Jonathan couldn’t sleep; something was bothering him.
It had been far too easy to find the missing racehorse.
The beggar had told them exactly where the horse would be. And for only a tiny fraction of the reward he might have claimed. The twin beggar-boys had led them there and then conveniently disappeared. The reward itself had been paid promptly and without a murmur.
In his experience, nothing ever went that smoothly.
He rolled over onto his back and stared at the dim ceiling, flickering in the light of a tiny oil-lamp. Who would steal an expensive racehorse, torture him, and then return him two days before the race? Was it a warning of some kind? Or had the abductors been frightened off unexpectedly? Was there any significance to the fact that the horse had been tethered to a temple of Venus?
He turned onto his left side and stared at the frescoes on the plaster wall of the bedroom. The panels portrayed Aeneas’s escape from burning Troy. Jonathan shuddered as he thought of some of the buildings he had seen today, still charred and deserted. He remembered the tidal wave of fire and the screams of the people on that terrible night. The memories caused a wave of nausea to rise up in his stomach and he looked fixedly at the one panel with no flames, trying not to let the guilt overwhelm him.
Finally the nausea passed, leaving him cold and drained. He found he was staring at a fresco of the famous wooden horse. Trojan men were pulling it into the city, while their wives and children danced in celebration. They had no idea that the wooden horse held a deadly secret, and that this would be their last night on earth.
It suddenly occurred to Jonathan that Sagitta might be a kind of Trojan Horse. But how?
The day before the Nones of September was the Probatio Equorum, when horses would be checked for fitness by veterinarians and given practice runs in preparation for the races of the Ludi Romani. The day dawned bright and blue, with a fresh breeze from the northeast that blew away the smoke from a hundred thousand charcoal fires.
‘How can you be such a pessimist?’ said Flavia to Jonathan, as they approached the entrance to the Circus Maximus. ‘We’ve just earned twenty thousand sesterces each, we’re about to witness a practice chariot race and it’s the most beautiful day of the year. What’s bad about that?’ They had pushed their way through the clamouring litter-bearers encamped outside Senator Cornix’s house, hurried down the Clivus Scauri and skirted the arcaded exterior of the great circus. Now they were approaching its main entrance.
‘I just think finding that horse was too easy,’ muttered Jonathan.
But Flavia wasn’t listening. ‘Where are you going, Aristo?’ she cried. ‘Urbanus told us to meet him here at the Circus Maximus. The Greens have the first two hours of the morning for practice.’
‘I know,’ said Aristo. ‘But my tooth is killing me. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m going to see the tooth-puller at the Temple of Aesculapius. I shouldn’t be long.’
‘All right,’ said Flavia. ‘But remember, we’re only here until the third hour. Then we have to go back to the Stables of the Greens.’
He nodded. ‘If I’m not back here in time, I’ll meet you there.’
A guard stood in an arch beside the starting gates, but when they showed their wristbands he waved them through.
Flavia and her friends entered the Circus Maximus and stared around the hippodrome in wonder.
Tiers of empty seats rose above them on right and left, and stretched away almost to the horizon. A massive obelisk reared up in the middle of the narrow central barrier that divided the racetrack. At the far end, near the curved end of the circus, was a tiny shrine on the edge of the track. Flavia recognised it as the shrine of the goddess Murcia, near Senator Cornix’s seats.
‘The racecourse is deserted,’ she murmured to herself, and called out to a man raking the sand. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘In their pavilions,’ he called. ‘Other side of the carceres in the cattle market.’
Going back out through the stone arch, Flavia saw that four cloth tents had been pitched around the Ara Maxima, the great altar to Hercules. One was white, one red, one blue and one green. The rising sun made these pavilions cast long shadows across the paving stones of the Forum Boarium.
The interior of the green pavilion was filled with grooms, stable boys and charioteers. Some of them waved as they entered. Everyone knew by now that Flavia and her friends were the ones who had found their star horse: Sagitta.
The stone pavement was strewn with hay and the vast interior of the tent was filled with a pale jade light as the rising sun shone through the green linen. Flavia saw a small shrine, some wooden stalls and a curtained area near the back of the tent.
