‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s assumed that the only reason you would want to bet on an inferior team is because you’ve been fraternising with them and got some tips in exchange for information about your own team’s plans or, even worse, you’ve bribed the drivers to throw a race.’
Magnus stroked the muzzle of one of the finest pieces of horseflesh he had ever been close to: a beautiful bay Gaetulian mare from the province of Africa.
‘Spendusa,’ Lucius informed him. ‘She’s a rarity.’
‘I know; most racehorses are stallions.’
Spendusa whickered gently, her breath and soft, flaccid lips warming the palm of Magnus’ hand.
‘We have one team of mares. It’s a new idea: we don’t expect them to win but we’re going to use them when they come on heat. The hope is that they’ll distract the stallions in the other teams and allow our other two chariots to come in first and second.’
‘But they’ll be just as distracted as the rest.’
‘Not if they’re two teams of geldings.’
‘Nice.’ Magnus grinned and stroked Spendusa’s well-muscled flank. ‘Will it work?’
‘My uncle says that it already has in experiments in the Flaminian Circus. The stallions under-perform – they’re too busy trying to get a sniff; whereas the geldings just press on thinking about nothing more than their feed-bag at the end of the race.’
Magnus whistled appreciatively. ‘That’ll piss off the other factions.’
‘It’ll cause a riot.’
‘It will. When are you going to try it?’
‘They’re next on heat at the calends of March, Mars’ birthday. We’re going to put them in one of the races on that day, after the armed priesthood of the Salii have finished their round of the city.’
‘Which race?’
‘I don’t know yet but I’ll tell you when I find out.’
‘Now that’s the sort of information that’s worth a lot of money.’
‘I know. And I’m telling you because I want you to pass it on to Tribune Vespasian as a thank you for his saving me from execution back in Thracia. Hopefully he’ll be able to profit from it.’
Magnus laughed and slapped an arm around Lucius’ shoulders. ‘And Vestals will stop taking a close interest in their middle fingers. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong thank-you gift there, my friend; Vespasian’s about as likely to put money down on a wager as I am to take it up the arse from a Nubian. And, besides, he’s away from Rome for a few months at his estate in Cosa. I, on the other hand, will be only too pleased to profit in his stead.’
Lucius shrugged. ‘Fair enough, I owe you as well. I should know which race we’re entering them for by Equirria festival, two days before the calends. Come and see me then.’
‘What do you know about the bookmakers Albus, Fabricius, Blasius and Glaucio?’ Magnus asked Servius. They were sitting on one of the rough wooden tables outside the crossroads tavern, idly throwing dice; no money was involved. Around them, the Brotherhood was similarly occupied whilst at the same time keeping their eyes on the constant stream of passersby making their way to and from the Porta Collina, just a couple of hundred paces away along the Alta Semita, or frequenting the open-fronted shops on the ground floor of tenements that lined the street.
‘Aside from the fact that they are all licensed to operate in the senators’ enclosure in the Circus Maximus?’
Magnus smiled, impressed by the speed with which his counsellor made the connection. ‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Albus and Glaucio both come from the Aventine: born and bred in the tenements on the far side by the granaries; but they now live in far grander houses on the summit. They’ve known each other and been rivals since boyhood; their mutual loathing is surpassed only by a hatred of any other bookmakers. Despite their antipathy they work together to fix odds to protect their businesses.’ Servius threw the dice and grimaced his disgust.
Magnus retrieved the offending articles. ‘So they need each other?’
‘Yes, it’s a perverse sort of loyalty but a strong one.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘Fabricius is a freedman; he lives on the Caelian, close to the Servian Wall. He’s completely ruthless and deals harshly with everyone who crosses him; he even had a neighbour’s house torched because the man built up another storey and took the sun from his garden. Four people died, including the owner, but nothing could be proved, of course. Apart from his bodyguards and bet-takers, Fabricius’ whole household is made up of female slaves who are – how shall I put it? – extremely well fed.’
‘Big and bouncy, eh?’ Magnus chuckled, shaking the dice-cup and throwing.
‘Which is ironic as he has no spare flesh on him whatsoever; although I’m told he eats like a slave at the Saturnalia.’
