The stadium had been set up just outside the town walls, at the foot of a small hillock, and was obviously large. A high wicker fence surrounded the enclosure, with an impressive entrance gate at one end through which the public were currently pouring.
As we made our way to the head of the jostling mob, I noticed a large and heavily built guard using a cudgel on an unfortunate youth in an ochre tunic who was trying to scale the fence, although entry to the stadium was free. I grimaced in sympathy, but the boy had been taking an obvious risk. The organisers of race meets always take a dim view of visitors who attempt to get in without running the gauntlet of fast-food sellers, wine and water vendors, souvenir stalls, soothsayers and official betting booths which have been granted expensive licences to operate inside the fence.
If the people in the streets had not known who we were, here we were certainly expected. The same cudgel-bearing guard appeared, and wielded his weapon – rather indiscriminately I thought – to open a path for us among the throng. People do not argue with a cudgel, and we were soon inside.
My patron, Marcus, would doubtless have thought it nothing, after the Circus Maximus in Rome, but compared to the races I had seen in Glevum this was a revelation. The stadium was huge. The slope of the hill itself formed a natural grandstand on one side of the track; a wooden framework had been erected on the other side, with tiered benches on top of it, while at the further end, behind the turning post, was a covered viewing box for town officials and any visiting dignitaries.
The track was impressive, too. There was a purpose-built central reservation, with a wide track around it – sand laid on hammered clay, by the look of it – and a dozen slaves were already raking the surface flat. Proper hurdle fences separated the spectators from the action and there were portable wicker starting-stalls provided for the horses. A pair of wide wooden gates under the civic box led from the stadium into the stables and changing yard beyond. At the turning point, six rocking dolphins, made of gilded wood, were permanently displayed on poles, ready for the circuit-slaves to tip them forward one at a time, as the horses passed, and so help the crowd keep count of the laps.
The optio was right about obtaining a seat. Already the far bank was packed with spectators, many of them waving red, white or blue scarves in anticipation. I was surprised how few Green supporters there appeared to be. In Glevum there are always hundreds of them, not least because the Green faction is notoriously ‘for the people’ and against the governing classes, and supporting them is one of the few ways in which ordinary citizens can safely demonstrate their lack of sympathy with the Emperor.
(In fact, as I discovered later, support for the Greens was very strong in Verulamium. The absence of scarves was on my account – rumour of my imperial warrant had spread, and upon my arrival at the racecourse all the Green colours had been hastily hidden. Even in this outpost of Empire, it is sometimes dangerous to be seen cheering for the wrong people.)
Perhaps because of the presence of my escort, finding ourselves somewhere to sit was not a problem. Spectators melted away at our approach, and we were able to commandeer an excellent vantage point on the hill, near the turning point. We had hardly settled ourselves there before a slave arrived to invite us to join the civic dignitaries in the box over the stands, but I (very politely) declined on the grounds that I was acting on the governor’s instructions and wished to have a closer view of the horses. I did not want to be part of the civic party – people in the official box become almost as much of a spectacle as the chariots themselves and I wanted to observe Fortunatus without half the town knowing I was doing so.
I know from experience that the best view is always obtained from a point just before the apex of the corner, where one can see the horses turning at the other end and the whole of the straight – where the speed is greatest – and obtain a wonderful view of the entry to the bend, where the skill of the horsemen is most in evidence, and – as Junio could tell you – most of the spectacular crashes occur.
Pertinax’s bounty as we left permitted me the unaccustomed luxury of buying a handful of ‘hot nuts and crispy pork pieces’ from one of the itinerant vendors who moved among the crowd. They were not very warm and not remotely crispy, but as we sat back upon the bank and joined the rippling anticipation of the crowd I began to share something of Junio’s excitement. I handed him the little container made of twisted bark, and he helped himself to a piece of greasy pork with a sigh of pure happiness. The soldiers were all three staring into the distance with an expression of loftiest disdain, so I did not offer them any. I gave Junio a few coins to stake on one of the teams, and he set off to find someone to bet with, while I huddled the rest of my purchase to myself and settled back to wait for the spectacle.
