by AM Kirkby
***
The two-horse race was the second to be run on the second day of the games, after the single horse race and before the chariot races. The sun had risen unclouded on low mists, but the ground was still firm, with no give in it. It would be a fast race, Master thought, as he walked the course that had been laid out, a long straight, unlike the loop of the chariot course with its tight turns.
He'd already been to the stables, before sunrise, wanting to groom his horses; but Rasce, seeing his nervousness, had thrown him out. Rasce would do it, instead; there was no point Master transferring his nervousness to his mounts. “Go and walk the course,” Rasce had told him; and he had obeyed. He was the only living thing on the field, except a solitary crow that was picking over the debris from the day before.
Time seemed to be running slow; he paced the course with his back to the sun, yet when he'd reached the end of the course and turned around, the sun had still not fully risen, its lower edge still bleeding liquid gold into the level of the horizon. The crow hopped twice, fluttered its wings, settled again to its inquisition. He wanted to shout, to run, to hit something; instead he forced himself to calm. He felt, suddenly, the pressure of Rasce's and the general's expectations, the need to impress Ramtha with victory, the weight of the bets that had been made on him. He tried not to think about it; and realised of course that trying not to think about it had made his thoughts even more obsessed with it, and his mind was circling, looping back, and again he had to still himself by breathing deeply and feeling his breath, feeling the sharpness of morning air in his nose and its burning in his lungs. But how he would get through the rest of the morning he didn't know; he was driven, his body on edge. The crow croaked at him; he flinched. Getting jumpy.
He walked the course twice more, deliberately loosening his stride, trying to shake the tightness out of his limbs. By then the sun was beginning to warm the air; he could feel it becoming drier already. And still the world seemed to sleep; just him and the crow, and far off, a single bird flying across the lightness of a morning sky, too far for him to recognise. An eagle or a vulture, perhaps; just as well he didn't believe in omens beyond the strength of his own arm, the speed of his horses.
He thought of going for a run to settle himself; the steady pounding of his feet always deadened the incessant questing of his mind, eventually, and pulled him into that stolid rhythm, so that when he came back from a two hours' run, he couldn't remember anything but the first few hundred yards of it. But he needed his strength later; he couldn't run the risk of using himself up now.
In the end he decided to climb up one of the slopes overlooking the competition ground, to gain some distance; and he lay on one of the rocks that the sun had begun to warm, looking up at the sky and feeling his anxieties dissolve in the sense of infinite distance, letting his eyes and his mind lose focus, till he drifted on the ground as a bird might in the air. He heard the first horse race distantly, the cheers and the shouting; it was too far to hear the low thrumming of the horses' hooves, or perhaps there was too much other noise. Then it was time to go; lazily stretching his limbs, he yawned, and came back to the world. As he sat up, the cold air touched his back and made him shiver; he raised his head, and looked at the field of games, his eyes narrowed. There was the course, a narrow strip of clear ground; he gazed at it steadily for a moment, seeing it distantly, then turned, and loped easily down the hill.
He wondered if, sunk in his contemplative state, he'd left it too late, but when Rasce met him with the horses he told him he was in good time. The horses looked almost splendid; their lack of breeding was still apparent if you looked carefully, but they shone, brushed skins and oiled hooves, the crimson and orange of the blankets thrown over them gaudy in the sun.
He was still holding himself calm as he readied the horses for the start. To his surprise, there was only one other contestant, a boy from one of the noble house's stables that he didn't know, with a pair of horses that looked flashy, but too thin-legged. The boy looked too young to be competing, fourteen at the most; how he could have the strength needed to switch horses four times over the course, Master couldn't imagine. He'd thought the race would be more keenly contested. But he held calm, reminded himself not to underestimate his competition, not to hold the race run already; he'd seen that girl come a close second yesterday, and he would have given her no chance in the footrace.