Magnus examined his score. ‘So he wallows in copious amounts of female flesh to make up for it; I suppose it keeps him warm in winter.’
Servius wrinkled his nose. ‘But what about in a hot summer?’ Magnus pushed the dice across the table. ‘Don’t bear thinking about.’
‘Quite. Blasius, however, lives on the west slope of the Esquiline, not far from the Querquetulian Gate. I don’t know anything about him other than he is, like the other three, fabulously wealthy. They’re all as well guarded as people who regularly take huge chunks of senatorial money can expect to be and they all pay for the protection of their local brotherhoods; so they’re very hard to get at – if that is your intention, which I assume it is.’
‘I just need one vacancy so that I can get Ignatius into the senators’ enclosure.’ Magnus glanced past Servius’ shoulder to a party of half a dozen well-dressed, eastern travellers, clearly newly arrived in the city. ‘Tigran! Looks like one for you and your cousin; squeeze them hard.’
A young, almond-skinned man with a pointed, hennaed beard got up from the table next to Magnus. ‘Our pleasure, Magnus. Come, Vahram, let’s show our Roman brothers how to extract the correct toll for travelling through our area.’ His cousin’s eyes glinted and white teeth showed under his beard; the two easterners walked off towards the travellers.
‘Keep an eye on them, Marius, back ’em up if negotiations don’t go smooth.’
‘Right you are, Magnus.’ Marius got to his feet, indicating to a couple of the brothers to follow him.
Magnus turned his attention back to Servius. ‘So what do you suggest?’
Servius rubbed the palm of his hand over the rough grey stubble on his chin and thought for a few moments. ‘If you’re determined to get at one, then Fabricius is your man.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of where his house is situated; go and have a look tonight.’
An abrupt scream followed by shouts and the clatter of hardened leather soles on stone cut through the background calls of shopkeepers, street-traders and haggling customers. Magnus swung round and immediately leapt to his feet, drawing a short, street-fighter’s knife from his belt. One of the two cousins lay writhing in the road whilst the other, Tigran, was fending off the swords of two of the travellers with only a knife as Marius and his two brothers weighed into the rest.
‘With me, lads!’ Magnus shouted at the rest of his brethren, who were jumping to their feet in a scraping of wooden tables pushed forward and benches falling back. Magnus powered into one of Tigran’s opponents, body-checking him to the ground and slashing his blade across the man’s forearm as the young easterner fell to his knees clutching at a bloody wound in his shoulder. Stamping on the downed man’s kneecap with brittle crunch, Magnus twisted and grabbed the flowing hair of Tigran’s second assailant; as the man raised his weapon for the killing blow to the wounded brother, Magnus jerked back his head and pressed a blood-slick blade to his exposed throat. ‘I’d drop that if I were you, bum-boy, it’s illegal to carry swords in our city.’ Ramming his knee up between the man’s buttocks to emphasise the point, Magnus slowly applied pressure to his knife; the easterner’s sword fell ringi
ng to the ground and he went limp.
Magnus threw the man down on to the ground, spitting at him in disgust, and looked around; the fight had drawn a crowd. ‘Get rid of them, Marius.’
‘Right you are, Magnus.’ Marius headed off without sheathing his knife; the crowd began to disperse without needing to be told to mind their own business and not that of their local Crossroads Brotherhood.
The six travellers were all down and in various states of consciousness and pain; their slaves, carrying the baggage, hung back, looking with fearful eyes at their masters, unsure what to do. Tigran still clutched his wound, trying to stem the bleeding, his face contorted in agony and sorrow as he stared down at the glazed eyes of his cousin, Vahram.
‘What the fuck happened there?’ Magnus exploded. ‘It’s meant to be a generous offer to provide protection, for a small fee, through our territory; not a fucking declaration of war!’
Tigran tore his eyes from his cousin’s immobile face and stared up at Magnus. ‘It was all agreed: a denarius for each traveller and two for the slaves.’ He pointed to an easterner lying next to Vahram, moaning softly in a pool of blood that oozed from his abdomen. ‘He said he would pay the eight denarii and put his hand under his cloak; we thought he was getting out his purse, but instead out comes a sword and he plunges it into Vahram.’
From along the street came the staccato clatter of hobnailed sandals.
