The court and visiting dignitaries, along with high-ranking civil servants and military officers, had the only seats, in the centre down front Behind them was standing space for the non-aligned theatre-goers, prioritized by guild seniority or military rank, and here, too, could be found the couriers of the Imperial Post. Farther up in the middle came ordinary soldiers and sailors and citizens and, in this enlightened reign (rather too much so for the more fiery of the clerics), even the Kindath in their blue robes and silver caps. The occasional Bassanid or pagan traders from Karch or Moskav with a curiosity about what happened here might find a few spots assigned them towards the very back.
The clergy themselves were never at the theatre, of course. Women were very nearly naked there sometimes. They had to be careful with the northerners, actually: the girls could excite them a little too much, a different sort of disruption ensuing.
While the Principal Dancers-Shirin and Tychus for the Greens, Clarus and Elaina for the Blues-led their colours in performance once or twice a week and the Accredited Musicians coordinated the acclamations and the younger partisans goaded and brawled with each other in various smoky cauponae and taverns, the leaders of the two factions spent the winter aggressively preparing for spring and what really mattered in Sarantium.
The chariots were the heart of the City's life and everyone knew it.
There was, in truth, a great deal to be done in a winter. Riders would be recruited from the provinces, dropped or sent away for various reasons, or subjected to additional training. The younger ones, for example, were endlessly drilled in how to fall from a chariot and how to arrange a spill if one was needed. Horses were evaluated, retired, groomed, and exercised; new ones were bought by agents. The faction cheiromancers still cast their attacking and warding spells (with an eye to useful deaths and fresh graves beyond the walls).
Every so often the two faction managers would meet at some neutral tavern or bathhouse and carefully negotiate, over heavily watered wine, a transaction of some kind or other. Usually this involved the lesser colours-the Reds and Whites-for neither leader would want to run the risk of losing such a exchange in an obvious way.
This, in fact, was how it came to pass that young Taras of the Reds, some time after the end of his first season in the City, found himself brusquely informed by the Green factionarius one morning after chapel services that he'd been dealt to the Blues and Whites for a right-side trace horse and two barrels of Sarnican wine, and was expected to clear out his gear and head for the Blues" compound that same morning.
It wasn't said in an unkind way. It was brief, utterly matter-of-fact, and the factionarius had already turned to discuss a new shipment of Arimondan leather with someone else by the time Taras had fully grasped what he'd been told. Taras stumbled out of the factionarius's very crowded office. No one met his eye.
It was true that he hadn't been with them for long, and had only been riding for the Reds, and he was shy by nature, so Taras was certainly not a well-known figure in the compound. But it still seemed to him-young and not yet accustomed to the hard ways of the City-that his former comrades might have shown a little less enthusiasm when word of the transaction reached the banquet hall and the main barracks. It wasn't pleasant to hear people cheering when they heard the tidings.
The horse was said to be a very good one, agreed, but Taras was a man, a charioteer, someone who'd had a bed in the room with them, had dined at the table, done his very best all year in a difficult, dangerous place far from his home. The celebration wounded him, he had to admit it.
The only ones who even bothered to come by to wish him luck as he was packing his things were a couple of the grooms, an undercook he'd gone drinking with on occasion, and one of the other Red riders. In fairness, he had to acknowledge that Crescens, their burly First, did pause in his drinking long enough to note Taras crossing the banquet hall with his things and call a jocular farewell across the crowded room.
He got Taras's name wrong, but he always did that.
It was raining outside. Taras tugged down the brim of his hat and turned up his collar as he went through the yard. He belatedly remembered that he'd forgotten to take his mother's remedy against all possible ailments. He'd probably get sick now, on top of everything else.
A horse. He'd been dealt for a horse. There was a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could still remember his family's pride when the Greens" recruiter in Megarium had invited him to the City a year ago "Work hard, and who knows what might happen," the man had said.
At the compound entrance one of the guards stepped out of the hut and unlocked the gates. He waved casually and ducked back in out of the rain. They might not yet know what had happened. Taras didn't tell them. Outside, two young boys in blue tunics were standing in the laneway, getting wet.
"You Taras?" one of them asked, chewing at a stick of skewered lamb.
Taras nodded.
"Let's go, then. Take you there." The boy flipped the remains of his skewer into the gutter, which was running with rainwater.
An escort. Two street urchins. How flattering, Taras thought.
"I know where the Blues" compound is," he muttered under his breath. He felt flushed, lightheaded. Wanted to be alone. Didn't want to look at anyone. How was he going to tell his mother about this? The very thought of dictating such a letter to a scribe made his heart beat painfully.
One of the boys kept pace with him through the puddles; the other disappeared after a while into the misty rain, obviously bored, or just cold. One urchin, then. A triumphant procession for the great charioteer just acquired for a horse and some wine.
At the gates to the Blues" compound-his new home now, hard as it was to think that way-Taras had to give his name twice and then explain, excruciatingly, that he was a charioteer and had been… recruited to join them. The guards looked dubious.
The boy beside Taras spat into the street. "Tucking unlock the gate. It's raining and he's who he says he is."
In that order, Taras thought glumly, water dripping from his hat and down the back of his neck. The metal gates were reluctantly swung open. No word of welcome, of course. The guards didn't even believe he was a chariot-racer. The compound's courtyard-almost identical to that of the Greens-was muddy and deserted in the wet, cold morning.
"You'll be in that barracks," the boy said, pointing off to the right. "Don't know which bed. Astorgus said drop your stuff and see him. He'll be eating. Banquet hall's that way." He went off through the mud, not looking back.
Taras carried his gear to the indicated building. A long, low sleeping quarters, again much like the one he'd lived in this past year. Some servants were moving about, tidying up, arranging bed linens and discarded clothing. One of them looked over indifferently as Taras appeared in the doorway. Taras was about to ask which bed was his, but suddenly the prospect seemed too humiliating. That could wait. He dropped his wet bags near the door.
"Keep an eye on these for me," he called out with what he hoped sounded like authority. "I'll be sleeping in here."
He shook the rain off his hat, put it back on his head, and went out again. Dodging the worst puddles, he angled across the courtyard a second time, towards the building the boy had indicated. Astorgus, the factionarius, was supposed to be in there.
Taras entered a small but handsomely decorated front room. The double doors leading to the hall itself were closed; it was quiet beyond, at this hour of a grey, wet morning. He looked around. There were mosaics on all four walls here, showing great charioteers-all Blues, of course-from the past. Glorious figures. Taras knew them all. All the young riders did; these were the shining inhabitants of their dreams.