“If he was lucky. Maybe they’d remove the offending organ first. All right, you’ve made your point.”
The trumpets sounded again. Each chariot made a single turn around the track, stopping before the judges, where the driver reached into a jar held up by attendants and withdrew a lot.
The drivers took their places according to their lots in the stalls of the hippaphesis, the horse-starter, which ensured every team had a fair start even though not everyone could begin at the center line. The hippaphesis was a huge V-shaped frame, with stalls built into it to hold the teams; the apex of the V pointed at the start of the course. Teams of horses four abreast, massive beasts bred for power and speed and aggression, stamped and snorted and pawed the ground in their eagerness. The beasts had been born and lived their whole lives for this moment when they would run this race. Each team of four pulled a chariot so small and light that one man on his own could lift it. Drivers braced themselves in the flimsy vehicles and waited for the hippaphesis to release them.
In the center of the V was an altar to Poseidon, into which a cunning machine had been built, with a silver rod, at the top of which the figure of a silver dolphin played. Taut ropes ran from the machine within the altar to the starting gates for the race.
The moment the last chariot team was locked in its stall, the Chief Judge stood up-the horse teams must not be kept waiting any longer than necessary, lest they injure themselves in the confined space-then the Chief Judge held high a white cloth for all to see, and dropped it.
At once the assistant starter, who stood at the altar, turned the silver rod. The silver dolphin at the top end fell. At the other end a silver eagle with wings spread wide rose into the air. The turn of the rod caused a wheel within the altar to turn, which pulled the ropes that ran to the horse-starter. The ropes operated the first two of the releases, one at each wing of the V. As the releases dropped, the two outer teams surged off with whips flying. They were at opposite ends of the V, but they were racing each other. Those two were the only ones running until they reached the next stalls along the V. At that moment the restraining ropes dropped for the next two teams, the waiting drivers flicked their whips, and now there were four in the race. They continued like this-teams released as front runners reached them-until everyone was out of the stalls. The system ensured every team had an equal start, and an equal chance of gaining the inner line of most advantage.
“That’s a brilliant device,” Markos marveled.
“Of course, it’s brilliant; it was invented by an Athenian,” I said.
The racers reached the apex of the V, the rope restraining the last two teams fell away, and now forty chariot teams jostled for position, all down the centerline of the course in a perfect start.
The crowd screamed and cheered.
“Ten drachmae says Sparta beats Athens,” Markos shouted to me over the noise. The racers were clumped so tight, it was impossible to see who was in the lead, but I could clearly see Iphicles in his chariot toward the back of the pack-he had drawn one of the center stalls and got off to a slow start. The chariot bearing the owl of Athens was on the outside but moving up well and shortly behind the rich red of Sparta. I knew nothing about chariot racing, but one thing I was sure of: I wouldn’t let this Spartan go one up on me at anything.
“Done,” I said. “And five drachmae says Athens wins.” It was a foolish bet. In this race there was no certainty Athens would even finish, but my blood was up.
“Only if you give me the same for a Spartan victory.”
“Done.”
“And done.”
The cluster of chariots drove into the glare of the morning sun, approaching the turning post at the east end of the course. At this end, too, was the ancient stone altar called Taraxippus-the “horse-terror”-whose power caused even experienced beasts to panic.
No driver was willing to let another have first turn at the post. They all drove straight for it, wielding the whips and cursing. Forty teams of four frantic horses each tried to fit into a space for one. Metal-rimmed wheels ground against each other producing sparks and a mass squeal that set every man’s teeth on edge. Drivers close to one another struck out with their whips, hoping to distract their opponents. Maddened, frothing horses ran shoulder to shoulder; even with the bits in their mouths they tried to bite the drivers in the chariots ahead. Every driver whipped his team.
One driver in the middle of the pack was too aggressive, or misjudged the turn, or perhaps his team was spooked by the curse of Taraxippus. His left wheel caught the turning post and tore off. The wheel bounced high into the air and flew into the crowd at the far end, where it struck down several spectators. The chariot overturned to the right, spilling the driver, whose right arm was caught in the reins. The chariot twisted and broke its coupling and tumbled into the altar, where it smashed to pieces. The driver somersaulted in the air and hit the ground headfirst. His unconscious body was tossed to the side like a broken doll while his team continued to race inside the pack. Directly behind came Iphicles. He had no time to swerve. His horses trampled the fallen driver, and then his wheels drove over the body. If the driver hadn’t been dead when he hit the ground, he certainly was now. Iphicles’s chariot swerved from side to side over the uneven bump, and for a moment I thought he would tumble, too, but Iphicles pulled with one arm and then the other, using his main strength against the tension in the reins and the pressure of his feet on the platform to stabilize his vehicle. Everyone shot by as he swerved to the outside to regain control. Men cheered his skill.
“Good driving,” Markos said, and I had to agree. He’d lost time, but Iphicles had done well to stay in the race. The moment the last driver had passed, a recovery team ran onto the course to drag away the corpse and manhandle the driverless horses to the side. Another group picked up as many pieces of shattered chariot as they could before the racers returned from the other end.
The first turn forced the pack to string out. Corinth was in the lead; neck and neck behind them were Argos and Cyrene.
As they approached the turn, the Corinth driver hauled hard on his left rein and threw his body to the inside. His chariot actually rose on its inner wheel, and for a moment the crowd gasped as we all thought he’d fall. But his outer beasts were pulled, and the chariot almost spun on the spot. When it righted with a bounce, the chariot had turned on a drachma and the driver whipped the team into a sprint down the straight.
Men in the crowd beat one another in excitement and screamed.
Cyrene was to the outside of Argos. As things stood he was certain to come out of the turn third, but the Cyrene took aim for the corner and whipped. He cut across the path of Argos, and the Argos driver had a choice: ram his opponent or brake. His nerve failed for an instant, and he hauled reins. It was a tight squeeze; the Cyrene got around first, but his momentum took him out wide and the slower Argosian made the tighter turn. When they straightened, Cyrene was ahead by a neck. Both drivers whipped their horses as if they didn’t care whether they lived or died-in the lust for victory, they likely didn’t.
Athens had forced his way through the center of the pack. Cyrene pulled ahead to a clear second.
Athens led the main pack and made the second turn without incident, but the chariot immediately behind flipped. The driver screamed as his flimsy vehicle slammed into the team coming up on the outside and sent them both into the outer wall, a tangled wreck of thrashing horses.
Recovery teams ran out to retrieve what they could. I saw one driver still move as they carried him off. The other dangled limp between two men. Three men with swords appeared and finished the horses with broken legs. They sliced the harness so the survivors could be stood to walk off. The owners must have cried. A fortune in pedigree beasts had been reduced to dog meat. Indeed several dogs had already smelled the blood and hovered at the edge of the ring. An attendant chased them away.