The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection

by Lawrence, Caroline

  By the time the opening rituals and sacrifices had been completed, and Titus had taken his seat in the columned gallery above the starting gates, it was the beginning of the fourth hour of a glorious autumn morning. Flavia’s stomach was churning and she couldn’t decide if it was with excitement or dread. She took a deep breath and looked around the hippodrome.

  ‘The first race,’ said Senator Cornix, ‘is between four bigae from each faction.’

  ‘That makes it a sixteen-chariot race,’ calculated Jonathan.

  Lupus nodded and flashed a number with his hands, as he did in maths lessons with Aristo.

  ‘That’s right, Lupus,’ said Jonathan. ‘Thirty-two horses.’

  ‘Will Sagitta run?’ asked Flavia.

  ‘He usually runs in a four-horse team,’ explained Senator Cornix.

  Sisyphus flapped a piece of papyrus. ‘According to the programme,’ he said, ‘the alpha team isn’t due to run until after lunch.’

  ‘Behold!’ Nubia pointed to a fenced-off area in the stands by the finishing line on her left. It was just below a small temple built into the seating. A low marble parapet separated some official-looking men from those in the seats around, while still allowing them to sit in plain view of the spectators.

  ‘Those are stewards, and that’s the finishing box,’ said Senator Cornix.

  Nubia nodded. She could see sixteen charioteers in four colours mounting steps straight from the racetrack up to this box. ‘Behold!’ she cried again. ‘There is Castor!’

  Jonathan nodded and grinned. ‘It’s Castor all right. I’d recognise that hawk nose anywhere.’

  Lupus imitated drinking boar’s dung potion and crossed his eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Sisyphus. ‘Let’s hope he’s had his power potion today.’

  ‘Oh, look at that blue charioteer!’ cried Flavia. ‘He has sweet little wings on his helmet.’

  ‘He calls himself Hermes,’ said Aulus Junior. ‘He’s supposedly the best charioteer of the Blues.’ Aulus spat over the railing onto the track. ‘He thinks he’s a god.’

  ‘Behold! Charioteers have balls!’ cried Nubia.

  Lupus guffawed and nodded enthusiastically.

  Senator Cornix turned to Nubia. ‘They’re choosing lots,’ he explained, ‘to see who picks a gate first.’

  Each charioteer handed a coloured ball to the man in the toga. When he had put them in a large revolving urn, a blindfolded slave reached in and pulled out the first ball. It was green. The crowd cheered as if the Greens had already won the race and Flavia saw Castor punch the air in triumph. She suddenly remembered the fallen image of Castor in the lararium, and her stomach twisted unpleasantly.

  ‘That means Castor or one of his teammates gets first choice of starting gate,’ explained Sisyphus. ‘That will give the Greens a good advantage. Flavia, are you all right? You look as pale as parchment!’

  Flavia shook her head. ‘I suddenly have a bad feeling about this.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Sisyphus patted her arm. ‘The first ball out of the urn was green. That’s bound to be a good omen for all of us.’

  Disaster struck the Greens in the first race.

  It had not begun well. Titus had dropped the white mappa from his position over the carceres, the trumpets had uttered a long bright blast and the starting gates had sprung open. The thirty-two horses and their sixteen chariots thundered out to deafening applause but the Whites made a break for the inside lane before they reached the linea alba. This was not permitted, and the trumpets blasted the staccato signal for recall; the horses had to be reined in and driven back to the stalls.

  Again the mappa fell, again the trumpets played the sustained starting note and the doors of the carceres opened, all except for the right-hand gate of one of the Reds; it had stuck closed.

  Once again the trumpets stuttered their recall and then for a third time blared a long note as the mappa fell.

  This time all the gates opened and the teams kept to their lanes until the chalk line of the linea alba. Castor and a pair of magnificent black stallions took the lead on the inside lane, while behind him two of his teammates did their best to prevent the other bigae from overtaking.

  ‘Brilliant!’ cried Aulus. ‘Those two Greens are using the pincer tactic.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked Nubia.

  ‘That’s when they come together to squeeze out other chariots,’ explained Senator Cornix, ‘and force the competition to either drop back or take an outside lane, both of which will slow them down.’