I did not have long to wait. First the donor of the games entered, a candidate for local office in a gleaming white toga, heralded by a flourish of trumpets. He was warmly greeted by the assembled company, and made his way to the official box. Then came the old priest of Jupiter, who had doubtless performed the morning’s sacrifice for a successful day. He was shaky and senile, but he too was politely applauded. So were the traditional tumblers, dancers and pipers who followed him.
I was smiling at the antics of one of the acrobats when Junio came struggling back through the crowd, looking rather pleased with himself.
‘Did you bet on Fortunatus?’ I said, leaning forward to speak to him – he had settled himself on the far side of the optio. ‘I hope you got good odds?’
Junio grinned a little sheepishly, but before there was time to say another word a sudden surge of anticipation ran through the crowd. A moment later there was the thundering noise of hooves as the horsemen cantered down the road outside and wheeled through the gates. Urchins danced daringly at their wheels, to be seen off in no uncertain fashion by the cudgelled guard, and a moment later the whole stadium was on its feet, cheering, stamping, whistling and waving. Even the occasional green scarf made an appearance.
It was a spectacular and unexpected entry. Even a non-enthusiast could scarcely fail to be impressed. The magnificent horses (the first race was clearly to be a four-in-hand) were obviously the finest money could buy: wonderful creatures, coats gleaming, heads tossing, their harness decorated with the colour of their factio. The drivers, too, were dressed in coloured tunics, under the leather bandages which covered chest and legs, with coloured plumes on their helmets; and the little lightweight wicker chariots, shaped like upturned shells, were painted in the same hues of blue, green, red or white. The four professional teams were followed by their local counterparts, to the more muted delight of their supporters. Three times they trotted in procession round the course, while the crowd cheered and roared, and women threw garlands at their feet.
Then the local teams withdrew through the inner gates, the stalls were moved into position, and the four professional charioteers drew up to await the start. The cheering had ceased now, and the crowd waited with a kind of hushed anticipation. Then the donor of the games came to the front of the civic box and threw down a handkerchief as a signal, the slaves whisked away the wicker stalls and in an instant the race had begun.
What followed was almost too quick to see. Hooves thundered, whips cracked, wheels leapt and drivers cursed. I felt my own pulse racing as the speed increased, and the murmur of the crowd became a growl and then a roar. I have seen good racing in Glevum, but the Londinium teams were in a class of their own. As they turned, almost in front of us, I could see the chariots bouncing off the ground with the speed of it, the drivers using their own weight to balance their fragile vehicles, and urging the horses on as though Cerberus himself was after them. Then they were gone, around the turning point in a cloud of dust, and there was only the drumming of the hooves to mark their progress up the other side of the central barrier.
Around the further turn they came, the horses snorting and straining. White’s driver barged the Green’s, and the crowd went wild. One of Green’s wheels left the ground, a
nd the chariot almost overturned, but the man was skilled and with supreme effort threw his whole body over the upper rim as it toppled and brought the vehicle juddering back to earth. He had lost time, as the other teams swerved past him: yet a moment later he was thundering down the course in pursuit.
The gods were evidently watching, for at the next corner the White driver glanced backwards at his rival, and in that instant lost the race. He took the bend too sharply and too fast, and lost control of his chariot. It leapt into the air and he was catapulted forward, losing the reins. He pulled his knife out to cut the chariot free from the leather traces, but he was not quick enough. Driver, chariot, broken wheels – all came tumbling down together in an untidy heap to be swept remorselessly onwards by the charging horses. I saw him try to struggle upright, bruised and wounded, and then he was thrown clear, almost unseating the driver of the Reds. He lay on the track motionless, blood seeping from under his helmet, until the circuit-slaves came running out to seize his legs and pull him off the course before the horses came round again.
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 th
e 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.
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.
The Chariots of Calyx Page 11