Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

I did not have long to wait. First the donor of the games entered, a candidate for local office in a gleaming white toga, heralded by a flourish of trumpets. He was warmly greeted by the assembled company, and made his way to the official box. Then came the old priest of Jupiter, who had doubtless performed the morning’s sacrifice for a successful day. He was shaky and senile, but he too was politely applauded. So were the traditional tumblers, dancers and pipers who followed him.

I was smiling at the antics of one of the acrobats when Junio came struggling back through the crowd, looking rather pleased with himself.

‘Did you bet on Fortunatus?’ I said, leaning forward to speak to him — he had settled himself on the far side of the optio . ‘I hope you got good odds?’

Junio grinned a little sheepishly, but before there was time to say another word a sudden surge of anticipation ran through the crowd. A moment later there was the thundering noise of hooves as the horsemen cantered down the road outside and wheeled through the gates. Urchins danced daringly at their wheels, to be seen off in no uncertain fashion by the cudgelled guard, and a moment later the whole stadium was on its feet, cheering, stamping, whistling and waving. Even the occasional green scarf made an appearance.

It was a spectacular and unexpected entry. Even a non-enthusiast could scarcely fail to be impressed. The magnificent horses (the first race was clearly to be a four-in-hand) were obviously the finest money could buy: wonderful creatures, coats gleaming, heads tossing, their harness decorated with the colour of their factio . The drivers, too, were dressed in coloured tunics, under the leather bandages which covered chest and legs, with coloured plumes on their helmets; and the little lightweight wicker chariots, shaped like upturned shells, were painted in the same hues of blue, green, red or white. The four professional teams were followed by their local counterparts, to the more muted delight of their supporters. Three times they trotted in procession round the course, while the crowd cheered and roared, and women threw garlands at their feet.

Then the local teams withdrew through the inner gates, the stalls were moved into position, and the four professional charioteers drew up to await the start. The cheering had ceased now, and the crowd waited with a kind of hushed anticipation. Then the donor of the games came to the front of the civic box and threw down a handkerchief as a signal, the slaves whisked away the wicker stalls and in an instant the race had begun.

What followed was almost too quick to see. Hooves thundered, whips cracked, wheels leapt and drivers cursed. I felt my own pulse racing as the speed increased, and the murmur of the crowd became a growl and then a roar. I have seen good racing in Glevum, but the Londinium teams were in a class of their own. As they turned, almost in front of us, I could see the chariots bouncing off the ground with the speed of it, the drivers using their own weight to balance their fragile vehicles, and urging the horses on as though Cerberus himself was after them. Then they were gone, around the turning point in a cloud of dust, and there was only the drumming of the hooves to mark their progress up the other side of the central barrier.

Around the further turn they came, the horses snorting and straining. White’s driver barged the Green’s, and the crowd went wild. One of Green’s wheels left the ground, and the chariot almost overturned, but the man was skilled and with supreme effort threw his whole body over the upper rim as it toppled and brought the vehicle juddering back to earth. He had lost time, as the other teams swerved past him: yet a moment later he was thundering down the course in pursuit.

The gods were evidently watching, for at the next corner the White driver glanced backwards at his rival, and in that instant lost the race. He took the bend too sharply and too fast, and lost control of his chariot. It leapt into the air and he was catapulted forward, losing the reins. He pulled his knife out to cut the chariot free from the leather traces, but he was not quick enough. Driver, chariot, broken wheels — all came tumbling down together in an untidy heap to be swept remorselessly onwards by the charging horses. I saw him try to struggle upright, bruised and wounded, and then he was thrown clear, almost unseating the driver of the Reds. He lay on the track motionless, blood seeping from under his helmet, until the circuit-slaves came running out to seize his legs and pull him off the course before the horses came round again.

His horses streamed on, dragging the chariot with them.

Three dolphins down. Four. Five. The rogue horses made it difficult for the remaining drivers, who had to keep their wits about them. On the sixth lap the driverless chariot whipped about on its traces and threatened to entangle itself under Red’s wheels but the pace scarcely seemed to slacken. The crowd gasped, hoping for another ‘shipwreck’, but the driver steered himself clear, overtook Green on the apex of the bend and thundered home to victory. Blue came in a disappointing third.

I glanced at Junio. His face was glowing with excitement. ‘So much for the famous Fortunatus,’ I said. ‘I hope you didn’t stake all my money on him.’

He took on that sheepish look again. ‘Fortunatus isn’t here,’ he said.

I rounded on him. ‘What?’

‘That is what they told me, master, when I went to bet.’

‘It is true, citizen,’ the optio put in, clearly sensing my irritation with my slave. ‘Fortunatus was thrown from his chariot in the very first race, on the first day, and he has not competed since. He didn’t break anything, so the team surgeon says, but he hit his head. They took him back to the team inn on a shutter, but it took him hours to come to himself and even then he was complaining of headaches and — worse — of not being able to see. He won’t be racing again in this tournament, though the medicus says he may recover, in time. People were very disappointed. It was quite the talk of the town.’

I was angry. ‘Why didn’t someone tell me this before?’

The optio shrugged. ‘You merely asked to attend the chariot racing, citizen. I did not know it was only Fortunatus that you wanted to watch.’

There was justice in that. I had not explained to the commander why I wanted to come to the racing, just in case any rumours reached Fortunatus. I muttered crossly, ‘And after I have travelled from Londinium expressly to talk to him. Where is this inn they have taken him to?’

The optio shook his head. ‘I am afraid, citizen, that Fortunatus has already returned to Londinium, under the care of one of the team guards. Or so the rumour goes. They say the medicus decided that the only cure was rest, and that Fortunatus could do that better in his own quarters. If I had only known that you wished to speak to him in particular, citizen, I could have saved you a wasted journey to the circuit.’

But Junio knew, I thought to myself, and he had not seen fit to tell me, though he discovered the truth before the race began. I whirled to face him. ‘Why-’

He was already looking contrite. ‘I did not know that he was not in the town. I merely heard that he’d had a fall, and naturally I assumed that he was being tended by the medicus at the team inn. And then the horses were coming, and since you could hardly leave in the middle of a race. .’ He gave me an uncertain glance.

I scowled. ‘I suppose so,’ I said ungraciously. ‘But we have wasted time as a result of your silence.’

He gave me a sideways look. ‘I’m sorry, master. Truly I am. But you have gained something by the delay.’