‘Well done, everyone,’ he said. ‘Let us go in peace and protection to enjoy the races of Father Jupiter.’
Flavia breathed a sigh of relief: the ceremony had gone without a hitch. But as they filed past the lararium, her heart skipped a beat. In passing the small shrine, Aulus Junior jostled it and one of the divine twins toppled over onto his face. As Flavia quickly stood the little effigy upright, her stomach did a strange flip. Even in the flickering torchlight she could see the fallen twin was Castor.
Usually the races started shortly after dawn, but on this, the first day of Ludi Romani, the emperor was sacrificing to the Father of the gods at the Temple of Jupiter Stator near the Forum and the Palatine Hill.
The first race would not begin until mid-morning so Senator Cornix had given Flavia and her friends permission to see how Scopas was doing. By the time the four friends reached the Stables of the Greens it was light, though the sun had not yet appeared over the rooftops. They showed their wristbands to the yawning guard by the green marble columns, and made their way through the bustling atrium to the stable courtyard. Nubia was alarmed to see a group of stable boys looking over the half-door of Pegasus’s stall, and she ran forward.
The boys dispersed when they saw her approaching; she dreaded what she might see.
It was worse than she could have imagined.
Golden-maned Pegasus lay motionless on the hay. And crushed between the horse’s dark back and the masonry stall divider was the body of a boy: Scopas.
‘It’s all right, Nubia!’ cried Flavia. ‘They’re alive. Look!’
Nubia uncovered her eyes, and sobbed with relief. Scopas was helping Pegasus to his feet. A moment later, the horse put his beautiful head over the wooden door of his stall, and Nubia threw her arms around his neck. ‘Oh, Pegasus!’ she cried. ‘I thought you were dead. You also,’ she said to Scopas.
His face was bruised from his beating the day before, but somehow his expression seemed softer.
‘Do not be vexed,’ he said, and his voice was softer, too. ‘Scopas asked Pegasus to do this. It is very blue.’
‘Blue?’ said Flavia. ‘What do you mean “blue”?’
‘It is calming.’
‘Calming?’ yelped Jonathan. ‘It’s calming to have an enormous racehorse lying on top of you?’
‘He does not lie on top of Scopas,’ said Scopas. ‘He squeezes Scopas firmly against the wall. It is comforting. It is blue.’
‘I’ve never seen a horse lying down,’ said Flavia. ‘Except for a dead horse once.’
‘Pegasus likes to lie down,’ said Scopas. ‘And he does not mind when Scopas lies beside him.’
‘Under him, more like,’ muttered Jonathan.
‘Sabotage!’ shouted Urbanus, coming up behind them. ‘Someone has taken their idols.’
‘Idols?’ said Flavia.
‘Effigies. Statues of their gods. We were about to take them over to our pavilion, but they’ve gone. My charioteers are panicking, the superstitious creatures!’ He glared around at them. ‘I don’t suppose any of you have seen them?’
The four friends shook their heads, and then jumped as Urbanus struck his green whip hard against a stable door.
‘By all the—!’ He took a deep breath. ‘Listen: if you want to make yourselves useful, have a look for them in these stalls. Then start grooming the horses. Half the stable boys ate bad figs last night and will be spending the day in the public latrines. Master of the Universe! What a disaster!’ He stalked off, shaking his head.
When he was out of earshot, Jonathan turned to Scopas. ‘Did you take the idols? Or give the stable boys bad figs?’ he whispered. ‘As revenge for beating you?’
‘No,’ said Scopas, and Nubia could see his confusion was genuine. ‘Why would Scopas take idols or give bad figs?’
Jonathan shrugged and helped the others search the stalls for idols. They found nothing but horse manure and presently Scopas said, ‘We must groom the horses, as Urbanus requests. Nubia and Flavia, you brush Pegasus’s mane and tie in the ribbons. Jonathan, you brush Bubalo. Lupus, you brush Latro. I will show you how.’
‘Does the Pegasus race today?’ Nubia asked Scopas, picking up a curry-comb.
‘No, but Urbanus will ride him in the pompa, the opening procession.’
Nubia took a pitted date from her coin-pouch and fed it to Pegasus. ‘No, Flavia,’ she said, ‘do not pat him like that. Stroke him like this.’