Then the augur was raising his lituus, and a silence fell over the raceground for a moment as the crooked stick seemed to still time itself, the augur's arm outstretched, in the way time seemed to freeze in a statue or a painting, and Master saw, for a moment, the whole scene immobile and lifeless in an eternity of waiting; and then the lituus had fallen, and the horses had already leapt forward into their first pace, and he felt like a man falling from a mountain peak, or a bird learning to fly, and he was leaning forwards and gripping his mount, urging him on with his whole body, with heels and calves and knees, and the calm he'd spread over himself like a drug was gone and replaced by a single drive. Already he was leaping from his first horse to the second, almost without looking, so habitually judging the moment that he now longer needed to think about it. From the side of his eyes he could see his rival make the leap, a dark shape indefinite that he would not turn to see, or take any notice of. The second leap made, effortlessly, and now he was back on his first horse, and his rival had leapt too. He had a vague feeling that his rival had dropped back, but he looked ahead to the end of the course, willing his horse on, readying himself for the third leap.
He knew as soon as he left the first horse's back that he had misjudged it. His second horse was dipping, swerving a little, and he was falling further than he'd meant to, unbalanced. He sprawled, still falling forwards over the horse's further shoulder, his trailing leg free in the air, no use to him for holding on. His head was close to the horse's neck, and he scrambled to pull his weight back before it was too late, clawing for the horse's mane with one hand. He felt the horse stumble, and it was all over. He'd lost sight of the course, of his destination; he was going to fall; all he could see was the horse's side and the ground below.
And just then, in the corner of his eye, he saw his rivals' shape making the jump; then nothing. His peripheral vision was clear.
Still clinging on, he felt the horse gallop unevenly beneath him, its rhythm impeded by his badly slung weight. Gradually, he managed to get his body balanced again, got his leg down so he was properly astride. He heard voices raised, couldn't think what it was about for a second, before he realised he'd crossed the line.
His first horse was still with him, matching the other stride for stride, and he eased them both down to a canter, then to a jog, then to an easy walk, before turning back to the end of the course. There was no sign of his opponent, which was odd.
Rasce was already slipping through the crowd to take the horses in hand, and he could hear the cheers, for that, he realised now, was the noise of voices that he'd heard as he struggled for balance. But he still didn't know the result; how far he had been beaten, and he must have been beaten, he'd lost so much time in regaining control of his mount.
He jumped down. An awkward landing shot pain up through his right leg, and he drew blood biting down on his tongue, but the tingling aliveness of the race hadn't yet faded, and he grabbed Rasce by the shoulders. I finished! he wanted to say; he'd finished against all the odds, he'd finished despite his mistake, despite nearly falling. His ears were ringing; he couldn't hear what Rasce was saying, and when he did, he didn't believe it.
The crowd was thick; people were crowding to touch the horses, to shout congratulations at Master or at Rasce, simply to see the victors. Eventually they pushed their way through to where the general was standing with one of the augurs, at the head of the course. Through the crowd, Master could dimly see the livid green and blue masks of the three Phersu, the colour of old bruises or rotten meat. They seemed to be lugging some monstrous weight behind them.
The general was offering his congratulations, and boasting to the augur of how the boy would be master of horse some day, and the augur simply said, “Yes.” Then his eyes went vacant for a moment, as if focused on something incredibly far distance, and he said, slowly, “Not that long, I think.” Another moment, and he was back with them, talking about the speed of the race and the training of the horses, and the bright future of any youth who won a few horse races, his language nicely generalised and devoid of particular meaning, though you could read what you like into it. Like omens, Master thought; leave your words open so the wind can rush through them, and claim it is the breath of some ambiguous god.
The phersu were coming closer now; many of the crowd had turned to look. Some turned away when they saw the phersu's burden; a body, slung by two legs and an arm between them. Master was not so delicate; he was not afraid to look at it. But then he saw what had revolted them; the head bulged strangely, one side of it a dull pulp of soft brain and fragmented bone and hair matted with blood. Then he realised why Standfast had stumbled. He had killed his first man, not in war, not in a fair fight, but absently, without knowing. He rubbed his hands on his tunic; there was blood on them, he thought, there would always be blood on them.