Suddenly Scopas was standing before them. Without any greeting and in his usual flat voice he said, ‘Hippiatros put a cooling poultice on Sagitta’s legs and he is much better today.’
‘Good,’ said Flavia. ‘What is this place?’
‘The horses are brought here from the Campus Martius,’ recited Scopas. ‘This is where the charioteers wait while the horses are hitched to their chariots. Horses injured in the race are brought here before they go back to the stables. Hippiatros is the stable veterinarian and medic.’ Scopas pointed at a grey-bearded man examining a roan’s legs. ‘He is Greek, like me. There is a shrine and a table with food and drink.’ He gestured towards the curtained-off area. ‘There is a latrine, too. Urbanus has another reward for you.’
‘He already gave us a fortune in gold,’ said Flavia. ‘What else could he give us?’
‘Greetings, my young friends.’ Urbanus came up behind Scopas. His sandy hair hung loose around his shoulders and his dark eyes were smiling. He gestured with his green whip. ‘You can see the horses are just arriving from the Campus Martius. We’re going to give them a practice run around the hippodrome. Some of the horses have never been here before and this will help them get used to the course. We’re going to give all twenty-four teams a gentle run, in two lots. If you like, you can each have a go.’
Scopas turned to them. ‘Urbanus said I can drive, too. As I did at Delphi. I must go and get dressed.’ He moved away.
Lupus grunted excitedly, mimicked holding the reins, and raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh, no!’ laughed Urbanus, stroking his big flat nose. ‘It takes years to learn to manage a team of four stallions. Each of you four will ride behind an experienced auriga. If you want to, that is.’
‘We want to!’ said Flavia, her heart beating fast.
‘Come on, then!’ Urbanus led them out of the pavilion into the bright morning sunshine where stable boys were harnessing horses to chariots.
‘Why do they bind horses’ hair with green ribbons?’ asked Nubia.
‘Their manes have to be tied neatly so they don’t get tangled in the reins,’ said Urbanus, ‘and the tails need to be clubbed like that so they don’t fly up in the charioteer’s face. Who’d like to ride in this chariot?’ he said, patting the rump of a dark brown stallion. ‘Cresces may be young but he’s one of our best drivers.’
‘Me!’ Flavia waved her hand enthusiastically and then blushed. With his sparkling blue eyes and straight nose, Cresces was extremely good-looking. He wore a short grass-green tunic and fawn-coloured leggings with green leather straps around them. Around his torso was a stiff leather jerkin, of darker pine-green. She couldn’t tell the colour of his hair – he wore a tight-fitting green leather cap – but she guessed from his eyebrows that it was black.
Lupus went with a team of jet-black stallions driven by an African auriga whose skin was almost as dark and gleaming as the horses’. Jonathan let Urbanus assign him to a team of dark bay horses with a roan captain and a hawk-nosed charioteer.
‘You can ride with me,’ said Urbanus to Nubia, tucking his long hair up into a leather helmet with visor and chin strap.
‘Can’t Nubia ride with Scopas?’ said Flavia.
‘Better not,’ said Urbanus. ‘He’s just a tiro – a novice – and the t
eam he’s taking out is third rate.’ He looked at Nubia. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I’m driving Sagitta’s team.’
Flavia grinned as Nubia solemnly followed the head trainer towards a fountain dominated by a bronze bull. The spiky-haired groom was letting the alpha team drink from the trough. Sagitta’s lower legs were bound with strips of green. He stood in the captain’s position next to Glaucus, with Bubalo on the inside and Latro on the outside.
Flavia turned back to examine her own team. ‘Are we going to ride in that?’ she asked the handsome charioteer, pointing to a small construction of wicker and leather attached to the long pole of the yoke.
Cresces nodded as he stepped up into it. ‘The lighter the chariot is, the faster it goes.’
‘But it’s hardly more than a basket on wheels!’ she protested. ‘Where will I stand?’
