you won me a score of denarii.”
“You should have sold your wife and backed me with what she would fetch.”
“Sold her? I couldn’t give her away.” He frowned as he looked at the tokens. “These are in a bad position, Atilus. You won’t get much of a view.”
“Can you do better?” I slipped coins into his hand. “Something close to the finishing line and not too far from the podium?”
In Rome gold would buy anything, and we both were wise in the way things were done.
Settled, program in hand, I studied it as Aquilia made herself comfortable at my side. The races were numbered and each consisted of four teams, one from each stable. Each chariot was pulled by four horses harnessed abreast. Their names and colors were listed on the program together with details of their charioteers and the position from which they would start.
We’d arrived late and the first two races were over. Slaves were busy clearing away the debris of the last, among it a dead horse and the torn body of a man. The horse had a broken neck; the man, trapped by the reins that he’d wound around his waist, had been dragged from his chariot and trampled beneath the hoofs of a following team. A common occurrence, especially when, at the end of a race, each team strove to take the lead.
With nothing happening at the moment, there was time to look around.
The attendant had found us good seats close to the finishing line, on the second tier above the podium. We had a clear view of the stalls and were high enough to see a little beyond the Spine, which ran down the center of the amphitheater. It was built of stone and supported small altars and images of the gods. At each end was a column surmounted by a crosspiece. On one was set seven marble eggs, on the other an equal number of carved dolphins. One of each was taken down at the completion of every lap. A race was about four miles.
“Atilus! Look!” Aquilia dug her elbow into my side, her finger pointing to an entry on the program. “See?”
The fifth race and a name: Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Nero’s name.
“It must be a mistake.”
“No.” Her eyes told me she had secret knowledge. “It’s no mistake.”
“A joke then.” I still found it hard to believe. Nero was an artist dedicated to the Muses, not a sweating charioteer. “A joke,” I repeated. “A name used to cover another’s identity. The Emperor would never take part in a race.”
“But if you’re wrong, Atilus?”
A chance to make some easy money. If Nero was racing, it was certain he’d be allowed to win. I rose and went in search of someone to take my wager. I didn’t have to look far.
“A bet, Atilus? Certainly.” Silannus Regulus produced his tablets. “On which race and for how much?”
“The third. Green for five gold pieces.”
“Taken! And?”
“The fourth. Red for ten.” As he made the notation I added casually, “And the fifth. Green for fifty.”
Lowering his stylus, the man slowly shook his head. “No bets on the fifth, Atilus.”
“Why not?”
“The omens are bad,” he said blandly. “Last night a dead man came to me in a dream and held up five fingers, at the same time shaking his head. And this morning I tripped on the fifth stair. A man must pay attention to such omens.”
“I don’t believe in them.”
“No?” He shrugged. “Well, I do, so no bets on the fifth.”
Not with him and not with anyone in his trade. To try would be a waste of time, and the next race was about to begin.
“They’re off!” Aquilia rose in her seat as the chariots raced from their stalls. “They’re off!”
The cry was taken up and repeated by others until the air shook with the roar.
Tense in their flimsy vehicles, the charioteers made no acknowledgment to the crowd. Dressed in swaths of leather, hard round hats on their heads, their hands gripping the reins wrapped around their waists, they had thought only for their teams. Eyes wide, mouths open, the horses pounded over the sand. Trained beasts each worth the price of a hundred slaves.
The first curve was reached and taken without incident; one of the symbols resting on the crosspiece was taken down as they passed. Completing the lap, they came into sight again with Red in the lead, Green close behind, Blue and White at the rear racing wheel against wheel, swinging wide, and hoping to race ahead and cut in front of the others.
White, on the outside, saw his chance and took it. His inside wheel slipped behind the outer wheel of Blue and, as he swung out away from the Spine, the metal rim ripped into wood and tore the wheel from its axle. Immediately the Blue chariot toppled, shattering into splinters, the driver snatching his knife and cutting the reins. He was fast and lucky. As his team raced on, dragging the ruined chariot behind it, he rolled free and ran to the safety of the stands.
At the fourth lap the others were running nose to tail, Red in the lead, Green in the middle. For two more laps they held that position and then, as they entered the last lap, White made his attempt. Again he tried to catch a wheel but Green was too clever for him. The chariot swung wide, bumped against the inside horse of the White, and broke its stride. It took the next-to-last turn and vanished beyond the central barrier.
Close to me a woman screamed, “Win, Orestes! Win and I’m yours!”
Orestes, the driver of the Green chariot, would be showered with similar offers if he managed to snatch victory.
Incredibly he did.
I heard the roar of the crowd, the screaming of women and men as, swinging out, he urged on his team. A burst of speed, expertly timed and maneuvered, sent him racing down the finishing stretch well in the lead.
“We’ve won, Atilus! We’ve won!”
Aquilia was on her feet, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, every muscle in her body tense with excitement. An emotion reflected all around and one that would intensify as the day progressed. Worked into a mania, spectators would shriek and tear at their clothes, fondle each other, make ridiculous wagers, and even claw at their own skin.
From a vendor I bought wine and handed it to my companion. Sipping it, she calmed and resumed her seat.
“Aren’t you going to collect our winnings?”
“They can wait. I know Silannus. He won’t run away.”
“What have we on the next race? Ten on Red?” She frowned at the program. “Diocoles, a good driver, but he starts from a bad stall. I’d back White.”
“Even odds?”
“Yes. A hundred gold pieces. Taken?”
“Taken.”
She had judged well. White made a good start, gained the inside, and held the lead for three laps. On the fourth, Red, taking a chance, forced the White chariot close to the three cones set at the foot of each end of the Spine in order to protect the stone. White, misjudging, veered too close and the inside wheel hit and lifted. In a flash, his chariot had overturned.
“Clocchis!” The crowd yelled the driver’s name. “Clocchis!”
He couldn’t hear them. Trapped by the reins, he was dragged after the horses, the overturned chariot slewing toward him, wood splintering, bright metal fittings strewn over the sand. I saw his hand snatch at his knife, the gleam of sunlight from the blade, and then it was over.
Diocoles, unable to avoid the wreckage, drove straight at it, hoping that the speed and skill of his team would pull him through. He almost made it, then the offside horse trod on Clocchis, stumbled, and pulled the other horses after him.
At