The Circus Maximus, Roma Mater
Leaning over the side of her chariot, Thyatis gave Ila a fierce hug. Around them, dozens of slaves and attendants swarmed among the horses and chariots, oiling axles, testing tack and harness, fitting tall feather plumes into the bronze headdresses of the animals. "You must hide, little mouse," Thyatis whispered into the girl's ear. "There will be a great deal of confusion today; you might be able to get away."
Ila nodded, her eyes wide. The girl was both worried and disgusted. "Why did they have to choose a four-horse, single-driver race? Why can't I drive in your place?"
Thyatis managed a half-smile, though the despair in Ila's face struck at her heart. "Narses arranged this, Mouse. The people want to see me and Hamilcar race. I'm sorry."
"Oh, I'll never get to race! No one wants to see me! Only you."
"Ila!" The mousy girl blinked back tears, but she held Thyatis' hand tightly in both of hers. "If I win today, or even survive the race, it will be because you taught me how to drive one of these things. If I win, you win, for you trained me."
"Maybe." Ila pressed her forehead to Thyatis' hand, then let go, a sad look on her face. "Watch the turns! It's a rare race that doesn't see a driver killed or crippled. Do you hear the crowd?"
Thyatis nodded. From the starting gates she could see part of the long sweep of the circus. The seats were a sea of people in a festive mood, wearing their holiday best. Everyone who could cram into the stadium was here today, making a brilliant display of gold and purple and white and cream and blue. Only an hour ago, the Emperor had ascended to the temple of Victoria and watched while the priests sacrificed nine sheep and nine goats to the Fates. The animals were then burned in the Greek style. Curls of smoke rose from the white pillars of the temple. The crowd noise sounded like an enormous flock of angry birds.
"I do," Thyatis said, wrapping the reins around her left hand. "They are eager for sport."
"For blood, you mean." Ila looked around, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "The slaves whisper-they say everyone expects either you or the fat cat to die today."
"I know." Thyatis fitted a bronze helmet onto her head. "It would be a proper sacrifice if it were me, but I would not want to give that oiled panderer the satisfaction."
"Don't you dare die!" Ila scowled up at her, one little hand on the curving rail of the chariot. "You have to see me race my horses."
"Very well." Thyatis grinned down. A simple tunic of blue cloth covered her body from shoulder to thigh. Despite the weight it added, she managed to work herself into a corselet of close-fitting iron rings. The horses wouldn't be happy, but she was going into battle. Leather straps covered her arms from wrist to elbow, and high boots ran up to her knees. The helmet sported a pair of stylish backswept wings, but she had broken the copper off with her bare hands. She wondered why Amazons were supposed to have huge, unwieldy wings on their helmets. Was it traditional? No wonder they nearly became extinct!
Cornets and bucinas winded, a brave, glad ringing sound. The slaves and grooms in the starting gates flooded away, carrying their bags and boxes and ladders with them. Ila padded off, waving good-bye. The Roman woman turned, snugging her helmet strap tight. She tested her balance on the chariot, rolling from side to side. It was very light, made of wicker and pine, with scenes of the ancient gods painted on the sides. The horses looked over their shoulders at her, rolling their eyes and blowing. They were a matched set of dark brown Parthian mares. Two grooms remained with each chariot, holding the leads for the teams. The horses were eager to run, tossing their heads. The long ostrich feathers danced in the air.
Thyatis tightened the reins around her hand, staring straight ahead at the brilliant white sand. The blood fire was beginning to hiss in her veins, making the world slow down and become preternaturally distinct. A hush fell over the drivers and teams in the starting gate.
– |His cane rapping on the marble steps, Narses climbed into the viewing box of the Prasina faction. The entryway was draped with dark green swags and all of the slaves were clad in light green tunics. The lanista swallowed a laugh, seeing the way the Prasina were strutting about in their holiday best, all in various shades of viridian. Today, in deference to his hosts, the old gladiator was wearing a sprig of holly at his shoulder.
"Narses! So good to see you. Come and sit." The mentor of the Prasina, an overweight cheerful iron merchant named Sebastianus, waved to Narses, who grimaced but acceded to the request. "You were right! I should never have doubted you."
Sebastianus clapped the lanista on the shoulder and tried to help him into one of the winged chairs next to the balcony. Narses considered tripping the merchant with his cane, but then thought the better of it. Who knew when he might do business with the Greens again? Better to stay on good terms. The racing faction had grown powerful in the city. "Right about what?"
"The crowd!" The Green waved grandly at the vast sweep of the Circus. Every seat, it seemed, was filled and on the upper decks many people were standing. "Gate receipts have never been higher."
Narses nodded sagely, though inside he was shaking his head at the man. This was the last day of the greatest games that Rome had seen in over a century. Even if the race card had donkeys and dwarfs on it, the citizens would have turned out. All of the games, plays, pantomimes, tragedies and foot races had been very well attended. In retrospect, the Emperor's decision to delay the munera and to starve the populace of his or her accustomed entertainments had heightened everyone's anticipation. The lanista tapped the head of the cane against his chin. Too many sweets spoil the taste. Hmm…
"I'm glad that you accepted my proposal."
