Hawk

by George Green

  Serpicus wondered if Cassius knew about the attack on Severus and Galba, perhaps even knew how deep the dagger had gone. Galba could be as brave and as strong as he liked; the wound was real and it was hurting him.

  It took a strong man to guide two horses hauling a chariot at full gallop. No one could race properly with a wound like that. The bottle that Decius had thrown seemed to have put an end to Galba’s pain for the moment, but it could not last long. And in the meantime Galba was standing with an amused smile and rocking gently from foot to foot, like a man standing outside a tavern who has had just enough to drink to leave him wondering whether to go home or go find another tavern.

  Serpicus looked back up at the crowd. Decius had disappeared. He saw Ox, sitting now, his expression grim. Galba followed the line of Serpicus’ gaze. The big man’s face was at once filled with smiling optimism. He saluted Galba and made a clenched fist of encouragement. Galba gave him a relaxed wave and turned back to Serpicus.

  ‘If they passed a law that said a chariot driver was only allowed to have one man in his supporters’ club,’ Galba said, slurring slightly, ‘that’s the man I’d choose.’

  Serpicus gestured. ‘What was in the bottle?’

  Galba shook his head with a smile. ‘Get your own. There’s only enough for me.’

  Several slaves ran past Serpicus on last-minute errands. The noise of the crowd was increasing as the start of the race approached. Last-minute odds were being shouted and latecomers were howled at to sit down. Serpicus looked up to see the race judge getting ready. The Senator was consulting with the Master of Games, and the judge was only waiting for him to nod before the race would start.

  Galba looked past Serpicus at Cassius again.

  ‘Hey, pig fucker! The last time we were all here you killed a boy, just because he might have beaten you, remember? Well, I saw him in a dream last night, and he told me you would lose today and that he’d be standing beside you when it happens. Do you feel him near you?’ Cassius didn’t turn his head but Serpicus was near enough to see the muscles tighten around his mouth. Cassius let a few moments pass and then he spoke to his horse’s ears.

  ‘I think I hear a drunk fat man talking, a drunk fat man already dead but too stupid to lie down.’

  Galba’s face was covered in a thin glaze of sweat as he leant against the rim of his chariot, his eyes unnaturally bright and fixed on Cassius’ profile. The red stain on his tunic was now the size of a man’s hand. Serpicus saw how he pulled the folds of the material, arranging it to ensure that Cassius would not see it.

  ‘I’ll outlive you, pig fucker, or die knowing you will be close behind me,’ he said cheerfully.

  Cassius still didn’t look at him. ‘In an hour or less,’ he said evenly, ‘perhaps even before the end of this race, you will be waiting on the banks of the Styx for Charon’s boat.’ Then he turned and gave Galba a look of chilling malice. ‘And you will be waiting there for a long time, for I shall have taken the two coins from your eyes. I will use them to buy your mother for my ugliest privy-slave to have as his plaything, and when he grows bored of her I shall feed her to my dogs.’ Serpicus didn’t doubt that he meant it. Galba chuckled at the insult.

  ‘As long as you are standing right beside me on the river-bank, I shan’t mind how long we have to wait there,’ he said.

  The Master of Games leant forward importantly and made sure they were paying attention. He stepped back and Senator Blaesus stood up and walked forward. He gave a languid wave, which started with the chariot drivers and ended up in the crowd. Two of the drivers saluted back, while the other seemed to be having problems with his harness. The Senator paid it no heed. The crowd bayed their excitement and threw cushions and hunks of bread at each other. The Master of Games looked at the Senator and every eye in the Circus followed him. The Senator nodded, gave the crowd a final regal gesture and sat down. The Master of Games turned to the crowd.

  ‘Citizens of Rome,’ he declaimed. ‘These games honour Consilius Sejanus. Let them begin.’

  ‘Call that a fucking introduction?’ yelled Galba, waving his arms like a demagogue. ‘The man was a genuine Roman hero!’ The excited cries of the crowd drowned him out. The Master of Games smiled indulgently down at the race track. Galba pounded his fist on the chariot rim with mock frustration. Serpicus put out an arm and then froze as Galba suddenly staggered and stopped shouting. Serpicus watched as Galba reached with awkward fingers inside his tunic and found Ox’s bottle. He pushed the stopper off with a thumb and downed the remainder in one swallow. This time the drug took longer to work and he did not move so freely, but at least he could still stand.

