by J. G. Willem
Leontius was out there. So was Pistrus.
“I’m not saying he’s in bad form,” Tiberius grumbled. “He’s in great form. Amazing form, actually, for someone who’s been out of the game as long as he has.”
The promoter walked away from the window and poured himself a cup of wine. Belbus and Ursa were still working on theirs.
“Then what’s the problem?” Ursa said, turning from the racetrack.
“The problem is, I have nowhere to put him.”
Tiberius slumped down on a couch, putting his feet up and wriggling his toes. They seemed glad to have the promoter’s substantial weight off them. He breathed through his mouth, as though he’d just finished running a lap of the circus himself. His cheeks were red and it wasn’t particularly warm. They were in the shade. They were inside.
“Swap out one of your guys,” Belbus said.
Tiberius frowned. “I don’t want to swap out one of my guys. I like my guys.”
“I like your guys too. They’re great guys. What I think you’re not appreciating here is the opportunity.”
“I think you’re right.” Tiberius nodded sagely. “I do not appreciate the opportunity at all. What I see is a drunken lout who spent all his money and then some on that gaudy monstrosity across the river. I see a tavern brawler. I see a man who couldn’t cut it on the track retreat to the sandbox to scrap and screw and scratch out a living for himself.”
“A living?” Belbus couldn’t believe his ears. “Do you hear yourself, Tiberius? The man is a champion!”
“He is a champion of the plebs. A scrapper. He is not fit for the Circus Maximus. We have standards here.”
“I think your plant is dying,” Ursa said, nodding with her forehead to the wilting potted palm in the corner.
Belbus paused on the verge of descending into a tirade.
The comment, likewise, caught Tiberius off-guard. “And?”
“I think it could use some sunlight or some water or something.”
Belbus squinted at her. What the hell was she on about?
The promoter did the same. He looked from Belbus to the plant to Ursa.
“It’ll be alright for a few more days,” he said. “Then someone will bring in a fresh one.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding, like that cleared everything up. “What happens to the old one?”
He responded with a blank stare, like she’d asked the question in Aramaic.
“That’s what I thought.” Ursa took a sip of her wine. Belbus observed that she didn’t shudder this time. She observed him observing. Shrugged. The worst was apparently over.
“I only bring it up because I know that you’re a busy man. Time spent here with us is time not spent on preparations for the Equirria.”
He gave a wide-eyed, curl-jostling, half-shake-half-nod of the head. “That’s obvious,” it seemed to say. “Get to the point,” it seemed to say.
“Your guys are like those palms,” she said. “You bring one in, it serves its purpose, then the second it starts wilting, you get rid of it. Maybe the racer gets injured. Maybe he loses one too many races. Maybe the crowd turns on him. I concur wholeheartedly with my partner here: they’re great guys. You like your guys. I see why. You’ve built a good little stable of racers for yourself. Which is to say, they place reliably behind Pistrus.”
Tiberius grumbled. Didn’t like it. Couldn’t argue.
Ursa said, “But they’re palm trees.”
The promoter creased his brow. He looked to Belbus for clarification, but Belbus was frowning too. What the hell was she on about?
“Consider this,” Ursa said, aware she was losing them. “Imagine if, next time, instead of a palm tree, you had a cactus brought in. Sure, it’s spiky and generally unpleasant, but every now and then it gets these pretty little flowers. Most importantly, it gets the attention. People go, “Oh, wow, you got a new plant.” They’re impressed. They notice.”
Tiberius still had no idea where she was going, but Ursa saw the light dawning in Belbus’ good eye.
She set her cup down on the man’s desk and placed her palms flatwise on the surface, resting her weight on them, levelling the promoter with her gaze.
“Pistrus is a cactus. The spiky thing with flowers. You... you have no cactus. You have palm trees that get the job done without drawing attention to themselves. You want the flower? You need to be able to handle the spikes.”
Belbus gave her a warning look. “The metaphor is getting away from you,” it said.
She sensed the same. Reined it in.
