by George Green
He hears the bookmakers’ voices filtering through the cauldron of noise.
‘The race is about to begin. Final bets please. Cassius even money, Serpicus and Brutus two to one, Galba five to two, Arragus and Decius seven to one, ten to one the rest. Last bets please.’
‘Good luck,’ says a voice Serpicus doesn’t know to his left.
A young man, barely more than a boy, stands next to him. His face is split with an enormous smile. Serpicus can’t help but smile back. ‘Good luck to you too. Your first race?’
The young man nods and strikes a pose. ‘First of many!’ He laughs, taking the arrogance out of his words. ‘Arragus, at your service. We’ll drink a wineskin together later.’ He reaches across and punches the shoulder of the red-haired young man in the chariot next to him. ‘Which this useless pudding will be paying for, once I’ve beaten him to the finish.’
The youngster rubs his shoulder ruefully. ‘Yes, in your dreams,’ he says. He nods to Serpicus. ‘Decius, at your service.’ A German, by his speech. Serpicus wonders how he has become mixed up with a Roman rich boy like Arragus. Serpicus is about to warn them to hang back and get the measure of the race first, but at that moment a woman leans out over the edge of the wall so that her dress opens and she hurls a flower which hits Decius on the cheek. He turns to see her and blushes. If the boy is still in one piece at the end of the race then he has a promise for the night in his pocket. Serpicus hopes that the sour-looking man beside her isn’t her husband, for all three of their sakes. Both Decius and Arragus are too young. Too young to race and perhaps get killed doing it. Too young to be propositioned by women old enough to know better. Except that the women, and there are many such women, it seems, didn’t know better at all, and their age didn’t seem to be an issue. The men who fought and raced and died in the arena had their every move watched and the details exchanged like coins amongst those who followed them. Their lives, their bodies, everything about them seemed to be public property. There was even a group of women who waited outside the public baths at the end of every day to claim the sweat that had been scraped off their favourite gladiators’ bodies by the masseur. Sometimes there were fights in the street over it. Jupiter perhaps knew what they did with the sweat once they got it home; Serpicus didn’t want to think about it.
The moment before a race starts is always greeted with silence. Serpicus uses that silence to close his eyes and take a breath. There is no danger of missing the beginning; the starter always waits, drawing out the tension. As the moments pass Serpicus feels as though he is pulling in the scattered parts of himself, like a harassed stallkeeper gathering together his remaining goods off his tables and shelves at the end of a busy day.
When his eyes reopen, he looks up at the seven eggs and seven dolphins which are reversed to indicate the passing of each of the seven laps. He looks at the statue of Rameses the Second, taken from Egypt and placed at the exact centre of the Circus by Augustus, so that the Emperor could sit in the Royal Enclosure on the Palatine side and compare his own glory to the Pharaoh’s. Then he looks down the race track. He is ready.
He gathers the reins carefully, placing them between his fingers in a slow and deliberate order that he repeats before every race. The horses lift their heads. Serpicus sees their ears point forward and their nostrils flare. He glances sideways. Cassius, the favourite to win the race and drawn on the very inside, looks back at him coldly and bares his teeth as he adjusts his hold on a long whip. He is a wiry, intense-looking man. They have never spoken nor competed before, though Serpicus has seen him race and knows his reputation. He is what the betting men call a hare, a man who always races from the front, a driver who holds his line regardless of what anyone else does. It takes courage, perhaps even arrogance. Certainly it requires a lack of imagination: Serpicus has seen too many charioteers fly from the starter’s flag and wrap themselves around the first corner-marker to contemplate trying it himself.
Brutus has the outside lane. He is tall and red-haired, easy for his supporters to spot in the mayhem of the race even under the soiled leather cap he always wears. He looks across at him with a serious expression that Serpicus knows means that he has withdrawn into his own mind ready for the competition. He is a friend and can be trusted not to do anything stupid. He will beat Serpicus if he can and he is good enough to do it if his friend makes a mistake, but he won’t kill him to win.
