At the same moment Topaz froze. ‘Hydra!’ she hissed, and swung the others round just as four soldiers in grey breastplates and bronze masks muscled their way through the crowd, knocking people flying. They marched past and took up positions – a brooding, eagle-eyed group – close to the edge of the emperor’s terrace.
‘They’re everywhere . . .’ Nathan nodded towards other soldiers filing towards the pulvinar. ‘Let’s just wait here for the time being,’ he murmured, his jaw clenched with frustration.
Lucius’s ankle cracked as he landed and he cried out in agony, stumbling down the remainder of the slope. He and Jake had crept across the roofs of Agata’s villa, searching for a safe way down. They had chosen a windowless corner next to a cluster of tall pines. Jake had successfully leaped across onto a tree and lowered himself down. Lucius, who could only see out of one eye, and not well from that, had misjudged the jump and tumbled through the branches.
‘Yake, I think it is broken,’ he said, wincing as he clutched his ankle. They were both in a bad state, scratched and bruised, but Lucius was worse: not only half blind but cut to ribbons all over.
Jake knelt down and carefully examined Lucius’s foot. ‘It’s badly sprained, but I don’t think it’s broken,’ he said.
‘Just leave me – best to leave me, Yake,’ Lucius groaned.
‘Ssh.’ Jake put his finger to his lips, aware that they were still in enemy territory. ‘You’re not getting away from me that easily,’ he whispered, smiling. ‘I’ll help you up. Let’s go.’ He put his arm round Lucius and slowly hauled him to his feet. ‘You see the road there, winding down the hill? We just need to follow it. It’ll take us straight there. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?’ he joked.
Jake hid his panic well. He knew it was vital to reach the Circus Maximus as soon as possible, but he was simply not prepared to abandon his friend. He had saved Lucius and was determined not to leave him where he might be recaptured. Constantly on the alert for signs of pursuit, Jake helped his companion down the slope towards the Circus.
‘There she is,’ hissed Nathan, spotting the distinctive figure of Agata Zeldt emerge onto the terrace of the pulvinar. Dressed in a plain white dress, she deliberately hung back in the shadows, watching the crowd through narrowed eyes. Topaz, invisible in the crowd, stared back, and saw a chubby boy with flowers in his fair hair appear behind her.
Nathan did a double-take when he saw him. ‘Charlie, am I going insane’ – he nudged his friend – ‘or does that boy look exactly like that oaf Caspar Isaksen?’
Charlie followed his gaze. ‘From Sweden? Don’t be ridiculous.’ For a moment a group of guards blocked his view. When they moved out of the way, he caught sight of a youth stuffing a cake into his mouth.
‘Hell’s bells and Bathsheba!’ Charlie gasped, barely able to believe his eyes. ‘What on earth . . .?’ Caspar giggled as Agata whispered something in his ear. ‘What is he doing here? And with her?’
‘It would certainly explain our little mishap in Stockholm,’ Nathan commented drily.
‘But he’s an Isaksen!’ Charlie insisted. ‘One of the oldest, most revered families of the History Keepers’ Secret Service! They go back eight generations.’
‘And I’m a Zeldt, theoretically,’ Topaz reminded them. ‘Loyalty is strange animal.’
On the track, ten men in golden tunics filed out and lined up, their backs to the royal box. As the audience realized that something was about to happen, a great cheer swelled around the stadium. Each man carried a trumpet – a horn curved in the shape of a six. As one, they lifted the mouthpieces to their lips and blew. The blare of sound cut across the clamour.
Nathan and Charlie looked around as the roars of the crowd seemed to suddenly double in volume. A hundred and fifty thousand people had got to their feet and a blizzard of white rained down – pale flowers cast from every corner of the stadium. At first Nathan and Charlie wondered at this, but Topaz nudged them and nodded towards the pulvinar. It was no longer empty. The distinctive figure of Tiberius had appeared.
The emperor of Rome – the most powerful man in the world, in his robes of gold and purple. Of course, it was not Tiberius at all, but a second-rate actor from Herculaneum called Austerio. Even from a distance, Topaz, Nathan and Charlie recognized his puffy face. But as he held up his bejewelled hand and gave a regal wave, the crowd let out a tumultuous roar.