‘Fucking great!’ Magnus spat. ‘Now the Urban Cohorts are getting involved.’
*
‘The Urban Prefect will have to hear of this,’ the Urban Cohort centurion informed Magnus, staring down at the dead and wounded. ‘He’s issued orders for us to crack down on street violence, especially involving the brotherhoods.’
Magnus nodded, feigning a look of sympathetic understanding. ‘Rightly so, centurion, some of them are vicious; it’s getting to the stage that decent folk can’t walk about the city in safety. We, however, try and enforce the law in our area.’ With his foot he flicked back the cloak of one of the wounded easterners to reveal a scabbard. ‘See? Carrying swords in the city; only you lads and the Praetorians are allowed to do that. We were just trying to explain that to them, as they were obviously new to Rome and must have been unacquainted with that particular law. It cost one of my men his life.’
The centurion looked down at the evidence whilst his men continued to surround the area with their weapons drawn. ‘I’ll still need to make a report.’
‘Of course. I would have done the same when I was in the Cohorts.’
‘You were in one of the Urban Cohorts?’
‘I finished my time ten years ago. I believe my mate, Aelianus, is still the quartermaster down at the depot?’
The centurion grinned. ‘That old crook, yeah; he should have been discharged years ago but he seems to cling on.’
‘It’s a very lucrative business being in charge of all that gear.’
‘I’m sure it is; I’ve been trying to get new boots for my century for the last two months.’
‘What’s your name, centurion?’
‘Nonus Manilus Rufinus.’
‘Well, Rufinus, today is your lucky day; I’ll have a word with Aelianus and the next time you put in a request for boots mention my name, Marcus Salvius Magnus. I think you’ll find Aelianus very accommodating and I’d be surprised if your lads get their pay deducted for the new gear.’
‘That’s very good of you, Magnus.’
‘Not a problem, my friend. Now what are we going to do about these fucking easterners that killed one of my men with their illegal swords?’
Rufinus scratched the back of his head. ‘I’ll take them down to the cohort depot and lock them up until the Urban Prefect decides what to do with them.’ He looked closely at the belly-wound of Vahram’s killer. ‘If they survive, that is. Obviously I’ll have to make a report; we can’t allow people to flout the law like that. Naturally I’ll emphasise that it was self-defence on your part.’
‘Naturally. And there won’t be any mention of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood?’
‘Of course not; that will just get the Urban Prefect upset and we wouldn’t want to do that; he’s getting on.’
‘A wise precaution, Rufinus; I believe he’s going to be eighty this year.’ Magnus indicated the easterners’ slaves, who had been rounded up into a tight group. ‘Shall we just take the blood-money now, out of whatever they’ve got in their baggage?’
Rufinus shrugged. ‘I suppose that would make matters easier; if you’re happy with the blood-money then the murder could be forgotten about. Take what you like.’
‘It’ll be simpler if we just take everything; you will come round and pick up your share once you’re off duty this evening, won’t you?’
‘Of course. I’d better take the slaves though, just in case . . . you know.’ Rufinus waved his hand in a vague manner.
‘I do indeed,’ Magnus assured him. ‘You never know.’
‘Quite.’
‘Would you like some of my lads to help your boys carry the bastards to the depot?’
‘We’ll manage, Magnus. I’ll see you later when I come for my . . . er . . .’
‘It’ll be waiting for you, my friend.’
‘A third goes to Tigran, a third to Rufinus and a third to the Brotherhood,’ Servius said, clacking at an abacus. ‘Which means that, in coin, one share is one hundred and twenty-one aurei.’
Magnus whistled softly and stopped pacing around the small back room. ‘No wonder they were armed, walking around with over three thousand denarii on them. What were they going to do with all that money?’
‘I don’t know; but what is for sure is that they won’t like losing it. They’ll come looking for it if they’re freed.’
‘They’ll be dead in a few days; they’re not citizens. Rufinus will make his report very damning once he’s seen how much he stands to gain by their execution. I wouldn’t worry about it, brother, and it’s no more than they deserve after killing Vahram. We need to concentrate on more important business: it’s time I took a gander at Fabricius’ house.’
‘You can see right into it!’ Magnus muttered in surprise as he looked down from the Servian Wall into the torch-lit courtyard garden of Fabricius’ house, just fifty paces away.