Serpicus sighs. To his right a friend; to his left a man dedicated to winning at all costs, and two other race virgins mixed in with them who could ruin it for everyone.
Just another day at the race track.
A thin haze of dust from the previous race hangs in the air over the course and the sun shines through it like a veil. The silence is like the silence that surrounds a lion before it makes its attack.
The starter looks up at the patron’s box. The Master of Games leans towards Senator Catullus Appius, who is slumped in his chair and makes no move. The Master of Games waits a moment and then nods, as if the comatose old man has spoken graciously. He signals to the starter, who draws himself up importantly. He waits a few moments, then opens his hand. The silk rope stretched between the two marble Hermes at the front of each starting gate falls in slow motion.
As the rope touches the sand the arena opens its mouth and roars.
The horses know the signal of old; they are already moving by the time the end of Serpicus’ long whip lightly touches their flanks. Arragus lashes at his horses, forcing them forwards. The animals rear in their harness, taken by surprise. Amateurs, Serpicus thinks, rich boys out for a day’s sport. A professional trains his horses to know when the race is about to begin.
There is a growl of metal and wood as the wheels clash. Serpicus hears a shrill voice above them scream ‘Jupiter be on my side, two white bulls if the German fails!’, and then it is lost in an animal howl of excitement from every side as the horses bound forward.
Cassius gets the best start and is slightly in front of Serpicus and two others as they near the first bend, with the rest in a clump just behind. They tuck in behind him and wait for an opportunity. The spectators’ faces at the edge of the arena blur into a featureless white streak as they lean forward to scream encouragement and curses at them. Out of the corner of his eye Serpicus sees one of the rich boys – red hair, so Decius – come up beside him, his arm pumping, the whip cracking across his horses’ backs. The professional in Serpicus wants to take the boy quietly to one side and tell him that it is pointless, the horses are already going as fast as they can, but the other part of him remembers, knows, still feels and has learned to channel the excitement that once filled him like boiling wine. If it is a man’s first time and he does not know what to expect, the start of a race is like a dam breaking, the thunder calls him and a river of light floods through his body. Serpicus can see that the boy is intoxicated and blinded by it. He is going too fast, trying to make up for his bad start. Seipicus shouts a warning that the boy has no chance of hearing. They all swing left for the first time and the youngster overshoots the corner. His horses keep galloping, which at least saves them from getting the chariot up their backs. The chariot skids sideways until it smashes into the wall on the far side. The noise is almost drowned by the roar of the crowd. The chariot holds together somehow, but a shower of sparks fountain from the axle as he wrenches the horses around and back into the race.
As they bowl out of the corner and speed down the long straight, the other youngster, Arragus, overtakes Serpicus. He lets the boy go and concentrates on staying close to Cassius. Decius’ chariot is damaged and he is far behind and not going to win, but the rest of them are in a tight bunch. Serpicus knows without looking that the head of Brutus’ near-side horse is level with his hip. Cassius is just ahead of him, and Arragus is between them. A brave – and exceedingly foolish – man could have run across the horse’s backs from the leading chariot to the last without touching the ground.
Cassius is racing like a hare in front of h
ounds. Serpicus can see that Brutus and he have the same strategy. Let the boys charge ahead if they want to, stay out of their way when they crash, as they must, and keep up a good pace while you’re waiting. Meanwhile make sure that Cassius doesn’t break away, and if all that means a race spent chewing the dense acrid cloud of dust that the hotheads threw up behind them as they charged towards disaster, so be it. Better to be alive and coughing up the harsh orange earth for three days after the race, than to have lungs as clean as the shining coins they will press on your eyes.