Nathan gazed over at the senators’ enclosure on the spina in front of them. Some of the men waved and bowed towards their leader, but for the most part their smiles were forced.
‘Where is that viper Leopardo?’ Topaz wondered, her eyes still fixed on the royal box.
But there was no sign of him.
‘Non possum, Yake.’ Lucius sank to the ground, half blocking the busy road and halting the stream of vehicles. Everyone started shouting for them to move out of the way, so Jake quickly scooped him up and dragged him over to the side. It had taken thirty gruelling minutes for them to struggle down the west side of the Palatine, ducking out of the way every time they caught sight of a soldier, but the stadium was now tantalizingly close.
‘We’re almost there,’ Jake said cheerily. ‘Can’t you hear it?’ He put his hand to his ear, listening to the thunderous roar floating across the rooftops.
‘Leave me, I beg you,’ Lucius insisted. ‘Non possum.’
Jake hesitated. He was beginning to see his friend’s logic: they were now a safe distance from the villa and he would be much more effective on his own.
Nearby, a man was roasting meat at a taberna. ‘Look, I can eat,’ Lucius said, his face crinkling into a smile, ‘while you save the world.’
Jake bit his lip uncertainly, but time was running out. ‘All right, it’s a deal,’ he said decisively. He pulled Lucius to his feet and helped him over to a bench beside the bar, then scooped up some water from a fountain and offered it to him.
After he had drunk his fill, the soldier looked up at Jake. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.
Impulsively Jake hugged him. ‘I’ll be back for you, don’t worry,’ he promised, and tore off down the road, weaving in and out of the carts and litters. He had been so worried about Lucius’s injuries that he had forgotten about his own. Now, his bruises throbbed, his cuts stung, he ached all over and felt sick and dizzy.
‘I have to find the others,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They’ll be safe, of course they will. I’ll find them. We’ll defuse the bombs somehow – we’ll do it.’
22 SEVEN LAPS TO DOOM
AS AUSTERIO SEATED himself on his alabaster throne, there was another blast of horns. The trumpet players turned and strode around the track towards the grand archway at the southern end. As they did so, a group of figures began to emerge from the opening, as if drawn by the music. The trumpeters turned and marched back along the track, now at the head of a grand procession.
In front were the athletes – young men stripped to the waist, their oiled bodies shining in the sun, each with a crown of laurels in their hair. Next came the cavalry: armoured soldiers on prancing steeds, swords held rigidly in front of their faces. A phalanx of musicians followed: a score each of flute and lyre players. And then the incense carriers bearing fragrant smoking torches. Next a troupe of dancers appeared: girls and boys in flowing silk, some waving spears, others clattering cymbals. Behind came the mimi – performers dressed as Roman gods and heroes: Jupiter, Apollo, Hercules and Odysseus – leading an army of fauns, satyrs and all kinds of mythical creatures.
There was a brief hiatus, and then another surge of applause greeted the entrance of the wild beasts. A dozen plodding elephants preceded a menagerie of lions, tigers, leopards and giant bears. The creatures were tightly leashed and held in check by strapping men in full armour. The sight made Charlie seethe with anger. The beasts and trainers peeled off and headed for the holding pens, through a gate in the centre of the spina – except for four brown bears, which were led onto a low plinth in front of the emperor’s box and chai
ned up in pairs. An attendant brought a basket of bloody meat, which he prepared to throw to them. One of the huge creatures lifted its head and roared in anticipation – making the crowd cheer again. Austerio looked down and his regal smile tightened a little, as if he was wondering what on earth he had got himself into.
The most deafening hurrah of all was reserved for the charioteers and their horses. They emerged from the shadow of the grand arch – four stallions pulling each of the eight two-wheeled chariots – and formed a perfect line. The shiny, muscular horses wore extravagant feathered headpieces that matched the clothes of their drivers. These stern-faced men wore coloured tunics and leather gauntlets, and carried a many-tailed whip.
