The Emperor's box, though covered with a tiled pitched roof, was south facing and exposed to the brunt of the sun. The finish line, however, was directly across from the pulvinar, in front of the temple of Victoria. The Emperor would get a good view of the finish! Narses had been a guest in the box before, and today, with the intense afternoon heat, as well as the press of the crowds, he preferred his cooler location. Despite the assurance that there would be no fix in the race, the lanista was entirely certain that Hamilcar would win.
Aside from Narses and the African himself, no one in Rome knew that the youth had been a champion driver amongst his people in Numidia. Even with his great success as a gladiator in the arena, Hamilcar often practiced in secret, particularly with the four-horse chariots in use today. The lanista had seen him drive. The youth was a natural with the two-wheeled car and a swift team.
The chariots continued their circuit, the crowd raising a ringing cheer as they passed. The sound traveled around the stadium, pacing the drivers and their teams, making strange echoes. Narses settled back in the chair, quietly ignoring his hosts, who were working themselves into a cheerfully drunken fog. When one of the courtesans approached him, he politely declined. His attention was on the race, not these distractions.
– |Galen, Emperor of the West, stepped down from his golden seat, arm raised in salute to the people in the stands and the drivers arrayed below him. As he descended the steps, a slave on either side maneuvered a canopy of purple silk to keep him in the shade. The sun was bright today. The Emperor took a deep breath and lowered his arm. Another slave placed a dark red handkerchief in his hand. Dropping this was the signal for the race to start. He stretched out his arm, the cloth in his fist.
"Citizens of Rome," Galen's voice rang out, strong and clear, echoed around the sweeping length of the stadium by heralds repeating his words, so that all might hear. "I call upon the gods to protect and increase the power of the Roman people, to bless their empire and their armies with victory and good fortune, to be gracious and favorable to the plebes, the patricians, the College of the Priests, to me, to my family and my great household."
At the words, a deep-throated cheer rose up, for Galen had loosened his purse enough to see every man, woman and child in the city feasted for two days and two nights in preparation for the last day of the games. Well lubricated with food and wine and sweet pastries, the people were in a mellow and forgiving mood. Whispers of the Emperor's penuriousness had fallen quiet.
"The oracles," he continued, "have instructed spotless white bulls be led to the altar of Jupiter by day, not by night, for the heavenly gods love sacrifice under the light of the sun. To please the honored dead and the gods who watch over us and make Rome strong, performances have been given in the theaters, all have rejoiced and I have laid cakes upon the altar of Eilithyia."
Again, there was a murmur of general approval. The strange weather afflicting the land had passed, leaving blue skies and clean-falling rain. It seemed, with these proper sacrifices and the veneration of the dead, the displeasure of the gods had been turned aside.
"One hundred and ten matrons have prayed on bended knee, asking Divine Juno Regina for her blessing and forgiveness. I have knelt myself beside the Tiber and given up a pregnant sow to the goddess Tellus, so she might make the fields thick with wheat and the harvest rich. All these things I have done to restore the health of the people and the state."
The crowd responded in kind to the words, raising their voices in praise for the Emperor and for the gods. Galen gestured to one of his Praetorians, then raised both hands to the heavens. As he did so, soldiers began to descend from the heights of the stadium in pairs, heavy baskets in hand. They began to scatter tokens of copper, stamped with letters and numbers, into the crowd. The people surged to their feet, raising a glad cry. The poorer citizens were traditionally forced to sit in the highest seats in the stadium and now this largess-for everyone knew that the tokens could be redeemed at the Imperial storehouses for cloth, salt, grain, meat, tools, lumber, iron ingots, fired pottery, lambs, kine, all matter of goods and wealth-was being distributed to them first.
"Already," the Emperor called to the people, "Already Faith and Peace and Honor and ancient Modesty and neglected Virtue are venturing to return, and blessed Plenty with her cornucopia appears. Our voices ask for aid and we feel the presence of divine spirits. We beg for these soft showers from heaven, pleasing the gods by the prayers that we have learned, trusting them to turn away disease, drive out fearful dangers, gain peace and a season fertile with fruits. Our song of piety winds grace from the gods above, our song from those below."
