The voice of the crowd swelled and swelled until Hagen thought his ears would burst, and the enormous sound coalesced into a single roared name: “Michael! Michael! Michael!” The whole Hippodrome seemed to rock with it. Hagen’s back prickled up; he had been a fool to think Michael was powerless.
Down there, on the track, the Prince urged his team in a quick burst past the leader, galloped them easily down the track, acknowledging the adulation of the crowd. He wheeled them neatly around at the end of the oval and went back to his place in line. On his arm, a red scarf waved.
Hagen grunted, wondering what that meant; he thought he had invented it, back in John Cerulis’s camp, but here it was, actually happening, as if by force of mind he had brought it into being.
Someone had. His gaze slipped sideways, down to the only other person who knew of that, down to the Empress.
She sat there with her hands in her lap, smiling. He had seen matronly women at the court in Aachen sit like that, their tatting on their knees, smiling benignly on the antics of children. Michael had said she was capable of anything. Hagen had not believed it. Now he opened his mind to suspicion, and in that space, she seemed to swell and grow.
The crowd’s voice dimmed an instant, and then shrieked up, piercing, wild, full of one name.
“Ishmael! Ishmael!”
Hagen jerked his head around; he looked down on the track, and saw the blacks and greys wheeling out on to the course. The driver raised his hand to the crowd, and Hagen, out of himself, beat his palms together, delighted.
The fourth team appeared, and the racers formed up a rank and advanced toward the ribbon, the horses’ necks arched to the bits. They pranced and cavorted on their slim long legs, and the cars bounced after them. The crowd hushed its voice. Leaning forward, they hovered on the edge of their benches, waiting.
Ishmael leaned back, getting his weight into the leathers, and spared a quick glance sideways. The driver next to him was a novice from somewhere east of the City, who probably had no chance. Just beyond him, Michael stood in his car, his head high.
Their eyes met, Michael’s and Ishmael’s, for an instant. They straightened forward again, and all over Ishmael’s body his skin tingled alive, unbearably sensitive. He could not keep from smiling. Before him lay the track; his horses were in his hands. “Yah!”
The boy between him and Michael burst forward in a false start. Ishmael’s horses leapt after him, and Ishmael reined them back. To the hoots and jeers of the crowd, the boy, red-faced, turned his team and circled decorously around the line and came up into his place again, between Michael and Ishmael. He mumbled some apology, and then, before anyone could speak in answer, the horns blasted.
The horses sprang forward. Ishmael was rocked back off balance, gasping, and nearly dropped his whip. On his left the boy was surging along even with him; just beyond him, Michael, also taken unawares by the quick start, was a little behind. The team on Ishmael’s right had been left stock-still at the ribbon.
“Go!” Ishmael shouted. He gathered his reins, steadied his horses and urged them on. If there was an advantage here, he meant to seize it.
The sand splattered the front of the car. The lashing tails of his horses struck his wrists like tiny whips. They swept down on the curve, and he collected the inside horses and drove the outside wheelers on faster, and they whirled into the curve in a perfect line.
The boy was good at this as well; he held the curve as tight as Ishmael, but not as fast, and gained nothing of the track. On the inside, Michael was surging ahead, carried into the lead by the shorter distance he had to travel, and whirling into the straightaway they pounded down the track at full speed, Michael, the boy, and Ishmael, a dozen horses head to head across the track.
Ishmael screamed. He felt the power of his horses like an irresistible call. They flew down the center of the track as if the wind bore them, and at the far end, swinging into the curve, were half a length ahead of Michael and the boy.
They wheeled around the curve, and the boy, lashing his horses, overestimated their speed. They lost stride and faltered, and Ishmael shot out ahead of them on the one side and Michael surged to the lead on the other. The track curved around and straightened out before them again, and now, with the crowd howling and stamping its feet and screaming and weeping and pleading and raging in triumph, Ishmael and Michael went head to head down the straight, their horses flattened to their work.
Stride for stride they raced the length of the straightaway, and in the curve, they wheeled around in a spinning, sliding spray of sand, Ishmael’s horses like a shadow of the team on the inside. He gripped the reins in fists as soft and pliable as clay, that yielded to every motion of the horses’ heads, hands firm and strong as iron, that held them steady when they needed it.
He had never felt so alive. He knew he was going to win.
They rolled into the straightaway again, still head to head, and now Ishmael asked his horses for more speed, a little more, a little more yet, and as they gave it to him, calling up from the depths of their blood the strength and courage of generations of champions, he steadied their power and blended it together and asked, again, for more.
They answered him. By slow inches they crept into the lead. Ishmael saw Michael’s head turn, noticing the blacks and greys draw past his own horses, and saw the champion bend to his work. He raised his hands, begging for more, and his own team responded. They dragged up the last of their strength, and for half the length of the Hippodrome, although they won back not an inch of the lead Ishmael’s horses had stolen from them, they gave up not an inch more.
They raced into the final turn. Ishmael felt his inside flanker come back a little, and guessed the horse was tiring; he drew them all in slightly, to rest them for the last run down the straight to the finish line. Beside him, Michael’s team surged up into the lead again. Michael was calling to them, pleading with them. Their ears swept back to catch his voice, and they strained for more speed.