Sebastianus giggled, pressing his thick fingers against the lanista's shoulder. "An equitable arrangement for both of us!"
"I hope so." Narses clasped his hands on the cane. "It should be a good race."
The lanista fought to keep from smiling. Once he had approached the various factions with Gaius Julius' plan to race both Hamilcar and Diana, the mentors had fallen over each other to fill his hands with gold. Of course, only the Greens and their hated rivals the Blues had the coin to meet his price. Just that part of the transaction had netted him several million sesterces. A small, though doubtless weighty, portion of the gate receipts would flow into the school as well.
The real money would come from the betting. Narses kept himself out of the frenzy, letting the patricians and the merchants and the various Imperial officers beggar themselves with ever more daring wagers. However, before he had even spoken a word of this to the mentors, Narses had made arrangements with the criminal cartels who controlled the betting. A very small percentage of the total wagers would come into his hands, less than one percent, but in exchange Narses had promised that there would be a fair race between his two entrants.
Of late, the cartels had found that corruption of the races was so widespread-and well known-that betting had fallen off. In particular, before the Emperor's abeyance, the Greens had won the last twelve major races. Who wanted to bet or give odds under those circumstances? When the various touts and bookmakers had circulated the word that, in honor of the dead of Campania, the race today would be straight up-no fixed chariots, no bribed drivers, no mysteriously lamed horses-the gamblers had come swarming out of the woodwork. The lanista expected to rake in another ten to fifteen million sesterces just from his percentage of the wagers.
Visions of a real villa had begun to trouble his waking thoughts, replete with acres of garden and vineyards and fruitful orchards. A singular vision of a white wall covering with golden wisteria and small red flowers occupied his thoughts.
Sebastianus' chortling was lost in a sudden roar from the crowd. The chariots had come forth from the starting gates, the horses stepping smartly, their plumes dancing in the bright sun. In a careful line, the twelve teams walked out, making a long slow circuit of the stadium, letting everyone see them, their glossy coats and the smart-looking chariots. A cohort of musicians marched behind the drivers, their tubas, trumpets and bucinas winding out a long stentorian dirge. Before them, carried on platforms held up by poles and a hundred slaves apiece, preceded garlanded images of Jupiter and Juno and Minerva. Each driver rode easily, one arm raised in salute to the crowd and to the Emperor. Narses could see that Galen and his family had returned to the pulvinar on the far side of the stadium. The racing factions maintained their boxes beneath a tall tower in the southwestern corner of the Circus, conveniently close to the starting gates and the stables. The location was also in shade the entirety of the day.
The Emperor's box, though covered with a tiled pitched roof, was south facing and exposed to the brunt of the sun. The finish line, however, was directly across from the pulvinar, in front of the temple of Victoria. The Emperor would get a good view of the finish! Narses had been a guest in the box before, and today, with the intense afternoon heat, as well as the press of the crowds, he preferred his cooler location. Despite the assurance that there would be no fix in the race, the lanista was entirely certain that Hamilcar would win.
Aside from Narses and the African himself, no one in Rome knew that the youth had been a champion driver amongst his people in Numidia. Even with his great success as a gladiator in the arena, Hamilcar often practiced in secret, particularly with the four-horse chariots in use today. The lanista had seen him drive. The youth was a natural with the two-wheeled car and a swift team.
The chariots continued their circuit, the crowd raising a ringing cheer as they passed. The sound traveled around the stadium, pacing the drivers and their teams, making strange echoes. Narses settled back in the chair, quietly ignoring his hosts, who were working themselves into a cheerfully drunken fog. When one of the courtesans approached him, he politely declined. His attention was on the race, not these distractions.
– |Galen, Emperor of the West, stepped down from his golden seat, arm raised in salute to the people in the stands and the drivers arrayed below him. As he descended the steps, a slave on either side maneuvered a canopy of purple silk to keep him in the shade. The sun was bright today. The Emperor took a deep breath and lowered his arm. Another slave placed a dark red handkerchief in his hand. Dropping this was the signal for the race to start. He stretched out his arm, the cloth in his fist.
"Citizens of Rome," Galen's voice rang out, strong and clear, echoed around the sweeping length of the stadium by heralds repeating his words, so that all might hear. "I call upon the gods to protect and increase the power of the Roman people, to bless their empire and their armies with victory and good fortune, to be gracious and favorable to the plebes, the patricians, the College of the Priests, to me, to my family and my great household."
At the words, a deep-throated cheer rose up, for Galen had loosened his purse enough to see every man, woman and child in the city feasted for two days and two nights in preparation for the last day of the games. Well lubricated with food and wine and sweet pastries, the people were in a mellow and forgiving mood. Whispers of the Emperor's penuriousness had fallen quiet.