Arragus draws level with Cassius. Serpicus sees him lean to the left as he bores into the leader, pulling his horses across his line in an attempt to force Cassius to slow down and surrender the inside track. The wheel-hubs touch and there is a high grinding scream as the tortured metal around the hubs buckles and cracks and smoke pours from them. Serpicus has seen races where sheets of flame shot up from the wooden wheels as they ground against each other. Arragus inches ahead and for a moment it looks as if his ploy has worked. Serpicus sees Cassius glance momentarily down at the clashing wheels and then his arm swings and cracks the whip over his horses’ heads. They jump forward, and suddenly the two chariots are level as the next corner approaches. The boy has a second to make up his mind. He can slow down and tuck in behind Cassius, forcing Serpicus to give way, and try to come out of the corner fast to take Cassius on the next straight, or he can speed up again and cut across Cassius as he did before, only this time Cassius will be ready for him and an instant later the corner will be upon them. If Cassius doesn’t give him way then Arragus will have to swing out quickly and take the corner wide, avoiding Cassius’ chariot as best he can as it skids round the corner. This will leave Arragus at a disadvantage coming out of the other side of the corner. He will be in the outside lane and behind. He may even lose his place to Brutus or Serpicus, pounding after him in the centre of a cloud of Cassius’ dust.
Arragus lashes his whip wildly at his horses.
Serpicus glances across at Brutus and shakes his head. The boy doesn’t lack courage. His whip waves again and the reins slap down on the horses’ necks. The animals make a desperate effort and Arragus’ chariot pulls ahead by the length of a spear. Cassius looks down again at the wheels. Serpicus knows that Cassius has to make an immediate decision, and suddenly, with an absolute clarity, he knows what Cassius is going to do. Serpicus opens his mouth to shout a warning to Arragus, but it is too late.
Through the sun-goldened dust Serpicus sees the favourite’s arm rise and fall. The end of his whip flicks forward and coils around Arragus’ wrist, above the hand that holds the young man’s reins. In skilled hands the lash of the whip rips skin and flesh like a sword blow, numbing muscle and paralysing nerves. Cassius is a master with a whip.
Arragus’ frozen hand drops the reins. The horses, suddenly free, slow down and pull sideways, away from the looming confrontation. Cassius’ chariot leaps ahead as the youngster makes a wild grab for the reins with his other hand. It is too late. The reins are already on the ground amongst his horses’ feet.
Dropped reins are an occupational hazard during races, and chariot racers have a choice as to how to prepare for when it happens. Some tie their reins around their wrists or their waist in order to make sure that if they lose their grip then the reins don’t fall to the ground. They carry a short-bladed knife in their belt sharp enough to cut themselves free with one movement if the need arises. Both waist and wrist are good ideas in their ways, and each has its adherents. However, both are bad ideas if you are thrown from the chariot. Unless you get the knife to the reins before you hit the ground you will have the flesh flayed from your body by the time the horses stop running. Alternatively, you can hold the reins in your hand in the same way that a horse-rider would do, lacing them loosely through your fingers, which means that you won’t get dragged along the ground if you fall out of the chariot, but you accept that if you drop the reins you are out of the race as there is no way of getting them back. Professionals tend to do the latter. Arragus had copied the professionals. The chariot slows.
Then the gods desert him.
As the chariot slows, momentum carries Arragus forward, pressing him against the front edge. As he begins to straighten up again, one of the cantering horses treads on the trailing reins. The horse’s head dips suddenly as it stumbles and tries to stay on its feet. The other horse holds its companion up but the beast’s falling weight wrenches the chariot sideways and half-halts it. The boy is taken by surprise and is thrown against the side of the chariot. His weight pivots on his hip and he falls over the side and sprawls in the dust. He lies in the dust for a moment, coughing and dazed. Then his wits clear and he sees his friend’s pale face high above him.
His arm comes up as he throws himself sideways.
Even above the excited screams of the crowd Serpicus thinks he hears a sharp crack like a dry branch breaking as the frantic horses pull Decius’ chariot over Arragus’ prone body.