  ‘Good teamwork,’ murmured Jonathan, as the chariots disappeared around the meta prima in a spray of sand.

  Boys in the colours of the four factions ran out to sprinkle something on the track.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Nubia.

  ‘Those must be the sparsores,’ said Flavia. ‘The sprinkly boys.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Senator Cornix. ‘Their job is to sprinkle water on the track, to keep it from getting too dusty, and to spray the horses with water if they get overheated. They also have to remove any objects that might trip up the horses. It’s quite a dangerous job,’ he added. ‘The year before last I saw two sparsores trampled to death.’

  Nubia shuddered.

  As the chariots rounded the far meta and raced up the straight for the second time, Castor was still in the lead. A steward on the track by the little shrine of Murcia flourished a green handkerchief as the chariots thundered past. This meant the Greens were ahead, and the crowd went wild.

  By the fifth lap Castor and his team of green-ribboned black stallions were still in the lead as his teammates successfully blocked his rivals. The crowd had settled down for the tense middle section of the race and the roar subsided to a rumble, low enough for Nubia to hear a baby crying somewhere and a woman cheering the Reds and the piercing trill of a flute.

  Suddenly – and for no apparent reason – Castor’s biga gave such a burst of speed that he was jerked over the top of his chariot.

  With a unanimous gasp, the entire circus rose to its feet. Castor had fallen heavily on the wooden pole of the yoke. This pole had snapped in two and now he was being dragged along the course by two panicking horses.

  ‘Man overboard!’ cried one of the senators behind Nubia.

  All over the stands, men groaned and women screamed.

  Flavia was gripping Nubia’s arm so hard that it hurt. ‘That black stallion has gone berserk!’ she cried. ‘Castor will be killed! Why doesn’t he let go of the reins!’

  ‘He can’t let go,’ said Jonathan grimly. ‘Remember? The reins are tied round his waist. He’ll have to cut himself free.’

  As Castor’s horses dragged him around the meta and out of sight, his empty chariot slowed and toppled over onto the sandy track.

  ‘I can’t see him!’ cried Flavia. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t ask us,’ snapped Aulus Junior. ‘None of us on this side can see.’

  Suddenly there was a cry from a hundred thousand spectators on the other side of the hippodrome.

  ‘These stupid front row seats!’ cried Aulus Junior. ‘We’d be able to see if we were up higher.’

  ‘What is it?’ cried Nubia. ‘What’s happened?’

  The answer came a moment later, carried around the arena by a wave of exclamations: a Red sparsor on the other side of the euripus had tried to slow the runaway horses and had been trampled.

  ‘If Castor can just hang on a little longer,’ said Senator Cornix from between clenched teeth, ‘loose horses usually slow down and run for the exit. They’ll catch them there.’

  They saw the rest of the field thunder past on the other side of the barrier, and then two track assistants ran forward with a stretcher. For a moment they were lost to sight behind the euripus. Presently they reappeared with the body of a boy on their stretcher.

  The crowd uttered an involuntary cry of alarm and Nubia turned to see that Castor’s horses had not slowed down for the exit. Here they were – led by t
he foaming black stallion – rounding the meta secunda and turning for their sixth lap.

  With a thrill of horror, Nubia saw that they were still dragging Castor.

  ‘By Hercules!’ cried Senator Cornix. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this in all my life! Dragged for over half a circuit . . .’

  ‘Juno’s peacock!’ gasped Sisyphus. ‘He’s alive! Look! He’s still trying to cut himself free of the reins!’

  ‘Oh, the poor man!’ cried Flavia and covered her eyes.

  Further along their row, a woman screamed and collapsed into her husband’s arms. Even the swifts wheeling in the blue sky overhead seemed to shriek in horror.

  As the horses came closer, Nubia saw that the inside stallion’s eyes were rolling and his beautiful black flanks were covered with sweat. She had never seen such fear in a horse.

  A moment later, the crowds around her gasped, then cheered. Castor had cut the last of the leather reins and had rolled to a stop, exhausted and bloody. His black horses ran on, trailing severed reins and a splintered wooden pole behind them.