"The oracles," he continued, "have instructed spotless white bulls be led to the altar of Jupiter by day, not by night, for the heavenly gods love sacrifice under the light of the sun. To please the honored dead and the gods who watch over us and make Rome strong, performances have been given in the theaters, all have rejoiced and I have laid cakes upon the altar of Eilithyia."
Again, there was a murmur of general approval. The strange weather afflicting the land had passed, leaving blue skies and clean-falling rain. It seemed, with these proper sacrifices and the veneration of the dead, the displeasure of the gods had been turned aside.
"One hundred and ten matrons have prayed on bended knee, asking Divine Juno Regina for her blessing and forgiveness. I have knelt myself beside the Tiber and given up a pregnant sow to the goddess Tellus, so she might make the fields thick with wheat and the harvest rich. All these things I have done to restore the health of the people and the state."
The crowd responded in kind to the words, raising their voices in praise for the Emperor and for the gods. Galen gestured to one of his Praetorians, then raised both hands to the heavens. As he did so, soldiers began to descend from the heights of the stadium in pairs, heavy baskets in hand. They began to scatter tokens of copper, stamped with letters and numbers, into the crowd. The people surged to their feet, raising a glad cry. The poorer citizens were traditionally forced to sit in the highest seats in the stadium and now this largess-for everyone knew that the tokens could be redeemed at the Imperial storehouses for cloth, salt, grain, meat, tools, lumber, iron ingots, fired pottery, lambs, kine, all matter of goods and wealth-was being distributed to them first.
"Already," the Emperor called to the people, "Already Faith and Peace and Honor and ancient Modesty and neglected Virtue are venturing to return, and blessed Plenty with her cornucopia appears. Our voices ask for aid and we feel the presence of divine spirits. We beg for these soft showers from heaven, pleasing the gods by the prayers that we have learned, trusting them to turn away disease, drive out fearful dangers, gain peace and a season fertile with fruits. Our song of piety winds grace from the gods above, our song from those below."
On either side of the pulvinar, massed ranks of maidens and young men began to sing. The hymn was powerful and ancient, first raised to the sky in the time of fabled Romulus and Remus, primordial kings of Rome. Many in the assembled multitude joined in, filling the stadium with the booming roar of their massed voices. The Praetorians continued to descend the steps, their hands sowing a sparkling cascade of copper.
Galen waited, sweating in his heavy toga and cloak, until the gift givers reached the walkway separating the patricians and senators from the lower classes. Then he raised the red handkerchief again, drawing the attention of a rank of trumpeters arrayed on the spina across from him. At the motion, the grooms loosed the bridles of the chariot horses and ran out of the way. The drivers took up their reins, waiting tensely for the signal.
"For the glory of our ancient gods, let this race begin!" Galen's voice rang out into the hushed silence left by the end of the hymn. He dropped the handkerchief. As it drifted to the ground, the massed trumpets sounded in a sharp bleat of noise. Motion exploded along the line of chariots, the drivers whipping their horses to the race. Hooves thundered on the sand and the chariots leapt forward, wheels spinning furiously.
– |Behind the Imperial box, a tunnel ran through the bulk of the stadium and into the Palatine Hill itself, allowing the Emperor and his family easy, secure access to the circus. With the race under way, the usual crowd of servants, courtiers, clerks and Praetorians departed. An old man, his back bent with weariness, shuffled along the hall, one gnarled hand pressed against the wall for support. Near the small complex of rooms at the back of the viewing platform, the ancient stopped to catch his breath.
A servant, looking out for him, hastened up to his side. "Master Gaius? The senator has kept you a seat, close by the balcony."
"Give me a moment, lad." Gaius Julius' voice was little more than a croak, strained and hoarse. His fingers curled around the man's arm, though the servant barely noticed the weight. "I am not well. Tell me, has anyone been asking for me?"
The man nodded, then motioned off to the side, where an alcove was half hidden by a wooden screen. "He did not give a name, master, but he was generous."
"Good." Gaius Julius gathered his strength and then hobbled to the alcove. His limbs, which had once seemed so tireless and strong, had been reduced to this pitiful state. Even his mind seemed clouded and slow, though he was certain that his mental faculties remained unimpaired. He had taken to checking and then double-checking everything he did. It made for slow work, but it was necessary. A wrinkled hand thrust aside the screen. The man waiting in the alcove was nondescript, perfectly ordinary in appearance. Even his toga and tunic were an indefinable color. Gaius Julius expected that the courier was well remunerated for this particular skill. "You have my chits?"
The man nodded and pressed a leather case into Gaius' hand. The old Roman felt the weight of the bronze betting tokens and smiled. Even in his reduced state, the thrill of a dangerous gamble fired his blood and set his mind in motion. "Excellent. Here."
The nondescript man took the bag of coin, bowed and then slipped out. Gaius Julius leaned against the wall, weary beyond measure. Damn the Prince! He toys with our lives too, not just his own!