On either side of the pulvinar, massed ranks of maidens and young men began to sing. The hymn was powerful and ancient, first raised to the sky in the time of fabled Romulus and Remus, primordial kings of Rome. Many in the assembled multitude joined in, filling the stadium with the booming roar of their massed voices. The Praetorians continued to descend the steps, their hands sowing a sparkling cascade of copper.
Galen waited, sweating in his heavy toga and cloak, until the gift givers reached the walkway separating the patricians and senators from the lower classes. Then he raised the red handkerchief again, drawing the attention of a rank of trumpeters arrayed on the spina across from him. At the motion, the grooms loosed the bridles of the chariot horses and ran out of the way. The drivers took up their reins, waiting tensely for the signal.
"For the glory of our ancient gods, let this race begin!" Galen's voice rang out into the hushed silence left by the end of the hymn. He dropped the handkerchief. As it drifted to the ground, the massed trumpets sounded in a sharp bleat of noise. Motion exploded along the line of chariots, the drivers whipping their horses to the race. Hooves thundered on the sand and the chariots leapt forward, wheels spinning furiously.
– |Behind the Imperial box, a tunnel ran through the bulk of the stadium and into the Palatine Hill itself, allowing the Emperor and his family easy, secure access to the circus. With the race under way, the usual crowd of servants, courtiers, clerks and Praetorians departed. An old man, his back bent with weariness, shuffled along the hall, one gnarled hand pressed against the wall for support. Near the small complex of rooms at the back of the viewing platform, the ancient stopped to catch his breath.
A servant, looking out for him, hastened up to his side. "Master Gaius? The senator has kept you a seat, close by the balcony."
"Give me a moment, lad." Gaius Julius' voice was little more than a croak, strained and hoarse. His fingers curled around the man's arm, though the servant barely noticed the weight. "I am not well. Tell me, has anyone been asking for me?"
The man nodded, then motioned off to the side, where an alcove was half hidden by a wooden screen. "He did not give a name, master, but he was generous."
"Good." Gaius Julius gathered his strength and then hobbled to the alcove. His limbs, which had once seemed so tireless and strong, had been reduced to this pitiful state. Even his mind seemed clouded and slow, though he was certain that his mental faculties remained unimpaired. He had taken to checking and then double-checking everything he did. It made for slow work, but it was necessary. A wrinkled hand thrust aside the screen. The man waiting in the alcove was nondescript, perfectly ordinary in appearance. Even his toga and tunic were an indefinable color. Gaius Julius expected that the courier was well remunerated for this particular skill. "You have my chits?"
The man nodded and pressed a leather case into Gaius' hand. The old Roman felt the weight of the bronze betting tokens and smiled. Even in his reduced state, the thrill of a dangerous gamble fired his blood and set his mind in motion. "Excellent. Here."
The nondescript man took the bag of coin, bowed and then slipped out. Gaius Julius leaned against the wall, weary beyond measure. Damn the Prince! He toys with our lives too, not just his own!
Luckily, the old Roman had foreseen that the Prince might come to grief, and his men whisked both of them away to a safe house on the Ianiculu
m Hill. A priest of Asklepius had been summoned as planned but could do nothing. Nearly three days had passed before Gaius Julius could open his eyes. The worst part of the whole experience had been being aware but unable to motivate his body to action. The Prince remained comatose, barely breathing, his skin waxy and cold. Gaius Julius wondered with growing fear if he would be trapped in this half-life forever. What if the Prince did not die? Would he remain this ancient, withered figure, barely able to walk without assistance? It was maddening!