‘He’s so big,’ said Flavia, tentatively running her hand along his arched neck. ‘Doesn’t he frighten you?’
‘No,’ said Nubia. ‘I can feel he is excited but calm. Can you not feel that when you stroke him?’
‘No. I only feel nervous of him. But I’m going to see if he’ll talk to me like he talks to you. How do you do it?’
‘Make your mind still and smooth like a grey pebble.’
‘Why grey?’
‘I do not know. It seems right. Make your mind smooth and touch him. Then he will show you how he feels in pictures or feelings.’
‘I’m going to try,’ said Flavia. She closed her eyes and tentatively stroked Pegasus’s satiny flank.
Presently she opened her eyes and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I didn’t get a picture.’
‘It is not picture like fresco on the wall,’ said Nubia. ‘Sometimes it is dim and fuzzy. Here, I will help you.’ She put her hand on Pegasus’s neck and immediately saw the fleeting image of a hooded figure bending over a chariot.
‘That is strange,’ murmured Nubia. ‘He usually shows me burning tent.’
‘Hey, Scopas!’ called Jonathan from two stalls down. ‘Why do they have those strips of cloth wound around their legs?’
‘Urbanus says their lower forelegs are easily bruised,’ came Scopas’s voice, still softer than usual. ‘The cloth strengthens and protects their legs. Sometimes the cloth holds a poultice in place.’
‘What’s a poultice?’ asked Flavia.
‘Any kind of medicinal paste smeared on cloth,’ said Jonathan from his stall. In the stall next to him Lupus stood on an upturned wooden bucket and carefully brushed Latro’s mane.
‘Have you seen my god?’ came a man’s quavering voice and they all looked up to see the African charioteer looking over the half-door of Pegasus’s stall. Nubia saw that his handsome ebony face was wet with tears.
‘I am sorry, Phoenix,’ said Scopas. ‘Your god is not here.’
‘Poor Phoenix,’ murmured Nubia, after the African had left. ‘I wonder who took his god.’ Pegasus blew softly through his nostrils and once again she had the vague image of a hooded figure bending over a chariot. She looked up at Pegasus and saw that he had turned his head to regard her with an intelligent eye.
‘Scopas,’ she said, ‘where do you keep chariots?’
‘Over there. You can see them from here. In that room off the courtyard.’
Nubia put down the curry-comb and went out of the stall. Scopas and Flavia followed her across the courtyard and into a corridor-like room with a row of wicker and leather chariots along a red-panelled wall. Cartwrights were checking the alignment of wheels and oiling the axles with animal fat. The two chariots on the far end were covered with canvas tarpaulins and cobwebs. Nubia went to the furthest chariot and pulled back the protective cloth.
‘Those two have to be repaired,’ said one of the cartwrights. ‘They won’t be used today.’
‘What have you found?’ said Scopas.
Nubia turned and lifted out a small bronze statue of a man with a dog’s head. In the chariot were half a dozen other small figures in bronze or stone.
‘You found them!’ squealed Flavia, her eyes wide. ‘You found the stolen gods. Phoenix! Castor! Antilochus! We found your gods.’
‘My sacred image!’ Phoenix ran up as they emerged back into the early morning light of the courtyard. He grasped a statuette of Hercules and gave Nubia a kiss on the forehead. ‘You found my sacred image! Oh praise Jupiter, Juno and Minerva!’
Six other charioteers ran up and took their idols with thanks and tears of gratitude. Castor claimed a little marble statue of the goddess Fortuna, while a bald Egyptian took the dog-headed statue and then bent to kiss Nubia’s toes where they emerged from her sandals. She giggled, but her smile faded when Urbanus came up to her.
‘How did you know where to find those?’ he said angrily.
Nubia did not know what to say.
‘How?’ shouted Urbanus. ‘HOW?’ He struck his whip hard against one of the columns of the peristyle.
‘Pegasus is telling me!’ said Nubia. ‘He shows me image of man in hood by these chariots. I come to look and I find them.’
‘The horse told you?’ Urbanus glared at her for a moment, then snorted. His long sandy hair swung as he turned on his heel.
Nubia felt tears prick her eyes. Why was Urbanus angry with her? She had found his drivers’ lucky images. Surely he should be pleased.