“I’m saying that Leontius, like Pistrus, is a cactus. Sure, he’s a little prickly around the edges...” She found herself smiling. A weird look from Belbus snapped her out of it. “...but he’s also got the potential for true greatness inside him. Not only can he contend with Pistrus, we believe he can beat him.”
“Beat him?” Tiberius sat up a little, almost bursting out in a fit of laughter. “No one can beat Pistrus.”
“Leontius can. He’s got the skill. He’s got the drive. But none of that matters. What matters is that you can sell him.”
Tiberius furrowed his brow. “As a slave?”
“As a hero.”
“How will I sell him? ‘Degenerate gladiator decides to take a crack at the sport of gods?’ This, mind you, after he tucked tail and ran some years ago.”
Ursa snuffed a laugh. “Oh, you poor, sweet, naive man...”
The promoter’s eyes bulged with indignation. He glared a furious question at Belbus, the glare saying, “How dare your underling speak to me in such a manner.”
Belbus did not react. He waited. Watched Ursa. Trusted her.
Ursa felt his trust and it buoyed her up. Lit a fire in her.
She turned to Tiberius.
“Hey!” she said, slamming her palm down on the desk, rattling the tray and forcing the promoter to face her. “We’re not asking you to take a bath on this, Tiberius. I realise it might sound like a zero-sum situation...”
“A what?” said the promoter.
Belbus hid a smile.
“A zero-sum situation,” Ursa clarified. “Where one person wins only by another person losing. What I’m proposing is a non-zero-sum alternative. What’s commonly referred to as a ‘win-win’ scenario.”
His ears pricked up at that.
She went on, more confident now: “I propose you sell this as Leontius’ comeback. It’s a redemption story. He strayed off the higher path because he was afraid. Because he couldn’t cut it, like you said. Now, he’s back. He can’t lie to himself anymore. He won’t die wondering. He knows that failing in the circus is better than succeeding in the arena.”
Tiberius was stroking his beard now, intrigued.
“Even if he loses,” she said, “they’ve already bought the tickets.”
“They’ll feel cheated.”
“No, they won’t. Because you will have delivered on your promise. You will have shown them a man doing what they all secretly wish they could do.”
“And that is?”
“Laying everything on the line in pursuit of something better. Something bigger than himself. Glory? Sure. Riches? Sure. But more than that...”
She paused for dramatic effect, and felt the promoter hanging on her lips like a precipice.
“...a man trying to live up to an ideal that we all fall short of.”
Tiberius closed his eyes, nodding solemnly. “Yes,” the nod seemed to say. “Yes.”
Ursa went on: “If he wins, all the better. If he loses, you get the sympathy vote. Sell him the right way, Tiberius, and you can’t go wrong.”
When Tiberius opened his eyes, they were a little misty. Even she was surprised by her own effectiveness.
The promoter swung his legs around and tried once, twice, three times to get up, and on the third time, was successful.
“Call the keeper of the madhouse,” he said, rising passionately to his feet. “Because I do believe I’m about to send a scrapper out for the
Reds.”
Ursa beamed.
Then Tiberius considered something and grew anxious. “But who will I sideline to make room for Leontius?”
Ursa kept her hands planted on the table. She looked him firmly in the eyes and said, without a pause or a wobble, “I don’t give a fuck.”
*
Leontius pulled his chariot to the edge of the track where it began to curve by the turning post. He tied off the reins and hopped down to check the left-hand wheel. On the last go round, he felt it wobbling ever so slightly, an almost imperceptible quivering that lesser drivers would fail to notice.
The sun beat down upon his shirtless back. His shoulders were pasted with grime where the dust had landed on his sweat-damp skin. He was breathing hard. This racing business was no picnic; less so when one was sweating out a few days’ worth of wine.
The other charioteers continued running laps, whipping past in a cloud of dust and thundering hooves. Some were stopped like him to tend their steeds or their rig. Farriers checked horseshoes. Stable-masters brushed lustrous manes and coats. Workers fed the horses meal and water from buckets. The animals chewed and slopped and made an awful mess of things.