  Cassius saw it. He leant across. ‘Don’t worry, fat man. You will soon be with Consilius in Hades.’

  ‘Only if you’re there first,’ growled Galba.

  ‘Be calm,’ Serpicus said urgently. ‘He’s just trying to upset you.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to try,’ snarled Galba. ‘His existence on this earth upsets me.’

  The Master of Games leant forward again, received a signal from the Senator and looked back at the contestants.

  ‘Ready?’

  All three men raised their arms in the signal.

  ‘Ready.’

  The stadium became quiet. The Master of Games waited for a moment, enjoying the weight of every person’s eyes upon him.

  Then he signalled to the judge, and the judge opened his hand.

  The silk rope strung taut between the statues of Hermes suddenly slackened, and then fell to the ground like a golden snake.

  Although Serpicus was worried about Galba and distracted by Cassius’ insults, long practice allowed a part of him to assess the coming race. In the near silence that hung between the release of the rope and the crowd’s first scream, as every man inhaled, he looked up the course.

  The arena track was the usual bow-shot out, bow-shot back in distance, a flat oval with each sharply curving end marked by stone cones. The outer edge of the oval was a stone wall, smooth and high, without obstructions. The danger, as always, lay at the two ends. Even if three chariots racing flat out could synchronize themselves to hit the corner line abreast and turn in exact formation all the way round – which was impossible – there was still not room for all of them. Someone was going to hit the wall, or smash a wheel on the stone markers, or get trapped in between. Serpicus raised his whip. He knew that normal tactics didn’t apply; there weren’t enough chariots in the race to hang back and rely on the other drivers to weed each other out, and then come through at the end. The man who was in front at the first marker would stand a good chance of winning the race. Anyone who knew anything about racing would see that, and all three of them knew about racing.

  The rope hit the ground, and the horses reared as each driver laid his whip across their backs. Galba almost fell backwards as the chariot lurched forward, but closed his fingers on the reins at the last moment.

  The sudden noise closed in around Serpicus, and as he automatically brought the whip down and twisted the reins around his fingers he felt his heart pound. He had not raced for two years, and everyone knew that only regular racing allowed a man to keep his competitive edge. Cassius had proved that he would kill a man if he had to in order to win, and was quite good enough to win without needing to. Serpicus couldn’t allow that to happen. Only the winner would stand in front of Blaesus.

  Serpicus didn’t wait to see how Galba was doing. He forced the horses forward with a vicious crack of the whip over their backs. Within moments he was galloping at full tilt towards the first turn. The chariot bucked as it hit a hole in the track and as he reached out to steady himself he saw Cassius just behind him. Serpicus was on the inside; if he got to the turn first then he would come out of it in the lead. If he failed, Cassius would make him give way. It was simple. He brought the whip down again.

  He could just see the nose of Cassius’ horse from the corner of his eye. The chariot driver’s rule of thumb; anything less than half a length
isn’t enough. Anything more than that is control.

  He roared the horses on and they leapt forward with a squeal, pulling almost a length ahead. The noise of their hooves was drowned by the howling crowd but Serpicus felt their battering rhythm under his feet. He looked up. The corner raced towards him. Cassius was too far behind, he would have to drop back and allow Serpicus to turn first, keeping pace with him while hoping that he would turn too tightly and be forced to slow down. Serpicus pulled the right rein hard, swinging out into Cassius’ path. A dense cloud of fine dry dust rose from his wheel. Then he pulled left and went into the corner. Serpicus felt the chariot skid on the corner but held his line. For an instant the inside wheel lifted off the track. Serpicus threw his weight to the side and the wheel smashed down again. Then he was round the turn and headlong down the back straight. He could see lines of faces lining the track, leaning forward, their mouths open, their words crashed together into one long scream.

  He risked a glance backward. Cassius was right behind him, his face contorted into a leer. Galba was a full length behind Cassius but was still in touch.