It was the third hour after sunrise. Soldiers lined the road all the way from the Campus Martius to the Circus Maximus. They held back the cheering crowds as horses, charioteers, medics and sparsores proceeded towards the hippodrome, where they would join the emperor for the great pompa. Nubia and her three friends were walking near the front of the procession beside Pegasus and Scopas.
‘Why is Urbanus angry with me?’ Nubia asked Flavia. ‘I find their gods.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Flavia, raising her voice to be heard above the cheers of the crowd.
Jonathan leaned in as he walked. ‘I think Urbanus was frustrated with the charioteers,’ he said, ‘because they’re so superstitious.’
‘But he also seemed angry with Nubia,’ said Flavia.
Lupus nodded his agreement, and side-stepped to avoid a steaming pile of horse manure.
‘Maybe he thinks Nubia was the one who hid the idols and only pretended to find them again,’ suggested Jonathan, ‘to get attention. Or to gain his favour.’
‘Maybe,’ said Flavia.
‘These charioteers are certainly very popular.’ Jonathan brushed rose-petals out of his curly hair.
‘More than gladiators,’ agreed Flavia.
‘Or beast-fighters,’ said Nubia.
‘Greens, we love you!’ squealed a pretty young woman in the crowd.
‘They love us,’ said Jonathan, looking pleased.
‘You Greens are rubbish!’ yelled a short man in a blue tunic.
‘Well, maybe not all of them.’
‘Rubbish,’ repeated the man in blue. The rising sun made his face seem blood red. ‘You cheat! You’ve never won a fair race in your history—’ His tirade was cut short as several men in green tackled him and brought him thudding down onto the hard paving stones. Immediately, half a dozen soldiers ran forward to separate them.
Flavia nodded. ‘Uncle Aulus says the Greens and the Blues often have fights. He says the Blues usually start it. Sometimes people get killed!’
As they passed through the arch of the city gate, Nubia could see the four pavilions of the factions among the temples of the Forum Boarium, with the Circus Maximus rising up behind, bright in the morning sun. The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves seemed to pick up speed and her own heart was beating fast with excitement.
There were guards and barriers to keep the public out of the Forum Boarium, but it was still packed with horses, charioteers and grooms; everyone would take part in the opening ceremony.
They were just passing the bronze bull fountain when Nubia heard shouts. She looked over to see Urbanus beating the one-legged beggar with the handle of his green leather whip. ‘I’ve told you to stay away from here!’ shouted Urbanus. ‘Get out!’
The beggar whimpered, and shielded his head with his twisted arms. He held his copper begging-beaker in one hand.
‘Stop!’ cried Nubia, running to stand between Urbanus and the beggar. She held up her hands. ‘Do not hurt him! He is just a wretched beggar!’
Urbanus’s eyes blazed and for a moment she thought he might strike her, too. Instead, he turned and stalked into the pavilion without a backward glance.
‘Sisyphus!’ cried Flavia, half an hour later, as they reached Senator Cornix’s seats. ‘What’s that thing on your head?’
‘It’s not a thing,’ he replied stiffly. ‘It’s an umbrella hat. Keeps the sun off my face.’
‘But we’re in the shade. That’s why these seats are so good.’
‘Easier to wear it than hold it,’ said Sisyphus, ‘and we won’t be in the shade for ever.’
Looking around, Nubia saw a few other umbrella hats dotted among the buzzing spectators, especially the rich and fashionable ones down here by the track.
‘They’re the latest fashion,’ said Sisyphus proudly.
Senator Cornix had some of the best seats in the Circus: on the front row at the southwestern end of the Circus Maximus, in the shade for most of the morning. The seats were between the meta prima – where the most exciting manoeuvring took place – and the finishing line.
Just to Nubia’s right, down on the track, was the tiny temple of Murcia with its sacred myrtle bush. Most of the charioteers hugged the central barrier at this point and were in no danger of colliding with it. Even so, Nubia thought it strange to have a shrine right on the track itself.
Lady Cynthia had stayed at home with her younger children, who had runny noses. Since the loss of her two babies in a plague, she took no chances. Only the eldest child – twelve-year old Aulus Junior – had been allowed to come. He sat beside his father on an aisle seat. On Senator Cornix’s right was Sisyphus in his umbrella hat with Flavia beside him. Then came Nubia. Jonathan and Lupus sat on her right.