Until they broke a leg or lost one race too many, the horses were pampered like little emperors.
Leontius watched them. Watched their drivers. He didn’t like it here. Didn’t like them. Didn’t fit in. Didn’t want to fit in. He sneered at the drivers. Spat in the sand as they passed.
He had just taken a knee beside his wheel to examine it when two horseless figures caught his eye. Leontius turned. Saw Belbus and Ursa making their way along the outer wall to meet him.
He rose, wiping his hands with a rag. “Good news, I hope?”
“Good news,” said Ursa. “You’re in.”
Leontius did not smile.
“You’re not smiling,” Belbus said.
Leontius knelt back down beside his chariot. “It’s good news for you. Not for me.”
He reached through the spokes and began fiddling with the axle.
“It’s a win-win.” Belbus exchanged a smile with Ursa.
Leontius ignored him. “There’s one guy who’s not happy about it.”
He jerked his head across the track. They followed his line of sight to where Pistrus was feeding his stallion an apple at the opposite outer curve. He was patting the horse’s snout with his bandaged hand and feeding it, but he wasn’t looking at the horse. His eyes were fixed firmly on Leontius and on Belbus and on Ursa.
As far as they could tell, he wasn’t blinking.
A group of drivers rushed past in a blur, taking the turn hard. Sand crunched beneath the spinning rims and the hooves and then they were gone, leaving only a dust cloud in their wake.
When it cleared, Pistrus was still staring.
“He’s not happy with me,” Leontius said.
“It’s us he’s not happy with,” Ursa told him. “He sent a bunch of guys after us and they’re all dead now.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t let him get in your head, alright?”
He met her eyes. Lingered a moment. Then nodded.
“Tiberius says you’re training really well. He’s amazed at how good you are given how long you’ve been out of the game.”
Leontius shrugged modestly, but she could tell it picked him up. She laid a hand on his damp and dirty shoulder. Felt the muscles rippling beneath the skin. Tried to think clearly.
“You can do this,” she said, and meant it. “He’s only human.”
He nodded again.
Ursa noticed something across the way. She nudged Belbus, who was watching the drivers turn at the far post and start barrelling towards them.
“Hey,” she said. “It’s your best friend.”
She jerked her head in the direction of Pistrus. Belbus followed her line of sight. Saw Auribus walking out to meet his master, still wearing the necklace of human ears.
The bookie ground his teeth, good eye blazing.
“That motherfucker. Mark my words, Ursa: before this is all over, I’m going to gouge one of that bastard’s eyes out.”
“Or he’ll take out your other one. You just count your lucky stars you’ve got a spare.”
Belbus huffed. “A spare...”
The bookie noticed something.
“Bloody hell, Ursa. You clocked him pretty good.”
Ursa squinted. Noticed the centurion’s nose was swollen and had taken on a purplish hue. The bruising had spread up between his eyes.
“You did that?” Leontius said, impressed.
She nodded proudly. “I sure did.”
*
On the other side of the track, Auribus approached Pistrus. The charioteer had switched to brushing his stallion’s mane but hadn’t taken his eyes off Belbus and Ursa and Leontius.
“So that’s his plan...” Pistrus said to himself.
The horse swished its head suddenly, and for no apparent reason, pressing the brush hard into the charioteer’s bandaged hand. He sucked sharply as pain flared from the cut. Trembling with rage, he looked down at the hand, then at the horse. Pistrus was about ready to start hammering the stallion’s head with the hard wood of the brush when Auribus approached.
“Sire?” the old soldier called.
“What is it?” He didn’t look at the ear-adorned centurion.
“We haven’t been able to locate them.”
“Don’t bother.”
Auribus frowned, not understanding. He tried again: “I also have it on good authority that Leontius is rumoured to be racing in the Equirria.”
Pistrus looked at him blankly.
Not picking up on it, Auribus continued: “I think, sire, that Belbus and that bitch of his are getting him to run against you to tip the odds in their favour.”