  The next turn was coming near. He could hear the pounding hooves of Cassius’ team just behind him. He pulled slightly right again, forcing Cassius to hold back as before. While he was this far in front there was little Cassius could do to prevent him.

  Then, just for an instant, he looked up, high into the crowd.

  Time stopped.

  The Senator’s box had two new arrivals. They had their arms around each other.

  Serpicus was surrounded by silence.

  The screaming faces moved but seemed struck dumb; the hooves still pounded at the ground but he didn’t hear them.

  They were watching him.

  He was too far away to see the expression on Cato’s face, and yet he could see the colour of Antonia’s eyes.

  For the time it took him to see them he stopped urging the horses forward, and for three strides they faltered, and in that time Cassius was upon him.

  The screams of the crowd as Cassius pulled level cut through Serpicus’ reverie, jolting him into instinctive action. He cracked the whip over the horses’ heads. The animals’ ears went back and they dipped their heads, their mouths tossing flecks of foam back towards the driver. Cassius was almost level, but couldn’t quite pull ahead. The turn was upon them. There was no chance of both chariots turning together, and nowhere for Serpicus to go. He held his line and waited for the shudder under his feet that would mean collision and the end. The sound of the crowd and the blood roaring in his head drowned everything else.

  Then the sun was in his eyes, dazzling him. He was around the turn and out the other side, and he was still alive. Cassius had dropped back slightly to avoid the collision, and then whipped the horses as he was at the apex of the turn. The chariot reared up and came out of the corner on one wheel. It bounced down and shot forward again. The crowd screamed derision at Cassius for pulling out of the collision. He responded by a frenzy of blows to the horses, and they pulled almost level with Serpicus again.

  Cassius raised his hand, and Serpicus looked at his face and knew what he was going to do. Cassius’ wrist flexed and Serpicus remembered what happened to the young charioteer who lost his life in Serpicus’ last race. The horses were pulling the wildly veering chariot flat out and Serpicus dared not let go of the reins. He could do nothing to prevent it. He braced himself against the chariot sides, wrapping the reins around the hand farthest from Cassius and waited; hoping he could catch the whip as it came down and pull Cassius off balance.

  There was a sound like a flat hand slapping a polished wooden table. Above the screams of the crowd Serpicus heard Cassius cry out in pain. He risked another glance in his direction. Cassius was leaning over the side of his chariot, his right arm outstretched, blood dripping from his wrist. His hand was empty, his whip gone. Serpicus could see the leather thong trailing in the dust. For a moment Serpicus thought Cassius had dropped it, then he saw Galba and realized what had happened. As Cassius raised his arm to flick the greased leather forward to encircle Serpicus’ wrist, Galba had wrapped his own whip around Cassius’ arm. That was the slap Serpicus heard.

  As Serpicus watched, Galba tossed the handle of the whip towards Cassius, where it fell amongst the hooves and wheels.

  Cassius pulled frantically, but one end was firmly attached to his arm and the other was trapped around the axle of his chariot. He hauled at the reins to slow the horses down, but he was off balance and leaning to the right. His horses were well trained. Even though there was nowhere to go, they swung to the right as the reins commanded them to where Galba’s chariot was racing almost level with them. The wheel on Cassius’ chariot touched the corner of Galba’s and erupted in a shower of splinters. The chariot crashed down onto the track and then spun over like a thrown child’s toy. Cassius’ horses were knocked sideways and fell in a squealing froth, their hooves stabbing at the air. Over the howls of the crowd Serpicus heard one high-pitched scream and saw Cassius tumble forwards and disappear under a cloud of sand and dust. The crowd threw themselves forward to look over the edge and see what was happening.

  Serpicus eased his horses to the right and suddenly he was almost at the corner. The horses pulled smoothly around the turn and he was heading back the opposite way. He slowed slightly and looked back across to the other side.

  Cassius’ horses were squealing in pain and terror, pulling panic-stricken against their traces. The chariot behind them was almost destroyed. Galba hadn’t fared much better. He and his horses were wedged between Cassius’ chariot and the low wall. One animal had a broken leg, the other was slumped on its knees on the ground. Galba was still just about standing, leant against the wall with one arm outstretched. The other hand was pressed to his side and he was bent over in pain. He waved Serpicus on. As Serpicus passed Galba he saw Cassius’ crumpled body lying still in the centre of the track. The crowd was standing up nearby. Those who had bet on Cassius screamed abuse and cast about frantically for things to throw at him. Serpicus’ supporters urged him on. He pulled the horses back to a canter and did another circuit.