Luckily, the old Roman had foreseen that the Prince might come to grief, and his men whisked both of them away to a safe house on the Ianiculum Hill. A priest of Asklepius had been summoned as planned but could do nothing. Nearly three days had passed before Gaius Julius could open his eyes. The worst part of the whole experience had been being aware but unable to motivate his body to action. The Prince remained comatose, barely breathing, his skin waxy and cold. Gaius Julius wondered with growing fear if he would be trapped in this half-life forever. What if the Prince did not die? Would he remain this ancient, withered figure, barely able to walk without assistance? It was maddening!
By a stroke of luck, all of the preparations for the final day of the games had been completed. Gregorious Auricus, in fact, had been able to resolve all of the last-minute problems and controversies without a hitch. Gaius Julius sneered at the wall, thinking that the senator would reap all of the glory and public acclaim for this, when the old Roman had done all the work. Well, nearly all the reward… He tucked the pouch of betting tokens away in his robe, taking considerable satisfaction from the weight that pressed against his side.
Thanks to some spurious rumor that the races would be fair, a great deal of wagering revolved around whether the Amazon Diana would win the race. Nearly every serious connoisseur of the races thought it impossible. The woman might be a very demon with the sword, but she had never raced before. Gaius Julius heard she had been training nonstop for the past days, trying to learn the tricks of maneuvering the four-horse chariot, but he knew that three days could not match a lifetime of experience. Hamilcar, however, was a more likely prospect.
The gladiator had never raced in the circus either, and the odds against his victory were long. In fact, the current leader in the yearly standings-Robertus of the Greens-was the odds-on favorite. Gaius Julius, however, paid close attention to all kinds of obscure information. Once, when they were in their cups, lanista Narses mentioned the African was skilled with a chariot.
Gaius Julius had taken a risk, betting nearly all of the capital that he had accumulated in Prince Maxian's name on the young gladiator. He had also taken some small steps to ensure the wagers he had laid against Diana would pay off as well.
Croaking with laughter, Gaius Julius hobbled out into the passage and then into the back of the pulvinar, his dark toga and cloak flapping around his scrawny legs like a raven's tail.
– |Wind rushed past, whistling through Thyatis' helmet. She leaned into the turn as her chariot thundered around the metae. The entire chariot shuddered and flexed under her feet as it swung. The wheels skidded sideways across the sand as the horses, heads down, manes flowing, roared around the corner. Four other chariots, two White, one Red and one Green, were neck and neck with her. Their drivers were screaming imprecations at the horses, whipping them with the reins. Above the thunder of the wheels on the sand, the roar of the crowd was very distant and faint.
Thyatis tugged the reins to the right and the horses leapt the same direction. Cursing, she tried to guide them back towards the inner track. The spina was raised in three steps; first a small ledge, then a wall seven or eight feet high, then the platform that held the statues and obelisks. Her left wheel had been veering towards the ledge. Ila's voice was loud in her memory; don't let the wheel hit the ledge; it'll splinter!
The White driver on her right, trying to swing past her on the turn, had his horses running flat out, sweat streaming off their flanks, when her chariot jumped out. The horses were keyed up and overresponsive and she overcorrected in the turn. Her right wheel slammed into the side of the White chariot, throwing the driver against his front rail. The man shouted in rage. The crowd erupted in cheers, sensing a wreck in the offing.
A Red chariot suddenly surged past on her left and Thyatis cursed herself, wrenching her attention back to the race. The Red driver hunched low in his car, whipping the horses furiously. They sped past, blowing sand and dust across Thyatis. Choking, she swung in behind him. At the turns, the inner track was critical; a driver could gain one or two lengths in each circuit.
A hundred yards ahead, the three leaders went into the turn in front of the starting gates. Hamilcar was hanging a little back from the Blue and Green, running without an opponent on either side. Thyatis was seized by a fierce desire to beat the sly young man. She flicked the reins to the right and her Browns surged into the gap between the Red and the White chariots. Hooves blurred across the sand and she caught a glimpse of the White's wheels seemingly spinning backwards.
They came into the turn, Red on the inner track, then Thyatis' Blue, and the White, screaming insults at her. She felt the tension in the rattling, bouncing car change as they slewed into the turn and she let the rear of the chariot kick out. The back of her chariot swept across the front of the White's horses and they veered away. The White driver lashed at them, losing sight of the ruts torn in the sand by the passage of the first four chariots. The wheels hit a wedge of sand and suddenly bounced skyward. Screaming, the driver tried to cling to the reins, but the horses turned, trying to catch Thyatis' mares. The driver was flung out of the car, which toppled over. The man hit the ground with a crunch and then rolled, shrieking, as he was dragged, his leg tangled in a strap. The chariot car bounced twice, shedding a wheel, then slammed down on the driver and broke apart.
Thyatis lost sight of the man, concentrating on swinging back in behind the Red chariot, which had opened a length or more in front of her. They were in the straight again, stinging dust and sand striking her face. She ignored the pain and let the horses take their head. The browns opened up, their stride lengthening, and she roared forward, rapidly closing in on the Red chariot.
