The concealed pole was held by a simple leather spring which was restrained by a small peg protruding up through the platform. The driver had only to tread on the peg to set it off. And with both of his hands in sight working reins and whip there could be no accusations of interference.
‘Ingenious!’ Grotius chuckled. ‘And will see us rich as Croesus!’
Nicander and Marius returned to their tenement.
‘I told you it was a certainty, didn’t I!’ Marius crowed. ‘Worth staking all of, say, ten golden solidi, don’t you think, Nico?’
Nicander didn’t reply but went straight to his accounts.
‘Did you hear me, Greek? At least ten – why not fifteen?’
Nicander flipped the ledger firmly shut and looked away.
‘So just five, then.’
There was no response. ‘Come on, that’s not so much – is it? This is our big chance! Have we ever seen anything like it since we came to this pox-ridden place? We can’t let it go without-’
‘You know nothing of finance, do you? Five solidi – how much do you think this can yield on just a single voyage in olive oil? No? I’ll tell you. It returns as eight. A profit of three on five.’
Marius stared back obstinately.
‘But this is a four month turnaround voyage. And danger of pirates and tempest.’ His eyes held Marius’s with a sudden intensity. ‘Three solidi! Enough, perhaps, to keep us in meat for six months. And then back to that woman’s stinking fish. But let’s say we take our five solidi to the races at a solid sevens. Thirty-five solidi! Think of it – put on a Cyrenaican grain venture we’d be talking near fifty! Reinvested in another, and one on the side in marble and we’d be looking to moving out of this… this situation in a year.’
‘Well, let’s do it! The five on Blues to win!’
Nicander didn’t answer, his gaze unseeing.
‘Why not?’ Marius blazed.
Nicander reached for his slate, his hand flying as he made calculations.
‘This is why not,’ he said, holding it up.
‘What’s that to me?’
‘If instead we settle all we can rake together on a certain sevens, we stand to make six… hundred… and… seventy… gold ones! We clear out of here, set up on The Mese and get our start! The world ours for the taking, Marius! With that kind of cash we get respect, investment capital and decent living all in one hit! We’d be on our way!’
Marius blinked, startled at what seemed so out of character in his friend. ‘Yes, but don’t you think-’
‘Who’s holding back now! Courage, brother!’
‘That’s all our savings, and most of our purse too. What if something goes wrong?’
‘We saw with our own eyes what’s in plan, and the Blues’ greatest man to do it. How can it fail?’
‘I…’ rumbled the big legionary awkwardly.
‘Look, remember what Grotius said at the end. We don’t place the bet until they’re at the starting line. Gives us the chance to wait for the secret signal from Nepos that’ll tell us the Greens haven’t rumbled what’s going on. Nothing to risk now, is there?’
‘What if-’
‘You’ve objection to the high life? Slaves, fine wine, Palmyran dancing girls at dinner?’
‘But-’
Nicander slapped his hands down on the table. ‘An end to it! All or nothing – what’s it to be…?’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘We walk in beggars, we leave rich men!’ Nicander cuffed Marius affectionately on the back as they approached the bulking mass of the hippodrome, a full quarter-mile long and capable of seating a hundred thousand – a fifth of the city population. Located at the end of Constantinople’s peninsula, together with the palaces and churches, the Senate, Patriarchate and Praetorium, it stretched from where the main street ended at the Hagia Sophia all the way to the Bosphorus.
The colossal structure was simple in layout: an elongated circuit with a tight turn at each end and along the centre, the spina, a central barrier adorned with noble statues from Rome’s glorious past. A twisted bronze column rose thirty feet above the spina, topped with three serpent heads. Stands reared sharply up around the entire length, save the northern end, where the starting boxes and entertainment rooms were located, surmounted by copper prancing horses.
It seemed all the world was converging there. Patricians and beggars, souvenir touts and contortionists, great ladies and courtesans, thieves and urchins. All streaming in for the race of the season. The raucous hectoring of officials mingled with the strident brass of the Excubitors’ military horns, the jeers and catcalls of rival supporters and the ceaseless hubbub of excited spectators.
On the side closest to the Bosphorus, the structure formed a wall for the Great Palace compound, giving the Emperor private entry to his box, the kathisma. The opposite side, facing inland, was where the people flooded in through the black gate. The Greens supporters began massing to the left of the Emperor’s box, the Blues to the right, and the two found seats there.
Nicander couldn’t suppress a growing thrill; he’d never seen an emperor and Justinian was the most powerful ruler in the world. He’d rescued the pride of the Romans, built the breathtaking Hagia Sophia, and had kept the faith and his peoples secure against the barbarian hordes.
There was movement at the kathisma. The ivory gates were flung open and six flamboyantly dressed soldiers strode out. Their officer looked about importantly, then returned inside. Moments later, hidden trumpets flourished a fanfare.
The crowd quietened to a hush.
Nicander held his breath: he and Marius were no more than a hundred yards from the royal box. A vast roar went up as Emperor Justinian appeared, an image of white and gold, the glitter of precious stones, a sumptuous purple cloak. On his head, a tall pearl diadem, and at the shoulder of his Greek-style chlamys a massive clasp worked in gold and rubies.
The great man moved with the deliberation of age but was not stooped. He was alone, no empress shared the moment with him for the fabled Theodora was dead.
Justinian, one hand on his breast, gazed down inscrutably on the seething thousands. Suddenly he held up both hands. The roar fell away and a herald appeared to the sound of the trumpets.
‘In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ! The Emperor Caesar Flavius Justinian, Vice-regent of God, conqueror of the Vandals, the Africans, the Goths and Allemani. Pious and renowned, victorious and triumphant, ever august. Hear him, his people!’
For most of the crowd the stentorian voice was barely audible and when Justinian began speaking it was impossible to make out his words. But it was enough that their emperor was addressing them. He sat down to a surge of excited anticipation – the games had begun.
From the far end of the hippodrome burst dozens of gaily dressed performers, spreading rapidly down the track, their acrobatics, contortions and clowning a preliminary to the animals.
The bears were brought out for baiting, but the crowd were not in the mood for any delay before the coming race. They were hastily removed.
Then there were movements in the starting boxes. A spreading roar went up at the appearance of four chariots, two Green and two Blue, each with four horses. Their drivers were dressed head to toe in their colours, which also decorated the horses and chariots. One by one, the teams saluted the Emperor then raised their hands to receive the acclamation of the crowd.
Eventually the chariots were eased forward to the white cord, the horses snorting and jibbing in nervous expectation.
The noise died. Justinian solemnly raised an outstretched hand which held a crimson silk cloth. It fluttered for a moment – then fell.
A colossal wave of sound erupted. The horses leapt forward, whips lashing without mercy as the charioteers strove for advantage. The four teams swept down the straight towards Nicander and Marius, swerving at maniacal speed in a breakneck contest for an inside place at the turn. They fought their way around the end of the spina in a tight bunch, wheels skidding, the drivers leaning at extreme angles.