Pistrus continued to stare at him. “You don’t say.”
The centurion squinted, confused.
Fed up, Pistrus exploded. “Oh, just turn around, you Barbary ape!”
Auribus withdrew in fear and surprise. He turned, seeing the trio across the way.
“Oh...” The centurion cleared his throat, embarrassed. Then he noticed something. Squinted. “By Jove, I really did blind the poor fella.”
“What was that?” Pistrus snapped.
Auribus wheeled back around to face the charioteer, going rigid. “Nothing, sire. Do you want me to have them followed?”
“I don’t see what the point would be. Unless you’d like to take a tumble off a building. Which, come to think of it, might not be a bad idea.”
Auribus looked down. Said nothing for a moment.
“Why don’t I just go over and carve them up right here? We know they’re guilty.”
“That’s the way it is,” said Pistrus. “You kill them, whoever Agnina is with drops her down a well.”
“They killed six of your men, sire. Six good men.”
“Evidently, they were not so good. And I have no desire to see you similarly wasted; at least, not at the present moment.”
Auribus swallowed. “But sire, we can’t leave her with them and have you throw the big race.”
“No,” Pistrus said. “No, we can’t. But we also can’t risk harm coming to my daughter.”
Auribus tilted his head slightly, like a befuddled dog. This was an affectionate, fatherly side he hadn’t seen from his master before.
The charioteer went on: “I’ve got her earmarked for Senator Immussilus. He’s going to help me into politics when I retire in the next few years and she ought to butter him up for me. He likes them young.”
Even Auribus, with his necklace of human ears, had trouble stomaching this.
“I suppose they have that in common, then...” the centurion mused.
Pistrus knit his brows at the old soldier.
When Auribus noticed him staring, he leapt to clarify: “The woman Belbus is courting, sire. I mean, she’s not young young, but she’s a little younger than he is. I suppose we all like them a little
younger, don’t we? Not so young as your daughter though. No offence to the good senator, it’s just... I mean, she is a child. Anyway, not my place. I only mean that the slave girl Belbus intends to buy with his winnings is a little younger than he is.”
Auribus came to a sweating, spluttering, stammering halt. Pistrus levelled him with a stare as cold as ice and hard as stone.
“Auribus... are you telling me that Belbus intends to use his winnings to purchase a slave girl?”
The centurion still wasn’t seeing it. “Yes, sire.”
Pistrus almost couldn’t believe it. “You don’t think this is information you should have led with?” He shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You come here having no idea where the people are you’re supposed to have tracked, people I have already located myself. You tell me something I already know regarding Leontius and his comeback and their plans to use him to tip the odds in their favour. Then you stammer and stutter your way through the only useful piece of reconnaissance you’ve come up with, dashing it off as though it were nothing. Tell me something: are you soft in the head, Auribus?”
The centurion was totally blindsided by the scolding. He opened and closed his mouth several times like a caught fish, but no words came out.
Pistrus said, “I need to know I can trust you, Auribus. I need to know you know what information is important and what information...” He pointed repeatedly at Belbus and Ursa and Leontius, stabbing the air with his index finger. “... isn’t, or is already known. I didn’t hire you so I could stand here and ask you questions and hope I stumble across the right one to coax the relevant information out of you. If you hadn’t tripped over that flaccid segue between Belbus and Senator Immussilus preferring younger women, I wouldn’t have known about his interest in the slave girl, because you did not volunteer that information to me. Am I getting through to you, Auribus?”
The centurion just stared at him, not knowing what to say. “I, I, I...”
In a fit of rage, Pistrus grabbed Auribus by the collar with both hands, pulling him in so close their noses touched. Face red, veins bulging in his neck and across his forehead. Eyes so blue and so piercing and so wild they about froze the centurion where he stood.
“What slave girl?!” Pistrus said, in a shout reduced to a whisper. “From whom?! Answer me, you cut-rate cutthroat, or I’ll make you eat those ears one-by-fucking-one.”