– |"I'm sorry," said the armored guard at the entrance by the starting gates, "but the stables are closed until after the race. You can come back then, if you want. The drivers like to meet their fans." He smiled down at Betia, broad brown chin crossed by the strap of his helmet. The little blond girl smiled up at him, swinging her shoulders from side to side.
"Are you sure?" she wheedled. "You couldn't just show me the inside? I love the Blues! They're the best, you know, particularly that Amazon Diana! She's amazing!" Betia put her right hand on the man's forearm.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but that's against the rules. Now, if you want to wait, I can maybe see you go in later?" He smiled back at her, showing heavy yellow teeth.
"But I want to go in now!" Betia sounded petulant. Her left hand remained behind her back. She thrust her chest out, letting the thin fabric of her tunic stretch. "Please?"
"No, no." The guard looked away for a moment, to see if his mate had come back from the latrines. "I can't… urk." He looked down.
Betia slipped her knife out of his stomach. The thin space between his shirt of linked mail and his belt was oozing blood. She pressed a hand over his mouth, ignoring his stunned look, then the knife slid across his throat. Blood welled against her hand, dripping down her arm, but she levered him to the ground, letting the stable door carry most of the weight.
Four men appeared and picked up the guard. Another man, dressed in much the same armor and clothing, took his place. Betia wrapped her bloody arm in the dead man's cloak, then pushed the heavy wooden door open with her shoulder. Her blue eyes were bleak, but she kept moving, concentrating on the task at hand. The door swung open and the four ducked in with the body. Four more nondescript figures slipped in behind them and then the door closed.
"Quickly, quickly." Anastasia threw her hood back. Her face was pale but perfectly arranged. The grim light in her eyes matched her cold perfection. "Find the rest of them. No sound. No alarms!"
At her side, Vitellix looked down sadly at the dead guard, his throat seeping dark blood from the razor-thin gash. With the toe of his sandal, he flipped the edge of the man's cloak over his face. The four men split up, moving quickly through the high-ceilinged rooms of the stable. Two of the men had swords, two bows. Mithridates touched Vitellix on the shoulder and then the two of them hurried off, their own weapons bared.
"Ila? Ila!" Vitellix's voice was soft as he passed down the line of horse stalls. "It's Vitellix!"
Anastasia sighed, watching the lanista disappear into the gloom. Her gown under the robe was a deep cerulean, low cut across the chest, showing the curve of her smooth white breasts. Without urgency, she reversed the cloak, revealing a sky-blue silk lining, and draped it low on her bare shoulders. "Betia, are you done?"
"Yes, mistress." The blond girl had shed her soiled tunic and dragged the body on its cloak into the nearest stall, covering its feet with straw. Then the girl pulled on a new tunic that matched the Duchess' colors. "All done."
"Good." The Duchess smoothed her round forearms with a dusting of lead powder, turning them a seamless, perfect white. She checked her earrings and the fall of her hair. Gold and sapphire bangles tinkled at her wrists. "Let us see if they are done."
Betia went ahead, her knife bare in her hand, lamplight glittering on the blade. Anastasia followed at a stately pace, her liquid violet eyes taking in the signs of a scuffle as they entered the main area of the stables. At the end of the race, the Blue chariots and their drivers would return here. Once the horses had been unhitched, the drivers-victorious or not-would mingle with their adoring fans and then go off to some banquet held in their honor. The Duchess smiled, wondering what the little cripple Narses would think when he found that his prize Amazon had been snatched out from under his very nose.
That will show him not to trifle with me.
– |Horns blew and the fourth dolphin turned nose down, golden tail swinging towards the sky. Thyatis hung on for dear life, letting the chariot slide around the turn, axles and wheels squealing. Despite Ila's warnings, she had let the horses take their head, running flat out. Now she was only five lengths and one other chariot behind Hamilcar, who had continued to run swiftly and alone in third place. The lead Blue and Green drivers were dueling for first, an intense game of inches and tight margins at the turns.
Thyatis didn't care about them and she urged her four browns on as they burst out of the turn and into the straight in front of the temple of Victoria. The remaining Red chariot was ahead of her, driver lashing the horses to keep his lead. Thyatis hurtled towards him, running up hard behind his car, trying to get her horses between him and the wall. He caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye and swerved inwards, trying to force the browns into the wall. They ripped past the Victoria, the crowd raising a lusty cheer to see them duel.
Seeing the Red driver swing in, Thyatis jerked hard on the reins and let the browns bolt, away from the wall. She lost a half length but swiftly made up the distance, letting the mares storm ahead. She swept up behind the Red's car, angling for his right wheel with the crossbrace on the front of her chariot. He caught sight of her again and turned his head, snarling in rage.
Thyatis made a rude gesture. The man lashed out at her with the whip in his right hand. The steel tip flashed through the air at her, but this was something she could deal with. She switched reins and snatched the whip out of the air with her left hand. Her right flicked the reins and the browns swung left. The crossbar on the front of the chariot speared into the spinning wheel of the Red chariot.