By a stroke of luck, all of the preparations for the final day of the games had been completed. Gregorious Auricus, in fact, had been able to resolve all of the last-minute problems and controversies without a hitch. Gaius Julius sneered at the wall, thinking that the senator would reap all of the glory and public acclaim for this, when the old Roman had done all the work. Well, nearly all the reward… He tucked the pouch of betting tokens away in his robe, taking considerable satisfaction from the weight that pressed against his side.
Thanks to some spurious rumor that the races would be fair, a great deal of wagering revolved around whether the Amazon Diana would win the race. Nearly every serious connoisseur of the races thought it impossible. The woman might be a very demon with the sword, but she had never raced before. Gaius Julius heard she had been training nonstop for the past days, trying to learn the tricks of maneuvering the four-horse chariot, but he knew that three days could not match a lifetime of experience. Hamilcar, however, was a more likely prospect.
The gladiator had never raced in the circus either, and the odds against his victory were long. In fact, the current leader in the yearly standings-Robertus of the Greens-was the odds-on favorite. Gaius Julius, however, paid close attention to all kinds of obscure information. Once, when they were in their cups, lanista Narses mentioned the African was skilled with a chariot.
Gaius Julius had taken a risk, betting nearly all of the capital that he had accumulated in Prince Maxian's name on the young gladiator. He had also taken some small steps to ensure the wagers he had laid against Diana would pay off as well.
Croaking with laughter, Gaius Julius hobbled out into the passage and then into the back of the pulvinar, his dark toga and cloak flapping around his scrawny legs like a raven's tail.
– |Wind rushed past, whistling through Thyatis' helmet. She leaned into the turn as her chariot thundered around the metae. The entire chariot shuddered and flexed under her feet as it swung. The wheels skidded sideways across the sand as the horses, heads down, manes flowing, roared around the corner. Four other chariots, two White, one Red and one Green, were neck and neck with her. Their drivers were screaming imprecations at the horses, whipping them with the reins. Above the thunder of the wheels on the sand, the roar of the crowd was very distant and faint.
Thyatis tugged the reins to the right and the horses leapt the same direction. Cursing, she tried to guide them back towards the inner track. The spina was raised in three steps; first a small ledge, then a wall seven or eight feet high, then the platform that held the statues and obelisks. Her left wheel had been veering towards the ledge. Ila's voice was loud in her memory; don't let the wheel hit the ledge; it'll splinter!
The White driver on her right, trying to swing past her on the turn, had his horses running flat out, sweat streaming off their flanks, when her chariot jumped out. The horses were keyed up and overresponsive and she overcorrected in the turn. Her right wheel slammed into the side of the White chariot, throwing the driver against his front rail. The man shouted in rage. The crowd erupted in cheers, sensing a wreck in the offing.
A Red chariot suddenly surged past on her left and Thyatis cursed herself, wrenching her attention back to the race. The Red driver hunched low in his car, whipping the horses furiously. They sped past, blowing sand and dust across Thyatis. Choking, she swung in behind him. At the turns, the inner track was critical; a driver could gain one or two lengths in each circuit.
A hundred yards ahead, the three leaders went into the turn in front of the starting gates. Hamilcar was hanging a little back from the Blue and Green, running without an opponent on either side. Thyatis was seized by a fierce desire to beat the sly young man. She flicked the reins to the right and her Browns surged into the gap between the Red and the White chariots. Hooves blurred across the sand and she caught a glimpse of the White's wheels seemingly spinning backwards.
They came into the turn, Red on the inner track, then Thyatis' Blue, and the White, screaming insults at her. She felt the tension in the rattling, bouncing car change as they slewed into the turn and she let the rear of the chariot kick out. The back of her chariot swept across the front of the White's horses and they veered away. The White driver lashed at them, losing sight of the ruts torn in the sand by the passage of the first four chariots. The wheels hit a wedge of sand and suddenly bounced skyward. Screaming, the driver tried to cling to the reins, but the horses turned, trying to catch Thyatis' mares. The driver was flung out of the car, which toppled over. The man hit the ground with a crunch and then rolled, shrieking, as he was dragged, his leg tangled in a strap. The chariot car bounced twice, shedding a wheel, then slammed down on the driver and broke apart.
