around and one that would intensify as the day progressed. Worked into a mania, spectators would shriek and tear at their clothes, fondle each other, make ridiculous wagers, and even claw at their own skin.
From a vendor I bought wine and handed it to my companion. Sipping it, she calmed and resumed her seat.
“Aren’t you going to collect our winnings?”
“They can wait. I know Silannus. He won’t run away.”
“What have we on the next race? Ten on Red?” She frowned at the program. “Diocoles, a good driver, but he starts from a bad stall. I’d back White.”
“Even odds?”
“Yes. A hundred gold pieces. Taken?”
“Taken.”
She had judged well. White made a good start, gained the inside, and held the lead for three laps. On the fourth, Red, taking a chance, forced the White chariot close to the three cones set at the foot of each end of the Spine in order to protect the stone. White, misjudging, veered too close and the inside wheel hit and lifted. In a flash, his chariot had overturned.
“Clocchis!” The crowd yelled the driver’s name. “Clocchis!”
He couldn’t hear them. Trapped by the reins, he was dragged after the horses, the overturned chariot slewing toward him, wood splintering, bright metal fittings strewn over the sand. I saw his hand snatch at his knife, the gleam of sunlight from the blade, and then it was over.
Diocoles, unable to avoid the wreckage, drove straight at it, hoping that the speed and skill of his team would pull him through. He almost made it, then the offside horse trod on Clocchis, stumbled, and pulled the other horses after him.
At once the sand was a mass of kicking, screaming beasts, smashed chariots. A red stain of blood stretched out behind the body of Clocchis as, crushed to a pulp, he was dragged over the sand. Diocoles, favored by the gods, had managed to cut his reins and lay against the stone as the other chariots thundered past.
As slaves rushed to clear away the wreckage, Aquilia slumped back into her seat.
“I’ve lost,” she said. “Curse the luck. Atilus, you’re the richer by a hundred gold pieces.”
And the poorer by the ten I’d backed on Diocoles, but still the day showed a good profit. As the race ended I bought more wine.
In the tier before me a knight spoke thoughtfully to his companion as he studied his tablets.
“A private wager, Mercallus? On the second team in the next race to pass the finishing line. I’ve fifty pieces which says Ferdo will be the one.”
“The Blue charioteer?”
“Yes. Is it a bet?”
Mercallus grunted, studying his program. Out of curiosity, I did the same.
Ferdo’s inner horse was a Centenarius, one that had won over a hundred races, and would wear a specially adorned harness. The driver himself had a good reputation and was a favorite of the Blue faction, but his team consisted of Sicilian horses which, though fast, were unreliable. The necessity of slowing them to allow Nero to win would unsettle them—a fact which the knight had overlooked.
Leaning forward, I touched him on the shoulder.
“My pardon, but I overheard your conversation. If you would be interested in extending your wager, I would be grateful to be accommodated.”
He was younger than I had thought, with a sharply delineated face and deep-set eyes of pale blue. They widened as, turning, he saw me.
“Atilus! This is a surprise. What brings you here?”
“A holiday.”
“One which I hope will soon be over. You fight all too rarely these days. We miss you. It isn’t kind of you to deny your supporters the spectacle of your skill.” His eyes moved to the woman at my side. “Hello, Aquilia. I was telling Atilus that he is needed on the sand. Good sword-work is rare and a man shouldn’t neglect his skills.”
“I agree, Drusillius.” Her hand closed with warm intimacy on my thigh. “Perhaps, if the offer was large enough, he would be interested.”
“In a private display?” His eyes clouded with thought. “Perhaps it could be arranged. But, in the meantime, the bet. How much did you have in mind, Atilus?”
“A hundred pieces.”
“That Blue will not come second.” He made a note on his tablets. “And you, Mercallus?”
As he turned away Aquilia whispered. “A fortunate meeting, Atilus. Drusillius Augustus has wealth and influence. With him behind you, you could go far.”
As far as my sword would take me. Drusillius was one of those who was more interested in a display of skill than the butchery the crowd demanded. Such skill was best appreciated at close hand, and that was the reason he’d mentioned a private bout. The spectators would be rich and, with such patrons, a successful gladiator could live like a prince. For as long as he could hold his own.
There was no mercy for the fallen and I was aware of it. The rooms beneath the amphitheaters were full of reminders: broken-down fighters who had been lucky to escape with their lives, victors too badly maimed ever to fight again, freedmen who had lost their nerve and had quit while they still had the chance. Cripples, men with missing limbs and empty sockets where once there had been eyes, those with faces pounded into nightmare masks, some who dragged themselves over the ground with calloused hands, their bodies useless below the waist. Victims never mentioned by those who lauded the games.
The trumpets sounded and the fifth race began.
CHAPTER TWO
The Circus Maximus was shaped like a long U, the flat end containing the processional gate and the starting stall for the chariots. As the trumpets sounded, the four teams dashed from their waiting positions. A gasp rose from the crowd as they saw the Green chariot. It was covered with gold and studded with gems; even the metal rims of the wheels were gilded and the extended axles, set with bands of gold, had knobs of silver. The horses were equally magnificent; their harness gilded, their manes braided with bright ribbons.
Nero himself matched the extravagant splendor of the display, dressed in leather, gilded and set with gems. The round hat on his head was a gleaming ball of gold, broken only by the tall, thick plume of horsehair dyed a bright green. Like Apollo himself, he caught and reflected the sun so that he moved in a glimmering nimbus of light.
His team, selected thoroughbreds from Libya noted for their staying power, raced into the lead and headed for the inner position. It was too great a lead and, normally, the judge would have declared a false start, but he was not a fool, and the rope stretched from the end of the Spine to where he sat was lowered long before Nero reached it.
Like a blazing thunderbolt, the golden chariot streaked down the track well ahead of the others.
As a display it was magnificent, but as a race it was a foregone conclusion. Even so, Nero handled his team well, cutting sharply around the curves, swaying back to tighten the reins lashed around his waist,
