My training began with smaller versions of the full-size chariots, which were essentially wooden carts with two wheels and open backs. The smaller chariots were pulled by teams of four ponies each, in imitation of the standard four-horse teams. Leo trained us to drive in circles around the track, and how to guide the ponies with whips and shouted instructions. He also gave us instruction in the darker arts of competitive racing.
“The aim of a race,” he would say, having ordered his apprentices to sit cross-legged in a circle around him, “is not only to beat your rivals, but to humiliate them in front of the crowd. It is not enough to simply drive faster. You must strive to get in front of the opposing chariot and make it crash into the spine.”
The spine of the track was where the towering obelisks and many of the statues of gods and heroes were located. It was now that we learned their practical purpose. Any fragile chariot that careered into one of these mighty sculptures would be smashed to pieces. The drivers and horses would be lucky to get away with minor injuries.
“This,” he added, holding up the flail-like whip, “is both a tool and a weapon. You can use it to attack opposing drivers, and flick it at the eyes of his horses. There are very few rules, out on the track. All that matters is victory.”
He gave us his crooked grin. “The Greens, of course, will be trying to serve you the same way. It is my job to teach you to be faster and better than them. More ruthless. I am extremely good at my job, so those of you who want to reach old age will harken to me.”
Leo was a vicious character, and delighted in the bloody and underhand aspects of racing. From discreet enquiry with Theodora I learned that he was from the mountains of Isauria, the son of a peasant, and like me had come to the Hippodrome as a child.
“He was a skilled charioteer,” she told me, “but not quite good enough to be ranked among the best, and clever enough to quit before he came to harm. The life expectancy of a charioteer is not very high.”
“I wonder how long you will last, my dear little Briton?” she added, fondly stroking my cheek, “a glorious life, but a short one.”
I brushed her fingers away. “I am the child of kings, and not destined to die in the arena,” I replied stoutly.
My reply interested her, and some of her usual careless insouciance dropped away. “So you have a sense of destiny, and of a life beyond the Hippodrome. Clever boy. This place is a means to an end, nothing more. Do you dream, then, of returning to Albion and reclaiming your ancestral kingdom?”
I still trusted Theodora at this stage, and was fool enough to confide in her. “No,” I replied awkwardly, “my dreams are ruled by the shadows of my forebears, and the sword they wielded. The sword was mine, but I lost it.”
She frowned, and the mild interest in her large, expressive eyes faded. “You dream of regaining a sword. How dull. A sword is just a thing of wood and metal. What good can it do you? My dreams are rather grander than that. Unlike you, I have the means to achieve them.”
Chapter 8
Years passed, and I grew from a scrawny, underfed little boy into a wiry, leggy youth, strong and athletic thanks to the brutally disciplined regime I lived under. I gave my masters little cause for complaint, for one who has been a slave knows how to maintain a façade of obedience and humility. I was careful to keep quiet, make few friends save those whom I could absolutely trust, and train with all the diligence and commitment required of me.
I grew into a competent charioteer, and a good enough actor to feign hatred for the Greens. In truth I felt no real dislike for the opposing faction, though Leo and his colleagues did their best to drum it into me. Perhaps I was more independently-minded than the other boys, or the knowledge of my father’s susceptibility made me more wary of being told what to think.
I was fifteen and on the cusp of manhood when I participated in my first proper race. My performance that day, and the consequences of it, had a marked bearing on the course of my life.
I recall the excitement and the terror thumping in my breast as I drove my chariot out of the Starting Gate into the arena. As usual, twelve chariots were due to compete, six Greens and six Blues. Every driver wore an ankle-length robe, belted high at the waist and with heavy crossed straps attached to our upper backs, to prevent them from swelling with air during the race and dragging us backwards. Each robe was dyed with the colours of the factions. For protection, we wore leather helmets, shin guards and chest protectors, and carried whips and daggers.
The noise of the crowd hit me like a hammer as the gates were thrown open and I urged my horses onto the track. I had seen the Hippodrome full to capacity before, but always as a fellow spectator. To be the object of so many thousands of pairs of eyes, so much passion and hatred and vested interest, was a searing experience.
As always during a race, the Emperor was present in the imperial box. Anastasius was still clinging to life and power, though so old by now as to be fabulous. His white-haired, emaciated figure, weighed down by the heavy golden diadem on his brow, struggled to stand and salute the charioteers as we did the customary lap of honour around the track. He acknowledged the massed cheers of the crowd with a weary grimace and an offhand wave of his withered hand, and sagged back into his seat.
A herald announced our names in a booming voice that somehow floated above the din of the crowd and the incessant chants of “Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!” The announcement of each name named raised fresh storms of cheers, mixed with boos and insults from the supporters of the opposing faction.
“For the Blues — Britannicus Minor!”
The absurd name Theodora had bestowed on me echoed around the Hippodrome, taken up and repeated until my ears rang and my face burned with the excitement and embarrassment of a hundred thousand Roman citizens bawling at me.
My hand shook as I plied the whip. This was the day I had trained so long and hard for. The day I had to survive.
The Blues and the Greens were staggered, so I had a rival chariot either side of me as we traversed the track. I vaguely recognised the faces of the opposing drivers, though we were barred contact with our rivals, and remember thinking that in other circumstances we might have been friends. They didn’t even glance at me. Their youthful faces were hard and tense, and I knew their guts were churning with the same terror as mine.
When the lap of honour was completed, we returned to the tunnels of the Starting Gates. The gates were spring-loaded, and when the Emperor was ready he would drop a cloth to signal the race would begin. At that moment the gates would spring open, and the chariots burst forth.
The noise of the crowd rose to a delirious pitch and echoed like thunder inside the tunnel as the Emperor rose to his feet again. There was a pause and a drop in the noise, no doubt while the old fool looked for his cloth, and then the voices rose again and the gates flew open.
I had practised this countless times, but never in the grip of such fear. The horses surged out of the gate, and for a moment I lost my balance. Fortunately the reins were tied around my waist — this was the Roman style, unlike the Greeks who held the reins in their hands — and saved me from an ignominious end to my first race, the more so since I knew Aquila and Leo and Felix were watching from the stands.
There was another in the crowd whose good opinion I cared for. Her name was Elene, and she was a member of the company of female dancers that performed between races. She was about my age, a Greek from Athens and the first lover I ever took, though it was more a case of her taking me. Elene’s long, sinuous body was capable of the most extraordinary contortions, and the source of much private delight and exhaustion.