* * *
Serpicus pulls his protesting horses to a halt and slaps a palm against the side of his chariot. ‘Did you see what that bastard did?’
Brutus shrugs. ‘If the judges didn’t see it then he’ll get away with it.’ Brutus sees something in Serpicus’ face and his eyes open wider. ‘You’ll report him?’
Serpicus hesitates, anger running hot and bitter through him like cheap wine, then he comes back to reality. His shoulders relax. ‘No, I suppose not. If the judges haven’t said anything by now then either they didn’t see it and he’ll just deny it, or they didn’t want to see it, in which case he won’t need to deny it. I doubt any of the spectators could have seen anything even if we’d been going slowly, and the speed we were going gave them no chance.’ He coughs and spits arena dust from a mouth dry with disgust.
‘There would be a mark on his arm.’ Decius is sitting on his own in a corner of the room. His head is thrown back, resting against the wall, and his eyes are unnaturally wide. He has killed his friend in their first race. The drivers all know it wasn’t his fault, they know that he knows it wasn’t his fault, and they know that knowing it won’t make any difference. The boy has been shocked into becoming a man, but the soft edges of his face still look as if they could crumple into tears in a moment.
Brutus puts a hand on Serpicus’ shoulder. ‘The gods will see justice done.’
Serpicus frowns. Brutus has a deep faith that things have a way of working themselves out in the end, that the gods – and therefore life - are just, even if sometimes hard to understand. Serpicus can happily agree that they are hard to understand. He hasn’t seen much in the way of justice in this life.
Serpicus sees Brutus look over his shoulder and his eyes flicker a warning. Serpicus knows who it must be and doesn’t turn round. Brutus speaks slightly louder, wanting Cassius to hear him. ‘The boy had bad luck. If Decius’ chariot hadn’t been right behind him when he fell he would have walked away.’
Serpicus hesitates before turning to face Cassius. Cassius looks at him with mild curiosity. ‘I was in front of him when he fell. Did you see what happened?’ His voice is thin and nasal.
‘After your wheels clashed, one of Arragus’ horses stumbled and he was thrown out. Decius went straight into him. He hadn’t a chance.’
Cassius gives a tiny shrug. ‘Bad luck. He was brave.’ He walks away. Serpicus slowly unclenches his fists. Brutus looks into his face.
‘You’re in the wrong business if a boy’s death bothers you.’
‘It isn’t the death, it’s the manner of it. It was murder.’
‘Yes. And it’s part of what we do.’
Time stops. Serpicus feels as though iron bands are closing around his chest. Then he takes a deep breath and quits the racing business for ever.
Chapter Ten
To Aelius Sejanus, from his Servant:
The two Germans Serpicus and Decius came to the Palace of the Partner tonight and agreed to go to their homeland and bring back the bear for the games. A
s planned, I shall accompany them, and carry out your wishes.
Further to our earlier enquiries, our sources confirm that the younger German Decius is of the Treveri tribe, given as a hostage for the Praunberg district. When the time came for hostages to be returned he elected to stay on in Rome. He had become friends with Arragus Pollo, son of Septimus Pollo who, you will no doubt remember, was convicted for treason last year. The two boys trained together to be chariot racers. Arragus was killed in his first race, some say through his friend’s incompetence. Serpicus was a competitor in the same race. As Septimus Pollo naturally wanted nothing to do with the boy who had killed his son, and he had no other means of support, Serpicus took him on as an apprentice working with the horses in the arena.
I understand your instructions that all messages are to come directly to yourself rather than to your uncle. It will be done as you wish.
Chapter Eleven
It had been a long day, and Serpicus was glad to be home.
As he pushed the door open, the two, small siege-catapults at the other side of the room were activated.
The missiles hurtled across the room, one striking him on the thigh and the other in his midriff. He doubled over with a whooshing sound and fell backwards. The missiles frothed around him, letting out delighted shrieks.