  But now there was another danger. The remaining chariots were still contesting the prize and they were heading straight for the battered figure lying on the track.

  Medics quickly ran out with a wood and canvas stretcher and lifted Castor onto it. The crowd shrieked as the other chariots thundered towards them. Then a great cheer split the air. The medics had carried Castor out of the way with only a heartbeat to spare. Fifteen chariots raced on towards the turning point, with a group of five in the lead: a White first, then a Red, two Greens, and a Blue. They had one more lap to complete.

  The sparsores had removed Castor’s broken chariot from the racetrack but one of them must have missed a fragment of debris. As the lead White chariot neared the meta, it suddenly struck something, bounced into the air and crashed down onto its side.

  More screams pierced the air, for the Red team had no time to take evasive action. In a flurry of horses’ legs and spinning wheels, Nubia heard a sickening crack and a horse’s scream.

  ‘Naufragium!’ cried the crowd. ‘Shipwreck!’ – and a quarter of a million Romans gave a great gasp of relief as the other chariots managed to steer around the tangle of wheels and legs.

  Nubia covered her ears. She could not bear to hear the injured horses screaming. How could the Romans do such things? How could they be so cruel?

  Down at the far end of the hippodrome, the sparsores and track officials had finally succeeded in subduing Castor’s runaway pair, and Nubia thought she could see Urbanus running towards them.

  ‘I must go,’ she said to Flavia. ‘I must find out what frightens black stallion.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Flavia. She looked sick.

  Lupus grunted and pointed at himself.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Jonathan miserably. ‘This is partly my fault.’

  Flavia and her friends squeezed along the row and hurried down some narrow steps. A low metal railing prevented direct access to the track, but a vaulted passageway led back under the seating to the arcades and road beyond. From there they ran up towards the Forum Boarium. The guards checked their wristbands and let them in just as a dozen Etruscan acrobats were riding through the arch and into the arena.

  On this side of the carceres, they saw grooms from the four factions helping the charioteers into the chariots. The next race would consist of eight quadrigae. Flavia saw that Cresces was one of the two Green charioteers participating. His face was white as chalk.

  In the Pavilion of the Greens, they found a crowd of charioteers and grooms standing around Castor, still on his stretcher. Urbanus was there, and the veterinarian Hippiatros, who was bending over the battered man, smearing a brown paste on his bloody legs.

  ‘Praise the gods,’ said Castor, lifting a steaming cup in a toast towards Nubia. Flavia could smell spiced wine. ‘If you hadn’t found my dear Fortuna, she would have deserted me. I was lucky today.’

  ‘You call that lucky?’ said Jonathan, staring at the battered and bloody charioteer.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Castor, ‘dragged around the hippodrome and not one bone broken? If the African girl hadn’t found my goddess, I’d have finished the race of life. As it is, poor Diomedes of the Whites reached that final goal first. I was lucky. Ah! Life’s a circus.’

  ‘I think you mean “death’s a circus”,’ muttered Jonathan.

  ‘You may not have broken any bones,’ said Hippiatros, looking up from sponging Castor’s bloody thigh, ‘but you have extensive bruises, a twisted ankle, cracked ribs and half the skin torn off your body. I’m afraid you won’t be riding any more chariots for the rest of the Ludi Romani.’

  ‘Wool fluff!’ said Castor with a chuckle. ‘I’ll be fine. Just smear some more of that boar’s dung on me and – ow!’ This last as Hippiatros began to bandage his right leg.

  ‘Master of the Universe!’ muttered Urbanus. ‘My best auriga out of action on the first race.’

  ‘Sir.’ Jonathan cleared his throat and glanced hesitantly at Flavia. She gave him a firm nod. ‘Sir, we have something to show you.’

  Urbanus scowled at him. ‘What?’

  Jonathan reached into his coin purse and pulled out the curse-tablet.

  ‘For God’s sake, boy!’ Urbanus tugged Jonathan away from the men crowding around Castor. ‘Get that thing out of sight!’

  ‘You know what this is?’ whispered Jonathan.

  ‘Everyone knows what those are. If my men see that, we’re finished.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what’s written on it?’ said Flavia as Jonathan put the curse-tablet back into his coin-pouch.