But Ramtha was making her way towards him now, her eyes bright. She shone with gold; a huge pectoral, massive bracelets, earrings as big as the bracelets hanging heavily, a ribbon of gold in her braided hair. At last, he felt real joy in his victory; he felt like shouting. At last, no longer confused or abashed, he felt a true victor. His blood thundered in his ears.
She gave him her hand with exaggerated graciousness. Of course here, in front of everyone, she had to be careful, he thought. But she would fall to him, to the victor the spoils, when he chose.
“A true master of horse!” her laugh was falsely high. He wondered how many people besides the two of them remembered the origin of his name. He smiled, and was silent in his pride. The tables were turned now; he was the winner, the warrior, no longer the boy who could be called or turned away by an imperious noblewoman. The general would pimp him out no longer; he'd take what he wanted, when he wanted it.
A short man stepped forward from behind Ramtha; he was wearing a purple tebenna, a sign of rank, but he managed to make it look scruffy. A tuft of hair that stuck up from the side of his head gave him a look of permanent surprise.
“You... did rather well, I think.”
Master muttered some formula of gratitude. He was going to have to get used to this, he supposed. The man was an idiot. Rather well. Indeed.
“Oh, not winning so much, no. But staying on after that,” the man searched for the right word, “that stumble, I thought that was really impressive.”
“Anyone could have done that.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Your competitor did not.”
There was no answer to that.
“I forgot,” the general broke in. “You don't know Avle, do you?”
“No,” Master said, rather churlishly, not liking the way he'd been played.
“Avle Vipienas. We call this one Master. It was your wife who gave him the name.”
“Well, perhaps he'd like to be a real Master. You've trained him as well as you did your last pupil?”
“Better. I've learned a little in the last ten years.”
“Then send him to me. Two days, if you will, Avle Tite.”
Vipienas turned to Master, and gripped his forearms in greeting, before turning away, already distracted by some thought. Vipienas; Ramtha's husband, then, if the general could be trusted. And now his master. Things were not playing out quite as he'd expected. But as Ramtha turned to follow Vipienas, she looked Master in the face, smiled, and beckoned with one slim finger. As he reached her, she spoke.
“You'll come when I want,” she said, and went, leaving Master with the general. They were alone now, since the crowd had lost interest, and the chariots were already being prepared for the next race.
“Of course he won't make you Master of the Horse at once,” the general said. “Probably break you in with a small company, let you work under one of the wing seconds for a while. But it's better than I could do for you. Keep smart, work hard, you could be Master of the lucumo's Horse in three or four years.”
“The lucumo's Horse?” he said, startled.
“I thought I'd introduced you to Vipienas. No? Mind must be going. I could swear I had.”
“Of course, sir.” It was a struggle to keep the surprised 'o' of realisation from his face.
They walked in companionable silence towards the starting lines for the chariot race. Master realised, with sudden greed, that in three or four years he'd almost certainly have got his own chariot, Master of Horse or no. One of the horses reared up for a moment, resisting the harness; he saw its hooves glitter in the sunlight.
He'd pack this evening, not wait till he had to go. This was the end of one part of his life, the beginning of a different future; a beginning that grew out of victory, hard won if, when it came, unexpected, even confusing. He hadn't much to pack, just his arms and a few clothes, and the spare harness for the horses.
The general had given him a good training. He must have known he'd send the boy to the lucumo; that's why he'd taught him politics, as well as military tactics. That's why he'd put him so often in front of Ramtha. Clever general. And now he had an eye in the lucumo's house, and a voice perhaps; but Master would make him pay for that voice, depend on it. You'll get nothing, unless it suits me, he decided. Then relenting, thought, perhaps it will suit me, none the less.
The chariots were already jostling for position as the general found them a place on the low stage that had been erected by the starting line. The augur had not raised his lituus yet; one chariot was not quite ready, the driver taking his time in coiling his reins and settling his team, a handler checking the bit in one horse's mouth. The general took Master's hand in his; an old, dry hand, the skin hardened and cracked. “You won't forget?” said the general, and didn't say what it was that was not to be forgotten, but Master turned and looked at him, and though there was triumph in his thoughts, there was also a sudden pity at this one admission of loneliness and age. Then the general coughed, and said in a determined voice, “I have a bet on the blues this year”, and turned his eyes to the racetrack again.