  As he passed the post at the end of the arena he saw the Master of Games and shouted up to him.

  ‘Get some help for my friend.’

  The Master of Games nodded. ‘They are coming now.’

  Decius jumped down from the seating area and ran past Serpicus’ trotting horses towards the wrecked chariots at the other end. Other men made their slower way up the track carrying a stretcher and a box full of bandages.

  Serpicus kept the horses moving and waved to the crowd as he passed. Some shouted to him to speed up, even though there was no one else to race. Serpicus paid no attention. He saluted Ox as he went past and did the remaining three circuits. As he crossed the finish line there was a glad roar from the crowd.

  He jumped down off the chariot and ran to where the two chariots were still entangled and pressed against the wall. The crowd had largely lost interest in them. Some men who had bet against Serpicus stayed to shout unenthusiastic abuse as he passed; the rest talked about the next race. Decius was standing beside Galba, who was cursing loudly at one of the medical slaves trying to persuade him to climb down from the chariot.

  ‘Tell them to look after the horses,’ Galba said to Decius, his voice weak but insistent. His head dropped as he gasped for air and he gesticulated with the hand that wasn’t pressed against his side in the centre of a large red stain.

  ‘They are already,’ said Serpicus. The slaves had managed to calm three of the horses down enough to disentangle them and lead them away. The fourth, the one caught between the wall and the two chariots, was dead. The Thracian looked down at Serpicus, his face agitated, eyes rolling.

  ‘Tell them to look after the horses,’ he said again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Serpicus said gently. ‘The horses are fine.’ He held out a hand to help him down. Galba appeared to look at it and then looked away again. Serpicus moved
a hand in front of Galba’s face. His eyes didn’t react.

  The noise of the crowd suddenly became louder and more sibilant. Serpicus felt a tug on his tunic. Decius was pointing down the track. Serpicus turned and saw armed soldiers marching briskly towards them. He hesitated and then relaxed. There was nowhere to run to, no possibility of escape. He leant across to whisper to Galba.

  ‘The soldiers are coming for me. Stay here with Decius.’

  Galba started to say something and then his knees buckled. Decius caught him as he fell off the chariot and let him slide slowly to the ground. Galba lay still with his eyes closed. Decius knelt beside him. Serpicus put a hand on Decius’ shoulder and the young man looked up at him, his face pale with grief.

  Serpicus turned to face the soldiers. There were ten of them, Praetorians, Sejanus’ own bodyguard, led by a centurion. They stopped a few yards short of Serpicus’ chariot. ‘You two are to come with us.’

  There was a drowning cough. Serpicus looked down. Galba was lying on the ground. The slave was working to staunch the blood that now flowed freely from his wound. It didn’t look as though the slave was winning the race. Galba raised an admonitory finger to Serpicus.

  ‘Mind you don’t forget about us little people, now you’re going to be famous,’ he croaked.

  ‘I won’t,’ Serpicus said. Galba’s hand dropped back to the ground.

  The centurion beckoned to Serpicus to step forward. Six of the Praetorians formed a guard around him. The other four stood around the chariot. Serpicus put a hand on the centurion’s arm, gestured at Galba and said, ‘He should be with a doctor.’

  The centurion glanced down at the wide circle of crimson blood that stained the sand around Galba.

  ‘He’s done for,’ the centurion said. ‘Hippocrates himself couldn’t save him.’

  The slave leant forward suddenly, paused, then lowered Galba’s head gently to the ground. A bloody spume rimed his lips.

  ‘He is dead,’ the slave said quietly to Serpicus. ‘The wound was deep. There was nothing I could have done.’ Serpicus looked down at Galba’s body. ‘I know,’ he said, and knelt down to brush the sand from his face and close Galba’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, old friend,’ he whispered. ‘Wherever you are now, keep watching. There’ll be something to cheer about soon.’