As the magistrate unclenched his hand and let the white cloth he held flutter down to the ground, the roars of the crowd reached a deafening crescendo. The horses lined up at the start leaped forward, their practiced strides swallowing up the track ahead of them with ease. Felix silently thanked the gods for blessing him with a tall stature, for the throng of standing attendants formed a tight knit wall that would obscure the view of many that stood in the position he did.
That morning had been one full of anxiety for Felix. Being a slave, he had to wait until his master’s family left the house to attend the games before he could venture down to the festivities himself. He had worried that the Circus Maximus would be full before he arrived, but luckily his master had the graciousness to release the slaves early so they could watch the pompa that would occur before the chariot races that afternoon. Felix had always loved watching the circus procession. He never could decide which aspect of the parade was his favorite. The musicians with their masterful mood setting tunes, the armed dancers with their formidable yet graceful maneuvers, the satyrs with their outrageous costumes and laughable antics—every act seemed to outperform its predecessor. During the procession of deities, Felix thanked Jupiter Best and Greatest for granting Rome with wealth and superiority, and for giving the simplest of slaves a chance to enjoy themselves in this manner at no cost.
The thunder of hooves and crack of whips brought Felix out of his reminiscence on the morning’s happenings. In front of where he stood was the great turning post, the slaves working on it were tense and focused on the race’s proceedings, counting the laps of the chariots that charged past. The leading racers were on the final lap. Dust billowed up in clouds that curled around the horses and their riders. The wealthy attendants jumped out of their seats in anticipation. Hands clasped, clapping, waving. The two leading chariots surged forward, jostling for the triumphant position as they barreled toward the turning post. As the two passed the final line—the victor winning only by a mere horse length—the sound of 250,000 voices blended together in an ear-shattering roar.