The driver struggled to reclaim his whip, but Thyatis looped it around her forearm with a blur of motion. Then his wheel blew apart with a shriek, shredded by the iron ferrule on the crossbar. The Red chariot dipped and Thyatis added to the man's motion with a swift heave of her left arm. Screaming, the driver spilled out of the car, cracking his head against the sand, then Thyatis gasped in pain as she let the whip slither off the leather bracings on her forearm, a trail of black smoke hissing from the heavy leather. The Red chariot was splintering across the track, its horses scattering in all directions.
Thyatis shouted gleefully, lashing the horses with her reins. They thundered on, rushing towards the turn. Hamilcar was dead ahead, his horses running easily, barely exerting themselves. The African was braced against the inner wall of the car, left hand on the reins, right raised to the crowd. He swung the chariot around the turn with ease, shifting his weight just so. A storm of girlish screams and squeals echoed off the high arched roof of the triumphal arch of Titus, which was packed with his younger supporters. Even through the haze of dust and grit, Thyatis could see the man smiling like Apollo.
Her own chariot wallowed around the turn, spewing sand and making an ominous rattling sound. The left panel of the car suddenly splintered away, the wicker worked loose by the collision with the Red chariot. Thyatis kicked it free, sending it spinning back behind her on the track. She crouched low, letting the browns hurl her forward. They closed, heads racing the wind, a length and then another.
Hamilcar looked back and smiled, paying attention at last. He waved.
Thyatis' whip licked out and snapped over the heads of the browns. They sprinted forward again, gaining another length. Now they were very close.
The end of the spina loomed up, the metae sparkling in the sun, a crowd of slaves in red tunics hanging out over the track, screaming encouragement. The two leading chariots made the turn, but Hamilcar goosed his horses and was right behind them, taking the turn at very high speed, one wheel off the ground. The African, one foot hooked under the rail, leaned way out to counter-balance the suspended wheel. Thyatis cursed. She was taking it too close herself. The browns drifted out, clearing the turn, but she lost a length. The African's fingertips brushed across the face of the outer metae.
The crowds in the stands around the turn were on their feet, clamoring, their applause for Hamilcar's feat ringing to the sky.
– |"Little mouse? Where are you?" Vitellix moved into the room with caution, leading with the point of his long knife. Anastasia's men were supposed to have killed or subdued all of the Blue grooms, slaves and hangers-on who had been waiting in the stables. That didn't keep one of them from escaping and waiting in a closet with a hay fork.
The main room was large enough for three chariots and their teams at once, a huge vaulted hallway with a dirt floor to spare the horses' hooves. Opening off it were the stables themselves, with stalls for the horses and storage for the chariots. A waiting chamber also opened from the main room, with storage behind it. Vitellix was searching the storage rooms. "Mouse!"
"Perhaps she's not here." Mithridates had been following him quietly, a heavy spear in his hands. "Perhaps," rumbled the African, "she has gone out to watch the race."
"No…" Vitellix sighed. "That would be too painful for her, I fear."
The black man shrugged, his eyes flitting across the tumbled boxes and broken chairs crowding the storage space. A glassy scar surrounded one eye, making it seem half shut at all times. "Wouldn't she know the sound of your voice?"
"Yes!" the Gaul snapped, rattling the wooden crates around. "She would."
"Then," Mithridates rumbled, "she must be somewhere else."
"Fine." Vitellix turned on his heel and strode out into the main part of the stable. The four men whom Anastasia had brought were opening the doors to the starting gates, their armor covered by blue tunics. The Duchess was standing nearby, her blond shadow almost invisible behind her. "My lady!" Vitellix called out as he approached, "have you seen any sign of my daughter?"
"The little one with mousy-brown hair?" Anastasia suppressed a smile, checking the drape of her veil with almond-shaped fingernails. "I have seen her, I think."
"Where?" The Gaul looked around, his head moving in swift, jerking motions.
"There." The Duchess tried to keep amusement from her voice, but she sounded very droll. Vitellix stepped to a door and stared out into the starting gates. Ila had climbed up the nearest one and was clinging to the ironwork at the top of the arch with her hands and feet like a monkey. She could see out over the track. Vitellix ran up underneath her, his heart thudding in his chest.
Ila was screaming her lungs out as four chariots swept around the turn.
"Diana! Inside, inside! Diana! Go, go, go!"
"Mouse." Vitellix sounded aggrieved. "Come down from there."
Ila looked down, surprised. "Poppa! What are you doing here? Did you see Diana?"
Vitellix held up his arms and Ila sighed, letting go of the ironwork. He caught her deftly and set her down. He looked very sad for a moment, then clutched her to him, squeezing the breath from his little mouse.
"Poppa! You'll break a rib!"
"Sorry, Mouse." The Gaul squatted down so they were at eye level. "Someone hit you in the face." His fingers traced the outline of the bruise and his expression darkened.
"Yes, it was that African Hamilcar and his friends. They caught me in the Ludus Magnus before I could find Diana. They'll pay for that, I bet." Cunning and anger glinted in the little girl's eye. "I'll fix them if Diana doesn't."
"Did anything else happen? Anything bad?"
