The Crystal Sarcophagus

A Taste of Victory

As the gates swung wide, he stalled. He felt thrown to the bottom of a narrow valley between total embarrassment and his father's shame and indignation. Neither were strong enough at the moment to get him to move one or the other.

"Perhaps my sister could get them started for you!" One of the racers shouted from behind him. A few stifled chuckles quickly followed. He didn't dare turn around.

He couldn't believe the audacity of his hands as they shook the reigns in front of him, sending his chariot team into action and onto the circuit. He eyed his hands suspiciously as he passed through the narrow tunnel and into the stadium. Apparently his hands cared more about looking weak than he did.

Noise like a tidal wave washed over him, dizzying in its strength. Against his better judgment, he looked up into the crowd. He had never seen so many people in one place before. It felt as if he was melting down into his chariot, and cursed when he realized he really wasn't. Maybe he could duck down into his chariot and let his horses take it from there. Justicia would be all for it, but with the mood Pax was in, he doubted the horse could be talked into it.

It was customary for the racers to engage in a slow lap around the circuit to allow the crowd to engage in a little fanfare for their favorite races. As the blue racer, it was his job to lead the procession. To his surprise, some of the fans near seated in the first row could shout loud enough to be discerned above the din. What didn't surprise him, though, was that no one was calling out for him. For that, he would probably have had to pay them like any other self-respecting Aquilan.

Rounding the first turn, he caught a glimpse of the racers behind him in the procession. Many of them were looking adoringly at the crowd, a few even raised their fists in solute to those that called out for them. Quintus kept a decidedly lower profile. That is, he kept his face on the track in front of him and prayed to all the gods he could think of that this would be over soon.

It was too bad that naming gods wasn't the nature of the contest, for Quintus could probably name every deity in the Aquilan pantheon, but facts and figures were not what brought the masses together. The blood and steel of the arts of Legio would always beat the wisdom of Exerbus in the eyes of the masses. He was destined, it seemed, to always play the losing hand.

As the parading lap came to an end he pulled up to the starting line and cast a tentative glance at pavilion seats where sat the guests of honor. Perhaps for the first time, the entire pavilion was filled, such that extra lounging chairs had to be brought. Everyone was richly dressed, smiling and pointing in anticipation of the race. His father sat, empty seat to his left, looking hard and cold as the marbled slab of the dais.

"People of Maternailia and the Empire," bellowed a man several rows up at the first turn of the track. The crowd roared back in greeting. "It is I, Tubero, your master of ceremonies! Are you ready to honor our Empire's sauciest deity with a race?" The crowd could barely wait for him to finish before cheering in return.

Loaves of bread the size of a discus were tossed in droves to the waiting hands of poor in the seats closest to the ground. It was apparently a sin against the gods to watch a race without gorging oneself on one food or another. They may not be able to afford the imported eel and dates being consumed on the pavilion, but by the gods they must eat something.

"Then let us not prolong this offering to our patron goddess, Concupisca the lusty and beautiful, and may she watch over and protect these young men that they may further serve her in this life with their whole bodies!" A mix of cheering and chuckles lapped over the crowd.

It wasn't an entirely token wish. Young men thrown from their chariots have been trampled to death or at least lost a limb or two, but it was obvious that ol' Tubero was taking about their genitals.