Seventh Dimension - The King - Book 2, A Young Adult Fantasy (24 page)

“When we take
the horses up to racing speed, you’ll need to wear the helmet.
Accidents can happen during training.”

I stepped off the chariot and stretched my muscles.
I’d be sore tomorrow.

Cynisca chuckled. “You held the interest of Tariq
and Nidal. They came up and asked where you’re from.”

“What did you tell them?”

Cynisca
shrugged. “I told them I didn’t know, except that you’re
Jewish.”

I didn’t say anything. An awkward silence
followed.

Cynisca eyed me curiously. “Where are you from?”

“Jerusalem,” I replied.

She scrunched up her nose. “Where are you
staying?”

Did I want to tell her that? “Close by.”

She smiled. “So you don’t want to tell me, huh? I
was just curious.”

“I don’t remember the name of the inn,” I lied.

She tossed her head.

I laughed. She didn’t believe me. My physical desire
for Cynisca returned. I wanted to prove myself to her—that I could
be the best. I knew I needed to focus on racing, though. Death or
working in the mines were not good alternatives to winning. I
couldn’t win if I was distracted.

I left the
hippodrome excited. The evening sun hung over the Mediterranean and
my shadow appeared long and skinny. Now that I needed muscle mass,
I was mindful of my physique.

I headed through the gates back into town. The
square brimmed with activity. I grabbed some food from a street
vender and walked over to an empty table. The fountain had several
winged visitors playing in the spray. Stretching out on the bench,
I admired the harbor.

Overlooking the harbor stood Caesar’s temple.
Curiosity got the best of me. What was inside that magnificent
structure? Greeks frequented it throughout the day. I had never
been inside a pagan temple.

After finishing
my meal, I climbed the hill to see the temple up close. Was anyone
watching me? Not that anyone cared, but for a Jew to enter a pagan
temple would be considered scandalous by another
Jew.

Why did I feel
a need to be secretive anyway? I knew their gods had no power. I
entered through the ornate doors and inside the hallway was a
colossal statue of Caesar. I smirked that the Greeks thought Caesar
was a god.

A partially clothed Roman goddess stood in a
prominent location. I had no idea who she was in the hierarchy of
Greek and Roman idols. The statues were beautiful as art but to
believe they had supernatural powers was vexing. I didn’t like
being around them and left.

Once outside, I
hurried across the street. I regretted my moment of frivolity. Then
I saw her—the demon. No! That memory returned, when she sat
cross-legged by the fire at Robbers Creek. I pretended not to see
her. Somehow, I would lose her in the crowds.

Everyone seemed
to be in my way. I dodged in and out of traffic, vendors, and
shoppers. A ship had arrived in port and I hurried to the harbor.
The influx of passengers would make me difficult to spot. I
lingered in the crowds until they dispersed. Several times, I
glanced around, but I didn’t see her. Once I was sure she was gone,
I climbed an overhanging rocky ledge. Ships filled the harbor, a
hundred or more. Soon I forgot about the ventriloquist.

A wicked wind
kicked up and blew sand all around below me. I was glad I was up
high to avoid the particles stinging my face or getting into my
eyes. I sat and watched as dark gray clouds formed. Several fishing
boats pulled in their nets and headed into port. The storm grew and
the tumultuous cloud formations captivated me. My better judgment
told me to find cover, but I tarried.

Large droplets
fell and splattered across the rocks. I climbed down and hurried
back, but not before becoming drenched. I was almost to the
apartment—and I saw her again. The demon was barely visible in the
sheets of rain.

She walked
towards me like a ghost. I ran inside the apartment lobby and raced
down the hallway. Fumbling with the key, I opened the door with
difficulty. After slamming it shut, I leaned against the door.
Breathing heavily, I slid to the floor.

Why was she here? I knew she was evil—it was my
fault. I shouldn’t have entered the pagan temple.

The statue in
my room had fallen over and broken into several pieces. Did I break
it when I slammed the door, or did the storm shake the floor? Or
had someone been in my room?

I rushed over
to my bed and stuck my hand inside the blankets. My moneybag was
still there. I relaxed a little. Why did I feel so
jumpy?

The beheaded statue’s eyes stared at me from the
floor and a mocking laugh covered its face. How could something
pagan like a broken statue spook me? I kicked the head across the
room and it slammed into the wall. The eyes still stared back.

I stood and
cracked the door. No one was around. I picked up the broken pieces
and threw them in the trash.

Now I was
fearful to leave. The demon saw me enter the apartment. Did she
know which room was mine? I would sleep with the oil lamp burning
tonight—if I slept at all.

Three Weeks Later

I awoke
restless and sweaty. My mind swirled. Race day had arrived. I
dressed and pulled the leather straps over my shoulders. The knife
fit snugly in the sheath of my belt. I even took the time to fix my
hair in the typical gladiator style. I would carry my helmet to the
hippodrome instead of wearing it.

What would Shale think of me now? I shook off the
memories to focus on racing.

The
ventriloquist had not made another appearance—and my gladiator
lessons had gone well—better than Cynisca anticipated. She claimed
I had raised more than one eyebrow.

I closed the door and stepped outside to chattering
seabirds. The sun had risen and shades of red and gold over the
blue Mediterranean waters promised sunshine. The equestrian races
were some of the most popular events at the venue, and the chariot
races were at the top of that exclusive list.

As I walked
along the streets that swelled with racing patrons, onlookers
greeted me with new respect. I heard whispers, “Look, a
gladiator.”

Wide-eyed
children delighted in my clothing. One came up and asked to touch
my helmet.

The festive
activities set the tone for a day of unbridled entertainment. I
found a food stand and ate some pita bread with humus. I washed it
down with grape juice. Then I bought a couple of trinkets from a
vendor.