Tanaquil
Tanaquil was pushing her horses all out, now she was on level ground. Such speed courted disaster, and it was that edge of disaster that she loved; the feeling of death so close she could almost reach out and touch it, yet averted, in the last split second, by her own skill. It made her blood race and sing.
She thought bitterly of her first few years in Rome; confined to the house, or to the smothering modesty of grey woollen veils whenever she went out. But Rome had changed now; it was becoming almost civilised. Though the old patricians all said they would never allow their daughters to lie on a banqueting couch, or choose their own lovers, their daughters had different ideas. They might still spin, but it was fine yarn in brightly dyed colours; and it was the maddening music of the reedpipes that you heard these days, not the booming of the war trumpets.
This year she'd at last won Tarquinius' assent to her buying her own chariot, and a finely trained pair of horses. (She'd wanted a quadriga, but Tarquinius' caution intervened.) The chariot had no pretensions to grandeur; plain leather and wood, not the ornate gilded bronze of the best Etruscan work. But it was made with painstaking craftsmanship to equal the best; lightly sprung, finely balanced, so that she could turn it tightly; the wood pared down to lightness so that it weighed almost nothing. Standing on the leather straps of its floor she could feel the flexibility of its response, its components shifting continually to adjust to the ground or the course she took. She was an eagle balancing on air, imperious, invincible.
She knew the old Romans disapproved. Chariots were for war, not pleasure; for men, not jumped-up Etruscan women. That was part of the joy of it; but the angry hot satisfa
ction of seeing their hatred was only a small part of her joy. It was the speed she loved, the freedom, the edge of danger, the wind on her cheeks and the breath racing in her lungs.
Such horses, too, fast as the wind, quick not only in their pace but in their response to her hands on the reins; dark, sprightly horses with bunching muscles and sharp black hooves. She reined them in with pride, harder than she would usually, relishing the lurch of the deceleration, and cornered tightly just before they came to a standstill, scattering the loose gravel of the plain.
She'd been tempted, once, to ride at full speed through the streets of Rome; but she had enough sense to cool her hot blood, and rein the horses in before driving home.
She wondered where her dog had got to. It was a white bitch, this latest dog, perhaps the granddaughter of the pair she'd brought to Rome with Lauchme; though you never could tell with dogs, they'd sneak out to fuck any passing bitch, and you ended up with mongrels like the Romans, no clear lineage and no way of telling who they belonged to. She whistled, a long rising note.
That was unusual. She'd trained this little bitch herself; it usually came running, once her gallop was over and it was time to start for home. She whistled again. It wouldn't do to lose the bitch; she was a good hunter, chasing down hares more often than she missed a kill. Tanaquil felt the anger rise as she whistled a third time.
At last, she saw a glimpse of white in the longer grass, and the truant trotted towards her. There was blood on its white mouth, and blood dabbled across its chest, and it jumped easily on to the floor of the chariot and sat, stretching its bloody muzzle up towards her.
The bitch had killed, obviously. It was irritating that it hadn't brought its catch back. Tanaquil stilled it with one word, and it lay, its head on its paws, quietly as it had been taught. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, and the horses started forwards, at an easy walk, back towards the city.
She was about half way home, about to ascend the sharp bends that led uphill towards her house, when she saw Faustus ahead of her, walking alone. He hadn't seen her; he seemed abstracted, his head bent towards the ground, as if he were thinking something over and pacing to keep time to his thoughts. One side of her mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.
Very quietly, she hissed, and let the reins loosen. The horses were well trained indeed; immediately they reached out, leaping into a canter, then a full gallop, as she steered the chariot full towards the yet unaware Faustus. Only at the last moment, as she saw his face turned towards her, did she swerve to one side. She'd left the narrowest of margins between them, almost brushed his clothes with the sides of her chariot. And she laughed, and let the horses run on, faster and faster, till she stopped at the bottom of the hill in a splendid shower of dust.