‘Each colour represents a different district of the city,’ Nathan explained, ‘and the competition between the teams is fierce. Disappointed fans have been known to throw themselves onto burning pyres when their teams lose. It’s all very Italian.’
Nathan, Charlie and Topaz watched as the eight chariots rolled forward in unison. Everyone watched them: the emperor, the senators, and over a hundred thousand others. The charioteers’ eyes were hard and determined, their fists clenched tight around their reins. Nathan felt a pang of jealousy. He couldn’t imagine anything more exhilarating than a race around the most famous arena in history, cheered on by over a hundred thousand fans.
‘Look!’ Topaz gasped, nodding down towards the furthest team. Four massive black stallions pulled an ebony chariot, driven by a black-clad charioteer with a shock of perfectly straight blond hair: Leopardo. Topaz quivered when he postured towards the crowd, chin out, mouth curled in an arrogant snarl. Agata, his proud mother, gave a loud cheer when she saw him.
‘What on earth are they up to?’ Charlie shook his head in exasperation. ‘Don’t tell me she’s going to have him assassinate the emperor mid race!’
Nathan shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them. It’s just the sort of stagy melodrama they’d like,’ he said – as if he’d never been melodramatic in his life.
At this moment Jake staggered, panting with exhaustion, into the half-deserted square behind the arena. Hearing the roars of the crowds, he’d felt a mixture of panic, fear, and strange excitement. He’d attended a handful of football matches in London – one at Wembley – but the sound coming from this place was like nothing he’d ever heard before.
Jake peered inside: between the front arches and the twelve that led onto the arena itself, stretching the width of the building, was a wide portico. Here a small army of staff, officials and stable hands were busily preparing for the race. On one side he glimpsed stalls of spare horses and all sorts of charioteering apparatus. Beyond the pillars of the arches, in the brilliant sunshine, he saw the procession advancing along the track. The bare-chested athletes were coming round the end of the spina, starting on their return journey. It was when his eyes followed the dancers, cymbals clashing and ribboned spears held aloft, that Jake suddenly noticed the row of identical objects suspended above the end of the central island.
He stopped breathing.
Eggs. Golden eggs, each the size of a hefty boulder, lined up on a thick bronze rail. One, two, three . . . Jake counted them. To be sure, he counted again, his eyes widening in amazement. ‘Seven golden eggs,’ he murmured in disbelief.
His mind started racing as he began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He had seen the symbols on Vulcano, then again last night in Agata’s war room; the word Counters had been written beneath them.
‘Lap counters,’ Jake said to himself. ‘There are seven laps; each one is counted with an egg. They must be shifted along or turned over each time the chariots complete a lap of the circuit.’
He thought back to what Agata had said that morning: At the climax of the race, as the seven turns, a fireball, the like of which the world has never seen, will herald the bloodiest revolution of all time.
Now Jake understood what she meant. ‘The seven – the seventh egg . . .’ He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. ‘It’s a detonator! The race ends, and the fireball goes off.’ He realized he had only one option. ‘I have to stop the race.’
Suddenly, in the area between the arches, there was a commotion. As the chariots peeled away from the end of the procession and entered the arcade, the trainers, assistants and stable hands swept into action: seeing to the horses, adjusting the harnesses, checking the chariot wheels and providing water and refreshments for the drivers.
There was a grinding noise as iron starting gates were secured over each archway. The charioteers began to manoeuvre their vehicles towards their starting positions, one behind every gate, and the trainers gave whispered encouragement or instructions.
As Jake watched, he got another shock. The last in line was Leopardo. He stood in his ebony chariot and flicked his whip, not just at his horses, but at his slaves. Sensing that he was being watched, he turned, but Jake quickly retreated behind the pillar.
‘How do I stop it?’ Jake repeated in despair, barely able to think straight.
In the arena, ‘Tiberius’ stood up and slowly walked to the edge of the terrace. He took out a white handkerchief and held it high in the air, gazing in wonder at the expectant crowd. Austerio had never had such an audience, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
Under the portico, the chariots edged forward, the drivers tensely clutching their reins. Leopardo closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
Finally the emperor lowered the white handkerchief.