‘Very close behind me! And you’d better hang on tight. Not yet,’ he laughed. ‘I haven’t been strapped in.’ Two stable boys had run forward and were wrapping the ends of eight leather reins around Cresces’s stiff leather jerkin. He turned away from Flavia and concentrated on helping them get the length right. When the reins were taut, one of the grooms held out a wickedly sharp curved knife. Cresces fitted this into his leather jerkin and looked over his shoulder at Flavia. ‘In case I get thrown from the chariot,’ he explained, showing her his dimples. ‘I can cut myself free of the reins.’
‘Why don’t you just hold the reins in your hands?’
‘Look.’ He gathered the reins in his left hand. ‘See how big a handful all eight reins would make? It would be hard to hold that for a quarter of an hour. Also, we use our bodies to steer as much as we use our hands. I can make them go right—’ he leaned his body to the right ‘—or left.’ He tipped the other way. ‘Also,’ he said, selecting one of the reins and twitching it, ‘I can make each individual horse speed up or slow down.’ He accepted his green leather whip from a stable boy and flicked the horses into motion. The wooden wheels made a rattling noise as a boy helped guide the team across the paving stones of the forum towards the starting-gates. Flavia followed close behind.
There were twelve gates in all, sturdy stone arches wide enough for a four-horse team. Above the gates was a colonnaded gallery. Flavia knew the magistrate and some of the stewards watched the races from up there. She saw Nubia’s team being guided into the arched gate on her right and Jonathan was already stepping up behind the hawk-nosed auriga on her left.
‘Porcius would be sick with envy if he knew what we were doing,’ called out Jonathan.
‘I know,’ agreed Flavia. ‘I wish he could be here with us.’
From somewhere above came the brassy blare of trumpets and the horses began to stamp their feet and toss their heads.
‘Oh!’ cried Flavia, as Cresces’s chariot began to roll back towards her.
‘Get up behind me! Quickly!’ said Cresces over his shoulder. ‘You’re safer up here than down there. They blow the trumpets just like they do at the real races to get the horses used to it. What they can’t reproduce is the roar made by a quarter of a million Romans when the gates fly open.’
‘Great Juno’s peacock!’ muttered Flavia, as she stepped up behind him. ‘The chariot’s floor is bouncy!’
‘That’s because it’s leather webbing on a wicker frame,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Makes it much easier going over the bumps. You’ll have to hang on tighter,’ he added, ‘or you’ll fall off and be trampled to a paste.’
‘Juno!’ gasped Flavia. ‘Don’t say that!’ She thought about making the sign against evil but decided it might be safer to follow his advice, so she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. She could feel the stiff bumpy leather of the reins wrapped around his pine-green jerkin, and she could smell his laurel hair oil and the faint musky smell of his underarms. The leather webbing of the floor jounced them gently as the chariot moved towards the arched stall.
‘It’s like being on board a ship,’ Flavia muttered.
‘Without the shipwreck, I hope!’ joked Cresces.
The moratores stepped forward to guide the horses into the stalls. They were dressed in green for each faction had its own. Flavia knew their job was to keep the horses calm.
‘Are these the carceres?’ asked Flavia as they moved into the vaulted space, dim after the brightness of the forum.
‘That’s right,’ said Cresces, and his voice echoed in the confined space. ‘They’re called that because they’re like prison cells. In a moment those wooden gates in front of us will fly open, and it’s like being set free. Are you ready?’
‘No,’ thought Flavia, but she said, ‘Yes.’
The trumpet blared again and one of the horses in front of her lifted his pretty balled tail and deposited a load of manure on the sandy floor of the stall. The pungent smell of dung and leather filled her head.
‘Better out than in!’ laughed Cresces but he did not turn round. Flavia could feel him trembling. The horses were excited, too, and she was intensely aware of their stampings, snorts and whinnies.
‘Hang on, children!’ came Urbanus’s voice from the stall to her right. ‘The third blast is about to come. Hang on tight!’
A moment later the trumpet uttered a sustained blare and the wooden doors of the carceres flew open. They were off!
As her chariot exploded out of the stalls, Nubia screamed and clutched Urbanus’s waist beneath the coil of leather reins.