The seats were cold marble, hard and narrow, but Sisyphus had brought cushions for everyone to sit on, and parasols for when the sun rose higher. If Nubia sat squarely on the bench, she could feel the knees of the person behind digging into her back, so she moved forward and rested her feet in the grating of the bronze railing before her.
She remembered sitting here a year before, when they had followed Jonathan to Rome but had been unable to find him. She remembered the procession, like the one on the track below her now. That procession had marked the last day of the races; this one celebrated the first day.
As before, the Emperor Titus led the pompa. A quarter of Rome’s million inhabitants cheered him as he drove through an arch to the left of the carceres and into the vast arena. Although the triple disaster of volcano, plague and fire had marred his first year as emperor, he was still popular. Nubia saw that he was not riding a light racing-chariot, but a much sturdier ceremonial version, strong enough to bear his bulk and also the weight of a gold and ivory statue – his boyhood friend Britannicus.
Just as he passed beneath them, Titus glanced up and Nubia saw his eyes widen in recognition. He gave them the merest nod, but he did not smile, for the procession of the gods was a solemn one.
‘His hair’s getting thin on top,’ said Sisyphus, as the emperor passed by. ‘You can see his bald spot clearly from up here.’
‘He should get an umbrella hat,’ remarked Jonathan drily.
‘He’s put on weight since last spring,’ said Flavia.
‘He is looking tired,’ said Nubia.
‘Pressure of running an empire,’ said Senator Cornix.
Behind Titus came the statues of various gods, each cheered by their own special supporters or guilds: Victory, Neptune, Mars, Apollo, Jupiter, Juno, Minerva, Venus, and the heavenly twins. Some statues reclined on litters carried by acolytes. Others were driven in chariots by different faction drivers. Nubia knew that when the statues had completed a circuit of the course they would be set in the pulvinar, a covered box in the stands on the Palatine side of the hippodrome. Sometimes the Emperor sat there, too.
‘Yo! Castor and Pollux!’ Flavia clapped as effigies of the twins passed in a triumphal chariot below them. ‘Long live the Gemini.’
Musicians and dancers were passing below, but their music w
as drowned out by a wave of sound which began at the far end of the hippodrome and rose to an almost unbearable crescendo: the first faction was entering the arena.
‘Veneti!’ screamed the crowd, ‘Go Blues!’
Presently the cries changed to ‘Albati!’ and ‘Russati!’ as the Whites and Reds entered the hippodrome.
Finally came the biggest cheer of all: ‘Prasini! Greens!’
A strange sound filled the arena, like the sound of a vast herd of thundering creatures.
‘What is it?’ cried Nubia.
‘Roof tiles!’ cried Aulus Junior. ‘You clap your hands but keep them hollow, like roof tiles. It’s the highest type of applause.’
Nubia looked around. Sure enough, everyone was clapping with cupped hands. Nubia tried roof-tile clapping, too, and laughed at the strangeness of it.
And now she found she was cheering as the factions passed beneath them. Horses, charioteers, trainers, medics, veterinarians, sparsores and acrobats: all wore their colours as they marched in the pompa. Strips of linen had been used to bind some of the horses’ lower legs in blue, white, red or green. Ribbons of the same colour tied up their silky manes and made their tails into neat balls. Some of the horses of the Whites even had pearls woven into their manes. Lucky charms dangled from the necks of both horses and charioteers.
As the factions processed around the long sandy track, three priests sacrificed a ram on an altar of the central barrier. Smoke was rising from this altar by the time the Greens passed below them. A surge of pride swept over Nubia as she saw Urbanus riding Pegasus at the very front.
‘What’s the name of that superb dark horse with the golden mane and tail?’ she heard a man behind her say. ‘He’s magnificent!’
‘I don’t know,’ came the deeper voice of his companion. ‘Never seen a horse like that before.’
Nubia turned around and saw two middle-aged men in scarlet-bordered togas looking down at her with interest. ‘Pegasus,’ she said proudly and had to say it again in a shout to be heard above the roar of the crowd: ‘He is Pegasus!’
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 172