Five blue and seven red competitors had drawn the first lots.  The eye rested with pleasure on the sinewy figures whose bare feet seemed rooted to the boards they stood on, while their eyes were riveted on the goal they were striving to reach, though—­as the eye of the archer sees arrow, bow and mark all at once—­they never lost sight of the horses they were guiding.  A close cap with floating ribbands confined their hair, and they wore a short sleeveless tunic, swathed round the body with wide bands, as if to brace their muscles and add to their strength.  The reins were fastened around the hips so as to leave the hands free, not only to hold them but also to ply the whip and use the goad.  Each charioteer had a knife in his girdle, to enable him to release himself, in case of accident, from a bond that might prove fatal.

Before long the bay team was leading alone.  Behind were two Christian drivers, followed by three red chariots; Marcus was last of all, but it was easy to see that it was by choice and not by necessity that he was hanging back.  He was holding in his fiery team with all his strength and weight—­his body thrown back, his feet firmly set with his knees against the silver bar of the chariot, and his hands gripping the reins.  In a few minutes he came flying past Dada and his brother, but he did not see them.  He had not even caught sight of his own mother, while the professional charioteers had not failed to bow to Cynegius and nod to their friends.  He could only keep his eyes and mind fixed on his horses and on the goal.

The multitude clapped, roared, shouted encouragement to their party, hissed and whistled when they were disappointed—­venting their utmost indignation on Marcus as he came past behind the others; but he either heard them not or would not hear.  Dada’s heart beat so wildly that she thought it would burst.  She could not sit still; she started to her feet and then flung herself back on her cushions, shouting some spurring words to Marcus in the flash of time when he might perhaps hear them.  When he had passed, her head fell and she said sadly enough:  “Poor fellow!—­We have bought our wreaths for nothing after all, Demetrius!”

But Demetrius shook his head and smiled.

“Nay,” he said, “the boy has iron sinews in that slight body.  Look how he holds the horses in!  He is saving their strength till they need it.  Seven times, child, seven times he has to go round this great circus and past the ‘nyssa’.  You will see, he will catch up what he has lost, yet.  Hippias, you see, is holding in his horses, too; it is his way of giving himself airs at starting.  Now he is close to the ’nyssa’—­the ‘kampter’ —­the ‘meta’ they call it at Rome; the smaller the bend he can make round it the better for him, but it is risky work.  There—­you see!—­They drive round from right to left and that throws most of the work on the lefthand beast; it has to turn almost in its own length.  Aura,