David Wishart: White Murder

I sipped my wine. ‘Which horse would that be, now?’

He looked fazed for an instant, and I remembered young Lucius. Same expression. ‘Polydoxus,’ he said. Then, when I didn’t react, his mouth twisted. ‘You really don’t keep up with the racing news, do you?’

‘Uh-uh.’ The name rang a faint tonsorial bell, sure, but no more. I had enough difficulties holding the names of the drivers in my head without worrying about the horses. ‘You’ll have to tell me, I’m afraid.’

He took a sip of wine. ‘We bought him as a five-year-old early last season from a Spanish breeder, ran him a couple of times in the minor heats to break him in then moved him up to the top of the card. He drew second with the Blues at the Floralians, beat them into third at the Apollinares, then won his races in Caesar’s Victory and the Romans. Acceptus and the Greens boss Natalis were spitting blood.’ Oh, yeah; it was coming back now. Last September, the time of the Roman Games, Market Square had been full of it: the Whites’ wonder horse who’d wiped the smiles off the bookies’ faces and put every Green and Blue fan in the city into mourning. ‘He’s fast now, and he’ll be faster yet. More than that, he takes the rest of his team with him, and that’s something better than gold in a horse. With a top-notch driver behind him he’d’ve been unbeatable.’

I’d got his drift now. Tragedy was right. ‘And three months ago you hooked Pegasus.’

‘Correct. Come the Megalenses in under a month’s time, we’d’ve wiped the floor with both the Greens and the Blues in any race he ran. As it is, without him we’ll have no more than a fair edge. Oh, there might be another young driver along in a year or two who can match Polydoxus, and if I’m lucky I’ll get his name on a contract before Natalis or Acceptus do. The problem is, when he gets enough experience he’ll move on up the ladder and I’ll be back where I started.’ Cammius reached for the jug and filled both our cups. The steel was still there, but it was dulled. ‘Pegasus broke the pattern, Corvinus. I’m not getting any younger, and I’d’ve liked to sweep the boards before I go. See the Whites established as a proper faction and rub Gaius Acceptus’s patrician nose in the dirt. You understand that?’

He was levelling; far more than I’d ever thought he would, maybe even more than he’d had any intention of doing himself, and just that fact alone impressed me. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah. I understand.’

‘I thought that maybe this season it might just happen.’ He drank and shrugged. ‘With Pegasus dead it seems I’ll have to wait a bit longer.’

Which reminded me. ‘You mentioned a while back that the guy had his faults,’ I said. ‘What would these be, now?’

Cammius hesitated, on his guard again. ‘Nothing very serious,’ he said. ‘He threw his weight around, and it got the lads’ backs up a bit. But then any lead driver worth his salt is arrogant. It goes with the job.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Yeah, that made sense. These buggers are celebrities, mega-stars who draw prime wages, lift the cream from the prize money and get their faces and names on the cheapo statuettes the hawkers tout outside the Circus on race days. Not to mention being wined and dined by the aristocracy and pulling the occasional senator’s wife. Still, your average lead driver didn’t often get himself murdered. I had the distinct feeling that Cammius was holding back here. ‘Just how much would “a bit” be?’

I hadn’t stressed the question, but the guy was no fool. His eyes held mine as he set his winecup down carefully on the desk. ‘Not enough to kill for,’ he said evenly. ‘Not even close.’

‘You can’t be that certain, surely.’

‘I am.’ He frowned. ‘Listen, Corvinus. You don’t know the racing world. My lads are a team. Professionals. They have their jealousies and their dislikes, but they don’t take them outside the gates. And they don’t go beyond words, or maybe a scuffle at worst. Nothing that would damage the faction in any way. Ever.’ The eyes hardened. ‘You won’t find your killer among my Whites. I’ll tell you that now.’

Yeah, well, fair enough, there was no point in pushing things. He was entitled to his opinion, and maybe it was an informed one. Still, that was something I’d like to make my own mind up about. Certainly if Pegasus had been the arrogant type as far as a tendency to unpopularity went he’d be starting pretty high on the scale. As an ex-Green lead driver he’d be a very big fish in a very small pool. He’d know it, and they’d know it and hate him for it. Plus it wouldn’t’ve been all that long ago when he’d been Public Enemy Number One. ‘You think I could talk to some of these lads of yours?’ I said. ‘Maybe form a few conclusions of my own?’

I got that level, assessing stare again. Well, I’d been half expecting it this time: like I say, visitors aren’t encouraged around the faction stables, unless they’re five-star bona fide fans who can be milked for hefty contributions to Colour funds, like my old pal Prince Gaius.

Finally, he nodded. ‘Very well. On two conditions, though. One, nothing you see or hear gets passed on, under any circumstances. Two, you don’t go near the horses. I’m sorry, Corvinus, but we have our rules and we don’t break them. If it’s any consolation, I’d insist on the same strictures for any outsider.’

Well, it was the best deal I was going to get. The only deal, in fact. ‘Agreed,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll arrange it.’ He stood up. ‘You’d like to do it now?’

‘Sure. Why not?.’

‘I’d best come with you, then. The lads get nervous unless they can match a face to a name and otherwise you might have a little trouble.’

I winced. Security was one thing, sure, but this went through paranoia and out the other side. The closest I could come to it was my time on Capri hobnobbing with the Wart himself. And even there they let you go to the latrine on your own.

That was racing for you, though. I had an idea I’d better get used to it.

We went out into the compound. The day had changed, as March days often do: the sun had gone behind a bank of clouds, and it looked like rain. Bugger; it’d be a long walk back to the Caelian, and I still had the Greens boss to see. That I wasn’t looking forward to: one brush with the racing world was enough for a morning.

There was a middle-aged guy in a beige tunic over by one of these little altars horsey types are so fond of, to Consus or Mercury or the Twin Gods or such. Cammius raised his hand and beckoned, and he came over at a run.

‘Corvinus, this is Hesper, our master of stables,’ Cammius said. ‘Hesper, Valerius Corvinus is looking into the Pegasus business for us. He’s to be allowed to talk to anyone he likes so long as they’re not working with the horses and on condition he confines himself to his remit. Clear?’

A master of stables is the equivalent of a private house’s major-domo, or a legion’s centurion; in other words, where your ordinary skivvy or squaddie’s concerned the real boss of the place on an everyday level. Usually, like his equivalent, he’s come up through the ranks, and I’d bet that applied to this guy. He was a swarthy, pint-sized southern Italian – it’s a funny thing, but most people connected with the cars are small, not only the drivers – with a blurred slave brand on his arm: some ex-slaves try to burn them off with a poultice of vinegar and pigeon-dung, but it never works. He gave me a scowl like I’d broken parole already.

‘Clear, boss,’ he said.

‘You’re responsible for him, and for making sure he leaves when he’s finished.’ He turned back to me. ‘I have things to do, Corvinus, but I expect you to keep in touch.’