He was chewing on his thumb, regarding some twisted, many-limbed figure down in the shadows.
He turned, smiling in that practiced, faux-bashful way you see from those dedicated to perfecting their misbehavior.
“I apologize for my appearance, old friend. You’ve caught me at a rather low point, I’m afraid.” He spoke like they hadn’t seen each other in weeks rather than years. “It’s my wife, you see—she’s having one of her fits. I know I said I wouldn’t be purchasing any more female slaves, but that was before I saw these beauties down at the market. I mean, look at them! They have red hair! Have you ever seen a woman with red hair? They’re sisters, too! Twin sisters! I simply had to have them and, well, following my passions has left me sleeping in this tent, for the time being. Though I have my vermillion beauties to keep me company, of course.”
Commodus begged his own eyes to resist the urge to travel downward to take in the pitiful sight: two women, maybe a third of his and Publius’ age, if he was being generous, with whip-scars on their rumps and backs and horse-bits in their mouths, bound in submission before their owner.
Their hair was indeed red. On that, he had to agree.
His eyes rose again to meet Publius’. Commodus was gripped by the overwhelming sense that it was not a man to whom he was speaking; it stood like a man, talked like a man, wore the skin of one, and even looked at him like one. But it hadn’t been a man for years: something had skinned the man alive, making its home in whatever remained. Commodus’ mouth was so dry he nearly choked on his own tongue as he struggled to get the words out:
“Is this what you called me over for, dear Publius?”
“Oh heavens, no! No, I’m hoping to do you a favor. You may be aware that the House of Orda is a long-time backer of the Blues; as a patron, I’ve received early notice of a serious alteration to their plans for the opening day of the festival: their lead driver took a rather nasty spill in practice this morning, and won’t be racing anytime soon. I happen to have the back-up driver with me here, actually. How about an exclusive interview?”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why are you offering this to me, what’s the catch?”
“No catch. If the Circus is full on opening day, so is my purse. A star driver no longer appearing may depress attendance, but if the casual fans know something about the alternate they may get interested. Who better to interest them?”
Commodus was nursing a bad feeling that was in the process of metastasizing throughout his being, but he deferred before long.
He’d need Marcus to help with the copying, however. Could he come in? Naturally. The Praetorian captain lifted the flap to let Marcus enter, and kept it open to let Publius leave, with his slaves in tow. Marcus sauntered through the open flap, barking abuse at the Captain, but stopped dead by the sight of the naked slave women. He whistled one flat note at their passing (on all fours, naturally) and muttered under his breath, “Yep, definitely should have gone to Britannia.”
The driver had to open the flap on his own; he had farmhand muscles, long, matted hair, a patchy beard and a desert complexion. His name was Hezekiah, and bad luck and
mocking fate had dragged him across the Mediterranean from a backwater known as Galilee. He was just nineteen, and a scant few days away from becoming the first Hebrew to drive at the Circus Maximus.
Wonderful. Jerry would be doing cartwheels over this.
“Back-up driver” was a bit adventurous as far as job titles go; Hezekiah was a stablehand. The bad feeling hadn’t gone away, but now, it came back down like a ton of bricks: they’d drafted the poor kid to die on that track, and Commodus was tasked with getting people excited to see the condition of the corpse. How do you tell someone that?
You don’t.
Like all the promising drivers and champion gladiators he’d met before,
Commodus simply rose to shake the young man’s hand, wishing him luck. In his head he composed the final paragraph of his feature:
“We’ll see, dear readers, if Apollo is a kind, sporting god, one who loves an underdog as we do, or if he takes offense to participants in his festival that do not furnish him with offerings and prayers.”
He already knew the answer.
By the time the interview concluded, the Praetorians were about ready to tear down the tent with them inside. Publius had left to go sleep in his office at the Circus, and the three of them hustled a ride back to the city with some horse trader that owed Commie a favor (it seemed easier to count the racing industry regulars that didn’t owe Commodus a favor of some kind).
Before the city even came back into view, Marcus nodded off to sleep. He’d been on the road all day and couldn’t go any further, at least not on his own two feet. Commodus beckoned the young Hebrew. “Look for this one when you get your copy of the epistle: Marcus Hispanicus, finest writer on the gladiatorial games in all the empire. You’ll never go broke betting with Marcus.”
“He’s a charming fellow, but seems a little, I dunno—manic?”
“He’s batshit. He’s a war hero, you know. Butchered twenty Gauls singlehandedly. It drove him crazy. Death just doesn’t faze him. It’s why he’s so good at picking fights. He could’ve had his own command by now, but didn’t want the responsibility. Can’t care about a life besides his own anymore.”
“Odd thing to say about a friend.”
“He thinks we’re friends. I know better. I lost the taste for what his friendship would entail some time ago.”
“Lost the taste?”
“Oh, it’s a terribly morbid story. We’re down south a ways, near the resort towns, covering a week of fights. I interview this gladiator, great bulging side of beef from down south of Egypt, Nubia or some such. We get to talking, have an interesting conversation.
He’s a charming young fellow, I wish him luck. Had a good feeling afterwards so I decided I’d take my day’s allowance and bet it on him to win. The ghouls at the bookie didn’t tell me the poor kid was fighting a lion.” The old man looked frail in the space between sentences.
“I can’t make my living meeting these men—getting to know them, deciding I like them, then watching them get eaten alive. Horses aren’t much for conversation compared to people, but at least you don’t feel so bad watching them die.”