"No." Ila sighed in exasperation. "Nothing. Very dull, really. They were all afraid of Diana, once she killed all those people." Then her expression brightened and she turned to the gate. "Perhaps she'll break Hamilcar's neck while they're racing. She's very good at that… but, Poppa, she's not a good driver! Her horses are already winded."
"It doesn't matter," a cold voice said. Ila and Vitellix looked up to see Anastasia standing over them, flanked by her men. "She just has to finish and get back to the stables."
"She doesn't want to work for you anymore!" Ila glared at the Duchess. "Leave her alone!"
Anastasia stared down at the little girl, a mixture of grief and anger in her face. "Your father didn't abandon you, Ila. He came looking for you, worried half to death. I don't want to make Thyatis work for me, I just want my daughter back."
Hot words died on Ila's lips. The Duchess' eyes were so sad and desolate. Ila took her hand and led her to the corner of the gate. The little mouse pointed out at the track.
"This is the best place to watch from. See? The finish line is at the temple of Victoria."
– |The sixth dolphin dove for a sea of stone and the massive crowd was on their feet, cheering themselves hoarse. Thyatis was still clinging on, a length behind Hamilcar. The African had tried to run her into the wall of the spina on the fifth lap, but had failed, losing a length. Now they thundered forward, horses lathered, their chariots shuddering with every hoofbeat, almost neck and neck. The African's blacks were still running strong, tireless, their hooves speeding over the sand like the winged feet of Hermes. Thyatis felt her browns tiring, though they were giving a game effort. Her poor skill was costing them too much strength.
Barely two lengths ahead, the Blue and Green leaders were still neck and neck, jockeying into the inner turn on the last straightaway. At the moment the Blue driver had managed to swing ahead and capture the path along the wall. Thyatis risked a look and saw the metae of the last turn looming ahead, shining through the cloud of dust. Gritting her teeth, she slid the horsewhip out of its holder on the right side of the chariot car. Shouting, she lashed the browns with the reins and they jolted forward.
Beside her, Hamilcar stared across in surprise, his hands light on the reins. His glance flicked forward, seeing the backs of the Green and Blue leaders barely half a length in front of his horses' noses. He cursed. Thyatis again lashed out with the whip, letting it extend to its maximum length. The Blue driver suddenly jerked, a red welt across his shoulder. The man wrenched his team sideways, shouting insults at the Green driver. Their wheels locked for half a grain, sparks fountaining up from the metal bosses on their hubs. Both chariots swerved away from the wall, slowing infinitesimally.
Thyatis' browns lunged into the gap and she pressed their flank sideways against Hamilcar's blacks at the same moment. He reined in, slowing his team to keep his left wheel from grinding against the granite flank of the spina. Thyatis bolted ahead, suddenly in front of him. The African glanced swiftly to his right and saw the Green leader now abreast. The other two drivers had freed their wheels and now rushed forward, in line with Hamilcar. Thyatis turned, looking back over her shoulder, a wild smile on her face.
All three men lashed their horses as one, their teams redoubling their efforts. Thyatis snapped the whip again, just over the heads of the browns. They were laboring mightily, but they were straining and she could feel them beginning to fail.
A whip snapped beside her head, a sound like the crack of ballista firing. She ducked aside. The browns moved with her and her left horse was suddenly running only inches from the wall. A horrible screeching sound assaulted her ears and hot sparks flared up through the broken side of the chariot car. Her left wheel ground against the spina. Without looking, she lashed backwards over her shoulder with the whip.
Somewhere, a man screamed in pain. Though she could not see it, the sudden hoarse roar of the crowd told her something had happened. There was a sickening crack and then double screams and a metal hub boss whipped past her, caroming off the red granite obelisk as she passed. A violent, crashing sound followed and the screams of wounded horses filled the air. Her heart turned cold, but she kept her head down, urging her browns on into the last lap.
For an instant, there was only the sound of her chariot wheels hissing across the sand and the thunder of her horses' hooves. The crowd was silent, holding its breath. Even the musicians on the spina had stopped playing, their tubas and trumpets falling quiet. Thyatis glanced to her right.
Hamilcar was there, his face an intent mask, his helmet gone, his long glistening black hair streaming out behind him like a horsetail. His blacks were running hot, foam streaking their sides, their powerful muscles surging and rolling as they darted past. Now he was pressing his horses, forcing the last gasp of strength from them. He looked across and met her eyes as they roared into the final turn. There was an instant of communion, two proud souls that could not admit defeat or loss, locked in the grip of combat.
A crack rocked Thyatis' chariot as it swerved into the beginning of the turn. She looked down in time to see the abused axle disintegrate into a mass of whirling splinters. Without thinking, she leapt up onto the crossbar that rode behind the horses, still gripping the reins. The chariot car exploded, torn apart in an instant by the stress of the turn and the incredible speed of the horses. Chunks of wood and lengths of wicker spewed across the sand. A wheel spun away, bouncing towards the starting gates. The horses, suddenly bereft of the car's weight, leapt ahead. Thyatis clung to the reins, her body quivering in balance on the crossbar.
