‘He had a young wife and baby girl,’ said a flat voice behind them.
Flavia raised her face to see Scopas standing behind them. His expression was inscrutable.
‘Scopas!’ A blond stable boy ran up. ‘I still can’t calm Merula! Can you try?’
‘Who’s Merula?’ Flavia asked Nubia.
‘Horse who goes berserk in first race,’ answered Nubia, and whispered, ‘That boy is groom who beats Scopas yesterday.’
‘It is?’ said Flavia. ‘How can he ask for help after tormenting him?’
‘Please help me, Scopas!’ cried the blond.
Although his face was still swelling from his recent beating, Scopas did not hesitate. He turned and followed the blond groom towards the wooden stalls at the back of the pavilion. Flavia and her friends hurried after him. In a stall at the far end a black stallion was frothing and snorting, his eyes rolling.
‘I’ve never seen him like this!’ The blond stable boy was nearly in tears. ‘I’ve tried everything.’
‘Do not worry, Priscus. Scopas will calm him.’
The stallion was kicking the back of his stall and making the whole row tremble.
‘Scopas! Don’t go in there!’ cried Flavia. ‘Can’t you see he’s crazy?’
But Scopas was already in, and almost immediately the horse grew quiet. It’s frothy flanks were still heaving and its eyes rolling, but it stood still.
After a few moments, Scopas bent, took a handful of yellow straw and began to wipe the sweat from the horse’s quivering flank. He used firm sweeping motions and he spoke to the horse in Greek, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.
Flavia breathed a sigh of relief. The horse’s eyes were no longer rolling and he stood more quietly.
‘Priscus,’ said Scopas over his shoulder. ‘Come help.’
The blond stable boy nodded and hesitantly entered the stall. The stallion rolled his eyes at him and took two nervous steps back, then grew calm. Priscus picked up a handful of straw and began to wipe the sweat from Merula’s other side. Flavia saw that the boy was weeping.
‘Scopas, what’s wrong with him?’ asked Priscus.
‘I do not know,’ said Scopas, as he brushed. ‘Horses are frightened by things that do not frighten most people. Perhaps a flicker in the corner of his eye frightened him. Or the scent of lion’s dung or a hissing sound like a snake. These things frighten horses. They frighten me, too,’ he added.
‘But would not the smell of lion’s dung frighten all horses?’ asked Nubia.
‘This is correct.’ Scopas blew softly into the horse’s nostril, which seemed to calm him even more.
Priscus blew gently into Merula’s other nostril.
‘Something specific frightened that horse,’ said Flavia. ‘Something which didn’t frighten any of the others.’
‘Some horses have special fears,’ said Scopas. Now he was using the flat of his hand to rub Merula. ‘I know a horse in Delphi who was often whipped by a man wearing a yellow cloak. One day the man left, but every time my horse-friend saw a man in yellow he became wild with fear.’
‘Maybe gadfly bites Merula on rump,’ said Nubia.
‘Or maybe someone fired a tiny poisoned dart,’ suggested Jonathan.
‘Examine him for puncture wounds!’ called Flavia over the stall door.
‘This is an excellent idea,’ said Scopas. He and Priscus carefully examined Merula’s sable coat as they stroked him.
‘Don’t forget his legs,’ said Flavia.
‘Yes.’ Scopas began to unwind the strips of green linen from Merula’s forelegs. Then he uttered an exclamation in Greek.
Flavia, Jonathan, Nubia and Lupus leaned further over the stall’s half-door.
‘Do you see it?’ Scopas said, squatting back on his heels.
‘No hair on his front legs!’ said Flavia.
‘And scars,’ said Nubia, ‘as if burned.’
‘But those scars have healed,’ said Jonathan. ‘They look at least half a year old.’
‘It happened a few months ago,’ said Priscus. ‘At the festival of Ceres. Merula went missing, and turned up a week later with burns on his forelegs.’
‘Just like Sagitta!’ gasped Flavia.
‘Who took him?’ asked Jonathan.
‘We never knew,’ said Priscus. ‘He just turned up outside the stables one day. But I still got beaten for losing him.’
‘He is calm now,’ said Scopas. ‘Cover him with a blanket and let him rest.’
‘Thank you, Scopas.’ Priscus hung his head and might have said something else, but Scopas was already closing the half-door of the stall behind him.
