The driver of the Blues, presumably Fortunatus’ replacement, was busily lashing out at a stable-slave as we approached, both with his tongue and with his whip, for giving a hot horse cold water, but on our arrival he stopped his tirade and turned to greet us. ‘You were looking for me, citizen?’ He was a lightly built young man, but strong — the perfect build for a driver — with muscles like whipcord. He was clearly no coward, but at my approach he ran his tongue round his lips like a schoolboy who has failed to prepare his homework.
‘I came,’ I told him, as a murmur from the stadium crowd and the sound of flying hoofbeats told us that the next race had begun, ‘to ask about Lividius Fortunatus. I understand he had an accident?’
I had meant it as the simplest overture, but the effect was dramatic. The tongue flicked out again, and his voice almost failed him. ‘I should be honoured, naturally,’ he managed at last, ‘if in my humble way I could render the remotest service to His Excellence the Governor, but I know nothing about it. I did not see the race at all, so I do not see how I can assist you, citizen.’ There was so much sweat on his face, he looked as if he had been drinking from a street fountain.
When a man grovels like that it usually means, in my experience, that he has something to hide. Also, he is often easy to bully. He had mentioned the governor, and that gave me an advantage. I assumed my most menacing expression.
‘Nonetheless, on behalf of His Excellence Helvius Pertinax, I would like to know. .’ I began, but the words died on my lips. From the recesses of the stall another man had appeared.
This was the Blue team coach, that much was clear from his manner and his dress, and he was as hefty as his driver was slight. He was muscular enough, under his colourful tunic, and had no doubt once been athletic, but now the body was running to fat. Wine and good living had etched the face almost as much as the ugly scar which ran across it from eyebrow to chin — the relic of some ancient shipwreck on the chariots, no doubt. Most trainers have been drivers in their time, some of them ex-slaves from other provinces, and this man had the swarthy skin and dark eyes of a Greek. He hurried towards us courteously enough, but there was no trace of welcome in his eyes.
‘Perhaps I can be of help to you, gentlemen?’ He was having to speak loudly and deliberately to make himself heard. ‘As he told you, our replacement driver did not witness the race. I did. A most unfortunate incident, and terrible for Fortunatus. A tragedy for our factio. I am the team manager, by the way. My name is Calyx.’ He smiled. The corners of his mouth moved reluctantly, as if they were pulled up by strings, and were not used to the exercise. ‘Yes, a tragedy. If it had not been for that, the Blues would almost certainly have won.’
I glanced at the substitute driver. He was mopping his face with the back of his hand, and looking as relieved as any man can look who is about to risk life and limb in a flimsy cockleshell amidst the hooves of thundering horses. The unfortunate slave he had been lambasting, I noticed, had picked up his water bucket and escaped.
I turned back to Calyx. ‘What exactly caused the accident?’ I asked, raising my own voice over the enthusiastic sounds of the crowd. ‘It was not like Fortunatus, by all accounts, to be shipwrecked.’
It was more a comment than a question. In fact I thought I knew the answer. Almost certainly Fortunatus had been caught at an unguarded moment and barged by the chariot of another colour while he was off-balance — that happens all the time, as we had seen earlier, and is regarded as part of the contest. The only surprise was that an experienced charioteer like Fortunatus should have allowed himself to be caught out like that.
The carefully sculpted smile hardened on Calyx’s face, as if it had been suddenly set in wax. ‘Most unfortunate,’ he said loudly. ‘Some fault with the chariot perhaps, or one of the horses skittish. Perhaps we shall never know for sure. No other chariot was involved and Fortunatus himself can remember nothing of the accident.’ He spread out his hands and moved forward as if to usher us physically from the scene. ‘So perhaps you will excuse me, citizen. I don’t think I can be of further help to you, and I have a race to supervise.’
I can be stubborn when I wish. ‘But you saw the fall yourself?’ I said. Or rather I hollered. The hubbub from the track was increasing every moment.
He shrugged. ‘It was all over so quickly. One moment Fortunatus was galloping away from the start and the next moment he was lying on the track. Luckily it was near the starting stalls or he might have gone under the wheels of another colour, and then what would have happened to the team?’
It was hard to keep up a conversation in the circumstances, but I pressed him again. ‘You did not see what caused it?’ I shouted over the din.
The wax smile was slipping little by little, but he kept his manner civil. ‘There must have been some problem with the chariot, citizen. I did not see what, exactly; my attention was elsewhere for a moment. When I glanced back I was simply in time to see him fall.’
In that case, I thought, Fortunatus might have staged the accident. It seemed a desperate expedient — the last driver to feign a fall in Rome was put to death for his presumption. His factio had dragged him before the courts, furious that he had taken bribes and lost the rest of the team their share of the purse. Too risky, surely? Or perhaps the accident was not of Fortunatus’ making.
‘Was there damage to the horse, or chariot? You must have seen them, after the race. .’ I stopped. The roaring of the crowd had risen to a climax, and a moment later the gates burst open and the local teams came trotting in, the victor (it seemed to be Paulus Fatface) brandishing his garland. The others came behind him, most of them looking dazed and dishevelled, although they were all still aboard their cars. They streamed past us in a whirlwind of leather and dust.
Calyx held up his hand, and spoke for the first time in a normal voice. Even the pretence of a smile had left him now. ‘I tell you, citizen, I know nothing about it. It was an accident, is all. These things happen in chariot racing. Even the best drivers have mishaps, often when they are trying hardest. As for the chariot, I could not say. After the race I was more concerned for Fortunatus than for his racing car.’ He was still moving us away from the Blue quarter.
I was almost walking backwards. ‘But surely one of the stable-team. .?’ I protested. ‘Someone must have looked at the chariot?’
‘I will ask them, since you require it, citizen. When the day is over. I cannot interrupt them now. Our next race will begin in a moment. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do. I’m sorry to be unhelpful, but I’ve told you all I know.’ He nodded, turned on his heel and hurried back to his team.
The optio turned to me. ‘You want me to arrest him, citizen? I am sure a short session at the guardroom would assist his memory.’
I shook my head. ‘It is too late. No doubt he and his friends are already preparing a plausible account of the event, in case we should ask again.’ I nodded towards the stables where Calyx was already in deep conversation with two men in tunics, whom I had not noticed earlier, who had now emerged from the shadows. An ugly-looking pair too: one was short and fat, with shoulders like an ox, grizzled hair, and a face like a discontented bull, presently lowering in my direction. The other was taller, thinner, greyer and possibly more sinister. The most disconcerting thing about him was not his narrow face, with its long crooked nose and cruel thin slit of a mouth, but the dreadful, casual strength of the long supple fingers which were even now twisting and testing a strip of narrow leather. As I glanced towards him I saw that he had fixed his eyes on me: cold, grey, close-set eyes with a dead, expressionless stare which chilled my blood. He saw me looking and turned swiftly away.