Hamilcar shouted in rage, rising up, his arm scything back with the whip.
– |"Kill him!" Anastasia shouted, her white arm stabbing out at the man hurtling by. At her side, one of the men in blue had drawn an arrow to his bow. Now he drew it to his cheek and sighted, his movement smooth and assured. Vitellix jerked around, seeing the last two drivers swing out of the turn, right into line with where he stood.
– |Hamilcar's whip lashed out, lighting across Thyatis' shoulder. It sprang back from the armor under her tunic, but her balance was lost. She fell, her arm still tangled in the reins, and gasped in pain as her right foot hit the speeding ground. The leather sole of her boot shredded away, then she heaved herself back up. Her body flexed, vaulting, and she twisted, swinging up onto the back of the third brown mare. Her left leg was still tangled in the harness. She tore at it with her hand, freeing herself.
A dozen feet away, Hamilcar lashed his blacks and they sprinted ahead, pulling out of the turn. He looked back, a smug smile on his face, but then it was wiped away by the sight of Thyatis rising up onto the back of the mare. He cursed and his whip snaked out again.
– |"Kill him!" Anastasia's knuckles turned white, gripping the iron bars of the gate. The archer loosed, his breath sighing out, and the arrow flicked away, arcing high into the air.
– |Thyatis dragged at the reins of the brown, forcing it right. Hamilcar's whip snapped in the air, only inches to her left. The brown team, following her motion, surged to the right, cutting behind the African's chariot. Thyatis swung one leg back, scrabbling to find footing on the horse's hindquarters, her left hand digging into its mane. One leap, she thought wildly, and I'll be in his chariot! Then we'llThe arrow smashed into her back. Her mouth opened, crying out. Her foot slipped and she tumbled from the mare, cracking her head against the crossbar that ran across the horses' chests. Spinning, her body hit the ground, bounced and then rolled over, limbs splayed out. Thyatis caught a glimpse of the sky cartwheeling above her, then the marble rim of the stadium, and then the sand plowed into her face and there was darkness.
– |"No!" Anastasia staggered as if she had been shot herself. Her hand rose to her mouth, trembling. Betia was already clutching her elbow, straining to keep her from falling. Vitellix and Mithridates were shouting and the starting gate opened with an explosive bang as Ila threw the locking bar. The mouse girl was already running, her legs and arms pumping.
"Diana!" Tears streamed down her round face and she was running, all alone, on the hot sand.
– |In the Imperial box, Gaius Julius let himself breathe, a long hissing gasp of relief. On the far side of the spina, Hamilcar had just swept across the finish line to a peal of trumpets and the clash of huge gongs that stood in the portico of the temple of Victoria. A lone Red chariot followed. "Oh yes," he breathed to himself. "Oh yes." He closed his gray eyelids, letting himself feel the shudder of relief in his body, even with its aches and pains and terrible weakness. "Oh yes."
– |Narses sprang up and, to the alarm of the Green merchants staring out at the finish line in glad surprise, swung over the lip of the balcony. The lanista could see the still, skewed form of the woman Diana lying alone on the sand. He could see the black fletching of an arrow on the ground too, and his quick eye had caught it in flight. Grunting, he landed on the seats below the box, then leapt down them, three and four at a time. No one seeing him move, flitting across the crowded seats, never setting a foot wrong, would have called him a cripple.
The lanista's face was incredibly grim and he tore the holly from his shoulder and discarded it as he ran. When he reached the retaining wall, an ugly murmur was already rising from the huge, stunned crowd. "Diana is dead," they were shouting.
He vaulted over the marble lip of the wall, then folded up as he hit the ground below. He rolled up on the sand, letting his tumble break the energy of his fall. He ran forward, towards the still, crumpled body on the sand.
Above and around him, a vast beast with three hundred thousand throats suddenly gave vent to a howl like Cerberus itself. "The Greens killed Diana! Kill the Greens! KILL THE GREENS!"
– |Just beyond the victory line, Hamilcar swung his team around, brown face beaming at the crowd above him. There was a huge tumult of noise and he raised his hands in answer to their acclaim. Attendants were running out from the tunnels to take his horses in hand. Despite his expectation, the air was not filled with thrown garlands, coins, hats-all of the things that usually met the victor in such a race. He squinted at the crowd, suddenly realizing that they were angry. Thousands of people were staring back down the track. Then he heard the shouts.
"No. No!" He turned himself and saw the ruins of Diana's chariot scattered across the track, her prone body, the figures of people running towards it. "That's impossible! I beat her! I beat her!"
A rotten fig flew out of the crowd and spattered against the side of his chariot. Hamilcar looked down, stunned, then up again. Hundreds of people were swarming down out of the stands, shouting in rage. The sound of the crowd had turned ugly. The African vaulted nimbly out of the chariot car, then cut one of the blacks out of the team with his boot knife. The arch of Titus was two hundred yards away, over the glimmering sand. Perhaps he could find safety there.