‘I have to show you a thing,’ he said to Flavia and her friends, and he removed an object from his belt-pouch.
Flavia examined the yellowish-brown object. It was about the size of her little finger, but twice as long. She sniffed it and then shrugged. ‘It’s beeswax,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know what it’s used for.’
‘It looks like a lynchpin!’ cried Jonathan, taking the object. ‘But those are usually made of bronze. This is made of wax.’
Scopas gave a single nod. ‘One of the sparsores found it on the track. He gave it to me.’
‘Of course!’ cried Flavia. ‘A wax lynchpin! Just like Pelops used against Oenomaeus in the myth. It’s the oldest trick in the book!’
‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘The friction of the wheel makes it grow warm and then the wax melts, and the wheel comes off.’ He frowned. ‘But don’t they examine all the chariots for sabotage?’
‘Many times,’ said Scopas.
‘Someone is still trying to hurt the Greens!’ said Flavia. ‘And it must be someone who knows these horses very well.’
‘Someone horses trust,’ said Nubia.
‘And someone who can come into the stables,’ said Jonathan, ‘without arousing suspicion.’
Scopas stood stiffly, his head turning from one to the other.
‘Those all point to one thing,’ said Flavia, ‘a traitor among the Greens! This mystery is getting deeper!’
Lupus nodded his agreement.
‘But why would someone do this bad thing?’ asked Nubia. ‘It hurts the horses.’
‘Flavia,’ said Jonathan, ‘should we show Scopas what the beggar gave us?’
Flavia nodded. ‘We have something to show you, too, Scopas.’
Jonathan handed the curse-tablet to him. ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked.
‘I cannot read,’ said Scopas, and handed it back.
‘Even if you could read,’ said Jonathan, ‘you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher it. It’s in Aramaic.’
‘Scopas,’ said Flavia. ‘Do you know any charioteers or stable boys who speak Aramaic.’
‘Or who are from Judea?’ added Jonathan. ‘Most Jews speak Aramaic.’
‘I do not know charioteers or stable boys who speak Aramaic,’ said Scopas, ‘but Urbanus is from Jerusalem in Judea.’
‘I thought so,’ said Jonathan.
‘What does the tablet say?’ asked Scopas.
‘It’s a curse-tablet,’ said Flavia. ‘It curses the Greens, and it names all four horses on the alpha team and also seven charioteers.’
Jonathan read out their names: ‘Castor, Cresces, Antilochus, Gegas, Phoenix, Tatianus and Eutychus.’
‘The first two have come to ruin,’ said Flavia. ‘Are the others all driving today, as well?’
‘This is correct,’ said Scopas. ‘Most do not drive until after lunch. But Antilochus is in the race after next. I will not be able to help you now. Pegasus is no longer needed so I must take him back to the Stables of the Greens on the Campus Martius.’
‘Then it’s up to us to stop Antilochus from driving,’ said Flavia as they watched Scopas go to Pegasus in his stall.
‘How?’ said Jonathan.
‘Is Antilochus the Egyptian?’ asked Flavia after a moment.
‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘He’s the bald one with light-brown skin.’
‘The one who worships dog-headed idol,’ said Nubia.
Lupus mimed someone kissing Nubia’s feet.
‘Then I think I have an idea of how to stop him driving,’ said Flavia. ‘But Lupus will have to be a thief.’
Lupus had found a broom and was sweeping straw back and forth beneath the linen canopy of the Greens’ pavilion. Wearing his wrist pass, and surrounded by so many other boys in green tunics, he was virtually invisible. Head down, he swept his way over to the portable shrine. Antilochus, the Egyptian auriga was kneeling before it, worshipping his dog-headed god. Presently Antilochus rose and made his way over to the refreshment table.
Kneeling before the shrine, Lupus pretended to worship too. Then, quick as a striking cobra, he took the dog-headed statuette and hid it under the skirt of his tunic. Sucking in his stomach, he was able to slip it under the place where the belt was tightest. Then he pushed his stomach out to hold the idol tight.
He stood, took up his broom and resumed sweeping the paving stones, moving gradually towards the curtain that sheltered the latrines from view. Just as he was about to go in, he noticed Urbanus standing beside an empty stall. The trainer was speaking to a greasy-haired man in a red tunic. They were too far away for Lupus to hear their words, but Urbanus’s twitching whip showed he was upset.