  ‘I can guess!’ said Urbanus in an angry whisper. ‘Invocation of some foreign demons to cripple and maim me, my horses and my drivers. Am I correct?’

  Flavia gave a tiny nod.

  ‘If my charioteers get the merest sniff of a curse-tablet, they’ll panic and expect disaster. And when people expect something, it often comes to pass. In this faction I don’t allow my charioteers to curse or be cursed.’ Urbanus turned to Jonathan. ‘You were foolish to bring that here, boy. Very foolish.’

  Jonathan opened his mouth, glanced at Flavia, then closed it again.

  ‘Sir?’ said Nubia.

  ‘Now what?’ snapped Urbanus.

  ‘May I see black stallion who goes berserk? I think I know what frightens him.’

  ‘Oh you do, do you? Have the horses been talking to you again? Or did you read it on a curse-tablet?’ He looked at her with blazing eyes. ‘Get out of here, all of you, and take your occult superstition with you.’

  ‘Sorry, Jonathan,’ said Flavia as they squeezed between knees and the railing, back to their seats. ‘I was certain he would want to see the tablet. Or at least hear the names. But you were right. He didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Because he didn’t want to panic his men.’ Jonathan resumed his seat beside Flavia.

  A long blare of trumpets made them jump and eight quadrigae burst out of the carceres.

  ‘Do they race again so soon?’ asked Nubia. ‘After such a terrible calamity?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Senator Cornix. ‘They have eighteen races to get through today, and twenty-four on all the other days of the festival. Now, in a race like this, strategy and teamwork are of the utmost importance. See how that leading Green chariot is setting a blistering pace? He hopes the rest of the field will try to keep up. They’ll be exhausted by the sixth lap and his Green teammate, who is cruising along at the back, can come in for an easy win.’

  ‘Unless the wheel comes off,’ muttered Jonathan. ‘Like that!’

  A lone wheel rolled lazily across the track and the crowd gasped as a chariot toppled onto its side. Miraculously, the charioteer had managed to remain upright on the lopsided chariot, which careened along in a spray of sand. The crowd cheered as the driver frantically tried to slow his team. His actions were almost comical and many were laughing.

  But their laughter suddenly turn
ed to gasps as he lost his footing and tumbled onto the track.

  ‘Mecastor!’ squealed Sisyphus.

  ‘It’s happening again!’ cried Flavia and looked at Nubia in horror. ‘He’s being dragged along the track.’

  Jonathan cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Cut yourself free!’ he bellowed.

  But the charioteer was as limp as a rag doll as he bounced along on the end of his reins.

  ‘Why doesn’t he cut himself free like Castor did?’ cried Flavia.

  ‘Maybe he can’t.’ Senator Cornix’s voice was grim. ‘He looks unconscious.’

  ‘Oh! That Blue team is coming up too close! Can’t they see him? Why don’t they go around? Oh! I can’t bear to look!’ Flavia covered her eyes with her fingers. A moment later she heard the collective groan of a quarter of a million Romans and she knew the fallen charioteer had been trampled by the Blues.

  ‘Which one was it?’ she asked, without looking up. ‘Which charioteer?’

  ‘A charioteer named Cresces,’ said her uncle grimly.

  Flavia raised her head and turned to Jonathan in horror. ‘Jonathan!’ she hissed. ‘Quickly! The curse-tablet!’

  He fished in his belt-pouch and pulled it out.

  ‘Read the names,’ said Flavia. She felt sick. ‘Read the names of the charioteers on that curse-tablet.’

  ‘Castor,’ read Jonathan, ‘Cresces, Antilochus, Gegas, Phoenix, Tatianus and Eutychus.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Flavia. ‘The first two charioteers mentioned have come to ruin. Do you realise what this means? The curse-tablet is working!’

  Cresces was dead.

  Flavia pushed through the crowd of wailing stable boys and charioteers in the Pavilion of the Greens to see the figure on the stretcher. It was the handsome blue-eyed auriga who had driven her so cheerfully around the track the day before. His eyes were closed and he looked as if he were sleeping. Someone had removed his leather helmet and Flavia saw his glossy black curls. She hid her face in Nubia’s shoulder and wept.