Servius smiled and patted Magnus on the shoulder as they strolled along the walkway. ‘Only because Fabricius burned down the house between here and the wall a couple of months ago; they haven’t started rebuilding it yet.’
Magnus glanced down at the burnt-out ruin below, just visible in the weak moonlight. ‘Silly man, he doesn’t realise just how much that bit of extra sun is going to cost him.’ He stopped and scrutinised the house. The courtyard garden, surrounded by a portico with a sloping, tiled roof, was a decent size for the tightly packed Caelian Hill, stretching forty paces by twenty; although the wall surrounding it was a good twelve feet high, from where he stood, thirty feet up, Magnus could see the door that led into the tablinum and on into the atrium of the house. ‘From here to the door must be almost a hundred paces; if Fabricius walked out of it, it wouldn’t be an impossible shot for a good archer. Tigran’s our man, he’s an easterner; they’re born to the bow.’
‘My thoughts entirely; but he’s not going to come out at night at this time of year and it would be too dangerous to try during the day; Tigran needs the dark to be able to escape cleanly.’
‘Then we’ll have to come up with something that’ll bring him out from under his fat slaves and into the garden. Have Marius and a couple of the lads watch the place for the next few days; we need to get an idea of the household’s routine. In the meantime we’ve got to work out how to prevent three Blue teams and three White teams finishing ahead of the Reds.’
‘What about our Greens?’
‘That’s the easy part, brother; I saw how to do that this afternoon.’
Magnus’ face fell as he walked through the tavern door. A Greek in his late twenties, with a thick black beard
and dark, expressionless eyes, sat at his table in the corner. ‘Does she want to see me, Pallas?’
‘She does, master,’ Pallas replied, getting up and bowing his head.
‘There’s no need to do that.’
‘I am a slave and you are freeborn.’
‘Maybe, but you’re also steward to the Lady Antonia.’
‘But still a slave.’
‘Which is what I’m going to be for the rest of the night.’
‘That’s a matter of perception, master. If she demanded it of me I could not refuse to go to her bed; you, on the other hand, could.’
‘And if I did that, then I wouldn’t benefit from her favour.’
The Greek steward raised an eyebrow a fraction. ‘But that would be your free choice, whereas if I refused she’d be within her rights to have me crucified.’
Magnus turned and headed for the door with Pallas following. ‘Yeah, well, however you argue it there’s no getting around the fact that she’s a powerful woman and we all have reason to do her bidding.’
‘And some of her requests are a little more demanding than others, which is why she sends me to fetch you so that she can preserve her dignity and as few people as possible know that she . . . er . . .’
‘Likes to get a hard fucking from ex-boxers?’
Pallas cleared his throat. ‘Precisely.’
*
‘You may go now, Magnus,’ Antonia murmured, lying back on the pillow and staring up into the gloom of the ceiling high above, beyond the reach of the few oil lamps placed around the bed. ‘And take your things.’
‘Yes, domina.’ Magnus looked down at the most powerful woman in Rome and wondered how it had come to this. During his two years as a boxer, after leaving the Urban Cohorts, she had often hired him to fight as an after-dinner entertainment for her friends; like many other respectable Roman matrons, she would sometimes retain him for services of a different nature after the party broke up. He had always performed his duty with diligence, acceding to all her demands – which were numerous and sometimes not for the faint-hearted. However, once he had retired from fighting, the massive difference in their social status precluded any liaison until he had met his patron Senator Pollo’s nephews, Vespasian and Sabinus. They had been favoured by Antonia and because Magnus’ loyalty was to Senator Pollo and his family, his and Antonia’s paths had crossed a few years previously; since then she had made regular demands on his services. It was not so bad, he reflected as he retied his loincloth; for a woman in her mid-sixties she was still attractive. Her skin remained smooth with only a few wrinkles around her sparkling green eyes: eyes that never missed a single detail. She wore very little make-up; her high cheekbones, strong chin and full lips needed no embellishment. Even with her auburn hair loose and dishevelled she still managed to look like the high-born patrician that she was; an image helped by the fact that she had not run to fat and her body had not yet creased and sagged.
The Racing Factions Page 3