The gates sprang open. The chariots took off through the arches in an explosion of dust, and one hundred and twenty-eight hooves thundered down the track. The thousands upon thousands of Romans shouted and waved at them.
Without thinking, Jake dashed through an archway and out onto the track. He felt the ground thumping under his feet. He stopped dead, a solitary figure in the great empty arc of the arena. A huddle of senators standing in front of the golden eggs squinted down at him in bemusement as he suddenly turned, ran back across the track and in under the portico again.
The trainers and stable hands watched as he marched over to the stall of horses. One was already saddled for a rider, and quietly munching hay when Jake sprang onto its back, grabbed a whip hanging on the wall, dug his heels into its flanks and took off. (Well before Jake had even met the History Keepers, he was a more than competent rider. Old friends of his parents had stables in Kent, and he used to go often with his brother.) There were angry shouts, and men ran forward, trying to block his path, but Jake burst through them, under an archway and out onto the track, following the cloud of dust. He crouched low, and urged his horse into a gallop. It leaped forward, and Jake had to cling on for dear life. In truth, he had no idea what he was doing. He had acted on impulse – some part of his brain telling him that in order to stop the race, he would first need to be in the race.
On he flew, his horse relishing the chance to gallop unencumbered by a chariot. The shouting Romans were no more than a roaring sea at the edge of Jake’s vision.
Within seconds he was closing on the rear chariot. It was trailing behind, one wheel skewed. Suddenly there was a violent crack, and the wheel took off like a missile. Jake’s horse veered aside to avoid it as it spun and bounced up into the screaming crowd.
The vehicle tipped onto its side, sending the charioteer flying into the air and then crashing to the ground. The broken chariot continued without him, the snapped axle gouging a deep trench in the sand. Jake overtook it on the inside, but the four stallions raced on regardless, eyes wild, hooves thumping, feathered headpieces streaming in the wind.
Jake was now approaching the other chariots. In the thick pall of dust, he could barely make out the pounding hooves, flailing limbs and flicking whips. They rounded the sharp bend at the end of the spina, bunching perilously close together. The wheel hub of the innermost chariot grated against the marble wall in a shower of sparks. For a moment Jake thought it might tip over, but the driver shifted his weight, and the chariot ri
ghted itself and carried on into the far straight.
On the emperor’s side of the stadium, frenzied cheers now went up. The seven remaining chariots sped back towards the twelve arches. As Jake rounded the end of the spina, he noticed, above him, another row of large golden counters – these ones shaped like dolphins rather than eggs. Two officials pulled a lever to turn the first on its head; it flashed in the sunlight as it spun round. Jake was aware of their astonished gaze as he passed. It reminded him that what he was doing was madness; he would surely be apprehended at any minute. What was more, the gap between him and the chariots was growing. He carried on regardless: he had to find a way to stop them.
Nathan, Charlie and Topaz were tense with anxiety. They had edged closer to the pulvinar, each with half an eye trained on its occupants. Caspar had carried on stuffing his face, while Agata Zeldt had sidled forward and positioned herself at the emperor’s side – but that was all that had happened.
They had watched the race begin and had noticed a single horseman take off after the chariots. Charlie had been unable to explain who he was. ‘Just some lunatic, I guess,’ he had murmured. It wasn’t until he had rounded the bend and started galloping in their direction that Topaz began to look more closely. There was something about him that seemed familiar, even from a distance. Slowly, realization dawned on her.
‘Mon dieu!’ she exclaimed. ‘C’est lui. Look’ – she grabbed the arms of her companions – ‘it’s Jake. That’s Jake on the horse!’ Her initial sense of relief that he was still alive was replaced by utter incomprehension. ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il fait ici?’
‘I think the sun must be getting to you,’ Nathan drawled as he focused on the rider. All at once he saw that Topaz was right. ‘What in God’s name . . .?’ He trailed off, his jaw hanging open.
‘Clever boy,’ Charlie stated, the edges of his mouth twitching into a smile. ‘I haven’t got a clue what he’s doing, of course, but he’s a clever boy.’
History Keepers: Circus Maximus Page 26