Entering the morning arena was like plunging into a pool of water. She was aware of the vast cool space above her and of a line of pounding horses stretching away to her left and right. The chariot floor was bouncing so much that at times she was airborne.
Above the thunder of nearly two hundred hooves on the sandy track, she could barely hear what Urbanus was shouting over his shoulder:
‘We all have to stay in our lanes until we reach the linea alba, that white line on the track up ahead. And then—’ here he tipped his body to the left ‘—we can try for the inside lane!’ He laughed as Nubia screamed again. She had almost fallen out of the little chariot.
Now the landmarks of the central barrier were flashing by on her left: two lofty green marble columns with a row of bronze dolphins on top, an altar, a discus-thrower, a spiral pillar with a statue of a winged victory, a pavilion and the massive obelisk on its square base. To her right were tier upon tier of empty seats not yet illuminated by the sun.
Urbanus’s whole body moved as he drove, leaning first one way, then the other, even bending forward at the waist to urge on the horses. Nubia closed her eyes for half a circuit and held tight to his lean torso in its stiff leather strapping, but the bouncing of the wicker and leather chariot made her feel sick so she opened her eyes again, just in time to see the cones of the meta prima rushing up on her left. They were like three enormous bronze cypress trees planted very close together.
‘Hang on,’ bellowed Urbanus, ‘and have a look behind to see how far ahead we are!’ Leaning in, he gave a deft tug of the innermost rein with his left hand. Nubia gasped as they took the turn. They were so close to the meta that she could see the intricate designs carved into the nearest cone and she could feel a breeze caused by their passage. For a sickening moment the chariot skidded sideways in a spray of sand. After a protesting squeal the wheels began to turn again as the horses regained the straight. The chariot’s speed increased.
Nubia had forgotten to look around but through the monuments on the barrier she caught a flash of black horses and a black-skinned driver. Lupus’s team must be close behind. She could see the rest thundering behind them.
Soon they were coming up to another meta – the turning point closest to the carceres from which they had first emerged. This time Nubia knew to lean into the turn as Urbanus took the chariot in a tight skidding arc. Then the wheels bit sand and then they were bouncing down the straight again. Above the sound of their own horses’ hooves Nubia heard another drumming thunder and saw something out of the corner of her eye. A dark shape
, two, three, four nodding horses’ heads as a team of bays began to overtake them on the right.
Nubia looked over and saw that Scopas was driving.
He was leaning so far forward at the waist that his body was horizontal and he seemed to float. Every iota of his being was focused on his horses and on the track ahead.
Nubia gasped as Scopas’s chariot hit a bump and he rose up into the air. But he came down as nimbly as an acrobat, his concentration never faltering. He might be stiff and awkward on land, but behind a team of four stallions Scopas was as lithe as a dancer. She saw his left hand give a subtle twist on the two inside reins while at the same moment he touched the tip of his whip to the captain’s rump. The bay team effortlessly overtook them, moved into the inside lane and – like a dancer’s ribbon – flowed smoothly around the meta out of sight.
Urbanus and Nubia were left breathing Scopas’s dust.
Scopas easily won the practice circuit, followed by a red-headed Gaul named Eutychus and then Lupus’s team of blacks. As the African’s team crossed the finishing line ahead of him, Jonathan saw Lupus hanging onto the charioteer’s belt with both hands, leaning back and whooping in terrified joy.
The finishing line was opposite the steward’s box a little more than halfway down the right-hand side of the course. Jonathan knew the horses needed a full half length to slow down after their final burst of speed. The charioteers rounded the meta and allowed their foaming horses to slow down for the final half circuit. Before passing through the arch to the right of the carceres, his chariot came to a halt. A boy ran up and prised Jonathan’s fingers free from Hawk-nose’s leather jerkin and helped him down from the chariot.
Jonathan’s legs were trembling so violently that he was only able to stagger a few steps out of the way before he collapsed onto the track. Laughing hysterically, he crawled over to Flavia, who was also sitting in the cool sand. Nubia came up a few moments later, her golden eyes dazed. She sat down beside them.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 169