His horses streamed on, dragging the chariot with them.
Three dolphins down. Four. Five. The rogue horses made it difficult for the remaining drivers, who had to keep their wits about them. On the sixth lap the driverless chariot whipped about on its traces and threatened to entangle itself under Red’s wheels but the pace scarcely seemed to slacken. The crowd gasped, hoping for another ‘shipwreck’, but the driver steered himself clear, overtook Green on the apex of the bend and thundered home to victory. Blue came in a disappointing third.
I glanced at Junio. His face was glowing with excitement. ‘So much for the famous Fortunatus,’ I said. ‘I hope you didn’t stake all my money on him.’
He took on that sheepish look again. ‘Fortunatus isn’t here,’ he said.
I rounded on him. ‘What?’
‘That is what they told me, master, when I went to bet.’
‘It is true, citizen,’ the optio put in, clearly sensing my irritation with my slave. ‘Fortunatus was thrown from his chariot in the very first race, on the first day, and he has not competed since. He didn’t break anything, so the team surgeon says, but he hit his head. They took him back to the team inn on a shutter, but it took him hours to come to himself and even then he was complaining of headaches and — worse — of not being able to see. He won’t be racing again in this tournament, though the medicus says he may recover, in time. People were very disappointed. It was quite the talk of the town.’
I was angry. ‘Why didn’t someone tell me this before?’
The optio shrugged. ‘You merely asked to attend the chariot racing, citizen. I did not know it was only Fortunatus that you wanted to watch.’
There was justice in that. I had not explained to the commander why I wanted to come to the racing, just in case any rumours reached Fortunatus. I muttered crossly, ‘And after I have travelled from Londinium expressly to talk to him. Where is this inn they have taken him to?’
The optio shook his head. ‘I am afraid, citizen, that Fortunatus has already returned to Londinium, under the care of one of the team guards. Or so the rumour goes. They say the medicus decided that the only cure was rest, and that Fortunatus could do that better in his own quarters. If I had only known that you wished to speak to him in particular, citizen, I could have saved you a wasted journey to the circuit.’
But Junio knew, I thought to myself, and he had not seen fit to tell me, though he discovered the truth before the race began. I whirled to face him. ‘Why-’
He was already looking contrite. ‘I did not know that he was not in the town. I merely heard that he’d had a fall, and naturally I assumed that he was being tended by the medicus at the team inn. And then the horses were coming, and since you could hardly leave in the middle of a race. .’ He gave me an uncertain glance.
I scowled. ‘I suppose so,’ I said ungraciously. ‘But we have wasted time as a result of your silence.’
He gave me a sideways look. ‘I’m sorry, master. Truly I am. But you have gained something by the delay.’
‘Which is?’
‘That denarius you gave me. When I heard that Fortunatus was not racing after all, I bet it on the Reds. You have doubled your money. And you did enjoy the racing.’
There are times when I find it very difficult to be angry with my servant for long. Under the incredulous eyes of the optio, though, I did my best.
Chapter Twelve
Junio was clearly disappointed at being dragged away from the excitement so soon, and perhaps the soldiers were too, but if so they were too well trained to show it. The optio himself was a real racing enthusiast, however, and he proved a positive well of information on the subject.
‘The Blues are staying at a lodging house close to the west gate of the town,’ he told me importantly, as his soldiers forced a way down the thronged hill for us, a violent but highly effective procedure — people were treading on each other to allow us through. Behind us, there was a scuffle as small groups of supporters, all sporting different colours, scrambled frantically for our seats. ‘I could take you there if you wish. Or if you would prefer to go round to the stable enclosure. .?’
That was the obvious choice to me, since that was where the team would be, in preparation for their next race. I was afraid that we might have trouble getting in — members of the public are not usually permitted behind the scenes — but the optio was confident. He led the way unhesitatingly, straight across the circuit, where the slaves were hastily raking the sand back over the clay track. They waited, blank-faced, till we passed and then raked out our footsteps with their own, walking backwards as they worked.
Even so, nobody shouted at us. One or two urchins in the crowd gave us an ironic cheer, but the civic officials in the box ignored us, and when we reached the inner gates they were thrown open for us without question. An armed escort has its uses.
The gates led to a short, dark passageway which opened out into a huge yard, surrounded by stalls and makeshift stabling for horses, and at first sight it appeared to be almost as thronged with people as the stadium itself.
As we came in the eight local chariots were lining up, two-in-hand this time, to take their turn at the racing. Their drivers, resplendent in their uniforms, balanced their precarious vehicles and waited for the signal to enter the stadium. Some were nervously adjusting their helmets or their harness, others steadying their restless horses, while some were trying to dissipate the tension by exchanging jibes and insults.
‘Call yourself a racing driver, Gaius Flaminius? I could overtake you on a pregnant mule!’
The victim of the taunts, a tall thin youth in Green colours, turned as red as his tormentor’s chariot. ‘Is that so, Paulus Fatface? Well, I’ll tell you something. The only reason your horse gallops so fast is to get away from the smell of your feet!’
We left them to their battle of words and went on into the yard beyond.
It was alive with activity. Stable-slaves hurried everywhere: leading horses, carrying buckets, polishing harness, sweeping straw, tripping over their sandals in their haste while their masters shouted and cursed.
In the stalls beyond, the horses that had completed the earlier race were being cared for. A man who was clearly an animal medicus was bandaging the leg of a handsome chestnut with white ribands in its mane, while a nervous-looking slave hovered nearby with salves, just out of reach of the creature’s hooves. You did not have to be a racing man to see what was happening: they were treating one of the horses that had been damaged by pulling the overturned chariot.
I glanced around for the unfortunate driver, and saw him laid out on a shutter in the corner. His face and body were battered and bloody and he was evidently dead. No one paid any attention to him. Nearby, his substitute was already donning his cloak and helmet under the critical eye of a stout man whom I took to be the coach, who was waving his arms in a last-minute demonstration of tactics. The young man was a reserve driver, by the look of it, and nervous at his sudden elevation — his face was so white that he scarcely needed the plume on his headgear to identify his colour.
Each factio clearly had its own quarter of the yard, and, in the nature of these things, Blue was inevitably in the furthest corner. I nodded to the optio, and he led the way. No one questioned us, or even paused in their activity, but I was uncomfortably aware of curious stares following us as soon as our backs were turned. The moment I looked around, however, every man was engaged in his work, eyes fixed firmly ahead of him. These were people who preferred not to meddle with soldiers.