determine the real victor, and each did his best to gain it. As I’d guessed, the Blue team was unsettled by the drag of the reins. Accustomed to going all-out, they were thrown off stride, swinging too far out, heads tossing and teeth bared as they fought the restriction. Ferdo did his best to control them, but he had been trained to win and, like the team, he was unsettled.
Swinging back toward the Spine, he blocked the White chariot which, coming too close, was suddenly wreathed in flying splinters from its locked wheel. Red, seeing his chance, sent his team lunging toward the gap formed on the inside, a space barely wide enough to pass through, his offside horse slamming against the inner horse of the White team. For a moment it looked as if all three chariots would end in a pile of wreckage and then, suddenly, Red was clear.
The roar of the crowd rose from all sides.
“Belens! Belens! Belens for the Reds!”
Nero might be the first across the finishing line, but the spectators had no doubt as to who was the real winner.
As the gold chariot slowed, I rose and shouted, “Lucius! Lucius for the Greens! Lucius!”
A shout that reached the ears of Nero who turned and looked up at me.
“To the Greens!” I yelled again. “Lucius for the Greens!”
The colors were more than just identifying marks for the stables; they were representative of warring political factions, and my shouts had stirred the appropriate loyalties. Within seconds others had joined in, Belens’s name was drowned out as every Green supporter strained his throat.
“Lucius! Lucius for the Greens! Lucius!”
Flushed, happy, Nero accepted the laurels of victory; then sent his team slowly around the track, one hand lifted as if he were a god dispensing favors. In a sense, he was. As he finally left the circuit and headed toward the stalls, a crowd of slaves ran over the sand. From baskets they hurled ivory tokens into the stands; each token entitled the holder to a gift of some kind.
“So he did it,” mused Aquilia. “The Emperor of Rome lowered himself to the level of a common charioteer. Competing with slaves for an empty victory.”
“Aquilia!”
“I know. Be careful. His spies and informers are everywhere and a loose word can lead to torture. But, Atilus, why did he do it?”
A question I couldn’t answer. Nero was governed by whims and look a delight in outraging established opinion, but this seemed to be going too far. The Fathers of the City would never forgive the insult to their class. The Senate would be outraged. The great families would feel degraded. If Nero wanted to turn them against him, he could have chosen no better way.
But he was not a simpering fool who knew no better and neither was he insane, as Caligula had been. Willful, yes, with a child’s unthinking cruelty, but his upbringing was responsible for that. Even so—why had he done it?
A question I dismissed as the trumpets sounded for the next race.
An hour later we left the Circus. Chariot racing had its devotees, but I was not among them, and Aquilia, conscious of her skin, had no desire to ruin its whiteness by too long an exposure to the sun.
Escorting her home and leaving with a promise of returning later, I made straight for the house I had bought on the slopes of Esquiline. It was large, luxurious, a home fit for a senator with vast estates or a merchant with many profitable interests, and I had filled it with rich furnishings and items of value. Attached to the house was a walled garden filled with a variety of trees and shrubs. Fountains filled the air with a soft tinkling, a sound now acting as an accompaniment to the harsher ringing of steel.
“In, boy, in! You have to be faster than that!”
Agonestes was dressed as if for the arena; the boy, if he was that, was wearing the equipment of a secutor.
“We’ll try again,” said the Greek, tiredly. “Now, as I lift the net, try and anticipate where it will fall. Use the shield to block it, but remember that I’ve got the trident and will drive it into you if you give me the chance. Ready? Now!”
As training it was useless, but I could appreciate Agonestes’s difficulty. It was like teaching a person to read; you first had to explain the characters. Now, slowly, he shifted the net, lifting it, casting it with a flick of his wrist, opening the mesh that fell in a filmy cloud over the other’s helmet.
As the boy lifted his shield too high and too late, the trident darted in to rest blunted points against his chest.
“You’re dead!” I called. “That blow would have killed you.”
“Atilus!” Agonestes turned. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“And I didn’t expect to see you. How are things in Capua?”
“Later.” He glanced at the boy. “You’ve come in good time. Felicio, this is Atilus Cindras. Atilus, meet Felicio Dillius.” He added casually, “His father is high in the treasury.”
A position which explained why the Greek was taking trouble with his son.
“This is an honor.” The boy removed his helmet as he greeted me. “To have actually met the famous Atilus! I have heard my father speak of you.”
“Nothing bad, I hope?”
“No. He considers you to be the finest gladiator of our time. Certainly the one with most style. He’s often talked about those women you trained for the arena.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I know. Four years.”
In the arena that could be a lifetime. And the incident with the women was one I did not wish to remember.
Lifting my hand I said, “See that post? The one covered with straw? Go over there and hit it. Use the full weight of your back and shoulders and make the chaff fly. Send that sword against it as if you were cutting down an enemy of Rome.”
“This?” He looked dubiously at the heavy, blunted weapon in his hand.
“That. If you want to build up your sword arm, that’s the way to do it. Keep at it until you’re told to stop. Now, Felicio, move!”
Jerking my head at Agonestes, I led the way into the house. Inside it was cool and a slave brought us wine. “How long are you stuck with the boy?” I asked Agonestes.
“Until this evening, when a slave will come to escort him back home. Then, again, tomorrow, and after that, maybe until he gets bored.”
“Why bother? So his father’s rich, but what is that to you?”
Agonestes said dryly, “As you said, Atilus, his father is rich. He’s crazed on the arena and would have undergone training as a gladiator if it hadn’t been for a twisted spine. He might even have fought as a volunteer, and could even have won a few bouts and got it out of his system. It’s happened.”
But not often. Many volunteered to fight, and among them were the sons of patricians who were either bored or disinherited; but the devotees of the games either remained away from the