A moment later, the man turned and hurried towards the bright exit of the pavilion, shaking his head. Urbanus looked around angrily, so Lupus hurried behind the curtain. If Urbanus knew where he was about to put Antilochus’s god, he would be furious.
Flavia, Jonathan and Nubia got back to their seats just in time to see the Greens come last in the third race of the day.
‘Achilles wasn’t really trying!’ Aulus was saying to his father. ‘It was obvious he was only pretending to whip his horses.’
‘What happened?’ asked Flavia.
‘If you’d been here,’ said Aulus Junior acidly, ‘you would have seen a Green charioteer not trying to win at all.’
‘I think you’re right, son,’ said the Senator. ‘Someone must have bribed Achilles to come last.’
‘Probably someone from the Blues,’ said Aulus.
‘Though it might have been the Whites or Reds,’ said his father.
‘Is there any chance at all,’ said Flavia carefully, ‘that it could be someone from the Greens?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Aulus Junior gave her a scathing look.
Flavia sat back on her cushion, and gazed down at the track. A smattering of applause had marked the entry into the arena of a group of Blue desultores.
‘Sisyphus,’ she said in a low voice, ‘would someone ever want to hurt their own team?’
He gave her a keen look. ‘Why do you ask? Do you suspect foul play?’
Flavia nodded. ‘We think someone from the Greens might be trying to thwart their own horses and drivers.’
‘Mecastor! Tell me more.’
‘Someone did something to make Merula afraid—’
‘Who’s Merula?’
‘The black stallion that bolted in the first race.’
‘You think someone nobbled him?’
‘What is nobble?’ asked Nubia. ‘Does that mean to tie legs together?’ She and Jonathan had leaned over to hear.
‘No,’ said Sisyphus, ‘that’s hobble. Nobble means to tamper with a racehorse to prevent its winning. There are many ways of doing that.’
‘Like using a wax lynchpin,’ said Jonathan. ‘Scopas found one in the chariot that lost its wheel.’
‘Mecastor!’ muttered Sisyphus again.
‘We think it had to be someone from the Greens,’ said Flavia, ‘because a stranger would arouse suspicion.’
‘I suppose the most likely reason to thwart your own faction,’ said Sisyphus, ‘would be if someone from another faction paid you a huge sum to throw the race.’
‘What is throw the race?’ asked Nubia.
‘It means to lose on purpose. Or make your teammate lose.’
‘By nobble the horse?’ asked Nubia.
‘Exactly.’
‘But why?’ said Flavia. ‘Money,’ Sisyphus tapped the side of his nose. ‘There are fortunes to be made on horse-racing. Remember I made eight thousand sesterces last September, betting on the horses Nubia fancied?’
They all nodded.
‘Well, I’m not doing as well today,’ he admitted, ‘but if I had known that the Green chariot would bolt in the first race it would have improved my odds of winning. You can bet against factions as well as for them, you know.’
‘Do many people gamble?’ asked Nubia.
‘Oh yes, many people gamble,’ said Sisyphus. ‘Some of them compulsively. Others have made their fortunes through gambling.’
The crowds were cheering as the troupe of Blue desultores left the track in preparation for the next race.
Jonathan leaned forward to be heard. ‘My father says the odds are always against you and nobody can get rich by gambling.’
‘He’s right. The people who make fortunes through gambling never gamble themselves.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Flavia.
Sisyphus glanced around, then leaned in closer. ‘There is a powerful patron,’ he said, ‘from the dregs of the Antonia clan. A few years ago he was a mere plebeian, the son of a butcher. Now he’s one of the richest men in Rome. His name is Gaius Antonius Acutus.’
Flavia frowned. ‘Where have I heard that name before?’
Sisyphus continued: ‘They say he gained his wealth and power through men’s addiction to gambling. He runs betting rings for large amounts at high stakes. When people get into debt from betting – which they invariably do – he loans them money at an outrageous interest rate. They try to win back the money they’ve borrowed, but of course they only lose more. Soon they’re so deeply in debt that they’ve nothing left to sell or mortgage. At this point he makes them give him part of their business, or their house, or even their wives and children.’