Coming into the straightaway, they were head to head again, the Blue and the Green, and the crowd surged to its feet. The noise was like an ocean that swept down on the racers. Ishmael felt the tremor through the reins as his horses shrank from it. He held them on line. He needed no whip. They turned into the straightaway and before them was the finish line, and they raced forward toward it, bringing from the last of their heart and muscle another swelling surge of speed.
Michael’s team stayed with them, their heads bobbing in unison. Ishmael screamed and laughed and sang and wept, the fire of God dancing in his veins. The finish line swept toward him. Still Michael’s horses clung to a hair’s breadth of a lead. But now Ishmael’s horses lunged forward, faster with each stride, flinging themselves at the victory. They swept out ahead of the Blue team, by a head, by half a length, by a full length, and charged across the line, the winners.
Irene sank back into her chair, half out of breath. “Ah, what a race.”
“A thrilling finish,” said John Cerulis, smiling. He drew his napkin through his fingers, his eyes keen on her. “Of course, one that you knew beforehand.”
“I! Never. I would have thought no man alive could defeat Michael and his team.”
John sniffed at her. “You dissemble to one with inner knowledge, Madame. I am aware that the scarf your worthy cousin wore predicated a loss on the track, and doubtless a great win at the bet-makers’ expense.”
Irene leaned back and laughed, long and richly. “Oh, no, my fool. You are in serious error there, although I know by what course you came into such a mistake. No, seeker of illusions. The scarf is a signal to my people, that your plot has been traduced.”
“My plot! I assure you, lowly born one—”
“Hold! What is this?”
Irene leaned forward, her eyes caught on a motion on the track. The crowd was surging in its place, content as a fat man at a feast, but there on the gol
den sand, a strange figure had appeared, gyrating with its scrawny limbs, and shouting.
“What is that?” she said, and looking around her saw John Cerulis canted forward to see, frowning.
“That fool,” he said, under his breath. “It is the holy man, Daniel.”
Irene clenched her fist. All the many threads of this were drawing together now; she felt a tingle of alarm at this unexpected intrusion of some force she had not foreseen, that might wreck all her plans.
Down on the track, the holy man was reaching up his arms, was calling out, his voice thin and piping from his distance, and yet audible. The crowd hushed, and he began to speak.
“This John Cerulis,” he shouted, “this man who wants to be emperor—he is no more emperor than any one of you!”
Irene glanced at the man at her side and saw his face harden. She refrained from smiling.
“I made a mistake!” the holy man was screaming. “When I proclaimed him emperor—that was not God’s choice, but a mistake!”
Through the crowd, now, as voices carried on this message to those too far to hear it, a ripple of laughter spread.
“Denounce these wicked men!” the holy man was crying. “Come to God—give off the unnecessary trappings of pride and power and wealth. You need no City, no emperor—only God. These races with which they stuff your ears and eyes are tawdries, to deceive you!”
At that, the crowd growled at him. But Daniel heeded nothing; he danced up and down on his thin knobby legs, waving his arms.
“These champions, this Golden Belt—it is sin. It is work of the Devil.”
Now the crowd’s bad-tempered snarl deepened to a thundering roar of disapproval, and from the benches sailed a volley of missiles, pieces of fruit, empty wine flasks, pelting the holy man.
He kept on. Fending off the objects that struck around him, he shouted again, “God will give you life eternal, if you open your hearts to Him Who made you from the dust—”
Something hard hit him, and he went to one knee. Irene’s stomach tightened.
He struggled up again, and his mouth opened, but the crowd now had scented his blood. With a howl like a cruel beast, they leapt to their feet. They tore off pieces of the benches and threw them at him; they hurled down their shoes and bottles, their apple cores and empty dishes.
He stood there, pleading with them, his voice now lost in their shouts and curses. Irene saw bits and pieces strike him, and although he tried to keep his feet, he sank down slowly to the sand. Still he tried to speak to them. But they heard nothing anymore, saw nothing in him anymore but a momentary amusement, a target for their blows. Long after he lay there motionless on the sand they flung whatever they could find down on his body.
“I sometimes wonder,” Irene said, in a voice that trembled, “why I choose to lead these people.”
John Cerulis smirked at her. “The problem will be yours no longer, after this day, lady.”
“Will it? Even now, deluded one, my cursores are confiscating your palaces and fortress and all your wealth, because you have dared plot against me.”
“Dared to plot,” he said, unperturbed, “and dared to succeed, whore. On this day all the great offices of your power are in the hands of men sworn to uphold me.”
“Really? I think not.” She leaned toward him, fierce. Unlike this unruly crowd, now sinking into a sensuous somnolent murmur like a fed cat, she struck but one blow, and that one final. She said, “Ah, no, beguiled one. You thought that by slaying those on Theophano’s list, you removed from my administration all those who supported me against you. But you were wrong, as ever you are wrong, murderer of women and babies. Theophano’s list was not of your enemies, but of mine. I meant you to find it and use it as you did. You killed your own men in that purge. You rid me of all those I feared in my government. You destroyed yourself.”