Thyatis lost sight of the man, concentrating on swinging back in behind the Red chariot, which had opened a length or more in front of her. They were in the straight again, stinging dust and sand striking her face. She ignored the pain and let the horses take their head. The browns opened up, their stride lengthening, and she roared forward, rapidly closing in on the Red chariot.
– |"I'm sorry," said the armored guard at the entrance by the starting gates, "but the stables are closed until after the race. You can come back then, if you want. The drivers like to meet their fans." He smiled down at Betia, broad brown chin crossed by the strap of his helmet. The little blond girl smiled up at him, swinging her shoulders from side to side.
"Are you sure?" she wheedled. "You couldn't just show me the inside? I love the Blues! They're the best, you know, particularly that Amazon Diana! She's amazing!" Betia put her right hand on the man's forearm.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but that's against the rules. Now, if you want to wait, I can maybe see you go in later?" He smiled back at her, showing heavy yellow teeth.
"But I want to go in now!" Betia sounded petulant. Her left hand remained behind her back. She thrust her chest out, letting the thin fabric of her tunic stretch. "Please?"
"No, no." The guard looked away for a moment, to see if his mate had come back from the latrines. "I can't… urk." He looked down.
Betia slipped her knife out of his stomach. The thin space between his shirt of linked mail and his belt was oozing blood. She pressed a hand over his mouth, ignoring his stunned look, then the knife slid across his throat. Blood welled against her hand, dripping down her arm, but she levered him to the ground, letting the stable door carry most of the weight.
Four men appeared and picked up the guard. Another man, dressed in much the same armor and clothing, took his place. Betia wrapped her bloody arm in the dead man's cloak, then pushed the heavy wooden door open with her shoulder. Her blue eyes were bleak, but she kept moving, concentrating on the task at hand. The door swung open and the four ducked in with the body. Four more nondescript figures slipped in behind them and then the door closed.
"Quickly, quickly." Anastasia threw her hood back. Her face was pale but perfectly arranged. The grim light in her eyes matched her cold perfection. "Find the rest of them. No sound. No alarms!"
At her side, Vitellix looked down sadly at the dead guard, his throat seeping dark blood from the razor-thin gash. With the toe of his sandal, he flipped the edge of the man's cloak over his face. The four men split up, moving quickly through the high-ceilinged rooms of the stable. Two of the men had swords, two bows. Mithridates touched Vitellix on the shoulder and then the two of them hurried off, their own weapons bared.
"Ila? Ila!" Vitellix's voice was soft as he passed down the line of horse stalls. "It's Vitellix!"
Anastasia sighed, watching the lanista disappear into the gloom. Her gown under the robe was a deep cerulean, low cut across the chest, showing the curve of her smooth white breasts. Without urgency, she reversed the cloak, revealing a sky-blue silk lining, and draped it low on her bare shoulders. "Betia, are you done?"
"Yes, mistress." The blond girl had shed her soiled tunic and dragged the body on its cloak into the nearest stall, covering its feet with straw. Then the girl pulled on a new tunic that matched the Duchess' colors. "All done."
"Good." The Duchess smoothed her round forearms with a dusting of lead powder, turning them a seamless, perfect white. She checked her earrings and the fall of her hair. Gold and sapphire bangles tinkled at her wrists. "Let us see if they are done."
Betia went ahead, her knife bare in her hand, lamplight glittering on the blade. Anastasia followed at a stately pace, her liquid violet eyes taking in the signs of a scuffle as they entered the main area of the stables. At the end of the race, the Blue chariots and their drivers would return here. Once the horses had been unhitched, the drivers-victorious or not-would mingle with their adoring fans and then go off to some banquet held in their honor. The Duchess smiled, wondering what the little cripple Narses would think when he found that his prize Amazon had been snatched out from under his very nose.
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