‘How can a man give away wives and children?’ asked Nubia.
‘Because a paterfamilias has absolute authority over his family.’
‘Where does this Patron of Gambling live?’ asked Flavia. ‘Or where can I find him?’
‘Trust me, my dear. You do not want to find Antonius Acutus.’
Flavia could hardly hear his reply because the crowds had begun to chant.
‘Antilochus! Antilochus! Antilochus!’
‘What’s happened to Antilochus?’ asked Flavia, jumping to her feet in alarm.
‘He’s not racing!’ said Senator Cornix from the end of the row. He had been speaking to Aulus Junior on his other side, and now he shouted to make himself heard. ‘Apparently someone stole his god and he won’t drive without it! The crowd is disappointed. He’s one of their favourites.’
Lupus appeared a moment later, looking smug. He winked at Flavia. She gave him a beaming thumbs-up in return. ‘Well done, Lupus,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘You’ve probably just saved Antilochus’s life!’
A moment later, she turned away from Lupus and looked at Jonathan and Nubia. The crowd had stopped chanting the name of the charioteer who would not run. Now they were chanting the name of the charioteer who was going to take his place.
‘Gegas!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Gegas! GEGAS!’
‘Oh no!’ cried Flavia, ‘They’ve got Gegas to drive instead of Antilochus, but he’s the fourth name on the curse-tablet! Our plan failed!’
Flavia stared at her friends in alarm.
‘Gegas isn’t supposed to drive until after lunch! But he’s named on the tablet. He’ll be killed!’
‘Don’t say such a thing!’ hissed a woman in the row behind them. ‘It’s ill-omened.’
‘We’ve got to stop him!’ Flavia clutched Nubia’s arm.
‘Too late!’ said Jonathan. ‘They’re off!’ Four quadrigae came cleanly out of the gates and stayed in their lanes until the chalk mark, then the Blues pulled smoothly ahead on the inside. The Whites
and Reds came next, riding abreast and finally Gegas and his team of four dappled greys.
‘He’s conserving his strength,’ said Jonathan, nodding wisely.
‘Waiting until the other teams have spent themselves,’ agreed Sisyphus.
‘Then he’ll come up on the outside for an easy win!’ cried Senator Cornix.
‘No,’ said Nubia suddenly, and pointed. ‘Look at bellies of horses. See how bloat they are?’
‘Are they?’ asked Flavia, peering at the horses.
‘Yes,’ said Nubia. ‘Someone has given them very much water or food. The horses cannot run fastly with bloat stomachs.’
‘By Hercules, she’s right,’ said Senator Cornix between clenched teeth. ‘Even Castor couldn’t lead those bloated creatures to victory.’
‘There’s still time to change my bet,’ muttered Sisyphus, and hurried along the row towards the aisle.
‘Pollux!’ cursed Jonathan. ‘That trick isn’t anything to do with Antilochus. It’s to do with the horses.’ He glanced at Lupus. ‘Looks like you stole his dog-headed idol for nothing.’
‘At least it isn’t a dangerous trick,’ said Flavia, ‘like a wax lynchpin or a crazed horse.’
BUT THE NEXT ONE MIGHT BE wrote Lupus on his tablet.
Jonathan nodded. ‘Someone is out to get the Greens today, no doubt about it.’
‘I’ve got to figure out who’s doing this,’ Flavia muttered fiercely, ‘and why!’
‘Flavia,’ cried Sisyphus, returning in time for the last lap. ‘Look across the race track at the seats opposite. Do you see the pulvinar? Now look below it and to the right. Do you see that stocky man in the red tunic and white toga? That’s Antonius Acutus, the man I was just telling you about. The Patron of Gambling.’
‘Mecastor!’ breathed Jonathan. ‘That’s the thug who nearly bit my head off two days ago, while Aristo was changing money in the Circus Flaminius.’
Flavia shaded her eyes and looked across the arena. She had not seen the man before, so she tried to get a good look now. From this distance she could only tell that Acutus was a bear of a man – stout and dark – and with receding hair. About her father’s age, she guessed: at least thirty-two or thirty-three. He was surrounded by an entourage of men in white togas over red tunics, no doubt his clients.
The Roman Mysteries Complete Collection Page 174