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‘That’s Antonia,’ Gaius said quite excitedly, ‘Tiberius’ sister-in-law. Tiberius made her eldest son, Germanicus, his heir as part of the deal that he struck with Augustus when he was adopted by him. Germanicus, however, died six years ago and then Drusus, Tiberius’ natural son who was married to Antonia’s daughter, Livilla, died four years later, so now the succession isn’t clear at all,’ he said, looking at Vespasian, who didn’t think that it ever did seem clear. ‘Anyway, Antonia’s other son Claudius is such a booby the talk is that the purple will skip a generation and go to Tiberius’ grandson Gemellus or one of Germanicus’ children.’ He looked around nervously and whispered: ‘There’s even talk that the old Republic might be reinstated.’

Vespasian looked over at the lady with interest as Gaius carried on his lecture. She seemed to be right at the heart of imperial politics.

‘As chance would have it, I was able to perform a couple of considerable favours for her when I was Governor of Aquitania and am now very much in her favour. With luck I shall be able to introduce you boys to her.’ He looked at Vespasian, expecting an enthusiastic response, only to find his nephew staring, slack-jawed, at the imperial box.

‘Dear boy, whatever’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

Sabinus, picking up on his brother’s state of shock, followed his gaze and laughed. ‘No, Uncle, that’s not a ghost, that’s a girl. There’s a huge difference.’

‘Well, I’m no expert on either, as you know.’

Vespasian could barely believe his eyes; in the imperial box helping Antonia to her seat was the girl in the litter who had looked at him with such intensity, only yesterday, on the Via Nomentana. She was the slave of the most powerful woman in Rome.

CHAPTER VIII

The chariots had completed a circuit of the track and were now waiting to be loaded into the starting boxes either side of the gate through which they had entered. These were set on a curved line, staggered so that no one would be disadvantaged as they were funnelled into the right-hand side of the spina. The starter drew numbered balls from a revolving urn; as each team’s number was called out its driver chose which of the twelve boxes to start from.

‘This is the tricky bit,’ Gaius said. ‘Tactically it would be best for our team to have the other two Blue chariots either side of him to shield him from the opposition on the first bend. You can bet your life that the other teams will try and drive him into the spina or the outside wall.’

‘Are they allowed to do that?’ Vespasian asked, still staring at the girl in the hope that she would notice him.

‘Of course. They can do anything they want; there are no rules. The winner is the first to complete seven laps; how you do it is up to you.’

The Red second team had already chosen the outside box and the White third team, driven by Gentius, the inside box when the Blue first team was called; Euprepes made straight for the second box on the left, next to Gentius; the knowledgeable crowd cheered.

‘That’s a very bold move,’ Gaius said. ‘He’s sacrificing the chance of cover on one side for the inside track; he must be gambling that he can beat Gentius to the first corner.’

With the chariots all installed in the boxes the spring-loaded double doors were heaved closed and each secured with an iron bolt leaving the teams, unable to see out of their temporary prisons, waiting for the fanfare that would precede the start of the race.

The tension in the crowd heightened as the hortatores, again twelve in number, three of each Colour, galloped into the arena. Each of these horsemen was assigned to lead one team round the track, guiding them through the dust and confusion of the race, indicating good opportunities ahead and warning of obstacles and dangers.

‘Do you know that girl, Uncle?’ Vespasian had finally got up the courage to ask.

‘Antonia’s slave girl? Yes, I do,’ Gaius replied, watching Asinius get to his feet and walk up to the front of the royal box.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, what’s her name?’

‘Caenis; but take my advice and forget her. Not only is she a slave, but she is someone else’s slave and a very powerful someone else at that, who wouldn’t take too kindly to having their property interfered with.’

‘Caenis,’ Vespasian repeated, looking back over to the imperial box. As he did so the girl looked round and, for the second time in two days, their eyes met. Caenis started, knocking into her mistress, who followed her gaze to see what had disturbed her. Antonia studied Vespasian for a brief moment, and then seeing he was seated next to Gaius nodded his uncle a greeting, which he returned with a melodramatic flourish. Antonia turned back round and said something to Caenis, who smiled in response, and then engaged in a whispered conversation with Asinius. Vespasian, who could not keep his eyes off the imperial box, felt sure that the Consul’s eyes flicked over Antonia’s shoulder in his direction a couple of times.

Another fanfare rang out and Asinius broke off the conversation, walked to the front of the imperial box and raised a white napkin; the crowd fell silent, all eyes were on him. Vespasian could hear the snorting and whinnying of the horses in the starting boxes anxious to be released. The hortatores, who had positioned themselves in a line about fifty paces in front of their respective starting boxes, struggled to control their frisky mounts, which had been unnerved by the sudden silence.

Asinius paused for dramatic effect and then, after what seemed like an age, dropped the napkin. The starter hauled on a rope that simultaneously released the bolts that held all the doors shut. A pole behind each door, one end of which was inserted into a highly tensioned, twisted bundle of sinews, snapped forward and all twenty-four doors opened as one with a loud crash, releasing the teams who hurtled forward in a cloud of dust to the joyous roar of the crowd.

The chariots thundered in a straight line towards the right-hand side of the spina. There, 170 paces away, was a white line that ran from the turning post at the end of the spina to the outer wall; once across this they were free to take whatever line they wanted. The staggered nature of the starting boxes ensured that all twelve chariots crossed it almost simultaneously as they reached speeds of over forty miles an hour.

Euprepes’ gamble had not paid off; he was still level with Gentius as they skimmed past the edge of the barrier, clearing it by no more than a hand’s breadth. Instead of turning left immediately and heading up the track, Gentius pursued a straight line forcing Euprepes further away from the centre of the track and closer to the Green outside him who was now trying to cut across his path. Being in imminent danger of being crushed between the two, Euprepes leant back on the reins about his waist and, with all his might, pulled hard to the left; his team slowed dramatically. As Gentius shot past Euprepes veered left, just clearing the rear of the White chariot and headed up the track hugging the spina. The Blues in the crowd went wild at this audacious manoeuvre, punching the air and screaming themselves hoarse.

Gentius, not to be distracted from his tactics, stuck to his straight line, forcing the Green to his right to abandon his attempt to cut across and pushing him towards the next team outside who, in turn, swerved to the right causing a chain reaction down the line. On the far outside the Red second driver saw the danger that was dominoing towards him and quickly checked his speed as the White first team next to him was forced across his path, its driver desperately trying to force a passage back to the left, but prevented from so doing by the weight of the teams inside him. His outside horse hit the wall, ripping a huge chunk of flesh from its shoulder. It stumbled heavily, its head hitting the floor; the momentum of the beast’s team-mates pulled the chariot forward on to its hocks and lifted its rump into the air. The terrified whinny the animal emitted as it somersaulted was cut short as the weight of its hindquarters snapped its neck. It dropped stone dead. The White chariot bumped over the body and spun on to its side, dislodging its driver, who was dragged along the arena floor by the three remaining petrified horses. He frantically reached for his knife as the traces that attached the upturned chariot to the dead weight of the lifeless horse reached straining point and, with a sharp crack, tore the flimsy vehicle in two. An instant later the hapless driver was dragged forward by three of the sets of reins tied around his waist; the fourth set, anchored by the dead animal behind him, suddenly tautened and he was jerked up into the air as the two opposite forces shattered his ribcage and yanked his pelvis from his backbone. The three stampeding horses were briefly checked but their momentum snapped the trailing rein and they sped off, hauling behind them the wreckage of the chariot and the broken, unconscious driver.