The track was impressive, too. There was a purpose-built central reservation, with a wide track around it — sand laid on hammered clay, by the look of it — and a dozen slaves were already raking the surface flat. Proper hurdle fences separated the spectators from the action and there were portable wicker starting-stalls provided for the horses. A pair of wide wooden gates under the civic box led from the stadium into the stables and changing yard beyond. At the turning point, six rocking dolphins, made of gilded wood, were permanently displayed on poles, ready for the circuit-slaves to tip them forward one at a time, as the horses passed, and so help the crowd keep count of the laps.
The optio was right about obtaining a seat. Already the far bank was packed with spectators, many of them waving red, white or blue scarves in anticipation. I was surprised how few Green supporters there appeared to be. In Glevum there are always hundreds of them, not least because the Green faction is notoriously ‘for the people’ and against the governing classes, and supporting them is one of the few ways in which ordinary citizens can safely demonstrate their lack of sympathy with the Emperor.
(In fact, as I discovered later, support for the Greens was very strong in Verulamium. The absence of scarves was on my account — rumour of my imperial warrant had spread, and upon my arrival at the racecourse all the Green colours had been hastily hidden. Even in this outpost of Empire, it is sometimes dangerous to be seen cheering for the wrong people.)
Perhaps because of the presence of my escort, finding ourselves somewhere to sit was not a problem. Spectators melted away at our approach, and we were able to commandeer an excellent vantage point on the hill, near the turning point. We had hardly settled ourselves there before a slave arrived to invite us to join the civic dignitaries in the box over the stands, but I (very politely) declined on the grounds that I was acting on the governor’s instructions and wished to have a closer view of the horses. I did not want to be part of the civic party — people in the official box become almost as much of a spectacle as the chariots themselves and I wanted to observe Fortunatus without half the town knowing I was doing so.
I know from experience that the best view is always obtained from a point just before the apex of the corner, where one can see the horses turning at the other end and the whole of the straight — where the speed is greatest — and obtain a wonderful view of the entry to the bend, where the skill of the horsemen is most in evidence, and — as Junio could tell you — most of the spectacular crashes occur.
Pertinax’s bounty as we left permitted me the unaccustomed luxury of buying a handful of ‘hot nuts and crispy pork pieces’ from one of the itinerant vendors who moved among the crowd. They were not very warm and not remotely crispy, but as we sat back upon the bank and joined the rippling anticipation of the crowd I began to share something of Junio’s excitement. I handed him the little container made of twisted bark, and he helped himself to a piece of greasy pork with a sigh of pure happiness. The soldiers were all three staring into the distance with an expression of loftiest disdain, so I did not offer them any. I gave Junio a few coins to stake on one of the teams, and he set off to find someone to bet with, while I huddled the rest of my purchase to myself and settled back to wait for the spectacle.
I did not have long to wait. First the donor of the games entered, a candidate for local office in a gleaming white toga, heralded by a flourish of trumpets. He was warmly greeted by the assembled company, and made his way to the official box. Then came the old priest of Jupiter, who had doubtless performed the morning’s sacrifice for a successful day. He was shaky and senile, but he too was politely applauded. So were the traditional tumblers, dancers and pipers who followed him.
I was smiling at the antics of one of the acrobats when Junio came struggling back through the crowd, looking rather pleased with himself.
‘Did you bet on Fortunatus?’ I said, leaning forward to speak to him — he had settled himself on the far side of the optio. ‘I hope you got good odds?’
Junio grinned a little sheepishly, but before there was time to say another word a sudden surge of anticipation ran through the crowd. A moment later there was the thundering noise of hooves as the horsemen cantered down the road outside and wheeled through the gates. Urchins danced daringly at their wheels, to be seen off in no uncertain fashion by the cudgelled guard, and a moment later the whole stadium was on its feet, cheering, stamping, whistling and waving. Even the occasional green scarf made an appearance.
It was a spectacular and unexpected entry. Even a non-enthusiast could scarcely fail to be impressed. The magnificent horses (the first race was clearly to be a four-in-hand) were obviously the finest money could buy: wonderful creatures, coats gleaming, heads tossing, their harness decorated with the colour of their factio. The drivers, too, were dressed in coloured tunics, under the leather bandages which covered chest and legs, with coloured plumes on their helmets; and the little lightweight wicker chariots, shaped like upturned shells, were painted in the same hues of blue, green, red or white. The four professional teams were followed by their local counterparts, to the more muted delight of their supporters. Three times they trotted in procession round the course, while the crowd cheered and roared, and women threw garlands at their feet.
Then the local teams withdrew through the inner gates, the stalls were moved into position, and the four professional charioteers drew up to await the start. The cheering had ceased now, and the crowd waited with a kind of hushed anticipation. Then the donor of the games came to the front of the civic box and threw down a handkerchief as a signal, the slaves whisked away the wicker stalls and in an instant the race had begun.
What followed was almost too quick to see. Hooves thundered, whips cracked, wheels leapt and drivers cursed. I felt my own pulse racing as the speed increased, and the murmur of the crowd became a growl and then a roar. I have seen good racing in Glevum, but the Londinium teams were in a class of their own. As they turned, almost in front of us, I could see the chariots bouncing off the ground with the speed of it, the drivers using their own weight to balance their fragile vehicles, and urging the horses on as though Cerberus himself was after them. Then they were gone, around the turning point in a cloud of dust, and there was only the drumming of the hooves to mark their progress up the other side of the central barrier.
Around the further turn they came, the horses snorting and straining. White’s driver barged the Green’s, and the crowd went wild. One of Green’s wheels left the ground, and the chariot almost overturned, but the man was skilled and with supreme effort threw his whole body over the upper rim as it toppled and brought the vehicle juddering back to earth. He had lost time, as the other teams swerved past him: yet a moment later he was thundering down the course in pursuit.
The gods were evidently watching, for at the next corner the White driver glanced backwards at his rival, and in that instant lost the race. He took the bend too sharply and too fast, and lost control of his chariot. It leapt into the air and he was catapulted forward, losing the reins. He pulled his knife out to cut the chariot free from the leather traces, but he was not quick enough. Driver, chariot, broken wheels — all came tumbling down together in an untidy heap to be swept remorselessly onwards by the charging horses. I saw him try to struggle upright, bruised and wounded, and then he was thrown clear, almost unseating the driver of the Reds. He lay on the track motionless, blood seeping from under his helmet, until the circuit-slaves came running out to seize his legs and pull him off the course before the horses came round again.