The celebration kicked off with a parade that began
in the basilica. Each team joined in the procession, accompanied by
their religious representatives, which included standards,
musicians, and attending magistrates and workers.

My standard was
the Dioscuri twins. One was a famed rider and the other a
boxer—part of my compromise for living here. I had come to accept
the hedonism. What would have disturbed me a year ago barely
pricked my conscience now.

Caesarea was a
Roman city and I had become like a Roman. Jerusalem was a distant
memory and so was God. I had one goal—to become the most successful
chariot racer who ever lived.

Outside
thoughts were distractions that would keep me from winning. I was
determined to beat Nidal and Tariq by any means short of
cheating.

A steady breeze
off the Mediterranean kept temperatures comfortable. The crowds
grew as the hour of racing approached. So did my anticipation. I
joined my team in the processional walk. I would only compete in
the first race with two horses.

Some of the participants wore exquisite costumes
that honored the Hellenistic gods. Performers, including clowns and
mimes, entertained the kids. Belly dancers impressed the rest. I
strained to catch a glimpse. The boundary of family entertainment
was broad.

The crowds
entered through a separate entrance. I spotted a family waiting in
line. I waved at the young boy and he waved back. I stepped away
from my team and approached them. “May I give your children a
gift?” I asked the father in Greek.

The father smiled. “They would love that. Thank
you.”

I squatted down to eye level and handed the boy a
carved wooden chariot and gladiator.

He examined the toy. “What’s your name?”

“Daniel.” I was surprised that the youngster spoke
Aramaic.

“Thank you, Daniel,” he replied.

I gave the
girl, who was around nine, a carved wooden horse that matched what
I gave her younger brother. She stroked the horse gently with her
fingers and smiled. Then she leaned over and clasped her arm
tightly around my neck. “I hope you win,” she whispered.

“Thank you.” I hadn’t heard Aramaic since I arrived
in Caesarea. The words were sweet to my ears. I went back to my
spot in line, waving once more as the family disappeared from
view.

As the
contestants entered the hippodrome, several important magistrates
greeted us. High-ranking officials sat in their decorated boxed
seats. The gladiators made one trip around the track, waving to the
crowds. It was another chance for the odds makers to get one last
look at all the horses and charioteers.

After finishing
the processional, we traipsed to the stables. We would
re enter the arena through the side entrance when the
announcer shouted our names, along with each team’s
sponsor.

Cynisca came up
to me enthusiastically. “Are you excited?”

“What?” I asked. “I can’t hear you.”

“Are you excited?” she repeated.

“Yes.” The
clamor of the crowds made it difficult to talk. I stood outside the
entrance waiting, but I didn’t have to wait long.

The announcer
thundered my name above the roars and my knees buckled.

“Daniel, son of
Aviv, gladiator from Jerusalem, making his debut
appearance.”

This was my
moment. I bounded out and bowed promptly. I noticed that all the
VIP boxes were full. Pontius Pilate sat in the imperial box,
waiting to drop the handkerchief.

I waved at the
crowds and the packed arena responded with cheers and applause. The
whole experience was exciting—intoxicating and unforgettable. I
sensed an immediate connection with the fans. Had they ever
witnessed a Jew race in the hippodrome? I would do my best to whet
their appetite for more.

As I returned
to the stables, I caught a glimpse of the gambling tables. The
counter was swarming with action. Bulging bags of shekels were
exchanging hands, reminding me of the sounds made by a dinging slot
machine.

I didn’t know
how the wagers were made, but I had added some unexpected buzz. A
well-built Jewish man like me could fetch a nice prize for those
who had extra wealth to play the odds.

Businessmen eyed me. They had a lot to gain—or lose.
I read their minds—something I had avoided for months, but the
temptation was irresistible. How good was I? Could I beat the Naser
brothers?

Cynisca waved
me over to the side and escorted me further away from
eavesdroppers. “I heard several politicians gambling on you. Jews
are respected for their work ethic and brains. Don’t disappoint
them.”

I nodded. Then she pushed me away. “Now, go. Get to
your spot. Hurry.”

My two horses
and chariot were already in the stall. I stepped up on the chariot
and examined my surroundings. Everything appeared in order. I
didn’t want the race to start and find out I had been
sabotaged.

I seized the
reins with both hands, holding the whip in my mouth. My hands were
so sweaty I wiped them on my racing garb. I switched the reins to
my left hand and put the whip in my right.

This was
entertainment at its best. The common folk lived week to week for
the diversion it created from Roman oppression. High taxes and hard
labor broke the back of the middle and lower classes. If blood was
drawn or death occurred, the popularity ratings for that week’s
races skyrocketed.

After
introducing everyone, the roar of the fans intensified. The gates
would open when Pontius Pilate dropped the handkerchief. I was in
the outside lane.

The raucous crowds clamored for the races to begin.
The trumpet sounded. Pontius Pilate stood in the box holding the
handkerchief. My moment had come.

I started to
wrap the reins around my waist, as was the custom in Roman racing.
That allowed the gladiator to hold the whip with his hand, but
since I didn’t need to slap my horses with the whip except once at
the start, I changed my mind. Why not just hold the reins instead?
I could clench the whip with my teeth.

Leaning forward I braced for the gate to open.
Despite the cool breeze blowing off the Mediterranean, sweat beaded
up on my face and neck. The crowds stood, all eyes fixed on Pontius
Pilate.

The trumpet
blew and the prefect dropped the handkerchief. The horses lunged
out of the starting gates. I slapped the whip on Mosi’s rump and we
were off. The horses’ powerful hindquarters rose and fell as I held
the reins and let them gallop. I wouldn’t need to slap the horses
again.

My job was to keep them away from danger, which
lurked even before the first turn. With so many chariots on the
first lap, the greatest worry was bumping into another racer.