‘That’ll do to start with,’ Magnus chuckled as he and Servius hurried away along the back of the crowd before they too were trapped by the fighting. ‘A conscientious centurion like Rufinus will have no choice but to close the Aemilian Bridge to everyone in order to prevent the fighting spreading across the river.’
‘And it looks like it might go on for a long time,’ Servius observed as Tigran and Sextus caught up with them.
‘What a shame for the White teams stuck in it; they’re bound to miss their races now.’
Sprinting towards the Tiber Island they soon outpaced the spreading riot. As they crossed the bridge Magnus looked back and waved at a second-floor window on the Whites’ side of the road. An instant later four streams of green paint spurted out and flew across the street, splattering the Red crowd; four more followed in their wake. It was now the Reds’ turn for righteous indignation; covered in the colour of their hated rivals who had cheated them so grievously a few days before they burst over the road and attacked the people who must have been responsible for the deeply offensive insult.
Magnus and his brethren ran on; they traversed the Tiber Island and reached the eastern bank of the river, speeding on towards the Circus Maximus and leaving raucous mayhem in their wake.
*
‘I thought I’d come and watch it with you, gentlemen,’ Euprepes said, sitting down next to Magnus and Servius as the gates of the Circus Maximus opened to admit the teams competing in the second-to-last race of the day. ‘My drivers understand their orders so now comes the moment of truth.’
Magnus shifted uneasily on the stone seating as the three Red chariots appeared followed by the Blues, accompanied by cheers and jeers from the huge crowd. Suddenly his eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Juno’s bald crack! A White!’
Down on the track a single White chariot trailed in after the three Greens to gales of laughter from the supporters of the other three factions.
Magnus looked in alarm at Euprepes. ‘I don’t call that funny at all. I thought when they only put two chariots into the previous race it was because they only had five spare teams.’
‘They must have saved the sixth for a chance in this race. That’s Scorpus.’
‘The fuckers! He’s good.’
‘It’s all right, Magnus, my lads will deal with it.’
‘They’d better, my friend,’ Magnus said, thinking of the chances of keeping his eyes, or any other part of his anatomy, should Ahenobarbus lose his money.
The ten hortatores entered the circus whilst the starter drew numbered coloured balls from a barrel; as each team’s number was called they could choose which of the twelve starting boxes to occupy.
Once all the teams were loaded, slaves pushed the double doors back against the poles, behind each one, that were inserted into highly tensioned, twisted bundle of sinews. The doors were secured with a wooden bolt placed vertically through two overlapping iron rings – one screwed to each door; cords of twine, attached to each bolt, ran up to the roof of the boxes and then over, through eyelets, and down the back to the starter’s position so that all could be pulled open simultaneously. The hortatores then took up position in a line, fifty paces in front of their teams’ respective starting boxes as a slave patrolled the roof, checking each cord, making certain that all could run free.
The crowd went silent with anticipation. From within the dark confines of the starting boxes the teams neighed and snorted; the hortatores’ mounts stamped and tossed as their riders struggled to control them.
The presiding praetor – the man who had sponsored the day’s racing – stepped forward to the front of the senators’ enclosure and held up a white napkin; it fluttered in the breeze. The crowd drew communal breath as he paused for a few moments; then, with a flick, the napkin dropped. The starter pulled on the cords, the doors burst open and, to the delirium of the crowd, the teams sprang forward. Suddenly, from the Blue end of the circus, there came jeers and whistles; Magnus scanned the chariots to see that there were only two of that colour running. Looking back at the starting boxes he saw that one remained shut; of the slave on the roof there was no sign.
‘A starting-box malfunction,’ Euprepes observed with a look of false concern. ‘What a shame for the Blues. Still, it does happen from time to time.’
Magnus grinned. ‘Especially if you can get your man on the roof.’
‘Now that would be cheating; we wouldn’t stoop to that.’
‘Never.’
Down on the track the nine remaining teams stormed up the Aventine straight with a Blue in the lead, closely pursued by a Red with a Green outside him.
‘The Blue is Lacerta,’ Euprepes informed Magnus, ‘I’ve been trying to negotiate in secret with him to come over to our faction.’
Magnus nodded dumbly. With tension constricting his throat, he remained silent as the first corner was rounded with Lacerta ten paces in front. Behind, the Green steered clear of the Red but not so clear as to make it obvious – just a hand’s breadth – as both chariots took the corner too fast and skewed out into the middle of the track. Hardly able to look, Magnus watched the next two Reds, battling with Scorpus the White on the inside and the remaining Blue – a Numidian – just behind, negotiate the 180-degree turn. Spraying clouds of fine sand, the four chariots skidded around behind their sure-footed teams, the charioteers all leaning to their left to prevent their vehicles from tipping over to disaster.
They disappeared around the corner mainly obscured from Magnus’ vision by the angle of the statues that adorned the length of the spina. A roar went up from the White supporters on the Palatine side of the circus gates as the final two Greens entered the curve.
Magnus strained his neck. ‘Fuck! What can they see?’
Glimpses of fast-moving chariots, flashing across the gaps between the statues, tormented Magnus with their brevity.
The Whites’ volume grew.
The leading teams raced down the Palatine straight and angle lessened; the gaps grew wide enough for Magnus to see that Lacerta was still in front and also to discern the cause of the Whites’ excitement. ‘Shit! Scorpus has moved up into second and is gaining; he could fuck this for us. What are your drivers going to do about him?’
Euprepes did not reply but stared intently down at the track, clenching his fists on his knees as the first dolphin tilted and Lacerta started the second lap with Scorpus just five paces behind him; the lead Red was a good twenty paces to his rear.
The supporters of the Blues and Whites strove to outdo each other in the intensity of cheering as the next lap proceeded in a welter of dust and speed. Magnus glanced over at the imperial box where he could make out Antonia; next to her was the brooding figure of Ahenobarbus.
The second and then the third dolphins tilted as Lacerta and Scorpus pulled away from the rest of the field in their own private battle for first place. The leading Red remained third, closely followed by the first Green with the Blue Numidian on his inside. The next two Reds were nigh on fifty paces behind and beyond them the final two Greens were out of the race, over half a length of the track behind the leaders.
Magnus’ head slumped into his hands. ‘I’m going to have to get out of Rome, Servius; Ahenobarbus will tear the place apart looking for me.’
The old counsellor looked grim. ‘That certainly looks to be the only option.’
Euprepes remained silent, his fists still bunched, glaring down at the track with his jaw jutted out in concentration.
The fourth dolphin tilted and the situation had worsened.
Boys from the factions, based on the spina, threw skins of water out at their racers to quench their thirsts and to wash the dust from their stinging eyes. As the Numidian snatched at a skin aimed at him half a dozen smaller shapes hurtled through the dust from behind a spina statue. They cannoned into his team, catching the inside horse down its flank and on its jaw; the beast slewed to the right, buffeting its fellows and pushing the outside horse’s forelegs on to the wheel of the Green chariot next to it. The sharp edge of the iron tyre grated through skin and flesh and rasped the bone; the leg buckled and the horse collapsed to its right, crashing on to the side of the Green chariot, hauling its teammates down with it in a skidding spray of sand. With his team’s momentum violently checked the Numidian’s chariot arced to the right, snapping it from the central pole, hurling him, splay-limbed, into the air to somersault once before crunching down on his back with lung-emptying force. The Green charioteer fought to control his team as they veered off to the right; the two trailing Reds swerved to avoid the wreckage, and moved past the Green.