His face quivered, his lips colorless, his eyes shining suddenly wide and fearful. She leaned back, smiling at him. At that moment, a move on the ledge above him caught her eye, and she jerked her gaze that way.
It was Hagen, crouching there among the broken statues. Hagen, who glared at her now with eyes as hot and bright as molten gold. Hagen, who had overheard, and worse, had understood, that she had always intended Theophano to die.
She straightened up, tearing her gaze from him. After all, he was only a barbarian.
But her flesh crawled now. This was going wrong. Down there the Hippodrome attendants were picking up what was left of Daniel and laying it on a cart, and shoveling in on top the heaps of debris with which the crowd had slain him. Soon the race would start again. Beside her, at least, John Cerulis sat limp and white, a ruined man. She gripped her fists in her lap, her breath short. The race was about to start. Her temples pounded; she fixed her eyes on the golden oval of the track.
For the first time, Michael found himself missing Prince Constantine. When he realized that, he thrust the feeling roughly down again below the surface of his thoughts.
He was the champion. He might lose a heat, but he would not lose the race. The crowd was howling out there, whooping and screaming in a frenzy; he would bring them to their feet again, when he beat Ishmael.
Swiftly he went to his horses, whose grooms were leading them up and down the aisle. Esad was waiting for him and called him over.
“Look at him,” Esad said. “He’s gone lame again.”
Michael’s heart contracted. He went to Folly’s head, and gripped the bridle, to keep the excited horse from biting him, and led him off a few steps, watching his legs. He seemed sound enough to Michael, although he stepped a little short, but then when Michael let him stop again, the horse shifted his weight on to three legs, and held his off foreleg slightly ahead of him, the toe pointing.
“He can’t race again,” Esad said. “Not like that.”
“He’ll race,” Michael said.
He stooped to run his hand down the slender foreleg. At his touch, Folly leapt sideways, and he spoke to the horse in a soothing voice.
“He’s not sound,” Esad said. “You’ll ruin him.”
“He’ll race. Two more heats, that’s all.”
“You can’t—”
Michael whirled up; he thrust his face into Esad’s, and the groom shut up. Michael glared at him until the other man looked away. Straightening, the Prince set his hands on his hips.
“Harness him.”
Esad’s lips trembled. He said nothing, but he made no move to obey.
“Harness him, Esad, or by God’s Word, I’ll do it myself.”
The groom’s shoulders slumped; he went away with the horse to the racks of harness. Michael walked forward, into the front of the stable.
The team had not given him what he needed, when he asked for it, in the first heat. In that drive down the stretch, with Ishmael’s horses surging alongside, he had asked them for more speed and they had tried to find it for him but nothing had come. This time he would not let that happen. This time he would hoard their strength until the moment when he put Ishmael forever in his dust.
He would have the inside track of his rival, this heat, since he had finished behind him in the last. If he took the lead, he could control the pace. Ishmael had great hands, but Michael had the experience and skill to outwit him.
Behind him the grooms worked madly on the horses, rubbing their bodies clean and dry, picking up their feet to check for stones, inspecting the harness. Ishmael’s grooms were doing the same thing, in the next aisle, and as Michael stood there, deep in his thoughts, Ishmael himself walked swiftly by with a pail of water.
Michael tore his gaze away from his rival. He could not bear to look at him—if Ishmael met his eyes, would he see there some contempt, some triumph—worse, some pity? Michael fixed his gaze on the ground.
He had demanded perfection from everybody else, from all who wished to serve him; he had to
lerated no flaw. Now he had to meet that test himself.
From the track a man ran into the stable, shouting.
“They’ve stoned the holy man to death!”
“What?”
“That holy man! He came out and tried to preach to them, and the crowd stoned him.”
“Haaaa.”
Michael went a little toward the gate, to look out, and stopped himself. There was really nothing unusual in that—often there were public executions in the Hippodrome, between heats, and the holy man was surely a criminal, because this was the City of God. That did not matter anyway. What mattered was the race.
He saw it as a sacrament, this race. As Christ died for the sins of the multitude, so he raced with the hopes and dreams of the multitude on his shoulders. They could not win, so he won for them. That was why they loved him, and he meant to win for them today. It was simple enough. This was the real world, the track, the race. Everything else was merely an apparatus for moving souls through time into eternity.
Now the horns were blowing, calling him out to his epiphany. His horses were walking out toward him, each in its harness, the reins leading back into the chariot. He went to them, patted each one, spoke to it, and told it how they would win. Folly snapped at him, his old self again, wild-eyed. Michael climbed into the chariot and drove out on to the track, into the deafening cheers of the crowd.
29
Hagen watched from the statue tier; he saw the chariots line up for the start, and saw them burst forward down the track; but his mind was a wild whirl, and he cared nothing for the race.
He knew now why she had not let him kill John Cerulis and end the purge. He knew why she had sent him after Theophano, not to rescue her, but to die trying. She had known he had the list; she had thought he would die at the hands of John Cerulis’s men, and the list would be found on his body.
To authenticate her false list, she had laid down his life, and Theophano’s, and further back, Rogerius’s too, indirectly.
The Belt of Gold Page 35